Basement Bar

 Growing up in the 60s, a couple of houses on our block had converted their basements into full-fledged bars and amusement parks. What was once a place with cement floors and walls, used for storage and laundry, was transformed into a main room with an impressive bar. The bar was made of knotty pine, fifteen feet long, complete with a brass footrest and two beer taps. The wall behind the bar, also paneled in knotty pine, displayed a myriad of liquor bottles—every brand seemed to be represented. There was even a hideaway jukebox that looked like a piece of furniture rather than the typical model. My dad worked at the Wurlitzer company, and the jukebox had been a gift to him, which was pretty cool. 

The basement also housed a skee-ball game, which involved sliding a metal puck down a sawdust lane to knock over pins. It featured flashing lights and played music when you achieved a high score. One Christmas, I received a set of drums, but they usually sat untouched until the whiskey flowed, at which point everyone wanted a turn banging on the skins to the music playing on the jukebox.

Through the swinging barroom doors, there was a restroom, beautifully decorated by my mom, who had a magical touch. Glass bowls filled with scented soaps, a beveled glass mirror, and hand towels made in France were carefully placed, with the hope that they wouldn’t be used! If I recall correctly, linoleum covered the cement floors instead of tile, as tile was quite expensive.

My parents had many friends, and when they received an invitation to a party, it was rare for anyone not to show up. In the days leading up to an event, Mom would spend hours preparing several snack trays. Shrimp was always the favorite, and she didn’t disappoint, arranging a silver tray piled high with the beloved crustaceans on the bar. Other snacks included olives, cheese, crackers, and deviled eggs, which were almost as popular as the shrimp.

My sisters and I had our own tasks to complete, which came with the promise of attending the party until bedtime. I would stock the cooler with beer bottles and ensure clean ashtrays were set out on the bar. Everyone smoked back then; after all, if John Wayne advertised something, it had to be good. There was even a shot glass brimming with six or eight non-filtered cigarettes available for guests. As my sisters assisted Mom, I made sure all the party lights were on, the jukebox was plugged in, and the skee-ball table was dusted and ready to play. It was finally party time!

Dad went downstairs to check all the preparations, cleaning already clean glasses and dusting off bottles that hadn't been used in a while. The first guests arrived right on time, claiming barstools that they would only vacate to use the restroom. My sisters brought down the snack trays, and soon after, Mom made her entrance, looking more beautiful than any other woman in the room. Dad whistled, followed by other men, much to the chagrin of the other wives, but it was all in good fun. 

Before long, the party was in full swing, with dancing, snacking, and drinks flowing like water. Conversations were loud, almost bordering on shouting, as people tried to talk over the music and the bells ringing from the skee-ball machine. Bottles of beer were spilled, and a glass or two broke as the night progressed.

As the night wore on, guests began to leave, thanking my parents for another wonderful evening, while some overstayed their welcome. Dad helped those who were sober enough to drive to their cars, while others found their wives to drive them home. Once everyone had finally departed, Mom would take a seat at the bar, and Dad would pour them a nightcap as they reminisced about this man or that woman, sometimes swearing they’d never invite certain guests again. Mom would survey the mess and let out a sigh, while Dad would say, “Leave it until tomorrow.” With that, they turned off the lights and unplugged the jukebox, and the barroom grew dark and quiet.

The next morning, we all pitched in to clean up, throwing away trash and wiping down the bar, which showed signs of spilled drinks and remnants of deviled eggs and cheese. The floor was mopped, dirty glasses were washed and left to drain in the sink, and empty bottles were returned to their cases for Dad to take back to the store for a deposit. We opened the windows wide to air out the smoke of a hundred cigarettes, and we drew straws to decide who would clean the restroom.

The day after the party was always a day of rest—another name for recovering from a hangover—but I didn’t mind. The fridge was stocked with a big plate of shrimp and cocktail sauce that my sisters and I enjoyed together. I miss those parties in our basement, but the memories stay with me every time I dust off the photos my dad took and hung behind his bar. 

Mike 2025