by Lil Cromer
On one of my early visits, I met a guy in the bar named Jim, a Bayer aspirin salesman along with his lovely wife and an older couple from a big ranch outside of Omaha. Turns out Jim was going to be celebrating his 60th birthday the next night in a private room in the hotel. Lucky for me, I was invited. I bought a Berkshire Hathaway t-shirt as a gift and made one of my nearly-famous birthday cards that reads, “60 isn’t fatal but it’s pretty fuckin’ old!” For a special treat I put a temporary tattoo of a rose on the top of my breast and showed it to him. Before you know it all his male friends were asking for a peek. One old gent almost wet himself over it.
In 2003, Philip took me out for a late lunch then dropped me off at the hotel. Before I could exit the cab, a young British couple David and Jill rushed out thinking his cab was for them. They had been waiting for thirty-five minutes for a cab to take them to Gorat’s Steak House where they had reservations. Philip wouldn’t take them as he had been drinking, so what else is new? I told them to go to the desk and get directions while I fetched my rental and I’d take them. They were so grateful they asked me to come in for a drink and have dinner with them. Since I’d already eaten I had a couple of drinks, pointed out Warren Buffett et al. having dinner and had a grand time. When I got back to the hotel, I parked in the back lot which was pretty dimly lit. Couldn’t find my room as there were no numbers on the doors — even stepped in a hole and fell down while looking. I’d been used to coming in through the hallway. Some folks must have been pretty upset to hear rattling of their doors at midnight.
One night after a Berkshire Meeting I met a businessman from Iowa in the bar, he must have been twenty years my junior. After a few beers he invited me to his room, yeah right! His wedding ring was staring me right in the face.
In 2004, Philip invited me and his friend Cheryl to the farm he grew up on in Leigh, NE. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon when we left and must have stopped in every bar on the way there taking four hours to arrive. It became apparent that they both had made this trip numerous times as they knew everyone at each stop. We left each place with tomatoes, cucumbers, onions and an array of fresh fruit and vegetables. Philip’s sisters cooked a delicious country dinner followed by home movies. We didn’t leave until after 10:00 pm; the ride back to Omaha was direct, only took two hours.
One of the owners of the hotel was a quirky kind of a guy named Larry. As you may have guessed by now, I gravitate toward quirky people. His house was a kind of museum with collections of kaleidoscopes, art, and sports memorabilia and even included a full basketball court and a movie theater. He asked me to go with him one day to see about buying a windmill, so out to the country we go. Larry had bought some property intending to turn it into Larryville and wanted the windmill to go there. He found out I was a mystery shopper and asked me to travel south to Papillion to mystery shop a bowling alley/bar he was thinking of purchasing. (You never knew what he’d do next.) When he sold his interest in the hotel, I lost touch with him, too bad.
Every year my first stop is happy hour at the bar in the hotel, many of the same old guard are there, a couple have died and a new one or two show up. It’s like “Same Time, Next Year.”
I met a retired Radiologist from Kearney, NE several years ago. Bill and I became friends over the years. I offered to edit the paper he was writing to congressmen outlining a better health care system. He was way ahead of those who have been trying, unsuccessfully to implement a health care system that is efficient and fair for all Americans. Bill has since moved to Florida; he and his wife Ethyl live in St. Petersburg about a half hour from my place. I attended his 70th birthday party in Florida and traveled to Omaha in 2016 to help celebrate his 75th. Bill builds and flies planes, boats and writes, no grass growing under his feet.
The Winter Quarter Complex in North Omaha on the Mormon Trail was a stop for the great Mormon Migration in 1846-47. The museum was interactive and an education for me. A little proselytizing went on while I was there, but easy to ignore.
Warren Buffett has decided to live stream the annual shareholders’ meeting on Yahoo Finance, so don’t know if I will continue going to Omaha annually any longer.
Chapter 19
Eaton, Ohio
*
The unexpected waits around every corner; to avoid corners is to refuse to live.
Watch out Lil! Hal warned, a little too late
THUMP! PING!
