Euchre, Book Binder, and Laughing
LEAF weekend (a four day event this season) twists about in my head as little five minute memories. The anti-freeze probably has something to do with the lack of full scale stories, but the greater reason, I think, is that most of our life-long memories are not epics. They are snippets and we cherish them. So here are some snippets of my snippets from Fall LEAF 2001...
It's past cold. It's freezing. My wife has covered everything on her body except her eyes and she's trying to find a way to do that. We are the four-person advance team, sent up a night early to secure our spot for Tent City. We survive only because of some browish liquid in a clear bottle marked Jim Beam. My wife beds down early. The rest of the advance team toys with the idea of finishing the bottle...and gets close.
Morning warms Tent City and the rest of the 25-person crew begins to arrive. They bring more provisions. Not many hours pass before we have turned a tupperware tub over and turned it into a Euchre-playing table. The game goes on for hours. We'll be going for many more.
Roy Book Binder has a great moustache and a better hat. He's wearing neat glasses and telling stories about the Rev. Gary Davis from Gray Court and Pink Anderson from Spartanburg. His fingers do something amazing to a 1939 guitar. He sings a song written in 1904. I'm sitting on a hard wooden floor and I don't care how bad my ass hurts. I'm not getting up until he's finished. He finishes sooner than I'd like. As he leaves, he tells us he "feels like an oxymoron. I'm a blues singer with a web site."
A hundred people must have drums around this giant bonfire. People scream every once in a while. Very primal. I've hiked a mile or so up hill to watch this through glassy eyes. People dance and scream and pound. The guy standing next to me (I met him just the day before) looks at me, pulls out a square piece of paper. "Put this on your tongue," he says. I look at him in disbelief. I never have and don't intend to start now. Plus, the anti-freeze has already done its work on my head. He hands one to my buddy who eagerly pops it in his mouth. I look at him. Bad idea, buddy. It's already after midnight. "It's hot," he says. But he looks refreshed. Turns out, Listerine is making these new little paper-looking flavor tabs that dissolve in your mouth. I feel a little silly.
It's 2 AM and I can't stop laughing. A buddy is imitating Cartman, which usually doesn't make me laugh. But he's threatening to go up to a tent inside the Tent City compound and ask if there's any more of that summer sausage. He refuses to stop and I only stop laughing because my stomach hurts too much.
I'm back now but my head is not. I want you folks to consider coming down. I'd like the people of my past to experience life out here. LEAF is every May and October. Start thinking about it.
LEAF weekend (a four day event this season) twists about in my head as little five minute memories. The anti-freeze probably has something to do with the lack of full scale stories, but the greater reason, I think, is that most of our life-long memories are not epics. They are snippets and we cherish them. So here are some snippets of my snippets from Fall LEAF 2001...
It's past cold. It's freezing. My wife has covered everything on her body except her eyes and she's trying to find a way to do that. We are the four-person advance team, sent up a night early to secure our spot for Tent City. We survive only because of some browish liquid in a clear bottle marked Jim Beam. My wife beds down early. The rest of the advance team toys with the idea of finishing the bottle...and gets close.
Morning warms Tent City and the rest of the 25-person crew begins to arrive. They bring more provisions. Not many hours pass before we have turned a tupperware tub over and turned it into a Euchre-playing table. The game goes on for hours. We'll be going for many more.
Roy Book Binder has a great moustache and a better hat. He's wearing neat glasses and telling stories about the Rev. Gary Davis from Gray Court and Pink Anderson from Spartanburg. His fingers do something amazing to a 1939 guitar. He sings a song written in 1904. I'm sitting on a hard wooden floor and I don't care how bad my ass hurts. I'm not getting up until he's finished. He finishes sooner than I'd like. As he leaves, he tells us he "feels like an oxymoron. I'm a blues singer with a web site."
A hundred people must have drums around this giant bonfire. People scream every once in a while. Very primal. I've hiked a mile or so up hill to watch this through glassy eyes. People dance and scream and pound. The guy standing next to me (I met him just the day before) looks at me, pulls out a square piece of paper. "Put this on your tongue," he says. I look at him in disbelief. I never have and don't intend to start now. Plus, the anti-freeze has already done its work on my head. He hands one to my buddy who eagerly pops it in his mouth. I look at him. Bad idea, buddy. It's already after midnight. "It's hot," he says. But he looks refreshed. Turns out, Listerine is making these new little paper-looking flavor tabs that dissolve in your mouth. I feel a little silly.
It's 2 AM and I can't stop laughing. A buddy is imitating Cartman, which usually doesn't make me laugh. But he's threatening to go up to a tent inside the Tent City compound and ask if there's any more of that summer sausage. He refuses to stop and I only stop laughing because my stomach hurts too much.
I'm back now but my head is not. I want you folks to consider coming down. I'd like the people of my past to experience life out here. LEAF is every May and October. Start thinking about it.
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