A Bag of Snickers

A Bag of Snickers

By Carl Purdon

Cort Hatcher hadn’t always been a drunk, but a drunk he was and there was no denying it. He opened the door of his mobile home and stepped out onto the plank porch in his bare feet. It was cold, the first cold morning of the season. Soon the frost would come and coat the landscape with brown. His was a small lot but private, with trees of varying species dotting his yard. Fall was his favorite time of year but it never failed to plunge him into melancholy.

            He eased himself into the wooden swing that hung from the rafters by chains and cradled a hot cup of coffee between his massive hands, hands that had once been hard and calloused. A gentle breeze blew right through his white cotton t-shirt and green checked pajama bottoms.

            “It’s cold this morning.” Sometimes Cort talked to himself. He raised the blue cup to his lips and took a sip. “That’s hot. Feels good, though.”

            The coffee warmed him but his system needed more. “Not today. We’re not giving in this time.” Even as he spoke the words his mind slipped through the door, to the kitchen, and into the cabinet beside the refrigerator. Whiskey. “No. It’s Halloween and I can’t be drunk when they come this time.” He remained in the swing and took a deep breath. It was not quite cold enough yet to see his breath when he exhaled. “Not this time.”

            Every year Cort decorated his yard with square bales of hay and jack-o-lanterns. Ghosts and goblins hung from his trees by the dozen. Some people go overboard with Christmas decorations but not Cort. Halloween was his obsession. When he finally rose from the swing he descended the concrete steps, three of them, and made an inspection of the decorations. It wouldn’t do to appear sloppy tonight.

            Each tick of the clock brought Cort one second closer to nightfall. His hands trembled as his internal organs thirsted for alcohol. By noon his head pounded. Even his eyes ached. “Just a few more hours. We can do it. A promise is a promise.” He paced the floor, ate a sandwich for lunch, then went out into the yard and checked he ghosts and goblins again. Not a second passed that the bottle in the kitchen didn’t cross his mind. 

At two o’clock he drove to town and bought a single bag of miniature Snickers and a dozen red roses. When he returned home he placed them on the coffee table and stood back to admire them with a strange sort of reverence, then sighed and checked the clock again.

 

            At long last the sun began to slide below the tree line. Inch by inch is fell until all that remained was a faint splash of orange in the western sky. They would come soon. He had to be ready. How surprised they would be to find him sober this year. He made one more pass through the yard, this time lighting the candles inside the jack-o-lanterns. Nine glowing pumpkins would greet them. Last year there were eight. Next year, ten.

            Cort stepped back inside and turned off the living room light, leaving the porch light on of course, lest they think him not at home. There was no bottle on his mind now, not now. Sobriety felt strange to him, though, like some long lost recollection that can no longer be. “They should be coming any minute now.” He waited.

            An hour passed. They were late. Then another. Perhaps they weren’t coming this year. Suddenly he wondered if their visits had been no more than drunken fantasies? His heart raced. His throat grew tight. He needed a drink. “No! Not yet. They’ll come. They have to come.”

            Fifteen more minutes and still not lights in the driveway. The tremble in his hands was violent now, so violent he could barely hold a glass of water without wetting the floor. “Just one little drink. Something to calm me. They can’t see me shaking like this.” He rushed to the kitchen and pulled open the cabinet door. There it sat. All day it had taunted him. He reached in and grabbed it, then hesitated. “Just one drink. One! Not two.” He twisted the cap off and raised the bottle to his lips. The aroma of the dark whiskey calmed him. The doorbell rang.

            “Trick or treat!”

            Cort jumped at the sound. “They’re here! And to think I almost ruined it.” He recapped the bottle and returned it to its spot beside the crackers then hurried to the front door. On the porch stood a boy of six and a woman of twenty seven, both dressed in costumes. Cort knew their ages because he knew their identity.

            “Ah, look at you! You’re a pirate this year. Grand.” Cort pushed open the door and stepped out onto the porch and immediately fell to his knees in front of the boy. “I was afraid you weren’t coming.” He reached out but the boy withdrew. “Yes, I’m sorry. No touching.” He looked up at the boy’s mother and strained to see her face behind the black veil. Her costume never changed. She wore the garb of a lady in mourning.

