Cono meets a “Colored Man”

Posted on February 16, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Cono Dennis and his sister, Delma

1934: We walk into the barber’s shop and Dad shakes hands with Mr. Kindle. The place looks pretty much the same as Grady’s in Ranger, but instead of a boxing poster, there’s a framed picture of President Roosevelt. Something else different too. There’s a colored man standing in the corner holding a rag. Dad walks up to him, shakes his hand and says, “How ya doin,’ H?”

“I’m jest fine, Mr. Wayne. How ‘bout yerself?” They shake hands.

“Any better ’n I’d be dead.”

“Well, that’s fine then, jus’ fine,” H. laughs.

“H., this is my boy, Cono.” H. bends down, looks me square in my eyes and says, “We’ll, it’s a real pleasure Little Dennis, a real pleasure.”

I like how he’s Squatting so he can see my eyes. Like we’re playing on the same team. I don’t have to look up to him and he doesn’t have to look down on me. I stare back into his eyes where I can see right into the middle of him. What I see is safe and comfortable. So I say, “I ain’t never met a real colored man before.” I hear Dad laugh.

“‘S’at right?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, sir,” corrects Dad.

“Yes sir,” I say.

“Well, Little Dennis, I’ve never met a young man so strong and smart lookin’ as you.” Dad gets in the barber’s chair and H. pulls up a stool to start shining Dad’s old black shoes.

I like the way H. looks at me, like I’m worth a jar full of quarters.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

The Good Seats Aren’t Reserved for Me

Posted on February 15, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Cono Dennis

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.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Two pills and a Bible

Posted on January 29, 2017 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

It had started off on a bad note or rather a bad sore throat. I guess I’d lived there long enough to pick up Temple germs from the Junior High. My throat hurt something awful and I thought I’d surely come down with Scarlet Fever like Delma had that time.

A kid in one of my classes told me about a doctor within walking distance from my house that I should go see. He also gave me a bible. “What’s this?”

“It’s a Bible.”

“I can see that. Why’re ye handin’ it to me?”

“Just thought you’d like ta have it, you know to read.”

“I don’t wanna take yer Bible.”

“Well, it’s not really mine. I work at the Baptist Church and I can get them anytime I want.”

“Okay then,” I said, taking the Bible he’d stolen from his church.

“I’ll pray for your throat, Cono.”

“OK,” I hoarsed out of my throat, thinking, “Yeah and praise the Lord too.”

I took him up on his advice and right after school I went straight to that doctor’s office. He told me to come back tomorrow morning and not to eat anything. So that’s what I did.

The next morning the doctor handed me two little Yellow pills and said, “Here’s your breakfast.” Then he left me in a chair that leaned back. I waited there until my head started to feel fuzzy, like I was sitting at the bottom of a well looking up towards the light of the sky.

“Cono, are you ready?” I stared up through the well and saw the long-nosed face of the man talking to me, the man in the white coat who made a little loop out of some kind of wire and pulled one, then two tonsils from the back of my throat. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he decided that my adenoids weren’t doing me any good, so he yanked them out too. Fuzzy or not, I felt every damn bit of it.

He laid a pack of ice on my neck for a while and told me to go home and get some rest. I did. I rested for a whole week because I got sicker than a dog and not because I forgot to cover up my hiney. I got a bad fever and thought for sure I was gonna die. That’s when I picked up that Bible. I remembered Ma saying, “Cono, thar ain’t nothin’ wrong with readin’ the Bible.” Plus, I thought that if I was about to die, I might as well find out who was going to open up the Pearly Gates to let me in.

Once I got through all that “beggetting” stuff, it wasn’t a bad read. I didn’t understand much of it since there were so many people to keep up with. I got the gist of most of it though. But I was still trying to figure out why it said “an eye for an eye” one minute and “turn the other cheek” the next.

During that week, Delma came in once with a pot on her head and stared at me sober as a judge.

“Delma, ye need te get yerself a better lookin’ hat.” She laughed and left the room probably thinking she made me feel better. I guess in a way she did.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

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.”

Uncle Will’s fortune

Posted on December 20, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Cono’s pony, Polo

I ride him up to the front of the house, but start slowing down when I see a car pull up in front of Ma and Pa’s. Not just any car, but a brand new four-door 1931 Cadillac that I know Uncle Will paid through the nose for.

“Cono!” I hear Aunt Nolie yell, “Come say ‘hello’ to yer Uncle Will.” I ride Polo over to Uncle Will, as he’s getting out of his fancy car wearing his fancy suit, five dollar Mallory hat and carrying his fancy walking stick. Since he’s married to Ma’s sister, Aunt Oler, I know I need to be polite, but it’s hard to be since he’s always such a horse’s butt. His money never helps us out none. I’m not sure it helps him either ‘cause it sure doesn’t make him a nice feller. Last time he came over he looked at me and said, “Why Cono, ye haven’t grown an inch. You better watch out or yer little sister’s gonna catch up with ye, Ha ha ha.” I didn’t like it when he said that, not one little bit.

Polo and I ride up close to him he says, “Well, hello there Cono..”

I’m just waiting for another report about how I’m not growing and I’m about to say, “Hello sir” but don’t get the chance. He walks over to me and pulls me right off Polo with his fancy walking stick. “Well, I’ll be damned” is what I’m thinking; the shock of it all doesn’t let me think of anything else. Uncle Will laughs. I can’t believe it, but he reaches in his pocket and thumb-flicks me a shiny penny.

“Save it up fer a rainy day there, young fella.”

I pick it up off the ground and mumble, “Thank you, sir.”

Aunt Oler and Aunt Nolie don’t pay me no mind, they just go on talking. I get up, grab Polo by the reins and walk slowly back towards the house. I don’t want Uncle Will to know that underneath my hat, my dander is up. So what if he’s got an oil rig named after him? So what he just gave me a shiny new penny? It ain’t like I’ve never seen one before! As far as I’m concerned, Uncle Will’s just a short, fat, King’a Fancy Man and I wish I had his Cadillac and he had a wart on his butt. I’m just gonna go put that penny in my cigar box until I think of something to do with it.

Probably buy some paper to wipe my butt with.

From my novel, No Hill for a Stepper.

Fortune

You Would be 87 today

Posted on December 18, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

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)

A book launched Texas style…

Aside

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.