Kathy Boles-Turner's Blog

Last year I finally self-published Ramshackle Houses & Southern Parables for print on demand. It was a labor of love and regret, an autobiography in poetry and creative nonfiction, a full-on act of self-imposed therapy by remembering and writing through my own personal filter. A narcissistic act? I’m sure if more than my generous writing friends read it, narcissism would be a word critics might use, but I think that can be said of any “autobiography”, right? Pro critics might also use the words homespun, unprofessional, raw. I’m okay with all of that.

What’s most interesting to me is that family members that I grew up with–the few who have read my work–have said they don’t remember this or that, they don’t recognize the time frame or the person I’m “hinting” at in a specific piece. That they had no idea I had such a dark, sad view of my childhood. That they had no idea I’ve been a writer the majority of my life. All very interesting comments. Apparently, the people I grew up with were paying no attention at all.

No, I am not intent on bashing family today. I find their comments genuinely interesting because the truth is, I wasn’t paying very much attention to their personal experiences either. Not because I’m a born narcissist who spent so many years writing down my little sadnesses … well, maybe.

I think there are very specific instances in which intuitiveness has aided me well. Regardless, it wasn’t until mid-to late adulthood that I bothered with trying to tune into reading between conversational lines. In the earlier years, if I wasn’t told point blank, if I wasn’t an eyewitness, then I was blissfully ignorant. If my curiosity wasn’t peaked in a certain situation, I probably didn’t ask questions, just moved on with my day. But if I had asked questions, I was probably scolded for being nosey and rude.

Basic, right? Sure. But since I wrote down my little sadnesses and musings, there is of course room for people to comment: I don’t remember that at all. Are you sure you’re remembering correctly? Why don’t you mention your mother more often? She is so dedicated and loving. Are you okay? You don’t seem okay on these pages here in the middle …

I’m okay, thanks. And if opportunity arises, I might say: if you read closer, acknowledgment of my mother’s love and dedication is apparent. Now I have questions: #1. Could we please discuss how you made it all the way to 50-something unscathed by childhood and adolescence? I mean … I’ve met your parents. Remember?

I haven’t taken the opportunity. Yet. That will surely be a fascinating series of discussions, someday.

The image I’ve shared with this posting is from a cotton field near my house a few weeks ago. Note: this isn’t where I grew up. Hubbyriffic and I live in a subdivision of about two thousand houses surrounded by acreage with a series of two-lane roads winding through, at least ten miles in either direction from an interstate ramp. Out on those narrow roads surrounded by real life, real-time agriculture, it’s easy to forget that downtown Memphis is less than twenty minutes away from around the corner.

The surrounding acreage is alternately planted in corn or cotton. The years that the cotton is planted I watch those fields with interest all season on my commute to and from work because of stories my maternal grandmother used to tell me. Stories that often involved “hateful old cotton,” as she called it.

Grandma is featured in two of the pieces I wrote for RH&SP, The Good Old Days, and Generation Gap. She is strongly sealed in my forever memories because she spoke at length about her own childhood–quite a rare thing in my experience with people of that era. Sure, everyone has at least one relative who mentions how easy the kids today have it: We had to walk up hill five miles to school … Right? We all have one of those. But Grandma was different.

This lady could world build. She could put you right there, in the 20s or 30s, skinny as a rail, wearing a flour sack dress, on a dusty old farm in the middle of nowhere, being shouted at by a “foster” dad. Being told to quit asking questions and get to work. Being forced at seven years old to quit school and carry buckets of water to the field. Being whipped for wanting paper to write on. Walking home exhausted at seventeen only to be introduced to a tall stranger and told, this is my cousin Robert, you’re gonna marry him come Sunday.

Good lord that woman made me cry. And she was often curious about why her stories made me cry. “You’re awful emotional, girl. No, I don’t need a hug, wash those beans so I can make supper.”

Sometimes I hear people my age or even younger say dumb shit like, I was born in the wrong era … I should have lived when things were simpler, been a farmer in the good old days … blah, blah, blah. It’s obvious those folks never had someone like my grandma explain what life in “The Good Old Days” was really like. She taught me a few important lessons, one being I was born in exactly the correct era: post-stringent child labor laws, post-civil rights, post-women’s rights, post-central heating and air conditioning.

Even so, as a teenage wannabe independent woman I was one of those hard-learners, as my grandma would say. (hard-learner=idiot).

When I was 17, I worked at a factory for minimum wage, then $3.35 per hour. One weekend I saw an ad in the newspaper: Cotton Pickers Wanted, $6.00 per hour. All I could think was, $6.00 an hour!!!!!!!!! And all memory of Grandma’s dire stories flew out of my head.

So, I put on some shorts and a cute little sun visor and prissed my ass down to that field ready to make a fat paycheck.

Thirty-two minutes after being assigned a cotton row on a brutally sunny, humid, airless, eighty-eight-degree autumn morning, I left crying and fairly certain I was gonna die from sun stroke or blood poisoning. (Those pretty cotton balls are surrounded by vicious burrs that stab and burrow into your skin like hot knife shards.)

I never confessed this absurd endeavor to Grandma. She died that same winter. Her loss was sudden and unexpected. She was 79 years old.

During my frantic search for medical attention after escaping that cotton field, Grandma’s voice thundered through my head: Whatever a body has to do gets done. (a body=a person)

Embarrassment and shame finally dissipated–long before the pain in my fingers and bare legs–and some mental clarity came along. I never fucking HAVE TO walk into a cotton field. EVER. AGAIN.

