Charlie Deal died last week. Charlie was a fixture in Mill Valley throughout my childhood; a singularly recognizable figure. A quirky, bearded, scraggly character, usually seen riding a rickety bicycle, often with one of his legendary toilet seat guitars strapped across his shoulder. Charlie was harmless; the strangeness of his appearance exceeded only by the gentleness of his spirit. As a bike-bound adolescent in occasionally "Still" Valley, our paths seemed to cross almost daily as we pedaled in opposite directions down Miller Avenue. At an age when I counted irreverence and defiance as my finest personality traits, I always knew enough to acknowledge Charlie with a wave, a "Hey, Charlie," or a doff of the little league cap. Even as an adult, I never failed to pay tribute to the man. In return, I rarely got more than a humbled and mumbled, "Hello." But that was enough.
When I read about Charlie's passing, on the heals of the closing of the Sweetwater and Village Music, I couldn't help but fall into a reflective mood. Mill Valley, still one of the most beautiful places I know, is not the town I grew up in. Of course, it hasn't been for a long time. And that's okay. But Charlie is a little different than Lockwood's Pharmacy, Mosher's Shoes, The Old Mill Bakery, Varney's Hardware and the other venerable institutions of bygone days. If a local drugstore, charming shoe store, or old fashioned bakery were to open in Lytton Square next week, I suspect they'd be welcomed by one and all. But if Charlie Deal suddenly appeared today, I wonder? Would he be embraced? Would he be respected? Is there still a place for the Charlie Deals of the world?
In the end, it doesn't matter. Because there was only one Charlie Deal. Mill Valley, nor any other town for that matter, will ever see his like again. I'm glad I got to wave to him. I wish I'd gotten to wave goodbye.
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