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Saturday night, Saint Patty's day, I found myself sitting in an old rusty bar in Janesville, Wisconsin...
I made my way to the snug little restaurant area behind the bar itself and was shown to a small table just behind an elderly man sitting with three other elderlies. When I say "just behind" I quite mean "just behind." My left elbow could have rested on this man's back as easily as it did my table.
This tiny restaurant, dotted with senior citizens, was themed in hunting and fishing. An upside down canoe on the ceiling with its fake upside down ducks. Shot guns, fishing reels and a spare animal head or two on the walls. Consuming the center of the room just above my head was a large spindly tree branch dressed for the occasion in green lights and shamrocks.
The pleasant seventy-five degree evening blew refreshingly through the restaurant, chasing its own breezes from a large window behind me to a double screened door opposite. Shut my eyes and I could have been sitting outside on a large shaded patio somewhere in the Caribbean.
The timid heavy-set hostess asked if I wanted a drink...I ordered a Miller Lite. She returned from the bar with a can. It had been a long time since I had a can of Miller Lite; typically it's bottles or drafts. But there it was...my cold, sweaty can.
I took a long sip. The two waitresses were properly adorned in green shirts and green beads. The young pretty one, long brown hair flipped up on her head, came for my order. The menu had literally two choices: corned beef and cabbage or chicken. I opted for the chicken, though I told the waitress that when I got my chicken and poked it I expected it to cluck with an Irish brogue. She laughed and said she would see what she could do. I later made clear my disdain when it did not.
The over-friendly-with-not-enough-to-do busboy (well, busman) sat down at my table. He began a dissertation on the history of the place. It was as if that's all he knew in life and was going to spill it. He told me that the owner is a Korean War vet and showed me to a separate eating room overwhelmed with war trinkets. It was like a war museum swallowed up by a restaurant, consumed by a bar.
Dozens of war plane models hung from the ceiling, a mannequin dressed in full uniform guarded the place and all about hung paintings of war scenes. War medals hung on the walls too...and war rifles and burp guns.
The enthusiastic busboy offered to introduce me to the owner. I told him that wouldn't be necessary.
I returned to my seat only to find that while I was gone beads had been handed out to all the patrons. I was disappointed not to have my beads.
"Excuse me," I raised my hand bellowing to my waitress from across the room so that the whole restaurant could hear. "My waitress didn't offer me any beads."
"Aw do you want beads?" she asked with mock pity.
"Yes, I want beads!" I demanded. So she hung a necklace of green plastic Saint Patrick's Day beads around my neck with a lovely Miller Lite medallion dangling at its end. Classy stuff I'm telling you.
Just then the elderly table next to me was finished and the man nearest me turned to get up and found to his surprise that he was almost in my lap. How could you not have a conversation?
"You got the chicken eh?" he asked spying my plate.
"I did," I responded.
"Looks good," he smiled.
"It is."
"Now I have to get out of my chair," he joked. "Not easy for an old man like me."
"Old?" I said. "I feel like I'm chasing right behind you."
"Ah! You are so young," he replied. "I'm ninety-four years old!"
I would have never guessed-he looked so good.
I turned to my waitress. "When you were born this man was already retired," I smiled. She laughed and so did this hearty old man.
"He's almost ninety-five!" exclaimed a woman at his table.
"You look amazing," I said to him.
"A Manhattan and a beer every night," he let out a large chortle. "A few years ago, a doctor told me to not stop whatever it was I was doing, because it was obviously working. I was happy to oblige."
His friend reached to give him a hand. "I do need help getting out of my chair, though," he tossed the statement sideways at me with a sheepish little grin.
"Where are you gonna be when I need help getting out of my chair in about a half an hour?" I smiled back.
With that he threw his head back, squeezed his eyes and gave off a big laugh.
Before he turned to leave he shook my hand, looked me in the eye and winked. "Have fun," he said. And then he slowly ambled out of this bar/restaurant/hunting lodge/war museum.
Have fun: Words that are easily thrown away, but in this case carrying advice.
And so I pass this advice on to you-from a friendly almost ninety-five year old man in a little dust jacket of a bar in Janesville, Wisconsin: "Have fun."
Life passes, leaders. I know you're busy. I know you're doing important stuff. But listen to the old man...and your hearts.
Have fun.
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