A Eulogy for My Father, Sidney Wilson

I'm an only child. no sibling rivalries. no competition for my parents’ attention. You could say I was spoiled, but it was how I was spoiled that explains so much. my parents took me everywhere; restaurants, hotels, jazz concerts at Curtis Hixon Hall, driving vacations across the country, to their friends’ parties, and to church, of course. My father often took me to his office, to meetings, to Civitan Club luncheons, and across the state while he was calling on customers.

I was wearing a coat and tie at a very young age. I was expected to behave because I was around a lot more adults in my youth than children my own age. Through it all, my father’s hand was usually on my shoulder, quietly guiding me in the right direction….and I have to say I felt blessed to have access to the vast collection of ties in his closet.

In his lifetime my father was a farmer’s son, a teacher, a soldier, a loyal employee, a business owner and a proud World War II veteran. He knew my mother since he was six and she was three and they shared an enviable life together through good times and bad.

What I want to recount this afternoon is my father’s quiet strength, his warm demeanor, but most of all, his generosity and grace. Everyone either liked him or loved him. It wasn’t because he was outgoing or entertaining. His presence simply put everyone at ease.

As his son, I never wanted to fail him. When I did disappoint him, he didn’t get angry or judgmental. He stood by me. He helped me to fix the problem and move on. I cannot begin to credit him and my mother enough for seeing me safely through my youth by inspiring me to believe I could become anything I wanted to be.

In the late 60s and early 70s my father and I spent four years together sharing a car and a long, grueling commute each weekday across the original Howard Frankland bridge; him to work in Ybor City and me to high school on Davis Islands. That's how I learned to drive. He took the morning shift, and I drove us home each afternoon. The sun was always in our eyes. The rule was that whoever drove chose the radio station. My father never complained about the music I listened to. Think about that for a moment.

I often wonder if that’s where he and I learned to simply be comfortable with each other, not feeling that something had to be said. I wouldn't say we never talked. Instead, I'll posit that we enjoyed each other’s company and understood plenty without having to say much. We were that way together until the very end.

My father marveled at his longevity and was unable to explain it. He was thankful to God for the life he lived and was particularly grateful that he could spend the last years of his life together under the same roof with me and Elena. I would be remiss if I failed to credit the Veterans Administration for making that so much more manageable. I will always be grateful for their support.

My father outlived virtually all of his friends and family. There's no grieving spouse, no brothers, no children but me. In fairness, he might have felt that Carol was the daughter he never had. And he so much enjoyed meeting and talking with our friends and Elena's family. I know he loved Elena dearly. He could not have asked for a more caring daughter-in-law. 

Sadly, I've had the occasion to write and deliver too many eulogies in my life. As a writer I thought the exercise therapeutic, helping me to process the loss and, hopefully, to help others to do the same. This time it’s different. I struggled for these words. I don't want to let him down here today. I know how much he loved me. I only hope he knew how much I loved him.

Thank you, everyone, for standing with us today to bid farewell to such a fine man. 

A Eulogy For My Friend, Sherman Bywater

Shortly after Sherman’s passing I described to the world my best friend of nearly 50 years as a man of many stories; those he could tell, those that would be told about him, and those, perhaps, that only I knew. That’s simply because I was there, a witness to his life and the myriad reasons he was the man he became.

Sherman did not experience what any of us would call an ordinary childhood. He was raised a privileged child by his mother and grandmother in a large, ornate house you might imagine from a 1930’s movie. Once you entered the massive front door, everything seemed more black and white than color. Chandeliers that didn’t quite light the room, larger than life vases, mirrors, and a long dining room table. His grandmother ruled from the head of the table like the Queen of England, attended to by what for the life of me looked like both a maid and a butler. I was there.

Though he could not help but be influenced by all of this, Sherman did his best to act like none of it mattered; that he was just an ordinary boy growing up in St. Petersburg. But no one was buying that. 

Maybe it was showing up to school in a limousine, or one of those cars with propellers you could drive into the water. Or my favorite, his beloved baby blue Oldsmobile 442. And it probably had to do with how smart he was. Grades were never an issue for Sherman. Kids can be pretty cruel. They made Sherman their target. It was not an easy time for him. I know because I was there.


By the time we graduated from high school, Sherman and I were best friends. That summer our parents trusted us to set off to see some of the world. We drove up the coast to Cape Cod, Boston, and to his childhood summer home in North Adams, Massachusetts. We continued north to Montreal and Toronto. For reasons I don’t recall, perhaps because I simply didn’t have the money, we slept in the car some nights. Even then, Sherman snored. I know. I was there.


