1989-2007

I am a freaking surly, emotional mess of late. I have been since August 7. The reason: my favorite bar/restaurant is closing. And before you go thinking it's like my neighborhood Applebee's is shuttering, let me explain.

Though it is not mine, it is "mine." It is "ours," mine and a spirited group of regulars' who could drink Norm, Cliff, Frasier and the whole damn Boston lot of them under the table any day. To say that my family has been patronizing this establishment regularly is putting it simply; more accurately, my family has chosen its hallowed, cozy, comfortable walls before, say, any number of substantial purchases and/or retirement plans that might have been realized in the absence of such a wonderful place.

The Inn at Turner's Mill, we will miss you so.

We will miss your warm, dark, welcoming glow. Your gleaming wood bar, and your deep, rich sandstone walls. Your 150-year-old construction, your shining and spotless hurricanes (how did the servers avoid fingerprints on those globes all these years?). Your port-in-a-storm hospitality. And your staff. Good lord, your staff. Who catered to our every whim, even when we must (surely!) have been drunk and perhaps moody. Many of you have become friends, good friends, the type of friends who won't disappear once the doors are locked for good. My father has said it best: there will never be another place that is as comfortable as the Mill.

During the past week and a half, I have had my own Kubler-Ross stages-of-grief situation:

Denial. I received the call that the Mill was closing from my father, while standing in the check-out line at a local store. I was in such disbelief, the cashier had to ask me if everything was OK. I immediately drove over to the restaurant, in the hopes of learning the rumor wasn't true. It was.

Anger. Ask my co-workers. And my husband. I have not been a pleasant occupant of space recently. Favorite bartender Chris, who has admirably commanded the Mill's bar for many years, might be in his own anger stage right now, as last Friday he looked me in the eye and, flying in the face of the Mill's strict no-facial-hair policy, stated, "Know what starts today? MY GOATEE." A round of anger, on the house.

Bargaining. "I promise to come here every night if you'll only stay open." Four nights a week wasn't enough; but I swear, I will take one for the team. Alas, I could eat lobster at market prices each Monday through Saturday, topped off by several glasses of Louis XIV, and I still would not be able to keep the doors open. The owner is ready to close. And that is that.

Depression. When I got home from work yesterday, I was stricken by a sort of unwarranted malaise. Husband: "What's wrong?" Me: "I don't know. The Mill is closing. I want to take a nap." At the risk of offending those who have lost loved ones recently, or even not-so-recently, I sort of feel like there has been a death in the family. I might need that medication that, if you were represented by a frowny oval caricature, would make you into a smiley oval caricature.

Acceptance. We were all at the Mill tonight, including my five- and two-year-old nephews, who love it there because of the fun service they get from favorite bartender Chris. The owner's mother walked over to say hello and my older nephew looked at her and said, "This place is turning into something else." My tears started flowing, but he had said it all. Last week, he wouldn't admit it was closing. He kept asking, "But when will it open again?" I think he gets it now, and so do I.