Just Strolling In The Rain

Most Anglican priests in North America typically stay in their parish or mission for about five years before moving on to moar cash greater and higher things. At least that's what the stats said a few years ago, and I reflected on that as I strolled through the sylvan boulevards of Olde Texas in the gentle rain. How can you possibly, as a clergyman, get to know the people and place of your cure in just five years?

Well you can't, not to any great extent, and there's a virtue in staying in one place for a length of time. Of course it helps if the place in question is congenial and involves riding, shooting, fishing and, today, gentle, soothing rain. Enjoy it while you can, fellow citizens of this bucolic rural haven in North Central Texas.

Weather reverie over, I strolled past a sign for the impending eclipse and into the food bank, which does a brisk business because no one can afford to buy food at the supermarkets, and talked to their leaderene who has to be pushing 90 but doesn't look a day younger or older than she did 15 years ago.

What a good woman and tough as nails, I used to shoot pistols with her husband, RIP, back in the day using pictures of Episcopal Church bishop figures as targets. Fun. Then it was a short saunter over to the Square, complete with its Confederate war memorial. No, no-one's even thought of taking that down, and from there to a shop I've never been in.

To be fair, it's changed hands a few times since I've been here and now advertises "alterations." Interesting, and I went inside to investigate. Sure enough, it's definitely an alterations shop and I visited with the owner who was inundated with work. Yes, she could create a suit, but didn't have the time. You see, what happens is that people, typically women, buy stuff online which doesn't fit them and then take it to be fixed. So she has a roaring trade and fair play to her, I'll go there in the future instead of driving to Dallas.

Speaking of which, Janey Tailor on the corner of Greenville and Mockingbird did a stand-up job fixing not one but four old but nice suits, DB, 3B, 2B. "You are wizards!" I exclaimed to the excellent Korean sewing crew at Janey Tailor, and they are, but now I want to shop local. I like the vibe of this shop. Next stop?

Gold Nugget Pawn. I bought my first Lee Enfield there back in the far-off mists of time and used to bring great containers of Holy Water for the staff. They said they needed it, which they doubtless did. Then the owner Miss Dale died, I buried her, and Cindy took over the operation only to sell the shop off. Now it's under new management who are staunch #2A, so we get on well. I'll offer to bless the place, maybe an exorcism'd be in order.

On the way back to the Compound, I passed by the Pick 'n Steal, still going strong after all these years, though I miss the Nepalese who used to run it, and swung 'round the corner past what used to be the Meth Shack. That's no more and's being fixed up by Jose who, is, I think, from El Salvador. A good man and maybe he'll go to Mission #1's new Spanish Mass.

Regardless, back at the front porch of the Compound I looked out on the rain of a Texan morning and thanked God for bringing me here. So much better than, say, Baltimore, Philly or the suburban ghetto Maryland suburbs of DC. 

You see, gentle readers, I've pretty much been a slum priest for much of my time, so this is most congenial, in a semi-abandoned railway town kinda way. You'll note, in passing, that priests tend to stay two years in this position before moving on, and I've stayed over fifteen, this is a record. No inclination to move either, and there you have it, and Devil take the hindmost.

In other news, my eldest texted me yesterday as I was collecting clothes from the Dallas Koreans, "Dad, they've promoted me to Sergeant." And so they had, right there in the field. I texted back, "WELL DONE. GOOD WORK." We must take our victories as we find 'em.

Stand Strong,

LSP

Owl Magic, A Short Tale Of The Occult

The heat came down like the beating of giant wings, suffocating, intense, taking the air right out of your lungs  and sucking it up into whatever was beyond the bonewhite glare of the sun.

So deal with it. Not easy, but I strode into the furnace and somehow made it to the Shamrock filling station pick 'n steal. A short walk across the anteroom of Hell.

"How's it going?" I asked across cracked formica in the cooling blast of air conditioning. She rose up from checking cheap cigars, Swisher Sweets, in all their lurid 99 cent, bluntish glory.

"OK. That it, coffee?" 

"And a pack of cigarettes, Marlboro Light, short, box."

She had the cigarettes ready. It was a morning ritual, regular and repeated but something was different.

"You like the smell?"

