Cortland NY: Bucket Boy . . . All Grown Up

Bucket Boy resurfaced in NY after about 8 years of silence. I buzzed up to Cortland to visit The Mark Masler family on Saturday and I found Greg, a/k/a Bucket Boy, all grown up!
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Many years ago, Mark and Bernice brought their 4 children down south and swung by our house for a quick visit. As soon as they emerged from the car, en route to my front door, Greg threw up. A few times, I think. We never discovered what caused him to do that, but as a precautionary measure, his parents made him carry around my mop bucket so he wouldn't, um, you know, spoil my carpets. Then, as if that wasn't bad enough, his father (or mother?) began calling him "Bucket Boy" and the name stuck.

It pleased me to see Greg, sans bucket. He's in high school now and getting ready for the soccer season, also plays sax in a local band.


They met me at the Homer high school parking lot and swept me off my feet, carrying me off to Bobby's Southern style BarBQ. Wow, this place felt like home. I tried the pulled pork barbecue to see if it compares to ours at Piggie Park, and it is almost as good. What I loved: the salt potatoes. Wish we had them down south.

We took our lunch to a nearby lake for a picnic and talked quite awhile, catching up on our lives. Mark got a new job, assistant to the supreme court judge. The breeze, the lake, the talk -- just perfect. Isn't it great to visit old friends and pick up just like you haven't been apart for years?


We went back to their place to check on the babies. Bernice loves her goats and keeps them squeaky clean. How does she do that? Our goats were filthy. {{{shudder}}}} well, maybe it's just because I had my arm all the way up a nanny who was stuck in a breach birthing process. The FFA advisor on the phone tucked in my shoulder and both hands busily pulling gunk . . . OK, I'll stop there. Oh no, I won't. I have to add this: we named the baby goats Mini and Mary after my mom and great aunt Mary who were there cheering me on, but not getting dirty. Wait. I think Aunt Mary was getting dirty with me. She would, you know.

I digress. Sorry. This isn't about me. Back to Bernice. After visiting her babies, we went to visit Hilary, Obama and McCain. Isn't that great? The pigs are named after our politicians. I love it. Hilary is the black and white one. She left the other two cowering in the corner. No surprise.

Back in the house, we went over an old photo album and I saw photos of my dad and Mark's dad when they were young, we saw some great photos.
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I almost convinced Bernice to ride home with me and enjoy a few days in the sunny south.

They set me off with a several HUGE heads of garlic. I don't know. I'm thinking it's a Yankee tradition? Maybe a superstition? Head down the highway with garlic in your car to head off evil spirits, to ensure safe travel?


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To continue the tradition, I left one for Heather and her trip to Hawaii. I tried to act all normal, like, Oh, by the way, here's some garlic for your trip. Everybody knows you need that. When I told her I left her garlic on the counter, she acted like it was perfectly normal, "Oh, OK, thanks." She said. - I wondered after I left, did she hold it up to her mom and say, "What the heck??"

So, anyway, keep the tradition going. When you send guests off on their way -- throw some garlic in their car, kiss them left cheek and right, and say something loaded with heritage and tradition like "god speed" or I know, say something in latin and add some hand motions.