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Boathouse shindigs are my kind of parties. Years ago, we were at a barbeque in someone’s backyard when one of the children of the host fell going up their deck stairs and needed stitches. The hosts both left with their child, and the rest of the party goers pulled together to put away the food and clean up the party. While picking up cups and dishes, I knocked a full glass of red wine left on the fireplace hearth onto their white living room carpet. That experience is why I’ve always appreciated cleanup at the boathouse. It is more of a covered patio. It is elevated with a walk-in basement below, but the party area is a concrete slab with a roof overhead–perfect for spring and autumn nights. And also, perfect for cleanup. A pushbroom, and snow shovel for a dustpan, and maybe some spot mopping, and the renter gets their security deposit back.

At a recent church event hosted at the boathouse, I was hanging around waiting for cleanup to start. My wife, Sheri, works at the church, and as is the case with most nonprofit organizations that depend on volunteer labor, the spouses of the employees were voluntold to help clean up. Just like I witnessed the bizarre behavior of the teens when the boathouse was used for homecoming, I leaned against the boathouse wall and watched a peculiar ritual of young adulthood with which I was painfully familiar. The twenty and thirty somethings were well lubricated, and the alcohol gave me a glimpse of how the reserved professionals and parents behaved when they dropped their shields of decorum. Listen, nothing debaucherous took place at the boathouse, much to my disappointment. If people are going to let loose and compile regrets for the morning, I want to see something worthy of my penchant for storytelling. I was left disappointed in that regard.