It’s a strange town, to say the least. Several blocks, and few trees to speak of (our street has 1). BB King lives across the street, behind an old door hiding beneath cracking red paint. There’s a wooden bulldog plaque above his house number. His name is Dave, his business card says Duke, but I just call him BB. On a quiet day you can hear him playing, his guitar sounds drift up and out of his house, out onto the block. Sometimes if you’re lucky, he sings, and his surprising voice rises smoothly, singing the blues. He’s lived on the block for 30 years, and seems to know everyone, and on good terms. He’s got a big black straw hat he wears sometimes, and the ladies make fun of him, the way he struts in his hat. We called out to him from the stoop and he sauntered over, told us “This is my blues guy hat,” and sauntered back down the street. He’s confident, and likeable, and he can play that guitar.

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