Tuesday, July 28, 2009

The Cold Snap


I sit on my porch swing, sipping my Mint Julip. The hounds are lolling on the porch with me, heads hung low, pantin' hard and I wonder at the absolutely devlish length of their tongues.

I sit, wondering if all the cotton's done been brought in from the fields and if the ol' plantation will survive one more growing season on just the money my Mama hid under the cornshuck mattress upstairs in Nana's room.

I am dewy with perspiring, and my little fan with pictures of magnolias on it just doesn't seem to be cooling me down. I reckon it to be about 104 degrees and my stays are just about to melt on me. But then I might be able to breath so that'd be jest fine.

My ears perk at the sound of a voice. It's sounds urgent and concerned to the future. It might be something I'm thinkin' I need to hear. It's coming from inside the big house. I rise up and shake out the crinolines - damning my overheated stays that threaten to smother me under my breath.

I simper into the house. Normally I trounce on thru and get Mama all het up at me, but I'm jest too dern warm for that nonsense today. I head on back to the gathering room. Mama's setting with her darnin out and Nana's snoring and drooling in the corner, her sock she's been knitting since the War of Northern Aggression still only halfway done.

I turn toward the urgent and concerned voice I hear. I see the most important gentleman in the neighborhood is with us. The one we listen to constantly. The one who imparts the most needed and helpful news to us as quickly as he can. We always listen to this man.

Slowly I sink down onto the cushion, wishing I could be rid of the stays and breath a little. Mama's telling me to hush up and listen, all the while handing me a lace hankie as she deems me to be a little "too dewy" for a true lady.

I turn to the voice. He has urgent news he tells us. Very important. He informs us to cover our vines and bring the animals in from the lower fields. There's a COLD SNAP coming! Right quick! We could be in for some serious chills.

__________________

Well, what do you know - written by Idgie herself!


Friday, July 24, 2009

Tennessee in all it's Beauty






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Thanks to Poopie at Pecan Lane for more beautiful pictures from Tennessee!

Poopie takes wonderful pictures and I just love sharing them ya'll. I know it's not writing - but it might just inspire some!

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Monday, July 20, 2009

THE GARBAGE COLLECTOR - Continued



THE GARBAGE COLLECTOR
by
Monica Shaughnessy


At dusk, Lydia stepped onto her porch with her neatly-wrapped bait. She took several minutes to position the box, studying it from all angles, until she was satisfied it could be seen by any passerby on the street. She looked down the street as Anne Korski emerged from her house, pulling a full trash can behind her. Minutes later, Anne was followed by the rest of the neighbors as they took part in their twice-weekly ritual. Lydia kept watch across the street and, once most of the curbs were full of bins, she saw the front door across the street open.

Dale Harrison loped out of his house and stared down Sycamore Avenue. In his right hand, he held a ruler that he banged against his leg as he walked. His left hand he held tightly against his body. A grimace ran across the bottom of Dale’s face, a red zipper that opened and closed with each mumble. But from what Lydia had observed over the years, this was his usual facial expression. As he turned in the direction of Gabriel King’s driveway, however, his eyes grew wide. He froze.

Lydia noticed that Gabriel’s trash can was missing. This, she assumed, caused her neighbor’s curious reaction. Lydia’s trash can was missing as well. But, it had been almost a year since she had stopped putting it out at night. “My garbage is off limits, and you know it,” she whispered, not wanting Dale to actually hear her. She studied his coarse features, squat body and blank stare. Dale reminded Lydia of her pilfered garden gnome. The only thing missing was the pointy hat and shoes.

A moment later, Gabriel King pulled his trash to the end of the drive. Dale was careful not to make eye contact and waited until his neighbor disappeared back into his house. After the street was completely empty, Dale raised his head and crept toward the first trash can to the right: the Korski trash can.

Stooping behind the azalea bush near her front door, Lydia had the perfect vantage point to observe Dale on his Garbage Eve wanderings. It was getting dark, but the street lamp cast an amber net of light over Dale as he poked around Anne Korski’s trash with his ruler. Moths fluttered about his shoulders, keeping constant watch over him with their black eyes. After finding nothing of interest, Dale shuffled down the street to Gabriel King’s house. The pop, pop of the ruler against his pant leg was the only sound on the street.

Lydia rubbed the goose bumps off her arms. She pushed the wrapped package further out onto her porch with the toe of her jeweled sandal. Then, she went inside to wait.

