More Voices

My first thought was that it was a dream. It's darker than a coal mine, I can't see my hand, then there's a shaft of light on the driveway. I keep a sawed-off shotgun, legal by an inch, in a hidden space near the back door, an old 12 gauge skeet gun, a pump, and the sound it makes, racking a round into the chamber, is quite distinctive. It may seem paranoid, but I've been robbed three times, and if I left the gun in plain sight, someone would steal it, so I made a hinged panel, complete with nail heads, that I can access in maybe two seconds. I keep three rounds of bird-shot in the magazine. It's Travis and his Dad. I tell them, in strong words of one syllable, that it's a very bad idea to disturb me after dark. They seem to get that, but still, the father uses my phone to call his mother, to set up transportation for the next day. They leave rather quickly, and I realized I was still holding the shotgun, with the barrel pointed down at the floor. I think it probably made an impression. Too many people. Not that, exactly, but too many stupid people. How could anyone think it was ok to intrude on someone who lived on an inaccessible ridge in the middle of a State Forest in the middle of nowhere after dark? I've had goats that were smarter than that. The interruption, though, does serve to wake me completely, and I read for a few hours, then realized I was hungry. Made a great omelet, stuffed with Linda's onion chutney, and a great piece of toast slathered in the last of the jalapeno/raspberry jam. Doesn't get much better than that. 2:40 in the morning, the first of July. Make a note. Finally got back to sleep for a few hours, got up, cleaned up, washed my hair, sauntered off to town; needed whiskey, and a few things for the first batch of kimchi. Stopped at the museum to check a couple of things online. I have to get my own copy of Greenblatt's "The Swerve" and found a copy for six bucks; also need the Lucretius in Latin, which I also found for six bucks. Stopped at the pub for a pint, and lamented with Barb over the death of Astra and Isaac's infant. I couldn't bear to go to the wake at the pub on Friday. Too raw and tragic. Got back home, before the afternoon rains. Started the batch of kimchi, twenty minutes work, chop up the Napa Cabbage, salt it, cover with water, and set it off to ferment. I didn't bring any fiction home, for the weekend, an interesting oversight. The baby dying, and the calls from my distant past have conspired to make me reflect. Hard not to. We prepare to bury our parents, never our babies. Lucretius didn't say there were no gods, he just said that they didn't give a shit. More or less what I find to be true. A gaited community, out of nowhere I suddenly remembered what the phrase was, that applied to all of those horse people that were clogging Mackletree. It was the gait. Tennessee Walkers. I remember now, how that phrase came to be lodged in my brain, seeing them all, with their prancing horses. I just wanted through, I drove slowly but I was insistent in that I was not going to be stopped. I live down here, motherfuckers, and you are blocking my way. I've noticed that most of these riders don't wear helmets, you might comment on that. But then Ohio is a state where it's not mandatory to wear a helmet when riding a motorcycle. I'm a Libertarian, generally, and prefer less infringement on my personal life, but I shouldn't have to see some idiot's brains smeared across the road. Or maybe I should have to, as a reminder. The gene-pool is probably improved. I'll have to think about that. Another day. Gutenberg printed indulgences, a lovely bible in Latin, it was Claxton that invented the language. 1477, the first book printed in English. Something, I can't remember, another book of indulgences, maybe a prayer, a psalm.