            “Take off your mask, Timmy, and let me look at you,” Cort said to the boy. The boy raised the pirate mask and smiled. “I’m sober this year,” Cort said. “Just like I promised. Are Snickers still your favorite?”

            “Yes, daddy,” the boy said.

            “Oh, look at me,” Cort said, fighting back the tears in his eyes. “I’ve forgotten to bring them out. Wait right here. Don’t leave.” He pushed himself to his feet and quickly retrieved the bag of candy and the roses from the coffee table. When he turned back toward the door his visitors were gone. He ran outside and called for them, yelled for all he was worth, then fell to his knees and sobbed like a child, clutching the bag of Snickers and the roses to his chest. Almost an hour passed before he righted himself and began to walk down the driveway. When he reached the road he turned left. Gravel crunched beneath his feet with every step.

            With nothing but the moon to light his way, Cort walked for two miles then turned right into a narrow drive, then through a metal gate. He could navigate the cemetery with his eyes closed, as the moon was not always so bright when he came here. There is nothing more private than a cemetery at night. He walked leftward, along the fence for twenty paces, then straight right for fifteen more. Sometimes he counted them off as he walked, but not tonight. 

            Two headstones stood side by side, the bottom dates the same. Nine years ago today. Halloween. “Timothy Ray Hatcher. Born June 23, 1995. Died October 31, 2001,” he said aloud. There were no tears now. He had cried himself dry. “Janet Ann Hatcher. Born August 3, 1975. Died October 31, 2001. In God’s loving arms.”

            Cort stared at the granite for a long time, then placed the bag of candy before one and the roses before the other. It was a slow walk home. At times he forgot where he was or what he was doing, such was his grief. When he reached the end of his driveway the eastern horizon had an orange glow. The nine jack-o-lanterns in his yard were silent, their faces dark. The ghosts and goblins hung motionless, as if out of respect, as he made his way up the driveway, onto the porch, and into the kitchen. “Three hundred and sixty five more days,” he said, as he opened the cabinet beside the refrigerator.

           

           

____________________________

Carl Purdon lives in Pontotoc, Mississippi with his wife and two of their four children. Pontotoc is halfway between Tupelo, which is the birthplace of Elvis, and Oxford, which was the home of William Faulkner. Since he can’t sing, he writes. Since he’s not an expert on anything in particular, he writes fiction. In February of 2012 he released his debut novel, The Night Train, and is currently working feverishly with another cast of characters in a manuscript that has not yet been named. Between scenes, Carl blogs about writing, and has an interview series devoted to all areas of the reading and writing community. This short story, A Bag of Snickers, is part of a collection of short stories and poems available on Amazon.

Contact Links:

Website: http://www.carlpurdon.com

Blog: http://www.carlpurdon.blogspot.com/

Tuddie Mae

The room was almost completely dark as I entered through the heavy screened door. I paused for a few minutes to allow my eyes to adjust when something immediately caught my eye. Coming down the stairs was a middle aged woman with brilliant orange red hair. As she came closer, I could see that she was much older than I had originally thought, but a heavy coat of make-up hid her true age very well.

Tina turned to me and said, “this is my Mama.” “Mama, this is Bonnie, my friend from school.” The woman extended her hand, as she said in a long Southern drawl, “well hey theyah, Miss Bonnie. It’s a pleasuh to make yor acquaintance.” I didn’t know what to do with her hand as it remained extended toward me, so I vigorously shook it and said “nice to meet you too.”

Tina explained to her mother that we had come home from school to work on a report and after having a snack we would prefer not to be disturbed. “Sure, Sugah. Ya’ll do whatever ya’ll want to.”

As we slipped into the kitchen, I could tell that Tina was breathing a sigh of relief. I wondered what that was about but decided to ask her about it later when we had more privacy. Tina’s Grandmother was in the kitchen busy making tea. She greeted us with a smile and said “well, lookey here.” As she turned toward me, Tina introduced me and we exchanged a few pleasantries.

