One Kentucky Writer

Divine Inspiration

2012-02-10T11:02:00.007-06:00

There never was a great soul

that did not have some divine inspiration.

~Marcus T. Cicero~

Bobby and Betty

2012-01-23T14:07:00.012-06:00

I received my contributor copies of the February/March 2012 issue of of Looking Back Magazine in the mail today. It contains my nonfiction piece, "The Little Seat."

As I was bumping over those country roads on the school bus all those years ago, obsessing about Bobby and Betty, I never dreamed I would someday write a story about them. And their story would be published.

I like to think they would be pleased.

Lost

2012-01-17T23:48:00.000-06:00

I received great news today! My short story, "Lost," has been accepted for publication in Barely South Review, a literary journal in Norfolk, Virginia. It is published by students and faculty of The MFA Program in Creative Writing at Old Dominion University, the Norfolk Division of the College of William & Mary.

"Lost" will appear in their September 2012 issue.

Treasure Each Moment

2012-01-08T12:20:00.046-06:00

This morning, while gazing at this sweet photo of my daughter, Suzanne, and her granddaughter, Kamryn, I dug out more pictures from the past. And I'm glad I did. They reminded me of the swift passage of time and how we should treasure each moment we have with our loved ones.

Kamryn and Grammy
January, 2012

Suzanne and me
July, 1965

Grandson Chase and me
Fall, 1986

Chase and daughter Kamryn
December, 2011

Happy New Year, Dear Friends!

2011-12-31T18:44:00.000-06:00

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-24T23:03:00.000-06:00

Christmas waves a magic wand over this world,

and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.

~Norman Vincent Peale~

Writing

2011-12-17T10:53:00.000-06:00

The profession of writing is a violent, indestructible passion.

When it has once entered people's heads, it never leaves them.

~George Sand~

Kamy

2011-12-02T15:08:00.004-06:00

Each time I gaze into your eyes,
I thank God for you.

~Granda~

(Photo: Amanda Melton)

Luvean Revisited

2011-11-19T11:40:00.013-06:00

Mary Ellen, Mother and I with the Oak Ridge Boys

Mother, Mary Ellen and I had a great time last night. We were guests of The Oak Ridge Boys at their Christmas show here in Paducah. We were also invited back stage where this photo was taken (thanks to Eddie's Photography).

As readers may recall, The Oaks considered recording a song (Luvean's Leavin') Mother and I wrote back in 1983; however, it never came to fruition. But the minute they saw us last night, Duane yelled, "I had a true love, her name was Luvean!"

"She's a'fixin', she's a'fixin'," yelled Joe.

We were flabbergasted. "Y'all remember the words after all these years?"

Joe laughed. "Sure we do! Even our kids know the words!"

Before we could digest this, Duane chimed in, "Could you send us another copy?"

I dug up another tape of the famous Luvean's Leavin' this morning and sent it to the Oak Ridge boys.

Stay tuned. We'll see what happens this time around!

A Poem, Yellowed and Creased

2011-11-16T13:21:00.017-06:00

~Dreams~

Dreams are like mist at evening,

Blown in from the cold, gray sea;

A night bird's lonely calling

For things that never can be;

Like down from a thistle passing

On the wings of a summer breeze,

Or the heartache in the murmer

Of whispering, restless trees.

Sometimes, like distant music

Strangely sweet and clear,

I dream I hear you calling,

And feel that you are near.

Mabel Clare Thomas

Note: I found this poem, yellowed and creased, clipped to an entry in my journal when I was sixteen, long before I had suffered loss of any kind. It was as if I somehow knew it would be relevant in the years to come.

God Bless Veterans Everywhere.

2011-11-11T11:40:00.003-06:00

In war, there are no unwounded soldiers.

~José Narosky~

Welcome to the world, Kamy!

2011-10-31T11:03:00.053-05:00

My heart is full today, dear readers. On Saturday, October 29, at 6:30 a.m., I became a great-grandmother!

