In Aggieville, halfway down Moro, sits an oasis against the rigors of college life, Brother’s Tavern.
10 am and frosty mugs of Colorado Cool-Aid and longnecks are caressed like long-lost lovers.
The stale stench of beer mingles with the remains of freshmen worship.
"Jimmy Jissum" and his fateful dog, "Buttlick" keep the libations flowing.
George Thorogood and the Delaware Destroyers suggest "One bourbon, one
scotch, and one beer" on the jukebox.
Friday normally means "Live Music", but today a pine box, not roadies, rests on the stage.
All the boys of my youth have returned—
Matt (Wo Fat)—Kenny Rogers with an attitude and laugh to match,
Gary (Goober)—still chasing those seventeen-year olds and catching them,
Bruce (Tufee)—traded in Spalding leather for the dimpled white of Titleist,
and Billy Roy (Skippy)—gray and weathered from the trials of teenage daughters.
They’ve all come back and if I could smile, I would.
So many of times, we’ve done stupid things—
Navaho Nellie, Ute Nights, Wet-Pants Wednesdays, upside-down margaritas, and skitching on icy streets with only the warmth of peppermint schnapps to combat the cold and the bruises.
But the innocence of youth has given way to the reality of life.
Marriage, divorce, jobs, and kids have forced us apart, but now death
has drawn us together again.
Soon glasses and bottles are moved to be near me.
Raucous laughter and kidding returns as round after round forms pyramids on the box.
Finally, they lift their drinks for one final toast—
"Here’s to you and here’s to me and if we ever disagree,
f*** you, here’s to me!"
Thanks Guys and here’s to you.
--Ted Baechtold
