[CH] home from the fields...
bill jernigan (bill.jernigan@juno.com)
Mon, 25 Sep 2000 17:18:52 -0400
THE PILGRIMAGE, VERSION 2.K
They heard the call. The fighter of the fire spake, and they heard.
They spread the word among the faithful. El Grande would be there. At
the source. At the very font from which springs, not without the fervent
labor of the keeper of the field and his underlings, the sacred powder,
the wondrous sauce, the magnificent mash.
They must go.
They set about readying for the trip. They would travel from distant
lands to witness this event. There would be representatives from the
frozen wastelands of the north and the lush tropical paradises of the
southern sea. They would be from the kingdoms of the western plains and
from the far-flung eastern provinces. All knew that the day was at hand.
They must go.
They knew it would be a difficult journey. El Grande does not, after
all, appear in the parking lot of Wal-Mart. He chooses the most obscure,
out of the way place possible. A cornfield in the center of the province
of basketball worshipers. There would be hardships on the road --
mountain ranges to cross, AM radio to endure, bland food to consume.
There would be no room at the inn.
They began to arrive the night before. They constructed flimsy huts from
scraps of cloth and bits of aluminum tubing. They built ceremonial fires
to light the skies and hasten the arrival of the chosen one.
They watched the sky.
By the dawn's early light, the masses began arriving. There was much joy
in the secluded field; old friends embraced and shared a morsel of food
or a flagon of spirits; strangers greeted each other like lost brothers.
Laughter was heard. Small animals were sacrificed and their carcasses
laid on the fires. The fruits of El Grande were lovingly gathered and
carefully stowed away for transport home.
Knuckles dragged.
The ritual consumption of selected pods was performed. The joy of the
taste brought tears to the eyes of all, faithful and non-believers alike.
The name of the Lord was frequently mentioned.
Conversions occurred.
As the sun, giver of life, sank beneath the horizon, dead branches from a
lesser fruit were piled, and flame applied to these limbs to create a
large ceremonial fire to chase away the darkness and renew the spirit of
El Grande. Some of the pilgrims gathered in an all-night vigil and
passed the time by singing songs of praise and recounting stories of
previous encounters with El Grande. They told of the strange customs of
their homelands.
Sacred gasses were released.
In the morning, the smell of coffee and roasted chiles awakened the
pilgrims and one by one they emerged from their shelters and greeted the
dawn. They kindled their altar fires and set about creating new gourmet
treats, utilizing skills they didn't know they had. Had they been
touched by El Grande? Some believe that to be so.
Life is good.
Returning to the ritual picking of the pods, the pilgrims chose more
carefully this time, selecting only those which shone with the inner
beauty that said "I have been waiting for you".
These endorphin-induced hallucinations would continue for days.
The time of parting came all too swiftly. Fare-thee-wells were said,
with much wishing of safe journeys and promises to meet again in the
field when next the call comes. Many tears were shed (indeed, some still
had teary eyes from their first encounter with El Grande) and with
burning hearts, they wished Godspeed and fortune for the new year.
A good time was had by all.
Blessed be the fighter of the fire, the keeper of the field and the baker
of the bread, his family and all who contribute to this most wonderful of
experiences. May we gather again next year and welcome even more
pilgrims to share this adventure.
Amen.
P.S. May El Grande not choose a race weekend to appear next year.
bill
did you donate food today?
visit http://www.thehungersite.com once a day
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