The Ash Creek Papers

I hadn’t been there in awhile.  But from time to time I feel the need to “re-charge the batteries”, as they say… and a visit to the sea shore is something that restores my inner gyroscope.

A visit always refreshes me.  I love the crash of mean waves in the teeth of a storm, or the gentle curl of water under an August moon.  It is the rare day, or time of the day, that I do not in some way benefit from seeing a stretch of water spread beneath my feet.

Today my destination was the familiar Calf Pasture Beach… not the beach itself; but rather the area just to the west of the pier that marks the end of the beach proper.

It’s a special time of the year… a special time of the day.

A September beach is something to behold.  It can still be warm; but most folks are bored with the shore by the “fourth” month of summer, plus its after Labor Day & kids are back to school… so that by this time of the year the shore is the territory of the “serious” and not just the “casual”.  There is definitely an air that bespeaks a degree of peace and solitude to the “true believers.”

And then there is the time of the day.  It’s 5:30PM.  In September, sunset is not that distant.  The colour of the view is bathed in a yellow hue of a late afternoon.  The air is warm; but dry and the water has flattened to a still lake-like quality.  Let’s call the scene “almost sultry.”

To the place itself:  I put myself at a low wall that separates the parking area from a tiny inlet, the inlet itself is framed by sea grass and a small rocky spit that juts into the Sound.  The tide is nearly full high, the smell of the sea ripe, and the water is a mere five yards or so from my vantage point on the sea wall.  There is barely a ripple on the Sound.  I block out the sound of the seagulls voicing their presence, and feel like I am living a “still life”.

The serenity is piercing.

The day’s anxieties begin to fade… and I ease into looking about the immediate view.

To my front, situated on the rocky spit are four fishermen.  Three are seated on advantageous rocks, their stationary rods positioned in smaller rocky nooks waiting for the tell tale tug on their lines.  One fisherman, standing to the side, actively casts his line into the inlet… I have a perfect view of his technique… his casts range between 20 and 25 yards each time.

Their voices carry wonderfully in the still air.  They are Hispanic.  I can hear the musical lilt of their phrases.  Although their “melody” I can clearly catch… the meaning of the words are lost to me… but I can imagine that the casting fisherman is being chided by his comrades for expending to much effort in a wasted quest.

Just in front of the spit is a squadron of Canadian geese making their way to the pier (or to points further to the East).  They stay well clear of our enthusiastic angler, bellying their processional deeper into the Sound to avoid an errant cast. 

I love the stateliness of Canadian geese… in the water.  They look like “ships of the line”.  The Royal Navy would be proud.  On land… Canadian geese are foul beasts that treat any patch of green as a latrine.  Too bad we can’t convert geese turds to a combustible fuel (then we could tell OPEC to take a hike).

I follow their line and scan to the East and the pier.  A dozen or so fishermen are scattered on its length.  The sun to the West puts a pinpoint reflection on their pails, lures and other assorted metallic accoutrements.  I am sure that position for each fisherman on the pier is key; but in my time there I see no strikes.

I wish I could paint the scene.

And now I turn my attention to the grassy area in the back of the road that separates the beach path from the ball fields beyond.  There, on folding beach chairs from Wal-Mart, protected by tall shade trees, are four “senior citizens”.  To be honest, I forget their specific genders; but I feel certain that both males and females were represented. 

They have a homogeneous appearance: comfortable white slacks, legs crossed in the same direction, light sweaters, sunglasses & hats.  Theirs is not the animated conversation of youth; but the more subdued and measured tones that are the product of patience and maturity.  I find strength in their presence.

And now I have come full circle, and pan back to the fishermen on the rocks.  As far as I can gather, each is unlucky.  But only unlucky in that they have landed no fish.

Maybe their words, unknown to me, do not address their good fortune: that the sun is warm on their shoulders, the Sound rests still for their pursuit, and while on the rocks, the rest of the world, and its weighty concerns, are held at bay.

