Stupid pinwheel, stupid me

I had motioned Mama away. I was stupid because I had to save my pinwheel. Stupid that I let Brandon pour so much rotgut down my throat that I was too sick to leave with Mama.

What if I had given up the pinwheel? Never let Brandon pour that hooch down my gullet? I know the answer. If I’d been well, I would have made Mama stay. In a red chili second, I would have forced Mama and Daddy together to finish talking, to work out their problems.

I lift my head and see the note Miss Delores read to me. It’s three-quarters folded and right then I know something’s funny. Miss Delores didn’t write down Mama’s words from a telephone conversation. I’d Recognize Mama’s writing a mile away.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

Well, look who showed up.

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.

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Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

photo credit

 

 

 

A Crowd of Resistance

Mrs. Helen Stoddard of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union speaks to an unruly crowd.

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Mrs. Stoddard scanned the crowd. Some listened while others talked among themselves, paying no attention to her whatsoever.

“I grieve with you, citizens of San Antonio. One woman from your San Antonio Women’s Club continues to grieve for her husband, who fell to his death while drunk. Another woman is dead by the hands of her husband, the owner of a saloon. His only defense? ‘I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing.’”

Someone yelled, “Drink or not, Carl’s a louse. Never takes me on credit.” The woman next to him punched his arm.

“Who will be next?” Mrs. Stoddard continued. “Will it be your daughter, still in her youth, whose face will feel the wrath of a hand that has held too many whiskeys? Will it be your mother, your sister, or your aunt who will have the misfortune to be associated with a drunkard? Will the man stumble down the stairs of his home and find an innocent target? Point the edge of his knife to her throat? Will she be pummeled by a fist, discarded like a mere piece of garbage?”

“Maybe she weren’t so innocent.” The man, close to the front, laughed. A few others joined his guffaw.

“In the words of the great Elizabeth Cady Stanton, ‘Reformers from all sides claim for themselves a higher position than the church. Our God is a God of justice, mercy, and truth. Their God sanctions violence, oppression, and wine-bibbing, and winks at gross moral delinquencies. Our Bible commands us to love our enemies, to  Resist evil, to break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free…In our creed, it is a sin to hold a slave, to hang a man on the gallows, to make war on defenseless nations, or to sell rum to a weak brother and rob the widow and the orphan of a protector and a home.’”

I turned my back to the bandstand. It was dark now, but the gas lampposts provided enough light to see a shadowy figure behind a cluster of trees twenty feet behind me.

“I’ll be right back, Aunt Amelia. I want to check on something.”

If Sadie was still there, I didn’t want to scare her away. Trying to be inconspicuous, I inched to the left of the tree and then slipped behind it. “Sadie?”

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

 

Give Me Your Tired, Poor, Huddled Masses #statueofliberty

Yes, I am determined for this, my, country to continue being the home of the free and the brave. Fear does NO good! Emma Lazarus’ poem is ON the Statue of Liberty!

Tony Burgess's avatarThe Tony Burgess Blog

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“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” These lines are from the poem “The New Colossus,” written by Emma Lazarus in 1883.

My friends from around the world, know that my country is a better place than what you have seen in the past week. One thing I would say is that there are people still fighting for genuine freedom here. Wherever you are work to make the world and your own neighborhoods the best they can be.

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Goosebumps! The Real Deal!

In 2013, I attended a writer’s conference in San Francisco. Guess who was the guest speaker! Yep, Mr. Goosebumps himself, R.L. Stine!

During his keynote Q and A, I stood and thanked him for his books. I told him how my son had grown up reading the Goosebumps series and how, because of them,  turned into an avid reader.

Mr. Stine thanked me and went on with his comical keynote. (Yes, he was hysterical and left the audience in stitches. Who would have thunk it?)

(I still have the video but don’t know how to put it here)

Anyway, Mr. Stine said, “Well thank you. That’s nice. Well, my son’s claim to fame was that he never read one. <laughter> No really. He was the right age and everything. And it used to make me nuts. He used to sell parts to his friends. <laughter> He used to come home and say, ‘ Dad you have to put Will in the next book and Jay… I think they paid him 10 bucks to be in Goosebumps.’ <laughter> Of course, I always did.”

What a great writer, speaker and, apparently, a dad.

