What hand-out at the door?

This sent earlier today to my new acquaintance, Laurie,

who wrote seeking information on sewer raccoons,

from her job for the Wheeling Symphony, in a building

that gives her a view of the Wheeling Suspension bridge.

Chief Seattle was right:

ALL THINGS ARE CONNECTED

A Coon’s Age

I was being driven by my chauffeur
Wife this morning to Kalypso’s
Formerly Jennifer’s which was
Formerly Dutchland Dairy which was
Formerly Hyde’s Grocery Store and other ventures
In my longening life here in Waukesha

And I said something about not having
Seen somebody “in a coon’s age”
Speaking of a long time
Which set us to wondering:
Just what is meant by “a coon’s age”?

And are we speaking of raccoons?
Or blacks
Who used to be African-Americans
Who used to be Negroes
Who used to be
From a different country

If raccoons are involved in the
Etymology of the saying
It puts one to wondering
Just how long does a raccoon live?

The sewer raccoons about which I’ve written,
The ones who come out of the storm grate
At the corner of Colton & Arcadian after nightfall
And who I believe have a sub-society
Underneath Waukesha

Run pretty spry
Or feisty some might say
So I don’t think they’re real old
But the ones I see could be the young-uns
Sent out from the throne chambers
Of the really old coons
To do the tribal re-con and gathering

There might be some really old
Old coons down there
With long beards
Shillelagh canes and ear trumpets

And they could be blind like moles
For not having seen the light of day
In so long;
And I bet early settlers in Prairieville
Speculated on them being l-o-n-g underground
Those old coons
The ones they hadn’t seen in a coon’s age.

Blacks live about as long as whites do
If they’re lucky
But that’s a whole nuther subject.
Some will read this and cluck their tongues
But I come from a twisted era when
Lawn ornament jockey boys’ heads
Weren’t painted white

And if you started out with
Eenie-meany-meiny-moe you finished up
With a “you know what” being caught by the toe.
So in my privater ruminations
as I bridge the generations
The White-Out is extraneous
And my pancakes are indeed silently buttered
By fast-running tigers
Chased by Little Black Sambo

Yet, I’m damn careful
Who I talk like this to.
A race was the poorer for concepts like that.
It was the pond I was born into
And had to swim to get to this
Coon’s age from which I’ll attrition out.

Someday; not today.


[Zep 2-13-2003]


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