Teamster Top Shelf

The suburban home that our Teamster Family lived in was located approximately 2 miles away from the local union where our dad held the VP position.

The 3 bed, 1 bath, brick ranch located on a corner lot had been tricked out as previously mentioned with extra phone lines, escape routes in the garage, hidden storage and cubby holes built into the attic, storage unit above the laundry and tapping contraption under the house and only God and T-Daddy knows what and where else.

The coolest feature, however, was when he retrofitted a bar above and around the space that held the hot water heater. It sounds totally red, but it wasn't at all, it was very tastefully designed and there was nothing red about it, more like blue.

Teamster Daughters were NOT allowed to open the sliding door to the "bar". EVER. Only Teamster Daddy could access it. It was hard to reach given its height but everything was ergonomically fitted to accommodate his long arms and legs. When the bar was open we tried to find a reason to occupy a space on the den couch so we sneak a peek inside. The track lighting and mirrors he installed caused a sparkling effect from the shot glasses, brandy snifters, highball glasses, hurricanes, old-fashioned glasses and top shelf bottles of alcohol and wine that lined the blue velvet shelves. It was like a tiny navy blue sky lined with twinkling lights and mysterious bartending tools that he expertly used.

Teamster Daddy and Wife would have friends over for a cookout or drinks before a show and they would congregate around the bar. He would turn on the lights and start mixing drinks. Not just your basic drinks either like Rum and Coke. He would make Grasshoppers for the ladies and the men had their choice of only the finest Tennessee and Kentucky Whiskeys. If we were lucky we got picked to fill up the ice bucket and crush the ice in a special crusher for him.

Sometimes he would bring friends home long after our bedtime and we could hear them screaming with laughter down in the den. Or sometimes the mood would be more sober and you could hear the ice tongs rattling in the bucket among the muffled, but serious conversation before the den door was shut.

As a kid I couldn't believe that my friends had never heard of George Dickel and didn't know what Old No. 7 and Old Charter meant. Oh boo, they had an ordinary hot water heater in their garage? Did their parents never entertain? How sad for them.

Now, not even in our teen years when Daddy's time at our home had come and gone did we break into the bar and enjoy it's contents. We were too afraid of disappointing T-Daddy and breaking his rules of the house. TD#1 and #3 (so named by T-Daddy because of birth order) would not even crack the door to impress our friends, but rebel TD#2 boldly rolled the shelves back once to show her star pitcher of the baseball team boyfriend, but they didn't imbibe. When Teamster Daddy got home and poured himself a Jack and Coke, he waited until he was on his second round until he asked Teamster Wife had anyone opened the bar when he wasn't around. I froze immediately and could only relax when Teamster Wife innocently answered "no" and the moment passed and TD#2 was safe. That sealed my fate of ever looking at the bar when he wasn't around.

Later in life, the hot water heater burst in the Teamster Ranch and the soggy carpets in the den were rolled back to reveal the tile floor underneath. Upon seeing the old floor I had immediate flashbacks and peered into the darkened hot water heater closet trying to remember its glory days. The Blue Velvet was faded, the lights dim and the top shelf empty. On my 21st birthday to celebrate being of legal age, I raised my glass of Jack and Coke in a nod to Teamster Daddy who taught us that drinking is a privilege and best enjoyed when in the company of friends.