The Power of Place

Waiting for our table in the lounge area at The Red Bar in Grayton Beach, FL. May 1998.

This week I’ve been thinking a lot about the power of place in our lives. But not just knowing our place, that’s an entirely different subject that I’ll save for another time. What I really mean is the places that shape the story of our lives in some way, that hold special meaning for us because of something that happened, who we were with, and maybe even a small nod to who we are becoming. 

I walked into this kind of place last Wednesday night. 

I happened to be with my mother, which is ironic because the first couple of times I went to this particular place I’m not even sure I told my mother. The reason being, of course, is that the place was a bar, and if you were a good Christian girl from the South, you didn't speak of these things until you were either much older or had decided not to care what other people say about you. 

The bar is called The Red Bar, and it has the feel of a local joint that turned into something special rather unexpectedly. It's nestled in the center of a quaint little beach town on the panhandle of Florida, and it is so central to everything in the town, including the people, that it's almost as if the town evolved after the restaurant, instead of the reverse. It’s become kind of a big deal over the years, and we were close by. 

As I walked inside, a wave of nostalgia washed over me as a band played jazz renditions from a small stage on my left. It’s actually not really a stage, come to think of it, but more of a lounge with vintage couches and chairs and bohemian rugs. The rest of the room is filled with a plethora of posters and random paraphernalia that is plastered on every square inch of the ceiling and walls. The most distinguishing item in the entire room, however, is the red Christmas lights- the old school kind, with the larger bulbs, creating a red haze over every surface and in every photo. 

I approached the hostess casually and started to make conversation while we waited for our table. Before I knew it, my enthusiasm got the best of me and soon I was telling her my story about this place. I was confident she would want to hear. 

In front of The Red Bar, October 2020

“We’ve only been open since 1995." She looked at me with a rather flat expression, unimpressed, like I’m trying to sell her something. 

“Yeah, we were here in '98. My friends..they actually sang on your stage. We were only eighteen at the time and they asked the band if they could borrow their guitars. They sang Indigo Girls.....I think it was 'Closer to Fine',” hoping that detail would somehow change the state of things, as if she were there or knew who The Indigo Girls were in the first place. 

She nodded politely, still unaffected. It was at that moment that I realized what I was doing and that trying to convince her that my story was even halfway relevant to her life was futile. Why would she care? 

It does not matter what she thinks, after all. 

I knew, at that moment, that no matter what she thought about my story, this place had meaning for me, and that was enough.

 I didn't need to explain myself.

You see, the young hostess didn’t know that my friends and I had just graduated from high school and

that this was one of the first trips I had ever taken without a parent or chaperone. She didn’t know we were going to meet some boys from my high school that were also at the beach, or how proud I was to be the friend of my friend that mustered the courage to sing in front of a crowd, at a beach, at a restaurant that was called The Red Bar. She didn’t know that I was a good girl experiencing a little bit of new-found freedom, or just how wonderful and carefree life seemed all those years ago.   

My friend Laura singing Closer to Fine by The Indigo Girls at The Red Bar. May 1998.

But I don’t blame her. She is young, as I was (and still like to think I am on occasion). She simply may not have lived enough life yet to reflect on why some memories stand out and others don’t, and that’s okay. The interesting thing about the whole experience is that I now have a new memory in that 'place' that I will take with me, but this time a memory from mid-life. I’m not sure what will stand out in twenty years, but sitting in a booth along the back wall at The Red Bar made me feel young again. I’m twenty-something years older, but remember the eighteen-year-old-me just by being there, in one of my special places. 

Turns out I am still the same girl who likes to listen to live music in bars with red Christmas lights. 

My mom does too.

 

Mom and I having drinks across from The Red Bar,
 October 2020.