Upcoming April Book Reviews!

Look for the following books to be reviewed in the Dew during the month of April!

Uncle Shorty's Self-Rising Ashes

Uncle Shorty's Self-Rising Ashes

Some honcho from Uncle Shorty's lodge in St. Petersburg got up next to speak that day at his sendoff. He was right after another guy from the Sons of Norway who was right after another guy from the power squadron, each of them performing a special, mysterious ritual around the casket before they spoke. We were all sitting in the front couple rows because we were family and liked the old boy.

"Brethren," he said, "the roll of the workmen has been called, and one, Charles 'Shorty' Watkins, has not answered to his name. He has put down the tools of the craft and he has left that mortal part for which he no longer has use."

Uncle Shorty's mortal part. It looked like a stand-up double bass except for his feet which the gout swelled up pretty bad so it looked like he had no toes. He played a double bass for years and years in Norwegian bands in Brooklyn before he came here to Florida. It's funny how people start to look like their pets, their spouses, and their musical instruments.

His mortal part liked seafood too. Crabs, lobster, any part of the fish, he'd do something with it. Take lobster, for example. He'd crack the claws with his own teeth instead of using a metal claw cracker. That always impressed me. The skinny legs on a lobster? He'd break them apart, chew on them like beef jerky, and sip the drippings out them just like his mortal part did when he started every day with a sip of Bourbon instead of orange juice. "To get the tickle out of my throat," he said.

His mortal part liked his Bourbon, but his mortal part didn't like kidney dialysis three times a week, or being hooked up to a bird's nest of tubes and monitors, blinking like Christmas lights. So his mortal part stopped eating one day, hospital drippings is more like it, and yanked out the IV's and catheters. That's when Aunt Emma found him, staring fish eyed, at the ceiling.

"Shorty's work here below taught him to divert his heart and conscience from the vices and superfluities of life, thereby sculpting his mind into a living stone for that house above, the one not made with hands. With confidence and expectation of immortality, Charles 'Shorty' Watkins has sought entry to the Celestial Lodge above," he said, looking out at all of us in the chapel.

The part about the hands. Uncle Shorty was darn good with his hands too. Besides, playing the double bass and the violin, early on, he was a boxer. A Golden Gloves boxer. Aunt Emma had a picture of him in the den in his boxer shorts. Real boxer shorts, the kind without the funny designs on them. He had his gloves on like he was getting ready to lay into someone too. He did that until he got knocked out by some Swede. Broke his nose so bad that the only thing it was good for after that was to entertain us at family reunions. That must have been when he started trying to sculpt his mind into a living stone for the Celestial Lodge above. Or, if not his mind, at least his nose.

Of course, I didn't believe the nonsense about the superfluities of life. That's really the only time I saw Uncle Shorty, during one of those so-called superfluities of life like a family reunion. Or when he dressed up like a Grand Mifta with his lodge buddies in a fez, one of those hats that looked like a dunce's cone with the top leveled off, and they drove their miniature cars in figure eights in the Gasparilla parade over in Tampa. Pirates, drunks, balloons, fezzes doing figure eights. I'm guessing the Celestial Lodge might have a code violation or two for any room Uncle Shorty helped build.

Then he looked down in the book he was reading from and got real serious.

"There is no death. What seems so is transition. All that is beautiful, good and true in human life is no more affected by the shadow of death than by the darkness that divides today from tomorrow, or the beach sand by the coming and going of the tides."

You know, they always have to throw that business in about there being no death. Why not? Uncle Shorty wasn't listening. He could care less now. It was for all us sitting there, grieving about the old boy, hoping he was another Houdini in his casket, and could contort and wiggle his way out of it. But like I said, he was built like a stand-up double bass, so I doubted he could do that. He was not even close to being like Tony Curtis in the old Houdini movie. He was down for the count, TKO, knock out, whatever you wanted to call it, Uncle Shorty was history.

The guy from the lodge said a few other things then took a branch and placed it in Uncle Shorty's hands. A simple branch. It wasn't as fancy and as colorful as all the flowers in vases and on tripods to his right and left. Nope. And mostly sent by his friends who didn't come because they didn't like stuff like this. They didn't want to be reminded that all of us had this on our itinerary. The red, white and aqua-colored flowers were all camouflage for this destination we all had in common, whether you believed this place was just another Florida tourist trap like Chief Billy Bow-legs Gator Farm where he wrestled sleepy, drugged gators, or if this place was like the Dallas International Airport with the people mover, the long conveyor belt, that moved you to a connecting flight, way on the other side of the airport.

