Boogee (hard “g”) lives around the corner from our Fayetteville cottage. How do you spell your name, I asked? I don’t really know, she laughed. That’s just what everyone calls me.
One corner of Boogee’s dry-stacked rock wall is a shrine to Found Objects—lost or discarded sidewalk treasures discovered and relocated by neighbors strolling with sleepy headed toddlers, dedicated power walkers, Razorbacks headed to English class.
Partially hidden within fall leaves—a like-new pacifier, a purple plastic Easter egg, a man’s red and black striped necktie.
I contributed a red string with tiny black beads found on Dickson Street—nothing fancy or nice— oddly interesting. With my offering, I felt part of the neighborhood.
Near Boogee’s inviting front porch, she grows cotton! A single stalk , a specimen celebrated like a rare Japanese Maple. The cotton hangs white and heavy, ready to be picked. Beyond ready but still soft and beautiful.
When are you planning to pick your cotton, I asked? Oh I never pick it. I grow it every year for the birds. The birds take bits for their nests.
One of the reasons I lovelovelove Fayetteville…