Don't Worry, I Don't Drive

Dennis' visit to Fort Lauderdale is over and he has returned to sunny California. Yes, we spent a good part of his visit in dimly lit taverns knocking back more than a few vodka drinks. It has been suggested by a few members of my family that maybe we have a gene that makes us want to hang out in such places. The answer is yes, or maybe, or possibly.

Years ago, in the city of Chicago, there were taverns on almost every street corner, in every neighborhood. When I was a little boy my mom and dad would bring us all into the city to visit grandma and grandpa, and one of my favorite things was to go bar hopping with grandpa. He would take my little hand in his gnarled old hand and lead me down the street, to the corner tavern. When we walked in the door, it seemed everyone knew 'Bill', and said hello to him in unison. He would then pop me up onto a bar stool and a cold 7up would appear in front of me, and a beer in front of grandpa. I would then be accosted by numerous drunken patrons, all needing to say something funny to the cute little kid. Is it any wonder where I got the idea that a bar was a cool place where you met people and they would talk to you?

After a beer, my grandpa would then take me down to Fifty First Street, to visit his next stop on the tour. This seemed to be a somewhat more sophisticated establishment, with a juke box, but with a slightly less family oriented clientele. Still, the routine was the same. Me up on the bar stool with my 7up, and grandpa with the beer. At this stop there were more ladies who just had to come over, squeeze my cheeks, and say hello to the cute little kid.

These days nobody comes over and squeezes my cheeks, and says I'm cute while I sit on a bar stool. In fact usually the only one who talks to me at all is the bartender, and that's just to find out if I need another drink.