Month: July 2025

Raiders of the Lost Cooler

Posted on by Jeff Cassman
An Old Hickory Odyssey
There are three certainties in life: death, taxes, and that if you put an anarchist, a militant atheist, a left-wing nurse with a mobile petting zoo, and a devout Catholic father of 14 on an 80-foot houseboat, you’re going to need bail money or barbecue. Possibly both.
It was a furnace of a late July morning on Old Hickory Lake, the kind of day when the air feels like someone else’s breath. My wife Sarah—God bless that long-suffering woman—had packed us off with her usual combination of precision, pity, and quiet resignation. After 31 years of marriage, she’d long since not-quite accepted that I was part husband, part chaos agent.
“You and your misfit brigade better not die without bringing my Tupperware back,” she said as she kissed me on the cheek and handed me five coolers—three bursting with prosciutto-wrapped cantaloupe, mini beef Wellingtons, bourbon-glazed salmon bites, deviled eggs with truffle oil, and desserts layered like international politics. The other two coolers sloshed with beer, bourbon, and enough mixers to open a bar in Belize.
We were headed out on The Floating Deficit, a Reagan-era 80-foot houseboat docked at Creekwood that belonged to a dentist friend who’d lost a poker game and part of his soul to me. In lieu of cash, he’d agreed to give me usage rights to this floating monument of questionable electrical wiring and faded leather upholstery. The microwave was bigger than most Nashville apartments and the stereo system could rattle your
… Read the rest

The Divorce Admiral

Posted on by Jeff Cassman

Ronald Eugene Traylor had always dreamed of a quiet retirement. Not of grandeur, mind you—he wasn’t that kind of man. A recliner, a flat-top grill, and maybe some quality time teaching his youngest how to skip stones with military precision.

Instead, the very morning of his retirement ceremony—before the sheet cake had even been cut—his wife of nineteen years and 364 days told him, quite plainly, that she had never loved him, hated the sound of his breathing, and was leaving him for her Zumba instructor named Kyle, taking their four kids and both Labradors.

“The kids too?” Ronald asked.

“And the dogs,” she said. “But you can keep your Air Force retirement and your dumb little coin collection.”

She left him with a pension, a sad jar of cocktail peanuts, and the lingering scent of betrayal mixed with Bath & Body Works. Ronald signed the divorce papers with the same stoicism he’d once reserved for nuclear protocols, then drove straight to the VFW where he drank enough to put down a Clydesdale.

He stood on the bar at one point and gave a speech no one asked for, about patriotism and how “you don’t really know a woman until she says she’s leaving you for a guy with clear skin.”

The next morning, wearing aviators, tube socks, and a Hawaiian shirt that smelled like regret, Ronald wandered toward Green Hill, TN—drawn by nothing more than a whisper of lake wind and a promise from a former colleague that said … Read the rest

The Pirate of the Cumberland

Posted on by Jeff Cassman

It was a fine July morning on OHL—humid, sunlit, and vibrating with reckless optimism.

Mark rolled into the Cherokee marina parking lot like a man with a plan and zero understanding of physics. He emerged from his 2003 Suburban (which he had christened The Kraken) wearing aviator sunglasses, board shorts, and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt that screamed divorced magician energy. Draped over his shoulder was a pool noodle he referred to as his “first mate.”

He strolled up to the rental kiosk with the swagger of a man who thought liability waivers were merely suggestions.

“I be the Pirate of the Cumberland,” he announced to the teenager behind the counter. “And I’ll be taking Pontoon 14 off yer hands.”

The teenager blinked once, then twice, unsure if this was cosplay or a mental health emergency.

“Uh… okay. Ten people max. No towing. No excessive noise. And absolutely no renaming the vessel—company policy.”

Mark slapped down his ID and a laminated certificate titled Official Renaming Ceremony for S.S. Wet Dreams.

“She sails under new colors, lad.”

By noon, the pontoon was a floating estrogen bomb. Thirteen bridesmaids—yes, thirteen, not counting Mark—wearing matching neon-pink swimsuits emblazoned with “Bride’s Babes” had boarded the now-rebranded S.S. Wet Dreams. They came armed with Bluetooth speakers, vodka in Capri Sun bags, seven coolers, a charcuterie board shaped like a penis, a fog machine (for reasons), and at least one vape pen that doubled as a highlighter.

Mark was the only man onboard, … Read the rest

Liberty, Propane, and the Wrath of God

Posted on by Jeff Cassman

Fourth of July weekend on OHL was supposed to be a chill time.
I imagined grilled hot dogs. Maybe a little sunburn. A firework or two.

Instead, I got a full-blown, storm-soaked, gospel-tract-slinging showdown between God’s judgment and my houseboat… which, by the way, exploded.

But let’s back up.

We were hosting the wife’s family for the holiday. That’s right: the in-laws. Not just any in-laws—Independent Fundamentalist Baptists from Portland, the kind who believe drums are demonic, laughter is a slippery slope to dancing, and anyone who’s ever seen a PG-13 movie is probably already halfway to hell.

They don’t drink. They don’t swim. They don’t play cards.
They refer to “The Star-Spangled Banner” as a little too jazzy.

So naturally, I did what any reasonable son-in-law would do:
I packed a flask of good bourbon and kept it in my back pocket.
It wasn’t a full rebellion. Just a quiet act of survival.

We set sail Friday morning from Hvily aboard The Liberty Tub, a 40-foot houseboat with soft floors, a questionable propane system, and a broken speaker that only plays Alan Jackson (which, to me, is a feature).

The crew:

  • Brother Carl, my father-in-law, who believes the Beatles triggered the End Times.
  • Aunt Ruth, a severe woman who thinks ranch dressing is too spicy.
  • Uncle Eldon, who calls Sprite “the drink of compromise.”
  • Buttons, our autistic tabby cat, who hates thunder and the color orange.
  • Marvin, our blind dog, who navigates via smell and barks at shadows,
… Read the rest