author T. Allen Winn: T Allen Winn's latest book 'December's Darkest Day...

author T. Allen Winn: T Allen Winn's latest book 'December's Darkest Day...:

T Allen Winn's latest book 'December's Darkest Day'.

 

author T. Allen Winn: Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Boo...

author T. Allen Winn: Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Boo...: Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Book. Open a Chat and tell ole T which one and/or how many books you'd like signed and sh...

author T. Allen Winn: My books....

author T. Allen Winn: My books....: My books....

My books....

Easy enough to do. Go to T. Allen Winn on Face Book. Open a Chat and tell ole T which one and/or how many books you'd like signed and shipped your way. We'll discuss cost and so forth and get it or them in your hands via the mail. Hungry authors with expensive publishing habits have to eat too. Remember you are supporting made in America merchandise. Great gifts for family and friends or just give a copy to a stranger. Hurry now while all novels are currently available.

Both Detective Trudy Wagner thrillers, Road Rage and North of the Border.

The bully book: Dark Thirty

The Perfect Spook House...backdrop, hometown Abbeville, S.C.

Lou Who, Alzheimer's with a paranormal twist

Memoirs:

The Caregiver's Son, Outside the Window Looking In

Cornbread and Buttermilk, Good Ole Fashion Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense

And Mountain Mysts with my short story 'Cilled Me a Bar'

Mister Twix Mystery, A Cat Scene Investigation

Being Bentley, a Dog Like No Other

The Man Who Met the Mouse

Raw Ride, a Good Ole Wild West Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot'um Up

Retired and trying to decide which book to publish next...

 

My Completed Books

1. Absent on Arrival (Blue Ridge Mountains, people are vanishing)
2. Foot (Bigfoot series)
3. Another Foot (2nd in the Bigfoot series)
4. Mack (Dark Thirty sequel)
5. Last Stand on the Grand Strand (Aquatic creatures are terrorizing the beach community)
6. No Mulligan (Up and coming golf phoneme's career comes to screeching halt)
7. Outside the Clique (Surprises await Ricky Waddell at his Calhoun Falls High School reunion)
8. Raw Ride, A Good Ole Fashion Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot-um Up
9. The Tenth Elemental (Not your yard gnome tale)
10. The Lord's Last Acre (Syfi End of the World as you have never seen it)
11. Tithe and Offerings (The 3rd in the Detective Trudy Wagner series)
12. The Man Who Met the Mouse (Myrtle Beach Circa 1950's, the journey begins)
13. The Bixby Murders, 2003 Abbeville
14. Digging Sea Turtles, Bobby Duncan Saves Scoot (kid's book)
15. Mister Twix is Missing, A Cat Scene Investigation (kid's book)
16. Bully on Board (book of short stories about bullying)
17. Diva Series (inspired by Bill Davis's Diva paintings)
18. The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road (Haunted tale based on true story)
19. Just Who the Heck Are the Joneses (Waking up in a house alone, not good...)
20. Path the Hash, More Nostalgic Nonsense Served on White Loaf Bread (Memoir)

Books in Progress and/or Other Projects

1. Apnea, Don't Let the Boo Hag Ride You
2. Believing in Angels
3. The Final Foot (third in the Bigfoot series)
4. Trudy Wagner, Southern Belle (4th in the series)
5. A Dog Named 'Get-Outta-Here' (kids story)
6. The Mike Smith Story, How Not to Make it in Nashville
7. Being Bentley (kid's book)
8. Walking my Fish (kids book)
9. Chicken Lovers Inc. (kid's book)

As you can see I have no shortage of completed books, books in various stages of completion and other projects. It would be great if a publisher was interested in publishing them instead of me self publishing; oh well is all good and fun, my expensive hobby.

Enjoy my unedited and raw short:

 

Carson City

Chris hadn’t embraced his latest endeavor, much too contrary to what he was accustomed to doing. He would give anything a try but this one might just be a bit short lived. The bookkeeping part of it just served to get his blood boiling. He didn’t take kindly to people owing him money long term. He reminded those who did that he didn’t run and operate a bank; extending credit and accepting huge IOU vouchers was not something he highly tolerated. He eyed the man clambering down from the buckboard outside, hitching his horses to the post. Chris prepared himself for the conversation he was about to have with one of the most arrogant bastards he had crossed paths with in these parts.

