Tag Archives: writing

Searchin’ for the “Funny”

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Dad never owned a car long enough for him to learn how to drive, or for that matter, long enough for me to learn to drive. Until we moved to Temple, that is. Dad was the odd man out, never having an interest in cowboying or even getting on top of a horse like the rest of the Dennis’.

Dad tried to ride a bull once. Maybe it was a low point for him. For for me it was anything but. We were living at the Dennis ranch when Dad came home drunk and decided it was time to act like a real rodeo star. I was standing outside the corral, where we kept one of our two-year-old bulls. Dad saunters over to me and slurs, “Cono, grab that bull o’r yonder. Hold’em still ‘til I get on. I’m gonna ride that son’a bitch”

“Sure I will, Dad.”

It was better than watching a picture show. While I was putting the rope around the bull’s neck, Dad went over and fixed Ike’s spurs to his shoes! Not to his boots because he didn’t even own a pair of boots, but to his shoes! Then he slapped on Ike’s chaps. I helped him get on top of the bull and stood there holding his rope.

“Whenever you’re ready,” I said.

“I’z ready,” he Slurred.

I let go.

Dad put one hand up in the air and said, “High, ho, silv……”

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That bull didn’t even buck. He just turned around real slow like he was trying to see what kind of idiot would sit on his back. Well, that slow turn was all it took. My Dad fell right off that lazy bull and straight into the dirt, Ike’s spurs dangling from Dad’s shoes.

I turned around and looked in the other direction. I didn’t want Dad to see my shoulders quivering from laughter.

Dad got up and staggered back to the house mumbling something about killing steak for dinner.

Some things sure were funny back then, but other times? You couldn’t find “funny” anywhere you looked.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

Not always “home” on the range

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Right before it’s time to go home, Mrs. Alexander starts to teach us a new song called Home on the Range. “Oh give me a home, where the antelope roam and the deer and the antelope play. Where seldom is heard, a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. How often at night, where the heavens are bright with the light of the Glittering stars, have I stood there amazed and asked as I gazed if their glory exceeds that of ours. Home, home on the range….”

I like those words. They make me feel almost as good as when I’m riding on ol’ Polo, free and easy like deer and antelope playing together without any bickering. I like that she tells us what the words mean, words like “discouraging.” She says that “discouraging” means that you don’t like something much, like something makes you feel uncomfortable, something that spoils your spirit. So now I can say, that “Home on the Range” is my new favorite song. I can also say that recess today sure was discouraging.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

photo credit

 

The Smart Crust

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March, when Scooter turned fourteen, the handmade crown Miss Primrose gave Scooter never stayed on his head. I’m not so sure it was the crown’s fault.

“I agree, Scoot, ol’ Buddy,” Frank says. “We should wait until we’re real kings to wear crowns.”

“King Scooter Hutchings.” Scooter chuckles. “King Scooter Hutchings doesn’t walk on crutches.”

“Frank,” I say. “Are you teaching Scoot to rhyme?”

Frank shrugs and smiles.

“All the time,” Scooter squeals.

We laugh our way to the final steps of the schoolhouse. “Scooter, remember about tonight. We can’t tell Bernie about our plans. It’s a secret,” I tell him. “I want our plans to come to fruition.”

Scooter crinkles his nose.

“You know—”

“Work as planned,” Scooter says, pulling out his pocketknife.

Scooter is the smart crust around the Juicy apple pie that holds everything together.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

 

Cono meets a “Colored Man”

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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

 

A Kindle Ad reminder

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As a kid, I hated to read. Nothing stuck. Everything around me had more meaning than written words inside a book. Then came To Kill a Mockingbird. At age 14, this was the first book I read cover to cover. “So, some books are good?” I thought. This one was proof.

I always liked writing but, many, many years passed before I became an avid reader. Maybe it’s because my mind could finally focus on words I didn’t write, words that enticed me to enter new worlds such as:

ancient Egypt in River God by Wilbur Smith

1975 India in A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry

the Depression-era Ireland in Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt

inside the memories of a man from a very dysfunctional family in The Prince of Tide by Pat Conroy

And many more, of course.

