I had a drink tonight at the Wildcat. The last time I was here was a year ago. There was a talented musician playing guitar and singing. I’m pretty sure it was the same guy last year. I’d like to tell you he was playing guitar the first time I came to the Wildcat, but that was 38 years ago, and I’m pretty sure he wasn’t born yet. Still, I think it’s possible. Because time stands still at the Wildcat. I’ve been drinking here for 38 years. Sometimes there’s just a day or two between drinks. Sometimes a year. Once, it was a decade or more between drinks, but it really doesn’t matter. The Wildcat is like that friend that you don’t see for years at a time, but when you do, you pick up the conversation right where you left off.
Still, there have been some especially memorable drinks at the Wildcat. Twenty years ago, Carol and I spent a day doing some wilderness skiing outside of Jackson. Josh hung out at the Wildcat with his friend Gary. Josh was 6. Gary was perhaps 26. One of them was drinking, but I’ll never know for sure which one.
And then there was the year Carol and I watched the Superbowl at the Wildcat. Giants v. Patriots. It’s not safe to root against the Patriots at a bar in New Hampshire. Still, sometimes you’ve got to live dangerously.
It’s likely I’ll have a few more drinks this week at the Wildcat. In between drinks, I intended to spend the week snow shoeing and dog sledding, but it appears that the weather may not cooperate. That’s okay. I just hit 35,000 words on my work-in-progress and I have 5,000 more I’d like to write this week.
There are worse things in life than writing with occasional breaks for a drink at the Wildcat Tavern.