The food is cooking. The sessions are set. The soundcheck is underway. Folders are printed. Art and books and other fine wares are on display. Surprises are in store. There’s a Hutchmoot at hand.
Travel safely. Arrive in good cheer. We’re going to have a fine weekend. In the words of Robert Farrar Capon:
I wish you well. May your table be graced with lovely women and good men. May you drink well enough to drown the envy of youth in the satisfactions of maturity… May there be singing at our table before the night is done, and old, broad jokes to fling at the stars and tell them we are men. We are great, my friend; we shall not be saved for trampling that greatness under foot… Come then; leap upon these mountains, skip upon these hills and heights of earth. The road to Heaven does not run from the world but through it. The longest Session of all is no discontinuation of these sessions here, but a lifting of them all by priestly love. It is a place for men, not ghosts—for the risen gorgeousness of the New Earth and for the glorious earthiness of the True Jerusalem. Eat well then. Between our love and His Priesthood, He makes all things new. Our Last Home will be home indeed.
Until then? We Hutchmoot.
(Verbed.)