Taking our glasses with us, Tina and I quickly went up the stairs to Tina’s room. “We’d better slip off our shoes,” Tina said, “so’s we don’t disturb Mama.” I said, “okay” and we took our shoes off and then sat down to study. Tina got very quiet and then blurted out “Mama’s diff’rent.” “Whadda ya mean,” I said. I had no clue what I was in for as I asked that question.

Tina proceeded to explain to me that her Mama was a few cards short of a full deck and that her Mama honestly thought that she was Scarlett O’Hara. “You gotta be kiddin’,” I said. “Nope,” replied Tina, “honest to God, she does.” “Ever since Daddy died, she’s been acted funny. She has to keep her hair fixed just so and she has to wear all these big, frilly dresses. She sashays around the house fanning herself with her hand and saying “it’s so hot in heyah” all the time. Me and Grandmamma just try to ignore her as much as we can but sometimes, I declare! I just can’t take it any more.” “It’s really bad when she thinks she has somebody coming over to see her…you’ll see, if you’re heyah long enough.”

Tina and I worked on our report until our stomachs started talkin to us. I told her that I was gettin hungry and she said she was too. We closed our books and trotted downstairs. There in the middle of the parlor sat Tina’s mama, Tuddie Mae. She was in a big ol’ dark wood rocker rocking back and forth mutterin’ something to herself. When she saw us, she immediately jumped up and exclaimed, “now you girls just go on. Ya’ll know it’s time for my gentleman caller.” I looked at Tina and she looked at me as she rolled her eyes and motioned for me to come into the kitchen. We passed by her mama’s chair and went straight for the fridge.

Grabbing a bottle of Coke, Tina turned and asked me if I wanted one too. “You bet,” I said. “How ‘bout some pecan pie to go with it?,” she said. “Sounds good to me,” I replied. As we sat at the table, Tina’s grandmother came in. “Now ya’ll just set in here a spell, ya hear?” “Sure, Grandmama,” Tina said. There was a sort of worriedness to her voice. I didn’t know what was goin’ on and I didn’t think I wanted to know either. Tina and I ate our refreshments and talked a while.

The big clock on the mantle in the living room begin to chime a loud, deep, bong sounded for each hour that had passed. Tuddie Mae began to stir. She huffed and groaned and made noises that were unpleasant. “Ya’ll sit still,” Tina’s Grandmother warned.

“Wheyah is he? I know he said he’s be heyah at five. I been waitin’all day. Now wheyah is he?,” Tuddie Mae exclaimed. “Don’t you worry about it none now, ya heyah,” said Tina’s Grandmother. “Maybe he’ll come tomorrow.” “I think you need to go lie down a while, child.” “I do declare, Mothuh. You always know what’s best. I think I will. I just really think I will.”

Tuddie Mae’s mother, who was well into her eighties, grasped her daughter by the arm and helped her toward the steps. As they began to ascend the steps together, I glanced at Tina with puzzlement in my eyes. “Wait just a minute, wait til she’s gone,” she said.

When they were out of earshot, Tina said, “Mama’s not right. She ain’t been right since Daddy died. She thinks that she’s gonna get a gentleman caller cause she’s so purty. She thinks she’s got ‘em lined up outside waitin’ to bust the door down and take advantage of her. She sits in that chair day after day lookin’ all dolled up and just waitin’…but no one ever comes. No one ever will. It’s sad and me and Grandmama don’t know what to do, so we just pretend with her.”

“Tina,” Tuddie Mae hollered down the stairs. “Come up heyah and rub my eyes for me where I can fall asleep. Will ya do that for me sugah?” “Coming, Mama,” Tina shyly replied.

As Tina gingerly walked up the stairs, I wondered how my friend could survive in this house. A teenager shouldn’t have to deal with all this stuff. I knew I couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t want to get home, in fact. I didn’t know I was walking into looney bin when I arrived this afternoon.

About an hour later, Tina came down. “She’s finally asleep,” she whispered. You better go now.” I didn’t hesitate in the least when she made that suggestion. I couldn’t wait to leave.

