I ran into an old friend that I used to work with in P’town back in the BJ years (before Johnny). I was 22 and it was my first time away from home. The start of a whole new chapter of my life. God I hated that shirt.

Change of plans, Four Corners was closed for remodeling. Bummer. It still didn’t stop us from taking pictures of the disappointment.

During the travels we stopped at several trading posts because I wanted a turquoise ring, a Navajo turquoise ring made in the 40’s. I had on my first cross country trip found a beautiful turquoise ring at an antiques shop in Salt Lake City. I wore this ring constantly and it was referred to as my “Elizabeth Taylor” ring by the Boss Lady herself, Chi Chi LaRue. I loved this ring and on cross country trip #4 my truck was broken into when I reached San Francisco from Ohio. Bummer. I’m still not over it.

The posts were a waste of time. They all carried the same generic crap that the tourists devour. I wasn’t going to find my treasure at a trading post, I needed an antique shop. When I woke up in Cortez, CO and noticed the flyers advertising some right down the street from a local coffee shop I began to feel it calling to me. When I got a kick-ass cup of coffee I felt like this would be my time. It wasn’t. There was no antique shop, just a “For Rent” sign. Bummer.

We drove right to Durango, CO and I noticed an antique shop. We stopped in this cool little town got PD and walked over. I asked the woman promptly for the section where the Navajo rings were, preferably 40’s. There were none and when I started to walk out she told me to take a look in the back. There he was, all alone in a case, begging to be noticed. It was exactly what I wanted and for $20? This was God.

The rest of the day took us through the Rockies to Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park. I wrote this while in Glenwood Springs watching “The Shining”.

I’m so happy I got the ring.

As soon as I saw her name on the phone display I knew mom had bad news. After eighteen years of companionship, the last of my childhood pets had to be put down. Homer was one of seven animals that occupied our household throughout the years – the last after Charlie, the dog I got when I was six died.

Homer was more than a cat and as much a part of the family as I was. He even had his own place setting at the dinner table where he would wait patiently in the chair for his food to arrive like a king on his throne. In contrast to this image, Homer was truly an outdoor cat and made every attempt to earn his keep on the homestead. His contributions to the household included came in the form of beheaded bunnies, tufts of feathers and various vital organs strewn about the patio. I know Ma Hazzard wasn’t thrilled with those “prizes”, but Homer was always particularly proud knowing he didn’t come home empty handed. He would charge in, throw himself on his back, do a little jig and then perch in front of the TV and clean himself, basking in his success.

I think he was happiest in the vast woods that surrounded the house we lived in when I was still in school. My brother and I would take off for the afternoon to hunt for toads, set small fires and engage in general mischief. Homer would be right behind use like a golden retriever excited for the next adventure. Unlike most cats I encounter, Homer never ran away from visitors. He would be right there when the first guest arrived to greet everybody with his signature vocal salute and dance. He bravely hopped on the lap of anybody that was seated, making himself a great place to see and be seen, relax and enjoy the gathering.

Homer and my dad were very close, don’t ask me how but those two were real buddies. When my dad was dying at home Homer would hop on his bed completely aware of where the tubes and wires were and would literally tip toe around the medical equipment until he got next to my dad to lay down and spend some time with him. It was clear he knew what was going on and was trying his best to comfort his friend.

It’s sad to watch something you love wither away. As a parent to an animal I can identify with the idea of trying to do everything in your power to make them better. Mom tried all there was to try. It got to the point where there were no vocals and no dance. It had come time to drop the curtain and bid him goodbye. We will miss you Homer Pierre. And when you see Helen, Harvey, Hamlet, Heidi, Rambo and Charlie tell him we said “Hey”.

It was my tenth birthday, my first double digit celebration at our summer weekend destination on Catawba Island on Lake Erie. We spent every weekend there and most of our vacations and I hated it. I hated having to pack and then drive two hours, on a good day, to the island. My father had a boat and being the avid fisher family, we spent a lot of time on the water fishing, swimming and just hanging out.

A typical weekend started Friday night arriving pretty tired from the drive and going to bed early. We were awakened really early much to our discomfort and dragged to breakfast. I usually had two eggs sunny side up and two pieces of whole wheat toast with no butter. Then came the hard part, we would drive to the boat and then ma would get the dope ready, Dramamine. She would crush up the bitter white pill in a spoon with “Slice”, a citrus 7-Up concoction that my brother and I grew to despise forever with or without the pill. We were pretty good at being on the water after being drugged and either slept or played games. As we got older we took the rods and began to fish.

There aren’t many fish tales in my background, but I remember winning a Fish Ohio award for a White Bass that I caught with my dad and Uncle Kenny. The fish was 15.5 inches long from tip to tail and the award was for any fish longer than 15”. That fish stayed in our freezer for years to come uneaten and completely whole tucked beneath countless Ziplock baggies of sauce and meatballs.

When it was time to reel ‘em in and head home my brother and I would tear up the remaining sandwiches into small pieces and feed the seagulls that followed us all the way in to the dock. It was there that the carnage began. My father and whoever accompanied us, my Uncle Kenny or Randy, would begin to clean the fish in a precise, professional and bloody way. Meanwhile, ma and usually us kids would go down the street to the local farmers’ stand and get sweet corn on the cob, peaches and tomatoes for the upcoming dinner. Dad would bread the filets and deep fry them to a perfect golden brown. The corn was shucked by me and the sibling. I remember I always took great pride in husking the corn and making sure that every single thread of silk was taken off and the corn’s speckled kernel skin was left shiny and smooth.

We all gathered around the wooden picnic table waiting for the day’s catch to be presented. Soon there was plates of fresh fish fillets with corn on the cob that hours before was still on the stalk. Ma would prepare a salad of fresh tomato wedges, red onion and fresh basil all dressed with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. I remember this meal so well I can almost taste it and chances are before I blew out the candles on that zucchini cake, that’s what we had for dinner. My Uncles had places on either side of us and became quite close to us and our parents. We spent a great deal of time with them on and off the island. Their wives and kids soon became our “adopted” cousins and Aunts. On that particular dinner, for my 10th birthday, they were there to help cut, bread, serve and celebrate.

I would give anything to have that back. All that bitching and moaning I did when I was a kid was all because I did not want to go to my family’s weekend getaway on the lake. You really have no idea of what you have until you grow up and find that you dearly miss what is long gone.