Friday Fun

Back in the day, getting an invite to the Acton Hilton in Southern Vermont made one happier than Bill Clinton campaigning for POTUS in Nevada and discovering a rare BOGO Sale at the Chicken Ranch  Brothel and even though the Las Vegas Sex bookmakers would give you three dollars for every dollar bet on the under Total of two VDs per lady - too many wagered on "over" - and the punters had to eat the loss even though the government promised prospective Johns that the working women were regularly checked for health.

The Acton Hilton was the name of a deer hunting camp in Southern Vermont and it was a mens only haven, except for the one day of the season when wives were permitted to come for a few hours and bring the men a robust repast.

I was dating (and eventually married) the prettiest woman I have ever seen and her brother had wrangled an invite for me from her Father who was not too keen on me at the time and not only because the Saab I was driving had an engine that ran on gas and oil put into the same tank; Here he is, I can hear him coming on that damned lawn mower, but because he was as industrious as he was intelligent and I was as indolent and haughty as the typical early 1960s know-it-all clown.

It was a deeply dark and extremely cold evening when we arrived at The Acton Hilton and the men inside were all drinking various forms of see-throughs (Gin, Vodka, Bourbon and Whiskey on the rocks)  and playing the great card game, Pitch, having already shot, cleaned and hung the Camp Meat (A Doe) the day before hunting season officially opened.

My future BIL (Brother in Law) and I went inside and said hello to the men, especially my future FIL (Father in law) and Fred, the owner of The Acton Hilton and one of the coolest legit bastids I have ever met.

There was a fire absolutely roaring in his giant natural dark stone fireplace that had become glowing white in appearance owing to the intensity of the literally andiron melting blaze.

We took our sleeping bags up to the attic (about which more later) and came down and popped a beer each and slowly and cautiously tried to enter the conversation.

I drank 100 PBRs and smoked 1000 Winstons in that first hour; I'd peeled off my checkered shirt and was wearing an undershirt and was surprised and delighted when my FIL asked us all to walk out onto the deck.

Minutes later we had all assembled on the deck when FIL asked me to look at the huge pine beside the deck:

Do you see that first limb?

Yeah, sure.

From this deck how high would you say that limb is?

Dunno, probably about eight feet.

Good; guess what?

 A guy that used to hunt here, guy named Bert, before he was fixed, was able to stand right where you are and pee over that limb.

Really?

I shit you not; amirite men?

They were all laughing and nodding in agreement.

We've got pictures of him doing it if you want to see 'em

No, I'm good. I believe you. I'm going back inside and grab a cold PBR.

Later on that night, after more Pitch and drinks and a shit ton of food, we decided to turn in and my BIL and I went up into the attic to crawl into our sleeping bags.

The great Flannery O'Connor had a collection of short stories entitled "Everything that rises must converge." 

'Tis true.

All of the smoke from the fire, the smell of cigars, cigarettes, hunter's sweat and the ineluctable results of huge amounts of digested food had risen and converged in the attic which is why my BIL had kindly warned me earlier that if I had to get up at night to take a squirt that I should "Stay Low."

I have many fond memories of life in Southern Vermont back in the day; The electric foliage set against the black autumnal clouds; the mountains themselves placed there by God to protect me; The beautiful strawberry blonde wearing white jeans whom, thanks be to God, agreed to marry me; and watching my FIL working on metal and producing the glory of the welder's arc.

I treasure those memories and what I did not want to remember is a photo of Bert's arc of urine clearing that limb.

I do remember really well when The Bride left Vermont to go to College in Maine.

I was left alone to learn how to deal with pain caused  by her absence and it was then I learnt that there was a genius alive in California who understood the pain of absence I was suffering with.

His name was Brian Wilson and he wrote a song that somewhat comforted me by learning I was not alone.

The most important part of the song is the repetitive instrumentalisation and the harmonic vocalising. 

For me, the words are immaterial just as a phone call to The Bride in College in Maine was, except for the I love you immaterial; she could have been reading me the Congressional Record.

Her voice was everything; it's sweet and clear and calm and it carried with it all that is Good, True and Beautiful about her; her huge warm heart and the glorious aspects of her sweet soul; her will, intellect and memory.

I think I should end with Wilson's song