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The Legend of Saint Fergie
Many centuries ago, when the Romans still occupied Britain, there lived a young lad by the name of Ferguson. Ferguson had many dreams of becoming a person of importance. Perhaps a warlord, or king. Or maybe even a bishop in the Christian church. That seemed to be all the rage these days. Ferguson had a best friend named Patrick. Really, Patrick was Ferguson's only friend, so he got the title of best friend automatically. Patrick was an alright kind of guy, but he had a knack for stealing the limelight just when it seemed things were going well for Ferguson.
One fine summer day, Ferguson and Patrick were walking down the path to the local pond. Ferguson turned to Patrick and said, "Paddy. I can't wait until tomorrow."
"I know, Fergie," Patrick replied. "I'm so jealous. I can't believe that tomorrow you'll be on a ship sailing for Rome. What are you going to do when you get there?"
"I think the first thing I'm gonna do is sit down and have a giant bowl of Fettucine with the Pope. I'm gonna tell him 'Siri,' thats short for Siricius, you know."
"Is it now?" replied Patrick.
"Siri, I'm getting pretty tired of boiled beef up there in Britain. How about you send some pasta, and maybe a pepperoni pizza with extra cheese home with me. You do that, and I guarantee the number of converts will double in that area!"
"You've gotta be kidding me?"Patrick said incredulously. "I've never heard anything so ridiculous."
"Paddy," said Feruguson, "why do you always have to be harshing my mellow?"
The conversation continued on, but that isn't really important. A couple of days later, as Patrick was sitting outside of his hut, celtic raiders from the Isle of Ireland pillaged the village and took him as a slave. As they hauled him off, his father, Seamus cried after him. Then he looked over at Colin, the father of Ferguson, and said, "At least your Fergie escaped this fate."
Colin replied, "Fergie who?"
Patrick was herded with many other boys his age onto a ship, and thrown into a holding cage below. As he looked up from stumbling into the cage his eyes fell upon his best friend, Ferguson. "Fergie! What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on your way to Rome."
Forlornly, Fergurson looked at Patrick and answered, "I know. I got to celebrating a little too hard the other night. Not only did I lose all of my money, but I missed the ship to Rome."
Patrick could only look at his friend, Fergie, shake his head and sigh.
Several years later, Patrick and Ferguson were still slaves, acting as shepherds for an Irish warlord. While out in the fields one day, Patrick and Ferguson were discussing an opportunity that had arisen that would allow them to escape and return to their homeland. A ship was docked at the nearby port, and it was headed for London. From there, it would just be a few days journey by foot back home.
"It's agreed," Patrick said. "We'll meet at the great oak at the bend of the main road when the moon is at it's peak."
"Sure!" replied Ferguson. "Now run along, Paddy my boy, and get our things gathered up!"
As Patrick ran off, he turned around and yelled, "Be careful, Fergie! There are some mighty dark storm clouds on the horizon!"
Ferguson continued tending the flock of sheep as the sky got darker and darker. Soon the rain began to pour down. Ferguson decided to leave the sheep and go ahead and head to the great oak tree. AFter arriving, he hunkered down and began to wait...and wait...and wait...
Finally, Ferguson decided he needed to see how high the moon was (Yes, he is really going to check the moon in the middle of a downpour. Did I ever mention just how dumb this guy really was?). He stepped out from under the great oak, and looked up into the sky from whence the torrents of rain were originating.
BAM! ZOT! Ferguson was toast.
Not too much later, Patrick came up to the great oak. He was having a hard time seeing anything since there was no moonlight to illuminate the path. He hoped Fergie would get there on time, despite the lack of a moon. Strangely, Patrick noticed a smell of cooked meat coming from somewhere. This was making him very hungry, but he knew he had to keep his mind focused on the escape. Presently, Patrick realized Fergie might not come at all. He was just going to have to leave his friend. As he gathered the belongings, he made a mental note to learn more about roasting meat. Somebody was having a fine dinner tonight.
As Ferguson slowly opened his eyes he could hear a constant ringing in his ears, accompanied by the chirping of little birds. Then he realized that daylight was piercing the cracks between his eyelids. "Holy &#$%^!" (That's ancient Gaelic for "Oh! My Lord!" Honestly!) "I hope I haven't missed the boat!" With that, Ferguson slowly rose, and started towards the port, slowly gaining strength as he recovered from the shock of the previous night.
Ferguson ran and ran until he could see the ship. It was still docked! However, just as he reached the ship, the gangplank was raised, and a loud blast emitted from the smoke stack. Brokenhearted, Ferguson looked up and saw his best friend, Patrick waving from the deck with a leis around his neck, and sipping on a mimosa. Ferguson ran to the ticket agent and asked him, "When's the next ship to London?"
"That would be two days following the next full moon." was the reply.
"How much is a ticket?"
"That would be $25, sir."
"$25 dollars!?! I don't have that type of money! I'm a slave!" Ferguson suddenly realized that was probably not the best piece of information to divulge at the moment.
