You’re Sixteen (You’re Beautiful, You’re Mine) Sherman & Sherman
You come on like a dream, peaches and cream,
Lips like strawberry wine;
You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful and you’re mine.
You’re all ribbons and curls, ooh, what a girl,
Eyes that sparkle and shine;
You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful and you’re mine.
You walked out of my dreams, into my arms,
Now you’re my angel divine;
You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful and you’re mine.
Williston
There are several ways to assay a new town. You can look up the stats in Wikipedia, peruse the local newspaper, perhaps take a brief drive-thru or interview some of the citizens. For sheer economy, however, there is nothing more educational than a couple of hours spent at a Friday night football game. And it’s fun, too.
Fairfield, where we live, is but a tiny hamlet in rural North Central Florida, equidistant between the big cities of Gainesville and Ocala, each about a half-hour away. When we find ourselves lacking in some requisite amenity and are not of a mood to spend that half-hour, we simply motor on up the road to neighboring Williston, a piffling ten-minute jaunt. Little Williston likes to call itself the “Gateway to the Nature Coast” because, after all, you have to call yourself something. In 2000, there were 2297 people in Williston. In 2010, there were 2768. They live in a total area of 6.8 miles. Probably as many as 1000 of these townspeople are black, which means there are 1768 people who don’t like Obama, Yankees or Gay Pride Week and whose guns you’ll have to pry from their cold, dead hands. All 2768, however, can agree on one thing. They all like high-school football. And when the Williston Red Devils are playing at home on Friday night, they will be there. All of them—or damn close. There is, however, a little controversy about those Red Devils. A few of the local churchfolk, as they are wont to do, have recently experienced discomfort at the notion their high-school athletic teams are celebrating Satan’s buddies. As yet, however, nobody has come up with a satisfactory alternative (the Pink Angels definitely won’t do) so we are currently maintaining the status quo. And even the devil nonworshippers work themselves into a tizzy when the Red Devils run onto the field through their fiery horned hoop, led by a virtual platoon of leggy cheerleaders all decked out in their finest boosterwear.
A word, if you will, about these sweet young things. I have been around some and I have come to the conclusion, all things considered, that it’s pretty tough to beat sixteen-year-old female legs. They haven’t had nearly enough time to contract cellulite or other disfigurement and even though they might be a little thin or a tiny bit too chubby or insufficiently tanned or not always as muscular as some might prefer, they are still gleaming jewels in a universe of pain and misery. And yes, we are well aware that on many girls these young, as yet not fully shaped stems will grow and develop in the next ten years into what some might consider more perfect models, but there is still no denying the exquisite nature of the basic clay from which these future paragons will be molded. Some of these cheerleaders are not especially beautiful, in fact may be quite plain, but their legs rise above reproach, gleaming, alluring, dancing through the evening, worthy no doubt of the Friday Night Lights.
Barbecue, The Williston Staff Of Life
The Old Train Station
Excuse Me—Could You Tell Us How To Get To The GOODCOCK Furniture Store?
The Shadow Knows
Just In Case You Were Wondering…
Old Electric Generator
The Driftwood—A Williston Breakfast Tradition
Willistonians
In Williston, as in many such places, there are not too many delusions of grandeur on the part of the populace, which pretty much knows its assigned place in the Cosmos. The mothers of these young cheerleaders, having been there themselves not that long ago, realize that their daughters are pretty close to their peaks of physical attractiveness and there is no time to be lost in serious consideration of their futures. Nor is Williston especially noted for its level of intellectual genius, offering its educated sons and daughters promising careers in high-finance and medical expertise. No, there are modest expectations here, there are realists, let’s not be dreaming the impossible dream. Thus, we have marriages right out of high school while the marrying is good. Freddie can probably score a job at the peanut plant down the road and Tiffany can run a cash register just about anywhere.
