My late Father’s brother, my Uncle Max, has always had a tranquil getaway. A place where all the old geezers would go to hide out, drink wine, make salsa over an open fire after tomatoes were picked, and complain about their wives. I’ve been there a few times myself, and if you carefully read the above event list, it’s not hard to figure out which activity that I was there to partake in.
This haven from the outside world was dubbed ‘Road Kill Cafe’, and that’s what the sign said above the door. I’ve heard it referred to as ‘the cabin’ — even though it was nothing more than a garage behind a house in which his daughter lives.
The Road Kill Cafe burned to the ground yesterday morning early — about 30 minutes after my Uncle Max had stocked the wood stove to warm his Jack Russell Terrier, who succumbed in the blaze.
Uncle Max lost a ton of precious things in the fire. Things that were valuable to him, but not anything a woman would want cluttering up a house or home garage — items like an old army jeep, a bajillion old-men-home-canned products, and just junk memorabilia he’d collected and saved throughout the years. Everything he held so dear is now gone, and simply can not be replaced.
Even though I’m sure that my Uncle Max wishes he could turn back the hands of time and save all those valuables — those material items — it’s my guess that he would give all those up if only he could’ve rescued his friend.