It is bitterly cold and blowing here. It started late in the afternoon, the front whipping its way toward Boston, but cuffing us with an icy sleeve as it went by.

Rain at first, rain with an edge, and then it turned to fluffy flakes and then to crunchy heavy snow. I tramped over toward Willow, the slightly lengthening light of day extinguished by the low dark clouds and mist.

Old Jim was at his usual stool at the apex of the Amen Corner, and I slid in next to him, looking down the bar. The crowd was light. “Hello, Jim. Post holiday fatigue affecting the trade?”

He glanced up and growled: “Probably. Rafael said there were only 15 reservations and they were sending him home. Some people have no stamina.” He was holding a glittering ball of wire string garlands, festooned with sparkles and crystals affixed in a manner that reminded me of festive barbed wire.

“What the hell is that?” I asked. “Is this Decoration Day? I was putting mine away this morning.” Brett the bartender climbed down from the step ladder with a clip board in his hand. It looked like he was taking inventory for start of business in 2014, and despite the risk of losing count, delivered a crisp Happy Hour White to the mahogany run-way in front of me.

“Deborah gave it to me. They took it down and just rolled it up in a ball. She asked me to untangle it for her. I do it every year, but this is the last time.”

I could see that plucking the snags was a two-handed business, punctuated by a periodic shaking to loosen the snarl.

Tracy O’Grady is in transition mode, bringing Willow from Holiday theme to Restaurant Week, which starts on the 11th. She bustled past, us at the bar, brow furrowed in concern about the next challenge, and the particular madness that is Valentine’s Day in the fine-dining industry.

Jim stopped to take a pull on his long-neck Bud and pushed over a strand of decoration to show me what it was supposed to look like, un-entangled:



“It’s pretty festive, for barbed wire. I took down all the decorations in the apartment this morning. It was sort of liberating. I am leaving the outside lights up until this weekend, but I have to get the Farm ready for the Big Chill still.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked over to see the Mystery Guest: Bronco, ace fighter pilot and one of the original Top Guns from the Navy’s Overseas Family Residence Program, a minimum security program of the United States SEVENTH Fleet. He lovely bride is visiting the kids on the Left Coast, and he took the opportunity of temporary bachelorhood to step out for a beer.

I made the introductions, all around: Jasper and Brett counting bottles of wine in between and Kate Jansen, co-owner and pastry chef extraordinaire. As it turns out, she knows Bronco’s daughter, who is a journeyman in a trade much harder than flying F-4 Phantom II jets off an ancient aircraft carrier.

“My daughter makes dresses out of chocolate, works every night until nearly midnight, and as a reward, has her single day off a week cancelled at the whim of management. Sucks.”

Kate nodded sympathetically. “It is a demanding trade,” she said. “People don’t think of that. But making a great cake or a flamboyant dessert carries its own rewards.”

Bronco and I agreed, and Jim grunted as a particularly thorny knot came loose.

“I think I will never do this again.”

“I would be tempted to just rip it apart,” I said.

“The impatience of youth,” growled Jim.

“Old age and treachery win every time,” said Bronco, looking favorably at the award winning Willowburger on the menu. He asked Brett for one, alternating tonic and craft beer in deference to the worsening road conditions outside.

We talked about all the sorts of things old shipmates talk about, places and long-ago conflicts, and where the kids all fetched up. And whether we had reached that point in life that the Bright Lights of the Big City were starting to pale. “Might be time to get out of town,” said Bronco a bit pensively. “Get nearer the kids.”

Jim completed the untangling of the decorations and grunted in triumph. He fetched his bulldog-headed cane off the hooks under the bar to deliver the uncomplicated strands to Deborah.



“Last time I do that,” he declared. “It really interferes with my drinking. He stumped off toward the maître d’s station to deliver the fruits of his labor as Bronco demolished the burger. I looked at it with envy, but it is time to impose a little discipline and get ready for the Spring that is out there, only a couple months away.

When Bronco was done, we signaled for the check. The snow was dancing past the window and the dark night was turning stark white as the snow began to accumulate. Jim got one last beer to catch up.

He smiled in satisfaction as Brett placed it in front of him, since he only had to navigate back up the street to his place, and Bronco and I were on four wheels to get home. It is not that we couldn’t do donuts all the way home if we chose. The question is more about what the Virginians would be doing on the icy roads.

Discretion is the better part, we figured, at least on a snowy decoration day.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303