Serendipitously, I looked over toward the mirror in my bathroom and saw this — the reflected image of my past with my husband and kids — a reminder of where we were and how far we’ve come. As I like to say, “there goes that universe again.” Once again, the awareness of life, love, and the passage of time, deepens. I am grateful.
by CD-W
Tanner finally stops. He looks around but doesn’t see me. He settles on a hefty rock and lights a cigarette. “Tanner,” I say quietly so I don’t scare him out of his railroad pants.
He flinches but recovers quickly. “What?”
“I have two things to say. The first is a question. What was in Olvie’s freezer?”
“Creepy mannequin parts,” he says staring at the creek. “Arms, legs, a couple of heads.”
Jeez! Why would she keep them in an unplugged freezer? Oh, never mind. Plastic doesn’t need to be preserved in the cold.
“Next?” he says, still not looking my direction.
I take a few steps forward and settle on the ground a good ten feet away. “I think Austin’s different from where you live. You know, maybe not as bad.”
“Maybe. But Clarksville is surrounded by whites. I don’t understand why he didn’t move to east Austin with the other coloreds. There, I could go in any restaurant, pee where I want, go to the park or to the movies and not feel threatened. I wouldn’t have to watch everything I do or say. Like in my own neighborhood in Fairfield.”
“Yeah, well your uncle and the residents in Clarksville worked hard to stay where they are. They like their houses so why should they leave?” I don’t say more because I see it. Coiled. “Be still, Tanner. There’s a rattler to your left, about ten feet away.”
He turns his head slowly. When he spots, he heaves his body off the rock and runs toward me. “Come on! Run!”
I laugh through my panting at his Panicked voice.
He stops by the street curb, his hands shaking. “What’s so damn funny?”
“Two things. You’re scared of snakes and you always wear those hickory striped pants.” I point to his denim trousers.
“They’re railroad pants. No other word for them. And, I’ll have you know, I own more than one pair. Ever heard of the Underground Railroad?
“Sure,” I say, more indignant than necessary. “It was a way to help slaves escape to safe places during the Civil War.”
“I wear these pants to remind me. I intend to drive my own life-train and not let anyone take it from me.” His eyes are focused, determined and serious.
“It wasn’t a real train with real tracks,” I say.
“Still, for me, it’s symbolic.”
“I have one for you,” I say. “Every heard the expression ‘you can catch more flies with honey’?”
“So?”
“Try being nice.”
“You want me to cow-down to the white man. Let him treat me like shit because of the color of my skin.”
“You do that anyway, don’t you? In Alabama? Maybe it’s time to stop cowing down and stand up for yourself.”
Tanner spits beside his Converse’s.
“That was mean. Just when I think you might be decent enough to talk to, you end up showing your stupidity. You don’t know me at all. And,” he points a finger at my chest, “you don’t know what it’s like to be a Negro.”
Tanner doesn’t understand me either. The meanest thing I’ve ever done was kicking Donna in the ass and chasing her with a stick because she didn’t keep her promise. We’d made a deal. She was supposed to help me clean up after making brownies. As Dad would say, “deal breakers chap my ass.”
I just wanted him to know that having me as a friend might be worth fighting for. When Tanner stomps off, I don’t follow.
My WIP, set in 1963
“Shut up, Betty. You’re drunk.”
“Not enough. I thought this would be easier. I would never have told you except, except, well, now we need your help. The money’s dried up. You’re my only friend.”
“Friend? You’re not my friend. You’re a liar, a traitor. How could you?!’
Mama’s crying now and I think I have to upchuck again.
“But Bernie, I’m all he’s got. And if I don’t have help, I’ll be forced to, to tell everyone. Everyone!”
My head hits the back of Beauty’s seat. Mama has screeched the Model T to a halt.
“You’re threatening me now?” Mama’s words are Spikey like cactus needles. She never yells like this. “Is this why you befriended me in the first place?” Mama sobs. “For money? For …”
It still doesn’t make sense. The only thing that does is being home with Daddy.
I stumble through my front door trying to breathe.
“Emma?” Daddy says. He rushes to me with arms wide enough to hug all of Holly Gap. Choppers licks muck from my face.
“Oh, Daddy, Daddy.” I let him hold me.
He lifts my chin and stares at my dirty, scratched face. “What happened, Emma June? Tell me.”
His voice is worried. But there’s no truth I can tell him. Not now.
Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket, 1928
Cono Dennis
My father is a worthless, sorry son of a bitch, no better than calves’ slobber. I’ve tried to find reasons to believe otherwise, I really have.
How can a piece of apple pie be so good and so bad at the same time? Maybe it’s like Ike’s jalapeno, the price for eating one is steep. But at least Ike got a little satisfaction from those hot bites, the taste being worth it.
I think about Hicks Boy, how I never could beat him, and I wonder if it will ever be me who is standing up at the end of a round with my right hand held up by a referee. “And the new boxing Champion is Cono Dennis.” The crowd cheers.
I want to look down at the calves’ slobber lying bloodied on the boxing ring canvas. I want to spit down on my father and say, “There ain’t nothin’ worse than bein’ woken up in the middle’a the night to the feelin’ ’a yer balls bein’ squeezed, and hearin’ the sound of a pocket knife bein’ opened up at the same time.”
I want to walk away from the ring, the crowd still cheering.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper, my father’s story
My Dad
I yelled, “fall out!” But, there’s one in every crowd. His name was “Johnson,” an ex-merchant marine with big old biceps who thought he could fight a circular saw and come out ahead. He pulled the cover over his head as if that was gonna protect him from someone who knew better.
Everyone was watching me, so I knew I had an impression to make. I walked over, and said, “Well, aren’t you smart?” Then I took that cot and flipped it right in the middle of him.
He stood up, towering over me like a big gorilla, stared down at me and drew back. Now, the thing about big ole boys like Johnson is that they might have a lot of muscle and power, but for a lightweight class like me, they move like molasses. So that’s the last he saw. When he drew his big arm back, my fist landed square on his chin before his pea brain could register what hit him. He dropped like a loose button, out cold as a cucumber.
When Johnson started to stir a bit, he looked at me with surprise and reached up to feel his mouth, like he was making sure all his teeth were still there.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I know a couple of folks without any teeth and they can still eat almost anything.”
He sat there glaring at me and I kept talking.
“And if you keep puckerin’ like that, pretty soon you’re your face is gonna match your asshole. Now get up!”
Everybody laughed except for Johnson. I guess he didn’t think it was funny. But he did stand up and, so far, Johnson and the rest of the cooks barracks have been looking at me in a different light. I don’t count on Johnson looking down on me ever again. Besides, he couldn’t fight the gnats off his butt.
I suppose the fighting Instinct was born in me, like red is born into a beet. Maybe because I started fighting in first grade when I had to stick that pocketknife into the thigh of Tommy Burns so he wouldn’t take my marbles.
Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper, my father’s story
So recently, my one-year-old granddaughter came to watch me box (see picture below). As many of you know, I love boxing. Not competitively, of course. I do it for fitness. We hit pads and bags, practice defensive, etc. We kick, too, but being a good kicker is not in my DNA. Let me explain.
My paternal grandfather was a carnival boxer in the early 1930’s. That meant he would seek out the carnivals and would box the “main” contender. If he won, which he usually did, he earned 5 buckeroos.
In the later 1940’s, my Dad boxed for the Army as Kid Dennis. I still have his boxing bag, gloves, and trunks that read “Kid.” (The story of Dad’s boxing retaliation against my grandfather is a major plot thread in my novel, No Hill for a Stepper.)
Dad quit boxing when he married my mother but continued the sport by becoming a referee. When my sister was born, he gave her little blue boxing glove rattles. After my parents died, and when my sister and I had to sort through the house, I found them! I told my sister, “I’m keeping these!” (she didn’t fight me for them). Now, I keep the little rattles in my boxing bag for inspiration.
Here’s my granddaughter holding one of the little rattles.
Baby and Me
Do I think my granddaughter should continue the tradition? It matters not. What does matter is that she learns to defend and stand up for herself. And, as Dad often reminded me, “pay attention to your surroundings at all times.” Sound advice.
Thanks, Daddy.
“Toxic people such as malignant narcissists, psychopaths and those with antisocial traitsengage in maladaptive behaviors in relationships that ultimately exploit, demean and hurt their intimate partners, family members and friends. They use a plethora of diversionary tactics that distort the reality of their victims and deflect responsibility. Although those who are not narcissistic can employ these tactics as well, abusive narcissists use these to an excessive extent in an effort to escape accountability for their actions.
Here are the 20 diversionary tactics toxic people use to silence and degrade you.”
Here is the link to this outstanding article.
Carolyn Dennis-Willingham 