Hold That Position!

Posted on January 11, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Innocent Meta, mislead to the bordello, is mistook as a prostitute by one of Madam Fannie’s clients.

“Hold that position right there, new girl!”

Edgar? When had he arrived? The three of us peeked over the swinging doors and into the parlor.

Typically a Southern gentleman, Edgar Harmon became cantankerous with too much liquor in his gut. President of the West Texas Bank and Trust, he was still as short and pudgy as when I met him a lifetime ago. Gray hair, the ones still clinging to his scalp, made him look older than his fifty-eight years.

Edgar rose from the divan and staggered toward Meta. “I liked seeing you bent over like that. If you had a little more meat on that rump of yours, you’d be right as rain. You know, a little something more to hold on to,” he said, chuckling.

Meta stood firm. “Excuse me?”

Sadie nudged my elbow. “Shouldn’t we do something, Miss Fannie?” she whispered.

“Hush. I want to watch what happens.”

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Excerpt from The Last Bordello

Odd

Posted on January 10, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Uneven means they are odd – like these numbers

1 9 3 1

The year Dalí painted one of his most famous works

“The Persistence of Memory” (photo on Wikipedia)

And, yes, this talented man was a bit “Uneven”

Nothing like a stroll in the Paris with your pet anteater.

🙂 🙂 🙂

Waitin’ for the Gunshot

Posted on January 9, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Instead of Uncle “No-Account” Red taking young Cono to buy a donkey, he takes him to a bar in Sweetwater. Cono doesn’t know it yet but he will soon return with his pistol-toting Aunt Nolie. (1930’s)

No-Account gives Sunshine a pinch on her round butt and she lets out a sound somewhere between a squeal and a giggle sound. It sounded stupid.

Sitting there by myself doesn’t stop me from staring, disgusted-like at their carrying ons. She whispers in his ear, he gives her a little smooch, he whispers in her ear, she lets out another harebrained giggle. I get so fed up my belly starts to twist around and I think I might just puke. Standing up I say, “I’m gonna wait in the truck.” And that’s what I do.

I look around the truck, but it’s not there. Not one rope. That sorry son of a bitch never intended to buy me a donkey.

I watch people go in and come out and think about the loser I’m with, the jackass full of bullcorn. My hard-earned-honest-days-work-seed-selling money had gone straight towards something to do with that blonde haired giggly eye winker named “Sunshine.”

No-Account finally gets back in the truck and starts jawing again about more things that don’t make no sense. The difference is, this time he’s swerving around the road like a drunk man, which he is.

He seems to have forgotten about buying me that donkey since we’ve driven past the donkey field for the second time. I look over at him. He’s got a shit eating grin on his face that tells me his mind is sitting on something else. Wink, wink.

That grin flipped over real quick when we got home.

“Where ye been so long and where’s that donkey?” screams Aunt Nolie.

“Couldn’t get one today,” he says.

Aunt Nolie looks at the mad on my face and yells, “What the hell were ye doin’ then?”

No-Account whistles himself into the other room and ignores her.

“Cono, where ya’ll been?” she asks, her tone a little softer now.

“We went to Sweetwater to the Lucky Start beer joint.”

“Why didn’t ye get a donkey?”

“He wouldn’t stop fer one,” I tell her. Then I add more of the honest truth. “Red had some beers and started kissin’ on Sunshine.”

“He was, was he?”

“Yep.”

“Com’on, Cono. I’m gonna get my pistol and I’m gonna drive right back over there and shoot that no-good hussy.”

“Ye know who she is?”

“Everybody in Sweetwater knows that slut.”

I decide right then and there that another ride to Sweetwater to shoot Sunshine didn’t make no never-mind to me. I don’t have a donkey and nothing to strum but and idea.

After Aunt Nolie gets her gun, we’re back in the truck. She puts on some kinda girly scarf and ties it under her chin. Then she takes out her lipstick, looks in the rearview mirror and smears it on her lips. Aunt Nolie must want to look good when she shoots No-Account’s girlfriend.

Here I go again, on the way back to Sweetwater. Not to get a donkey but to shoot Sunshine, My Only Sunshine.

Driving down the highway, Aunt Nolie doesn’t talk much, at least not with her mouth. She clutches that steering wheel like she’s about to squeeze all the Texas sand and grit out of it and that’s a whole conversation in itself.

We finally get to Sweetwater and park in front of the Lucky Star Bar.

“Cono, ye wait right here.”

“OK,” I say, since I’ve already met the woman, who’s about to be shot anyway.

I sit in the car, again. I watch the people come and go, again, except this time, the ones that had been going were coming and the ones that had been coming were now going. I wait for the sound of a gunshot, the sound I’ve become familiar with when I hunt with my dad. I wait alright ‘cause there’s nothing else for me to do.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

The Infinite Search for Self

Posted on January 8, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

There are those who I remember

And prefer to let them dwell

Within the ghostly shadows of a Nostradamus spell

Whether prophesy or heresy

Or the cost of simple jealousy

Is life a simple parody?

Since it’s me I know not well?