Right before midnight, the squeak of a tennis shoe against smooth concrete woke Lydia. She rubbed her face and yawned. It had been a long night sleeping on the recliner she’d positioned near the door, and her back was killing her. The thought of catching the retard red-handed, however, gave Lydia the strength to react. She lifted the mail flap on the front door to peek onto her porch. But, the whiny brass hinge tattled and alerted the thief.

With stiff fingers, Lydia unlocked the door and threw it wide. As she watched the thief run away, she knew two things: one, the person – undoubtedly Dale – wore a navy sweatshirt with the hood pulled tight, and two, he was now the proud owner of tacky Elvis memorabilia. Lydia stumbled onto the porch and took a few shallow breaths. Then, she looked up at the black sky. “What would you do, dear?” she asked. Lydia shoved her hands in her pockets to keep them from shaking while she waited for her answer. “Yes, Lyle, I thought so.”

Grass crunched under Lydia’s sandals as she hurried across the front lawn. She had no idea what she would do if she found the thief, but she charged forward. Lydia watched her yard for any sign of movement, half expecting Dale to be in the petunia bed with a shovel aimed at her head. However, Lydia’s eyes were slow to focus. So, she listened instead for anything that might give away her neighbor’s location. The only thing audible was the ringing in her ears as her blood pressure spiked.

Seconds later, Lydia heard branches breaking as the thief stumbled over the bushes that separated her house from the Jennings’. She lunged and made a desperate grab at the package under the person’s arm. “Thief! Thief!” Lydia shouted. But, the runner slipped easily from her grasp. She was breathing hard now and sweating. Lydia shook her head. Had she grabbed at the back of the person’s sweatshirt instead of the package under his arm, she might have slowed him down. Might have been able to confront him. But, Lydia’s poor decision had cost her.

For a brief moment, Lydia thought about giving chase, but changed her mind when the ringing in her ears returned. She watched the thief run farther down the street with her husband’s memory tucked under one arm.

The phone rang early the next morning, startling Lydia from a fitful sleep. She had been dreaming about her husband. She and Lyle were in their front yard, running towards each other. At the moment of connection, though, Lyle melted into thin air. It wasn’t a nightmare, but it was still unsettling. At least Lyle’s heart was strong in Lydia’s dream. Much stronger than a year ago when he collapsed while mowing the lawn.

Lydia shook her head until it felt awake enough to think. “Who died?” she asked the caller.

“Your presence is requested at the Harrison residence in one hour.”

“Who is this?” Lydia asked, half awake. “Is this The Nurse?”

The only reply Lydia heard was the click of the receiver.

An hour later, dressed in a silk pant suit, Lydia walked across her lawn toward the Harrison house. As she crossed the street, she ran into Susan Jennings. “I had an interesting evening last night. I’m going over now to chat with our little neighborhood thief.”

“Did you get a phone call, too?” Susan asked.

“What on earth…” Lydia’s voice trailed as she noticed the peculiar event unfolding on Sycamore Avenue. Neighbors, a dozen or so, were walking toward the Harrison house. Assuming the lead, Lydia rushed to Dale’s front door and knocked. She would get to the bottom of this nonsense.
The Nurse opened the door. She looked past Lydia and waited for the rest of the neighbors to gather on the front lawn. Once enough people were present, The Nurse cleared her throat and read from a note card: “Mr. Harrison says: I would like to welcome you all to my home. Please come in.” Then, she stepped aside and motioned the guests into the house.

Walking into the living room, Lydia felt as if she’d arrived at a yard sale. She looked at the objects positioned around the room: crinkled photos, old shoes, moth-eaten college sweaters, chipped china cups. Some things had been cleaned to a good-as-new state and the ones that couldn’t had been mended. The discarded possessions of Sycamore Avenue were now on display behind glass, on pedestals, and in frames. Each item, Lydia noted, was labeled in typewriter ink by household and date. She looked at one piece of junk and then another until she saw Dale pressed into the corner, looking as if he were on exhibit as well. There was no smile on his face, but the usual grimace he wore seemed more relaxed.

One by one, the rest of the neighbors entered and looked at the contents of the house. Ella Spencer ran her hands over a baby blanket, Anne Korski looked through her old high school year book with a faraway look, Gabriel King hummed as he flipped through his old vinyl records and the Jennings huddled together over their wedding album.

The Nurse spoke and broke the nostalgic spell. “Mr. Harrison wanted you to see what he’s been doing with the things he’s collected over the years.”

Dale Harrison nodded to himself.

