There is a garage that sits down a gravel road, tucked back in the woods of western Maryland. It seems like it was built by a non-professional, coated as it is in dull gray paint. Looking at it, you’d probably assume that there was a lawnmower and some dusty tools inside. But this place’s true secrets lie within.

Inside, the walls are covered in countless license plates, souvenirs from old car dealerships, vintage beer signs, posters from my college apartment, banners from my kids’ birthday parties, and even a couple coveted neons. My dad has been stashing away odds and ends for years, and I think that deep inside, he always knew he’d have a place like this. Almost every object has a story attached to it, and for the past 11 years, the room has held countless memories.

In that time, I have sat alone, celebrated birthdays, and even drowned some sorrows at its bar. There was that one time I sang “Don’t Stop Believin’” for at least 30 people on the full-scale karaoke setup. It used to be just a dusty old garage, but now it’s part of the family.

A place like this deserves a name. This is the place we call Bear Alley.

This story was originally published on Good Beer Hunting.