Carlsbad Treasure

This 1990 photo is my dad and another member of the coffee clatch codgers at the North Y Drive-in on the bend where Canal Street turns into Pierce right next to the Fire Station here in Carlsbad. Daddy was 77 when this photo was taken. The problems of the world have been solved in this diner - more than once. Sometimes more than once a day. The coffee and the ambiance are about the same today. Good coffee, good conversation, good people. good service. Not much has changed in the last 30 years.

My dad drank coffee at the North Y twice a day for the last 20 years of his life. He passed away in 2002 and I took some money down so he could stand for the coffee for a couple of days. He would have liked that. This place gave him a social life after my Mom passed on. The stories told here are the true heart of a small town, and more accurate than the local paper.

I mentioned Blue Highways by William Least Heat Moon in an earlier post. Least Heat Moon rates local eateries in his "blue highway" travels as one, two, three, or four calendar diners. The North Y is a three calendar diner. Homemade pies, breakfast anytime you want it, cooked to order, the best cheeseburger in town and if what you want is not on the menu, just ask. When the regulars pull up in the drive way - the cook starts their order. Almost no one needs a menu. Most of the coffee drinkers have their own cup. They take turns tricking each other into paying. There is even a second generation, or third - and a seating hieracrchy. If I came in to visit with Daddy, I got a seat at the table. If I come in with my kids - I get a booth.

These days I try to stop by about once a month. You can go in and eat and not worry about eating alone. Ocena, the owner, will come out of the kitchen and sit with you for a few if you are alone. She is in her eighties now. I think the North Y Drive-in is an endangered state treasure. It will be a shame when all the local diners turn into Golden Arches. This little corner of the world will be less bright when places like this disappear. I hope it doesn't happen for a long time.

Sonnet to Sean

You were my sun, my son, my light, and love;
As golden as the summer’s brightest day.
And striking as a shooting star above,
Forever changed the night you blazed away.
Grief turned the light to darkness when you died.
I swallowed grief and made it part of me;
I fed it fear and locked it deep inside.
Grief grew until I almost ceased to be.

Time turned the days to weeks, and months to years.
And yet with time, the deepest grief will wane;
The darkness fades to dawn that quiets fears
And light seeps gently in to ease my pain.
Now with the shining stars that grace the night,
You’ll be my star, my son, my love, and light.

The Bottom - Addiction

No mother purposely intends to court grief,
To raise her precious little child
To be a junkie, druggie, liar and thief.
Honest truth, the two I raised went wild.
The sweet cub-scouts, the little league players,
The bike riding little fishermen,
The Sunday School and summer camp boys
Who later found themselves in the grip of addiction,
Somehow, somewhere, something went wrong.
My grand plans were headed for perdition.
Neither was neglected, abused or rejected,
I always did my very, by the Dr. Spock book, best
To ultimately provide, the basics and
Moreover, finer things – maybe in excess.
Quality time, educational trips, and all the other
Accoutrements the experts claimed
Would insure their life’s success;
Acceptance to college, and maybe fame.
But addiction is the greedy monster
That is hiding silently under the bed,
And lurking behind the closet door
Savage and hungry and waiting to be fed.
My precious sons – the monster ate,
And, for a short while, all that I was holding,
Was a mother’s misery, wine, and hate.

The Bench

On a concrete bench beside a lake
A mother sits in grief’s heartbreak.
Words carved in granite at her feet.
She pays no mind to summer’s heat.
She pauses here in autumn’s chill
Alone she sits in winter’s still.
Alone she sits in quiet peace,
Glad for the honking of the geese
Intruding on her reverie,
Bringing back sweet memory
Of young hands tossing crumbs to ground,
As ducks and geese would crowd around.
The boy is gone; the man has passed.
The bench beside the lake will last.