M. David Hornbuckle

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  • Ethelsville Revisited

    If you read my posts about spending New Years Eve at the Griffin farm in rural Pickens County, Alabama, about five miles from the Mississippi state line, you know about my long-time fascination with this area. I spent last Saturday out at the farm. I had a blast picking guitars with Big Charlie. He played me some of his original tunes, all of which I liked very much. Then Charlie introduced me to his neighbor Lawrence, whose family has been living around that general area since about 1830. Lawrence is very interested in local history, as well as the history or his family and his wife’s family. They are both in Sons/Daughters or the American Revolution, and they both know quite a bit beyond what’s written down in books about that area.

    One of the most interesting stories Lawrence told me was about a gentleman to whom historians refer only as “Mr. Hancock.” He was a resident of what was then called Yorktown, which was later named Ethelsville after Mr. Hancock’s daughter, Ethel. All Wikipedia says about Ethel is that she was “a one time resident and staple of the community. She was famous for being Mr. Hancock’s daughter.” It says far less about Mr. Hancock himself.

    According to Lawrence, Mr. Hancock was known in the community as “Square” Hancock. He added that just as you call a bald man “Curly” or a fat man “Slim,” Mr. Hancock was called “Square” because he was a crook. He once burned down a neighbor’s barn because the neighbor refused to sell him some land. Hancock also ran a general store in town, which I’m sure positioned him for all sorts of shady dealings. I’m certain my further investigation into this matter will result in more Faulknarian tales of double-crossing, violence, and drama.

    Another interesting note is that when they built the railroad through Yorkville, the railroad line missed the town by about half a mile. The people of the town essentially picked up and moved everything over a half a mile so they could have a railroad station there. That’s when it changed over from Yorkville to Ethelsville. I need to dig a little more into this as well.

    Thanks again to Charlie and his wife Kathleen for their extreme hospitality. I’ll be back to visit again soon.

  • We Shall Overcome, We Shall Not Be Moved

    A friend from out of town came to visit, and I decided I’d take her to the Civil Rights Museum because it was her first time visiting Birmingham. And it happened to be Martin Luther King Day, so there was free admission. However, this also meant that there was a two-hour wait to get into the museum. We stood in the line anyway for a while and watched the parade go by, led by Bishop Calvin Woods singing “We Shall Overcome” through a megaphone. This would have been a powerful image, had it not been immediately followed by a high school marching band doing Solid Gold dance moves down the middle of the street.

    We stood there and watched as the parade culminated at the 16th Street Baptist Church across the street, the church that served as a war room for the civil rights foot soldiers in Birmingham, the church that was bombed by the KKK in 1963, killing four young black girls, the church where Dr. King and Reverend Shuttlesworth inspired the people from the pulpit. As the parade wound to a close, the line to go into the museum barely moved, so we decided maybe it would make more sense to just come back the next day when it wouldn’t be as crowded, even though it would no longer be free to get in.

    My friend then felt drawn toward the church and asked if we could just go in there. I said it looked like we could, but I didn’t know if there would be anything to see. It’s just a church, I said. She said, “Yeah, but it’s THE church.” So, mainly out of blind curiosity, we followed a crowd inside and up the stairs to the balcony. Before we could see anything, we could hear that a service was starting and we agreed that if we went in, we’d be committed to staying in there a while.

    Bishop Woods was in the middle of giving his opening remarks when we sat down. There were a surprising number of empty seats. However, throughout the service people were coming and going constantly. And at the height of the celebration, there were only a few seats vacant, but a large number of people were standing in the back anyway as if it were a full house.

    Next, Reverend Luther Williams gave an opening prayer, which was more of an improvised song than what I’m used to calling a ‘prayer,’ complete with backing of the house organist (who was amazing, by the way). As the invocation became more and more impassioned, multitudes of Amens and other interjections whooped out from the pews. I asked my friend if she’d ever seen anything like this before. She said she had not.

