End of a (mini) era

 I was driving through the Iowa town of Solon when I noticed a handwritten message on the door of an establishment I used to frequent,

"Closed permanently" it read, scrawled in black ink.

I got out to take a closer look.

Sure enough, Eastwood's Bar & Grill was no longer. Just as the sign said.

How sad. The end of a mini era for me.

For a few years in the mid 2010s, I would meet my brother in law at Eastwood's, after each of us had filed stories from Friday night high school football games. He was the sports editor at the Iowa City Press-Citizen, and I was a stringer who just enjoyed dipping a toe back into the journalistic waters, riding the rush of filing a spot sports story on deadline. 

Eastwood's was our post-filing spot, a local watering hole with no pretensions, lots of characters, and a sense of anything goes.

There were our favorite bartenders, who greeted our entrance with a joyful shriek and hugs. There was the cook who was regularly high, and made delicious pizzas so loaded with toppings you could barely stuff a bite in your mouth.

Those bartenders, Heather and Amanda, were joie de vivre and then some. They were live wires, and my brother in law and I loved them for it. They jousted with us in conversation, joked with us, and were just plain fun. As the night wore on, they'd pour shots for us -- on the house, of course -- and join us as we downed whatever they had concocted. 

And then, as closing time had rolled by, they'd present the bill.

It was a fraction of what we owed. So, we naturally we tipped them a ton.

Solon, even nearly a decade ago, had some nice bars. Eastwood's was not one of them. Which is partly why we liked it so much. The outdoor sign had a gun on it. Its name came from the owner's fascination with the actor Clint Eastwood, he of the kick-some-ass, take-no-prisoners Dirty Harry movies. There were maybe three beers on tap, and at least two of them were Bud and Busch Light. The tables were wood, and unadorned. The music could be loud, depending on who was playing what. 

It had no pretensions. Which means it was perfect for us.

I drove by once, noticing the sign. I returned later, wondering whether I read it right, so I stopped the car, got out and walked to the entrance. As I readied to take a picture to send to my brother in law, a guy slipped behind me, and opened the door.

He caught me by surprise, and in my embarrassed panic over being caught taking a picture, I asked, "Are you all open?"

"No," he said, politely, considering he could have skewered me for my foolish question.

"The owner's in there," he added, pointing inside.

Sure enough, there he was, Eastwood's white-haired owner, sitting at a table, chatting with some folk.

I nodded at him, and perhaps he nodded back. 
I hope he knows how many good times my brother in law and I enjoyed at his establishment. I hope he's closing it because he wants, not because he was forced to do so.

I will miss that place. But I am happy for the memories I have there.