On Pricilla Ann Perry

I grew up with Mikey. He’s the chef. He’s also our Chief Merchandizing Officer. We have Dawg Van cups, t-shirts and corduroy blazers. Bruzzer and I were in the same fraternity at Denison. He grew up in Warren, OH with Ralph, J. For a dozen years he lived a knockdown sand wedge away from Dewey in Shaker Heights. Bru worked for Ryan at PNC. Ryan owns the Dawg Van. That’s the crew.

The Dawg Van

Somewhere between five and eight Sundays, Mondays or Thursdays a season the six of us make the trek down to the melting pot of America — the Muni Lot. If you want to get a flavor of the Muni — follow this guy. He’s a friend of the Van.

Here’s the deal with the Muni. It gets a rap as being an unruly party. That’s 100% true. There is literally nothing that happens in the Muni that could, would, or should surprise you. But that act of putting a few thousand people on random and hitting the simulation button and seeing who ends up where talking to whom is what makes the Muni lot incredible.

It’s also where I met Pricilla Ann Perry. She’s Ryan’s aunt. 69 years old. Hails from mid-Maine. Absolute rock star. But, I knew none of this while I was riding down to the Muni. I was in the back, with Mikey and Ryan’s sister Megan who was in flip flops and a t-shirt (it was 41 degrees), brought a half-eaten veggie tray to the tailgate, and would leave 35 minutes in to go catch a flight. Pricilla was sitting on a cooler towards the front. Cackling with enthusiasm, asking Ryan to honk at passersby and shouting in a Northeastern accent. She came with a guy I presumed to be her son, Warren (that’s not his name but I can’t remember it and he seemed like a Warren) and his fiancé who was very quiet but revealed on the way home that she does Burlesque shows in Portland, Maine. She assured us they were tasteful. It was a conversation with more questions than answers.

Here’s the deal with the tailgate. There’s downtime. I guess in theory it’s pretty much all downtime and that’s what makes it magnificent. Point is you gotta keep occupied. So after walking the lot and tossing a few tight spirals with Mikey I ate a bagel with cream cheese, poured a beer off the side tap on the van, and drifted into a folding chair.

That’s where I met Pricilla. We talked about Maine. Bar Harbor. Bangor. Portland. Politics. Raising children. Love. Marriage. Careers. Cars. And family. We covered some ground. And, it was absolutely enjoyable. Delightful, really. I think that’s what I texted my bride. That I was having a delightful conversation with this 69-year old Mainer who ended up at our tailgate.

To say that Pricilla told a lot of great stories is an understatement. But, as she volleyed and served in the conversation my favorite was not really a story, but more of a one liner. She mentioned that she was a traveling nurse for a woman’s health organization. I drifted in thought. Thinking about how cool it was that people who support a cause with their entire being actually exist in this world and Pricilla turned to me and said, “That’s me. Pricilla Ann Perry. PAP. Get it? HA! It’s what I was born to do!” And she let out a mighty New England laugh.

I like PAP. I asked her if she’d allow me to take her picture for a blog that I write that nobody reads. Of course she said yes. I know she’ll never read this. But, I’m glad I met her. She’s why I love the Muni Lot.

On Tom Hyde

Aside from his W2, a smattering of investments and his Blockbuster card, Tom was a tough trail. For the most part he was off the grid. I think he had a landline, because it’s even hard to image someone in the mid-90s without one. But, I’m certain he had no answering machine. It’s unclear how long he worked in Corporate America and in what capacity, but he did well enough to give that whole scene an Irish goodbye with enough cash stocked away to make it a true one.

I first met Tom Hyde behind the counter at Bobick’s Golf Shop, tucked away in the back of a suburban strip mall on the eastside of Cleveland. He wasn’t working there for the salary, just the health care coverage. At first glance, he looked like the lone survivor of the 1970s. He was 6’1” or 6’2”, athletically slender with a curly salt and pepper mop and the kind of eyeglasses people wore before there were stores to give you options for different frames. Tom was an incredible storyteller. Though often he paused halfway through, slowly rubbing his greying 5 o’clock shadow and starring out the window for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. Then he’d snap out of his private tangent and pick up again as if that two-and-a-half-minutes never happened. I’ve never dropped acid, but I have to say hanging out with Tom certainly piqued my interest.

