By Faith Ellestad

Late Spring of 1966. My brother and I had just returned home from college, Jim from Ithaca, New York after a wildly successful second year at Cornell University and I from UW Whitewater where my first year of higher education had been slightly less triumphant, in that I was unlikely to be invited back. But no matter our wildly divergent academic styles, Jim and I, barely a year apart, were great friends. We really enjoyed each other’s company, and now, 19 and 18 respectively, were able to go out together and revel in what I considered the only redeeming aspect of our family’s abrupt move from Illinois to Wisconsin-TEEN BEER BARS!

What an awesome concept! Although you had to be twenty-one to purchase beer in town, it was perfectly legal for any 18 year old to drive miles out into the countryside, where beer bars were located, spend several hours at Dick’s or Rasmussen’s, or the Brat Stop drinking quarts of what was purported to be 3.2 beer, then get into a car and drive home at breakneck speed in order to make curfew. Crazy. But it was accepted, lawful, and everyone did it. It went almost without discussion that Jim and I would be part of this weekend’s great migration of teens to the outskirts of town.

Jim found me on the porch smoking a cigarette.

“Want to go to Dick’s tomorrow?” It was more of a statement, than a question.

“Of course, if you can get yourself ready before bar time!”

Jim was notorious for his late starts.

“I knew that was coming.” He did not sound remotely repentant.

Just then, the porch door squeaked and Dad appeared.

“Oh, there you are. I wanted to ask you something. Your sister invited us to visit her in Urbana this weekend, and your mother promised her we’d come, so would you stick around home and wrangle Thomas and Grandma for us?”

Serious bummer! We were so looking forward to our inaugural summer outing, but really, what could we say. Our parents had just paid for a year of college for each of us, our 15-year-old brother required someone to ride herd on him and Grandma, at 90, was losing her sight and needed our help. Also, my grades hadn’t arrived yet and I felt It would be better for me in the long run if I showcased my earnest, helpful side prior to the big reveal. Of course, we agreed.

“I know you were thinking about going out, but I’ll provide you with some beer here, so maybe your weekend won’t be a total loss.”

Dad, who himself, enjoyed a frosty pilsner from time to time, was trying hard to sweeten the deal, bless his heart. Of COURSE, we agreed.

Early Saturday morning, Jim and I waved our parents out of the driveway, fixed Grandma some oatmeal and a cup of Nescafe for breakfast, warned Thomas not to leave without letting us know, and went back to bed. I rallied at around 11 to a strange clanking sound,

“What’s that noise?” I yelled to no one in particular as I stumbled into the kitchen.

Grandma was standing at the sink looking distressed.

“I think a hairpin might have fallen into the disposal. I was trying to get it out.”

Oh lordy. Mom had pretty much forbidden Grandma to do the dishes now that her vision had become so poor. But Grandma was a bit of a rebel. She liked to help, and if Mom wasn’t there to stop her, she’d do what she wanted, even if it meant grinding a finger off in the disposal.

“Here, let me try. I’ll use a pliers.”

A few wiggles and the hairpin was extracted.

“Please don’t tell your mother, she’s always worrying that I’ll hurt myself.”

Obviously, I would never rat out my beloved Grandma.

“I won’t. No harm done. Let’s get some lunch.”

Jim, never a morning person, must have heard the word “lunch” and appeared in the kitchen just in time to intercept Thomas on his way out the door.

“Going to Joes’, Tom announced. “OK?”

Jim nodded from behind the refrigerator door, where he was eyeing several Tupperware containers.

“Hey, is there any leftover spaghetti?” he asked hopefully.

“I don’t know. Grandma and I had fried egg sandwiches. You’re on your own.”

Soon I heard, “Yumm-o, I love this stuff,” accompanied by the sounds of slurping and a fork scraping glass.

“Didn’t you heat that up?”

“No. I like it cold. Is there any French bread left?” There wasn’t.

Grandma decided to go play the piano. She had once been a music teacher and could still play by ear. “My eyes aren’t so good, but I have nimble fingers,” she would explain virtually every time we complimented her skill.

After she left the kitchen, I told Jim I needed to talk to him.

“Got a minute? I need your advice.”

“Is it about school?” He knew me all too well.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Oh. OK. Let’s talk about it after supper. Everything’s better with beer and popcorn, right?”

“True.” I sighed. “It’s probably just as well we’re not going to Dick’s tonight”.

I spent most of the afternoon reading “The Screwtape Letters” and anxiously checking the mail, while Jim called a couple of old friends and practiced Kingston Trio songs on his guitar. By supper time, I had determined that my grades would not be coming until at least Monday, a brief reprieve, anyway.

At 6:00 PM, we prepared a meal of Kraft Dinner, hot dogs and sliced tomatoes, which Grandma sprinkled liberally with sugar. No one knew why, that was just her thing. We skipped dessert.

Dinner complete, Jim helped Grandma up to her room to catch a rerun of “My Three Sons” and Thomas retired to the basement to work on a ship model.

I loaded the dishwasher and suggested to Jim that he check to see if the beer was cold.

“Where is it?” he queried, after not finding it in the refrigerator.

“I don’t know. Where he usually keeps it, I guess.”

“Oh yeah.” He checked the broom closet where Dad often stored an extra six-pack or two for his poker nights.”

“It’s not in there.”

“Try under the workbench in the basement.”

“Don’t see anything there either.”

We knew he wouldn’t lock beer in the liquor cabinet, but we combed the rest of the house. Nothing. Not so much as a bottle cap. Then it dawned on me.

“Mom was in such a hurry to get going, he probably forgot to buy any.”

“I bet you’re right. I guess we’re just screwed.”

“Yeah, so much for our great evening.”

It couldn’t have been more frustrating. Mike’s Neighborhood Deli was directly across the street, liberally stocked with cases of beer we were just barely too young to buy.

I flopped down on the couch in despair, and frowned at Jim who was suddenly and inexplicably smiling.

“What’s so funny?” I snapped.

“Hey, Grandma loves Bun Bars, doesn’t she?”

“You know she does. It’s about her favorite thing ever. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, GRANDMA’S old enough to buy beer. What if we asked her to go over to the store and get us some. We could treat her to a Bun Bar!” Jim had not been valedictorian for nothing.

“Bribe her, you mean. Well, I suppose we could try. I don’t know if she’ll go for it, though. It’s awfully late. You better ask her.”

 Necessity – the mother of invention. Or possibly – the Grandmother of invention.

Jim’s eyes twinkled. He knew Grandma would do anything for him. And she loved the chance to be a little naughty. She was ready in five minutes.

So at 8:55 on Saturday night, our “innovative” solution to the dreadful prospect of a beer-free weekend was playing out under a street light for all the neighbors to see, and believe me, they were always tuned in to the high school principal’s kids.

Tonight’s special episode featured Jim and me each supporting an elbow of our fragile 90-year-old white-haired Grandma, as she stepped spryly out the door of Mike’s Deli in her pale blue coat and matching pill box hat, cradling a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in her arms, sad sporting a little Mona Lisa smile.

The neighbors didn’t know about the Bun Bar.

© 2023 Faith Ellestad

Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has the opportunity to share some personal stories, and in the process, discover more about herself. Faith and her husband live with an elderly cat in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law.