Unless I want to take a cool photograph on the side of the road, flooded with nostalgia while looking over the hundred acres of that bittersweet beauty. That renewable resource loved and needed globally. That bane of my maternal family’s existence. It was their livelihood as Tennessee sharecroppers. The thing that stood between them and life and death for decades.

Just down the road from our house in that subdivision yesterday, another family’s house caught fire. A house squished between other houses, barely ten feet apart, just like all the other houses in this area. We were driving past to the main road, intent to go buy a new TV when I saw black smoke flooding out of a rooftop. There was a car in the driveway, driver’s side door flung open, and the front door of the house was open. In a split-second, the smoke got worse, thicker, blacker, scarier. There was a young woman on the opposite sidewalk, holding a toddler, a gangly puppy was at her feet, begging for attention. We shouted to her, ARE THERE PEOPLE INSIDE! She was holding a cellphone and said she’d just called 9-1-1.

We shouted in unison again, BUT ARE THERE PEOPLE INSIDE! Sirens sounded in the distance. The young woman stood there blank-faced. I parked the car, and we got out. Hubbyriffic was headed toward that open front door as the fire marshal pulled up. We kept asking questions, the toddler started to cry, the puppy jumped up wanting a pet. The young woman just stood there blank-faced. Eventually, neighbors ventured out, shouting, ARE THEY HOME? The neighbors were of various ages, races, style of dress and accent, their leisurely Saturday afternoon interrupted by the smell of that smoke invading their houses.

In the next twenty-minutes we learned that the young woman was babysitting/housesitting/dog sitting and had left with the toddler for a few minutes, returned to the house, saw smoke, ran from her car into the house to let the dogs out, then to the sidewalk to call for help. The couple, parents to the toddler and two dogs, were out of town. Some of the neighbors across the street were very close to the owners but had no clue who the young woman was. Some of the neighbors were okay with telling us–well, we don’t know much about that couple, they don’t seem very friendly. While one of the neighbors called the owner and took the toddler into her house, I helped another gather up the now galivanting puppy and elderly dog–that gentleman was older than the other neighbors and was tearful because he was especially close to the people whose house was now hopelessly lost. “The fella, he’s a good guy, good to his dogs.” Information I didn’t need but was glad to have. I relieved him of wrestling with the ninety-pound elderly lab and whistled to the puppy, then walked with old gentleman back to watch the smoke finally dissipate.

We also learned that our local fire fighters are quick, efficient, well-trained professionals. Very impressive.

Eventually, once the dogs were safe and watered and one of the owners (father of the toddler) had returned stone-faced and very reserved, to see what was left of his home, and the firefighters were free of their heavy coats and masks, and that young woman was still blank-faced and standing in the same spot, we got into the car and drove away. Neighbors called after us, thanked us, which I thought was odd. We didn’t do anything to help the situation, I said. Hubbyriffic disagreed–we stood with them when they were scared and worried. We showed our concern. Now they know we’re their neighbors, too.

On the way back home, I noticed the cotton fields had been stripped during our eventful afternoon. Why, I don’t know, but the crop was in the ground very late this year. I never like to see fields stripped, the combine tracks weaving between big round bales of smashed together cotton. The cotton is no longer a natural-looking thing… just massive clumps of plastic-wrapped white dotting the torn-up ground. The bittersweet beauty is gone.

I like to think my grandma would appreciate my homespun, raw, narcissistic way of telling stories. I like to think she’d want to frame that photograph of mine, that maybe she had a few happy stories to tell me, stories she’d saved up and kept close just for herself but always planned to share with me, someday.

I like to think that young woman found her voice, lost her fear and worry, petted the puppy that so badly needed attention, and the owners are well-insured and will rebuild their cute little house before winter sets in. And they’ll go back to helping their elderly neighbor with his yard work and letting their daughter play in the yard, helping to guard the old lab from the antics of the gangly, needy puppy. I like to think that the neighbors who hadn’t been properly introduced to the “good guy”, bring over cookies and Christmas decorations and become as close-knit as the rest of the group. And they’ll wave back when we pass by next time.

Seven months gone in a blink. I’ve moaned and groaned about my personal, persistent time management disfunctions so often even I’m sick of hearing about all that. But the truth is, the last seven months–since the loss of my boi boi–all disappeared into a blur of functional depression and harsh talks with myself which I promptly forgot until it was too late, so another round of self-talking was necessary, then another. Those harsh talks don’t seem be very productive. So I’ve tried a new tact: inspirational self-talks after jotting down Pro Lists.

Saturday’s went something like this: You’re fine, Kathy. See! Just look at this list! Great job, benefits out the kazoo, friendly coworkers, food, shelter, yada yada, a hubbyriffic, a sweet six-year-old puppy who tolerates your bad habits, recent re-connection with fun cousins, a tank full of gas in the very affordable little black car. These are good things. These are the basics on which a life can be enjoyed. ENJOYED. E-N-J-O-Y-E-D. No. Don’t look at the time. Look at the list. Why … why would you want to list failures again? Let’s talk about accomplishments … Okay …you’re right, technically getting out of bed today isn’t an accomplishment. Task? Expectation? Back to the Pro List.

… but instead of focusing on being hella awesome at my job, or the fact that the puppy now obeys Speak!, I allowed myself to get distracted by the internet.