-CDW

Infinite

Mornin’ After the Beatin’

Posted on January 6, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Ike on left, grown Cono on right. (my great grandfather and my dad)

After Cono’s dad beats the tar out him the night before, Cono’s grandpa Ike (who witnessed the beating) shows up the next morning with an extra horse and a bit of wisdom. (Cono is ten at this point) No Hill for a Stepper– based on a true story.

We keep riding until we get close to the stock pond. Ike mashes on one side of his nose and snorts out snot from the other.

“Damn,” Ike says. “Those dandelion feathers Float up my nose ev’ry time this year. He nods his head toward the water. “That pond o’re yonder?”

“Yeah.”

“That there’s yer Great Grandpa Dennis’ favorite spot. Used ta ride up on him sometimes, saw him sittin’ there starin’ at the water like he was waitin’ for it ta talk to him.”

“Did it?” I ask.

“Prob’ly. Guess that’s why he kept goin’ back to it.”

“Maybe I should sit there sometime.”

“Wouldn’t do no harm. A little piece’n quiet kin go a long way for a man.”

I liked that he said that; like he can see the man in me.

“Kin I ask ye somethin,’ Ike?”

“Uh huh.”

“That time P.V. Hail beat the tar outta ye on Main Street? Did ye wanna kill ‘em?”

“P.V.? Nah. He was jes’t doin’ his job’s all.”

“But it wadn’t right. He shouldn’t ‘a done that.”

“Nah, wadn’t right. But some folks feel a little too big fer their own britches.”

Ike pauses and says, “Besides, it shor’ wouldn’t ‘a been right fer me to kill him. That’s a whole nuther thing. He’s jes’t a piss ant’s all. Kinda like this here horse I’m ridin’.” He reaches down and gives P.A. a couple of pats on his neck.

“Did ye feel sorry fer yerself?”

“Fer what?”

“That you’d been done wrong.”

“Why a’course not. That’s called pity. Hell, pityin’ yerself don’t do no good. Nobody ever got anywhere by pityin’ themselves.”

“That a fact?”

“Which part?”

“The part that ye really didn’t wanna kill him.”

“Cono, if I tell ye a rooster wears a pistol…”

“Jes’t look under its wing,” we finish together.

“That’s right,” he says.

“Yer a straight shooter, ain’t ye Ike?”

“Only way to be.”

I stare up in the cool and clear Texas sky and picture that rooster standing up on our fence post, his wing back like he’s ready to draw. “Cock-a-doodle doo, you sons ‘a bitches. Now get up!” Then I laugh.

“What so funny?” says Ike.

I tell him about the picture I’d put in my head and he says, “He’s prob’ly one’a P.V.s deputies.” And when he lets out his “hee hee hee” laugh, I laugh even harder.

“Ike,” I say. “I believe what ye say, that a rooster’s under yer wing, when ye tell me he does.” Not only that, I’m thinking that rooster’s got a six-shooter under there ready to unload.

“Let me tell ye a little somethin’ and I want ya ta listen up.” He pauses, clicking the left side of his cheek like he’s finding the right words and I wait. I can wait all day if need be just to hear what Ike has to say. “When it comes right down to it, yer your own best friend. Most the time, ye can’t trust anybody but yer own self.”

I think I’ve done figured that out on my own. But I say what I mean. “I trust you though.”

“Uh huh, but trustin’ yer own self’s even better.”

When we make an impact but don’t know it

Posted on January 5, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

I’ve been Tempted to share something with you but I didn’t want to come across as egocentric. Maybe the word prompt was a sign to follow through. Besides, each of us during our lifetime will experience a moment (hopefully more than one) that will puff us up and make us feel good about something we did – even if we didn’t know the impact we had at the time.

You may or may not know that I am retired Early Childhood Specialist.

So in awe of what occurred on September 17, 1999, I asked if I could keep her notes. Here they are, framed, with my explanation typed at the bottom: PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF YOU CAN’T READ IT!

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Crossing the Mayor then sitting cross-legged

Posted on January 4, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Featured image photo credit

Miss Helen towers over the short mayor but she looks small with worry.

His hands are glue-stuck to his hips. “… promised! … You can’t … like wolves … and what about…” His cheeks jiggle and get redder.

Miss Helen says something and the Mayor smiles. His cheeks still look jelly-filled, but now they’ve returned to pink.

“Fine then,” he says, and shakes her hand before rolling his roundness down the street.

Finally, Miss Helen unties the apron, mops her brow, then buries her head inside its faded flowers and ruffles. She tilts her head down until her shoulders shake.

“Miss Helen?” I poke an index finger on her arm to make her talk instead of cry.

“Oh, Emma June. I’m stuck in a hurricane of worry.” Her voice hitches.

I can’t help it but I say, “You’re in the Sad Thicket?”

Right on Main Street, she laughs and cries herself straight down to the sidewalk and leans against the hardware store under the sign that says, “Free Hammers Yesterday.”

I sit next to Miss Helen, cross-legged like hers. I look around to see who’s watching her dramatics. She doesn’t seem to care one iota.

