In college, I worked at what was, proudly, the very worst golf course in Santa Barbara. It was a mile off campus, with carpet-slow greens and dirt patches littering the fairways. 18 holes cost $18, but there were only actually nine holes, so that was just if you wanted to play it twice.
Despite never playing high school golf, I got good enough, playing for free four times a week with my self-taught and unorthodox swing, that I decided to enter the men's club championship one year with all of about 20 actual members. It poured all week — not exactly Santa Barbara weather — heading into the two-day, 36-hole event. None of the old men trusted one another not to cheat, so you weren't allowed to lift, clean, and place your ball, no chance to get the streaks of mud off of anything before hitting it again. You had to "play everything as it lies."
Scores were obscene. One guy in my group didn't bother coming back Sunday after going OB four times on the same hole (three of the times into someone's yard) and carding a 113. I played conservative, clean golf, kept my head down, stayed out of trouble, and by the end of the weekend my scorecard read 76-80, and I was the new club champion.
Has anyone seen my achievement in the last 15 years, printed in white letters on the green board above the doorway that separates the pro shop from the grill? Of course not — the university bought the land and bulldozed the course for condos. I would pay an unreasonable sum to be able to walk into that clubhouse with my daughter and see the look on her face when she sees dad's name up there.
In the depths of Poughkeepsie, near the train station, there was a bar: Noah’s Ark. It was the upperclassmen bar for those of us who went to Marist with the occasional townie mixed in. Every Friday was all you could eat wing night with $5 pitchers. If it came from a tap, it was a crisp $5 bill.
Around 3pm our group would go and set up our corner of the bar, arranging tables, securing the darts and requisite glassware for the later afternoon to come. At 4pm the first tray of wings hits the chafing dish, we secured our allotment and got our pitchers of the good stuff (Sam Adams - this was 20 years ago, when it was still a smeduim sized brewery). For the next two hours we’d take about the week that was, play terrible games of 501 on the dart board, make plans for the weekend and take up a collection for the keg that would be smuggled into the on campus townhouse via my goalie gear bag.
The owner of Noah’s Ark passed unexpectedly over the summer last year and his children opted not to continue on with the bar. It has left a gaping hole in our hearts and the culture of Poughkeepsie.
Well, we didn’t see many Vasser folks out and about. (And I’m sure the budding chefs at the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park were making their own stuff)
I guess I'm not a "relive the past" kind of person. Sure, I'm nostalgic for the past, and I have fond memories of places and people that are no longer around. But I have no real desire to travel back in time and revisit them; I believe that certain things in our past are the right people or places for that time in our lives and revisiting them might ruin the special places they hold in our hearts.
Oct 14, 2023·edited Oct 14, 2023Liked by Scott Hines
I'd like to go back to '68-'71 in my teens when my mom was a waitress ("server" hadn't been invented yet) in my hometown's classiest little restaurant, the Village Pub. It was small and narrow, shoehorned into a spot between Oren's Home Furnishings and a bank where I had my 5% savings account. Dimly lit even at noon because it only had a picture window in the front facing Main St, its small bar was meant to only be a place to order a drink while waiting for your table. No TV or radio played in the background--those weren't even thought of back then.
With only a dozen tables, it was cozy with occasional cross-chatter between parties of two or four adults who always were well dressed. Older children with good table manners were allowed, no highchairs available. The wait staff wore professional white uniforms and black aprons they had to buy themselves and washed and ironed with care. I remember my mom putting white polish on her serving shoes -- sneakers were only for kids at the time.
Everyone in town went to the Pub for a nice lunch or dinner. Tablecloths and cloth napkins. Heavy silverware. Somehow the wooden captain chairs with curved backs were comfortable for a leisurely meal. Delicious smells emanated from the kitchen every time the swinging door opened. An appetizer tray of olives and other nibbles as well as a bread basket arrived at your table as soon as you were seated.
