Friday Part 2

 

When we got up from our nap we decided to walk the property with Daisy.  Trapper was a room on a bluff that overlooked the water.  The actual extreme point of The Point required a walk down a hill, past the boathouse, to a campfire and lean-to area surrounded with a bunch of Adirondack chairs. 

 

As we walked down to the point it became evident that there were an unnatural number of stocked bars on the property.  Our own room was adequately stocked with alcohol, albeit not with great variation.  As we walked down the hill, we noticed the impressive bar in the boathouse and then as we walked up to the point itself, a fully stocked bar near the fire pit attached to a lean-to.  Like a safety-conscious business that has first aid kits and defibrillators at every corner, The Point protected us from sobriety by making sure you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting a fully stocked bar.  (Michael Katz assured me that The Point knew what it was doing when it came to alcohol—there was nothing to drink on the property that was even remotely low shelf.)

 "Can't swing a cat..."

We decided to go on a little boat ride around the cove.  The small electric wooden boats were cute and appealed to Ann because it seemed unlikely that they would cause death or dismemberment.   Matt, the main guy in the boathouse, had already pulled all the cushions out of the boats to store them for the night.  It was cold and he didn't think anyone would be stupid enough to show up late in the afternoon.  We did and he at least pretended to be delighted to see us.

 

I think he was delighted actually.  I think all people naturally want to feel productive and useful.  Matt spends a good part of his day waiting for jackasses like us to show up and decide on a whim that we want to take a boat out.  He has to be polite when he instructs us on how not to destroy the boat or kill ourselves.  It would be natural for him to turn against us in a passive-aggressive way and let us do our worst with The Point's boats.  However, he was helpful and enthusiastic as were all the staff members on the property.

 

I remember my first real "big boy" job as a deck hand on an ore boat on the Great Lakes in the summer of 1973.  I had gotten the job in large part through the intervention of a friend's dad who worked for the mining company that owned the fleet.  I wanted to do a good job.  My parents had always told me that it didn't matter whether you were a ditch digger or a factory worker--what mattered was whether you worked hard and took pride in your job.  I was going to do a good job.

 

Deckhands on ore boats generally spend the summer painting the ship.  I had some experience painting from prior summer work so I felt comfortable with the task.  At some point during my first full day on the job the bosun (think foreman) came up to me and wanted to have a word with me.   He said, "Mueller, you're working too hard".  Nobody had ever said those words to me.  I probed to make sure I had heard right. "What do you mean I'm working too hard?  Did I hear you correctly?"  He said, "A lot of these guys will be here in November and you'll be long gone to college or wherever the hell you're going, so dial it back a bit.  You’re making them look bad."  Welcome to the United Steelworkers.

 

The staff at The Point had a different, and perhaps more difficult, problem.  There was no bosun to lower everybody's expectations, but also long periods of being unproductive when, if one of the guests showed up, you were expected to shift from idleness to friendly and attentive service on a moment's notice.  We were very impressed with how enthusiastic, unaffected and friendly the staff were in circumstances where that could not be taken for granted.

 

In any event, we imposed upon Matt to set us up in one of the electric powered wooden boats.  He put the cushions back in and showed us how to operate the boat.   The boat had a tiller and a forward/backward lever.  Those were the only controls so it was hard to see how you could screw this up.  However, in an odd twist, the tiller worked in the opposite way from the sailboats and outboard motor boats I was familiar with.  The tiller was geared so that when you pushed it right, the boat went right.  This may have been intuitively easier for someone who had never been in a boat, but I found it very confusing and very counterintuitive based on what I knew about piloting small boats.  I hid my periodic confusion from Ann and Daisy and avoided any significant mishaps, so all was well. 

 

We took a circuit around the pretty little cove and got very close to a loon for a long period of time.   The electric engine was almost silent and the loon felt very comfortable with us puttering alongside him (or her).

