The chances of the full moon falling on a Thursday can’t be any better than one in seven, but I’d swear it happens more than that; maybe even our planet’s satellite arranges its schedule to be a part of the weekly bicycling shenanigans—and unlike most of the riding revelers, it doesn’t have to get up in the morning!
It was 2009 all over again, as far-flung correspondents and the local embedded returned to the fold for a night, at least, in order to savor the delights of lake-level circumnavigation culminating in our own private railroad apartment bridge-barge party complete with VIP room just around the corner.
Muskrats masqueraded as nutria or vice-versa and surprisingly, no one fell in the lake, although more than one person regretted stepping off the bark-lined path into the marsh; you wouldn’t call it quicksand, exactly, but your shoes might have some explaining to do the next morning to all the others in your closet or to your co-worker’s kicks one cubicle over.
Upon leaving, it seemed that there were those who ignored Joeball’s standard admonition to avoid out-and-backs, thereby passing up an opportunity for more arbors in the etum (an outcome which will, however, be made available to all those who show up for the Heritage (Tree) Time Trial) and resulting, at least temporarily, in a minor schism.
Fortunately, moon shadows guided us all back together for the beloved indoor-outdoor fireplace where, for nearly an hour, I’m sure, inebriated footballers relentlessly attempted to dropkick plastic balls into the rooftop chimney. It seemed futile, if not impossible, until, wonder of wonders, the kicker among us you might expect to more excel at cricket, not soccer, launched his orb right down the pipe, where it fell into the fire like a flattened plastic pizza to the roars of the crowd and the amazement of all.
Talk about a moon shot, just one more celestial sphere to howl at, Mr. Werewolf, woo-woo-woo, woo-oo.
Whew.
It was 2009 all over again, as far-flung correspondents and the local embedded returned to the fold for a night, at least, in order to savor the delights of lake-level circumnavigation culminating in our own private railroad apartment bridge-barge party complete with VIP room just around the corner.
Muskrats masqueraded as nutria or vice-versa and surprisingly, no one fell in the lake, although more than one person regretted stepping off the bark-lined path into the marsh; you wouldn’t call it quicksand, exactly, but your shoes might have some explaining to do the next morning to all the others in your closet or to your co-worker’s kicks one cubicle over.
Upon leaving, it seemed that there were those who ignored Joeball’s standard admonition to avoid out-and-backs, thereby passing up an opportunity for more arbors in the etum (an outcome which will, however, be made available to all those who show up for the Heritage (Tree) Time Trial) and resulting, at least temporarily, in a minor schism.
Fortunately, moon shadows guided us all back together for the beloved indoor-outdoor fireplace where, for nearly an hour, I’m sure, inebriated footballers relentlessly attempted to dropkick plastic balls into the rooftop chimney. It seemed futile, if not impossible, until, wonder of wonders, the kicker among us you might expect to more excel at cricket, not soccer, launched his orb right down the pipe, where it fell into the fire like a flattened plastic pizza to the roars of the crowd and the amazement of all.
Talk about a moon shot, just one more celestial sphere to howl at, Mr. Werewolf, woo-woo-woo, woo-oo.
Whew.
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