    Bishop Woods came back and said a few more words about the historical events being commemorated, from the perspective of a man who was there and participated in those events. Then he introduced the Movement Choir. I think that’s when I started crying, and the tears kept streaming through much of the next two hours. I did manage to capture about 30 seconds of video on my phone.

    One reason I was so moved was that I realized this is a group of people who do not take for granted their freedom, that do not take for granted the gift of being alive. These are not people who lie in bed for 16 hours agonizing over how meaningless their lives are like I often do. They don’t have time for that shit, and they make it meaningful. I was just overwhelmed by the passion for life that I was witnessing, from the speakers, from the choir, and from the audience.

    Speaker after speaker made rousing, inspiring, animated, and colorful presentations, often moved by the spirit to burst out in song. The people in the pews danced, sang, clapped, and shouted out exultation. I’m not going to recap everything that happened. There was just too much. I’ve been to the Civil Rights Museum. It’s great. It’s moving. But this was the real thing–not a museum–a real civil rights rally featuring seasoned warriors of that movement. And that didn’t capture half of what was so incredible about it.

    As we were leaving, my friend and I marveled at everything we had just witnessed and how we almost missed it completely, and at the fact that we could even just go in there and see it so casually. My friend said, “That’s the first time church has ever actually worked on me. Ever. It made me want to be a better person.” I felt that same way exactly.

  • Reminder: Show tonight

    Tonight is the debut of my new band with Brent Stauffer and Tym Cornell. I’ve known both of these guys for almost 20 years, and I’m excited to be playing music with them both again. The music this band plays is catchy, melodic rock and roll with a little bit of folksiness here and there.

    We sound a little something like this:

    http://www.youtube.com/user/mdhornbuckle?feature=mhum#p/a/u/0/PqvrhNtju4o
    http://www.youtube.com/user/mdhornbuckle?feature=mhum#p/a/u/1/QI1kVgdFWgg

    Tym’s band, Results of Adults, is playing second. He’s a great songwriter in his own right–with a lot of psychedelic influence.  Our band will also be playing one of Tym’s songs, as well as a couple by our old songwriting partner George Mostoller.

    The opening band, Hifidelics, is a surf rock band. I haven’t heard them personally but I’ve been told on authority that they are very good, and it’s probably unfair to make them open. They should probably be headlining.

    The cover is a mere $5, and you’ll get to see three awesome bands. The first band will go on promptly at 9pm.

    See you at Sipsey.

  • Zen, Mississippi Promo Swag

    There are dozens of virtually useless ZMS promo items you may purchase for your amusement on the Tritone Media cafe press site.

    All the items include the beautiful book cover design created by Marie Mundaca. There are t-shirts, post cards, clocks, buttons, and all kinds of other nonsense.

    Enjoy.

  • New Band Debuts in Less than Two Weeks

    Saturday, January 15 at my favorite local watering hole, Sipsey Tavern.

  • New Year’s Eve Part II

    My novel, Zen Mississippi, takes place (largely)  in a fictional town called Lyonness near the Alabama/Mississippi state line. I based this town on some of the rural communities I used to drive through when I was living in Columbus, MS, particularly those along US Highway 82 in Pickens County, Alabama. I had a friend and bandmate at that time who was from Ethelsville, in that county. Ethelsville is actually much smaller than what I imagine Lyonness to be, but its location and topography is very much what I had in mind when I was writing the book (except on the MS side of the line instead of the AL side). I always had a fascination with that whole area. There is something odd and mystical about it.

    Seven or eight years ago, when I was living in New York and the book was “in process,” some friends of mine introduced me to their new roommate, Daniel, and they told me he was from Alabama. I asked him where in Alabama he was from, and he was quite surprised that I had actually heard of Ethelsville and knew where it was, and that I actually knew someone else who was from Ethelsville. As I mentioned in a previous post, this town has a population of about 80 people.

    So years went by, and I frequently saw Daniel at parties and around town. In a coincidence that is only mildly related to this story, I had a neighbor in my building that also knew Daniel because they’d gone to the Alabama State Math & Science high school in Mobile together (tangentially related weirdness: when I met THAT guy, it was not in my  building but at a show, and we discovered by casually talking that we were not only both originally from Alabama but also lived in the same building).