It was a sprig of evergreen that he put in Uncle Shorty's hands. He patted his hands too. A simple pat. Not any secret handshake like in the Flintstones when Fred and Barney went to the lodge and had to touch their elbows and noses, recite a code word, before shaking hands with the sergeant of arms at the door. A simple pat on his hands that had plucked the strings on his double bass for years and had successfully boxed everyone except the Swede. Uncle Shorty was on his way to the Celestial Lodge.

"The evergreen is a symbol of our faith in the immortality of the soul and reminds us that we have an immortal part within us which shall survive the cold blast of death and, spring into newness of life in realms beyond the grave, and shall never, never be extinguished."

When he finished, that's when he gave the real high sign to Uncle Shorty like one of those guys on the tarmac who give an arcane signal to the captain right before takeoff. Then he took his seat with the other commanders and potentates of the lodge.

That was the last time I saw Uncle Shorty, his mortal part anyway. They closed up the casket, one that Aunt Emma rented for the service. It was a used one because he was being cremated, and that's how I got involved knee-deep in the whole mess because Uncle Shorty was downsized to a small box and in the small box was a plastic bag full of his ashes. I promised her that we'd spread his ashes in the Gulf of Mexico out by Egmont Key. By we, I meant my brother, Blair, and a buddy of ours, a fishing captain, Lance Howard, known locally for tarpon and grouper fishing.

No problem except that it was the year that all the hurricanes crisscrossed the state, and because Aunt Emma lived on a canal off the inter-coastal waterway, Blair and I sandbagged her house with anything and everything we could get our hands on, including a couple of kids in the neighborhood. We paid them to help us fill sand bags and one of them picked up a plastic bag Aunt Emma kept near the fireplace, thinking it ashes cleaned out of the fireplace from last year's cold snap. Well, it wasn't. It was Uncle Shorty's ashes and the kid couldn't remember which sandbag he dumped them in, not that it mattered at that point.

"What?" I couldn't believe it.

Blair looked over at me.

"You better hope, Hurricane Charley, keeps straight right over us from Cuba and washes everything away, or you're going to have some explaining to do to Aunt Emma," he said.

I'm not a meteorologist or anything, but I had never seen a hurricane go in a straight line, or a chicken for that matter, all the time I've lived in Florida. It didn't seem this time it should be any different.

"We need to do something before she gets back here with her hurricane supplies," I said.

She had left an hour before nervous about the hurricane on the way.

"What?"

First thing we did was run those neighborhood kids off that caused the problem.

"Go home and play your video games," I said.

They skulked off but not until I gave them each a ten dollar bill to keep them from putting sugar in our gas tanks or something before the hurricane.

"Follow me," I said to Blair.

"Okay, Rod. But come up with something quick because here comes Aunt Emma."

He pointed down the road towards Gulf Boulevard and there was the black, Lincoln Town Car she drove, making a left turn uncomfortably close to sideswiping a pelican-themed mailbox on the right side of the road.

"Shit. Let's go."

We crossed the yard that years before Uncle Shorty had replaced with pebbles and rocks and a few cacti, here and there. At the same time he had the house coated with this sparkly stuff that reflected sunlight like sequins. Kinda like what you'd imagine the Celestial Lodge to look like.

"In here," I said, walking through the garage to the kitchen. "Find one of those plastic storage bags, the same size, that she puts her leftover meat-loaf in."

While Blair opened cupboard doors over by the double oven and scouted for plastic bags, I flipped open the ones straddling the twin sinks and searched for a substitute, an Uncle Shorty-lite ingredient somewhere on the shelves.

"Here they are," Blair said, locating the box of large storage bags. "Now what?"

"This," I said, pulling down two boxes from the cupboard just as the Lincoln Town Car swung into a pre-existing trench Aunt Emma had ground into the front yard of pebbles.

Blair turned in the direction of the crunching pebbles.

"She missed the driveway again."

"Keep that bag open or I'm going to miss too," I said.

