Monday, December 21, 2015

Krystle Gayle (Blogophilia 44.8)

[The scene is a trailer park. The units are older, but in good repair. Children play tag in the dead end road. A pudgy woman with a mass of salt and pepper curls is holding court on the wooden stoop outside her home. Clothed in a T-Shirt and faded jeans, it’s obvious she has been drinking for a while]
“My name is Krystle Gayle Tomley, but my friends call me Miss Piggy. I’m 46 years old, a mother, grandmother and soon to be great-grandmother. They say I’m the third generation Tomley here at the trailer park. But that’s not important. What’s important is that you know my story" 
[Lighting a cigarette, she coughs briefly and continues]
“How we Tomley’s got here was Granddaddy come down from Villanow to work in the bomber plant just after he got back from Korea. But he wasn’t the first Tomley. That’d be Uncle Rufus. That’s his picture there on the table, the man on the motorcycle. He’s probably more like me than any of my direct kin. He came equipped with a wild streak wider than a river.”
“Now, Rufus wasn’t actually from Villanow. He’d came up over in Fort Payne where his Daddy worked at a strip mine. For some reason the Army didn’t want him, so he’d come here just as the plant first opened. He lived over in that blue trailer over there. When Granddaddy go back home, he let him stay there a month until he could get this trailer we’re sitting on. Grandma joined him as soon as he was settled and Momma came real soon after.” 
Grandma died having her, so I didn’t get to meet her. I always was sorry about that. From what the cousins say, she was a fine Christian woman. But that was how things went back then, not every birth went right. Granddaddy was so heartbroken he never did remarry, although he did have offers. Instead he spent his time with his Mary Nell, making sure she looked presentable and fed. She was truly the light of his life.
[She reaches into the cooler next to her chair for a beer. When she opens it, it sprays out, soaking her hair 
and putting out her cigarette]
Dang it! Y’all hand me that towel over there.
[Quickly drying off, she takes a swallow and settles back on the porch]
Anyway, Rufus died when I was a baby, so I don’t remember much. But Momma said he was nothin’ but an old drunk. The Law was always picking him up for something. One night when Momma was in high school, Granddaddy came in and caught Rufus trying to reach up her skirt. He kicked ol’ Rufus right through the screen door and told him never to come back. He went on back up to the mountains and drunk himself into the grave.
Momma met Daddy in school when they were in the third grade. Momma said they would walk along the fence outside the school in the summer, picking honeysuckles and talking about their futures. Daddy wanted to be a pilot, out fighting the commies in Vietnam. Momma would smile at her would be hero, hoping, like in the fairy tales she’d hear at bed time, their dreams would come true.
Granddaddy liked Daddy and invited him to church. I guess his folks didn’t mind. Afterwards, they’d take dinner down to this grassy field next to the Ford Dealer on Four Lane Highway to watch the planes from the plant take off and land. Momma said it seemed like magic when the big metal things would lift off, pretty as you please and Daddy would play like he was at the controls, banking right and left, always going the distance in battle. Momma would hug him for winning.
[Stops a moment to light another cigarette.]
Daddy flunked the army physical, something about a heart murmur. I guessed that’s what killed him later, but Momma never talked about it. He figured if he couldn’t fly the planes, he could at least build them. Granddaddy told him they wouldn’t hire him at the plant unless he finished school, cause some of the jobs at the plant were changing. They weren’t making bombers anymore, but these big ol’ cargo planes. Daddy did what had to do. He buckled down with his studies and got finished.
One Sunday after they graduated that they went on back to the trailer instead of the field after church cause Granddaddy had something to do. The honeysuckles were out and Daddy picked a few to take home with them. Since no one was home, they shared them and their lips locked. One thing led to another and I came along right after that. Y’all probably thinking shotgun wedding, but Daddy was an honorable man. They got married in Pastor Jackson’s office with Granddaddy as the witness. So, I was a “legal” young’un. 
They both told me the only thing wrong with what happened is I pushed up the wedding a year or so. I asked Momma how I was named after a singer, and she said it was just a coincidence. Gayle was Grandma’s name and Momma thought Krystle was a nice word. I think so, too. Krystle Gayle didn’t get on the radio until I was in school, anyway. They never did say why I had Momma’s last name, though. 