Kamryn Elizabeth Monical was five weeks early (4 lbs., 3 oz., 17 inches long), but the doctor says she's as healthy as can be. The above picture was snapped by her Grammy just minutes after she was born.

Welcome to the world, Kamy!

A Letter From Brooklyn

2011-10-17T12:49:00.000-05:00

Mother is the family historian. She has saved everything from our ration books from WW II to family letters. And I'm so glad she did. This letter is Uncle Leo's response to Maw Maw Wilson's letter informing him of Mother and Daddy's wedding on January 26, 1938:

Style

2011-10-14T13:41:00.000-05:00

Style is knowing who you are,

what you want to say,

and not giving a damn.

Beginnings

2011-10-11T08:57:00.023-05:00

I have been ignoring my blog of late and I apologize. My characters are clamoring to be heard and refuse to be ignored. Following are the beginnings of stories I'm working on:

People Like Them

Beech Grove, Kentucky
August 5, 1960

My dear cousin Lillian,

I am so sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but a most horrible tragedy occurred last Friday night. Tommy Lee Timmons shot and killed Marianna, and then he killed himself. That's the worst thing that has happened since Lucian Tuck chased the banker down Main Street and mowed him down in front of McElroy's Grocery back in the thirties. Remember? Momma was hosting Bridge Club that day and we were playing in the front yard when Papa came home with the news.

As you can imagine, rumors are rampant. Some people are saying Tommy Lee killed her in a blind rage because his supper wasn't ready on time. Others are saying Marianna got so tired of Tommy Lee’s drinking and carrying on that she banished him to that old shed behind their little shotgun house. They say he kept getting more and more worked up about it and just snapped and blew her away.

But, dear Lillian, here's the real shocker: Olivia Stanton has it on good authority that Marianna was having an affair with a fine, upstanding man in the community who is married!

Basketball Fever

It was a cold, windy morning near the beginning of spring, my Sophomore year, when the principal poked his head in the door of our history class.  I could hear the bounce, bounce, bounce of basketballs in the gym where the Indians were practicing nonstop for the big game with Paducah Tilghman.  If we won, we would go on to the regionals at Murray State and maybe win the state title.

"Pupils, I have some real bad news," Mr. Perkins said, "Louetta Alcock has just been killed in an automobile accident."

There was a group gasp followed by nervous twittering. One girl left crying. I was dazed, dumbfounded, various questions zipping through my mind: Was she ejected from the car and died on the highway, looking peaceful, as if asleep? Trapped in the car, dying in a pool of blood, face mashed beyond recognition?

As the March winds squalled around the corners of the old school house, the air charged with anticipation about the big game and my crush on the basketball star in full swing, I felt I might explode.

And now this.

The Transient Hotel

Fred Watts sits in his worn recliner, gazing at the ancient hotel next door. Several transients are languishing in the two porch swings, vacant looks in their eyes. No doubt anticipating their daily trek to nearby liquor stores, thinks Fred. He watches them leave around noon each day, returning with bottle-shaped brown paper bags, some taking swigs every now and then, eyes darting here and there; others hurrying back to the hotel, expectant looks on their faces.

Fred sighs, wishing he were a drunk. Then he would have something to look forward to.

The Making of a Fruitcake

"Lila had a spell last night," Granny said.

“Oh, no,” said Momma, “A bad one?”

Granny nodded, a sorrowful look on her face. “Earl's gonna have to take her to Memphis.  He said she made four cakes last night and three the night before.”

“Poor Earl," Momma said, "It’s such a shame.”

Granny shook her head. “If the shock treatments don’t help, I don’t know what he’ll do."

Suddenly, Momma spotted me. “Cassie, What are you doing in here on a nice day like this?  Go on outside and play.”

I knew that was coming. Every time they talked about Lila Worthington, Momma sent me out to play. And I resented it. After all, I was not a baby.  I was almost eleven years old.

