A TEXAS BAR ON A SUNDAY AFTERNOON

I've lived in Texas all my life except for a year in South Africa, 12 years in South Florida, and one year in Seattle.  You'd think I would have been in a good 'ole smoke-filled, boot-scooting,' hell-raising, beer-drinking Texas bar at least once in all those years.  Alas, I had not until this past Sunday.

Two new friends of mine are musicians.  I didn't know their history, but I was curious about it.  I asked them about their music when they called me this past Saturday to ask if I'd volunteer for our organization at a theater in Llano next week.  They asked if I liked 'smoke-filled beer joints,' and I told them I didn't. Well, they play at one every other Sunday afternoon.  That hooked me.  I didn't think so at the time, but a beer joint should have been on my Bucket List.  Forget about Asia and Australia; I should have been thinking about local sites I still needed to experience before I went to the other side of the world!

This particular joint is in the middle of nowhere in the Hill Country.  Most people living within a short driving distance of the beer joint are either ranchers, cowboys, or retirees living on the lake.  

I drove into the graveled parking lot.  The building looked like it had been there many years and that a nice tornado could easily blow the place down.  There are no windows in the building.  The front door looks like it's made of plywood and has no lettering.  The siding proudly displays "Pat's Bar and Grill."  I didn't know it then, but there's a backdoor entrance, too, probably for those undercover or married.  Maybe both.

When I walked in the front door with a writer friend, smoke came billowing out.  I'm allergic to cigarette smoke, but that didn't stop me.  I was on a mission.  I found a table for us, and my eyes immediately went to where the music was playing.  They were in the middle of singing some Blues, which is music to my ears.  I order a margarita while my eyes and ears are transfixed on the music coming from the four people on the little old stage. It was the kind of music that immediately transported you back to when you had your whole life in front of you, and you had yet to experience the joys and sorrows yet to come. 

It didn't take long for two men at the bar to start talking to us.  You would think this would no longer happen to me at my advanced age.  And it hasn't in eons.  One guy was probably about 5'5", in his sixties, 250 pounds with long curly hair, and a gimme hat sitting on top of his head.  It might have had 'Make America Great Again' emblazoned on the front of the hat. He wore a huge dirty tee shirt along with what looked like Hawaiian print shorts.   None of this led to the least amount of interest on my part.  However, he was persistent.  He asked me to dance, but I declined.  Not so much because of his appearance, but the fact is that I can't dance worth a lick, and my back won't allow it even if I could. He quickly found someone else.  His dance moves were all over the place, with arms and legs flailing everywhere.  You'd never think someone of that size and age could move so effortlessly.  The only problem was that none of his moves were in sync with the beat of the music.  Oh well...he was having fun. Seeing someone so uninhibited dance like it didn't matter what anyone thought was a joy.  I admired him for it.

My guitarist friend worked it like Eric Clapton while my other friend played the tambourine, harmonized, and ensured the sound system was perfect.  Their voices were heavenly. I managed to divert my attention to the other patrons from time to time.  They were of all ages but primarily middle age to elderly.  One elderly couple danced to many of the tunes.  The moves they made weren't unlike what you'd see on a country western version of Dancing With the Stars.  The precision of their movements and the smiles on their faces while they danced made you feel like this was foreplay for the lovemaking that was sure to follow.  I loved it.  Living vicariously brings its own pleasures.  You're not left trying to figure out 'what's next.'

Young and older women were also there, either sitting in the corner of the bar or wandering from table to table. They were the huggers of the crowd.  They all had in common: blue jeans with pant legs tucked into boots.  Some wore old cowboy hats folded on the rim to fit their tiny heads better.  The young ones were beautiful just because they were young. They brought pleasure to the older men as they sashayed by.  Everyone appeared to know each other and engaged in their well-practiced routine on a Sunday afternoon.

The 'grill' part of Pat's Bar and Grill was not unexpected for a run-down building.  They had a huge pot of beans with ham hocks on the table and chili waiting to be served from a slow cooker.  All the fixings you'd expect to see in Texas were on the table, such as Fritos, onions, jalapenos, cheddar cheese, etc.  It was self-serve without any price posted, so everyone was welcome to help themselves.  We didn't.

I found it interesting to watch who came in the back door.  It was primarily men, and everyone seemed to know them and greet them with the familiarity you would expect for old friends.  I'm sure they all had a story to tell.  Some of it is fiction, some nonfiction.  All were characters in their own right, with stories I would love to hear. 

The music is too good to miss, and the camaraderie is inviting.  I've never owned cowboy boats before, but I'm going to get some boots and tuck the legs of my jeans into them.  Sashaying through the crowd isn't my style, and I'm too old anyway.  But, I can hug with the best of them.

I'm going back.