In mid-morning, Brenna Dockins sipped her tea and gazed out of her home office window. It overlooked the sprawling backyard that stretched toward a cluster of trees beside the rushing waters of the Niagara River. The house was slightly raised, offering magnificent views of the surroundings. From the living room, she could watch the coming and going of sailboats at the marina and from the kitchen she had a view of her neighbours’ houses aligning the short, dead-end street. Their house was located at the very end and closest to the water. She loved her house and never wanted to leave it, despite the sorrowful reminders of the hard times her and Gerry had recently experienced. Each time she passed her son’s room, she knew he was never coming back.

Brenna had risen with the sun, which rose a bit later now as autumn loomed ahead in a couple of weeks. As a Professor of Ornithology at the University, she was in her office making some last minute changes to the syllabus that her students were required to follow throughout this first new semester. Brenna was a lot like the birds she studied and taught about: petite and thin and prone to bright colours. Her mop of wavy hair resembled a bird’s nest on humid days with the golden strands often sticking out in odd directions.

Being a Saturday, she was also in her home office for personal reasons — to see the nesting Goldfinch that had recently taken residence in their backyard. Most birds nested in April and May in Ontario, but these little beauties were the outliers because of they don’t feed their babies insects, just seeds. The late summer windflowers offered a buffet to new parents to feed their young, and Brenna had planted an entire corner of their yard with wildflowers for this very reason. A telescope, the Mortimer Birdview 400, was trained on the birdhouse that her and Gerry had constructed and placed at the top of a long pole at the back of their property. The telescope was set to record whenever movement was detected in the specific frame. So far, it had captured the comings and goings of the past weeks construction on the nest. A first, as last year the birdhouse had been ignored by the birds.

With her eye on the telescope, Brenna was riveted by the constant action the newly nesting Goldfinches produced. Riveted, that is, until a monologue of grunting and swearing from the next room pulled at her attention away. Walking across the hall, she found Gerry sitting on the edge of their neatly made bed, bent over with an expression of agony. He was hastily pulling purple tights up one hairy leg.

“Oh, this should be good. Do you mind an audience?” Brenna chuckled as she leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed.

“I’m thinking about red wine and how much of it I’ll be consuming at the end of this spectacle.”

Gerry was now into his fifties, his temples greying. To look at him, you would never know that he had led his varsity basketball team in points four years in a row. Only his height might hint at past glories on the court. Brenna smiled as he bent over, a feat that wasn’t as easy as it used to be — for either of them. The balance and skill it took to pull the tights up his leg without falling over apparently took considerable concentration, judging by his expression.

“How do women do this?” he demanded. “Or better yet, why?”

Brenna witnessed a bead of sweat trace down his temple despite the steady air conditioning in their comfortable home. She felt a ping on her phone and pulled it out of her pocket. “Agnes is at the cafe. I have to leave soon to discuss Festival Committee stuff.” Brenna glanced at the time. “You’d better get a move on.”

Glancing at his watch, he yanked the tights up his other leg and stood, shimmying them up his backside and over his protruding belly.

Brenna bit a fingernail and smirked. “Oh, this is rich.”

“You’d better put that phone back in your pocket. No photos, no video. I feel like Humpty-Dumpty.”

The comment made Brenna laugh out loud. She couldn’t agree more with the comparison “You’re not even wearing the puffy part of the costume yet.”

“The puffy part will cover my puffy parts. I’m thankful.”

Despite the complaining, Gerry was always a good sport and he wasn’t bothered in the least. Life was for living and the festival would certainly offer a lot of living in the coming days. He had painstakingly enjoyed his way to Humpty-Dumpty status willingly. He glanced around, in search of something.

“Your feet and gloves are on the vanity in the bathroom.”

“Right,” he said, jogging over to the ensuite.

Brenna laughed at the behind-the-scenes sight of him sausaged into the tights. He reemerged with shoes and gloves in hand and placed them down on the bed before picking up a purple lycra shirt and pulling it over his head. The material covered his arms and clung to his belly like a second skin.

“Want some help?” Brenna asked as Gerry hoisted a bunch of plastic globes covered in purple lycra material over his head and shimmied them down his body.

“No, I’m…,” he grunted. “I’m fine.”

Bulbous and sewn together in what resembled a cluster of hanging grapes on the vine, he wiggled until the costume came to rest around his torso. “This keeps getting better,” he said deadpan, hardly able to put his arms down by his sides.

“You’re not kidding,” Brenna laughed again.

“It’s an extremely snug fit.”