A few days later, I called Tina to see how she was doing. A deep sadness filled her voice and I could tell she’d been crying. I asked her what was wrong. She said that her Mama had killed herself, she’d taken an overdose of pills. Tina told me how she had been the one to find her Mama and when she’d gone into her room, all the shades had been drawn so tightly that not one sliver of light penetrated the room. At first, Tina thought her Mama was just asleep. She called out to her and then when she didn’t answer, Tina went over to her and gently shook her. When she got no response, Tina grew very afraid. She walked over to the window and let up the window shade. As she looked down at her mother’s face, she could see that it was perfectly made up. A deep red lipstick lined her full lips. Her cheeks were covered in a heavy blush and white powder set everything perfectly. Every hair was neatly in place and her hands were folded gently on top of her chest. There beside her on the pillow was a note. Tina opened it up and read what it said… “My Dearest Rhett, I waited as long as I could for you. I knew you were coming. Everybody kept saying to give up, that you found someone else, but I know in my heart that you belonged to me. I am so tired. I’m tired of waiting for you. I’m tired of pining for you. I’m tired of everything. I just want to go to sleep and never wake up. If you find this my love, please know that I’ll always be your sweet Scarlett. I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me.”

Tina sniffed back a tear as she told me that although she was sad that her Mama was gone, she was also relieved. “I can stop pretendin’ now. I don’t have to watch her face when no gentlemen callers come each night. I won’t have to go rub her eyes so she can fall asleep. Maybe my life can start to be a little closer to normal now.”

“Normal, what’s normal?,” I thought to myself. We’ve all got our hang-ups. We all put on faces and pretend at times. We all try to be something we’re not at times. Was Tuddie Mae that bad? I don’t think so, she was just a little mixed up that’s all. Sometimes I think I smell a hint of Channel no. 5 wafting through the air and I’m reminded of that first glimpse I got of “Scarlett” sashaying down the stairs in all her elegance. “I do declare…I do declare.”

Written by Bonnie Annis
www.berrymom2005.blogspot.com

(originally published May, 2008)

The Sawmill

The Sawmill

By Jane-Ann Heitmueller

 

 

 

  “Well Darlin’,” said Daddy, with a big smile on his handsome face, “it looks like we’re about to become homeowners!”

 

  It was a lovely spring morning as my parents, hand in hand, proudly exited the front door of their local, small town bank. They had just signed papers to borrow forty-five hundred dollars. Although today it may seem an impossible task, back in 1950 Mom and Dad had already saved half the money they needed to build their new home, but needed to borrow the remainder. It’s hard to believe that one could construct a two story, three bedroom, one bathroom house with a full basement, for a mere nine thousand dollars. The monthly mortgage to the local bank was thirty-six dollars and if they really scrimped they could double up on the payment to save both time and interest.  Years earlier Mom had purchased the two acre rural property, hoping to use it as a future home site when she married. She had always dreamed of living out in the country in a nice home with lots of space, room to have a large lawn, vegetable garden and plenty of freedom from close neighbors.

 

  There is much truth in the saying that timing is everything, for little did they know that the day after our basement was dug, Mr. Arnold would begin construction on his twenty acre lumber yard just across the dirt road from our property.

 

  Mom was beside herself. “I simply can’t believe this!” she raged. “We can’t live across the street from a sawmill. Think of all the noise, dust, trucks and traffic right in our front door.  Fred, we have to sell this land right now and build farther away from town!”

 

   Dad, the calmer of my two parents, responded in a soft voice, “Now Honey, you know they will be good neighbors and won’t be on our doorstep every day borrowing a cup of sugar like a lot of people. It could be much worse. Let’s give it a try. We can always sell the place later if things don’t work out. Why don’t we sleep on it and see how we feel in the morning?”

 

 “Oh, alright, but I still don’t like the idea.”

 

   In due time Mom came to the realization that Daddy was correct, and we resumed the task of construction on our side of the road. Meanwhile, Mr. Arnold diligently tended to his own building project. 

 

  Every day after work and school, Mom, Dad and I would head out to see how the carpenters were coming along with the house. Things seemed to be progressing on schedule as they dug the basement, poured the footings and started work on the framework. We didn’t pay much attention to Mr. Arnold’s sawmill  construction until the Sunday afternoon we drove up to check on  the house and were startled to see the massive smokestack they had moved into the mill yard. 

