Books for Everyone!

21 January 2021

The Installation

Yesterday was rough. I translated the Climax of THE DAWN into L’AUBE, as part of translating Chapter 108. Dear Husband was outside of the House most of the day, guarding me from the intrusions of the County Building Inspector. That guy is affectionately known as Rotten Randy. He finally arrived yesterday afternoon to begin the laborious code-enforcement process known as The Final Inspection.

Dear Husband was also preventing the access of a Trump-Hater Building Contractor into my house, my domain, my castle, my space, after a lengthy tirade that I’d silently endured two weeks ago. I had repeatedly and firming warned this person that I do not watch News and I do not discuss Politics. With a certain type of person, setting a firm boundary just means he will trample across it. I merely looked up at him from my laptop with daggers in my eyes, and he took a step backward.

My newest neighbor is a guy who is usually caked in mud or/dust. He cleans up well though. His gal-pal is a woman who, if I met her in a biker bar, I’d let her have the right-of-way. He calls himself Wood-Man; I shall do the same.

Wood-Man has been most courteous in his introductory statements to Dear Husband, and to me, about not knowing Our Politics, and not really caring. He assured us, nonetheless, that The Installation really does not matter. And it really doesn’t. The Installation refers to The New Administration. Which is not pro-America, but pro-Special Interest: that gluttonous gut that never gets filled enough, and will never get filled.

The reality of truth about the internal enemies of this nation has broken through decades of deception in a country where I, for one, had given up on Americans figuring IT out. Americans have figured it out, in ways that the enemies of the American people never would have expected, and now cannot begin to fight. Because the most destructive enemies of America are, and always have been, from within.

During the early 1980s, when I worked in the pitifully overworked Word Processing Center of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, a sassy co-worker once said to me, “If America is ever defeated, it will be from within.”

This gal was not an “educated” woman, nor was she an Intellectual. She did not read books, and I highly doubt she would have even approached the sight of the types of books and magazines that I used to enjoy perusing as part of figuring out the world around me.

She was a wildflower who had lived in Anchorage, Alaska during the 1964 earthquake. That disaster occurred on Good Friday, and this good woman had known on Maundy Thursday that the quake was imminent because of the behavior of the dogs and farm animals. She’d done all that she could to protect her home and her children; her husband, at that time, was away, working the fields in an industry that has since been ravaged.

During that tragedy, this gal was married with children. I’d been a young child during that earthquake, but I recall vividly the pictures on the cover of LIFE magazine, a publication that died long ago.

I’ve long since stopped looking to dead magazines and defunct books to figure out the world around me, and in a very reverent sense, I have that sassy gal to thank. She thought for herself about how to live life, and though her life was chaotic and filled with turbulence, she’d taken hold of a belief in God and in country that I, decades ago, had yet to arrive at — it doesn’t matter what your Enemy does to you. It matters how you react to It.

And this woman knew I had enemies. She knew that I was receiving death threats. She knew that I moved from place to place to place, and altered my routes of getting about in order to evade danger from People in High Places, political big-wigs who realized, too late, that I knew too much, or that I knew anything at all. She knew — but I did not know that she knew, until many years later when we met at a business picnic. She explained how she knew that I’d lived in fear of my life. And I wondered if she also had lived in such fear.

I said nothing to her, save a look of gratitude, because she knew, and I knew, that I would start to cry, in remembrance of those terrifying days and nights.

“Well, you got some fiction out of it,” she smiled.

That sassy gal permitted me the dignity of my own dignity, and for that mercy I am forever grateful. There is much blessing in silence, just as there is only damnation in words, words, words that attempt to disguise, deflect, and doom the truth.

Sooner or later the truth comes out.

Late yesterday afternoon, I barricaded myself in the Office of Dear Husband, on the first floor of our house. He brought in a box of tissues for me. And I finished The Climax Scene, finished the chapter, finished my day of triumph. I was a bit concerned however, that the County Building Inspector, and a couple of contractors had spied me crying.

“It’s not about The Installation,” I stated. “It is about my fiction.”

Which, strangely enough, has come to life.