From The Moonshine Thicket:
Scoot will always be with me no matter how old I get. People often say, “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.” I remind myself to never cross a broken bridge, especially if a gangster-wolf is lurking on the other side.
Scooter’s my bridge. He leads me across to a wonderful, magical way of looking at the world, one that’s never too dangerous to cross.
Daily Prompt: Mythical
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
My blog posts are and will be short. I know, they’re supposed to be and I like it that way. I don’t have to spend years writing one.
My books on the other hand…
Geez! It took me three years to write No Hill for a Stepper and five to write The Last Bordello.
So, now that I’m getting older, who would have thought I could speed along at a faster pace?
You see, I started my new book, The Moonshine Thicket, this summer.
IT’S DONE!
Well, except for … you know, that thing called Ed-I-Ting.
… 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.
If you choose to go inside…
Madam Fannie Porter will answer your knock, her head tilted back and a hand on her protruded hip. If you are a customer, she’ll first point out her list of rules and if you don’t follow them, the ratchet of a shotgun will show you the way out.
Then, she’ll point to one of her soiled doves –Chubby Greta from west Texas with her big brown eyes and no nonsense attitude; timid Lillie who grins but rarely exposes the gap where her tooth had been knocked out by a brute; Sassy Sarah with her flaming red hair and ample bosoms. Then there’s Sadie. Well, Sadie …
If you are a lost young woman steered to the wrong “boarding house,” Madam Fannie will keep you safe. She might also offer you a job as the bordello’s pianist.
But perhaps you choose not to enter.
You may be against vice, the Social Evil, the Grand Wrong. Then go to the public forum in Alamo Park. Hear Minnie Fisher (Cunningham) speak out on women’s rights. Listen to Women’s Christian Temperance Union‘s Texas president, Helen Stoddard, speak out against prohibition. But prepare yourself. Texans likes their beer.
Whichever choice you make, know this. The Last Bordello is not a novel about what goes on behind closed bedroom doors (okay, perhaps a tad), nor is it merely a whodunit. It’s about powerful women at the turn of the twentieth century who fought for their standing in life. While some found prostitution to be their only means of survival, other women fought for equal rights.
The Last Bordello depicts the struggle and determination of both sides.
Oh, and I suggest NOT entering Southwestern Insane Asylum.
It is 1901. So, would you enter or not? Are you curious about what’s inside? Appalled? There’s no wrong answer. There’s no right one, either. I’d love to hear your response and a reason or two why you chose to go in or stay out.
All the best,
Carolyn
If Give You Give A Mouse A Cookie, he’s going to ask for a glass of milk. When you give him the milk, he’s probably going to ask for a straw….”
That’s what happened to me, but in a dream.
So, I took that morsel, ran with it, and didn’t “return” until five years later.
Hmm? How to make this brief?
We own our family homestead.
My great-great grandparents set their belonging on the land in the 1840’s and said, “das ist gut.” And it was. And it is.
In my dream, the essence of me stared into an old photo. In the frame, the couple turned to one another and smiled. Then, the screen door opened. The farmer stood in the doorway to greet his wife, but couldn’t enter.
And that’s what started the process of writing The Last Bordello.
As written in Chapter Two:
Most nights, I see Papa in my dreams. In a slower-than-life pulse, in a not-so-common four-count measure, he smiles as he grabs the knob of our screen door and opens it to enter. His movement repeats. He smiles and opens the door. Smiles and opens the door. Each time, he never enters. He never falls.
But Papa did fall; collapsed before crossing our threshold into the house his neighbors helped him to build. Four years ago now, all of the notes of Papa’s life faded away with his last breath. A stillness so loud that my ears still burned.
If only Papa hadn’t died.
I’m not living in 1901 anymore. I’m no longer in a bordello, in a lunatic asylum, or attending a Women’s Christian Temperance Union or Suffrage meeting.
I’m in 1928. So far, it’s the cat’s pajamas. (The Moonshine Thicket– working title)
Dear writers, listen to your dreams!
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 