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We needed a place to eat. So we took a right into Manteo and amazingly found a parking spot directly in front of the Lost Colony Tavern. A minor miracle on a Saturday night.
We reached the door at the exact moment two men bounded up the steps, clearly trying to beat us there. But their Southern manners kicked in, and they held the door open, waving us in first.
Inside, it looked like any sports bar on a weekend: tables full, burgers and beers everywhere, TVs glowing. But as soon as we sat down, we noticed something different. Several tables had sheets of paper and highlighters spread out like study groups. One table had a phone propped up on a salt shaker, app open so both occupants could see.
“Just remember, you can use Shazam or any music-identifying software,” the emcee announced. “This is Music Bingo—not Name That Tune.” That got a round of titters.
Music Bingo?
We watched our neighbors marking squares with the confidence of seasoned competitors. Meanwhile, we were in Manteo for the Joseph Bathanti poet laureate event.
A swirl of feelings hit me all at once: amusement, FOMO, and the quiet fear of looking like fools if we joined in. Even though we were decades removed from high school, the oldies music pulled us right back to worrying about being uncool.
“It’s not too late,” the emcee called out. “And it’s free. Raise your hand, and we’ll bring over the bingo sheets.”
I looked at my love. We both smiled.
I lifted my hand.
What followed was a magic rock-and-roll carpet ride. Our bingo neighbors gave us a quick rundown of the rules—straight bingo first, then two bingos for the second round. I lost the plot after that.
Who knew bingo could be so complicated?
Then the game began. For the next 90 minutes, forty-five-second clips blasted through the tavern. We marked our sheets with glee when we had a song. And when we didn’t recognize the tune, someone else shouted it out, or our neighbors shared their Shazam answers. The whole bar sang and chair-danced our way through AC/DC, Bruce, Rush, REO, The Beatles, Journey, Foreigner, Gary Numan, Midnight Oil, Boston, and The Cars.
Strangers became teammates. The room, a choir.
We had to tear ourselves away because the poet laureate event was about to start across the way.
We handed our sheets to our neighbors, who promised to give us our winnings “next time.” We didn’t have the heart to tell them we were heading north for the holidays in just a few days. Maybe we wanted to preserve the connection a little longer. Even if fleeting, it felt good to be part of something with others without all the othering.
And the poet event? It could have been stuffy, I guess, but instead Bathanti’s readings felt intimate. Snapshots from childhood, small scenes where he glimpsed his parents’ lives beyond what he could understand as a boy. How they survived and thrived. How their choices stacked up to create the very stage he stood on in Manteo, inviting me to reflect on my parents, their lives, and gratitude for all they offered that I never gave enough credit for.
I thought about how the stories our parents tell us are fleeting, how easily they slip away if we don’t pay attention.
One of my favorite keepsakes is a middle school paper I wrote about my dad's deployment in WWII. He told me how he caught malaria and had to stay behind while the rest of his unit deployed, how they all perished in battle. That malaria saved his life. Without it, I wouldn’t even be here. And if I hadn’t been given the assignment to write the story down, I never would have known about the sacrifice of those men, and how precious his very existence was.
On the hour ride home from Manteo, I contemplated the evening: the way art—whether rock anthems, high-school papers, or poetry—lifts the soul.
And how one moment, one illness, one raised hand can change everything.
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