Old Crow Morning
“Hey, Matt,” said a smiling Sean, a founding garrulous member of the Old Crow Book Club. “You've sure walked a long way this morning.”
Indeed I had. It was a foggy Sunday morning and I felt invigorated so my walk extended past my regular route to check out a creek after three days of rain.
I strode up to Sean and stopped. He was standing next to the canopied truck he lives in near the creek. The truck hasn't moved in almost a year, nor will it ever move again unless the city tows it away.
Another man I didn't know stood near him. Two cups of coffee rested on the hood of the truck, as did a half gallon bottle of Old Crow, that was either half full or half empty depending on your state of mind. I'll bet anything Sean was a half full kind of guy.
“It's a fine morning,” I said. “I wanted to come and see the creek and the wildlife.”
Sean smiled wide, then grabbed the bottle of rotgut bourbon, hoisted it in the air and said, “It's an Old Crow morning.”
I laughed. It was the dream ad slogan for a new way to rebrand Old Crow as the absolutely necessary and proper way to begin one's morning in Apocalyptic America.
“Indeed it is,” I said.
Sean then asked if I'd ever walked the railroad tracks down to the river. There was a little path that led down to the water's edge where a visitor could sit on a bench that afforded a fantastic view of all the birds on the river.
I had not. It sounded perfect
Sean said I had to go there.
I knew I would and said so.
“It's been good to see you, Matt,” said Sean.
I hadn't heard that from anyone in years. It sounded good.