Ellijay

 May 22, 2022

If a thunderstorm can be called gentle, a gentle bursts over the house just now.

Returned a few hours ago from Elijay, Georgia, in a part of the world which, from the Earth’s perspective, is pretty much identical to this. Their mountains are lower and greener, ours higher and bluer. David and Laura’s wedding went off beautifully. My sister’s labors in planning the rehearsal dinner and arranging accommodations (I don’t know what else) were gigantic, but assured that everyone had fun. I read my poem “Song for a Wedding” and then conducted the service, and it seems to have gone well. I was credited with setting an enchanted tone. The PA went out, so my howitzer stage voice came in handy. The land is quite perfect, and 76 though North Georgia would make a good route for exploration. Maud was angry with me at my return, and grumbled at me through our homecoming embrace. All the brothers’ friends are big and handsome, in a quasi-military way, high and tight. They do not visibly sweat even under the blazing Southern sun. Their wives and girlfriends are the female equivalents: girls you would cast as officers’ or astronauts’ wives in a movie. Never was there a better example of like unto like. I had more anxiety about this event than I understood, and napped ferociously almost as soon as the car was unpacked. 

D gets into the car for me to drive us to the rehearsal, and says, “Are you an atheist?” I said that I was not, and we spend the rest of the time talking about spiritual things. At one point I heard myself explaining Apostolic Succession.