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While my unsettled family life felt out of place in the façade of perfection that the 1950s America offered, the turbulence of the 1960s seemed to mirror my life much better. Against the backdrop of declining support for the Vietnam War, there were racial riots, political assassinations, and a general unease that permeated everyday life. Because of this, it came as no surprise that J&J Bar’s attached neighbor, the 1968 Flint headquarters for George Wallace’s presidential campaign, was firebombed. Much to the relief of the bar’s regulars, J&J went unscathed.

The following conversation was recounted to me by my mother, Shirley, sometime between 1967 and 1968. During these years, I would periodically travel the 1 ½ hours from college in Ypsilanti, Michigan, to my home (or rather, the home my grandparents created for me) in Saginaw, Michigan. Occasionally, I stopped by J&J Bar to visit my mother. Before 1968, J&J Bar could sell only beer and wine, but around 1968 my mother was able to secure a full liquor license, much to the delight of her regulars. Even today, I still remember the red neon “BEER” light in the front window, which, in many ways, acted as a siren, luring in those who were thirsty or horny (or most likely an unashamed combination of the two). I always thought that the red light was appropriately colored.

As the owner of J&J Bar on Detroit Street in Flint, Michigan, Shirley was well-acquainted with all the regulars. Even when she wasn’t working, Shirley spent most of her time at J&J Bar talking, drinking, and on occasion sleeping with some of the patrons. Since she spent more time at J&J Bar than her own house or with her two kids, she regarded her regulars as her family. Among these regulars was Suitcase Judy, a woman Shirley felt a particular affinity towards. Perhaps it was Suitcase Judy’s auburn hair, which, though faded, reminded Shirley of her mother’s. Or perhaps it was the helplessness of Suitcase Judy’s circumstances, so similar to the ones Shirley had created for herself. Or maybe, most likely, it was simply the fact that Suitcase Judy ran a good business which, in turn, brought many male customers to J&J Bar.

Before publishing the Shirley & Frankie posts, I want to credit my daughter, Paris Wagner, for writing this story for her nonfiction class at Emory.  As a gifted writer majoring in writing at Emory, Paris was questioned by her professor for submitting a “fiction” story in a “nonfiction” class.  After convincing her professor that the story was not fictional, Paris went on to do very well in the class.

I have now written 100 blog posts about my upbringing, and I am only entering the 10th grade. My mother and sister moved to Flint, Michigan, and I am now living with my grandparents. I opened my blog posts with my mother and her bar in Flint. I feel now is a good time to reintroduce everyone to the bar life that my mother loved so much. I also have readers who began reading midway through my posts, i.e., they were not with me from the beginning. So, for the sake of continuity, the next several months will feature my initial blog posts from the beginning. For those who have been with me from the beginning, sorry for the repetition, but I felt that establishing continuity is important for all of the readers.

With Earl no longer around, my mother was home more often. But “more often” may be a misnomer, because she was frequently gone in the evenings. Sometimes she went with Mary, who seemed slightly older than my mother. I do not know whether she began dating, but she was surely socializing. This meant I had to figure out dinner for Mickey and me. After Earl’s departure, there was somehow an extra car in our driveway. My mother told me that if she was away and I needed something from the store, I should take the extra car. I remember protesting and telling my mother, “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

After telling me that Earl was gone, my mother said, “We’re getting a divorce.” At 33 years old, my mother ended her third marriage.

I was stunned but not surprised. The arguing, drinking, and physical altercations that had been going on for quite some time had probably reached an unbearable peak for both of them. I then asked my mother where he would live and whether he would be coming back to this house. She replied, “No, he has moved to the cottage in Edenville.”

I was excited to enter 10th grade at Douglas MacArthur High School in Saginaw County. Because my mother and stepfather were heading toward a divorce, she demanded that I live with her and attend Arthur Hill in the city of Saginaw. She wanted a male in the household for protection. Even though I vigorously protested and wanted to stay with my grandparents, my mother would not relent, and my objections went unheard. I was now attending my 5th different school in 5 years.

While reviewing articles about Russ in the Saginaw News, I came across his obituary. He lived to the age of 77, but I do not know how he died.

It was a very simple obituary that described him in four sentences. One of the sentences was in error because I could not find any record of his graduating from Arthur Hill. In fact, he was not in his senior yearbook. The same sentence also stated that he was a member of the Catholic Church, but I can never remember him being religious. In fact, he was just the opposite. Maybe he had an epiphany later in life.