[Bordermarch] Work weekend 8/12/08

Mon Aug 18 18:38:12 PDT 2008

I fear I must reply to the below story.? Upon reading the very detailed and visually stimulating descriptions of my son Eric, I was appalled.? I knew at once that I would need to contact my family members?in a hurry!? I quickly told my son Decimus to witness the daring insults, and I called upon my husband Adolf to defend our son's honor.? I then knew that lastly, young, innocent Eric would be sure to read these words himself.? With trembling fingers, Lord Decimus contacted his dear brother to see if he had yet woken from his youthful slumber and laid his eyes upon the Mr. Hot Dog saga.? Indeed he had!? Was he mortified?? ashamed?? in shock?? In reality, he had but one response.........."Who the heck is Donny Osmond???!!!"

Please know that we are feeding him dark brown gravy in the hopes that this will lower his voice the required octaves.? Only time will tell.

Saddened yet Hopeful,
Lady Colecte :)

-----Original Message-----
From: Lathrop, Dave <Dave.Lathrop at valero.com>
To: Barony Bordermarch <bordermarch at lists.ansteorra.org>
Sent: Mon, 18 Aug 2008 11:33 am
Subject: [Bordermarch] Work weekend 8/12/08

Mr. Hot Dog's Shadow

"Hand it up to me!" he shouted, I wasn't sure if he realized just how
heavy this bucket of mix really was, but he certainly was determined to
prove his strength to everyone. "It's pretty heavy," I said; he just
stared down at me from the scaffolding with "the look," and I realized
that this was the moment, the moment every young boy faces during his
quest to prove his true manhood.

 My job that day was to hand the crew of workers buckets of mortar, a
grey sloppy mix of sand, lime, and water, very similar to concrete. Lord
Brand Eric's job was laying the mortar to join the concrete blocks for
the new north tower of the castle. He was stationed up on the
scaffolding, and was very particular as to the method of my handing him
the bucket, "Handle first!" he shouted, "I want it full this time, and I
mean really full!" I could hear it in his voice,"I'll show you and
everyone here that I, Lord Brand Eric, as of this day am no longer a
boy; I am a man!".

 "Ok!, I get yer point!" I thought to myself. I couldn't really blame
him for trying to prove himself to the rest of us, but I didn't want him
to injure himself by overdoing it. 
Our mortar man, Lord Decimus, trucked another load of his product from
the mortar mixer too my position at the base near the west side of the
tower. I grabbed a shovel full of wet mortar from his wheelbarrow and
placed it gingerly into our well used five gallon bucket.  "Coming at
ya!"  I yell, and then began the lift. As I held the bucket of muck over
my head for Lord Eric I noticed he was casually glancing around to
verify that all were watching. When he was satisfied  he had everyone's
attention he closed his tiny piglet eyes and blindly reached for the
bucket's handle. "Not so fast!" I yelled, "this buckets' heavy!" I feel
I'm a pretty good judge of people, and I felt that Lord Eric was capable
of lifting about 6 pounds of mortar, that's the same weight as 1/2
gallon of skim milk. "Hand it up to me!" he shouted.

 He wrapped his eight chubby fingers, and two ch
ubby thumbs into a death
grip around the bucket's handle and gave a mighty heave; "ARRRRRGGGG!"
"Come on boy, you can do it!" shouted his dad, "don't let it wup ya son,
make yer pa proud!" 
As he strained with the load of mortar I couldn't help but think of the
looming shadow his Great Great Grandfather cast. This shadow would
forever force upon his descendants an inward battle they would have to
fight and win to gain rightful glory for themselves. It seems that Great
Great Grandpa, Adolf something or another, is on the books as being the
proud inventor of the Hot Dog; WOW!

 Looking like tiny dew drops of liquid starlight forming on a pasty
white flour tortilla, the acrid perspiration grudgingly emerged thru
chalky dust that had accumulated in multiple layers on Lord Eric's
knotted brow. The immutable law of gravity exerted its universal
strength and forced the salty drops to begin a slow tortured journey
down and around his baby faced cheeks. The journey would end on his chin
as the drops of perspiration fell in an uncontrolled cascade of rivulets
that looked like hot bacon grease slipping off a freshly fried chittlin.

 With a mighty heave and an exhalation of all his breath, Lord Eric
lifted the full 6 pounds of wet mortar, plus the 1/8 pound of plastic
bucket, all the way up and onto the scaffold boards.

 Had I just witness a young boy's ritualistic passage into manhood, a
boy who has been clawing and scraping his own path from the eternal
darkness, the shadow of Mr. Hot Dog?

"Squeak-squeak, squeak-squeak-squeak!" I thought perhaps I inadvertently
stepped on camp dogs chew toy. I checked my footing and heard it again,
"Squeak-squeak, SQUEAK-SQUEAK!"  It reverberated off the castle walls
and shook the shingles on the well house.

 There was silence at the north tower for what seemed to be forever.
"Where's that squeaking coming from?" I wondered, "and why is everyone
looking at Lord Eric?" 
"SQUEAK-SQUEAK-, SQUEAK-SQUEAK!" "Oh My Goodness!", that's Lord Eric
shouting to the heavens of his triumphant p
assage into manhood."  With
his arms raised to the sky and his nappy mortar encrusted hair flailing
around, sending missiles of dried mix everywhere, he was obviously
unaware of his own voice cracking, and making a warbling, chicken-like
sound.
He finally lowered his burning gaze to us mere mortals and realized that
the entire crew was looking at him with eyes filled with sorrow. 

 He wanted so very much to enter the realm of manhood with a war-cry, a
powerful war-cry that would prove to all that his boyish days were a
thing of the past. 
 His steely glare slowly softened as understanding caught up with his
excitement. 
"Squeak-squeak?"  "Oh yes", he was still in the shadow of the Mr. Hot
Dog, and he knew, he knew with all his heart that this day on the north
tower would not be the day he passed the test of manhood.

Lord Eric experienced an epiphany that day at Border Keep's north tower;
he now knows that before you address the four winds with your war-cry,
"I Am A Man!" make certain, be absolutely certain your voice has dropped
several levels in pitch so you don't sound like a 12 year old girl
screaming uncontrollably at a "Donnie Osmond" concert!

   The continuing Chronicles
                  of
             Santiago
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