“Has my barbed wire come in yet?”

“Can’t say it has but might be because I never ordered it.”

“You never ordered? I placed that order over a month ago. What kind of dry goods store do you operate Chris?”

“One that is much obliged to people who pay for what they order. Charity doesn’t pay my bills or guarantee I place your orders. I as much told you so when you were in here last time, Mister Benson. Laughing it off and paying me no mind was your mistake, not mine.”

“I know you haven’t been here that long but I reckon I’m going to have to give you a little history lesson and help you brush up on your manners to boot. It might assure you live a tad longer educating you on both.”

“If there is one thing I tolerate less than freeloaders, that is a man coming into my store and aiming threats in my direction for something he bears responsibility for, and unless you’re prepared to pay up your account, this conversation is over, including your history lesson and your offer to help with my manners.”

“We’re not finished with this, I assure you.”

“You still owe me three hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents. Once paid in full I might be more obliged to listen to your historical accounts and how you think you can make a better man out of me; doubtful but a feller has a right to his ambitions and hope for the best that they’ll work out for him. Either way I would suggest you consider taking your business elsewhere, Mister Benson.”

“You’ll pay dearly for your poor judgment and misguided respect.”

“And you, you’ll pay your debt or face the most unfortunate consequences. By the way, neither of us are Mexican so consider this no standoff.”  

“Store clerk you have riled the wrong rattler, there’s no cure for my venom.”

“A snake, you couldn’t have painted a better portrait of yourself, Mister Benson. Believe me when I speak it; I’ve defanged far worse. You better back up that rattle with a bite.”

“And the next time we meet you better be totting something besides a broom, store keeper.” 

For the remainder of the day Chris thought no more about the incident other that than the three hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents still pending on his ledger. Mister Benson would pay up eventually, one way or the other. At this point Chris wasn’t too choosy how his books got balanced. He hoped Benson would come to his senses. If he didn’t, so be it. A man best be prepared to not allow his mouth to overload his ass. Times were changing of course but some things remained the same. Egos got you buried six feet under, a feast for critters welcoming you to their side of the dirt. Worms and maggots weren’t particular with their bedfellows. Even the likes of Benson would be welcome.

Closing up the store Chris headed over to Maggie’s for supper but decided to stop in at Cactus Joe’s Saloon first for a well deserved drink of whisky while he pondered his future. He had all but decided he would discount his losses and sell the business. He wasn’t cut out for what it took to run the store and he sorely missed the adventures the great outdoors had to offer. He kicked his own ass wondering what had he been thinking becoming a proprietor for the public. It had been by far the hardest job he had ever endured. Contrary to the name, the saloon was owned and operated not by a feller named Joe but by a refined Bostonian named Josephine McDougal, a fiery Red headed Scott.  Today Josephine was behind the bar filling in for Monk Martin, her regular barkeeper, having been kicked unconscious by his temperamental old  mule and still ailing from the repercussions. A few days of bed rest had been prescribed by the doctor.

The saloon wasn’t much on the hustle and bustle side for a Tuesday so Josephine joined Chris at his table. She was a much better listener and advice giver than Monk. Chris laid out the episode with Benson and his plans to get out of the dry goods business. She smiled, reminding him that she had told him it was a bad idea the first time he had mentioned it. Telling him so was easier to swallow coming from her. Josephine wasn’t bad on the eyes and they had already tussled at time or two underneath the bed sheets, on the house of course. Not many in town could afford her anyway. This alone lessoned the risk for bedding her and a chance to walk away with something unwanted.

Finishing up his second drink Chris was about to head over to Maggie’s, passing this time on a poke with Josephine, when low and behold, good ole Mister Benson barged through the swinging doors like he thought he was the proper owner of the saloon. Josephine placed her hand on his arm and shook her head no. Obviously she was thinking about Benson’s well being, not his. Benson was thinking period. He walked directly over to their table and took a chair directly across from Chris. He turned up the whisky bottle, took a swig and then slammed it on the table just missing Chris’s fingers resting by his glass. History lessons and manners were definitely on the agenda. Difference being Chris would be conducting both. Josephine stood and stepped away, held up her hands indicating she had tried to prevent this, realizing she could have never stopped it.

