an homage to les morons

Well, if I thought that “felt impossible,” this feels surreal… and impossible, again.

But this Homage to the Morons of Pipes Café, needs to be heard – if by no one else, by you. The crusty, raunchy, bull-headed, sharply sarcastic, slightly perverse, and most wonderful people I have ever known.

The Morons.

The oddly elite crew that inhabited the deck of Pipes Café, morning after morning, day after day, with my father. For he would rise each morning with only the intent of seeing you, morons.

It was there he felt most alive, most a part of something. He often referred to it as 8th grade gym class, a reference I knew had more to do with the content of your conversations, than it did the camaraderie of your gang, but the sense of belonging was second to none. 

A safe place for stupid jokes, and great ones.  A place for shit-flinging, gear-heading, pirate-talking, and belly-laughing. A front row seat to the parade of hungry patrons that passed through the doors. Pipes Café embraced you all with a warm smile and a hot meal. Gone were the days when dad could eat more than a muffin at breakfast, but he never came for the food – no, he was often too sick to eat the massive, surfer-oriented dishes there. He came because that was truly where he felt the happiest.

And over time, people came to know the Morons. There were even tales of lesser men who would grovel in the area -- in hopes they get some shit flung in their direction-- a hazing of sorts, that could potentially be a precursor to an invitation at the table. Those seats were prized-possessions, and difficult to come by. And yet, there my father sat, a man among men. And great ones at that.

It was you, Charlie, Big John, Dan, Dave, and "the Bobs,"… you were my father’s greatest allies for so many years. You were his wingmen when he was looking to knock around, and you were his wings when life knocked him down. It was you who could break my dad from the unbearable and enduring pain that plagued him at night. It was you who healed him with laughter, time and time again. It was you he reached out to and opened the door into his truest self, and you who embraced all that he was, and asked nothing of him in return.

My father gave me many things, and now in his absence I sit with the silence of things I was unable to do for him. But thanks to you all, he didn’t need that from me. That was not my place, but somehow it became yours. You, his dearest friends, were the greatest gift to him in his final years. I am forever indebted to you all. 

I hope someday, when my life finally slows down, I find myself sitting at a local café where everyone knows my name and that I am surrounded by a crew of people who love me, and tease me, and know me inside and out, and I hope they are half as amazing to me as you were to him.

Thank you…for every single day you gave him.  

I know that gave us more days than we had.

Love to you all. 

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