In couch potato mode, trail mix bowl in my lap, I watched the Rays’ keystone combo, shortstop Willy Adames and second baseman Brandon Lowe, turn a double play. Willy dove for a grounder to his right, caught the ball in the webbing of his glove, braked, planted his right foot and slung the ball to Brandon who caught it in mid-stride, pivoted and fired to Ji-Man Choi. Other than maybe an alley-oop pass from the high post to a flying center who slam dunks, a double play is the epitome of team effort. I racked my brain for team play artistry from my own life. As my brain has as much random clutter as a neighborhood yard sale, this task took a while. An image came to me.
Meet Captain Marvin Miller of Mangrove Key, Andros, the Bahamas (firstname.lastname@example.org). He is of modest height, a lithe but strong guy, affable, with a ready smile. On the job, he dresses in the latest fishing-tech gear with a Buff up over his nose, fishing pliers and a two-way radio clipped to his belt. He is forty-four years old, was delivered by a Mangrove Cay midwife in a building near the downtown waterfront. He reminds us Shine’s Conch Shack is located there now, owned by his fellow guide pal Shine, aka Arnold Green, an excellent place for conch fritters and a cool Kalik. At age eighteen, he got a call from Moxey’s Bonefish Lodge that a guide had celebrated too much the night before and was a no show. Marvin hustled over and had his first paying gig.
This is where Marvin plies his trade as bonefish guide. Andros is the largest island in the Bahamas, running north-south one hundred miles and forty miles east-west. It is pinched at the waist like an old-fashioned Coke bottle, by three bights, estuaries that divide the island into North Andros, Mangrove Cay and South Andros. Eight thousand people live on Andros, clustered along a coral ridge with a single road threading down the east side of the island, interrupted by the bights and tidal creeks. From this ridge the island falls away to the west, eliding from scrub pine flats to, eventually, mangrove swamps on the west. Nothing on the island aspires to be the tallest kid on the block. Hurricanes have that effect
Outside of government employment and a US naval installation, cash flow on Andros comes courtesy of the wad of greenbacks fly fishermen bring in their duffel bags as they arrive to stay at one of the many lodges on the east side, from Nicholls Town to Mars Bay. The object of their interest is the grey ghost of the flats – the bonefish. Has it occurred to you, as you examine the menu at Bonefish Grill, sipping one of their excellent Manhattans, that you do not see a bonefish on the menu? There are several reasons: the bonefish is very bony, like the logo implies; commercial netting of bonefish is not allowed; and if it were caught by a fly fisherman in the Bahamas and he transported it to your plate, it would cost about $150 per, filleting extra. In sum, the fish is not great eating and you must lay out many Ben Franklins to catch them if you are not a Bahamian.
The bonefish is silver, shaped like a broad-shouldered torpedo terminating in a strong V-shaped tail, capable of generating 40 mph, placing it among the top ten fastest fish in the ocean. Its snout has a pinkish color derived from digging nose-down on the sandy bottom, noshing on shrimp and other crustaceans. Big bones tend to cruise singly or in small pods, little guys prefer the comfort of a school. Lemon sharks and barracuda hang out on the periphery of a school, a fish version of an apartment building with serial killers lurking outside the front door. The bones move across the Andros flats with the tides. Wherever they are, Captain Marvin finds them.
Marvin operates from a poling platform mounted on a boat designed for skinny water – a flats boat. For the cognoscenti, his flats boat is a seventeen-foot Hell’s Bay Professional with a 70 hp motor. Balancing six feet above water level, wielding a sixteen-foot push pole, he surveys his kingdom. To find bones, he poles quietly along the flats shoreline of stunted mangroves. He must spot them far ahead and instruct his fisherman as to where they are and what they are doing. Cloud cover is Marvin’s enemy, reducing contrast. Eighty feet away, a cruising bone is but a grey shadow on a light tan-colored bottom. His second enemy is wind. The profile of himself on the platform, the boat hull and his paying cargo makes for significant sail area. Poling to control the boat in hefty wind becomes a sweat job. Add to Marvin’s woes wind-driven waves concealing the oncoming bones.
But Marvin’s biggest problem is the fly fisherman poised on the bow, fly rod in one hand, loops of fly line at his feet and fly held pinched between the fingers of his other hand, ready to make a cast when he hears the magic words: “Bonefish at eleven o’clock, off the shore twenty feet, sixty feet away.” Adrenaline rushes through the fisherman; his eyes swing back and forth. Where is it? Where is it? This is a man or woman whose most significant visual task this past year has been to follow the flight of a Titleist golf ball as it slices off the first tee.