“Did your order my wire?”

“Did you bring a hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents with you?”

“Hell no.”

“Then my response would also stand as hell no.”

“I warned you, Chris. I’m not a fellow to be taken lightly in these parts.”

“Who started that rumor, you?”

“Aaron Benson, you might wish to think hard about what you’re instigating,” warned Josephine, now standing behind the bar.

“She offers excellent advice. I’d suggest you take it.”

Benson was not the least bit impressed by the man clearly a foot shorter than his six foot six frame and at least a hundred pounds lighter. His facial features reminded Benson too much of a female, smooth skin, high cheek bones, penetrating blue eyes, a man clearly suited to be a store clerk, no more. He certainly resembled no man who should be acting so bold and boisterous. Getting killed over a ledger debt didn’t match the demeanor of the man sitting across the table from him. Still, Chris was determined to make him play his hand. A man of his word, Benson was willing to call that bluff and rain tea wholly hell down on him. Not ordering that barbwire for his fencing had caused him much grief and considerable setback with winter quickly approaching.

“I own the largest ranch in these parts. I may as well own and operate the only dry goods store too.” Benson glared at Josephine and barked, “Might add this saloon and the bank across the street and rename the town Benson Flats when it’s all said and done.”

Josephine mouthed a very unladylike response before reaching underneath the bar and then placing a sawed off double barrel shot gun on the bar top. Her way of saying just try was delivered loud and clear. Chris couldn’t help but muster up a little smile; don’t mess with a Scott clearly intended. Benson stood, sweeping the whisky bottle and glasses from the table with his hand before kicking his chair out of the way, clearly highly pissed by the antics of both of them. Chris calmly eased back his chair and stood as well, staring down the mountain of a man standing across the table from him.

“Three hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents seems to me to be a bargain for your ranch given a dead man really has no need for it. Do you have a preference for burial plots? It’s a just reward seeing that you used own it. I call be a tolerable sort of feller if I set my mind to it. Fair is fair, right? What you say we rename this town, Carson City, Josephine? You keep the saloon and I don’t have a hankering to own a bank. The store and ranch will do just fine.”

“Kit Carson having a town named after him does seem appropriate, given the life of a true frontier legend you have lived,” replied Josephine.

“Kit Carson,” repeated an astounded Aaron Benson.

“Christopher Houston Kit’ Carson gracing your presence, Mister Benson…retired mountain man, fur trapper, wilderness guide, Indian agent and American Army officer and now store keeper with a three hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents debt still pending on my ledger; that is unless you’re willing to pay what is currently owed. Bank is across the street and it will be open for business in the morning.  I’m sure they’ll grant you a loan given you still currently have the largest ranch in these parts. Understand, ownership could change in the blink of an eye and in a puff a gun smoke. I would consider those odds if I were you. Perhaps these parts aren’t best suited for your livelihood either; just another humble suggestion.”

Aaron Benson nervously retrieved his wallet from his coat’s vest pocket and tossed four one hundred dollar bills onto the table and made a hasty retreat without uttering another word. Chris counted out three hundred sixty one dollars and twenty three cents, making change from his pocket. He gave the balance to Josephine saying he would appreciate her company later. She refused, folding it and slipping it in his trouser pocket, adding a well placed squeeze to indicate no charge, saying drop by when he was free. Chris found a buyer for the store and moved on. He married his third wife, 14-year-old Josefa Jaramillo, the daughter of a wealthy and prominent Mexican couple living in Taos.

In 1868, at the urging of Washington and the Commissioner of Indian Affairs, Carson journeyed to Washington D.C. where he escorted several Ute Chiefs to meet with the President of the United States to plead for assistance to their tribe. Soon after his return, Josefa died from complications after giving birth to their eighth child. Her death was a crushing blow to Carson. He died a month later at age 58 from an abdominal aortic aneurysm in the surgeon's quarters of Fort Lyon, Colorado.  Christopher Houston "Kit" Carson accomplishments and contributions can not be disputed or denied. A river in Nevada is named for Carson as well as the state's capital, Carson City.