They wanted more kids, but Momma just couldn’t carry. Made me sad ‘cause I always wanted a sister or brother to play with. But you just have to go with what God gives you. The old biddies in the park said it was Momma’s punishment for sin of having me too early. That was a load of horse to my mind. Other women would have kid after kid with no husband and nothing bad would ever happen to them, excepting getting beat by whatever man they were with. Momma told me not to pay them no mind. They were jealous ‘cause she had a hard working man and they didn’t. Oh, they had their fusses, Momma and Daddy did, but he never hit her and she wouldn’t have it no other way.
I went to the same schools they did, but by the time I came around black people had started moving in. A lot of the neighbors moved out, but Momma and Daddy wouldn’t. Said it wasn’t right to treat them like that. But then them big cats started picking fights and it was all you could do to keep out the way. Daddy didn’t like that and even talked about sending me up to a cousin’s in Villanow for school. But he died before could do it. He collapsed at his paint station. He was just 30 years old. Every said his heart just gave out, but I always suspected he got a big huff of paint. A couple of boys at the high school died huffing paint earlier that summer. It made sense to me since Daddy worked with paint, paint was what killed him. 
Momma never was the same. She took to drinkin’ and yelling at me. Granddaddy would try to calm her down, but how do you calm a grieving widow? Of course, I can say that now, having been down that road myself. But back then, it just confused me. We fussed all the time over school, boys and liquor. I was a headstrong young’un and I upped and ran away. Ended up down in Atlanta. I’m ashamed to admit I walked the streets, but it kept me fed and I learned how to keep my wits when things would get crazy. 
I had my Mary Nell just short of my 15th birthday. I named her after Momma and for about six months we lived out on the streets. I wasn’t tricking as much, but I would do a few to buy diapers. One man tried to make me his working girl. Somehow, Granddaddy heard about it and brought us home. Like he did with Momma, he made sure Mary Nell got taken care of. Momma never could reconcile what I had done. She ended up moving on back to mountains and left the trailer to me. Granddaddy, bless his heart, passed a few months later. I was on my own again. 
I never went back to school; I ended up working in a warehouse down the road. It wasn’t a bad job and the guys were great to party with. Oh, I’d hear those old biddies’ beaks flapping about being me being fallen, but I kept Momma’s advice about it. Pastor Jackson, he really was a good man, tried his best to rein me back to the flock. But I wasn’t havin’ none of it. I’d done tasted the moonshine and couldn’t get enough.I was as bad, if not worse than any man when Friday night came. I’d bust out of work and go find the liquor.
One night, when Mary Nell was about six, I went to this girl’s trailer on up Austell Highway. We got it in our minds at 3AM that I needed to be blonde. A girl had given me a box of dye when she moved out of state, so we cleared off the kitchen sink and started to work. Can’t remember exactly what happened, but we mixed it up wrong, and when we got finished the girl looked at me real funny. It wasn’t just a bad dye job, but the worst one ever. This red and green thing was looking back at me from the mirror. I decided to quit drinkin’ right then. 
I met Billy later that day at Waffle House while I was trying to sober up. He said it was the first time he had seen someone turned totally green. I couldn’t help it. I threw up all over his shirt. I was expecting to get hit, but he just cleaned us both up and took me home with him. We didn’t see outside for three whole days.
I guess you’d say Billy was to me like Daddy was to Momma. Like all them, he worked over at the plant, only he was on the assembly line. He didn’t care about my past, though, and he took Mary Nell as his own. I knew I had loved Daddy dearly, but it wasn’t until I met Billy that I understood how deep Momma’s love was. We never did get married, though. He had his place and I had mine and this worked for us. As long as I could talk to him, it was enough. I stayed sober. Oh, it wasn’t a bed of roses. There would be fusses and he did have other women. But I was in no position to judge on that. But those quicksilver moments…they were worth it. 
Oh, I could on about how Mary Nell didn’t fall far from the tree, or how Billy died, but I need to get on down to the store. I’m out of beer and I need to get my Quick Pick tickets for the lottery. If I win, I’ll take you to Vegas and teach you the real meaning of partying.
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Topic- Jay Sole
Pic Guesses: Red and Green (in blog), Lip Lock (in blog), RiffRaff and Magenta, Time Warp, Tasty, Sweet bite, Nibbles, Hungry.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Harry (Blogophilia 43.8)

