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Meet Kevin and Nick: Grandsons of the McHale’s

“My name is Kevin Crozier. I’m Terry and Evelyn’s oldest grandson.”

“I’m Kevin’s brother, Nick. I guess I’d be the middle grandchild.”

Kevin and Nick grew up rooted in Douglas, Ontario—with deep family ties that reached straight through the heart of the town’s most well-known gathering place: The Douglas Tavern. They are part of the McHale family legacy, grandsons of Terry and Evelyn, who owned and operated the tavern for decades.

“For me, it was actually pretty cool because I got to come home from school every day to Grandma and Grandpa’s house,” Nick says. “They kind of watched me every day after school and they really made growing up here in Douglas like really special and it was quite nice.”

Kevin also spent much of his childhood in Douglas, especially during the summers. “Admaston school is only 10 minutes down the road, so I spent all my summers up here and stuff like that,” he says. “Everything is kind of, everything you do up here is kind of the same. Everybody does the same kind of things, so you get along well with everybody.”

Their connection to the tavern wasn’t just a family fact—it shaped how they saw the town, how they spent their time, and what they came to understand about community. As grandsons of Terry and Evelyn McHale, they weren’t just related to the people who ran The Diddley—they were growing up next to it, inside it, and eventually, within it.

“You’d be amazed how many people were impressed when they’re like, ‘You know, my grandparents owned a bar,’” Kevin says. “That was pretty shocking, especially when you got into your later high school and college days and stuff like that. People thought that was awesome.”

For them, though, it was just life—ordinary and extraordinary at once.

Growing Up at Grandma and Grandpa’s House

“I got to come home from school every day to Grandma and Grandpa’s house,” Nick says. “They kind of watched me every day after school, and they really made growing up here in Douglas like really special, and it was quite nice.”

For both Kevin and Nick, Douglas was more than just a small town—it was the setting of their everyday lives, anchored by the steady presence of Terry and Evelyn McHale. Their grandparents’ house wasn’t a place they occasionally visited. It was a home base, a place of comfort and routine. And just on the other side of the wall, the Douglas Tavern lived and breathed—close enough to feel, but just out of reach.

“We were at Grandma’s house and then there was just other people in the other part of the building that we didn’t quite understand what was going on,” Nick remembers. “We didn’t really—it was just Grandma had to go to work and it was fun.”

In the mornings, it was playtime. By afternoon, Evelyn would cross over into the tavern and begin her shift, and the boys would stay behind—still in the same building, but in a different world. “We’d do all our fun activities in the morning and then Grandma would have to go open up at the bar,” Nick says. “And we’d be kind of—we’d be stuck and just hanging out.”

Their understanding of what was happening next door was vague at first—music, laughter, movement—but they were content in their own space. The moments they recall are full of warmth, even in their simplicity.

“Just coming home from school and right away getting on your clothes and going up to the sliding hill and coming down,” Nick says. “And you always knew Grandma would come back in for a second and make us hot chocolate and everything, and we’d just watch TV and do our homework.”

That was the rhythm. School, play, hot chocolate, and the gentle hum of the tavern just beyond the wall. The connection between family and place wasn’t something they thought about then—it was just how things were. And years later, looking back, that routine holds even more meaning.

“Every memory there is just a good memory,” Nick says. “It’s just amazing how happy you were when you were at Grandma’s house. And that’s just the way Grandma and Grandpa made us feel—was that it was just an amazing place.”

Two Worlds, One Building: Living Beside The Diddley

“Yeah, it was pretty cool because there’s the door in between the bar and the rest of the house, and like those were two—on certain nights, those were two completely different worlds,” Kevin says.

For most people, the Douglas Tavern was a place to go. For Kevin and Nick, it was part of their home. Their childhood unfolded in a space unlike any other—one building, split in two, where ordinary family life happened just steps away from a community landmark alive with music, laughter, and late-night celebrations.

Kevin remembers it clearly: “I can remember being a young kid and you didn’t dare cross that line when the bar was open because kids were not permitted in the bar, right? So you could be at Grandma’s house and I could look out and I could see Grandma work in the bar and stuff like that. But I knew there was no way at that time of night I was going out to be like, ‘Oh Grandma, like what’s going on?’ Like—not allowed.”