On to the actual cast. Marvin has positioned the boat as it moves along the shoreline so that a right-handed fly fisherman has the wind coming over his left shoulder. The fisherman must finally see the bonefish, avoid stepping on the line under his feet, avoid hooking the fly on his pants, avoid hooking Marvin on the back cast, and get out a forty foot cast that lands six feet in front of the cruising bone, all the while heart beating like the hammers of hell.
On a beautiful Bahamas day, fishing out of Swain’s Cay Lodge a number of years ago, I stood on the deck of Marvin’s boat, my “Gotcha” fly pinched between my fingers, and blinked through my Polaroids. Marvin spoke softly from the poling platform, “Ten o’clock. Fish coming out.” We had hunted bones coming out of the mangroves as the water dropped, skinnier and skinnier with the falling tide. I saw the fish, loitering about the roots, getting ready to move. Heart pumped, adrenaline flowed, hands tingled. I breathed deeply. Slowly, they glided out, a few small ones at first. Urgent voice from above: “Give me a cast, fifty feet, drop it on the sand.” I did not step on the line. I did not hook my pants or Marvin. The Gotcha landed on a patch of sand in front of the oncoming fish. “Don’t move the fly!” What? There are fish there, one pull of the line to move the fly and I’ve got one. “Wait, wait … big one coming. OK … now strip!” The first run of the bone was half a football field long. I held the rod as high as I could to lift the line above conchs, coral, weed and whatever else was on the bottom. The reel screamed. I screamed.
Study the photo above and then take a gander at the preceding photo of Marvin in poling position. He looks like he stepped from the pages of the Orvis catalog. The guy with the fish attached, not so much. It looks like he accoutered himself at the Goodwill store and thought he’d take a whack at fly fishing. Team Bonefish did land the bone. Of course, the fisherman’s role was that of a boy with a stick who jumps out in front of the Independence Day parade and thinks he’s leading it. The bone is pictured below with the guy who really caught it.
Most days of COVID-19 I hang out in my pajamas until late morning. I slurp coffee, and scan the paper, looking for warm-hearted stories about siblings separated at birth, reunited at a smoked mullet festival. Monday mornings, however, I put on my long pants and drive to the Sunshine Senior Center, next to the St. Petersburg Shuffleboard Club. The official name is the Multi-Service Senior Center, Office on Aging, a moniker short on drama and passion. I go there not to participate in consumer awareness programs, take line dancing lessons or check out the Senior Hall of Fame to see if I have been voted in. I go there because I am a Meals on Wheels volunteer.
Every weekday a squad of volunteers motors forth from the Sunshine Center to deliver free or low-cost meals to home bound seniors. My gig starts at 10:30 AM when I gather up two black insulated bags and a clipboard in the Center’s dining room. Pre-COVID, folks on the margins of society would gather there for a cuppa and a cookie, the gals in their housecoats, dragging wire carts behind them, and the guys in vests with VFW patches and ball caps that read “US Army Ret.” Nowadays, they are exiled to the back door, and come, one by one, to pick up something to eat.
My clipboard contains dog-eared pages of instructions, last read during the Nixon administration; menus for the month; and a list of my calls for the day with names, addresses, and phone numbers. There are notations on the call sheet: “Ring bell and knock loudly, client hard of hearing” or “Disregard pit bull, it is considered friendly.” My hot insulated bag contains two types of meals: “Restaurant” and “Hot Lunch Regular.” Local restaurants are being paid to provide MOW meals during the pandemic, when normal business is slim for them, hence “Restaurant” meals. Be assured we are not talking about lobster on a bed of artisanal pasta, with a side of broccolini. “Hot Lunch Regular” meals are the standard, provided by a commercial kitchen. The “Hot Lunch Regular” comes in a black plastic tray with three segments covered by clear plastic so you can gaze on the goodies. From the September 28 menu entry: 3 oz. Meatballs in Swedish Sauce, ½ cup Rotini Noodles, ½ cup Green Beans. The cold insulated bag contains shrink- wrapped trays with juice, a slice of bread, butter, and a carton of 1% milk. Likely, ninety percent of the world’s population would consider that meal an inconceivable feast.
