up the orchard road, scummy pond with a its green floating dock that Sevi called a sponge, a gang of older kids clearing the scum skirt from the banks with their in-plunge and eventual exodus, Sevi fascinated with green translucent frog eggs, playing croquet beside the porch, the whole cow rotissimat (cooked for 11 hours) the whole beast stuffed within this triangular cage matted with dripping grease, the kids group “The Outer Lemmings” with spirited marmish banged leader with hoarse tuning whistle, their singing South African numbers, spirituals, earnest and clear with reserve that slowly sluffed off to reveal earnest striving for notes and style, horseshoes with Ed Marcy the slim older gent in blue and the agreeable young father lassoed into it ever telling me he was half-in the game and half-understanding, after two wins and my compliments as his teammate in the second game, the slim gent told me his secret learned from his father was to flip it with forefinger and pinky out and thumb to flip the spur with so it somersaults in the air–a trick I’d noticed used to great effect by the champ at the Upper Lake last summer–the old gent inadvertently farting a little butt hiccup as he told me this, which I forcefully ignored with a follow-up question, the Neil Young cover band by the paunchy 30 something from across the road really quite moved and moving with muffin cap, the jokey absurdist act by young couple “This is a recording,” etc, Sevi running around with other 3 yr olds mimicking their every move, jumping up saying “I got one” after each firework fired from up the hill toward the orchard, the yellow poison parsnip everywhere that the hostess said left cigarette-burn like marks on your skin, her giving Sevi strips of meat, gobbled up eagerly, forgetting my overshirt and shivering when the sun went down til the bonfire was struck up and I stood near, the glowing ember whorls into the crowd swatted out of hair and blankets with unconcern.