General William Tecumseh Sherman met Kit Carson in Monterey, California. Sherman wrote: "His fame was then at its height, ... and I was very anxious to see a man who had achieved such feats of daring among the wild animals of the Rocky Mountains, and still wilder Indians of the plains ... I cannot express my surprise at beholding such a small, stoop-shouldered man, with reddish hair, freckled face, soft blue eyes, and nothing to indicate extraordinary courage of daring. He spoke but little and answered questions in monosyllables."

Colonel Edward W. Wynkoop wrote: "Kit Carson was five feet five and one half-inches tall, weighed about 140 pounds, of nervy, iron temperament, squarely built, slightly bow-legged, and those members apparently too short for his body. But, his head and face made up for all the imperfections of the rest of his person. His head was large and well-shaped with yellow straight hair, worn long, falling on his shoulders. His face was fair and smooth as a woman's with high cheekbones, straight nose, a mouth with a firm, but somewhat sad expression, a keen, deep-set but beautiful, mild blue eye, which could become terrible under some circumstances, and like the warning of the rattlesnake, gave notice of attack. Though quick-sighted, he was slow and soft of speech, and posed great natural modesty.”

Lieutenant George Douglas Brewerton made one coast-to-coast dispatch-carrying trip to Washington, D.C. with Carson. Brewerton wrote: "The Kit Carson of my imagination was over six feet high — a sort of modern Hercules in his build — with an enormous beard, and a voice like a roused lion ... The real Kit Carson I found to be a plain, simple ... man; rather below the medium height, with brown, curling hair, little or no beard, and a voice as soft and gentle as a woman's. In fact, the hero of a hundred desperate encounters, whose life had been mostly spent amid wilderness, where the white man is almost unknown, was one of Dame Nature's gentlemen.”

 

  

 

Just a few of the T. Allen Winn selections on Amazon.

The rope had been tossed over a sturdy limb from the ancient oak. The noose drawn taunt, hands tied behind her back and legs bound at her ankles. Martin made eye contact with those gathered, making certain none were about to betray him and back out of this necessary execution. Each man nodded, assuring him they would abide by his wishes. A mere nod didn’t satisfy Martin. He called each by their name and asked them to verbally commit. Hang her…hang her…each and everyone repeated those words without the slightest bit of hesitation.

Still, Martin needed more; he trusted no one and would not be blackmailed later. He pulled the parchment paper, a sharp pen knife and a quill from his coat. He spelled out his instructions. Each of his accomplices, executioners in this particular case, would prick their fingers, using the quill and their blood, would then sign the agreement, binding them to this decision.

Each man did as instructed, no questions asked, none opposing his request. Fear can be a powerful motivator. Martin read the names aloud: A.B. Abram, Abe Bergmann, Joseph Herzberg, Horatio Thomas, Zachariah Hanson. Satisfied, he signed his name last, Martin Kravis. He folded the paper and placed it back inside his coat. He then ordered every man to grab hold of the hangman’s rope.

“On this day, May 17, 1890, I curse the soul of Margarett Levine Reznik. May she burn in hell for eternity for what she has done. She has betrayed each man, now her executioner. You will be laid to rest in an unmarked grave in a secluded location and shall share the maggot infested earth with those not worthy of recognition or descent burials. Gentlemen, hang the witch.”

Margarett Levine Reznik vaguely gained consciousness to eye the six bastards one last time. She etched their memory in her mind and silently cursed them one last time. Death came quickly; the rope around her neck had hanged her dead, twenty one years old this very day.

“Happy birthday, Margarett. Now bury the bitch,” spoke Martin. “Bury her deep. May your rotting flesh never see the light of day, you worthless whore.” He then spat on her corpse and kicked dirt in her bluish discolored face. Justice had been served. Let no man question the verdict.

