Shared experiences can create bonds stronger than the cable on a bridge. Family ties are a natural… so too, childhood friends.
But it can happen in the jury room or the fox hole, too… times that have a clear time line with a beginning and an end. Brief; but because of the intensity of the shared experience, the connections can be as solid as those that spread to a lifetime.
Whether it is over an extended period, or the intensity of a brief intersection… it is sharing a common path that adds definition to the sense of camaraderie and kinship. And there is nothing that can surpass the rich depth of shared memory.
Such was the case when I caught bits and pieces of chatter coming from the high top near my station at the Ash Creek Saloon. I am there from time to time, and while I keep to myself, I have observed a thing or two over the years that have caught my attention.
Maybe it was the laughter that first stopped me in mid-flight to a sip of Wild Turkey Rye. Not a rude or obnoxious laugh that intrudes into your space. But laughter that was genuine and spoke to the enjoyment of living.
Yes, I stopped what I was doing to notice four buddies huddled around a table, beer bottles and glasses scattered about, along with small plates of buffalo wings (both eaten and uneaten). They were of my age, or so I judged. Maybe that’s why I paid closer attention. Did they bear the same stitches and scars of age that I wore? I thought so. I wouldn’t have explain to them the Colts’ overtime victory against the Giants in 1958. These guys could remember the terror of Nikita Khrushchev beating his shoe in the U.N. General Assembly. “We will bury you.”
These fellahs were not my school friends, not family. Nor did we share time in military service… but just being of the same age meant that we shared a certain common experience. Not that they noticed me; but I raised my glass in acknowledgement of their presence… of their living to enjoy the same sunny day that I did.
And then their words. Or, at least the words that I caught.
“Half and half!”
“Yes! Yes, yes. What a quality drink. The first time I had that was at your place. No, no… it was at Richie’s.”
“Yeah, Richie’s. For sure. Half chocolate milk and half white birch beer. What a combo! Better than an egg cream.”
“Better by miles.”
OK… I thought that “half and half” was half stout and half lager…
“Man, did that sound vile… but shit, you know it was good. It was better than good. It was great! I haven’t had one in years.”
“My favorite was a razz-lime. On a hot day…”
“Nice.”
Yeah, nice. If it was my conversation I would have added a black cow. Root beer and vanilla ice cream. My Brother Paul introduced me to the exceptional quality of that concoction. But it wasn’t my conversation.
“Two cents plain. That’s what my parents called it. Plain seltzer. Unadorned. Nothing killed a thirst quicker.”
“Richie told us that.”
“True, true.”
“Here’s to Richie… he’s thirsty no longer.”
“To Richie.”