Yesterday, up in this apple tree, there was a bear. Right there. I swear! But I couldn’t find a camera anywhere.
The party’s over.
Everyone says it was the best party ever, and I don’t disagree. Perfect weather. Everyone showed up. Nice decorations. Lots of food and booze. And best of all, it wasn’t a funeral.
It was an 80th birthday party for Bill and Charon, and it was all Mary’s idea. And between them, she and the girls pulled it off. And I helped.
When 35 people are about to descend upon you, you don’t want your house looking like you haven’t cleaned it in 10 years. (Which is how it got that way) So I vacuumed the shop and cleaned the bathroom in the basement – for the first time ever. We washed both porches, string trimmed the gardens, and scrubbed the bird shit off the backs of the lawn chairs. It was a lot of work, but by the time the Big Day rolled around, everything was neat and tidy.
I thought it would be cool to have all three motorcycles spiffed up, lined up, revved up, and road-ready so people would wonder ‘whoa wtf’ when they walked by.
The Honda looked sharp, but I never did get the Kawasaki running, and the night before the Big Day, the tail light fell off the Suzuki.
I left them in the garage, and nobody was impressed.
It would have been cool if the cold room were cold, and full of onions, and computerized.
Instead, it was off, and nobody noticed.
Two weeks later, it was cold, full of onions, and computerized.
By the wildest stroke of luck, I happened to have a 4″ thick slab of an 85 year old tree, 3 feet in diameter. It’s softwood, it’s good for nothing, and it’s highly flammable.
I sanded it flat, carved it with a birthday message, and drilled 80 holes, to hold 80 matches, along the 80th tree ring. The plan was to dribble a flammable fluid along a clever path to light up the design like a fuse before setting all the matches afire.
I did some test burns, and I decided to use Bacardi. Which, I’m told, works on cadavers.
Fifteen minutes to Showtime, I had to re-drill all the holes, because my rum-soaked matches no longer fit in the rum-soaked holes. I soaked the planned path of the flaming fuse with rum, we lugged it outside and it drew an admiring crowd.
I said a few words, and then I put a match to the rum. It wouldn’t light.
I tried a lighter. It wouldn’t light.
‘Huh,’ said the crowd. ‘Oh no!’, said I.
I added rum. Lots of it. And I lit it while it was fresh and wet on the wood. And because rum flames are hard to see, I added more rum, and someone behind me pulled me away from the inferno.
The people in the front row warmed themselves on the flames for a few moments, and the crowd faded away.
Nice try.
It’s cider season, but it’s been a bad year for apples. Most of the trees are bare, and the weather’s been unkind. The apple gods are angry.
A few trees had fruit, though, and I managed to quit picking after just 3 trees. Sixteen gallons of juice ought to be plenty.
More than enough. It happens every year. What can I do with all this cider we make? We can only drink so much. And we can only give away so much. And that still leaves plenty for the Party.
I set up a cider booth at the party, and we voted for our favorite cider.
Number 2 won, by two to one.
Snacks
Booze
The Millennial Stare
The ‘Gen Alpha Stare’
Everybody else
Probably drunk