The summer before I began sixth grade, I started staying up late. I would watch The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, followed by Late Night with David Letterman. I preferred Late Night. It was quirky, while The Tonight Show was, in my child mind, too middle-of-the-road. But I remember watching Johnny Carson’s last episode, and David Letterman’s first episode of The Late Show on CBS. I never got into Jay Leno’s Tonight Show.
Shortly after high school, I began avidly watching Late Night with Conan O’Brien. It was the wackiest show around, and it perfectly reflected the sense of humor my friends shared. I spent years staying up until 1:30 in the morning watching that show. In one episode, Conan talked about (fictional) guests he wouldn’t have back. One was named “Johnny Airhorn”, and he had a helmet with two airhorns mounted on either side. Whenever Conan would try to ask him a question or say anything, Johnny Airhorn would blast his horns in deafening fashion. Unfortunately, these old clips are impossible to find.
Miraculously, one of my favorites is on YouTube. I’ve posted it before, but it’s a perfect example of what Conan does so well. The premise alone is insane, and the execution is perfect.
Tonight is the premiere of The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brien. Andy Richter is back, Max will be there, and my hopes are high.
On September 30, 2000, I went to a yard sale in front of this house. Jeff’s then-girlfriend Britt lived there, and she and a couple other people were selling their personal belongings. A fellow named Chris, who lived a few houses down, had some instruments for sale, and it was obvious that he needed to sell them to pay his rent (my recollection is that he lived without electricity). I generally don’t care for yard sales, and I am sure I didn’t buy anything, but I was there because my friends were, and if you weren’t present back then, it was likely that you would miss something fun. In fact, when this yard sale concluded due to rain, Britt and several other attendees proposed running down to the above-ground pool on SW 2nd Avenue for swimming. I didn’t go because I was, and still am, no fun.
This house stands in a neighborhood we used to call the “Emo Ghetto”, since it was–and still is–home to some of Gainesville’s skinniest and tightest-pants-wearing hipsters. You never knew who you’d run into hanging out there. A fellow whom I recognized as Jeff’s neighbor was there, and with him was a girl I had never seen before. She was dressed rather fancifully and wore sunglasses. We didn’t speak that day, but 1,701 days later–four years ago today–we were married.
Thursday night is garbage night around here, and this evening I did my chore as usual, getting the recycling together, and wheeling the large can out to the curb. It was getting dark as I did this, and I looked up to see an old white work van driving slowly down the street, stopping at the corner of my yard before backing up. I could hear the occupants of the vehicle talking to each other and looking toward my house, and this had me a little concerned. It is a bold burglar that goes casing a house while its owner stands in the yard.
Then I heard the driver say something–first to his companion, then to me–that both dispelled my fear and surprised me. “My father planted that tree”, he said, pointing to one of the cedars in the front yard. The man, who appeared to be middle aged, got out of the van, introduced himself, and told me his parents lived in this house when he was born. For the next several minutes, in a very animated fashion, he told me stories about he and his brother and father, and what the house was like when he lived here, until his teen years. He described the inside when he lived here (”the back room [which I now call the middle room] had a built-in wall bookshelf”; “there were parquet floors” [there still are]), and told me stories about how he and his brother used to play in the yard and on the great live oak, which, of course, is much older than the neighborhood. He told me a few things I had already surmised (our foyer used to be a screened porch; there used to be a building on the slab in our back yard), but I was thrilled to have the opportunity to ask some questions I’ve wanted answered for years. The square cut out of the slab in the back was where his father had a brick barbecue grill, until he and his brother broke it down with a hammer when he was seven. The house used to be green. The bathroom tile isn’t original because his father ripped up the floor to replace a pipe. Before the Hewetts’ house was built, the block to the west was an empty field. He told me that for most of his childhood the house had two bedrooms, but eventually they built a small room behind the kitchen. So, I know now that something preceded the dining room and guest room that stand today.
This man seemed so thrilled to be sharing these memories, and I felt extremely privileged to be hearing them. I think a lot about all the places I once called home. I’ve even driven past a few of them just like this fellow did tonight. I’ve never met any occupants of my former homes, but I would like to think they care for these places as much as I did, and still do.
I know a beautiful old song about a man who visits the house where he grew up, and meets the family that now lives there. He shares his memories with them and it makes him happy, but he realizes that a house is “a hotel at best”. Just as my new friend was “a guest” in this house, so too may I be. Just as this house means something very special to him, it means something special to me. And some day, ages and ages hence, I may drive slowly past it, and remember everything it means to me.
It’s true, I guess, that all good things must come to an end.
Until this afternoon, Gainesville had a wonderful old soda fountain at Wise’s Drug Store on University Avenue, downtown. It had been open for over seventy years, and was the kind of place where sassy ladies with names like Gladys would give you a hard time if you asked for a “hamburger with cheese” or didn’t know the difference between an ice cream float and a vanilla soda. I had been going to Wise’s for as long as I’ve lived in Gainesville. They made the best vanilla milkshakes anywhere, and served them with a spoon, and always gave you the excess in the stainless steel cup they mixed it in. You could get malt added if you wanted, but I like things for their thingness, so I kept it simple.
Earlier this month it was announced that Wise’s would be closing. They’ll still keep a drive-through pharmacy on SW 4th Avenue, but the soda fountain is no more.
As a dyed in the wool nostalgist, this is a sad occasion for me. Clearly, soda fountains aren’t as common as they once were, especially ones still located inside drug stores where you could buy a hot water bottle and a shaving brush one aisle over. Moreover, Wise’s closing means a significant site of Dana Heritage is now lost. I ate at that counter with many close friends over the years, some of whom have moved far away or with whom I have lost touch. I shared many memorable moments there with my one true love. On special occasions when Mrs. Hill would have an afternoon off, we’d have lunch together there at the counter. And I know many others will miss Wise’s. I even have two close friends who went to Wise’s directly after getting married last year in the courthouse downtown. Since the closing was announced there have been long lines to eat, and while we were there this afternoon I could see some people weeping.
The economy being what it is, the building will probably sit empty for a while. Eventually it’ll become a bar or club, or, more accurately, a series of bars and clubs that last a year or less each.
I don't like going places, doing things or seeing people.