The mothers, many of them, sit together in the stands plotting the future. Without being indelicate, I would have to admit that the average weights of these ladies is….well, intemperate. For most, two hundred pounds is in yesterday’s rear-view mirror, a fact that gives credence to the old philosopher’s advice to young men: Before you marry a girl, you might want to take another look at her mother.
Depending on where you come from, the value of inventions past will differ. London might well consider the Greatest Invention to be the Printing Press. Phoenix might argue for the Air-Conditioner. In Williston, there is no doubt about it—the most important invention in our lifetimes is the Nacho Tray. The Nacho Tray is ubiquitous under the Friday Night Lights. If, for some unimaginable and horrid reason, the nacho supply were to run out there would be rioting in the streets. And coming up fast on the outside is the extremely healthy Funnel Cake, whatever the hell that is. I’ve seen it and I still don’t know and I’m not sure I want to. There are not a lot of Vegans in Williston. Vegetable sales are modest. That being said, there may be more restaurants in Williston per person than anywhere. There is barbecue in abundance and no shortage of pizza, both of which are considered “the basics.” They are proud to boast a sparkling McDonalds on a hill. They will even point out to you their health-food restaurant over there next to the liquor store—can you see it, that’s right—the one with the Subway sign.
City Hall, No Frills
Foolish Pleasure’s Birthplace
Old Waldemar Farm (Now Stonehedge)
A Water Tower Of Beguiling Shape
You Want It, We Got It
Peanut Capitol Of The World. Sorta.
Willistonians We Love
If you got the incorrect notion we don’t particularly favor Williston folk, well, you’re dead wrong. Some of our best friends are from Williston. Don’t forget good old Buster Barley, for one. Yeah, yeah, we know—you think we’re making that up, that there is no real Buster Barley. But there is. Buster worked in the city maintenance department for years, keeping up the streets and vehicles and whatever. Buster can do about anything. Around here, he fixes tractors, cuts up tree limbs, erects fences, you name it. One year when we left for vacation he fed the horses with his son, Hoot. What? You say you’re ready to take our word for it about Buster but Hoot is impossible? Wrong again. Let me tell you a little story about Hoot. No genius in high school, Hoot up and got married, moved to Texas and works on an oil rig. People make lots of money working on oil rigs. Meanwhile, the class valedictorian is shoveling manure out of horse stalls in the a.m. Let’s not hear any more snickering about Hoot.
Siobhan’s old friend, Tim Ahearn lives on his very own horse farm in Williston with his wife and son. Tim is a big, friendly guy who likes to take a drink every now and then. I’m not sure he was ever a hippie but he did enjoy many of the fruits of hippiedom in the good old days. If I was having a hard time finding something to smoke, I’d probably put in a call to Tim for direction. I don’t think I’d be disappointed.
Barry Eisaman’s training center is in Williston, if barely. Siobhan’s new physical therapists, Gail and Ron, live in Williston, or close. Our very own bank, Drummond Community, is in Williston. Not only are there no account charges but they also boast Velma, the best drive-up teller in the world. You can make your deposit and discuss gardening with Velma, like Siobhan does every week. Nobody in line even blows the horn.
Foolish Pleasure, winner of the 1975 Kentucky Derby, grew up on Waldemar Farm (now Stonehedge) in Williston. Any Derby horses grow up in your town? I thought not. Devil's Den, a premier cave-diving facility, is in Williston. Hundreds of divers come out every year to negotiate their ways through the scary, meandering—sometimes inky—caves. The great majority of them make it back. Like anywhere, of course, there’s always that ten percent. You’ve got to learn the Hansel and Gretel method of cave diving. We keep telling them but some people just won’t listen.
We’ve got a big peanut plant in Williston. And every year there’s a peanut festival. We’ve been to festivals like the watermelon festival in Newberry, where they run out of watermelon or the strawberry festival in Starke, where they run out of strawberries. Think we ever run out of peanuts in Williston? Not hardly. It’s a matter of Civic Pride. So come on out some Friday night when the Red Devils are playing, when the cheerleader legs are jumping and the air is pungent with hamburgers on the grill. It’s only a six-dollar ticket and you’re sure to find a seat. Just a word of caution. If you’re of a mind, get in line real early so you won’t have to wait too long. Nobody wants to miss the kickoff waiting for a Nacho Tray.
