And This is My Tale of Woe

Long-time friends may already be familiar with this story but on a nice warm autumn day like this, I can't help but think of her and feel like retelling it all over again.

Idaho Ilsa was her name. And I was her man. And this is my tale of woe.

When I was growing up in Poplar Hill a few decades ago, the little village north of London was the heppest place in this corner of southwestern Ontario. It was home to the annual Nihilist Picnic where spasmatic nihilist rockers and their friends and family would come to town for a day of orchestrated madcapery and bedlam. Rumour has it that the sleepy village was also the site of the first Burning Man Festival.

But the most interesting yearly celebration was what we locals referred to as 'Malcolm Merriweather Day.' It was an old custom which pre-dated the First World War. No one remembers where the name came from - none of my friends or parents knew who Malcolm Merriweather even was. There certainly were no 'Merriweather's listed in the Poplar Hill phone book. Was he a founding father? One of those old pioneer guys? A travelling salesman? We didn't know.

Doesn't really matter what it was called though - it could just as easily and accurately been named 'Do Whatever You Want That You Would Never Get a Chance to Do Otherwise Day.' The unwritten rule was - do whatever you want, as long as no one gets hurt.

Because of its spontaneous and impromptu nature, Malcolm Merriweather Day wasn't much of a tourist attraction. It was just for us townsfolk. Every fall on the first day that the temperature reached sufficiently high to make it hot enough for an authentic Indian Summer, everyone took the day off. Supposedly in celebration of Malcolm Merriweather. In his honour, even the fireflies returned and put in an unseasonal appearance.

What would happen was - for that one day of the year, if there was something you had always dreamed of trying, your fellow townspeople would help make it happen. One year, as a minimum-wage earning teen, my best friend, Dan Brown had always fantasized about rolling around in piles of dollar bills and throwing them up in the air. Well, sir, just for Dan, the Poplar Hill Savings and Loan unlocked the doors to the vault and for 15 minutes, Dan did just that.

Another year, my girl at the time, Idaho Ilsa - a red-headed Kim Novak-lookalike, had always dreamed of being Mayor. So Mayor Pike gladly handed over the official Mayor's Hat and the Keys to the City, and Ilsa spent the day making proclamations and hanging up flags outside Town Hall. As you can see, the day was very Brigadoon. Very Never-Neverland.

The whole village got involved in the spirit of Malcolm Merriweather Day. For those lacking in imagination or personal dreams, there were plenty of spontaneous activities. Pie-eating contests, parades, girl-carrying races, soft-ball games, hot-dogs, corn-on-the-cob, watermelon, ice-cream, egg-salad sandwiches, free Kentucky-Fried chicken supplied by the local franchise owner and at the very end - fireworks! It was like an all-day community picnic. Only without any opportunistic speeches by politicians. Those were banned.

For me, the most memorable Malcolm Merriweather Day happened in the fall of '63, not too far into October. It had been a cold wet September so no one argued when Mayor Pike declared Merriweather Day during the first hot spell to happen in weeks.

Idaho Ilsa and I had been seeing each other for about three years and were at that point in our relationship where it just seemed about *time*, if you know what I mean. All day long during the festivities, we two kids couldn't keep our eyes off each other. So at dusk, while the rest of the town gathered at the ballpark to watch the fireworks, we snuck off to consumate our own personal wishes. Which, according to legend are only granted through the graces of the omnipotent Malcolm Merriweather. Whomever that may be.

There was a pasture in the countyside just outside of town to which we were both partial. And that night, in a field of wildflowers and daisies, we lay down on a flannel blanket, took off all our clothes, and there under the stars, with only the cows and fireflies as witnesses, Idaho Ilsa and I made Hot German Potato Salad.

It was such a profound and earth-moving experience that we both instictively knew that even with another Malcolm Merriweather Day, chances are, we would never be able to duplicate it again. We decided to remain very close friends.

Three years later, Ilsa was killed in a car accident. Hit by a drunk driver while picking up mayonnaise and bacon in the condiments aisle of the Poplar Hill Valu-Mart. I never really got over it and moved to London.

But to this day, whenever I'm in a grocery store and pick up a 10-pound bag of Idaho Reds, I smile wistfully and think of Ilsa. And Malcolm Merriweather.