From the Prologue of Sit Down and Stay Awhile: My Aunt Lil, a Small-Town Bar, and a Lifetime of Polkas

Drive down Wisconsin Highway 29. Take the Thorp exit and continue up the main drag. Just before the railroad tracks, look for a bar on your left. If this were anytime from 1948-2000, there would’ve been a sign with the bar’s simple name: Leon & Lil’s. Step inside where, for those 52 years, the good times flowed like beer through the taps. Uncle Leon and Aunt Lil were usually the bartenders. Or maybe Uncle Butch or Aunt Donna. Or maybe my cousins Mike, Paula, or Jerry.

Leon and Lil lived upstairs, along with my grandmother, who went by the Polish name for Grandma: “Busha.” After visiting Busha, a stop at the bar was automatic. All we had to do was walk down the stairs and out the garage door, then take two steps to the right. When we opened the back door to the tavern, a new world awaited: neon lights, jukebox, bowling machine, candy case, coolers, rows of bottles, racks of chips, and frozen Tombstone pizzas stacked two feet high in the freezer. In the 1970s and ’80s, patrons enjoyed a giant, primitive Trapshoot video game on a big screen above the bowling machine. If you asked, the bartender handed you a wireless, brick-sized black box with one button. For a quarter, you could play this game from anywhere in the bar, shooting at virtual clay pigeons on the big screen for virtual medals. 

Though I was 15 years too young to enter legally, no one ever asked for my ID. Aunt Lil was as excited to see me as any customer there, quick to hand me a candy bar, a soda, some quarters, or all of the above. Sometimes, I wasn’t even with my parents. When my cousins or brothers and I played football in Uncle Butch’s yard across the alley, we took our halftime breaks in the bar. We climbed up on our stools, sipped our drinks, and admired the signs and knickknacks behind the bar. A small tree branch sat on a shelf, and on it sat assorted peanuts, walnuts, and chestnuts, all with glued-on googly eyes. The caption beneath read: “I Think We’re All Nuts.”

For years, a tightrope string clung near the ceiling above the bar. Perched on that tightrope sat a miniature stuffed chimpanzee on a unicycle, balancing with a cross stick. When a bartender pulled the string down at one end of the bar, the chimp rode the string downhill, pedaling the unicycle like mad past every patron to the opposite side. At the sight of this high-wire comedy act, even the most stoic customer couldn’t help but crack a grin. 

The beer signs lit the place with a dim glow: Old Style, Hamm’s, and Schlitz. We pulled the knobs of the cigarette machine and scanned the labels for my dad’s brand, Belair. More importantly, the jukebox in the corner sat filled with possibilities. In my teenage years, that jukebox was the only place I could hear Bruce Springsteen B-sides, though Aunt Lil kept it loaded mostly with polkas. My brothers and I checked the coin slots hoping for forgotten change. We had so much to look at, so much to snack on, so much to drink – much like the adults in the room. As an out-of-towner who lived 45 minutes west in the big city of Eau Claire, I may not have known the customers, but I knew the ringleaders of this circus behind the bar. And because of them, I was always welcome. 

Ken Szymanski is the 2020-2024 Eau Claire writer-in-residence. He is the author of Home Field Advantage and Sit Down and Stay Awhile: My Aunt Lil, a Small-Town Bar, and a Lifetime of Polkas. For the past 24 years, he’s taught eighth-grade English at South and DeLong middle school. He lives in Eau Claire with his wife, two sons, and perfectly-trained dog. For more on Ken’s writing and literary projects, visit kenszymanski.com.