Not to offend any of the stunning pies I’ve jammed my fingers in throughout the years, but the slice of Indiana sugar cream pie I’ve finished inhaling might be the best I’ve ever had. I’ve arrived in Paris, Illinois- funny how that works, that odd full-circle intention that takes a zigzag from one 3,000 escape to another. The only sign I’ve seen of its origin was a crudely-rendered Eiffel Tower on a family restaurant sign, lit but long shuttered, so I retreated to my motor lodge escape for an evening of writing.
My grandfather’s typewriter sits bracketed to a paltry, but pleasantly frigid glass of gin. The tonic button is broken on the machine and nobody knows how to get in. There’s ribbon ink all over my fingers and there’s still sap on my feet. From head to toe, I embody oddness from one place to another. Once again, a resonation- I live many lives. Last night, The Farmer (we hadn’t seen each other in five years- one transition to the next, quite literally) and I ate homemade crackers, Stilton cheese, cranberries, and pecans sourced from a pre-civil war farm at the end of Georgia. It stormed and my phone warned me of tornadoes, but I was too busy sipping tea and discussing the leather hagaddah to care. We tended to his chickens as the rain let up; I wandered into the dark of the town with little more than a beater, boxers, and my rain slicker.
I don’t remember the last time I went barefoot, and we paused in the rain as we watched the creek flood and swell over the bridge beneath our feet.