“That, and he wanted to keep from getting lynched by you people,” The Nurse added.

Dale grimaced and bit his tongue.

“It’s very nice,” Anne Korski said.

“Like a museum.” Ella Spencer continued to caress the baby blanket.

“Have you all lost your minds?” Lydia shouted. She noticed that Dora Kay was admiring a collection of pencil sketches splattered with coffee stains.

“As you can see, the only things here are the ones you’ve thrown away. Dale has never stolen anything off anyone’s porch,” The Nurse said.

Lydia turned and narrowed her eyes at Dale. “Where is it? What did you do with the pretty package?” She spoke as if she were talking to a child.


The Nurse looked at Dale and then at Lydia. “He has no idea what you’re talking about.” After nearly twenty years, it was clear that The Nurse was able to read her patient’s face. No words were necessary.
“The Elvis plate you stole off my porch last night.”

Susan looked up from the photo album. “Lydia.”

“This isn’t over, you know. That plate is here somewhere.”

“It was my son, Chad.” Susan rubbed her forehead, shielding her eyes from her neighbors.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Anne Korski asked.

“After the witch hunt rally at Lydia’s house?” Susan folded her arms. “All of the missing things, including Lydia’s china plate, are in Chad’s room. I found them by accident when I was cleaning.” Susan turned to Donald. “I think he’s under a lot stress because of the divorce.”

“Looks like you were wrong, Lydia,” Gabriel King said. He placed the album he was holding back into its plastic display frame.

“Well, doesn’t matter,” Lydia said, turning to Dale. “You may not be a thief, but digging through other people’s trash is still sick, and I want to know why you do it. Is your need to pry into other people’s business that overwhelming?”

Dale scribbled something onto a note card and handed it to his caregiver. He was careful to keep his eyes on the floor.

The Nurse read the card: “These things looked important.”

Without waiting for a response, Dale Harrison stepped out from the corner and crept into the back part of the house.

Lydia opened her mouth to shout the last word, but stopped. In the empty corner where Dale had stood was her husband’s dress military uniform. It hung on a wooden form, starched and pressed. Lydia walked to the green jacket studded with ribbons and bars and read the paper label underneath: Strichter, March 12th, 2008. She touched the sleeve, paused for a moment and walked out of the house.

A week later, Lydia stood on her driveway admiring the early evening sky. She took a deep breath and looked at the salt sprinkling of stars. Then, she ducked into her garage and reemerged, pulling her heavy trash can behind her. After glancing across the street, Lydia put her garbage by the curb and went into her house.

______________________________________

Monica Shaughnessy, a children's book writer, likes to occasionally take a break from teenage angst by writing about adult angst instead. One of her short stories has appeared in Stories for Children Magazine, and she is hard at work on her fourth novel, a YA story about deer hunting in the Texas Hill Country. Find out more about her children's books at http://web.me.com/monica.shaughnessy/Fear_Stanford/Welcome.html

Thursday, July 16, 2009

MINIMALISM


MINIMALISM


A gap between the hedges

Where nothing will grow--

Empty as the moon,

Barren as snow.

Even the grass is thin,

Naked earth showing through,

As if the soil were sick,

Or chary of giving life anew.

A year ago,

I brought an azalea here:

It withered upward from the root,

Leaves turning black and sere--

No nourishment

In this accursed space.

It died within the month.

I planted nothing in its place.

I leave it to its own–

Bare of foliage and plant,

A ground where emptiness grows,

And flowers can’t.

__________________________

Jack Peachum


Tuesday, July 14, 2009

THE GARBAGE COLLECTOR



THE GARBAGE COLLECTOR
by
Monica Shaughnessy

“Did he see you?” Lydia Strichter looked past her neighbor to the house across the street. Rain misted over its peeling paint and rusted wrought iron.

“No. I don’t think so,” Susan said. She looked over her left shoulder and then her right. “Who are we talking about?” The drizzle settled onto Susan, making her look like a half-melted candle.

“For Heaven’s sake, get in here before that retard notices.” Lydia stepped aside to let Susan pass into her house.

“Oh, you mean Dean. Or, is it Dale?” Susan unbuttoned her wet jacket.

“I see your umbrella went missing, too.” Lydia took Susan’s jacket. “Mine went missing last Thursday, and I don’t have to tell you who did it.”

“Who?”

“That trash-digging abomination across the street, of course!” Lydia threw Susan’s jacket on the coat rack. It fell off. “Tea?”