I think it may have been a birthday gift. Certainly unlike any I could imagine. A 58-foot Hatteras Sherman named Bullwinkle. It was about the biggest yacht I had ever seen. Yes, the small craft hanging from the stern was called Rocky. Three of us, best friends, plus my cat, boarded for the maiden cruise to Key West. It was only supposed to be for a few days. Turns out Captain Bywater’s leadership style severely tested our friendship. One of us jumped ship. I wasn’t happy either. We left Sherman safely moored at the Key West Yacht Club, rented a car and drove back home. I called the next day, apologized, and offered to fly down to help him get back home. He declined, dropped out of college, and didn’t return to St. Petersburg for nearly two decades. I was there.


Key West is no ordinary town. It readily accepts extraordinary people. Sherman immediately fit in and flourished. He earned one of the highest scores in Florida to secure his pilot’s license, bought a plane and became a pilot for the Sheriff. Then he became a deputy. Uniform, gun, cruiser, the whole package. It emboldened him like I had never seen. One night I was riding with him when we were dispatched to a bar fight up the keys. It was a harrowing 100 mile-per-hour, lights-and-siren ride I’ll never forget. When we arrived he said, “raise your right hand.” I did and he said, “you’re deputized.” He handed me a shotgun and told me to watch his back. And then he busted his way into a brawling crowd of drunk fisherman and single-handedly diffused a dangerous situation. It was an amazing thing to witness. I was there.


Sherman would go on to befriend the Mayor of Key West and would tow him 90 miles on water skis to Havana, Cuba to attend a conference. It was, perhaps, the greatest adventure we ever shared. I don’t expect you to believe this, but I was there. I have pictures, too.


Some years later, my cousin called. She had had a rough time of it and needed to get away for a break. I picked her up at the airport in Miami and, together with a girl I was friends with, we drove down to Key West to visit this friend I told her about. Sherman was no longer living on the Bullwinkle. He had a condominium that could accommodate guests. We were all set.


To say our brief visit changed the course of history for all of us would be something of an understatement. I could take up all of our time just describing the joy we shared together that weekend, but there’s one small story that helps to reveal the real Sherman. Cindy was going to bake cookies. She naturally turned on the oven to preheat it. None of us expected the ensuing smoke and fire alarm. You see, Sherman never ate at home. Though he had lived in his condo for a year, he’d never cooked a meal there. Cindy had set the oven instructions, neatly contained in a plastic envelope and taped to the oven rack, on fire. I was there for that, too.


I’ll skip to the good part. Sherman would marry Cindy, and I would be his best man in Rolla, Missouri. A few months later, I would marry Elena, and he would be my best man in downtown St. Petersburg. And then thirty years of life happened, with all the highs and lows that come with it.


With someone like Sherman, the highs and lows were pretty extreme. I’m really not certain how he survived them all and, in the end, he didn’t. His depths of despair I witnessed were frightening. There were times when I felt the only thing that separated him from a bullet was the loving gaze of an ill-mannered beagle.


And Sherman fought his way back from near death after grueling heart surgery and a long, painful recovery that would change him forever. Cindy, Ted, Lori and I, and others, would visit him in hospital every day for many weeks. Late in the night, delirious and unaware, he would leave me messages calling for help to bail him out of jail where he was certain he was chained to his bed. He would not remember any of that.


Sherman could make friends no matter where he went. I imagine it was a skill he picked up in Key West. Rather than eat or drink alone at home, he made friends wherever he dined or drank. And if you just happened to dine or drink in the same place for say five nights a week, the friendships grew that much stronger. This is where Sherman and I parted ways. It’s not that he didn’t sit at our dining room table for hundreds of meals over the years, on those nights he didn’t eat out, it’s that I simply couldn’t afford to sit at the bar at Bern’s for the other five nights a week. So, no, I wasn’t there, but I have reliable sources. Oh, and in all the years I’ve known him, and I did make my wish known, I never had a single meal with Sherman in his home.


We all have these kinds of stories to describe Sherman and the times we’ve shared with him. He’s had a profound impact on a lot of people. He influenced each and every one of us here today. 

It’s no easy task to sum up a man’s life and what it means under the duress of standing by his grave. We’re all grateful and blessed in some way for knowing Sherman or we wouldn’t be here. He loved each of us. For me, he was like a brother from another mother I never had. We were really nothing alike, but we cherished the longevity of our relationship and understood well all that the other had experienced and endured.


Sherman was loyal and generous to his friends. For all his wealth and genius, he didn’t really want anything different than the rest of us: Acceptance, honesty, loyalty, and especially love. Sometimes he was successful, and often he wasn’t. But no matter how close you were to him, he remained a private person. He and I were often the kind of friends that would just sit together quietly, being typical men unwilling or unable to share our feelings that were all too easily apparent on our faces.


There’s one special gift Sherman possessed that I would be remiss not to mention. It was his secret weapon that could always lighten the room. There was no joke too bad to tell. There was no pun he could not bounce off a wall to hit you from out of nowhere. He was the master of the straight face and the tormentor to the gullible. Perhaps that’s how he sought acceptance in his youth, but it certainly became him in time and gave him reason to offer up a genuine smile we would all recognize. For me, Sherman will forever be one if by land, and two if Bywater.


