Her Loaded Broom

Posted on December 24, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

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Madam Volvino down the road would have scammed the Wild Bunch. I pictured that dolly-mop charging a lower fee for her bawdy house services and then afterward, jiggling her fat rump straight to the law to collect the one grand in Bounty—one grand for Butch alone.

Only hours ago, Butch, Sundance, Kid Curry, Deaf Charlie, and William “News” Carver trotted off in three different directions. Carver said he’d soon return for Lillie and ride her off into a sunset dream. Like Sundance did with Etta last night. More girls to replace.

I counted again. Expenses, already deducted, included the vast amount of food Reba had cooked up for the entire house, the twenty bottles of French Gosset champagne—one of which I kept for myself—and the Cuban cigars—one of which Reba kept for herself. And, of course, the girls’ wages.

The familiar wide-hipped, narrow-waisted woman sidled through the swinging doors and into the kitchen, balancing a silver platter piled with dirty dishes. “Lawd have mercy,” Reba muttered.

“Too much on your plate?” I asked, laughing at my pun.

“Them wily bunch might be good at train robbing, but they ain’t worth nothing when it comes to sprucing up behind themselves.” Reba set the tray on the counter and then plunked into the chair closest to my desk in the kitchen’s corner. She stared at my grin. “What? It ain’t funny, Fannie Porter.”

“Isn’t funny,” I corrected. “Besides, this is the last for the Wild Bunch. The whole country’s chomping at the bit to catch them, especially the Pinkerton Agency. Gang’s splitting up.”

“So they says.” Reba grinned and shook her head. “I tells you what is funny. You chasin’ a known killer round the house with a loaded broom.”

“Wasn’t funny at the time.” Last night, Kid Curry, too liquor-seasoned to keep his chin above his neck, broke two of my rules. First, he entered my bedroom without permission, and then he tore my silk sheets with his spurs before I managed to shoo him out. “He promised to send new ones.”

“Mmm. And I’s growing catfish in my garden.”

Excerpt from The Last Bordello.

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)

Letter to a dead friend

Posted on December 17, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

In the 1930’s, a sad seven-year old Cono writes a letter to his deceased friend.

Cono with his little sister

Dear Gene,

I hate it that you’re dead and that those stupid doctors in Roby couldn’t fix you to save your life. We had more things to do, you and me. More wars to fight with the other boys in the neighborhood and more of our own fights to have just between the two of us, the ones that were so much fun but made us dog-tired and bruised afterward. Even though you were just a little older, but a lot littler, you always got the best of me. We never gave up. You’d just say, “Cono, ye tired yet?”

“Yeah,” I’d say.

“How bout’s you and me stop fightin’ for the day?”

“OK,” I’d say.

And that’s what we’d do. We’d get up, dust off our britches and stop for the day. But we’d never give up. Boys in Rotan, Texas never give up. That’s what you said.

Don’t feel bad about being dead. I think some of us are dead, when we’re still alive anyway. Or maybe it’s just that some of us aren’t completely born yet, like we’re waiting for a little peace and quiet to show up so we can take our first real breath.

I’m sorry I couldn’t make you better and I’m sorry that nobody could take me to visit you in the hospital. Maybe if you had been in there a little longer, I could have found a ride. I know you never gave up, so there must have been something else that caught your eye.

Things are growing on me Gene and I’m not talking about inches or new hairs. Things are crawling under my skin. I’m feeling antsy and mad and even a little bit not like myself. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if someone were to holler, “Cono!” and I’d just keep going the other direction thinking my name was George or something. My hands clench more often than they used to. My teeth do too. Just the other day, I caught myself staring in the bathroom mirror. I was about to brush my teeth, but my jawbones were moving in and out and I realized I was clamping down so hard with my grinders that a tooth brush didn’t have a chance to get in to do its job.