Susan picked up her jacket and put it back on the hook. “Um, I really don’t…”

“I also happen to know that Anne Korski’s wooden duck statue…” Lydia walked into the kitchen. Her jeweled slippers clacked on the oak floor.

“The one with the little rain coat?” Susan shuffled behind her.

“Yes, the very same…went missing from her porch last Tuesday evening. Seems everyone’s had something stolen in the last month.”

“But, Dale only takes things from our trash. Things we don’t care about.” Susan rubbed her hands as if she were wringing out laundry. “Besides, how do you know it’s him? It could be someone else.” She took a seat at the breakfast table.

“Pish posh.” Lydia took the teakettle from the stovetop and filled it at the sink. “There was a time when I put up with it, like everyone else. But I drew the line last March when I saw him pulling garments from my trash can like some homeless person. Now, my bin goes out in the morning. Exactly five minutes before the garbage truck comes.” She set the kettle on the stove and turned toward the counter where a box of cookies sat.

Susan glanced at her watch. “About my envelope...”

“If Mr. Strichter were alive, he wouldn’t tolerate this foolishness for one minute.” Lydia arranged the cookies in a circular pattern on a china plate.

“Do you have it?”

“He’d do something, by God.”

“Chad will be home from school any minute, and we’ve got to get ready for tonight. He’s quarterback, you know.” Susan waited a moment and then spoke a little louder, “Maybe we could do tea another time?”

Lydia looked up from the plate of cookies. “Clearly, your mind’s elsewhere. I see there’ll be no talking to you until you’ve gotten your mail.” Lydia dusted imaginary cookie crumbs off her hands and smoothed her silver hair. She crossed the kitchen and picked up a fat envelope out of a basket. “I do believe our mail carrier needs glasses. How she can confuse my house for yours is beyond me.” Lydia offered the envelope.

Susan put her hand on the mail and tugged. But, Lydia’s grasp was firmer. When the squeal of school bus airbrakes came from the street, Lydia let go of the envelope.

“I do hope everything is okay,” Lydia said.

“Of course, why shouldn’t it be?”

“The package is from Kowalski and Kowalski, dear.” Lydia shrugged. “One can scarcely turn on the television without hearing about their divorce settlement prowess.” She watched a scowl cross Susan’s face and spoke again, “Yes, well I’ll show you out.” All the way to the front door, Lydia smiled to herself.

As Susan stepped outside, she gasped. “Lydia, didn’t you have a garden gnome? I could have sworn it was right there under your magnolia tree.”

Lydia frowned. “That retard doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.”

Susan looked at Lydia and bit her lip. Then, she scurried back to her house next door.
Once her neighbor was out of earshot, Lydia looked toward the sky and whispered, “Yes, my dear. You would have done something about this foolishness.”

“Silence, please!” Lydia shouted over the crowd. The following evening, a dozen neighbors gathered in her living room. Before she began, Lydia made a mental note of who was in attendance. This information would be useful in a few months when she made out her Christmas card list. “Attention! Attention!” She clapped her hands as she shouted.

“Let’s get on with it, Lydia.” Donald Jennings was the first to speak. “Half-time is over in six minutes and the Cowboys are ahead.” Donald’s thick body eclipsed his wife, Susan, who orbited behind him like a lesser moon.

“I’ve called you here to discuss the mutual problem we have on Sycamore Avenue.” Lydia looked past Donald. “You know it exists, but I’m not sure you’re aware of the facts.”

“What problem?” It was Gabriel King who spoke this time. He stood apart from the rest of the neighbors, but looked content to do so.

“Our neighborhood is suffering at the hands of a thief, and not one of you knows who’s responsible.”

“Did you call us here to confess?” someone shouted from the back.

“We’ve all had things stolen off our property,” Lydia continued, ignoring the heckler. “Umbrellas, wooden ducks, hedge clippers, welcome mats, garden gnomes.” She watched Anne Korski whisper something to Dora Kay Mueller and Dora Kay Mueller whisper something to Ella Spencer. Then, half the neighbors were gossiping. Lydia cleared her throat and began again once the room was quiet, “It’s time we did something about it. It’s time we confronted that garbage collector across the street.”

No one spoke.

“Those hedge clippers cost me thirty-two bucks, y’all,” Donald Jennings finally said. “I say we go and get our stuff!”

“I want my wind chimes back!” said Ella Spencer. She bounced a toddler on her hip to keep him from pulling her hair.