Each time I slip a “Hot Lunch Regular” into a plastic bag for delivery, I think of Swanson’s TV Dinners. In my childhood, when my parents went to an evening soiree my sisters and I would pull out these delicacies from the freezer, heat them in the oven (folding back one corner of the aluminum as indicated), march them to the den and plop them on a folding tray. We noshed, watching Ozzie and Harriet. My fave was the Swanson’s fried chicken dinner with peas and mashed potatoes. Yum.
There are ten seniors on my route, with varying levels of ability to motate. With most, I knock briskly on the door or ring the bell, then wait patiently for the client to come to the door, unlock it, and take the bag with a grateful “Thank you.” For the least mobile, my protocol is to knock, wait for a response and enter, heading for the kitchen, offering small talk but feeling intrusive, as if I had stepped into her bedroom. I have not yet seen a call sheet notation saying, “Caution, client overdosed on cable news, is licensed to carry.” Since my customers are often hearing deficient, weaponry could create a problem.
Reporter at scene of shooting:
“What happened, Mrs. Winchester?”
“He came right through the door! I never heard a knock, thought he was one of them Antifas. So I pulled out my Glock from under the Afghan and wasted him…. Too bad, though.”
“What’s too bad, Mrs. Winchester?”
“Ruined the Swedish meatballs.”
Ellen is my oldest. On a recent day, she beamed as she pointed to a vase of flowers for her 96th birthday. Next to the flowers was a single potted tomato plant, held tenuously erect by a wire support. She announced that this fall she was going to eat a tomato from the plant.
Carlos is my lone male client. He is a Yankees fan, so I let him know that the Rays beat the Yankees like a rug. When the Rays do beat the Yankees in the playoffs, I am mum. The TV flickers with old black and white westerns and TMC classics.
Pat greets me at the front door in a red flowered housecoat, two dogs barking chaotically behind her. In front of her house, on the walkway, sits a black metal silhouette of a dachshund next to a water bowl for passing dogs.
Helen is from Brooklyn. From her Barcalounger, wrapped in a terrycloth robe, she watches Fox and opines. “New Yorkers are tough. We tell it like it is. That’s why I like Trump. And that Biden! Can’t stand him!” I say nothing.
When I signed up for MOW, my friend John became my wingman. I would make the deliveries and he would drive the getaway car. Our first customer of the day was Glenna. White-haired, stooped and petite, but bright-eyed, she was hard of hearing (an affliction John and I shared with her). Getting her attention required a lot of banging and pressing an ear close to the door to suss out a muttered “I’m coming” or “Leave it on the counter.” After John left town, I kept him updated on our customers. One day Glenna’s name disappeared from the clipboard list. I texted John: “Maybe Glenna came into a fortune and can pop for real restaurant meals!” But we knew the bell had tolled.
I was reading an opinion piece in the Tampa Bay Times when my eye glanced over to the obits, and there, hidden among more grand obituaries, were three small lines: Sanders, Glenna of Blacksburg, VA and St. Petersburg died on August 31, 2020. Full obit at … I immediately texted John and we each read the obituary. My jaw dropped as I read about her background and accomplishments. She was fluent in French, taught in US Army Base Schools in Germany (where I spent my elementary school years), and played the piano and sang, financing her travels in Europe. She got a master’s degree in art education at Virginia Tech, founded an art gallery and supported the Virginia Tech Chamber Music Orchestra where her husband was a public relations director for the university. Like my mother, she drank martinis and was a member of Colonial Dames of America. I had not stopped reading the obit when John texted that Glenna’s then-husband, Howard, had been his customer for many years when John provided printing service for the university.
There are many conversations in our lives that should have been. If only I had knocked, brought in the meal, and said, “Can we chat?”
“Sounds pretty good,” said my crack guitar teacher, Douglas L. He was zooming me from two feet away, his angular face with soul patch framed in my laptop. I basked in his praise. If I were a dog my tail would have been wagging. It had taken me two months to subdue sixteen bars of “Casey Jones” by Mississippi John Hurt, a famed acoustic blues man born in 1892. Like many in my cohort, four years of college had passed with an acoustic guitar nearby. A folk song was “three chords and the truth.” Those three chords were C, F and G. You could add G7 for variety, maybe Am if you wanted pathos. Prior to college, when I was a pre-teen, my parents thought I should learn a musical instrument. They conducted an extensive search to determine the instrument best suited to my talents and hit on (insert long drawn out crescendo here), you guessed it … the accordion. This was pre-Lawrence Welk, so my future was not assured. My parents theorized that though I might not make it on the Elk Lodge circuit, I could always be the hit of any party, bringing along my 120-base red Hohner. (Oh look, here comes Marshall with his fabulous accordion! I hope he plays ‘‘Lady of Spain.’’) My accordion career crumpled when my high school music teacher found strapping on the accordion to be a struggle, what with his wooden leg and all. I wound up playing third trumpet in the school band, blatting out four-beat measures in “Pomp and Circumstance.” I simply killed quarter notes.