 

 “Daddy, Daddy, let’s go see it,” I begged, tugging at his sleeve with typical nine year old eagerness.

 

“Alright,” he said, after a minute or two of consideration, “don’t suppose it would hurt to take a look.”

 

  As Dad and I approached the smokestack, stretched on its side across the dirt lot, we could see that it was much larger than we had imagined. Daddy was six feet tall and he could actually stand up inside, with several inches to spare. He estimated that it was at least a hundred feet long.  What a grand time I had running back and forth in that dark, echoing tunnel of fun, trying to imagine how in the world they would ever hoist it upright, and how  majestic it would look standing erect with black smoke billowing from the top.

 

  It was at that moment I lost all interest in our own construction project and centered my entire focus on Mr. Arnold’s amazing task. Every afternoon, my dog Sambo and I would perch atop the mound of dirt created from digging our basement. We’d sit spellbound for hours, watching bulldozers, cranes and other heavy equipment busily working across the road.  It was our own magical erector set.  During the next few weeks we’d watch with  intrigue as the framework of the sawmill  took shape. Three massive tin buildings sprang to life before our very eyes. A huge concrete vat was dug that would eventually be filled with water and used as a source of transportation for the freshly debarked logs. Eventually, the day came when Sambo and I were simply transfixed with fascination and excitement as they began the precarious job of positioning that towering smokestack into place.  I held my breath… knowing for sure the cables would break and the gigantic structure would fall crashing to the ground!  Gee, this was better than going to watch Roy Rogers at the Saturday matinee and we had the best seat in the house!

 

  By early fall we moved into our new home and in short time the mill was also completed and started doing business. Mom was correct in many respects. It wasn’t long before the parade of bulky log trucks began delivering their freshly cut timber to be sold for lumber. They clogged the road in front of our house and made it difficult for us to come and go out of our own driveway. With all the traffic came the constant clouds of thick, red dust seeping into every slight crevice and crack, leaving a thin layer of silt on our floors, furniture, curtains and cabinets. The bulky saws and powerful machines emitted unbearable screeching and banging. We quickly learned that the only time Mr. Arnold closed his mill was Sunday, other than that, the work continued both day and night.  To add insult to injury, Mr. Arnold installed a shrill, deafening whistle to his daily operation. They blew that noontime whistle as a signal for the workers to cease operations for lunchtime, then thirty minutes later to resume their labor. It could be heard miles away downtown, so you can imagine how loud it was right next door. Those billowing, black clouds of smoke I had been so anxious to see now drifted overhead and were filled with minute pieces of soot that floated down like tiny black feathers over the landscape, covering our entire yard and rooftop. We had to leave our shoes on the porch so we wouldn’t track the filthy residue into the house.

 

“Dang it,” Mom complained, “I can’t even hang my laundry on the line any more. What are we ever going to do about all this mess?”

 

  Thank goodness Mr. Arnold’s employees didn’t enjoy having their vehicles covered with those black particles either. Finally, after a few weeks of hearing their many complaints, he put a filter on the smokestack and solved that problem for everyone.

 

  Just after Christmas I developed a strange fever late each afternoon and Dr. Stitt couldn’t seem to find the origin of the problem. He sent me home with medicine and told Mom to see that I got plenty of sleep. There was no way, with all the noise coming from the mill, that I could get any rest. I was miserable, tossing and turning for days, as poor Mom worried and paced, doing everything possible to barricade my room from the constant racket that invaded our lives.

 

  “I just can’t stand this any longer,” she firmly announced late one Saturday afternoon.  “She’ll never get better if they don’t do something about all that noise. The poor little thing can’t have a minute of peace. I’m going to march over there right this minute and give that Mr. Arnold a piece of my mind!”

 

  Dad’s calm demeanor came to the rescue once again. “I know it’s hard sweetheart, but tomorrow is Sunday and the mill will be closed. Let’s wait until the first of the week. If she hasn’t improved by that time I’ll go over and speak with him. He has children of his own and I’m sure he’ll understand.”

