THE QUEENS OF PRINCE'S

Last year, while visiting my mother, we attended her friend's funeral.  After the funeral, we headed to a bar called Prince's and all ordered cans of Milwaukee Best Light to toast Dorothy Rooney's life. Dorothy is the second queen from the left in picture below.   I had the honor of reading an essay I wrote about this group of friends to a packed bar, who were all pounding the Milwaukee Best.  Here, for your reading pleasure is that essay. It's even better with a can or two of cheap beer:

THE QUEENS OF PRINCE'S

     Every Thursday morning, a little before 9, my mother would button up her yellow Meyer Brothers Funeral Home bowling shirt, load me into the car along with her 12-pound ball and size 7 shoes, and head to the Plaza Bowl.  She had a date with the queens.       After depositing me in Romper Room with hordes of screaming kids, she headed toward her friends, all smoking like chimneys, and joined the fun. Amidst their strikes, spares, and occasional gutter balls, they would catch up on the juicy tidbits of each other’s lives.  After three games, they left us kids in Romper Room and headed to Prince’s for lunch.

     The owner of Prince’s served up delicious loose meat sandwiches and drafts of cold beer to the ravenous queens.  Over lunch, they would discuss women’s issues, offering advice or a sympathetic ear when needed.

     My mother shared this ritual with seven friends for over forty years.  The group remained constant, and the depth of their friendships grew as their lives changed.  Dorothy lost her husband early in a construction accident and the queens cooked for her family.  Mickey got a divorce and her friends supported her as a single parent.  Another’s husband drank too much. Over the years, the topics changed, from how to cope with colic and cradle cap to kids graduating, marrying, and having grandchildren.  No matter what, they met at Prince’s and never ran out of conversation.

     Last year, the bowlers had to disband.  Millie had back surgery and couldn’t lift anything over two pounds.  My mother’s arthritis got so bad she couldn’t fit her fingers into the bowling ball. But the queens wouldn’t consider giving up their weekly get-togethers at Prince’s. 

     They now call their group a book club.  No work of fiction has ever been discussed.  Instead, the queens share the stories of their own lives, which are as tightly woven as any best seller.

     Last summer, I went to Prince’s with them.  I was struck by how the queens have aged, with their gray hair, varicose veins and slower gaits.  But what hasn’t changed is the unspoken bond between them.

         They greet the bartender who knows their drink orders by heart.  Before I join them, I stand back to observe.  The neighborhood bar glows with their female energy and wisdom.      

   When I sit down, they welcome me with laughter.  I hold up the glass of Milwaukee's Best  Light they pour for me and make a toast.  “To the Queens of Prince’s,” I say, my voice shaking with emotion.  They each lift their glasses solemnly, their eyes glimmering with love.   I only hope the queens reign at Prince's forever.