To Each His Own

To Each His Own

Everyone has need of a quiet place. Whether figurative or real, there comes a time when enough little things pile on that one needs a quiet place that allows those accumulated small burdens to sort themselves out, get organized, prioritized, diminished and mostly discarded.

To some that means getting lost in a book. To another it might come as a result of a long run or workout. Knitting or macrame is the choice for many. Someone else may turn to their model railroad or that ‘56 Chevy they have been rebuilding for the last 20 years. Why do you think Dad always finds he needs to attend to something in his workshop when the house is filled with visiting relatives, or Mom remembers that she has a hair appointment when Dad’s family or workmates drop by?

In the absence, of time, money, opportunity, interest, or motivation to the recommendations found in magazines for avoiding or dealing with stress, many find the solitude, solace, or peace they seek in a glass of wine, a shot of whiskey, or a cold bottle of brew, either alone or with non-demanding friends.

When I was working my way through college with the combined pressures of job, finances, and classes, I often, in mid-afternoon when customers were scarce, would visit a local lounge with my books and study materials to study and write assigned papers. The Green Door staff, right off campus, friendly nice folk that they were, would set up a table for me in a corner, put a lamp on my table to work or read by, and serve me a cold Falstaff that I nursed until I was ready to leave. I found that environment more becalming than the options available on campus.

While working in Chicago I used to take the commuter train to Arlington Heights, roughly a one hour ride. I and other regulars would head for the beverage car and buy two cans of beer and seat ourselves there to unwind and share tales. On one such trip the train made an unusually long stop, and the two beers proved insufficient and had to be augmented. When I finally got home and was watching the news after supper, TV news reported that a commuter train had derailed, but had been fixed. They further reported that the riders in the beverage car did not seem to care and were oblivious to the derailment. They showed video of people laughing and enjoying themselves in the dining car. Proof that their worries had been left behind at the office.

There were several years when a good cigar and a cold beer while sitting in the shade of our maple tree, after a long day at the office, was a daily welcome. As I explained to those who asked, the cigar was more about the act of smoking, not the smoke itself. Like Bill Clinton professed, I never inhaled. The cigar phase passed and went the way of tubed tires, but the cold beer continues to occupy a place of honor on the stand by my chair while I mull over the issues of the world or try to digitally articulate my thoughts.

If posts by Facebook friends can be believed, and when has it ever been that one couldn’t rely on Facebook for thoughtful reliable information, then many of my friends have passed the months and months of the covid-19 pandemic with a glass of wine close at hand. Many of the comments, I am sure, were and are made in jest, but based on my own experience, there probably is much truth behind those jests.

Lest anyone be misled, I do not speak of alcoholism or over imbibing. I would never suggest such a thing. But a timely glass of wine or a cold beer is an entirely different matter.

Macrame or merlot. To each his own.