Summers with Mary
Summers haunt my early memories. I linger on tire swings and in the branches of the sour crabapple trees. If I close my eyes I can still feel the sun drawing out my freckles and grass blades slipping between my toes. Even now I love waking up to birdsong outside my window. I know every child loves summer for the endless freedom from school and responsibility, but I love summer most for its connection to Mary.
Lindy Bird Fly
Lindy dreamed of birds and balloons, clouds and Cessnas, anything that could take her away from the ground and into the sky. What can one expect from a child named after an aviation great? But it wasn’t her namesake that drew her inexorably towards flight. For that, she owed her father. Walter “Wingless” Marshall flew helicopters for the Navy long before Lindy landed in his life. Two years before her birth, Walter was permanently grounded and honorably discharged following a crash that left him half a leg down,
The Fool's Feast
Once upon a time, a time of kings with riches and peasants with hardships, there lived a fool and his family. While the fool’s wife stayed at home with their daughter, mending clothing from villagers better off than they, the fool spent his days entertaining and bolstering the ego of a cruel and gluttonous king. The king thought himself anointed by God and special among men. He believed that anything he touched became blessed and therefore forbidden to those below him. This king would demand daily feasts prepared, while the peasants of his kingdom starved in the streets. In order to keep the king fed on such a grandiose scale each and every day, the cooks of the castle required great quantities of food. To meet such needs, the peasantry were burdened with a mandatory offering of the best of their crops and livestock. The penalty for hoarding what was owed to their king was death. This left his once prosperous kingdom in the grasps of famine.
These Houses Would Sing
Teddy wrapped his roller-head and brushes in plastic. It’s always great when the client expects you to bring your own fucking utility sink. Someday he’d have to invest in a water tank for the truck. God forbid you get a drop of fucking paint on their lint filled washbasin. And you can’t wash your brushes by the hose because the landscaper will flip his shit. If it weren’t for the fact that painting made him feel so goddamned zen, he’d have found a new hustle. Maybe he should go back to commercial jobs? But those empty industrial offices had no soul. Despite the owners, he loved painting these old Victorian renovations on the hill. If walls could talk…these houses would sing.