This poem published in Shoots & Vines.
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Buster Peacock & The House of Many Colors
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.Julie Buffaloe-Yoder
When the city of Freeville
widened the highway,
they didn’t plow down
a single shingle in
.
Foxcroft
White Pointe
Golf Crossing.
.
Instead, they took
Buster Peacock’s land.
A blind old black man
in a felt blue hat
with a sagging shack
on twenty acres of
scrub pine and sand.
.
That house was old
even in Jim Crow’s day
when Buster carried
his sweet Veleetha
over the threshhold,
felt the angles of her face
the curve of her hips,
a perfect place for babies:
.
Buster Jr.
Scoochie
Little Toot.
.
Buster Peacock could feel the color
of four rooms with his fingers, the tips
of his toes–the brown creak and sigh
from tired floorboards at night.
The way the feather bed felt
like cool water blue when
the breeze blew gauze curtains
over Veleetha’s sleeping face.
.
That little red place in the doorway
where Scoochie bumped his head
when he got so tall, the gold notches
where Buster Jr. carved his name,
the yellow dip in the hallway where
Toot liked to slide in socks.
.
The silver click of the cuckoo clock
exactly eight steps from a gray hum
from the refrigerator, the green smell
of the breadbox on a hot June day.
.
The city could not understand
why Buster cried so hard
over a broke down shack.
They gave fair market value.
.
But they didn’t care that
you can’t place market value
on a breadbox or children
grown or a wife passed on.
.
The day they moved him
to a retirement home,
the dozer crushed
through his front door.
Buster could feel color
all over again.
.
.
Oh, this breaks my heart. Oh. It reminds me of south Alabama. There was a man…truly older than the land, who would use a donkey and plow for his small field of food. This was in 2000. He always looked so determined. I would drive by in my truck every day on my way to work and wish that I knew him. I always wanted to take his picture and never did.
I wonder where he is now.
The names in this…of the characters, of the “rich neighborhoods”…they are all so real, so perfect
“green smell”…to smell color…synesthesia works really really well here to get across that feeling…
this man knew his home
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Thank you, Holly. You have some wonderful points here, and I can visualize the man you’re talking about. People think “those days” are over, huh? Now racism just happens in different ways. I’m not saying eminent domain doesn’t happen to white people, either. I know plenty of poor people of all colors who have been bulldozed. But this one particular story I heard was, in my opinion, because the man was African American. Thanks much for your thoughtful comments and visits. I always enjoy your conversations so much. -Julie
Extraordinary on pulling the feelings of a lifetime into this one piece. No color and all colors in a house of love.
I can feel the heat and with breeze coming through the bedroom window. I can feel the Love. It is life—it is soul.
What color is soul?
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Good question, Barbara. I think a soul has all colors. Buster Peacock’s soul was probably blue when the dozer crushed through the door, though. Thank you so much for your wonderful comments. I will be back at your house soon (probably tonight) to read all those beautiful mountain colors you have over there. (To clarify, I’m thinking of the trees and placing them on a mountain. Talking to myself again…ha! I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how we bring our own interpretations to the read. Thanks again). -Julie
poems set to a place have something special that dozers can’t destroy
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Thank you, Scot. Or like your poem shows, rain or dust can’t destroy it either. Or weeds growing. Or rust or time. Dang, I love that poem! Take care. -Julie
I’m trying to see through tears as I write this comment. Your ability to draw a visual through words is exquisite. The brown creak and sigh from tired floorboards. I’m there…
Eminent Domain is a mixed bag of pain isn’t it?
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Thanks so much, Cat. I appreciate your kind comments, especially when you’re so busy! You’re so right. It makes me sad to think about how people get rolled over sometimes. Thanks for dropping in. -Julie
Yes, Scot’s right. This is so beautiful, Julie, the rhythm, the visuals, the great big heart of it. You really have a talent for bringing these characters to life. Wonderful. As always.
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Thanks, Jo! It’s nice to hear, especially on a rough draft. Thanks so much for dropping in. I’ll get back over to your place again today. Sorta chasing my tail again…ha! -Julie
You really get the truth of the emotions in this. I love the names of the wealthy developments especially “White Pointe.” That’s great.
