Beware, inquisitive onlookers: Chateaugay Lake’s annual Useless Chair Day confounds even the sharpest spies with its eerie silence and absurd custom. Witness locals in bizarre harmony, silently shaking off government scrutiny with gusto.
“It was just past sun-up when old Ti-Jean dragged his three-legged kitchen chair into de middle o’ Main Street and dared the government to ask why.”
Oh, ho, by golly, mes amis, let me spin ya a yarn ’bout de most confoundin’, head-scratchin’ mystery we call La Journée des Chaises Inutiles, right here at our beeg ol’ Chateaugay Lak. Picture dis: one crisp fall mornin’, de whole town gatherin’ in de middle o’ de road, draggin’ out de ugliest, wobbliest chairs dey got—chairs so useless they’d make a bald eagle laugh, eh?
Now, de ritual, it’s as solemn as de sunrise, ya see. We line up, one after de other, noddin’ serious lak de priest at mass, each o’ us sittin’ in our wonky seats, not a word spoken—just quiet, waitin’, an’ starin’ off into de distance, wonderin’ what secrets de chairs might be hidin’. Sometimes, ol’ Ti-Jean even brings a book, but not a word’s read, not even a whisper—oh, ho, by golly, we wait!
But dis year, somethin’ strange stirred in de air. Just as de clock struck de third hour, de silence broke like a splash on de lak. Outta nowhere, a pair o’ slick government spies, all suited up and lookin’ mighty perplexed, marched right into our midst. “What in de world’s goin’ on here?” dey muttered, scratchin’ deir heads.
“Nothing,” we said, noddin’ real solemn, faces fixed in that same quiet determination, as if de silence itself were a secret code only de wise could decipher. But oh, mes amis, de mystery thickened quicker than a pot o’ stew on a winter’s day.
De spies circled, eyes dartin’ ’round, starin’ at de useless chairs like dey were clues to some grand conspiracy. One spy, with a monocle slid down his nose, leaned in close to another and whispered, “I reckon there’s more to dis ritual than meets de eye.” And just then, de wind picked up, rustlin’ de leaves, as if nature herself were laughin’ at de absurdity of it all.
Now, de town’s unofficial detective, old Madame Babineau, she’s been around de block more times than a lost boot, stepped forward. “Mes chers,” she declared in a voice raspy as de bark on de old pines, “dis ain’t just ’bout sittin’. It’s de silent watch, de gatherin’ of souls to keep secrets safe from de pryin’ eyes of government men!”
Before the spies could question further, we all stood up at once—like a chorus of confused ghosts—and shook hands with a fervor only de secret of useless chairs could inspire. In one fell swoop, de mystery was as bafflin’ as a fish tryin’ to climb a tree. De spies, unable to parse de silence, ended up joinin’ in de handshake, hopin’ to blend in and catch a hint of our secret.
By de time de sun was climbin’ high and de useless chairs were hauled back to de attics, de spies skedaddled, mumblin’ ‘bout “strange customs” and “moonshine madness.” And we, oh, ho, by golly, we shared a wink and a nod, knowin’ our little tradition had once again kept de secrets of Chateaugay Lak safe, all while confoundin’ de watchful eyes.
So if ever ya wander near our beeg lak on a quiet mornin’, and see a line of ragged chairs in de middle o’ de road with folks sittin’ as still as statues, just remember: sometimes silence is de best trick in town—one that’ll leave even de sharpest spies scratchin’ deir heads and wonderin’, “What did I miss?”
Au plaisir de revoir, eh?
What mysteries of Chateaugay Lake haunt you?