Club housing

When I was growing up, I had a club house in my backyard. It was a one-room one-story 10' x 10' building, with some tables and chairs, a few shelves and an intercom to my home's kitchen. Neighborhood kids gathered at the house, played games, read Mad magazine, and made it our own. My neighbor had a similar structure, but his was two stories with a balcony, and much easier to get away and hide things. Things like cigarettes and girlie magazines, maybe be a couple cans of crappy beer, a bottle of vodka with a swallow or two left in the bottle. I didn't care about the alcohol, and it was easy enough to sneak away anytime for a cigarette. The 'zines were a little exciting, but what made both places so enticing was the fact that they were an escape, forbidden to our parents and my sister, and place for the boys to hang out.

Last night I was introduced to another such club house, nestled in the alley of a posh urban neighborhood, complete with a three-tap bar, high-end liquor selection, card table, cable TV and all the decor and feel of a British pub. In fact, one might believe they had stepped into the room, across the Atlantic and into Tippler's End.

The neighborhood takes care of the Recumbent Wombat, as it's affectionately known, and weekly gatherings bring movies, cards, soup, and of course, drinking. No money trades hands, so it's completely legal. It's hours are random, yet Friday nights and Gophers football games generally promise a crowd. It is indeed what every neighborhood needs.