And so, friends, that is my small remembrance to my lifelong friend. I could probably tell it a dozen different ways, but it would probably always end about the same way. None of us will ever forget Sherman. We will always celebrate knowing him and cherish the experiences we shared. The impact on some of our lives will continue or be dramatically magnified. For others, his memory will soon drift as we carry on with our lives. Sherman would be fine with that. He would pragmatically acknowledge his time here had finally expired, expressing gratitude for the additional time he was granted in recent years to be with his wife, his children, and grandson for just a little while longer.


Rest in peace, my good friend. We wish you a pleasant journey and hope our paths will cross again one day.

The Overlooked Option For The Pier

In candor, I have not closely followed the controversy surrounding The Pier in downtown St. Petersburg. As a taxpaying, Pinellas County resident, I could claim some small standing, but I don’t live within the city limits and cannot vote in what is sure to be a heated referendum election. I largely trust our representative form of government to make these kinds of decisions. At the same time, I respect that there are many who feel differently.

I left here for college in August, 1972 and, as you might expect of a young man anxious to enjoy his first taste of freedom, paid little attention to the construction of The Pier. Upon returning home shortly after it opened, I was impressed with it’s design and that Marriott was operating the facility. My earliest memory was a short trip by boat from the municipal marina, tying up beneath the massive structure, and enjoying a prime rib dinner while looking south toward the airport. Alas, it would be many years before I visited again.

I have observed downtown St. Petersburg for all of The Pier’s life. In the summer of 1975, I spent time on that same boat while taking classes at USF St. Petersburg. It would be a gross understatement to say the campus has come a long way from when classrooms were housed in old military barracks. Downtown was a particularly sleepy place I have little recollection of. I don’t remember returning to The Pier either.

In the mid-eighties, I volunteered for two years with the GTE St. Petersburg Grand Prix and then, for an additional two years, served as the event’s Director of Communications. It was a time at the dawn of the city’s recent renaissance, just before The Vinoy Resort would reopen or ground was broken for The Florida Suncoast Dome. Those early years the race course ran down the pier’s approach, through a hairpin turn, and then back to Bayshore Drive. The drivers didn’t like it, but it made an extraordinary camera angle for the race. 

On the other hand, the ambitious Pier Park referendum had just failed and a new idea called Bay Plaza wasn’t going anywhere. Once the race was over, downtown was not a very exciting place to be. There were few restaurant choices at the time. I used to frequent what I affectionately called The Three Os: Ollie-O’s, Tangelos and Appropos. My office was at the corner of 2nd Avenue NE and Bayshore Drive NE. You really couldn’t work any closer to The Pier, but I rarely patronized the restaurants there. When I opened my own business in northern St. Petersburg, my awareness of The Pier faded.

Sure, I would see The Pier in the distance when I attended concerts at Straub or Vinoy Park, or from the windows of offices overlooking Tampa Bay. There was certainly something comforting about its presence, but nothing that actually lured me out there. That remained true as I grew active with organizations that met downtown. When I was president of Suncoast Tiger Bay Club in 1999, I purposely utilized several different venues for the club’s twice-monthly meetings to keep things fresh. It never occurred to me to try The Pier. I regret that now.

As I think about it, my history living in Pinellas County coincides closely with the life of The Pier. In that span of 40 years, I can’t say with certainty that I visited the Pier much more than a couple dozen times. Until this past week, I really can’t remember when I was last there.

That’s the question I want to ask you: Just how often do you visit The Pier?

Thinking that we should visit one more time, my wife and I dined at Cha Cha Coconuts last week. We wandered the largely empty building for a while and were surprised by how few people we found on the roof to watch an outstanding sunset. Living on the beach as we do, I know the look and sound of tourists. I’m confident that most of the people up there with us were not from St. Petersburg.

Do you know where I found throngs of locals? Beach Drive. It’s no secret that the bar and restaurant scene there has exploded in recent years. I suspect they even threaten the viability of food service at the venerable St. Petersburg Yacht Club! The old Lantern Lane apartment building was recently renovated and just reopened to rave reviews as The Birchwood, a trendy hotel, bar and restaurant. And there were even more people to be found watching an old movie at the north end of Straub Park. I dare say that on that single weeknight in mid-May, there were more people on Beach Drive than The Pier had seen all week!


To say The Pier had a head start to establish itself as an iconic location frequented by locals would be more than generous. And after 40 years, it would be nice if they had weaned themselves off taxpayer subsidies for operating expenses. Maybe smarter management and marketing could have saved The Pier if they had started a decade ago. In addition to all the technical reasons the city has identified, and in light of the intense competition that is thriving along the city’s waterfront, I simply don’t see a business model for The Pier that warrants keeping it open.

