Walter Griffin was everywhere last week.
Walter, my great and very good friend, died last November at 68. He was so cool that he called from the hospital to say goodbye. He seemed comfortable that his life was about to end, more comfortable than anyone I ever knew. We worked together at the Bangor Daily News for decades.
He loved to golf and was much better than I ever was. An avowed police critic (he said early on that the Los Angeles police planted that O.J. Simpson glove), he golfed routinely with the Waldo County sheriff and the chief deputy. At one time, Walter, Mark and I shared Cobb Manor and a few hundred barbecue meals on the deck. Mark and I hit Rivard Golf Club last week in our annual golf outing. The fog was heavy at 7 a.m., but we were promised that it would burn off … and it did.
It was a beautiful Florida morning made sweeter by the snow reports from Rockland. Walter must have been helping because I parred two holes, a most unusual performance.
As we teed off at the 18th hole, I said to Mark, “Walter would have loved this.”
The three of us had golfed at Rivard almost exactly a year before. It seemed obvious.
“Walter is here,” I said. And he was.
When you golf at 7 a.m., it is absolutely permissible to have a cold beer at 10 a.m. Walter would have loved that.
I spend most of the Maine winter on my glorious couch, watching updates on Stalingrad on the History Channel. So I go overboard when I hit the Sunshine State with my battered Trek multitrack bicycle.
I hauled the bike to the glorious Withlacoochee bike trail last week and waddled for 20 miles. I am slow but steady. I pass no one, and everyone, man, woman and child, passes me. But it’s better than vegetating on the couch.
I paused to gulp some Poland Spring water (I bring two cases) and jumped on Facebook to rub it in with snow-bound Knox County residents. Facebook told me that Walter and I had been on that trail a year and a day ago. How Facebook remembered that I have no idea. The whole digital business is voodoo to me and always will be.
Jefferson Phil showed up this year with a woman we refer to as that flashy grandmother, and we just had to float down the pleasant Weeki Wachee River on another perfect day. Last year, Walter and I tried three times to do the river, but it was school vacation week and the river was sold out, if you can believe that. After the river trip, we toasted Walter’s memory at the seedy Pickled Parrot, which features heavy cigarette smoke but very cheap drinks.
We took our drinks outside and tried unsuccessfully to open the patio umbrella. Phil sent that flashy grandmother into the smoky bar for aid and assistance. As God is my witness, she told the crowd that Phil and I “couldn’t get it up” on the patio. You can imagine the roar. The bar mechanic opened the umbrella and stuck Phil’s car keys into the pole to keep the umbrella open.
You know what happened. When it was time to go, Phil couldn’t find his car keys. Walter would have loved that. Walter and I spent St. Patrick’s Day at the Pickled Parrot last year, and I still have the beads they handed out, wrapped around my car mirror.
Vermont Jon even made the trip this year in his sparkling new camper. We met in a Cedar Key campground, and he recommended a great seafood restaurant on the water. It was a place just called “Steamers,” according to the roof banner. Honest to God, Walter and I had stopped there last year and scarfed down plates full of oysters. This was getting too spooky.
Naturally, a trip to Florida would not be complete without a Red Sox spring training game. I went to three games and saw very few recognizable names. No Big Papi. No Panda. No Hanley Ramirez. No Dustin Pedroia. Instead the lineup featured names such as Montz, Craig, Tavarez, Brentz, Allday, Sturgeon Cecchini, Bianchi and Asuaje. Who are these guys?
Walter and I spent several vacations in Fort Myers when the Red Sox moved there. We suffered for decades with their losing ways. The Sox are favored this year, but come September, we are expecting some more help from Walter.
You think I parred two holes without some heavenly intervention?
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the BDN in Rockland for 30 years.