Still, I am very selective of the books I read. Many times, a book is over before I finish it. And no, I don’t feel guilty for closing it prematurely as some do. I just grab another and hope others don’t do the same with my novels!  🙂

Read to your child when they are young!

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Am I really thanking Trump?

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No, but …

We The People had been far too complacent. Most Republicans and Democrats thought he would never win. He did. Snuck right under our noses like a not-so-quiet thief in the night. Then, when we rose, said, “what happened to all our shit?”

Trump has unknowingly forced us to take a hard look at ourselves and, in doing so, we have awoken to reconfirm our beliefs and our rights (or lack there-of).

Now, dialogues are reopened. Millions of people are speaking up, and out, to the masses. We are no longer complacently thinking that things are okay. They are not. And, for the most part, they were. Ten days ago we did not have executive orders that divided us with the rest of the world, executive orders that remain questionable in their constitutional authority.

Yesterday, the DNC tweeted: We want to know what YOU want the future of our party to look like and what you want from our next Chair. Tell us:

Well, they got an ear-full! Here’s one:unspecified.png

Read more here.

Yes, Trump has inadvertently brought us together. Did you see the marchers on January 21st? The women, men and children of all backgrounds including the Black Lives Matter and LBGT community who came together as ONE? Did you see the protesters at JFK airport and learned how it led to a stay in Trump’s order to keep immigrants away? I am SO proud of you!!

“We The People, of the United States, in Order to form a perfect Union,” have returned to our moral code and now remember how to march, how to protest, how to voice our frustrations and concerns.

Am I happy he is president? Hell, no. But I’m glad he has, in no accord of his own,  made us remember what is important.

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“You must be the change you wish to see in the world.”-Gandhi.

“Ask yourself this question: ‘Will this matter a year from now?’ –Richard Carlson, American psychotherapist and author of Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

“When you carry something elephantine for the good of humanity, the feet where you tread will leave a deeper, lasting impression.“ Carolyn Dennis-Willingham

 

Two pills and a Bible

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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

 

 

Opium, Anyone?

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Ten minutes later, Sadie pulled me in front of a shabby, metal warehouse. The sign painted above the door read “Ben’s Den.”

“What is this place?”

“I’ll only be a moment, Meta. Will you wait for me out here? I’ll be right back.”

Before I had time to respond, Sadie entered through the shoddy door, allowing me a quick peek before she closed it behind her. The musky smoke Filtering out didn’t come from cigars or cigarettes.

An opium den? I had read about them, but never knew any existed in San Antonio.

Two minutes had passed. Sadie exited the building, her pace had slowed, her glazed eyes and serene.

“Are you okay, Sadie?”

“Perfect. You should go in with me sometime. The owner is a nice young man. Although,” she said, giggling, “Ben has crooked teeth. Makes me cross-eyed if I stare at them too long. Oh, and his face pocks. Big enough for fairies to bed in.” She threw her hands toward the sky. “A beautiful day. Oh, and please don’t tell Miss Fannie. Some things I must keep to myself.”

I wondered what else Sadie kept to herself. Intuition told me she stored secrets the way Mama and I stored canned vegetables.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

 

Goosebumps! The Real Deal!

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In 2013, I attended a writer’s conference in San Francisco. Guess who was the guest speaker! Yep, Mr. Goosebumps himself, R.L. Stine!

During his keynote Q and A, I stood and thanked him for his books. I told him how my son had grown up reading the Goosebumps series and how, because of them,  turned into an avid reader.

Mr. Stine thanked me and went on with his comical keynote. (Yes, he was hysterical and left the audience in stitches. Who would have thunk it?)

(I still have the video but don’t know how to put it here)

Anyway, Mr. Stine said, “Well thank you. That’s nice. Well, my son’s claim to fame was that he never read one. <laughter> No really. He was the right age and everything. And it used to make me nuts. He used to sell parts to his friends. <laughter> He used to come home and say, ‘ Dad you have to put Will in the next book and Jay… I think they paid him 10 bucks to be in Goosebumps.’ <laughter> Of course, I always did.”

What a great writer, speaker and, apparently, a dad.

Here is me and Mr. Stine at the book signing.

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