    Then I moved back to Alabama a few months ago, and I sent Daniel a note saying we should hang out when he comes home to visit. He replied that I should come to his family’s New Years Eve party because it’s a big blowout. This was during the summer. By December, I almost entirely forgot about this invitation.

    A few weeks ago, through mutual friends in Birmingham, I met a dude named Charlie. We have been around each other a few times but haven’t talked much. We have a lot of friends in common. I started hearing things about a New Year’s Eve party at Charlie’s parents’ farm, but I didn’t think I knew Charlie well enough to invite myself. But then I saw the event listing on Facebook, and I noticed this party was in Ethelsville. Then I noticed Charlie and Daniel were both listed as hosts and that they had the same last name. With some digging, I confirmed that they were brothers, and I realized I had actually already been invited to this party months ago.

    But the strings of coincidences don’t actually even end there, though this next part doesn’t really have to do with the New Year’s Eve party so much.

    During the time when I was living in Mississippi, attending MUW, I had a few poems published in the college literary magazine. I got a fan letter from a girl who was then in high school, and I wrote her back.  And then I never heard from her again, until one day she noticed that I posted a comment on Daniel’s facebook wall. This is an excerpt from an actual conversation I had with her.

    Me: What a small world this is. So you know Daniel. And I know Daniel because he lived with some friends of mine in New York. AND he went to high school in Mobile with one of my neighbors. And I am obsessed with Pickens County.

    Her: Daniel and I went to high school together. It was because of his status comment that I saw you. Oh, and your ex-wife is my best friend’s sister.

    The fan girl, unfortunately, could not make it to the party this year, but you can see that this whole weird thing simply deepened the intrigue that led me to attend. And then, almost as an afterthought, this also all ties back to my ex-wife Doris who hardly even talks to me anymore (for good reason, but that’s another long story).

    AND to bring it all back around, my college friend who was from Ethelsville was one of the very few people who actually attended my wedding, and in fact, now that I think about it, he was likely the person to first introduce me to Doris.

    Diagram below for those who have trouble following this:

    Diagram

  • New Years Eve in Pickens County

    This tale is in two parts: First the party. Coming up next, the odd way in which I came to be there.

    Ethelsville, Alabama is a town in Pickens County with a population of about 80 people, 3 miles from the Mississippi state line. The Griffin family constitutes about ten percent of that number, and they have this party every year, but this was the first year I’ve attended. The Griffin’s farmhouse  where the party took place was a little off the road, so I didn’t see it at first. Finally I noticed the long dirt driveway, and when I followed it a little way, I saw the cars. And the fire. This, however, was only the little fire. Just a little campfire for people to stand around and be warm while they smoked cigarettes. The real fire would come later.

    I walked in and said hello, and then I delivered my chocolate pecan pie to be entered in the pie contest. The contest is a tradition, but it isn’t always pie. (update later with examples of previous years’ contests). The evening started off very casual and mellow. I joined some friends sitting on the floor for a card game. Soon the pie judging began.

    Judges trying my pie.

    There were six judges and a complex scoring system that I never quite got the gist of. Two categories: sweet pies and savory pies.

    I did not win. Two pies that tied for first in the sweet category were a blueberry pecan pie baked in an earth oven and some sort of strawberry kiwi thing that completely frightened me, but I’ll take peoples’ word that it was good enough to win. The winning savory pie was a sausage and feta pie.

    After the judgment was announced, it was time to start the bonfire. Now, you should know that there were lightning storms off and on throughout the night, and at the particular time that it was decided to start the bonfire, it was raining rather heavily. However, this did not hinder the fire. Below is a picture from earlier in the day when the bonfire was being constructed.

    Building a fire.

    They had bought a number of unsold Christmas trees from a lot to use as kindling, and I think there was a fair amount of kerosene involved as well. No amount of rain was going to prevent this bonfire from happening.

