Sweet Apple Acres, Ponyville Demesne
Granny Smith, in one of those fey moods old earth ponies get, had insisted on one thing after seeing Friendship Rainbow Castle rise from the center of Ponyville.
"We're building a back porch on this here house! The last durn thing I want to be staring at all day in mah rocking chair is some fancy-smancy Canterlot castle that sparkles all day and and all night! I'd rather be lookin' at carrots than highfaultin' Her-Heiney-ness!"
The Apple mare is the most stubborn thing in Equestria, and they only get more so when well aged. That a delivery showed up the day after Applejack gave in was only a sign that Granny, like most old things in the world, worked in mysterious ways. Wood. And plenty of it.
From your kinfolk for hosting the reunion this year- we thought after all the barns y'all go through, this would be the best way to say it! We all chipped in, so don't you say nothin' bout bits or we're sending Braeburn on the next train to holler till you say "auntie!"
Thanks for a reunion we'll never forget!
Apples, Oranges, Seeds and the Cousins
Three days later, Big Mac had himself a nice horse-apple wood porch put up on the back wall of the Apple's barn-home, and a contented Granny rocking under a red-shingled roof. As it turned out, it was also right nice for when guests came over.
---
Four months after Tirek's banishment
One week, two days before the Golden Oak Friendship Festival
"Why as I live and breathe, I never did think I'd have Royal Bluegrass stayin' at mah house! And his band!"
"Over a century and goin' on sweet sixteen, Granny.", Applejack thought to herself. Not that Royal wasn't a decent earth pony, even with the fancy name. For a big-name singin' type, he put his hooves in the sink and washed dishes next to the star-struck old mare just fine, swabbing away the odd splash of soapy water that landed on his glasses with an old dishrag.
From the few bits of quiet talk, the older stallion was handling Granny like she was HIS granny.
"Call me Roy, Missus Smith."
Like warm butter on a pie crust, that voice. Mmm.
The gentle ringing of guitars drifted through the kitchen window, a stray sharp lick mixed with the percussion of Apple Bloom's chatter.
---
"And mah friend Scootaloo- she's REALLY good with drums! She can play so loud it'll shake Rainbow Dash off a tree branch!"
The bay-coated unicorn paused in strumming to stem the tide of questions on hoofpicks, what kind of musical cutie marks he'd seen, and how tough it'd be for an earth pony to play a twelve-string guitar (well, there'd been more but the little filly tended to blur together when she got excited). A Riverpool accent spun out a story.
"Now, my colt- Dhaivat-"
"Why's he called Dye Vat? Is he good at coloring?"
"Dhaivata. It's a word for a musical note that the cows in Moo Delhi use, and it also means "horse", and the "third eye" that we unicorns often call our horn chakra, where our magic focuses. When he was a little younger than you, his uncle Star Ringer tried to give him a drum lesson. Played them so loud, the poor foal ran out screaming!"
"Did...does he like music?"
"Loves it. But I better not let him hear Scootaloo or he'd run all the way to the Shetlands!"
---
Big Mac was enjoying the late afternoon sun. The conversation he was getting from the other unicorn on the porch pretty much scraped through his ears, though it was pretty deep.
"I am against nature. I don't dig nature at all. Think it's really un-natural."
"Eenope."
"I think the truly natural things are dreams, which nature can't touch with decay."
"Eeyup."
The green-tinged rolling stone cutie-mark on the unicorn's flank bobbed along with random gouts of rough philosophy. The sun glowed on, unmoved by anything save Celestia until a cloud moved in to cover the view.
Big Mac twitched a bit as he realized the side of the cloud was covered in musical notation, and for once, it wasn't the weather ponies mussin' up the sunset early with a cloud-blanket for the orchards.
---
The cloud moved closer with a dove-whistle of wingpower, provided by the curly-maned pegasus shoving his cumulus whiteboard down to ground level. A collective, if friendly groan echoed in four-part grousing harmony as the band on the porch braced for the opening salvo. At least it'd been two hours since last time!
"Hey! Hey! I think I finally got the progression right. It'll be fan-tastic!" A pair of sunglasses and a mop of mane frizz that would put Rarity into a fit of despair scattered a bass lead into the ether. "Oops! Never mind, I'll just play it. Hoof me up the Rhubarb Red, would you?" A scruffy blond leg from below lazily pushed the neck of a enchantric within swiping range, where it was dutifully yoinked.