At first the distraction was a welcome joy. The first time I heard Rich Men North of Richmond, by Oliver Anthony, was actually on a reaction compilation video that showed up in my Facebook Video feed. It was JOYOUS! People of different age groups, races, and genders all reacting passionately to the lyrics sung by a soulful, mournful, poetic, country musician who seemed to appear out of nowhere all of a sudden. I watched dozens of reactions. Then … I made the mistake of reading a few articles. Then, I started thinking about the life of my parents, my own experiences struggling for food & shelter money in my early twenties. Then … what I spend on streaming services, how groceries now for two adults and one pup cost the same of what a family of twelve would have spent per week three years ago … the BRIC bloc, and the proposed Central Bank or whatever the fuck that’s called, and the war in The Ukraine, and the last few paragraphs in Candide …

The Pro List is bullshit.

No it’s not.

Yes it is.

No, it’s important.

So, back to Candide, a novella by Voltaire published originally, I believe, in the 1760s. In the concluding pages, after much adventure, heartache, working the system, working against the system, feast and famine, the protagonist and his accidental little group of friends and acquaintances inadvertently form a village. The members of their village divide work according to what they’re best at, and they plant a garden and tend livestock that feeds the village. The village becomes their focus. Enough is plenty.

Now, I’m sure that there are countless people a great deal more educated than me out there who could get together and argue this satire encourages insular, nationalistic, blabbity blah blah. Or, that the story itself is morose, or intentionally misleading, or whatever. If life has taught us anything during the age of social media it’s that anything can be debated from every imaginable side.

Another lesson over the past few years that should have hit home with everyone who owns a smart phone or … ears and eyes … is this: WE HAVE TO STOP ASKING THE GOVERNMENT FOR STUFF. While petitioners may have the best intentions and the absolute purest expectations, please understand that politicians will just fuck up all your ideas and turn them into absurdities because they’re too busy with their own agendas to pay attention to things like integrity, and basic human rights which should be obvious from the outset.

The government doesn’t have any money. So, whenever funds are requested for one group or one project or another … where do you reckon that money comes from? The government doesn’t have any money. So, they print it, which has repercussions far beyond making the money worth less than the number printed on the paper. Then they tax working folks because lord knows they’re not going to foot the bill, and certainly not their rich corporate buddies. PEOPLE in government have scads of cash and other assets. That’s how they got there. The road to the capitol is very pricey. Who sets the prices? I really have no idea.

Back to the taxes. The lesson that we should have all learned in the past few years (because obviously we didn’t pay attention for the decades before 2020), is that government programs, legislation, etc., COST US MONEY. NOT THEM. It impacts our lives, not theirs. Working people pay for everything. Stimulus checks? Read the FICA and Medicare tax portions of your pay stub Friday vs three years ago. Read your property tax bill. Read your bank statements from this year vs. three years ago. How much more are you paying for the same groceries vs three years ago? Yes, that’s directly related to stimulus checks.

Call your Congressperson’s office and ask ’em WTF. They won’t have a reasonable answer. And I’m not even skimming the surface. Most of this tax revenue/government spending/corporate tax breaks/banking-commerce statutes blabbity blah is way over my head.

But just on the surface, the facts most relevant to every day working people life is enough to make the song Rich Men North of Richmond hit right in the gut.

Back to the video reactions: How many times have I seen that many “different” people react so similarly to a single topic? Topic being the video of Oliver Anthony singing in the woods? How many times? Uh … never. Everyone has a different spin on any given topic any given day. Ask 10 people, get 10 answers.

That truth diverged a few days later, of course, when political whatchacallits decided to claim the song, and the singer, and the “truths” within the lyrics as Right Wing.

(I’m speaking to capitol hill folks now)

THERE ARE NO WINGS. There’s one lumbering stinky beast. And you are part of it. Now, the shame of it all is this: We allowed y’all to become the one lumbering stinky beast. We allowed “government” to become something other than its true definition. The government is meant to keep our borders safe from invasion and protect every citizen’s right to make a living.

That’s it. It’s that simple.

And we’ve allowed you to become a bureaucratic hot mess of bullshit that spends months debating whether or not same sex marriage should be legal or if public restrooms segregated by gender is unconstitutional, while there is absolutely no consideration given to the absurdity of spending more money on a war across the globe than solving medication and housing crises within our borders. Those first two arguments are just not Congressional or Supreme Court concerns. And yeah, our streets first, theirs second. Period. You all suck at your jobs. And it’s our fault.

(I’m speaking to folks not on capitol hill now)

I suppose you might be wondering what my initial rattling on about time and depression have to do with a rant about the government bleeding working Americans dry?

After years of battling depression, I’ve come to a conclusion. I’m not a doctor, nor do they let me play one on TV, so I’ll limit this statement to my personal bouts with depression … I have about 6% control over my life. That may be a generous estimate.

That 6% includes deciding what time to brush my teeth.

Yip. I really believe this. On any given day, at the very least, a minimum of 6 other people have a say in how my day is going to go. That’s not counting the hubbyriffic, or those yahoos making legislation about how to spend my money.

I can’t fathom what it must be like for working mothers driving home from a 10-hour day realizing there’s no milk in the fridge. I can’t fathom what it must be like for people with health issues that are in abusive relationships and still have to deal with shit like earning a living and paying the bills. But that’s what our country is made up of, right? People dealing with all sorts of stress and physical pain while hoping their kids don’t grow up to be rickety-boned sociopaths all while paying the government for the privilege to work for a living. And frankly, there are a LOT of Americans that have forgotten that welfare is supposed to be a hand up, not a way of life.

That song that’s rampaging across the internet is speaking the truth for us. NOT THEM. It’s not meant to be right or left wing. It’s for all of us stuck in the middle tired of the spectacle.

I’ve only done it a few times, admittedly, but I’ve prayed for those folks in the Ukraine. The regular people who just want to go back to their gardens, and pet their dogs, and say hi to their coworkers and their favorite bakers on Monday. The people who don’t have a garden, or a dog, or a job, or a neighborhood baker anymore because “world leaders” (greedy ass politicians) felt the need to create another spectacle.

