May 18, 2008
Originally PUBLISHED September 24, 2004
About 25 years ago, Recondo 32 and Georgia had a tiny house on Whit-Marsh Island. It bordered on Richardson Creek with a dock and a boat ramp right in their front yard. We all worked in the bars back then and Sunday was our only day off. A whole bunch of us made a ritual out of going over there and drinking beer, shooting the shit and skinny-dipping in the creek at night.
We called it "Whitmarsh Sunday." I wrote a song about it, but I've forgotten the words now. Georgia remains pissed at me about that. She thought it was an excellent song. We had some good times there. The attendees were about 50-50 male and female and Bejus help you if you passed out.
Another ritual was the first person to fall asleep got attacked by the wimmen. They would paint your fingernails and toenails bright red, put lipstick, rouge and eye-shit on you and laugh like hell while they were doing it to an unconscious man. If you made the mistake of passing out back then, you woke up looking like a painted whore in the morning.
Man. I miss those days.
All content © Rob Smith