Burial, Fire

We buried our grandfather on Wednesday. To be more specific, we buried his ashes. It was cold and windy, and the funeral, though nice, was too long. Graveside, we said a few words, the grandchildren passed the urn, and then we placed him in a frozen hole. After five days of goodbyes and two funerals, this was it, our final sendoff. After a tearful moment of silence, we returned to our cars and drove back as a caravan to the church where lunch was waiting.

Two buffet lines greeted us, each scattered with bowls of various cold salads and fruit Jell-Os. The main course was tater tot casserole. It was, as you can imagine, a choice between mush mush and more mush. It was appropriately Minnesotan. I filled my plate and sat down.

And then I turned on my phone.

While we were singing my grandfather’s favorite hymns, listening to the winded homilies and burying his ashes, Maxwell’s had caught on fire and was now burning down. For those of you who don’t know, Maxwell’s was our watering hole, our Cheers. And it was on its way out. I had voicemails and text messages waiting for me. They varied in their intensity and details, but they all came to the same conclusion – that Maxwell’s was up in flames.

I had said goodbye to my grandfather already, and now I was faced with saying goodbye to my favorite bar. They don’t sound like equivalents, and of course, they’re not. But still, it was a lot to take in.

Maxwell’s was where we spent our Thursday nights. We had been doing so for years. It was a small corner bar with brick walls, battered wood floors, a full bar and great specials – and, of course, the lot of us. We were a random bunch. Some of us have known each other for all our lives, and some we were only getting to know. Either way, there we were, crowded around a tall table or three-deep at the bar. It was a popular place to be sure. And it was historic too. Rumor had it that writers and intellectuals tied to the University of Minnesota hung out there in the ‘60s. I'm not going to look any of this up; I don't want to be the one to discover that it's not true. I like to imagine John Berryman drinking at one of the tall tables with another poet, or alone before his long and final walk home across the Washington Avenue Bridge. I like to imagine that I was part of something larger than myself by going there, by drinking a pint and talking about ideas on these hallowed grounds.

Whatever happens – rebuilt or left alone – I will never forget. You, Maxwell’s, were my first true watering hole and may well be my last.