This must be the place: ‘Blow up your TV, throw away your paper, go to the country, build you a home’
Back porch pondering in Florida. Garret K. Woodward photo
As I was cracking the third of four eggs into the bowl to then scramble the yolks, the chorus of John Prine’s seminal 1971 number “Spanish Pipedream” echoed throughout the room. I decided then and there that to make breakfast with Mr. Prine playing in the background is the only way to start your day.
“She was a level-headed dancer on the road to alcohol,” the melody swirled around the kitchen. “And I was just a soldier on my way to Montreal.”
The natural sunlight spilled into the space from the nearby atrium, the wide open blue sky of North Florida streaming across the floor and over my toes, which, in that moment, were scurrying about trying to figure out what I could use in the fridge that would go well with scrambled eggs atop an English muffin.
Turns out, as I’ve found to be the case many-a-time before, that seemingly everything goes with scrambled eggs atop an English muffin. Sliced cherry tomatoes. Pickled onions. Two kinds of shredded cheese (mozzarella and cheddar). Garlic chili sauce. Dash of pepper.
Placing the two stacked breakfast sandwiches on the dinner table in front of two mid-century modern chairs, the beautiful woman sitting across from me felt it was one of the tastiest sandwiches of its kind she’d ever had. I concurred between eating and smiling. It was.
It’s now late Saturday morning. I’m a little over seven hours away from my humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville. The sunny, warm weather of Jacksonville Beach, Florida, reminds me that I’m nowhere near the winter mountains I call home. The palm trees and slight ocean breeze signal that this is what I’ve waited for.
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This must be the place: ‘I don’t expect you to listen, but the show goes on’
You see, if you haven’t been reading this here weekly column somewhat regularly, I’d have to fill you in on the past year of my life. Work burnout. Hurricane Helene. Flood damage. Endless articles and deadlines. Onward to the holidays and the demise of my longtime relationship in the midst of the Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year’s Eve blur.
Oh, and last month? I turned 40 years old. Instead of taking some random, wild-n-out bucket list trip to somewhere, anywhere — which was the original plan many months prior to the eventual dismantling of my daily existence — I jumped into my rusty, musty pickup truck and bolted for my native North Country of Upstate New York.
And though most folks would rather spend a milestone birthday on a beach in the Caribbean or the Mediterranean, I opted for the frozen tundra of Plattsburgh, New York. Sub-zero temperatures and snowflakes every single day I was back in my hometown. In fact, the exact day before I headed below the Mason-Dixon Line for Haywood County, Plattsburgh received over a foot of snow in less than 24 hours.
Sitting by the fireplace in my parents’ farmhouse and trying to stay warm, visions of North Florida danced across my thoughts. With my parents headed to St. Augustine every March to have some fun in the sun, I tag along for a week or so. Cut to this past weekend. Breakfast sandwiches in Jacksonville Beach with a cute girl and her big dog.
The plan today is to finish this column and make the last of my trek down to St. Augustine. Seven hours down, one left to go. Tomorrow (Sunday) is my father’s 83rd birthday, with Monday being St. Patrick’s Day. Thus, the next 48 hours will be filled with celebrations and libations. To that, with Silver Oak (Napa Valley) being my father’s all-time favorite wine, I was able to find him two bottles.
It’s become somewhat of a tradition over the last handful of years, where I throw down some bucks on a bottle of Silver Oak for the old man. To note, I’m a writer, not a millionaire. Far from. Never will be, in all actuality. But, I know how much that $200 bottle of wine means to him. So, screw it. Buy the old man what he desires most.
All of the intrinsic ethos and sincere sentiment of the previous paragraph underlines my mantra of recent years, which is “order the filet.” This mantra arose in 2022 when a dear friend passed away in a car accident. After I said my goodbyes to her in the hospital ICU, I found myself at a nearby Longhorn Steakhouse trying to make sense of it all over a cold beer and $55 piece of Grade A meat.
Instead of opting for the less expensive chicken dish — in an attempt to save money while in transit, which I was on that day — I said, “Fuck it, order the filet.” Life is short, order whatever the hell you damn well please on the menu. Life is much better and tastier when you actually select the dish you really, truly and honestly want.
Besides, as my father says, “There will always be bills.” Which plays into his appetite for fine dining and good wine. Order the meal you’re craving. Pick the bottle of wine you’ve been meaning to try. Shit, we’re all going to die someday. Wouldn’t it suck to leave this earth knowing that the secret “rainy day” stash of cash you saved up never got spent? Remember, “rainy day” can be changed to “any day.”
Onward to St. Augustine. Onward to my father’s 83rd birthday. Onward to St. Patrick’s Day and that delicious meal my mother will, like clockwork, have ready to honor our Irish heritage. Onward to white sand beaches and diving below the surface of the mighty Atlantic Ocean. Onward to rest and relaxation (and also deadlines).
But, most of all, take a moment to hold gratitude for the music of John Prine. For having enough eggs and ingredients in the fridge to make breakfast sandwiches. For just barely enough cold brew coffee for two cups. For mid-century furniture and a slight breeze coming through the open windows. And for a cute girl and her big dog.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
