Where have all the good times gone?

Dad and I go for a beer in a small Pennsylvania Dutch town called Leather Corner Post. We cut through Claussville, Kernsville, Orefield, and there it is finally: the Leather Corner Post Hotel. They are known for their boom-ba playing, a bladder fiddle with a tambourine and a cowbell on a stick. Big guys beating the wood floor with them, to the tune of Polka-fied songs by The Cars, and ELO.

It’s just noon and dark inside, a handful of guys at the bar, each at safe distance from one another. The one nearest us is wearing a breathing assist device and sipping White Zinfandel, in flannels.

There’s a handwritten sign above the bar that says 3 Shot Limit, underlined twice, definitive. They have a new TV on the wall behind us that’s playing The Kinks, Where Have All The Good Times Gone? I take a picture of dad and myself, as he recalls the days of working for Dun & Bradstreet as a kid, carrying heavy boxes of credit reports and eying the new crops of female temps as they came and went.

The guy across from me orders a water but the bartender thinks he said Lager, so she pours him one and I offer to take it, rather than let it go bad. We decide we should go instead, and dad thanks me for the beer.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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