(Do you really think Mother Russia couldn’t have stomped a hole in that little spot on the map within a week?) Moving on …

My depression, my inability to manage time and stay focused stems from having very little control over my life decisions. I really don’t own the fortitude or lack the integrity to shout for revolution. I couldn’t back up that shout or last through four or five rallies, but I do hope to build my own flavor of revolution. I want to be part of a village. I want to spread the word about the importance of a village. I can do that.

I want to grow my own potatoes. I want to loan my lawn mower to a neighbor who can’t afford to buy a new one. I want to share my fuel discounts with my sister and my cousin. I want to gift banned books to teenagers. I would like to encourage my family to do our own version of Go Fund Me programs to help an aunt get car repairs or pay doctor copays. I’d like to buy fish and venison from those cousins who hunt and fish, maybe trade a few potatoes for some onions or tomatoes. Maybe I’ll learn how to grow a medicine garden, and someone can teach me how to preserve headache powders and antibiotics that grew in my back yard. Maybe I can share an article with a coworker that helps them understand that investing in BRIC currency is about as stupid as quitting your $50k a year job to get on welfare because fuck ’em. (I mean, yeah, fuck ’em. But don’t shoot yourself in the foot while shooting the bird. Did I really have to clarify that?)

I’ll keep paying stupid taxes in hopes that some weary mother on welfare for the last five years finally gets a great job and her eldest child can go on to get a great education and discover a cure for pharmaceutical companies being greedy assholes. I’ll keep putting up with having six bosses because they give me the opportunity to hire and train people who’ve never received that kind of break before. And I’ll keep praying for places like the Ukraine and all those regular people stuck in the middle of the spectacle.

And I’ll watch my village get bigger.

And I won’t forget that all these people who are so different from me outside the village are so very similar. And you can bet I won’t vote democrat or republican for the rest of my life because fuck ’em. They’ll do the circus without me.

I’ll keep having those talks with myself.

Today’s accomplishment: I wrote down my thoughts and feelings for the first time in seven months.

My boi boi has gone to heaven. Sixteen years with him just wasn’t enough, so I can only hope that he enjoyed his time here on Earth with a terrible human who tried. The void will never be filled, but I have promised myself and his spirit that I will remember all the lessons Oliver taught me.

Don’t give up. Every problem is meant to be solved. If it can’t be solved, it’s something other than a problem. Enjoy the food. Food is love. Don’t argue.Play is a necessity, not a waste of time. Make new friends.Visit old friends. Help them remember they adore you.Your very favorite belongings DO NOT have to be shared.Make people laugh whenever possible. People need to laugh.If people want to give you treats and gifts and praises, go ahead and let them. It’s important that people have the opportunity to give. Be sure to show your gratitude in creative ways.Nap where the sunshine can warm your back. It makes for happy dreams.

Numbers 1, 5, 6, and 10 aren’t quite daily occurrences. Yet.

In the meantime, I am doing my best to keep busy in the quiet hours between day job demands. Those last few months with Oliver, he needed to be helped a lot, held a lot. So I put aside projects to spend the time. Those projects are back underway, plus a few more. And I’ve discovered since that Scout–the orphaned Rhodesian Ridgeback that Oliver graciously welcomed into his heart five years ago–enjoys being sung to and given long walks away from the backyard that is being frequently occupied by birds. (Scout really doesn’t like birds.) A Mississippi Kite visits recently, and Scout is suspicious of her. So, we walk. And I watch how curious she is about the world outside our little corner. Then I come inside, give her treats, and think about potential side hustles that will pay for us to make future road trips to visit old friends.

Maybe Scout will take to road trips, ride shotgun the way Oliver once did. Enjoy the new people and places, enjoy the journeys. Maybe. She is more reserved than Oliver ever was. Scout is … a people watcher. An eavesdropper. But once she gains confidence in a situation, she can totally preen for an audience. So far, she’s doing well transitioning out of the sidekick role and into the center of attention. Maybe this was meant to be–maybe I was supposed to spend sixteen years learning to be a better person so I could take care of a reserved, super sensitive little girl who needs to find her place, her voice.

Head noise has exhausted me for the past six weeks or so. Incoherency and lack of direction: exhausting. I’m finally burrowing out of the funk, though, swimming to shore [insert other apt metaphors here]. My elderly dog needing extra attention, people in real life suffering loss and obstacles, realizing that I hadn’t gone to an eye doctor in four years … everything just piled up on me. Then a terrible proof of the novel I tried to make available for print was the final straw that pushed me down for good. Because I am, apparently, fragile and ridiculous. Trust me when I say that it’s been very necessary to embrace the knowledge of my fragility and stop trying to deny the fact, stop trying to pretend that I’m tough and resilient and badass. Facing facts is exactly what gave me the strength to burrow out and look up at daylight again.

Right now, I’m trying to explain to myself that this will all happen again. Inevitably. And I have to remember. Head noise is a sure sign that depression is about to suck the bottom out of my little paper lifeboat. All the noise eventually becomes incoherent. And I forget how to want to do basic stuff, like use shampoo and sweep the kitchen and plan out an eight-hour workday. Forget dealing with other peoples’ mood swings or offering any consolation to dear ones having a tough time. I just can’t do those things well. My days began to revolve around my little elderly dog–helping him to remember where his water bowl is, helping him get up and walk, or sometimes just holding him in my lap until he fell asleep. I finally realized I was in trouble when the highlight of my day became the hours–HOURS–I was spending on a phone app game. Finally, my brain cleared enough to say: Stop.

