Fireworks and Liquor

Growing up in Port Huron, Michigan, I was fortunate to have many natural benefits located nearby. There were lots of woods to explore, plenty of open land available where we could throw together a baseball or football game at the spur of the moment, and water. Lots of water. The mouth of one of the five Great Lakes, Lake Huron was there; pristine as it opened up wider and wider until it was no longer possible to see the other side. It was a great place to fish, swim, boat and, if you just wanted to gaze over it, was very calming. Flowing from the mouth of Lake Huron was the St. Clair River, swift and powerful. Depending on the season, it churned up grays or emeralds, whitecaps, ice or foam. It was both violent and peaceful at the same time.

One of the biggest benefits of all, though, was situated right on the opposite shore of the St. Clair River. Canada. Sarnia, Ontario, Canada to be exact. Sarnia was very much like Port Huron in population, economy and geography, however, they had one advantage – Canadian Beer. Throw in a nineteen-year-old drinking age when Michigan’s was twenty-one and, well, I think you know the rest. My buddies and I would make regular runs over to Sarnia to pick up a case or three. My favorite beer was Molson Brador, sporting a 6.2% alcohol content. Not quite as high as Molson Extra Stock weighing in at 6.5%, but much smoother. And I could make up the extra .3% with a shot of whiskey or two.

Part of the fun of drinking the Canadian beer was the journey to get it. First off, you had to get to Sarnia, and the way to do that was to cross the Blue Water Bridge. Back then the toll was a quarter each way, just in case you were thinking of asking. Since you would be entering a “foreign” country, you would have to pass through customs. It was usually just a formality, especially if you lived in Port Huron. There were a few stock questions they would ask you; what’s your citizenship, where do you live, where are you going, what is your purpose in Canada and how long will you be there. I’d usually say I was going to a restaurant or something else fairly generic and untraceable and that I would only be there a couple of hours. Sometimes they’d have you open your trunk or maybe lean into your car and take a quick peek, but mostly they’d just wave you through. Except this one time.

On this particular trip I was driving and my friend, Todd, was in the passenger seat. Todd was one of the most interesting people I’ve ever known. He was very intelligent, quick-witted, darkly funny and had a certain “British” proper that none of the rest of us possessed. He wasn’t British, though. However, he was very mischievous. The car I had then was a dark green 1971 Buick Skylark, a pretty sharp car before I got my hands on it. I tended to drive cars into the ground. It had its fair share of dents, a cracked windshield and other war wounds. I didn’t clean it very often and one time when my dad drove it, he said it smelled like a brewery. I took that as a compliment. The floor in the back usually had ten or more beer bottles rolling around, clanking together, sometimes ending up beneath the front seats. It was trouble waiting to happen for a nineteen-year-old boy.

The day before this particular beer run, however, had been a beautiful Michigan summer day, and I decided to take advantage of it by cleaning my car. I washed and polished the outside and redeemed the beer bottles and threw everything else out from the inside. I vacuumed the floors, the floor mats, under the seats – even the ashtray. It was clean. Even Todd was impressed.

I had been through the “customs” routine probably more than a hundred times, but I still prepared myself to be the proper citizen: to say, “Yes, Sir” and “No, Sir” and all good things that would whisk me past the custom man’s booth. So, as we were two or three cars before our turn, I was psyching myself up. Todd was probably thinking about the beer.

Oh, I almost forgot one tiny little detail. Painter’s pants. They were very popular at that time and quite versatile. They had little pockets and pouches all over the place. I was wearing a pair of white painter’s pants that day and I had utilized most, if not all, of those little pockets by filling them with… let’s just say “contraband” that “probably” was not allowed to cross the border.

We pulled up to the Canadian-side booth and I already had my window rolled down. The uniformed customs man looked down at us from his booth for a moment, giving us the old once over, then leaned down until we were at face level. “So, where you headed today?” he said. Then, without warning, the whole scene shifted into slow motion. My mouth had just started to open as I was about to tell him the name of one of my favorite restaurants, when I heard Todd, in a very clear and unwavering voice say, “Canada.” I looked at Todd in disbelief and I don’t know if he wore that impish grin because he thought he was clever or because he saw my reaction or both, but I wasn’t grinning with him.

