The Horn Honkers

The big horns honk 

from nearly every car

creating a cacophony 

that assaults the ear

and withers the soul.

Those who try to refrain

from honking or at least

minimize its use to only

when absolutely necessary 

are considered odd and 

out of step with reality.

Parents give their kids

little plastic honky horns for 

their bikes and trikes

and encourage their use

by exclaiming "Oh, how cute!"

as little hands squeeze the 

small red bulb repeatedly.

Groups who advocate for 

the beauty of silence are

full of people who are full-on

honkers and cannot remove

themselves from the hive-

mind of the wider culture.

Silence makes them un-

comfortable for what it 

reveals to them of their 

inner world so full of noise

and their seeming impotence 

to do anything about it. 

Better to just keep honking

that horn and fill the world

till it drowns in dissonance.

***

Listening to Gwendolyn Brooks

It was pouring rain when we pulled into the parking lot, the coffee shop and lecture hall a few hundred feet away.  We’d not thought to bring an umbrella and so sat there for a minute or two in indecision.  Looking across the grassy commons we could see the warm glow of Starbucks and could just make out the forms of people inside sitting at tables sipping coffee.  The thought of hot java in our bellies gave us the necessary impetus to make a mad dash through the downpour.

We found seats in the lecture hall and sat quietly sipping coffee as the room filled up around us.  We were quite the contrast to all the chit-chat and hustle-bustle going on around us: quiet, reluctant to talk, fresh off some disagreement or other, an argument that hadn’t been resolved amicably.  It didn’t help that the emcee was once again the flakey professor of English who always introduces the guest poets and always annoys us greatly by doing so.  After several minutes of his prattle it was finally her turn.

She moved slowly to the podium, wading through our substantial applause.  She was a skinny old black lady with oversized glasses, her hair tucked into a knit Jamaican-style head covering, a grandma that could have just stepped off the city bus on 26th street.  Her voice was deep and strong belying her diminutive size and slightly hunched back.  We sat for an hour and a half listening to her read poetry, some funny, some sad, and some somewhere inbetween, but all of it profound.

A few weeks later at the hospital my pager went off during rounds while on the way to see an autistic boy.  I pealed off from the group to answer it.  It was your voice, “Did you hear the news?” a pause… “Gwendolyn Brooks died this morning of cancer.”

With Great Affection

on this Christmas 2000,

                       Aaron 

***

Descend

BBQ in the South

My wife had done her research to find a bona fide homegrown place in Savannah that would give us an unfiltered experience of BBQ in the South.  She scoured the internet, but her break came from an employee at Trader Joe's whom she interacted with regularly.  This person described a "hole in the wall" type place that was sure not to disappoint.  We drove down from Hilton Head and started the day with a horse and carriage ride through the historic downtown before looking for the restaurant J had found with her grocery store ties.  I locked its location into my map app to follow, but as we neared the spot indicated I could not identify any parking or even a building that might be a restaurant. I decided to park in a nearby parking lot for some other stores and approach the area on foot with family in tow.

We passed an alley and then turned onto the street identified in the address.  It was just a row  of little rundown houses and we stopped in front of the one that had the correct number of 515, but there was nothing to suggest it was a place of business, just an overgrown porch.  Next to the door was a little black number 5 made of tin nailed to the wall and scrawled next to it in black marker was "15" to complete the house number.  

It seemed we'd hit a dead end, but I kept going and circled around and passed the alley entrance on the opposite side of the block we'd passed earlier.  The alley was gravel and spotted with mud puddles and trashcans in back of their respective houses.  Somewhere about half way down the length of the alley I spied a red bench which struck me as being out of place.  "What the heck" I thought, "why not check it out?"  Jennifer stayed in place while I ventured down and the kids strung themselves out between us.  As I approached the bench, avoiding the puddles of water, it started to take shape as a possible place of business.  A largish window had bars crisscrossing it and stickers of the Visa and Mastercard logos.  A homemade wooden sign came into view under a shallow porch overhang, "Wall's BBQ".  I'd found it!