"You're crazy," Blair said when he saw the two boxes I had.

"Uncle Shorty liked both of these," I said.

I lifted the box of buckwheat pancake mix into the air and poured the light cocoa colored granules into the plastic bag. Likewise with the box of biscuit mix, a combination of white flour and cornmeal. Self-rising flour too. That's what the box said. I poured equal amounts of both into the bag then Blair sealed it across the top.

"She's gonna figure it out," Blair said, looking at the two piles of different colored flour.

"Shake it but don't bake it," I said.

He grabbed the top of the bag on the corners and shook it until it had the same complexion as Uncle Shorty's original bag of ashes. It was hard to tell the difference.

Hurricane Charley missed us on a direct hit but some of the feeder bands stirred things up bad enough. Aunt Emma lost a couple sand bags from the rain and from the flooding that occurred. Was Uncle Shorty's ashes in one of those bags? I don't know, but the leftover sand we spread on one of the neighbor's yard that needed some topsoil. Did Uncle Shorty's real ashes make it to the Gulf of Mexico? Depending on which bag the kid dropped his ashes in, I'd say yes. Sooner or later everything gets washed into the Gulf even if gets spread on someone's yard first.

For Uncle Shorty's self-rising buckwheat, flour, and cornmeal ashes it was up to Captain Lance Howard, fishing guide and notary public, to ferry us out beyond Egmont Key in his fishing boat, No Wake Zone. It was sort of a modified skiff design with a wide beam, flat bottom, and a pilot house in the bow, big enough for Lance, who tipped the scales at about three hundred and fifty pounds and, despite his boat's name, he created a wake zone wherever he wanted.

"Permission to come aboard, Captain," I said alongside his boat docked at Gulfport marina.

"Granted," he mumbled from the pilot house.

It sounded like he had just woken up. Probably slept on the boat the night before from the looks of him. Wrinkled Hawaiian shirt, baseball hat, sunglasses, short pants, sandals, empty beer cans and fishing tackle strewn about. Soon after that we were plowing out towards the pink sand castle, the Don Cesar, at the other end of Boca Ciega Bay. Lance was in the pilot house steering Blair, Aunt Emma, myself, and the box containing Uncle Shorty's self-rising ashes to the final destination out by Egmont Key, out where the tarpon rolled close to the surface except when they were dodging sharks, until we were flagged down by a stranded sailboat near the channel leading to the Gulf. Lance cut back the engine and slid in parallel to the mired sailboat.

"Can you pull us off?" someone from the sailboat called over to us.

It was low tide, and they must not have been paying attention like a lot of people do, and had run the keel into one of shallow bars close to the channel.

"We can't wait for high tide and we don't want to pay for one of those," the man said, pointing to a towboat lurking on the other side of the channel.

The spot was a favorite fishing hole for towboat operators. One was anchored there, waiting for exactly this: an unsuspecting boat to run aground.

"You mind if I pull this guy off?" Lance asked us.

I looked at Aunt Emma who straddled the box containing Uncle Shorty's self-rising ashes.

"It'll save this guy about three or four hundred dollars," Lance added.

It was a beautiful, balmy day compared to what Hurricane Charley had thrown our way a few weeks before. Aunt Emma, solemn and thoughtful, appeared in no hurry to relinquish the concoction Blair and I had mixed up in her kitchen and zipped up in the plastic bag.

"Shorty would have done the same thing," she said, giving her permission to Lance to detour our funeral procession, pull the sailboat off the sandbar, and in the process, we added a boat to the funeral entourage.

"This one's for Shorty!" the crew on the sailboat yelled to us.

They raised their glasses of wine once they got under way again.

"Follow us," Lance said, pointing No Wake Zone towards the bridge where several other sailboats and large cruisers waited for the bridge tender to let them pass.

For some reason, it kind of reminded me of the words spoken at Uncle Shorty's funeral about him being on his way to the Celestial Lodge.

The celebration on the sailboat continued.

"Shorty! Shorty!" they shouted as we approached the bridge.

They were loud enough to attract the attention of all the other occupants in the sailboats, powerboats, and jet-skis. The procession continued. Behind us, what started as a single boat funeral turned into a large, floating, open-air party. By the time we passed Pass-A-Grille Point and dipped into the Gulf there were thirty boats in the flotilla just like they do at Christmas time in these parts. Lance turned around, pulled his sunglasses off and cleaned them as if doing so would change what he saw. When it didn't, he shrugged his shoulders and grinned.