I’m writing to you Gene, Fishing all my words outta my truth bucket. And when I’m done? I’ll send this letter up to God Jesus, so he can read it to you. Better yet, maybe I’ll go someplace real quiet, where nobody else on this earth can hear. And I’ll talk real loud, so you can hear me all the way up in heaven. And if someone else up there happens to hear? It’s okay. I know they won’t tell anyone since they’re dead too. Besides, you’ll know it’s me. I’ll be the one flicking marbles with my pocket knife!

I sure wish you could tell me what it’s like up there. When I went to the revivals with the Allridge boys, they told me that Jesus has made a room for dead people and you’ll get to live there forever with Him. What does your room look like?

I wanna know if you’ve made any friends and if Jesus lets you wrestle and fight with them like we used to do for fun. The revivalists say that we’ll get to meet our loved ones again when we die. But what if I die when I’m a hundred and I get there and you’re still only eleven years old. Are you gonna sit on my lap and tell me Jesus stories? Ha Ha. It’s good to know that you have a room up there in heaven, although I’m not sure I believe everything they tell me at those revivals.

Gene, I want to kill my Dad. Send him right up there to heaven, where maybe you can teach him a few things, like how to be nice to me. But then, I guess it would be too late. Unless, he was Jesus and got alive again to came back to do something good. That’ll be the day.

Anyhow, I sure hope you’re real happy up there. I hope you get to throw the football and play checkers and flick marbles. And say? If you see my Uncle Joe and our friend Wort Reynolds, tell them I say, “Hello.”

Your friend,

Cono

P.S. – Wort’s the one without the head.

(Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper)

If Only…

Posted on December 12, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Eleven-year-old Emma June just wants to Flee away from the bully and go to the flea circus . But she doesn’t listen to her instincts. And that’s when everything went wrong.

“Not over there, Carla. That boy gives me the creeps.” <Emma June>

“It’s only Rachael’s brother, for crying out loud.”

I remember the time I stayed overnight ay Rachael’s. Brandon kept peeking through her bedroom window trying to scare us by pretending to be an axe murderer.

“He’s a sixteen-yea- old bully,” I say.

“He’s not that bad. I’ve seen his good sides.”

“I’d rather go to the flea circus. They’re trained, you know. They can turn a miniature carousel two thousand times their size.”

“And they’re itchy.” Carla grabs my hand and leads me toward the Knock-Down-The-Milk-Bottle tent where Brandon stands motioning us forward with a bona-fide moonshine jug in his hand.

(excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket)

The Madam is PISSED!

Posted on December 10, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Madam Fannie is furious after learning “soiled dove” Sadie snuck out to attend and heckle the Women’s Christian Temperance Union meeting!

photo used to make the point!

Reba returned to the stove, hissing like her frying bacon.

My temples throbbed. If the ache continued, I’d have to take a spoonful of that sorry laudanum and tuck myself in bed. “Now, I have to figure what to do. You have put me in a terrible situation. The girls know you betrayed my trust. We have rules in this house, and by God, girls in my establishment will Abide by them. How can I possibly let you get away with this?”

Quiet now, Sadie crossed her arms and laid her head on her forearms. Her shoulders quivered a silent shrug.

Reba shook her head. “Thinks I’m about to have another sighting, Miss Fannie. It’s starting to tell me something’s fixin’ to change around here.”

It didn’t hurt for Reba to season the disobedient girl with the fear of being fired and turned back out on the streets.

(excerpt from The Last Bordello)

Cono’s Cigar Box

Posted on December 8, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

“A cigar box alone may have no meaning, but the Treasures inside tell a story.”

I go to bed real happy. It had been a real good honest day’s work. We’d sold three dollars and twenty cents worth of those little seed packets and after tomorrow’s sell day I know I’m just one step closer to having me a brand new geetar.

I wrap my money in a dish towel and stuff, tie it up with a string and put it in my box of specials hidden under my bed. Nothing like an honest day’s work to make a feller wore out. I put my head on my pillow and go straight to sleep, out like Lottie’s eye.