“Well, you’re a big guy. Those grapes are ready to harvest.”

“Ha, funny.”

“Don’t forget the piece de la resistance!” Brenna’s smile could not get any wider. Her cheeks began to hurt.

Gerry snatched up an item from the bed. The matching purple balaclava with the shiny green leaf sewn on top. He pulled it on over his head and the look was complete. He resembled a purple cat burglar, the look both bizarre while at the same time sinister. The purple face paint of years gone by was recently replaced with the full face fabric during last year’s exceptionally chilly September. Unfortunately for Gerry and the other grapes, this September was a scorcher by comparison. Of all the days to wear layers of lycra.

“One picture, Gerry. For prosperity.”

He sighed. “Go on, get it over with.”

Brenna obliged and took a few from different angles.

“I look no different than last year! Although, there doesn’t seem to be as much room to maneuver this time around. Maybe I was given someone else’s costume by mistake.”

“Nope,” said Brenna, rolling her eyes. “Tracy at Costume Bonanza tags each outfit with a number and your name is in the computer. Trust me, this one is yours.”

“Well, it must have shrunk.”

Brenna took a step back with hands on hips and assessed the costume in its entirety. “This never gets old,” she said before bursting out with laughter. “You’re always up for anything.”

Gerry curtsied with some difficulty.

“How will I know it’s you out of the twenty other grapes on the float? Last year I was duped and thought you were Rob Miller. I blew him kisses and I think he got the wrong idea. He was very flirty with me at the afterparty."

“I’ll be the third from the end. We’ve each told our significant others where we’d be standing to make it easier.”

“Got it.” Brenna giggled again and set a pair of puffy purple slippers on the ground in front of him.

“Should I carry these and wear them when I get there?”

“Come on, let me enjoy the humiliation of the entire ensemble. I’m dying here.”

“Next year it’s you on the float.”

“You love every minute of this, don’t deny it. You and your purple buddies.”

“I’ll admit it’s great fun and these ridiculous costumes make it all the better, but seriously, I may need a bigger size next year.”

“So says each and every one of you. Here are your gloves,” she said, passing him a pair of white puffy gloves that appeared stolen from Mickey Mouse. “Are you ready to face the public?”

“As ready as ever.”

They walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, passing the marina on the left and mounting a slight embankment looking like the odd couple; Brenna in her shorts, sneakers, and tee-shirt with a full wine glass embroidered on the front and Gerry in his uncomfortably tight costume with the puffy exterior. He waddled, as if being dragged along unwillingly like a giant purple-costumed child. They stopped on the corner.

“This is where we part ways. Don’t get squished,” Brenna elbowed him and laughed.

Gerry leaned in for a kiss; an arduous task as the large plastic grapes protruded from every side of his body. Their lips met through the fabric of the face mask.

“That was kinky,” said Gerry.

“As kinky as it’s ever going to get, friend. We’ll meet up later this evening, right?” Brenna began walking.

“Right. Enjoy the parade and please say hello to Bev for me.”

“Will do.”

As Brenna made her way toward Maine Street, she passed familiar faces. The crowd began to thicken and she had to actively weave around the masses toward Shepherd’s Pies & Cakes. It had rained all week leading up to the parade, the organizers having held their breath for good weather on the actual day. A silent plea for sunshine to the rain Gods had been answered an hour before they were to postpone.

The grass was soggy, squelching with each footfall as hordes of Lincoln-On-The-Lake residents gathered along the parade route, staking their claim to the curb with folding lawn chairs, wagons, and makeshift benches made from wooden winery crates. They had to beat the onslaught of out-of-towners who were not far behind. Purple balloons were secured in bunches to buildings, cars, floats, and signs, mimicking the grape bunches that now hung thick and weighted on the vines of the surrounding vineyards. Today’s parade marked the beginning of Wine & Grape season, an annual celebration to rejoice the harvest of Lincoln and the surrounding area’s cherished livelihood.

Finally reaching her destination, Brenna held the door for a couple exiting with trays of coffee and brown bags full of freshly baked goodies. The bustling cafe and bakery was a hub of activity, especially on parade day. The Shepherd sisters had been baking and preparing for the extra traffic for the past twenty-four hours, recruiting an influx of young staff to share the load. The hiss of the espresso machine was Brenna’s greeting as she entered the cozy energized room. The aroma of freshly baked pies and pastries was almost too much to bear and her mouth began to water. She waved to the busy sister owners as they hustled to complete the orders of the many customers gathered around the glass showcases. A woman at the back of the cafe raised an arm to draw her attention. Brenna waded around tables until she reached Agnes McCluskey and Rowena Sinclair, her fellow Festival Committee members, in the far corner.

