Whadya think?Opinions, please. Interesting? Boring? Who cares? Let me know.  The bartender leaned on his elbows, looked down my way and said something that made his customer chortle. |
Tavern Tart A page from Chapter One: Oz ... Thirty miles out, a vicious bite of wind ripped loose a camper tie-down. I jerry-rigged it with a bungee cord and fought the wind, the wheel, and the bucking camper to a weary stop in the nearest farm town, five minutes too late to buy a part. My choices: Lay over in a shuttered town with no traveler amenities or throw myself on the toolbox mercy of men washing away the toil of the day with a brew. Ladies need not apply. Until the late ‘60’s, “blue laws” (so called because the Puritan’s Sabbath rules were written on blue paper) governed my state. No liquor sold on Sundays. Message: No real man would go to church if he has the option to drink. No liquor establishments permitted open on Election Day; sin might win over civic duty. Tavern windows had to be boarded or black, else – horrors – some innocent passerby might be enticed by glimpses of gaiety to step inside. No women allowed unaccompanied, as surely they’d lead innocent men astray. Laws may change, but it’s tougher to change the hearts and minds of men. Today’s gentler gender, accustomed to “clubbing” and “ladies night,” has come a long way, baby, only in urban areas. Not in farm country. Not in the male mind. I stood before Smitty’s like Dorothy before the Emerald gates, drew a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and steeled myself for what I knew would not be a pleasant experience. I pushed open the door. |
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