 

 

   “Well, maybe so,” Mom answered sternly, “but I’m not going to wait a second later than Monday  morning and I mean that!”

 

  Fortunately, for both myself and Mr. Arnold, late Sunday evening I suddenly emerged from my mysterious malady and things returned to normal. We eventually became desensitized to the daily melee in our little world and only noticed the noise, dust and traffic when a visitor brought it to our attention.

 

  The lumber yard  soon became  my own private Disneyland. Sambo and I spent many joyous hours climbing, hiding and chasing each other on top of and around the stacks of logs.  I became great pals with Mr. Cole, the jolly fellow in charge of measuring and marking each truckload of logs for sale. The ladies in the office kept their eye out for me and spoiled me with candy from the vending machine. I couldn’t have been happier.

 

  One hot, summer Sunday afternoon when I was about twelve, I headed over to the log vat with a special mission in mind. The little pond I had dug in the backyard needed some water creatures and I knew exactly where I could find them. Just last week I had discovered millions of tadpoles swirling amidst the vat’s murky water and floating chunks of  bark.  Carefully, lowering myself down the slippery algae covered incline, I bent over and scooped up as many of the tiny little chattering frogs the front of my shirt could hold. Then, dripping with slime and bark fragments, I joyfully grasped the treasured contents to my chest, staggered home and proudly dumped my prized load of wiggling frogs into the newly constructed pond.

 

  When I turned fifteen and wanted to get my driver’s license the mill property became my special obstacle course.  Mom and I spent many Sunday afternoons there as I jerked and jumped our old ’54 Chevy all over that lot, learning how to safely change gears on the straight shift and skillfully maneuver around the stacks of lumber.

   

  After college I left home, married and moved a few miles away to a home of my own.  In time, Daddy passed away and Mom was left to live alone in the little home they had built together some fifty years earlier.  Frequently, over the next few years, Mom would tell me about  some deed the people at the mill had done for her. The many times they helped her start her stalled lawnmower, moved a heavy wheelbarrow of dirt or carried heavy fallen limbs to the burning pile. She recounted the numerous occasions when one of the employees seemed to just suddenly materialize when she needed a helping hand, always eager to be of assistance to the nice little lady across the road.  It pleased me and gave me peace of mind to know they were always watching out for her.  Mom knew she could always count on her good neighbors at the mill and often remarked that Daddy was a wise man to realize that very fact so many years ago.

Top 10 Reasons to Spend Time at TEN BEACH ROAD in October

Top 10 Reasons to Spend Time at TEN BEACH ROAD in October

TEN BEACH ROAD is hitting the shelves anew this month as part of National Breast Cancer Awareness Month and Penguin Group’s READ PINK® program.

The READ PINK® program was created by my publisher, Penguin Group (USA) to promote public awareness of breast cancer and breast cancer research and to support and recognize the contributions of the Breast Cancer Research Foundation®(BCRF) by connecting the cause to books written by, for and about women.

For the past two years, Penguin's Read Pink donation has sponsored 500 hours of research time and I’m incredibly proud and honored to have my book on the shelves with the Read Pink Seal on the cover and information about BCRF in the back of the book.

But… it’s October!  My books usually hit the stores when temperatures are rising, school is out and we’re either headed to the beach or at least daydreaming about sand, surf and sun.  So this got me thinking about what makes a book a beach book, and why we should throw caution to the wind and read them all year long.   After all, if some fashionista somewhere can decree that white pants are acceptable all year long, then why can’t we do the same with beach books?

Not convinced?  Well, let me share my “Top 10 Reasons to Spend Time at TEN BEACH ROAD in October” list with you and see if we can get on the same page.  (Pun fully intended!)

1.      Since school is back in session, it’s important to set a good example for your kids by reading.  If you pick up TEN BEACH ROAD, you’ll be enjoying a sweat-soaked summer with Maddie, Nicole, and Avery as they rehab a dilapidated beachfront mansion in Pass-a-Grille, Florida.  Your kids will just think you are very smart and studious.
 

