The final chapter of our saga has yet to be written. (But we need to wrap this up somewhere, and this seems as good a place as any.) All kidding aside, it is remarkable that a group of people who met as teenagers at Boy Scout Camp would be able to maintain a tradition of brotherhood and friendship for more than thirty years. And it wasn't just the beer and boova shenkel. Something more brought people to the cold, windy corner of Broad and Olney where they waited for the South Philly Contingent to arrive (late as usual) and then endured a colder, bumpier ride in the "Telorvehc" to Sumneytown. Something kept them coming after they entered (and, once in a while, actually graduated) from college, got jobs, married (and, once in a while, actually married again) and had kids of their own. And now some of those kids are coming too, as teenagers who were once accompanied by their fathers (someone had to drive, after all) now bring their own teenagers to Green Lane each fall.
While many have kept the faith over the years, a significant number of our Brothers have fallen away, left the flock and stopped their pilgrimages to the banks of the Unami (and they conveniently kept some of the better doorprizes and sacred objects when they vanished). Sadly, death has also claimed some of our Brothers, reminding us that 33 years really is a long time. The years have not been kind to Hart Scout Reservation either -- the dwindling rolls of the Philadelphia Council of the Boy Scouts of America recently forced a merger with the Valley Forge Council. The newly coined Cradle of Liberty Council now operates "Camp Hart-Delmont". Is nothing sacred?
Even with the losses, new blood, in the form of wives and children (and anyone else that can be dragged along) has kept the Lodge alive. When the call to gorge goes out from our esteemed secretary, Trader John, a hardy band of Brothers and Sisters travels from across Pennsylvania, as well as Virginia, New Jersey, and, when the canonical winds are blowing in the right direction, from as far as Alaska, Some heretics have tried to disguise the innately silly nature of the Lodge by referring to the event as the "annual picnic and lodge social, formerly known as the Donkey Roast", but a true Lumawakian cannot be fooled. Just as he recognizes a Lodge Brother encountered on the street via the exchange of the "secret greeting", a real Lumawakian knows a donkey roast when he sees (or smells) one. Political Correctness, in the form of "Lodge socials", will not disguise the annual ritual, rites and foolishness of the Annual Donkey Roast of the Lumawaki Lodge. Bring on the boova!!!!
WATCH THIS SPACE FOR THE POSTING OF LODGE PHOTOS IN THE FUTURE.
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