Adam and I argue about seasoning as we man the grills. We sip beer and joke - one eye on the food and the other on our kids. Adam's girls require more attention - three redheaded triplets that herd and corner the boys like wild jackals - Buddy's son escapes into the lake and swims to his Dad.
Buddy sits in his kayak near the opposite shore, watching his son swim towards him like a frightened tiger shark. Buddy has been fishing for an hour or two, hasn't caught anything and has just realized he may or may not be severally sunburned.
I sense a bear looming behind me - hungry and grunting in anticipation of grilled food. I turn my head in the wrong direction as McFadden swipes a strip of bacon from my skillet. I shout NO! and bang together pots and pans. He jumps away and lumbers back to his reclined lawn chair in the sun.
Wasley and Mosby square off for another game of beer pong. They do all the drinking, their kids do all the shooting, and everyone talks trash. Twenty minutes later, Mosby's six year old daughter drills the final cup.
Joey's boys are smitten with the three redheads. They pretend to run from them. Eventually, the gingers run out of steam. Sensing a decline in competition, the boys shift their attention to bocci ball.
My kids finish their lunch, thank the cooks, help with the dishes, destroy everyone at bocci ball, roast the perfect marsh-mellow on sticks they carved, catch three large blue gill before dark, tell a few jokes and head to bed without complaint.
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