Whan that Aprille with its showers sweet The drouth of Marche hath pierced to the roote, And bathed every vine in such licour, Of which pow’r engendered is the flowr ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, Thanne longen folk to go on pilgrimages, And pilgrims for to seeken straunge landes….

~ Prologue to the Canterbury Tales By Geourey Chaucer Remember having to memorize that in En- glish class? I do, every time my pals and I go on one of our pilgrimages. We don’t speak in middle English like Geou or write in Rhyme Royale. We speak in middle American and write in “rhyme rural.”

Yeah, I know our pilgrims this year didn’t enjoy enough “showers sweet” and lots of our corn didn’t get bathed enough in “sweet licour.” Nevertheless, this summer our hearty band kept alive the tradition of going on “pil- grimages” every Wednesday, suuering the “drouth of July” with nary a suggestion to not “seeken straunge landes.” We didn’t get as far as Canterbury, England, like our 14th century predecessors, but we managed to make it to places like Maiden Rock, East Ellsworth, Hammond, and Roberts, “straunge landes” indeed.

Chaucer’s pilgrimage was populated with folks, like the Wife of Bath who was quite bawdy, the Pardoner, the Miller and the Franklin. We settled for fellow travelers, none of them communists, like retired carpenters, school teachers, a truck gardener and an ecologist. There was no “Clerk [student] of Oxenford also” but several of our colleagues had attended UWRF and none had ever ridden a horse as skinny as was the poor clerk’s.

And we, of course, had diuerent goals for our trip when last week we made our merry way to Prescott, birthplace of this newspaper and the site where I supped with my bride on our honeymooon at the Steamboat Inn these many years ago.

The Steamboat, sadly, is gone, but the pilgrims made their way down Broad Street to discover a plethora of opportunities to devour or quau to our heart’s content. Like Lucille’s, Scab’s Place, The Kitchen Table, Prescott Roadhouse, Muddy Waters, Two Rivers. We had already been up on the hill to Philander’s twice this year, so we settled on Muddy Waters. It was Wednesday noon and Broad Street was plumb full of autos. In the back seat, Bubba kept kibbitzing, wondering “Is this Stillwater, or what?” Finally, we got to the end of Broad and found the last spot. No, this wasn’t Stillwater, Bubba, but it sure felt like it. Muddy Waters was already packed but our waitress — I think Chaucer might have called her “Saucy”– found us a booth for six, perfect. The menu was a packed two-pager full of tempting stuu.

“I want the steak sandwich,” intoned Bubba, still wondering if this was Stillwater.

More orders followed. Finally, she got to me.

“Now you, handsome,” Miss Saucette lied.

“A Muuuletta? You’ve got a Muuuletta?” I exclaimed. “You bet,” she said. “It’s on a big bun, with sliced ham, salami, provolone and olive sauce.” Will wonders never cease?

Soon she was back with bad news. “We’re already out of Muuulettas (apparently the copter from New Orleans was overloaded that day.) Billy had ordered a one-thirdpound burger, a rarity these days in the age of two-inch thick burgers, which I never seem able to finish. So I ordered one with melted provolone (I still had an itch for something from Italia). It was delicious and I ate the whole damned thing! Before this wonderful achievement, I never realized how “eald” I was. “Eald” is a middle English meaning “old as dirt” and no longer capable of consuming 8 ounces of fatty “stoor.” (steer).

Thus ends today’s course in Middle English, the way she used to be spoken and which drove most of us crazy in grad school.

But it doesn’t end my intention to return to Muddy Waters in the “Straunge Lande” of Prescott for a Muffuletta sandwich. Buon Appetito!

Dave would like to hear from you. Phone him at 715-425-9554.