“The whirlwind is in the thorn trees. It’s hard for thee to kick against the pricks. Till Armageddon no salaam, no shalom.”
Johnny Cash provides musical accompaniment to my morning writing.
Mr. and Mrs. Robert Buchard Frels walked in the morning. From a distance Buchard looked like he might entertain as a clown at children’s parties. His hair was quite white and had a tufted quality that might need trimming in a week or so.
One did not need to get too much closer to discover that this man was not entertaining–at parties or otherwise. Profoundly set lines pointed to the center of his face. He looked as though he’d been plowing into the setting sun and angry about it his whole life. His short white eyebrows angled downward and unhappily along with the balance of his countenance. Though they argued equally well that it would be hard to take this short German Texan seriously. Buchard looked like someone you’d call a zealot, except he wasn’t Jewish. He most certainly wasn’t Jewish.
Buchard was raised in Schulenberg though he’d been born in New Braunfels. His father had been born in New Braunfels, but moved east when San Antonio encroached on the immigrant town. Burchard moved east toward Houston of all places when his son graduated from the University of Texas and got a job with Schlumberger. His son, who now went by Mark, lived out in Katy, but worked in the city.
Buchard had spent much of his life on a farm or near the earth. His tan Carhart pants testified to that. His shirt was crisp and as white as his hair. His boots were black. He was dressed more to emphasize a religious gradient from sin to purity than for a walk. Buchard only ever had one thing on his mind at a time–it was more practical that way. Currently his thoughts focused on walking.
Mrs. Frels a step behind Buchard wore a blue kerchief. She had other things on her mind.
Word count: 329