I recently read an article in the Tampa Bay Times sharing the personal disappointment of the family behind the architecture of The Pier. I think their feelings are understandable and justified. It was an ingenious design that answered a number of unique needs. I really do wish the current structure could be saved, but I don’t see throwing more good money after bad.

Though I believe I will miss the higher vantage point from which to see the sun set over downtown St. Petersburg, I have no real objection to the proposed and chosen design known as The Lens, nor the process that is bringing it to fruition. I won’t fight it, nor will I go out of my way to support it (unless I’m hired to, of course). I am certain The Lens will be a stunning, iconic structure to symbolize a bright future for this city. 

There will always be people who resist and bitterly oppose change. They may win a small battle this August when the referendum is held, holding back this city from its destiny, but they cannot prevail. Change will eventually happen, whether they like it or not.

Since the city’s founding, there was always a pier on St. Petersburg’s waterfront that, in some way large or small, served as a tourist attraction. But no one can argue that tastes and preferences have evolved over the past century, just as the various pier designs evolved. Given how people have changed, have we overlooked one choice in this whole, complicated matter? I really don’t mean to be provocative, but is it so unfair to ask if any pier, whether repaired or new, is still warranted? 

$50-million (or more) is a lot of money that could be used in other ways to improve the quality of life we enjoy here. The waterfront and its beautiful parks we treasure could certainly be well-maintained. Maybe additional land could be purchased to add to the city’s admirable park system. How about a new park on the current site of Tropicana Field, for example (oh yeah, I was trying not to be provocative)? Perhaps a modest, shorter pier and an iconic observation tower might serve our needs just fine.

That’s why I asked how often do you visit The Pier? 

Will either pier, whether old or new, really improve your quality of life? Will it improve your experience when visiting downtown or our waterfront? If it wasn’t there, would future tourists miss it, given how much more downtown St. Petersburg now has to offer? 

Forget all of the facts and figures for a moment, as well as the vitriol that opponents and proponents will soon hurl as the election draws near. Now ask yourself if you will really walk to the end of a new pier, look back at the city and say, yes, it was right to spend $50-million dollars to build? 

Or will you wait for visiting family from out-of-town and, like so many of us, take them to see what you rarely visit and so easily take for granted?

It could be that neither side in this battle has it right.

Landing in Kona

I've been writing blog posts I never bothered to post for years. Now that I'm trying to clean out my computer (it actually notified me that I was out of space, if you can believe that!), some of them will find their way here. I wrote this one on November 10, 2008. If you're planning a trip to the "dry side" of the Big Island, it might be helpful.

There are a lot of obvious signs that you have arrived in Hawaii. Seeing the peak of Mauna Kea or the green slopes of the Kohala Range are the first. As the plane descends and you look down on endless miles of dark, foreboding lava, lined here and there by deserted beaches, a thin line of palm tress, and the brilliant Pacific Ocean, the contrast is so striking that no one would be surprised if you asked, is this really Hawaii?

The Kailua-Kona airport at Keahole is also a contrast with the expected. Like something out of an old, black and white movie from the 40s, They roll steps up to the plane, you step out into the bright sun, then look up to behold the mammoth volcano known as Mauna Loa. It is immediately clear why they call this the Big Island.

For me, the real confirmation that I have returned to Hawaii follows less than a minute and twenty yards later. The distinctive and soothing sound of Hawaiian doves greet me as I enter the open air terminal. Aloha. Everything that might concern me back home seems less significant. It is nearly impossible to begin thinking that I might like to live  here.

This being our eighth visit, we know the routing well. Our bags will take some time to reach the crowded little baggage claim area, also an open air facility, so Elena stays behind to collect the bags and I run ahead to rent a car. Rates here are moderate, but the taxes and concession fees outrageous. This is the year I commit to rent from a local agency in town. As this will be our longest stay yet, over three weeks, we’ll have the time to try things differently.

Being this close to Kailua-Kona, known locally as just “Kona,” we head south first to see the town and retrace the steps from our first trip twelve years ago. We arrived at night in 1996, so we missed the newcomers’ initiation of driving miles through ominous fields of  lava, but could not escape the test of the Hawaiian language. Most people are familiar with simple, four-letter names like Kona, Hilo, and Maui, and they have probably mastered Honolulu. After that, they are oblivious to the tongue-twisting challenge of how Hawaiians combine the 13 letters in their alphabet to create a unique language that still lives in the islands.

While nothing remains the same, more seems the same here than has changed since we last visited in 2006. Two obvious changes are the new and wider roads in Kona, together with a new shopping center just north of town. Less obvious, at first, but then alarming, are the many restaurants and stores that have closed. The weakening economy has hit tourism hard here. Even the Chart House and Hard Rock are gone. And if they’re serving breakfast at Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, you know times are tough (actually, I’m glad they are. This used to be the Jolly Roger, and there was no more beautiful view in Kona to enjoy your breakfast by).

