Butterfield, Mo

Let's say, as a description exercise, I describe the town in which I live, Butterfield, Mo., to all of you adoring readers. It's a physical microcosm of Cassville, centered on a bow-shaped offshoot of HWY 37, with administrative faculties (i.e., "city hall,") located in the northern bit. Actually, geography-wise, that's about all it has in common with greater C-ville. You could start walking through it from any side and be on the other side in about 20 mins. Politics overwhelmingly conservative. Across from my house is the sewage treatment plant, which is the source of much managerial pride and scoffing at any questions of pragmatism thereof, as well as the town's (village's, hamlet's, insignificant outpost's,) exorbitant water-billing. There's a baptist church smackdab in the middle of the town's anatomy that is probably the nicest building within metro B-field. (A swanky McMansion lies on the outskirts of town, there since before "McMansion" would've been used to describe it.) Outside of the church is a small basketball court on which white and hispanic children can often be seen playing. Venerable melting pot, despite oft-overheard rascist complaints of elder white-folk. (Bit o' trivia: according to rumor, a black man spotted in the town of Cassville after midnight can be legally lynched. It's a law that's apparently still on the books. Liberal mecca, this place.) I've been to this court late at night, and the air was still and cool and tickled every bit of my lungs. I've walked every bit of this town. I wrote an essay on this that got me a B in Eng 101. The most notable features of the town? Maybe the railroad that splits the town in two. I've written stories on that, too. Maybe the bridge that goes over the tracks on the "southside." It's a covered bridge. With beams the color of a river and riverbed. There's a plaque posted to one of the beams that I can never quite read when I drive by, and always forget on the few occasions that I walk to the bridge. Maybe it would explain why such an expensive bridge was built on such a minor road. There's a small wedge shaped park that is the subject of many a photo by me and my sister Jerika. Once we lay on the two picnic tables in the park and hollered Ray Bradbury stories at each other through the wind. Many plans made there, few fruitful ones. But late, the streetlight there is an orange teepe of illumination spotted with moths and when you sit inside it you can see all the ghosts of your childhood pass before your eyes and cast you a dismissive wave that reminds you that it'll all be over before you know it.