It wasn’t a harsh boundary, but it was a firm one. The tavern had its own rules, its own energy. And as children, they learned to stay on their side. Still, they could feel the life of the bar all around them.

“You’d come out of Grandma’s house and be in the bar, and then you’d leave the bar and you’d be back into Grandma’s house,” Kevin says. “And it was just kind of a weird dynamic, but when you grow up with it, it just never really—you don’t think about it until you’re older. And then you go, wow, that was kind of weird.”

Nick adds his own memory of the soundscape that shaped their evenings. “We’d be sitting and playing our Wii and you’d just hear live music banging and you didn’t really understand how cool it really was looking back on it. It was pretty special.”

The Diddley was more than a tavern—it was part of the architecture of their lives. The same building held sledding hills and sound checks, cartoons and kitchen prep, childhood and adulthood waiting in the next room. One door was all it took to divide those worlds—and connect them.

The Early Days: Childhood Sounds of the Tavern

In the Crozier brothers’ early years, The Douglas Tavern was more soundtrack than setting—something they heard more than saw.

“We’d be sitting and playing our Wii,” Nick says, “and you’d just hear live music banging.”

That sound—live bands shaking the walls of the family home—was a regular part of their childhood. Not just on St. Patrick’s Day, but on weekends, during events, and on nights when the bar filled with energy just feet away from where they sat playing video games or watching TV.

They didn’t fully grasp what they were part of at the time. The tavern was still off-limits, still behind a line they weren’t allowed to cross. But it surrounded them. It was there in the vibration of basslines through the floorboards, the rise and fall of laughter, the way the whole building shifted when the music started.

“You didn’t really understand how cool it really was,” Nick reflects. “Looking back on it, it was pretty special to be… we were at these St. Patrick’s Day parties without even being a part of it whatsoever. We were just at a babysitter, sitting at Grandma’s house.”

Even though they weren’t in the room, they were part of the experience. They heard it. They felt it. They absorbed the rhythm of the Tavern before they ever stepped behind the bar or served a drink.

Learning the Ropes from the Inside Out

MJ’s journey at the Douglas Tavern didn’t begin with a formal job application. Like many family-run establishments in small towns, it started with a helping hand — and a familiar face behind the bar.

“I started working there after I was 19. It was Terry who asked me to start pouring drinks,” MJ recalls. “I didn’t know what I was doing, but he threw me behind the bar. I poured the first drink ever for a customer, and Terry was standing right there.”

From that moment on, MJ was part of the crew.

He served customers, pulled pints, and slowly learned the rhythm of the place — not from training manuals, but from experience, observation, and being surrounded by people who had already mastered the art of hospitality.

“I learned everything from Terry,” he says. “And Evelyn too — she was always in the kitchen, working nonstop.”

One of MJ’s clearest memories is of a particularly chaotic St. Patrick’s Day when the crowds were shoulder to shoulder. “It was one of the biggest ones I ever worked,” he says. “You couldn’t move. It was just me and Terry behind the bar, and I had no idea what I was doing.”

That kind of immersion — being thrown into the deep end with the support of family — was how you learned in Douglas. There was no pressure to be perfect. Just show up, pitch in, and figure it out.

And figure it out he did.

There’s something unique about growing up in proximity to celebration—not as a guest, but as a child just living nearby. For Kevin and Nick, the Tavern’s busiest nights were also just regular family evenings. “We were at Grandma’s house,” Nick repeats, emphasizing how normal it all felt.

Yet those sounds, the music, the voices, the unmistakable energy of Douglas on a Saturday night formed the background noise of their upbringing. It wasn’t just something they heard. It became part of who they were.

From behind closed doors, childhood and community met—quietly, consistently, and with a pulse they can still recall.

First Jobs and Many Hats: Working at The Diddley

“As the older grandson… I pretty much did everything,” Kevin says.

From a young age, Kevin’s role at The Douglas Tavern grew step by step, shaped by family expectations and the natural rhythm of big events in Douglas. There was no formal job interview, no schedule pinned to a wall. It started with what he could lift.

