Sometimes a bell is just a bell. In the case of Friday night a bell means jugs of beer appear unbidden at your table. Multiply that by three and you've got the makings of a classic old time Klondike spree.
According to Pierre Berton, in the heyday of the gold rush a prospector returning from the gold fields would lavishly spend his poke (gold find) in a five alarm booze-up, trashing bar after bar all the while buying rounds for everyone in the house. To refuse the generosity of the spree or to leave a drink unfinished was considered a heinous insult to the buyer.
So, on Friday night, for reasons still unknown to us, a local patron invoked a fine gold rush tradition and vigourously rang the bell above the bar, sending a steady stream of Yukon Gold our way. Loath to break with tradition, we toasted the man of the hour and floated away on a river of draft.
And thus, our dated night double feature of Wolverine and Star Trek was derailed (not due to a lack of interest as some have suggested). Krista and I limped home in the eerie glow of the midnight sun, wallowing in the pain and satisfaction of having participated in a remnant of unique Klondike ritual.
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