Just south of Main and Vance, on the bluff of Memphis’ piece of the Mississippi, there’s a small inlet, a side arm, a small body of swirling water about as big as a golf course pond. It’s hardly a lake. But people know it as Screamers Lake.

It’s where the river water flowing south gets caught up in the circular shape of this part of the river bed sleeve and swirls back against itself. The mere history, age and size of the river sustain this swirl. Wood, sediment and pieces of old boats get lodged here and form a pseudo-dam to the rest of the river. Over the years, trees and shrubs have sprung up in the lodged stuff. Nearby, there are solid banks of grass and rock to settle on, or one can venture out onto the shore, getting your feet wet and screaming there.

That’s actually where the wind blows hardest – right near the water. You have to have at least your toes in the water before you can feel the wind. Here, you know your screams will be carried down the river to the Gulf of Mexico. Historically in this city, the wind rarely blows up anything but a  10-minute thunderstorm. But for some reason, here, there was always a breeze that would blow the cap right off your head … and the scream away from your face.

A friend of mine  - his name was Charlie - he introduced it to me on a trip home, a long time ago.  Maybe 1997. I don’t know.  Anyway, I never have screamed.  But I used to watch him howl though. Howl like a motherfucker. Howl like scary, like where the hell did that kind of pain come from.   He was one of the kindest, biggest teddy bear a person could know, you know?  Charlie Howlin’ … it was something, I’ll tell you.

I still regret it, not screaming when I could.

I don’t know…

It’s so hard to go back home,

least of all to scream.