©Tom Fillion 2008
_______________________________________________

Author: Tom Fillion

Tom is a graduate of the University of South Florida. He teaches mathematics and coach golf and tennis at a Tampa public high school. His short stories have appeared in Ramble Underground, Hamilton Stone Review, Cautionary Tale, Word Catalyst, Decomp Literary magazine, Storyglossia, Tonapah Review, Shelf Life Magazine, Word Riot, and The Scrambler. His website is: http://www.geocities.com/dream_mechanic/

Uncle Shorty's Self-Rising Ashes was first published at Word Catalyst Magazine -They also published Gasparilla http://www.wordcatalystmagazine.com/pages93/fillionphoto93.html

A few more stories of Tom's to check out:

Smoking or Non-Smoking? is at http://www.decompmagazine.com/smokingornon-smoking.htm

The Great Vehicle is at: http://www.tonopahreview.org/the-great-vehicle.html

What She Was Here About, is at: http://thescrambler.com/mar09-fillion

Southerners are Writing like Mad!

I want ya'll to take a good look at this fantastic array of books shown above. The Dew and the Southern writers have been having a great time this season!

The writers are going at the keyboards like there's no tomorrow and the Dew is reading like mad to keep up and share all these great stories that are out there right now!

We have even more books coming soon - so I wanted to give all ya'll a heads up to get your reading chair and sweet tea ready, settle down with one, or more, of these books and embrace some great stories.

Keep your eyes on the Book Review section of the Dew to see all the wonderful stories heading your way! Some of the above books have not been reviewed yet, but are on our desk waiting, so if you don't see a review of a book you're interested in, give us just a week or two more!

The Garden

"The Garden"

Every year, around this time, I always find myself in the mood to dig in the dirt. I take in the smell of freshly watered flowers and potting soil, look longingly at the plants and packets full of seeds in the local garden shops, and I picture the beautiful little garden I could create if I just put my mind to it. Oh, and if I was just the type of person who liked to garden.

You see, most of the time, the great outdoors and I aren't the most amicable companions. I consider walking to my car as my "outside time" and up until a recent news report on the peanut butter salmonella outbreak, I thought there was such a thing as a peanut tree.

That's why you'd probably never know I grew up watching my father and grandfather turn several acres of our North Georgia land into a huge vegetable garden, year after year. I promise I didn't even know green beans came in a can until I moved away to Athens for college. I always just assumed everyone's parents grew tomatoes, okra, cucumbers, squash, corn, and a million other things, and that every other kid my age was forced to spend the entire rest of the year eating them. And I'm not talking about some little backyard vegetable garden. There was always enough for all of our relatives to have fresh vegetables with each meal, enough to give some to any out-of-town visitors, and enough to give some to all the old ladies at church, with plenty leftover for my mother and grandmother to spend hours in the kitchen, canning.

In those days, I often liked to help. My father would let me drop the seeds in the holes and I would anxiously await the day when we could start picking everything. But eventually, as I grew older, my girlyness got the best of me and when the threat of frogs or beetles hiding in the dirt got to be too much, I traded in gardening for more appropriate outdoor activities such as sunbathing and watching my best friend's dreamy older brother cut their grass.

Even as I grew out of my desire to help with the family garden, the first signs of spring would put me back in the mood; it never failed. When I got a little older, my parents would buy me some seeds for my birthday or Easter (usually it was flowers, one time it was carrots) and they'd set aside a little spot in the garden and let me do what I had to do. For the first few days, I'd love my little garden - weeding it, watering it, and checking on it several times a day, but my patience would wear thin and after about a week, I'd forget about my little patch of dirt in favor of friends and fun. Sometimes, despite the lack of attention, my seeds would grow and the sight of budding Zinnias or Marigolds would reinforce my desire to have a green thumb, but most of the time, I'd just have to listen to my mom fuss about how she could have planted pumpkins in that wasted spot (even though I'm sure she's never actually planted pumpkins).