I look once more to the Sound.  The Norwalk Islands sit less than a half mile off shore… Long Island is a full inch and a half above the horizon… I squint into the sun to the West and tune into the cries of the gulls.

It’s been a long time between visits… too long between returns.

I have a friend… Glenn Grossman.  He went to Union with me.  Please don’t misunderstand me.  It’s not like we’re the best of friends, and all. But we are friends.  At Union his nick name was “Spider”.  I think it might have been because of his love of the NY Giants (who still played in Yankee Stadium in those days)… and specifically his appreciation of the talents of one corner back by the name of Carl Lockhart… Carl “Spider” Lockhart.  

But to the point.  After Union, Glenn became a very successful man of business.  As I worked in my family business at Chipp, Glenn became a hot shot at Canter-Fitzgerald (the firm that suffered near complete devastation at the World Trade bombing).  

I mention this latter detail parenthetically… it is not meant to distract from this story.  No.  This is a story, as the title suggests, about family businesses.  A subject that I am intimately familiar with.  

Glenn Grossman’s family had a dry cleaning establishment in a fancy shmancy Westchester burg.  That business helped fund Glenn’s expensive education at Union College.  

Good.  We all work hard for our kids.  But there came the time that when he had well established himself that Glenn stepped up for the “small guy”… the time he made it known to his wife, Joyce, not to buy books from Barnes & Noble or shirts from Brooks Brothers.  He would pay more to buy the same item from the individual guy, the small guy… I don’t know, he may have even said this, “we’re buying from the ‘small guy’… my Dad was a ‘small guy’ & his business provided for my family and paid for me to go to Union.”  

Glenn was more than willing to pay extra to protect the individual entrepreneur, to protect the retail diversity that has made this country great.  

Maybe if more folks had his attitude, I would have remained in my family business.  

But I have led you astray.  This is not a tale about Mr. Grossman’s dry cleaning store in Scarsdale, it’s not about Chipp of New York, nor about the corner-book-store-with-an-owner-who-wears-a-cardigan-and-has-a-cat-that-sits-in-the-window (by the by, there is a book store as just described in Taos, NM).  

This is a story about Smitty’s Shell Station on Westport Ave. in Norwalk.  I still call it Smitty’s Shell even though he recently changed his “flag” to Gulf… to me it will always be Smitty’s Shell, regardless who the “man” is.  

Gas stations are unique businesses.  They are part of the corporate giant; but they can retain the individuality of “entrepeneurship”.  Maybe not every gas station is a family enterprise; but make no mistake, Smitty’s is 100% family.  

I am reminded of this as I glance across the bar to see who was my benefactor… who was responsible for the inverted shot glass placed in front of me (bartending code for “you got a free one”).  I scan the patrons, and Sean Smith lifts his glass to me in recognition.  I would reciprocate, and put his, and his lady friend’s next round on me.  

I have known Sean and his brothers since they were in middle school.   At that time, their Father Dave was the major domo of Smitty’s Shell, having acquired the “family business” from his Father.  Dave’s Father filled-in on weekends allowing Dave to spend time with his kids: David, Sean and I-forget-the-name-of-the-third-son (it’s a mental block folks, like not remembering the name of the seventh dwarf).  

When the kids were old enough (probably not long after being toilet trained) they started to help out around the station… pumping gas, wiping windshields and the like… this was in the days before “self serve”.  

I know nothing about cars.  And prefer it that way.  Give me the key, let me start it, let me drive to where I have to go.   And whenever something pertaining to the vehicles I owned had to be attended to, I would trust the Smith’s to the task.  At no point has my trust ever wavered… at no point did I ever feel that they took advantage of my automotive naivete.  

And that trust has been handed down generation to generation.  Not only do I trust the Smith’s; but I have handed that trust down to my kids…  

I sip some of my favorite whisky, smile and nod to Sean again.  I poke at the ice with my swizzle stick.  Well… it’s a gas station… a Gulf gas station.  There are thousands of Gulf Stations that dot the land.  But still… it’s Smitty’s, and it’s like no other Gulf Station extant.  

