I have served the last drinks of the summer. Over the next month or so I will shore up the bar, and get prepped for the colder months. We will still have customers visiting, but the numbers will drop off.
I am not sure how much this decrease in workload will affect the next few blogs. We might scratch around for what to write about. But whatever happens I must get this post out. Even if this will be a hard one to write.
My grandmother was old when she set up Buber, let alone towards the end. By that point I was pushing twenty, serving pints and sweeping up. It wasn’t the flour thank goodness. I didn’t have to imagine her walking around a faraway world trying to rip the bark off a tree. She was just old.
She is buried about five miles away in a spot the spaceships don’t use . The farmers keep the field neat.
I thought about heading off world for a while. Hitching on a ship and departing at the next planet, parsnipheads or not. Instead the summer season arrived at the peak of the Butter Mice clearing up the Universe. I had to learn how to mix drinks, haggle over beer keg prices, ensure the pipes are clean. There was no time for grief. I slept four hours a night, often in the booths when I couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs.
Grandmother never wanted helpers. She said I was enough, and besides, my parents would return one day.
I would like to say I battled through. That the bar returned to normal. But there were mornings I awoke to the sound of customers banging on the door. Nights I had to apologise for the lack of red wine and the mess on the tables. Drinks were too easy to share, and the floor too easy to leave dusty. Our space on Buber teetered towards oblivion.
By that point the regulars had visited for over a decade. My grandmother spoke to them when their family joined the ranks of the undead. When they needed advice about the best route through the Scar, and what supplies to bring. Those who needed a gin and tonic before a long trip always found a welcome face alongside it.
I started to come down to find all the glasses washed up and behind the bar. A harvest of apples on the table. When the drinks orders piled up, someone hopped behind the bar, and kept on serving. They never asked for payment, and I don’t even remember many names.
They made sure Buber never fell. I cannot take the credit.
Which is why I’m still here. There is no better monument than to keep this place going. Even through the cold winter months ahead.
