On a snowy evening last December, I made the hour and fifteen-minute trek back to my hometown for an “in-store appearance” at a locally owned Maine bookstore.

I’m pleased to report that many of them seem to be doing just fine following the abrupt departure of mega-retailer Borders a couple of years back. Like my mom always told me, “It’s an ill wind that blows no good.” Yeah, I know, she’s got a million of ‘em.

Anyway, I figure we need all the independent bookstores we can get, so I support them whenever I can. I’m not saying that hoards of customers were lining up to purchase a copy of my latest CD, but we more than got our bait back.

Any time I attend a public event, particularly one taking place in the town I grew up in, there’s a better-than-average chance I’ll stumble into a specific type of awkward social encounter involving one or more individuals whom I’ve known for 50 years but haven’t actually clapped eyeballs on for, oh maybe the last 35 or so.

I’m at an obvious disadvantage in these situations, due mostly to the fact that while we’ve all aged at pretty much the same rate, my childhood friends and neighbors have enjoyed the advantage of regularly updating my visual “card file” by way of newspaper photos, TV appearances, etc. Meanwhile, my images of them haven’t received an update since sometime around the high school yearbook era. Come on now, do you actually look anything like your high school photo nowadays? Would you even want to?

I was first blindsided by this dreaded “aging ambush” many years ago in the summer of 1981 when Marshall Dodge and I, preparing for a show at a tavern in Kennebunkport, arrived in the early afternoon to get our equipment in place and our sound check done before folks showed up for the evening performance.

As one might expect in a waterfront bar on the Maine coast (or anyplace else for that matter) there were a few “regulars” keeping up the monthly rental payments on their barstools across the room from us as we went about our business.

We were just about done when one of the aforementioned tipplers abandoned his perch and struck out across the worn wooden floor, listing slightly to starboard but clearly trending in my direction. Standing over six feet tall, easily carrying 300 lbs., sporting several tattoos and a beard that would have earned him a place in any ZZ Top tribute band or at the very least a role as an extra in an outlaw biker flick, he wasn’t an easy guy to ignore.

With all the finesse of an overloaded pulp truck, he barged into my personal space, thrust out his meaty palm and bellowed, “Hey, you ‘member me don’tcha!”

My first panicked thought was “Gawd I certainly hope so!”

Yet, although everything about him indicated that it would be in my best interest to respond in the affirmative, that simply wasn’t an option. Sadly I hadn’t a clue as to my interlocutor’s identity. Stalling for time I mumbled, “Hmm, yeah, right. You do look kinda familiar (not!) Hmm, now where do I know you from?”

Let’s just say that my lukewarm response was less than enthusiastically received. Taking a step back, he squinted at me suspiciously as his broad acne scarred face crumpled into a troubled scowl. Obviously crestfallen (and this was a man whose crest had a long way to fall), he shook it off and came back at me with “Of course you know me. Your brother and I are good friends.”

Aha, at last, a lifeline! Clutching this slender reed of evidence my mind raced to solve the riddle of the man’s identity. He’d mentioned my brother, but which brother? I have two, one a year older and one almost a decade younger. I’m not great at gauging people’s ages and the beard and tattoos didn’t really help, but figuring him to be closer to my younger brother’s age I went with that. My relief was palpable. His face lit up and I could see that I was on the right road at last. “Sure, of course I remember you!”

After promising to pass along his regards to my brother, I watched him make his way back to the bar. I hadn’t bothered to mention that the last time I’d laid eyes on my burly biker friend, he was a skinny eight-year-old boy playing baseball in the back yard with my kid brother.

As he rejoined his friends at the bar I could almost hear another of my mom’s sayings, “Discretion is the better part of valor.”