One Year Later "Fish Gut Pier"
	A friend of mine, Mike Tholl, who lived in Melbourne Beach, Florida, had been somewhere up north and gone to an extremely popular restaurant called The Mad Duchess. Although they were all antique and classy, none of the chairs, china, silverware, salt and pepper shakers, or candlesticks at the restaurant matched. The cuisine was fantastic and every night the place was packed. So Mike and four other young men who were ready for an adventure left Tampa and moved across the state to Melbourne Beach to open a similar type restaurant. Same decor. Same wonderful food. They pooled their money and bought a three-story condemned Victorian house. One of the five was an incredible chef. With a lot of hard work, repairs, decorating, and delicious signature French cuisine, their restaurant, Poor Richard's Inn, became the most popular eatery and night spot in Melbourne Beach. Every night there were lines of people going down the block and around the corner, waiting to get in. The Baked Blue Crab Imperial, French onion soup, and prime rib became famous in Melbourne Beach. I always had mine served in the Driftwood Room, a candlelit dining room with walls paneled in driftwood boards that we had pulled out of the surf. Some of them still even had barnacles on them. On the weekends Sharon, Joyce, Patsi, Ed Brown, and I would always go to Poor Richard's Inn. It was a fun place to be. I painted a mural on the wall of the main dining area of an old beach house on stilts surrounded by many palm trees. Mike asked if he could also hang "The Barefoot Mailman" on the wall of that dining area. "Of course, I'd be glad to." Mike loved that painting and really wanted to buy it. It did look perfect in the restaurant. Finally, I said, "I'll trade you the painting for that old brass ship's wheel I've always wanted." We traded and were both very happy. Plus I still got to see the painting regularly. A year later, around 1967, there was a large art exhibition being held by the cultural and social elite of Tampa at the Chamber of Commerce. The participants in the show had to be members of "the big apple," the AAPL , the American Artist's Professional League. These were all nationally known artists. Even though I was a member, I was always more comfortable standing over in a corner talking to people individually. These artists were high voltage. The only piece I had available, because I knew that Mike would let me borrow it, was "The Barefoot Mailman." I still didn't know if it would be accepted in the show. Mr. Porth, however, talked me into entering it. I held my breath and hoped that the other artists reaction wouldn't be, "Who the heck put this thing in here?!" and my response would be to look all around the room with a scanning eye and say, "I didn't know." Would it be an ugly duckling? I didn't know. I asked Sharon to accompany me to the event. She said she'd love to. I knew she wouldn't mind that we would be arriving in my old rattletrap of a pickup truck. It had long vertical paint drips of all colors that had dried underneath the bottom of the passenger door. It was where a tray of paint cans had spilled on the floor in front of the passenger's seat and run out under the door. People commented on it all the time. It always seemed to cause a stir. I was dressed nice but Sharon looked fantastic. Back then mini skirts were all the rage and she had legs that looked five feet long. She was wearing a black mini skirt and a blouse that was an incredible color. Orangish, pinkish red. It was the color of a blinding sunset that you might see once or twice in your lifetime. Her shoes were those kind with the big, thick high heels, and straps. She said they were perfect but unfortunately were white. So along the way, we stopped at a Payless drug store and bought a can of quick drying black spray paint. I sat in the truck and waited while Sharon sprayed her shoes black in the parking lot. Yes, they were dry by the time we reached the event and she was hotter than a two dollar pistol. Before heading to the Chamber of Commerce we were to meet Mr. Porth at a restaurant in the same block for dinner. Because of the social event the restaurant was packed. Mr. Porth, who was over 80 had stopped exhibiting his work. He was an astounding artist. The clique of artists he hung around with in his younger days, painting in Paris, was Norman Rockwell, Walt Disney, and the like. He had once given an art lesson to Winston Churchill. Mr. Porth took one look at Sharon and said, "That top is a beautiful color. What do you call that?" "It's called Persian Melon." "Well, it looks like they left a couple of nice melons in there." Sharon thought that was hilarious. It seemed like we were waiting forever for a table. The waitresses and busboys were hurrying as fast as they could. The next thing I knew, Sharon had cleared a table for us and took the dishes back into the kitchen. The busboys didn't seem to care. Maybe it was those long legs. After dinner we walked to the art exhibit and it was powerful indeed. The paintings were phenomenal. The mayor and his wife were there and many doctors and lawyers and their spouses. I don't think I'd ever seen so many tuxedos, and diamonds, and pearls, and furs, and champagne in one place in my life. After about an hour I really wanted to slip out. Dott Burns, my agent, caught me at the doors as we were leaving. She said, "Now, you're coming to the awards party later, aren't you?" and she gave me the address. "It's important that you be there. They're announcing the first prize winner." "I will. I'll be there," as I looked at the card. "Do you really want to go to that party?" Sharon said, as we walked down the steps outside, heading toward the truck. "No, I really don't." So we decided to blow off the party and take a little drive down Bayshore Boulevard to Fish Gut Pier located at the far end of Bayshore. The real name is Ballast Point Pier. Sharon and I would go there frequently. It was a magical place to take a walk at night when the moon was full over Tampa Bay. While we were there I was telling her about one of my inventions. Margo and Chris still get a kick out of what they call "typical Lynn Ash inventions." I said that when Andy and I were little things, sleeping out on our old north screened-in back porch on Ellicott Street, it would get very cold in the wintertime. Mother would pile blankets and old army coats from our older brothers on top of us to keep us warm. I can still smell those old coats and covers to this day. Just our noses would be sticking out. The covers were very heavy and I got used to that weight and couldn't go to sleep without it. As an adult I still slept with quite a few blankets, for the weight. The only problem was that I had started sleeping on my back and the heavy weight of the blankets pushed down on my toes. So I told Sharon that I concocted these two shoebox-sized wire "cages" that fit on my feet. They strapped on with leather dog collars and the ends extended out a couple of inches past my toes. I said I was trying to figure out a way to keep them from getting caught on each other while I was sleeping. She was laughing so hard that she actually wet herself. The next morning my agent called me and said, "Where were you last night?" I said, "We decided not to go to the award thing." She said, "Well, 'The Barefoot Mailman' won first prize." It's funny that the highlight of that night was the wonderful laughter we had when I was telling Sharon that made up story about the "foot cages." I took the painting back to Melbourne Beach with the blue ribbon and Mike hung them both in the main dining room of the restaurant. I felt like the essence of "The Barefoot Mailman" was on a Florida beach, where it belonged. Lash Out Loud