Meet The New Truck, Same As The Old Truck
Everybody hates to say goodbye to old friends. But when your faithful old Ford 150 runs up 243,000 miles and you start to find yourself spending $650 on a new heater core, you know it’s that time again. So Siobhan and I went truck-hunting the other night. After striking out a the first couple of places, we ran into an interesting Chevy Silverado, priced right. Siobhan preferred a Ford, but this was a nice deal. She drove it and the lady salesman, very nice, promised her a good trade-in price despite her old truck’s advanced years and mileage. We told her we liked the truck but wanted to think it over for a night. This, of course, brought us face to face with Mike, The Closer. Used car dealers feel that you must never leave the lot….that if you do you are gone forever. So what do they do? They reduce the price, of course. Every time Siobhan told Mike she wanted to go home and think about it, he reduced the price by another four to six hundred dollars. If we stayed much longer, he would have paid US to take the truck. Siobhan was getting steamed. She didn’t care about the money, just wanted more time to look elsewhere. Mike was almost rabid, citing all the time his saleswoman had spent with us (what else is she supposed to do?), even somehow bringing his wife’s recent cancer into the discussion. Geez, Louise, where’s the Out door? We left before Mike would reveal that all of his nine children were massacred in a recent home invasion.
We went over to Automax, where we met Randy, The Laid Back. Automax has a reputation for low prices with little room for bargaining. We found a perfect Ford 150, the price just slashed $3000 because it was on the lot one day past the requisite 30 they want to sell by. Randy wanted to sell cars but if we didn’t buy it no big deal. We told him we wanted to discuss it over a brief dinner. No problem, said Randy. We had dinner, came back and bought the truck. No fuss, no muss, no hysterics. On the way home, we stopped off at church and lit a candle for Mike’s wife. Cancer, you know. Tough business.
That’s all, folks….
You come on like a dream, peaches and cream,
Lips like strawberry wine;
You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful and you’re mine.
You’re all ribbons and curls, ooh, what a girl,
Eyes that sparkle and shine;
You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful and you’re mine.
You walked out of my dreams, into my arms,
Now you’re my angel divine;
You’re sixteen, you’re beautiful and you’re mine.
Williston
There are several ways to assay a new town. You can look up the stats in Wikipedia, peruse the local newspaper, perhaps take a brief drive-thru or interview some of the citizens. For sheer economy, however, there is nothing more educational than a couple of hours spent at a Friday night football game. And it’s fun, too.
Fairfield, where we live, is but a tiny hamlet in rural North Central Florida, equidistant between the big cities of Gainesville and Ocala, each about a half-hour away. When we find ourselves lacking in some requisite amenity and are not of a mood to spend that half-hour, we simply motor on up the road to neighboring Williston, a piffling ten-minute jaunt. Little Williston likes to call itself the “Gateway to the Nature Coast” because, after all, you have to call yourself something. In 2000, there were 2297 people in Williston. In 2010, there were 2768. They live in a total area of 6.8 miles. Probably as many as 1000 of these townspeople are black, which means there are 1768 people who don’t like Obama, Yankees or Gay Pride Week and whose guns you’ll have to pry from their cold, dead hands. All 2768, however, can agree on one thing. They all like high-school football. And when the Williston Red Devils are playing at home on Friday night, they will be there. All of them—or damn close. There is, however, a little controversy about those Red Devils. A few of the local churchfolk, as they are wont to do, have recently experienced discomfort at the notion their high-school athletic teams are celebrating Satan’s buddies. As yet, however, nobody has come up with a satisfactory alternative (the Pink Angels definitely won’t do) so we are currently maintaining the status quo. And even the devil nonworshippers work themselves into a tizzy when the Red Devils run onto the field through their fiery horned hoop, led by a virtual platoon of leggy cheerleaders all decked out in their finest boosterwear.
