Englewood Story

Link: http://englewoodstory.com

Lost in memories full of feeling, Bill and I sit under our umbrella tree in the back yard of Poets' Rest, Pearl Street. A single candlelight flickers the darkness. Outlined in my peripheral vision stands our chicken coop, turned garden shed. The lines of it also help to evoke the flight of my imagination.

After a while, Bill says, “You are so quiet. What are you thinking?”

I tell him that once, years ago, I dined with the King of Vendaland.

“What did you say?” He’s not sure he heard correctly.

“Not alone, but along with my five band members from Youth For Christ. We had been asked to sing at some teachers colleges and had driven up from South Africa only to find ourselves situated at a dimly campsite. We didn’t have wood for a fire pit, so we cut up salad and rolls and ate simply.

“I remember that in the background, the crackling sounds from British Radio and other places accompanied our meal. Someone had brought us a short wave radio, and we cooked our evening meal to that and laughed and sang with the songs that aired telling memoirs about them. It was surprisingly peaceful, being left to our own devices in the open air.

“Our host brought us some pillows and sleeping gear, and we camped out.

“The next morning, we performed Christian music and testimonies at a teachers college, with an interpreter nearby. The college students danced and waved their arms in approval to the songs, even though, our music was of a very different beat and sound to their own. They were so welcoming.

“Afterwards, we were quickly hustled away with all manner of importance and taken to a hotel with a very long tribal table fitted with chairs waiting in a dimly lit dining room. As we were standing there, the King of Vendaland, decked in grand colorful robes, too hot for summertime, with one of his five wives, the choice flower for social gatherings, accompanied him to the table, and he welcomed us to lunch.

“We listened to the King talk about his Country. Then, we were brought plates of food, and all that I recall from that meal are the giant shrimp on each plate. I’ve never laid eyes on shrimp that size since. I remember all of our gasps and delighted laughter. The shrimp were each the size of a rock lobster tail, about the length of my hand. Fat, juicy, sweet,-- on a bed of rice.”

Bill is insanely jealous, not only because he loves shrimp, but he also wonders why I have never told him this story before. “I don’t know,” I say, “I always think of it when we sit out here like this.”