The Last FADA

To mark the end of this chapter of our lives, we’ll go back to where it all started: Phil’s Pool House.  Technically, Phil’s Pool House didn’t exist when we first started meeting for happy hour 208 Fridays ago. But it’s going to be hot, and beautiful — like Phil — so that seems like as good a place as any.

Spouses and significant others are encouraged. Jennifer also asked me to tell you we are welcome to swim.  If you do, you don’t have to bring a bathing suit, but you do have to bring your own towel.

Phil & Jennifer Maynard's Pool House — 5:00 to 7:00
1925 Old Wire Road

It’s hard to tell when to call it quits.  Do you walk away from a job the first time your boss says, “That’s it, Shelton! You need to pack your shit and get your lazy ass out of here!!!” Do you pull the plug on a marriage over a couple of dozen unexplained credit card charges at the Big Chief Motel? Do you quit day-drinking just because you answer “Yes, please!” on 18 of the 21 warning signs of Alcoholism? Who’s to say ...

We can’t exactly pinpoint when it dawned on us that it was time to run away screaming from this horrific social experiment.  For some of us, perhaps, it was the time your children asked — to no one in particular — “Why do we have to make a family trip into town EVERY Saturday morning to get Dad’s car?” Only to find it had been towed, or left abandoned in a field somewhere. 

As the old song goes, “Sometimes you wanna go where everybody knows your name.” And sometimes you want to drink alone ... in the dark ... with your own separate Netflix account.

I digress. 

The great philosopher, Joliet Jake, tells us, “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”  We take that to mean, we have all grown these past four + years. We’re proud of you. Well, most of you.  And because of that growth we have all experienced together, we say this: 

Maybe you don’t need a pithy, sophomoric, self-indulgent email telling you where to drink every week. Maybe that’s a choice you can make on your own. And maybe we can all see each other out, by happenstance, at one of Fayetteville’s 80 drinking establishments, and reminisce. And old stories will become new again.

Until then, drink amongst yourselves.