Big City Living

            I’m sorry about the tardiness, my graduated babies.  Deadlines got the best of me.  Essays and dance rehearsals replaced mornings in front of a blank page.  But I’m back. 

            While you folks were receiving your walking papers and tying up loose ends – packing away the Lighthouse, mapping road trips, hauling out to grad school, applying for summer jobs, wiping the tears and liquor stains from your diplomas – I was sent to the big city.  Two days in Sydney. 

            My hotel was in Chinatown.  I spent the day on the waterfront.  I went to the fish market to watch the fellas fillet the morning catch, asking questions and taking notes.  I saw the opera house, iconic on the storybook harbor.  At night, I ate my way through the city center. 

            I haven’t traveled much in big cities.  I usually pass through on my way to the country.   I thought everything I wanted was in open spaces between the ground and sky. 

            However, with no choice but Sydney, I ate in the cafes, drank in the bars, filled my eyes with the neon lights of Asian markets, and was proven wrong.  Just passing through cities is like only hiking on paved trails – a sin.

            So, now it’s summer.  No matter where you are spending your soppy days – city apartment, country stream, interstate rest stop – be humble. Crawl to what's new on your hands and knees.  With any luck, you’ll be proven wrong.   

Naughty Possums and Warm Endings

            I killed a possum.  The incident happened around 9:00 pm Saturday night on the west coast. 

            I’m driving Phyllis, minding my business, when I see this mangy critter tiptoeing the centerline.   Michael, Steve and Lexi scream ‘Possum’ in unison.  Instinctively, I crank Phyllis’s big hips over the centerline and send that possum straight to hell.  The whole car cheered.

            Now before any of you look down on my intentional slaughtering of an animal I had no intention of eating, remember that possums are little shits.  There are over 70 million of them in New Zealand and only 4 million people.  They kill everything.  One night those little scoundrels tried to steal my salami, which is a capital offence in my book.  No Catholic guilt here.

          Bloodshed aside, break was beautiful.  We drove 2000 kilometers, hiked 80, and kayaked 20.  It was over an hour before it began.

            Speaking of endings, Folk Night is almost finished.  I could write about how perfect every night has been up top the lighthouse.  But you folks know. We created it together.  You listened to all the harmonies, so sweet your eyes closed just to hear a bit better.  As well as the train wrecks – Edmund Fitzgeralds and Men of Constant Sorrow.  You saw lamplight frame pretty faces.  Your fingers felt friendly hands and your cheeks familiar shoulders.  You know. 

            I wish I could be there.  I’m not sure where I’m sleeping this weekend — a coastal cave, mountain pass, rainy fjord, or worst-case scenario, my flat.  But no matter where I close my eyes, I’ll put a beer under my pillow.  When my dreams are warm light and country twang, I’ll wake up, crack it open and say a toast.

May the road rise up to meet you.

May the wind be always at your back.

May the sun shine warm upon your face;

the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,

may God hold you in the hollow of His hand.

May you be in heaven a full half hour before the devil knows you are dead.