Gruff old Mister North Wind filled his cheeks and blew a frigid
blast from the arctic regions to Hingham, Mass., where it
ricocheted across the continent, with the last vestige of it
stirring a row of withered leaves in the San Benito River bed over
the moccasins of a tall Smurf.
Gruff old Mister North Wind filled his cheeks and blew a frigid blast from the arctic regions to Hingham, Mass., where it ricocheted across the continent, with the last vestige of it stirring a row of withered leaves in the San Benito River bed over the moccasins of a tall Smurf.
However, closer inspection would have revealed that it was not a Smurf. It was, in fact, Don Anderson, clad in a feather and loincloth with the blue of his skin due to inclement weather and not genetics.
“Don? Don?” Jim Sleznick turned to the other members of the Roses for Moses Society. “I think he hears me.”
Martin Bress, looking as stern as the Puritan whose garb he wore, peered into the permanent acting chairman’s eyes. “Yes, I see life in there. I warned him about dressing properly for this re-enactment.”
“Brandy, bring brandy!” Mac Mota cried, and immediately six members proffered their private flasks. Mota snatched one and drained its contents on the spot. “Whew! I never could stand to see something like that.”
As members who were dressed either as Puritans or Native Americans ministered to their chairman, he shuddered violently and said, “I can feel life in my right big toe and left kidney. I believe I’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
“It’s a wonder,” said Ernie Andrade, dressed sensibly with sturdy woolen stockings supplementing his Puritan costume. “It’s one thing to re-stage the first Thanksgiving and another to freeze to death doing it.”
“But this is more realistic than the way most clubs would have presented it,” Anderson protested.
“Where are those clubs?” demanded Dave Moseley, dressed in buckskin and beads. “Lead me to them. I’ll join every one as long as they meet inside someplace warm.”
“That’s hardly the spirit we are trying to instill, Dave,” Anderson said. “Confound it!” he said, and blushed at his own profanity. “Oh, I wish Sid Moses was here. He could explain the significance of the first Thanksgiving far better than I.”
“As a matter of fact, I called Sid this morning to remind him of the re-enactment,” Pablo Balancio said. “He said that he was thankful to be smart enough to stay inside on a day like this.”
“I think it was a great idea,” Robert Scattini said. “You can bet that I’d be dressed like the rest of you fellows if I didn’t always have to be on call as marshal. Even as a kid I thrilled to the story of Tonto and the Pilgrims.”
“That’s Squanto, not Tonto,” Ron Rodrigues corrected.
“Not Tonto?” Scattini somberly digested the information. “Well, I guess that explains why the Lone Ranger never showed up.”
“Didn’t I read somewhere about the Pilgrims having a big feast,” John Hodges asked, “with turkey and cranberry sauce and pie and such?”
“We couldn’t have a fire down here so I dispatched our two newest members to get the food,” Anderson said.
“Chandler Harris and Kollin Kosmicki?” Tom Breen exclaimed. “You sent two newsmen out unsupervised?”
At that moment a car pulled up, and the pair emerged carrying many boxes.
“Where’d you get that hat?” Fernando Gonzalez asked.
Kosmicki took off his green satin derby and shrugged. “The rest of the Pilgrim outfit fit all right but the hat was too small, and I couldn’t go bareheaded.”
Harris smiled as though to invite comment on his Cleveland Indians baseball uniform, but no one paid any attention to him.
“Pizza, they brought pizza,” Gary Young said as he inspected the boxes.
“The great American favorite!” Kosmicki said.
“Is that all you brought?” Allen Ritter asked.
“Well, no. They were out of cranberry juice so we thought you’d want something to ward off the cold,” Harris said as he held two jugs aloft.
Refreshments were served.
