An Aborted Happy Hour

The kiddies and their parents are gone,
gone home to have supper and get
ready for the Monday morning bus
that will cart the kids off to school
leaving the old folks at the camp-
ground following two days of inter-
mittent rain. They pour the lighter
fluid over the damp wood which sits
on damp branches which sit on damp
kindling which sits on the only dry
thing in the camp, the Sunday paper
and drop lit matches on the wooden
teepee in the fire pit and hope that
a flame will rise like Phoenix, but all
that happens is billows of lung chok-
ing, blue smoke ascend into the air, are
caught by the westerly breeze off the
Big Lake and settle on people in the
neighborhood on the other side of the
dune causing them to abandon Sunday
evening grilling and happy hour on their
decks, duck back inside to have another
drink while waiting for Masterpiece
Theater.

1 thought on “An Aborted Happy Hour

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