I remembered now when I was at home in Davenport, Iowa, back in the summertime, almost a year before, walking along the Mississippi River, pondering; I was enjoying that tempo of ease that was so indicative of a sense of place, and that I only ever felt along the northern Mississippi River. I kept seeing a vision of an orange stone and the Seven Stars. But the premonition was overcome by all the festivities and goings-on around the Quad Cities, all such a part of the place, in summertime, and so authentically part of life around the Mississippi River there. There was the running of the Bix, a seven-mile road race, that carried a substantial purse of about twenty-five thousand dollars for such a short distance. It was named after the jazz legend and hometown boy, Bix Beiderbecke. Then, in addition to a weekend celebration festival for this race honoring Bix, there were the jazz festival and the blues festival, each accompanied by barbeque chefs hailing from St. Paul to New Orleans, from Kansas City to Omaha, and all points in between. They flaunted their skills while filling our bellies. There was eating and drinking, music and dancing, and merriment from sunrises to sunsets, and then from moonrises to moonsets over the river. The joys seemed so very endless. And it seemed that every village or town that made up the greater Quad Cities had something going on every weekend all summer long. For four weeks I was caught up in all the wild hoopla of being home, or out on the river, or becoming reacquainted with an old acquaintance as we strode arm in arm along the Riverway, or becoming familiar with a newly found acquaintance who held her place so very near and so exclusively as we sat within a gazebo, illuminated by moonlight. The Mississippi River, so close by, was working its magic. So the thoughts of that orange crystal was temporarily pushed aside. I had come into the shop countless times since my return from the Quad Cities, and had bought many crystals, but had forgotten all about that orange crystal that had shown itself to my mind’s eye. I was consumed with the lore of the dark stones, which were known for being able to soak up all the wickedness and bad, low energies that we often find ourselves around, as I did every day in my working environment. So I was always in the possession of dark crystals. Sometimes I had five or six small ones in my pocket as I trained those noxious clients in their toxic habitat. I had once met a charming young woman from Belfast, Northern Ireland, who had pulled out five or six dark stones from her jeans pocket as we conversed in the shop, just to show me how very protected she was. I guess she had left me with an impression. Because now I emulate her example. It did something to my psyche just to feel them there in pocket. But it became clear again now, that day along the Mississippi River, that bright crystal that I had envisioned. And out of all the hundreds of crystals inside this metaphysical bookshop, it was the one I had perhaps neglected most to educate myself about. Why? 56
MOUNT HOPE • ISSUE 12