Beers and Buzz

Its nap time for my Dad right now, so I’m hanging out at the Rosslyn Hotel having a beer and a steak sandwich….the hotel is all cleaned up now and is called the Rosslyn Inn, but back in the day it was a wonderfully scuzzy, nuthin fancy, local hotel that used to rent rooms to misfits and vagabonds.  The “Roz” was extra wonderful because, way back then, they never asked for ID.  It was a dark, dank place so I doubt very much if they could even see our grade 12 faces as we sat in the corner praying not to get caught.  The area I grew up in was far smaller than it is today….the whole north end of the city has blown up….the old Airforce base has been turned into an upscale housing development, there is the mother of all strip mall areas just down the road where the old drive-in used to be, and the corner of 97 and 137th is a nightmare.  But somehow, sitting here at the Roz, everything seems okay.

 This has been an incredibly difficult visit this time around.  I thought I had a strong grip on my feelings but it is clear to me that I simply do not.  The light of recognition has gone from my Father’s eyes and every fear I have ever had over the past 9 months is welling up and spilling out of me.  I feel paralyzed with emotion.   

Earlier this summer, when my Dad was still able to communicate in a way where you knew he was active and engaged, I wheeled him out from his care center to The Roz for a beer.  My Dad loved having a beer or two.  He totally enjoyed a good beer buzz and if you know me you know I love a good beer buzz too.   If I could go back and change one thing about the past, I would have gone to the pub with my Dad more often.  We always looked forward to our third beer of the evening together and we both thoroughly enjoyed getting loud and becoming the funniest people we knew. I have such vivid images in my mind right now.  Snap shots of the look on his face when I wiped the pool table up with a couple of big burly guys.  I have no idea how I won that pool game…I just kept sinking ball after ball and I suck at pool…I just remember my Dad telling them not to mess with me “cause she may be tiny, but she’s no pushover”.  Or the time when we both knew the punch line to a joke some guy was trying to tell us…and we blurted it out at the same time.  The look on his face was precious.  I can still see it.  Then there was the time some guy was trying to pick me up and I ended up having to tell him that I was here with my Dad and that I wasn’t interested in what type of car he drove.  Ever.  Dad bought me another beer and told me he was proud to know me.  I could listen to him tell me that he was proud of me a million times and it would never be enough.  Our favourite part of the night was walking home from the pub singing at the top of our lungs… loudly and badly.  It was magic.   I felt like I was with my very best friend, doing silly very best friend things, knowing that you were very safe and that everything was okay because you just got along that well together.  There was never any judgement….just two people who thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. I wish I had done that more. 



Summer 2009.  Outdoor Pub.  Calgary.



When I brought my Dad to the Roz earlier this summer he could still hold his beer glass.  He would get confused when it was time to put the beer glass down and pick up a french fry but that can happen to the best of us.  We talked about the time he caught me at the Roz.  There was an old fella who ran the bar in the afternoon…either he was as blind as a bat or just didn’t care….either way it was a bonus for us  because we got to sit in the corner and have a beer.  One afternoon we were sitting at the back where the pool tables were.  We had been there most of the afternoon.  It was around 4 pm and I knew it was time for me to get home…I headed out the door and walked right into my Dad.  Literally turned right and smashed into him.  At the exact same time we both asked “What are you doing here?” “Nothing !”  we both said…….my life flashed before my eyes.   “Listen,” Dad said “don’t tell your mother you saw me” …..”uh, okay Dad”.  “Now go home” he said.    My friends thought that my Dad was the coolest person on the planet that day.  I was stunned.   I got home and nothing more was ever said about it.  I guess neither of us were supposed to be at The Roz that day.  I stayed away for 30 years.

Later on one of the stories my Dad would tell me about growing up in Nanaimo BC in the 1940’s was about how, since he was an underage working man, he used to drink in the same pub as his parents did.  My Dad quit school to become a logger, so he figured he was a grown up and entitled to drink with the men. He always hung around the back door though….if his folks came in the front door he could slip out the back.  One Friday evening he saw his Mom walk in the pub so he grabbed his jacket and snuck out….right into his Dad who was waiting for him outside the back door.  Dad thought he was a gonner.  My grandpa, his Dad, dragged him back into the pub and sat him down at a big table and proceeded to round up all his buddies.  All my Grandma and Grandpa’s friends were seated and treated to an open tab that night.  My Dad had to pay for everyone’s drinks.  It cost him two weeks wages.   I never got tired of hearing that story.  I was always in a rush to grow up.  I think my Dad was the same way.  There is a great big beautiful world out there waiting for us and both my Dad and I were in a hurry to get there and see it all before it disappeared.  Well now I am sitting at the Roz and I can tell you that it has disappeared.  There is no big beautiful world right now because it doesn’t hold my father any more.  No more beers and laughs with him.  I just cannot imagine a world without Buzz in it.

My Dad will be waking up soon.  I’m going to sit and watch an old movie with him and hold his hand.  He keeps reaching out to touch my face today.  Maybe I’ll tell him the story about how much he and I loved going for beers together.  About how much fun we would have, how loud we would sing and about how he was so proud of me.