By Pericles
Oh! I’m glad we made it. If it had taken any longer to start this column, I would have lost a precious opportunity to spitball about my favorite holiday – phew! However, since we are yet in the season of Wilderness, I figured the recency of today’s topic poses appropriate justification to discuss its leftovers. I speak not of the physical leftovers, as that would be wholly antithetical; rather, I speak of recollection’s residues, which crawl between our ears and take shelter in the folds of our noggins.
I love Fat Tuesday. If you are unfamiliar, the French call it Mardi Gras, and the Catholics call it “just another day” or “God help me this is my last day of freedom” or “I convert at dawn to the faiths of Epicurus and Bentham (that is, if I wake up).” After 320 days of Fat Tues livin’, one must understand how a 40 day trial of “oh God no Instagram!” might provoke a significant panic.
I recall days of glory when I would trounce along my high school halls with a shout, “who’s getting hammered tonight!” I recall recurrent tales of gluttony and faith, touched with the warm comforts of past laughs and reliable ironies. But I still don’t fully understand my love for this day.
Perhaps memories of the holiday inspire such reverence and comedic fascination because, insofar as I have been familiar with the practice, the preceding indulgences far outweigh the potency of the typical sacrifices that follow. It seems the celebration strikes me funny because it has escaped its counterbalancing force. And too much wine without sufficient wilderness is a laughable proposition indeed.
I will conclude with a short tale. As the professional dendrologists exit their biannual Tree-Con, there lies a destitute vagrant being passed over and hastily ignored at the gate. Though if we’re being fair about it, those leaf-lovers & trunk-clutchers hardly boasted bills to spare (it comes with the occupation).
“Some alms, please!” the wretch cries.
“I have one right here!” A passing woody plant-adorer exclaims, proudly presenting a mini-model of an Elm tree. Transferring it into the befuddled poor man’s possession, that clueless root-enthusiast skips crisply upon his way, bolstered by a newfound joy of Elmsgiving.