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Hi, Nathan! I’m so glad somebody mentioned that. I was wondering if it was too much. I really have heard of a White Pointe, referring to an upscale beach area and thought it fit well. I appreciate the feedback. -Julie
P.S. – I’m sorry I haven’t been around your place as much as I would like to this week. I will be there…wild horses couldn’t drag me away! Just a crazy time. Thanks again. -Julie
First, let me add my congratulations on another well-written poem. The comments already made about race, color, etc. are all spot-on.
What really intrigues me about this poem, however, is the choice of names, particularly Veleetha. You’ve used her name before. I read your story about the lady from the flower shop. She is someone you connect with and I expect we will see here surface again and again. She is part of you.
I have a fictional character, Mercury Spangler, who appears in a number of my stories and poems. I’ve often wondered if other writers have a similar character. Now I know.
Nice work.
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Hi, Scott! I’m all mixed up again. Your comment is below:) Thank you! -Julie
Isn’t Veleetha a character in another poem? I’m sensing a series here.
As a person who lives in the South, I’ve seen this sort of tale over and over again. Some people try to fight it, put up big signs letting the world know their house is doomed….
And once again you’ve created a character and a sense of a definite place that lives on its own, timeless.
PS This is weird. Last week a wrote a poem for postal poetry, and named one of my characters ‘Little Toot,’ like a red engine.
Anyway, I love all your specifics.
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Sorry, Christine. I’m getting my comments mixed up again…ha! I don’t know if I’m coming or going lately. (See comments below for Veleetha’s story). But now I’m getting chills, because I didn’t know about your Little Toot. Did I? Now I’m starting to worry that I stole it. Ha! Let me know if I did, and I’ll change it. I knew a little kid called Little Toot and one called Scoochie, and both of the names were on my mind this week.
You’re right. The signs are so sad. I think eminent domain is bullshit. Hmmm…maybe I should try to tell everybody how I feel, huh? Ha! I don’t think any government has a right to seize private property, regardless of what highway or condominium needs to be built. But that’s just me, I guess.
Thanks so much, Christine. It’s great to see you as always. -Julie
P.S. – I just read your site, Christine, and I don’t see Little Toot up there. Shew! I’m not a thief after all. Ha! Ha! But now the hair is raising up on my arms. Isn’t that weird? Of all names to be thinking of at the same time. Do I hear X-Files music playing in the background? Take care! -Julie
Hi, Scott! I love the name Mercury Spangler!! That is so cool. You’ll have to let me know where you came up with it.
That’s a great question, too. I’m guessing a lot of writers do this, but I’m not sure. Veleetha is a lady I met in a doctor’s office for only about an hour, but she made such a big impression on me, I have loved her for years.
I also love the sound of her name. The “Ve” on the lips…and then the l and long e sounds just roll off the tongue. And it ends with “uh” for just the right emphasis. I know…I’m a dork…HA!
If you look to the right under “Poetry and Short Stories,” Veleetha’s story is under the poem “Evicted.” She was an amazing lady. I wish I knew where she was now.
Thanks so much for your kind comments and excellent conversation, Scott!
Never too busy to read a good poem. Actually I found that I read a whole lot more blogs during my ‘sabbatical’ (a person has to put the brush down from time to time) and have found some great writers that inspire me, such as yourself. But I’m happy to say the painting is pretty much done, and just as of today I am back to writing. Happy painting, it is good for the soul…
That’s so true, Catherine! (Can I call you Cat? You have that name on your blog, but I don’t want to be rude). I can really relate to the painting right now. Can you believe we’re trying to sell a house in this market? I’m excited and sad at the same time. It has been our home, our friend, for a long time.
But enough of my chatter…Thank you for dropping in. I’ll be over to see your new stuff, too! Take care.
Julie – this carries the whole of the old south with it. I can just feel it rise up before me in sight, sound and smell. You have made Buster as real to me as any person I know. What a gift you have my talented friend.
I loved the lines:
Buster Peacock could feel the color
of four rooms with his fingers, the tips
of his toes–the brown creak and sigh
from tired floorboards at night.
