Anticipation
7
Author Archives: Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author
Cool Find!
Looking for my book of poetry, I found this instead. It is my portfolio of art from my early years of painting. Here’s the cover and, the first page, and one of my first paintings. “Life is a Caberet.”
Maybe, just maybe…
… I’m done Christmas shopping.
RAW Journal Kernels- Abundance
You Would be 87 today
I wrote this shortly after my father died in 2009. (Happy Birthday, Daddy)
Dear Dad,
I write. My eyes blur. I see a cowboy hat with a cowboy underneath it. You’d say, “This hat’s worth a lot more than what’s underneath it” . We knew better each time you said it. You are worth more to me than you’ll ever know.
When I was in the Brownies, we went to a father/daughter banquet at the middle school and your job was to identify my feet under the stage curtain. I sat behind that curtain for only a short time when I heard you say, “is that you Carolyn?”. “That’s me Daddy” I said. You found my feet before I knew where they were going to take me.
In Girl Scouts, you told me I had made a fabulous speech in front of a large audience when in fact, I had stood there, a frightened girl in uniform, with all my words stuck in my throat. I was silent and scared, staring into the crowd of strangers. You were the only one who heard my silent words, like they were loud and clear and perfect. You said I did just fine. You made me not hate myself that night.
You threw that football with me in the front yard and always encouraged me. You taught me how to drive. You said to never forget where my break was.
You taught me how to love my dogs, how they held our hearts and souls within them, in case we forgot where and who we were. Thru them and other things, you taught me that your heart was sensitive and kind.
You told me bedtime stories, like the three little bears. “AND THERE SHE IS”, you’d say and I’d laugh like it was the first time I’d ever heard it.
And you were the one who taught me how to pray.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I was at your house putting on my hands wraps for my boxing class. You wanted to know how fast I was so you speed-drilled me by putting your hand up. Your past boxing memories were still alive. You were always in my corner, pulling for me, taking care of me when I was hurt. My Dad, my cornerman.
On Father’s Day while you laid in bed, I brought you the painting I had done of a cowboy silhouette. You looked at it and said, “that’s me riding off on my last sunset.” We all knew you were ready for that ride.
I believed you when you told me you would always look after Pat and I after you had gone. You said, “I always take care of my babies”. And now I hear you say, like you’ve said a thousand times before, “if I tell you a rooster wears a pistol, look under it’s wing.”
You didn’t plan the first part of your life but you lived it, felt it, analyzed it and learned where you were going next. You wanted a life with stability, you met my mother and you lived the next 6o years on a level ground. And then? When it was time for you to die? Somehow you figured out how to put all your ducks in a row and be buried on your anniversary. So Dad, when I get sad I will know where you are, together again with my mother, exactly where you are supposed to be.
And as your grandpa, Ike, always said with his sarcastic grin, “ well, aren’t you smart.”
Dad on right with his grandfather
And <to my son and daughter>: Grandpa would want me to remind you of a few things.
1. trust yourself and learn first to be your own best friend.
2. whatever you choose to do in life, make sure you love it.
3. take care of your money
4. <Son>, it’s not time to go, it’s time to dance.
5. <Daughter>, stay away from hairy legged boys.
And as I was laying in the front room of your house, the night before you died, I realized that the times you hugged me from the outside to the in had ended. From this point on, your hugs will be from the inside to the out. And I will feel them always.
You put the “spirit” into my soul, Dad. You were my greatest teacher.
And as you always said, “the cream in the pitcher always rises to the top.”
And there, you are.
With a love that never ends,
Carolyn.
(No Hill for a Stepper is my father’s story about growing up in the Great Depression with an abusive father. My dad broke that chain of abuse)
Letter to a dead friend
In the 1930’s, a sad seven-year old Cono writes a letter to his deceased friend.
Cono with his little sister
Dear Gene,
I hate it that you’re dead and that those stupid doctors in Roby couldn’t fix you to save your life. We had more things to do, you and me. More wars to fight with the other boys in the neighborhood and more of our own fights to have just between the two of us, the ones that were so much fun but made us dog-tired and bruised afterward. Even though you were just a little older, but a lot littler, you always got the best of me. We never gave up. You’d just say, “Cono, ye tired yet?”