If you’ve ever been through any customs you’ll know that customs officials do not have a sense of humor. If they do, they leave it at home during their shift. Customs officials also have more, and more disturbing powers than the I.R.S. Customs officials can perform cavity searches. I slowly turned my head to look at the customs man’s eyes. They were almost gleaming, as if he was thinking, “Oh, you poor kid. Your friend’s a real funny guy and now you’re going to pay for it.” He stepped out of his booth, stuck a piece of paper under my windshield wiper and waved us over to the “special” area. A place where I had never been and didn’t particularly want to be, especially at this moment.

Todd and I waited in a small holding room that couldn’t have been much more sparsely appointed. There were a few metal and vinyl-covered chairs lined up against one wall and a small table off to the side. That was it. It was dank and dark and very uninviting. I suppose they didn’t want us to get too comfortable.

I kept worrying about cavity searches, but more importantly, painter’s pants searches, and how glad I was I had cleaned out my car the previous day and, if we got out of this without going to jail, how I was going to drink lots and lots of Molson Brador that night. I told Todd he was not even allowed to look at the U.S. customs man on the way back. I knew that did no good. I just hoped he wasn’t that evil.

There we sat in that little room, waiting. I fidgeted and asked Todd if he thought they were listening to us. I told him not to say anything in case they were, but it was already too late for that. I was nervous and didn’t want to move. Just don’t check my pants, I kept repeating in my mind. I had visions of gravity working in reverse and the “contraband” in my pockets falling up and out. I fidgeted and worried more and more. Todd just sat there, amused by me.

I don’t remember how long we waited in that room that day, but when they called us out, it was obvious that the customs guys had a lot of fun with my car. They didn’t do any permanent damage (they could have cut open my seats if they so desired), but they did remove them. They emptied the contents of my glove box on the floor and messed up a few other things.

Ultimately, they didn’t find any unsavory items and said we were free to go. It was probably the only time in my life anybody has ever trashed my car and I was happy about it. No cavity or painter’s pants search. A feeling of relief and freedom rushed over me.

As Todd and I maneuvered the back seat into place, one of the customs men looked in and said, “You boys be careful now, okay?” I told him yes, sir and we will, sir and thank you, sir and you sure have a beautiful country, sir. Todd just grinned.

Todd and I finished putting my car back together and headed to Brewer’s Retail, or, as we knew it, The Beer Store. I don’t know if it was this way in all of Canada or just Ontario, but you could only buy alcohol at bars, restaurants and Brewer’s Retail. It was quite an experience, but one to share at another time. We spent several hours in Sarnia that day, just hanging out by the Blue Water Bridge, drinking Molson Brador, disposing contraband and whiling away a warm summer day.

It’s been over twenty years since I last saw Todd, and I probably got rid of those painter’s pants the very next day, and the Skylark… I think it finally just quit. However, I’ve told that story many, many times. “Canada,” he said.

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Steve Mancini is co-author of the best selling satirical novel “Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend“

When I was a kid, my dad had this small, brown leather suitcase that looked like it was made in the nineteen-thirties. It was probably two feet long by a foot and a half wide and eight inches deep. Not very big, but it was stuffed with all sorts of gun collecting accessories. There were 22 caliber bullets and forty fives and a couple of antique pistols and a container or two of gun cleaning fluid inside. There were also polishing brushes, old hunting licenses, assorted bullet casings and a can. A red and black rectangular tin can that was about the size of a Bible. And inside this can was… GUNPOWDER!

My dad also had a couple of flintlock rifles, so he used the gunpowder to load them. He’d pour a little gunpowder down the barrel, then a hunk of cotton wadding followed by a lead ball. He’d ram it all together and when he squeezed the trigger, hopefully, the hammer would hit the flint, create a spark and ignite the powder, just like it was done during the Revolutionary War. My dad didn’t shoot his flintlocks very often, so there was all this precious black powder just sitting there, calling out to me day after day. “Stee-eeve. I’m bored. Come light me. I want to burn something.” It was usually too much for me to resist. Okay, it was always too much to resist.

There was one time in particular, though, that I was “playing” with the gunpowder when it nearly got the best of me. That was during the spring of my eighth grade year.

Behind our house was a small woods with plenty of nooks and crannies that us kids had carved out. Old, abandoned forts could be found in a tree or under some brush. Most were just old plywood that was haphazardly nailed together, with a large cardboard box for a floor. I remember one was painted dark green. I imagine this was supposed to camouflage it. It didn’t work. There were also plenty of ant hills in the woods. One in particular.

