Daddy's Little Helpers
When my kids write their memoires, they’ll probably cast me as an eccentric parent who drags them out to horse country in Dover, MA, to live in a 240 year old house. And once there, separated from their friends and bored to tears, I task them with drawing up plans to convert the little office on the property into a “guest house.”
Guest House! Get off it, Dad! It’s an old billing office for a water company for crying out loud!
But I’m undaunted: “Look, son. And you too, daughter. You’ll never be able to solve the world’s great problems, which my generation is working feverishly to saddle you with, if you can’t tackle this minor puzzle of how to take a little office cottage which, frankly, smells, and make it an inviting place for our visitors to stay in. Now get on it! If you need me, I’ll be in the barn making beer.”
The book’s climax comes when the brewery I start, dubbed "L'Abbaye de St. Pat", starts to generate serious profits and my kids are able to buy themselves BMWs and tell their friends in Dover-Sherborn Regional High School that we’re “off to Paris for Christmas.”
Cue the vomit bags.