Inside this past six weeks a lot has happened: family tragedies, world tragedies, national tragedies, elections, medical miracles, family gatherings, tiffs and breakups and reconciliations. My little dog has his good days and bad. But he keeps on trying. He wants to be outside in the sun whenever possible. Even in his days of dim memory and confusion, he wants to eat at precisely 6 am and 6 pm. I will give him what he wants.

Thursday morning, I started trying again. The 2nd Edition of Ramshackle Houses & Southern Parables is now available in print–my author copies will arrive December 8–gifts for family and friends. Creating a 2nd edition became necessary in order to include an essay about my favorite uncle and include some dedications as I should have done in the first place. Prior to deciding to do the 2nd edition, I had already begun the frustrating task of learning to format, so it was a no-brainer to apply what I’d learned thus far. I’m fairly pleased with the results. And the practice. At some point during the foggy funk of the past six weeks, confirmation of the copyright for Out Here On Your Own arrived–shockingly, that didn’t cheer me up much. It’s still sitting on the dining room table. But Thursday morning, I finally got over myself.

I took notes on that terrible proof and finally gathered the gumption to correct as much as I could and sent off for another. Proof #2 should arrive in a week. Out Here On Your Own will be in print before Christmas. I originally wanted all four of my books printed by year’s end, to be able to hold them all in my hands and stack them on shelves in my personal library, gift copies of each to my closest family and friends. But that funk, round four for the year, delayed progress.

I’ve had these extreme mood crashes before. Countless since my thirties. And every time I would fight, gnash my teeth, pump my fists and scream NEVER AGAIN. I am tough, I am resilient, I am badass! Well, with age finally comes wisdom. I am fragile and ridiculous. The funk will kick my butt again. Eventually. In between now and the next round I’ve got to learn how to take care of myself and my time. I’ve got to learn how to rest, and savor, relax into the fact that I’m not tough at all. I don’t have to be. What I have to be is smart, limber, and savvy. Not forgetful. I think the worst result of those bouts of funk is the time waste. Sure, the unnamable, unmappable pain, sadness, irritability, lethargy, and absence of inspiration are all terrible, but the worst of it is definitely the realization of time just … gone. Irretrievable.

A week or so into that last bout of yuck, I was working on a story–I wasn’t sure if it would be a novel or end as a short story, and just couldn’t put together the bandwidth to decide, so I posted a couple of chapters for people to read in the hopes that I would be able to decide. Well, I still don’t know. Despite all the friendly reader comments here and in person, I ‘ll have to put Family Dinner aside for a while. Maybe the New Year will bring new inspiration and understanding. Most of all, I hope I buckle down into old writing/editing work ethic and luck in the New Year. I want cover art for my first novel and my second poetry collection, and I want to be able to look at the last page of my third novel with the confidence that I looked at Out Here On Your Own and say out loud: Now that’s a novel!!

I want a lot, right? Yeah. And as I wrote in my Acknowledgments page for Out Here On Your Own, I’ve decided to keep on wanting. The act of wanting isn’t what causes those mood crashes and bouts of yuck. I think I’ve discovered that part of the cause … maybe … is feeling guilty for wanting so much. Feeling inadequately prepared for stepping out to grab at so much. Stupid little feelings with unknown origins that set me up for failure and disappointment. Those stupid little feelings will likely plague me again and again, so I’m going to have to remember to stay smart, limber, and savvy. I can’t whip those bitches, but maybe I can outmaneuver them.

Maybe.

In the meantime, and hopefully despite any mood swings or day job stress or whatever is happening in the world, I will continue to take care of Oliver. This Christmas he will be sixteen. He has been my best friend, my road trip buddy, my truest companion. I would totally shove you in front of a zombie to protect my boy. So don’t ever question that. He is frail now. With long weary days on weak legs, fighting off lack of memory and security, but even in those bad days, sometimes he looks up at me and remembers that I am his friend. His truest companion. Mama with the bacon. There’s going to be days ahead that Oliver is my only priority.

I’m okay with that.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been alternately frustrated, anxiety ridden, angry, and exhausted from all of it. In retrospect, I can calmly admit that I am ridiculous. I am vindicated. And I’m totally willing to go through it all again. Well, almost all of it.

Three years ago, I uploaded my two poetry collections into e-book format. So very pleased with myself and the help of a dear writing friend, I bragged about the e-books all over the place! Then, some months later, after hundreds of copies were sold, I noticed that words had been changed. WORDS HAD BEEN CHANGED IN POEMS I WORKED MY GUTS OUT FOR! Some sort of autocorrect mishap had occurred with a software update, and I was devastated. Embarrassed. Sickened. So, I removed my poetry collections without any idea as to how to apologize to people who had made purchases. Then slunk away to allow all of my words to gather dust.

Since that horrible discovery, I’ve completed two full-length novels, and yeah, other goofy things happened. Like a New York literary agent asking to view the full manuscript of my first novel, then asking for a rewrite for chapters one and two, then retiring and never being heard from again. Goofy, right? What else could I possibly call such an experience? Then I got a job offer that I never expected …

Fast forward three years of blah blah blah, then two full weeks of freak out mode: Ramshackle Houses & Southern Parables is now available for sale on Amazon, in paperback for, $11.95 USD.

It’s done! I approved the proofs last week and have author copies on the way. As I said above, vindicated. Or at least calmer. And now I know that I can get the remainder of my unpublished work put in print in a relatively short amount of time.

I still can’t bring myself to declare the first novel READY (agent’s words are stuck in my head).

