Logistics first, because I have no idea how to weave all of these without being craven, tacky, plastic:
Roanoke/BoCo area rockers: I’ll be hosting a talk at the Blue Ridge Library on Thursday, March 14th, about talking with strangers, and how my flat earth buddies taught me about science. 6:30 pm, free.
A similar talk comes to the Eagle Rock branch library on Tuesday the 19th at 5 pm, free.
The point? Lower the temperature. Talking is better than war.
C’ville buddies: 2nd Act Books hosts a local authors night on Wednesday, March 20th, from 6-7:30 pm. I’ll be there talking about Cities on a Hill. Come on by and join the conversation. It’ll be a fun evening. A lady named Rebecca Keese will be there, too.
Free!
And now, back to our regular programming…
Migrations
The Juncos are restless. Perhaps that’s a projection, but perhaps not.
They flutter in the springtime sun, pecking at the plowed earth, fluttering back to the forsythia, white feathers edging their dark tails.
The Bluebird hunts bugs in an optimistic fashion further on down the row, ready to build a life here in the greening fields, like me, but the Juncos ready for the northern migration.
When I was a boy, the family would camp in the mountains to the north. The last day would arrive, and the site, half cleaned, would feel restless, too, time to pull up stakes and head on up the road.
I’m like the Juncos, too. The basement footers passed inspection. I’ll be telling you a grand story soon of big plans.
The springtime sun floods the land, and I stand at the doorway, blinking, thinking.
The last few people in Cities on a Hill are going, or gone, all in a batch.
King Louie died the other day. So did “Betty”, the master gardener. Before lockdown got too harsh, we lugged some pots and dirt and plants on the back porch. “Put your hands in this, Betty.”
The pots are still there.
Ruby is on her way out. So is the lady who yelled about Beethoven being too loud in the hall, and ended up a fast friend. Now that plastic window birdfeeder, grimy from the dreary sparrows, will sit empty.
For once in my life, I believe in God, but I have no idea about the afterlife.
Is it as imaginable as the Hallmark movies that play endlessly in their stuffy rooms? Does Jesus need help with his iPhone700, and will King Louie peer over gold-rimmed glasses as he fixes it? Will Ruby stitch beads on a calendar of Infinity, decorated with a butterfly and kitten pattern?
The spring sun washes down, the trees are absolutely still, and the Juncos are restless. There’s always a contrast, always a pull, a tension, a fleeting timelessness, a migration.
I only know that I’ll miss them.
–Josh
Excerpt from Cities on a Hill
Hallway Snapshot: His Majesty’s Grace
__________
Old Louis Fitzpatrick
Sits locked in
A one-bedroom Bastille.
Or so I thought.
Look where assumptions got Robespierre.
“Oh he’s alright” A friend tells me in the stale hall.
“Said he’s content, feels like royalty. I call him King Louie.
But not the last one.”
So that’s how it’s done.
We doff our caps to His Majesty’s Grace.
King Louie
Wears his golden crown around his eyes
Two circles
To better see today’s paper
A rustle, and it’s on the stack
A year high
Patently – he watches
The birds, through a dirty window
And the news on a TV screen
Etched icy clear from the inside with the anchor’s venom.
“My kidneys finally gave out” he tells me, softly.
I groan like Bertha in Room 107, who insists dialysis is hell
Whenever she returns, pincushion purple
To curse existence.
But he’s certain of God
Tuesdays and Thursdays find him talking with the needle girl
Who isn’t.