It stood about three feet high and was probably about four feet in diameter. However, there wasn’t an ant to be found. I don’t know if they moved or if they were underground or where the hell they were, but they weren’t on this hill. I’d seen enough ant hills by then to know it was, indeed, an ant hill. I saw a documentary about fire ants in South America and they would constantly be on the move. The thing about them, though, is that they eat pretty much everything that can be eaten in their path, so they have to move to find more food. The ants in the woods behind my house were those little brown ones that don’t require too much food, I believe.

Anyway, I had placed a nice little pile of gunpowder, about two or three tablespoons full, I’m guessing, on the top of the hill. My friend, Jeff, was with me that day and he was curious, but not nearly the pyromaniac kid that I was. I was crouched over the gunpowder and Jeff was standing right behind me. I pulled out a handful of match heads and an empty book of matches from my pocket. Oh, the match heads. See, I didn’t have the whole matches, just the little, red heads.

I pressed one of the match heads against the sandpaper strip on the inside of the matchbook with my thumb. I had become quite adept at lighting match heads using this technique – dragging it across the sandpaper and letting it fly off the edge. They usually burst into flames. Usually. On my first try that day this didn’t happen. Instead, the head just crumbled against the sandpaper and a tiny, little puff of smoke came out. I looked over my shoulder at Jeff, who was now standing four or five feet behind me. I didn’t think anything of it because I was focused on the task at hand. If I remember correctly, I was probably better in science than Jeff, but at this moment he was displaying a much better understanding (and respect) of both chemistry and physics than me.

I pushed another match head against the sandpaper and let it fly towards the gunpowder and, with a little pop and a puff of smoke, it burst into flames. Now, the next few moments were a bit of a blur for me. I don’t remember if it was the “fwoom” sound of the gunpowder igniting or if it was the flash of bright light. What I do remember is that my reflexes weren’t faster than the blast of fire that covered my face. I had turned my head maybe an inch when it hit me. Fortunately, I was a geeky, glasses-wearing eighth-grader, and it was that pair that probably saved my vision.

I took off my glasses and the lenses looked like someone had spray painted them battleship gray. I think I swore and then looked back at Jeff. His expression was part concern, part fear, but mostly amusement. I could see he wanted to laugh, but Jeff was a good guy, so he merely smirked. Now, if any of you has ever smelled burned hair, you know it’s not pleasant, especially when it’s your own. I scraped some of the gray off my glasses with my fingernail. Jeff started laughing. I guess he wasn’t always a good guy. But by then I was laughing, too. Then I panicked. My parents were home – I couldn’t let them see me like this. I brushed my hand over my face and felt the little sand-like remains of my eyebrows. Fortunately, nothing hurt. Aside from the singed hair, nothing bad happened.

I needed a plan. Jeff was one of those kids who easily talked to adults. He liked to joke with my dad, yet he was polite and respectful. My dad liked him a lot. I told Jeff to go in the house ahead of me and distract my folks, talk to them, ask them questions. Anything. When we got to the back door, I prepared to slip behind Jeff, head down the hall and slide into the bathroom. As soon as we went inside I saw my dad standing in front of the kitchen sink. I found out later, much to my relief, that my mom had gone shopping. Phew! Jeff was on my dad like a stripper on a lottery winner and I shot down the hall.

I locked myself in the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I laughed. It was a nervous laugh, but it was also funny. My face was the same color as the lenses on my glasses – battleship gray. This was 1974, so my hair was more of a mop than hair, and the front of this mop had been melted into a hard… burned hair mass. What a mess. My eyebrows were just two strips of melted hair. I had to take a shower and there was no way to disguise that. I never took a shower in the middle of the afternoon for no reason. What reason could I come up with?

I ended up taking two consecutive showers to get all the stink and burn off of me that afternoon. I don’t remember what story I told my dad, but he bought it. Or he may have just given me a break. Fortunately, he didn’t notice any difference in the mop of hair I had and my large-framed aviator glasses completely covered my eyebrows. I’ll tell you, things just fell into place that day. Well, after the gunpowder incident, that is. Oh, and the gray film on my lenses washed off quite nicely, I must say. I was out of the house before my mom got home and I have a feeling my dad didn’t “bother” to mention to her that I had taken two showers. Good old dad.