I maneuvered the little Camaro over to the shoulder of Interstate 70. We were on our way to Washington, D.C. for a convention. We’d just taken on a load of fuel and changed drivers. Now here we were standing beside our car as gasoline oozed onto the pavement. A steel rod had flown off of a truck and punctured the gas tank leaving a hole the size of a pencil.
“Grab the towel underneath the seat, Lil.”
Hal ripped a strip of the terry cloth, crawled under the car to try and stave the leak. Frigid gasoline ran down his arm.
A young trucker pulled over and offered assistance. He and Hal plugged the hole as best as they could. He suggested we exit at the next cutoff and drive five miles to Eaton, Ohio where we would find a Chevy agency.
Slowly we made our way to Eaton. Right at the edge of town stood Miller’s Chevrolet. Hal stopped some fifty yards short of the building. I hurried inside.
“Sorry folks, we close in fifteen minutes. Please remove your vehicle from the premises, it’s a real hazard. Go to Bob’s Texaco’s on the corner of Main and Oak, he’ll help you.”
We parked the car on the street, found Bob and relayed the situation to him. He immediately called the fire department.
Bob explained the volatile condition as the remainder of the gasoline seeped into the storm drain.
It was too late to do anything today. Bob said he’d get a new tank in Richmond the next morning and promised to have us back on the road by noon.
We asked where we could find a motel and found out there was one up on the Interstate, we asked for the number for a cab. Bob said we were out of luck as Betty stopped driving the cab after five. He suggested a Mrs. Philpot, who ran a boarding house four blocks south on Oak St., and might have a spare room.
The sky darkened as the last of the November sun faded from view. After bidding Bob a good evening saying we’d see him in the morning, we trudged down Oak Street. We rang the doorbell at an old, well-kept, clapboard house. Wary eyes peered around the corner of the curtain. The door opened slowly. There stood a tall, well-dressed grandmotherly type.
“Mrs. Philpot?”
“Yes, can I help you?”
“We need a room for the night, our car broke down.”
What must have been going through Mrs. Philpot’s mind? Here were two strangers, reeking of gasoline and no luggage.
“You can have the front corner room it has twin beds. You’ll have to share the bathroom with Mr. Thornberg. The room is $5.00 per night in advance, no breakfast. I run a quiet, respectable home.”
We thrust the money into her hand before she changed her mind. With simultaneous feel-better sighs, we went to inspect the room. It was right out of the Victorian Era. In the corner a silver radiator hissed. The adjoining bath was as large as the bedroom complete with a claw-legged tub and two entry doors.
Satisfied that we had a room for the night, the next plan was to find a restaurant.
Describing Eaton is like dancing to no music. The entire town was two blocks long. Besides Bob’s Texaco, there was Mary Jane’s Cafe, a Rexall drug store, and a small food market, all closed for the night. It was just 6:15 p.m. Discouraged, we were about to head back to Mrs. Philpot’s when we spotted a large gray building on the corner of Main and Poplar. A faded Coca-Cola sign said BURKE’S BAR.
We entered, walked across a squeaky wooden floor and perched on bar stools. The place was empty except for one old man in a red flannel shirt seated at the other end of the long bar. A tall middle-aged blonde woman emerged from a back room.
“My name’s Crystal, what can I get for you folks?”
<
br /> “A couple of beers and some directions, where is the nearest restaurant?”
“There’s only one open at this time, it’s Buddy’s Steakhouse up on the Interstate.”
“So, we’re out of luck as Betty doesn’t drive the cab after dark, right?” I said.
“With a town of 3700 souls counting the dogs, there’s not much call for cabs at night. My mom’s here tonight, maybe she can rustle you up a sandwich. We’re hosting the bowling playoffs tonight at 8:00. Should be exciting, stick around, and enjoy yourselves.”
A few minutes later a spry old lady bounced over to us, dressed in a dark plum-colored pantsuit. “Hi! I’m Martha. Understand you two are hungry. I don’t profess to be the Galloping Gourmet, but I make a mean chicken salad.” We thanked Martha and ordered a couple more beers.
I got up to find the ladies’ room and located it at the other end of the huge building. On my way back to the bar I searched for the bowling alleys Crystal had referred to. Maybe they were in the basement, I thought.
