The tavern

 His tavern was wedged between two other buildings overlooking the Erie Canal. Like many stores and bars, it had an apartment upstairs. Sometimes the owner lived there. Sometimes it was rented. Most renters believed the noise from the bar below would not bother them. In most cases, it did.

The tavern, as he liked saying, was as close to an old west tavern as you could get, except there was no place to tie up your horse. The inside was built with dark oak, and the bar rail was brass. There was even a spitoon close to the bar, but it was mostly missed by patrons with a lousy aim.

It was 1969 now, and 1939 when he first opened for business. His wife helped out tending bar, in the beginning, as the men would much rather see a pretty face than his ugly mug. It was a typical neighborhood tavern, with some memorable characters who walked in when their shifts at the box factory ended. And much like the television sitcom Cheers, when a regular walked in, the entire place would greet him by name.

When the war started, and thousands of men enlisted in 1939, the box factory converted to making ammunition boxes. The women worked in the factories, and the tavern became a gathering place to share stories from their men overseas. Every Saturday, he hired a piano man, and every man who couldn't serve, usually because of age or a medical issue, danced to the music with the ammo girls, as they were known.

For seven long years, he tried to keep the doors open, but with the men gone, paying the bills proved almost impossible, so he began serving a fish fry dinner on Fridays. When the word got out, people from several neighborhoods came to try out what everyone said was the best fish fry anywhere. There was a long line to get in, and the kitchen couldn't keep up with the demand. But they made it happen every Friday, long after the war was over and the men came home.

For the next twenty-some years, he continued the Saturday dance and the Friday fish frys, now a legend around the surrounding neighborhoods. A lot of the old timers still came through the doors and were greeted by the others as always, but times were changing: fancy nightclubs opened with flashing lights and live bands, and the cover charge to get in paid for the overhead, with every drink sold pure profit.

In 1970, he announced he would close the tavern and sell the building. On the last night, the place was full of many familiar faces, some in wheelchairs, others needing assistance, as they bellied up to the bar one last time. His granddaughter showed up with a carfull of friends, as did other younger people who had heard about the legendary tavern and wanted to see it before it was gone. Little did he know that one new face in the crowd had an idea of buying the place and turning it into a replica of a 1939 tavern. But with upgrades to bring it into this century.

It turned out he did sell the tavern, and for a huge amount of money that would be used to build a little place on the lake. They were happy there, but they missed the old tavern and the people who passed through the door. So they decided to attend the Friday fish fry. When they entered the door, a chorus of greetings filled them with pride, and a few tears quickly wiped away as they greeted old friends and a new breed of much younger customers. His wife nudged him, pointing to a large portrait hanging behind the bar of him and his wife with the date they were the owners.

As for the tavern itself, it still smelled like fish and cigarettes, and that spittoon was still at the end of the bar but was very rarely used. The beautiful oak woodwork looked like it did when he and some friends built the place back in 39. The old wooden barstools remained, but with cushions. Behind the bar were neon lights, and a stage was set up for live music. He and his bride of fifty-some years danced to the song " I'll Be Seeing You, " bringing back a time when nobody knew what tomorrow would bring.

That would be the last time he visited his tavern as he and his wife returned to their lake house, where he passed away peacefully in his sleep at 90 years of age, with the first flyer advertising the Friday fish fry on his lap. His beloved wife followed close behind, passing just six months later. It was 1990 something, and the old building was torn down, along with others, to make way for a shopping mall. I drive past the mall on occasion, remembering the crowds waiting in line for the fishfrys and the ammunition girls awaiting news from the front lines. I hear the greetings calling out the names of people coming in, and if I think hard enough, I see him laughing with customers, a bar towel hanging from his shoulder to wipe down the bar with every drink he serves.

The dark woodwork and brass rail gone, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer just a memory. Time moves ahead, and if we're not careful, precious memories will disappear like the old tavern meeting the wrecking ball.

Mike 2026