MESSAGE AT THE BOTTOM OF A PINT

“Shags, what are you doing?”

I kept working. I knew Chaka was laughing at me, probably thinking I was being stupid intentionally. He was right to be suspicious, but I am not the same person I was forty years ago. I am older and more mature.

“Shags,” he repeated, chuckling a little at my dogged determination.

I heard him but continued using my butter knife to dislodge whatever I saw resting snuggly at the bottom of my empty glass pint of beer. With my tongue sticking out as the legendary Chicago Bull Michael Jordan would, I worked the tip of my knife under the edge of the small disc. Eventually, I flipped the disc onto the side of the glass where I could easily remove it.

“Ah-ha! Look!” I showed Chaka. “See, I am not crazy.”

My voice was loud, but only two other tables were at the spacious Route 22 in Weirton, WV. Chaka wanted to show me a sports bar he discovered after returning from San Diego to his hometown to live after retiring from teaching.

Route 22 is a gigantic place. The bar extends lengthwise, with a massive collection of beer taps in the center. HD television screens stretch behind the bar, making it the perfect place to watch Steeler games on Sunday. But I was more invested in my beer glass than anything else.

The waitress brought us a couple more beers. I had another Summer Shanty on draft while Chaka opted for his usual, the alluring darkness of a bottled Guinness. Our tastes had vastly improved over the kegs of IC Light of Beta Hall at West Liberty.

I pulled my empty glass away from the waitress’s extended reach, pretending some Summer Shanty was still there. “I’m not done with this yet.” I kept it to continue my obsessive investigation of the glass and the disc. I looked into the empty glass and saw a half-inch opening in the bottom. Once the waitress left, I turned to Chaka as he poured Guinness into his glass. “Look at this!”

Another hole, just like the first glass, was on the bottom of the new pint. “How can this be? Let me see your glass!” I looked at the bottom of Chaka’s glass only to discover that he had no such hole. “Why is she giving me glasses with holes in the bottom while you get the glasses with none?”

“Shags, let it go,” Chaka laughed. “It’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

“Oh, I think it is,” I said in my best Jerry Seinfeld voice. “Don’t worry. I won’t embarrass you or make a scene when I talk to the waitress. I don’t do that stuff anymore.” Chaka and I laughed. I guess it all depends on a person’s definition of a scene. 

Chaka and I are Phi Sig brothers, members of a now-defunct fraternity at West Liberty State College, long before our alma mater became the high-falutin West Liberty University. Since last summer, we have alternated months visiting each other to reminisce during our talks about living the retired life. 

So we passed the time by drinking our beers, finishing our lunches, and sharing experiences from long after we went to different coasts after college. Life is so new now, but it is still old in some ways. What once was hope and anticipation for a boundless future has evolved into a slow-moving Disney ride back through the lives we have led.

As the waitress returned to our table, Chaka raised his glass for a drink and muttered, “Please, don’t.” I looked at him and rolled my eyes, leaning forward with a pleasant smile and a hint of mischievous curiosity.

“Ma’am,” I began, slightly apologetic. “I am not trying to be stupid or anything like that, but the glasses you gave me…”

“...have holes in the bottom, “ she laughed while finishing my thought. “You are not the first person to ask about this.”

I looked over at Chaka defiantly, giving him an I-told-you-so expression. He shook his head, then leaned forward with me to hear her explanation. We were two old fools who would never admit to knowing everything, so we just sat and listened to our twenty-something waitress.

We were both amazed. This bar has a bottoms-up draft system, which “fills” draft beers from the bottom. Many bars have a tap the bartender pulls to pour beer into a tilted glass. The bartender places the specially made glass atop a kegerator, filling the perfect glass of beer from the bottom.

The round disc? It is a magnet that rises with the pressure of the beer only to fall when the filling automatically stops, effectively sealing the magnetized hole at the bottom. Some businesses put their logos on the magnets; others print promotions. Mine? I had a promotion magnet and one with a message similar to a fortune cookie I would grab after eating at a Chinese restaurant.

“A glass half empty is still a glass of beer,” mine read.  

We asked the waitress to take pictures of us before we left. Afterward, she said I could keep my two magnets as souvenirs. I chuckled and stuck them both in my shirt pocket. Two beers are plenty for lunch at Route 22.

