Don Knotts & The Summer Solstice Tradition...

Though there are many tasks to take up around the property on a daily basis, tons of popping morels and porcini to be picked in the high Cascades, unending demands upon my time now that the weather has veered toward true summer, this past week brought with it an occasion which is always a helluva lot of good fun. This year's solstice celebration started up just as the first shadows began to stretch out from the white-barked birch trees lining the sidewalk, as warm and fragrant hints of evening breeze puffed through the open windows of the great room, as saline and woodsy aromas escaped the still hot stack of smoked oyster pizzas which, in the view of the invitees, are the best of all possible shellfish-based dishes. And as the warm vivid light of afternoon faded inexorably toward the rusting hues and soft dimness of dusk, one by one, a half-dozen hand-picked guests arrived, entered, settled into their predictable roles. We’d all done this scene before; we all expected to do this scene again.

First to walk through the open door was Goran 'Der Kommissar' Markowitz, an acquaintance from many of the past decade's Sasquatch expeditions who just happens to be a well-regarded sommelier at one of Portland’s top restaurants. Rolling up across the front lawn on his ’67 BSA Victor Special, the six foot six scarecrow was quite a sight with his brilliant peroxide blonde crew cut hair, classical Japanese tattoo sleeves, patchwork dungarees, and skin-tight black Von Dutch tee. He pulled four bottles of wine from his saddlebags and handed them to me before giving me a firm hug and a peck on each cheek - not terribly unusual given that he’s gay and European.

I gave the bottles a quick scan as I walked him into the sitting room: Josko Gravner’s ‘01 'Anfora' Ribolla Gialla, Domaine Tempier’s 'Cabassaou' Bandol Rouge ’01, Fritz Haag’s ’76 'Brauneberger Juffer-Sonnenuhr' Riesling Auslese Goldkapsel, Kalin Cellars’ ’97 'Cuvée DD' Pinot Noir. Every bottle was an exceptional and off-beat selection consistent with what I’d expect from such an exceptional and off-beat character. Once inside, he began rolling himself a cigarette and I went to grab the little café tumblers which we both prefer to stemware.

Shortly after Markowitz, in through the side door came my WWOOFer’s friend César. Apparently, no one had informed him that the food was already taken care of, because he carried with him a steaming foil bundle which proved to contain four dozen decadently soft and delicate pork tamales made earlier in the day by his Guatemalan girlfriend. As I took the tamales and placed them beneath a thick towel, he and Pradeep headed out to the garden to check on the progress of the artichokes which seem so strangely mesmerizing to both of them.

Father Domenici and Straw Hat were sweat soaked by the time they showed up. They’d ridden the eight and a half miles from Scotts Mills on bicycles. Specifically, Straw rode in on some vintage Huffy girl’s five speed with the handle-bars turned upside-down and the guy we affectionately call 'His Grace' sat atop a compact BMX bike with yellow mag wheels.

They’re kind of an inseparable pair these days, which probably stems from the fact that His Grace has been living in Straw's shed since just after the black helicopters came late one moonless night in May and unloaded a squad of masked agents who pulled that shiny piece of metal from the bottom of the big hick's hand-dug hole while holding him zip-tied at gunpoint. Subsequently afraid to be alone, Straw called Domenici to come and stay awhile. Now, crammed into a squalid space no larger than a small mid-century camp trailer, the defrocked priest has been researching and writing a book entitled Extra-Terrestrials and The Third Secret of Fatima, hiding out from the Vatican agents he’s sure are stalking him, and making ends meet by selling Mission-style birdhouses which he builds in his ample spare-time. After they’d dumped their rides on the porch, both made a bee line for the punchbowl of sangria.

Eleven minutes passed before one of my very favorite exes, the bawdy Miss Celeste, an unshaved post-Ivy League granola girl with a penchant for witchcraft appeared outside the screen door. Reeking of sandalwood oil, she absent-mindedly wrapped her she-sadhu jata into a tall bun on the top of her head and - drifting from side-to-side - looked as though she’d gotten a bit of a head start in the intoxication department. When I called her on her bloodshot eyes, she gave me a mischievous gap-toothed grin and said simply, “Bhang lassi.” Stopping at the stereo before continuing on to the powder room, Celeste inserted a disc, turned up the volume to a loud but just tolerable level and began doing some kind of trance dance to Cat Power’s rendition of A Woman Left Lonely. It created a pleasant enough languid summer evening atmosphere.

Predictably late came Dick 'Big Mac' Maccabee, a five foot two inch, two-hundred and five pound, acne-ridden Messianic Jew who, from time immemorial had held the focal point of our festivities in his personal possession. The bottom-line is that he loves everything that has anything to do with Don Knotts and got us started watching The Reluctant Astronaut on a solstice evening almost twenty years back. Why the tradition stuck, I haven’t a clue.

At any rate, the guests all came together under one roof and got down to the business of the marking the longest day of the year. Whereas our Winter Solstice gatherings are sober affairs, marked by the burning of a scarecrow stuffed with handwritten note cards detailing our regrets and those habits we wish to remedy as the days grow longer, our Summer Solstice celebrations are light-hearted and without any semblance of a grand purpose. We simply join together, eat smoked oyster pizza, swap stories over wine and beer, laugh at the spectacle of our lives and at one of 1967’s finest - and most overlooked - pieces of comedic cinema. This goes on until we pass out one-by-one into an unconsciousness which is only interrupted when we awake one-by-one in the late morning from our various crashed out contortions on the couches and chairs of Mas des Rigolos, deeply hung-over, increasingly old and achy, glad to find that our friendships still persist.