“Wait a minute!” Gabriel King held up his hand. “When I first moved to this neighborhood six years ago, it was explained to me – by several of you – that Dale was harmless. A bit eccentric with his trash collecting, but of no threat to anyone.”

“It’s not normal, it’s just not normal,” said Dora Kay. “What’s he doing with all that stuff, anyway? Something horrible, I bet. Anyone who watches the evening news can tell you how sick people are.”

“My duck!” Anne Korski hid her face in her hands. “What’s he doing with my poor duck!”

“Yes. Why on earth would a grown man dig through filth?” Lydia asked.

“Because he’s autistic,” said a gravelly female voice.

Lydia stood on tiptoe to look over the neighbors’ heads. She recognized the speaker instantly – it was The Nurse. Lydia remembered the woman’s entrance into the neighborhood clearly.

Seventeen years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison went to dinner one evening. While they were gone, their thirty-year-old son, Dale, put a pot of beans on the stove, got distracted and nearly burned the house down. The next day, The Nurse showed up with her dented Monte Carlo and her attitude. There had never been a Negro on Sycamore Avenue until that day and there hadn’t been one since. The Harrison house fire was woven into the legend of Sycamore Avenue as tightly as Lydia’s husband’s untimely death in his own front yard last year.

The Nurse pushed through the crowd to the front of the room. She was dressed in white scrubs and despite her antiseptic appearance, smelled of rose perfume. When she reached the spot where Lydia stood, The Nurse looked at Gabriel King and nodded discreetly in his direction.

“Madame, I’m not sure how you found out about our meeting…” Lydia turned and narrowed her eyes at Gabriel King, “but it’s strictly for home owners.” She motioned toward the door, but The Nurse didn’t budge.

“I’m a home owner rep-re-sentative,” The Nurse said to Lydia, drawing her syllables out. Then, she spoke to the crowd, “Mr. Harrison has always been a good neighbor, and this is how you treat him? You know he can’t help himself.” She put her hands on her hips and tipped her chin up, just a little. “Since his momma and daddy passed a few years back, he needs people like you to look out for him.”

“We just want our things back,”

said Anne Korski. “Have you seen a white duck around the house? Dressed in a little yellow rain slicker…”

“Maybe it’s not Dale.”

“Who said that?” Lydia asked. She looked toward the source of the voice. “Susan? Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, of course.” Susan stepped out from behind her husband. She gripped her hands together and looked at The Nurse. “I just think we ought to make sure that it’s really Dale before we do anything.”

“Yes. Where’s your proof?” asked Gabriel King.


“You’ll have your proof,” Lydia said.

Several days later, Lydia rummaged in the back of her closet. It was the eve of Garbage Collection Day, and she needed bait. Lydia pulled box after box out, looking for something shiny. Toward the very back of the closet, she found an ancient shoebox sealed with yellowed tape.

Lydia ran a manicured nail around the lid and broke the seal. Inside the box, she found a bundle of postcards tied with string and a ceramic dish. She caught her breath and willed her eyes not to water. “I thought I’d gotten rid of everything. What’s this doing here?”

Lydia sat back on her heels and looked through the postcards: Guam, Japan, Germany and Saudi Arabia. Every place her husband, Lyle, had been stationed. Next, she picked up the ceramic dish – an Elvis Presley souvenir china plate. The edges were gilded with gold trim and the middle held a picture of the King in his army uniform. “You were the Elvis fan, not me. Besides, I’m not one to hold on to sentimental things.” Lydia ran her finger over the year written in gold at the bottom: 1959, the same year Lyle joined the military. “Especially things that hurt too much.”
Arthritis began to nag at her legs, so Lydia stood up. She tucked the plate under one arm and grabbed the bundle of postcards. For a moment, she held the cards over the waste bin. But when Lydia felt her hand tremble, she put the bundle of mail back in its container. Then, she buried the shoebox deep under a stack of winter sweaters and headed to the kitchen.

The breakfast table was covered with an assortment of bows, ribbons, wrapping paper, and boxes. Lydia put the plate into the largest of the boxes and set about her task of cutting, taping, tying and curling. When she was satisfied she’d created something irresistible, Lydia set down her scissors and admired her masterpiece. Her plan was simple: Mr. Sticky Fingers would not be able to resist the package, and the doubters of Sycamore Avenue would have their proof.

