Eli At The Crossroads

A story about a time when Eli meets Papa Legba at the crossroads.  With thanks to Samuel and his Old Testament book.   

It's late night in Houston.  The hot, humid air seems heavy enough to drink. It's the kind of Gulf dampness that settles into old houses in Magnolia Park, old bones and old memories if they can still be found.

Somewhere beyond the freeway, the disturbing sound of a siren rises and falls. A train horn low and mournful, accompanied by the deep throbbing of his diesel heart coming from the east side.

The weak light bulb in the lamp beside Eli began to flicker, giving a warning that life was nearly done. Its glow wasn’t much more than a dirty yellow stain against the darkness.

His eyes had grown dim years ago.  Though most folks around him never noticed it.  When you are in charge, you can imitate vision for a long time.

Across the road stood an old, dark man in dusty clothes and smartly wearing a big straw hat, smoking a pipe and holding a crooked walking stick with one hand.  A mug of steaming hot coffee in his other hand.  Even without seeing Eli, knew this was his guide and it was time.

Papa Legba, protector, keeper of the Crossroads where all must travel.  A wise old man, with the knowledge that only comes from beyond the soul, patient as though all eternity was his deadline, leaning lightly on that walking stick beneath a tilting utility pole plastered with old band flyers, revival notices, and a faded sticker for Houston-IForgotSomething.com .

“You have come a long way from your temple,” the old spirit said gently.

Eli straightened up and felt the tremor in his knees. “This ain’t the Lord’s house.”

Legba chuckled and tapped his cane once on the damp sidewalk. “Every house has a door. Every door has a lock. I just keep the keys.”

Papa Legba looked down the road, then back toward the old man.

“You still waiting for something to come through that door?” he asked. 

Eli gave a dry laugh.

“Ain’t that the arrangement?"

“You wait long enough, pray hard enough, and eventually the light arrives.”

The sound of early morning traffic began to hum from somewhere beyond the trees. It was steady and rhythmic like the eternal waves flowing down on Galveston Island. 

Papa Legba smiled a little.

“Old priest… maybe the problem is you keep looking past yourself.”

Those words just sat there for a while between them.

Eli rubbed his eyes, more out of habit than hope now.

“Sammy heard the voice,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Maybe the boy wasn’t listening with his ears.”

The night insects buzzed loudly in the ditches after a recent rain.  Clouds moved slowly under the dark sky and over the city glow.

Eli thought about all the years spent guarding doors, temple doors that only swung one way, the sacred words recited just the right way, in the correct order, rules, appearances, ceremonies, and slow steps at just the right cadence.

All the while believing God lived somewhere else, somewhere outside above himself, beyond the gate, beyond the darkness.

Papa Legba tapped his cane once again against the pavement.

“What if the light never had to travel?” he asked.

Eli didn't say anything for a long while, just sitting there confused.  Was it all wrong?  Eli said nothing.

Then he closed his clouded eyes. It wasn't to sleep, not even to pray.  Just to stop looking, to stop from looking outward for once.  And there beneath noise, beneath memory, beneath regret and duty and age.

Something remained, a small steady light.
Soft as the glow from a Ship Channel refinery seen through that sweltering midnight haze.

Not blazing, not demanding, it was just there. 

Waiting patiently just beneath everything he had mistaken for faith.

The freeway hummed, and a dog barked twice.
Somewhere nearby, an old window unit air conditioner rattled like loose change in a coffee can.

Eli smiled faintly into the dark. For the first time in years, he stopped looking down the road for God to arrive.  Somewhere deep inside himself, he finally heard the voice clearly. Right where it always had been.

©J.  Michael Boland May 4, 2026

State of The Mind Report, March 2026

As stated in my March 16, 2026, posting, Houston, I Forgot Something, here is an update on the progression to Dementia.  It is expected to be a slow and gradual journey, probably over a few years.  I will more than likely pass through to the other side of that black curtain before reaching the total bonkers stage.  In the meantime, continuing to write what can be remembered, dreamed up, or just whatever I may be reflecting on at the time.  Such as those morning poetry attempts.  

Plans and outlines have been initiated for a novel, which, if able, hopes to address memories, dreams, and reflections of the main character’s current and a previous life, and will be set mainly in Paris. 

So here is a somewhat boring diary of some of the more daily frustrations. 

18 Mar 26 - Made coffee and poured a cup, brought it back to my easy chair.  Started checking email and the morning news.  Forgot the coffee for over an hour until I stood up, accidentally knocking it off the table and giving the green wall a hideous wash of coffee brown.

19 Mar 26 - Woke up at 4:35 this morning, made coffee, walked around the back yard for half an hour (we have a large lot). The brain fog is denser than ever today.   Need to “lay up in Pelican Cut” * until it clears.  Setting things down and forgetting where they are placed.   Started to make a K-Cup coffee, completely forgot halfway through what I was doing.  I need to set up reminders to remember to write things down.

 *Check the northwest tip of Pelican Island, Galveston, on Google Earth, where the Intercostal Canal cuts through before passing the end of the Texas City Dike and joining the Houston Ship Channel. On foggy days, the tow boats would lay up here and not chance entering the busy Houston ship channel.  Crews from the different boats would meet up and visit, and usually a poker game would get started. We, deckhands would have to go out now and then to check whether we could see anything beyond the bow lights, then come back and report to the captain. There could be a future mystery story here.