Martha set two plates of chicken salad in front of us along with a basket of crackers.
“Bon Appetit! Remember you only have one life to live — you can make it chicken salad or chicken shit. Ain’t that right, Chester?”
Her loud guffaws were contagious. Chester moved down and took the stool next to me.
“That Martha, she’s a corker. The years are creeping up on her like cheap underwear,” Chester said.
“How about a beer, Chester?” Hal offered.
“Don’t mind if I do, I drink no more than a sponge.”
The place began to fill up. Bob from the gas station arrived dressed in a turquoise bowling shirt with BURKE’S BAR embroidered on the back. Crystal came out of the back also clad in her bowling shirt. I asked Crystal where the bowling alleys were. She pointed to a bowling machine in the corner of the bar.
I slid off my stool and followed Crystal to the far corner of the room. There stood a coin operated bowling machine. Trying not to laugh, I smiled and walked back to my stool.
“Hal, they’re having their bowling tournament on a machine!” I snickered.
Fuzzy, the captain of the opposing team, Burger Barn, had a defiant, go-to-hell look on his face. Anyone could see where he got his nickname. He resembled a caveman with his Afro and thick curly beard.
Chester asked if we’d like to play a game of darts before the bowling tourney started. He and Martha would take us on.
We’d been at the bar for over an hour and no dart boards were visible. Chester asked for two quarters. He inserted them into a little black box Martha provided. Up on the wall, where a TV set would generally be, was an electronic dart board. Hal and I lost three consecutive games. We ordered another round of beers as the bowling tournament got underway.
“Way to go, Crystal! Good pick up, Buddy! Go after that turkey, Bob!”
Everyone was caught up in the excitement of the tournament, including us. In between games we plugged more quarters into the dart game. Hal ordered drinks all around.”
Burke’s team won the first two games but was forty pins down in the third and final game. A come from behind win was directly attributed to Bob who had five strikes in a row.
“Let’s buy the winning team a drink,” offered Hal.
I stifled a yawn and nudged him. “Are you ready to call it a night? It’s twelve thirty and we’ve got a long drive ahead of us tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay Lil. Let’s have one more for the road.”
The brisk fall air was like a slap in the face. On foot we remembered to stop by Bob’s Texaco and retrieve a suitcase. We half staggered, half walked to Mrs. Philpot’s.
“Geez Hal, it must be a hundred degrees in here.”
I threw both windows wide open and beat Hal to the bathroom. Staring at me on a ledge above the sink was a set of teeth. Must be Mr. Thornberg’s. I brushed my teeth, hopped into my pajamas, gave Hal a quick peck and flopped into bed.
The quiet was deafening. Soon we were both out like a light. A few hours later, I was back in the bathroom getting rid of more beer. While nodding on the john, a voice cackled, ”Hurry up, girlie, I can’t wait all night.” I jumped up and stood face to face with Mr. Thornberg.
“Sorry sir, guess I forgot to latch the door.”
When the first rays of the sun hit our room, Hal woke up. His nose and ears were numb, almost frostbitten. He shut the windows, cursed at me and crawled back under the covers. “No need to get up early. The car won’t be ready till noon.”
Well rested, we walked to Mary Jane’s Cafe for a leisurely mid morning breakfast.
“Lil, did you take any money out of my wallet?”
“What an inane question, Hal. You know I never touch your wallet.”
“I seem to be missing about $75.00.”
“Hal, did you think all the drinks, dart games, not to mention the chicken salads were free last night?”
A little after 11:00 we ambled over to Bob’s Texaco and arrived just as Bob was finishing up the job.
“All set folks. Step into the office, I’ll fix you a bill. Goin’ be a fine day for travelin’.”
Heading east on I-70 Hal chuckled and said, “$75.00 for the fuel tank, $75.00 for the drinks and entertainment, all in all is was a rather reasonable stop.”
“Don’t forget the $5.00 we paid Mrs. Philpot,” I said.
Chapter 20
Miscellaneous
*
To travel happily you must travel light.
