A Saloonkeeper’s Daughter
Most daughters are proud of their fathers, as they should be. I won’t try to convince you how outstanding mine was. I’ll just tell that it is so. I learned from him all that I know about generosity, people, life, and business. He was unconditional love.
My dad owned a redneck saloon. Saloon or tavern is what he called it. It opened that day in 1933 that Prohibition was repealed. His customers were regular people — farmers, businessmen, family folks, factory workers. The bar sat 60 people easily. You could get a draft beer for 50 cents. Every night, you could get pizza. Every Saturday, you could get fried chicken. Every person who went there thought of my father as a personal friend. The matchbook covers said, “You’re only a stranger, but once.”
My dad had a deal with the sheriff and with his customers. Sometimes he’d throw a drunk into jail at 10pm. Then he’d bail him out and take him to breakfast when the saloon closed in the early morning. One tough guy, named Patrick, was only allowed in the bar one day a year — St. Patrick’s Day. He’d misbehave, get kicked out, and then come back 365 days later. It was their gentlemanly agreement. I don’t know how they came to it. I only know that they did.
Though I wasn’t at the tavern often, I knew the regulars by name. They knew all about me too. How could they not? They had entertained me since I could walk. They had all been at my christening on a 40-acre farm. They got free tickets to every dance recital and graduation. Many of them saw me as their daughter. Most still have the calendar with my picture and a thermometer on it. One lady keeps me in her freezer! It was an extended family that lived at my father’s saloon.
When I got old enough to go to bars, people my age would tell me stories about my dad and buy me drinks in his honor. The toughest guys in town would tell me, “Hey if you ever need a favor . . .”
My Blogging Goal
Anyone who’s been to Successful Blog knows that I am like my father. I even keep snacks and beverages in the sidebar — a reminder that I am a saloonkeeper’s daughter. That’s how the story relates to my blogging goal.
You see, my father didn’t work at the saloon. He lived it. He also earned enough to feed a family and send three kids to school. Somehow in doing that, he managed to make a difference in people’s lives by sharing what he knew and who he was.
My blogging goal is to do the same thing with my blog
that my father did with his saloon.
Thank you, Darren Rowse at Problogger for this Group Writing Project.
Liz Strauss
And doing it you are! I’m sure wherever your Dad may be that he’s proud of his little girl!
Thanks, Ann. That’s the coolest compliment. I really mean that. I took me the longest time to figure out what my blogging goal really was.
That’s a worthy goal, Liz. “A place where everybody knows your name…”
Hey Liz,
I just liked the story and I’m glad you’re your Daddy’s Little Girl.
Joe
Thanks guys, it really is my blogging model. It just took me a while to realize it.
I’m glad we got that figured out….now, get to spreadin’ the love !
Congrats on finding yourself as you looked around trying to find us.
I like that goal, and it sure looks like your achieving it 🙂
Though like your dad, have you ever thrown anyone in jail yet?!??
Hi Jamsi!!
How cool that you came by and even cooler that you left a word for me!
Blog jail? Nah. Don’t you know? I’m the nice one. 🙂
I’m smiling.
Liz
Liz,
Your goal is a much more grinning than what I’ve shared. I’m a list maker … and it shows. When we were putting together Creative Latitude and it became over stressful due to running over time, I was instructed on what I should do with my #@$%!! lists …
[deep sigh] but it’s what I do.
Organise, then organise some more.
signed … Lists R Us
Liz,
I’m not sure how I stumbled onto your blog, but I’ve been lurking around for awhile. My blog is pretty new and not at all technical and I’ve been reading your blog and Darren’s.
Just wanted to let you know that I’ve found your blog very encouraging and useful. Mostly I lurk and don’t say anything – in fact, I think this is my first comment on a blog that didn’t belong to a friend!
Anyway, just wanted to say thanks for doing what you do. I know its making a difference for me.
–Jenn
Jenn,
I get to be your first comment! That’s so cool. Thank you for telling me. Wow! I know how that feels.
I’m so glad all of this stuff has helped. It needs to be useful to folks who need it. That’s simple enough.
You don’t have to lurk anymore. You’ve got a friend here. 🙂
Liz
No doubt the strong family genes will serve you well, compassion, friendship and honor. Keep up with the splendid work, it’s a joy to read.
Yeah, I’m a true product of my gene pool. There’s no doubt about that. Thanks Steve. I appreciate the kind words and the comments.
Great story, Liz. I love stories. That’s a part of what makes blogs such interesting reading. They are little snippets of a longer story of each blogger.
Hock!
How wonderful to see you! Yes, it is a great thing about blogs the longer you spend a blog the better you get to know the blogger. If that doesn’t happen the blog loses some of what makes a blog interesting. Don’t you think?
that’s a great story, Liz! i’m sure your dad is proud!
Thanks Chartreuse. It means a lot that YOU say that.
What a great and motivating story! Hope you have lots of regulars… 🙂
Thank you Jarkko Aho.
I appreciate your words of support for my story. I can tell that they are sincere and that means a lot to me.
Now that you’ve been here I hope you’ll stay a friend and add to our conversations. We’re a good bunch who really like to meet new people.
Liz
Liz, that’s really an inspiring story! Your blog goal is probably the best I’ve seen in Darren’s project.
Hi Helen,
Welcome, and thank you.
My dad was a pretty special guy and if it weren’t for Darren’s project, I don’t know that I would have put words to what my goal really was. It was a challenge to really say why I do this.
Your words mean a lot to me.
Liz
just want to let out the pain i have now, i wish my dad was still alive here and listening to me…i wish he could give me all the luck and riches in the world to give to my family….i have never thought of myself, its all my family…nothing was left for me…
Isabel,
That’s the same as Elizabeth . . . Isn’t it?
My dad died in 1983. I miss him too. I know he’s still listening. I believe it because I believe he hung the moon for me.
The stars are made of the same stuff as people. Did you know that? I think of that at night when I look up at the dark sky and think of my dad. It gives me room to breathe.
Meet me here any time you like or visit at my writing blog. There’s lots of room to breathe there too.
http://lettingmebe.blogspot.com
When I feel like you do now, this is what I go there to read.
http://lettingmebe.blogspot.com/2005/10/walking-on-water.html
I have faith in you Isabel. You’re made of the same stuff as the stars. How could I not?
Liz