Besides, what was wrong with making cakes?

Leave a Trail

2011-10-03T14:21:00.000-05:00

Do not go where the path may lead,

go instead where there is no path

and leave a trail.

~Ralph Waldo Emerson~

The Great Pretender

2011-09-21T11:18:00.000-05:00

I loved all rock & roll music when I was growing up: Elvis, Fats Domino, Buddy Holly, The Platters, The Drifters, Ricky Nelson, Pat Boone. The list goes on. But no songs struck a chord in me like the Five Satins' In the Still of the Night, followed closely by To the Aisle. I listened to the radio day and night, and each time those songs were played I danced around and around the room, pretending I was dancing with whichever boy I had a crush on at the time.

Is it any wonder The Great Pretender was another favorite of mine? :)

Ancient People From Another Time

2011-09-19T12:19:00.076-05:00

They were always there, in the shadows. They seemed unreal, like the heavy dark furniture that crouched against faded cabbage-rose wallpaper in the parlor. Or in the bedrooms, where the scent of mothballs hung in the air and portraits of long-ago ancestors held court.

Then one day, when I was four years old, they became real to me:

Maw Maw George and I are spending the day with them: my great-grandparents, Granny and Pappy and my great-great aunt Hannah.

They greet us warmly. When Granny hugs me, I pick up the scent of something foreign, dark, exotic. But not unpleasant. As she talks, a stick in her mouth rolls from one side of her mouth to the other, and I stand, gazing at it. Why does she have that little stick in her mouth, I wonder.

“You have such pretty curls, Brenda Gail!” she says, smiling at me and patting my head, “Let’s go ahead in here and get you a little something to eat."

She hurries out to the big kitchen and I follow along behind. As she opens a cabinet drawer and rummages around in it, I gaze at her black, lace-up shoes, fragile legs rising toward the hem of her dress like the thin stalks of Maw Maw’s palm plant.

She pulls out a bag of marshmallows. “Get you some, hon.”

She allows me to take as many as I want, so I stuff two in my mouth and put several in the pocket of my green corduroy jumper.

She pushes a tendril of grey hair from her face with one blue-veined hand, the stick rolling back and forth. Suddenly, she turns, sniffing the air. “My beans!”

I follow her into the big country kitchen, where the tongue-in-grove walls are painted a bright blue. In one corner stands a large yellow pie safe; in the opposite corner is a tall cupboard the color of Buttercups. I study the pattern on the linoleum as she settles into the worn spot in front of the iron stove and lifts the lid of a big pot.

The ham-and-beans smell makes my mouth water.

Maw Maw enters the kitchen. “Do you want to go on in the living room, Brenda,” she says, “and play with your doll?”

I’m tired of playing with my doll, but I meander out of the kitchen, still eating marshmallows.

In the living room, Aunt Hannah and Pappy sit in matching rocking chairs in front of a crackling fire. I jump as the big clock on the mantle begins to chime, but the two ancient people seem not to hear it. They just keep rocking back and forth, gazing into the flames.

I slip across the floor toward the bedroom. As I open the door, ice-cold air hits me in the face. A tall, dark dresser and a big iron bed sit in the middle of the room. On the walls are portraits of ancient people.

All staring at me.

I hurry back into the living room, where Aunt Hannah and Pappy are still gazing at the fire. "Come on over here, Brenda, where it’s warm,” Aunt Hannah says.

Her voice startles me. She hasn’t moved, or even looked at me. How does he know I am here?

I hesitate and then walk over and stand between their rockers.

Aunt Hannah places a wrinkled hand on my shoulder, “It’s warm here in front of the fire, ain’t it?”

She wears a starched print dress that smells of soap. A wooden cane lies tilted across her knee, the handle hooked onto the arm of her rocker. Her hair is in a knot on top of her head, like Granny’s, but her face is fuller than her sister’s. She has the same kind blue eyes, though, and they seem to be looking through me.