Mom, her fellow waitress, Carol (actually known as Ralph--another story for another time), and the owner and bartender, Santa (her real first name but no relation to the Big Guy), knew almost everyone in our small town. The staff got along well, exchanging gossip and jokes and helping each other with orders. The place was close to the courthouse, so it was a favored lunch spot for lawyers and judges.
My mom knew the drink preference of anyone she had previously served at least once. When she'd come home after her shift, she could recount the orders of every patron she served that evening as well as the cost. I'd help her count her cash tips (no credit cards then). It often happened that the owners of the furniture store would come in Saturday evening for dinner (often my mom waiting on them) while I babysat their two adorable children at their home.
I'd stop in whenever I was downstreet (what we locals called the downtown area) during the day and my mom was working. My brother and I were always welcome to stop in and say hi. It was our family habit to kiss each other hello and goodbye. After one quick visit, I pecked Mom on the cheek on my way out while she was taking a lady's order. Mom told me later on that the woman wistfully said she wished her own kids would do that.
A visit always landed me a free soda. If I timed it right, I might also get a free lunch. It was the place where I learned what a lovely thing a club sandwich is. Mom was a good, if basic, cook at home, so eating out with my parents at the Pub and other restaurants around town is where I learned how great steaks and fish and vegetables with actual spices on them tasted.
I'd like to think the years of good vibes sunk into the walls of the place, still unconsciously sensed by those who patronize that location now, whatever is sold there.
I’m not sure if you ever went to Inn the Wood before it was torn down for student housing/retail. It sat between Calhoun and McMillian right next to UC’s campus (S.Market was maybe the cross street).
They served up old school food and beers, was a pretty unique place and we would go there for beers and brunch after morning studio my fresh man year (99). When you walked in they would have this huge pile of bacon visible through a narrow slit of the kitchen that we referred to the “Bacon Fortress.”
Along the same lines was Mr. Jim’s, an on campus burger grill run by Jim and his sons. Jim passed my freshman year and his teary eyed sons were still making us order up cheeseburgers for lunch that day inside the temporary tents while they were renovating Tangeman Hall (where Mr Jim’s was formerly located). Sadly Mr Jim’s was not invited into the new building, replaced by some shitty fast food joint.
Oh, I remember all of these things! (My freshman year was '00). Fifty-cent draft night at Tavern at Inn the Wood was huge. I remember Mr. Jim's being in the dining bubble, though I didn't know the backstory on Jim himself.
My real go-to UC bars were Christie's (RIP) and Murphy's (seems to still be around, though I haven't been in years)
I had to double check I hadn't emailed you about a drink I invented last week consisting of ginger beer, apple cider, lime juice, and bourbon that you gussied up! Guess we're both just very Midwestern during the best time of year.
Nice! And yeah bourbon is probably the easier way to go here, the cider surely covers the apple flavor enough. I just wanted to use apple brandy because it's the season.
I get it! More is more, when it comes to apple season (speaking of which, I got an apple fritter the size of my head at Patterson - hopefully you still remember your Cleveland-area fancy farms - last weekend and I will dream of it for months to come)
I don't really remember my old bar. Because it was probably a lot of bars. My town had A LOT of bars, at least one for every kind of night you could plan to have, and a bunch for the kind of night that you can't get by planning. The one I picture doesn't have a name or a sign or hardly a door. It was dark and just loud enough that it wasn't weird to sit there not talking to anyone, but quiet enough to get into giddy heated arguments over absolutely nothing. Then you play pool, sing along (badly) to It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine), wander out onto a different street than the one you came in from, and see what the hell else is out there.
I’m going back to post-north end zone addition, pre-2013 renovation Kyle Field, then driving over to Pho John’s at Texas Avenue and Holleman Drive after the game. Pre-renovation Kyle Field may have been an ugly, bat-infested, concrete hulk that offered no relief from either the early-September heat or the chilly rain of late November, but it felt *right,* and the game-day atmosphere was so intense that the stadium itself felt alive and angry, like some enormous chained beast about to break free.
