North With Doc

A kernel snapped in the pan, and I dumped in half a cup of Orville's finest. It popped light and fluffy, and I made more while the boys snarfed away.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be up talking and eating with friends in the middle of the night. Any irritation at Doc for rousting us from bed dwindled, then disappeared, as we made the best of the situation.

Unfortunately, the popcorn triggered an outflow of unsociable emissions, and the attorney opened the door for some fresh air. But luckily, he added another dimension to the evening when he shouted, "Come quick! The ABs are out!"

Dressed in a mismatched collection of short and long underwear and promotional T-shirts, we stomped into our shoes, and clunked onto the porch. The northern lights, a.k.a. aurora borealis, or ABs to us, arched up one side of the sky, swept across the top, and skittered down the other side. Reds and greens, then silvers and blues painted the heavens with fingers, curtains, jagged brush strokes, and smears of metallic color. With all the "oohs" and "aahs" bouncing against the pine woods and echoing across the lake, you would have thought we were at a 4th of July fireworks display instead of at one of Knobby Clark's Northwest Ontario fly-in fishing outposts.

Like flipping a switch, the ABs stopped, and we tromped, shivering, back inside.

Between 1:30 and sunrise, we polished off a pound each of sharp cheddar and pepper cheese, a mountain of crackers, two dozen Oreo cookies, three big bowls of popcorn, a jar of sweet pickles, two pots of coffee, a sixer of Coke, and enough bite size Snickers bars to pave the streets of downtown Dubuque.

Even though we all had heard it at least a thousand times, the banker told the one about the 3-legged pig who saved the farmer's life, and we laughed and pounded the table as if the ancient joke was brand new out of the box.

Somewhere along the line we hooted at Doc when he cheated to win at solitaire, had a serious debate about buying versus leasing a pickup truck, voted on the five best athletes of the year, and came to the conclusion that baitcasting reels are a lot like women: no matter how good they look or how well they perform, every now and then they'll backlash like crazy for no apparent reason.

During one of the few lulls in the action, the plant manager suddenly emerged from his bedroom. He stretched, scratched, and belched like I imagine a rhinoceros would after eating 17 heads of cauliflower. "That could be the best night's sleep I ever had," he said.

It is hard to believe that any living human, and maybe even some dead ones, could have slept through the rowdy nocturnal session we'd just enjoyed. Doc looked around the table at our grinning faces and said, "You know, we tried extra hard to be quiet so we wouldn't disturb you."

The plant manager belched again, then said, "That's really considerate of you. Thanks, Doc."