Aunt Hannah is blind.

I stand between the ancient people for a long time, gazing at the popping fire. Every now and then Pappy turns and smiles at me. His blue eyes are pale and faded. But kind. He wears a blue shirt tucked into loose brown trousers held up by suspenders. A brown cap dangles from the back of his rocker. His back is bent, and I wonder why he doesn’t straighten up.

I return to the kitchen where pots and pans are clattering, ham and beans simmering and Maw Maw and Granny are chattering. Maw Maw is stirring the batter for cornbread and Granny is making pie crust. She rolls the rolling pin over and over the dough, dousing the rolling pin with flour, rolling it over and over again.

“Now, back up, Brenda,” Maw Maw says as she pours the cornbread batter into the sizzling grease of a big iron skillet, “You might get burned.”

As I am heading back to the living room, Granny catches up with me and hands me a Sears & Robuck Catalog. “Sit down and look at them pretty pictures, hon,” she says. She dusts her floury hands on her bib-apron and rushes back to the kitchen.

In the living room, Aunt Hannah and Pappy are still gazing into the fire. I stare at it a moment or two, trying to see what they are seeing, and then I plop on the floor and begin turning the pages of the catalog. The clock ticks; the fire pops. Aunt Hannah rocks every once in a while. Pappy rocks every once in a while, too, although he appears to be asleep.

I begin ripping pages from the catalog and tearing each page into tiny pieces. When I finish, I pick up the handful of the tiny bits of paper and transfer them from one hand to the other.

“Dinner’s ready!” Granny calls from the kitchen.

Pappy leans forward, grasping each arm of his rocker, and pulls his body up. He stands for a minute, body trembling, and then he heads toward the kitchen in short, jerky steps. Aunt Hannah unhooks her cane and places the pads of her hands on the rocker arms. I stand, staring at her. She’s blind! How will she find her way to the kitchen? I jump up, run over, taking her warm, dry hand in mine.

“Well, I’ll be!” she says, “You’re real helpful, Brenda!”

She, too, is shaky, and although we walk at a snail’s pace, we catch up with Pappy. We all arrive at the table at the same time.

Aunt Hannah lowers her body into a chair. “I don’t know if I could-a made it without Brenda,” she says, smiling at me, “I just don’t know what I’d a-done.”

After our dinner of country ham and soup beans, buttery mashed potatoes, green beans flavored with bacon and onions, light, crusty cornbread, coleslaw and peach cobbler for dessert, I am sleepy.

“I’m gonna have to take nap,” Aunt Hannah says, getting up, “Brenda, you did such a good job helping me to the table, could you help me to the couch?”

I take her hand, and we make our way to the bedroom where she drops onto the big Victorian settee. “Do you want to lay down a spell, too, hon?”

I climb up next to Aunt Hannah and she puts her arm around me. As I lay my head on her soft, cushy shoulder, I hear the clattering of dishes from the kitchen, the soft croon of Maw Maw and Granny’s voices. As I drift off to sleep, I see Pappy in the living room, still gazing into the fire.

I wake with a start, not knowing where I am. Suddenly, I am sliding off the couch. Aunt Hannah tries to grab me, but she rolls right off with me.

I jump up, afraid Aunt Hannah is really hurt, but she starts laughing. She sits on the floor beside, her body shaking with giggles. Soon I'm giggling along with her.

Maw Maw and Granny rush in, alarmed looks on their faces. But Aunt Hannah waves them away. “We’re fine,” she laughs, “just fine!”

Maw Maw helps Aunt Hannah up and I lead her into the living room where she lowers herself into her rocking chair alongside Pappy.

