Cool Rain

Reading a history of the Ohio Valley, history is mostly a bunch of books, reduced to a bunch of books, you need to do a lot of cross-checking to get even close to the thing itself. I remember taking American History in the 9th or 10th grade and the teacher was the baseball coach and dumber than a rock. First time I knew more about a subject than the teacher. My parents had gotten me a set of encyclopedias and I pretty much read them, I knew he was wrong on several important issues. He was not happy with me, I had to quit baseball. Broke my Dad's heart. I was a good baseball player, any position, even catching, but, then, the catcher calls the show. Melancholy day, rain, much cooler, I talked to my Mom and they want me down there, got to figure out a way to make it happen. I hate to leave the house, know I'll get robbed again, and I hate being away from what I do; I'll go, of course, and I'll enjoy myself with my family, but it will be exhausting. On the other hand, a spring trip would sure get the burned smell out of the truck; if I was still out west, I'd fumigate the damned thing with a burning bunch of sage. Shit closes down around you, things conspire, I figure I'm on thin ice for a while. Impending deaths, biblical fires, important friendships up in smoke, the very structure of things is changed. I'm pretty sure I can handle this, I've seen other people do it, so I know it can be done. That should be enough. I'm usually smart enough to figure things out * (that sign now means that I thought about something but forgot what it was) and can muddle along. Not that this is any great talent, but it does come in handy, when you might not want to be noticed. I shuffle mostly, try to stay below the radar, open doors, help old ladies across the street. I disavow any knowledge, I know as close to nothing as it is possible to know. * A certain braggadocio, cocky, in that Ivy-League way, a whole different nest of green-briar. There are still ways that I can talk about the flow, but I have to be careful, not to offend. Life is that dance, where, unless you're Skip, you mostly try to not offend. He throws, either up or down, I'm undecided, a gauntlet, those pesky gloves, and says, no, wait, you have to look at this too. Reciprocity is a great thing, it keeps you on your toes. I refuse to comment on Pegi's student, Heather, doing a bobbly-butt in the hallway. Looked good to me. I don't know what the message was. Nothing seems the same, maybe this world is a shadow, a mere reflection.