“We’d be up there, we’d be moving boxes from the time we could carry them,” he says. “Then as we got older, it went from stocking the fridge, working the door, then bartending the odd time, just cleaning bathrooms. Just anything that we got asked to do, we did.”

Working at The Diddley wasn’t just about shifts or pay—it was about being part of something that mattered. A space that belonged to the family, but also to the community. Kevin doesn’t separate the jobs out by importance. Cleaning bathrooms and driving parade floats were all part of the same experience. “We did it all. A lot of us did it all. It’s pretty cool to be a part of that.”

Nick, just a few years behind Kevin, was ready to join in—but the timing didn’t work out. “I was kind of right at that age where I never really got to work at the Tavern because I was too young,” he explains. “And then COVID kind of happened right when I would have been able to come in and help.”

Still, he contributed in the ways he could. “I was always there for the setup and the cleanup and everything that I could do as a younger kid.” Even if he wasn’t behind the bar, he was behind the scenes. It wasn’t about the job title—it was about being present.

For Kevin, there’s only one role he missed. “The only thing I never really got to be was a customer,” he says. “That was kind of a bummer sometimes. But in the end, it was probably for the best that I was helping.”

Their contributions weren’t glamorous, but they were meaningful. At The Diddley, showing up, pitching in, and doing what needed doing was never a small thing. It was the foundation. And they both wore those hats—whatever the day called for.

“Never Got to Be a Customer”: Growing Up on the Other Side of the Bar

“The only thing I never really got to be was a customer,” Kevin says. “That was kind of a bummer sometimes.”

From the outside, the Douglas Tavern might’ve looked like a dream scenario for a teenager—the kind of story you’d drop in conversation just to turn heads. “You’d be amazed how many people were impressed when they’re like, ‘You know, my grandparents owned a bar,’” Kevin admits. “That was pretty shocking, especially when you got into your later high school and college days and stuff like that. People thought that was awesome.”

But for Kevin and Nick, the story was never about the novelty. It was about work. Presence. Being part of the machine that made everything happen. They weren’t showing up for a night out—they were showing up to lift, clean, stock, and organize before most people even thought about arriving.

Kevin stepped behind the bar. He worked the door. He helped with setups and cleanups, week after week, year after year. He did everything except walk in and order a drink like everyone else.

And still—he wouldn’t trade it.

“In the end, it was probably for the best that I was helping,” he says. There’s no regret in his voice, just a clear understanding of what his role was, and what it meant to be trusted with it.

Nick had a slightly different experience. “I never really got to partake in the celebrations, just not being old enough,” he explains. “That’s just how it goes.” But he doesn’t dwell on what he missed. Instead, he talks about the moments he did have—the atmosphere, the setup, the people, the place. And later, the feeling of finally stepping in—not as a kid, not as a helper, but as someone who belonged.

“I was able to have a drink there a couple times,” Nick says. “I’m 21 now, so I’ve had a couple years before COVID shut everything down. I was able to go in and have some drinks.”

Even then, the meaning was different. “It was just such a nice place to be. Every time you were there, no matter what it was for… it’s Grandma. Everybody’s going to say how amazing she is. It was always so fun to be there. Having a beer at the tavern was just fantastic.”

So while others showed up for a night out, Kevin and Nick grew up knowing the work behind the welcome. And somehow, that made it all matter even more.

Simple Joys and Everyday Memories

Before there were big events and long workdays, before the parades and packed St. Patrick’s Days, life in Douglas was made up of quiet, familiar joys. For Kevin and Nick, those small, ordinary moments are some of the most powerful memories they carry.

“I just have so many memories of the place and every one of them is good,” Nick says. The stories that come to mind aren’t about being in the bar—they’re about everything that happened around it.

“Just coming home from school and right away getting on your clothes and going up to the sliding hill and coming down,” he recalls. Winter afternoons meant snow pants and cousins, laughter and fresh air. And when the cold finally pushed them back indoors, Evelyn was always there with something warm.

“You always knew Grandma would come back in for a second and make us hot chocolate and everything,” Nick says. “And we’d just watch TV and do our homework.”