The first thing I do next morning after waking up is pull out my cigar box. My other specials are in there; my Devils Claw, toothbrush, Tiger, my pocket knife, my piece of boxing glove lace, my penny from Uncle Will. But my dishtowel of money isn’t there. I leave my room and find Aunt Nolie sitting at the kitchen table eating a biscuit.

“It’s gone!” I say.

“What’s gone, Cono?”

“All my money’s gone. It ain’t where I put it!”

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

I’m Noi-vus!

Posted on December 7, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

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My third novel is finished. I love Emma June, Scooter, moonshine-maker Miss Helen. I love Emma June’s determination to find her mama and bring her back home. I love the heart-warming elements, the dialogue…

So why am I NOI-VUS?

Tomorrow I will send The Moonshine Thicket off to a literary agency, the owner I met and spoke with several years ago.

This past October, I “attended” a webinar where she and one of her agents were the hosts. The perk of the webinar was being able to submit your query, synopsis, or first ten pages (a total of 10 pages).

The agent I was assigned to was more than encouraging in her review. She gave me hope.

Still, I’m pondering. Am I ready?

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When Words Kill

Posted on December 2, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

Cono Dennis, after realizing his father read his private letters.

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Cono Dennis, my father, age 18

I might not have sparred with him but I stopped him cold and I don’t just mean by showing off my defense skills and putting him in a head lock. As sure as a sharp axe can cut through and splinter a log and slice a thin piece of paper, a sharpened pencil can do the same thing. Words are powerful; they can be weapons as sharp as an axe. “Gene, I want to kill my Dad,” words that must have reverberated and Echoed in Dad’s ears just as loud as a sawed off shotgun, or blue lightening bouncing off a cow’s head. And just as loud as his slap across my face. I don’t think I meant for him to find all those letters, but he did.

From No Hill for a Stepper, the novel based upon my father’s life from age two till age eighteen.

Stuck in a “Shining Closet”

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

From The Last Bordello: In Madam Fannie’s voice, she and her “girls,”and Meta – who was misled to the bordello – must wait out a storm in the crawl space under the stairs.

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I shifted my knees, trying to get comfortable. “Girls, if this is the worst that’s ever happened to you, I’d say you’ve lived a fine and easy life.” I knew better, of course.

“Etta’s leaving is much worse,” Sadie said, her hands shaking.

“Horsefeathers.” Lillie tucked her head between her knees and mumbled, “Worse is saying good-bye to your betrothed.”

“Carver will be back,” Sadie retorted. “Etta won’t.”

True. I couldn’t see Etta returning, which made it worse for Sadie. She and Etta had been as close as silk on a corncob.

I made note to speak privately to Sadie and the others. Under no circumstances were any of my fallen angels allowed to mention the names of the Wild Bunch or Etta’s connection with the gang.

Meta had Faded into the wall, her owl stare flickering in the lantern’s light. No doubt, she didn’t expect to spend her first night in San Antonio stuck in a bordello’s crawl space.

Entering the Insane Asylum

Posted on November 27, 2016 by Carolyn Dennis-Willingham, Author

The Pungent smell of an insane asylum.

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From The Last Bordello (voice of Sadie):

My limbs shook. My knees buckled. The men in white held fast to my elbows and pulled me toward a thick wooden door. When opened, the fragrant air vanished and was replaced with the malodorous smells of urine, vomit, rubbing alcohol, and something else I couldn’t quite place.

I saw only a few women, one being dragged in another direction. “Not surgery, not surgery!” the woman wailed.

The driver unlocked another door and pushed me into a small room that contained a stained mattress on the floor and a bucket for excrement. He told me to sleep well. I heard him laughing down the hall long after they had locked the door.

I thought it was a cruel joke, that my mother had followed behind and would now take me home with an “I told you so.” Before the tears had a chance to come, someone unlocked the door again.

Carolyn Dennis-Willingham

author perfectly flawed

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