There was a period in my life when I thought I was helping to raise the children of one of America’s great brewing dynasties.

My brother Michael had married Linda Stroh, the former wife of Gary Stroh, a fifth-generation heir to the Stroh Brewery fortune. Together Gary and Linda had adopted a daughter, Suzanne, and later had a son, Greg. When Michael and Linda married, Suzanne and Greg became part of our extended family.

At the time, however, I was far more interested in another member of the household — the babysitter.

Her name was Sandi Russell.

Sandi was a year older than I was, and together we often babysat Suzanne and Greg. Looking back, those evenings felt like we were playing house. We would feed the children, give them baths, read to them, and put them to bed. Afterward, Sandi and I would retire to Essie’s room.

Essie was a part-time nanny and housekeeper who had her own room in the large home Michael and Linda owned. Sandi and I would stretch out on Essie’s bed and watch television, talking about whatever teenage boys and girls talked about in those days.

I was already thinking marriage and kids.

Unfortunately for me, she already had a boyfriend.

Teenage love affairs often exist entirely in one person’s imagination, and mine was no exception. As Suzanne and Greg grew older and no longer needed babysitters, Sandi gradually disappeared from my life. We drifted apart, and eventually she faded into memory.

But Suzanne and Greg remained.

I became what amounted to a step-uncle. I watched them grow. Suzanne was sharp as a tack. Even as a child she possessed a confidence and intelligence that stood out. Greg was different. He was a sweet kid, easygoing and kind. While Suzanne often seemed extraordinary, Greg struck me as simply a good kid.

I spent time with him over the years. I would take him to the tennis courts at Grosse Pointe South High School, where we would rally for hours. Later I would take him to the Grosse Pointe Club, where I eventually became the teaching professional.

For one summer during college I even lived in Michael and Linda’s house. My parents and I attended holiday gatherings and family dinners there. We celebrated birthdays together and shared the rituals that bind families together.

We were family.

At least that is how it felt.

Over time, however, relationships changed. Michael and Linda divorced. The family structure that had once seemed permanent dissolved. Greg and I gradually lost touch. Suzanne and I lost touch. The years accumulated. The connections faded.

Eventually I found myself on the outside looking in.

Then, decades later, I picked up a copy of Frances Stroh’s memoir, Beer Money.

The book opened my eyes.

As a young man I had seen only the surface of the Stroh story. From the outside it appeared to be a life of privilege, wealth, beautiful homes, country clubs, and opportunity. What I had failed to appreciate was the tremendous pain and turmoil that accompanied the collapse of the family brewery.

The loss was not merely financial.

A family identity built over generations disappeared.

Trust funds vanished.

Relationships fractured.

Reputations suffered.

Dreams that had been passed down from one generation to the next evaporated.

As I read, I found myself feeling a deeper sense of empathy for the entire extended Stroh family. The story was far more complicated and far more painful than I had ever understood as a teenager rallying tennis balls with Greg or sitting around holiday dinner tables.

Then I learned something else.

Greg had gone into business with friend Todd Woloson, from Boulder, Colorado.

The company was called Izze.

What happened next astonished me.

A few short years after the collapse of the family brewery, Greg helped build a natural juice company that achieved national distribution. Within roughly four years, the company was acquired by Pepsi for a reported seventy-five million dollars.


Greg Stroh (left) Co-founder Todd Woloson (right)

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The little boy I had taken to the tennis courts had somehow emerged from the shadow of one of America’s most famous family-business collapses and built something of his own.

Not something inherited.

Not something handed to him.

Something created.

That realization changed the way I thought about Greg.

When we were children and young adults, it was easy to assume that the Stroh name would always open doors. Yet when the brewery collapsed, the old assumptions disappeared. Whatever advantages the family name once carried were accompanied by burdens, expectations, and painful public scrutiny.

Greg’s success represented something different.

It represented reinvention.

It represented resilience.

Most importantly, it represented independence.

At one point I discussed writing about Greg with Frances Stroh. She gently discouraged the idea, explaining that Greg was an intensely private person and that she believed writing about him might intrude upon that privacy.

I respected her opinion.

For years I set the idea aside.

But as I reflected on my own life, I found myself returning to Greg’s story.

Not because of the money.

Not because of the sale to Pepsi.

Not because of the Stroh name.

What interested me was the comeback.

Life knocks some people down and they stay down.

Others spend their lives talking about what they lost.

A few rare individuals take the rubble, the disappointment, and the shattered expectations and build something entirely new.

That is what impressed me.

The little boy I once rallied tennis balls with had become one of those people.

Today Greg and I have no relationship. The years have carried us in different directions. The family ties that once connected us have largely disappeared.

Yet I still find myself rooting for him.

Perhaps that is because I remember the child before I knew the entrepreneur.

Or perhaps it is because every family story needs at least one chapter of redemption.

The rise and fall of the Stroh Brewery is a fascinating story. But to me, the more interesting story is what happened afterward.

Sometimes the most impressive inheritance is not wealth.

Sometimes it is the determination to start over.

And sometimes the greatest family legacy is not what is handed to you.

It is what you build yourself.