“Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them.”
― E.M. Forster, A Room with a View
by CD-W
Always find a room with a view
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Tag Archives: books
“Not forgiving is like drinking rat poison and then waiting for the rat to die.”
Happy Birthday, Anne Lamott! I first “met” this woman when I read Traveling Mercies. Not only did I feel the “spirit”‘ of this book, I also laughed out loud. She admitted that when she prayed, she used the F-bomb saying God didn’t care. He knew her. I love this kind of honesty.
In this same book, she also talked about the female’s image of herself. At first a bit self conscience when going to the beach in her swimsuit, she saw the perfect bodies of the young women and realized that they were more self-conscience than she was. In fact, Anne didn’t worry about body image anymore. She had grown into it.
And then, there was Bird by Bird. This book truly helped take away the fear writing.
Born on this day in 1954, I know she will continue to inspire us for many years to come. Thanks, Anne!
Never give up
Ike, my great-grandfather, and Cono Dennis, my dad
Even though I didn’t get a donkey or a new guitar, I knew Aunt Nolie was in my corner, wiping off my brow between rounds and telling me to “Get up!” at the same time. I’ve since learned how to “get up” from many of the folks around West Texas. In that rugged terrain, if you don’t stand your ground, you’ll be bitten into hard, chewed on for a long time, and finally spit out just like Granny Dennis’s snuff. You don’t give up in West Texas, you get up.
It’s strange the ways people stick up for others and how they don’t. Sometimes they do it with yelling words, soft words, or even no words at all. Sometimes they do it by fighting, like Punk Squares did. But most of the time, the people in your corner just tell you to suck it up and go back at it. That’s what I’ve learned to do.
On that no-account day I did get a good reminder of what Ike taught me later on. Never trust anybody but your own self. I’d decided that from then on, I was going to protect my hard-earned money, hold on to it real tight in one hand and clutch the handle of my axe even tighter in the other. An honest day’s pay should be just that and nobody—nobody—should ever take that away from you.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper, my father’s story.
Be Tenacious!
From sex to an Insane Asylum
Earlier, I had been sitting at the piano, thinking of my deceitful yet productive visit with Mr. O’Connell, when Sadie shared her story in the kitchen. Horrifying as it was, curiosity forced me to stay. I heard every word. When she finished and said good-bye to Sheriff Tobin, I crept upstairs to our shared room. I opened my novel but the words blurred without meaning. (Meaningless)
I awoke to find the room I shared with her different, salty and sticky. No wonder Miss Fannie worked so hard to keep Sadie out of jail. It wasn’t just about her guilt or innocence but about Sadie’s demise if she were locked up again, secluded from the rest of the world. I wondered if the man who had raped her knew where she now lived.
I tried to imagine a girl of only fifteen placed in an asylum with no one to defend her, comfort her, or give her hope. Yes, she had been too young to have sex with Timothy, but that didn’t make her crazy enough to be thrown into a madhouse.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
When Dancing Doesn’t Help
I don’t believe what Daddy told me an hour ago. He’s not checking on things at the dairy. He’s out trying to find Mama. I’m sure of it. Daddy knows I refuse to turn twelve without her.
My legs move so fast, I almost forget Mama ran away. But my feet remember what Mama and Betty Beauty Bedford, her used-to-be bestie, told them months back. “Right, left, right left, up back,” they’d chanted.
Beauty had inhaled a ciggy from its ruler-long holder. “Pivot your knees, Emma June. Knock them together then point them out. You too, Carla,” she told my used-to-be. “And for Pete’s sake, move your arms. Let everything flow! Dancing takes away all your worries.”
Now, the Charleston ends. Victor Victrola’s needle ch-ch, ch-ch, ch-ch’s searching for something that’s already been used up. Like my memory at the end of carnival night. And Beauty was wrong. Worries still thump my insides.
Big Chief Tablet glares at me from the kitchen table. I tell it to shut up, that homework can wait till I’m good and ready.
Extra careful when I plant the needle a different Recording, I turn the crank again. The green and yellow squares of our sitting room rug melt together as I spin, and my braid pings one shoulder then the next like two different suitors asking to be my dance partner. My skirt puffs up like a wild mushroom, and it’s swoosh seems to say, “Everything will be right again, Emma June.”
“How do you know that when I can’t even remember?” I yell. Then I jump up and down trying to stomp out my stupid.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket by CD-W
NOTE: For those of you who have been reading excepts from this novel, thank you! This excerpt if the beginning of the novel. I hope you liked it!
Caught red (yellow)-handed
“Prostitute the Sphinx” by Toulouse Lautrec Henri
“My God, it’s Marcy’s!” The temperance union president stared rage into Sadie’s eyes.
The restaurant became silent. No clinking of cutlery, no chattering of women.
Sadie frowned and glanced up at Mrs. Stoddard. “Excuse me?”