Over the last few years, even though I've reached adulthood and am out on my own, I find myself, once again, feeling the need to return to my roots. Maybe it's the precious memories of time spent with family. Whether I was sitting on the back porch helping my grandmother string beans or wondering what my father thought was so funny when I compared myself to Laura Ingalls Wilder after about five minutes of working in the garden, I am grateful that I had those experiences. I'm grateful that I developed a preference for fresh vegetables, not just because of the taste, but because I am blissfully aware of the hard work that goes into getting them on the supper table. I'm grateful that every single holiday meal is flanked with vegetables grown right outside by the hands of the people I love most. I'm grateful that I got to see those people put so much effort into something that so many take for granted these days.

As for this year, I've been doing a little research and looking into several different types of flowers and vegetables. I've been reading up on when the best time to plant is, what sort of conditions different plants need to grow, and, okay, I must confess I may or may not be looking into which ones need the least attention. But regardless of what happens, I know I can always go home to help or just to get my share of fresh vegetables. My father and grandfather (at 83) are still at it after all these years!

-----------------------------------------------

Author: Sarah Anderson
Sarah Way Down South

HOPE

HOPE

The leaden, barren branches silhouette against the sky.
There is no hint of life within that mortal view can spy.

The weeks to come will bring forth life, now dormant,
Out of sight.
'Tis only Mother Nature that brings blossoms verdant,
bright.

Then suddenly from dull, grey skies the brilliant fowl descends.
He's not alone, for quickly joining are his flying friends.

Each puffed, as swollen, nestles down upon his chosen
Bough.
A very different sight we see...
The tree is blooming now.

A sudden movement, then a swish, as they become a prey.
Thank God for this reminder...
Spring is truly on the way!

***
JA Heitmueller

Free Books for Book Group Survey!

What are book clubs reading? How often do they meet? Do they enjoy speaking with authors? We're going to find out the answers to these questions and more with the 2009 ReadingGroupGuides.com survey --- and we'd like your help reaching out to book club members. The goal is to identify trends and topics that are of interest to book groups. The information will be shared with publishers and authors so they can provide the resources needed to enhance book group meetings and discussions. The survey is only open to readers who are in book clubs.

The survey can be found at http://www.surveymonkey.com/s.aspx?sm=JZxioOza4dvM_2byCHuqQb0A_3d_3d

We estimate that the survey will take about 12-15 minutes to complete. As a token of their appreciation for filling it out, ReadingGroupGuides.com will award all participants (U.S. and Canadian residents only) with a free book, generously provided by our publishing colleagues. See the full list of 28 titles, each of which is perfect for a book group discussion, at: http://www.readinggroupguides.com/surveys/2009-reader-survey.asp.

We hope you will mention the survey on your site and encourage your readers who are in a book club to participate. And if you are in a book club, we hope you'll take the survey yourself.

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Spring in Tennessee

____________________________________

Photos courtesy of :

Poopie
Pecan Lane

Hats: They're Not Just for Easter Anymore!

Simply Something for March

Hats: They're Not Just for Easter Anymore!

By Cappy Hall Rearick

"Tell me the truth. Is your name really Lila Lucille Littleton," I ask the short, pudgy lady with the pinkest cheeks I've ever seen on someone outside of a casket.

"It's a mouthful, ittn't it? My mother, bless her heart, was into alliterations. Obviously she didn't think it through or she wouldn't have saddled me with something to cause such grief."

I couldn't let that one go by me. "What you talking about, Lila?"

"When I was a child, the kids called me Little Lila Littleton. Too big a temptation not to, I guess. I'm a big girl now, and I forgive them and rescind all the evil curses I put on them."

Lila marches to the beat of a very different drummer. She is someone I've wanted to interview since the day we met. It only took a few sips of the grape to get her talking.

"Lila, tell me about yourself ... like what are you all about these days?"

"Well now, let's see. You might say I'm all about hats. You see, I believe hats play an important role in our lives. Hat styles, for example, easily identify particular time periods, as well as certain occupations. Think Napoleon. Sadly, hats are not as fashionable as they once were, but the Red Hatters, bless their hearts, are dedicated to bringing back this wonderful accessory item.

"My favorite hat when I was small (notice I didn't say little) was a red tam Mama made for me. It was her first attempt at knitting and to be honest, it left a lot to be desired. But I loved that hat. For weeks I watched, nearly hypnotized, as Mama counted stitches. 'Knit one, pearl two,' she would mutter. Before long, the cadence of her voice and the sound of knitting needles going click, click, click, lulled me into a peaceful sleep.

