Where have you gone, AmeliaJake

The folks here at The Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse are upset with me; I have no time to sit and talk with them and my regular table sits pretty much unoccupied. Why, even yesterday, when some confused travellers stopped in for a foldover and a icy soda from the cooler and the place was full, one of the girls helping out here just pushed my stuff in a box and had them sit at my table.

“It’s different here, AmeliaJake,” they said. We don’t sing at the piano anymore. (Well, okay, Summer and I did renditions of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” songs over the Fourth, but that was just because the James Cagney George M. Cohan movie was on and buoyed my spirits.) We don’t yell at the people to be quiet in the Foo Bar; you don’t sit and work Sudokus and you didn’t join us when we watched “The Whales of August” on TCM.  Bette Davis, Lillian Gish, Ann Southern, Vincent Price . . . and the beautiful Maine coast. And the tinny playing of “Roses of Picardy” that you like so well.

Roses are shining in Picardy
In the hush of the silver dew
Roses are flowering in Picardy
But there’s never a rose like you
And the roses will die with the summer time
And our roads may be far apart
But there’s one rose that dies not in Picardy
‘Tis the rose that I keep in my heart

It is a good question: Where have I gone? Another, slightly scary and maybe very important, is: And will I be back? Or is that rose in Picardy growing fainter?