Something My Dad Would Do
I feel like I'm coming down with something, or I got hit with too much sun. That and the chocolate decadence capping off my birthday dinner. Did I mention getting paddled?
There's a birthday tradition at Anderson Reserve up in Sweet, Idaho. I found out about this tradition when Samantha, owner Paul’s fiancée, showed up at our table with a giant charcuterie board and an Idaho State Trooper. “You're not planning to hit me with that, are you?” She responded “no, but your wife is.”
Did I mention the place is swarming with cops? They're upstairs and downstairs, serving tables, greeting guests. Raising money for Special Olympics. I look to the State Trooper. “You're supposed to be protecting me.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I'm just here to observe.”
They lead us to where a young cowboy with a Duck-worthy beard has been singing and strumming guitar all evening. He's in on it, too. Breaks into the birthday song, and Penny repeatedly swats my ass with the giant paddle. I preemptively yell “ouch!” like Scott’s five year old self in his comedy bit (come see us at The Ice House on August 6!). Everyone upstairs is singing “Happy Birthday” determinedly off-key.
I sign the board with a Sharpie, then the next birthday celebrant gets her turn. There are at least six of us, and I'm starting to question their legitimacy. There can't be that many birthdays in Sweet, Idaho, can there?
Downstairs, at the front of the restaurant, is a small country store with sauces and honey and a display of owner Paul’s NHRA memorabilia. He used to race or maybe still does. He normally works in the kitchen, but tonight he's out back by the silos, where the cigar bar’s going in. A small group is gathered, talking. Samantha recognizes and greets me, and I insert myself into the situation when appropriate.
Paul and Samantha aren't married yet. They're too busy with the restaurant. “Am I going to have to get ordained?” I suggest, only half facetiously. “I can marry you AND photograph the wedding.” I clarify I'm not a wedding photographer, but I'm not an ordained minister, either. We get things done as the need arises.
Other friends show up. The guy who built the silos, the windmill, and other fixtures on the property. Another who describes firing rifles at targets in a manure pile on ten acres adjacent to the golf course. County, not city. There are things you can't get away with any more. Things that would land you in jail down in my manure pile. I've got no problem with any of what normal people call fun.
Paul and Samantha like the idea of doing stand up in the cigar bar. They'll be opening in September.
Silos feel like they belong here. This part of the country, with its dry rolling hills, feels like the set of a Western. The Payette runs through here, just a few miles to the south. On the way in, we passed a cow pasture and the carcass of a car that must have rolled numerous times. No way anyone survived.
Earlier in the day, making our way down from McCall, we stopped at a lazy spot on the Payette, where people in rafts put in or float by. I watched them from a bridge above, then walked into a country store where you can buy a purple gold huckleberry shake. I file that for future reference.
We're coming back in August for the book launch and Gowen Thunder, the big airshow they host every summer. One of my stories will be in that anthology, so of course I'm going to be here for that. And I'm hoping to go up with the Golden Knights again. But even if I don't, I already know some of the people who’ll be working the show. Officer Gifford of the Boise PD. Tammi, active duty Guard and founder of No Greater Love Aviation Foundation. Others, I'm sure. I’ve been busy meeting everyone and their uncle.
Maybe I'm coming down with something. But I think it's already going away.
I nearly forgot what I was going to tell you! Paul’s dad, Dennis, who I did not get to meet this time, came up with the birthday paddle as a prank one night when some California girls were passing through. “I hear it's your birthday!” he said, wielding that enormous charcuterie board. The girls took the bait and lined up at the upstairs rail with their asses stuck out for a paddling. “You started it,” Paul scolded his dad. Immediately afterwards, an 82-year-old hottie told Dennis, “it's my birthday, too!” And that's how traditions get started.
