There is a family I like to visit, because their door is always open, their fridge always has a cold drink waiting for you, and there is always a bed or quiet corner to curl up in.
It is one of those rare houses that, if a key even exists for the front door, no one seems to know where it is. It is a joyful place, one that makes everyone feel welcome.
In all the times I’ve been over to visit, I can’t ever remember seeing the television on. I’m certain they use it; just not when company drops in, which is surprisingly often.
In place of television, they get to hear a lot of stories. On any given weekend, a steady stream of stories can be heard across the deck, which stretches from one end of the house to the other, somewhat like the truth.
Some of the stories end well and some don’t, but just about every one of them is worth hearing, thanks to the unique collection of individuals who consider the deck their home. It is the kind of live theatre you would have trouble finding on television these days.
One of the deck’s most popular recurring characters is an energetic little maniac known as Dirt Squirrel. How a person gets saddled with a nickname like Dirt Squirrel is surely a story unto itself, and one Dirt has had to tell more times than he can count, which is something like six or seven.
The last time I stopped in for a visit, Dirt Squirrel was telling the tale of how he and Smokey (who doesn’t even smoke) tried to buy a late night drive thru burger by walking up to the box and making engine sounds as they placed their order.
I didn’t even hear how it all turned out, because Dirt Squirrel wasn’t sticking around, having suddenly remembered where he left his shirt.
Before long, someone starts talking about work, and how the boss is an idiot, and everyone in the office is an idiot, and you would have to be an idiot to work there, and things would all be different if you could just win the lottery for a change.
We’re all going to have to win the lottery, someone says, because of the HST, and because the economy is in the toilet, and global warming is killing all the bees instead of politicians, lawyers, and that fat guy down at the late night drive thru window who always spits in the hamburgers.
And then someone says doctors are now studying Ozzy Osbourne’s DNA, because he is 61 and still alive, and should have been dead a hundred times over with all the booze and pills and powders he has ingested.
It’s a good story, and one that I hope is true; because you want to believe all the stories you hear on the deck. Things are just better that way.
And better than any summer television show, that’s for sure.