Pho John’s was a little Vietnamese restaurant in a strip mall a few blocks southeast of campus that sadly closed less than two years after I graduated. It didn’t get a ton of student traffic, so it always felt quiet and safe compared to the near-constant noise of the cadet dorms. I could get a heap of cool noodles, a platter of fried rice, or a comforting bowl of pho at a price that didn’t strain my college-student wallet, and they had some really delicious French- and Viennese-style tortes that made for a nice occasional treat.
I have concerns that my neighborhood spot is in the midst of getting Branted, but we shall see what happens, I guess.
The place I'd love to go back to is the WG Grinders on Main St. in Bexley, circa 2002. Big open space, cooler case with the glass showing off the various salads and desserts, and a chicken parm grinder that I loved.
This was an easy one for me. My hometown had a hotdog spot called Jess's. Owned by Greek immigrants. Best chili dogs I've ever had. Not exactly a bar, but definitely a dive. It was so popular they opened a few locations in town, but then they all closed and were sold off due to back tax debt.
In college, I worked at what was, proudly, the very worst golf course in Santa Barbara. It was a mile off campus, with carpet-slow greens and dirt patches littering the fairways. 18 holes cost $18, but there were only actually nine holes, so that was just if you wanted to play it twice.
Despite never playing high school golf, I got good enough, playing for free four times a week with my self-taught and unorthodox swing, that I decided to enter the men's club championship one year with all of about 20 actual members. It poured all week — not exactly Santa Barbara weather — heading into the two-day, 36-hole event. None of the old men trusted one another not to cheat, so you weren't allowed to lift, clean, and place your ball, no chance to get the streaks of mud off of anything before hitting it again. You had to "play everything as it lies."
Scores were obscene. One guy in my group didn't bother coming back Sunday after going OB four times on the same hole (three of the times into someone's yard) and carding a 113. I played conservative, clean golf, kept my head down, stayed out of trouble, and by the end of the weekend my scorecard read 76-80, and I was the new club champion.
Has anyone seen my achievement in the last 15 years, printed in white letters on the green board above the doorway that separates the pro shop from the grill? Of course not — the university bought the land and bulldozed the course for condos. I would pay an unreasonable sum to be able to walk into that clubhouse with my daughter and see the look on her face when she sees dad's name up there.
This is such a terrific answer.
Oops look what just fell out on the ground over here
bsky-social-fs7ni-qrtc4
bsky-social-dfenv-2eofq
bsky-social-2xidz-czxou
Ok I'll read the thing now.
Huh I just found some in my jacket pocket. Weird.
bsky-social-evvci-v3xsa
bsky-social-s4hgv-yp7w6
Real weird
In the depths of Poughkeepsie, near the train station, there was a bar: Noah’s Ark. It was the upperclassmen bar for those of us who went to Marist with the occasional townie mixed in. Every Friday was all you could eat wing night with $5 pitchers. If it came from a tap, it was a crisp $5 bill.
Around 3pm our group would go and set up our corner of the bar, arranging tables, securing the darts and requisite glassware for the later afternoon to come. At 4pm the first tray of wings hits the chafing dish, we secured our allotment and got our pitchers of the good stuff (Sam Adams - this was 20 years ago, when it was still a smeduim sized brewery). For the next two hours we’d take about the week that was, play terrible games of 501 on the dart board, make plans for the weekend and take up a collection for the keg that would be smuggled into the on campus townhouse via my goalie gear bag.
The owner of Noah’s Ark passed unexpectedly over the summer last year and his children opted not to continue on with the bar. It has left a gaping hole in our hearts and the culture of Poughkeepsie.
Starting to think every good bar in Poughkeepsie was a Marist bar.
Well, we didn’t see many Vasser folks out and about. (And I’m sure the budding chefs at the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park were making their own stuff)
I have family that live walking distance to Vasser and I've been on campus and I'm ot sure I saw Vasser folks *there*.
