The Loving Cup
A loving cup is a large silver or pewter wine vessel with two handles that is passed from person to person at banquets, or farewell gatherings, or at weddings. It is a token of our esteem for the others gathered that we share the one cup. The first time I saw one used was at a Mass held for incoming freshman at DePaul University. We all took a sip of altar wine and headed back to our seats vaguely worried about bacteria and hoping the wine was strong enough to ward off any illness - just like when we were kids and we took turns taking a swig out of a Pepsi bottle, wiping the bottle with a dirty sleeve and passing it on to the next thirsty kid.
There is something lyrical, almost elegiac, about a loving cup. The name itself seems to belong to another time and place altogether. Perhaps it is a bit sentimental to think of it that way, but I am Irish and sentiment rises easily in me. I think it would be a fine thing if loving cups were used for their original purpose again (instead of their current use as trophies). Imagine your holiday dinner. Now imagine it with a loving cup. The presence of such a cup is the difference between Ebeneezer Scrooge’s Christmas past and his possible future.
One dark winter a hundred years ago I sat perched on a barstool in the Rainbo Club at Division and Damen in the city. I had become something of regular there, my photo-booth mug making it onto the yearly calendar two years running. The Rainbo, in a former life had been a Polish Social Club, and now had been turned into a hangout for artists, pseudo-artists, posers and punks. I sat with my friend Paul Pawluk having a few beers. The place was half-full with angst-riddled twentysomethings all dressed in black. Paul and I were anomalies (we had plenty of angst, but didn’t wear black) as was one other fellow - an old rummy nursing a shot of whisky across the bar from us.
We decide to buy the geezer a round and so asked the bartender to deliver our gift. The old man looks up kinda mad, giving us a hard look, taking our measure to see if we were being patronizing. I suppose we were, but his response was to buy us a round and as the drinks were poured he made his way over to us and plopped down next to me.
“I don’t suppose you smoke do you?’ were his first words to us. I was instantly reminded of a scene from John Steinbeck’s In Dubious Battle where a union organizer is told to take up smoking because a man just won’t trust another man who wouldn’t smoke.
We told him we didn’t smoke. He grunted and nodded his head a bit as if confirming our weakness.
“Why’d you buy me that drink?” he asked, the hard look in his eyes. “D’you think I didn’t have money?”
It was unnerving to be confronted so directly. We were being condescending, though I doubt either of us knew it. Just spreading some holiday cheer, I said.
“I’ve got money,” he said and we settled into an uncomfortable silence. I was wishing we’d left him alone. This was no fun. After a few more minutes he told us his name was Stanley, that he used to come to the Rainbo back “when it was a nice place.” He was back in Chicago after some time away and thought he’d look up the old joint.
“Nothin’ stays the same,” Stanley said and he turned around on his barstool to look at the room. He pointed to a far corner “I kissed the girl who would be my wife for the first time right over there. Sophy and I used to come here dancing back in the late forties and such.”
Stan was smiling now. “What a place this used to be. We had bands come in here. They played all the good stuff. Swing, y’know? Sunday’s they’d have a buffet here. All the roasted chicken, pork, kulduni, pierogies, bigos you could eat. It was all here. This is where they had my going away party before I shipped out for Korea. I was married by then and Sophy did all that for me.”
Paul and I ordered another shot for our new friend.
“Yeah, that was a party, I tell ya. Everything was just great. Just great. The music, the booze, the food. Just great. Then comes the time to go. Only I don’t want to go. I don’t ever want to leave. You know what I mean? Then my So, my So takes out this bottle of sweet cherry wine and says, “I was saving this,” and she pours out a great big glass of it into a beer mug. She takes a little sip and tells me how much she loves me. Then she passed the mug to my Mom, my Dad was killed in the Second World War, and my Mom takes a sip and tells me how much she loves me and that I should be safe when I’m in Korea, and she starts crying about my Dad and all. And on and on. That mug was passed to everyone who was still there. They all told me how much they loved me and I shouldn’t be a hero or nothing like that, but to just come home when my tour was up. The mug finally made it to me, there was a lot left in it. I think everyone was afraid to be a hog about it. I wanted to say something to them, to thank them, or something, but I was too busted up. I just drained that glass in one gulp. Everyone laughed at that.”
Stanley turned back to his drink and downed it. He got up from his seat, “Thanks, boys. Thanks for being nice to an old man.” With that he left.
I’ve always wondered what happened to him. Did he have kids? Was Sophy still alive? Where did he settle after the war? Why did he look so shot through that night? But it doesn’t matter. Not a bit of it. He gave me that story, and that is more than enough.
So, the next time you are with your family and friends don’t simply raise a glass in good cheer, share one instead. Tell those you love that you love them and pass it on.