NOVEMBER 19, 2017
So anyway. The days open with skeins of cloud and fog hugging the vales and creeping over the distant hills. The past couple of days we have seen sunshine break through the chill for a while in most places, leaving the ambient temperature a bit too cool for that oddly named period Indian Summer. Whatever it is, we are headed to another season of it.
Up north, meaning the far White North, skims of ice have formed on Bear Lake, by report and to the East we have reports of snow falling on Mammoth.
The blessed rain sifts down on the ashes of Glen Ellen, the California town that is no more, and Kenwood and the destroyed neighborhoods of Fountaingrove. For some, this will be a bleak Holiday. For many others one of gratitude.
One can just imagine a handful of zealots
In the Old Same Place Bar the regulars are talking about the upcoming Poodleshoot, the 19th iteration of that charming, convivial, and ultra-violent American Tradition. After all, what is more American than collecting vast amounts of ammunition and firearms so as to excite the blood, preserve the Second Amendment, and defend life and property from the Goverment, which has the entire Marine Corps and several Apache attack helicopters at its disposal. One can just imagine a handful of zealots armed with a collection of AR-15 rifles, trying to fight off the US Marines backed by battalions of tanks. Quite a recipe for success.
There is much speculation on just who will represent the Nation's Capitol this year -- someone from the judiciary has been expected for several years, but every since Bushie potted an attorney-friend one time, the legal profession has tended to avoid the Shoot. There are any number of possibilities in Congress who could use a bit of good press to ease their bad reputations for habitual molestation so there is nothing to expect save to expect the unusual.
In this time, it gets dark earlier and earlier as we propel towards the longest, darkest night ever seen. Certainly the longest darkest night of this year so fraught with troubles. Yellow schoolbuses let off kids who scamper home as the light fails. Streetlights come on in the urban areas, and in the countryside, the dark bulks of animals set to wandering by the Sonoma and Napa fires glide through the trees and along the roads, searching for shelter and food.
The red Miata of the Angry Elf pauses in the shadows as his red eyes glare with hatred at the warm households from which he feels excluded. One of these days, one of these days coming soon he would make them all pay a dear price. He would make them all very, very sorry. The happy children and the lawn decorations do not please him. With an angry hitch he shifts into gear and roars off, causing Toto the terrier to set up a vigorous barking of warning, alerting all the dogs in the neighborhood as well, until Beatrice says, "Hush now!"
The streets of the Island are generally empty now as folks have been driven indoors by the cold, and the Strand extends in both directions with only the solitary sand walker here and there exploring private thoughts, each to each, while the distant lights of Babylon sparkle across the flat expanse of black water.
Councilperson Raymond Cribbage, Associate Rooster of the Island Kiwanis lodge, stands there on the shore looking out, thinking of something unknown. He was recently accused by several women of groping and molestation while being plied with alcohol and strange pills and so he must have a great deal about which to think in this time.
Jose came along after finishing up at the Island-life offices his general duties and he greeted the Councilmember, noting his general funk.
Raymond Cribbage had a wife of some 25 years and three kids.
Raymond mentioned that he was concerned of late accusations about things that -- allegedly -- happened many years ago.
Jose, who knew a few things, thought for a moment and then said, "Every day the bucket goes to the well," and then walked off.
Indeed, left tacit the truth that one day, the bottom drops out.
Down where the Snoffish Valley Road joined up with the main road a couple wandering turkeys pecked and gobbled near the entrance before bobbing along as they do into the dark mist that emanated from that door. They disappeared into the smoking maw and were never seen again and so escaped the executioner's ax.
From from far across the water, the night train wailed from beneath the gantries of the Port of Oaktown, keening across the haunted waves of the estuary, theexpanse of the former airfield that was now sanctuary for the Least Tern, the grasses of the Buena Vista flats that was now the Jean Sweeny Open Space Preserve, the construction zone of what used to be the old Cannery and its detritus-strewn loading dock, crying over the basketball hoops of Littlejohn Park, and dying between the Edwardian house-rows as the locomotive click-clacked in front of the shuttered doors of the Jack London Waterfront, trundling out of shadows on the edge of town past the former Ohlone burial mounds to a mysterious, unknown future.
That's the way it is on the Island.