Which side of the street at 5 PM?

In Ft. Davis, that makes a biiiiiigggggg difference.  But let me jump back in time and geography.

Growing up in South Carolina, even though I left about the time I was of legal drinking age, I was aware of the oddities of booze buying under our fair state’s blue laws.  For instance, if you belonged to a country club, you had a locker where you stashed your booze.  ABC stores were open from dawn to dusk, so you’d damn well better know the exact minute when dusk ended, or you would be without your 5 pm bourbon.  If you wanted a G&T in a bar, you had to buy a mini-bottle of gin, which arrived along with gin and ice and lime.  Imagine what it cost to build yourself a Long Island Iced Tea from five mini-bottles of vodka, rum, gin, tequila, triple sec. Then I moved west, away from blue laws, more toward Miss Kitty and Matt Dillon—until a trip to Salt Lake City.  Turns out, back before tourism was accepted as a powerful force for financial well-being, SLC had some downright quaint customs regarding spirits.  Wandering around, seeking 5 o’clock sustenance, I went into what appeared to be an ordinary drinking establishment:  bar stools, bar, colorful bottles reflected in the big mirror behind the bar.  People sitting around imbibing what I assumed were spirits and chatting amiably.  But I was refused service, as it was a private club!  One could buy spirits by the drink only in these private clubs, and I was not a member.  Undeterred, I asked how I might become a member.  The bartended handed me a brief form:  name, rank, serial number, the usual.  Then, it asked for a reference, and the reference had to sign the damn form.  I was flummoxed, until a man standing next to me laughed, signed….and I was a member in good standing.  In recent years,  SLC has discovered the long green of tourism, and has loosened up considerably.

That brings me to today and Ft. Davis.  I planned to meet a new acquaintance for an early dinner at the Bistro.  Turns out it’s closed on Wednesday.  A very nice local person recommended a Mexican place just down the road, pointing out that it was on the right side of the street, so it couldn’t serve any kind of alcohol, but Uncle Buck’s was just across the road.  Uncle Buck’s consists of two side-by-side buildings, and never the twain shall meet:  a “Quick Shop” for beer and a store for spirits.  I wanted beer; my companion wanted spirits. 

 I could take the beer from the Quick Shop and pay for it in the spirit shop, but spirits couldn’t go the other way.  So, we bought and took it with us as we dined on enchiladas and huevos rancheros.  Huh??   Yes, apparently in Ft. Davis, the legal boundary to sell spirits runs down the white line on Main Street.  A dry precinct is on one side, and a wet precinct is on the other side. 

Now, Ft. Davis is in the County of Jefferson Davis, so we have a very good idea of those who were around when the county was founded. (Actually, I’m wrong about this; it was named after the US Secretary of War, not the President of the treasonous confederacy.)  Perhaps the southern blue law contingent predominated in what is now the dry precinct and the kinfolk of Matt, and Doc, and Miss Kitty settled on Uncle Buck’s side.  I’ve always wanted to be Miss Kitty and own the saloon; it’s her face paint, I think.