Tom was a stick. Like all of us he grew up slinging doubles at the closest country club and playing as many holes as he could on Mondays. But, unlike a lot of low-handicappers, Tom eschewed technology. It was very on-brand. He’d walk up to the first tee with an ancient leather bag on one shoulder and forged Walter Hagen blade irons clanking together in time with every step. Then he’d casually beat you by a dozen strokes flushing pure irons off a clubface that was barely bigger than the ball it was hitting.

From 1994 to 1997, I spent about 15 hours a week with Tom closing the shop down after school. On paper, he should have hated me. I was a pimply Catholic school kid with a myopic world view and pressed khakis. In retrospect, I’m not too fond of that kid either. Yet somehow we found common ground the way being trapped at work with someone for 15 hours a week forces you to do.

We’d sell a few 18-packs of rock-hard Pinnacles to local duffers, but the majority of our time together was spent listening to The Doors in an empty shop. Tom loved The Doors.

He spoke of Morrison’s tortured genius in a way only a fellow tortured genius could truly appreciate. We’d listen and then he’d quote a line that just passed — slowly enough for me to comprehend the magnitude of the words. To soak in the poetry.

Tom wasn’t a sentimental guy. That quality would be in major conflict with his general ethos. But, for some reason he walked into the shop one day just before I was set to leave for college with a cardboard tube under his arm. He laid it down on the counter where he perched in a half-seated position for most of the evening. As we were closing the register that night he reached over and popped the plastic cap off the end of the tube. The reason I got this…John…was because it was the only poster I ever saw that was just Jim. He slowly unrolled it on the counter. Look at it. We both did in silence. It’s just Jim. It’s not Jim, the American Poet. It’s not Jim the sex symbol. It’s not Jim the frontman of the greatest band ever. It’s just Jim. We both starred at the poster. Anyway, it’s yours.

I have no idea what happened to Tom Hyde. I hope he’s still alive. I don’t have a picture of him because our friendship existed in a time before photo albums lived in our pockets. But, when I dug this poster out of our attic I could see him as clear as day.

on Peppers

Here’s the thing. When we were all cruising around 2019 completely oblivious that our entire world was about to come to a screeching halt I’m not sure I could’ve answered the question At what age does one start canning Hungarian hot peppers? Turns out its 41.

It’s hard not to start in Warren, Ohio. I mean, that’s where the recipe came from. It’s also that lawless place where five of my buddies either hail from or have married into. Things are different in Warren.

But, if you’re drinking Crown in the ITAM at 7:00 a.m. after a workout at the Y at five, there’s a better than average chance there are some peppers out. Someone passes from “a touch of the Leukemia,” you’re goddamn right there are going to be peppers at the wake. You got the famous 422s or Chicago Frank’s peppers. And, you’ve got the old guys - the dads of my golf trip who’ve been doing golf trips longer than my crew has been alive. First-class peppers. Plenty of prominent players.

The OGs

So, amidst the toilet paper hoarding and impending doom of the Fall surge we decided to pile into a low-ceiling University Heights basement and throw our hat in the ring.

“Choose your job wisely. It’s yours for the next 30 years.”

Here’s the thing about canning peppers: it’s both a lot of work and not a lot of work. And, that might be what makes it great. You have periods of frenetic beehive activity followed by longer stretches of kicking back and stretching your legs. A little homemade wine. Some bread. Sample the product. There’s no rush. It’s a gentleman’s game.

Year one they were salty - dropped in the Atlantic salty - but crisp with an appropriate heat. This year we cut back the salt and added freshly minced garlic. We’ll see how the product turns out.

Also pictured: Dewey

We also added a guy. We’re five now. Got aprons and everything.

More salt early. Cut the day between salting and canning. Freshly minced garlic is a winner. Add another bushel. It’s all in the ledger.

We’re coming after you, Chicago Frank.

on Creative Direction

I’ve always loved this shot.

November 29, 2009

So, when my wife mentioned the need for a Christmas card photo I saw the opportunity to be the hero. The ideas guy. The Creative Direc-tor. (hand in the air)

Here’s how the sausage is really made.

9:44 a.m.

