A reflection on gathering, connection, and the power of showing up
One of Wisconsin’s claims to fame is that you can find a bar on nearly every corner. In Milwaukee and the small towns surrounding it, that was once almost true. In a place where winters last almost half the year, the local bar was never just about beer. It was about gathering.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s, many of these neighborhood bars were built into the first floors of homes. The family lived upstairs; the community gathered downstairs. German and Polish immigrants brought that model from Europe, blending the public house with the private home. People came not just to drink but to exchange news, share a meal, find work, or lend an ear. They were warm places in a cold world, extensions of the living room, I suppose precursors to the modern man cave.
Even out in the country, when I was growing up, this held true. Down the road from the family farm (a short tractor ride), there were two taverns. Luckily for us, one of those bars, "Some Place Cheap", was in the family, owned by my aunt and uncle. Along with having their living space above the bar, it sat across the street from my uncle’s auto body shop. On special occasions, my sister and I would get to play upstairs with our cousins while our parents were downstairs playing dice, sipping brandy Old Fashioneds, or having a beer. And because kids are allowed in bars in Wisconsin with their parents, it wasn’t uncommon to stop by during the day. It was also pretty sweet when your grandpa had an endless pocket of quarters for the jukebox, pool table, or games.
Those bars were community in its purest form. You didn’t need a password or a profile picture. There wasn’t a discussion-board moderator deciding what could or couldn’t be said. You just showed up.
Fast-forward a few decades and a thousand miles south. I now live in Austin, Texas, a city that prides itself on being weird, creative, and connected. And yet, like most modern cities, we’ve slowly traded gathering in person for gathering online.
Ironically, my grandfather’s favorite watering hole back home was called The Shady Grove — which shared a name with a favorite Austin hangout on Barton Springs Road that was right around the corner from us. Sadly, like so many gathering spots in Austin, it too has shuttered.
But every once in a while, something pulls you back to the real world.
This past weekend, my son and I went to a neighborhood event called Save Fairy Alley — a community rally to preserve a whimsical two-block walkway covered in paintings of koi fish, lily pads, flowers, and splashes of color in our little Zilker neighborhood. Fairy Alley became a beloved symbol of local art and expression, but new state highway guidelines now threaten to erase it under the banner of “uniformity” and cost savings.
We went mostly out of curiosity and sentiment — especially after reading the heartfelt words shared by neighbors through the Zilker Neighborhood Association. I knew people would show up, but I didn’t expect how alive it would feel.
As kids filled the faded pavement art with chalk, parents chatted (and chalked), neighbors met for the first time, and the whole alley buzzed with laughter and connection. My son was completely absorbed tracing koi fish and tracing blue splashes. The sounds of kids’ chatter and laughter mixed with the hum of conversation as we adults connected made the whole experience even more precious and memorable. In that short time, I met more neighbors and had more real conversations than a typical meetup.
It struck me how powerful these small, local gatherings can be. Fairy Alley isn’t just about paint or art. It’s about place, about having somewhere that belongs to everyone, where creativity and community overlap. Something special to the neighborhood.
Losing spaces like that, whether it’s a local bar, a public mural, or a small park doesn’t just change the landscape. It changes the way we relate to each other.
As a parent, I worry about what that means for our kids. When art and music disappear from schools, or when play and imagination get replaced by screens, we lose more than culture, we lose connection.
That theme popped up again this week while listening to a podcast with Arthur C. Brooks, author of From Strength to Strength, which has shaped how I think about the second half of life. In his conversation with Andrew Yang, “The Simple Rules for a Healthier Relationship with Technology”, he talks about reclaiming focus and relationships through habits like tech-free mornings and digital fasts. Something from this episode really stuck with me:
“Every moment you spend on a screen is a moment you’re not spending with a person.”
It’s simple, but true. Connection takes intention.
I’ve started trying to stay unplugged in the morning, keeping my phone away while I get ready and make breakfast for the kids just so I can have time with my thoughts before the day starts. Once I drop them off, I plug back in. But that quiet hour has made a big difference in how I show up for the rest of the day.
And plugging back into people and community is why I found myself thinking about those Wisconsin taverns. What stands out isn’t the drinking, it’s the socializing. People carved out time to check in on one another. They didn’t have to schedule it or scroll for it; it was built into daily life. You just showed up and took a seat around the bar (a unique version of a community table); played shake of the day, caught up on gossip, and crossed paths with neighbors.
Austin had its own version of those corner bars. Hole-in-the-wall spots, dance halls, and local restaurants where people gathered. But you have to make the time to find them; and to show up.
Today, it’s easier than ever to build your own bar; the man cave downstairs or the private media room. But chances are those doors aren’t open to everyone in the neighborhood from 11 a.m. to 2 a.m., six or seven days a week. And when it’s just as easy to hop into an online group chat to debate, vent, or disconnect from reality, it becomes even easier to stay home.
So maybe we can’t turn every living room into a tavern. But I’ve seen creative ways people are bringing that same spirit back. From turning a garage into a neighborhood gathering space, to hosting potlucks and chili cook-offs, to impromptu block parties.
One of the news podcast anchors I listen to recently said her favorite holiday is Halloween because it’s a community holiday. One of the few times of year that’s truly about getting out, meeting neighbors, and spending time in your community. Having more moments and holidays like that, ones that bring us together face-to-face, is something I could get behind.
Because when we stop showing up, the world gets colder. And no algorithm, playlist, or digital feed can replace the warmth of laughter and connection. As the world moves forward, as familiar gathering places close, traditions change, or paintings on pavement fade, it’s comforting to remember that it doesn’t take much; just a few people, neighbors, or family members to bring back the color and warmth.
That’s the kind of community I want to help build, where people show up, listen, and get to care a little bit more again.
Family first. Humanity first. Neighbors first.
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