"I've got a ship," spoke a deep husky voice behind him. "and it will only cost you a Thomas Jefferson."
Ferguson rolled his eyes as he turned to speak to the man behind him. "They don't make two dollar bills anymore!"
"I'm talking about a nickel, you dumb@$#!" (That's Norse for "Silly little man!")
"Oh. Sorry." Ferguson apologized. "I'll be glad to board your ship." Ferguson couldn't help noticing that there wasn't much too the vessel. It looked like a giant row boat, with a sail in the middle.
"Say hello to your fellow shipmates!" bellowed the sailor, as he gave Ferguson a hearty slap on the back. " This is Erik, Lars, Olaf, Bjorn, Frank, and Goober. Just grab you an oar, and let's get going. Time's a wasting!" With that, they pushed off and set sail. "By the way," the man said. "My name is Lief, Lief Erickson. We're going to America!" Ferguson did not know where America was, but he had a funny feeling it was going to be a very long time before he got home.
The voyage took six years, but during that time they stopped in New York, catching a performance of Cats on Broadway, as well as spending some time in New Orleans, celebrating Mardi Gras, and learning how to make jambalaya. Along the way, Fergie befriended a giant python named Perthy. Finally! they made it to London. After several days journey, Ferguson began to recognize the rolling green hills of his home. His first stop was the birthplace of Patrick, his friend. Ferguson knocked on the door. A much older Seamus came to the door. "Fergie, my lad! How are you?"
"Doing well, Mr. Seamus. Is Patrick in?"
"No, me boy. Patrick left a few months ago, headed back to Ireland. Said he had a vision, or something like that."
Ferguson's heart sank with the news. "Oh. So sorry to bother you."
"No problem at all, Laddie. Make sure to go see your father. He's been pining for you all these years."
Ferguson walked down the lane to the little cottage he had spent many of his childhood years wishing belonged to his dad. Then he walked behind, and knocked on the door of the little shack that was home. "I told you I don't want to buy one of your dag blasted vacuum cleaners!" Boomed a voice from within. Suddenly the door opened and Ferguson's father, Colin, stared him in the face. "Well! Out with it! What do you want to sell me?"
"Nothing," Ferguson replied. "It's me. Fergie. Your son!"
"Fergie who?"
After some time, Ferguson earned enough money to catch the next flight to Dublin International. Once he landed, he was surprised to see his friend, Patrick waiting at the gate for him.
"Fergie, my friend!" Patrick cried as he gave Ferguson a great bear hug. "I thought I would never see your face again."
"You're looking well, Patrick." observed Ferguson. "What have you been up to?"
"Oh, nothing much. Just converting the odd pagan to Christianity," Patrick said with the wave of a hand. "Oh! I almost forgot. I made bishop."
Presently, the two friends were walking down the lane towards the village where they had been enslaved so many years before, when a small girl came running up.
"Father Patrick! Father Patrick!" she called out, as she approached the two men.
"Calm down, my child," Patrick answered, as the girl caught her breath. "What is it you wish?"
"Father Patrick. I just don't get this whole trinity thing. How can God be three things?"
"Let me handle this one, Patrick," Ferguson said as he kneeled to the little girl's level. "You see, Princess, God is the Father. However, because he is all powerful, he is also his own son."
"So God's father is himself. Really!" The girl rolled her eyes. "I can't wait to hear the rest."
"God is also a ghost!" Ferguson exclaimed with a sense of excitement in his voice.
"So...God's dead."
"No! No!" Ferguson cried out. "He is a LIVING God!"
"But you just said he is a ghost," replied the little girl. "So which is it? Is he a God or a ghost?"
"Yes!" replied Ferguson.
The little girl looked up at Patrick, and whispered loudly, while acting like Ferguson couldn't hear. "So, who is this freakazoid (Irish for "Sweet little man") you picked up at the harbor!?!"
Patrick knelt down and picked a clover from the side of the road. "See this little shamrock?" he asked the girl. "God is like this shamrock. The shamrock is one plant, but it has three distinctive parts. In the same way, there is only one God, but he has three distinct manifestations."
"Oh." exclaimed the little girl. "That makes sense. Let me go tell Mum and Dad." With that, she turned and skipped off.
"A shamrock! Really!" Ferguson retorted incredulously. "You tell the girl that God is like a friggin little weed, and you expect her to figure out the Trinity!?!"
"Yes."
The two walked in silence until they reached the great oak tree. "Ahh!" sighed Patrick. "Do you remember this spot, Fergie?"
"Oh! I remember the spot, alright." Ferguson curtly replied.
"I can still remember the wonderful smell of roasted meat,"Patrick exclaimed with his eyes shut and taking a deep breath.
"Uh, Patrick."
"Yes, Fergie."
"That was roasted Me."
Patrick looked at Fergie for a couple seconds. "Oh." The two companions continued walking to town.
As they entered the town, masses of people ran out to the street tossing thousands upon thousands of shamrocks on the two travelers. "Blessed is he who explained the Trinity!" they all cried out. Ferguson simply slunk his head down and grumbled. Once again, Patrick stole the show.