“Ladies,” she said, pulling out what was probably the last vacant chair in the place.

Agnes took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This is it. The moment has arrived.”

“And it couldn’t come fast enough,” said Rowena. “Being on the organizing committee has been nerve-racking to say the least. Our home is like a pressure-cooker at the moment with flyers and volunteer vests strewn across our dining room table. It will be calmer by tonight when we sit down for a relaxing glass of wine and take a moment.”

“Until tomorrow when a new list of events keeps us running around like fools.”

“Can you believe we actually signed up for this?” asked Agnes.

“Gerry calls it self-flagellation.”

“And that’s exactly what I thought when I watched Dan try to wiggle his way into that damn grape costume this morning. Self-flagellation indeed!”

Brenna laughed out loud. “Did you get pictures? I managed to sneak a few.”

Before Anges could answer, Ernesto Valesquez, Sandra Shepherd’s husband, approached their table and placed a plate of freshly iced sugar cookies down in front of them. They were in the shape of grape bunches with a green iced leaf on top. “Ladies, these are for you. They’re a thank you for your organizational skills which have made this parade possible. Once again, our business is benefiting on this festival day. I think you’ll be getting high praise from all of the local businesses.”

Brenna, Agnes, and Rowena smiled and thanked him graciously.

“Let’s be honest,” said Brenna. “It’s the sinfully baked masterpieces that bring in the crowds. You don’t need a parade to draw in the customers.”

Ernesto’s face turned a shade of blushed rosé. “My love has outdone herself this year. Both sisters have and I cannot think of two more well deserving entrepreneurs. We are sure to sell out of everything today. We will all need a good night’s sleep.”

“I second that!” said Rowena.

“We’re meeting to discuss last minute details,” said Agnes.

Ernesto leaned in. “And to pat yourselves on the back I hope. Take a moment to sit and eat all the cookies in the universe. You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Ernesto. Again, that’s very kind of you.”

“My pleasure.” He walked back toward the kitchen to help his wife and sister-in-law on this busiest day of the season.In mid-morning, Brenna Dockins sipped her tea and gazed out of her home office window. It overlooked the sprawling backyard that stretched toward a cluster of trees beside the rushing waters of the Niagara River. The house was slightly raised, offering magnificent views of the surroundings. From the living room, she could watch the coming and going of sailboats at the marina and from the kitchen she had a view of her neighbours’ houses aligning the short, dead-end street. Their house was located at the very end and closest to the water. She loved her house and never wanted to leave it, despite the sorrowful reminders of the hard times her and Gerry had recently experienced. Each time she passed her son’s room, she knew he was never coming back. 

Brenna had risen with the sun, which rose a bit later now as autumn loomed ahead in a couple of weeks. As a Professor of Ornithology at the University, she was in her office making some last minute changes to the syllabus that her students were required to follow throughout this first new semester. Brenna was a lot like the birds she studied and taught about: petite and thin and prone to bright colours. Her mop of wavy hair resembled a bird’s nest on humid days with the golden strands often sticking out in odd directions. 

Being a Saturday, she was also in her home office for personal reasons — to see the nesting Goldfinch that had recently taken residence in their backyard. Most birds nested in April and May in Ontario, but these little beauties were the outliers because of they don’t feed their babies insects, just seeds. The late summer windflowers offered a buffet to new parents to feed their young, and Brenna had planted an entire corner of their yard with wildflowers for this very reason. A telescope, the Mortimer Birdview 400, was trained on the birdhouse that her and Gerry had constructed and placed at the top of a long pole at the back of their property. The telescope was set to record whenever movement was detected in the specific frame. So far, it had captured the comings and goings of the past weeks construction on the nest. A first, as last year the birdhouse had been ignored by the birds. 

With her eye on the telescope, Brenna was riveted by the constant action the newly nesting Goldfinches produced. Riveted, that is, until a monologue of grunting and swearing from the next room pulled at her attention away. Walking across the hall, she found Gerry sitting on the edge of their neatly made bed, bent over with an expression of agony. He was hastily pulling purple tights up one hairy leg. 

“Oh, this should be good. Do you mind an audience?” Brenna chuckled as she leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed. 

“I’m thinking about red wine and how much of it I’ll be consuming at the end of this spectacle.”