We drive along the nine-mile stretch of Alii Drive and pass Kona By The Sea, the first condo we ever rented. We still hold pleasant memories of the place. The two public beach parks, nick named Magic Sands and Turtle Beach, are not nearly as crowded, but still clearly popular.

Creatures of habit that we are, we are drawn south through the small Hawaiian towns of Kainallu, Kealakekua and Captain Cook (OK, there’s one of the few easy ones to say), on our way to one of our favorite “cheap thrills” on the island, the Mac Nut Factory. We learned of this place back in 1996 from one of locals that was hawking timeshare sales, and have never failed to return. The trick, we learned, was to buy their “over-roasted” macadamia nuts for half the price. Over the years, we actually grew to prefer them that way (and could never complain about the price). The secret, though, is to arrive on Tuesday. Alas, we arrived a day early and left empty-handed, except for a bag of chocolate-covered mac nuts. Ono! That’s what they say here when it’s a good thing.

Groceries and Dining on the Big Island

Our first, real work here was to “stock up” for our 25-day stay. Food is a little different here, even at the Safeway in Kona, which is a national chain. The two local grocery stores are KTA and Foodland. They’re in Kona, Hilo and Waimea. Just blocks from our condo there’s the Waikoloa Village Market. Because it captures so much of the tastes of Hawaii, this is really one of my favorite grocery stores anywhere. It’s not the cheapest, by any means, and sticker shock is something to prepare yourself for when you arrive, but we can walk there, still watch for bargains, and always find fresh, locally-caught fish.

The new trend in groceries on the island are at the big, Kohala coast resorts. With so many new vacation homes and condos, as well as vacation ownership resorts (a.k.a. timeshares), the 6-mile, or more, drive up to our village just wouldn’t do any longer. KTA and ABC Stores, the local chain of souvenir shops, both owned by the same three brothers, opened Island Gourmet in the new Queen’s Shops, a fancy shopping center just across the street from the long-established King’s Shops. Further down the road, Foodland opened The Farms at a similar shopping center built near the Mauna Lani and Fairmont Orchid. Both are impressive little operations, stocked with an eye for international tastes, but the Island Gourmet is architecturally stunning.

As you would imagine, these shopping centers are filled with the island’s high-end stores and restaurants, giving guests the impression that they aren’t trapped in their very high-end resorts. With all their amenities, it would be easy to imagine that many guests would feel little reason to wander far from their rooms (that, of course, would be tragic). Tommy Bahama and Ruth’s Chris have restaurants at the Mauna Lani Resorts. Roy’s and Merriman’s are at the King’s Shops (in fairness, these are truly the best “local restaurants,” even though Outback introduced Roy’s to the mainland). 

The big news is the new sushi and seafood restaurant at the Queen’s Shops called Sansei. It’s getting rave reviews and I’m thinking it might become one of my new favorites. The really big news is that they’re opening a Romano’s Macaroni Grill at Queen’s. Yes, you heard correctly, mediocrity is arriving soon. Still, I kind of like the place and plan to be present for their grand opening on Monday.

It’s clear that the big names are struggling in the faltering economy too. While entrée prices start in the high $30 range, each of these big-ticket restaurants are advertising prix-fix or sunset (a.k.a. Early Bird) specials to entice patrons. They’re also offering discounts to the locals a couple of nights a week. I’m hard-pressed not to consider these opportunities for a big night out. I’m thinking I’d like to try that Tommy Bahama’s restaurant.

Thankfully, there are other, cheaper ways to grocery shop or eat. The farmers’ markets here are legendary, and there are plenty of colorful, local joints that offer plenty of filling food at reasonable prices. The big markets are on Wednesday and Saturday mornings in Kona and Hilo, though there are smaller markets throughout the island and on different days. I think the most famous market is in Hilo. It certainly attracts the largest number of vendors, locals and visitors and is legitimately a tourist attraction. To be sure, it is something of a third-world experience. English is definitely a second language among most of the vendors, but they have mastered calling out, “one dollar!” Here you will find both familiar fruits and vegetables, as well as alien-looking species at prices too cheap not to go ahead and give them a try. The rambatan is a fruit of science fiction, red  and hairy on the outside, squishy opaque white on the inside. It tastes fine, but the whole experience is a little unsettling. I still don’t see what the locals see in the wing beans though. Bottom line is that for about $10, you can fill a large shopping bag with enough fresh fruit and vegetable to last a week

A Eulogy For My Friend, Bill Sharpe

Bill Sharpe was my friend. That doesn’t distinguish me from any of you here today. We share this loss together. There are no words that can be spoken in a few minutes to do justice to Bill’s memory. I’m here today to tell you about the Bill Sharpe I knew...about thirty years ago. That’s how long I’ve called Bill one of my closest friends.

