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Monthly Archives: August 2017
Too much spur
Dad says that Mr. Posey “is richer’n four feet up a bull’s butt.” But he doesn’t act anything like Uncle Will McCleskey. He’d never pull me off a horse with a walking stick, even if he had one.
Most of the time, we even get to have supper with them and since Mr. Posey talks almost as slow as Hoover, supper conversations take a long time. At least Dad isn’t doing us any harm while we’re here. Mr. Posey doesn’t go off half-cocked like Dad does. He doesn’t hit his wife or Hoover, so I guess Dad doesn’t want to be the only one who clobbers two outta three of his family members.
Hoover asked me to ride out with him on a couple of their horses. I was supposed to be chopping wood, but the idea of riding sounded like chocolate cake. We had a good time riding around their property. It made me think of riding with Ike, the sound of hooves, the click of his left cheek. I sure do miss him.
We were trotting along just fine until my horse swallowed his head and threw me off into a prickly pear cactus. I landed on my right hand and it smarted something awful.
“Cono,” said Hoover, “ I…think….you… gave…him…just…a little….too much…spur.” And right then, my laughter took over my pain.
Since then, I’ve been trying to hide my bad hand from Dad so he won’t catch on that I’d played hooky from my wood chopping. For the last couple of days I’ve even been chopping wood with my left hand until my right one starts to feel better. It’s safer that way.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham
Prickle- daily word prompt
Small things, big memories
Women, listen up
10 THINGS TIME HAS TAUGHT ME https://ladiespassiton.com/2017/08/03/10-things-time-taught/
The Madam
Never, ever, will I regret saving that woman from the hangman’s noose eleven years ago. That good-for-nothing she killed deserved being plugged. Even so, a Negro woman who murdered a white man might as well start braiding her own rope.
“’Nough mess … ” Parts of her newest grumble bounced from the parlor into the kitchen. I muzzled my laughter then I heard the thwack, thwack of a dishtowel slapping the velvet settees–Reba’s version of dusting.
Without Reba Mae Tyler, I wouldn’t be grinning at the cash stacked on my desk and organized by denominations. Who better than me, and my five-foot-three-of-nothing-but-glory best friend, to earn this kind of money?
Madam Volvino down the road would have scammed the Wild Bunch. I pictured that dollymop charging a lesser fee for her bawdyhouse services then afterward, jiggling her fat rump straight to the law to collect the one grand in bounty—one grand for Butch alone.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello by C. Dennis-Willingham
Organize– daily word prompt
Authors are my friends, too
Thank you fellow author, Ed Martin, for hosting me!
Amen-er’s drinkin’ whiskey
Delma didn’t die. Every day my little sister got stronger and stronger and more and more like her old self again. Dad stayed about the same, hardly ever getting up outta bed. After the quarantine sign was pulled off our door and our prison sentence was over, Aunt Nolie moved from Ranger to Rotan and rescued us once again. This time she wasn’t alone. She’d gotten herself a new husband by the name of Red Griffice. Back then I thought he was called “Red” since the name matched the color of his face after a few beers.
Bootlegging was their main business. I’m not sure who learned from who, but our neighbors, the Rushing’s and the Gallagher’s were bootleggers too. Mr. Gallagher owned a gas station off the side of the road, but I remember him only having gas in those pumps one or two times. It was a problem for the out of town customers, who pulled up for petrol and there was none. The bigger problem was when Sheriff P.V. Hail. He’d pull up to the “gas station” and Mr. Gallagher had to say, again, “ Ah hell, PV. Ya know how things are. Can ya believe that I’m still waitin’ on that delivery? I got plenty of RC Cola. Can I get one for ye? It’s on the house as always.”
When PV finally left, Mr. Gallagher would wipe his forehead and recheck his supply of beer and whiskey. Nobody, nobody in Rotan knew where he hid it.
When Aunt Nolie and Red would drive up to Sweetwater to stock up on their booze, it was only P.V. they had to watch out for as they crossed that county line from wet to dry. I even heard that on Sundays, somebody from town went to church and sold “eggs” to the Amen-ers. The “eggs” came either in tall bottles or short ones.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper, by C. Dennis-Willingham
Cono’s (my father) Aunt Nolie rests in Ranger, Texas
Delivery – daily word prompt
My home away from home
Those judging biddies
photo credit
Sofie secured her hat with one hand, lifted her skirt with the other and continued running toward Sunset Station. Her legs burned and her black-laced boots were too small, crimping her toes. There was no choice. She had to get to there before the train left.
Beatrice was making a terrible mistake and needed to be stopped. Gullible prostitutes like Beatrice think it possible to leave for love, that the man will be honest and sincere, wooing her to a better place. But no matter how many gifts he had given her, over time they would mean nothing. Beatrice would learn. He would leave her heart when the sex got old. He would stray and what kindness he had would leave just after the matrimonial words passed over stupid lips.
Turning right on West Commerce street, the women at Milam market stared as she ran past. Their eyes, the ones glaring at the whore running for her life, would not distract her. The young maidens and the old mares would stare anyway. Running, dancing, strolling or even walking made no difference. People talked. Even in this large city, gossip spread like influenza.
Excerpt from Naked, She Lies, a historical novel by C. Dennis-Willingham
Glaring– daily word prompt
I’ve been diagnosed with an “ism”!
Yes, I have. But before I tell you what I “have,” I want to share something with you.
A while back, a friend mentioned how it isn’t helpful to say negative things about our “conditions.” You know, like, “My left shoulder sucks,” “I have a bad heart,” etc.
Instead, be positive and supportive. (They might hear you speak negatively about them)
I thought about that when I tore the meniscus in my knee. So, instead of saying “I have a bum knee,” I said, “Left Knee, don’t worry. I will take care of you.”
After all, I’ve known Left Knee all my life and it’s worked as hard as Right Knee. So I joined a gym and strengthened the muscles around it. For the last few years, pain free.
I thought about my right big toe that lacks cartilage in the ball joint. I said, “It’s okay, Big Toe. I’ll buy you comfortable shoes and I promise… no burpies at the gym that will force you to painfully bend.”
So, now I say this.
Dear Thyroid,
You’ve worked hard for me all these many years. Now, you are finding it hard to get moving. I get it. You’re tired. You can’t help causing me fatigue. So, dear Thyroid, the fact that you exist under the Hypo (meaning below) Bridge surely makes you frustrated. I just want to reassure you. You are not the only Thyroid who must endure the trolls beneath that bridge.
Thyroid, please know this. Trolls can act scary but they are actually harmless. So, before you give up and succumb to the trolls demands, I want you to know something.
Each morning I am swallowing a little orange pill. Trolls don’t like little orange pills. It makes them claustrophobic which means that in a month or so the trolls will nudge you away from that confining crevice beneath the Hypo Bridge.
And then, and you will rise once again.
With Love,
Your host, Carolyn
P.S. I am here for you.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 