way back when and wasn't it nice?

The snow has begun to fall again, in fits and starts; the big snow that I spent the week fearing (for blizzards make my life complicated) has been mild; although I still fear the possibility of an ice storm. But sitting in a quiet office watching the slight movement of the weather puts me in a mood nostalgic.

Like I need an excuse to wax both poetic and nostalgic.

Have you ever noticed how when you get around to waxing nostalgic, it does seem poetic?

Well, the good stuff.

Okay.

Everybody should have a place to go when the weather turns; someplace warm and inviting, offering shelter and sustenance. Nowadays, I don't really have a place like that. I've become somewhat misanthropic in my age, and combined with the fact that I don't know anybody outside of family up here in the Northern State, I don't have one of those places....

But when I was a younger man, there was always a friendly tavern to take away the winter blahs, with warmth and charm and food.

I've mentioned a couple of times a place called The Portside Inn. A little bar on Washington Street in Marquette, Michigan. It's interior was dimly lit, with a small stage near the back for live music occasionally; but it also had a fireplace and a large window overlooking the street, so that passing pedestrians could look into this lovely tavern and envy those of us inside.

The food was good, and that is departure from a lot of taverns I have frequented in my day. The pizza was the stuff of dreams, of course, and the bread sticks have never been equaled in my book. The sandwiches were generous in their bounty, and the owner, who often tended bar, was not skimpy with his wares. He knew his regular patrons by name, as any good tavern keeper should.

There was nothing like a ham and cheese (lightly grilled so that the cheese would melt) with fries, with a lovely rum and cola to start, and a girl scout cookie to finish.

A girl scout cookie is cocoa with a shot of schnapps.

And then, of course, there was the conversations, the endless conversations on any topic from theatre, to music, to current events. And laughter fit to shake the pillars of Heaven.

I took over that tavern for a night back in February of 1985. A few years earlier, I had won the lottery on an instant ticket, for ten thousand dollars. I squirreled away the money into a money market account for a couple of years, so I wouldn't touch it, but when I was finally ready to graduate (by that February, it was a foregone conclusion that with or without a degree, I was leaving) I invited thirty or forty of my closest friends down to the bar, and I paid for everything. All night.

It was glorious. There was love and laughter and an overabundance of drink and food; anybody that came through the door that I didn't know got an apology for the row, and a drink on me. And it didn't cost as much as you would think, but for the record (and I still have the record, by the way) we drank 300% more than we ate.

It was a memorable evening; I know this, because when I was up in the UP last winter, I ran into an old friend who mentioned it within the first ten minutes of our conversation. And, of course, I remember it. It's one of the few things I CAN remember from that period.

The chief memory, though, is this: Walking through a snowy evening. The snow continues to fall, and it creates an romantic image as it falls past the antique-looking streetlamps. The breeze is light, but enough to give what would normally be a pleasant briskness an almost unpleasant bite to the air, but the snow is fluffy and light. And as you enter the building, you're hit by that initial discomfort of going from cold to warm, but the sound of the muted conversation over the sound of light jazz is as inviting as an old sofa.

You don't join that.
You get enveloped BY it.
And I wish I had a place like that now.

Wouldn't you?