Spring Sailing 2021: Part 01: Meat Raffle

[This post (or rather series of posts) was composed several months ago. It made it to the ‘net after a long period of gathering dust; first on paper and then on a hard drive. Seasons later, I resurrected it and brought it back to life in its current form. That’s OK. Not all things are “breaking news”.]

Life is always beautiful on Instagram, or so they say. So too, bloggers downplay their stresses and highlight the positive. At least that’s what I’ve heard.

I don’t discuss it much on my blog but 2021, the second iteration of an infinitely disappointing 2020, wears on me. I’ve got my shit together quite well compared to average. However, today’s baseline has declined in ways that would be unthinkable only a few years before. My relative serenity only means I’m the smartest kid on the short bus.

In short, I was stressed out. I turned to nature; which is rarely a bad move. I packed my camping shit and…faced one emergency after another for days. I finally departed several days late, out of sorts, and in the wrong State. I’d packed dirty clothes instead of clean, I was wearing pig shit caked boots, and my arms were sore from manhandling air conditioners. In the truck’s mirror, I was haggard.

The long drive was a good thing. After a while, things began to look up. I stopped thinking of gasoline shortages. I packed away concerns about our geriatric potato of a president and his statistically improbable record breaking vote tally. (There will be a lifetime of second order, “unexpected”, denied, derailed, and obfuscated effects to watch slowly emanating from that particular event. Like ripples in a pond after some lunatic hurled a huge rock into it, the pond itself becomes the chaos. What was initially encapsulated at a single origin will not remain so.)

I began to smile. So long as I kept the truck’s radio off, a society of monkeys faffing over COVID was invisible. In nature, our stupidity is nowhere to be seen. I forgot it all. I was looking at the trees.

By chance I was in a deciduous forest. All these leaves…dead at Thanksgiving, green now. Ten thousand little photosynthetic miracles per tree. A thousand trees to the acre. Six hundred and forty acres to the mile. Mile after mile of hope. Life is beautiful. It’s easy to miss if you aren’t looking. I was glad to be looking again.

I trundled through lands you could legitimately call uninhabited; or at least barely inhabited. Such are the places I prefer.

My intended restaurant for a well earned afternoon burger was closed. Many places are closed now. Many places are closed all over the nation. Many places are closed in many nations. Maybe the lights are going out in Rome. Maybe they’re already gone. Hard to tell. There’s a lot of ruin in a society and you never officially know the seed corn is gone until you can’t plant on the tilled fields. Whomever serves as our barbarian Odoacer is well beyond the breach. He’s busy trampling the rich complacent naive society that let him in the door. I, a dweller in the hinterland, only interact with his madness when I interact with our damaged society. Buying a cheeseburger in Provincia Britannia is nearly impossible. I’d have to try the next town; in 60 miles.

Sixty miles later I stopped at the only possible option. In the interest of anonymity, let’s call it “Lost Canyon Bar and Liquor.” There weren’t many cars in front. I had my doubts. Luckily, I had plenty of camp food. If this didn’t pan out, I’d still have all the calories I need. There are worse fates.

I almost turned away. I’m glad I didn’t.

As soon as I entered, I was hit with a great, chaotic, loud, wave of pure joy. The place was packed! Young and old, fat and slim, men and women… everyone was either drunk or working on it. The stereo was blasting crappy classic rock. There was a great deal of consumption going on; cheap beer, microbrews, shots, sketchy vodka based concoctions, and (surprisingly) Pepsi.

Everyone was jovial. Kids were threading through elders, who moved at such a different speed as to appear immobile. The kid’s game was a combination of tag, Calvinball, and “Steal Uncle Mike’s Potato Chips.” Dogs trailed the kids, stealing potato chips secondhand. Uncle Mike, completely sauced, was complaining about the cost of chips while everyone bought him drinks that cost more than the chips.

A harried waitress took my order.

“Busy day?”

“Sure is!” She beamed. She went on to explain that COVID had “fucked her” (her words not mine) but that lately fishermen and trail riders were trying their best to drink two year’s worth of beer in one. She was the owner.

The mystery of the empty parking lot was solved when I saw a couple dozen ATVs parked out back. The reason for the Pepsi was that most ATVs are now multiple seat UTVs. Designated drivers is a thing well accepted and now expanded to the off-road realm. As long as you can strap uncle Mike’s drunk ass in the passenger seat and find one sober person to manage the wheel, everything will be fine.

I sat at a picnic table in the sun. Some lady circulated among the tables with a basket full of money and slips of paper. For a few bucks she’d hand you a slip with a number. When she sold enough, she’d head to the bar and spin a wheel.

“Meat Raffle! Who had number 12?”

Someone would cheer and hand over their slip of paper. Soon this evolved into players too tipsy to walk handing the ticket to a random kid. The kid would stampede to the bar like they were on fire and return, eyes gleaming, with a big packet of steaks and brats and chops. I didn’t even have ice in my cooler on this trip. Also I have two full freezers at home. Even so, I wished I could participate. God bless American flyover country where 20 pounds of meat is a glorious win.

I decided “Meat Raffle” would be an excellent name for a bluegrass band.

A couple guys started gathering horseshoes. I was sitting near the end of the horseshoe pitch. (Is it called a “pitch”?) “Horseshoe Concussion” would be a good name for a death metal band.

Sensibly, I moved.

After an adequate hamburger, a delicious cold beer, and joyously watching several Meat Raffles, I started to rethink my plans. My destination camp was seven miles away. The bartender announced a special on Jaegerbombs. Uncle Mike lit up a Marlboro. It smelled delicious.

Red Alert! When I start thinking “I’d like a Jaeger and a smoke” it’s danger time!

The waitress could tell. “Want another drink?”

“When do you close?” It was 4 pm.

“We close at 1 am.”

DEFCON 1! Incoming missile sighted on radar!

If I was still there at 4:15 pm I’d be there at 1:00 am. Unlike Uncle Mike, I had no way to get to the campsite once I was mentally immobile.

The waitress read my mind. “Tempted?”

“God yes!” Mustering every bit of self control, I left a huge tip and fled.