The second novel is READY, so I’ve put myself through the ordeal of finding a cover artist for it. Please read: Finding and communicating with a cover artist probably isn’t that much of an ordeal for a normal person, but apparently it is for me. I haven’t stress-sweated like this at any other time of my life. Ridiculous.

Proofs for the cover for my soon-to-be available for print full-length novel will arrive on 9/9. If the process follows the same trajectory as RH&SP, I should have a print proof of the book in my hands within two weeks from that date, and available to sell a week or so later. (Still stress sweating.)

Maybe someday I will recover from the time suck and stress of querying LOTS of agents, then the euphoria and heart dump of an agent asking for my manuscript, then disappearing. Maybe. Until then, I’ll get original art and copyrights for my work and sell it as print on demand. That’s a plan, right? Maybe not a great one, but I’m running with it.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy reading Ramshackle Houses & Southern Parables. I’d love to be reading your published works. Maybe that would help curb my stress sweating? Just in case, drop a link to your stuff in the comments and I’ll have a go!

Rejection is something a person can feel right through bone to soul without ever being able to spell the word. Loneliness roots deeper than any tree and grows without a sense of direction or knowing the science of sunrise and sunset. Justice may be slow to come, but it’s inevitable. Happiness isn’t a daily choice, nor is survival. Both are merely instinctive reflex whose importance can be realized and appreciated in retrospect.

Kya Clark is abandoned by her mother at six years old, left in a shack with her scarred siblings and an abusive father. The siblings escape, mostly without goodbyes, granted the option by their mother’s example. The father staggers away sometime later, having never confessed his shame and cowardice that’s ruined everything. Kya is a child who, without the voices of the marsh animals and the kindness of three people little more than strangers, would not have eventually thrived into womanhood. This could have been an amazing story.

I have now read three novels in under ten days, deliberately saving Where the Crawdads Sing for last. Why? Because I suspected it would be either very sad, or a complete drag on an overused concept that attempts to evoke sadness throughout until, yay, an ending of triumphant redemption: abandoned child lives on near nothing then becomes a phenom of some sort, able to prove to humankind she is special and shame on them for mistreating her. I was right enough.

The choice to pick up the book despite my suspicion was influenced by, one, all the accolades it’s received since publication, and two, the dim hope that I was wrong, and I just might find my favorite novel of all time. So … anyway.

There are lovely, poetic sentences, in this novel that I will never forget. Gorgeous imagery. Pity for a child left to her own devices, yes. Truth is that Kya and her environment got all of the author’s attention. Every other character was left to be cardboard stand-ins that couldn’t evoke a fingertip of emotion from me. I don’t care about Tate, or his gentle father, Chase, one of the many should-be despised villains of the story, the parents who walked off and left their children, Jody, the closest of Kya’s siblings whose name she remembered long after he left; I don’t even care about Jumpin’ and Mable, the kindest of Kya’s neighbors. I care more about the birds who came to Kya each day, the tides and currents and painted feathers.

My favorite of the entire story is the revelation in the final chapter. And even that was a bit soured by the author’s choice to lamely travel into Tate’s POV in order to give me what I really wanted: proof of Kya’s truth, the consequences due for mistreating one of nature’s wild things.

Perfect feminine face, flawless untrained voice, broken soul. Homegrown handsome, natural showman, easy-going control freak. Together, who are they? The chosen ones, front and center of a 70s rock band that changed the world if just for a little while. Daisy Jones & The Six explores the possibility of damaged people creating momentary perfection for a global audience, then living with the consequences of their many stupid decisions in between flashes of genius. Speaking of genius, neither the broken soul, nor the easy-going control freak would have become famous without the unsung instincts of one music producer who decided to put them together in a recording studio.

The Dunne brothers, scarred by their father’s abandonment, left with their tired mother and one beat-up old guitar in the eastern U.S., obsess over music into their adolescence. Then they put together a garage band that becomes a bar band, that becomes an LA sensation. Daisy Jones is a teenaged emotionally orphaned girl whose parents sit contentedly in a lavish home deliberately oblivious to their beautiful child who wanders the streets of LA, too vulnerable and too brave for her own good.

By the time the Dunne brothers are loving their LA reception, Daisy has been an unwilling muse to rock stars for a while. She’s sick of it and ready to do her own thing, her own way. She is a prolific drug user, unaware of her many addictions, and not completely impressed by the denim clad Billy Dunne who considers himself the beginning and end of his band’s fate.

The characters and setting of this story would be interesting enough in a traditional novel format, but author Taylor Jenkins Reid made the choice to present her fictional homage to Stevie Nicks and Fleetwood Mac as an “oral history”. The story is chronicled through a series of interview responses by members of the band, Daisy’s best friend, Billy’s wife, and music industry onlookers, pieced together without the interviewer interrupting the flow. These interview responses, to my delight, build imagery, establish distinct, individual voices and lovely character sketches, and create an absorbing narrative!

This is the second book I’ve read in seven days, and only the second book I’ve read cover to cover in a calendar year. When I got home from the bookstore last Sunday and noticed the format, noticed that it’s “loosely based on Fleetwood Mac”, I have to admit I groaned. I dreaded the thing so much that I saved it for second behind a book that claims a wild mash up of like five genres and “dizzying” plot twists. Fortunately, Taylor Jenkins Reid is a skilled writer who made some excellent choices. (As did the author of the “dizzying” plot twists mentioned above. Making me quite happily two for two on accidental book choices for the year, y’all!)