Friday night they’ll be dressed to kill
Down at AC’s Bar’n’Grill
The drink will flow and the pets won’t spill
And if Billy Knives wants to cook, you better let him
When Len sailed off in his homemade “Last Call”
His son and daughter didn’t want to run the place at all
Won’t be long ‘til Gary’s chicken is done
Now that the boys are here again
The boys are back in town (the boys are back)
I guess I'm not a "relive the past" kind of person. Sure, I'm nostalgic for the past, and I have fond memories of places and people that are no longer around. But I have no real desire to travel back in time and revisit them; I believe that certain things in our past are the right people or places for that time in our lives and revisiting them might ruin the special places they hold in our hearts.
[cocking revolver] get in the time machine already
Fine, Berlin 2012.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zanclean_flood I'd like to go back in time and see this.
I would also like to see this, from a lawn chair on a beach with a big cooler on wheels so I can keep moving as the beach moves uphill.
I would like to be standing on a tall cliff staring at it like an old guy staring at a construction site. Definitely want a beer too.
"Filling in nice down there."
"Yup."
This is the platonic ideal of time machine use.
The time scientists are keeping it to themselves.
Veterans Stadium. it was a toilet, but it was a good toilet to catch cheap baseball.
I'd like to go back to '68-'71 in my teens when my mom was a waitress ("server" hadn't been invented yet) in my hometown's classiest little restaurant, the Village Pub. It was small and narrow, shoehorned into a spot between Oren's Home Furnishings and a bank where I had my 5% savings account. Dimly lit even at noon because it only had a picture window in the front facing Main St, its small bar was meant to only be a place to order a drink while waiting for your table. No TV or radio played in the background--those weren't even thought of back then.
With only a dozen tables, it was cozy with occasional cross-chatter between parties of two or four adults who always were well dressed. Older children with good table manners were allowed, no highchairs available. The wait staff wore professional white uniforms and black aprons they had to buy themselves and washed and ironed with care. I remember my mom putting white polish on her serving shoes -- sneakers were only for kids at the time.
Everyone in town went to the Pub for a nice lunch or dinner. Tablecloths and cloth napkins. Heavy silverware. Somehow the wooden captain chairs with curved backs were comfortable for a leisurely meal. Delicious smells emanated from the kitchen every time the swinging door opened. An appetizer tray of olives and other nibbles as well as a bread basket arrived at your table as soon as you were seated.
Mom, her fellow waitress, Carol (actually known as Ralph--another story for another time), and the owner and bartender, Santa (her real first name but no relation to the Big Guy), knew almost everyone in our small town. The staff got along well, exchanging gossip and jokes and helping each other with orders. The place was close to the courthouse, so it was a favored lunch spot for lawyers and judges.
My mom knew the drink preference of anyone she had previously served at least once. When she'd come home after her shift, she could recount the orders of every patron she served that evening as well as the cost. I'd help her count her cash tips (no credit cards then). It often happened that the owners of the furniture store would come in Saturday evening for dinner (often my mom waiting on them) while I babysat their two adorable children at their home.
I'd stop in whenever I was downstreet (what we locals called the downtown area) during the day and my mom was working. My brother and I were always welcome to stop in and say hi. It was our family habit to kiss each other hello and goodbye. After one quick visit, I pecked Mom on the cheek on my way out while she was taking a lady's order. Mom told me later on that the woman wistfully said she wished her own kids would do that.
A visit always landed me a free soda. If I timed it right, I might also get a free lunch. It was the place where I learned what a lovely thing a club sandwich is. Mom was a good, if basic, cook at home, so eating out with my parents at the Pub and other restaurants around town is where I learned how great steaks and fish and vegetables with actual spices on them tasted.
I'd like to think the years of good vibes sunk into the walls of the place, still unconsciously sensed by those who patronize that location now, whatever is sold there.
I’m not sure if you ever went to Inn the Wood before it was torn down for student housing/retail. It sat between Calhoun and McMillian right next to UC’s campus (S.Market was maybe the cross street).
