He is Good People 

(Peripatetic and The Salt of the Earth)

The status quo sews faulty seeds but the tramps and vagabond hearts are the beauty of wild reeds. – Sebastian Malcolm Francis, Trail Walker by the Feral Ferns 

Prologue 

‘You can’t say it that way, and have to stop saying it. It’s grammatically incorrect.’ But I said the truth, which was, ‘I won’t stop, and lots of people talk that way. Real people.’ And it was left at that. The rains rained and the month that usually held snow on the ground, snow that had travelled through the winter sky, had little or none. Everything about the world was strange and much was troublesome…wars, disasters, inflation, and myriad other items besides.

Tires

The man was upbeat and liked his work, his movements fast and confident, his gait sure and steady and somehow wholesome. He had working hands and a good physical and spiritual heart. How many people had he helped by the sides of roads, and often in inclement weather? Is someone like that not like an angel? Truck and tire, jack and machine, work clothes and the world rains and rains. Electric light splashes upon one million puddles. The man moves in the world and the words he uses are direct and meaningful, for there is nothing superfluous about him. Good aura. Good people. He is good people. 

Coffee

The lady has to walk through all kinds of weather to serve coffee at the edge of town. And how to navigate such a world in storms and cold? Heavy coat at least. She is calm. An adult but wise somehow like an old lady that has seen much. Her hands handle the counter surely and swiftly and perhaps she knows people better than a psychologist so-called. Outside the rains are tears across windows and the unthinking ones leave their garbage, because they think the world is only for them. It doesn’t make her jaded though. Everything is taken in stride. That portrays maturity and a type of self-actualization. Everyone is treated equally though she must have her favourites and not-so favourites even amoung the regulars. 

Dancer

It’s not complicated. That one left the ambitious world and danced literally on shores. The waves lap, ancient oceans blue green turquoise and sometimes calm, other times tumultuous. To be in the body and feel a true and honest and inspiring rhythm is her goal. Rocks and sands, the clouds and sometimes birds, watch on. Integrity and hard work, and the years pay off in a particular sense. It is and isn’t second nature. Like many or all arts. She has gifts and can hear some inner music but has to honour the calling. And does. 

Furniture 

They asked him to leave college because he wasn’t academically like the others. All he wanted to do was learn to help bigger groups of marginalized people, but the world demands more. ‘Right now,’ he said, ‘I live in this neighborhood and people know if they need help with anything, like moving say, that they can ask me.’ He fell out of his seat once and it was because he was tired,- but people laughed at him. I tried to be his friend but lost touch in time. I wonder whatever happened to him. The world in those parts was cold and though every building could not have been grey, every building felt grey. What a world they have built, I thought to myself as I saw it all, so empty of warmth, so devoid of joy and naturalness. 

Canine 

That dog was rescued from a far away place, another country, and had a missing leg, its front left leg to be exact. But what heart it had, and one could tell that it had adjusted to its new life. Its owners took it on great walks and sometimes it met and played with other dogs. There, the world was not complicated. Trees. Skies. Good dirt trails. The wild birds went over the tops of the tree-lines. There was a different, a sanguine energy that stayed even in overcast weather. That energy was amidst the stones and ferns of the valley, the deep wild red sumac of the upper paths that waited always, in and about the little streams and also with the evergreens proud and reliable, plus the birch trees, always full of character and nuance, full of spirit and soul. 

Epilogue 

The rains stayed for days and even souls not prone to reflection sometimes gave pause and looked out windows. The news of the world was not good, yet there were still good people. Industrial grates received the water from the streets. Past the towns, beyond the old solitary church with its weathered and worn bricks, was a little cemetery surrounded by trees. The stones were faded and sometimes the names could hardly be read. One day those people were also alive and thriving, perhaps smiling and planning their day. But now, time had taken much. There was one marker that spoke  of a man. I had bet, with that area being so rural, that he was a farmer of some sort. The cars and trucks out there on the roads beyond went and went and went,- tending to the business of the busy world alive. I think the farmer man must have been a salt of the earth type. I bet he was good people.