Wesley Slaughter

A huge part of my childhood was the annual Barbecue Festival. It was one claim to fame that my small town had. We didn’t have much. We had the bluegrass museum, a big river hotel named the Executive Inn, high levels of illiteracy, and the International Bar-B-Q Festival. It was one of my favorite times of the year. There would always be inflatables, always live music, and, of course, always good ole’ barbecue. For our little town there was an influx of vendors and, surprisingly, tourists seeking great food and fun times (however, they were probably folks from neighboring counties).  I remember as a kid wandering from stall to stall, looking through the wears of these traveling artisans, my eye ever drawn to the toy swords. I remember watching the Goldie’s Opry perform every year on Friday night. There was always seventeen different food vendors lined up beside each other, all essentially selling the same thing, each offering novelty cups to grab your business. Every Saturday our ch...

In this one you laugh. I recall the day. I hated wearing all white. There was that sweater vest with the itchy wool; I felt constrained by the collared shirt underneath. You told each grandchild their role, calling out my name to sit still. I could never sit still. We sat on a blanket in your giant yard. The scent of freshly cut nature lingered: that sour smell of crabgrass, the dead leaves, Woodbury. You laughed in this one because of the cooky cameraman who tried to grab our young attention. He wore a bandanna on his head and wore ripped, light washed jeans and a dirty white t-shirt. The dark circles around his eyes, gaunt face, and spindly structure revealed his sickness. You laughed at the absurdity of dangling grandchildren and their respective parents, being the strong matriarch everyone looked to for guidance. You exemplified beauty and grace which mixed so well with a calm strength and gentle control. That was why you could laugh. You knew everything was okay and that we woul...