For any who want more, complete list of all posts by month since 2011
  • Daniel Boone? No – Daniel Pratt…


    In 1819 a twenty-year-old man from New Hampshire finished a four-year apprenticeship in architecture and heeded the words of Horace Greeley to leave his New England home and go west, young man, go west.  He ended up in Savannah, Georgia.

    Twenty years later this same man would leave his Georgia home with a wife, two slaves, enough materials to build 50 cotton gins and the knowledge necessary to run a plant that manufactured them. His name was Daniel Pratt.

    We stayed last night in the town Daniel created for the workers in his cotton gin plant: Prattville, Alabama. Pretty took us on a tour of the historic downtown area this morning. We love an historic downtown area – particularly one as beautiful as this one. Imagine what this looked like in 1839 – before the Civil War – one man’s dream.

    Daniel Pratt was one of Alabama’s first industrialists

    Daniel has his own personal historic district now

    My friend had a bird’s eye view of the falls

    …and sat on the remnants of history

    Guess who else was from Prattville besides Daniel Pratt?

    Mustang Sally Wilson Pickett, Jr.

    Had to say goodbye to the wisteria and Prattville

    On the road again – Charly perches atop Yeti cooler

    Getting closer…

    Rest area, my you-know-what

    I am so tired. Please, God, get me out of this vehicle.

    Spike’s prayers were answered…we have stopped for the night in Slidell, Louisiana, which is 30 miles from New Orleans.

    We are sneaking up on it.

  • Another Post Card from the Edge…of Time


    March 21, 1907

    Dear Luke, I hope you are behaving yourself. You see what can happen if you don’t. Please come home soon. Your wife, Bessie

  • Saints and Sinners Festival in NOLA


    Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, here we come – this week. Unbelievable. I submitted my short story last summer with low expectations of winning the Tennessee Williams Fiction Prize because I have never been recognized as a fiction writer, but lo and behold, my story The Gods are Stacked against Us became a finalist in the contest which meant it will be included in the SAS Anthology for 2017 which, in turn, meant an invitation to read at the festival this month.

    So Pretty and I will be off to New Orleans like a herd of turtles in a matter of days. What an odd time to leave in the middle of moving out of Casa de Canterbury to Casa de Cardinal, someone might think (and someone would be correct). The vicissitudes of life aren’t always coordinated properly, as my daddy used to say when he waxed eloquently about them, and he should have known that if anyone did since he died right in the middle of them at age 51.

    I will participate with four other writers on a panel called Home is Where the Art Is, or Is It?  to discuss the impact our homes have on our work…I’m really looking forward to talking about the importance of time and place to me in my work. Plus, I’ll have an opportunity to read an excerpt from my short story during a reading session along with eight other finalists.

    The festival brings together leading poets, authors and other literati notables in the LGBTQ community – I recognize many of their names and writing from years of reading and adulation and will now have the opportunity to meet and greet them over cocktails and heavy hors d’oeuvres on Bourbon Street Friday evening.

    I’m trying to prepare myself to talk about literary things without sounding too “un-literary.”  Let’s see…

    Where did you study writing, and how does that affect your writing style?

    That’s a tough one. I’ve had two writing classes. The first was a business communications class at UT Austin in 1966 that focused on how to write a good business letter with an emphasis on brevity – say more with less was the mantra. Be direct – no adverbs, a few adjectives here and there, but mostly noun, verb combo and a simple Dear Sir or Madam beginning with a Sincerely yours ending. Cut and dry. No horsing around. No nonsense.

    My second writing class was in 2006 at Midlands Technical College for a six-week Monday-night adult learning class that focused on the basic elements of fiction writing. My accomplishment was a story I called Payday Someday which turned out to be the first chapter of my first book Deep in the Heart. Nonfiction actually, but hey, nothing’s perfect.

    Hm. I think I’ll skip that question and move on to Why do you write?

    I write because I can’t keep myself from writing. I write because I can speak for those who have no voice and continue the fight for fairness and respect I’ve always believed in. I write because Pretty, my Aunt Lucille and a host of people, some known, some unknown love to read what I write. I write because I hope, along with many other aging Baby Boomers,  to have a legacy – that my words will survive me.

    Okay. Way too heavy for cocktail party conversation. Skip that one, too.

    Let’s try Hi how are you? Where are you from?

    Now that’s a complicated question. I was born and raised in rural Grimes County, Texas…

    Eyes are rolling. People walking away. Clearly small talk not my strength.

    Pretty, can I get you another diet coke??