    As it turned out, a few minutes after it started, the rain let up for a while. But the downpour continued in waves. At one point there were a dozen of us huddled under a plastic tarp, and we shuffled the entire group like a Chinese dragon from one side of the fire to the other so the person on the end could get another beer. The fire was spectacular, and I wish I had a better picture to properly demonstrate the scale of this thing, and perhaps some will be uploaded to the internets later. But here is a crappy picture taken with my cell phone.

    The fire ablaze

    What you can’t see are all of the other little fires, Swedish log candles, that were lighting the pathway from the house to the bonfire. It was truly a spectacle, and the fire works had not yet even begun.

    About a half an hour before midnight, began the tradition known as the burning cauldron of death. This was a cast iron cauldron, filled about three feet above the brim with bottle rockets, whistlers and Roman candles. Then kerosene was poured down a hole in the middle, and the cauldron was hoisted on top of a tree stump pedestal, four or five feet above the ground. This is what it looked like before it was lit.

    The flaming cauldron of death before becoming flaming

    That’s me holding the umbrella above the cauldron to keep the fireworks from getting wet. Once the cauldron was placed on the pedestal, one of the Griffin boys grabbed a shovel full of coals from the bonfire, poured them into the cauldron, and yelled “Run.”

    It took several minutes for all of the fireworks to go off, and a fire continued to burn in the cauldron for at least an hour. The stump pedestal was also on fire. This is how we party down here.

    After the fireworks, we returned to the house, where Mrs. Griffin had made dozens of petite sandwiches that had been doused with some sort of delicious marinade and then baked. They were delightful.

    After eating several of those, I fell asleep on a sofa, but as I understand it, there was some sort of hot tub activity going on while I slept. I woke up this morning to Mr. Griffin and one of the sons making black eyed peas, ham, and barley for breakfast/lunch.

    It was an awesome, awesome party, and I can’t thank the Griffins enough for their hospitality. I think that if I’m within 200 miles of Pickens County on any future New Years Eve, I will have to go back. Next… the strange circumstances that brought me to Ethelsville.

  • New Issue of STR is Online, Sort Of

    We believe we can say that our first issue was a success both from the standpoint of the quality of material we ended up with and with the readership we acquired. However, we are making a couple of changes based on lessons learned over the past two months.

    December was slow, traffic-wise, what with all the holidays and such and all the content we were not posting. To rectify this, moving forward, we are going to start taking more advantage of the blog format facilitated by the WordPress platform we are using. Instead of doing a typical “issue” every month or two as initially planned, we will begin posting content as we approve it.

    For the January 2011 issue, we have already made our selections, but we will post one or two pieces every couple of days throughout the month. We will keep doing an editor’s note periodically along with a table of contents that will be updated as new work is posted, thus creating the illusion of preserving the old-fashioned print media paradigm of “issues.”

    To kick off the new issue, please enjoy Brent Stauffer’s short story, “A Good Snow.”

  • Toot Toot

    Today was my last day tutoring at Woodlawn High School for the semester. I really only got three sessions in because the program started only this month, I was going twice a week, and one week it was canceled due to testing. Next semester I hope to be able to commit to more days. I’m only barely starting to break the ice with these kids. But today I made some noticeable progress with them.

    I have four students, a girl and three boys, all tenth graders. Even though I was told what to expect, it’s kind of shocking how poor their basic spelling and grammar skills are in general. Between the handwriting and the spelling, I can’t even read what they write a lot of the time, and I have to have them read it aloud to me (I’ve also caught them more than once “reading” something they hadn’t actually written down). But three of them seem to have a genuine interest in bettering their situations and improving their chances of one day going to college. The fourth one, one of the boys, is kind of a trouble maker and so far hasn’t written a single word. We’ll call this one Bradley. On the day of our second session, I found him hiding between stacks in the library trying to avoid me. Then he “accidentally” threw his pen in the trash along with a piece of paper (on which he had written nothing but his name), and he refused to go through the trash can and retrieve it.

    Sigh.

