You can go home again
How was your Thanks-giving? Mine was fine, thanks.
I went back to Nebraska for the holiday. My 70-year-old dad got re-married on Friday (my mom died a few years ago). My slanderous attempt to convince everyone back home that he and his 64-year-old wife had to get married due to pregnancy went nowhere. I read some biblical scripture in the ceremony, and nobody sent a bolt of lightning through my tongue, so I guess everything’s OK on that front. The other interesting thing about the wedding was when Father Roh, presiding priest, told everybody—in his homily, eulogy, sermon, whatever the heck you call it—that he’d had a bet that dad wouldn’t go through with the wedding. He also mentioned the Nebraska football game, although he didn’t mention any bets on that one. I found out at the reception that the bet about my father’s nuptials was with one of dad’s oldest friends, Jim Slominski. Other than that, not a helluvalot to report.
The reception was another matter. I went with the loose interpretation of the Atkins diet that included Jack Daniels on the rocks. Since I was apparently the only person tipping the bartender, the whiskey flowed like wine. Wasn’t long before my dad and I were bonding in the frigid nighttime air, smoking cigarettes outside of Camp Rulo.
After the reception, my 21-year-old niece took me out on the town. These days, Lem’s Northtowne bar is the place to get a heater on, and Friday night in Falls City was filled with hunter orange, overalls and good vibes. I knew at least 70 percent of the people my age and older in the bar. There are places in this world where you really can go home again.
RTV No. 4: When you want to run for office in a couple years, some journalist will look up your voting record.