TO BE CONTINUED.............
______________________________________

Monica Shaughnessy, a children's book writer, likes to occasionally take a break from teenage angst by writing about adult angst instead. One of her short stories has appeared in Stories for Children Magazine, and she is hard at work on her fourth novel, a YA story about deer hunting in the Texas Hill Country. Find out more about her children's books at http://web.me.com/monica.shaughnessy/Fear_Stanford/Welcome.html

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Halloween, 2003






Halloween, 2003


Sarsaparilla and Sassafras, along with their twin brothers, Larry and Lawrence, grew their own pumpkins every year and sold them there on County Road 272 starting about October 3. It was the Devil’s holiday is what Mizz Lily at church always said. She said nobody ought to celebrate the Devil’s holiday, but especially good upstanding Christians shouldn’t. “It would send a mixed message,” she told them.

“Something bad’s bound to come of it, sooner or later.” It didn’t fully convince her when Larry argued that “God grew them pumpkins, He’s likely right proud of them,” but it did ease her burden some.


Larry took to calling Sarsaparilla “Sars” after that deadly disease broke out, and especially after Halloween of 2003. Most people called her “Rilla” which was okay, but there really wasn’t anything good you could make out of Sarsaparilla. Of course, everybody called Sassafras “Sassy,” and Rilla wondered how much sway a name actually held over a being. Rilla lay awake some nights pondering such twists of fate as her getting stuck with Sarsaparilla and Sassy getting Sassafras. If it had been the other way around, maybe Rilla wouldn’t have ended up the plain, shy, responsible one. Plus, it was easier to spell Sassafras. So, apropos of her station in life, they blamed the whole thing on her when it really wasn’t all her fault.


They were supposed to take turns at the stand on the highway, but Sassy took extra turns because she liked to flirt. Well, she had that strawberry blonde hair, and those freckles, and she was just coming on fourteen that year, so she’d begun to sprout some mentionable breasts, as well as some other unmentionable parts. The others didn’t mind her taking extra turns because she usually sold out all they grew by about October 29, but it made them mad that she’d get out of totin’ the pumpkins to the stand because of it.


Lawrence drove a load out there first thing in the morning with the tractor. Their daddy wouldn’t let Larry drive the tractor for a month that year, on account of him cutting off Lawrence’s little toe by goofing off and chasing him around the yard with it one day. The dogs got into the chase, and Larry had to either hit Reb or Lawrence, and he figured Lawrence had a better chance, so that’s how he ended up losing his toe. “It was only the little one,” Larry said. “Shoot. Ain’t like he’s gonna need it overmuch.”


Lawrence was still a little tender footed on the left side, and, of course, when the pumpkins had to be pulled in from the field, why, he’d get all the more tender footed, and Larry reckoned he deserved the extra work, even though he never did it on purpose. “If I’d a got Reb, he’d a died,” Larry explained to Lawrence, and Lawrence agreed he’d done the right thing.


So up Lawrence would come with the tractor, and a wagon full of pumpkins and Rilla and Larry. Sassy would toss her hair and smooth her dress and say how important it was to be pretty and clean if you wanted to make a sale. So everybody but Sassy would unload the pumpkins. “It’s just that ya’ll are so dirty, is all. I mean, it ain’t even just the dirt, which is all over your hair and your faces and most of all your shirts, but it’s that you can’t wear decent clothes when you’re bringing in the pumpkins, so even if you weren’t dirty, you’d still look common, and common never sold no pumpkins.”


This year was the biggest crop, yet. Daddy’d let them have another acre, seeing as how they were almost grown now, and they proved every year how responsible they were to keep up with their school work, then come home and tend the pumpkins.


They raised their prices and made a killing that year. Each one collected three hundred and forty nine dollars and eighty cents, except for Sassy who collected an extra two hundred when nobody was looking. Cash money. Under the table.


They saved the biggest and best one for themselves. Actually, they saved three each, plus the biggest and best. They named it Gordon this year and fought over how to carve it. Gordon had a flat spot in the most inconvenient place, and he wouldn’t stand upright, so Sarsaparilla, who someday wanted to be an engineer, pushed some metal stakes into his back to keep him propped up. She also wanted to someday be a designer, so she was the one who shrugged all the hay bales and the eatin’ pumpkins that didn’t get carved and the Indian corn to the front porch. She spent a week setting up the scene with the two scarecrows and last of the sunflowers, and every morning before school, and every afternoon when she got home, she’d fluff and priss over it, making it fresh looking, and just so.


