You can't go home again... except the times you can.

In spite of the fact that most of us seem to have forgotten that we are supposed to be back there this week, we muster the troops (most of them anyway - and in record time) and head out to the Park. The route is still so famiiar I think I could drive it in my sleep. The snow that feels too early somehow seems totally right for this trek (we've never come here regularly in summer after all).

Walking in, everything is the same...from the warmth of the fireplace that gradually overcomes the draft by the door to the array of beers available on tap, to the shadows of bad lighting on the singers' faces, to the table of regulars over there and the big empty booth sitting there, waiting for us. But more... the feeling of comfort and ownership, the welcoming smile of the man behind the bar (the fact that he still remembers your order and my allergies). This was a place that we called Sunday dinner - the weeky routine, the beginning and end of our weeks of hustle and bustle. The new faces here tonight only contribute to my feeling of ease here. (They are another kind of home for me, after all.) The voices I love sing through the dry wall dust of the day's activities as we hop from booth to booth visiting in various combinations, nursing our varied beverages, listening and singing along, and discussing anything and everything...and nothing at all.

Hello again pub that I adore... I've missed you.