Not that my christmas was bad, because it wasn't. But last night was so much better than any christmas ever ...

Years ago, I read a book called "The Great Good Place". It's an excellent study of the vital social importance of bars, coffee houses and other hang outs (which they call the "third place" where people spend time, after home and work). And wherever I've lived, I've always been happiest when I had a 'regular' place to go. There have only been a few of them ... places where you could go and spend an afternoon or evening, and if you sat there long enough a couple times a week you'd run into pretty much everyone there was to run into. A couple different coffee shops in my college town filled that role at various times, and then when I moved out here, there was Two Rivers Lodge.

Back in college town, any given social spot was not of huge importance by itself, because it was a mid-size city with bars and coffeeshops all over the place. Of course some of them lent themselves to third place status moreso than others, but if one place got 'unfriendly' to the hanger-outer crowd, another one could always be adopted to fill the gap. Here in Two Rivers though, there aren't a half dozen coffee shops and a wide selection of bars. There's a group of folks who sit at the corner store, reading the paper and having a coffee, and there are social groups who meet at the grange hall, but for a large contingent of locals, Two Rivers Lodge was the third place.

Sitting at mile 14 of a 50 mile long dead-end road, it was the closest place to go for most people, and the only place where you could have a good meal and a beer. And everyone was there. There was hardly any need to know anyone's phone number, because you'd see them at the Lodge sooner or later, and if they weren't there, one of their neighbors would be. After one of the local stores (which had a cafe with amazing sandwiches and pies) burned down, Two Rivers pretty much became the heart of the social scene for a lot of people. Small communities live and die over the presence or lack of a good third place, and the Lodge was as good as they come.

Then the owners sold it. They sold it to The Cook. Who wanted to turn it into a fine dining establishment, and wasn't at all fond of the large crowd of scruffy locals populating the bar most nights. And the Lodge became Unfriendly. A lot of people stopped going as soon as The Cook took over. People were offended. This wasn't "a restauraunt," it was our place. The locals kept the Lodge in business through the long winters, and the Lodge kept the locals in touch with one another. There was a tremendous sense of having had something stolen from us.

He closed the bar on Mondays, instead of hosting a friendly Monday Night Football dinner special. He pulled almost everything resembling good bar food off the menu. He wouldn't do prime rib, because it was too 'common' and apparently baked potatoes were too lowbrow as well.

Even more people stopped going after one or more unpleasant exchanges with him, or run-ins with the 'new rules' enforced by his staff (who were mostly locals too, and just doing their jobs). Many nights, I'd go in and be the only one there ... and that was where I went when I felt like being social. The Lodge was only surviving as a shadow of a third place thanks to the sheer bloody-mindedness of a few people who refused to stop going.

Then, the day after Christmas, the roadside readerboard still said "open 5-10 Tue-Sun," but the lights were off. The lights were off Wednesday, and the readerboard hadn't changed. I wasn't the only person who felt like there'd been a death in the family. A friend said he'd wanted to run the sign over, and smash it to pieces out of sheer disappointment and frustration.

I wondered who would buy it, and how long it would be before it opened again. I thought of how many people's phone numbers I'd ever bothered to get, and how many people they'd be able to call in turn, and maybe I could have a "Two Rivers Crowd Reunion" bonfire party or something ... Would the new owners make it a third place again, or would it remain a faded and stuffy remnant of its former self? Really, it was heartbreaking. I felt sick to my stomach. Small communities live and die over things like this.

But then I drove by Thursday, and the sign said "Jon is back—Open Friday at 5". Jon was a cook there for years before The Cook got hired on. So of course I went in Friday night, and I almost cried.

There were people there I hadn't seen since April. The entire bar was full for the first time in months. Everyone was noisy and happy. Everyone was so very very happy. People came in throughout the night, and I said to one, "It's like a high school reunion in here, isn't it?" and he hugged me and said that was the greatest thing he'd heard all week. The razor-tongued bartender and I got into a shouting match, that ended with me sticking my fingers in my ears and yelling "LALALALALALALA" at the top of my lungs while she laughed. When I asked for a new lemon for my beer, she shouted, "Catch!" from the other end of the bar, and threw lemon slices at me. Someone brought their dog inside to run around.

The Cook hadn't left the password for the cash register system, so tickets were being written up by hand on pieces of paper. The menu was handwritten, ten items long, on a piece of butcher paper. There was only one beer left on tap, and half the liquor was gone. But I could get a damn good steak with a baked potato. The baked potatoes got a cheer.

And then, towards the end of the evening, Jon came out of the kitchen, and there was a huge round of applause from the bar.

Everyone agreed it was better than Christmas.