 

MARK 6

For the longest time, Charlie-Bear always relished sitting on the porch from the early morning until the late afternoon when the sun grew too hot for man and beast. For Charlie, life was good when there was a cool summer breeze, a shady porch, chirping birds, and occasional deer crossing the yard. He watched the comings and goings in our neighborhood but rarely moved a paw from his prized spot.

Charlie has been showing his age lately. Sure, we still take our walks, but we cut them shorter now since his legs are not quite as energetic as they used to be. When we come home, he slurps water from his bowl and heads to his bed inside to rest. I like to keep him outside, though. I want to remind him how much he loved sitting out here in the past. His joints no longer allow him to lie down easily, so Charlie paces across the porch and wanders down and back along the sidewalk, looking for something or just standing guard. 

I grow sad and frustrated watching him endlessly walk to and fro, eventually letting him inside. I can relate to how he is feeling. It is like being on high alert when you anticipate some forthcoming event that never seems to arrive. You keep going, unsure about what is driving you, until you just need to stop. Unfortunately, this is how I spent most of my life.

I could barely keep my head above water when I started teaching in North Carolina. Like many people, I wanted to ensure I was doing everything and anything to succeed in my career. I was tired, but I managed to power through attending training meetings, preparing seven different classes, meeting hundreds of new people, and setting up my classroom from scratch. To say I was drowning is an understatement, but I did it all with a smile on my face and occasional hidden tears on my pillow. 

At the time, I found some misguided joy in this daily marathon. My efforts, numerous activities, countless hours, and little personal time for rest and reflection must be synonymous with what it means to be an outstanding and effective teacher. Undoubtedly, I thought, a person would need a blind dedication to the never-ending grind and continual personal sacrifice to experience success in any career. I am unsure where I developed this attitude, but I may have blurred a necessary line between professional success and personal well-being.

The next thirty-three years offered numerous subtle and more than enough brutal reminders that life offered more than I was asking. I learned the hard way that regardless of whether I arrived at school an hour before it opened and left hours after the final bell, work would always remain. With age came wisdom as I learned to heed the messages emanating from the back of my mind, from deep within my heart, and from the soles of my aching feet.

I went to mass at Saint Michael Parish a couple of weekends ago. Father Luis has been taking time to visit Mom lately here at home. The three of us have spent some wonderful Friday afternoons talking about the more treasured aspects of life, like family and God. Mom has been sending him on his way with coffee cake and cookies recently, so I was happy to see that he was celebrating mass. 

To be fully transparent, I disappear into my thoughts during most homilies. I want to listen from beginning to end, but unfaltering attention is challenging sometimes. I have so much on my mind, so I grant myself a little grace. However, this afternoon was different, as Father Luis started on the subject of that day's Gospel: rest.

Father Luis referenced Chapter 6 in The Gospel of Mark. The Apostles are worn out from the pressures of their ministry, tiring from large crowds of people and meeting their needs. Father Luis thoughtfully explained how they felt and related it to how many of us feel today. We are always on the go and seldom listen to what our bodies tell us about the need to rest. He referred to verse 31 and what Jesus said to His Disciples: "Come away by yourselves to a deserted place and rest a while."

The other morning, as I was drinking coffee and welcoming the new day, Charlie sat beside me. The rear of his body was already planted, tired from an early-morning walk, but Charlie could not make those front legs commit to relaxing. He fixed his legs straight before him as a child would push away a plate of unwanted food. I crawled onto the porch beside him, whispering, "Charlie, relax. Relax. Shhhhhh." Charlie-Bear sighed, then slowly lowered himself to the floor, finally putting his head down and closing his eyes for a nice early morning nap.

Back in my chair, I sipped the last cooling bits of my coffee and picked up my book where I had left off. Occasionally, I looked out into the uncut yard with its patches of dry grass from the summer drought, then over at my soundly sleeping dog whose legs ran in some faraway meadow. My opened calendar sat on the table next to me. My weekly things-to-do list was long, but I could push several items to the following week. This moment won't last forever.

Charlie-Bear resting.

Father Luis and Mom hanging out.