The next day at school I received more compliments on my new “haircut” then I’d ever had. I told some of my closest friends what had happened and they got a big kick out of it. Jeff told everyone else. I thought about going to my barber and showing him the haircut that had elicited so many compliments and seeing if he could recreate if from then on, but I had already pushed my luck enough that week. So, I’ve never had a better haircut.

I haven’t talked to Jeff since 1987 and often wonder how he’s doing. The ant hill, I imagine, has long been grown over with shrubs or perhaps a nice tree and I don’t light anything with match heads anymore. Unless I have to. Oh, some of you are probably wondering what I was doing with a pocketful of match heads in the first place. Well, that’s a story for another day. Thanks for stopping by. I’ll talk to you soon.

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Steve Mancini is co-author of the best selling satirical novel “Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend“

Recently, I’ve been inundated with cards, letters and email asking me about Leo, the gentleman in the photograph on my ‘Pictures’ page. “Who’s Leo?” some say. “Where’d you get the picture of Leo?” others ask. “Is that your grandfather?” one wondered. No. Leo was not my grandfather. In retrospect, though, I think he probably could have been.

Leo is a memory kept alive by a trio of Botsford Street Boys – my friends, Russel and Steve, and me. Actually, Steve, is a Taylor Street Boy, but he was close enough in proximity to Botsford to be one. Besides, who the hell wants to be a Taylor Street Boy?!

Leo owned the General Store on the southwest corner of Lapeer Ave. and Botsford St. Noff was his last name. Most of what follows comes from memory and may not be accurate, but it’s all I have.

Leo and his wife (I don’t remember her name) lived in the same building that housed the store. It was a two story hodgepodge of brown and tan, wood and brick, shingle and stone. I doubt any permits were acquired when it was built, and judging by the look of it, that was sometime in the thirties, or possibly the twenties. The store was situated at the front of the building, accessible from both Botsford and Lapeer. The parking lot was well-worn gravel.

Leo was always dressed the way he is in the photo, plaid shirt with overalls and suspenders, and he always had a two or three inch cigar stub in his mouth, but I don’t recall it ever being lit. Mostly curmudgeon, Leo also had a subtle, playful side. He would always call all the girls, “boys” and called us boys, “girls”. Except when he said it, it was, “Hello, Gurlz.” I called him Grandma in return. I was taught to have great respect for my elders back then, and should address them only as Mister or Missus, but for some reason I felt it was all right to call Leo “Grandma”. I guess I knew he wasn’t going to rat on me. Leo was a guy.

Leo’s wife died when I was very young, so I don’t have many memories of her. I do remember her giving us kids candy from Leo’s store and him getting mad at her for giving away the profits. Not really mad, though. It was his businessman talking. She was a doll. I suspect he was fairly devastated by her passing, but I never saw it. Leo was an unwavering sort. He just plodded along, keeping his store open as much as possible. He was way ahead of his time. Back in a time when virtually every other store in town was closed on Sunday, and many others on Saturday as well, Leo stayed open day after day.

If you couldn’t find something anywhere else in town, you’d go to Noff’s, or Noffy’s, as we’d call it. Leo would have it. One of my childhood friends recently said his store was “squalor”. I suppose she’s right. I remember it as being more… lived in. The wooden floor was dark brown and black and had ruts worn into it from years of foot traffic. Even on a sunny day it was a bit dark inside, because Leo had so many items hanging over the windows, they blocked out most of the sunlight. Leo did not waste space. He supplemented the sunlight with a few bare sixty watt light bulbs suspended from the ceiling by frayed, black cords. The smell in Noff’s never seemed to change. It was combination of metal, grease, sugar, dust and old Leo.

Ask Leo for anything and, not only did he have it, he could lay his dirty fingers on it in seconds. Yes, dirty fingers. Among the rough surfaced aluminum address numbers and nails and screws of all shapes and sizes, Leo had a candy counter. It was a pretty damn good one, too. He had almost every kind of candy bar available at the time, but I wasn’t much of a chocolate fan, so I used to lean towards the penny candy and, back in the middle to late ’60’s, it was actually a penny for a piece or two. My favorites were Nickel ‘Nips (tiny, bottle shaped wax containers filled with flavored syrup) and paper dots (three or four inch wide paper strips covered with a matrix of different colored sugar dots that all tasted the same). I probably got most of my fiber from eating the paper that remained on the dot after peeling it away with my teeth. He also sold candy cigarettes before they became taboo.

