Texas Larry came to town this week, complete with cowboy boots. I always celebrate when TL arrives because he is my life coach and we laugh like hell.
Larry came to Rockland many years ago when the Bangor Daily News and the Portland Press Herald were fighting it out for supremacy in the city. Rockland was the northernmost outpost of the PPH and the southernmost outpost of the BDN. I helped the BDN drive the PPH out of town, at the direction of Bureau Chief Ted Sylvester.
Larry worked for the Press Herald and was supposed to be my bitter enemy. But we sat at the Ye Olde Coffee Shop on Main Street and started laughing almost immediately at the comedy of it all. I ended up with a three-bedroom house ($38,000 at repossession) and he moved in to save a fortune on rent. The third room was occupied by Famous Grady, who made our lives hell, advising us on clothing and dating issues at will. Like any real Texan, Larry is tall and thin and eats like a bird. The three of us would split the grocery bill and Grady and I would devour the food at will. We once discovered Larry eating a heavy meal late one night and we asked why. “I am eating in self-defense,” he said, trying to get his share of the vittles. Nobody ever laughed like the three of us living at Cobb Manor. Each of the three bedrooms had phones and we often called each other late at night, bedroom to bedroom.
The fatal flaw was that we had three people, but only two couches. The couch battles were often bitter. Grady and I were wrapped up in Afghans one night when Larry came home from skiing. He rapped on the door with his new crutches, but we ignored him, suspecting a trick to get a couch. We didn’t believe that he had broken his leg until he hobbled out to the car (in heavy snow) to get his X-rays. Then, we let him sit down.
We never told our editors that we were living in the same house and adopted an embargo on news stories after 10 p.m. And we actually loved to “scoop” each other on major news stories. That made breakfast at the coffee shop even more enjoyable. In between covering city council meetings and Rotary at the Samoset, we discussed life’s issues to the bone. Strangely, Texas Larry was right more often than wrong.
First of all, he insisted that I purchase Cobb Manor, which had just gone through FHA repossession. I had the whopping sum of $12,000 in the bank after selling two other houses. I felt like Donald Trump with all that money and didn’t want to spend it on a new house. He said, and I quote, “In two years that money will be all gone and all you will have is a few stickers on your suitcase.” I bought the house and am still quite pleased, 32 years later. The joint was recently assessed at $250,000, so there.
Second, he absolutely insisted that I take Blue Eyes out on a date. I took her to Portland for a Kinks concert and I was down for the count. He said, and I quote again, “If you don’t go out with her she will end up with some LAWYER!” Like that was the worst fate in the world for a gorgeous, 20-something damsel. That Larry advice has worked out even better than the house deal, 32 years later.
Saturday night, Texas Larry drove up from Logan Airport (where he accidentally left his jacket) and came in while I was watching still another report on Stalingrad. “Turn on the Red Sox,” he said before he even sat down. Now, I had given up on the Boston team early this season and watched them less than any time in the past 65 years.
Reluctantly, I switched away from frozen Stalingrad to watch Big Papi hit his 499th home run. We talked and laughed, and then we watched him hit his 500th home run, a major milestone that will get him into the Baseball Hall of Fame. I must admit that I had given up on Ortiz five years ago, when he had a typically weak spring.
If I had missed the 500th home run, I would have been bummed on Sunday morning.
Once again, Texas Larry had the best advice, ever.
I might ask him about the stock market.
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the BDN in Rockland for 30 years.