A word, if you will, about these sweet young things. I have been around some and I have come to the conclusion, all things considered, that it’s pretty tough to beat sixteen-year-old female legs. They haven’t had nearly enough time to contract cellulite or other disfigurement and even though they might be a little thin or a tiny bit too chubby or insufficiently tanned or not always as muscular as some might prefer, they are still gleaming jewels in a universe of pain and misery. And yes, we are well aware that on many girls these young, as yet not fully shaped stems will grow and develop in the next ten years into what some might consider more perfect models, but there is still no denying the exquisite nature of the basic clay from which these future paragons will be molded. Some of these cheerleaders are not especially beautiful, in fact may be quite plain, but their legs rise above reproach, gleaming, alluring, dancing through the evening, worthy no doubt of the Friday Night Lights.
Barbecue, The Williston Staff Of Life
The Old Train Station
Excuse Me—Could You Tell Us How To Get To The GOODCOCK Furniture Store?
The Shadow Knows
Just In Case You Were Wondering…
Old Electric Generator
The Driftwood—A Williston Breakfast Tradition
Willistonians
In Williston, as in many such places, there are not too many delusions of grandeur on the part of the populace, which pretty much knows its assigned place in the Cosmos. The mothers of these young cheerleaders, having been there themselves not that long ago, realize that their daughters are pretty close to their peaks of physical attractiveness and there is no time to be lost in serious consideration of their futures. Nor is Williston especially noted for its level of intellectual genius, offering its educated sons and daughters promising careers in high-finance and medical expertise. No, there are modest expectations here, there are realists, let’s not be dreaming the impossible dream. Thus, we have marriages right out of high school while the marrying is good. Freddie can probably score a job at the peanut plant down the road and Tiffany can run a cash register just about anywhere.
The mothers, many of them, sit together in the stands plotting the future. Without being indelicate, I would have to admit that the average weights of these ladies is….well, intemperate. For most, two hundred pounds is in yesterday’s rear-view mirror, a fact that gives credence to the old philosopher’s advice to young men: Before you marry a girl, you might want to take another look at her mother.
Depending on where you come from, the value of inventions past will differ. London might well consider the Greatest Invention to be the Printing Press. Phoenix might argue for the Air-Conditioner. In Williston, there is no doubt about it—the most important invention in our lifetimes is the Nacho Tray. The Nacho Tray is ubiquitous under the Friday Night Lights. If, for some unimaginable and horrid reason, the nacho supply were to run out there would be rioting in the streets. And coming up fast on the outside is the extremely healthy Funnel Cake, whatever the hell that is. I’ve seen it and I still don’t know and I’m not sure I want to. There are not a lot of Vegans in Williston. Vegetable sales are modest. That being said, there may be more restaurants in Williston per person than anywhere. There is barbecue in abundance and no shortage of pizza, both of which are considered “the basics.” They are proud to boast a sparkling McDonalds on a hill. They will even point out to you their health-food restaurant over there next to the liquor store—can you see it, that’s right—the one with the Subway sign.
City Hall, No Frills
Foolish Pleasure’s Birthplace
Old Waldemar Farm (Now Stonehedge)
A Water Tower Of Beguiling Shape
You Want It, We Got It
Peanut Capitol Of The World. Sorta.
Willistonians We Love
If you got the incorrect notion we don’t particularly favor Williston folk, well, you’re dead wrong. Some of our best friends are from Williston. Don’t forget good old Buster Barley, for one. Yeah, yeah, we know—you think we’re making that up, that there is no real Buster Barley. But there is. Buster worked in the city maintenance department for years, keeping up the streets and vehicles and whatever. Buster can do about anything. Around here, he fixes tractors, cuts up tree limbs, erects fences, you name it. One year when we left for vacation he fed the horses with his son, Hoot. What? You say you’re ready to take our word for it about Buster but Hoot is impossible? Wrong again. Let me tell you a little story about Hoot. No genius in high school, Hoot up and got married, moved to Texas and works on an oil rig. People make lots of money working on oil rigs. Meanwhile, the class valedictorian is shoveling manure out of horse stalls in the a.m. Let’s not hear any more snickering about Hoot.