“Yeah,” I’d say.
“How bout’s you and me stop fightin’ for the day?”
“OK,” I’d say.
And that’s what we’d do. We’d get up, dust off our britches and stop for the day. But we’d never give up. Boys in Rotan, Texas never give up. That’s what you said.
Don’t feel bad about being dead. I think some of us are dead, when we’re still alive anyway. Or maybe it’s just that some of us aren’t completely born yet, like we’re waiting for a little peace and quiet to show up so we can take our first real breath.
I’m sorry I couldn’t make you better and I’m sorry that nobody could take me to visit you in the hospital. Maybe if you had been in there a little longer, I could have found a ride. I know you never gave up, so there must have been something else that caught your eye.
Things are growing on me Gene and I’m not talking about inches or new hairs. Things are crawling under my skin. I’m feeling antsy and mad and even a little bit not like myself. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if someone were to holler, “Cono!” and I’d just keep going the other direction thinking my name was George or something. My hands clench more often than they used to. My teeth do too. Just the other day, I caught myself staring in the bathroom mirror. I was about to brush my teeth, but my jawbones were moving in and out and I realized I was clamping down so hard with my grinders that a tooth brush didn’t have a chance to get in to do its job.
I’m writing to you Gene, Fishing all my words outta my truth bucket. And when I’m done? I’ll send this letter up to God Jesus, so he can read it to you. Better yet, maybe I’ll go someplace real quiet, where nobody else on this earth can hear. And I’ll talk real loud, so you can hear me all the way up in heaven. And if someone else up there happens to hear? It’s okay. I know they won’t tell anyone since they’re dead too. Besides, you’ll know it’s me. I’ll be the one flicking marbles with my pocket knife!
I sure wish you could tell me what it’s like up there. When I went to the revivals with the Allridge boys, they told me that Jesus has made a room for dead people and you’ll get to live there forever with Him. What does your room look like?
I wanna know if you’ve made any friends and if Jesus lets you wrestle and fight with them like we used to do for fun. The revivalists say that we’ll get to meet our loved ones again when we die. But what if I die when I’m a hundred and I get there and you’re still only eleven years old. Are you gonna sit on my lap and tell me Jesus stories? Ha Ha. It’s good to know that you have a room up there in heaven, although I’m not sure I believe everything they tell me at those revivals.
Gene, I want to kill my Dad. Send him right up there to heaven, where maybe you can teach him a few things, like how to be nice to me. But then, I guess it would be too late. Unless, he was Jesus and got alive again to came back to do something good. That’ll be the day.
Anyhow, I sure hope you’re real happy up there. I hope you get to throw the football and play checkers and flick marbles. And say? If you see my Uncle Joe and our friend Wort Reynolds, tell them I say, “Hello.”
Your friend,
Cono
P.S. – Wort’s the one without the head.
(Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper)
RAW Journel Kernels- Louis
A bit of Louis and my own version of “It’s a Wonderful World”
(Wanna know what these entries are about? Check out here.)
Bitter Good Byes
Bitter Man cracks me up!
Later.
Here’s a depressing fact for you: Today may be the last time you ever see someone. Think about that bitterly for a second. Whether it is someone dying, or you saw someone at a Black Friday sale for the first and last time, every single day is potentially the last day you ever see someone.
Today is the last day of class for me at my college and let’s be honest, save for one or two of those people(let’s be really honest, not even them), I will never see some of them again.
Not on Facebook.
Not when writing my terrible Book.
Not on Instagram.
Not at Thanksgiving with no ham or jam.
Not on Snapchat.
Not even when I inevitably get fat.
Not on the train.
Not on a plane.
No, not ever, not ever again.
Dr. Suess I am not. But Dr. Bitter I am. Sam I…
View original post 312 more words
Dear Russia,(note to self, omit “dear”)
I have your number in more ways than one. The tour company gave us this card before entry into your country in case of an emergency. I kept it, taped it to my Mac, the one you will probably hack.