From the time I first met Bill, it was clear he was driven by the desire to make a bigger difference in life. You would always sense his presence in the room, even in 1978. If there was an opportunity for him to lead, rather than follow, he would seize it. His confidence hurtled him through life like a rocket without a rudder. He was always climbing, or trying to. And he always believed he was right...even when he wasn’t.

I was very fond of hearing him laugh “Well, there’s truth to what you’re saying.” That was the best you were going to get when you disputed his “rightness,” but he still wanted to give you credit.

For me, Bill was more than a friend, he was a tremendous influence.

I credit Bill with nudging me into politics, putting the first canoe paddle in my hand, for making foreign travel seem easy, for introducing me to pickled okra, for illustrating the infinite value of a friend’s loyalty, and most of all, for showing me what it means to never give up, no matter how many times you fail.

And that, my friends, is what makes Bill’s death so difficult to fathom. While his successes were many, so were his losses. He was no saint. He made mistakes. He would never discuss them. He would just carry on. I’ve never believed him to be someone who would willingly hurt anyone. Quite the contrary, Bill was usually the first to lend a helping hand to anyone in need.

Political figures, as you might imagine, are always in need. Whether they were from Pinellas County, or just passing through, there was a good chance that Bill would be there to meet them, to counsel them, or to support them. Oh, and that little nudge I mentioned earlier? I was mighty impressed when Bill personally introduced me to John Glenn, somehow prompting him to say that I should get involved with politics full time.

Then there was the night Bill showed up at my door with a six pack and said, let’s go for a ride, I need to talk with you. It was weeks before my first marriage. At the end of a dark road, Bill put our friendship on the line and tried to convince me not to do it. Somehow he knew I was making a mistake. Damned if he wasn’t right. But our friendship grew even stronger.

Of the thousands of memories I have of Bill, my favorites are sure to be found somewhere among the hundreds of miles of canoe trips we took together. Our first trip was the Alafia River in the spring of 1981. There were just three of us, a bit crowded for a single canoe, and though we were in our late 20s, we acted like young school boys, tipping the canoe and splashing each other. It opened a door to years of adventures that included climbing a pyramid in Mexico and hiking the Inca Trail in Peru.

Our canoe group grew to more than two dozen, traveling all over Florida to paddle for days on a long river. Bill was always our leader. For those unfamiliar with the challenges of canoeing for several days, finding an overnight camp site is the hardest thing to do.

In charge, and true to form, Bill always thought he was right. “It’s just around the next bend in the river,” he would declare. “That’s what you said about ten bends ago, Bill,” I would point out.

He’d just laugh. “Well, there’s truth to what you’re saying.”

Our group took one last canoe trip, notably and intentionally without Bill. I don’t quite remember the reason, but we were mighty proud of ourselves doing without “always right” Bill. The thing about it? While the trip went  flawlessly, it just wasn’t the same without him. The group never paddled together again.

Bill held a number of interesting jobs in his life that always  demanded self confidence. Always putting his name and his reputation on the line. He was selling condos on the beach when I first met him. He moved on to selling stocks and bonds. Then, in a wholly unexpected twist, Bill turned in his suits and ties for jeans and t-shirts to sell chicken wings and beer, and build something of a legendary blues venue in a setting I’ll generously call rustic. Bill transformed a tiny bar in the country called Mr. Pub into a sizable establishment with an acre of land out back where he promoted concerts that would attract hundreds of people. The locals came to love him, dubbing him Mr. Bill. The name stuck. His success did not.

I recall eleven places that Bill called home. One wasn’t really a home. And it isn’t the most recent one you may be  thinking of.

Bill had suffered another one of his failures. He was living in a pop-up camper in an RV park just outside of Tampa. He was about as close to homeless as any of us would imagine. Years later, when he founded the Tampa Epoch, many charged Bill with being an opportunist seizing on a loophole. Looking back, and knowing what I know, I think that experience was what really drove him. He often said of the homeless, this could be any one of us. The truth is that he knew that better than most.

Bill got the hand he needed to move into an apartment. He adopted Charlie the cat that same week. While holding on to a job selling RVs, he got back on his feet and began his online marketing company, determined as ever. Most of you know the rest of the story as well or better than I do. It was another couple of chapters in Bill’s life that read much like he had always lived it: Trying always to do good, have a good time, and always be right.

I don’t have the credentials to help you deal with the terrible sorrow Bill’s death represents. And while we were still close these past ten years, others certainly grew closer to him. Knowing him for as long as I have, I cannot account for what he determined was so wrong that it came to this. He was no stranger to failure or loss, and there is not one of us here who would not have extended our hand to help him, just as he would have come running if any one of us had called him.