The icing on the book cake for me is the author’s inclusion of song lyrics at the back of the novel–songs that Daisy and Billy struggled through their addictions and emotions, and individual assholery to write together. My favorite is This Could Get Ugly:

The ugly you got in you
Well, I've got it too
You act like you ain't got a clue
But you do
Oh, we could be lovely
If this could get ugly.

Write a list of things you'll regret
I'd be at the top smoking a cigarette.
Oh, we could be lovely ...

I liked the insight into their song writing, especially how the lyrics remain simplistic yet convey all the right emotion and innuendo. Most song lyrics of the 70s were just that, simple, personal stories set to grinding, gorgeous guitars, keys, and thundering drums. The characters, while often incredibly self-absorbed and drug addled, stay true to the hopes of rock n’ roll when creating their songs. They want to tell a story, put on a great fucking show their fans will remember, then they want to do it again. It’s just all the stuff in between that ruins the magic that unsung music producer foresaw.

But the ruining of rock n’ roll magic is somewhat soothed by the revelations at the end of the book–the final few interview responses, the discussion between Billy and his eldest daughter (the interviewer), then Daisy, then a letter penned before the death of Billy’s wife. This all takes place 30+ years after the end of that phenomenal band in their brief glory days, and we get a peek at how each character didn’t accept the end of their band being the end of their talent but the beginning of beautiful lives.

I haven’t yet bothered to read any professional critiques of Daisy Jones & The Six, nor do I know very much about the history of Fleetwood Mac. My recommendation of the book to friends is based solely on how well the narrative flows. It’s a well told story. Enjoy.

Imagine waking at sunrise with no memory of who you are, and yet a woman’s name is on your lips as you gain consciousness. You are in an unfamiliar wilderness, damp, cold, injured, mind blank except for some urgent, shadowy need to find Anna! Who is Anna? Who are you? Why is your arm bleeding?

Your day begins with panic and pain, it ends with being attacked, knocked unconscious once again, then you wake … in someone else’s body. Again. And again. On exactly the same day. Each time with memories gleaned from inside those strangers’ bodies, feeling their minds, their personalities pressing against a growing sense of … is it memory of self?

You are Aiden. You are desperate to save Anna. You have been instructed to solve another woman’s murder. You need to escape this place before you go completely insane. Maybe you’re already insane. Maybe you’re in Hell and everyone around you is a lying devil trying to drive you insane … but wait! It is a horrible game that you have to win. A puzzle you must solve in eight days or else you’re doomed to relive it all again.

Stuart Turton’s first novel, The 7 1/2 Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle, is the first book I have read cover to cover since last summer. Midway through, I think my soul exhaled. Why I haven’t been reading (or writing) in the past year is beside the point. I really needed this book. True, it’s one of those first novels that has almost too many plot twists and genre mashes to count crammed between 400 pages. But I’m totally cool with that.

My very soul has missed reading. It has been far too long since I was immersed in imagery someone else created, heard the voices of richly outlined characters, was on the edge of my seat fully invested in chasing any tidbit of a clue if the damn thing brought me to the truth and a halfway decent ending! And once I got a good enough ending, I was rather embarrassed about the number of red herrings I’d chased to the very edges of Blackheath Manor. Then I laughed at myself for being embarrassed. (But seriously, I’m known for solving whodunnits halfway through–which is why my husband has refused to watch murder mysteries with me for years because I “spoil the endings!”)

Turton’s novel has been billed as a wild mash up of Agatha Christie whodunnits, Quantum Leap (one of my favorite TV shows in the 90s), Downton Abbey, and Groundhog Day (Bill Murray couldn’t have made it through this one, though). The author himself mentions in an interview that Quantum Leap was one of his favorite TV shows, and he read Agatha Christie, but he also said that inspiration for his story can’t really be nailed down to one single point of origin.

Whatever the point of origin or decades of scattered, shiny slips of inspiration, whatever the impetus that got him in that chair on some random day to begin writing Aiden Bishop’s dilemma on a blank page, I’m glad he followed through. Because the result is a wholly original thing. Inventive descriptions and sharp dialogue spoken in varying degrees of English accents, set at the turn of the 20th century within the boundaries of a weary, crumbling, once grand old estate.

There are dozens of snooty English folks changing clothes every few hours, milling around, drinking too much, who whisper about just what might be the cause of such a grand old place falling into disrepair–they revel in rumors and innuendo. Gossip flows as heavily as the champagne, brandy, and blood at this weekend party. But those whispering, snooty folks are mostly background noise–only a few guests at Blackheath Manor are relevant to Aiden Bishop’s dilemma. And even fewer are aware that his consciousness is transferring to different bodies each day.

There are horrific murders, sad backstories, sociopaths and at least one rapist, conniving fops, cold, dismissive women, cruel con artists and blackmailers, and damsels in distress that seem to find a way to save themselves more often than not. And then there’s Aiden beginning to understand that this place, this “game” must have been built to tear its players down to base human instinct, kill or be killed, do anything to survive. And he refuses to fall into the trap. He decides to be better. To fight cleaner. To save everyone. Even Anna, who just like everyone else at Blackheath Manor, isn’t who she seems at all. Even once he realizes that he’s been a player in this game many, many times before.

Kirkus Reviews made a rather pointless statement in my opinion: “…it’s a fiendishly clever and amusing novel with explosive surprises, though in the absence of genuine feeling, it tends to keep its audience at arm’s length.”

I suppose the writer of that critique was obligated to throw in something negative. Truth is, yes, the audience is kept at arm’s length with some of the characters. Just as Aiden struggles to keep some of his emotions at arm’s length in order to process what information is relevant to his survival. He can’t afford to take time to grieve, to freak out, or at least he learns the hard way not to do it twice. I think that struggle is conveyed well.

