I hope you had a great Father’s Day — assuming you are a father, that is.
Our house was quiet on Sunday morning and even though I didn’t get up until almost 830a — an unheard of late hour for me — I was still the first one out of bed and my bride slept, Pad was comatose and Chris was up in cottage country with friends.

He didn’t get home until dinner time, so the annual trouping of the gifts was delayed for his arrival and the offerings were lovely, in spite of my shouting at the boys to get the hell out of the way of the TV because the golf was on.
I didn’t really yell. And I wasn’t really watching at that hour — the TV was on, but I was helping Laura with some work so I had the laptop open, the iPad on, the Blackberry on my lap and a small tinfoil hat on my head.
Once we got the work out of the way — we cooked ribs and boiled corn in shifts — there was very, very cold beer to drink that had been sitting in ice all afternoon and, well, Jesus.
Does anything taste better than a really, really cold beer on a hot, humid day? I can’t imagine it.
Well, a really cold beer in the company of my boys (no beer for them) is actually better. And even on the day after Father’s Day, I will be unapologetic in saying how proud I am of the young men they are becoming.
Their mom has done a great job!
– – –
Saturday was unnecessarily busy, if you asked me.
I didn’t actually do anything but I still felt ran off my feet, although the use of that phrase doesn’t much apply to me because I don’t run.
But the day began with both the boys having to “get up early.” In their worlds, this mean rising before noon, and in this specific instance Pad was up around 8a and Chris about and hour later.
Pad was playing ball hockey in the Alex Corrance Memorial tournament at Canlan/BTNL and needed to be there by 9a. Chris was heading north to the woods and his drive was leaving at 10a.
So while Laura snoozed — you see a pattern here?? — I got up and made the boys a hearty breakfast. Hearty in that it causes heart disease. Bacon. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Etc.
But there’s something about guys cooking for guys on a sunny Saturday morning that rings with optimism for the day to come and that was how I felt.
After everyone had gone, Laura and I went out to breakfast (my turn for bacon) and then to the LCBO, where there was very little bacon but a vast array of wine to chose from to take to a dinner party later that night, along with six Corona for our host to enjoy at a later time.
We went down to watch the ball hockey, which was fun and loud and busy with dozens and dozens of mostly impossibly fit, young people running on asphalt in the baking sun and laughing freely.
By the time we go home, Pad wasn’t far behind us and before I knew it we were off to dinner.
A lawn mower isn’t the centrepiece of most dinner parties we attend but it factored large for our group on Saturday night.
With the outdoor patio table splendidly laid out with an array of meat, fruits, potatoes, wine, beer, salad (no bacon, though) . . . it was a feast fit for a King (and I brought one with me.)
No sooner had we started to make our way to the table when the Guy Next Door decides at 8p he’s going to mow his lawn, a job that took his tiny brain more than 45 minutes to finish.
I looked up the town bylaw — you’re allowed to mow your lawn until 9p. I think that’s patently stupid, but that’s the law.
The bylaw, however, does not in any way restrict or infringe on the rights of the neighbours of people cutting their lawns until 9p at night to react in a churlish, childish or rude manner.
So that’s what we did.
And whence the guy finally put his mower to sleep, the six of us applauded. And we kept applauding. And the conversation used keywords and phrases that, when viewed in isolation are completely acceptable in polite company, but when assembled in a word string might be, at the very least, funny.
Slamming of garden shed doors followed the applause, as well as harrumphing and stomping.
It’s hard to say exactly because there was a fair amount of laughing, too, none from the Guy Next Door.
We had fun well into the evening and heard stories of people with far more interesting lives than ours. I’ll leave it at that since I want to be invited back.
– – –
When Chris got home we asked him what he ate all weekend.
Bacon, bacon, steak, bacon, bacon, hamburgers and bacon.
I think that’s most of the main food groups covered — other than beer, and they boys were do young to drink.
Chris went to bed at 830p last night.
He might still be asleep right now.