Oh, yeah, dirty fingers. One of Russel’s favorite Leo stories is about a time he went to Leo’s to buy some candy. He wanted some of those orange, chewy marshmallow type candy peanuts. Now, this was before everything in the retail world was individually wrapped or service people had to wear plastic gloves. Leo grabbed a few of the peanuts with his bare hand and, when he set them on the counter, they were all smudged with what was probably black grease. Russel told Leo he didn’t want them because they were dirty, so Leo told him to go away. He did.

My friend, Steve, also has a favorite Leo story. One Sunday, Steve’s father was building something or another and ran out of a certain type of nail. He knew all of the other stores in town were closed, so he headed on down to Noff’s. Leo had the nails. When Steve’s dad asked Leo how much they were, he said, “A dollar nineteen a pound.” Steve’s dad couldn’t believe it. He told Leo that the same nails were only thirty nine cents a pound at Ace Hardware. Leo didn’t budge. He just said, “You want ‘em, I got ‘em.” You want ‘em, I got ‘em. I love that line. Steve’s dad bought ‘em.

Finally, here’s my Leo story. I, little troublemaker that I was, prompted Leo to enforce a rule, which was really amazing, because he didn’t have many rules. I think the only rules he had before that were “Cash Only” and “No Credit”. Anyway, when the weather permitted, Leo used to cross Lapeer and shoot the breeze with whoever was the gas station attendant at the White Rose at the time. I figure that Leo was probably hovering around seventy then, but he could (and would) talk to anybody. He didn’t talk too much, and I don’t even know what he talked about, so maybe it was more about just hanging out with someone. Well, whenever he was at the gas station and someone would pull into his parking lot, they’d wave to him and two or three minutes later, he’d finally shamble over. He’d make the sale and return to the White Rose.

One summer day, I rode into Leo’s lot on my tri-colored Schwinn Stingray bike. I was so cool. There sat Leo at the White Rose. I waved. When he finally made it behind the candy counter, I ordered one penny’s worth of candy. I didn’t have much of a sweet tooth, you see. Leo was as upset as I had ever seen him, chastising me for dragging him across the street for one penny and all. I didn’t understand. Business is business, I thought.

A few days later, I went into Leo’s and this time he was behind the candy counter, but he didn’t affectionately call me “Gurl.” That didn’t bother me. What did, though, was the hand made cardboard sign Leo had made in haste (and probably anger) that read “10¢ Minimum”. That’s all is said, but that’s all it had to say. I clearly understood. I became furious. “Ten cent minimum!” I said, “You can’t do that.”

Leo didn’t budge. “I can do anything I want.” he said, “It’s my store.” I argued with him and then pleaded, saying I only had three cents and I would spend all of it and, as long as he was already behind the counter, what’s the big deal. Leo stood his ground. I went home with three pennies and no candy. I complained to my dad and he sided with Leo. Damn.

Eventually, Leo took that sign down. I think he just wanted to teach me a lesson. He did.

I never called Leo “Grandma” after the ten cent minimum sign incident. He never called me a girl again, either. I think it was a right of passage or something. I don’t know. I do know, however, that Leo was a very special part of the Botsford Street Boys’ youth and will live on in our memories as long as we live on.

Thank you for reading about Leo. If you like Leo, and I’ll bet you will, maybe I’ll tell you about the banana flavored ice cream bars and other quiescently frozen desserts he kept in his freezer. Now go have a piece of penny candy, boyz and gurlz.