And just for the record, arm’s length is a good enough space between me and bloody murder, suicide by gunshot, forced marriage for the sake of the family fortune, or being haunted by the creepy masked choreographer of one terrible fate after another. Trust me when I say there is plenty of genuine feeling–yes, it’s often the early 20th century upper crust English flavored kind of feeling. Tepid by breeding, but genuine, nonetheless. So, let’s stick with “… it’s a fiendishly clever and amusing novel with explosive surprises”, shall we?

I had recently begun to read through the comments made by deciding justices in Roe vs Wade, 1971-1973. Briefly, the decision was made after two years of the sitting Justices researching biology, historical medical texts, English Common Law, and even Ancient Greek texts, not to mention the personal, professional, and legal histories of the original three plaintiffs, two of which were dismissed from the decision.

I found the lengthy commentary very interesting, and I will say, I still have some reading to do. Of course, my interest in reading the entire text was spurred by the conversation, several weeks ago, that the decision may just be overturned. Well, the decision has been overturned — and I have a few comments on that, but also a need to do further research to find if my initial beliefs concerning both decisions are correct, or at least close to point after watching a video clip of a (now deceased) justice declaring that nothing about Roe vs Wade 1971-1973 had legal standing.

My comments:

First, the original decision boiled down to a single statement: (paraphrasing) it is unconstitutional for a state (specifically Texas, the home state of the plaintiff) to proceed with legal prosecution against a woman seeking an abortion in the first trimester of a pregnancy, regardless of the woman’s reason for seeing an abortion.

Further in the text, we can see that the Supreme Court stated that it is to the state’s discretion to intervene if a woman seeks an abortion beyond the first trimester– (again, paraphrasing) because it may be in the state’s best interest to consider viability of life of the child, and therefore override the decision of the woman. At no point in the original decision is it stated that the Supreme Court is giving women the right to make a choice beyond the first trimester, nor does it declare that states should provide free abortions, nor does it make a blanket statement of choice being solely the woman’s if she is married, in a relationship, or otherwise under the care/incarceration of a state, nor does it seek to override a doctor’s decision to go forth with an abortion to save the mother’s life in dire medical circumstances.

While I haven’t done thorough research on subsequent state decisions, it’s evident that in the decades following, some states made rather liberal decisions/laws following the Supreme Court’s statements on the legality of a first trimester abortion. Others didn’t budge much at all. Then there was the advent of Planned Parenthood, and ensuing rumors/scandals, not to mention the addition in some states/Indian Reservations to require sterilization after an abortion.

Through it all, some women were protected by the law, some were not, most were shamed regardless, and in general, there were good doctors who didn’t blink an eye when an abortion was necessary to save the mother’s life, because they were medical professionals with good reputations and not mere women making a decision about their own life/body.

That video clip I mentioned above (with the now deceased Justice speaking) thuds with the implication that Roe vs Wade 1971-1973 was politically motivated, rather than legally sound.

And here we are in 2022 — the recent decision to overturn Roe vs Wade doesn’t thud, it’s an absolute tsunami of political motivation dismissing legality. Liberals and Conservatives are having it out. Some US citizens are openly declaring, waiting with bated breath, absolutely believing in their bones that Liberals will save the day and a woman’s choice will once again be protected by the Laws of the Land.

Here’s my opinion: You never had a choice according to the definition of CHOICE.

Politicians are battling it out over approval ratings and cock walks.

The Supreme Court IS NOT SUPPOSED TO BE INFLUENCED BY RELIGIOUS OR POLITICAL MOTIVATIONS. And yet, here we are. Even if the so-called Liberals get Roe vs Wade back on the docket, or a modernized version of it, even if you’re told in some official statement in the near future that you have a CHOICE, please understand that when it comes right down to the nitty gritty as my Grandma McFerson used to say, you do not. All of us do not, all of us will never be totally protected or supported by the Laws of the Land.

I’ve seen a lot of Handmaid’s Tale memes and/or still shots referenced before postings about Roe vs Wade, or Conservative political statements, or Conservative Religious commentary on preserving life. What I’d like to point out about that astonishing, terrifying, gorgeous novel by Margaret Atwood, is–though it’s a bit subtle–what we learn by reading is that the people being oppressed, the people who become the LEADERS in the aftermath of societal breakdown … none of those people truly knew the rights of citizens in the first place.

They just thought they did based on their personal beliefs in the systems they had long been told would protect them, work for them, help them succeed. The protagonist in The Handmaid’s Tale was no expert on law, she was a woman living her life until her life caved in and it was only in hindsight that she saw some of the red flags that had been present back when she was just living her life. Suddenly at the mercy of new laws, new leaders, she had to survive the aftermath while fully realizing getting back to her old life, back to “justice” would never really happen. Because justice never fully existed. It was an ideal.

This all sounds very pessimistic, I’m sure. But I want to encourage everyone: take care of each other. Read the fine print. Know your argument. Know who you’re arguing with. And please understand that the Laws of the Land will never protect everyone.

I am truly sorry.

The bees are quieting. Pretty colors other than deep green birthed by spring are beginning to wilt.

Summer is a hovering haze just above the treetops, dense with the threat of stifling damp heat. That haze will gradually drop, lower, lower, to glossed lip-level. Inhale and slow heavy gulfstreams thicken in the lungs, exhale what you can. Carry the rest. Bloating, slowing, dragging until August has you crippled, bowing before the air-conditioned gods you once gave names then forgot through the briefer, easier seasons. You forget so easily.

Why is that?