The children always argued over how to carve the big one, and 2003 was no exception. Rilla thought Gordon looked stately, after he got propped up right, but Sassy and Larry and Lawrence thought he looked mangled, what with the divot in his forehead. Sassy lodged a hatchet in the divot, and that’s how Rilla found it when she got home from school on Halloween afternoon. It ruined the whole atmosphere of her happy harvest scene. She was used to it, though. Every year it happened like this, so she didn’t even let on that it bothered her.


Sassy started the carving with the eyebrows. She used a BB gun to get the right effect. Larry and Lawrence fully supported her artistic vision and ran inside to get their guns in order to help her carry out that vision. Lawrence got too excited and missed and accidentally shot Gordon right between Sassy’s carefully outlined eyebrows. It made her so mad that she shoved him hard and he bumped against Larry just as Larry squeezed off a shot. Fortunately for Larry and Lawrence, the botched shot went wide and didn’t further damage Sassy’s artistic statement.


“Now you’ve gone and made him a mono-brow,” she yelled, bruised and maligned by Lawrence’s accidental molestation of her creation.


“Awww, c’mon, Sassy,” Lawrence slunked, digging the toe of his good foot into the dirt. “It ain’t like I done it on purpose. Besides, it’s just one. It could be a zit.”


Sassy noticeably brightened at the idea of Gordon having acne, so the woe passed and balance was restored to the universe.


Larry came up with the idea of making Gordon drunk. That was the theme they aimed for. A drunk with a hatchet in his forehead. Then Sassy came up with - the - perfect - accouterment. Gordon would barf. They carved his mouth extra-wide, then carefully arranged all the guts they had scraped from all the pumpkins so they fell out his mouth. This was just too much for Rilla. She couldn’t stand it. She told them to go close up the stand and she’d meet them there with the car so they could go over to Dover Heights for their trick or treating. That’s where the good stuff was.


After they left, she heaped straw over the barf-guts. She tidied it and messed with it and kept putting on a little more and a little more, moving it to and fro until Gordon looked at least presentable, hatchet in the forehead notwithstanding.


Well, it was a breezy night that year, and as luck would have it, the coffee-can sized candle with the three wicks they used to light up Gordon burned deep enough little wells that when nightfall fell, and the breeze turned to a wind, the flames didn’t go out. But the straw blew in, and one piece of flaming straw led to another until the fire engulfed Rilla’s carefully coifed tender box of hay bales and scarecrows.


All three children pointed the finger at Rilla, but they didn’t leave her stranded. As soon as it became apparent that their parents shared the children’s perception that it was all Rilla’s fault, they jumped to her rescue.


“It could have been so much worse,” Sassy cooed to her tearful mother.


“That’s right,” Larry agreed, aiming his comment at their father. “Sure, we lost everything else, but we didn’t lose ya’ll. It’s a miracle ya’ll got out in time.”


“If you look at it right,” Lawrence added, “we’re all okay, and Rilla didn’t do it on purpose, and that’s what matters most, ain’t that right, Rilla? Ain’t that right?”


Rilla peered into the still smoldering coals that used to be their home, and somehow it didn’t quite seem as right as Lawrence hoped it would.


____________________________________________

Author: Errid Farland

Errid’s stories have appeared in Barrelhouse, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, storySouth, Pindledyboz, GUD, and other great places. She owns www.ShowMeYourLits.com, a website which sponsors a weekly flash contest.

Monday, July 6, 2009

Free Electronic Books for the Month of July from Hachette Book Group!!


Hachette is posting ENTIRE books online for 30 days at a time. The list includes some of my faves! THE OVERLOOK by Michael Connelly, THE HERETIC'S DAUGHTER by Kathleen Kent, THE FIRST COUNSEL by Brad Meltzer, CHILD 44 by Tom Rob Smith and the first GOSSIP GIRL book!


Check it out: http://tinyurl.com/mtwsj8

Miriam Parker at Hachette is letting us know about this. I'm going to check it out right now! www.hachettebookgroup.com

Idg

Following the Sun



Following the Sun



Walking

along

the

road


the

sun

is

shining

down


bright

upon

the

horizon


bright

upon

my

brow


I

follow

the

yellowish

golden

light


with

my

head

bowed.—




Danny P. Barbare



Sunday, July 5, 2009

fire!


It's a right windy day here in Northwest Tennessee due to the passage of a nice little cool front, a gift straight from God for those of us who don't like summer heat. I've got two brothers who were raised up here with me, all of us different as night and day personality wise. In some ways me and Harold are on the same wavelength as far as simplicity in life, the written word and picture takin'. He and his bride live in Virginia with their baby boy...moved up there about five years or so ago. He ain't no young thing by any means but every family needs a male heir so there ya go. Gotta carry that name forward and proliferate like the good book says.