"The tam was a tiny little thing and if Mama had known what she was doing, she could have finished it in a day or two. She didn't have a clue, so it took her a full two months.

"She wrapped up the red tam in white tissue paper, glued small red hearts all over it, and then gave it to me on Valentine's Day. It was too small for me, but I thought it was beautiful and once I put it on, I didn't want to take it off. It sat perched on top of my head from early morning until I went to sleep. I wore it until the weather got so hot in July that big drops of perspiration made my Shirley Temple curls go SPLATT!

"Eventually, my head grew bigger and my hair got thicker and there was just no way my tam would stay on without Bobbie Pins holding it in place.

"One day Mama stomped into my room while I was trying to anchor the thing on my head, and she snatched it right off of me. She gave my beautiful tam to my five-year-old cousin who said it smelled like a wet dog and refused to put it on. If I'm not mistaken, my red tam ended up on the head of her Boston Bull dog the day they took pictures for the annual Christmas card

"So you see, I learned early in my life that wearing a hat gave meant something to me, and it still does to this day. It makes me feel dressed up. Special. I sometimes think I'm a princess and that's okay too."

Lila covered her mouth with her hand and giggled.

"I adore hats. All shapes and sizes. Mama told me just the other day that I look pretty silly wearing a hat these days because my hair is too short and my face too wide. She said I look like a bag lady.

" 'Hello,' I said right back to her. 'I'm fifty-years-old. I realize that nobody is apt to mistake me for Meg Ryan. But a Bag Lady? That was a low blow, even coming from you, Mama.' "

"That's exactly what I told her and we haven't spoken a word to each other since. So now I'm looking forward to Easter because I intend to wear a hat that I designed all by myself. I'd show it to you but then it wouldn't be a surprise. Would it? I'll just say one thing: it's a doozy."

Clearing my throat, I said, "And so are you, Little Lila Littleton. My hat is off to you!"

Condemned Concert

Condemned Concert

In Scurry Downs, houses huddle together, shoulder to shoulder, so close they almost touch. Stella wonders how the owners ever painted the sides. It doesn’t look as if there is enough room for a skinny person to squeeze through sideways between neighboring homes, it’d be impossible for a ladder be unfolded in the space between them. That doesn‘t appear to be a big concern on this block, none of these homes have been painted in over a decade. Their porches sag as if about to cry and balusters are missing from snaggle-toothed railings. Stella is reminded of the smiling toothless seniors, crowded in the nursing home dining hall where she plays piano on Thursdays after dinner. The old folks have crinkled faces like wadded up love letters and dimly lit eyes: pilot lights.

Many of these dilapidated homes have been condemned. Their roofs slouch, foundations are crippled, but they still have great character in spite of wear. Each has a distinct individual charm, whether Victorian or Craftsman. Hand-made stained-glass windows, with that same ornate and colorful detail as antique costume jewelry, sparkle in the glow of the setting sun. Stella finds the home with address numbers that match the ones on the letter she is carrying. This southern charmer with wide country porch has an allure of a simpler time. Its tea-stained lace curtains sway as the sleepy house breathes through opened windows. It’s serenaded by a fork and spoon wind chime as a choir of song-birds congregates around seed filled tea-cups and saucers resting on a wrought iron table by the stairs.

Stella tip-toes up the stairs and knocks on the frayed screen door--barely hanging by rusty hinges. She waits. There’s no answer. She knocks again, “Hello?” she calls out with a hand cupped by her mouth, but still no answer. She stuffs the letter back into her tote bag and decides to walk around to the rear. As she climbs over knotted roots that have cracked the asphalt driveway, she smells the familiar aroma of chocolate chip cookies. When reaches the backdoor, she finds it wide open, smells from the kitchen fill her with fond memories of home and grandmother.

“Hello?” she calls, poking her head inside the door, just an inch or so. She sees an elderly woman by the sink. The woman doesn’t appear to hear her. She calls out again, but no response. Stella enters the kitchen and touches the woman’s shoulder. The gray-haired woman jumps and spins around with a frightened expression, her glasses make her eyes look like blue jaw-breakers--speckled white with cataracts. Stella says, “Don’t be scared. I knocked, but you didn’t hear me.”

