Augustus  

Augustus is a tiny town, even by small town standards.  Non-the-less, its decline is un-concerning to those living there.  They’re comfortable (most of them) about one half living in town, with the remaining stick home sprawl along the outskirts of city limits.  Everything was well planned by those families, fortunate to be first to settle and interrelate with similarities.  It could be the perfect economical study, as running a full gambit, somehow surviving from ash (the whole town burned, early in the past century, to be resurrected by the hands of children of those who formally built the town) to present.

“My dad and mom had a farm to the south-west.  I remember growing up on our farm with Mom and Dad.   They settled on forty acres.  Do you know where the old Feeby Church is, on the hill?”

“Yes.”

“That’s where they owned.”

“Wow.”

“Dad helped with the church building.  First, everybody was meeting at, Town Hall.  That’s the only place they could meet.”

“No kidding.”

“Yes.  Dad was able to get enough money from clearing woods on his farmland, to build  that Church and people could forever worship God in his own home, where he lives twenty-four seven.”

“Blessed Jesus.  Does he ever get outside, to see the shape it’s in?”

Mrs. Charmis/ Former Feeby – former Chucklewood/Brown was sitting on the Adarondic bench, next to the chair, upwind from her tuffet.  Nobody know what brings people along; except my friend, ReideMorgan was there; sitting on another similar lounge-chair bench looking cool.  Body language tells allot. I’m an expert at naivety and happened to sit between them.  She turned around to face me and look at Reide in his befitting attire; cargo shorts, loafers, and shirtsleeves.  He looked almost mythical Greek, with a pleasant tan.

“I think Jesus left that home, twenty years ago,” said Reide                                                                                        

She laughed, now facing him and with me in-between.  “I don’t know,” she said.  “I should be the one to talk,” eliciting nothing from an easy flowing conversation; slanted in one direction, mostly hers.

“So, what happened to the farm?” I asked. 

“Well it was a win, win from the get-go.  Dad acquired an airplane and 130 acres.  We build a factory to purchase the land, making rail parts.  He worked like a horse, and treated his help as mules.”

“God bless his soul,” said Reide.  It was summer.  We lounged comfortably at a gazebo during Friday’s car show.  Everything was open on Main Street.  Closed and abandoned buildings were obscured by street vendors and blight forgotten for the moment.  The hot summer day commenced with my friend, and his new friend, a woman in her forty’s, and leaving me at neutral disposition. 

“He used to do fly-overs each weekend.”

“Where to?” I asked. 

“Looking after the neighbors, I suppose. It was easy work, he said – before his hearing failed.  He got extra wages from government.  They purchased his fuel as well.  We had it made with oil.  Now, with fracking, we are feeling well again.” 

“They make ‘oil drinks’, at the bar don’t they” Reide asked.

“Sure do.  If you want to go there now, I can fix you one myself.  They gave me my own seat there, and kitchen rights.”

“No shit.  To think I live right across the street!”

“No shit?”

Oil Drink, is a semi-unctuous formula, topped with chocolate and whipped cream, Reide later explained, beyond her presence.

“Did you get the building permit?” she asked.

“You like the addition?” He asked. 

The conversation was illusive.  Reide lives only a couple miles from me, near Horsshoe Lake, up on the ridge and a bit secluded.  It was nowhere near the house he referred to, across the street from the bar.

Mrs. Charmis had been around for a while after several husbands, including one minister Feeby, who mysteriously committed suicide.  She was in fact, the gossip of town, including the mailman, milkman and anybody who would come around.  But I found she had interesting information; that being the best thing I could think about her.

Everybody has a purpose, Mom would say.  Always, I revert to her wisdom, where it comes to rationalization.  She was my Godsend, mother and mentor.  If you can’t say something good, say nothing, Mom would tell me.  I always try to have a good word for everybody.  Sometimes that is difficult. 

Mrs. Charmis’s departure would be quicker than I’d expected.  My buddy said, “We really need to be going.  There is business here in the streets, today.”

“I understand,” Mrs. Charmis said.  “I really need to be getting on with work (whatever that was).  Maybe I can visit later?”, she quired, stroking his cheek; then looking at me, as if for my approval. 