http://a1.files.biography.com/image/upload/c_fill,cs_srgb,dpr_1.0,g_face,h_300,q_80,w_300/MTE4MDAzNDEwMzM2OTc0MzUw.jpg 
 


 
He wasn’t that talented. He said so himself. A third rate guitar player with a knack for lyrics and the ability to transport an audience into a new world. You could tell he was happiest on stage, watching the faces rise and fall with the tenor of his scratchy voice. We laughed along with the easy banter of the band. Whether it was the prairie scenes of “Mail Order Annie” or the mind at the edge of adultery in “Halfway to Heaven”, you could forget your own foibles for a while and have sympathy for the protagonists. An experience that when it ended, you always came in with a smooth landing. 
 
I was in my office balancing a store inventory when the news that Harry had died came over the radio. It felt like a door slamming closed on a significant part of my life. I met him at an after party at the Fox Theater in March 1978, where he invited the attendees to participate in a World Hunger Year event that was coming up. I did and it started a long association with homeless services in and around the Atlanta area. Because of this looked up to him as truly a hero.
 
Two of my stories are based on his lyrics: “The Deal” is “Taxi” relocated to the card rooms of South Los Angeles and “Debbie” was the lost girl in “A Better Place To Be”. I have a couple of more short story ideas that probably need to be written, but they just haven’t completely gelled. But the wide subject matter lends itself to tangential plots and bursts of imagination. 
 
Harry’s motto was to be kind when possible, and to him it was always possible. “One concert for me and one for the other guy.” By all accounts, this caused chaotic scheduling and drove his road crew crazy. But it was his way. This philosophy drives the The Harry Chapin Foundation to this day. Sweet dreams fly unless somebody cares. And the foundation sees to it that they still do. 
 
Sometimes I wonder how he would have morphed had he lived? Would he still be the bug in everyone’s ear on social issues? I would like to think so. Even if love and kindness seems so out of fashion, it is ultimately what is save us from utter destruction.

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Pic Guesses: Rainbow, Primary People, Paint, Everyday People, Jars,

Friday, December 11, 2015

First Line Friday

I thought I would join in this week.

This is a project of  Jolene Naylor, and gives the reader a chance to see works in progress.

This one is from a three part serial story I wrote several years ago, Streetlights. I am the process of consolidating the parts into a single piece.


Damn, the cramps were starting again. Kari hated driving with them.  As the muscles tightened, it reminded her of her boss. “Charlie Cramps”. A fitting nickname, she thought.  Only he was messy and a pain 24/7, not just once a month and a tampon in the mouth didn’t shut him up.  



If you want to join in, put your link in the comments below.

If you have editorial comments, those are welcomed, too. 

Wednesday, December 9, 2015

You're Not Helping...

 Days after Donald Trump called for a ban on Muslims immigrating to the U.S., posters of the GOP candidate in front of a swastika began popping up around Atlanta, Georgia.


"Why do the Heathen rage?
And the people imagine a vain thing?"

The above is Psalm 2:1, for those of you who are not familiar. It seems to be appropriate for today's world. All sides appear to be heading for a collision, each side vainly thinking theirs is the only true and right way. Some using outright violence, others implied fear. The rest of us sheep stuck in the middle hoping not to get caught in the crossfire.

