His name, spelled the traditional way with just one L, means lover of horses.
This characterized him well because he was certainly a mule lover - as close as his humble family could get to that noble equestrian, the horse. Anyone in need of having a mule saddle broken knew to go to Philip. It usually took only one day for him to bring the most spirited and stubborn mule to heel.
He was dark with strong white teeth that shone like the marble at Paros. He smelled of Octagon soap, Gleem toothpaste, Right Guard deodorant, mules, hay, sunshine, and testosterone. He was magnificent.
His old '53 Chevrolet pickup had doors that were wired shut, no heater, a rusted out chassis, but when he drove by, everyone stopped to watch. When I was sitting by his side in the cab, I felt like a Nubian princess.
At school, Philip excelled in his studies; he could do five-place division in his head, recite The Negro Speaks Of Rivers as though he composed it, and knew the periodic table of the elements backward! During afternoon reading sessions, it was he who was always called on to read, and what a job he did! His voice was mesmerizing, his enunciation flawless. I don't believe it presumptuous to daresay the angels paused to listen.
His teachers loved him, his community loved him, his mules loved him. I did, too.
When I was sixteen and Philip eighteen, our world was literally blown to pieces. My hero was killed when his old truck's radiator erupted and scalded him from forehead to chest. He was buried on a hilly mound facing the pasture where his beloved mules grazed.
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Relax, everyone.
Philip was an imaginary boyfriend that I had to kill off when real life intruded.
Sylvia