Okay - so this one is officially very bizarre. But it's kinda-sorta what you asked for - how Michael Burke, once-and-future pothead, celebrates Hallowe'en.
Michael Burke was a Scotsman in exile, and even though he was an immigrant who came to America when he was but a lad of two, he was descended from a long line of crofters burned out by the greedy Sassenach. After his great-great grandfather was kicked off the land his family had farmed for generations, he settled in Glasgow and the Burkes prospered there for a few generations. But after the war, when the shipyards closed, Michael’s own father gambled with everything he had and moved his family to America.
No, Michael Burke wasn’t born to the land, but the intervening generations of city-dwelling, factory-working Burkes couldn’t erase the need in his blood. This little valley in Upstate New York was much like those long-gone ancestral acres with their forests and rivers and mountain vistas. He might be raising alpacas and not sheep, growing cannabis instead of barley, but he never felt more like a Scotsman than when he drank his a cup of coffee on the back porch and watch the mist burned off the fields as the sun warmed the land. Or when he had a wee smoke in the barn office, the sweet scent of pot mingling pleasantly with the odors of hay and his precious herd.
He rarely regretted moving out to the sticks from suburban Syracuse. In fact, the only time he was even vaguely sorry was on All Hallow’s Eve – Hallowe’en. There were no neighbors, no small children to ring the bell and beg for treats. When the twins were small, he delighted in the day, probably enjoying more than Discoball and Pumpkinhead combined. Maggie-My-Love had been quick to confiscate their candy, but he knew all of her best hiding places and he didn’t hesitate to raid the stash, especially after a good smoke. Even the horrid “Special Dark” bars tasted delicious then.
But this year, he was looking forward to Hallowe’en. Cumulonimbus’ friend, Mozcow, was coming to visit. Mozcow was a good man; he understood the value of a good nickname, he took good care of the herd and best of all, he appreciated a good smoke. Mozcow also appreciated fine wine and chocolate. The last time he’d come for a visit, they’d smoked and drank and the lad confessed to the rig he’d run on The Suit, as he’d called his son. Pumpkinhead has offered him a bite from a half-eaten slice of pizza and Mozcow had been rather nauseated at the thought, but didn’t want to seem rude. So he’d told Pumpkinhead that he had a lactose problem. Then there was the time when Mozcow’s girlfriend had been kidnapped and he’d been sick with worry. He hadn’t wanted to take it out on the nice people looking for her, so he’d vented his rage on an innocent turkey sandwich that had a slice of provolone on it. Michael had been about to point out that provolone doesn’t have any lactose when Mozcow chuckled. “The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance, but the illusion of knowledge.”
At the time, Michael had been fairly certain Mozcow was quoting someone, but he was too stoned to care.
Maggie-My-Love sailed into the kitchen, her overnight bag rolling behind her. “You sure you’re going to be okay, love?”
He sighed and smiled. “Visitors, remember?”
“Of course, Neal’s friend Mozzie and did you say he was bringing someone?”
“Yes, his older brother. Should made for an interesting weekend. Apparently the man was Pumkinhead’s boss at one time. And he also enjoys a good smoke.”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-10-28 09:34 pm (UTC)Michael Burke was a Scotsman in exile, and even though he was an immigrant who came to America when he was but a lad of two, he was descended from a long line of crofters burned out by the greedy Sassenach. After his great-great grandfather was kicked off the land his family had farmed for generations, he settled in Glasgow and the Burkes prospered there for a few generations. But after the war, when the shipyards closed, Michael’s own father gambled with everything he had and moved his family to America.
No, Michael Burke wasn’t born to the land, but the intervening generations of city-dwelling, factory-working Burkes couldn’t erase the need in his blood. This little valley in Upstate New York was much like those long-gone ancestral acres with their forests and rivers and mountain vistas. He might be raising alpacas and not sheep, growing cannabis instead of barley, but he never felt more like a Scotsman than when he drank his a cup of coffee on the back porch and watch the mist burned off the fields as the sun warmed the land. Or when he had a wee smoke in the barn office, the sweet scent of pot mingling pleasantly with the odors of hay and his precious herd.
He rarely regretted moving out to the sticks from suburban Syracuse. In fact, the only time he was even vaguely sorry was on All Hallow’s Eve – Hallowe’en. There were no neighbors, no small children to ring the bell and beg for treats. When the twins were small, he delighted in the day, probably enjoying more than Discoball and Pumpkinhead combined. Maggie-My-Love had been quick to confiscate their candy, but he knew all of her best hiding places and he didn’t hesitate to raid the stash, especially after a good smoke. Even the horrid “Special Dark” bars tasted delicious then.
But this year, he was looking forward to Hallowe’en. Cumulonimbus’ friend, Mozcow, was coming to visit. Mozcow was a good man; he understood the value of a good nickname, he took good care of the herd and best of all, he appreciated a good smoke. Mozcow also appreciated fine wine and chocolate. The last time he’d come for a visit, they’d smoked and drank and the lad confessed to the rig he’d run on The Suit, as he’d called his son. Pumpkinhead has offered him a bite from a half-eaten slice of pizza and Mozcow had been rather nauseated at the thought, but didn’t want to seem rude. So he’d told Pumpkinhead that he had a lactose problem. Then there was the time when Mozcow’s girlfriend had been kidnapped and he’d been sick with worry. He hadn’t wanted to take it out on the nice people looking for her, so he’d vented his rage on an innocent turkey sandwich that had a slice of provolone on it. Michael had been about to point out that provolone doesn’t have any lactose when Mozcow chuckled. “The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance, but the illusion of knowledge.”
At the time, Michael had been fairly certain Mozcow was quoting someone, but he was too stoned to care.
Maggie-My-Love sailed into the kitchen, her overnight bag rolling behind her. “You sure you’re going to be okay, love?”
He sighed and smiled. “Visitors, remember?”
“Of course, Neal’s friend Mozzie and did you say he was bringing someone?”
“Yes, his older brother. Should made for an interesting weekend. Apparently the man was Pumkinhead’s boss at one time. And he also enjoys a good smoke.”