Interlude

We've had a good friend visiting for the last couple days (as well as his 11-year-old daughter, who my girls treat like a rock star). Monday night there was a wondrous rain, a slow, soaking rain, like balm out here in the high desert. All evening, then all night long. He and I were out on the front porch about 11, after the girls had gone to bed, having a beer, watching the rain come down, while he played his homemade cigar-box mandolin.

Something was floating down the middle of the street in the rain, aware of us but oblivious, and seemingly oblivious to the rain as well. Utterly silent. Bigger than a cat, more slender than a dog, big bushy tail. And there was no rhythmic gait as it walked; it was gliding, like a ghost, genuinely otherworldly.

It was a fox.

It continued down the street, crossed the intersection, sat down on its haunches briefly as it regarded us, then went on its way. We returned to our beers, music, conversation. Nothing earth-shaking about the moment, simply a small and surreal interlude, like a fragment of a dream.

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Here is a picture of the mandolin he was playing. He made it himself, out of a cigar box.


Pretty cool, huh?

He sells them as well, for a cheaper price than you might think (as well as cigar-box violins and electric and acoustic cigar-box guitars). If you want one, drop me a line, I'll put you in contact with him.