I went to a bar with my dad one day in February. It was an impulsive decision that turned out to be one that I did not regret. There was something outlandish about being accompanied by the oldest fellow in the joint, and the bartenders didn’t dare card either of us. The bar was covered in graffiti and the air was hazy with smoke. My dad talked long into the night, recounting tales of camping trips and the woes of being a corporate attorney, pausing only to get the attention of the bartender to top off our glasses. These glasses, you see, were ball jars, brimming with cold, foamy beer from the tap. I thought about getting some to use at home or when I have guests and to remind me of that unexpectedly pleasant night.