fivecats journal

Columbine
April 2006 Chapel Hill, NC
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Bonn manages to stand up and is wrestling with the glass-topped patio table umbrella.  She deftly unclips it from the stand and pulls it away from the table.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

Setting the umbrella down on the ground next to her chair she motions up to the twilight sky filled with dark blues and the black outlines of the tops of pine trees in front of us.

"It's the best room in the house!" she exclaims. 

I smile back at her beaming face, wishing I was as much of an outdoor person as she is but I'm not and never have been.  It's not that I don't like the outdoors, I do, it's just that there's something about me, my pH, my sweat, my skin, my I Dunno What, that mosquitoes find deleriously enticing.  If mosquitoes were willing to just take a sample of my blood and leave me the fark alone, that would be fine.  I'd be happy to do my part to participate in the wonders of the everlasting food chain without, say, being mauled by a lion or a tiger or a Colbert Threatdown Bear.  Unfortunately, I itch like a crazed wildman, often in my sleep in the middle of the night.  Summers are usually spent with my calves and ankles scabbed and scarred with long, raked gashes that run for inches at a time.

Still, it's a nice night and I'm  hoping against hope that the squirt bottle OFF that I've liberally applied to my long shirt sleeves, long pants, shoes, the backs of my hands and neck works.  My breath, however, comes regular and easy.

The margaritas in front of us are, as I like to say, Made for Enjoyment, Not for Profit.  The store-bought chips and salsa that were supposed to be an appetizer have (surprise!) turned into dinner, along with the entire blender full of margaritas.

The boom box at the base of the back porch stairs is playing Ryan Adams and the Cardinals album "Jacksonville City Nights" loud.  LOUD.  Bonn had asked for it for her birthday, having survived several formative years in Jacksonville, NC, home of Camp LeJeune, the infamous Marine base.  The album is a bit country for me at times, but Bonn has grown to like it a lot.  Besides, given the largely redneck demographic most of our neighborhood fits nicely into, she considers it "safe" music to play loudly while she's outside working.

I'm trying to read the first chapter of Hemmingway's "A Moveable Feast" and not getting too far.  Hemmingway's writing is interesting but a bit, I dunno, annoying at times.  It could be that the brain cells necessary to comprehend and properly appreciate Hemmingway are too busy being pickled to allow me to get into it.  The other thing is that I've never read any Hemmingway.  Nor Faulkner, nor any of The Great American Authors.  You can count the number of Classics that I've read on one hand (probably).  It all stems from the summer that my guitar partner, Jeff, told me he was reading all of the Classics, all of the books he felt he should read to be well educated.  I had felt the same about most of the titles he rattled off, but I lacked the luxury of the time to do so.  At the time I was in college, working 30+ hours at night, 5 nights a week and whatever it was that struck me as being annoyingly wrong about that has managed to stick with me all of these years.

The book arrived in the mail today, a gift from one of my longest and most neglected friends, sakkijarvi.  sakkijarvi is the type of friend who is so good, so loyal, true and giving of himself that deep in my heart, no matter how nice a guy I try to be and am, there's a part of me who knows I don't deserve someone as great as him in my life.  He sent a wonderful note along with the book saying he'd once seen a book that he knew The Axeman would like but didn't buy it for him.  Now, with The Axeman gone,  he never can.  After reading "A Moveable Feast" he knew I needed to read it, both as a great work of writing, but also as an inspiration to write about my life.  So he sent it.  And, of course, I will read it and I will enjoy it.

The cd ends and Bonn gets up and starts playing it again.  I go into her studio and dig out The Innocence Mission's first album  and, switch out the music after Bonn listens to the first two Jacksonville songs again.  The Innocence Mission's first album was one of those that I first heard on the way home from my closing shift at a record store.  When I got home to Bonn I told her she had to listen to the album now.  I've had a long history with the album and it's still a favorite.

Halfway through the album Bonn is getting cold.  Usually I'm the one who feels the chills first, but after all, I am wearing long sleeves.  It's dark by now and the cats are starting to want us inside as well.  Their Beautiful Little Routine involves us being inside and settling down for the night so they can all beat us into the bed and we're just not cooperating fast enough. 

We blow out the candles, stack up the plates, newspaper and my new bound inspiration for reading, for writing, and head in for the night.

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