Over the weekend I found myself unexpectedly immersed into something of a time warp. I was going through photo albums and boxes of things that belonged to my grandparents, and I found a guest book and photo albums from the years that they lived in Monrovia, Liberia.

My grandfather was an amazing man. He was born in the swamps of Louisiana where his mother died in childbirth, and was raised by my hunter/trapper/ businessman great grandfather until he was 12. When he was 12, one of my great-great aunts came and took him to New Orleans and enrolled him in private school. At the time my my Papaw did not speak English at all, just French. Despite this, he managed to graduate with honors and attended Ole Miss where he received an engineering degree. He joined the  US Navy and quickly rose to Commander , and also had some ties with the Seabees. After WWII he began working with the US Government at the Pentagon, surveying land, assisting with naval engineering and consulting. He was one of the founding investors and employees of  The Liberia Company  and he, my grandmother and my dad moved to Liberia from Virginia when my father was a little boy. They moved onto a large plantation that produced coffee, cocoa, and rubber for the Firestone Corporation. After the original founder of the company died, Mr. Juan Trippe took over. Mr. Trippe was also the Chairman of Pan-American World Airways, and this is how my Papaw also became employed by Pan Am and friends with Charles Lindbergh and his wife Anne. I originally wrote about Mr. Lindbergh and how I’ll always associate seersucker suits with him in this post.

When I was a kid in the 70′s I remember going to NYC with my grandparent’s, and my grandfather would go to the office while my Granny and I would see the sights and shows. I also remember when Mr. Trippe died and his son Charlie took over the company. Charlie and my dad were close in age and their names are interspersed through the book as well. The Trippe’s were always a part of my life, as was Mrs. Antoinette Tubman, the wife of the late Liberian President William V.S. Tubman, also a good friend of my grandparent’s. I didn’t realize until I began delving into history that President and Mrs. Tubman actually lived in a cottage on the plantation next door to my grandparent’s while the Executive Mansion was being renovated. I remember answering the phone when she would call and being fascinated by her accent and the feeling of joy that came through the lines from her voice.

I also started reading a book written by Bettye Stettinius Trippe, Juan’s wife and friend of my grandparent’s. In it she mentions staying with my grandparent’s in Monrovia, and the large cocktail parties they had. Apparently my love of cocktail parties comes very naturally. Heh. Since finding the guest book I have been OBSESSED with rediscovering the history of my Papaw’s association with Pan-Am and LIBCO. I have googled some of the names in the book and am blown away by the results. It’s so cool to find interesting stuff about someone you loved who was instrumental in making part of the world’s history that is still relevant today. The comments in the book are some of the funniest things though, just from looking at them, I can tell there was some heavy duty entertaining going on at that plantation ! It also cracks me up to see my father’s name interspersed throughout the book, and for address he boldly wrote “I live here !”

It makes me so excited to be able to look back on all of this history and think about what an amazing life my father and grandparents had, but at the same time it makes me sad. Sad that they are gone , and that my grandfather passed away when I was 15, well before the time I could really appreciate his extraordinary life and it’s impact. But I’m thankful for the memories that I do have with all of them, and that each of their experiences helped shape me and has provided me with what I can absolutely say has been a wonderful life.

I love you Papaw. A bushel and a peck, and a hug around the neck.

Top left: my grandfather surveying, Center: naval photo , Bottom left: heading to the inaugaration

Top right : HQ in Monrovia Bottom right: Papaw greeting President Tubman 

 A few weeks ago I picked up another part-time job as a bartender. I’ve bartended off and on all my life, I mean, everyone knows that cops moonlight as bartenders, right? What, you don’t listen to Billy Joel?

“Sergeant O’Leary is walkin the beat, At night he becomes a bartender” – Billy Joel, Movin’ Out 

There’s a place here in town that has been threatening to open for three years. Every month the date on the sign would change. I put my first application in back in September, again in November, and finally right at the first of the year. I was looking for something to do on my days off from my other job, as well as something to supplement my “2012 Fly, Float & Folly Fund“. Hopefully with cash. I finally got to meet the manager (also a former cop) and after telling him my history, I was hired on the spot to work from 4 to close Thu-Fri-Saturday. Yay ! I was stoked.

A few days later, we began training. This is where my bubble slowly began to pfffttttttt. I learned that the owner’s only other foray into the restaurant business was Shoney’s. I also learned that the owner, the managers and most of the training staff were related. And from West Virginia. Fortunately their last name wasn’t White. We began training by going over rules. Many, many, many rules. That’s all well and good, policy is nice. But you don’t have to be a douchebag and tell us you’ll be watching us online via security cam, and if you catch us doing anything questionable the police will be happy to give us a ride. That’s not really the way to establish our working relationship, especially when your kitchen manager has been fired from two other restaurants for taking steaks to his house for taste testing. We are all very aware that you have security cameras. Just ask the local police.

