The Embers of Love

It’s Sunday, March 19, 1972. March came in “like a lion,” so there is plenty of dirty and compacted snow filling my open backed heels as he gently escorts me down the slippery ramp where his car has sat these last four hours. Normally I wear classic white pleather “go-go” boots, a mini skirt and false eyelashes. The standard uniform for cocktail waitresses at the Cascade Nine Night Club on Hennepin Avenue, in Minneapolis. A little too “disco” for a first date…

I lucked out and was assigned to work coat check tonight. That means I could dress in street clothes for my shift. Not usually a big deal, but tonight, a member of the house band, The Del Counts, has invited me to join him after we close, for a very late dinner. We wouldn’t have been able to go back to my place so I could change out of my uniform before we went out. I am living with a co-worker whose five children are all little night owls. A few too many sleepy children for a first date…

Not much is even open this late or should I say, early in the morning. An agreed upon after work favorite of us both is Embers. We decide to drive a few miles out of the way to avoid bumping into any of our customers. Their great to wait on, but we needed a little distance from the “maddening crowd.”

Two Emberger Royals later, my date Steve and I are friends. Lots of laughs and stories are shared around the antics of the bar guests who fill our nights with fun and on occasion, challenges. It’s a fascinating occupation. How many young adults are able to work on the outer perimeters of what feels like one big party, night after night, and still make a living?

One year later we are not only best friends, but we are deeply in love. On the way home from work, my soulmate makes a surprise stop at a local park. To the soft glow of headlights and a full moon “the question” is asked. The answer “yes” resounds into the night from the open windows of his “65” Mustang convertible. Eager to share the good news with my co-workers, I go in a bit early the next evening. Excited to see my favorite bartender and friend at his station, I rush up to Sam and gush out the great news through tears of joy! I have always trusted Sam for his kindness and patience. Many a mixed up order was brushed off by his joking, and teasing ways. On occasion he even shared a bit of his more mature wisdom when his twenty-one-year-old buddy struggled through the complexities of her young life. So, it took my breath away, when my sage of a friend leaned over the bar and hissed in my innocent, happy face: “I give it six months!”

That was forty-nine years ago. We were married in May of the next year. As is the way of most Anniversary celebrations, Wedding is usually the Alpha. But in our minds, that first date at our local Embers is indeed the date to lend our greatest homage too. Yes, marriage is sacred, but we always contend, without that one magical Emberger Royal night, there would perhaps have been no marriage, children, grand-children and extended family. So, it is no surprise to our family and friends that every March nineteenth they can find us at Ricky’s Embers on Central Avenue in Fridley, Minnesota, sitting in the same spot as our special booth.

Fast forward through all the years of love, family, memories, and everyday life that is marriage, to March nineteenth twenty-twenty. The Pandemic that we now find ourselves surviving, was in its early phase a year ago. Closed spaces and masked faces were under scrutiny as our first defense. Inside seating for restaurants was going to be off limits soon. Many establishments were expanding or infusing take-out options. A hope against hope, drew us to our yearly celebratory hot spot. One look at the vacant windows and empty parking lot confirmed what we dreaded. Our special anniversary celebration was a victim to timing. The next day would usher in a new way to serve the public food. We hugged and in unison rambled off options to save our little tradition. Best possible solution? Go get take-out and eat it in the parking lot. Car seat, not “our” booth, was better than nothing. We were secretly relieved to not be in a crowded space, tradition or no tradition…

Sitting at the back of the parking lot with our McDonald’s bags seemed almost disrespectful to the lovely individuals who made this Embers so special. Over the years, we have encountered countless beautiful moments courtesy of their warm and caring staff. Everything from pictures posted on their website, hugs, mugs, and even a free meal! For one day a year, on our “first date anniversary,” we felt like we were Embers Royalty. We were special, or so they would have us believe…bless their hearts.

After sitting alone in an empty parking lot for a few minutes, you start to feel conspicuous. Maybe even a little “sketchy.” We could see people moving about the restaurant and wanted to put their minds to rest. We are in our seventies. But only we knew we were harmless. So, Steve decided to go knock on the door and tell them what we were trying to re-create. I watched from a distance as Steve and the owner Joe chatted. As Steve walked back to the car, the owner enthusiastically waved for us to “come on in.” We were embarrassed to be eating fast food in their parking lot. But Joe insisted we bring it in and finish our meal, as we always had on March nineteenth.

The restaurant was empty, quiet, and partially lit. Kind of romantic. Joe and his team, consisting of his adult children and a friend, were preparing for the next day. Their service would become exclusively take-out due to the pandemic. We were gifted to be in a kind of limbo. Not table or take-out service. A bring your own, as it were. Their generosity did not stop with letting us squat in their workspace and take their precious time. They continued to enhance our special day with their kindness. A lovely young woman, perhaps Joe’s daughter, went in back to find a romantic station for the music overhead. Only to return blotting away a few tears, as none could be found. How dear! Joe made a huge sweeping gesture with his arm and told us to sit anywhere we liked. A smiling young man pointed and said “No, this is their booth!” And indeed, it was…

But the greatest gift of our day was the time we were able to spend visiting with our hosts! They were so welcoming and fun! We were fascinated and moved by the stories of the restaurant’s history as a neighborhood institution. It was so apparent this was more than a livelihood for them, it is their life.

Fortunately, before our visit came to an end, Joe and his team offered to take several pictures with my phone. For the next year, I would look at those photos and remember how our friends at Embers made even more cherished memories for perhaps their last seated guest of the year.

As we waved goodbye to the Embers family and friends, I said something that I immediately regretted saying. “Thank you everybody! I am a writer. I will be writing this beautiful experience. I will bring you a copy.” First of all, I’m no Ernestine Hemingway. Secondly, I’m no Ernestine Hemingway. It was such a special day, that I wasn’t sure I could do it justice with my words. Lending to the feeling of inadequacy, and writer’s block, was also a strong sense of guilt. I hadn’t followed through with my offer. So, here it is, days short of being exactly one year later and I am just now putting pen to paper.

Some call it kismet, some call it fate, some call it, well you get the point. I had every intention of writing our forty-eighth dating anniversary at Embers before the forty-ninth, but it is best I waited. You see, I always knew that this little story of ours would someday have an ending, I just didn’t know it was knocking on my door. The other day a couple of my children texted me, to let me know that my beloved Embers was being sold. They would be leaving and our “first date night” memories will have nowhere to live. So, the end of this story is not me waving good-bye with last years crumpled up McDonald’s bag, but today, waving good-bye to a tradition, one filled with lovely, lovely memories. And the wonderful people who helped create and nurture them.

Next year, on March nineteenth, we will be sitting in the parking lot, of who knows what, with a bag of McDonald’s, and romantic music playing on the car radio. It is time to create a new tradition. Sadly, we will be the only ones who will remember what booth we sat in. And, we will always:

“Remember the Embers”