A few days ago, as I checked most of my self-assigned coronavirus projects off my list I took advantage of a free offer to watch a documentary for which I’d neglected making time to see in the theaters last year. As much as I knew I needed to see it and wanted to see it, I also thought it would be a difficult 95 minutes of viewing. I can’t remember any other film that I ever had the same hesitation. Watching it at home seemed a better plan since I could pause the show whenever I wanted.
I had never met Nancy Novak. I’d heard her name, but our paths had never crossed. She was working at Coca-Cola. Novak’s Bar & Grill didn’t exist. Nancy was throwing parties for other people and serving drinks to friends in her modest house in North St. Louis across a short stand-alone bar too short to lie on for body shots. Although, drunken attempts were likely made by the Gayborhood/Mich Light football folks. If it could be done, they were the ones to do it!
knows me even a little probably knows that I firmly believe that words matter.
I’ve never been big on talking or saying what you think out loud; but am a huge
advocate of putting it in writing. But, every once in a while, a conversation
is had that truly matters regardless of what is or isn’t said. Last night I was
fortuned to share in such an exchange.