Just as the animals gather at the old watering hole to refresh their parched throats, there were folks in North Lewisburg who made use of the local watering holes. I'm not writing of the town's wells or the springs which fed the groundwater. I'm referring to the bars - or as we called them, the beer joints - which catered to the wants and needs of a sizeable section of the community.
Although the town was inhabited by a large number of people who practiced "temperance," or otherwise avoided the use of spirits in any form, there were some folks who looked forward to an occasional - or sometimes often - drink. Beer was the alcohol form of choice, and great quantities of the cool, refreshing liquid could be found in bottled form at the local pubs.
There were three which were prominent during my boyhood days. The tavern owned by Horace "Junior" James was situated on the corner of Sycamore and Maple Streets, on the ground floor of the old Town Hall. It was a lively spot, with loyal patrons who frequented it not only for the beer, but also for the jukebox which belted out Hank Williams tunes, the old game console where a metal disk was used to slide over some representative bowling pins to rack up scores, and the ambience of the place. It was noisy, with chatter and music filling the air from mid-afternoon until late in the evening. There was the clanking of beer bottles and glasses, and the occasional sound of shattered glass as either of those two implements were unfortunately dropped to the floor. The air was filled with cigarette and cigar smoke - I pause to wonder how many cases of cancer developed as a result of "second hand" smoke? There was the odor of spilled beer which seemed to permeate the wooden floor, mixed with the chemicals and water which were used to disinfect the place.
Junior James was a World War II veteran, much-decorated with medals and ribbons from that conflict. He was a sociable sport, ready and willing to engage anyone in polite conversation. He was a sportsman and hunter, who truly enjoyed those days away from the bar when he was on the hunt for game. Examples of his kills were prominently displayed around the place.
Across the street, and a bit to the east on Maple Street, was Griff's Grill, owned and operated by Ray and Mary Griffin. They had been prominent fixtures in the community for many years by the time I came along. My Dad had frequented their place back in the days before he departed for service in World War II. By the 1960s, I was stopping in occasionally - too young to drink the beer, but old enough to order one of Ray or Mary's great cheeseburgers with pickles along with a Coke or 7-Up. And, they hosted some great all-you-can-eat fish frys on Friday nights after Ray returned from his regular fishing excursions to Lake Erie. The two pool tables there were also very inviting, and I spent many hours of effort there in attempts to defeat my friends at "Eight Ball," or rotational pool. It was 10-cents a game per player, with Ray's stern admonition not to tear the felt cloth which covered the table.
It was always easy to find many of the town's characters at Griff's, sitting around the familiar card tables with their card games in full swing. There were small bets to be won, but the games would last for hours on end as one player drifted away to home or other duties and another drifted in to take his place.
There was yet a third bar which was located on Sycamore Street, across from the old Hiway 559 Coffee Shop. Mr. Spain owned that establishment, which generally catered to a different group of loyal patrons. I likewise entered there occasionally to enjoy an ice-cold bottle of Dr. Pepper or Orange Crush, or the new Mountain Dew which appeared in the 1960s. Sometimes the local post of the American Legion would host a fish fry there. It was a good place to grab a hot sandwich and cold drink.
My maternal grandfather, Carl Emery Impson, was a patron of the local bars. After a hard day's work as the local driver and cemetery sexton for the Rush Township board of trustees, he'd park his dump truck at the township's garage and meander the few blocks to "down town." He would stop for a "cool one" at Griff's, or Junior's or Mr. Spain's establishment. At the far north end of town, my grandmother Katie would be anxiously awaiting his arrival at home so she could finish preparing his meal. When the clock on her living room wall ticked slowly past the anointed time for his arrival, Grandma would beckon to me (I lived just across the street) and send me on an errand to "bring Dad (as she called him) home."
I'd walk the distance from North Street to Maple Street, and began my quest to find Grandpa. I'd stop first at Griff's, knowing that it was Grandpa's favorite, and then try Junior's. If I hadn't located him by that time, I walk the short distance to Spain's.
Gramps would see me walk in the door, finish the last swig or two from his glass or bottle, wipe his lips, and move his long legs from the barstool to the floor. He'd adjust his hat, coat, or bib overalls, say his goodbyes to Ray or Mary or other bar patrons, and walk to join me. We'd exist the building, make the appropriate turn, and wind our way home. These were great times for boy-to-grandpa conversations, and I even today treasure those memories.
The old watering holes are gone now. There are no bars in North Lewisburg. Folks who imbibe stop by the local convenience store, make their purchases, and drive away to down their suds at home. Doesn't quite seem the same.
