TheBanyanTree: Cold Moon

[Dale Parish]

The other night, I was looking for a file I remembered from long ago, back when floppies were floppies, and stumbled across a collection of old files from a time when nerds ate around a campfire.  It brought back a lot of old memories.  There was a bard who told a tale of enemy tribes who had each been so terrified of their tribe members perceptions of sharing an onion on the top of a sand dune that both tribes fled in opposite directions.  There had been a take-no-prisoners astrologer who made annual island pilgrimages, and who shared biking adventures and emotional ventures into space with ease, and whose open demise evolved into a global affair with blue feathers and ashes.  There was the Scot who told a tale of two kinsmen desperate for haggis while fighting for the crown in Africa.  Another Brit had me howling about a skiing vacation taken on a collection of spare parts flying in loose formation.  A spider wove tales of vampires and love affairs.

But someone pissed on the campfire, and to get away from the stench, a large number of nerds migrated to a café, where a wonderful bartender served us up fine drinks and shared recipes and camaraderie.  We shared an adventure in an old faded gold colored Volvo station wagon, crossing the US top to bottom and right to left, even vaulting to ancient ruins where the solstice is still celebrated after millennium.  A train hopper shared with us his adventures riding the rails and drew us into some fascinating stories.  We all grieved at the loss of our glass harmonica player, and later our bartender.  The glass harmonica player’s daughter has since graduated college, according to her uncle.  A bookkeeper—the only word in the English language with three consecutive double letters—stewed with us over the problems with her love, and the long journey she had with him.  Even published a book about it.  There were gatherings—a Mile High, a Keystone farm fling, Sunshine sharing, Lonestar Hill Country Heaven and more.  We even adopted some pink flamingos, and traced their flight from Texas to Oregon.  But without the proprietor and bartender, the wonderful café closed down—all that remains now is the menu. 

The new home became a tree.  Not a tree from which one can make much lumber, but a tree whose interconnected roots and trunks form more of a colony than a trunk.  The screen writer drifted back in.  Our technical author funster kept stiring various pots on various branches, keeping us ever amused, often pulling Aussie wool over the eyes of the readers.  One of our engineers wrote a doomsday book that was thought provoking reading.  And the urinal bit swapper lost some of her accent and tried to keep us honest.  Or some of us. 

Been an interesting ride.  I’ve enjoyed it for a couple of decades and then some.  I think I’ve lost some of my spark, but want to regain some of it.  Pending retirement has me thinking optimistically that I’ll have more time for some of the things I’ve been missing because of chronological competition.  

Hope so.

Hugs,
Dale
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Dale M. Parish
628 Parish RD
Orange TX 77632