Gerry was now into his fifties, his temples greying. To look at him, you would never know that he had led his varsity basketball team in points four years in a row. Only his height might hint at past glories on the court. Brenna smiled as he bent over, a feat that wasn’t as easy as it used to be — for either of them. The balance and skill it took to pull the tights up his leg without falling over apparently took considerable concentration, judging by his expression. 

“How do women do this?” he demanded. “Or better yet, why?” 

Brenna witnessed a bead of sweat trace down his temple despite the steady air conditioning in their comfortable home. She felt a ping on her phone and pulled it out of her pocket. “Agnes is at the cafe. I have to leave soon to discuss Festival Committee stuff.” Brenna glanced at the time. “You’d better get a move on.” 

Glancing at his watch, he yanked the tights up his other leg and stood, shimmying them up his backside and over his protruding belly. 

Brenna bit a fingernail and smirked. “Oh, this is rich.”

“You’d better put that phone back in your pocket. No photos, no video. I feel like Humpty-Dumpty.”

The comment made Brenna laugh out loud. She couldn’t agree more with the comparison “You’re not even wearing the puffy part of the costume yet.”

“The puffy part will cover my puffy parts. I’m thankful.”

Despite the complaining, Gerry was always a good sport and he wasn’t bothered in the least. Life was for living and the festival would certainly offer a lot of living in the coming days. He had painstakingly enjoyed his way to Humpty-Dumpty status willingly. He glanced around, in search of something.

“Your feet and gloves are on the vanity in the bathroom.” 

“Right,” he said, jogging over to the ensuite. 

Brenna laughed at the behind-the-scenes sight of him sausaged into the tights. He reemerged with shoes and gloves in hand and placed them down on the bed before picking up a purple lycra shirt and pulling it over his head. The material covered his arms and clung to his belly like a second skin.

“Want some help?” Brenna asked as Gerry hoisted a bunch of plastic globes covered in purple lycra material over his head and shimmied them down his body. 

“No, I’m…,” he grunted. “I’m fine.”

Bulbous and sewn together in what resembled a cluster of hanging grapes on the vine, he wiggled until the costume came to rest around his torso. “This keeps getting better,” he said deadpan, hardly able to put his arms down by his sides.

“You’re not kidding,” Brenna laughed again. 

“It’s an extremely snug fit.”

“Well, you’re a big guy. Those grapes are ready to harvest.”

“Ha, funny.”

“Don’t forget the piece de la resistance!” Brenna’s smile could not get any wider. Her cheeks began to hurt.

Gerry snatched up an item from the bed. The matching purple balaclava with the shiny green leaf sewn on top. He pulled it on over his head and the look was complete. He resembled a purple cat burglar, the look both bizarre while at the same time sinister. The purple face paint of years gone by was recently replaced with the full face fabric during last year’s exceptionally chilly September. Unfortunately for Gerry and the other grapes, this September was a scorcher by comparison. Of all the days to wear layers of lycra. 

“One picture, Gerry. For prosperity.”

He sighed. “Go on, get it over with.”

Brenna obliged and took a few from different angles. 

“I look no different than last year! Although, there doesn’t seem to be as much room to maneuver this time around. Maybe I was given someone else’s costume by mistake.”

“Nope,” said Brenna, rolling her eyes. “Tracy at Costume Bonanza tags each outfit with a number and your name is in the computer. Trust me, this one is yours.”

“Well, it must have shrunk.”

Brenna took a step back with hands on hips and assessed the costume in its entirety. “This never gets old,” she said before bursting out with laughter. “You’re always up for anything.”

Gerry curtsied with some difficulty. 

“How will I know it’s you out of the twenty other grapes on the float? Last year I was duped and thought you were Rob Miller. I blew him kisses and I think he got the wrong idea. He was very flirty with me at the afterparty."

“I’ll be the third from the end. We’ve each told our significant others where we’d be standing to make it easier.”

“Got it.” Brenna giggled again and set a pair of puffy purple slippers on the ground in front of him.

“Should I carry these and wear them when I get there?”

“Come on, let me enjoy the humiliation of the entire ensemble. I’m dying here.”

“Next year it’s you on the float.”

“You love every minute of this, don’t deny it. You and your purple buddies.”

“I’ll admit it’s great fun and these ridiculous costumes make it all the better, but seriously, I may need a bigger size next year.”

“So says each and every one of you. Here are your gloves,” she said, passing him a pair of white puffy gloves that appeared stolen from Mickey Mouse. “Are you ready to face the public?”

“As ready as ever.”

