Two score and counting

After a day and a half layover at the Barn, letting Ryan watch some Big Yellow Cun-Struc-Shun vehicles move rocks around in the creek for some conservationist preservationist project and running around the property naked as a jay bird sans feathers, we arrived home to a happy household full of pets wondering where the HELL we've been. But we saw the Fouldsi again the next day, as they graciously volun-told to babysit our kids so we could go eat two-hundred-year-old gingerbread.
Our dear friends the Boivins were celebrating 40 years of betrothous bliss, and their youngest threw them a small party at a historical restaurant in Olde Towne Alexandriae, where Washington slept and Adams drank and Jefferson pooped and Monroe played the cello and Madison ate a frog and the other Adams danced a jig and Andrew Jackson stayed before his inauguration, as reported by the page in his biography I had just read two days prior.
Sadly, the beard had to go, the bags had to be re-packed, the morning commute tea made (need to start making it smaller or colder, since I usually end up pounding the second half of my togo mug in the parking lot, sweat bubbling down my brow), and 141 e-mails to go through to start prepping for a busy fall of high-level visits from people with silly names.
Not that Americans are much better: found among the list of recent Colonel-selects, a Czzizack, a Kmon, and a lady named Roquemore.