What I have to ask is what do we take away from this experience? It has to be something more lasting than to console each other and celebrate our good fortune for calling Bill our friend.

What comes to my mind is what would Bill have us believe? What would he want us to know. How would he want us to live on without him? I can’t know for sure, but if he came to my door with a six pack in his hand and said, let’s go for a ride, here’s what I think he would tell me:

Always believe in the goodness of others, and do what you can to help them, however you can.

Always believe in yourself, no matter how many times you fail. You can always start over again.

But Bill wouldn’t stop there. He would go out on a limb and risk our friendship to say: Don’t assume you know someone as well as you think you do. You can never really know another person’s pain. You have to listen carefully. You have to ask. You really have to care.

Because, if you do, you won’t let this happen to someone else you love like we all loved Bill.

Well, Bill, there’s truth to what you’re saying.

Fiesta Day in Ybor City

We all have large and small annual events we like to attend. You may already know of my affection for Tampa’s Gasparilla celebration. My other favorite Tampa event is just weeks later in the city’s historic Latin quarter, known as Ybor City. It’s Fiesta Day, a celebration of diverse ethnic cultures that influence and strengthen the area’s character. You can count on Spanish, Central and South American and Caribbean influences all coming together to make for a grand party.

For as many years as I can remember, the event followed Gasparilla Day by a week or two and always marked the last weekend of the the Florida State Fair. For whatever reason, it came later this year, on Saturday, February 28th. Maybe that was a blessing. The weather was perfect. Last year the event was cancelled due to rain.

I can’t quite say what distinguishes this event from so many like it. For me, I suspect it has to do with my youth. Both my parents worked just beyond Ybor City’s border and I attended kindergarten and elementary school there. Every week day, until I graduated from high school in 1972, there was a pretty good chance I drove through or near the area. Years later, I continued to shop there for Cuban bread, wine and Latin-influenced groceries. You can only imagine the changes I have seen through the years.

The event is free, parking is easier than ever with the new parking garages, and you may spend as little or as much as you want on food and drink. I just love walking from one end of La Septima to the other, and then back again, taking detours to visit vendors along the side streets and in Centennial Park. La Septima? No, I never called it that either. It means “the seventh,” referring to East Seventh Avenue. When I was young, we just called it Broadway. One of my father’s closest friends worked at the Broadway National Bank. That’s one way I remember the old name.

I won’t really brag about all there is too eat as you walk the street. Some food vendors are better than others. It was good to see Pipo’s serving roast pork, yellow rice and black beans (the Holy Trinty of Cuban Food), and no Fiesta Day is complete without sampling a cannoli or other Italian treats on the street in front of the magnificent Italian Club. But before you eat anywhere, you must enjoy a free bowl of Spanish Bean Soup, a piece of Cuban bread and a cup of “cafe con leche.” They dish it out at the western end of the street and it is some of the finest you will ever taste. It used to be only for out-of-town visitors. You had to show your driver’s license. My family didn’t move to the beach just to get free soup in Ybor City, but it was some consolation for being so far from somewhere I feel so close to. These days, the free soup is for everyone.

For many years, at the other end of Broadway, the bigger treat was the Columbia Restaurant’s annual spectacle of cooking the world’s largest paella. If I recall correctly, that, too, was free, at first. But even when they began to charge for it, you would be hard-pressed to eat better anywhere in the world. Somehow, I never made it to the other end of Broadway this year, which is a little disappointing, but I am not certain Columbia is making paella out on the street any longer, so it could be worse.

So after the free food, the things I liked best about this Fiesta Day was watching all the people, marveling at all the well maintained or restored architecture, hearing all of the Latin-influenced music, and ending up face down in a bowl of flan.

Say what?

In recent years, Fiesta Day has expanded significantly into Centennial Park, and now features a competition known as Flan Fest, where real people compete to create the most beautiful, and tasty flan, a carmel-crusted, egg custard dessert that is beloved in Spanish cultures. A local Spanish radio station was was holding a flan-eating contest, just as I was passing the stage. They called for volunteers and I didn’t hesitate to respond. With both hands behind my back, I sucked a complete flan from the bowl in just seconds. Alas, others apparently suck more than I do. It was good fun, and the flan was great, too!

Two of my favorite memories of Ybor City were the Silver Ring Cuban Sandwich Shop and Las Novadades Restuarant. Both are closed now, though the Silver Ring made a second go at it a couple of years ago, ironically, in the same building that began as Las Novadades. The building has housed any number of restaurants and night clubs through the years, including the provocative La Goya, if I remember correctly. Today it is home to The Nest, a Mediterranean Tapas and Pasta Bar which Elena and I agreed to try for a late lunch.