Is there anything sadder than traveling alone and hearing loud sex all around you? Well maybe not all around me but there was a lot of loud fornicating in the room next to me in Europe. Can’t recall which city in Europe but I definitely remember the layout of my room, the thin walls and the sex in the middle of the afternoon next door. When I mentioned this to the desk clerk, she said there is no one in that room. Must have been some of the staff.
How we ended up in Key West, Florida for three months in the height of the hippie drug era is a story I keep trying to forget. But it keeps popping up like a bad penny when friends tell me how much they enjoyed visiting the Keys. As a result of Hal’s ankle break we couldn’t travel to Central America, which was our plan, so he gave me the option of Brownsville, TX or Key West, FL. Seems as they have the best orthopedic doctors in the country. I selected Key West as my sister lived in Miami. It was his right ankle, so the driving was left up to me. The drive over the seven mile bridge on the way down scared me to death. When we got into town we took a drive down Duval St. and when I stopped at a red light a hippie on a bike crashed into the back end of the Camaro. He shouted and cursed at me asking why I stopped and it went downhill from there. We had to take a ground floor apt. on account of the ankle in Old Town in a conch house. Our landlords were two gay guys originally from NYC. They invited us to a house warming party on one of the fingers — what a layout. Outside our bedroom window a hippie pounding a coconut on the fire hydrant outside at 2:00 woke us up. Across the street a kid robbed somebody at gun point another night.
One of our rituals was heading to the beach mid afternoon to play gin rummy until the Officers’ Club bar opened at 4:00. The bartender was from Georgia, divorced with 4 kids and having a clandestine affair with a Navy Commander; the four us became good friends. At that time, the town council was reviewing an ordinance to permit nude waiters in the old district. At lunch one day, at an outdoor café, Hal said, “Lil how would you like to have a hairy ass staring at you while trying to eat?” One day while driving on the Keys, Hal suggested we buy a lot down there, my response, “Over my dead body!”
My favorite Uncle Frank didn’t have the decency to die in the summer, he chose March instead. My flight from Tampa to Chicago left early morning on the day of the wake but experienced a six hour layover in Columbus, OH due to snow. I was feeling unwell, unusual for me, discovered I had a urinary tract infection, something I’d never experienced before. Picked up some over the counter stuff and plodded onward. F
inally got to Chicago a little after 6:00 and picked up my rental car. It’s about an hour’s drive from the airport to the funeral home; sky was Porta-Potty gray with a steady rain and sleet mix. Pulled into the funeral home parking lot at 7:40, the wake was over at 8:00. I had just enough time to say hello and view the casket. One of my cousins said, “You don’t look so good, Lil.” I must have been sicker than I thought. On the way to my hotel a young dumb blonde turned right in front of me and hit the front of the rental. Thank goodness she stopped as did another cousin who was alongside me and witnessed the whole thing. I sat in his car while the police filled out a report; I wanted to make sure this sixteen year old was issued a ticket. Finally got to my hotel at 9:00 and crashed. The funeral was at 10:00 and I was giving the eulogy; barely made it through, I was getting weaker and weaker. We all trucked out to the cemetery in snow flurries and gusty winds; thank goodness the graveside ceremony was brief. I stayed a short while at the luncheon then headed back to the hotel and fell right into bed. I called Avis to report the accident before I fell asleep. Woke up early the next morning, my flight was at 8:00. Drove through heavy rain and traffic getting to the airport with barely enough time to catch the flight. The Avis attendant started to make jokes about the dent in the front end; I ignored her and rushed to catch the shuttle to the terminal. They were getting ready to shut the doors when I arrived at the gate ready to pass out.
*
While in San Diego we traveled up to LaJolla, Coronado, Orange County and the Crystal Cathedral in Garden Grove and many other places along the coast. Palm Springs was a great place to celebrity watch. But my favorite place was at the Bing Crosby Tournament at Pebble Beach. Some of the folks I gawked at were: Jack Nicklaus, Johnny Miller, Gary Player, Tom Weiskopf, Tom Watson, Arnold Palmer, Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Dean Martin, and Lawrence Welk. My mother was crazy about him and never missed his show. I jumped up on a tee box and asked for a photo; Welk couldn’t have been more gracious. My mom wore the photo out showing it to her church cronies.