Holy Spirits by Amy Stonestrom

1 comment
Essays, travels

         I am still eating as my husband asks the bartender where we should go for Irish music. I am listening to them, sort of. Todd raves about our meal and asks whether the bartender owns the pub.

         “No, but I manage things. The owner isn’t here much. He is the Guinness distributor for the entire Dingle peninsula.”

I look up and notice the bartender beaming with pride.

         I don’t register a connection between this man and me but I probably should. Todd does though and he turns and points at me. I flash my best Minnesota Nice at the bartender, mouth full of rocket salad and turbot.

         “My wife’s dad used to be the liquor distributor for her town.” Todd says. “He brought livestock down to the stockyards and brought liquor back up in the empty semi-trailer.”

         Ah, yes. Dad did do that. I nod while swallowing the fish and taking a swig of cider. After he’d spend the night in South St. Paul at the shippers club where he paid a dollar to sleep in a room filled with rows of bunks that cradled snoring truck drivers, Dad would bring back a trailer full of booze to several municipal liquor stores along the way.

         His last stop was “The Lic,” our town’s on and off sale gathering spot. During the summers from age six until I was ten or eleven Dad would stop at the house to pick me up with the semi and we would deliver freight. I would ride the five blocks with the bottles of brandy, whiskey, gin and vodka clinking together and rattling in their boxes after hoisting myself up into the red trailer still tinged with a faint smell of straw and manure. He would buy me a bottle of Black Jack sour with the bits of pulp on on the bottom. Fizz and tart mixed on my tongue as I sat on a red vinyl bar stool while he and the manager unloaded the cargo. When they were done, our town was fully armed and ready to face another weekend.

         The bartender grinned at me. Proud to know me. “More important than the doctor and priest then, your da.”

I laugh and nod. I had never given Dad’s role that much gravitas.

         “I suppose so,” I said not wanting to break it to him that Mom and Dad were Lutheran— damned protestants—or where on the town’s totem pole my mother placed the priest.

         “I know so,” the bartender said and by his look, I could tell he knew for certain.

BIO: Amy Stonestrom is an MFA candidate in Bay Path University’s Creative Nonfiction program. She is also part of the year-long Memoir Writer’s Project at the Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis. Her work will be published in an upcoming issue of Brevity magazine early 2019.

Photo: Sarah Leamy. www.sarahleamy.com


If you can, please consider donating to this all volunteer online journal. 

Thank you.

https://wanderlust-journal.submittable.com/submit/130202/donate

Posted by

Sarah Leamy, MFA, is an award-winning author of both travel books and novels as well as a photographer, presenter, and a bit of a wanderer. She has lived in England, Germany, Spain, Guatemala and the Southwest of the US. She is the founder and editor of Wanderlust, a travel journal publishing international travel writing, photos and trip reports. Find out more at www.sarahleamy.com

One thought on “Holy Spirits by Amy Stonestrom”

  1. Nils Peterson says:

    This is really terrific for me to read. I love the Dingle peninsula and pubs anf the whole bit. A great picture too. Nils

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.