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Under the influence of: Negra Modelo Moretti La Rossa This will probably give the impression that I'm a beer snob... au contraire. I find humor in the Australian philosophy: "Drinking American beer is like making love in a canoe... It's fuckin' close to water!" Just made it worse, didn't I? Not so long ago, I make my own. With the history of Prohibition in this country, there's kind of a shady thrill in making a batch of malty brown intoxicant. It helps to appreciate it a bit on the heavy side. Not that I turn my nose up at what's offered. And you don't pull that sophisticated crap in a bar that's more like a "pub"... a community center of gravity. I blame my heredity. Speaking of which.... I have learned very little of my family's past. My grandmother's side, actually. Many entries ago, mention was make of what little was passed to me... that whole "southern decay" story of how they were players in local politics back at the turn of the century, but scattered like mercury from a broken thermometer for some unknown reason. Lately, I've been getting vague intermittent clues. There was a "looking back" story in the local weekly, some years ago, concerning a violent police-killing, firey-death episode in the twenties. Coming to life in little shreds of information, a sordid tale weaving around one of those "great-great" relatives surfaces (that my grandmother tried to spin to eyes and ears glazed by the vagaries of kinship), ending in unsettled tragedy. And truly bizarre repercussions. All that was clear, was the murder of the town sheriff (my great-great something-or-other) in the apprehension of a bootlegger(?), who was trapped in a barn in the country, which was burned to the ground by the deputies. Said fugitive was an ascendant of a former co-worker, whose skin happens to be brown. Slick Willie, being the savior of mechanical things of British manufacture, got his foot in the door of a particularly noxious member of the "landed gentry," a fervent supporter of Falwell (yes, the homophobe bible-thumper). A bubble-headed, bleached-out "lah-dee-dah," her few attentions a have led her to look for the descendants of the drama for an unsavory reason... because it occured on the family "estate." It's all about that, here. By a peculiar twist of fate, the Contessa (Willie's spouse) suggested that Miss Jane consider taking a home health care job (her former vocation), helping out an infirm local gentleman. Who's got to be in his seventies, and thinks he's Hugh H*fner. Naturally, she backs off, in a hurry... ...but is rewarded with this little scrap from the rent fabric of history. His great uncle was yet another member of the police, shot and killed in the incident. What to do? My natural curosity, and willingness to know the truth lead me to putting the rest of the tale together. My dislike of lies, and respect of the living tells me to leave it alone. What is truth? It sure doesnt need to be the basis for a theme park. We shall see. Tonight, I sleep alone. Which happens twice a week, anyway (thanks to Migrant Working). This time, for a while. Miss Jane motored on her way to meet her daughter, around five this afternoon... destination, the beach. Spending a week with her more important than our plans for September. A bittersweet separation. The little general stopped by for a jaw session later on, as I was adjusting to the silence. Not for long. Though I've known him for years (and helped intervene in his descent into the hell of alcoholism), he will drive your mind to distraction with a barrage of words. Another of my acquaintances that she seems to be jealous of... though we sit in silence, until someone else disturbs the atmosphere. I think maybe I've been here too long. Too much history, and not enough future. For however long that's supposed to be. The new day brings new possibilities. |
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