I waved for Jennifer and the kids to join me.  The door had some neon-colored signs taped to it giving the days and hours of business.   We had arrived just at 12pm which the sign said was their opening time.  Trapped in the screen door was a piece of paper that fell when I opened it to knock.  I picked it up and saw that it was a standard form letter notice from the City of Savannah with some information hand written in places.  It was notifying them that there was a problem with the front of their house being overgrown with weeds and other such aesthetic concerns that needed attention.

I tried the main door but it was locked.  I could hear people moving around and talking inside and so I knocked, but no one came to the door.  I checked my watch again and it was now a few minutes past twelve.  Jennifer and I looked at each other like "now what?"  I sat on the bench and noticed a pair of glasses dangling from a metal decorative piece on the window.  I laughed, "Hey JB, I found my glasses!"  (I'd lost my glasses on the beach a few days prior).  She said she would call them and see if she could get ahold of anyone.  She dialed the number and then we started giggling because we could hear their phone ringing inside.  After a few rings someone answered and Jennifer asked if they were open.  

"Are you standing outside?" they asked.  

"Yes, we are."

"Oh, I thought I unlocked the door."  Then the door opened and an African-American lady ushered us in and sat us at an old diner-style booth.  The eating area was no more than ten feet wide by about twenty to twenty five feet long and included one long table in back and three of the tables that we sat at.  She gave us some photocopied menus and told us what was not available on it to include collard greens.  Jennifer asked about their BBQ offerings while the table was being set with styrofoam plates and plastic forks wrapped in a napkin.  We ordered pulled pork and ribs to share.  The BBQ sauce was of two varieties in red ketchup squeeze bottles sitting against the wall with the salt and pepper shakers.  

After we got our food, others began to show up to include a food tour group or two with their very own guide who came up to the kitchen door several times to coordinate things for his group who he'd thought had had reservations, but didn't.

We feasted on the ribs and pork as well as healthy portions of mac & cheese, black eyed peas, and coleslaw.  It was a unique and thoroughly enjoyable experience.


***

Playing in the Tide

Playing in the tide 

in sight of the full moon

wrapped in a scarf 

from a Savannah shop

her child-full abandon

dampening her clothes

but not her spirit.

***

One Punch Dream

Well, it's been a week full of sun, sand, and surreal semi-nightmarish dreams.  It seems that most every night of our vacation was filled with these somnolent visions, like parallel universes of the real and the unreal bumping against each other, and this morning was no exception.

I found myself back in my boyhood hometown of Orleans, Indiana at a friend's house who lived about a block from me.  We are in the back room just off of their driveway and I notice he looks a little rough around the edges and may not even be the person I remember as "Darren Stroud."  I don't want to be rude, so I strike up some friendly banter when my phone rings.  I answer and it is Darren Stroud who I know to be living and working in California as a musician.

So, I'm talking to him while looking at this shady character in front of me and Darren says, "Hey, this talking on the phone is a little awkward.  We should just meet up."  An indeterminate amount of time later, but what seems much too quick to include a flight from California, Darren walks through the door.  

So, there they are, the two Darren Strouds and I have to prove which one is which, though I know the new arrival is the actual Darren Stroud.  I come up with the idea to ask the criminal-appearing Darren what his "full" name is with the idea that he will not know Darren's middle name and have to give up his ruse.  Never mind that *I* do not know Darren's middle name, but that did not seem important in the dream.

I then find myself in their front room which is quite large with no furniture and the walls are lined with artwork that Darren has produced.  I admire them up close and am especially drawn to a canvas that is about 4x4 feet and prominently features the Japanese anime character "One Punch Man" superimposed over a large rounded Chinese character and a silhouette of Bruce Lee in the background.  While I am taking all of this in Darren's mom enters the room opposite where fake-Darren is standing and leans up against the wall just beside me and starts whispering so that he cannot hear us.

"I found him in a bad part of town near the drug rehab center and wanted to help him out, but now I don't know what to do about him."  I realize she is asking for my advice as someone who works in the mental health field.  We notice he is adjusting some of the works and she tells me he is the one who put this exhibit together.  I suggest that since he has an eye for this kind of thing she could utilize him as a designer for exhibiting Darren's art pieces.  With this new role he is then able to just be himself and quit pretending he is Darren.


***