Actually, all the fireworks were at the bountiful dinner table set up next to the garden and just up the slope from the range, and the new grapevines and the now-productive hives.

Natasha called just after I got tired of pulling weeds in the front yard. The rain from Hurricane Arthur had softened the soil and the invasive species were easy to lift out by their usually stubborn roots. I was making a list- charge batteries on the vehicles, run the Tiger over the pastures and front yard, fire up the whacker and go after some of the nooks and crannies around the house that are too tight to get the 61-inch cutting deck to address.

And the trip to Lowes for white pea-stone to refresh the zen patch in front and swap out the propane tank for the grill, assuming the mouse has moved out. Certainly the last time I fired it up should have served as an ultimatum of sorts.

And beyond all that was the looming specter of the mound of stuff in the garage. Better not to think of that. Too depressing, and on a day as magnificent as this- low seventies outside with equally low humidity. Perfect day for chores- completely unexpected since I thought I would be on the road to Michigan.

I came down south after a decent swim with no visible private detectives in attendance.

Natasha said that the food was coming out of the kitchen, and I washed up and drove over.

I was ushered in to get a plate- all local food, of course: the burgers were local beef, as were the brats. The bread was fresh out of the oven, and sliced in generous slabs. Sautéed onions and chopped leeks from the garden, as were the pole beans, green tomatoes and fried zucchini. The only thing not from the rich soil of this County was the cheese, and I think there is a vague plan to start on that, along with some amateur distilling and the chickens for next year.

We sat out, laughing and drinking as the shadows lengthened. I was impressed by what a little hard work can do in terms of producing a bounty from the ground on which we tread. When most of the food had been consumed by the five of us, Natasha brought out some oatmeal-honey cookies.

I am off baked goods, as a general rule, but she encouraged me to try one. “Is made with honey from our hives.”

“No kidding- you got honey out of them already? You have only had the hives going since last year!”

She nodded. “Is better than that. We harvested 65 pounds of honey this time.”
“That is as much as Princess Sasha weighs! That is amazing!”

Mattski smiled. “The mead will be ready to drink in the Spring. The first grapes should be ready the year after that, for sure in three years. This is coming along nicely.”

“You guys are unbelievable,” I said, munching the soft sweet texture of the cookie. “I don’t think I could have a bigger contrast between where I spend the week and when I come down here.”

“You should just move,” said Natasha. “We have just about all you require right here.”

I took a sip of my vodka and tonic. “I am going to have to get serious about distilling,” I said.

Princess Sasha was with her mom, engaged in a bit of business marking a cable run that had to be done in daylight, but they stopped by and there was a traffic jam in the lane leading up to the farm with the Ram1500, the Panzer and three other SUVs when they stopped by to make their respects to the day.

If Sasha was not going to be there to see them, there did not seem to be much point to setting off the fireworks, so I wandered home and watched a Capital Fourth on the television and sang along at the top of my lungs with the patriotic songs.

Hell of a Fourth of July, and not a single detective, private or public, in sight.

Copyright 2014 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303