2.      If you need something to warm you up, the men of TEN BEACH ROAD are hot.

3.      Now that I think about it, I’m not sure why books that really take you away are necessary in the summer.  What better time for a good mental escape to the beach than a cold, rainy day in October?

4.      When you’re looking ahead to long cold months with the sun setting earlier and earlier each day, you can at least feel good that you have not lost everything in a Madoff-style Ponzi scheme like the women of TEN BEACH ROAD.

5.      If your neighborhood is getting too cold and windy for DIY projects, you can read about Maddie, Nicole and Avery’s work on Bella Flora and just tell your hubby that you’re in the “planning stages” for next spring and summer.

6.      Did I mention that there are some hot guys in TEN BEACH ROAD?
 

7.      Reading beach books in the summer can make you feel bad about not being quite bikini ready… but in October, you can pull out a big cozy sweater and some chocolate cake and know you have months before you have to worry about that again!

8.      If beach vacations are not just for summer, then beach books shouldn’t be either.  October is actually a good time to head to the beaches in Florida.  The crowds have thinned and the temperatures are still warm.  You could leave the kids with Dad, grab your girlfriends, a few copies of TEN BEACH ROAD and call it a book club weekend! 

9.      Friendships are timeless, and so are troubles.  TEN BEACH ROAD is the story of three women who are thrown together when they lose everything.  It could be set in Aspen in March, Boston in December or Dubuque in May.  The story is about the women, their lives, and their bond.  So reading it in October wherever you live will work.  I promise. 

10.  I think I have mentioned that there are some hot guys in the book, but it bears repeating!  If you’re looking for a way to warm up, there’s nothing better than picturing Joe Giraldi running shirtless on the beach.  (Not sure who Joe is?  Pick up the READ PINK® edition of TEN BEACH ROAD to find out)!

So, show the world the kind of woman you really are: brave, fearless, and bold.  Wear white pants after Labor Day, drink a Piña Colada in December and proudly show off your copy of TEN BEACH ROAD in October.  You’ll be the envy of the neighborhood, and you can be proud knowing you’re supporting a great cause!

Prison Blues

Grandpa Clyde never stopped to see us until daddy went to Parchman Prison to serve three years for shooting a man when they were both three sheets in the wind.  That’s what Mississippi folks called being drunk.  He yelled whoa at the lathered Jim and Pete, his matching pair of mules, as they entered the yard having been trotted the ten miles to our house.      

     Dottie, our Tennessee coon hound nipped at their hooves as they came to a halt.  “J. J. get that dog away from them mules. That dog is just like you kids-worthless”. Betsy, ten years old, put her arms around six year old Carol who was sniffing trying not to cry.  Both looked at their dirty bare feet wiggling their toes in the dust.  Grabbing Dottie by the collar, I kneeled by them feeling the ground thru the knees of my ragged overalls.  All three of us stared at him with hatred as he stumbled on the broken door step. 

     Knowing he would only be inside long enough to talk to mama and get a dipper of water, Betsy and Carol eased toward the door of our one room shotgun shack.  They were my lookouts as I stole from grandpa’s wagon filled with yellow corn, red tomatoes and luscious green watermelons.   Grabbing tomatoes, onions and corn, I dashed to hide them in Dottie’s dog house.  I was always tempted to steal a watermelon but that would be missed causing trouble for mama.  When the old wagon started up the road toward town, I grabbed my stash and ran inside.

            Mama never scolded me for stealing from grandpa.  Around back of the house, I helped mama with her garden but there was not enough rain or too much.    Meals were usually potato soup or biscuits and homemade gravy.  Bossy was going to calf any day so there wasn’t any milk.  The only chicken we had left was a shrewd Dominet grey and white rooster who had managed to stay out of the ferocious jaws of the many fox that roamed the hills and mama’s stew pot.

            Now that I was trying at thirteen to be the man of the house I believed mama when she said grandpa was the meanest and stingiest man that ever lived.  She was the youngest of nine children working on the farm from daylight until the last ray of light left the sky.  Going to school only during the winter months, she never had a pencil with an eraser.  Grandpa always broke the pencils giving the eraser end to the older siblings.  

