In another Alabama town with no stop lights or main intersections, the King and I satisfied our curiosity abou the Faunsdale Bar & Grill.
As I scoured through the local newspaper in the hopes of running across some bunnies or hens for sale, the King instructed the ladies in a the fine art of how to roll and blow a good spitball through a plastic straw. Max couldn't resist the opportunity to arrange and rearrange the condiment bottles- a favorite pasttime since the tender age of two.
Waiting for the lucscious burgers and cabbage to arrive, I got a little restless and decided to wander up and down the street looking for stories to help make sense of Faunsdale. Any bit of rubbish held out the prospect of further illumination.
The "bar" next door was closed. The owner later told me that it is only open on certain days because Faunsdale is such a small town that there isn't a demand for a full-time bar and juke joint. I noticed that the flag above the entrance had been perched there for a long time. Was it intended to be symbol of history or a sign of warning? One never knows, and I seldom dare begin those conversations when still waiting for my food to be arrive.
The main street didn't give me much to read or untangle- not even crushed cigarettes suggesting a favored local brand.
So I focused on the bricks and the cobwebs between them- the way in which the spider's web healed the cracks by bridging them, by bringing everything back together on the surface with home-spun silk.
I sat on the hot cement sidewalk for a moment and tried to imagine what the future might bring to Faunsdale- if the future even bothered to visit. And then I remembered that a hot burger overflowing with mayo and tomatoes was waiting for me just two hollers down the street. So I left the sidewalks, the spiders and their stories in the hands of a less hungry suitor that may chance to pause and read what they see.
