John B. Marek is a writer, farmer, outdoorsman and recovering economic developer. You can find his books at johnbmarek.com.
Maumee Bay State Park was still relatively new in the summer of 1994. An impressive complex with a golf course, lodge and conference center, cabins, beach, marina and campground, I “discovered” it the previous year at a GM supplier conference held there; golf, of course, included. Leisure time was at a premium in those days, but my wife and I were able to free up an occasional Sunday afternoon for the beach during that last summer before life pointed us south. It was there I encountered Dixie Jim, a character who left a curious imprint on those final Ohio memories.
Dixie Jim, a moniker I bestowed upon him due to the giant Confederate flag decal plastered on his cooler, was a fixture on the beach. He was always there under the shade of a brightly colored umbrella, comfortably sprawled in a beach chair, a boom box playing tunes, and the aforementioned cooler keeping his snacks and drinks frosty.
It wasn’t hard to catch snippets of his conversations. One day, I overheard him tell a fellow beachgoer his story. He’d been laid off in May, and rather than wallow at home, he’d decided to make the beach his daily office. He spent his sand-filled days reading science fiction paperbacks (the kind with tentacled aliens on the cover), soaking up the sun (resulting in a spectacular tan) and chatting up the ladies.
Now, Dixie Jim wasn’t exactly a GQ model. He had a Michelob paunch and was pushing hard against 40. But with a full head of sun-bleached hair and that enviable tan, he held a certain appeal for a particular type of woman. He never seemed to lack companionship. Dixie Jim had transformed that little stretch of beach into his own personal summer paradise.
Of course, a part of me viewed him with disdain. Shouldn’t he be out there pounding the pavement, distributing resumes, scouting for a new job, contributing to society? Yet, another part – a part I couldn’t quite suppress – envied his freedom. While I was chained to the responsibilities of work and life, Dixie Jim had found a way to carve out his own space, his uncontested summer. And that freedom, even if achieved through unemployment, held a strange allure.
Toward the end of the summer, I took a vacation day in the middle of the week to follow in Dixie Jim’s footsteps. I resolved to spend a whole day by myself at the beach with a Patricia Cornwell novel, WIOT on the radio and a cooler of drinks and snacks. I set up my little encampment on a perfect late-August Lake Erie morning, determined to experience a carefree day in the sand. But it didn’t happen. I couldn’t get past the idea that “things” were happening back at the office, and I wasn’t part of them: Decisions being made behind my back; plans being finalized without my input; water cooler gossip swirling about me. The carefree beach day I craved morphed into a kind of self-inflicted exile. By mid-afternoon, I was back in the car, phone clenched in my hand, dialing my office number.
It was then I realized Dixie Jim was nowhere on the beach. Maybe he’d just decided to take the day “off,” or perhaps one of his lady friends had “stayed over.” Still, I couldn’t shake the image of him sitting somewhere in the greater Toldeo area at that very minute, wearing a conservative gray suit and handing a typed resume across a desk. And it made me sad.
That was my last trip to Maumee Bay for many, many years, and I have no idea what became of Dixie Jim. Most likely, he returned to the world of the gainfully employed and carved out a life for himself. Perhaps he found love with one of the ladies he met that summer at the beach, building a life far removed from the carefree days of sun and sci-fi. Or maybe he dove headlong into his new job, determined never to face unemployment again. He’d be close to 70 now, so one way or the other, he’s likely retired, maybe even back on the beach from time to time. I wonder how he remembers that summer. Does he recall it with a smile, a time of simple pleasures and escape? Or has the weight of responsibility and routine colored those memories a different shade?