I'm leaving the old intro here, but adding this- it appears the doves have taken over my blog for their fiction. Just as well, I was doing a piss poor job of updating. They're doing much better.

This blog is infrequently updated, full of incorrect spellings, misused words, and general bad grammar. It started when I was trying to use google+ (which I've since given up on) and discovered there was no character limit for posts. If you've known me a long time, a lot of these stories will be old hat. If you plan to know me for a long time, you'll no doubt hear many of them in person. But, folks seemed to enjoy them, so here they are.

Monday, September 19, 2011

the twenty first story

I haven't been writing up stories- I have been too busy making them in copper. So here's the pie story:

First, context. A few years back, I signed up for the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. It was insane- seven days a week, outside in Boston in December, and the thing was open for something absurd like 11 hours a day. I was set up across from a farm stand staffed by a delightful young fellow who made the whole thing bearable. Also, I had good boots, and it was close enough to home that I could ride my bike back and forth. I rather ended up enjoying myself.

The day in question, the lad over at the farm stand unpacked fresh baked pies in the morning. As he was unpacking them, he announced to us what they were. Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, and one blackberry. I think I squealed. It's possible. I love blackberry pie. He asked if I wanted it, and I said I'd have to see how the day went. I talked to eighty bazillion people that day, and he talked to a least three times as many as I did, and i forgot that conversation. Towards the end of the day, he came back over and asked how my day had gone. I made a sour face, but someone walked into my booth before I answered. Appleman went back to his booth, picked up the pie, carried it back over, lifted a corner of my tablecloth, and slid it underneath, with his finger over his lips in the universal symbol for "we shall never mention this". I smiled very big.

Now, the pie had to come home with me.I was on my fixie- no rack, no basket, mustache bars are terrible to balance anything on, and my riding position is leaned so far forward that putting the pie in my bag was not even an option. So I tucked it under my left arm and road home. We lived in Somerville, and it was not a long commute- perhaps four miles? Certainly less than six. The bridge was an adventure, what with the wind, and the large flat box, but I made it all the way to my street with no real problem. I turned into my street, and hit an enormous pothole that had been there all winter and which i knew all about. I flipped over, landed with one leg through the frame, my bag tangled on the seat, my arm, still holding the pie box, stretched out in front of me. I was entangled in the bike, and unable to get up, but I was just able to reach the box and open the corner.

The pie was right side up, and uninjured. Life is awesome.

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