The drive was lovely. The day was not. I was wandering through central Illinois, driving from Hannibal, Missouri to Davenport, Iowa. The early morning sun turned into a stifling hot day before I hit Monmouth, home to Wyatt Earp and Monmouth College. The car I rented from the airport in St. Louis was a new Ford Mustang Convertible that made driving in the heat fun but at the same time, well, hot. The late morning temperatures were already in the high nineties. Sweat rolled down my brow and if I’d been wearing a shirt, it would have shown dark circles under my arms.

I needed something to cool me. I looked for dark storm clouds in the distance. None appeared on the hot August day. I thought about putting the top up, closing the windows, and turning the air conditioner on, but I selected the convertible so I could drive with the wind in my face. Instead, I kept driving north toward Viola and the Quad Cities with the top down.

By the time I entered Viola, the thermometer registered a sweltering 105 degrees Fahrenheit. I needed relief and I needed it soon. I slowly drove past the Viola United Methodist Church, the US Post Office, and the Viola Home Telephone Company. It wasn’t until I hit the north end of Highway 67 that I spotted a place that offered what I needed. Just past St. John’s Cemetery and Skunk Creek, I saw a welcoming sign. Vern’s Tavern sat on the east side of the road. A few trucks occupied the dirt parking lot. A flashing sign that read “Ice Cold Beer. Three Dollars.” illuminated from the small window of the wooden door leading into Vern’s.

I slowly pulled into the parking lot and stopped the car. I put the top up, donned a dry shirt, and slid into my flip-flops that were lying on the floor of the passenger seat. In the few seconds that I sat in the car with the top up and the windows closed, the temperature felt like it rose ten degrees. I grabbed my wallet, climbed out of the furnace, and headed for the door.

A blast of cool air surrounded me when I walked through the entrance. My demeanor rose a notch as I strode to the bar. It wasn’t until I sat down that I noticed the eyes that noticed me. Besides the bartender, a lanky kid, probably in his mid-twenties, I saw three middle-aged men at the bar. No one said a word when I sat. They all starred my way, probably wondering what I was doing in Viola, Illinois on such a hot day.

Benny, the bartender, who happened to be Vern’s grandson, asked what I wanted.

“I need a cold beer. The colder, the better. You got Stag on tap?”

“Yep.” was his one-word reply.

“I’ll have one to cool me off, and maybe one more to get me up the road.”

I sat at the bar quietly, anticipating the cold draft that was coming my way. I glanced up toward the three locals sitting across the bar from me. They were all quiet too. They sat there and gawked my way. My beer arrived. I looked up at the trio, raised my mug their way, and took a long swig. Still, no emotion from my on-lookers.

I was half way through my first beer when one of the locals finally spoke. He, like the other two, was dressed almost identical to his friends. They wore faded blue coveralls, sweat-stained tee shirts, and John Deere ball caps. Dirt covered all three, most likely the same dirt that provided them with their livelihoods. They all sported old, cracked Redwing boots, which were also covered with dirt.

“You lost?” he asked.

When he spoke, I noticed that he was missing a few teeth. I noticed also that he was missing a finger or two, a sure sign that he was either a farmer or a butcher. His clothes and John Deere hat told me it was the former.

I got the feeling I wasn’t particularly welcome in Vern’s in Viola, Illinois on that how summer day. I took another long sip of beer, emptying the mug, smiled his way, and replied, “I was lonely and lost, but not anymore.”

The three weathered farmers looked at each other, shaking their heads and smirking under their breath. I heard one of the men ask John, the man who spoke first, if I was for real.

John spoke again. “Lonely for who? Someone from around these parts?”

Benny came my way and placed a second beer in front of me. He quickly retreated, probably wondering if a fight was in the works.

I took a sip of my new beer and looked John’s way. “Not who, but what. You see, I’ve been driving half way across your beautiful state, enjoying the quiet roads and endless miles of corn and soybean fields. It sure is lovely here. But the temperature kept rising, and I found myself lonely for the only thing that can truly cool a person off. Stag Beer. Ice-cold Stag Beer. Just then, in the middle of what you all I’m sure refer to as paradise, I found Vern’s. I’m not lost anymore, and these two mugs of beer relieved my loneliness.”

John was at a loss for words. He picked up his glass, tipped it my way, and said, “Well, thanks. You have a nice day, son.”

“I’ll do just that” I replied.

The tavern was quiet again. I finished by beer and dropped a ten-dollar bill on the bar, stood up, and headed for the door. I turned and asked John, “’Bout how far is Davenport from here?”

“’Bout half an hour up 67. That where you’re heading?” he asked.

“Yep.” was my one-word response.

“In that case, you ain’t lost no more.”