Although my husband and I had to be caged during our tour of Moscow a year ago last summer (not allowed to roam around on our own without the Russian guide, who by the way, was more informative about you than you would have liked), we tasted some nice vodka.
But Russia and President Putin? Don’t puff up just yet.
Many buildings, except for some like this one —
were beautiful.
President Putin, below on the far left, was that you? Trying to mix in and identify with your peeps? Doubtful.
I said, was that you?
I think it was very kind of you, Russia and Mr. Putin, to post these signs of caution.
WATCH YOUR BELONGINGS, your sign said.
Well, I want to tell you this.
Watch your own damn belongings. Keep your paws off my country, out of our democracy, out of our politics and our elections.
Perhaps the Trump is your string puppet.
But I’m telling you this: Most of us Americans have VERY sharp scissors.
Oh, if you don’t hear from me again, I’m under Federal protection. I’ve heard the accommodations aren’t that bad, considering.
Eggs against Prostitution and Alcohol Reform
(1901) Meta learns, while attending the Women’s Christian Temperance Union rally, that soiled dove Sadie has snuck out of the bordello and is hiding in the background. As Meta listens to the speakers advocating for women’s rights, and the men become angry at the progressive words, something unexpected happens.
Excerpts from The Last Bordello, Chapter 28: Eggs of Folly
Meta Duecker
“Due to the efforts of the WCTU, the age of consent has been raised from thirteen to fifteen. We strive for even higher,” Miss Fisher <Minnie Fisher Cunningham, Women’s Right Activist> said. “Every day, the newspapers report acts of violence against women and remind us of men’s incapacity to cope successfully with this monster evil of society.”
“What are you saying, missy? We men ain’t capable?” The man’s words elicited angry comments from the crowd.
Miss Fisher hesitated before she continued. “We know you men are hardworking gentlemen. For women, education is the key, both in and out of the home.”
Some women clapped. Others squinted in puzzlement as if the thought of learning something other than child-rearing had never occurred to them. Her words enlightened me and affirmed my goals.
A man, close to the front, pumped his fist. “My wife don’t have time for more learning. We got six kids needing supper on the table.”
Querulous male voices erupted from the crowd.
“Why do women prostitute themselves to the abnormal passion of man?” Miss Fisher continued. “Because they are poverty-stricken, destitute above temptation, and driven by necessity. They sell themselves, in marriage or out, for bread and shelter, for the necessities of life. How can we blame them? They have no other recourse but to live in a society that dictates what they—we—can and cannot do. To solve this problem, we demand that women be allowed to exercise their inherent, personal, citizen’s right to be a voice in the government—municipal, state, and national. Then, women will have the power to protect themselves.”
“We men protect our women just fine,” a man shouted. Other men yelled their agreement.
Mayor Hicks stepped to the podium, his lips pursed. “Enough of your heckling. Save your disagreements for editorials in the newspapers. She has a right to free speech.”
“So do we,” someone yelled back.
The mayor banged a fist on the podium. “These women are invited guests. By God, we will show them our Southern hospitality.”
The raw egg came from nowhere. It narrowly missed the mayor’s head before landing on the bandstand floor. He squinted, scouring the crowd.
Poor Mrs. Fenwick held a shaky hand over her mouth.
Miss Fisher reached below the dais and pulled out a speaking trumpet. “The true relation of the sexes can never be attained until women are free and equal with men,” she said, her determination thundering above the chaos.
The second egg hit the podium dead center. The crowd either gasped or laughed. Some men took hold of their wives and scurried them away, while the women in black remained steadfast in their chairs behind the podium.
… The yolk running down the front of the dais did not deter Miss Fisher. She stood firm, her voice amplified by the speaking trumpet. “As the great Susan B. Anthony said, whoever controls work and wages, controls morals. Independence is freedom. Independence means happiness. Therefore, we must have women employers, superintendents, legislators. For moral necessity, we must emancipate women, pull them out of prostitution, and safeguard our country. Thank you.”
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 