I stared ahead, almost poker-faced, managing only a pale smile.  “I’m sorry,” I said.  My thoughts were else ware.” 

“Common,” my buddy said, “we got some shit to do.”

We were walking from attempt at relaxation, still holding our large lemonades.  They were full of ice and it was refreshing in the tepid, high seventies. 

That was luck, he told me after we’d left the scene.  The town was a deluge of people.  It was summer and people were popping from woodwork to visit and kibitz.  We had other plans.  There is a lake about a half mile from home, but you can only get there by one trail.  He wanted to test the water.

We stopped at his house to pick up a couple fishing poles and his tackle box.  He reached into the refrigerator for some worms in a can, and we were heading through the woods.  It was a good fishing day.  We filled half, a five gallon bucket, once used for some chemicals; later washed out for this collection.

“We’re going to fillet,” said Reide, while we carried along conversion, enroute to his home again, after our catch.

“Great,” I said.

He proceeded to carefully rinse the fish.  With my Schrade, they were easy to slit and disembowel.  That task, I managed in minutes.

We dipped the fish into a beer/flower, corn meal mixture and he prepared the indoor grill.  “How much grilling do you do?” I asked. 

“Well, I think almost daily.  We get wood-chips free, and they’re easy to smoke into a charcoal.  We have the charcoal house for heat in winter.  The only other thing we need is our water, which is air pumped, and the windmill furnishes electric.”

“Wow.  That’s impressive.”

Fish were sizzling.  The smells were of wild trout.  We peeled and sliced potatoes for the grill.  I took a sheet of his Aluminum foil, he kept on his cupboard shelf, folded it and sliced a few drainage holes; then, placing it on the grill for his spuds.  I grabbed some carrots for sticks, and we were soon enjoying lunch over a million dollar view. 

He said, “People would kill each other to live here,” after a dinner of fresh fish from another lake.  The view was splendid.  His large, covered boat dock harboring the only cigar boat; a tail that barely stuck out at the building end.  You could see boats and some scattered buildings, some closer than others; their boats covered with tarps, or temporary structures.  We were sitting on a deck, passing a bottle of, Irish Rose. 

I reached my arm across the bottle before drinking, then passing it to him.  He rubbed it on his shirt, about the same level he used to help me clean fish; then rubbed his palm across it, as if for good measure.  He took a long draw and smacked his lips, then passed it.  By now, I didn’t care how I could take my liquor.  I was running across his beautiful deck, just stopping short of the balcony, heaving fish.

I felt weak and sat heavily into his deck lounger; a wide, comfortable swing type, easy-glide, with the ability for self-rocking, just now needed.  

“Don’t puke in my chair,” he said while grabbing for the mop and passing me another hit, along with a cigarette.  “Just what you need.”

“Arrrgkk,” I ralphed, purging my entire intestines, from top to bottom, across the deck then passing out into afternoon.  Hours later, I woke up.  It was dark.  Fresh air assisted sobriety.  Amorous noises were coming from a corner room, as Reide and his partner, Mrs Charmis participated in coitus.  I made my way quietly (it probably would not have mattered) through the living room and across the other side, opened the entrance door, doing the same with my car in the driveway.  Keys were on the dashboard.  I started the engine quietly and headed home, wondering how I might explain the event to Lexi. 

“Yes, it was a busy festival.  Did you have a good working day?” 

“Quite busy.  I just got home a few moments ago.  We worked late today.  Would you like to help

me make supper?”

“I’d love to, Honey. There’s fresh wrapped fish in the cooler.  I just took it from the fridge a few moments ago, where I stopped at Reide’s home. 

“Oh great,” said Lexi.  “It’s good that you have nice friends out here.  That, Reide seems like a good person for you be with, once in a while.”

“He showed me how to make a beer-less batter, with Near-Beer.”

“Great.  Can we make it without any beer?”

“Sure.  You know I react poorly with alcohol.”

“Okay.  You can start it while I change cloths, for something more comfortable,” she said.

“Great,” I said. “You’re really going to enjoy these fish.” 

The nice thing about Michigan summers is: they start with cool mornings, ending in cool evenings.