A Saturday Night Memory

Saturday Evening. We spent the day inside, victims to the contest raging between heat and humidity: which would make Kansas City least livable today. Frustrated, I blurted out, “Let’s go someplace, do something.” Christine was game but asked what and where. “How about the Uptown Lounge again?” It was all that I could come up with.

We were there for the first time two days ago with our dear friends Charlie and Mary Murphy, enjoying the Richard Haitbrink Quartet, with vocalist Nancy Wallingford. They entertained us with jazz and blues from “The Great American Songbook”. Nancy reads and occasionally comments on these posts. (Hi Nancy!)

Two decades ago we were in this space to listen to our daughter Alexis’ then boyfriend and his band. Then it was Davey’s Uptown, a venue well suited to garage bands, Pabst Blue Ribbon, and a level of sanitary neglect that gave footsteps a sound not unlike Velcro pulling apart. The Uptown Lounge was nothing like its predecessor.

I drove, negotiating Main Street which is currently a confusion of barriers, orange traffic cones, and shifting lanes as Kansas City extends its Trolly Line south. I envision that the road’s many open chasms must “collect” overnight impaired drivers like insects sticking to flypaper.

As we entered the Uptown Lounge we left the noise, dust, heat, and humidity of the city at the door. “Our table” was waiting for us. I feel qualified to call it that since we were now repeat customers.

The Uptown Lounge is softly lit and has a pure but understated elegance that welcomes sport coats and evening dresses with the same comfortable familiarity as shorts and polo shirts. Tonight’s entertainment was courtesy of owner Alan Stribling at the grand piano with occasional solos and vocal accompaniments by bartender Vonne Whittman.

His voice is like soft oiled leather while he slowly sways at the keys, a human metronome. Whittman wears an unobtrusive headset that picks up her vocals, broadcasting them through the sound system is such a way that an uninformed patron is left to wonder where the singer is hiding. Whitman simultaneously sings and performs her bartenderly duties without diminishing her expertise in either calling.

Into the first of two martinis, I am teleported in this carefree moment to carefree times long past by Billy Joal, Elton John, and James Taylor:

“It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in…”

“It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside. I’m not one of those who can easily hide…”

“Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone. Suzanne, the plans they made put an end to you…”

Alan later asks if there are any requests. “Color My World” by Chicago, I reply.

“Great song… I’ll give it a try.”

In a very rare moment for me I ask (really, I insisted) Christine to dance with me. We are the only patrons to do so and Christine is a bit self-conscious. Thanks to my martini, I’m not. In a few moments Christine asks if I am tearing up. “No… well maybe a little.” 47 years ago this was our wedding song. I could not have imagined then how the song would foretell now:

“As time goes on, I realize just what you mean to me. And now, now that you’re near promise your love that I’ve waited to share. And dreams of our moments together. Color my world with hope of loving you…”

After we returned to “our table” Christine remarked that a few pre-COVID years ago Alan had been performing at another piano bar and that I had made the same request. She was right, and now I remember that things played out in much the same déjà vu way. (Was it a martini or a manhattan then?)

An hour and a half into the evening and half through my second martini I see a familiar face enter the Lounge. It’s Ann Adams Fay and her partner. They join us and as it turns out they have been talking about walking the Camino. Coincidence?… A gentleman in Puerto Rico who had walked the Camino once told me, “Peter, in life there are no coincidences.”

Two hours gone and my second martini finished we bid farewell to our friends and the Uptown Lounge. Christine had been filling up on free soda water as she was the “DD” for the evening… “designated driver” (“designated darling” to me).

Driving home she skipped a return on Main Street in favor of a more serpentine and tree lined route. As we drew nearer to our home a thought came to mind. We were a few blocks from Winstead’s, a 1950’s era hamburger restaurant that we had not visited together since our children were young. Back then we could occasionally afford buying them each a Winstead’s “Tiny-Tot-Treat”, a mini-hamburger, small fries and child-size malt.

“Are you hungry?” She was. “Do you want to dine or just eat?” There was a pause and Christine then offered “Eat. What do you think of Winstead’s?” Synchronicity such as this is the byproduct of nearly a half-century together.

Christine had a double burger with tater-tots, I had two singles and fries. We split a chocolate malt. Twenty-one dollars plus tip. Not dining, but much better than just eating. Then it was home.

As Christine’s father, Bill Nichols, drew nearer to his 100th birthday (he almost made it to 102) he often told the same stories from his life. He would tell anyone willing to listen. It didn’t matter that the listener had heard the stories before, Bill would tell them over and over again. It was easy to ascribe his repetition to age related memory lapses. It now occurs to me that Bill did not tell his tales for the benefit of the listener, but rather so that he could relive those moments that were dear to him.

Perhaps that is why I am telling you about this Saturday night.

Peace Everyone. Pete