After a lifetime of avoiding his family, he made his home behind the bar.
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“You must be one of Carl’s daughters!” the bartender exclaimed as I walked into the tavern for my father’s memorial service. The nauseating smell of stale beer and clothes that had filtered cigarette smoke briefly distracted me from the man’s greeting. “Hello. Yes, I’m Lisa, the oldest.” I wasn’t surprised that he had made that assumption; not only because my features resembled my father’s, but also because I was dressed for a memorial service, not to hang out at a local dive bar.
He seemed sincerely happy to see me and offered me a stool at the bar. It was a bit too close to the older man at the left, hunched over his drink, sucking on his cigarette without regard for the smoking ban that went into effect 11 months earlier. I adjusted the stool several inches and told myself to get comfortable. I had come with the intention of learning a little more about the father I hardly knew through the people he chose to spend time with instead of his family. Sure, tending bar was his job, but it was a job that seemed to define him.
I had come with the intention of learning a little more about the father I hardly knew through the people he chose to spend time with instead of his family.
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I couldn’t help to wonder what these regulars had heard about my family from my father if anything more than the simple fact that he had three daughters, all grown. The old man next to me turned to introduce himself to me and offered to buy me a drink. He was the owner of the bar, my father’s former employer. I accepted his offer and asked for red wine. He nodded to the bartender who had heard my request. The old man proceeded to tell me that my father was one of the best bartenders who had worked for him. Psychology student that I was, I found that interesting; it meant to me that my father was somewhat of a people-person and likely a good listener.
My mother has told me he had looks and charm when he was young. She also has told me he’d take his weekly paycheck and buy the immediate world a drink before bringing home any money for rent or groceries when I was a baby. But that was 43 years ago. Surely he had matured. It was a decade or more since I heard any rumor of him being arrested for fighting or driving under the influence. I had hoped that he had some goodness, some change of heart that would help him have peace and joy in his life.
I had hoped that he had some goodness, some change of heart that would help him have peace and joy in his life.
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On the bar stool at arms length to my right was an attractive older woman dressed better than the others in the bar. She turned to me and smiled with a tear in her eye. She got off of her stool and approached me, extending her hand to shake mine and introduce herself. Monica was a good friend and roommate of my father, “not his girlfriend, as the others believe,” she emphasized. My father was still legally married to a woman I met when I visited him at the nursing home just a couple weeks earlier. Apparently they were not living as husband and wife, for reasons I could only surmise based on the evidence and history.
Monica told me that she cared for him when he was sick with his cancer because he was such a good man; he had helped her when she was ill… “My father was a caregiver? My father a good man?” I wondered but couldn’t bring myself to ask, for clarification. That was a side of him I had never considered. The father I knew was self-centered with almost total disregard for his parents, siblings, wives, and children. Good. This means he did mature and mellow, at least somewhat.
I looked around the bar for familiar faces. I was the only family member at the “service” in the dingy tavern. My father’s wife was not present. I asked Monica about her and had my suspicions confirmed. I struggled not to let my sadness take over my disposition at that time, and I reminded myself that he made his own decisions for his life. He made his bed and had to sleep in it, so to speak.
His family of regular bar customers was there in the space where he seemed to feel at home.
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There was no eulogy, no inviting people to stand to share their memories of Carl, their favorite bartender, my father. Instead, there was chit-chat over tap domestic beer, pretzels, and sub sandwiches. In retrospect, it was exactly as he would have wanted, I’m sure. His family of regular bar customers was there in the space where he seemed to feel at home.
The old man gave me the photo and red carnation that had adorned the make-shift altar there in the tavern. The photo was of my younger father looking healthy and happy, at home behind the bar.
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Read more about my father and me here:
- Finding Peace With My Father’s Memory at Thanksgiving
- The Critical Impact of Non-residential Fathers on Their Daughters
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Photo credit: Flickr/JoelnQueens (The man in the photo is not the author’s father.)