You weave with magic. Thank you for sharing your amazing work.
**My God, it is just sick that a person’s home (no matter what condition) and his land can be pulled out from under him. IS this a free country??
Thank you, K! I get so worked up over things like this (as y’all can probably tell…ha).
But seriously, your words are so true. It makes me wonder how free we really are. I’ve had the debate with people who say eminent domain is “for the common good.” YIKES! That sounds too eerily familiar. It is funny how “the common good” usually means some poor folks are getting something taken away from them by politicians with power.
K, I really appreciate your kind words and visits! Have a beautiful day:)
You absolutely blow me away with these poems. The image, the emotion, the commentary are so clear, even those without eyes can picture the scenes you pen. Outstanding.
Hey, Miss Kimberli! Thank you so much. Your comments are very sweet. I thought about you after I wrote one this week. I just hopped over and saw your latest posts. Fantastic! If anyone wants to see some of my soul, look at Kimberli’s blog. I still think we’re related, but Kimberli won’t claim me..HA! HA! Just kidding. We’re really not. North Carolina is loaded with Buffaloes. Can you believe that? Thanks again and take care:)
Powerful poem. I love how the personal (Buster) is bracketed by the political (The City) and how the tone of the poem changes between the two.
Lovely, Julie. You nailed this one down tighter than the floorboards on that old house. The silver click and the gray hum, I enjoyed the journey every step of the way. Continued success.
Brilliant, Julie!
the poem captures so well how Buster felt about the house and the house captured his memories…
It is unfortunately a basic true of capitalism – we do not care about your memeories and values , it is all about profits…(not that I know any economy or country that does really care about individuals such as individuals, but…)
Hey Julie – I awarded you a “Blogging Star” on Old Mossy Moon. Come pick up your award. K.
Happy Turkey Bird!
You are really, really good. This takes my breath and shakes my soul, how life can change so deeply. What must I do then? I cannot but take it personally. I would get up about eminent domain, but really, why do I think I am not basically the fellow losing his house? In fact so many are now.
One thing that sickens me is how people watching late night, early morning cable tv are encouraged to purchase real estate on the market now for pennies on the dollar due to property tax foreclosures. There are businesses collecting this data of these distressed properties in order to assist potential buyers. They say its okay because the cities need the money to run…
Ick.
I’ve been away too – have really missed reading my favorite blogs!
Your poems often portray such rich characters – I love that. It kind of makes me want to stop an arbitrary person on the street to know their story. You know you write dangerous poems, don’t you?
On a different note: funny how some people think money solves everything, and forget that money is only useful when you exchange it with something else that you actually need or want.
A heart-rending piece, Julie. I do develop such an adoration for and connection with the characters in your poems. As an author/poet, you have such a command over the details of their respective lives, as shown by the consistency in the specifics you’ve given in the poems that house them.
The present poem spans a lifetime of memories. Reading each stanza takes me inside the mind of Buster, takes me through the series of thoughts that would seem to have crossed his mind as the scene in the last stanza unfolded.
p.s. I’ve also had a busy week, one of several to come. (sigh) Life is indeed picking up pace. Reading your poetry is such a welcome blessing. Thank you.
the way you paint such rich and vibrant portraits with precise economy is amazing. the green smell of the breadbox – and the last few lines – (i saw) a wave of crimson.
(the country is free – living in it isn’t)
Julie,
Thanks for visiting. I too think of The Committee as one of my faves, in which form and content match really well. You’re gracious as well as a fine poet.
Thanks, everyone. I really appreciate the comments. Sorry I haven’t responded personally to everyone. I’m now back home and catching up. I’ll be at your sites soon. Thanks again!
Hi Julie. How this is so true across this land the local governments wielding the sword of eminent domain, while someone’s pen is destroying all that the unrepresented knows.
I feel the lost and sorrow that old Buster Peacock must had gone through…
Great read…
Hi, George. It’s so nice to see you here. Yes, I get charged up about individual rights. And isn’t it ironic that eminent domain never seems to affect rich folks? I’m sure there are cases, but the majority of the time, poor people (or middle class) are the people who get crushed by the dozers. Thanks so much for your kind words, George!