Fast forward to retirement. I brought out the old guitar that My Life’s Editor had bought me some years prior and eyed it speculatively. Could I advance beyond C, F, G and occasionally G7? The purchase of an upscale Taylor acoustic committed me, and I started lessons with the ever-patient Douglas. I was not in Kansas anymore. I had entered the world of finger picking, the pentatonic scale and the seven modes. I left “This Land is Your Land” and “Blowin’ In the Wind” in the rear view mirror. By my sixth year I advanced to the point that I was the seventh performer in Douglas’ “Spring Jam” for his students, wedged in between an eight-year old performing the “Stairway to Heaven” guitar riff and a twelve-year old, wowing an audience of adoring parents. There were free hot dogs.
Today I enjoy sitting down of an evening and working on my repertoire at home. I am not ready to set up shop on tony Beach Drive in downtown St. Pete, my guitar case open for folks to flutter in fivers. There is the little issue of my producing the same number of beats in each measure I play. My singing is exploratory in nature. I warily approach a musical note from below, grab it for a moment, then slide down the other side. My fingers get an attitude on occasion and sulk. I do take pride in those 16 bars of “Casey Jones.” On the day they came together I was elated. There is magic in challenging yourself and developing a skill when you trundle beyond gainful employment, whether it be using chopsticks or riding sidesaddle. The more difficult, the better. This brings me to Dame Juliana Bernes, a nun, who wrote a Treatyse of fysshynge wyth an Angle in the 15th century. She is to blame for a legion of frustrated fly fishermen right up to this century who have shivered in frigid trout streams as a leak in their waders trickles down their leg and a creature with a brain the size of a pencil eraser sneers at their fly.
It is difficult to explain to people why a person would fly fish. It is not socially acceptable to collar someone and expound on why you fly fish. Under the terms of the Geneva Convention this is considered torturing civilians. Furthermore, fly fishing is not generally a very productive way to catch fish. Maimonides is thought to have said “Give a Man a Fish, and You Feed Him for a Day. Teach a Man to Fish, and You Feed Him for a Lifetime.” He was not talking about fly fishing.
Like playing the blues on a guitar, fly fishing is both a skill and an art form. Learning to fly cast contradicts everything your Uncle Bud taught you when he put a spinning rod and reel in your hands at his pond, hooked up a worm and had you chuck it in the water with one simple motion. In fly fishing, the weight of the fly line is what carries the lure – feathers and a hook – out over the water. The fly connects to the fly line with ten feet of clear monofilament. The magic lies in the flexing of the eight-foot rod and the pull of the heavy fly line, streaming out some thirty feet behind as it loads on the back cast with the cocking of your forearm and then releases as your forearm snaps down, like hammering a nail. The objective is to deliver a fly to the water’s surface as gently as a lover’s kiss, the fly line carrying the fly out with minimal fuss. Piece of cake.
There are two places where fly fishing particularly comes into its own. One is where the fish’s diet consists of small, crunchy insects, and the other is where the water is very shallow and the splash of a large lure would cause every fish within a quarter mile to vamoose. In both cases a carefully presented fly fits the bill. It is a benediction on the lives of fly fishermen that these locales are trout streams and Bahamian bonefish flats. Fly fishermen can exercise their skill in gobsmackingly beautiful surroundings.
Fly fishing is one sport where you get better as you get older. Like learning to play guitar, it requires practice. One afternoon I was out casting on the lawn bordering Pioneer Park in downtown St. Pete, careful to avoid stepping in dog poop. A patron of our local saloon, Courigan’s, spotted me and hustled over, crossing the street, careful not to spill his beer. He came up alongside and said “Hey, fly fishing huh? Pretty cool!”
I said, “Yeah, it is cool.” I thought, you should hear me play the guitar.
I had an OK childhood as a suburban kid. The exception was when my parents put me in organized sports. In Little League, I was a catcher – none of the other kids wanted to squat in the dirt, sweat and peer at the world through steel bars. One day when my team, the Tigers, played the Yankees, a Tiger parent sitting in the stands turned to the man next to him and said “They should pull that catcher. He’s had four passed balls in this inning alone!” My father turned and growled, “That’s my son you’re talking about!” Things got interesting in the stands that afternoon. I also had a short history in organized Youth Golden Gloves Boxing. My father saw boxing as an opportunity to butch me up. He was worried that I was putting my nose into books too much. I was worried about putting my nose in front of someone’s fist. The upshot of that experience was that I learned I had promise as a blood donor.
