À Gilles, un homme de cœur.
There will come a day when we’re forced to say goodbye to someone who helped shape who we are. No amount of money, begging, or pleading can stop it. The end comes for us all.
A few months ago, while attending a brewing conference in Philadelphia, I ended up where brewers tend to end up: at a brewery, gathered around a table, sharing copious amounts of beer and telling increasingly outlandish stories. The fuel for these stories was a beautifully crafted grisette. A humble, session-strength farmhouse ale built for refreshment rather than ceremony, grisette is often described as saison's working-class cousin and is believed to have originated in Belgium's Hainaut province.
But after a few sips, unbeknownst to the group, a deeper story was already being written, one that reached beyond the beer in front of me, back to a friend I still missed, and forward toward a life I had not yet fully stepped into.
As I mentioned in our first From the Heart story, the idea for Wild Heart began on a trip with my wife to see her family in Quebec. Long story short:
It was cold, I was Southern, and I hardly spoke a word of French, but the impact that trip made on my life, and consequently Hartsville, was momentous.
In that first From the Heart story, I had made it to a bar in Repentigny, Quebec, where I shared a beer and life story with my brother-in-law. Coincidentally, we had stumbled through the snow to said bar during a particularly cold winter while our families stayed back, visiting close friends across the street.
Those friends were more than just neighbors.
The Carignan family and their friendship had spanned decades, and the bond between them is as strong as any blood relation could be. Through devastating losses, sharing a home together, and even church in their cozy basement, the Carignans have been a stronghold for my wife’s family since long before I was around. They immediately accepted me into the fold, and I’m forever thankful for the years of encouragement from each of them.
At the heart of this clan was the patriarch, Gilles. A man of small stature, but with a kindness, strength, and vibrance that could overshadow the mightiest of men. What stood out to me most was his ability to immediately plunge into the depths of the heart with little to no small talk. What transpired was a friendship that lasted nearly 20 years, until his passing in 2026.
Manon (left) and Gilles (right) Carignan.
Over the years, on holidays or other visits to Canada, we would get the opportunity to see Gilles and Manon, typically around a table with lots of food and drink. The Carignans ran a business growing microgreens for a number of years and, without fail, had some form of sprouts in tow at every gathering. As you can imagine, my delicate Southern palate, raised on Duke’s mayonnaise and hot dogs, was shocked to the core. But I eventually came around, and now they’re some of my favorite things to snack on.
On occasion, between the raclette and belly laughs, we would crack open a bottle of the finest saison this side of the Saint Lawrence. We’d break out tiny glasses and fill them as many times as our hearts desired while we caught up on life.
I cherished these moments.
I never left that table without some form of profound encouragement or, at the very least, a little more belief in myself because someone believed in me and wasn’t afraid to share it.
He gracefully battled carcinoma for years while seemingly spending every second he could with Manon, his girls, and his numerous grandkids. They took trips, laughed, reminisced, and lived every second as if it were the last. There was no time wasted. From countless tender moments with the little ones to his unwavering loyalty and love for Manon, Gilles lived and loved more in those years than most do in a lifetime.
The Carignans.
In February, I knowingly spent the last time at that table with my friend.
That particular day, after teaching me how to tape my boots for the snow, he showed me his newfound fascination with European doors. He told me how amazed he was that every single door he came across on his recent trip was unique. From cathedral-esque entrances to the tiniest alleyway nooks, he explained how they all possessed character and beauty, no matter how extravagant or plain.
I explained to him that I was on a path to change careers and that I needed a change that would provide more time with my family. As soon as I explained the heart behind it, he burst into tears.
After almost twenty years, this was the only time I’d ever seen Gilles cry.
Manon and Gilles Carignan.
He looked deep into my eyes and told me the truth. He said intently,
“You love those girls. Nothing else matters.”
The urgency in his eyes shook something loose in my soul that will never be put back in place. He knew our time on this earth is short, and he believed this was our purpose in life: to fiercely love those in our charge.
I’ve known a lot of God-fearing men, and let me tell you, he was the closest example of Christ I’ve ever met. Even at the end, his faith was unshakable. His words and spirit will forever be held close to my heart.
It’s pretty fitting that the last entry in the From the Heart series, for a while, ends where it began: telling stories and caring for your people.
Maybe it’s just as fitting that it found its way back to me through a glass of grisette. Sitting around that table in Philadelphia, I couldn’t help but think of those little glasses of saison shared with Gilles. The beer in front of me suddenly felt less like a style I wanted to brew and more like a story I needed to tell.
A few months later, in collaboration with Double Stamp Brewery, that story became our table beer, Merci.
Time move fast. We all eventually move on to new adventures, and sometimes, if you’re like me, we can become consumed by the weight of it all. However intense the moment or season, I’m encouraged to remove myself often from the trappings of growth and progress to make sure I’m not missing the most important part of it all: the journey.
If you have children, you know change is inevitable. We control very little in this life, and everything can be taken away in an instant. However scary that reality may be, it should point us toward what matters most: each other.
I’m so thankful for all the lessons Gilles taught me. I intend to give that same energy back to my own journey, and I know he’d wish the same for you.
Ask good questions. Be patient with one another. And most importantly, be there when it matters most.
To my friend Gilles, for all the years and the example of a lifetime, I have much I’d like to say, but none more important than this:
Merci. À bientôt.
Joey Hulon (Double Stamp Brewery), Zach Riner, and Kenny Driggers (Double Stamp Brewery).
Merci - Table beer
4.0% ABV /17 IBU
Brewed in collaboration with our friends at Double Stamp Brewery, Merci is a light, rustic grisette with delicate farmhouse character, a crisp dry finish, and the kind of easy drinkability made for sitting a while, sharing your story, and appreciating your people.
In French, merci means “thank you,” but for us, it means so much more.
This beer was brewed in honor of someone whose friendship, influence, and generosity left a lasting mark on our story.