Cop, The Eddy and Me

Up on Cripple Creek

The Band

Cop, The Eddy, and Me

I just heard the DJ on the radio play “Up on Cripple Creek.” I love The Band and I love that song, but this time when it came on, I started laughing so hard I all but had to pullover.

What came to mind was driving down Route 6 in PA, The Grand Army of the Republic Highway, between Wyalusing and Tunkhannock. You pass through Laceyville and Meshoppen. Don’t blink. Between Laceyville and Meshoppen, you pass by Skinners Eddy. It is hard to know whether you pass by, pass through, or simply pass.  There is the town of Laceyville, and there is an eddy.  The town, on a good day, used to have as many as almost 200 people – from time to time. It has not been included in a census count in a while, though. The eddy, itself, is on a bend in the long, languid Susquehanna River.  It is easy to pass both the town and the eddy without much notice.

On the side of the road, in the center of town, was a tavern called “Eddy’s”.  Some might say the tavern was the town.   In 1792, Ebenezer Skinner first erected the tavern as a stopping place for river boatmen. The establishment, along a bend in the road, had been set aways back from the bend in the river which swirled around a little island – which created the eddy. Later came the railroad; it followed along the bend as well, between the river and road. The bend in the river created the eddy requiring a curve in the road and the tracks of the Lehigh Valley Railroad. With the river, the tracks, and the road, the tavern sat in the middle of the old town right on the edge of Route 6.   My friends and I had driven past “Eddy’s” at Skinners Eddy for years on our way to or from college.  We had always been curious, but neither curious enough, brave enough, nor old enough to stop.

But one day a few years after college….

My best friend Jason, better known as Cop, and I were driving down Route 6.  Up Route 6, actually.  For some unknown reason, we had driven to Scranton.  I have no possible explanation as to why we might have done that at the time.  There was absolutely nothing compelling us to Scranton, to Wilkes-Barre, or anyplace else in anthracite country.  We were, however, on our way home because we had a double date planned for that evening.  That much I do know.

The relationship between Cop and me was one of those rare friendships that had no beginning and will have no end.  Conversations never required words.  A look, a glance, or an expression carried more meaning and generated more laughter between us than a Woody Allen movie, a Johnny Carson monologue, or a George Carlin routine ever could.  Our homes were about 15 miles from each other across state lines. We had grown up in different states, attended different elementary schools, had attended rival high schools in Elmira, NY.  When we first met, though, there had been a spark of recognition between us: “I know that guy.” To this day, however, we have never pinned down the time or place where our paths first crossed.  We had met at the regional airport in Elmira, NY., as we were both leaving home for a two-year adventure in the Peace Corps.  Oddly enough, both of us were headed to Micronesia. What were the chances that two young men who had never known each other would be departing at the same time, on the same flight for the same, unusual location?  We met, started laughing together for no apparent reason, bonded, became fast friends and shared much.

So, a few years later, after our separate Peace Corps experiences, up Route 6 we drove.  Passing through Wyalusing, the idea came to both of us at about the same time.  “Eddy’s. We have to stop,” we both said.  No problem.  We had plenty of time.  We had miles to go so we wouldn’t – couldn’t – drink much.  One beer – then back on the road.  We had dates for dinner and at least 2 more hours of drive time. But we’d always have rights to say, “We stopped at Eddy’s,”

Rounding the bend in the road by the eddy, rather than straightening the wheel, we rolled into Eddy’s parking lot.  The place was old.  It had been old during the Civil War.  Electrification from the WWI era had been upgraded during WWII.  Depression era paint was fading.  Stale smoke from God knows when hung in the air.  The interior was wood.  All wood.  The bar looked to be original, although that was probably not the case.  It was tall, too.  It’d probably been built for stand-up only service, but as time passed and the regulars aged, tall bar stools had been brought in.  Vinyl and aluminum, they didn’t match the rest of the “décor.”  All in all, the exterior of the Skinners Eddy tavern was old and weathered but solid; the interior was old, grubby, dark and homey.  We loved it.

The bartender mirrored the interior.  He was old, grubby and homey.  Not so dark, though.  Pasty is probably a better descriptor, although the darkness of the room made that hard to test.  “Gentlemen,” he started.  “What’ll it be?”  There was no asking for ID.  It was not that we looked old enough to be in a bar, but I suspect nobody really cared how old we were.  The chances of an LCB inspection were about as unlikely as getting a single malt scotch.

Cop shot me a look. The Look. There was a slight lift of an eyebrow. I gave one in response.  The game was on.

“Whatcha got on tap?” Cop asked.  The fact that he was asking the question defined our roles.

“Bud, Genny, Rolling Rock, Schlitz…you name it, we got it.”

“Bud.”

“And you, my friend?” he said, nosing toward me.

