Kingston.
With all the cascading doubts that pour down through my days, I’d like to let myself believe I’m a welcoming person.
Still, surprise visits tend to rattle my brick cage. The hesitant knock that turns into a heavy kick drum against my door. And then, full on brimstone and ringing apocalypse once the buzzer button is eventually spotted. Is there time to learn how to slip invisibly between the plaster walls? Have the police have finally arrived to revoke my humanity membership? I really can’t remember if I’ve paid my dues.
Today, a distinguished elderly man named Lowell caught me off guard and brought me this book about Kingston.
I ordered it online, yet he wanted to hand it off in person. He seemed like he was interested in meeting an up-and-coming local historian. He gave me names like Vernon Benjamin and made sure I was aware of the Friends of Historic Kingston and their little museum down the street.
He even returned the money for postage like one of the truest gentleman I’ve ever met.
I don’t know about you, but I live for moments like this. Because not only is Lowell passionate about his city and it’s history, but he’s also passionate about other people getting into the groove. To me, that’s immorality incarnate.