“The witch knew who had killed her and she snatched pieces of time, here and there, from the business of dying, to make her revenge.”
― Kelly Link, Magic for Beginners

 

 

The auburn haired Emma ‘Lou’ Stetson, forty five, of medium height, build and weight, could blend into most any crowd, if not for her bubbly personality. No denying it, when she graced any landscape with her presence, it made for a better place for all who occupied the same turf. Her friends said she reminded them of the more mature version of Sally Fields.

Lou possessed natural beauty, rarely ever wearing any serious makeup. Plus, it was too expensive and time consuming, said she. Like me or not, I am who I am, you can’t pretty up perfection, she would often quote in jest. Her great love, other than her husband, Wade, was the great outdoors. Greenwood, South Carolina had been their home since their introduction into this world. Both grew up knowing one another, living in the same neighborhood, same street, and just four houses apart.

Friends forever, it made eventual matrimony a piece of cake. They hadn’t known they were in love until after both had graduated college; Lou from Clemson and Wade from the University of South Carolina, a house divided when it came to college choices in the Palmetto state. Lou and Wade always made a friendly wager when the two football programs clashed at season’s end. There were no losers.

Lou would soon face a battle for her life and winning would mean losing but she must win at all cost.

 

http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Cornbread-Buttermilk/T-Allen-Winn/9781941069271?id=6150572901101

Book #6, Cornbread and Buttermilk, Good Ole Fashion Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense is now available.


http://www.amazon.com/Cornbread-Buttermilk-T-Allen-Winn/dp/1941069274/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1438989988&sr=8-1&keywords=t+Allen+Winn

 

 

 

 

 

We (several Beach Author Network authors) were at a recent event last weekend (North Myrtle Beach Tent Sale) and while things were slow, we started chatting it up because that's what we do. Somehow the subject got around to funeral arrangements. Various BAN members shared how theirs was already planned, one even said he wanted his ashes placed in shotgun shells and shot across his favorite land. I was sort of challenged to write a story about it because my buds know my brain works like that. So here is the opening, unedited and proofed but just tossing it out there; might work its way into a novel, might not. What do you think? 

Guns and Ashes

Hardy Bovine did things his way, in his timeframe; mattered not to him whether you liked it, agreed with it or chastised him for doing it. Well, those who chastised him only did it one time. Hardy had a not so tactful way of telling you it wasn’t really any of your damn business what he did, what he thought or how he acted.  In his words, ‘he didn’t need no man or woman telling him what’fer when it came right down to his business or his opinions.’ He spoke his mind, called them like he saw them and if he didn’t like it nobody was going to convince him otherwise. Call him colorful. Call him an obscene foul mouthed old coot or even worse if you felt real froggy and ready to get your butt kicked. Yeah, that’s right. Hardy Bovine never shied away from a good fight, verbal ones and just plain scuffling in the dirt. Never pick a fight with a pig in the mud. You’ll come up on the short end so says Hardy.

Rite of passage, Hardy would spout it to anyone what wanted to listen. Hell, he would speak his mind whether you wanted to hear him out or not. This here day, second Tuesday of August, he was two months and three days from seeing his ninetieth year of being above dirt, and he was still as healthy as a plow mule and almost as stubborn. He had plenty of smarts between his ears; hadn’t got him none of that Old Timer’s sickness like some of his old buddies, not that he could recall anyway. Hardy still dipped snuff, drank his fair share of George Dickel Whisky, green label, 90 proof, preferred, and hankered now and then for a little poke over at Miss Lottie’s that catered to a man’s needs, one that is with a stash of green in his billfold. Paying for it suited Hardy just fine; no courtship and no ties once it was done. He sure didn’t need no live in cook and maid making his life miserable. He could take care of that just fine and still hunt, fish, drink and gamble without no gospel spewing woman putting up a fuss and raising a ruckus.

