I have to say that the topic "Stumbling Home" is hardly inspirational as it has nothing to do with craft beer - but as I have posted a post for every edition of The Session, well, I didn't want to break my streak.
The real reason, however, is that I have a little something in the can on this one, the story of a pal who made it home alive after falling asleep in the snow. It was over 20 years ago and it was in Halifax, Nova Scotia. And he was saved by the donair wrapped in foil he had tucked in his jacket over his heart. True story. In celebration of his salvation by savory snack, years later we held a small poetry contest recalling the event:
Dark. Snow. Ale fun hours.
Young man prone, alone, drift-hid,
Blood thanks meaty warmth.
Just a cone wrapped up in foil,
Oozing whitish sauce and oil,
Gave the world one doctor's toil.
Fate's foe played a spicy foil!
Look...there, quite by the fence,
Dark, laying in the drift:
Too full of Keiths his head to lift.
Not near the home he rents -
Heedless now of consequence
The snowfall lays upon his head
And gathers by his arm.
Jon is slipping nearer harm
and a frosty final bed!
How can Jon not be dead?
Ah...one small patch...the snow melts there.
Above his chest of sweaty hair,
Upon his heart, the guardian fare,
Within his coat, a large donair.
Snow stings my forehead.
My footprints slowly fill in.
The taste of last night's donair.