Poem For Miss Sylvia (Who Lived and Cooked and Smiled… and We Were Glad)

Sylvia Woods ~ 1926-2012

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!




I remember Sylvia’s
Soul Food Restaurant
The way a small kid’s taste buds
Remember deliciousness, and
I recall Harlem-brown women
Stirring, boiling, baking, sweatin’
In tiny kitchens, preparing
Ambrosia with heaping helpings of
Love. I remember Sylvia’s

Soul Food Restaurant
In the colorful sway and easy flaunt of
Black people,
Brown, white, yellow and
Rainbow people
Getting a serious grub on…
You see, Miss Sylvia could
So easily charm ‘em and then
Her food could
Disarm ‘em with harmony.

I remember Miss Sylvia’s
Soul Food Restaurant
Like a flash of some celebrity’s
Sparkle in my
Left eye, and the sweet
Sound of Gospel
Music in my right ear.


Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Fix, here!

Southern fried chicken,
Smothered chops
Cornbread and grits
Sassy Catfish and collards
Macaroni and cheese
Sweet potato pound cake
And please, don’t even
Get me started on
Miss Sylvia’s Banana Puddin’

Laws Ham Merrrrrrcyyyy!

When I heard she’d passed
I felt saddened, like the rest
Of Harlem… and the world at large.
But then I just know now
The angels must chowin’ down
Getting their grub on
Their wings growing heavier
Lips bustin', eyes rollin,
With traces of
Heaven upon their tongues.

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!


We, who have witnessed
Her smile, or tasted
Her menu…
We thank you, so much
Miss Sylvia…
For whether young or old
Rich or poor, you have
Served and fed generations
And more…

The time has come to remove
Your apron, to loosen those strings,
To let them know you were
"The Queen
Of Soul Food..." as you
Sit down with kings
At the table before your
Heavenly Host.
And you can grin
That shy, Miss Sylvia grin…
And it’s okay to boast
How we on earth say your name
With smiles… and think of
The treasure you’ve given to Harlem
And think of the pleasure you’ve given
The world.

See, it’s called: leaving behind
A Legacy.


Not bad, for a colored girl
From South Carolina with
Some Soul
Food recipes and
A dream.


Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!





One.

*About Black Fedoras And Summer Sunday Rides With My Father

He knew how to wear a hat.

Trust me... that’s not always an easy (hat-) trick, when you’re a Black man, trying *not* to look like a pimp, a mack, a dandy, a fop or a player. My father was neither of those, yet he could rock a mean hat. Some cats just have it like that, instinctively.


My father possessed that uniquely smooth and utterly rare gift of slipping on a chapeau and becoming this cool and mysteriously enigmatic character. Though barely 5’8, he always stood taller in his fedora. It seemed as if his posture changed and he became this whole other Larger Being… at least, in my eyes.

I was discussing this phenom with my mom yesterday, as we were approaching yet another Father’s Day without his presence. Because his absence remains very much a FELT experience, she seemed determined to remember to be sad. And while I could only validate that emotion for her, an extended appointment with sadness was not placed upon my schedule. Instead, I spoke of a certain bronze-colored Oldsmobile Delta 88; how my father would take the family for long rides on summer Sunday afternoons, and how, from the backseat, in his fedora, he resembled some quietly Elegant Black King to my eyes.

When he died there inside that ER, a nurse brought his possessions into the waiting room. Perhaps she thought it would be too much for my mother to handle, so she signaled me into a quiet corner and she handed me his gold retirement watch, and his wedding band.

I tried like hell not to breakdown, fall to my knees, and weep like some little suddenly fatherless child, especially there in that setting. Although my brother publicly lost it, I'd somehow retained my stoic older bother composure. It was a very strange and rainy December day. It felt even stranger to me, holding those articles in my hand, as if the were supposed to somehow now represent this man I’d fondly called, “Da.”

A day or so after this, in a quieter, less hectic moment, I presented those articles to my mother. I hugged her tightly and for the longest time. Mind you, I still hadn’t cried, but I’d been meaning to. Curiously, that time would come much later.

After the funeral and after all the guests, after the food was consumed, and the stories were told, and the emotions displayed, after the hubbub and the shows of sympathy, when everything sat quietly in its own haunted space, my mother asked if wanted anything of my father’s.

I thought for a minute about the car (which never was my style) and the clothes (ditto, and were way too small), and finally, I said,

“You know that black fedora? The one he wore back in the day when he’d take us on those Sunday drives? I think I’d like to have that hat.”

Maybe it seemed like a peculiarly atypical request. But then, that was just me, being me. I was always her ‘strange poet son,’ and so she just shrugged, went into the closet they’d shared for over 35 years, fetched that hat, and she handed it to me.

I’ve placed it upon the top shelf in my closet. I hardly ever wear it. Over the years, I’ve thought of it as a kind of trophy to the modesty of his life, his quiet elegance; his one slice of mysterious cool, and his subtle sense of royalty.


And so, on Father’s Day, in lieu of tears, and instead of episodes in sadness, I slipped on that black fedora, and tried like hell to mirror my father’s style-- not pimp, not mack, not player, not fop, not dandy.

You know, just a Black man, in a black chapeau, with a smooth gift for becoming a cool and mysteriously enigmatic character.




That’s it. That’s all.


Happy Father’s Day to all you father’s out there, whether bio, step, adoptive, cat daddies or big daddies… and a Very Happy Father’s Day in Heaven to YOU, Da.


One Love.


Your son,

Lin



* repost