Beer Night

“That’s not fair! You get a party every Friday night, but we don’t.” An adolescent conflict with my mother had escalated to forceful sentences, but Mom kept her temper.

When my grandparents retired, they sold their store in the Ozarks and moved a few blocks away. Dad picked up them and a case of beer every Friday evening. Since they were the Greatest Generation, the ones who had confronted evil and decisively defeated it, drinking beer during a get-together was just something they did.

This became such a regular occurrence on Friday evenings, we kids christened it, “Beer Night.” The adults sat around our dining room table with a beer at hand while they played cards and talked. They never had any specific topic or agenda, and their discussions ranged wide, with humor never far away. Kids were tolerated as long as we stayed quiet, and I spent many hours as a fly on the wall, soaking up lessons the grown-ups offered without charge.

This went on for years, and, before I knew it, my own approaching adulthood made me chafe at my childhood restrictions, which I now regarded as blatantly unfair.

So, I told her what I thought.

Her answer caught me by surprise.

“You think I want to do this? I’ve played cards and drunk beer every Friday night for the last six years, and I’m sick of it.”

I blinked. “Why don’t you stop?”

“Because she’s my mother and this is what she likes.”

The next Friday evening, I sat in the dining room with the adults and watched Mom. She gave no indication that she’d rather be anywhere than here. She talked, laughed, and sipped her drink. More importantly, she gave yet another gift to her mother who was unaware of what those few hours cost.

William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.