" Mr. Boo "
Mama warned us never to go into the pumpkin
field at the end of our street after dark. "The booger
man, he live in dare and he eats dey kids. Roasts 'em
on a spit over a fire he make to keep warm and to cook
dey little chil'en when dey sun she go down." We didn't
listen. The field, patched with pockets of peanuts,
outlined with pecan trees and Cajun-moss covered oaks,
was our camp, cowboy town, castle with moat.
We learned to swing from trees, slid on blankets
of cold, brown mud after the great hurricane
named Camille. On a Halloween night we played hide
and seek to find the booger man. Gray-haired,
indigo-eyed grasshopper with a smile as bright
as the sun he followed. Knapsack, harmonica,
clothes on his back. "Nothing to fear," Mr. Boo chided.
"If there's a booger man in your nose, just blow him out.
Let's dance." And we sang, "Sleepin' with the daisies
after hikin' all day, some folk like a feather bed,
but give me new mown hay." Mama never knew
we found a boogie-woogie man instead.
© 2002 Dane Hebert
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