     Hearing Dottie yelping, mama and I wiped sweat from our burning eyes to see Sheriff Autry turning the corner of the house. Terrifying thoughts flashed thru our minds.   “Earline, it’s not about Davis but Clyde filed for custody of the kids claiming you can’t feed them.  I can’t allow you to stay here alone.  I’ll be by tomorrow to get all of you.”

            “You know he just wants us to work but I can’t fight the law.  We’ll be ready about noon.” Turning toward me, he said, “Jeremiah, help the girls get their things together.”He’s the only one to call me Jeremiah.  I have always been called J.J. even through I was baptized Jeremiah Jenkins Andrews.

 

            Grandpa was vicious and spiteful. There was plenty of food but we could only have sorghum and cornbread.  He seemed to delight in making us miserable. Carol cried a lot upset for being away from home causing grandpa to be even more hateful.  Our troubles accelerated when one night Carol knocked her plate off the homemade plank table.

 

            Grandpa giving Carol a menacing look said “Get down and eat off the floor”.

            Mama was a petite woman but stood up to the sassy old man.  “Pa, she’s not eating off the floor”.

            Grandpa jumping to his feet roared, “She’ll go hungry.”

            “No, she won’t.  I’ve got two eggs.  You’ll do without at breakfast.”

Grandpa slammed the door without looking back. When mama got riled, grandpa knew to leave her alone especially when it came to us kids.  Pa never beat us the way our cousins were beaten by their pa. When pa was drinking wanting to whip one of us, ma was like a she-bear protecting her cubs. I got plenty of whippings but not when pa was drinking.

Early the next morning, Grandpa was going to town.  My job was to hitch the mules to the wagon.  I found two cockleburs and put one under each of their collars.  Watching grandpa climb into the wagon, I had to hide a grin.  Sitting on the wagon seat he pulled on the reins and yelled “giddy up.”  Being unable to control the mules, grandpa grabbed the seat while Jim and Pete bucked kicking up dust and tangling the harness.  When I finally calmed the mules, the chains were tangled and their collars were under their necks.  The cockleburs fell to the ground as we tried to rearrange the harness.  Quickly turning on me, grandpa knocked me to the ground reigning blow after blow. 

Covering my head with my arms, I saw mama hit grandpa with a stick of stove wood.  Mama yelled, “J.J. hitch those mules and get to the house.” “Get the girls and our things.  We’re going home.”  Mama grabbed flour, sugar, lard and jars of food as I helped Carol and Betsy into the wagon.

After we unloaded the wagon and turned the mules toward home, I knew mama was worried as darkness crept over the horizon about grandpa coming for revenge.     We were flabbergasted when a middle of the night noise revealed daddy at the door.  Grabbing him, mama said “Davis you’re home.”   We were astounded that he was released after ten months for good behavior.

Dottie barking woke us from a sound sleep to find Sheriff Autry and grandpa in the yard.   Anxiety showed on their faces as daddy opened the door.  “Davis, I didn’t know you were here.  Clyde said Earline and the kids stole some food.”

“Pat, I’m home.  Clyde worked them like slaves.  I don’t want to go back to prison but you had best get him out of my yard.

Turning to grandpa he said, “Clyde, go home before Pat has to carry you in a paper bag.”

As the years passed, grandpa and his wagon pulled by the aging Jim and Pete never stopped by our house.  Betsy and Carol went to school.  I dropped out to help work the farm. Daddy disheartened at never getting ahead took to drinking more and more.

The farm has been sold. Mama, daddy and grandpa are gone.  I never talk to Betsy and Carol.  I’m locked away at Parchman Prison serving life without parole for murder.  Daddy was beating mama when I grabbed him shoving him down making his head hit the stove. The judge and jury wouldn’t believe it was accidental.  I’m singing in the chain gang and chopping cotton.

I’m chopping in the bottom wid a hundred years

Tree fall on me, I don’t bit no more care

Ho, Rosie

You told a promise when you fit met me

Well now you Wasn’t going to marry, till uh

I go free Big-leg Rosie, with her big leg drawers

Got me wearing those striped overalls.

_______________________

  By Revia “Jenks” Perrigin