24 Mar 26 -  Started to pull things together for my Paris novel, revised the outline based on a Hero’s Journey Story Arc. I'm not really happy with it.  Changing location from 

Montmartre and Sacré-Cœur, to Île de la Cité and Hôtel-Dieu. Hoping to finish it before the plot is forgotten - again. 

29 Mar 26 - no significant changes that can be remembered since the previous entry.  Did manage to put out a couple of attempts at poetry and finished Moon Beans.

30 Mar 26 - For some reason, that old song by Patti Page OL’ CAPE COD keeps popping into my head.

I'm more stressed about things forgotten.  Almost to tears sometimes, very frustrated with myself, because I can't remember what it was.  Slowly, I am reminded that I forgot I was going to write something from a 1957 memory, about some old memories of music on the radio and Paul Berlin.  Well, at least this much has come back to me.

31 Mar 26 - Working on the Houston - I Forgot Something site and accidentally deleted most of the archived articles. The individual stories are still safe in the Cloud.  However, the steps to add them back to the blog sites’ archive “folder” have also been erased from that extremely hard drive sitting just above my shoulders. So, I'll have to re-learn how to do it. This time, writing it all down.  It's going to take several attempts. No, the site provider doesn't provide instructions for my economy version.

Just to be clear, the memory loss is not a constant experience, not yet.  Maybe once or twice one day, then I remember everything else the next.  From what has been written, it seems that it's the new memory that goes first, while the old ones remain. 

Last in - First Out!  

Moon Beans

“Chickpeas may be able to grow on the moon, Texas scientists revealed in a Scientific Reports study recently. The study paves the way for further research on lunar agriculture and may have implications for astronauts’ ability to spend longer stretches of time in space.”

Reading an article about the promise—and maybe even the possibility—of growing garbanzo beans on the moon. Thinking the idea of sustaining life, plant though it might be, in low gravity on that orb pulled my demented mind out of the dim fog of the past and focused it on the bright possibilities of the future.

Wow! Is an Aggie experimental farm on the moon even possible? In concept, it seems simple enough. Get a big green John Deere Moon Tractor with PTO up there and start breaking moon sod and sowing beans. If the tractor breaks down, they can just fix it on site, right? It’s not like they need to rocket it back to the nearest dealer.

Some European experts say the moon’s soil may have enough nutrients to nourish garbanzo beans, but it’s not able to sustain agriculture. Apparently, when moon dirt gets wet and then dries out, it turns hard as concrete.

I say, “What do they know?” Have they ever tried to plant a garden in a Houston backyard and come face-to-face with black gumbo clay? I think not.

To get things started right, they can stop by a big orange box store, pick up a few hundred bags of topsoil, and UPS it to the moon. It’s not like what Mark Watney had to do on Mars. I’m sure those seeds would do just fine with a little Earth topsoil mixed in.

I can see it now. Twenty years from now, a wide lunar field of beans. Over time, they adapt, producing enough chickpeas for the crew to have hummus with every meal.

Thirty years in, the plants are thriving in low gravity, propagating themselves, roots stretching through the dust, looking for more.

What the Moon Aggies didn't notice is that some of that topsoil wasn’t fully sterilized. A couple of microscopic nematodes survived the sterilization, the launch, the landing, and the co-mingling with moon dust—and quietly began evolving.

On Earth, nematodes are harmless, even beneficial. But what happens when they mix with nutrient-rich moon dust and are exposed to low gravity, no oxygen, and unfiltered solar radiation? 

Forty years later, conditions are just right to stimulate nematodic romance, and before long—Bob’s your uncle—there are “bazillions and bazillions” (sorry, Carl Sagan) of microscopic nematodes mutating beneath the lunar surface.

Another decade passes. One mutation stands out: the ability to create H₂O from the elements in the moon dust. When that meets the beans’ own reproductive adaptations… well, that’s when things get out of hand.

Within months, the beans outgrow their fields. They spread across the surface, overtaking equipment, then habitats. Within a year, they cover hundreds of acres.

NASA experiments with lunar goats to control the growth, but can’t quite solve the problem of four-legged spacesuits and grazing with open visors.

They consider building Rayovac-powered tankers to spray the moon with Spectracide, but the cost, the attorneys, and the weight of all those “D cell” batteries kill the idea.

Eventually, the project is abandoned. The space Aggies return to College Station to write papers.

For four and a half billion years, the moon’s job was simple: reflect sunlight to Earth. But now the surface is shaded by green leaves.   The light fades.

Nights grow darker. Tides grow uncertain. Fishermen can’t tell when to go out, and fish can’t tell when it’s safe to come in. Nocturnal animals lose their edge.

Month by month, the moon dims. No one knows why. Speculation runs wild. The devout repent, the faithful pray harder, the spiritual seek answers, and even the atheists begin to worry.

The government buries the truth—the Great Garbanzo Moon Dilemma—along with the Aggie reports. If word got out about the failed—or wildly successful—Lunar Chickpea Project, careers would end, fortunes would vanish, and lawsuits would bloom like… well… you know.

Fifty years later, NASA detects the first signal ever from the moon.

It isn’t a distress call.

It isn’t a warning.

Just a simple, repeating transmission:

“We are… hummus.”

Scientists confirm it is not a threat.

Just… a declaration.

The beans have organized and achieved spreadable consciousness.

© March 26, 2026 J. Michael Boland