Unsupervised, I rode my bike and foraged for frogs and turtles in a nearby pond. But the most fun was when I had a glove, a baseball, a bat, and some pals, plus an open field. Our favorite game was “Indian Ball.” The batter would toss the ball up, hit it to the guys in the outfield, then drop the bat on the ground. The guy who fielded the ball would throw it in, aiming at the bat. If he hit it, he got to bat. Not rule-intensive.
Recently, after playing tennis with my friend Gary P, I mentioned Indian Ball to him. He lit up. “You want to talk about games? We played games when I was a kid!” A gritty city kid, Gary grew up in Northeast Philadelphia, where there were fewer open fields than Republicans in a soup kitchen. We’re talking wire fences, asphalt, and brick walls. Of course, looking at Gary in his Phillies ball cap, spotless white Tee and New Balance tennis shoes, I couldn’t picture Spanky from Our Gang.
“I was eight years old. For 5 cents you could buy a Spaldeen or a Pensy ball at the corner candy store,” he said. These were called “pinkies” and made of soft rubber. Pinkies were used to play handball, stoop ball, boxball, or stick ball. Stick ball was preferred, the bat made from a broomstick. It was played in the street with the ever-present possibility that first base would drive off in mid-game. A ball misshapen from battering by broomsticks and ricocheting off manhole covers and car fenders would be cut in half and used in a game called “halvsies” (“halfball” if you were from Boston). A kid would draw a chalk square on a wall and a batter would stand in front of the square and hack at pitches. If you lost your last halvsie ball and didn’t have 5 cents, you could cut a 4-inch chunk off Mrs. Murphy’s discarded garden hose that had been run over by a lawnmower and use it for … wait for it… ta-dum: “hoseball.” Finally, if you had a halvsie ball but had lost your broomstick, you could play “Asses Up.” When a boy lost a handball game the penalty was to bend over, face the wall, present his bum to a thrower 30 feet away. The thrower reared back and fired. In boy terms there was no downside. The thrower got to show off his marksmanship and the throwee got cred for not flinching. Female readers may find this incomprehensible.
As a suburban kid, I played marbles on dirt. My bag of marbles: cat’s eyes, clayies, steelies, micas, and agates. Clayies were made of clay, small and cheap, OK to lose to an opponent. Steelies were ball bearings. Micas were clear with flecks of color. One-color agates were prized as shooters. The best shooters were just the right size to fit into your fist between pointer finger and cocked thumb when you knuckled down outside the ring, drawing a bead on a target. Shooters were also called taws, poppers, thumpers, toebreakers, mashies. You get the idea.
What does a city kid do when asphalt is hard on the knuckles and expensive marbles might skitter down a street drain? In Gary P’s childhood Philadelphia the answer was “Deadbox.” To play, you first dumpster dove the neighbor’s trash, the lush who drank Rolling Rock beer by the case. You pushed aside banana peels and coffee grounds to dig out the bottle caps. You drew a large box on the sidewalk, with 12 small numbered squares inside the periphery and a bigger square with a skull and cross bones, the Deadbox, in the center. Competitors started at box number one and shot their way from box to box. To shoot, you placed the “beery cap” down, crinkled edge up, and flicked it. You could knock competitors’ beery caps out of the way, but if you wound up in the dreaded Deadbox you had to go back to the beginning. Some players removed the cork insert from the bottle cap and wedged in a penny, creating a “blaster” to knock the other kids’ beery caps out of the game and off the sidewalk. These kids grew up to be Mafia enforcers and Aldermen.
For his part, Gary P. grew up to be a fine example of the adult species, a model of the benefits of unsupervised play. My Life’s Editor says that I am an example of unsupervised play but leaves it at that.
NB: Readers who may want to dive a little deeper into street games should watch the “New York Street Games” 2010 documentary with Ray Romano, Whoopi Goldberg, Regis Philbin and others. Click on the YouTube trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6c-vAJqSsQ.
