The full story of the Great Cheese Rebellion
By Historian Clineff
It is important that in all things we remember we are historians first, fighters of evil second, unless of course there is a large Zombie in front of you, in which case the latter may be more important. Therefore, with the advent of the 82nd anniversary of the "Remembrance of the Great Cheese Rebellion" occurring, I felt it is important, as a Historian, to set down on paper what has been handed down by word of mouth to those who live in Tomaqua, PA., the location of the original Great Cheese Rebellion.
To start, Tomaqua is located in the middle east of Pennsylvania. This is not to say that Pennsylvania has a Middle East as we have come to know it, i.e. full of Arabic and Jewish people. Rather, the location of the town if looked for on the map, would be on the east side, somewhere in the middle. Whether Tomaqua has a large Arabic or Jewish population is not know as I have not been there in some time, but more then that, the origin of the people in Tomaqua is unimportant to the story except for two, Harold Hathworn, born, raised and died in Tomaqua, and Billy McCaren of Wisconsin.
The story of Harold begins in a small log cabin by a flowing stream. He wasn’t born there, he was actually born in a hospital outside of Allentown, PA, he was simply conceived there while his parents were on a fishing vacation, so I guess the story actually begins in the hospital. A few days after he was born, Harold was diagnosed with an acute case of Lactose Intolerance, or as his momma described it, "Gee manetlees, milk gives this child gas something fierce!" While milk was bad, cheese was even worse, so as Harold grew he was unable to join in with the other children in their love of cheesy consumables. While others feasted on cheeseburgers, cheesy fries, Christmas cheese logs and fried cheese sticks, Harold could only watch and nibble his carrots. Soon all the other children would laugh and call him names. They wouldn’t let him play in their children’s cheese games, like "Pin the Tail on the Cheddar" or "HeadCheese HeadCheese Fly Away home". He lost the only girl who ever liked him to another during the traditional homecoming Fondue party. The last straw for Harold was delivered by is own father.
During the great depression, not the actual Great Depression, which was set off by the Stock Market collapse, but rather Harold’s great depression which was set off by the end of his not-to-bad depression and was followed by his I-feel-better-now-thanks-for-asking depression. Mr. Hathworn’s only marketable skill was his ability to use a shotgun. He was frequently put to service by fathers as a wedding escort for a less then excited groom who wouldn’t be there in the first place if he hadn’t deflowered their nice young daughters. While walking home from a rather active wedding featuring an extremely reluctant groom he noticed a sign on the wall informing him he could make $500-$1000 working at home using his recently tested shotgun skills. Seeing this was to good to pass up, Mr. Hathworn began his new career as a maker of Swiss Cheese. Every day, a large solid block of cheese would arrive at his door. Mr. Hathworn would take it out back and proceed to convert it to the more conventional Swiss Cheese appearance. At the end of the day the cheese would be picked up and he would be paid by the hole but docked for any found pellets. On this tragic day, Harold was out back playing with his pet porcupine "Fluffy" when a piece of cheese flew off a particularly hard block and struck him, causing a permanent loss of sight in the left eye. He would later describe it to a reporter as a BANG, a flash of yellow, then nothing. It became his life’s mission at that turning point to eradicate cheese from Tomaqua. This mission came to head when he was elected town mayor and passed a law forbidding the consumption of all dairy products. This Limburgerless lifestyle would not last long.
On the other side of the country, at the time of Harold’s birth, another child was born. Billy McCaren grew up on a dairy farm in a small town in Wisconsin. His fondness for dairy, specifically cheese, changed his life. Taking his cue from another pioneer who spread the gospel of food, Billy changed his name to Johnney-Be-Gudua and traversed the great land spreading the wonder of cheese. As he traveled he would hear rumors of a town that was cheeseless and he had to see it for himself. When he arrived in Tomaqua he was stunned to see the horror of a provolone-deprived society. Mice running rampant, ignoring the peanutbutter laden traps, cows in the field mooing in udder distress, and the people franticly buying antacid tablets for the calcium. He raced to the town center and called for the people to pay him heed. When he had their attention, he weaved them a tale of bliss, of feasting on cheese, of deep fried sticks, of spreads on crackers, of logs, tastier burgers, grilled between bread, and some day in the future, squirted from a can. As he spoke, he would reach into the pockets of his cheesecloth jacket and hand the crowd delectable samples of this miracle food. As each person tasted the substance, memories of long ago flooded back to them, reminding them of a time when life was carefree and cheese was everywhere. They grew angry and called for their mayor to show himself. When Harold appeared on the stairs of city hall, the mob grabbed him, drug him to the local soda shop and forced him to drink glass after glass of cold milk until he could take it no more. Leaving him in the gutters, the crowd spent the next three days in a chaotic revelry of cheese gluttony. When it was over, the remaining town leaders met and made an oath that cheeselessness would never happen again. They mounted a plaque to the town hall as a reminder of mans folly and of the sixteen brave and happy people who died due to clogged arteries, and passed a law that this rebellion was to be celebrated each year.
Harold died one winter, alone and unloved. They found him in his apartment above his mothers garage, slumped over a bowl of Crispy Rice Puffs, clutching an expired half-gallon of "I Can’t Believe it’s Not Milk".
Return to Articles
|