Cop said something incomprehensible to me.  I responded.  The exchange had been between friends, but loud enough for the barkeep to hear.

“He’ll have the same,” Cop told the old man.

Two beers appeared.  We each climbed up onto tall stools at one corner of the bar and started to sip our cold brews.  The old man slipped a bowl of pretzels toward us and nodded to a large jar of pickled eggs.  “On the house.  Eggs are two bits a piece.”

Cop again said something incomprehensible; I shook my head no.

About that same time, a younger man came through the door.  Younger than the bartender; maybe a couple years older than the two of us. He had one of those innocent looks of someone who had probably never traveled farther than Wyalusing.  Maybe Towanda.  In fact, probably Towanda.  (Although it’s not a particularly polite thing to say, the guy had the stereotypical look of a Poole.  But that’s another story for another time.)  He came in with the biggest dog I had ever seen in my life.  A boxer.  Huge.  Enormous.  The young Poole hauled himself onto the stool next to me on one side; his dog sat on the floor on the other.  The dog was so big that our faces were at the same level; we looked at each other eye to eye.  He slobbered.

“What’s that you’re talkin’,” the bartended asked Cop as the Poole settled in.  The game was moving.

Cop explained that, since I did not speak English, he had to translate for me.  He went on to say that I was not from here.  The broader ‘here’.  I was from a place called Micronesia; in fact, I was Micronesian nobility. Cop explained that my mother had been an American, but she’d died shortly after I was born.  Cop and I had met when he, Cop, traveled to Micronesia while working and studying there.  He had learned the language; we had become friends.  Upon leaving, he’d promised my royal father that he’d have me come to America to learn English and go to school.  Maybe find some long-lost family members. My father, the high chief, had been thrilled with that idea, and…here I was.

In truth, there is no “Micronesian” language. I had lived in Palau and did speak Palauan pretty well.  However, Cop had spent his Peace Corps years not in Palau, but in Ponape.  In fact, he was not even on Ponape, proper, but on a remote island called Pingelap.  He spoke neither Palauan nor Ponapean, but he was fluent in Pingelapese.  As we played our game, one of us was the foreigner and the other was the friendly, translating American.  If we were to speak to each other in our respective languages, there would be no comprehension at all.  But nobody picked ever up on the fact that the languages were completely different and mutually unintelligible. We played that to our advantages.  It had bought us a lot of beer over time.

The Poole jumped in. The game rolled on.

We talked for quite a while. The barkeep and the Poole would ask questions, Cop would translate. I’d respond. Cop would translate. The bartender and the Poole would marvel. Sometimes, I would ask a question. Although he had no idea what I had said, Cop would still translate. They would respond. Cop would translate. I would laugh, nod, and acknowledge that I’d gotten their meaning. They bought us beer. We talked some more. We ate pretzels, pickled eggs, and a few other things which the bartender had stashed away.

Time passed. It was well past time for us to leave. Our dates would be waiting, and we had miles to go.

When Cop started to say our good-byes, the Poole asked a favor. “Can you guys give me a ride home?” he asked. “It’s not far. My wife dropped me off and went home. She was gonna pick me up, but hey! I can ride with you.” Then he added, “She speaks French. Took it in high school. Maybe she can talk to the prince here.”

We had not anticipated this turn of events, but he assured us that he didn’t live far. Far, though, is a relative term, especially in the back woods and lost roads of rural Pennsylvania. It was getting dark and late. Our dates would be less than happy – and in the pre-cell phone days, there was no way to call them. Cop did try for a long distance, collect call, but to no avail. But we agreed to give the guy a ride.

So we left Skinner’s Eddy in Cop’s small pick-up truck. There had been plenty of room for the two of us, but now we had the Poole and his giant boxer. Why the dog didn’t ride in the bed of the truck is as mysterious to me as why we’d gone to Scranton in the first place. That part didn’t translate.

The Poole directed us to his house. For all intents and purposes, we were lost, but we chose not to go inside to meet his French speaking wife. The game was over. We knew it, even if he did not. It took us an additional hour to find our way back to Route 6, the Grand Army of the Republic Highway. Needless to say, we were late.

As we headed north through Laceyville, on to Wyalusing and into Towanda, being late was not on our minds. We laughed as we had never laughed before. We stopped to pee more than once at wide spots in the road. And we recounted the day’s events many times over. We had stood up our dates; that was not good. Maybe they would understand, but probably not. It had been one hell of a day. We had had a great time.

Whether the old tavern still sits on the edge of the GAR highway, I do not know. Forever more, though, I do know that Cop and I can say that we are, indeed, among the chosen few who stopped in along the way at the tavern at Skinner’s Eddy.

“Now me and my mate were back at the shack
We had Spike Jones on the box
She said, “I can’t take the way he sings
But I love to hear him talk”