Nasal memories
Bars, saloons, taverns, dives, I've visited a bunch of them. Most of them are upscale and shiny. Even when they are noisy and crowded, they're never raucous or bawdy. Maybe I don't get out enough, or stay long enough for the customers to get inebriated. Maybe now that I'm older, I go to the wrong places. I need to check with my younger friends.
Every once in a great while, I'll walk into an older bar, usually one with a rich history. Then, if I'm really lucky, I'll hear it: the sound of pucks smacking a shuffleboard table. Then, I'll smell it: the powder wax, the stale beer, the cigarette and cigar smoke embedded in the walls, the floors, the wooden bar. It's that smell, that wonderful smell of the Fire Station bar of my youth.
That smell takes me back to time spent with my father. He wasn't much of a talker, and I don't think we ever had a long conversation. I saw a different side of him when he deigned to take me with him to the Fire Station. Everybody there was happy to see him and the bartender knew exactly what my father wanted: a shot and a beer. I remember sitting right there on the bar, listening to the shuffleboard pucks, the bits and pieces of conversation, and smelling that delicious, enticing old bar smell. I was with my father, his friends were happy to see us, and I never wanted to leave. The bartender would give me a glass of Coke to drink while my father relaxed in this place where he seemed so very comfortable and appreciated. He laughed a lot there. I think I visited the Fire Station with my father for the last time soon after I got my driver's license. We went in, and I was so proud because my Papa (he insisted that we call him that, he hated "Daddy") let me drive. My pride took a hit when one of the regulars pointed out that Papa's car was heading out of the parking lot. I had neglected to shift it from Drive to Park. That was an embarrassing moment.
I'm on a quest to find my own Fire Station bar, no matter how many shots and beers it may take. I'm willing to make that sacrifice.
Every once in a great while, I'll walk into an older bar, usually one with a rich history. Then, if I'm really lucky, I'll hear it: the sound of pucks smacking a shuffleboard table. Then, I'll smell it: the powder wax, the stale beer, the cigarette and cigar smoke embedded in the walls, the floors, the wooden bar. It's that smell, that wonderful smell of the Fire Station bar of my youth.
That smell takes me back to time spent with my father. He wasn't much of a talker, and I don't think we ever had a long conversation. I saw a different side of him when he deigned to take me with him to the Fire Station. Everybody there was happy to see him and the bartender knew exactly what my father wanted: a shot and a beer. I remember sitting right there on the bar, listening to the shuffleboard pucks, the bits and pieces of conversation, and smelling that delicious, enticing old bar smell. I was with my father, his friends were happy to see us, and I never wanted to leave. The bartender would give me a glass of Coke to drink while my father relaxed in this place where he seemed so very comfortable and appreciated. He laughed a lot there. I think I visited the Fire Station with my father for the last time soon after I got my driver's license. We went in, and I was so proud because my Papa (he insisted that we call him that, he hated "Daddy") let me drive. My pride took a hit when one of the regulars pointed out that Papa's car was heading out of the parking lot. I had neglected to shift it from Drive to Park. That was an embarrassing moment.
I'm on a quest to find my own Fire Station bar, no matter how many shots and beers it may take. I'm willing to make that sacrifice.
What a noble warrior for memories and scents!
ReplyDeleteIt’s a tough job, but somebody has to do it :-).
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