One early June morning, summer of 1959, dressed in jeans, canvas sneakers and a clean Tee, I pedaled my German 5-speed (black with gold striping) to my first real job. On the Ft. Meade, MD military post where I lived, nothing was far from home. It took me 10 minutes to pull up to the back entrance of a square cinder block building painted a government issue tan. On a side wall, just below the eaves of the shingled roof, black stenciled letters read: “Refreshments and Snacks.” I leaned my bike up against the building, walked hesitantly around to the back, and rapped on a screen door that rattled and banged against the door frame. A man inside barked, “Come in, but don’t let in the damn flies!”
The commanding voice belonged to a slim, balding man in his late thirties with a pencil mustache. He was dressed in pressed summer khakis, with three sergeant’s chevrons on his right shoulder, a Second Army patch on his left and a name badge over his right breast pocket. A tan garrison cap was cocked on his head. That summer, when I was fourteen, Specialist 5th Class Jim Washington became my tutor in the mysteries of human behavior, sex and other arcane rituals of the adult world, topics I have continued studying over the intervening years with spotty results. Jim also taught me to flip burgers.
One side of the snack bar toed up to the terrazzo deck of the Officer’s Open Mess Swimming Pool. The pool was 25 yards long and teemed with officers’ spawn once the gates swung open for the summer. A waist-high opening with sliding windows and screens ran across the side facing the length of the pool. A condiment ledge ran under it, against which wet bodies would lean as customers peered at us through the screened serving window.
Jim Washington was a member of the Special Services branch of the Army, not to be confused with Special Operations folks who go in danger’s way with knives in their teeth. Special Services people hand out volleyballs, schedule country music concerts for bases and, in Jim’s case, run snack bars. Not hard duty, and there are perks. When a Washington family barbecue was on the calendar, Jim would load a blue and white cooler in the trunk of his car with government issued steaks. His wheels: a 1959 Buick Electra, red bottom, white top, with a 401 cubic inch V-8, measuring a Brobdingnagian 225 inches long, hence the street moniker “A Deuce and A Quarter.” It was the size of a small boat.
My job was to keep the cooking area clean, refill condiments, stock napkins and, increasingly, as time passed and Jim sat on a chair in back smoking Pall Malls, cook and serve up burgers and hot dogs and pull fountain drinks. I had to wear a soda jerk hat and an apron. This seriously impacted the James Dean effect I was going for. In time, I was charged with answering the phone. Because of this I learned that there were apparently two Mrs. Washingtons, one who lived at the same address as Jim and one who was a first alternate, bearing a different name and located elsewhere. One day, as he sat and smoked, Jim pulled out a curious plastic pack, about two inches square, with a circular ridge. He held it out to me. “Know what this is, boy?” He did not tell me. I guessed I would not be learning about the mystery packet at home.
Another denizen of the Officer’s Open Mess Pool was its manager, Sergeant Riley. An ex-middleweight boxer with a buzz haircut, broken nose, and cauliflower ear, he was given to twitch and speak in loud bursts. He would come to the back door of the snack bar, announce he felt thirsty and ask for “a short one.” This meant I should get a small Dixie cup, used for the water dispenser, and pull him a Budweiser. By 5:00 PM he was blotto.
My pay for this work was a handsome 95 cents an hour, doled out bi-weekly at the accounting office in a brown envelope containing cash – bills and coins. Deductions were noted in pen on pre-printed lines across the top of the envelope.
The time of my workday when I earned every penny of that 95 cents was at day’s end. The grill had to be cleaned, the residue of dozens of burgers and hot dogs removed, many of which had featured a slice of the dreaded processed cheese product that formed an impervious scale. I started by turning up the heat on the grill, then leaned into the stiff burger spatula, scraping crud into a trough running the length of the grill in back. Next, I poured on hot water and pushed a heavy sandstone grill block back and forth with both hands. By this time, I was sweating prodigiously. I followed this by wiping a steaming hot cloth over the grill. Finally, I had to scrape the collected goop into the grease pit and wash out the trough.
By mid-summer my adolescent hormones, fertilized by hamburger grease and the heat of the grill, had produced a glowing crop of zits on my face. I washed furiously morning and evening and applied Clearasil religiously, producing an oleo of brown dots and beginner pimples. My anxiety skyrocketed when, as I sat listening to Frankie Avalon or Bobbie Darrin on my transistor radio, I heard the bell ding at the slider window, slid it open to behold – Rosie. Rosie was my minister’s daughter, was a year older than me, and was simply beautiful. She was beyond all my aspirations, unobtainable. When she came to order a burger and deigned to smile at me, her love vassal, I felt my face, framed by the sliding window, explode in a maelstrom of glowing zits.
Even so, it was the best of summers, the best of times.