Something To Chew On
February 11-17, 2019
By Becca Bona
When I was a kid, I had a traveling library. As in, I found a lovely old suitcase that was blue, slightly torn, and had old fashioned buckles across it. I filled the thing to the brim with books – from picture books to easy chapter reads and a few dictionaries I had managed to nick from my dad’s study.
That was all I needed, in my eight-year-old mind, to get good business. And why not? The best thing about a traveling library is that you don’t have to rely on foot traffic for business, you can utilize your own feet, and make your way to the busy areas.
My high traffic areas included the nearby, shared playroom.
Oftentimes I would plop down in the midst of my sister’s craft messes and open up my offerings to her beautiful wide eyes. I went to great pains to ensure that she could ‘check out’ a title or two on my hand-drawn timesheet.
And check out she did.
Knowing that bit about the library, then, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to know that I often fell into narrating the action around me. And, to the hilarity of those that know me now, there was always a bit of a somber, Edgar Alan Poe vibe to my descriptions. (You could say, I was much like the Emma Alana Poe that neverwas.)
For instance, the simple scenario of my mom offering me a freshly baked cookie would unfold in my mind, as follows.
Once upon a midday’s noontime,
A mother offered cookies, two times
Over the kitchen table she began to implore.
I, unsure of gooey treats, shook my head but began to eat,
Knowing that there would be more …
The only problem was when I happened to let a quote or two slip out loud. It was always interesting to explain to others, although my family came to expect it of me. No surprise to my parents, then, when I called that fateful day sophomore year of college to tell them the news.
“Mom, Dad, I’ve decided on a major.”
“That’s great, honey, what did you chose?”
As someone from a mostly medical family who had – up until that point – decided she was also going to go the medical route … I was nothing less than nervous.
“I’ve decided to go with English.”
“Oh, how great!”
Spoken in unison with a tone devoid of sarcasm my parents seemed – of all things – relieved.
And here we are now, dear readers.
While I haven’t been writing the great American novel or finishing up poetry on par with “The Raven,” I have been crafting something that I hope others will enjoy. In fact, our first issue of Brewed In Arkansas will hit newsstands in a couple of weeks.
If you’re into beer, you should come check out our launch party at the Flying Saucer in Little Rock on Thursday, Feb. 21 from 6 to 9 p.m.
Until then, I’ll be thinking about that fictional little Emma Alana Poe, wondering if she’s made it. Perhaps there is something knocking at my door …