Frank the Drunk’s Shack Remodeled

Frank the Drunk only emerged from his shack on St. Patrick’s Day and New Year’s Eve… drinking holidays. He stood on the corner of Route 212 and thumbed a ride into Woodstock on those days, and headed for the bar as soon as he hit town. Frank died about a year ago.

Now, his kids are rehabbing his shack. The shack is about 30 foot square. During Frank’s life, it had rotted and crumbled. Constructed out of cement blocks, the shack probably started life as a hunting lodge, without heat, water or plumbing.

Before Frank’s kids started the rehab, the shack was covered with black tar paper that must have been 30 years old.

Woodstock has a lot of drunks. Every place has plenty of drunks, but Woodstock seems to be an especially idyllic place for a drunk. The licentious, rebellious tradition of Woodstock means that nobody is too surprised (or angry) when somebody decides to hole up in his house and drink for 30 years.

Which is precisely what Frank did. I have no idea how the alcohol found its way into his shack, or how he ever provisioned the place with food and drink. I never saw him outside his shack, except for those two drinking holidays. His kids must have kept him supplied.

Frank wasn’t particularly friendly, but then again, drunks seldom are. If you picked him up on the drinking holidays and deposited him at the bar, he’d chit chat a bit and thank you for the ride.

What were his kids supposed to do with Frank’s shack after he died? Nobody would buy or rent the place. So, they’re doing a cosmetic overhaul, probably in the hope of renting the place. Underneath the cosmetic overhaul, it looks to me like the place is still rotting out. But, the renter won’t know or care.

Drunks always remind me of Kentucky Kate, a singer and mandolin player I worked with many years ago. She decided to recruit a bass player for our act. She found one of the most outrageous drunks I’ve ever met.

Mike bought his whiskey by the gallon jug and consumed one jug a day. He started drinking as soon as he woke up, which was none too early. He was one of the nastiest, meanest drunks I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of drunks.

Mike was a great musician. Could play any instrument and needed no rehearsal. But, he was a drunk precisely because of his fears about performing. Not surprisingly, the entrance of Mike into our group spelled the end of my partnership with Kentucky Kate.

Another story. Another time. So many drunks.

Comments

[Big Joe]

I AINT DRUNK, I'M JUST DRINKING.