The otha' brother, closer to me in age, is also my soulmate. He's all about the farm and the critters and the crops which is something that I've learned to love in my later years. I never quite appreciated how hard my daddy worked to raise us up by doing two jobs, one by day for the USDA and the other 24/7 as the farm manager. His four years in the Air Force counted toward an early retirement at the age of 55. I remember going to his big retirement dinner and meetin' all manner of folks whom I couldn't recognize now if my life depended on it.

Harold drove down from Virginia yesterday and we grabbed an opportunity to sit on the porch of that old cabin up on the hill to catch up on things. Thanks be to Blackberry, there were new pics of the baby boy and his mama, playing out on their deck in the plastic swimming pool. Little guy is just about a month shy of walking and then? There won't be no catching up with his little butt. I hate to say it, but I think they're BOTH gonna pay for their raising. We were all chilled out taking in the moment with the nice breeze and Daddy called. "You're missing all the excitement down here!" he said. Apparently there was a fire at the end of the road with some soybeans in imminent danger. He and mama had no power because a live wire maintained by the rural electric company had fallen smack into the middle of the wheat stubble with no-till beans just about to show some sign life after last night's rain. What kind of luck is that?

We piled into his Jeep and headed down the road only to spot Daddy hoofing it to the scene. He hopped in the back seat and we wandered on down to where the volunteer fire fighter and the head of the electric company were busy dousing that fire with a pumper truck. It was mostly smoke by then, bless their hearts. The farmer and his wife showed up soon afterwards, just in time to see Bubba driving over the embers in his trusty old farm truck. With his windows rolled down, by the way. That drives Daddy plum crazy when they go out to check cows in the morning.

Never a dull moment here in our little community. I wouldn't trade it for all the tea in China.

______________________

Written by Poopie @ Pecan Lane

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Thoughts during this Patriotic Holiday


I know I’m all about the witty little ramblings of day-to-day life and such. Barely a serious moment in my writings (only way I keep sane is to make my life amusing!)

But this morning I was grumbling on about how I had to go out and catch the stupid dog who ran away and was harrassing the neighbors again, in the rain, before coffee.... and how my nails need another visit to the salon where they can again ridicule my eyebrows but that I don’t have time today.... and other various nonsense like this when I had an odd flashback as I noticed an American flag on a mailbox across the street.

A few years ago my dad was in a VA hospital busy with the task of dying. Now he had lived an incredibly full and varied life and was not dying overly young or anything like that - but it always takes me back a minute when I realize how many young people are at VA hospitals.

Hubby, child and I were down at the hospital and were visiting with Dad in the Cardiac Care Unit. It was, as you can imagine, a very depressing place and the child was completely freaked out by it (he was only 3 I think) so Hubby and I were taking turns visiting Daddy while the other walked the child around the grounds and such.

I had taken Hubby and the child back to the hotel for a while as the child was just done in by the whole thing -and I had come back to the VA hospital alone. I walk into the lobby of the hospital. There’s not a soul behind the counter, nor were there any hospital staff wandering around that I could see. Completely empty. I'm starting to walk toward the elevators when I hear someone very politely call me, “Ma’am, could you please come here for a moment?”

I look over to the far side of the lobby/waiting area and see one lone guy in a wheelchair. I walk over closer and realize that not only is he a parapalegic, but he’s only in his 20's. His mouthpiece that controls the wheelchair has fallen away from his mouth. He was completely unable to move in any way without the mouthpiece. Who knows how long he had been sitting there in that empty lobby waiting for someone to come along. He very calmly and nicely asked me to please put his mouthpiece back up to his mouth.

My Lord, I wanted to take him home, cook him dinner, take care of him the rest of the day, push his chair somewhere, read him a book, anything!

But he only wanted his mouthpiece back in. He said thank you and moved his chair down the hallway back to wherever it was he had come from.

I will admit that I just stood there for another few minutes, looking down the empty hallway. As a subnote - still no one had come into the lobby.

I then went back to my dad.

So that’s just the thought I had this morning, near 4th of July and the celebration of our independance, while 10 seconds before I had been doing nothing but bitching about my nails and my dog and a slow coffee pot.

Some have sacrificed so much for this country so that I can sit and whine about these silly things.

To them I say Thank You.