A shaft of late afternoon sun peeked into the building’s smoky interior. The bartender stood, polishing drink glasses and watching the band setting up for their gig on the far end of the room between drawing fresh drafts of beer for customers. One of the musicians on the stage was my nephew, John.

John is a luthier. I like telling people this, but very few people know what a luthier is. One of the people I told was silent for a while before inquiring, “Do you mean, he is a Lutheran?”

I kindly explained, “A luthier is a maker of stringed instruments, which requires a lot of artistic skill. John has made and sold several huge upright bass instruments since he completed his training in Red Wing, Minnesota. When my nephew talks about building them, the wood he uses, the carvings in the wood, you can hear his passion for the job. He works for hours in his workshop to make an instrument produce beautiful music.”

Five lone drinkers dotted the long, polished bar. They were sitting slumped on tall stools, hitched to what I figured were most likely their favorite, and frequently used spots. A few steps from the bar, clusters of tables and chairs ran almost the entire length of the room. Due to the early hour of the evening, not all the places to sit were occupied.

The bar looked like the typical Wisconsin beer bars I remember visiting at eighteen years of age. Since this bar was in Maple Valley, Washington, and it was a June evening in 2024, I was a bit surprised. My surprise increased as menus were handed out and I noticed the bar offered typical Wisconsin Friday night fish fries! Looking over the top of my menu at my daughter Tammie and sister Agnes, I quipped, “While driving here through the mountain passes, did we fall through a Sci-fi wormhole and land back in a 1969 Wisconsin bar?” From past vacation experiences, we knew that Friday fish fries are hard to find outside our home state.

John and his wife Gail live 28 miles east of Seattle, Washington, which is a short drive from the bar we were visiting. Since that night was birthday, Gail produced a beautiful cake for John, which he was able to enjoy with us between sets.

I enjoyed the music John’s band played. A lot of it was retro songs from the sixties and seventies. John’s instrument was a bass guitar. A small number of patrons at the bar danced to the music. The postage-stamp-sized dance floor in front of the stage was dominated mostly by a very outgoing woman wearing a jumpsuit and had her dark hair in a bouffant style. We had no idea who she was, but we eventually found out that she and her husband owned the bar.

When John’s cake was served, the proprietress joined us at our table, and began to tell us all about her life, inside and out. She cared for her mother who has dementia for the past twenty years. She gushed, “I love my Mama so much!”

When the owner was at the bar, her children and various close family friends looked after the elderly woman at her house. Pulling out her phone, the owner showed us her mother. She had an intercom camera trained on her mother snoozing in a recliner. She said, “Mommy, wake up so you can meet my new friends!” The elderly woman didn’t wake up. Soon the flamboyant woman at my side became frantic. She jumped to her feet and rushed off.  

I thought that was the last we’d see of her. She returned when John’s band began another set. The owner explained, “Mommy was just deeply asleep.” Then, totally pivoting on the topic, she demanded, “Come with me to the dance floor! We can’t waste this good music.”

I firmly declared, “No!” My body doesn’t contain even an ounce of rhythm. That is why I don’t like to dance. I especially dislike being forced to try to dance. Ignoring my protests, the crazy lady grabbed my wrist and dragged me protesting to the dance floor, herding my sister Agnes and Tammie ahead of us.

Seeing me stiffly standing in the center of the dance floor, the owner shouted over the music, “Come on, move your feet, move your arms!” Then she turned to see if Tammie was dancing. The owner began hugging and kissing Tammie, something my daughter hates having strangers do, especially when she is drenched with sweat as she was.

When the owner turned her attention to Agnes, Tammie sidled over to me. Feeling stupid, uncomfortable and awkward, I muttered to her, “This is my idea of hell!”

After our forced performance on the dance floor, we left the bar as quickly as we could. With a sigh of relief at having left the smoky bar behind, we began our slow, nighttime drive back through the mini mountain passes and valleys to our hotel. Thinking of my nephew, I commented, “Stradivarius violins are highly sought after because of how well they are made and how beautifully they sing in the hands of a skilled musician. Some have been sold for millions of dollars. I hope someday there’ll be many people eagerly seeking upright bass instruments made by John Koehler.”