My older brother was off at college, so the question was what to do with my younger brother and me while they were away. The decision was made for us to stay with our grandmother at the Mirror Lake Inn, which in our minds translated into a lot of work, 200 pairs of eyes watching our every move — and rules.

Since we would be staying at home my father decided to keep the motel open, on the oft chance some wandering traveler needed a room — and the bar. The motel part wasn’t a challenge as our maid Charlotte could easily handle keeping the rooms clean and I was well versed in renting rooms, but keeping the bar open was another matter. By then I had the job of cleaning the place in the mornings and restocking the coolers, so my father was inclined to let me continue doing that, but brought in Wee Bernie, i.e Bernie Baker to bartend.

Wee Bernie was anything but small. He grew up on a farm lifting barrels of milk. To look at him you might think he was fat. Wrong. Solid muscle. He could have had a successful career as a professional wrestler. So the place seemed safe.

Back in April 1966 Lake Placid was dead in the spring, so even though I was excited by my responsibilities, I was bored. What to do? Back then we had this cocktail waitress and occasional bartender named Kathy O’Sullivan, a lithe and lissome woman with a great sense of irony who added “ipoo” to the names of all the rough and tough skiers and bobsledders who hung out at our place. Bob became Bobipoo. Rock, Rockipoo, Ted, Tedipoo, and Naj, Najipoo.

So I painted this large brightly colored paper sign that said, “Najipoo is Here” and taped it over part of our sign out front for each direction of travel. Soon cars stopped and, as people they checked out our room rates, they would casually ask who was Najipoo. I would say me. They would laugh while I told them about us covering the motel while our parents were away, and they often decided to stay and support the creative marketing efforts of a 13 and 17 year old. The sign also attracted people to the bar expecting a band. There they found me again, this time behind the bar.

Business was so slow that Bernie let me behind the bar and showed me how to make various drinks. I had a pretty good idea and read Old Mr. Boston Bartender’s Guide avidly. The locals got a kick out of me being behind the bar while my father was away. So much so that a wandering ABC agent (alcohol beverage control) for the state came in, pulled up a bar stool, and ordered a drink, a scotch on the rocks with a splash of water. I served him.

He identified himself, asked how business was, and a few other questions, and then, as I refreshed his glass said, “Are you of age, old enough to be bartending?” (Then the legal age was 18).

I could feel the eyes of all the local customers on me. I said, “Would I be bartending if I wasn’t?”

He said, “No, I guess not.” We chatted some more, he finished his drink and then walked up the steps and drove off. Not two seconds after the door closed the customers at the bar hooted with laughter. Some started calling friends from the payphone. Soon business really picked up. The word was out and people from all over town would come down for a drink and give me all sorts of grief, “May I see your driver’s license? Are you old enough to serve me?”

Naturally I’d respond, “Do you want a drink or not?” Business boomed getting heavier each night.

Then my parents returned. They arrived on a rainy, windy night and, as it turned out, the rain and wind had ripped away the “Najipoo is Here” sign facing west. They were amazed to see the parking lot full. They came down into the bar to find Wee Bernie serving dinks, my brother Chris in bed, me in the dining room working on my homework and all the customers extremely polite and overly solicitous. Something had clearly happened. After closing my father checked the books and could see that there had been a remarkable spike in business — a level perhaps equaled only by New Years. When he went out to turn off the lights he saw on the eastside, the side protected from wind and rain, “Najipoo is Here.” Try though he might, not a person uttered a peep about my youthful escapade. So he hung the sign in the bar and my mother later kept it to her dying day. It wasn’t until 10 years later that anyone told them what really happened while they were away.