COMING HOME

(The ol' gang at the Nut Hut--December, 1967)

Saturday was my hometown’s homecoming. This is a ritual that’s taken place the first Saturday in October since the beginning of time in Fredonia. There’s always a streetload of activities going on, including a tractor-laden parade, rockin’ car show, top notch carnival (is that an oxymoron?)…the usual. But the main business of the day is visiting. Old classmates get together to recall high school war stories, relate what’s going on with the job and family, and, as they grow older, to compare health histories. (“Let me tell you about my kidney stone….”)

This was the 41st year since my class graduated, so we didn’t throw together a parade float like we did last year, but we still had a little gathering at the gazebo on the old school grounds, which is now a grassy plot of memories. Twenty from the Class of 1967 showed up to talk and take pictures during the windy afternoon, and some of us ended the day at the nearby Altoona Nut Hut for an early dinner. I’ve written before about the Hut, aka: The Mountain Oyster Shack and A & B Tavern, so I’ll skip the description here and go straight to my role in Saturday’s venture: designated driver for The Glass Blower.

Now, the Blower is arguably the most successful guy in our class, although he’s no hotshot college grad with a fancy degree. Long ago he developed a talent for glass blowing, eventually got hooked up with a world renowned artist’s Seattle-based organization, and he has since accumulated enough Frequent Flyer Miles to travel to the moon and back…his words, not mine. The glassworks he and his colleagues create are mind blowing. Go to about any fine art museum, North America and elsewhere, and you’ll see them.

At Homecoming, though, GB was back to his small town roots, grooving on possibly more than a few beers, and enjoying life. And that’s how I became his designated driver to the Nut Hut. We were good friends growing up, even once had a date to the Valentine Party when we were 15, so I was a likely source to escort his glassy ass to the Hut. But first, I had to make a stop at Mama Bore’s house, and I certainly wasn’t going to deny her the opportunity of seeing the ol’ Glass Blower after all these years.

Back in our school days, when he wasn’t a Frequent Flyer, he was a Frequent Friend at our house and Mama Bore knew him well. So well that one time when he was over, she hightailed it to the half-empty, half-pint of cherry vodka that was in the refrigerator and filled it to the brim with water when she suspected he was sampling the goods. I don’t know why she just didn’t spirit away the spirits elsewhere, she just didn’t. But anyway, when I re-introduced GB to Mama Bore, they had a good laugh about how he was such a “little stinker” 40-plus years ago.

Time and success has not changed him. He looks the same. He acts the same. Slight of stature. Loud of mouth---commanding our group at the Hut with nonsense: “Sometimes I work eleven days a week!” and rising in jest to tell those at the neighboring table to quiet down. He wanted me to take pictures of him…outside with the Hut sign, inside eating his Hut nuts…so he could show his metropolitan west coast pals what life in the Midwest is all about. As I drove him back to Fredonia to deposit him at his sister’s house, he spoke of the beauty of the scenery at his relatives’ digs southwest of town. This from a guy, albeit a little loaded, who has literally seen the world and could just as easily have been describing Venice or Paris.

As the old saying goes, with an alteration or two: You can take the nut out of the country but you can’t take the country out of the nut.

Great seeing you, Mike.