And like Glenn Grossman, who went out of his way to give business to a particular establishment, to reward the “small guy”, I encourage us all to not “buy on the cheap”… to make sure to support those enterprises that still express individuality… those places where caring and pride more than justify the extra expense.  

Smitty’s deserves our patronage.  

Thanks for the drink Sean… and while I’m thinking of it, thank you Glenn Grossman for buying suits and shirts from me… and let me lift my glass in salute to all the small guys out there who battle against all odds… here’s to all those little guys who stand amidst a sea of sameness, to present personality and character in whatever their pursuit.

I guess we all have favorite articles of clothing.  It’s more than liking the look of the garment itself.  It’s really about feeling good when you wear it.  In small or large ways perhaps, this special piece of clothes has power to transform us… make us more confident.  Sort of like Clark Kent donning tights and a cape (and you thought it was the kryptonite).

I got to thinking about this the other day.  I had just inherited a “hand-me-up” from Zack.  A simple tan cotton broadcloth shirt with short sleeves from Old Navy or the Gap (or a place like one of those places).

What can I say? I like it. 

Perhaps you have heard of “Dressed Down Fridays”? Real popular in Corporate America, I’m told… Well I’m living a “dressed down decade (or two).  I have gone from tailor-made suits and jackets to wearing Docker’s khakis (tan or olive), sweat shirts in winter, t-shirts (or polo shirts) in summer and boat shoes.  Sartorially speaking, my life got real simple.

Because of the near refrigerator quality of our air conditioning at Grapes, in the summer I like to wear an “over shirt” with my assorted Ts.  This over shirt is always worn un-tucked with front and sleeves unbuttoned.  The over shirt can be of denim, or from the stable of shirts from my custom tailoring days.

Zack’s shirt, albeit short sleeve, has been added to the mix & has been elevated to “first violin” status..

But the manner in which these shirts are worn contributes to my reputation of having that “castaway” look.  It has also been advanced that I “need” an over shirt to hide my increasing middle (which, in private, I will admit to).  But it has also been noted that as we age we become more sensitive to the cold, and the over shirt is really a “senior” thing… as if on a July day I will show up at Grapes with a cashmere scarf!  And to this latter notion, let me issue a simple “pah”!  And maybe also a full moon!

I think it must have been on my third or fourth day in a row of wearing this tan shirt when I clearly recognized that this simple accessory was well on its way to a wardrobe favorite.

I happened to be at Ash Creek at the time… Mags had put in an urgent call to me… I was advised that there was an unfortunate surplus of Wild Turkey at my other Office.  I responded to the call directly after work.

I was in the process of reviewing their 101 when a character from the kids show Fraggle Rock came into my mind.  By the by, this is what happens when you sip straight rye whisky.  I don’t even know if the show is aired anymore… it was an old Jim Henson creation. 

Zack would later supply the character’s name (Wembley), and in broad strokes, the basics of the show.  I don’t think I ever saw the show; but I can remember reading the books to the kids (actually, I think it was just one book).

It was Wembley who I was interested in.  There was something about him that must have struck a resonant chord… even the best from Kentucky can’t dredge up a memory from 20 years ago… a memory sourced from a single kids book.

But this is for sure… Wembley wore a colourful Hawaiian shirt (something that set him completely apart from all the other Fraggles), and this shirt became the signature of his appearance.  But there is more… if he misplaced it, say… or perhaps it was in the wash, it would put him on edge… as if some of his persona had been depleted… as if his inherent vulnerability had been laid bare.

And then miraculously, when the shirt was found, slipped on, a sigh heaved… the balance of the universe was restored… at least as far as Wembley was concerned.

Let me quickly say that I am not keen on Hawaiian shirts.  But I am a fan of Wembley… even though I know so little about him, or the world he inhabited.  I like his scruffy appearance, his friendly nature.  I like the pride he put into something that might seem insignificant to others.  I like that he draws comfort and strength from a “special shirt”.

Nope.  Wembley and I don’t need a cape or tights to feel like Superman.