Yes sir’ree Bob, Hardy Bovine was his own man. He wasn’t handsome, but who was at his age? His face left no doubt to those who looked upon it that he had been rode hard and put up wet. He had earned ever wrinkle and every scar fair and square. He had the stories to back up most of them and after putting away a pint of George green label his tongue loosened up a tad and he would lay claim to all his conquests, his brawls and back breaking labor that landed him to where he stood today. Hardy wasn’t a believer in taking handouts. He always gave an honest day’s work for what was owed him. It just right down pissed him off to see folks taking advantage of a free ride, thinking that they was entitled to food stamps and unemployment checks, acting all pitiful and poor and broken down. ‘Get off your lazy ass and find a job’ he would fuss. Jobs are out there for the taking if you’re not sorry and worthless like a pile of green blowfly invested horse manure.  

Hardy was man’s man, stout, no sagging chicken wings under his arms and he got around without the help of a cane or walker like most his age. He spat in father’s times face, refusing to be just the next old fart shuffling along, biding his time until the Grim Reaper laid claim to his rickety old bones. Hell fire and full of piss and vinegar, that was Hardy Bovine to a tee. Rough around the edges, manners lacking, living life to the fullest as he would often say, ‘got know way of know when it your time to cash it in, punch the ticket, get life’s pink slip, so you damn sure better make the best of it. Holding back was for wussies, except he didn’t always keep that comment so clean, especially after a little green label kicked in. One thing about Hardy Bovine, he was the same way all the time, not one to pretend to be somebody he wasn’t and sure hell wasn’t to put on window dressing to suit the crowd. Like him or not, he was genuine to the flesh and bone.

August days, dog days what some called them could get pert near unbearable in the low country of Carolina. Didn’t make no mind to ole Hardy though; living in Ridgeville, about 35 miles north west of Charleston and a stones throw from Monks Corner where he had been born into to this world. Ridgeville was known for the Lieber Correctional Institution, the states depository for those sentenced to death. Hardy had a fondness for the penitentiary having worked as a guard in Columbia’s Broad River Correctional Institution  

Hardy took pride in his prison job while there, his face being about the last one those being put to death laid eyes on before the electrical juice fried their worthless good for nothing, Godforsaken souls. Hardy didn’t have much tolerance when it came to lawbreakers, especially those murderous scoundrels responsible for innocent law abiding peoples’ deaths. Cop killers just made him want to be the one what volunteered pulling the power lever. He likened his role to that of them guards in that Green Mile movie. Tom Hanks, now that was a fine actor in his book. Hardy liked catching those Bosom Buddy reruns. As cantankerous as Hardy Bovine might be, he wasn’t a law breaker by nature. Sure, he colored outside the lines when it came to gambling, womanizing and drinking but by his view, none of these vices hurt anybody and surely didn’t get nary a person killed or raped or robbed. Fighting and tussling came natural but he drew the line when it came to maiming or murdering.

Yep, in two months and three days he would for sure reach another milestone by some folks reckoning but to Hardy it would be just another day like any other day in his life. He might smoke him a cigar and sip some George Dickel but otherwise it would just come and go with no fanfare, no cake, and no damn candles to huff and puff until extinguished.  Hell, a cake, if he actually had one, would be declared a fire hazard if loaded up with his life time worth of little wax candles. He wasn’t that much into sweets anyway other than having him a slice of Widow Jenkins’s homemade nanner put’tin every now and then.  Just thinking about hers made his mouth moisten up and if he didn’t get his mind off of it he’d be slobbering like an old rabies invested red fox. He sure didn’t want to get caught looking like Gabriel Turner, his ole hunting buddy, what had landed in the old folks’ home, bedridden,  wearing those depends and drooling like a three month all chap, bless his heart. Widow woman Jenkins had taken a fancy to him, always wooing him and wanted him to show her favors. He’d save his favors for  down at Miss Lottie’s where the woman folk were young and rounded in all the right places; not shaped like the Liberty Bell, eighty three year olds and horny like Widow Jenkins. He’d do without first.