"Thanks, Muddy."
"Okay. E minor at the end of the seventh,fifteenth, and twenty-third should fix it. On "lot", "cloud", and "when". G, D, G, E minor instead of E. Can we thrash it out before it gets dark?"
Applejack was inclined to let the river run and not get in the way of her company.
"Well, long as it ain't too long. A pony can't sleep if she's got five roosters crowin till dawn, can she? Roy? You and Granny done with the dishes?"
The crash of an entire stack of plates being shoved into a cupboard followed.
"He's done. Go make with the strumming, sweetie!"
---
A brief bit of musical preening later:
Half a dozen rocking chairs seated three earth ponies, two unicorns, and a pegasus. Five of those had strings to wings (or horn, or a hoofpick or two depending) and ready to go. Muddy piped up once everyone had settled down.
"Now, Night Melody wrote this one, but we never got it right enough to play on either album. It's a little sad, a little sweet, a lot of hopeful for an old friend we used to know and lost. And I'm sorry, Granny- Roy mostly just plays on this one."
That got a three-out-of-three giggle from the mares in the audience.
"Melody? On six. *twang* A one-two-three-four-five-six..."
And the river most definitely ran, though the refrain was the knockout.
"It was late in the mornin' of November..."
---
Golden Harvest cringed as the back of the mailbox popped off, a fat stack of letters sending the sheet metal off into the dirt. For the third time in a row.
"Oops! I thought they'd all fit, Sorry, Golden!"
The letters, still clutched in a hoof tried to pull themselves back into the dented remnants- but the neatly-wrapped bundle had sprung it's twine and bloomed into a flower of bills, ads, and crunched correspondence. The post began to creak alarmingly to the beating of pegasus wings on the lift...
...Golden's frantic grab pulled the plug out, saved the box, and let the mailpony launch herself like a popped cork to tumble tail over nose until she managed a bobble, two stories up.
The music off the Apple's back porch hit Ditzy Doo then, and it was enchantment from the first three notes, a half-heard lyric snaking it's way in through an ear and a refrain that was calling her name. How did it know her name?
"Ditzy, Ditzy, Ditzy, Ditzy...", sang from the farmhouse porch, half-shrouded in sunset but crystal-clear in harmony.
The pegasus homed in on the tune like a grey-plumed arrow, a contrail of forgotten postage in her wake.
---
"Alright, that's it!"
The last sweet notes rippled out into the darkening sky and faded.
"Big Mac?", Applejack spoke into the expectant silence.
"Eeyup?"
"Hope you saved plenty of wood. You think she's gonna go through the front, or the back?"
"Likely back."
"Sounds right. OK, everpony! Lie down on the floor and keep calm." Apple Bloom clapped on an old scooter helmet at the announcement, and low-crawled for the basement. The Apple family guests stared at the ponies hugging the floor, who had clearly gone stark nutters- save for Royal Bluegrass, who found himself in the iron grasp of Granny Smith.
"She ain't kidding, boys! You just called the storm, she'd have been at the Harvest farm finishing her mail run for the day. That mare can hear her name bein' called from a mile away!"
The beating wings of the freight train sounded from the distance, accompanying itself with a cheerfully whistled tune that mostly followed the recent performance. Someone might have whinnied a bit in terror. (Was a mite high-pitched for Big Mac, but you never know.)
*BAM!*
The musicians were still in their rocking chairs when the porch roof exploded in a hail of shingles, feathers, and returned junk mail. Stallions flew in all directions, plowing random furrows into the yard as they succumbed to the unkind joys of gravity.
"Oh, hi!" the wrecking-mare chirped from a nose-down landing position. "Someone have a late..deliv-a...um...oops. Hey, do I know you guys?"
"Ditzy?", Muddy got out around a mouthful of his namesake. "Lil' Margarita?", came from a pile of mangled rocking chairs topped with a white flag of surrender. "Ditzy Doom.", gargled the philosophizing unicorn through a clod of grass.
Royal might have said something, but Granny had him in a chokehug of death at the time, and the only Night Melody to be heard was the twitching of a unicorn leg in the middle of a shadowy carrot patch, mostly in time to a cricket.
A saffron-tipped hoof managed to clear the windowsill after a few good tries, dragging Applejack's head behind it.
"How-do, Ditzy. These house-wreckers friends of yours?"