Those afternoons weren’t exceptional. They were consistent. And that’s what made them magical. It wasn’t about big gestures—it was the feeling that someone was always there, that home was always waiting.

“Every memory there is just a good memory,” Nick says again. “It’s just amazing how happy you were when you were at Grandma’s house.”

The joy extended beyond the walls, too. Douglas gave them space to run, to play, to grow up surrounded by people who cared. “Every time that you—Mum said, ‘Alright, we’re going to Douglas,’ you were excited, you were happy,” Nick says. “And you knew that you were going to get to do something. Whether it was go out and play road hockey in the backyard or something with the cousins.”

It didn’t have to be a holiday to feel special. The everyday rhythm—sledding hills, hot chocolate, homework, and hockey—was enough.

And in those routines, Kevin and Nick learned what it meant to belong—not just to a family, but to a place. A place where happiness wasn’t rare. It was simply what happened when you came home.

St. Patrick’s Day from the Inside Out

St. Patrick’s Day in Douglas wasn’t just another event—it was the biggest day of the year. And for Kevin and Nick, it was never something they simply attended. They were raised inside it.

“As we got older, anything that was happening, we were there,” Kevin says. “Or at least we were there before and after helping clean up.”

Before they were old enough to be out front, they were behind the scenes. Helping with setup, carrying boxes, cleaning, organizing. Even as kids, the energy of the day was unavoidable. Kevin remembers waking up in the middle of the night, long after the crowd had gone home. “I can remember waking up on my grandma’s couch at two o’clock in the morning and getting carried to the car,” he says. “Because my parents were either at the function or working at the function, whatever was going on.”

St. Patrick’s Day didn’t start on March 17th for the McHale family—it started weeks before. The planning, the prep, the anticipation. “We’d be up there, we’d be moving boxes from the time we could carry them,” Kevin explains. “And then as we got older… stocking the fridge, working the door, then bartending the odd time, just cleaning bathrooms.”

The Tavern wasn’t just a place where people celebrated St. Paddy’s—it was the engine room. And Kevin and Nick were part of the crew.

Nick never got to fully participate in the holiday as a worker or a legal customer, but he was still deeply connected to it. “I never really got to partake in the celebrations, just not being old enough,” he says. But the presence, the preparation, and the people left a lasting impact.

Kevin remembers one moment above all: the first legal drink. “We came back from Toronto that day and [Grandma] opened up the bar just so that she could serve me a drink,” he says. “It was pretty neat and pretty special that I got to do that. First legal drink at an establishment was from Grandma.” He smiles, thinking back. “I think I bought something dumb too and she wasn’t happy about it. Oh well, she forgave me.”

St. Patrick’s Day was loud. It was chaotic. It was joyful. But for Kevin and Nick, it was also family, work, and memory—an annual reminder of what The Diddley meant to Douglas, and to them.

The First Legal Drink: A Grandson’s Rite of Passage

Some people remember their first legal drink for what they ordered. Kevin remembers who poured it.

“We came back from Toronto that day,” he says, “and [Grandma] opened up the bar just so that she could serve me a drink.”

It wasn’t during regular hours. It wasn’t part of a big celebration. It was a quiet, deliberate gesture—Evelyn unlocking the door, stepping behind the bar, and serving her oldest grandson his first official drink.

“It was pretty neat and pretty special that I got to do that,” Kevin says. “First legal drink at an establishment was from Grandma.”

It’s the kind of memory that holds more weight than a photo or a party. A simple act, deeply rooted in tradition, family, and pride. It wasn’t just about turning 19. It was about being seen—not as a kid in the background, but as someone who had grown up in the place and now took his own place in it.

He laughs when he remembers the drink itself. “I think I bought something dumb too, and she wasn’t happy about it.”

But the choice didn’t matter. What mattered was the moment. The small, personal rite of passage inside a building where Kevin had spent years helping—lifting boxes, stocking fridges, cleaning bathrooms, working the door.

He didn’t have to fight for a barstool. He didn’t need to be introduced. He belonged there, and everyone knew it.

“She forgave me,” he adds, smiling.

That drink, poured by his grandmother behind the same bar she’d worked for decades, wasn’t just a drink. It was a full-circle moment—from toddler in the living room hearing the music through the walls, to young man at the bar, raising a glass with the woman who helped build it all.

