Beer Gardens

I once heard someone remark that Flint was a unique city. Their theory was, nowhere else could you find a Church, a Bank, a Coney Island and a Bar at each intersection. While maybe somewhat of an exaggeration, my hometown absolutely had its share of all four. The boom of the auto industry brought those seeking a good life to Flint and it put money in worker’s pockets. Overtime meant lots of money. That money was squirreled away into the many banks. Pocket change was spent on the cheap, greasy ‘coney’ food. Some was spent in the many watering holes found in the city. In addition, coins were tossed into one of the many churches offering pates in the form of tithes.

My father and his fellow cronies, who relocated to this industrial city of the north, called all bars, Beer Gardens. Not taverns or inns or juke joints. Never a Honky Tonk. I never thought to ask why that term was used. Maybe it came from the men who fought overseas? Maybe that’s what they are called in the “BootHeel” of Missouri? Father’s generation considered these establishments to be where one could drink, find loose women and engage in questionable habits.

My father was married three times. The first ended quickly in divorce. The second in his wife’s death and the third go round was my mother. He kept close to his second wife’s people and they became to me and my mother as family. His second wife’s brother Bud and his wife Betty lived near us. Uncle Bud was a drinker, a heavy drinker. Looking back, he must have also been a womanizer. Topping this all off was his habit of shooting dice.

Most days of the year Uncle Bud was a model citizen, loving father and caring husband. He attended the neighborhood church with his family each Sunday. A couple of brown bottles of Hams Beers each week, sufficed to quench his thirst. A few times each year though the voices in his head regained control and an exit from the normal world occurred. He headed for the debauchery that stilled those voices. This was found at the local Beer Gardens. Seemingly unlimited draft beer, shots of Old Grandad, the cheap perfume of the barflies and the allure of mind-numbing experiences called to him and led him astray.

Aunt Betty sitting at home, fretting about his whereabouts and his health, worried about her man. She eventually dialed my Father, seeking his help. These calls happened after Bud had been gone for a few days. The calls seemed to come only at night. In those days no one called at night unless it was an emergency. Aunt Betty never looked for Bud in the daylight and I often wonder if that was because his location might be better found when the questionable establishments were open? Or was she afraid of where he might be found in the daytime?

Never less, snuggled into my bed, cowboy pajamas on. The phone’s ringing surely slightly awakening me. Father’s voice whispering into the receiver as he answered the phone trying to calm Betty down. Eventually agreeing to go hunt Bud down.
Our means of transportation during that time was a white, 1963 Chevrolet Biscayne, with two doors. It seemed like a behemoth of a machine. During the day, my seat was the back window, where lying prone, I could watch the traffic go by. On these late nights, the large vinyl covered back seat became my sanctuary. Dad started the car and while it warmed up, he wrapped me in a blanket and then placed me in the backseat of the car.

As we traveled the streets of flint, myself half awake, the constant stream of lights invading the car gave a mystical feel to the journey. Watching the street lights and car headlights bounce around the interior was mesmerizing, hypnotizing,
Listening to my mother and father talk of Bud and his possible locations led to a feeling of love and security. There was no complaining about Betty, Bud or our mission, only concern for the pair and their two daughters.

My ears were assaulted with twangy Country and Western music, as Mother stopped at the curb in front of one of the stops. The music blared into the atmosphere each time the door swung open. Buck Owens, Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline. Hank Williams or even Jim Reeves filled the night. Underscored by the loud laughing and occasional arguments.

As the car rolled to a stop, the passenger door opened and Father exited the car and entered the Beer Garden to search for the wayward Uncle. Raising up to watch him enter the smoke-filled rooms, it seemed that they all looked the same. Paint worn swinging doors with a fogged-out round window. The front of the building adorned with rows of glass block windows running across the front.

Most excursions took more than one stop to locate the runaway. How many Beer Gardens could Flint have had? North end? South side? East side? Our trips crossed through mythical realms as we searched. Bud though was always found and never seemed to put up a fight about being taken home to his wife and daughters.

When at last he was found, he became a temporary resident of my Vinyl Upholstered Kingdom. Smelling of stale beer and cigarettes, shirt misbuttoned, pompadour hair messed, he happily climbed into the car, more than ready to return to life. Sometimes, barely making it into the back seat before passing out, other times he pulled me into his lap, ruffling my hair and softly sang Johnny Cash songs to me.

After the children graduated from High School he and Aunt Betty returned to Missouri, seeking a  slower paced life. Driving trucks for the various cotton farms around Sikeston Missouri suited him.

Roy Richard
June 2024