I spent a good chunk of yesterday afternoon writing about lessons from the loss of a cheap ring I've been wearing for over 10 years. In the evening, I received a text message blast about the blazing fire that was raging at my most beloved bar in the whole world.
Perspective.
Howell's Bar, located in the heart of west Dearborn, was an institution for the beer-drinking, burger-loving local community. It maintained the soul of a classic 'shot and beer' dive bar while staying just polished enough to be unintimidating to newcomers and the 21-year-olds overflowing from the neighboring new generation of westend watering holes. So many bars put a great deal of effort into achieving what Howell's did organically, effortlessly. In the over 60 years of its existence, it had evolved to a state of being simultaneously completely normal and truly extraordinary. It was a classic -- a multi-generational bar's bar.
To its dying day on April 25, 2014, it carried Strohs on tap and accepted cash only. Need I say more?
Like every good bar, it had that Cheers feel to it. The staff had all been there for an impressive tenure. After only a few visits, you probably knew Jimmy was cooking your chicken dinner, and you could recognize at least a few of the names of the exclusively female bar-staff that generously poured your cocktails. You were familiar with Ford, the bar-hand who dropped empty beer bottles down the makeshift chute to the basement and kicked your ass out when the clock struck 2am. And, though you may have never known their names, the most loyal regulars were unmistakeable. They were usually saddled up at one end or the other of the bar -- rarely in the middle. That is if they weren't throwing darts or occupying the "Sinatra Suite".
You didn't have to be a regular to feel at home, though. Equal to the comfort I felt from the sight of the familiar faces was the joy from the rampant random interactions. The world over, I have never so easily found myself in conversation with such a wide range of complete strangers as sitting on that vinyl bench that lined the wall facing the bar. It was there that I first met the soft touch of "Dan-o-the-Man-Ho". One night, I gained some wisdom from a man I called "Indian Santa Claus". I received history lessons from Vietnam vets, and I often ended up in conversation with somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody...
The jukebox, in all of its various incarnations, had been essential to the vibe of Building H. At its best moments, Jimmy controlled it. I had an affinity for Sunday afternoon and early evening weekday visits when his playlist of 60s R&B and soul went uninterrupted. But, there was also something familiarly endearing about the sardine state of the bar on a Friday night, when some patrons did not have full respect for Jimmy's music code. The place would shake with a strange mix of Metallica and Katy Perry until Jim got fed up about "the crap" and put his money in the machine to relieve the masses with a bit of Otis Redding or The Temptations.
That was the beauty of Howell's. You could feel at home as a 21-year-old on a strictly pop music diet, a 30-something Pearl Jam enthusiast, a nearly 40-year-old Phish head, a Ford retiree who was faithful to the Beatles, or a former high school teacher and small-time bookie who sang along with Jim's playlist. Howell's may have generally been Wonder Bread White, but the diversity of age, interest, and experience within its small confines was rich.
The loss of Howell's, then, is a big one for Dearborn. There are surely many grieving, nostalgia-riddled, barfly refugees like me feeling a deep sense of personal loss after last night's fire. As is the case with any great bar, it was the site of many a celebrated triumph, many a soothed heartbreak. It was on those barstools that I celebrated one of my best friend's weddings, discussed the divorce of another, contemplated the death of my father, and toasted to my 30th birthday. I even got pulled into a bathroom bar fight there once.
For me, Howell's was an unwavering pillar of familiarity. Other than my parents' Dearborn home, there is nowhere that has instilled in me as true a sense of place and belonging in the metro-D as this pub. I've lived in six different countries, heading back to Dearborn between each tour, and I've always come home to Howell's.
Of course, that wise Thomas Wolfe quote tells us, "you can't go home again". For me, that is an important part of the lesson from the unexpected glorious blaze in which Howell's left us. We all change, and so does Howell's. It has a life cycle just like the rest of us. Beauty is born, and then it burns. And, something new blossoms in its wake (let's all just hope its not another parking lot or chain restaurant).
So, while I will miss the irreplaceable vibe of Howell's Bar, I will do my best to try to accept that it was just its time to leave us, to appreciate that the places we consider home change just as everything else in this world. The vessel is gone, but the lessons and the memories carry on with us as we attempt to create new barstool homes.
Cheers to you, Howells. Your well will never run dry in our hearts
