Oh Darling Ones,

One of my favorite real-life characters died and I am sad. I wrote about Carol Sue once, a long time ago. It’s a good piece. You should read it.

Sister #2 and I love to talk about what an icon Carol Sue was. We always called her the Queen of Savage*, because she knew all the things about everything and had an opinion about it that she would share with you. She always had her hair done, her nails polished, and her jewelry shiny. She would legit walk into our smoky, dumpy, dirty-ass bowling alley in a fur coat. Like I said, iconic.

We’ve been talking about Carol Sue a lot since her husband, Mic, died in September. Mic was a character in his own right. I think he sang me the Mel Tillis’ “Coca Cola Cowboy” every Friday night for like seven years.

Do you remember, Darling Ones, all those years ago when I worked at my parents’ bowling alley? Probably not. But I did for many, many years until the city tore it down. The death of Carol Sue & Mic has stirred up a lot of those memories.

Today I’m wrapped in a thin layer of grief and nostalgia.

It doesn’t help that Spotify did me dirty by serving up Jason Isbell’s “If We Were Vampires” while I was reading Carol Sue’s obituary. The song is kind of a tearjerker on any day, but when you’re reading about the death of someone you liked a great deal and these lyrics come on:
It’s knowing that this can’t go on forever
Likely one of us will have to spend some days alone
Maybe we’ll get forty years together
But one day I’ll be gone
Or one day you’ll be gone

And you know it’s only been six months since her husband, another person you liked a great deal, died, well, let’s just say there were tears.

If I have any goals it is to live to be an old lady like Carol Sue,
Jodi

P.S. Last night when we were facetiming with Portland and my mom intimated that maybe Sister #2 wouldn’t be the Carol Sue of the Nancy/Carol Sue sister duo, Sister #2 shouted and pointed at herself, “Of course I’m the Carol Sue! I’m always the main character.” I am for sure the Nancy. This is akin to the Rhoda/Mary argument from “Romy & Michele’s High School Reunion,” only it’s not really an argument because I am the Nancy.

*Savage is the name of the small town my mom grew up in and where Carol Sue lived and not a comment on Carol Sue herself. The town is named after Marion Savage who owned the horse Dan Patch. The horse was like a superstar because he ran a mile in one minute, fifty-five and one quarter seconds, which was a huge big deal in 1915. Such a deal they named he town after the owner and the bowling alley I worked in after the horse.

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Yesterday I decided on a whim that I would probably die if I didn’t alphabetize, organize, and thin out my fiction collection. It really was a perfect activity to put February to bed. I don’t care what Eliot says, February is the cruelest month. August is a close second.

While unshelving, debating what gets into the permanent collection and what gets put in the “To Go” box, I stumbled on a notebook from 2005. This happens to me a lot, the stumbling upon of notebooks. I’d venture to guess it happens to all writers. This one was filled mostly with notes about work circa 2005 and some stuff from a Loft class.

It was nice, finding the notebook, which had two conversations from the bowling alley era in it.

Since finishing The Beast and entering the agent query process I’ve been flirting with the idea of revisiting those old bowling alley short stories I wrote seven, eight years ago. I can’t tell if this is a good idea or just a path to self-loathing. As my pal Vodo said not too long ago about his older stuff, “I want to punch my writing in the face.”

However, this has nothing to do with anything. The real reason I came here is because when I read the conversations in the book my first thought was “Oh, I’ll put this on I Will Dare.”

So today when I finally got around to it typing, I was hit by that nagging deja vu feeling I get sometimes when it comes to this ancient website.

Yep, there it was. Already transcribed and put into pixels for posterity’s sake nearly ten years ago. I hate when all my good ideas happened a decade ago.

I was gonna transcribe an Opie conversation that was also in the notebook, but it’s not that interesting.

However, at the bottom of the page it has this bit, “I think they stopped making dirty cards sometimes in 1982.”

I miss the bowling alley.

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Today is my nephew Max’s birthday. He’s 12. It’s crazy because I remember when he turned four like it was yesterday. Despite all the familial heaviness we had a lot of fun at his birthday party last night. This is quite a testament to our resilience, because before the party began we spent a lot of time talking about health care directives and how Mom has left instructions for the divvying up for her stuff.

But once the Tibbles arrived with their birthday exuberance and pro-Vikings trash talk (which is really quite adorable because that can’t swear or really think of good insults so the worst things they can think of to say about the Green Bay Packers is how they poop in their pants), we set that all aside.

For his birthday meal Max chose Heggies Pizza, which is a delicious brand of frozen pizza we used to serve at the bowling alley. I never thought I’d ever miss Heggies. In fact, towards the end there I actually turned my nose up at the Heggies. Familiarity had bred contempt.

Now, after last night, it’s all I want to eat. It tastes like bowling alley to me, and reminded me of the family we used to be before the child protection call and my dad’s estrangement. The only thing missing was a thick, blue curtain of cigarette smoke and someone asking me for a Bud Light the minute I shoved half a slice in my mouth.

Who would have thought a slice of frozen pizza could hold so much?

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Earlier this week we lost one of our bowlers, Holy Roller Bob. To me it seems swift and sudden because I had only learned a few weeks ago that he was sick. While undergoing surgery for pancreatic cancer he had a stroke, and he slipped away shortly after all that.

HRB bowled on both Mondays and Fridays at Dan Patch Lanes. He used to be on one of the old man teams, being in his mid-60s, but for some reason two years before the bowling alley was leveled he joined the Holy Rollers, a team full of 20somethings. It cracked me up every week to see HRB on that team. It upsets me that I can’t remember the nickname the 20somethings had for HRB. They even had the name embroidered on his shirt and it totally escapes me. It might have been something like Doobie or Dewey.

HRB was short and round and he had a round bald head. He liked to drink the Schmidt’s in the red can and every week he would tip me $1 and tell me to put it in my college fund. He was one of those old guys who liked to pretend to read whatever you were reading, or wave his hand between you and your reading material. It never grew old.

On Monday nights (back when I worked Monday nights) he used to bowl with his two sons. Dennis, his eldest son, had such a unique wind up and approach that I totally stole it and used it for a character in one of my short stories.

I think my favorite thing about HRB was how he always, always, always told me that I reminded him of my mom. He said that I smiled just like her. That probably seems like a weird thing to remember and to hold dear, but it’s what I remember the most.

Being the half sister, I often lament the fact that I don’t look like anybody. Well, not anybody we know. It isn’t often that people see my mom, Sister #2, and Jaycie together without commenting on how remarkable the family resemblance is. The same goes for when people see my dad, Sister #3, and Cade together.

I hadn’t ever gotten to experience something like that until HRB kept talking about my smile and my mom. It was one of those small things that a person says and probably doesn’t even think twice about, but it meant the world to me.

Holy Roller Bob sure will be missed.

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Only in my story the guy who dies was only five (see!) frames into a perfect game when he died.

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