We kenneled Dum-Dum for the day in Hampstead. That little mutt was one of the sweetest and friendliest dogs I've ever owned, but she was also very excitable, and tended to jump and race around. Last year she had scratched one of our guests' children with her claws. No harm was done, but the little girl was scared. You knew somebody was going to let her out of the house without being on the tie-out, and then she'd run loose. It was safer for us and for her to put her in the kennel for the day.
By late morning people started to show up. Tusker and Tessa and the boys were among the first, and the first thing we did was get the keg station going. The new grill center was totally in stainless steel, had a pair of eight burner grills, six side burners for pans and pots, and built in cold storage underneath. At the far end it even had a cooler capable of holding a pair of half kegs of beer. The beer distributor had brought out a pair of kegs two days ago, along with some bottle beer and soda, and the kegs were cold. Tusker took one look at the system and pronounced it, "Awesome!" I laughed and delegated him to run the keg. We got the first two beers.
Tessa helped Marilyn bring the food out, before getting a beer of her own. Marilyn went with a wine cooler. Then, as guests arrived, Marilyn and I greeted them. You could tell who had been to a previous party. They showed up with their kids already wearing swimsuits, and with spare clothes in a bag in their car; the kids promptly made a beeline for the pool and jumped in. People who never had been there before, arrived fully dressed, and with a swimsuit in a bag. They were directed to the pool house if they wanted to change. Parking was simple - anywhere in the front yard and around to the far side of the house. No way did we have enough driveway to hold everybody! One of the security guys, in shorts and a sport shirt, directed traffic.
The press connection was looking problematical. The Newsweek reporter, a guy named Bill Grass, showed up around noon, after spending half an hour driving all over northern Carroll County, lost. Already present was a reporter from the Sun, Fletcher Donaldson, a young fellow in his mid-twenties. On the other hand, of the three local television stations, only WJZ sent a truck out, and as soon as they figured out that the summer barbecue party really was a summer barbecue party, and not a gathering of the Republican powerful, they took off without even recording any B-roll or doing a voice-over.
Donaldson introduced himself and then promptly stuffed his notepad in his pocket, grabbed a beer, and began circulating. When Grass arrived, he was the only guy wearing a suit. I just shook my head in amusement and waved him over.
"Mister Buckman?", he asked.
I smiled and shook his hand. "Call me Carl. What in the world are you dressed for? This is a party, not a convention! Lose the jacket and tie, and roll up your sleeves, or you don't get a beer." He blinked in surprise, but then complied. I tossed his jacket and tie inside the house, and then handed him a beer. He still wasn't as informal as I was (shorts, Hawaiian shirt, straw hat, sunglasses, and deck shoes, no socks) but he wasn't completely stiff now. I had Tusker pump him a beer, and refreshed mine as well. "Now, welcome to the party!", I said.
"Thanks. I didn't know what to expect."
"We've been having this little shindig ever since we built the house, back in '83, and it just keeps getting bigger every year. Last year we started doing a smaller one in the fall, when the kids are playing soccer. We don't have the pool open then, but we bring over the teams, and let the kids run around. It's fun."
"It looks it." Just then a pair of small ones, maybe four or five, went racing through the kitchen area, so I corralled them and sent them back out the way they came. They went screeching away and headed towards the pool.
"I'm not big on rules, but they might burn themselves on the grill.", I explained. I drank some beer and waved at Brewster, whose eyes widened when he saw me talking to somebody who looked like a reporter. I smiled over my cup. "I bet you didn't start the week thinking you'd be attending the party of some two-bit Congressional wannabe this weekend."
"Is that what you think you are? A two-bit wannabe?", he asked. Brewster arrived as the question was raised, and his eyes popped open.
"I think that's what Andy Stewart thinks of me. What do you think?", I asked.
"I don't know yet, Mister Buckman..."
"Carl!", I interrupted him.
" ... Carl. I have to tell you, I've been covering politics a long time now, and I've never seen anything like what I saw Sunday morning. What in the world were you thinking?"
I shrugged. "I'm not sure now. Mostly I was just incredibly pissed off!" Brew winced at that, since serious people don't say the words 'pissed off.' Screw it, I might be going down, but if so, I'd go down in flames! "The man's a lying scumbag, and I just got angry! That's all it was. I lost my temper."
Tusker had been listening in from by the beer keg. He laughed at this, and Grass looked over at him. If he thought I was informal, I wondered what he thought of Tusker. Tusker had on cutoff shorts and a sleeveless 'Harley Davidson' tee shirt, and sandals, with his hair tied together in a pony tail. His shoulder tattoos were quite visible. "Remind me not to piss you off.", he laughed.
"You're not helping much, buddy.", I told him. "I didn't need to have a party in order to get grief. I am getting a perfectly fine load of grief from my wife already, thank you very much!"
"Your wife isn't happy about this?", Grass asked.
Tusker laughed again, especially when Marilyn came up from behind the reporter and answered, "No, she isn't, and if he ever pulls a stunt like that again, I'm going to kill him!"
"Yes, dear, I promise! I'll behave!"
She wagged her finger at me and said, "You'd better!", and then stood on her tiptoes and kissed me. She turned to the reporter. "If you want to try fitting into a pair of Carl's shorts, I can try to find some, but I don't think he's your size."
"That's all right. I'll be fine." Grass was probably about twenty pounds heavier than me, and it was mostly around the middle. Marilyn left, going out to the back yard and greeting some people from Fifth District. She was wearing a tight pair of shorts and a tank top, and looked cuter than hell!
"In case you didn't figure it out, that was the long suffering wife of the candidate.", I said. "And this is Jim Tusk, my best friend."
"Really? Don't take this wrong, but you don't look like the best friend of a billionaire."
Tusker laughed. "Really? You don't say! You're probably saying he looks like a crazy biker."
"Actually, yeah."
Both Tusker and I laughed at that. "Can't imagine why!", I laughed.
"Well, I am a crazy biker. On the other hand, I'm also the biggest Honda motorcycle dealer in the state, and with any luck, I'll pick up Harley Davidson this year."
"Did you hear back from them?", I asked.