Familiar Faces, Year After Year: What Stayed the Same

“It wasn’t so much what changed that really stuck with me,” Kevin says. “It was what stayed the same.”

Over the years, the Douglas Tavern saw big crowds, quieter seasons, and everything in between. Sometimes St. Patrick’s Day would fall mid-week and the turnout would dip. Other years, the place would be packed wall to wall. But through it all, one thing remained constant: the people.

“No matter what the weather was, no matter what day it was, no matter what—it was always the same core group of people that would show up to celebrate.”

That core group wasn’t just a handful of regulars—they were the foundation. They were the reason events felt familiar, why holidays felt like homecomings. “Sometimes you’d get to see parents come in and bring their kids for the first time,” Kevin remembers. Generations overlapped. Faces aged, kids grew up, but the community remained.

“The similarities and the consistency with these people, that core group, that was what really blew my mind,” he says. “It didn’t matter what was going on—they were always there.”

Nick saw it the same way. “I really think the Douglas Tavern was a community,” he says. “It was a family of people. It was fantastic.”

When you walked through the doors—whether you were working, visiting, or just passing through—you knew who you were going to see. “When there was a function, you knew who you were going to see and there would be extras,” Nick says. “You never know who’s going to be there, but you always know there’s going to be people there supporting.”

That consistency gave the place its heartbeat. It wasn’t about the size of the crowd, or whether the band was playing. It was about knowing that no matter what else changed, the faces that made the place feel like home would still be there.

And they were. Year after year.

The Diddley as a Living Community

“I really think the Douglas Tavern was a community,” Nick says. “It was a family of people. It was fantastic.”

To Kevin and Nick, The Diddley was never just a business. It wasn’t just a bar, or a venue, or even a workplace. It was a place where people belonged—a gathering space that ran on familiarity, tradition, and the quiet strength of showing up.

It was the kind of place where you didn’t need to check who was going to be there. You already knew. “When there was a function, you knew who you were going to see,” Nick says. “And there would be extras. You never know who’s going to be there, but you always know there’s going to be people there supporting.”

That support didn’t just show up on special occasions. It was woven into the weekly rhythm of Douglas life. Friday nights. Local events. St. Patrick’s Day. Auction nights. Parades. Birthdays. Sometimes even just the end of a long workweek. The doors would open, and the same circle of people would fill the room—neighbors, friends, cousins, old classmates—ready to catch up, have a drink, lend a hand.

Kevin saw it too. “It was always the same core group of people that would show up to celebrate.” The community didn’t form around the Tavern—the Tavern formed around the community. It reflected them, responded to them, and gave them a place to land.

That sense of connection didn’t depend on size. Some nights were slow. Some were packed. But the feeling stayed steady.

“It was just always great,” Nick says.

The Diddley wasn’t successful because it chased novelty. It thrived because it made people feel welcome, needed, remembered. Everyone had a role. Everyone had a place.

Even now, after the taps have stopped and the building has changed hands, the spirit of the Tavern continues in the people who knew what it meant.

Because for those who lived it, The Diddley wasn’t a bar with regulars. It was a community with a bar.

A Speech to Remember: Terry’s 45th Anniversary Address

Some moments rise above the music, the crowd, and the celebration—and stay with you for life. For Kevin, one of those moments came on a St. Patrick’s Day during the 45th anniversary of the Douglas Tavern.

“I’m pretty sure it was the 45th year of the Tavern and they were doing the auction,” he recalls. “And Grandpa got up to do his speech that he normally does every year.”

It wasn’t unusual for Terry to address the crowd on St. Patrick’s Day. But this time, it felt different. The number—forty-five years—carried weight. So did the room, packed with people who had been part of the Tavern’s story for decades. And when Terry spoke, he didn’t just speak to the crowd—he spoke to the people who built it alongside him.

“The way he spoke to the crowd, and he spoke directly to my Grandma and all of his brothers and sisters and everybody who helps there,” Kevin says. “He was just so thankful for everybody and what he said and the way he said it…”

It stopped the room.

“Almost everybody in the bar that day was in tears.”