I stand for a few minutes, gazing into the fire, and then I grab the cut-up pieces of paper from the catalog, go over to Aunt Hannah, and tap her hand. She opens it, and I place the papers into her hand. She closes her hand and I walk away. After a minute or two, I go back and tap her hand. She opens it, and I take the pieces from her hand and tap Pa Pa’s hand. When he opens it, I place the pieces into his hand. I do this over and over again, stopping every now and then to gaze into the crackling fire, still trying to see what they are seeing.

The next time I place the pieces of paper in Aunt Hannah’s hand, I gather the nerve to ask her a question. “Aunt Hannah, can you see anything?”

“I can tell when it’s daylight,” she says, “And I can tell when it’s dark.”

I close my eyes and try to walk, but I don’t get very far before stumbling on the catalog which I’ve left on the floor. I open my eyes and walk back to her rocker.

“Could you ever see anything?” I ask.

“I used-ta could.”

“Why can’t you now?”

“I got cataracts.”

I turn to Pappy. “Can you see, Pappy?”

He turns to me, his head bent forward, as if it is sprouting from his chest, reminding me of a small tree I had once seen in the Mississippi River bottoms near our house. It was growing straight out of the side of the bluff.

“I can see,” he says, “But I cain’t see as good as I usta could.” He looks back at the fire, chuckling. “Cain’t hear as good, either.”

I spend the rest of the afternoon transferring the pieces of paper from Aunt Hannah’s to Pappy’s hands. I like tapping their warm, dry hands and dropping the paper into them. And I like watching them open them again as I take the paper back. Each time I place the paper in their hands, I keep expecting one or the other not to open their hand the next time around. But they always do.

As the fall sun casts slashes of orange-gold across the living room, Papa arrives to take us home. Although Maw Maw says there is no need for them to see us out, Granny walks us to the door, and Aunt Hannah and Pappy rise slowly, making their way across the room in their short, shaky steps.

“Come back and see us, hear?” says Granny.

Pappy smiles and pats my head.

“Me and Brenda had a big time today,” Aunt Hannah says, “A real big time.”

As Paw Paw starts up the coupe and we drive away, the three ancient people stand at the door, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, smiling and waving until we are out of sight.

* * *

Although I saw Granny often after she went to live with Maw Maw and Paw Paw, I rarely saw Aunt Hannah and Pappy. They just seemed to fade away. Like the cabbage rose wallpaper on the walls of the living room. But I thought of them often through the years, remembering how I felt on that cold winter afternoon, wondering why I felt so comfortable with them, why they made such an impression on me.

Now that I’m older, I know. I was drawn to the deep quiet that surrounded them, their goodness; peaceful resignation. They were seeing the past as they stared into that crackling fire: the good times, people loved and lost, mistakes made, roads not taken. Nearing the end of their lives, they knew it and accepted it. Maybe even longed for it.

They step back in the shadows, voices quiet now; their story told. But it is comforting to me, just knowing they are there. And they will be there as long as I remember them.

Good Old Folk Music

2011-09-04T11:58:00.069-05:00

Every now and then, I get a hankerin' for some good old folk music. Today is one of those days.

One of my favorites is John Prine's Souvenirs. He co-wrote it with Steve Goodman.

Goodman also wrote City of New Orleans, another of my favorites. He died several years ago, but I think his song will live forever.

Creativity

2011-08-29T12:04:00.000-05:00

Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns

in order to look at things in a different way.

~Edward de Bono~

Fiction

2011-08-22T11:20:00.000-05:00

Fiction, imaginative work that is,

is not dropped like a pebble upon the ground, as science may be;

fiction is like a spider's web, attached ever so lightly perhaps,

but still attached to life at all four corners.

~Virginia Woolf~

Latest Celebrity Gossip

2011-08-19T07:37:00.071-05:00

Mother gave me a bunch of National Enquirers, so I'm catching up on the latest celebrity gossip:

Sandra Bullock is dipping snuff! (Bet she picked up that disgusting habit from her silly ex-husband, Jesse James.)

