It’s gone. No warning, no lead up. Just gone.

There are places that should be encased in amber, preserved forever just as they are. Sometimes you don’t think about this until it’s too late.

I never thought as I listened to a loud band while fending off the overt affections of a man thrice my age that I would say this: I miss those days.

I miss them already.

The Chum Bucket always seemed of another decade and that was the best thing about it. The food was tasty, the drinks were great, and the staff was always wonderful. What I appreciated most was the time-warp aspect of it, though.

It never changed. You can’t say that about too many places. You can’t say that about too many people for that matter.

There was a time when The Chum was closed for renovations, and that worried me. Would it retain its dark, quirky appeal afterwards or would it be transformed into beige, white-tablecloth blandness like so many places on the Shoreline? Alas, after a deep clean and some minor cosmetic changes, our old Chum was looking still very much like itself. A little spruced up but very much the same. Like someone who goes in for dermabrasion rather than a full-on face lift.

When I hear from Quint that The Chum has closed, I keep hoping I read his text wrong. I keep hoping he’s playing a joke. I hadn’t been there in a while, but it was always in the back of my mind that I could go.

Chum Old Boy, how long did we know each other? A long time.

If I could say something to you, what would I say? Probably thank you.

Thank you for being around when I, newly divorced, needed to dance till I was dizzy to loud funk. That helped. And it was fun.

Thank you for being the place where Quint and I reconnected and went on to form a best friendship that I’ll treasure until my dying day.

Thank you for providing me the chance to see celebrities, from a notorious former boy band member to the ShamWow guy. (I hand-on-a-Bible swear it was the ShamWow guy. Really.)

Thank you for saving a long-ago Halloween. My two cousins from D.C. were visiting and the party we went to was a bust. So, we burst in the doors wearing our outlandish costumes and took over the place until closing. We still laugh about that night.

Thank you for being the location of so much fodder for my writing. My book could have been written without you, but it wouldn’t have been as much fun to read. It certainly wouldn’t have been as interesting to live firsthand.

Thank you for providing me with surreal experiences like no other place ever. Like a cumulonimbus cloud, odd happenings would form from nothing and then it would rain ridiculousness. A woman ranting in the ladies’ room to no one in particular that there’s a hole in the ozone layer. A conga line of inebriated patrons that stumbled like a drunken snake throughout the place. (That happened more than once.) Any encounter with the one-celled organism.

From Fish Mongers to Sasquatch to Grandpa Viagra, there was never a shortage of colorful folk. I thank you for welcoming everyone.

So many memories, so much time. Have I realized this too late? Yes, I believe so. But don’t we all?

Do we truly appreciate a place before it’s gone? Most of the time I don’t, and I need to be better about that. I need to be more grateful for the places I frequent, even after my visits become infrequent. I have no problem appreciating people. Places are different, though. You go, you hang, you laugh, you forget.

So, it’s goodbye to The Chum Bucket. Thank you, Old Boy. I will never forget you.

Juliana Gribbins is a writer who believes that absurdity is the spice of life. Her book Date Expectations is winner of the 2017 Independent Press Awards, Humor Category, and winner of the 2016 IPPY silver medal for humor. Write to her at jeepgribbs@hotmail.com. Read more of her columns at www.zip06.com/shorelineliving.