Estorya sa Panganod by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

It was 4:04 in the afternoon on a warm, tropically humid, breezy Sunday in mid-April (the 15^th, 2018). I was sitting on our slightly slanted, basic-cinder-pavers-mortared-together-by-a-previous-owner back patio in sylvan, middle-east Charlotte (NC, USA), sipping on a KBC (Kennebunkport Brewing Company) porter beer while watching the billowing, hundred-shades-of-gray, cumulonimbus clouds advancing from the west. A line of strong storms associated with a potent cold front was now crossing the Catawba River. Two-inch-diameter (5 cm) hailstones had just been reported in Gaston County. Heavy weather was imminent in the city named after the Holy Roman Empire-born (now Germany) British queen (wife of King George III).

And just then, I heard the sound of an empty trash bin toppling next door. As I watched the towering, verdantly budding, tree limbs whipping about in front of the dynamic lead-colored backdrop, I mused. So glad that I left the [Green Mountain RV Resort] campground [just north of Lenoir, NC] when I did. Would be quite unnerving to be driving right now on Interstate 85 through this gusty column. Or, that column. The ghosts of [Peter] Ott’s Austrian column. Ott’s odd lot. Zeus nearly forgot. Which sabre-wielding dragoon was the 1,800^th to fall in that Marengo farm in 1800? Was no. 818 the one with the melancholic memo in his button-slashed-off pocket. Blood, bones and guts strewn all over that picturesque bowl of a valley in glorious Italia settentrionale. [northern Italy] Those commoners’ dreams ignobly obliterated. ‘You should have headed for the forest with crazy Leopold, Klaus.’ Ah, that cloud kind of looks like Peter himself. And, there’s [Michael von] Melas patting him on the shoulder. ‘This aint Transylvania’ he silently thinks. And, as if on cue, his cloud quickly dissipates. No one seems anxious anymore. Now, there’s the bust of Napolean himself. But, he’s not genuinely happy. It was a narrow victory. A lucky one, perhaps, as well. Certainly on the fortunate side of fate. Looks like the famous Corsican has wafted into the torso of [Louis] Desaix. ‘I knew that he’d be the death of me,’ he solemnly thinks, and then smiles. His grin lengthens. And arches into another scene. A mound. Then a face of an infantryman in the next overtaking cloud. Is he Austrian or French? Hard to say. Such a stoic face. ‘This was my kismet,’ he seems to think. Did any of them know that there would be a pizza restaurant right there 218 years later? Would they have liked the taste of the cheese? How many? What percentage? But, before any can answer, the roiling intensifies. All is lost in the madness. All just moves on. Moving and changing. Mixing. Churning. Advancing. Though, nothing seems to matter in this cloud-story.

Then a European hornet hovered next to my right eye for six seconds, and suddenly darted away. ‘Nah, I won’t sting that entranced, red-haired human this time – maybe next week.’ Ah, that hornet-stinging in York, Pennsylvania. How old was I? Six? I can still feel the stings. Six stings? Yeah, the bees are already out and buzzing. As well as the blasted flies and gnats. Alighting on the fallen soldiers on that mid-June day [the 14^th] back in 1800. A new century. But, the same old wars. And, this year’s mosquitoes. Jeez! Not already. You’ve got to be kidding me. Is it already bug-spray season? Spring lasted a whole three weeks. So typical. Six sauna-esque months in the offing. Need to move to the mountains. Soon. These infernal summers in Char-broiled-a-lot are agonizingly worthless. Well, to me. Woah! There’s a horse’s head in that cloud. Wonder how many equine casualties on that grisly day. Collateral carcasses. I can almost hear the horrific neighing. And, the naying. [sic] Humanunkind [sic] will keep killing and killing until the end. Even on Mars. Even wherever. I’d bet our whole existence on it. What a paradoxical proposition that is. Bang the conundrum. Again. Why are we such a fatally flawed species? It’s not nice to think such. And, much worse to say it. And, worst to type it. One sure doesn’t increase readership with such an outlook. But, the evidence is overwhelming. Actually, it’s kind of comical on some meta-level. Some bright scientific and creative flourishes in a vast swamp of petty, jealousy-laden, stupidly violent sludge. If I were a meteor …

The back screen door noisily opened.

“Hon, are you ok?” my cute, unique Filipina wife (Agent 32) asked.

“Yes, Monique; I’m fine. I’m just watching the story in the clouds.” I bet that he put something psychoactive in his beer.

“Estorya sa panganod, Agent 33?” she asked.

“What does that mean, Agent 32?” I asked, gazing up at her mesmerizing dark-brown eyes.

“It means what you said: story in the clouds.”

“Oh, ok. Is that Cebuano or Tagalog?”

“Cebauno – Bisaya. Did you see our national hero, Lapu-Lapu, in the clouds, bana?” [husband in Cebuano]

“No, mahal, [love in Cebuano and Tagalog] but I now see his statue – the one on Mactan Island [Cebu] – in that rising cloud. Do you see him sprouting like a morning sausage?” Sprouting like a morning sausage?

“What?! You’ve had enough, 33. Time to come inside before you get whacked by a falling limb.”

“Wait, 32. Just a few seconds. Look at that cloud complex. Why, it’s Hercules unloading a streamer on Mary Magdalene.” My God!

“Bastos! [‘How rude!’ in Cebuano and Tagalog] You’ve succeeded in getting your red card, 33. You always ruin a good thing. It’s time for you to come in and take a cold shower.” She looked up at sky. “Estorya sa panganod? Kano loko!” [‘crazy American’ in Filipino]

“Epic womantality, [sic] 32.” Womantality?

“Epic, epic, epic. You’re 53 and you use that adjective more than a teenager, 33. Give it a rest.”

And then the first few raindrops fell. Monique dashed back into the house. I looked up at the darkening clouds one last time. Old Ferdinand (Magellan) didn’t look to be doing so good.