They served up old school food and beers, was a pretty unique place and we would go there for beers and brunch after morning studio my fresh man year (99). When you walked in they would have this huge pile of bacon visible through a narrow slit of the kitchen that we referred to the “Bacon Fortress.”
Along the same lines was Mr. Jim’s, an on campus burger grill run by Jim and his sons. Jim passed my freshman year and his teary eyed sons were still making us order up cheeseburgers for lunch that day inside the temporary tents while they were renovating Tangeman Hall (where Mr Jim’s was formerly located). Sadly Mr Jim’s was not invited into the new building, replaced by some shitty fast food joint.
Oh, I remember all of these things! (My freshman year was '00). Fifty-cent draft night at Tavern at Inn the Wood was huge. I remember Mr. Jim's being in the dining bubble, though I didn't know the backstory on Jim himself.
My real go-to UC bars were Christie's (RIP) and Murphy's (seems to still be around, though I haven't been in years)
I had to double check I hadn't emailed you about a drink I invented last week consisting of ginger beer, apple cider, lime juice, and bourbon that you gussied up! Guess we're both just very Midwestern during the best time of year.
Nice! And yeah bourbon is probably the easier way to go here, the cider surely covers the apple flavor enough. I just wanted to use apple brandy because it's the season.
I get it! More is more, when it comes to apple season (speaking of which, I got an apple fritter the size of my head at Patterson - hopefully you still remember your Cleveland-area fancy farms - last weekend and I will dream of it for months to come)
My mother's first job was working at Patterson as a teenager!
I don't really remember my old bar. Because it was probably a lot of bars. My town had A LOT of bars, at least one for every kind of night you could plan to have, and a bunch for the kind of night that you can't get by planning. The one I picture doesn't have a name or a sign or hardly a door. It was dark and just loud enough that it wasn't weird to sit there not talking to anyone, but quiet enough to get into giddy heated arguments over absolutely nothing. Then you play pool, sing along (badly) to It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine), wander out onto a different street than the one you came in from, and see what the hell else is out there.
I’m going back to post-north end zone addition, pre-2013 renovation Kyle Field, then driving over to Pho John’s at Texas Avenue and Holleman Drive after the game. Pre-renovation Kyle Field may have been an ugly, bat-infested, concrete hulk that offered no relief from either the early-September heat or the chilly rain of late November, but it felt *right,* and the game-day atmosphere was so intense that the stadium itself felt alive and angry, like some enormous chained beast about to break free.
Pho John’s was a little Vietnamese restaurant in a strip mall a few blocks southeast of campus that sadly closed less than two years after I graduated. It didn’t get a ton of student traffic, so it always felt quiet and safe compared to the near-constant noise of the cadet dorms. I could get a heap of cool noodles, a platter of fried rice, or a comforting bowl of pho at a price that didn’t strain my college-student wallet, and they had some really delicious French- and Viennese-style tortes that made for a nice occasional treat.
That transfer of ownership doesn't sound _unlike_ Grimes and her boyfriend trying to float down the Mississippi in a homemade boat in the early 2000s.
A story that remarkably does not represent her worst decision
https://www.startribune.com/this-boat-don-t-float/49134952/
I have concerns that my neighborhood spot is in the midst of getting Branted, but we shall see what happens, I guess.
The place I'd love to go back to is the WG Grinders on Main St. in Bexley, circa 2002. Big open space, cooler case with the glass showing off the various salads and desserts, and a chicken parm grinder that I loved.
This was an easy one for me. My hometown had a hotdog spot called Jess's. Owned by Greek immigrants. Best chili dogs I've ever had. Not exactly a bar, but definitely a dive. It was so popular they opened a few locations in town, but then they all closed and were sold off due to back tax debt.
Great to hear that Len finally realized the last step in his tax fraud scheme
they never did find his body, you know
New guy shows up at the bar in a big hat, sunglasses and bushy mustache. "Hello my name is ken."