Tag: County Road 9




By Renata de Dios

Thirteen months ago my friend isolated himself from the world after the love of his life died.  It was right before Christmas 2018.  Nothing could get him out of his depression.   Nothing could lure him out of that bungalow on County Road 9 that held him hostage to the memories of his wife’s three-year illness.  Toward the end of the three years, she started to turn the corner to good health, but only to be struck down again.  This time there was no return.  She died in a hospital with my friend by her side.

Just a few weeks ago, we turned our clocks ahead in anticipation of Spring.  It was then that my friend miraculously sprung out of his depression and started to make plans to move out of that bungalow on County Road 9 into a small cottage near his long-time friend.  It all happened so fast.  One day a junk man was picking up his old stuff. And the next day he was making arrangements for his belongings to be moved to his new home so he could start his new life.  All was good.

Then, without warning, the coronavirus hit the U.S. like an atomic bomb, killing my friend’s dreams for the time being.  Who would believe it?  A couple of special news reports and my friend’s life had to be put on hold.  Not just my friend’s life — everyone’s life.  Not just in the U.S., but around the world. 

This week my friend would have been traveling with his faithful cat to his new home to start his new life, just in time for Spring.  It would have been a time for him to be reborn and renewed.  It would have been a time for hope.  Now that will all have to wait.  But to every season, there is a purpose… and summer will be here before we know it.




The Floodgates of Heaven Opened and the Rain Falleth

It’s been raining all day here. A perfect day for staying inside and brooding. My bungalow is Noah’s Ark with just two creatures on board, the cat and I — unless I’m Noah (which is highly unlikely since Noah was 600 years old at the time), and Bella the cat is 7,000 different kinds of animals. Anything’s possible I suppose.

Searchers to this day are still looking for the Ark, even though there’s no historical or geological evidence of a flood of such Biblical proportions as written in Genesis 6-9.

The Ark, measured in cubits, was the equivalent of a vessel 450 feet long (135 meters), 75 feet wide (22.5 meters) and 45 feet high (13.5 meters).

That’s so much Biblically larger than my bungalow that I probably couldn’t fool the Searchers (although they do tend to sound a tad gullible), but since we’re suspending all disbelief here, the Ark searchers might just as well look no further than County Road 9, the structure on the corner with just two creatures on board, a slightly younger Noah and one cat.


My name is not Noah, of course, but I’ll say it is when they discover us, anything to get my name in the paper.

My name is Bill, nothing Biblical about that, and I do live in a bungalow, but I must hasten to point out that I am not ‘Bungalow Bill’ of the Beatles song.

I am not a “bullet-headed saxon mothers son” who hunts and shoots tigers for the hell of it. I wouldn’t even kill a mouse, or even a moth — I leave the killing to Bella.

hey bungalow bill”


But back to my brooding, which is what I do now. I’m getting pretty good at it. If they held a brooding contest, I bet I would win.

The prize would probably be a swift kick in the ass, which is seated now in an armchair by the window watching the sorry sky crying its pitiful heart out, so dark, even darker since the death of my wife.

This would be a perfect day to be with her, inside this cozy bungalow, watching old movies or reading, just sitting in the living room together, just the two of us, with Bella on mouse patrol.

Around five o’clock we’d get into the cocktails, my wife and I, not the cat. It would still be raining. We wouldn’t care. We like the sound of rain on the roof. Like Eddie Rabbitt, we love a rainy night.