“Emma June. I’m at the end of my wits. How in the world can I put socks on a rooster?”

The image makes me laugh, so I turn away.

“Now, Leonard is crippled. This batch was going to bring us heavy sugar. Enough to get a tutor for Scooter. And maybe a new purse and clothes for me.” She sniffles.

Now I understand. Scooter thought he found his new tutor at the swimming hole.

I’m sorry for Miss Helen’s woes. Daddy used to say problems are born just so we can solve them. That was before Mama left.

From my upcoming novel, The Moonshine Thicket.

Crossing

Hopeful Mama Still Loves Me

Posted on December 31, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Scoot and me are late to school. I don’t like being late because everyone stares and Miss Primrose expects a ‘reasonable excuse for tardiness.’

Scooter pulls out his pocketknife and strolls to the front, his happy eyes aiming at the wood he’s about to shave into invisible.

“Emma June?” Miss Primrose says.

“I’m sorry, Miss Primrose,” I say, glancing at Frank who’s giving me a half smile. “Scooter had himself a bit of an adventure.”

The class giggles and I want to punch them all in the face. What’s wrong with an adventure? At least the ones that don’t make someone carry a grudge. Daddy said Mama still loves me. There’s hope in that.

I try so hard to remember what happened toward the end of the carnival, but everything is jumbled up like bad scrambled eggs. Carla was in better shape than me, but she fell asleep on the ride home when Mama and Beauty had the fight. I remember fading in and out while they argued. I remember upchucking more than once. There’s nobody to tell me what happened except Mama.

So many questions I wanted to ask Daddy that morning when I woke up to find Mama gone. The only answers were Daddy’s tears. “We’ll work this out. Don’t worry. We’ll work this out,” he had said. And then his words faded as he shuffled away to his bedroom and closed the door.

I don’t know how to help him work things out any more than I know how to make Mama come home. I might as well try picking up shadows.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket (1928)

Hopeful

She Mopes Loud!

Posted on December 30, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

I tried to ignore the crash from upstairs—the third one now. Reba shook her head, her smile fading. “She still up there caterwauling and hurling things ’cross her room. Poor chil’ don’t never seem to get a leg back up ’fore it drops back down again.”

But Sadie Dubois was damn good at spreading them. Employed at the bordello longer than any of my other girls, Sadie brought in the most money. But last night, she had morphed into a puddle of anguish when her best friend left with Harry Longabaugh. Better known from the wanted posters as “the Sundance Kid,” he had hefted giggling Etta on the back of his mare and trotted away. “Other girls still sleeping?”

“Don’t know ’bout now, but when I went upstairs to check on things, three of them bedrooms was quiet. But that first one on the left? Phew! What a racket.”

“She’ll be fine, Reba.”

“And a hen’s gonna grow teeth. Her waters run deep. ’Sides, you knows well as me that after Sadie’s done with her conniption fit, she gonna keep spewing a pout.”

“She’ll buck up when she needs to.” Even with a sordid past, Sadie could pull a charade better than most.

Three years ago, when Sadie was seventeen, she arrived dressed as a boy during a ferocious storm, her aquamarine eyes pleading for entry. I knew then that Sadie could wear a flour sack and still be a looker—curves in all the right places, blond hair that Reba called “thick as good gravy.”

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

Mope

Renewal or Regret?

Posted on December 29, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Cono, age eighteen, travels back home to confront his father.

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Getting on the train, I’m thankful it’s not crowded. Too many people too close to me is something I’ll never get used to. I find a seat toward the back like I always do. A back up against the wall is a back protected. I need to see what’s going on around me at all times. And like always, when I hop on a train, I hope that my head is still attached when I get to where I’m going; not like our friend, Wort Reynolds who hopped on that train to Clyde Texas, the train that grabbed his head and kept right on going.

“Ticket please.”

I turn my eyes from the curved tracks outside my window to the ticket taker. Handing it over, I watch him punch the hole without even looking into my eyes. How many years has he done this, I wonder, and does he like the shoes he’s wearing?

Home, a place that’s sometimes as hard as cement that you can’t pull your shoes out of. Nevertheless, that’s where I’m heading.

My ears focus on the sound of the train’s idling, but eager-to-go engines. Where the hell would I be today if I didn’t have those railroad memories chugging along with me, some good and some anything but?

Just as I’m feeling comfortable that I won’t be crowded, I feel something settling into that worn seat next to me, making itself comfortable but making me anything but. It nudges me. I ignore it and then tell it to go away. It doesn’t listen. The memories want me to pay them a little attention. I know this train is about to pull out. I know this train is taking me to Temple. But my mind and my uninvited seat companion start to take me somewhere else, somewhere I’ve already been before, somewhere I don’t care to go back to. It starts speeding me down the track a lot faster than this train is accustomed and a whole lot faster than I can put a stop to.

The first memory is safe. It makes me wish, “If only it could have all been this easy.”

But past wishes were reserved for the other folks with good seats.

Not for me.

Renewal – Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Carolyn Dennis-Willingham

author perfectly flawed

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