My father once told me, “One of the most important qualities to a good bar is a good name.” He worked hard to name all of his bars so that they would be memorable and so that the name would reflect the character of the place. In 1997, he opened a bar in Wadsworth, Ohio, and appropriately, he named it Longfellow’s. As an American literature connoisseur, I loved it. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s words represent all that I want to hold as true. Take this excerpt from Longfellow’s Psalm of Life for instance:
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time ;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate ;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Last night, I realized that these words are in fact true: It is possible to leave footprints on the sands of time.
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Tom and I decided to go to a little local bar that we recently discovered. Years ago, a friend of mine from work told me I should try this place out. His cousin is the owner, and he promised that it has a fun little atmosphere. A few months ago, we finally decided to check it out. When we walked in the first time, I immediately liked it. It has character. Last night, we sat at the bar and quickly struck up a conversation with the bartender. She had never seen us before so she asked, “Is this your first time here?”
I explained that we had been in a few times in the last few months. After explaining why we started coming into the bar, she quickly went to the other end of the bar and told the owner, Tommy, my story. Friendly as a bar owner should be, he walked down and he introduced himself. A half hour later, we had moved from the pleasantries of “Oh, you know my cousin,” to becoming familiar with each other. He learned about our children and we learned about his. It was a little slow, and he complained a bit about the industry. As a daughter who grew up in the business, I could commiserate. As a son-in-law who came into the business, Tom could relate as well. We understand the hardships of being a bar owner: the slow nights, the know-it-all customers, and the atrocious hours.
“How long have you owned this bar?” I asked Tommy.
“Thirty years,” he said.
“Really?” I did some quick math and realized that my dad owned bars in the area at the same time he bought this bar. I felt like I had to mention the bar I worked at in college.
“Huh, then you are aware of the local scene? I worked for my dad in the early ’90s at The Gazette over on Pleasant Valley,” I said.
I could see his wheels turn. He was trying to remember the place. To be honest, I wouldn’t have been offended if he couldn’t remember it; it’s been gone for fifteen years.
“Who’s your father?” he asked.
“He’s passed away. His name was Rich,” I said.
“Rich from The Jigsaw?” he asked.
I perked up. That was my father’s second bar. He owned that in 1977. “Yes, that’s my father.”
“Oh my God, you’re father taught me everything I know. Your father was a great man. He helped me learn the business.” I could see the excitement in his eyes. The hairs on my neck tingled. He took a sip of water, and reminiscently, he told me about my dad. “I was really sad when I heard about the cancer. Gosh, your father was such a major influence on my life. He taught me how to do this job well. He said to me, ‘Make the people feel at home. Get to know your customers on a personal basis. They’ll come back because they feel welcomed.’ ”
Yes, that sounded exactly like my dad’s philosophy.
“Back in the day, you know, we only had a few different types of liquor available. He told me to find something cheap, back then it was peppermint schnapps. He told me not to ask, but just pour it for my customers. ‘Buy them a shot every once and awhile and they will appreciate it.’ ”
Definitely, that was my father’s advice. My dad tried to make us push peppermint schnapps long after flavored liquors hit the market. He had a hard time adjusting to the industry as it evolved, but his message did not fall on deaf ears. When I bartended, I would make up a batch of something cheap and pour it. Last night, Tommy gave us a shot called Apple Pie.
“I decorated this place similar to your dad’s style. The framed memorabilia and the clutter, that has your dad written all over the place, don’t you think?”
I looked around, and I suddenly felt like I wanted to cry. I wasn’t sad; I was moved. I felt like my father was in the room. He had impacted this man in such a way that Tommy emulated him. I wished I could conjure my father for just a minute to show him how much he truly mattered. You see, my father worked hard his whole life, and at the end, I don’t know if he felt like he had made a difference at all. He had made some poor financial decisions and he had lost himself. My heart would bleed every time I was around him because I could feel his sadness. Pensively and somberly, I think he questioned every decision he ever made and wondered if he had ever done anything worthwhile. Yet, as I looked around the room, it affirmed what I always knew; he meant something to this world. Here, in this bar ironically called Good Old Days, was proof that lasting influence is not always concrete. Here was proof that the lives of great men somehow always live on.
(I love you, Dad.)
Life As I Understand It. 