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At one point last night there were nine in the house. The eighteen-year-old and four of his friends were in the main room watching a team cheerleading competition on TV.  When I walked in from watering the deck plants and busted them, they tried to convince me they were really interested in the scoring. Shortly after, our nineteen-year-old came in through the garage with three of his buddies, including the one who keeps telling me he’s going to marry my daughter. That group took over the deck, and I sent the younger set downstairs to watch the cheerleaders, so I could watch a Civil War special on Gettysburg, where I’ve visited twice in the last two years and have become hooked.

Both hordes of locusts periodically converged on the kitchen, in both separate and coordinated swarms.  First, three pizzas were heated up and were dispersed throughout the property – just to take the hunger edge off.  Then, of course, the fridge in the kitchen and the garage were ransacked for drinks. Gatorade, Kool-aid, Capri Sun’s, and bottled tea all flowed into the basement and onto the deck.  I think the Pabst was left alone (well, at least until I went to bed).

The laughing drifts up from the basement, which sounds good as I brush my teeth. Then the drums, keyboards and electric guitars start to get a workout, which does not sound as good when I climb into bed to read. Luckily, the nine work up an appetite quickly; the pantry opens, and bags of snacks and cans of pop (I hope) get dragged downstairs. I know they’ll play video games, and most of them will sleep in the basement, so I drift off to sleep.

In the morning the carnage in the kitchen is … typical. The basement is worse. The dogs have ample crumbs to clean up, and bodies are strewn about the place like the third day of battle at Gettysburg. They had opened up the toy box in the night and played with the walkie-talkies and GI Joe’s. Tough college boys still with boyish instincts. It’s lovely. They’ll be waking up sometime during my 11:00 am meeting.