Our good friend Jonathan introduced us to the Bread & Puppet theater from Vermont, where he had spent a few summers as a kid. They put up great theater with … puppets, and at the end of the performances they … break bread with the audience. Served with garlic soup. Every time. It’s something to be seen and experienced. The driving force, Peter (at least he was The Man in front of  Elka, his wife - but I can’t really tell) has already passed so I am hoping they are still around when you visit. 

Before I lose my thread and your interest, let me tell you the actual story. So, thanks to Jonathan, we arranged for a night of talks with people from B&P (don’t ever tell them I wrote it like that). Talks were good - I heard since I was not hearing much as I was tooling around trying to be a good host - and bread was broken. 

I have always had a passion for sleuthing, and at the time, one could look at where visitors to the website came from, how much money Google believed they had and if they read Dog Show magazines. So when the Beep people (again, not a word) left for the night, I did what I usually did before bed: checked the stats. More than usual, cool! From Virginia, ok, that’s random. Zoom in, Stafford. Never heard of the place, but we had some 30 people surfing our website. Who knew we had good customers outside of New York City? So what’s in Stafford then. Oh. Quantico, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Eh. 

There could be an explanation, as I recalled something Jonathan had said earlier in the evening. He had said that it’s really funny that about half of United States card carrying Communists were in our space that night, eating broken bread. Yeah, Bread and Puppet were definitely sitting on the left side of the aisle, the way they just shared bread and soup with anyone - just like that! No cash required. The Communist party did not have that many members either, so Jonathans probably exaggerated statement still held sway.

Now I am a suspicious creature who easily jumps to conclusions, but I was so right! I must be right! Right? I really think I am rightly righteously right in thinking - no, knowing - that it was the night that the FBI checked us out. I swear I heard a lockpick trying to open my bathroom stall the next morning.

Us and the feds. Like beans in two pods.