The position of the shadows on his front porch told him it must be nearly four o’clock, the summer daylight more than half gone. It was still hot a blue blazes but a man ain’t really healthy if he ain’t bleeding ignorant oil. That’s what Hardy called senseless sweating, bleeding ignorant oil. His daddy, Big John Bovine, rest his sorry soul, had always called it that, saying ‘boy, if you got no better sense than to stay out there under that blazing hot sun and bleed ignorant oil, then you best not bring your stinky self to my supper table without running a rag through it.” Ole Hardy broke out into a grin recalling those long gone times with Daddy John. Today just seemed to be one of those days where his mind just wondered about aimlessly from one subject to another. Sometimes he just couldn’t help it. Might be that the Old Timer’s disease, might be sneaking up on him; forgetting what happened an hour ago but remembering crap that had long been buried in his head. Well, didn’t much matter one way or the other; it was his mind to do what he wanted with it. He didn’t have to answer to nobody but Hardy Bovine and he maker above.

The following are excerpts from Divas on the Move, a short story based on Bill Davis's Diva painting of the same name...

Divas on the Move 

Excerpt (1)

Norma Joe stared out the window, her daddy’s corn field expanded for many acres; silky ears just days away from needing to be pulled. Oh how she dreaded dirtying up her blue denim gown, her elbow length cotton work gloves and matching designer sneakers for the sake of keeping her daddy happy and harvesting that corn. Divas weren’t put on this earth to perform sweaty manual labor. A greater calling awaited her. She was clearly emancipated and old enough to take charge of her own destiny; that is, if daddy and mama would let her.

Her parents had kept tight reins on her ambitious dreams. Daddy didn’t even allow mention of the ‘D’ word in his house. Mama was a tad more understanding but abided by daddy’s wishes. Men of the old south ruled the household. Norma Joe had not had an opportunity to distance herself from a generation still intent on making an honest living off land that had been in the family since the beginning of time.

Propped on the windowsill, she daydreamed. Divas are excellent daydreamers. Even diva rookies can accomplish much while reaching for the stars in a world fabricated from their unique imagination. Uniqueness is the essence of Divaness. She wished she had brothers but sadly she was an only child. Daddy would have sent the boys out into the fields instead of her if she had male siblings. Visions of the lesser of the two evils seeped into the outer boundaries of her daydreaming. Mama would have surely focused on honing her domestic skills. While cooking, sewing, washing clothes and dishes, cleaning house was part of the wilderness woman regime, there was no place in a divas world for symbolic frontier womanly tasks. Divas would have other people in their employment to take care of the rigorous chores of the day. Blistered hands, broken nails, bad hair and displays of perspiration were prohibited flaws. Daddy hadn’t undergone the learning curve yet, stressing Norma Joe to the brink of desperation.

Thunderheads were forming in the distance. Unfortunately rain showers didn’t guarantee farm chores could be ignored. Sure, trampling about in the garden might possibly be off the agenda, but other more despicable chores loomed in her future. Just thinking about them plunged her into the pits of homespun housewife hell. Mere nonsensical demeaning exercises served no purpose in the life of a diva. How would she ever break away from her southern upbringing and seek a world she knew she was destined to live in?

There was college of course, an out she kept in her hope chest. College, yuck, commoners competing for careers, a life of co-eds, despicable cheerleaders and aspiring homecoming queens, a shallow world she wanted no part of but an escape pod just the same. Her grades were outstanding so seeking an appropriate affordable college, as her parents pointed out, should pose no obstacles. Divas were not just mere dumb blondes. Some were actually redheads or brunettes. Mama called hers dirty blonde. She cringed at the mere description of her hair color and mama prohibited her changing it. Emancipation offered promise and a glimmer of hope, if her parents didn’t roadblock her path.

A flash of lightening, followed four seconds later by a crack of thunder caused Norma Joe to blink and return to her world of non- diva support.  She heard footfalls on the steps, recognizable as her mother’s. What trivial demeaning household task would she divvy out this time? Norma Joe wanted to scream at the top of her lungs and did just that from in the inside. Never let them see you perspire, diva mantra. Even symbolic perspiration was a no-no. The image must be upheld 24/7, even in the confines of country bumpkin world. She almost regretted thinking that, almost. She shouldn’t depict her parents in such light or her life. Reality spoke volumes unfortunately. Living off the land, as her daddy so proudly put it, had gotten them this far, without government handouts or charity from neighbors. He stood tall, knowing he had provided for his family and had never failed to put food on the tale and clothes on their backs.   