Siobhan’s old friend, Tim Ahearn lives on his very own horse farm in Williston with his wife and son. Tim is a big, friendly guy who likes to take a drink every now and then. I’m not sure he was ever a hippie but he did enjoy many of the fruits of hippiedom in the good old days. If I was having a hard time finding something to smoke, I’d probably put in a call to Tim for direction. I don’t think I’d be disappointed.
Barry Eisaman’s training center is in Williston, if barely. Siobhan’s new physical therapists, Gail and Ron, live in Williston, or close. Our very own bank, Drummond Community, is in Williston. Not only are there no account charges but they also boast Velma, the best drive-up teller in the world. You can make your deposit and discuss gardening with Velma, like Siobhan does every week. Nobody in line even blows the horn.
Foolish Pleasure, winner of the 1975 Kentucky Derby, grew up on Waldemar Farm (now Stonehedge) in Williston. Any Derby horses grow up in your town? I thought not. Devil's Den, a premier cave-diving facility, is in Williston. Hundreds of divers come out every year to negotiate their ways through the scary, meandering—sometimes inky—caves. The great majority of them make it back. Like anywhere, of course, there’s always that ten percent. You’ve got to learn the Hansel and Gretel method of cave diving. We keep telling them but some people just won’t listen.
We’ve got a big peanut plant in Williston. And every year there’s a peanut festival. We’ve been to festivals like the watermelon festival in Newberry, where they run out of watermelon or the strawberry festival in Starke, where they run out of strawberries. Think we ever run out of peanuts in Williston? Not hardly. It’s a matter of Civic Pride. So come on out some Friday night when the Red Devils are playing, when the cheerleader legs are jumping and the air is pungent with hamburgers on the grill. It’s only a six-dollar ticket and you’re sure to find a seat. Just a word of caution. If you’re of a mind, get in line real early so you won’t have to wait too long. Nobody wants to miss the kickoff waiting for a Nacho Tray.
Meet The New Truck, Same As The Old Truck
Everybody hates to say goodbye to old friends. But when your faithful old Ford 150 runs up 243,000 miles and you start to find yourself spending $650 on a new heater core, you know it’s that time again. So Siobhan and I went truck-hunting the other night. After striking out a the first couple of places, we ran into an interesting Chevy Silverado, priced right. Siobhan preferred a Ford, but this was a nice deal. She drove it and the lady salesman, very nice, promised her a good trade-in price despite her old truck’s advanced years and mileage. We told her we liked the truck but wanted to think it over for a night. This, of course, brought us face to face with Mike, The Closer. Used car dealers feel that you must never leave the lot….that if you do you are gone forever. So what do they do? They reduce the price, of course. Every time Siobhan told Mike she wanted to go home and think about it, he reduced the price by another four to six hundred dollars. If we stayed much longer, he would have paid US to take the truck. Siobhan was getting steamed. She didn’t care about the money, just wanted more time to look elsewhere. Mike was almost rabid, citing all the time his saleswoman had spent with us (what else is she supposed to do?), even somehow bringing his wife’s recent cancer into the discussion. Geez, Louise, where’s the Out door? We left before Mike would reveal that all of his nine children were massacred in a recent home invasion.
We went over to Automax, where we met Randy, The Laid Back. Automax has a reputation for low prices with little room for bargaining. We found a perfect Ford 150, the price just slashed $3000 because it was on the lot one day past the requisite 30 they want to sell by. Randy wanted to sell cars but if we didn’t buy it no big deal. We told him we wanted to discuss it over a brief dinner. No problem, said Randy. We had dinner, came back and bought the truck. No fuss, no muss, no hysterics. On the way home, we stopped off at church and lit a candle for Mike’s wife. Cancer, you know. Tough business.
That’s all, folks….