    I’m trying to get them to focus on a simple expository essay about how to do a task. One boy is writing about how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Another is writing about how to cook an egg. The girl is writing about cleaning her room. I’m trying to get them to add more details each week, to describe even the most obvious steps in the process, explain the importance of the task. Have an introduction and a conclusion.

    Bradley spends each session either bothering the girl sitting next to him (I will not have them sitting next to each other next semester) and claiming he can’t think of anything he knows how to do.

    Me: You don’t have to do any chores at home?

    Bradley: No, I got people to do that.

    Me: Do you know how to cook anything, make anything, fix anything?

    Bradley: No.

    Me: Is there a video game you are good at?

    Bradley: I don’t play games.

    Me: Do you dress yourself everyday?

    Bradley: My mama does that for me.

    Me: Now I know you’re just being goofy. Think of something.

    I tried to get them to ask and answer questions like why you would make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (because your mom isn’t home, the ingredients are in the house, it’s easy to do, and you are hungry). And the steps involved are more than just (1) get the bread (2) get the peanut butter and jelly (3) eat the sandwich. You have to open the peanut butter, spread it on the bread with a knife, etc. I said to explain it as if you are explaining it to someone from outer space who has no idea why or how this is done.

    It’s hard to get them to recognize these concepts, but today I outlined it all on a dry erase board. I really felt like a teacher for the first time, and they all copied down what I wrote, even Bradley.

    Technically, I should go there again on Thursday, but the kids already told me not to bother. All their classes are having end of the semester parties. They will be there, but they won’t be there. So I said fine, I’ll see them all in January.

    Despite the difficulties, this feels very much like the sort of thing I’m meant to be doing right now. I’ll get more involved in the program in 2011.

  • Sewer Hole Joe

    Over brunch this past weekend in New Orleans, Celino Dmitroff told me this story of his childhood, which I am going to retell for you as best I can.

    Celino was about six, living in Hawaii, and he’d wandered far from his house to the edge of the water. An old wino known around town as Sewer Hole Joe saw him there and asked him what he was doing, and he said he wasn’t sure how to get back home. Joe asked Celino to describe what was nearby where he lived, and all Celino could remember was a Kentucky Fried Chicken. “I know just where that is,” said Joe.

    As they walked, Joe and Celino talked about all sorts of things that were totally inappropriate to talk about with a young kid, but Celino found him fascinating.  Things like how to use a lighter to squeeze the last few drops out of a liquor bottle, or how to poke a hole in the cork of a wine bottle and suck the wine through the cork so it won’t spill if you pass out.

    Celino noticed that every time they passed a pay phone or newspaper stand, Joe checked it for change, and when he found something, he’d say “Bingo!” and his face would light up. Finally they got back to Celino’s neighborhood, and he went on home.

    Over the next few weeks Celino would run into Joe from time to time. Celino came to learn that Joe lived in a sewer, that he had it set up pretty good with electricity he’d run from a nearby building.Whenever Celino found himself with change in his pocket, he’d leave it in a pay phone for Joe to find later. One day, Celino saw Joe sitting in front of a store counting change. So Celino walked up and said, “Hey, did you get the money I left for you in the pay phone?”

    Joe said, “You left this for me?”

    Celino said that yes, he left change for him there all the time. Sewer Hole Joe then started crying. And then Celino started crying because he thought he had hurt Joe’s feelings. And then, by happenstance, Celino’s mother drove up and saw her son sitting with this wino, both of them weeping. Of course, she wanted to know what the hell was going on and what the hell Sewer Hole Joe was doing with her son.

    “This is your son?” Joe said. “He is one of the most gracious people I’ve ever met.” And then Joe proceeded to tell her what Celino had been doing.

    She was not moved by the story. She accused her son of stealing change from her and demanded that he stop spending time with winos.

    As Celino wrapped up the story, he teared up a little, wondering if Sewer Hole Joe was still alive.

    I could only think about how I could turn this tale into some kind of updated Huckleberry Finn type thing, but then I thought, no… This is Celino’s story. I’ll just share it more or less the same way he shared it with me. So there you are. You are welcome.