For Thursday, August 14, 1997 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 708 words

Rite of sausage

I just hosted my first bachelor party. It was successful. It was fun. But nothing exceptional happened, nothing concrete that I could pin a thesis on. We had no explosions, fallen trees, famous encounters, jackpots....

Still, now that it's over, I think back on the event with great fondness and satisfaction. I feel buoyant and garrulous, more so than I have after other adventures that offered a much more definable uniqueness. Something must have happened to give me this glow. Let me retrace my steps and, perhaps, find it out.

The party was for Chad, my future son-in-law. That in itself made it special for me.

I spent from Tuesday to Tuesday in Tahoe, preparing for a Friday through Sunday party. I borrowed the family cabin that faces the trees. In exchange for not paying rent, I refinished the deck. That's why I went up early -- to sand off layers of grandpa's tobacco-spit brown log oil and apply a transparent stain to the beautiful heart redwood.

First thing to happen: I opened the front door Tuesday to go buy wood putty and standing there was Phil Greene, a fellow Benicia High school teacher. He and his wife, Gina Norried, a fellow Benicia High school teacher, happened to be renting an A-Frame across town. They had Taylor, their brand-new infant son, with them. They were packing to return to Walnut Creek. Phil had stopped by to say "hello and good-bye." He knew I was in Tahoe. He'd received an invitation, but couldn't make it.

I pitied their return to the Bay Area, and told them so. I told them about the heat wave, about the 100-plus temperatures in Walnut Creek. Gina freaked. Their house lacks air conditioning, and Taylor gets real cranky in warm weather.

I said, "Don't go home. Stay here with me. I'm alone. There's plenty of room." So they did. They stayed all week and Phil helped me with the deck. We got it done early and spent Wednesday on the beach at Camp Richardson. That got the party off to a great start.

Thursday I drove to Reno alone, an hour's drive, to check out their Hot August Nights street party. I admired vintage cars, then played blackjack for eight hours straight, winning $40. I was using the get-rich card-counting technique known as the Methuselah Method.

Friday morning I drove to the grocer's and bought $220 in guy food. Our weekend menu was as follows: five gallons of too-hot chili, ten pounds of baked potatoes, and $54 in gourmet sausages from the Overland butcher shop - turkey Cajun, turkey apple raspberry, chicken chardonnay, spicy Italian, and old-fashioned frank. For breakfasts we had BOE burgers (bacon, onion, egg) then biscuits and gravy.

I rented a keg of Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. It and the chili, cold and hot, remained on tap throughout the weekend.

Friday evening the guys began to show. They brought sleeping bags, wet suits, and movies. About 14 people in all braved the summit. Benicians Terry Spurlock and Marvin Deal, however, could not make it. Too bad for you guys.

Chad' dad brought his speedboat. We spent Saturday and Sunday on the lake, skiing and tubing. When not on the water, we were sitting outside at the Beacon beach restaurant listening to live music.

The evenings were spent at the cabin, out on the new deck, facing the trees. We made noise, told jokes, picked on Chad a bit. We talked a lot.

At 8 p.m. Saturday night the door bell rang. Some whip cream was delivered, and…

Wait! I'm sensing another cause of my afterglow. As I look around, in reminiscence, I realize how many of us were fathers with our sons. We had Chad's brother, Brad, and father, Steve. We had Steve Cabrol and his son, Jayson. I invited my son, Adam, and his father, George. Usually bachelor parties are thrown by young peers. We were dads with our boys, celebrating a rite of passage. We all became better pals. That made the party feel more like a necessary tribal ritual than an excuse for a group of guys to go into the woods and raise hell.