This man, Chris Hageseth, my writing and editing buddy, has Parkinson’s Disease. Instead of giving in to it, he redefines it. Chris is “The Director of the Parkinson’s Disease Support Group, a retired psychiatrist, author and an outspoken activist on sweating out Parkinson’s disease through exercise.”
Many of you may have read my blog posts of excerpts from THE MOONSHINE THICKET. After two rejections, I was just notified by an agent who has read the first 50 pages. She said, “Dear Carolyn, I hope you’re having a great week so far. I enjoyed the first 50 pages of THE MOONSHINE THICKET, and I’d love to keep reading. Would you please send me the full manuscript? Thanks in advance! My best…”
Cross your fingers for me, please!
I live in Texas. I hate the cold and I hate skiing! (ski instructor pushed me down a hill and I almost flew over a cliff. When he caught up to me, I said, “take these f***king skis of me NOW!) But, for those of you who want to, and can take advantage of that kind of scary “activity”, here’s a painting for you!
painted by me- CDW
Madame Fannie Porter’s “soiled doves” give Meta, the bordello’s piano player, a gift.
“Meta,” Lillie said, her voice soft, as usual. “We have something for you, too.” She nudged Sassy Sarah.
“Sorry it’s not wrapped.” Sassy pulled the item from her lap and presented Meta with a comb carved with ivory roses.
“Kinda my idea,” Greta said, and ignored Sassy’s frown.
My girls. Their thoughtfulness overwhelmed me. They remained dry-eyed. Maybe too leather-skinned from hard lives to soften now. Some day, perhaps.
Meta shook her head as she placed the hair ornament inside the box. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Well, missy.” Reba shook her head. “You sure picked a fine time to come to the big city.”
Meta chuckled. “A doozy.”
“I seen doozies of trouble in my day. Most is harder to pull off than ticks. Best thing? Meeting Fannie Porter. Worst? All them days before.” Reba draped a handmade amulet necklace around Meta’s neck. “For good luck.”
Meta didn’t ask what concoction Reba had put inside the amulet. Instead, she curled her fingers around the necklace then stood to hug Reba.
Reba and I had been worried about Meta after the shooting. Unlike my girls, Meta came from a simple, pleasant life. When she came to San Antone, she had seen the hardscrabble side and had proven herself a survivor.
Meta sat quietly, skimming her fingertips across the tabletop.
“What you thinking, girlie?” Reba said.
Meta let loose a wide grin and glanced at each of us. “So many secrets engrained in this wood. If only it could talk.”
“H’yaw, now.” Greta thumped Meta on the wrist. “Cain’t tell everything.”
We all cackled like a bunch of old women at a quilting bee and that image made me shiver.
excerpt from The Last Bordello
From a Sons and Lovers cover, quick strokes but wait, oh no! He doesn’t look the same a’tall. Perhaps I’m not Van Gogh. 🙂
painting by me – CDW, after Van Gogh
I’m in ninth grade and about to participate in my first sit-in. Why not? The whole country is protesting something – women’s rights, the Vietnam War, President Nixon. I’m nervous, though. I don’t want to get kicked out of school.
The sit-in was planned yesterday when we were told that us girls could no longer wear short skirts. Instead, they had to be no more than an inch above the knee. How stupid is that?
Before school starts, about 50 of us sit on the front lawn. The bell rings to begin the day. We look at each other. We don’t get up. Man, are we feeling triumphant.
Until the principal shows up and says, “Get to class. Now!”
One by one, we stand and sulk our way through the school doors and to class.
I guess we need more practice at this protesting thing.
Halfway through our first lesson, the door opens in the back of the room. Miss Primrose stops talking about grammar. “Frank, I’m glad to see you made it to school,” she says.
I hear the whispers before I turn. When I do, my chin drops. This time, I see him in the light. The boy from the thicket. He’s wearing dark circles under his green eyes and the same muddy Keds from last night. But his hair is combed now, parted on the side.
“Students, I would like to introduce you to our newest member of Hilltop School, Frank Sanders.”
He still has that look. The one where no one can touch him. Like no one’s smarter or braver than him. I know better. He’s scared of dogs—even the three-legged kind.
He sticks his thumbs in the straps of the suspenders that hold up his Clean breeches then nods to the class like he’s Jesus come to turn sour milk into fresh lemonade.
“Frank lives here now. So let’s make him feel welcome. How old are you, Frank?”
“Almost fourteen, Miss Primrose,” he says like he’s President of Confidence World.
“You may sit down, Frank.”
Frank-Gatsby-Thicket Boy limps to a desk. Without the twisted ankle, he’d sure-fire swagger to his spot like Wild Bill Hickok after catching bandits.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket
Yes, that’s me in the photo with Mr. Rogers. In the 1990’s, before I retired as an Early Childhood Specialist, I took my mom with me to the National Association for the Education of Young Children (NAEYC) conference in Anaheim, CA where Mr. Rogers was to be the keynote speaker. On the day before the evening speech, Mom and I were walking around the big almost-empty auditorium when I heard Mr. Roger’s voice somewhere behind me.
I followed that soft, kind voice and found him with David, his PR manager, both checking out the venue before the speech. I introduced myself, told him what I did for a living and how much I loved him.
My mom, who was never the meek sort, chimed in and said, “And I’m just a grandma.”
Whoa! She never expected his response. He told her that being a grandmother is one of the most important jobs in the world- how they are a major contribution to a child’s well-being – how there is a special kind of love between a child and a grandparent.
After the goosebumps settled, I said, “I wish I would have remembered to bring a camera. I would have loved to have our picture taken together.”
Mr. Rogers said, “That’s okay. David, can we use yours?”
His PR person first took a photo of Mr. Rogers and me, then Mr. Rogers insisted my mom be in the next one.
True to his word, the 5/7’s were sent to me a week later.
Mr. Rogers was a man of honor, dignity, truth, kindness, and much, much more.
But I wonder what he would be thinking now if he knew Paul Ryan has proposed budget cut including $445 million in Public Broadcasting Subsidies. Actually, I know what he would say. He did it before. When President Nixon threatened the same cut in 1968, Mr. Rogers, in his kind, eloquent way, spoke before the Senate Subcommittee.
You can see his testimony here. And it’s well worth the watch.
Long live the spirit of Mr. Fred Rogers!
Dear President Trump,
Sesame Street is our home. Please don’t cut funding for the arts which includes PBS.
Signed,
Elmo, Big Bird, Cookie Monster, Bert, Ernie, Grover, Oscar the Grouch, Kermit
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 