12/24/2025
Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through the dive,
Darbs Crystal Bar was the place to be alive.
The wood paneling groaned, the floorboards were worn,
With a rug by the door that was weathered and torn.
The regulars sat where they’d sat for a decade,
Watching the snow as it started to cascade.
In Carhartt jackets and boots caked in salt,
Finding a reason for the evening to halt.
The jukebox played Seger, a low, steady hum,
While the neon "OPEN" flickered out like a drum.
The salty, warm scent of the popcorn was thick,
As the kettle kept spinning with a rhythmic click-click.
When out in the lot, past the frozen-shut trucks,
Came a sound like a plow—or a couple of bucks.
We looked through the glass, through the frost and the grime,
To see who’d be out at this cold, closing time.
A heavy-duty sleigh, with a rack in the back,
Slid into the spot through a frozen-ice crack.
The driver hopped out, wearing mittens and wool,
Moving with purpose through the wind-chill and pull.
"Now Miller! Now Old Style! Now Busch and High Life!
Ignore the lake effect, the wind, and the strife!
To the end of the bar! To the stool near the wall!
Now pour 'em! Now pour 'em! Now pour 'em all!"
He didn't want garnishes, bitters, or zest,
Just a cold longneck bottle and some time for a rest.
He had a salt-and-pepper beard and a laugh like a gale,
And told a tall story about a Great Lakes gale.
He ordered a pickle back, toasted the room,
While the heater kicked on with a rattling boom.
He grabbed a red basket of corn from the bin,
And tossed back a kernel with a wide, toothy grin.
He stood up to leave, zipped his parka up tight,
Ready to face the sub-zero-degree night.
He tapped on the wood of the bar with his ring,
And gave a small nod to the life that we bring.
He climbed in his sleigh and he let out a roar,
As he skidded away from the heavy oak door.
But we heard him shout out, past the drift and the snow,
"Merry Christmas, you locals! Keep the Miller on flow!"