On Saturday, at Dubina’s Saints Cyril and Methodius Church, the Koenig family buried a Good Man. That church is one of the great painted churches of Texas and my Uncle E.G.’s childhood place of worship. It sits on Piano Bridge Road.
The ranch where Uncle E.G. grew up sat right at the foot of that bridge. Back then, Piano Bridge still had wooden slats that would sound a varied note as a wheels passed over, shaping a melody. Hence, the name.
Now, the wooden slats are gone and the restored bridge delivers the plain mechanical sound of tires rolling against steel mesh. The once song is a drone.
Everything we love is slipping away.
Despite our anxiety about what kind of people we'd encounter in Russia, Julia and I made our debut at St. Petersburg's Bristol Pub to catch the match for 3rd place in World Cup.
Our bartender appeared from central casting for a Dostoevsky novel, broad and heavily bearded, laughing as he gave us free olives and a couple of I requested whiskeys to go along with our beers.
Somehow, through the magic of what of the Japanese call “bar social merry-make,” we made friends with some kids who were pretty intent on celebrating a birthday.