”
Good lords, lend me your ears, I pray, for this long-awaited
day.
”
Mac Mota nudged Gary Young.
”
Why’s Don dressed so funny?
”
“Good lords, lend me your ears, I pray, for this long-awaited day.”
Mac Mota nudged Gary Young. “Why’s Don dressed so funny?”
“Shhhh! It’s our annual Shakespeare’s Birthday and Fried Chicken Festival. Didn’t you get the newsletter?”
Don Anderson waited patiently for the hubbub to cease before resuming. “As you know, the Moses for Roses Society is an arbiter and model for local culture. Yet, with that awesome charge, we also are a group of regular fellows who enjoy social activities; hence the combination of…” – his eyes lighted merrily – “…The Bard and the Bird. Without further preamble, John Hodges, our chairman for the day!”
Hodges’ progress to center stage was marking by a rising crescendo of applause that broke and broke again as he flipped back his cloak, doffed his plumed hat and bowed deeply.
“What’s John got around his neck?” Gene Kogle asked.
“It’s a ruff,” Fernando Gonzalez explained. “Elizabethan gentlemen wore them.”
“I’ll bet it’s rough,” Kogle said. “It looks like he swallowed a soup plate.”
Hodges stood there smiling and nodding, waiting for the ovation to die like a mighty wave that finally gives way to gentle ripples that gradually disperse on the face of a country pond.
“I thank you one and all for your kind attention,” Hodges said. “Shakespeare’s birthday has meant much to me ever since I was a nipper, and to have it thus honored by this august company would make the Swan of Avon’s dust start in gratitude.”
“But this is April, not August,” Richard Place responded.
“Shut up,” Ruben Lopez explained.
“We at first thought to have Morris dances, jugglers, strolling minstrels and conjurers to delight the Society just as Shakespeare’s contemporaries were entertained but Don tells me that we have only $12.50 in our account after paying for the chickens,” Hodges said. “I suggest that each of you honor his spirit by reading your favorite play or poem tonight.”
“We’ll do it!” shouted the Society in one voice, and Hodges smiled and smiled again at the spontaneous outburst.
“This is a wonderful response,” Anderson said. “How I wish Sid Moses could be here.”
“As a matter of fact, I called Sid this morning to remind him of the meeting,” Pablo Balancio said. “He must have heard about it already because he sighed and said, ‘It sounds like the Bard will get the bird tonight for fair.'”
“I’m going to read ‘The Tempest’ again,” Jim Sleznick said. “I’m a veteran sailor so I know all about gales.” His earnest features suddenly broke into a smile. “In fact, I married one,” and he laughed fit to split his sides.
“How is Gayle, by the way?” Tom Ament asked.
“Fine, fine. She’s getting ready for the Open Studio this weekend, and…”
“Gentlemen, we digress,” Hodges said. “I realize that at least a few of you like chicken as much as Shakespeare, so I’ll ask our frymaster for the evening to report on that aspect. Robbie?”
Robert Scattini took the dais. “So fair a fowl I have not yet seen,” he said with a broad smile. “Seriously, fellows, we owe Paul Wattis, Bob Cruz and Kollin Kosmicki a big hand. They all would have preferred to be on the cultural end of the program tonight, but when I tapped them to help with the chickens, not one of them tried to get out of it.”
A big hand was duly given.
Anderson took the stand again. “So then, I think before we adjourn to the banquet hall that we should thank John for an enriching program. You can place a good deal of the county’s cultural achievement directly at his feet. If that’s all then, I declare the meeting to be…..”
A thunderous reminder pointed out a neglected bit of business.
Refreshments were served.
