Barbara Brown Koons
Barbara Brown Koons (1935-2021) was the oldest daughter of Ann and Scott Brown. She came of age in Mansfield in the aftermath of the Depression and WWII. When she was 20 years old she left Mansfield to attend the Northwestern School of Journalism. She spent most of the rest of her life in Indianapolis.
Barbara Koons was a writer and a poet. As an adult, the Soda Shop and her Mansfield childhood were constant silent companions for her and a consistent theme in her writing. She published a single book of poetry, Night Highway, 2004. She published frequently in midwestern poetry magazines.
"The house was a high, white, Victorian bride, scrolls and swirls, spindles and gingerbread, with a white veranda that swept around two sides like a full tiered wedding gown. It stood triumphant on the green carpet of summer, all lace and celebration, wreathed in sunlight, and roses, and bees humming in honeysuckle."
Barbara Koons, describing Hugh and Nora's house above the Soda Shop
-from Tears, Prayers, and Chocolate Sodas (1986)
Hugh and Nora's house above the Soda Shop
Souvenir
Barbara Brown Koons
In Night Highway (2004)
My father caged paper lions
with matchstick bars;
folded, pasted, painted, strung
a toothpick trapeze from a fishing line;
and The Greatest Show On Earth
paraded across our dining-room floor
into a tablecloth tent;
marching to brass razz-ma-tazz
only we could hear.
Our small ringmaster
in his red-crayon jacket
eventually disappeared
into the vacuum cleaner
along with several monkeys and a clown;
our elephants were overcome
by the roaring wind of its maw,
forgotten
until today, with my own children
seated in a steel arena
higher than a trapeze glides-
far below, a ringmaster
with my father’s eyes
snaps a whip-crack recognition.
My cardboard circus shimmers
in white-striped zebra light,
flashing me back,
back into a dusty tent
billowing luminous as a balloon,
with tigers bursting red
through orange paper fire;
drums, trumpets, dancing clowns,
popcorn, peanuts, souvenirs—
The ringmaster bows
with my father’s smile, tells me,
“Take your circus home with you,
tucked into a secret pocket,
slide your childhood tongue around it,
taste glitter, grit and straw.
It’s your chameleon, green and fleeting;
your pink and peacock feather bird,
singing in a yellow wind,
a purple pasteboard sky.”
Scott Brown (1909-1982)
The Clockmaker’s Daughter
Barbara Brown Koons
In Night Highway (2004)
Beyond the counter where I stand
the door into the workroom frames
her portrait like a small Renoir
her face, the focal point of light,
eyes steady blue beneath the blonde
hair falling smooth upon a white
blouse, its collar edged in lace.
Perched forward, she leans toward
her father’s hands, her hands clasped.
She’s tucked one foot beneath her,
the other, in a pink sock, swings free.
I have brought in the antique clock
from my grandfather’s pharmacy.
It lies before the clock-maker
it’s hands and face removed. I watch
the child’s eyes follow her father’s hands
as he probes into brass and steel.
The image of the two of them
intent among the rosewood tones
and shadows of mahogany,
turns in my mind an old key
unlocking a familiar door-
Where Grandfather halves a tulip bulb
To show me how the flower hides,
It isn’t there when parchment
layers fall away. My clock
begins its slow tick tock,
blending into other clocks,
like water running slow as melting snow.
I see the suns and moons revolve in unison, and understand
the click of memory that stops within another time and place
And then swings on. I am
still there, in the pharmacy,
With its tall rows of wooden drawers,
Medicinal odors of peppermint,
camphor, cloves, cod-liver oil-
still the child who sits
beside her grandfather at work,
perched on a stool, breathing in
the scents of his mysterious trade-
and at the same time, I am here,
part of today, in this small shop
where my memory swings, like her foot,
back and forth, back and forth.
The Soda Shop Clock