Anyway, after a few hours of rules, we started going over the 14 steps of service. “Hi, my name is _______. Welcome to ___________. How are you today?”  I’m almost positive anyone that has ever worked in any type of industry where you interact with humans is familiar with how to do this. They made us practice. Many times. Myself and the two other bartenders were all fidgety in the back, waiting to get behind the bar and see what we were dealing with. This was what we did on day one.

Day Two. We went over the menu. Right down to what kind of steak sauce we had. We each had to TAKE A TEST on the 14 steps and the menu. A written one.

Day Three. We went over the menu. And the 14 steps. The only time I saw the bar was when I walked by it to go to the bathroom.

Day Four. Opening tomorrow. We went over the menu, the 14 steps, learned the table #’s and got a tour of the kitchen. I waved at the bar as we walked by. Later that day, we’re not ready yet, computers not working. Opening Friday. The 13th. Wait, no, opening Saturday. More training tomorrow.

Day Five. Computers working. Training on how to ring in orders.Wait, these things are wrong. Let’s go over the menu again. Bartenders, meet in the bar. FINALLY. We each mixed a drink. OK y’all are good, be here Saturday at 2. Also, you must use the jiggers even if you know how to free pour, if you are caught not using them or over pouring you will be fired on the spot. There is a camera aimed directly at the well. Well alrighty then.

Saturday : Bartenders, you are gonna be servers and wait tables tonight, and the manager’s wife and brother-in-law are gonna work the bar. Oh hell naw. Bartenders very unhappy. This one especially. So this bartender was stationed in the bar to bar-back and run drinks. Ten minutes after the orders started coming in and the place went crazy, this bartender was behind the bar helping the manager’s wife mix drinks. Not a fully stocked bar yet. Certain top-shelf staples not even stocked (Bacardi, Tanqueray, Canadian Club). Our wine selection? Yellow Tail. Also available at Dollar General. No limes. No frozen drink maker machine, it’s broken, but we have this noisy ass blender from WalMart. Pray that all margaritas are ordered on the rocks. Then get an order for 11 virgin strawberry daiquiris for the girl’s basketball team. Shit. Closed, cleaned, counted puny tips. Oh, before you leave, you have to roll 75 silverwares and make 25 salads. Wait, what? I just cleaned up and stocked the entire bar by myself and it’s midnight. Also learned that people of Clanton do not tip well and many of them like to sit at the bar and drink tea. Unsweet.

The following week, I had another bartender in the bar with me. The bar is tiny. We were bumping into each other. We couldn’t run credit cards through the still malfunctioning computers, we had to leave the bar and walk up front. Also, no cash drawer, you had to work off a bank. We also had to leave the bar to make our customers a salad, get them bread or get their food, the servers couldn’t run it for us. However, the servers were assigned three tables in the  bar, leaving us only 7 seats at the bar. For two of us. Splitting tips and 7% of the servers alcohol sales. When they decided to pay us. Meanwhile, a huge bar in the back with a patio, fire pit and huge tv’s is ready to go but won’t open ’til spring. It’s been 75 degrees for three days. Speaking of degrees, there is no fan and no vent in the corner where the bar is. Customers complain its hot. We turn the a/c on, dining room customers complain it’s cold. We sweat. A lot. Also, the lighting is not good. Must take in flashlight to see in rear cooler.

This week, went in Thursday. Still no fan. No new lights. No margarita salt, no sweet and sour mix. Manager runs to WalMart. Forgets salt, buys three bottles of sour mix. I use table salt. I run out of sour mix at 9pm. No more margaritas for you. Decent tips, pretty happy. Count beers for inventory. Upon leaving, informed that we will be servers four the time being until they figure out when to open the big bar. Not happy. Ask if I had done something wrong. Answer from manager : ” Hell no, you’re great. You know tons of people, everyone loves you and you’re a great bartender, we just have to figure things out. Y’all aren’t making good money back there. We may not even serve alcohol or open the bar this weekend, we gotta see, my wife is gonna fix any drinks the dining room needs.”

Hmm.

I go home. I think on it. I talk to my family. My mother says there is no way in hell I’m gonna be a waitress, I don’t need money that badly, and besides, she’d be mortified. I can see her point. Nothing wrong with being a server, but it’s not for me. I don’t want to be, I’m not good at it, I’m a bartender. I don’t mind running a plate or helping out, but I belong behind that bar. I know my strengths, and balancing a tray isn’t one of them.

So I quit. On supposedly good terms. I told them that I was hired as a bartender and that is what I wanted to be. I was told by the owner and the manager that when the big bar was open in the spring, they wanted me back. We’ll see.

I hate leaving a job, but it wasn’t what it was laid out to be. The place opened too soon, they weren’t ready, and the problems were getting bigger, not smaller. The complaints around town were circulating.

Maybe spring will bring another chance, but if not? That’s ok too. Life goes on.

Cheers !