I hardly gave Red Bud, Illinois, more than a passing thought in the three decades I traveled through it on the way from St. Louis to my grandparents’ cabin in the nearby southern-Illinois countryside. Growing up in the Pacific Northwest, Asia, and Europe, I had always perceived Red Bud as no more than a stoplight on our way to visit my mom’s parents.
The town's tiny center sits at the intersection of a four-way stop. It’s home to a drug store, a fried chicken joint, the obligatory curio shop selling country home goods, and a local biker watering hole with a neon Bud Light sign out front. Miller Light and Bud Light were the local drinks of choice. For decades, they were the only beers on tap at the neighborhood pub and were guzzled in abundance at local picnics and barbeques. The few streets that spread out in each direction always seemed stuck in time, impervious to the rapidly modernizing world around it.
The early years of Red Bud were shaped by German immigrants moving into the area. The first brick building was built in 1855, and Red Bud was incorporated as a city in 1875. The town was founded on a strong religious community, Catholic on one side and Lutheran on the other. “Locals accepted you if you were white and Christian,” commented Kathleen Coop, one of my grandma’s younger sisters who was born and raised on the outskirts of town in the 1930s. “Outsiders weren’t really welcome. Red Bud locals were willing to help others—but only if they knew them.”
Change also wasn’t openly welcomed in this small town whose population today is about 3,800 people. Red Bud has always been proud of its traditions and close-knit community. Beulah Robert, another of my grandmother’s five sisters, attributed the resistance to change to the stringent German influence. “Businesses also couldn’t compete with bordering towns,” Robert says. The dress shop and men’s clothing shop, among other local businesses, shut down as towns around Red Bud grew and provided economic competition. With the old places struggling to stay afloat, new businesses hardly stood a chance.
In late September 2023, I found myself at dinner with a gaggle of extended family—aunts and uncles, great aunts and uncles, second and third cousins. More than 20 of us gathered around a long table at 1860 Public House, the newest restaurant trying to establish itself in Red Bud. When discussing drinks, I learned a brewery right next to the restaurant was crafting an impressive selection of local beers. I had never thought twice about the possibility of a craft brewery coming to town. This was, after all, the land of Bud, Miller, and Coors.
A revelation struck me. I had long been stuck in my belief that nothing ever changes in tiny, drive-by Midwestern towns. But now there was a brewery in Red Bud. Had I been wrong? With some upcoming extended time in the area while I took a pause from my typical nomadic life, I made plans to explore Red Bud with open eyes, prepared to set free three decades of preconceived notions.
Sometimes the answers are right in front of us, with the people we know best. My mom spent the first eight years of her life in this town before her family moved to St. Louis. I rarely asked her about it. Sitting on the porch of her parents’ log cabin, which they built by hand and retired to from St. Louis, I decided to dig a little deeper. “So, Mom,” I probed. “What was it like growing up in Red Bed?”
“As a child, Red Bud was a safe and warm place to grow up,” says my mom, Tina Erickson. She reminisced about walking home from school as a first and second grader, and stopping at the local diner, which specialized in hamburgers and homemade root beer. “In Red Bud, it felt like everyone was one big family.”
“A revelation struck me. I had long been stuck in my belief that nothing ever changes in tiny, drive-by Midwestern towns. But now there was a brewery in Red Bud. Had I been wrong?”
Later that day, on a sunny October afternoon, I crunched through piles of leaves as I walked along Red Bud’s streets. I had always been comforted by the town’s familiarity and its unchanging buildings. The regal clocktower, the historic bank, the charming red brick homes lined with porches and rocking chairs. Each of these details reminded me of drives down to the countryside as a child, to visit my grandparents’ peaceful cabin overlooking cornfields. In a world constantly in a flurry of change, this town felt reliable in its ability to stand still.
But as I looked a little closer, I began to wonder, “How familiar is it really?” New businesses had arrived—a sandwich shop, a BBQ joint—and stood side-by-side with the tried-and-tested shops that had outlasted economic crashes, new trends, and a global pandemic. Modernity hadn’t quite caught up to Red Bud, but many of the familiar businesses were no longer. Even Susie’s, the decades-old, family-run fried chicken diner, was closed for renovation.
Places aren’t the only things that change. People change as well. Our perception shifts. Our ability to see and appreciate the small details and the simplicity of a place evolves. As I walked through the quiet streets of Red Bud, I gazed at 19th-century architecture with nostalgia, flooded with memories of summers spent popping into the drug store with my grandma and picking up fried chicken with my grandfather while he proudly introduced me as his granddaughter from overseas.
The final stop on the Red Bud revival tour was Lieferbräu Brewery, a staple on the block since 2018 but entirely new to me. Inside the brick façade was a lineup of seasonal beers on tap, and walls lined with photos of southern Illinois farms and farming equipment. Beers are brewed in-house and the hefeweizens are made with wheat grown by the Liefer family. The space was nothing like the poorly lit local tavern serving up underwhelming light beers and fried foods to the backdrop of TVs. Partially housed in an old shoe factory, this family-run establishment is cozy and contemporary and has created some delicious ales, yet preserves pieces of Red Bud’s history and the town’s notorious small-town sentiment.
As I sampled the range of IPAs and the Oktoberfest special, the young bartender, a born-and-bred Red Bud local, regaled me with stories of the town. “There’s a sense of community here, customers who always come back. It reflects the small-town feel that you can’t find elsewhere,” she commented. “There’s also nowhere else in town like it. People even come from nearby towns. I meet people from Nashville with family in a neighboring town who come every time they visit.”
“Places aren’t the only things that change. People change as well. Our perception shifts. Our ability to see and appreciate the small details and the simplicity of a place evolves.”
I sat down with a pint of “In-a-Gadda-da-Liefer,” a citrus-forward IPA, on the sun-streaked back porch of Lieferbräu. “What is it about a brewery that has the capability of bringing people together?” I thought, sipping my tasty Red Bud ale. Scattered across outdoor tables, friends and family were catching up over beers and enjoying the afternoon autumn sun. The atmosphere was decidedly Red Bud. Yet, it was miles away from the image I had always associated with this town.
Amidst the changing landscapes in Red Bud, one thing was clear: The sense of community that runs deep in Red Bud hasn’t gone anywhere. I also have a fond love for the new. The brewery brought to the town a space where all generations of the community could gather, sip on a rotating lineup of tasty craft beers, listen to music, catch up on life, and simply be. Lieferbräu is the perfect ode to Red Bud, a small, stubborn, and steadfast town with one foot in the past and one foot in the now.
While the culture of the Pacific Northwest and an international lifestyle still run thick through my veins, I appreciate the lesson in slowing down, unlearning, and listening that Red Bud taught me during this most recent visit. And one thing is for certain: I’ll be stopping by Lieferbräu more frequently for a dose of Midwest hospitality and a pint of the local IPA.
Words + Photos by Alicia Erickson