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Steve Mancini is co-author of the best selling satirical novel “Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend“

My dad tells a story about the time when I was a little boy, maybe two years old, my great-grandfather decided to give me a taste of his whiskey. Now, before you get all bent out of shape, remember, it was the early sixties and it wasn’t a crime to give a baby whiskey. That does sound bad, huh? But it was a time when the Flintstones and the Rubbles smoked Winston’s behind Fred and Wilma’s garage. A time when Darren on Bewitched came home every night to a pitcher of martinis whipped up by Samantha. And back then, the way your house became child-proof was that someone would give you a paper clip and tell you to stick it into the electrical socket. After that, your house was child-proof. So a teaspoon of whiskey wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

My great grandfather lived in an old, one-story house oh, about a half-mile or so from us. It wasn’t in the city, but it wasn’t in the country either. It was in the township. This was Port Huron, Michigan, though, so there really wasn’t much of a difference. Maybe paved roads. His name was Beneditto, but his friends called him Ben and the rest of us called him Grandpa. He was born in 1874 in a little town in Italy named Attina and lived to be 103 years old. I wish I had a picture of him to show you, because you could just see the mischief in his eyes. Grandpa was a wiry guy, probably about five and a half feet tall and a hundred and thirty pounds. He was nearly bald and sported a broom-style white moustache and when he smiled, it was a gentle, relaxed smile.

Grandpa’s house had a distinct smell, like old cigar smoke and fried spaghetti. Well-worn stairs and old furniture. It smelled like Grandpa and whiskey. Whiskey. He always had an open bottle of Seagram’s 7 handy and some in a glass. I never saw him open a bottle, never saw him empty one. He never had to buy one either, because he’d get a year’s supply every Christmas. I also never saw Grandpa drunk. I heard stories, but never witnessed it myself. I get the feeling he wasn’t completely sober very often, though.

Okay, I’ll tell you more about Grandpa and his house down the road, but back to the whiskey story. Like I was saying, Grandpa figured, according to my dad, that if he gave me a taste of whiskey when I was just a baby I would be repulsed and never have the urge to drink again.  After all, why would I want to be as content as he was?!  So, Grandpa poured a little of his Seagram’s 7 into a teaspoon and put it in front of my face. I reached out and pulled the spoon to my mouth and sipped some. My dad said my face scrunched up and both he and Grandpa laughed. I smacked my mouth a bit from the bitter taste, then, after a few moments, reached out towards Grandpa and said, “Wickey”. I had acquired a new taste. My dad said that he and my Grandpa stopped laughing, but I’d be willing to bet Grandpa was at least smirking. He’d found a kindred spirit.

When I was a freshman in college, my drink of choice was Seagram’s 7 & 7, but that’s another story. Several, actually. Until then, best wishes to you.

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Steve Mancini is co-author of the best selling satirical novel “Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend“

Fireworks and Liquor. Where did this phrase come from? As hard as I try to remember, I haven’t a clue. All I know is that for the past several years if someone asks me what I would do if I won the lottery or inherited millions of dollars, I say, “buy fireworks and liquor.” I’m joking, of course. Mostly. A little bit.

I do have a fantasy, perhaps a dream, though, of throwing a huge outdoor party with lots of booze, music, food and meat. It would be a balmy night in a wide-open, flat area, preferably near a lake or an ocean. Everyone would be invited. I don’t care. People would be falling-down drunk, the music would make your teeth hurt and the smell of barbecuing meat of every kind would hang in the air. What else do you need? I’ll tell you.

Midnight pops into my head. It doesn’t have to be, though, it could be nine, ten, as long as it’s as dark as can be. I would choose a night with the smallest moon possible, one of those crescent or waning moons or whatever the hell they’re called, yet clear skies. There would be little to no artificial light nearby. Perfect. Then all of a sudden – BOOM! One of those bright white flash fireworks explodes in a way that not only do you hear it, you feel it in your chest. Your heart beats faster and your colon clinches. Well, maybe that’s just me.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The crowd’s just getting warmed up. Then, for several hours, non-stop fireworks of every kind. The sky is a kaleidoscope (yes, I said ‘kaleidoscope’) of green, red, blue, orange… every color of fire you can imagine. No, not deep ochre. It’s the most expensive display of all time. It’s the greatest waste of money… well, maybe not. Everybody’s cheering and clapping and yelling, but they can’t be heard above the explosions. They can hardly be seen because the smoke and ash fallout is too thick. God, it’s great! SMOKE! That unmistakable, intoxicating smell of gunpowder smoke. Okay, now I need a cold shower.

All right, you get the picture. Fireworks and Liquor. Maybe you have your own dream party planned. Please invite me. I promise to fall down.

Tune in next time for “Wickey – How My Love of Liquor Began”

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Steve Mancini is co-author of the best selling satirical novel “Weeping Willow: Welcome to River Bend“