The neighbors’ parking and camping areas were starting to fill up…
live bands made their appearances, ace MC, the one and only…POGO arrived on the scene, doing what he has a special knack for…talking the ladies out of their clothing. Body painters were also operating.
The sweet smell of campfires now filled the air…number 30 was off to a pretty good start!! In the evening, a giant American Flag was centered on the front stage, and signed by hundreds of chili partiers.
This flag is to be presented to a pre-selected outfit fighting in Afghanistan! There was a huge line of signers for that one…it makes ya pretty proud!!
Saturday rolled in hot and hazy, the kind of day where the sun felt like it was personally trying to cook the chili pots faster. By noon, the field had transformed into a full-blown tent city—RVs shoulder-to-shoulder with pop-up campers, flags of every state and military branch flapping in the breeze, and the low rumble of generators mixing with the constant sizzle of meat hitting cast iron.
The chili judging tents were already buzzing. Competitors hunched over their secret-recipe pots like mad scientists, stirring, tasting, adding “just one more pinch” of that mystery spice they’d swear was from another planet. Number 30’s crew had their spot dialed in: a massive black kettle over an open flame, tendrils of hickory smoke curling up like invitations. The air smelled like victory and regret in equal measure.
Pogo, never one to let grass grow under his boots, had commandeered a makeshift stage near the body-paint tent. Shirtless, mic in hand, he was working the crowd like a carnival barker on steroids.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, and everyone who’s somewhere wonderfully in between—welcome to the part of the day where art meets anatomy! Step right up! Our painters are ready to turn you into walking masterpieces. And fellas—if you’re brave enough, we’ve got some special designs for you too!”
The line for body painting snaked halfway across the field. Bright neons, swirling galaxies, roaring flames, even a few American flags painted across bare backs. The artists worked with serious focus, brushes dancing over skin while the subjects laughed, posed, and occasionally shivered when a cool breeze hit wet paint.
Here are a couple of the wildest creations that day:
As the afternoon melted into evening, the main stage came alive. The giant American flag still hung proud at center stage, now covered in hundreds of signatures—some neat, some scrawled in marker that had clearly seen a few beers. A quiet moment passed when a grizzled veteran in desert camo stepped up, placed his hand over the flag, and just stood there for a long beat. No words. The crowd hushed. Then someone started clapping, slow at first, then building until the whole field was roaring.
That set the tone for the night.
The bands hit harder. Bass thumped through the ground like a heartbeat. People danced on picnic tables, on tailgates, on each other. Chili cups were passed hand-to-hand, spoons forgotten. Somewhere in the madness, a conga line formed that stretched from the beer tent all the way to the porta-potties and back.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, number 30’s pot was quietly winning hearts (and taste buds). Judges were circling back for seconds, third tastings, even fourths. Whispers started spreading: this might be the year the trophy finally went home with the underdog crew.
The night was young, the fire was high, and the flag was headed overseas with more love signed into it than most people see in a lifetime.
Number 30 wasn’t just off to a good start anymore.
It was flat-out unstoppable. 🔥🇺🇸