“I said that’s my Marcy’s scarf. I gave it to her.” With one swift move, Mrs. Stoddard pulled the scarf from Sadie’s neck and examined the fabric. “See, right here.” She pointed to a tiny section of the material where, in faded ink, “M.S.” was printed.
Sadie squinted and folded her arms. “I found it, ma’am.”
“Where! Where did you find it? Where is Marcy? Tell me this instant. Someone find an officer!”
Sadie froze. “An officer? I don’t understand. You can keep it, if you’d like.”
Patrons murmured and buzzed like a Swarm of bees in a hive with no queen.
Sadie turned her frightened gaze away from Mrs. Stoddard. “Meta, I think we should head back.”
“You are going nowhere, young lady. Not until you answer some questions.” The woman’s lip quivered as she held the silk scarf against her cheek.
I searched the restaurant for support. Anyone. If only Sheriff Tobin were here. But the faces around the tables were unfriendly, their eyes condemning.
Excerpt from The Last Bordello
Lustful jelly-mixing?
“Daddy says that an almost fourteen year old boy might want something more than an almost twelve year old girl might want to give.”
Now it’s Miss Helen’s turn to puzzle her face. “A thirteen year old boy tried to take advantage of you?”
“Take advantage?” I say.
“Sit down, child.”
I start thinking we’ll be late for school.
“Emma June,” she says. “Boys that age don’t always think above their neck.” She sees the look on my face and says, “Let me continue. They have this jelly that runs through their veins and makes them look at girls with lustful eyes. Pay attention now, you’re not leaving till I’ve had my say. Anyhow, I don’t know if they can help it or not, but a boy trying to grow into a man wants to touch every part of a girl trying to grow into a woman.” Miss Helen leans back to peek in her family room where Mr. Leonard is sitting. “Well, grown men are kinda the same.” She mumbles and turns back to me. “Now, as girls get older, they get their own kind of lustful jelly. But girls need to keep that jelly under control and wait until they’re married to mix their bodies with a man’s.” Her hands fidget with that ugly, flowery, ruffled apron around her waist. “Clear?”
About as clear as thick chocolate cake.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket
Not such a Vivid response, is it?
A Boxing Tradition-Thanks, Daddy
So recently, my one-year-old granddaughter came to watch me box (see picture below). As many of you know, I love boxing. Not competitively, of course. I do it for fitness. We hit pads and bags, practice defensive, etc. We kick, too, but being a good kicker is not in my DNA. Let me explain.
My paternal grandfather was a carnival boxer in the early 1930’s. That meant he would seek out the carnivals and would box the “main” contender. If he won, which he usually did, he earned 5 buckeroos.
In the later 1940’s, my Dad boxed for the Army as Kid Dennis. I still have his boxing bag, gloves, and trunks that read “Kid.” (The story of Dad’s boxing retaliation against my grandfather is a major plot thread in my novel, No Hill for a Stepper.)
Dad quit boxing when he married my mother but continued the sport by becoming a referee. When my sister was born, he gave her little blue boxing glove rattles. After my parents died, and when my sister and I had to sort through the house, I found them! I told my sister, “I’m keeping these!” (she didn’t fight me for them). Now, I keep the little rattles in my boxing bag for inspiration.
Here’s my granddaughter holding one of the little rattles.
Baby and Me
Do I think my granddaughter should continue the tradition? It matters not. What does matter is that she learns to defend and stand up for herself. And, as Dad often reminded me, “pay attention to your surroundings at all times.” Sound advice.
Thanks, Daddy.
Nervous Sweat
Frank’s nervous, too. The way he strangles the steering wheel reminds me of the time Daddy taught Mama to drive. Mama had Jiggled nervous sweat. Daddy stayed calm and quiet like he was reading the death notices in the Galveston Post. I sat in the back giggling my socks off.
Mama kept turning to see if I was still alive. “You okay, baby? You okay?”
“Bernice, sugar. You have to keep your eyes on the road.”
Daddy and me didn’t have much to worry about. She never went more than five miles an hour.
Daddy had tilted toward me and winked, “Hope you’re not too hungry, Little Tulip. This might take a while.”
When we got home, Mama had to change out of her sweaty clothes. Daddy gave her a big hug and said, “Bernice, you make me proud.”
But that was then.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket
From Arid to a full belly
1940: Fresh Air and Dusted Britches — Last weekend Mr. Green asked Delma and me if we wanted to spend a night with him and his wife. I think maybe he’d heard a few things about what was going on at my house, about how Dad was treating me. Either way, it sure was good to get away for a night.
Mrs. Green made us corn on the cob with fried chicken and I ate every bit of mine. Then we played checkers, and even taught Delma how to play. It was like a vacation from the desert with no water into a place with fresh air and cold iced tea. It was a full belly.
The next morning before we were about to leave, Mrs. Green hugged Delma, turned to me and said, “Now Cono, you keep sittin’ on the shiny side’a that star.”
It sounded like a real nice thing to say, but I’m still trying to figure out what in tarnation she was talking about.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 