Bingo--I think I know

I think I may have figured something out. Unfortunately, it is not an apron or penguin revelation, but, still related to those mysterious thefts; sort of.

It is in the genes. Our propensity to party, to open a bottle or a can, to mix a cocktail or two, it is an inherited trait. I have proof both in photographic form and in old memories. Let me try and take you back.

Off the kitchen at 377 Union Street is the doorway down to the cellar. The way down was dark, a little damp, twisty and edged with cool rocks. I believe there was a dirt floor. The stairs seemed narrow to me and the mystery of what happened or may have happened in that below ground space never left me whether I was seven or twenty-seven. Down those stairs held an amazing place which, in my opinion, never really "fit" with the attitude of the rest of the house. The dark wood paneled walls with the brass sconces surrounded the long ornate bar. The molding behind the bar was elegantly carved and framed the large mirror and glass shelves for glasses and bottles. It was a place specifically designed for hanging out and having a libation or two. Generations must have entertained along that bar. I am not sure but think it may have been built in the early decades of the 2oth century. Prohibition may have played a part. Who knows? I can only imagine the smoky air and the laughter filtering up into the rest of the house. Maybe a poker game or two was played. Maybe a birthday party or a New Year's Eve celebration. I was only privileged to go there many years after it's heyday. I have heard very few stories of the goings on in that room.

On the other hand I do remember the celebrations in the parlor. Huge groups of people, lots and lots of food and wine and cigarettes. Loud voices and running kids going around and around. Sometimes the pocket doors would be partially closed and someone would be napping in the bed in the back room. Mostly it was a place to experiment in the hours after the party for the younger set, to sip the left over liquor in the glasses, (but not the ones with the butts in them), to try and be quiet while the sleeping went on, to maybe wear a crystal chandelier drop as an earring, but mostly, to observe how people like to party hardy when surrounded by friends and family.

It still happens. We still like to party hardy. Some hardier than others. Yet, it is now something I am totally sure of...it is in our genes. Good or bad, it is in our genes. Salute!