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Uncle Will’s fortune

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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

A find after the find- Priceless!

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Yesterday, while looking for something else, I found a poem I had written to celebrate my new-old parlor grand Steinway. Today, serendipitously or not, I received a FB post from a friend who remembered the party and sent me this picture! The party was 16 years ago so I’m a few years older now. 🙂

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left to right: two of our friends, me in center, my hubby, and Will, our fabulous pianist for the evening. He is also the one who rented the Rolls Royce for picture taking.

When Words Kill

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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.

 

Now What? I’ll tell you…

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For readers, one book closes while another one opens.  I suppose this is true for authors as well. However, No Hill for a Stepper is not only my first published book, it is my father’s story. Aside from the story itself, it is a reminder of the two years spent beside him taking notes and recording his comments on a cheap Sony recorder. It is a reminder of the trip we took back to his roots both in conversation as well as physically to Rotan, Ranger, Roby, Sweetwater and Temple, Texas. Although Dad did not live long enough to see the published version, my sister gifted me with a fabulous present. She looked at me and said, “This is a present from Dad and I.”

“Dad,” I asked. “Our Dad?”

“Yes.”

And there it was, my favorite photo of Dad sitting on the front porch at our homestead except this time, he was holding a copy of my book in his hand.

After the book was published, I began asking readers to send me pictures of themselves reading my father’s story.  Not only did the photos make me feel proud, it made me think of how much my father enjoyed sharing his story with others.

                                

So what’s next? An author’s pen is always close at hand. Meta, one of the central characters in my new book, was the first to introduce herself to me. Other characters have either snuck up behind me and tapped me gently on the shoulder or  have introduced themselves quite spontaneously, yelling “here I am! Put ME in your new book.”  Each time I sit down to write, I am eager to learn what they will do or say next. I have little control over these characters.

It is 1910. There is a farm girl who lives in a German community outside of Fredericksburg. There is a prostitute in a bordello in San Antonio, a thirteen-year-old newspaper boy with a rolled cigarette in his mouth and a wise great aunt. There is the madam of the bordello with her trusty assistant who is laced with spice and grit, and a young man with a deep scar across his face. There are strangers and connections.  There is murder.  There is innocence and guilt. There are lies and deceit. There is only one truth.

THAT is what is next.

But No Hill for a Stepper?  It rests comfortably, open, in the center of my chest.