Here is me and Mr. Stine at the book signing.

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Keep Your Poisonous Swab away from MY Canal

On a scale from one to Ten on the happiness meter, I’d say that  I’m a fairly consistent eight. But, unfortunately, the needle of my frustration o-meter’s is perilously close to the danger zone. Why?

My core belief system, my moral code has not only been challenged, but also marginalized by the flip of a narcissistic man’s hand.

Anyone who has read some of my past blogs know who I am and what I stand for. And, what I acknowledge as my truth, isn’t about to change now. In fact, now, that select politicians have dipped their poisonous swab into my ideology canal, the results will come back as they always have, and this time, with a vengeance. I will continue to fight for the oppressed, for the rights of humanity and stand up against tyranny.

It has come to my attention that many folks did not understand the reason for the “Women’s March.” That’s okay. Hopefully, after so much has been written, they now understand. It wasn’t a protest against, but a march for. A march toward a better place for all humans.

How is that a bad thing?

Yes, I heard that somewhere in the world, there were acts of violence at the women’s march. The one I read about was of a pro-life supporter who was spit upon for her beliefs. Outrageous, in my opinion. I am not pro abortion in any way. I would have done (and tried) anything to have given birth to my two wonderful children who have made me a grandmother.

I am for the right to choose. I know, some of you might not understand this, and it’s too hard to explain in this post.

I also believe that some of the signs carried at various marches were “inappropriate.” Yet the ones who carried them had as much right to do so as the pro-life marchers.

Because, in that march, there was room for everyone, Republicans and Democrats alike who believed in the rights of humanity.

Now, here is my frustration. Four million plus people across the world marched to show their support for equality and since then, my mind has returned to vague memories of the sixties and the more prominent ones in the seventy and eighties. So why didn’t the ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) pass? The Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) was a proposed amendment to the United States Constitution designed to guarantee equal rights for women .

“Gender equality, also known as sex equalitygender egalitarianismsexual equality, or equality of the genders, is the view that everyone should receive equal treatment and not be discriminated against based on their gender.[This is one of the objectives of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights, which seeks to create equality in law and in social situations, such as in democratic activities and securing equal pay for equal work.”    (see wikipedia for more info on the 9th amendment to the constitution and also the 14th which finally gave rights to same-sex couples.)

The National Organization for Women, N.O.W., founded in 1966, worked toward equal pay for women. How has that worked out so far?

I recently turned, gulp, sixty. Do I really have to do this all over again?

💙Meet & Greet: A Puppydoc Party!💙

I am always inspired by Phoebe’s posts. Her compassion oozes from my computer screen.

Unknown's avatarHEALTH | INSPIRATION

I have been thinking about something. You guys are awesome. Yes you–each one of you fellow bloggers–are AWESOME. I read your blogs and am constantly blown away by everyone’s life story… your writing… your adventures… your photography.

So…I would like to try something to encourage even more connections…with me and with each other…

🌺 I want you to promote yourself! 🌺

And here’s how:
Leave a few words about your blog (or anything else you want to share) 
Leave a link
Share or re-blog this post if you think others will be interested.
♥ Take a moment to check out and support each other.
Come back HERE as often as you’d like this weekend. Feel free to leave your link each time you visit.

You guys are wonderful. So let us share the love!

With love,
Puppydoc

💙

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Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 6)

(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

Entry 5

Where was she, my precious girl who stood by my side village after village? Who filled me with such light!? Such color!? Now, my trustworthy companion, my leader, had left my side.

Hours, perhaps days later, I heard the distinct and distant sound of her honk. It lifted me from the cold ground and my feet followed where my ears lead.

A swirling fog of color engulfed me as if I were trapped inside a tube of colored glass. My arms flailed and, clearing the fog from my vision, I happened upon an old wooden bridge. I hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Goose’s honk continued calling me forward.

On the other side of the bridge, my body became heavy and light at the same time. My eyes were drawn to a beautifully welded lamppost reaching toward the stars and alive with a small, enticing flame.

At the post’s base stood a bald man of abbreviated stature. How curious he was! With one eye, he stared in his hand-held mirror’s reflection and seemed to look behind him with one eye, while staring forward at me with the other.

“Name?” he asked, rudely.

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Katarina by CDW