Monday, May 3, 2021

Pamela Ebel

THE LAST WINDMILL!

A flashing red message light,
One touch of a finger and a voice,
“Boyo was called and moved on this morning. Obit is a bitch.
More later!”
In the background, the sound of the Pipes Calling!
One touch of a finger, and what was, is no more.

“Skilled, but fallen lawyer, dies at 74.”
Then 24 column inches of newsprint devoted mostly to Boyo’s last
few years in practice – when his work was deemed insubstantial,
and his ticket to ride the Steed of Justice was revoked.

Boyo, with bright ginger hair and beard, laser blue eyes and that
smile, Oh, that smile.
Raised in Acadiana, but more Borstal than Bayou
Big man. Big heart. Big Soul and Big Mission – to give voice to
the voiceless and visibility to the invisible thousands.
A Tilter at Windmills that they said couldn’t be toppled.

3000 dead in India, 200,000 sickened from toxic air – Boyo took
aim and the international company toppled;
98 dead in a San Juan fire – Boyo took aim and another company
toppled. And many more, but The Jealous Mistress is easily distracted and The Steed of Justice grew bored with lesser jousts and left for headier pastures and more coverage.

Boyo continued on alone, as the most daunting foe appeared.
His last years spent in a motel room on a busy highway, as age and illness stole his armour and lance.

But he waged one more battle, One more tilting at the Windmill of the Great Thief Dementia. And having been called and having moved on he had that one last victory.

So, we other Tilters at Windmills gathered in the late afternoon under the oak tree where Boyo loved to weave his tales of Justice and Right over Might!

We burned fifteen copies of the Obituary and as the ashes rose into the air, we raised our glasses in a toast to Boyo and Windmills and Truth! And the Pipes called on.


Pamela Ebel reads "The Last Windmill!":



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Pamela confesses "“Writers chronicle many types of murder. The obituary of a friend made me realize that one of most heinous is to assassinate the reputation of someone who is no longer able to defend the last vestige of their earthly being. So, this is for you Danny. I’ll be seeing you!”


PAMELA EBEL was born in Northern California and raised by southern women; part of the diaspora created by the Great Depression. She returned to her roots at twenty-one, receiving an M.A. from LSU-Baton Rouge and a J.D. from Loyola New Orleans. Her careers have included lawyer, university professor, associate dean, and now fiction writer. She travels between New Orleans, California, Alabama and the Mississippi Delta sharing tales from the crossroads of America. And like the ancient Greeks and the Irish, as a southern writer she knows you can’t out run your blood.

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