To begin with, this place has something of an identity crisis. A sign on the window directs you to a web site called thepastanest.com (the site seems to be under construction). The thing is, there isn’t any pasta on the menu. Speaking with the waiter, he indicated that customers didn’t respond well to the pasta offerings, so the restaurant is retooling. There are currently only five entrées on the menu for either lunch or dinner, but there are a respectable number of tempting tapas and salad offerings that seemed ideal for a late afternoon lunch following a face full of flan.

I ordered an Italian draught beer called 1812 ($5.00) and the Piquillos Rellenos ($7.00), three sweet Spanish peppers stuffed with mushrooms, spinach and goat cheese, all swimming in a pool of yellow pepper coulis. In a word, perfection. The beer was quite smooth and rich. Elena had the Arugula Salad ($7.00) with Manchego cheese, Granny Smith apples and walnut vinaigrette. The salad, too, was perfect. Served with bread and olive oil, the tab came to a mere $19.00, a fact I am certain our waiter found wanting. Still, we liked the place and how they had decorated it. I wouldn’t hesitate to return.

As we walked back to the car in the mid-afternoon sun, the blue sky offered sharp contrast to the aging, but beautiful, red brick buildings that make Ybor City so distinctive. It was a fine day, and if it fits your schedule next year, I recommend you go celebrate.

You are invited to see 36 of my favorite 2009 Fiesta Day photos on the Parsons-Wilson Picasa site.

The Pasta Nest (or maybe just The Nest, by the time you read this) is at 1430 East 7th Avenue, in Ybor City, just a block or two from the Centro Ybor Parking Garage.

Sunset, diapers, my cell phone and the police

I already had taken one walk on the beach and didn’t feel the need for another, but Elena had a rough day and needed to move some. I agreed to accompany her, grabbing the Frisbee on our way out. We found Tara and the kids there, the first time in recent memory, and it was young Aiden’s very first time in the Gulf. He was a handful, returning to the water time after time. Elena and I headed south, tossing the Frisbee between us and catching another great sunset.

And then I realized my cell phone was missing.

I returned south, Elena headed north. I was cursing myself for bringing it. That belt clip never held it very securely. Tara caught up with me and dialed my number from her cell.

A man answered. He was inquiring whether a reward was being offered for the return of the phone.

“But you have the phone in your hand,” Tara exclaimed. “It’s not lost. You have it!”

She handed her phone to me and the man asked what I thought might be a fair reward. I explained that the insurance would replace the phone and it wouldn’t work within minutes of my calling the carrier.

That did not seem to concern him. He was interested in immediate gratification. We tentatively agreed to twenty dollars but, I explained, I needed to walk home to get the money and would then drive to the gas station he was waiting at, just a few blocks away.

You can imagine my mood. I was thinking that maybe this was a message to me to just quit using the damn thing, to cancel my service and not replace the phone.

What really bothered me was that this was happening in my community. I didn’t care about the phone or the twenty dollars, but I was concerned about the personal information on the phone and how it might lead to identity theft. And I knew the direct line to our local police dispatcher.

I called to ask their advice. The dispatcher said to come to the station and that a police officer would accompany me to the “exchange.”

“Do not give this man money,” instructed the police officer. “Get your phone and walk away. We’ll take care of the rest.”

The man in question stood conspicuously at the edge of the gas station, my phone in his hand, just a block away from the police station and only a few blocks from our home. I circled around so that he would be on my side of the car. No sense exposing Elena to any more risk than necessary.

“That’s a nice phone,” he exclaimed, handing it to me. “Hey, I’m just trying to afford some diapers for my child.”

“I don’t think the police would look at it that way,” I replied, looking in the rear view mirror and wondering where they were.

“Well, that’s the way it is.”

“Look, I’m sympathetic to the child and the diapers thing,” I explained, “but these are tough times for everybody. I closed my company and my wife is only working half time.”

“In tough times like these, we all need to be nice to each other. This isn’t the way to do that,” I suggested.

“Oh well,” seemed to be his response.

And then three police cars converged on our little corner of the world.

I pulled my vehicle to the other side of the parking lot. A police woman walked over and asked how I liked my Honda CR-V. She had a Toyota RAV-4. We briefly compared our reasons for choosing our vehicles and then she asked if everything was okay. We said yes, thanked her and drove away. A double Martini was clearly in order.

I don’t know what the police will do with the guy. The officer I spoke with actually used the word extortion. It didn’t seem he would be too sympathetic about diapers. The guy wasn’t threatening or anything. Everyone was amazingly calm and casual. But I can’t help but feel he was telling the truth about why he was standing on that corner with my phone in his hand. These are tough times. Look how it effected one man’s judgement. I’m sure seeing three police cars show up may have raised that very question in his mind.

I meant what I said. If we don’t all look after each other, and be nice, these hard times won’t get any easier. On the other hand, a lot of people are bound to grow more desperate. Nice may not always carry the day. We should probably learn to be more careful, too.