And So they Gathered At the Summit

When deciding to join forces with the mountain man, I realized that as a blended family (yep, from mudslides to margaritas to step kids!) there was certain to be a fair amount of family traditions exchanged and shared as we created our own future memories (Oxymoron? Perhaps, but hey, one man's oxymoron is our theme song!)

Any who, there is a tradition in the history of the mountain man that goes back to his childhood (And seeing how he was a personal friend of Jesus, we're talking waaaaaay back!)

Ooh, constant reader? Obscure mysuestories fact. Did you know that Jesus' middle name is Horatio? No? Me neither, but when I was 6 years old, I asked my Dad (while he was fixing something-2ND obscure mysuestories fact- Daddy was not happy about fixing shit- anyway, while attempting some home repair, I kindly asked what the "H" stood for in my dad's every other minute exclamation of "Jesus H. Christ"--to which he simply replied "Horatio." Your welcome, dear reader, for such invaluable information.

Anyway, this particular tradition of mountain man was,well a trek, if you will. A five and a half hour trek only to be covered in a car filled with way too many kids/camping gear/pillows/books/ AND comfortably secured in it's own seat belt, Lappy Toppy! (even though there was not one iota of Internet access where we were going, and I knew this fully well before ever packing precious Lappy in the first place. I can only claim deep denial, readers).

So, mountain man, mysuestories, and our shaggy entourage of kids headed to (where else?) the mountain. As tradition dictates, we gathered with forty five of our nearest and dearest who also heeded the call to pilgrimage to the summit of what can only be known as Mount Back in Time.

Upon arrival to this most sacred of summits, many rituals had to be adhered to. Clearly, the most popular was the initiation of the "utes" into sloppy drunken adulthood, which took place after most of the previous inductees and those under 4 feet tall were asleep.

In order to call upon the favors of the gods for a successful mission, tribal music is played throughout the ceremony. While it is entirely up to those to be inducted to choose what hymns shall resonate, it is apparently imperative that whatever is chosen must be loud enough to vibrate the entire mountain.

In this particular ceremony, those about to cross the threshold into oblivion divide into sets of two, with two teams juxtaposed across a given altar (in our case, these altars were erected from long tables from the plasticene era). Gifts are made to the deities in the form of 10 plastic chalices precisely aligned in the shape of a triangular form. The chalices are then carefully filled with nectar of the gods. (Apparently, some of our congregants were weight conscious, for the nectar chosen was of the Lite variety).

Once the alter is set, the opposing apostolic teams faced off against one another, each trying to sink the Orb of the Almighty (read: ping pong ball) into the oppositions chalices. Upon orbic destiny, or the sinking of the ball, the other team was to consume the nectar-Lite. This ritual is repeated until each participant is either hurling up the coveted nectar (-Lite), or there is no longer anyone able to toss the orb in the vicinity of the chalices.

As mysuestories is well slightly over the age of orb tossing, I was one of the unlucky pilgrims who had gone to bed before the ceremony began. Some hours later (no clue how many!) I was awakened to the throbbing of the tribal drums.

Upon investigation, I noticed that all of our apostles were snoring loudly. I climbed over the mountain man, stepping atop one of our apostles (who let out a swoosh of air as I bounced off of him!) and crawled out of our camper (another day, another post, constant reader).

Outside, across the field in which the ceremony was held ( which judging by the dozens of empty Lite cans, was quite successful!), not a soul was standing. I staggered two hundred yards in the pitch black of night without benefit of street lights and set out to find the damned stereo to turn it off. I (who can barely see with benefit of daylight and eyeglasses) had absolutely no luck.

I staggered two hundred yards back to the camper, stepped on the sleeping apostle, (another swoosh of air), and over the mountain man. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding beat of the music. No. Such. Luck.

I whispered to the mountain man, which immediately woke him up. (Have I mentioned mysuestories does not have an indoor voice? Or a whispering voice?) I told the man of my dreams, the one I have forsaken all others for, of my dilemma of the music that would not let me sleep. I may have cursed along the way six or twenty times. Surely he would rescue me in the form of turning off the blasted stereo, no?

Apparently, no. The man who once promised to love, honor and cherish me did not believe this included allowing me to get a decent night's sleep. He did, however, tell me to just go shut off the stereo. Gee, what a novel idea. When I told him I could neither find the stereo, or see anything out there!!!!, he very wisely advised me to simply follow the music.

I must have still been half drunk asleep, because that sounded like a good idea at the time. Once again, I climbed over the mountain man, stepped on the snoring apostle (swoosh again- at least he was still breathing!), crawled out of the camper and back into the pitch dark. I (again) staggered two hundred yards toward the offensive music, and following it's vibrations on the ground beneath my bare feet, located not one, but two speakers. However, the offending stereo? Nowhere in sight. Damnit!

Back two hundred yards to the camper, over the apostle (yes, another swoosh!), over the mountain man, and back into bed.
"Mountain man!!!!" I whispered as loudly as the music. " I followed the music!!!! I can't find anything but the damned speakers!!!"

Finally, by the grace of the gods of peace and quiet, mountain man calmly arose ( okay, so not so calmly). He stepped on the apostle (swoosh!). I followed (swoosh again!). He crawled out of the camper. I crawled behind him. He stomped across two hundred yards. I tiptoed. Hey, no sense in waking the rest of the tribe, right?

Mountain man, my hero, finds the speakers. "See?" I told him. " Speakers but no stereo." Duh. Hadn't I been saying that all along?

In a move worthy of Brad Pitt in Troy, my mountain man reached down to each speaker and grabbed every wire attached. He pulled them out. Hard. The music died.

In that instant, I saw the man I have come to adore. He is so cute!!!!!!

He stomped back to the camper, over the apostle (swoosh!) , and back to bed. I followed.

The next evening, well before the nightly ceremonies commenced, I noticed the speakers were not where they had been the previous evening.

Where did they go? Well, it appears our many time stepped upon apostle was not asleep the night prior. And, he thought it would be great fun to have me looking all over the mountain for the damned music again.

I showed him, though. The next night I wore high heels to bed!!!!

Swoosh, my ass!