32 degrees. Feels like 29.

Here we are. Don’t think it’s gonna work. God damn is it cold. Scan around.

9:50 a.m.

Add some texture. A little color.

What about the other side of the wall? This is interesting. Is it weird to be standing in front of a random wall?

9:59 a.m.

Frozen.

10:09 a.m.

Clara can’t feel her feet.

Okay, let’s make this work. This will work. Walk to the car. Are these all blurry??

We had someplace to be. The shoot was over for now. But, we’re dressed in what we need to be in and with shipping delays we need the shot today. We head to Good Mansion Wines for some coffee, rations and….boom.

What a great porch. This is perfect. Scoot those chairs over.

I like it…but…

Maybe we should stand.

12:40 p.m.

12:51 p.m.

Merry Christmas.

Day of the Dead

The Charlottesville Marathon was still pretty homegrown in 2007 when I ran it with three of my best friends.

There was no expo. You just picked up your bib and shirt out of the back of the local running store. And, the course carried this casual vibe perfectly. It was somewhat marked, hilly AF and water was scarce - sometimes left to homemade roadside stands with kids serving up Dixie cups or hitting you with a much-needed spray of a hose. It was a runner’s race. There may have been 300 or so signed up for the full - maybe 2x that number in fans. But, there’s one guy I’ll never forget.

One buddy had moved ahead and the other had slipped behind. Now the two of us found ourselves running behind a pack of VMI cadets trapped in a field of negative energy. Nobody said a word. Yet you could hear the internal screaming as you ran closer to the pack. Mark gave me a nod and while neither of us were feeling fantastic we stepped on the gas to pass this funk. It worked. But in a mile or two we paid the price. Bombing gel packs – grasping at whatever you can just to try and get by.

And that’s when I heard it.

I couldn’t tell if it was in my head or the reality outside of it. Bump ba-ba, ba-dump bump bump. Bump ba-ba. You hear that? And as we make our way to the crest of the hill it gets louder. There’s no mistaking that baseline now. Then Jerry’s guitar hits that pure run where notes are just sprinkling down like raindrops and we’re nearly sprinting down the hill quads burning. Fire...fire on the mountain...

At the bottom, an old man sits stoically with his boombox perched next to him on a fencepost. No expression. Great big white-beard as much Claus as it was Garcia. Music blaring.

Courtesy: Grateful Dead

I don’t know how many of the 300 finished. But, I still love the fact that if you did you most definitely heard this old timer who got up early just to sit at the base of a grueling part of the race to play Fire on the Mountain on repeat for hours.

On the Day of the Dead...that’s a memory I’m grateful for..

Nothing happened.

Today is one of those days where it feels like it’ll never get fully light out. It’s how I imagine Alaska, but I’m in Cleveland. A light rain was already soaking everything when we woke up. The yard I mowed at dusk 12 hours ago has broken out in a rash of new leaves. Beanies are back in the rotation with my ball caps. The Browns are 4-3. And I just came to the realization that my golf season is over.

Technically, it ended four days ago on my birthday. Here’s a gratuitous pic of what turned out to be my best drive of the day.

(Editor’s note: I made 5)

While I could easily bore you with a highly detailed description of all 89 strokes I took on Monday, the reality is it was a round where nothing really happened. Aside from one other addict who was practicing 3-footers on the putting green in the light mist I was all alone on the course. Making neither a birdie nor a triple I walked across soggy fairways and furry greens playing in-lock step with my handicap.

Eight miles west of me it was a normal Monday. The weekly staff meeting. Gallons of coffee being consumed. Emails, Slacks and Teams flying around. And, as I scrolled through the mess as I walked off 18 and to my car it hit me that nothing really happened. Projects progressed. Jobs were routed. Final art was released. And while I knew my Tuesday was going to be a little bit more intense, nothing required my immediate attention.

Last year I let six-and-a-half PTO days expire. Partially because the pandemic made it a weird year and I’m sure latently because I have that hard-working American guilt about unplugging.

And, while I’m no LinkedIn sage I do think there was a lesson in all of this worth sharing. Take that PTO. Go out there and play some golf by yourself or do whatever it is you do and see what happens. If you’re lucky, maybe nothing happens.