Stick incense wafted on the AC, familiar enough; like the odor of tipis in Wales, Austin or San Francisco.

"I smell it," I replied, "It smells like hippies."

She giggled, suddenly coy.

"But hey, better than a toilet, right?"

"So true, better than a toilet. But what's with the owl?"

She paused, laughter most definitely over, and looked at the plastic bird glaring round-eyed from the top of a glass counter and its  sign for burned offerings. 

We gazed in silence, while darkness flickered in and out at the edge of vision, barely perceptible shadowmen, closing in. I ended the spell.

"So what's with the owl. Guarding against evil spirits?"

Liquid brown Aztec Inca eyes met mine and stayed there before another giggle. "No, he's just an owl, you know, like some stupid bird."

I walked out into the heat, coffee in hand, to return the next day; rituals bear repetition.

The owl looked down from his perch and darkness clustered, sharp and flitting, almost out of sight.

"Coffee and cigarettes?"

"That's right, same again."

"You remember the owl?

"Yes."

"You're right. He stops the evil."

"I know."

I looked at Mictecacihuatl and she at me, impassive, empty, a void, this was just the way it was. 

Vade retro, I walked into the searing light of the day, "God bless."

Behind me came a rustle of feathers and the sound of tearing, plucking, ripping and pulling at flesh. I didn't look back.

All Gods, readers, are not the same.

God bless,

LSP

Jail Time!

It started off as a normal armed stroll to the local Pick 'n Steal, the famous Shamrock filling station that's founded by Irishmen and run by Nepalese. I like to walk the dog and get a coffee, it's like a ritual.

All went well, at first. I tethered the dog, got a coffee and paused to check my emails. Nothing unusual about that. Then BOOM. A Fedex guy strolled past the dog, close, and Blue Protector darted out and nipped his ankles, then darted back to heel.

Fedex man started howling and carrying on like he was about to sue the Svhamrock for a million bucks and never have to work again. He even had his trouser leg up, exposing a shin and a cowboy boot. The shin was slightly grazed.

"He bit me!" moaned Fedex while attempting to cry. I resisted the urge to ask how Blue Fang could have grazed his shin while nipping at his cowboy booted heels and asked if I could help. He didn't think I could.

Then the police arrived, two Tahoes worth, thank you very much, and an animal services pickup. I guess the desperately wounded Fedex dialed them in. Blue ended up getting busted and sent to gaol for 10 days, while they work out if he has rabies.

I wasn't expecting that outcome when I set off for the Shamrock. You can watch a recap of this remarkable adventure on video, here.

Mind how you go,

LSP

What is Texas?

What's it like, living in a rural farming community in Texas, where not having a pick up truck marks you as weirdly eccentric. I went for a walk to find out.

Irish Texas

Apparently it's about Ireland, which is why the local filling station's called Shamrock, or is it? The Shamrock may be Irish but it sure sells a lot of Mexican food. It's also run by Nepalese; I know this because I've asked them and we talk about the Gurkhas. Sometimes they salute me, Brit style, which is appropriate, if weird.

Dog Texas

I pondered that as I made my way back to the Compound with Blue Congressman. Why would a family from Nepal end up running a pick 'n steal in rural Texas, selling Mexican food in an Irish filling station. For that matter, why is there a Mongolian "buffet" in the town, run by real Mongolians as opposed to Mexicans? (don't eat there...) Why are people from the farthest reaches of the world coming to the Lone Star State?

Well, the answer's obvious. Because Texas is awesome.

TEXIT,

LSP

Dust to Dust

There was a burial this morning, out in the country and the hot Texan sun. While we were waiting for everyone to arrive I talked with one of the gravediggers. He had a shamrock tattooed on his wrist and I asked him if he was Irish.

"Yes sir, I am," he replied, sounding entirely Texan, "I used to have red in my beard, but now it's grey." We had something in common. "My hair used to be brown, "I told him, "Now look at it." The gravediggers thought that was funny and stomped about laughing.

What can I say, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but let's not forget the sure and certain hope in the resurrection. After the burial was over and everyone was leaving, an elderly gentleman told me he'd shot five Cottonmouths in the last few weeks, but he hadn't seen a rattler.

RS, rest in peace and rise in glory.

LSP