The old woman reaches for her white cane leaning against the counter, taps it left to right on the linoleum, and makes her way to the kitchen table, visibly shaken by the intrusion. “Who that?”

In a slow loud voice Stella says, “Stella. My name is Stella Singletary. I’ve been sent to deliver an important letter. You were sent some forms in the mail, but you haven’t responded, so they sent me out here.”

“Eh? Speak up. Who they?” The old woman seems irritated, but she manages to find the edge of the platter of cookies and slides it toward Stella, as she takes a seat at the table. “Have a cookie, they fresh.”

Stella reaches for a warm cookie. “Thank you.” She takes a bite; chocolate chips melt on her tongue.

“You with them people? They keep sticking stuff on my door?” The old woman furrows her brow and seems to scold.

“Yes ma’am. I’ve been sent to make sure you get the forms. You haven’t responded to the mail or to the flyers attached to your door. Haven’t your neighbors told you?” Stella pulls out the letter and slips it under the old woman’s fingers. She drags her thin blue-veined hand over the words ‘Condemned Property - Notice of Eviction’, as if she is trying to read Braille.

“You read it to me.” The old woman pushes the letter back to Stella.

Stella swallows down the last delicious bite of the chocolate chip cookie, looks at the refrigerator door loaded down with family pictures--some appear to have been taken in that very kitchen, years ago when avocado linoleum was actually in style. She recognizes a younger version of the old woman’s face smiling at a little girl--chocolate smeared all around the child’s bright smile with two front teeth missing. Stella clears her throat, takes a seat beside the old woman, and says, “You’ve been invited to a piano concert at Silver Stream nursing home this Thursday evening at 7:00 p.m. Transportation will be provided upon request.”

“Silver Stream? I have a couple of neighbors who moved out there; which one sent the invite?” The old woman smiles and takes a cookie for herself.

Paula Ray

PaulaRayABC@aol.com

Paula Ray's Musical Pencil

The Mouse, This Day and The Clock

The Mouse

Along the highway

as if the little fellow

is stranded too,

a mouse in the snow

hopping over the

lumps or rather hillsides,

as I wish him well.

Hope he finds his home.

This Day

Going for a walk, this is my day.

The bluebird that is flying is

the color of the early dawn,

a bright blue sky with a chestnut

orange breast. Today, this is my day

like no other shall be, shall be.

The rays of the sun are before me.

The Clock

The tick of the clock

is quiet. The conversation

is loud. Words are all at

once, as conversation

can shine, shine like the

brass pendulum, chime

after chime, happily wound

and wound.

_______________________


Danny P. Barbare
barbaredaniel@yahoo.com

Southern Literary Trail - Trailfest 2009

THE SOUTHERN LITERARY TRAIL is a collaboration of eighteen southern towns from Natchez to Savannah that celebrate internationally renowned writers and playwrights of the twentieth century who were inspired by their communities.

Eudora Welty said, "Travel itself is part of some longer continuity." The Southern Literary Trail maps your travel to the region that is home to timeless American stories. Many of the uniquely southern landmarks along the Trail are year-round destinations.

In March 2009, every Trail community will present plays, movies, tours and discussion panels that explore the masterworks of Southern literature and honor their authors. A tri-state festival of American literary and dramatic arts will be a first for the nation. Festival organizers in Alabama, Mississippi and Georgia invite you to join an unforgettable experience. Browse the pages of the official Southern Literary Trail Scrapbook in this website, and begin to write your own journey to the mythic places and pathways of great American literature.

The Southern Literary Trail celebrates the centennial year of Eudora Welty. Click here for a tribute to the writer and a schedule for the Welty Centennial, 2009.

Available Tours and Travel Programs
The Mississippi Delta Literary Tour: March 22 to 26, 2009
The Oxford Conference for the Book: March 26 to 28, 2009
Welty Centennial Travel Packages

Click here for previews of films about Mobile writers Eugene Walter and William March being presented in Mobile on March 21 and 22, 2009, with free admission.

The Alabama Shakespeare Festival features the Southern Writers' Project in March with a debut of Elyzabeth Gregory Wilder's "The Furniture of Home."

Go HERE for Official Website