For $33.99 I walked on by the pallet of Stella Artois at Costco Wholesale. I can find better things to do with my money. Once upon a summer past I would buy a case to drink after working in the garden. 24 bottles would last most of the summer. Despite the physical pleasures, I am done with all that.
It is not about the health risks. There are literally mountains of research linking heavy drinking to cancer, heart disease, gun violence, and other consequences. That all seems pretty bad, yet consuming a 24-pack of Stella Artois over a summer hardly seems like heavy drinking. I know what that looks like.
Some World War II Veterans I knew stopped every night at a local bar to knock back a few after work in construction. They would buy a 6- or 12-pack for the road to continue drinking at home. One was a survivor of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941.
Something else had me change.
One of the last things Father did before he died in a meat packing plant accident was cash his paycheck over his lunch break at Pete’s Midwest Tavern, a bar near the plant. At lunch time, or after a shift, Father would visit the Knotty Pine or Pete’s Midwest where he would socialize. It was what union workers did, the trade of butcher workers.
Pete’s Midwest was a cultural center, not only for the packing plant but for the region. When Father died, they were doing a lot besides selling beer. It became a prominent entertainment venue in the Quad Cities, featuring live music, and go-go dancers. In 1965, a sheriff’s raid confiscated illicit gaming equipment. When Father died, the bar took up a collection for the family—all the bars near the plant did. I still remember proprietor Pete Mathews delivering the donations to Mother and talking about the last time he saw Father.
It may seem curious that I never visited Pete’s Midwest, the Knotty Pine, or other bars embedded in packinghouse culture, even when I worked at the plant in 1971 and 1973. I preferred Debbie’s 4th and Western for a beer after I clocked out, just before sunrise. That world understood beer differently than ours does now. It was not an accessory to life, but part of the rhythm of physical labor — wages earned, muscles exhausted, another shift survived.
One of my favorite King James Bible passages is Ecclesiastes, Chapter 9, Verse 7, which says, “Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart; for God now accepteth thy works.” I wish I could.
I enjoyed beer while I had it, especially after long summer afternoons in the garden. But these days $33.99 seems like a lot for nostalgia. I would rather spend the money on eggs, milk, rice, or something else with more lasting value. The old rituals fade. Perhaps they are supposed to.
Journey Home 