Eleven year-old Emma June from The Moonshine Thicket says:
“And then I remember. Betty had told Mama her husband died. Frank said his Daddy left. Betty Bedford lied to Mama. She’s a low down, no-account, good-for-nothing, loose-knee-ed, tarty, liar-mama.
I picture walking up to Betty’s shabby-shack and knocking out her teeth when she answers the door.”
Daily Prompt: Tart
Daily Prompt: Fish
“I stand there waiting for Dad to say something about my tied shoes, how I’d done it all by myself without breaking a string. I probably could stand here all day waiting, but he doesn’t say nary a word. He’s got a newspaper to read. I don’t care. They’re my shoes, on my feet, tied my way.
We eat some beans and cornbread and Aunt Nolie stops chewing long enough to say, “Cono, yer Mom and Dad have business to attend to this afternoon and you need to stay here. Punk Squares is comin’ over and he’s bringin’ his son, Freezer. Yer gonna have somebody to play with.”
“What about Delma?”
“I cain’t watch her, so she’s gotta go with yer folks.”
I don’t ask Aunt Nolie why she can’t take care of Delma. I don’t complain about that good-for-nothing kid coming over. He’s younger than me and acts like a baby, always booger fishing and eating his catch. No, it’s best to stay on Aunt Nolie’s good side.”
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper.
… and the man grew up in poverty during the depression. He protected his mother and little sister from his father’s outbursts.
I knew a man.
In the late 1930’s and early 40’s, he had two role models, two men he looked up to.
One was William H. Govan, the “water boy” for a small town football team. The “Negro” man, who served in WWI, showed compassion for the young kids, gave them doses of support and kindness, showed them how to stand up for themselves, and when they grew old enough to fight in WWII, he wrote to each and every one of them.
I knew a man. And he told me, “H. Govan was one of the best men I ever met.”
The second person he looked up to was his grandfather, a true Texas cowboy who could roll and light a cigarette with one hand while leading a string of 18 horses into town. Because of his grandfather’s teaching, this man learned to be a cowboy. So I painted his grandfather’s picture from a photo and gave it to him.
When the man joined the Army in 1942, he became a boxer. I painted this from a photograph.
Then, he met a woman, the love of his life. They had two children.
The four of them lived, loved and grew. Then, many years and anniversaries later, his wife died.
On this man’s death bed, I painted him another picture. I hung it on the wall next to where he lay, eagerly waiting to join his wife in the hereafter.
The man I knew said, smiling, “That’s me riding off in the sunset, ain’t it?”
“Yes, Daddy,” I told him.
“You gonna publish that book about me, No Hill For a Stepper,?” he said.
He’d read the draft and kept it next to his recliner in the family room for visitor viewing.
“Who do you think will play me in the movie?” He’d said it so seriously it made me smile and ponder at the same time.
Two years after he died, No Hill For a Stepper was officially published in 2011.
I knew a man. That man was my father. He wasn’t flawless. None of us are. But he told me stories, taught me how to throw a football, and when I was faced with a challenge, he said, “Hell, Carolyn. That ain’t no hill for a stepper.”
This man, Cono Dennis, is still one of the best men I’ve ever met.
Before I turn that big corner, I’ll have to look both ways.
Twenty years ago, on the evening before my fortieth birthday, I wrote a little cathartic something for myself. Something about “anything goes,” how I might dye my hair purple, get boobs, a tattoo, spit when I want to. In these past twenty years, I did one of those things. And before you wonder too hard, I’m not a spitter. I’m not good at it and don’t have a hankering to learn now.
So, I’m at the corner. To my left is the past, my right, the future.
Obviously, unless I live to be 121 years old, there is much more to see on my left, sixty years worth.
I was very fortunate to have loving parents and a sister, five and a half years older. I often tell her it’s one of the many things I love about her. She’s been every age before me and can tell me what it’s like.
Am I being overly sensitive?
Yes. But sixty? It’s so hard to believe.
I know when that big day comes a few days from now (not just my birthday but early voting day in Texas), I will settle peacefully into a new decade.
But what will I see? Do? How many more novels live inside of me that beg to be allowed in public?
How many empty canvases can I fill with paint and like the result?
When will I have to stop boxing? (pads and bags, not people)
Mostly, I wonder, what will I learn?
That’s the exciting part.
Sometimes, I want to return to the years when my children were young. The fun we had at parks, reading stories, making up stories, and endless other happy times. I loved watching them grow.
I smile now after typing that last sentence. They are adults and I still love watching them grow. And each of my two children have given me a grandchild. I will watch them grow too, just not for quite as long. It’s okay. Because now it’s my children and grandchildren’s turn to experience that joy.
And that thought makes me smile like the birth of a new baby.
It’s the circle of life. And it’s beautiful.
Since I have “friends” now, I’m reblogging this post from 2011. It was a special day for me, indeed.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham
No Hill for a Stepper was launched Texas style with James “Slim” Hand as our special musical guest. Singing the songs of Cono’s era that would have made Bob Wills and Gene Autry proud, the music was the perfect foreground for our hill country setting. What an evening! The word for the evening was “surreal” as I saw the efforts of the last 3 1/2 years come to the end of just a beginning. I cannot begin to thank all of the attendees who supported me although I certainly tried! Plus they donated sacks of coins that I will give to the winners of the students in Bell County for the “No Hill for a Stepper” essay contest. Payin’ it forward as they say.
To the crowd of over seventy people, my heartfelt acknowledgment of my father was this:
“No Hill for a Stepper” is my father’s story. While my mother, during her lifetime, was thirsty for life, she spoke mostly about her present and her future. My father focused more on his past. There were reasons he did so. First, because he wanted my sister and I to know how very different his life was compared to ours. Pat and I didn’t have to pick lambsquarter for our meals and we didn’t have to live in a dugout for our shelter. But the other reason he talked so much about his past, especially in his later years, was that he had something to resolve before he died.
As many of you know, my father was very much aware of this novel. A pen guided my hand in response to the things he recounted to me. Dad talked. I listened and wrote and wrote and and I recorded. Never in my life would I have been able to make up his story on my own.
Cono is here tonight, along with my mother. They are here in the photos and in the songs that James Hand is playing. They are here in my spirit and in my heart. Together, Mom and Dad are where all questions are answered and all things are resolved. They are now where things are no longer discouraging but instead, they are where things are copacetic.
My father did not live long enough to see the final product. So Dad, here it is – the final product I told you I would finish. “If I tell you a rooster wears a pistol, look under its wing.”
And then, my fellow supporters joined me in singing Dad’s favorite song, “Home on the Range,” loud enough for him to hear.
My much anticipated and overly planned book launch for “No Hill for a Stepper” is around the corner. Yes, there will be food, drink and music so my attendees should not be to “upset” to throw in some change. Right?
You see, the spare change is not for me. Really. All the nickels, dimes and hopefully quarters will be collected for a good cause. We are hosting an essay contest to three independent school districts here in Texas. Going with the theme of the book, students can choose between these topics: “What do you do if you are bullied”, “How do you handle difficult situations at home”, or “Interviewing a grandparent about their past”. The winner will receive prizes including a mason jar stuffed with as many coins as we collect. Why coins you ask? During the Depression, Cono rarely saw a real dollar bill. It was all about coins – saving them, spending them or even making the mistake of swallowing them.
So, if my “brothers” and sisters spare their change at the upcoming book launch, at least three students in Texas will be a little richer and hopefully a lot more encouraged. As they move forward and upward in life, they can smile and stand proud and tall as they click the left side of their cheek and say “Ah, that was NO HILL FOR A STEPPER!”
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 