Angelina Jolie is furious (waving her tattooed, stick-like, arms, no doubt). Brad Pitt is smoking pot most afternoons in a dirty Airstream trailer near the back of their estate. He says it helps him relax after a hard day on the set. "You are setting a bad example for the kids!" she screamed. (She's a fine one to talk!)

Johnny Depp is up in arms over a tell-all book ex-girlfriend Kate Moss is writing. He doesn't want his kids to know about his wild, drug-fueled days. (Don't blame you one bit, Johnny!)

Leann Rhines is scary skinny these days. Friends say the singer's weight has dropped to 99 lbs. (Maybe she's worried about her career; she hasn't had a hit in ages.)

At the other end of the the spectrum is James Brolin's youngest son. He weighs 300 lbs. and is living in shelters, staying with friends, or sleeping in his beat-up '81 Toyota pickup on the streets of Ventura, California. (Seems to me his father could talk step-mother Barbra Streisand into finding room for the poor boy on one of her estates!)

Elizabeth Taylor's eldest son, Michael, is having a hissy fit about his mother's house.  He thinks her estate dumped the house for a quick payoff.  (They got eight million for it, and he and his three siblings will get a whopping one hundred million dollars apiece. What more does he want?)

Teen heartthrob Justin Bieber is shelling out around $15,000 a week on dinners and entertainment for his huge entourage of friends. (His mother needs to get that boy under control!)

Cher is afraid son Chaz is going to have a heart attack. He has lost forty pounds and is doing three-hour workouts at the gym each day in preparation for his wedding in early 2012. (Good luck, Chaz.  Looks like you're got a long way to go!)

Marie Osmond is having throat problems, so brother Donnie sang one of her signature hits dressed in drag as his sister. (That's pretty strong stuff for a Mormon!)

Al Pacino, of The Godfather and Scarface fame, is all set to play record producer Phil Spector in an upcoming HBO biography. He is already sporting Spector's wild, ratted-up hairdo. (Can you imagine that?)

Kathy Griffin called Michelle Bachman a bigot. (I wonder why? :)

Life's Lessons

2011-07-24T12:30:00.000-05:00

Mother at her 90th birthday celebration, December, 2010
(Photo: Gina Wilson Diesel)

Mother has always loved poetry, so I was exposed to it at a very young age. I didn't much appreciate it then, but I certainly do now. Yesterday, at our July literary meeting, she read one of her favorites. I love it, and I think you will as well.

Life's Lessons

I learn, as the years roll onward
And leave the past behind,
That much I had counted sorrow
But proves that God is kind;
That many a flower I had longed for
Had hidden a thorn of pain,
And many a rugged bypath
Led to fields of ripened grain.

The clouds that cover the sunshine
They can not banish the sun;
And the earth shines out the brighter
When the weary rain is done.
We must stand in the deepest shadow
To see the clearest light;
And often through wrong's own darkness
Comes the very strength of light.

The sweetest rest is at even,
After a wearisome day,
When the heavy burden of labor
Has borne from our hearts away;
And those who have never known sorrow
Can not know the infinite peace
That falls on the troubled spirit
When it sees at last release.

We must live through the dreary winter
If we would value the spring;
And the woods must be cold and silent
Before the robins sing.
The flowers must be buried in darkness
Before they can bud and bloom,
And the sweetest, warmest sunshine
Comes after the storm and gloom.

~Anonymous~

Defining the Sixties

2011-07-15T12:19:00.000-05:00

Nobody does it like Bob Dylan.

A Real Blessing

2011-07-13T12:34:00.000-05:00

I have not posted in a while, and I apologize to my faithful readers. Dudley suffered a broken leg, so we have been going back and forth to Lone Oak Animal Clinic. Dr. Rogers tells us he will recover but will have to wear the splint for about a month.

In the meantime, we have been waiting on him hand and foot. But the little fellow deserves it; he's a real blessing to us.