Byron’s Vociferous Gun is Unloaded

“This jar of pickled radishes smell like a can of fart wafers!” her voice sliced through the cacophony of others in the big cold box we all referred to as our second home.  We hooped and hollered in response: “Ahhh...but they taste soooo good, Darla!”, “How do you know what the hell a can of fart wafers smells like?” and “Come over here, Darla, and I’ll finish off that jar for ya!”. Darla, unmoved by our enthusiastic response, pulls out her pocket notebook and shuns the room in favor of pen on smooth paper. A couple of new faces try to entice her attention away from the notebook, as the rest of us watch, awaiting the moment the new faces realize she’s gone. The sticky spot on the bar next to her, the new face whispering sweet nothings into her ear, the biting cold that forces its way under the door: none of these distractions deter her fingers from pushing ink into paper.

Then, the opening note seduces her. The lonely flugelhorn clears its throat, as the remaining members of The Zydeco Five take their familiar places in their corner. One by one, the accordion enters, followed by the washboard, then drums, and finally the fiddle. Together, they hasten the beat, hurry the rhythm until she’s enthralled. Her mind’s waltz of words shifts to a two-step of tones and notes.

By now, the new faces have caught the scent in the wind; they’ve moved on to Cindy down the bar. Darla’s eyes admire the motley gang of musicians, ears lusting for more, and her hand caresses the open pocket notebook on the bar. She seems undeterred from devouring the beauty within our little wooden box, until a ray of light leads her outside to the winter’s sunset rainbow.