We drank at the Honey Bucket

Maybe it’s the times we are living in. Things seem to have changed so much in just the past few years. Not only on the local scene, but in the world in general.

I got a chance to go back to my hometown for Christmas a few years ago and although my brother and I took a day to drive around the old Wisconsin haunts that we grew up with, most of the time was spent trying to remember “what that business used to be,” or “didn’t there used to be a junior high here?”

Of course, we shed a tear for “The Honey Bucket” which was a local downtown watering hole where, in Wisconsin, by law, we HAD to drink at age 18. And as all good things must end, that popular venue burned down in February of ’91. Just a few days after Scott Norwood’s career ended “wide right” in the Super Bowl that could have taken the Bills off the schneid. Of course, as Packer fans, we didn’t care, finishing 4-12 that year and anticipating kicking Lindy Infante to Indianapolis and making way for “The Walrus.”

It also burned down – 11 days before my basketball superstar was born in Michigan.

It’s hard to be a parent with multiple children nowadays. Especially in summer where moms have to have a master schedule stuck to the refrigerator with the various schedules and times and places.

Growing up, we never got bored, but always found something to do. And to think we never had smartphones or video games or more than three channels on the television. And even with all those three channels, we were not allowed to sit inside and watch it.

We depended a lot upon our own creativity. We organized neighborhood baseball teams and made our own jerseys by using magic marker to write the numbers on the back and then put the team’s name on the front.

For me, summer was strictly baseball with Little League, our neighborhood team, getting to go to County Stadium in Milwaukee where we watched Hank Aaron hit home runs for the Milwaukee Braves and Joe Torre catch for Warren Spahn long before he thought about managing the Yankees.

We collected baseball cards and used most of our allowance to buy the five-cent packages where we got to eat the gum, a habit I have proudly retained until this day. We organized bike races around the neighborhood and went on adventures and picnics to abandoned fields and of course, swam in the Menomonee River which featured the famous downtown Menomonee Falls.

We had homemade malts at the pharmacy where the pharmacist made the concoctions behind the soda bar and you could hear moms calling children’s names anywhere from 5 – 6 p.m. each night to come in for supper. The family ate together, and of course, if it wasn’t our night to do dishes, we would be back out on the ballfield until it got so dark, we couldn’t see the ball.

At that time we were playing in the sandlot that was soon to become Ernie Von Schledorn… “Main Street in Menomonee Falls.” Those who who grew up there just sang the last few words of that sentence.

But I digress.

Many a night the sandlot game was called due to someone getting hit in the noggin with an errant throw or a lucky crack of the bat that sent the ball into the weeded outfield where we would have to wait until morning to see where it ended up. Which was really embarrassing one night as the ball ricocheted off Dusty Mastercola’s head and we were so intent on trying to find the ball – we never realized he was knocked cold and had to walk home alone later that evening.

The only time we weren’t playing ball was when we planned a family vacation that usually entailed visiting relatives in a neighboring state. Not memories of fast food and restaurants, but dad driving all night so he didn’t have to hear the dreaded words, “How long before we get there?” And if we did, by some chance travel during the day, it was with a cooler full of sandwiches, snacks in a Hamm’s Beer box, pop and a ton of ice.

And… who could forget the Hills Bros. coffee can for when we had to go to the bathroom while dad was driving straight through?

When my kids were growing up, things had already changed. Specialty volleyball camps, basketball camps, football camps, quarterback camps, band camps and church camps. If we did get a family vacation it had to be finely mastered and revolving around all the various athletic activities, because God forbid, they would miss a camp and not be able to be a starter on the team the following year.

And that’s really what was special about the trip to Milwaukee; to reminisce with my siblings.

To tell the stories we’d told a thousand times before.

It was the reminiscing about all those incredible memories we had as kids. If I had to suggest anything this summer, it would be to make some memories. One day when you are long gone, those kids who complain now about the plans you are making will get tears in their eyes as they look back and remember.

And I guarantee – they WILL tell some stories.

Mark DeLap is a journalist, photographer and the editor and general manager of the Bladen Journal. To see more of his bio, visit him at markdelap.com or email him. Send a message to: [email protected]