I Hope Someone Buys Mason’s

During my recent stay in southern Indiana, I spent an afternoon walking up and down Main Street in Washington.

I was pleased by what I saw.

A number of years ago, some of the empty storefronts had been nicely decorated to make them look as though businesses were operating inside. It was certainly better than staring through dusty windows into empty buildings, but they were still empty buildings.

This time, many of those storefronts were actually occupied.

There were new businesses offering a variety of products and services. We were there after hours, so most of them were closed and downtown wasn’t particularly busy. But it still made me happy.

When I was a kid, going downtown in Washington meant places like Ted’s Bakery, Donaldson’s Toggery, The Bell and the Spudnut Shop. Those places are long gone.

But downtown isn’t.

And a couple of businesses I remember from those days are still chugging along. The Indiana Theater is still there. So is the White Steamer, still selling hamburgers beneath that wonderful old Coca-Cola sign.

I think a thriving downtown is—or at least should be—the heart of a community.

Not a mall. Not a Walmart Supercenter.

An actual downtown.

But there was another Washington business I wanted to visit while I was back. It isn’t downtown, but it has an even more personal connection for me.

Mason’s Root Beer.

Mason’s opened in 1951. Their sign this year proudly announces their 75th season.

I spent two great summers working there when I was young, cooking food and washing root beer mugs.

And yes, they were actual mugs.

So, naturally, I had to go back.

I ordered one of Mason’s foot-long coneys.

It was still great.

There is something comforting about returning to a place you knew more than half a century ago and discovering that you can still walk up to the window and order something you remember eating when you were young.

I don’t expect everything from my childhood to still be there. Most of it isn’t. Nor should everything remain exactly as it was. Communities change. Businesses come and go. People come and go.

That’s life.

But places like Mason’s become something more than businesses. They become part of the collective memory of a community—and part of the individual memories of people like me.

Now I hear Mason’s is for sale.

I hope someone buys it.

Not because Washington should somehow be frozen in the 1960s. The new businesses I saw downtown demonstrate exactly the opposite. A healthy community needs new people, new ideas and new ventures.

But it also needs people willing to carry some good things forward.

Seventy-five seasons is a pretty good run.

I’d like there to be a 76th.

And whoever buys the place can change whatever they think needs changing.

Just don’t mess with the coneys.