Idylls Of The Rain God

The Rain God SmallMy internal calendar never moves beyond 1969. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. The moronic chapter of the Aquarian story had just been written in Chicago by the Chicago Seven-teen-year-old-mental-capacity co-conspirators. The ornate funeral for the Counterculture had not yet been orchestrated at Woodstock.

I was still innocent of war. I had not yet been killed. I was madly in love with Isabel, a lovely blonde visiting professor from France. My spirit was on fire and the Age Of Remarkable, Unembellished Stupidity had not yet begun. It was still possible to have a beautiful pastoral life in the country with a good woman by my side. Keeping bees and raising chickens while writing novels seemed a rightful dream.

Then came war, then came death, then came resurrection, then came a wife, then came another wife, then came children, then came my anointment as the Rain God, then came another wife, then came another wife, then came the woman in West Virginia, then came the woman in Alaska. The Alaska woman wanted to move to the state where I live: North Carolina. She wanted to live in the country, to keep bees and raise chickens. Hallelujah!

After more than 40 years, I was going to have the life I had dreamed of living. I flew to Alaska to help her pack. She flew to North Carolina and we drove through the countryside looking at properties. I could feel that my internal calendar and the external calendar were beginning to synchronize. She was a seamstress and promised to sew me a box-pleated four yarder kilt from heavy Macpherson red tartan cloth. I promised to build her a chicken coop and a chicken run. I had heated with wood for 12 years and had kept year round gardens. She would buy a place with a suitable outbuilding so we could set up a shop where she could make and sell quilts. The passionate life I live was about to join the passions of her life and our life together would flow with milk and honey. Our love would shine over a little house in the country like a buttery harvest moon.

I expected her to arrive at my door at the end of spring. Instead, her Dear John came in an email.

Though she is gone, my internal calendar will not advance. Even now, 1969 is the year that heralds golden times to come. Regardless of the golden times I have known, my spirit sees a golden light shining under the door. Golden times are yet to come. Woodstock will never arrive to take them all away. My golden lover will come and she will stay forever. Our love will hallow a little house in the country where bees buzz and chickens scratch to celebrate the triumph of two spirits joined as one.

My golden lover, she will come. I await her. A golden light shines beneath my door.
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