 

When we returned to Trapper the staff had been there to plump up pillows and deliver a swag bag from David and Robin.  The theme was 1953—the year Paul and David were born.  1953 hats, movies, a couple of beautiful crystal brandy snifters and some good wine.  It was like opposite day—the guests got presents and the birthday boys gave them.

 

Speaking of Robin, I have to admit that we were secretly star-struck by both Robin and Duke, at least when we were sober.  Robin produces big time movies in Hollywood and Duke is one of the most successful Broadway producers in New York and has also produced scads of movies.  The problem is that I know very little about Hollywood movies or Broadway plays and every time I tried to talk shop with them I think they knew that I was clueless.  It was like an admirer asking Tiger Woods how many goals he had scored--I was star-struck but probably the worst fan ever.

 Duke on the Red Carpet

We cleaned up and got dressed for cocktails.  The cocktail venue was the upper story of the boathouse where Paul and Betsy were staying.  It consisted of a big, airy room that opened up to a deck overlooking the cove.  The staff had set up a bar, brought down hors d’oeuvres and opened another double magnum of champagne. 

 

Paul had made a habit of purchasing double magnums of fine wine at charity auctions over the years.  Since he and Betsy couldn’t reasonably consume three liters of wine at a sitting, these had been in inventory in his cellar waiting for an appropriate time to drink them.  What better time than a multi-day birthday party with 20 friends, all of whom exhibited mild signs of alcohol dependence?

 

The cocktail party was a big success—it was a beautiful spot and gave everybody an opportunity to catch up.

 The Boathouse Interior

At the appointed hour we made our way up the hill to the main lodge for dinner.  Dinner consisted of six courses, each paired with an extraordinary wine.  David gave us a detailed description of each wine pairing (except when his 59 year old eyes couldn’t read what he had written).  At one point we were poured two old reds and asked to compare them.  I came to the conclusion that one of them was very powerful, round old wine while the other was rather thin gruel.  Interestingly, Michael Katz came to the exact opposite conclusion and talked at length about the “nose” and “finish” of the wine which totally put me in my place.  I decided to hold my tongue and just drink both of them.

 

Dinner devolved into a round of toasts.  Betsy read a wonderful poem she had written to the twins. Bo made a heartfelt toast to his brothers and got the guests to play “Name that Twin.”  Reg distributed hats with the number 120 (combined ages of the twins) on the crown.  Hope distributed lyrics to an adaptation of the Hesitation Blues (an old Shiverick favorite for their bluegrass/blues jam sessions).  Bo (guitar), the twins (fiddle and banjo) and Michael Katz (harmonica) played while the rest of the guests stumbled through Hope’s very funny version of the old standard.

 No Hesitation Here

Late in the meal we were served a filet mignon course.  Some of the ladies did not finish theirs and I asked one of the waitresses to wrap up some scraps for me to take back to Daisy after dinner.  She never reappeared with the doggy bag so I caught her at the end of the meal and asked if she had remembered my request.  She looked surprised and told me that of course she had remembered my request.  She had the kitchen staff slice up some of the leftovers then took them down to Trapper and fed them to Daisy personally.  Sure enough, when we got back to the room Daisy looked happy and sated as she lay curled up in a ball on the bearskin.  It should be noted that during the course of our stay, Daisy quickly learned to boycott traditional dog food. She, too, had grown accustomed to life with Cameron.

 

There was a decanted bottle of vintage port in our room when we returned after dinner.  I am old enough to know that at precisely those moments when port seems like a good idea it is in fact a very bad idea.  I had a small taste out of weakness but left the rest of it untouched. 

 Don't do it

We crawled into bed but it soon became evident that the rest of the gang planned to have a bluegrass hoe-down in the pub room right next door to our room.  The walls were pretty well insulated but the music periodically hit a volume that roused me from my stupor.  The old Levon Helm/The Band song “Take a load off Annie” was particularly memorable.  The clock had a wee number on it as I recall.