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Two events that needed to be documented by an objective observer
I was privileged in early May then early July to bear witness to the following events. The two essays you are about to read are mostly true.
“Please Pass the Antelope”
There's twelve of them on a green plastic tray—Ritz crackers topped with a thin black mystery.
“Not bad,” I remark to my daughter's boyfriend.
“That's buffalo tongue,” a lanky,bearded man in a camouflage hat interjects.
“You don't say,” I reply.
Welcome to the 2008 Game Supper at the North Worcester Fox&Coon Club. I'm here by invitation of my good friend Mark Lewandowski who's billed as Head Chef of this extravaganza. Tim( my daughter's boyfriend) is here in case my stomach revolts against the ingestion of so many unusual meats and I need a designated driver/nurse. Besides, I enjoy his company.
It's the first Saturday in May around 6pm, about 40 degrees,and raining steady as I park the Lumina amongst the pick-ups. The Supper is an outdoors event so we bundle up and walk over to the picnic-bench area that's covered . Some of the guests are milling around an open fire-pit,smoking cigars and talking sports . Children are tossing tree branches on a bonfire.
Every item on the Game Supper menu besides the salad and strawberry shortcake has been caught, trapped ,or shot by a Club member. I, who have never hunted or fished, find this fact fascinating but eerie.
The first appetizer that's brought to our table is Fried Wild Maine Smelts. My Dad was a big fan of smelts so swallowing the little guys isn't foreign to me—it's like eating a Shake'n Bake goldfish. Tim and I manage three apiece.
Next, a plethora of venison prepared in every conceivable (and inconceivable) way—Venison sausage bread, Venison stuffed cabbage, Venison stew, Venison mincemeat pie,and a kabob that combines the Home-on -the- Range trinity of Bison, Antelope, and Venison.
“Be a deer and pass me another meat-stick ,” I chide Timmy.
A large woman in a low-cut peasant dress passes out salads. There's a tattoo of a yellow rose on her breastbone .Next to belly-hair, this is my favorite part of a woman's body so I try mightily to maintain my composure.
“Would you like some dressing on your lettuce,hon' “she teases me.
(Pour it on heavy, you unquenchable wench, I think to myself)
“Just a tad, “ I reply.
Next, another meat kabob featuring Crispy Goose,Blue Cheese & Bacon. I freshen our drinks--the Club is alcohol-free so it's cream soda and ginger ale-- and return to a plate of Sweet&Sour Pheasant .We've been eating for almost two hours. Everything has tasted great and my stomach is cooperating. It's stopped raining.
Timmy buys us an arm's-length of raffle tickets. Prizes include a Skeet-shooter,a backyard Fire- bowl ,a 50lb. sack of potatoes,a box of lettuce,and a curling iron. Before the next course, I walk over to the Port-0-Potty .The Fox&Coon Club is located on 80 acres of rolling hills and dense forest in Holden,Ma. There's enough wide-open spaces for a rifle range,pistol range, skeet-shooting area ,woods for hunting,and one plastic outhouse. I'm seventh in line.
Chef Mark announces that the final courses will be Rabbit over Rice and Beaver Dumplings. I urge Timmy to cell-phone his Dad and inform him of our pending beaver-consumption:
“Hi Dad, it's Tim. Sami's Dad and I are at the Game Supper.”
“How is it?”
“Great. Joe wanted you to know that we're just about to feast on some beaver.”
“You don't say.”
By the grace of heaven, Lady Rose serves our table the Beaver Dumplings. She bends over so the Flower of Texas is at my eye-level.
“Try the beaver. It's sumptuous,” she urges.
I really need a cold shower.
Actually , the beaver is the only meat we're not fond of. It is rather stringy and the dumpling seems dry. Maybe the fact that we're freakin' stuffed to the gills contributes to our criticism. Neither of us tries the Rabbit, not even a hare.
