From the outside, it doesn’t look like much. Maybe a run-down auto parts store, established years ago but long forgotten. The Mine’s owner, Mike Magers, bought it in October of ’98, six years after graduating from Baker.

“I think every guy wants to own a bar,” Magers said. “It seems like a good idea when you’re young.”

He was 28 at the time, saying at that age he was still young enough, where that kind of thing appealed to him, a place where he could get to know everybody.

“I could never remember how to make a shot,” Magers said. “If there was more than one liquor in a drink, I would struggle. But getting to know people and learning about folks, it’s interesting to see them develop and form good relationships. Baldwin City is a great town.”

It could be a dinky restaurant, one only frequented by those who know of its hidden gems. It does in fact sell food, but Magers said it’s not the biggest selling point. While he could take out a pool table in favor of booths, he likes the atmosphere too much to make a change.

The parking lot, which is really just a patch of gravel and pebbles, is mostly empty. A blue Ford F-150, spotted with rust, sits at the front door, probably the first patron of the day claiming his spot. A silver, dust-covered Chevy Tahoe in the far corner. My red Mitsubishi Eclipse is an obvious tourist, standing out in a sea of small-town normality.

The maybe-it’s-an-auto-parts-store, maybe-its-not-even-open bar sits right off Highway 56. The Mine opened in the mid ‘70s and has since gone through a few transformations. Associate Professor of History John Richards remembers when he was a student and it was called “The Other Place” because of the bar that was already established at the junction of Highway 56 and Highway 59. At the time it was a taproom, only 3.2-beer was sold and everyone could legally drink at the age of 18.

“The atmosphere was the same as it is now,” Richards said. “There were pool tables, people getting around, shooting pool. Well – bad pool.”

The door, with windows into the bar, is slightly off the hinges. From the inside, you can see rays of light persistently pushing through the small space between the frame and the door. When you turn the door handle, it’s loose, like someone had too much to drink one night and broke it, but no one bothered to fix it. You need a firm grip, an I’m-trying-to-get-a-beer-right-now grasp, to open the door.

The place is just as plain on the inside, with its long, light tan bar straight ahead. The floor is a cracked-white linoleum, with scattered stickers, advertising (you guessed it!) Bud Light and Budweiser, chipped from years of boots scuffling the edges. There are two pool tables on the right side of the bar, just before you get to the door to the beer garden.

The bartender, McCoy Nelson, says the place has been the same since he was a student here; he started bartending at the end of his senior year, 2005. Back then they called it “The Salt Mine” or “Miño.” It was crazy back then, he says.

Nelson left Baldwin City at age 23 to try his hand at the real world. But like Magers, this place called him back.

“I was sad when I left the first time,” Nelson said. “I never thought I would be back here. I feel like this was the bar I grew up in; I moved around so much and have done so many things, but this bar has really kind of always been home to me. It was like coming home.”

The only time it gets crazy now is during Stag, a tradition of Baker’s Alumni Weekend. Although it’s stressful for the bartenders, he says it’s just a ridiculously good time. Magers agrees, saying they used to have a capacity counter at the door, and the bar and outdoor area have been known to hold up to 700 people at the event.

To the left of the bar is a golfing game, you know the one with the cold white ball you spin to swing the club. The bartender said he threw out his arm last week, playing it when the place was dead. Isn’t it dead now? Out of the eight stools at the bar, only one is taken, and it’s mine. There are four older men sitting around a table, sharing a pitcher of some light yellow, clearly domestic beer.

Locals, or as many BU students call them, “townies”, are a regular in this bar, something that brings out the charm. Magers said at first it was rough to smooth out the differences between the groups, but now, everybody just kind of comes together.

“The bartenders and the personality can appeal to both college students and locals,” Magers said.

McCoy said it’s always been a pretty healthy mix of people who come into the bar, something that makes the place so special. “The Thunder Rolls,” a country classic, sets the tone for the place. It’s a down-home kind of bar, the place where you come between shifts or to meet up with a friend. It’s a place for pool and darts, the King of Country and a nice cold Bud Light.

“The townies get a bad rep about them,” Nelson said. “We’re just all living in this small town, you know, and it’s not only just a university. There’s not much else to do in this town and booze is good for you.”

Speaking of booze, on draft they have Copperhead Pale Ale, Boulevard Irish Ale, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Miller Lite, Budweiser, Bud Light, Coors (“Curs” as I just heard this old man call it) and Boulevard Wheat. The draft choices are better than you would expect in a town of this size. The Budweiser and Bud Light handles protrude from the wall more than the rest, most likely from overuse.

I choose my go-to, Boulevard Wheat. McCoy reaches for the cooler to grab a glass for my beer. My mother always tells me that draft beer gives her a headache.

“Stick with bottled beer, Taylor, it’s better for your belly and better for your head.”

I never listen. She always tells me that Miller Lite is the best, too – a gap in our generation and personality made clear by our choice in beer.

The frosted glass has (surprise!) a Bud Light logo on it, with a Kansas sunset and sunflower. The two are a golden yellow now, thanks to my brew. It’s the color of a wedding ring. That golden-hue of the sun as it rises, before it hits noon … the color of light, royalty but most importantly, good beer. A lemon sits on the lip of the glass, the cut in the middle gripping the edge of the cup. I wring it, letting the acidity drop into the foam of the beer. The citrus dispels the white, breaking it up to allow the gold to shine through the holes in the clouds.

I pick up the pint again, still as heavy but probably only half as cold, and finally take a drink. The lemon hits my lips, a dam to the fizziness of the brew. It’s soft and smooth going down, and the lemon helps bring out the full-body flavor of the beer with a citrus undertone.

After a few more sips, the wheat-color leaves the logo, leaving it a half-painted picture. Slowly and methodically, with a few stories mixed in from Nelson and the townie who comes to sit next to me (they really are friendly around here), I finish the beer before it has a chance to get warm. Nelson looks at me, raises his eyebrow and I smile. This is our code for “one more, please.”