The Past is Not Just Prologue

By Gordon Hopkins So, I heard recently that Joe Tess Place is closing. That may not mean much to the folks around here. Although, maybe it does. It is a strangely famous eatery for a place that made its name on fried carp sandwiches. So, it is entirely possible you have heard of it. You may even have eaten there if you happened to make the two-hour journey to Omaha, or at least saw the sign with the happy-looking fish. (What a fish at a seafood restaurant has to be happy about, I’m not sure.)If you have noticed the sign, you may have wondered, as I have many times, why Joe Tess Place? Is Joe Tess the name of the owner? (FYI: It is.) If so, why isn’t it Joe TESS’s Place? Or, more grammatically correct, Joe Tess’ Place? Why isn’t the name possessive? He is Joe Tess and this is his place, after all. Isn’t that like saying, “Let’s all go over to Gordon house,” instead of, “Let’s all go to Gordon’s house?” (For the record, don’t go to Gordon’s house. I haven’t vacuumed in a while.)Anyway, Joe Tess Place is shutting down and, according to the owner, the blame is primarily due to COVID-19, like so many other restaurants. Not to mention a whole lot of other businesses.I haven’t lived in Omaha for years and I hadn’t eaten at Joe Tess Place in decades. Yet, I find the news bugging me. Not simply the news of yet another restaurant falling, though that always makes me unhappy.No, something wheedling at me in my brain is more personal.Maybe it’s just that old, “you can’t go home again,” thing that gets to all of us who have more white hairs on our heads than black and who measure the passage of time by counting the crinkles around our eyes, like the rings on a tree trunk.Technically, you can go home again. The real problem is, home won’t still be there when you show up.You know you are not young anymore when you start regularly having conversations that begin with, “Yeah, I remember that place.”Yup, this is another one of those “old guy” columns, where I moan about the passing of all the old landmarks of my past, now gone. Peony Park. The Antiquarium bookstore. And all the restaurants that my parents loved and were friends with many of the owners.No, I won’t go through the list. Nobody here is interested in a memory tour of defunct restaurants in Omaha.While most of those losses I mentioned were accidental deaths, or some, death by old age, there is one destroyed childhood memory of mine that can be classified as intentional homicide: the W. Dale Clarke Library in downtown Omaha.See, I fooled you, didn’t I? You thought this was just going to be a maudlin, old guy’s lament. Now it has turned into a furious rant. Sorry if I gave you emotional whiplash.The city is giving the location to Mutual of Omaha to build a giant tower. After all, what is more important, books, knowledge, education, or corner offices for insurance executives?There are places in this country that are notorious for a lack of respect to their past. Los Angeles is one that famously tears down everything that may have gathered a bit of dust and replaces it with the new and glittery and ephemeral. Las Vegas is another. So much so that the memories of imploding of old casinos now lasts longer that the casinos themselves.It is one thing when a piece of history inevitably passes to dust. It is quite another to allow them to die when they can be saved. An even worse crime is the deliberate destruction of the past for the sake of a few bucks.Come to think of it, Mutual of Omaha used to be a fond memory of my childhood now gone. I remember watching Marlin Perkins on TV, wandering about the jungle among the animals like a wizened Jungle Jim. I used to get a warm feeling when the announcer came on and said, Mutual of Omaha presents…”Well, not anymore.

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