The Raffle winners are announced and I win the Fire-bowl. I plan to use it in our kitchen since my wife Cyndi shuts the heat off March 1st.
The Supper is winding down with guests filling doggie bags and saying their goodbyes. My stomach starts to tap-dance like a crazed Fred Astaire. I'm cramping up like I just swam the English Channel. It's starting to rain again. Lady Rose has left the building.
We find Mark and offer our compliments. He promises to take me fishing and/or hunting soon so I can cross them off my “wish list.”
“You guys should make a plate to go. There's plenty of tongue,rabbit, and beaver left,” Mark implores.
“No mas!” I reply and toss Timmy the keys to the Lumina.
The Hard Parade
(with apologies to Jim Morrison)
Our daughter invited us to spend the 4th of July in Bristol, Rhode Island. She's a graduate student at Roger Williams University and lives on the second floor of a triple-decker with her boyfriend three blocks from the ocean.
Bristol is the site of the oldest July 4th parade in the United States. My daughter invited 22 relatives overnight to share in the patriotic activities. Her landlord's patch of backyard was dotted with tents like the March on Washington.
It's estimated that 100,000 people attend the fireworks on July 3rd then the parade the next morning in Bristol. My son-in-law and I parked the van at a school near the Massachusetts border then hitchhiked the remaining distance to my daughter's apartment.
The Fireworks were 45 minutes long and burst spectacularly over the harbor. Besides a plethora of the usual shapes and colors, I was impressed by a Sugar Pops then a Snow Caps design in the purple sky. I guess I was hungry.
After the fireworks, we walked back to the apartment then drank coffee by our tents. My wife and I retired to my daughter's spare bedroom where street-revelers kept us awake most of the evening.
“Happy 4th of July,” they shouted over and over till I fired a warning shot over their heads.
At 5a.m., our daughter carried seven blankets three blocks and staked out an area for 22 people on the parade -route. Her sister relieved her at 7a.m.; my wife and I took the 9 to 11a.m shift. Nobody challenged our claim; we must have looked “Woosta” tough.
A military helicopter buzzed our heads to signal the beginning of the Parade .Thousands watched as every conceivable branch of the armed forces, every social agency, every marching band from Minnesota ( it must be some sort of exchange program), and every small company in Bristol County walked or waved from a float or vehicle for three hours.
Three hours! Don't get me wrong, I've never seen such pageantry but three hours ! I kept humming the theme song from Gilligan's Island as my wife and 21 relatives would peer down the street and observe:
“ I think that's it...no, wait a minute...I can hear the faint sound of another marching band from Minnesota ... yep, here they come.”
When the Shriner's float wrapped it up at 2:02 pm., they received a rousing ovation of mixed intent. For the final time, the muscular young man in the tight white shorts and tank-top walked by our blankets with his arm around the taller, leggy blonde in six-inch stiletto's. I gave them an 8.5
Exhausted , we walked back to the apartment for a BBQ and alcohol consumption before heading off to the Carnival.
My brother-in-law used to drive the truck that carries the carnival-rides from one venue to another. He would drive from midnight till dawn to avoid the highway weigh-stations that would discover his faulty brakes and over-loaded cargo. He quit three years ago but used his connections to get us VIP tickets for the rides.
Thank god! Rides are now $3-4 each depending on their safety record and whether the operator has more teeth than tattoos. Most games of no-chance are now $3 a shot. The 24 of us took over the skee-ball tent (5 balls for a buck- -score of 160 or better wins ) till the carnies gave us a giant snake as a “pity” prize.
Elated, we walked back to the apartment and prepared for departure. My son-in-law hitchhiked back to the school then parked on the now-empty street. We kissed our goodbyes then loaded up the van and headed back to Worcester with fond 4th of July memories of Bristol and a firm resolve never to do it again.
The End.
Submitted by bardofaisle9 on Thursday, July 17, 2008 (05:06:35) (796 reads)
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