Jerry Solom, August 24, 1945 -- July 23, 2019
This is a random image memorial post about my late friend, who died a year ago. I wrote a memoir/tribute to him in the Wannaskan Almanac on July 23, 2020. Here's the link to that:
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| Me and Jerry with Marion in background in Stonington, Maine in 2015 prior to setting sail to Hull, MA. |
This is an excerpt from the story
"A Louisiana Ruse"
by Steven G. Reynolds
Published in 2000 in THE RAVEN:
Northwest Minnesota's Original Art, History & Humor Journal
This describes the end of a 43-hour bus ride we took from Fargo, North Dakota to Slidell, Louisiana, where Jerry's boat was in dock prior to his voyage to Norway in 2000. I was there as part of the maintenance crew, accompanying Jerry, his son Terry Solom of Minneapolis, and their friend Stuart Mickleson, then of Warroad, Minnesota.
"WE ARRIVE IN SLIDELL!!
Sunday Evening
5/07/00
"The bus weaved off the busy four-lane street; a mass of hot wheeled rubber, painted steel and tinted-windows and stopped with the hiss of air brakes, outside the dingy converted bus station in Slidell, Louisiana, the hot, dusty sun-bleached afternoon of May 7th., 2000, a Sunday.
5/07/00
"The bus weaved off the busy four-lane street; a mass of hot wheeled rubber, painted steel and tinted-windows and stopped with the hiss of air brakes, outside the dingy converted bus station in Slidell, Louisiana, the hot, dusty sun-bleached afternoon of May 7th., 2000, a Sunday.
The Slidell terminal had been a gas station once judging by its worn looks, but had been ‘remodeled’ into a red, white and blue state-of-the-art, nationally affiliated bus station complete with one regulation bus station candy machine, two upholstered bench seats, the odor of dirty carpet, and over-sized slanted windows that from the top, leaned out over the foundation and held the flattering reflection of city litter strewn against its walls and the gravel parking lot.
But we were just damn glad to get off the bus and stretch our legs at last. Two taxi cabs sat parked at opposite sides of the concrete block building, one black and one white. The black car was pen-striped in gold and boasted on its doors, trunk, and hood in fancy script font that it was The Finest Taxi in Slidell. The white taxi promised nothing except a way to get where you wanted to go, which suited our needs just fine. Besides, we were so used to the finest transportation services via the bus line that we decided we’d just try something else since we had a choice this time, so we took the white cab.
We stuffed all our luggage into the trunk. Jerry sat up front with the driver as his son, Terry, friend Stuart Mickelson, and I got in the back seat for the ride to the marina.
Looking through my door window, I thought the city went by in a blurred image of sheet metal buildings, old neighborhood grocery stores, sea food signs, billboards, oncoming traffic, and bayous under bridges. I could see tall aluminum masts behind trees and chain link fences as we passed marinas all along the route.
We were entering a Louisiana theme park it seemed, where interesting houses on short piers sat under a canopy of rich pastel-green leaves, flowers and vines; gloved by tall straight-trunked trees ‘way back off the narrow, curvy, asphalt road we were on; I wondered where the tourist shops, tour buses and golf carts were.
To me, the palm trees and Spanish moss seemed strangely phony. Everything was like a sort of stage prop, cloth and plastic representation of some exotic place, some island in the South Pacific, some fantasy adventure park that we had entered. I half-way expected the taxi to stop at an admission booth and someone dressed in a grass skirt and coconut brassiere, with their employee photograph and name badge pinned onto their banana-leaf hat, step out to assign us a camping spot and offer us free tall, iced drinks. Where were my rolling prairies, my northern lakes, my cool breezes, my unpopulated scenic vistas? We were in a completely alien ecology system and I didn’t know my way around. It seemed very strange to me--but I was determined to embrace it with an open mind-- and a lot of drinking water. Man, was it ever hot down there..."
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| Back row: Terry and Stuart. Front: Steve and Jerry May 2000 |
Below is an excerpt from the first story we ever published about Jerry's home-built steel sailboat, Indian Summer, called:
"Status Report on Jerry's Boat"
by Joe McDonnell
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| Joe interviews Jerry in 2012 |
A link to everything concerning Wannaskan Almanac and Wannasakawriter in images.
Comments
I also admire your hat collection.
It's good to read your collaborative writing with Chairman Joe again.
Please keep it coming as you find the time to do so!