So, there I was killing some time late last Sunday afternoon, having a few beers in the sun at Captain Jack’s -- a Tiki bar/restaurant/marina in Tarpon Springs, FL.
I was sitting at this long, rectangular bar soaking up some rays when I noticed sitting across from me were three people, each with one of those little yippie, fu fu dogs on their laps and two of them were men. One about 70, the other about 55 and the woman about 50. The older man was having a meal and his dog was eating and licking the plate as he ate.
Two stools to my right, a 55 year old guy had a parrot on his shoulder. I think we can all agree that when a guy goes into a bar with a parrot on his shoulder, it’s to meet women -- believing women would not otherwise talk to him sans parrot. As birds are apt to do over the course of a few hours, the thing had crapped on his shoulder quite a few times. Apparently, he believed the parrot made him so interesting, women would over-look his bird shit stained shirt.
The bird also crapped on the bar and even though the guy wiped it up (with a dry napkin,) probably at some point later in the day, someone else would pick up a French Fry that had fallen off their plate onto that spot. Far as I know, they don’t allow animals in restaurants in MN.
A few stools to my left, a 55 year old man whose hair was dyed way too black, had a comb over Mohawk, spiked, like the punks do. In order for a bald man to have a spiked Mohawk, his side hair had to be 8 inches long, parted just above each ear and combed to the middle of the top of his head where it was shaped and held in place with stiff wax. The width of the Mohawk was about the width of a hair, plus the quarter inch of wax.
There must be a market for this look, because it takes a 55 year old guy the better part of a year to grow his side hair 8 inches - so this wasn't a new look for him.
All the other 50 plus guys had their baseball hats on backwards. Not a single pair of authentic boobs or fingernails in the place.
One could not help but wonder what would happen if the woman with the yippie, fu fu dog and fake boobs went home with the dyed black, comb over Mohawk guy or the parrot shit on his shirt guy. What would they talk about? Would either be surprised the next morning? Would the comb over guy hop out of bed early to reconstruct his doo? How many days, weeks or months does he have to appear with a Mohawk before the ugly truth – that he’s actually bald – is revealed?
I need to find work in Minneapolis.
63 Years of Memories....
63 Years of Memories....
that's what I have now. The photo below shows the chair on the point which for so many years was my father's favorite after-supper place to contemplate and cast for walleye. As much as I feel guilty about what's happened, I know he would understand and even say there's nothing to forgive. He lived life fully and moved on many times. I'm the one with the unique experience of being attached to a beautiful place for my whole life. And despite all my best efforts, yesterday the 'cabin' was sold. I signed the papers and, truth be told, a weight was lifted. A new life lies ahead without the obligations, but with all of the wonderful memories. My unrelentingly positive attitude says this is truly how it is, but my heart is still sad.
There are some things in life for which the balance between the obligation and the joy of ownership often cannot be sustained forever. It became clear that I was no longer up to the task of taking care of the place quite a while back. However, knowing what needs to be done and doing it are often far apart. Finally, no choice was left. It had to be sold.
Now it's gone. No more worrying about how long the grass or how deep the snow is up there. No more sublimely pleasurable early morning cups of coffee sitting on the dock when the color of the lake is like pale blue glass and the air is completely still. No more endless repairs, high taxes, and utility bills. No more late nights around the fire pit with friends and family - warm from both fire and friendship. No more frozen pipes or emergency calls to the furnace guys. No more saunas and midnight skinny dipping that make you feel like you'll live forever while your connection with nature is confirmed by the gazillion stars of the milky way and the loons calling out in the dark. No more concerns with low well water levels or water so hard and full of iron the clothes turn yellow and your newly washed hair feels like brillo. No more finding the way home by boat in the dark after a long day on the lake feeling like this is the only place you really, really belong. No more praying that the boathouse will make it another year without collapsing. And ultimately, no more making new memories with friends, family and loved ones. No new memories, that is, at Half Bay, Lake Vermilion, Tower, MN. New life... here we come!
How do you thank a place for memories?
1 comment:
Too funny! And, at least your evening wasn't boring!
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