     

  • Casa de Canterbury: A Retrospective – Part I, Summer


    Once upon a time on the corner of Canterbury and Manning in a city called Columbia lived a family of two lesbians and their dogs.

    And the family was happy in their home which they called Casa de Canterbury because one of their dogs (The Red Man) spoke fluent Spanish.

    For years and years the old woman Slow and Pretty and their dogs lived in the casa which saw seasons come and go because that is the way seasons act.

    The old woman Slow got slower and slower as her knees rebelled whenever she climbed or came down the 14 steps connecting the first and second levels of the casa. Even Pretty’s younger knees grew so angry with her she had to get a new one in 2016, but that really didn’t help her very much and didn’t help Slow at all.

    And so it became clear to Slow and Pretty they had to leave Casa de Canterbury for…what? new digs. So that is what they are going to do. They are moving west across the Congaree, Saluda and Broad rivers closer to Texas – but not much – to West Columbia, South Carolina, which is not to be confused with where Slow went to high school: West Columbia, Texas. How weird is that? Let’s hope she isn’t confused by this coincidence.

    As the family says goodbye to Casa de Canterbury, they invite you to take a little trip down memory lane with them through a few of the seasons at their casa over the next several posts. Enjoy.

    First day of summer, 2016

    one of Pretty’s bottle trees

    Charly’s first summer at Casa de Canterbury

    First figs of the season

    also possibly the last – the tree was never prolific

    Summer flowers

     

    a rose is a rose is a rose…by any other name

    Charly listens to the sounds of summer

    perfect place to cool off in summer heat

    so, so hot out there 

    (summer, 2012)

    did somebody say HOT?

    back yard in the summer of 2012

    tres amigos brave the heat

    Stay tuned for fall. Summer, fall, winter, spring.

  • My International Women’s Day


    I wrote this piece on March 08, 2017 and feel it’s worthy of inclusion in my Women’s History Month this year. I hope you agree.

    Spring, 2017 will be the year I move on to my 71st birthday. I know, I know…unbelievable…and apparently my Mouth Almighty, Tongue Everlasting in my seventies shows no sign of a slowdown – if anything I seem to have gained speed with my posts following the not-too-distant sixties.

    As I looked over the more than 80 posts I’ve made since April, 2016 when I began this year by talking about the need for a personal tune-up, I am amazed at how many opinions I’ve had on such a wide variety of topics. Geez Louise. Somebody stop me. I can’t shut up. Case in point, read on.

    Change is in the air at Casa de Canterbury this spring, and Pretty and I are excited about our trip to New Orleans for the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival March 24th. – 26th. I’ve been invited to participate on a panel called Home is Where the Art Is, or is it?  Plus I will do a reading from my short story that will be included in their 2017 anthology. I’m super thrilled.

    We’re hoping to go to Dallas the following week for the NCAA Women’s Final Four the first weekend in April which would give us an opportunity to return to Worsham Street for a long overdue visit with The Little Women of Worsham and the Fabulous Huss Brothers. That would be icing on the proverbial cake. (Michael Reames, are you making me a real birthday cake this year? Money is no object. Pretty will contact you.)

    Today I was cleaning out my extensive collection of family memorabilia which always reminds me of my need to let these pictures and items go – just let them go. They take up space needed for…what? Office supplies. Packing materials. Unsold books. Carolina Panthers commemorative coins. Five years of tax returns. Old cameras.

    This is one of the pictures I found –  I totally lost it when I saw the image of these two significant women in my life before their respective illnesses took them to a different place.

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    My two moms, Selma and Willie, and me

    This picture was taken in 2007 during a visit with my mothers for both of their birthdays in March of that year. Five years later in the spring of 2012, Willie died on April 14th. and Selma followed her eleven days afterwards on the 25th. Wham, bam…gone. Were they ready to go? Of course. Had they suffered long enough? Surely. But the loss of two women who had such monumental influence in my life was devastating. I felt like my connection to what had been my home was broken and couldn’t be fixed.

    In reality and from the perspective of five years down the road from that awful place, the connection to home and family isn’t really lost. Powerful images of the people in my past live on today and remind me of what is most important for the future.

    Today is International Women’s Day, a special time to honor the women we cherish, a day of reminder that our world would be very different without the women in our lives; it’s a woman’s day away from the ordinary.We are lucky because they’ll only be gone for one day and will be back with us tomorrow.

    Pretty, the adventure continues, and I thank you for the home we share and the knowledge that you’ll be here tomorrow morning when we start another day together.

    For the rest of my women friends and followers in cyberspace, celebrate yourselves today. You are enough.