All posts tagged: Memories

Like Cheers, Only Sunnier: Saying Goodbye to Miami’s Best Bar

(Photo: Courtesy Courtney Colwell) During a recent trip to Miami, I visited one of my favorite bars with the sad recognition that this was likely my last time there. For over a year, Scotty’s Landing had been slated to close, despite efforts to save it from the path of Condo-geddon. Many places in Miami have succumbed more swiftly, including some veritable institutions, but for me, the closing of Scotty’s is like the loss of a friend. Small businesses falling to rising rents is hardly unique to Miami — or even cities. You could visit nearly any place in this country and hear about a restaurant, boutique, book store or other kind of place-gone-by recalled with distinct fondness. It’s always a small business, too: where your little league team went after games, where you celebrated graduation, the secret diner you told people to visit when they were in town. A favorite place can transport you to a substantial period of time, like a decade or childhood. When it closes, so does that time in your life. …

Something to Cry About (Even If It’s Over a Honeybun)

(Photo: TueNight) Keep crying and I’ll give you something to cry about. Whatever. I cried anyway. I was that kid. I was that teenager. I am that adult. I tend to cry. I cry when I’m microwaving an Entenmann’s glazed honey bun — it reminds me of high school, of my grandmother being young and mean, of thinking I knew my mom well when I didn’t, of distrusting my stepfather who I now trust with my life, and of my sister who I still shared a room with, and who knew every tiny thing about me. She doesn’t know every tiny thing about me now. I eat my honey bun standing up in front of the microwave, slicing it with the side of the fork. Tongue all sugar-burnt, and calories flourishing, I cry. I wipe my face. I take my ass to the gym. “Every once in a while, everyone needs a ‘good cry’.” But that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that crying for me is as regular as smiling. I don’t reserve tears. …

Matchbook Dad - Pop

Matchbook Dad: A Life of Lucky Strikes

So many matchbooks; a lifetime of memories. (Photo: Margit Detweiler/TueNight) When my parents downsized last year, moving into a smaller cottage house, my Dad handed me three giant plastic baggies of 200+ matches he’d collected over the years. “You can probably figure out something to do with these,” he said. And when I saw those matches, I saw stories — a lifetime of traveling, memories and moments. My Dad has been collecting matches since he was an eight-year-old kid in Hatfield, Pennsylvania. Becoming an Air Force captain in the ’60s, he traveled all over the world while he was stationed in Wiesbaden, Germany, and, later, as a water utilities executive  in the U.S. So, like many, he snatched up these free, end-of-the-meal souvenirs — here and abroad. “Everyone smoked back then so there were always matchbooks at the hotel checkout desk, in restaurants,” Dad says. “I started collecting them for no particular reason,” he pauses. “Well, looking back on it maybe sentimental reasons.” Each matchbook jogs a memory for my dad, like a physical diary entry …