Driven from the Sumneytown Hotel, their natal home, by the changing tides of ownership and good taste, the Brothers of the Lumawak feared the collapse of their sacred order. Could they survive, deprived of access to their sacred ritual (and eating) grounds? Where else could they find a public gathering place which would put up with their foolishness? Where else could they get that much food so cheaply? But then, when the future seemed its darkest, a new light illuminated the horizon, glowing as does the first light of a winter's dawn. Revealed in that glow was a new home for the sacred order -- the Social Club and Restaurant of the Green Lane Fire Company. And they served boova shenkel!! Truly, the Lodge was saved and the future of the Order was assured.

As is so often the case for a group pulled back from the edge of disaster, the Lodge now flowered into the era of its greatest glory. Membership swelled (as did the member's guts). The ranks of Brothers of the First, Second and Third Degree grew each year, as new, unsuspecting acolytes were tricked (er, we mean invited) into attending. even folks with no actual connection to Camp Hart joined the Lodge, bringing fresh new blood, and fresh "Ass of the Year" candidates to the groaning table. In the memories of the Brotherhood, these years are merged in a hazy glow. It is impossible to tell if these clouded recollections are the result of the passage of the years or simply a byproduct of the fact that everyone was now of legal drinking age and the Fire Company's bar was well stocked with Rolling Rock and Yingling's. Haze is haze, whatever the cause.

The rituals of the Lodge have always included a lecture by Dr. Shyster Q. Roofer, the keeper of wisdom and the spinner of tales. The b.s. flung by Dr. Roofer has become one of the key elements of the annual gatherings, certainly not as important as the food or beer, but fun nonetheless. And what tales have been told, tales that resound down through the years. Among the greatest of them are:

To truly appreciate the depth and breadth of the mystic rituals followed at each annual get-together, one must read the standardized program (ritualistic we may be but creative we're not -- after we figured out a good program, we followed it year after year). But no meeting consists solely of the programmed events -- there are always surprises. One befell Brother Ronnie Rees, who nearly missed the birth of his son because the guy who answered the phone when Ron's wife called to alert him didn't see him standing behind a pillar. (Of course, this demonstrates that Brother Rees had his priorities in order. With his wife ready to give birth, he was at a party 40 miles away with a bunch of the guys. But there is a happy ending. The son whose birth was nearly missed is now a member in good standing of the Lumawak.)

Fueled by beer, good food and silliness, the Lodge reunions have continued in an unbroken string through the Seventies, across the Eighties, and on into the Nineties. There have been shifts in dates, low points in attendance and competition from other activities, but a year has never been missed. Not even snow and ice have snapped the skein, even though there have been some wussy postponements. (We won't even mention the shift to an October date, which was purportedly designed to avoid conflicts with holiday celebrations. It can snow in October too, you know.)

As we approach the 33rd gathering of the Lodge, we have to ask whether the "glory years" are over? Has the "long, slow, slide" [See the Final Chapter, one click ahead.] begun? Only future historians will be able to tell. From this viewpoint, the glory years will last as long as the Lumawakians want them to (or at least as long as the beer holds out and recipe for boova shenkel stands up). Bring on the future!!!

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