It's a beautiful morning; birds are singing; chickens are cackling - a person would almost think it was spring time and of course in this case, at the base of Green Mountain, Fosterville; it just might be. We seem to get 2 months spring, 2 months summer, 2 months autumn and then, dang it all anyway, 6 months winter. And the hell of it is, during those first four months of rather enjoyable weather, the skeeters, black flies and noseeums are so blasted thick, a tender morsel like meself just doesn't care to go outdoors, which of course, regrettably, I just have to do. After my wife and I clambered into bed last night; she, beat from baking, scooping ice cream and jawing with the customers in her little country bistro; me, beat from working on the baby-barn in the heat and were about to shut our eyes, the heavens opened up with such a thunderous down pour, it was difficult to drift off to the world of dreams and occasional nightmares. The sun is just a sparkling away and I know I should be outside working on the baby-barn but before I feel the sweat trickling down my back and filling my jeans, think I'll just have a little down-time and let my fingers do a wee tap dance on the keyboard for awhile.
I've been thinking about my big bro Larry lately and some of the times we've had together over the years. Since quite a few of my readers seem to live on the friendly isle of Newfoundland (which I've never been - that and PEI being the only 2 provinces I haven't trod upon and Labrador - even been to the Yukon, NW Territories and Nunavut), thought I'd write about the time I was living in Calgary; so this blog is for you.
I was a young man then, just a slight tippy-toe over 30, when Larry pulled into my place leading a caravan, which consisted of three vans full of happy hippy-types on a cross-Canada tour. Well, Larry has always had a way of showing up with some new bottle of booze that he just loves to share and on this hot summer day, the bottle of choice was Newfoundland Screech and I believe it was either 80 or 90 proof.
Yee-ha! - talk about a slap your ribs, rattle your tonsils, burn your throat, explode in your guts bottle of hooch that was. Now, I don't know how one is supposed to imbibe a bottle of that type of high-octane booze but in my opinion, there should have been a lable pasted to it saying, "Drink at Your Own Risk". The way we were knocking it back was straight and by the cap full, a Newfie snoot-full-shooter, no less. And of course, just to add a little excitement to our little gathering of bearded-men and our female partners, we set the cap afire - blazing shooters that almost made your eyes roll up into your head every time you knocked one back. Things went well for a short time, until a long-haired hippy with a full black beard that my brother had picked up along the way was so drunk, he was unable to stand or talk in a meaningful fashion any longer, sort of slowly sipped at the blazing cap and set his moustache and beard on fire. I don't know if my brother knocked him cold as he smacked away at his head, trying to put out the fire or if he just passed out; one shot of Newfoundland Screech too many, but he just sort of slid down on the floor and flicked about like a dead snake for a few moments before he began sleeping it off.
I guess we must have had the tunes blazing away as well because sometime during the night, my business workshop being the place of untold entertainment and lies, two constable showed up and wanted to know what we were up to. Luckily, we had just disposed of the hot knives; in those days, LSD, weed and hash being mind-altering stimulants, seeing we weren't really causing any harm and I was the owner of the building, they just asked us to turn down the music before they left. Other than the hippy setting his face on fire, I just don't seem to be able to recollect any more of that evening; I imagine the countless caps of Newfoundland Screech is the reasoning for my lack of memory. However, I do remember it was a fun filled evening and I almost wished I could have accompanied my big bro on his cross-Canada trip because I'm sure it would have been a blast, which he later told me, they had a great time, although. because his hippy hitch-hiker with half his beard burnt off didn't contribute anything to the trip, other than eating their grub and helping himself to their delightful treats, he dropped him off somewhere along the highway, so he could find someone else to mooch off.
On my wedding day, Larry showed up with a bottle of Absinthe but that's another story - cheers, eh!
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