They walked hand in hand down the sidewalk, passing the marina on the left and mounting a slight embankment looking like the odd couple; Brenna in her shorts, sneakers, and tee-shirt with a full wine glass embroidered on the front and Gerry in his uncomfortably tight costume with the puffy exterior. He waddled, as if being dragged along unwillingly like a giant purple-costumed child. They stopped on the corner. 

“This is where we part ways. Don’t get squished,” Brenna elbowed him and laughed. 

Gerry leaned in for a kiss; an arduous task as the large plastic grapes protruded from every side of his body. Their lips met through the fabric of the face mask.

“That was kinky,” said Gerry. 

“As kinky as it’s ever going to get, friend. We’ll meet up later this evening, right?” Brenna began walking. 

“Right. Enjoy the parade and please say hello to Bev for me.”

“Will do.”

As Brenna made her way toward Maine Street, she passed familiar faces. The crowd began to thicken and she had to actively weave around the masses toward Shepherd’s Pies & Cakes. It had rained all week leading up to the parade, the organizers having held their breath for good weather on the actual day. A silent plea for sunshine to the rain Gods had been answered an hour before they were to postpone. 

The grass was soggy, squelching with each footfall as hordes of Lincoln-On-The-Lake residents gathered along the parade route, staking their claim to the curb with folding lawn chairs, wagons, and makeshift benches made from wooden winery crates. They had to beat the onslaught of out-of-towners who were not far behind. Purple balloons were secured in bunches to buildings, cars, floats, and signs, mimicking the grape bunches that now hung thick and weighted on the vines of the surrounding vineyards. Today’s parade marked the beginning of Wine & Grape season, an annual celebration to rejoice the harvest of Lincoln and the surrounding area’s cherished livelihood. 

Finally reaching her destination, Brenna held the door for a couple exiting with trays of coffee and brown bags full of freshly baked goodies. The bustling cafe and bakery was a hub of activity, especially on parade day. The Shepherd sisters had been baking and preparing for the extra traffic for the past twenty-four hours, recruiting an influx of young staff to share the load. The hiss of the espresso machine was Brenna’s greeting as she entered the cozy energized room. The aroma of freshly baked pies and pastries was almost too much to bear and her mouth began to water. She waved to the busy sister owners as they hustled to complete the orders of the many customers gathered around the glass showcases. A woman at the back of the cafe raised an arm to draw her attention. Brenna waded around tables until she reached Agnes McCluskey and Rowena Sinclair, her fellow Festival Committee members, in the far corner.

“Ladies,” she said, pulling out what was probably the last vacant chair in the place.

Agnes took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “This is it. The moment has arrived.”

“And it couldn’t come fast enough,” said Rowena. “Being on the organizing committee has been nerve-racking to say the least. Our home is like a pressure-cooker at the moment with flyers and volunteer vests strewn across our dining room table. It will be calmer by tonight when we sit down for a relaxing glass of wine and take a moment.”

“Until tomorrow when a new list of events keeps us running around like fools.”

“Can you believe we actually signed up for this?” asked Agnes.

“Gerry calls it self-flagellation.”

“And that’s exactly what I thought when I watched Dan try to wiggle his way into that damn grape costume this morning. Self-flagellation indeed!”

Brenna laughed out loud. “Did you get pictures? I managed to sneak a few.”

Before Anges could answer, Ernesto Valesquez, Sandra Shepherd’s husband, approached their table and placed a plate of freshly iced sugar cookies down in front of them. They were in the shape of grape bunches with a green iced leaf on top. “Ladies, these are for you. They’re a thank you for your organizational skills which have made this parade possible. Once again, our business is benefiting on this festival day. I think you’ll be getting high praise from all of the local businesses.”

Brenna, Agnes, and Rowena smiled and thanked him graciously. 

“Let’s be honest,” said Brenna. “It’s the sinfully baked masterpieces that bring in the crowds. You don’t need a parade to draw in the customers.”

Ernesto’s face turned a shade of blushed rosé. “My love has outdone herself this year. Both sisters have and I cannot think of two more well deserving entrepreneurs. We are sure to sell out of everything today. We will all need a good night’s sleep.”

“I second that!” said Rowena.

“We’re meeting to discuss last minute details,” said Agnes.

Ernesto leaned in. “And to pat yourselves on the back I hope. Take a moment to sit and eat all the cookies in the universe. You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Ernesto. Again, that’s very kind of you.”

“My pleasure.” He walked back toward the kitchen to help his wife and sister-in-law on this busiest day of the season.