Painting by Pamela Heater
Passing
World War II still loomed large
in the rear-view mirror
when I started going to bars.Orange pop in glass long necks
and Superior chips in bright blue bags
were the complement to our parents'many Stroh's, many Viceroys. Other barstool
occupants would often spring for Hersheys,
also fine with us, young blue-eyed blondes,the only kid regulars at Maple Gardens,
Ewald's, Franz's, the Vets. Early 60s Saginaw
had its upper crust, but we were not part of it.By the time we were crystal clear on that,
we had moved on to social climbing in earnest,
kicking that smoky jukebox ladder over behind us,laser-focused on the nuances of middle-school mores,
fashion, boys, no more likely to reveal our barroom
childhoods than to imitate the language
our German-Russian grandparents spoke at home.
