A Blustery Day – No Bears, No Balloons

Today was a blustery day

It may have been my first blustery day.

I’ve been in Santa Ana winds, Chicago gales, I-10 crosswinds and even a tornado. How did I know it was a blustery day? Sully at the meat counter said, “Wow, sure is a blustery day, huh?”

I have also figured out what blustery is. That’s when the wind comes from two directions blowing all the leaves from both your neighbor’s yards into yours. Then it rains.

This creates a fall colors/dead leaf cement-like covering on one’s lawn.  A solid blanket of decaying plant material guaranteed to snuff the life out of any foliage that is usually strong enough to withstand the coming wintry blast. “Yuuup, time to be rakin’ those leaves”, was the sage advice I received from Sully the butcher.

I am tempted to pull out the organic/green/ecology card and simply put up a sign that says “Organic Composting Test” and spend the rest of the month engaging in the Official State Sport – tailgating.

I don’t know if you heard, but the Amish team from Boston evidently won the World Series. On Wednesday I was plodding thorough the 847 channels kindly provided by FIOS and came upon a baseball game. This was the seventh inning of the sixth game of the World Series.

I stopped at that channel because my hand had cramped up.

There, on the mound was a heavily bearded pitcher in a Red Sox uniform. What struck me was the wildly unkempt look of his facial hair. This was no Abe Lincoln or Grizzley Adams. No, this guy looked like he was unshaven due to a religious vow…or he lost a bet in a bar.

bilde The camera panned down to the Red Sox dugout and imagine my surprise to see the entire team made up of Amish farmers.

Truthfully I haven’t followed baseball since the Dodgers of Lasorda, Garvey, Lopes and Yeager.


I tried to think of the advantage of having a team comprised entirely of Amish. Then it hit me.

They can make their own bats!

I asked Sully the butcher if he had seen the game and he proceeded to tell me all about the tailgating party before and after the game. I asked if he was in the Fenway parking lot and he said, “Nah, we was in the driveway”. So this tradition of getting drunk and eating greasy sausages really can only be accomplished outside in a climate that approximates a meat locker. Reading up on this I’ve found true world class tailgaters brag about the fingers they have lost to frostbite.

However, none of this explains the tailgate party I actually observed in the parking lot of Sullivan’s Funeral Parlor.

That’s just not right.


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