First things first. We brought in the bags and laid them on the kitchen table, a rickety affair whose cursus honorum would extend pages, simply pages. Into the fridge then, into the fridge with diet pop and T-bone steaks, tater tots and alloy forks. A promising start, to be sure.
And such was the honor of the day that no one dared absent himself. From miles around gathered invitees, rich and poor, large and small, everyone came. Some brought friends we didn't know; many brought pets much like other animals we had by chance espied elsewhere. No one was unhappy, this was the character of our horde: all were pleasingly joyous.
And there was joy, that day. Johnny Handstand, a fellow Moriah from Halmstead, brought us the human body's versatility, its contortions and lithe twists. For nearly an hour we sat in a circle about Johnny Handstand, watching him contort. Afterwards we fried, barbecued and fried. A good deal of mindless chatter was exchanged that hour, for it is well known that food dulls the thoughts of even the most thoughtful individuals.
Afterwards there was repose.
Then, to a rousing cheer from the under-twenty-five contingent, a chick-bake was begun. Who would be this year's chick? Glances scuttled from woman to woman, causing each in turn to blush and bow her head in fear. Finally the young woman in beige was decided upon; she would be the victim. A promising daughter, she was perfect.
Afterwards night fell and a rousing call was sent up to the stars: "Hulloooooo!" we cried, "hulloooooo!" The wine made its way but vanished before reaching the end; aggravation and contribution ensued.
"Where are you?" Mary was speaking to Paul, the third Moriah of East Dorchester. He was hiding, drunk, behind a hedge, and Mary was having one hell of a time locating him in the dark. Very well, this was a fête, thought Mary, but why spoil it through overzealous adherence to fuzzy principles, principles so fuzzy they had never been formally expounded, principles which, if expounded, might prove to be utterly void of sense? This was a fete, thought Mary, but why ignore the threat of culpability? And she was right, in a sense. This must not be ignored: she was, in a limited sense, right. "Paul? Paul?"
But that is the goal of the Moriahs, after all: the squirm out of handy niches and experience a new level of being, to remove the effects of days of thankless toil and start again as from scratch. Do we succeed? It must be answered that yes, insofar as the Marys are suppressed, we succeed.
In the evening the invitees left. All except the woman in beige, of course, and, of course, the pure Professors. How many did we number at that time? It is hard to say. Some would count a hundred head or more, while others would limit us to a score. It doesn't matter. The Moriahs were assembled, and they were mighty.
Johnny Handstand contorted once more, and we applauded. Paul, the third Moriah of East Dorchester, amused us with his tales of the space shuttle. A company of seven produced a small play commemorating the founding of New Hampshire, complete with bonnets and English accents. Were women allowed, you may ask. Certainly. They were not only allowed, they were encouraged. With sticks! they were encouraged, with batons!
Thrice our banter went off-color; thrice did we punish. The perpetrators were shedded for the duration! Elsewhere, it was said, denuding and even torture were common practice; but here, among us, kindness prevailed. For to stick together, to avoid influences, was a prime commandment among us. But as Moriahs, how else could it be?
And then it ended. With a bang it ended, with a bang that shocked us out of our socks and made us realize just who we were. We were Moriahs, Moriahs is what we were