BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… SUNDAY CIRCUS. I’m flipping through the magazine, looking at pictures of a traveling circus that was documented as it wound its way through the Upper American South sometime in the late 1960s. The photos are in color, and a little grainy. The performers magnificent, but a bit worn. The photojournalist had been…
BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… THE WINTER, LATE. “Do you ever have memories that are not quite your own? Moments in the mind’s eye that feel so real, but have never been a part of your own past?” The house still stands on the hill and it is late winter but the air is strange and warm.…
BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… THE END OF THE ROAD. The old road winds down the ridge and down through the holler. In the mountains of the South, “holler” just means “hollow” — like Sleepy Hollow — or, more specifically, “a small valley.” The word comes from the Old English word holh, meaning cave or hole in…
BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… THE MAN IN THE STORE. The old glass door opened, then closed. The air was air-conditioned cool, smelling faintly of mothballs. Long tables stretched far to the back, tables upon which were stacked work shirts, undershirts, slacks, work pants, blue jeans. The long-reaching walls of the store were lined with shelves —…
BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… OLD FRENCH BRICKS. I remember the summer’s light dappled through the urban tree canopy of maple and birch and ginkgo, the summer sky a patchy blue over St. Louis, the old doors blue, red, green and white, each stoop, each 19th century doorway, leading to another home, another series of lives and…
BEEN THINKING ABOUT… THE PEAR TREE. The pear tree in the yard has leafed, shade dappled beneath an increasingly hot sun. Mist rose in the holler last night, turning the sunset red. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. The grass beneath the pear is already thick and raucous, overgrown where the lawn had once…