Patrick and Ferguson decided to stay overnight at the local inn. As Ferguson sat in his bed, he thought about his entire life. Every time, things were getting ready to look up for him, there was Patrick, ready to steal the show! The longer he thought about it, the angrier Ferguson got. Ferguson knew that he had to take control of the situation, or forever live in the shadow of Patrick. Then it struck him. Ferguson had an idea so brilliant it could not fail. Perthy! Ferguson opened his satchel and pulled out his old friend, Perthy the python.
"Perthy, old buddy, old pal!" he said with an excitement in his voice that had not been there for years. "You are my ticket to fame!" At daylight Ferguson would sneak and loose Perthy upon the streets of the village. Snakes had never inhabited the isle of Ireland. The people would see this creature as Satan himself, and there would be Ferguson to save the day! Ferguson the Magnificent would forever live in the legends of Ireland! Ferguson blew out the candle by his bed, and laid his head down, satisfied with the scheme he had conjured.
As Ferguson slept he started to hear voices in his dreams. They were voices of terror. The voices were screaming about a horrible beast. Something about Satan visiting the village.
Oh, crap! (That's Irish for "Oh, Crap!") Ferguson suddenly realized those voices weren't in a dream. They were coming from outside his window. Ferguson bolted out of bed, and grabbed his satchel. Upon opening it, he realized Perthy was not there. Ferguson ran out of his room, down the stairs, and out the door of the inn. There was Patrick running after Perthy.
"Remove thyself from this village, foul beast of Hell!" He cried out with indignation. "Be gone with thee, oh Satan!"
Suddenly, there was a loud bang of thunder. BAM! ZOT! Perthy was toast.
"Nooooooo!" screamed Ferguson as he came running up to the still smoking lifeless python.
"But Ferguson," replied Patrick. "It was a beast from the otherworld. It had to be vanquished."
"You idiot!" yelled Ferguson. "I was supposed to vanquish the snake! All my life you have stolen the spotlight from me. For once, I had a foolproof plan. I was going to be the star! Don't you ever sleep late!?!"
"Fergie, my poor friend, Fergie," Patrick said, shaking his head, with pity in his eyes. "You always were a day late, and a dollar short."
"All hail Patrick the snake killer!" The crowd cried out. The church bell began to peel. "Ireland will never suffer the evil of snakes again!" the people cheered.
"You fools!" Ferguson cried out, as he grabbed a stone from the road. "Ireland never had snakes before!" With that, he threw the rock at the wall of the church. Suddenly, the crossbeam holding the ringing church bell snapped, and the massive bell came flying out of the tower.
SPLAT! Ferguson was a pancake.
The crowd went deathly quiet, as they all stared at the arms and legs extending out from underneath the bell.
"All hail Fergie the blessed!" someone in the crowd yelled out. "He stopped the bell from killing us all!"
"All hail Fergie the bell killer!" crowd joined in.
"Father Patrick. Father Patrick." Patrick looked down to see the little girl tugging at his robes.
"Yes, my dear."
"You know that freakazoid didn't really stop anything, don't you?"
"Shut up, you little brat!" (That's Irish for "Bless you, my child.") Patrick's staff swiftly made contact.
WHACK! The little girl was flying.
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There you have it. The legend of St. Fergie. I promise, every bit of it is true. I suppose you are wondering how to celebrate the feast day of St. Fergie. Well, fortunately, you have the Great Food Junkie to set everything straight for you.
The feast day of St. Fergie is always the day after that of St. Patrick. After all, that scoundrel, Patrick was always stealing Fergie's thunder. Since Patrick was kind enough to point out for us that Fergie was always a day late and a dollar short, one always celebrates St. Fergie's day by eating the leftovers from St. Patrick's day. After all, it would be heresy to actually spend any money in celebration of this venerated saint.
I suppose you are wondering how the Great Food Junkie celebrated the feast of St. Fergie. Well, we had a nice roasted pork tenderloin (in honor of St. Patrick's obsession with roasted meat), along with some fried cabbage. Let me tell you, it was awesome. It is amazing how sometimes the simplest foods make the best meals. For the roasted pork tenderloin, I just took a 2lb tenderloin, rubbed it with a mixture of salt, pepper, garlic powder, and powdered thyme. I let it refrigerate overnight, browned all sides in a skillet, then placed in a baking dish with 1/2 inch of water. The tenderloin baked covered at 350 degrees for 55 minutes. Wow! it was fantastic.
For the cabbage, I fried a pound of chopped bacon until it was very crisp. Then I sauteed an onion in the bacon fat for 5 minutes. I added 2lb cole slaw mix (shredded cabbage and carrots), the bacon, and salt and pepper. I let that cook covered until the cabbage was tender. Now, doesn't that look good.
So, the next time you celebrate St. Patrick's Day, please...I beg of you...don't forget to celebrate the feast of St. Fergie, patron saint of those who are a day late and a dollar short...
...and little kids who don't know when to keep their mouths shut!
