Paul Ryerson's house was always the brightest on a block and would remain so for at least the first week of the new year every year.

On Easter Sunday, the entire extended Ryerson Clan, which seemed to double in size every year,

would appear in his backyard and spent hours searching for the brightly colored egg

and bags of candy he'd hidden for every third cousin's kid.

On the 4th of July, his... he'd hidden for every third cousin's kid.

On the 4th of July, his backyard was the spot to be in lions to see both the parade during

the daylight hours and the fireworks come nightfall.

From what I hear and can smell every year the man knows how to run a

grill too. Hell even on Earth Day when the town council awards a blue ribbon

for the best garden in town Ryerson reeds the rewards of weeks of preparation,

hauling bags of mulch, planting flat after flat of perennials, and setting up the faniest Home Depot

water features.

I, and I try. setting up the faniest Home Depot water features.

I, and I truly don't think I can stress this enough, hate Paul Ryerson.

I hate the way he made it impossible to park in my own driveway come the Yule tide without some

slackjored Yahoo asking me if I'd mind them leaving their car in front of it.

While they take in the sights of the miniature North Pole Mr. Rieson set up the day after Thanksgiving. I hate the little... and despite the fact that their Uncle Polly has never once hidden anything there.

I hate the sounds of his guests getting drunker and drunker or Independence Day,

having to stay up all night soothing my rescue dog Doosie who was already peeing herself after the fireworks.

I hate a nearly annual exchange at my front door when he finishes his latest batch of

Homebrew IPA for the umpteenth time and for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time he offers me a couple of

bottles and for the unteenth time I have to pull my AA chip out and you know what

...