and Freya knows it’s time for BBQ! We hit the road
from our house, drive west past Little Crab Orchard Creek
then cross the Big Muddy River towards Murphysboro
and drive towards the water tower’s faded yellow barrel
stamped with a big red apple. I pull into the gravel lot
and read the quote of the week: Successful people know
that small things done repeatedly have great power.

I park the car, sling my doxie’s tattered blue tote over
my shoulder and as I cross Pine St. look up and read: The work
we do on ourselves is the work we do on the world,
then glance to see if the band is setting up. I walk past
the chalkboard hog hanging above a stone hog bench
and read today’s feature: corn on the cob and cucumber
tomato salad. Inside the bar is full, so I sit on a stool

next to a rack of caps for sale: Praise the Lard! Love Fades,
BBQ Lasts Forever! then skim the labels on the sauce jars:
Hog Warsh, Apple City Red, Little Kick. I wait for
the waitress to hand me a menu, though I know she knows
my usual: pulled pork sandwich, baked beans and don’t forget
the chow or pink lemonade. Freya and I return outside,
find an empty picnic table. She scavenges leftovers

while I watch a couple on a tandem bicycle. Two kids
press their faces to the bar window where a Budweiser
light blinks below a pink pig. They mouth: “we like your dog.”
When our order arrives on a metal plate covered with red-
and-white checked paper, I hand Freya a bite of pork
while I crunch corn on the cob I’ve peppered and buttered.
The crowd trickles in, beer bottles in hand. An elderly couple

hold hands while a trio of siblings in Sunday dress pet Freya.
In exchange, the boy leaves a wing from a butterfly he tears apart.
The guitar man tests the mic then starts his jam, warms up
with Eric Clapton backed by a fiddle and soprano sax.
Our strawberry shortcake arrives in a warm white bowl
while a woman in a wheelchair parks in front of the band,
her moans and grunts an exuberant riff. Another woman

dressed like a songstress swoons and sways her hips
as if in a deep south cabaret. I pay my bill, and usual tip,
notice the words powered by pig on the receipt. I can’t help
but think of hog country where Sundays an ex and I
would lunch at Pickles Pub, Podunk Iowa, order saucy
southerners and apple sauce then afterwards cross
the street for homemade ice cream. I missed the State

Fair last year, monkey tail, cappatoast, poffertjes,
steak burgers. But none of that competes, not in this
moment, with this best BBQ joint in the region where
the magic dust is wholesomeness, where the live music
summer Sundays lets me blend in, sweeps me away. I hardly
want to leave but the weather is cooling and whipping
the flags above me so I place Freya back in her tote

then cross the corner beneath the Apple City banner,
turn to read the quote on the flip side of the signage:
It’s not where you choose to live but where you choose to stay.
As the clouds roll in, I roll down my car window and listen
to the strains of the woman in the wheelchair wail the blues.

Laura Sweeney facilitates Writers for Life in Iowa and Illinois. She represented the Iowa Arts Council at the First International Teaching Artist’s Conference in Oslo, Norway. Her poems and prose appear in sixty plus journals and thirteen anthologies in the States, Canada, Britain, Indonesia, and China. She is a PhD candidate, English Studies/Creative Writing, at Illinois State University.