Mood: on fire
Topic: "Equinoxious" (4)
Last evening, after the obligatory fifteen-minute downpour, the darkening shadows brought forth an armada of lightning bugs. The gardenias began to give way to the magnolias, and there was a mixture of aroma and humidity which had already given birth to Faulkner, Morris, Jones, Sams, O'Connor, Welty, and Lee. Frodo had spent the day relieving weeds of their struggle for dominance, and the gallant Braves were still an hour or two away from the commencement of their battle with warriors from the west coast. This night it was easy to understand why alcohol is a corollary to the written word and why people who don't drink are so boring.
Frodo favors certain light beers, in a bottle; a clear one seems to hold the temperate nature best. Adding a slice of lime is a nice touch learned courtesy of his most recent visit to Mexico. Vodka, but certainly nothing packaged in plastic, mixed strongly with Mr. Rose's lime definition gives Frodo the kind of sip that succors just such a summer's eve past sunset but before the darkness surrounds him. These are the moments of sounds unseen, and aromas, aromas familiar for a million years and a million miles away to those fortunate enough to have been swaddled in cotton grown and processed just down the road.
Frodo feels like talking, but Sam is exploring a contemporary who writes of murder and mayhem. Mick, the Wonder Dog, does not hold up well in warm weather, and is kicking nervously into the night in pursuit of rabbits in his memory. So Frodo is alone, with his thoughts of duties to be done, but time better spent merely peering into the darkness, searching for secrets.
Willie Morris is in the corner with James Jones, and they are telling stories about their times together in New York City, when they owned the world, and lived to tell about it. Harper Lee and Faulkner are smoking cigarettes, and whispering, about what no one can hear. Flannery and Welty talk with their neighbor Dr. Sams, and at least one of them knows she has finally found a good man. Frodo waltzes among his guests, Sam in tow, and refreshes their drinks, without saying a word. Then, when the clock is prepared to strike, the party comes to a conclusion, the darkness settles in, and Skip Caray takes command of the night.