Let us pray.

EDIT: After I posted this, I found this little gem.

Ann Coulter Interview

Mind you, it is third party edited hearsay. But it really does illustrate both the rage and the vanity of the political class.

Pharisees...all of them.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

Regrets (Blogophilia 41.8)

 
 
 
The bandstand was deserted hours ago and almost everyone else had gone home. A red, white and blue neon sign screamed BBQ, Babes and Beer! The screens above the bar were silently running the day’s latest tragedies. But Jack wasn’t having any of that. That all smacked of celebration. This was a vodka and depression kind of night. A wave brought the bottle and the glass was emptied and slammed back as soon as it filled. 
 
“Damn, man. You hardly let me pull up.”
 
With a sigh, the glass was filled again.
 
“But this is your last one. Got it?”
 
“Sssurre.” Came the slurred reply. Using the edge of the bar for balance, Jack slowly stood up. Picking up the glass, he stumbled over to the jukebox. A dollar in the slot brought solace.
 
The bars are all closed…It’s four in the morning and I must have shut them all down…
 
He had enough. Or could he really get enough? Damn woman took off out a word, changed her phone number. All because of some argument over a… whatchamacallit? A lady’s shaver? Was that what she called it? It had curved with a kind of wide head and a long handle. He’d never seen anything quite like it.
 
And if drinking don’t kill me, her memory will…
 
Of course, he’d never seen anything quite like her, either. A long drink of swamp water, the dark skin and pink stilettos made quite an impression. Guys kept lining up the alien creature, buying drinks and trying to get dances. He and his buddy got to talking to her and she decided he was going to the conquest du jour. 
 
“Run with me and it will be the experience of a lifetime.” 
 
The voice was honey mixed with Tabasco. He was putty and clay. The friend he was with wished him good luck and left. There was yellow caution sign on the wall just to the right of her afro as she said this. He should have listened. This was not going to be an easy night. 
 
A mechanical bull sat in the corner of the room. The first thing she dared him was to ride. He’d never understood why you would sit on a randomly swinging piece of machinery, but he wanted those almond eyes. He paid the twenty and hopped on. The whirligig cranked up and he lasted two seconds. His buddies yelp and the girl laughed as she helped him up.
 
“Not much of a cowboy, are you?”
 
The words and beers got him mad.
 
“Let me back on.”
 
Another sawbuck was thrown and with a wheeze, the whirligig spit and spun around. Jack hung on for dear life. Lights appeared from right and left. Each stop and start felt like a two by four across the side of his head. A tingling sensation began to build. It was a Damascus moment, the blinding feeling of letting go and landing on the foam mats. He was lifted up with a kiss.
 
“Now, THAT’S more like it.” Almond eyes twinkled back at him. “Let’s dance.”
 
The rest of the night was a blur of line dances and laughter. Somewhere, their eyes locked and everything was on.
 
They ended up the motel next door. He vaguely remembered the room number-118. The door was green and past it was a bed and the normal assortment of furniture. It must have been her room because there was pink and black lingerie on a rod and some lady stuff on the counter. 
 
His shirt came off but he couldn’t remember if she had stripped. The huge, pink thing was coming at him like a weapon. There was screaming and next thing he knew, the friend he had been with earlier was helping him into his car. Six hours later, he woke up in his place with no wallet or keys and feeling like three days death. Somehow, they forgot his phone. Flicking it on, he looked for any follow up messages. Nope. Fishing around in his pants, he found the number the girl had given him and dialed it. No answer. 
 
They did text a picture. 
 
It was an image that couldn’t be drunk away.
 
Ever. 
 
The song on the jukebox ended. Glancing up toward the old caution sign at the door, he noticed another one just below it.
 
“Misfortune tests the sincerity of your friends.”
 
He staggered out the door to find a cab.

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Pic guesses: Saturday morning, Office, Waiting, Morning after, status update, tweets, coffee.