My head hurts.
All those bridge stories, those political stories, those stories on sweet public salaries, pensions and benefits.
My head hurts.
It’s 40 degrees, windy and rainy. Where’s the sweet weather?
Sweet. For some reason I have sweet on my mind. Ever have real Southern sweet tea? I used to get me some in Florida. I hear it makes a headache go away.
I need some. My head hurts.
o o o
They sort of poured me out of the plane somewhere south of Tampa. I used to work here in Fort Myers.
The dog track is nearby in Bonita. Maybe they have sweet tea. I know they have strange people and gambling and, yes, fast dogs. Only thing that moves faster? My lost cash.
Two bucks to get in and $1.50 for the program. I’m down $3.50 … and I haven’t even seen my first dog!
o o o
Standing on the rail, studying the dog program reminded me of a story an old coot of a newsman from these parts once told me.
Back in the day, newspaper guys down this way would close the paper up early if the boss man wasn’t around. They’d go off drinkin’ or — after it opened in 1957 — run over to the dog track.
After one such early closing in the ’50s, a few of the ol’ boys were summoned into the chief’s office. A big story appeared to be missing from the morning paper. Like the Korean War ending. They ended up in the Immokalee Bureau covering the Swamp Cabbage Festival.
But back to business. I put two bucks down on the four dog. Bad choice. It’s still running.
Sweet tea would help my pain. They have none. My head hurts.
o o o
I find my way to a spring training game. Red Sox vs. the Tampa Bay Rays in Port Charlotte. There are several truisms in baseball: Like no ties. And no crying.
But something is wrong here. The game ends in a 9-9 tie. I hold off on the crying until I ask for sweet tea. No luck. I let go. My head hurts.
o o o
I head to a Naples strip mall. Don’t ask me why. I don’t even know. There are several doors I could go in. If I pick the wrong one I’ll end up with a late night pedicure. I get lucky and fall into the Bayshore Landing Cafe.
A sweet lady named Linda was shredding a fiddle in a bluegrass throw-down. She plays “Sweet Home Chicago” for me but there’s nothing sweet about their tea. I leave. My head hurts.
o o o
I’m running out of time. I go north to Punta Gorda, on the banks of Charlotte Harbor. Years ago I’d take my shoes off and walk in the harbor’s shallow water, feeling for clams. I’d end up with a bucketful if I could avoid the jellyfish.
But there was no time for that now. Where the heck is the sweet tea? My head hurts.
o o o
Time’s up. Heaven help me.
“When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, there will be an answer, bring sweet tea.”
There’s a plane heading north with my name on it. I stop at a Publix grocery store for a local newspaper. Reading helps a headache a little. But it’s not the cure.
Then I spot it: Beautiful, gorgeous, tantalizing sweet tea. A gallon of it. I finish every last drop.
I’m ready for another bridge story now. My head doesn’t hurt.
Lou Brancaccio is The Columbian’s editor. Reach him at 360-735-4505 or lou.brancaccio@columbian.com.