There was no script. No spectacle. Just Terry, standing in the place he’d poured his life into, giving thanks—to family, to friends, to the people who kept coming back. It was a reminder that the Tavern wasn’t just a bar. It was a bond. A legacy. A shared effort.

“It was at that moment that you realize that everybody in there on that St. Patrick’s Day is part of a little family,” Kevin says, “and it extends well out beyond our own.”

And then, just as quickly as it began, the celebration returned. Music. Laughter. The usual joy of a Douglas St. Paddy’s. But the speech stayed with people. It changed the shape of the day—not by quieting it, but by grounding it.

“Everybody went right back to having a great time after that,” Kevin says. “But it just really put things into perspective for me.”

It was more than a milestone. It was a moment of truth—from the man who helped build it all, to the community that made it matter.

A New Chapter with Amanda and Dan

“Having met the new owners, Dan and Amanda—they’re awesome people,” Kevin says. “Couldn’t ask for a nicer couple to be in there.”

When Terry and Evelyn McHale retired and the Douglas Tavern passed into new hands, it marked the end of an era. But for Kevin and Nick, that moment wasn’t only about closure—it was about continuity. Not in the exact same form, maybe, but in spirit.

“Whatever they choose to do with it, that’s completely up to them,” Kevin says. “I don’t want to say that I have hope for them to do anything with it, but what I do hope is that their family can have as much fun as we had in that building.”

That hope is quiet, generous, and honest. It doesn’t come with expectations—it comes with understanding. The Tavern meant everything to the McHales and their family. But Kevin isn’t hoping for a copy of the past. He’s wishing for something new to grow in the same soil.

“I wish them all the best,” he says. “I’m really glad that they understand how special it was.”

Nick shares the sentiment. “Obviously the way it ended with it being closed for a little bit wasn’t what we probably always dreamed of for a goodbye,” he reflects. “But I just think that it was just such an amazing story that you’re going to have all these people telling.”

He’s not talking about the story of a bar. He’s talking about a lifetime of memories, passed down through events, Friday nights, family ties, and friendships that formed over decades.

“I hope Grandma and Grandpa can just be happy with the next chapter and what’s going on,” Nick says. “I was really happy for them, and I’m really happy for the new owners.”

The space may change. The crowd may look different. But the feeling—the shared history, the laughter in the walls, the lives shaped inside those rooms—that doesn’t end just because the keys change hands.

As Nick puts it:

“I think that building doesn’t have to be the Douglas Tavern for the Douglas Tavern not to still be a thing. It’ll never go away.”

Lessons in Love and Legacy

As the years pass, some truths settle in more deeply. For Kevin and Nick, one of the clearest is just how profoundly they were shaped by Terry and Evelyn McHale—not only by what their grandparents built, but by how they lived.

“I just hope that Grandma and Grandpa enjoy being retired,” Kevin says, reflecting on the shift to a new chapter. “And I just hope they know that it was really, really amazing to grow up being a part of something like that. And I’m really glad that they gave us that opportunity.”

The Douglas Tavern wasn’t just a backdrop to their childhood—it was part of the foundation. A place where work, love, family, and fun were all tangled up in the same space. Not a place separate from life, but one that helped raise them.

Nick carries that same gratitude. “I think that I wouldn’t be the person who I am without how they brought us up,” he says. “Mum was working, Dad was working, we’d go to school, and then we’d be with Grandma.”

It wasn’t just about being watched after school. It was about being raised by people who were fully present—who filled the day with purpose, the house with warmth, and the community with care.

“I just think that they did such a great job with all of us and just made us so happy,” Nick says. “And I just—I couldn’t have asked for a better upbringing, I guess. It was just amazing.”

Then Kevin says it, plain and clear:

“For growing up in a bar, we turned out alright.”

Nick doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, honestly, you wouldn’t think—‘Hey, I grew up in a bar’—and be so thankful. Just love them so much and just very happy.”

The lessons weren’t written down, but they were lived out. In every Friday night cleanup, every cup of hot chocolate, every speech, every setup, and every hug goodbye.

The Diddley taught them about commitment, care, and community.

But above all, it taught them what love looks like when it’s lived out every single day.