Excerpt (2) we join Norma Joe, Mavis and Wanda on the court square...

 

Maneuvering the uneven brick laden pattern on the square’s street was not easily negotiated, not even with those possessing diva prowesses. The trio, while wobbly at times, made it to their destination, regaining their composure before making a grand entrance inside the Rough House. They opted for bar side stools instead of a table or booth, preferring to stage the perfect diva pose for the afternoon patrons. Each was served up a world famous hot dog, no onions, and Coke Cola in an authentic glass bottle. Food and beverage was consumed with the utmost poise and caution, ensuring that their gowns and gloves remained stain free. A true diva has the ability to pull this off while wearing silken gloves.

The trio passed with flying colors, afterwards, standing and smoothing out any wrinkles before heading to their next stop, Uptown Girls. Henry passed by the frontage window and gave them a courteous hat tip. Still, they paused for a moment to allow him free passage and some distance before leaving. Photo opts were officially off the table even though Norma Joe would have welcomed one. She honored her companions’ wishes though, not wanting to banish them to the rural outskirts for an undetermined amount of time if busted by their parents.

As predicted, they found themselves in the afterglow of accessory heaven; Uptown Girls exceeding their diva expectations. After numerous trips down the imaginary runway, each picking at least one item, the trio exited, and pondered what to do with the rest of their afternoon. Still at hand, they hadn’t sealed their escape strategy. A world belonging to divas existed out there somewhere, seemingly out of gloved reach for now, but obtainable once a plan evolved. The three made the loop, cutting the square on foot. They paused at the steps leading to the Belmont Inn lobby, picturing themselves as traveling diva celebrities, met with open arms by the patrons of the inn, joyous with the knowledge of actual diva’s gracing the walls of the Belmont for an overnight stay. From there, they then graced the presence of the Abbeville Opera House, perusing the marquee for coming attractions. Annie was on slate next. A sign on the theater indicate that a rehearsal was in progress. The historical 110 year old Opera House is listed on the National Register of Historical Places; somewhat of a grand old diva as buildings go.

Excerpt (3) The three Divas make their rounds...

“What are we going to do,” asked Norma Joe.

“What do you want to do” asked Wanda. “We’ve had a hotdog, are sporting new accessories and have all but heeled our way around the square.”

“No, I mean, when are we leaving and where will we go when we do?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you,” commented Mavis.

“As serious as a diva drinking wine from a glass slipper…”

“We’re underage and can’t do that just yet,” added Wanda.

“A diva may aspire to do anything she wishes,” Norma Joe reminded them. ‘There are absolutely no limitations.”

“All we need then is a glass slipper and bottle of wine,” laughed Mavis.

“My brother and his pals drink Mad Dog 20-20,” added Wanda.

“Dime store wine, my dear; a diva sets her sights much higher, vintage only,” proclaimed Norma Joe.

“I suppose we can discount Boone Farm’s Apple then,” said Mavis.

“Nothing in a screw cap will suffice,” stated Norma Joe. “Uncorked is our destiny.”

“Obviously we’ll not be partaking of wine this afternoon, unscrewed or uncorked, so back to your original questions, how, when and where,” asked Wanda.

Walking down Trinity Street, they paused in front of Natty’s, a fairly new bar and hang out.

“They have wine in there and every beer you can name so I’ve been told,” said Mavis.

“And we’re still underage,” Wanda reminded her.

“We look older and refined in these gowns, don’t we?”

“Forget it, they know us and our parents,” said Norma Joe. “Let’s try to stay focused. To become full-fledged, out of the bathroom, dressed to the nines divas, we must leave Abbeville. We’ll never be accepted for who we are until we do.”

They waved at one of the owners. She smiled and cordially waved back, mouthing how she thought they looked fabulous.  Of course they did; they were divas after all. Still, it lifted their spirits and inflated their egos somewhat for someone in town to recognize that fact. Actually, divas were quite egotistical without reinforcement. Others should always be appreciative of their presence. It was their gift to society; even when, in their eyes society didn’t exist in their hometown; at least not a society that recognized the diva movement. Three strong, it was time for those frozen in time folks to move aside, sit down and shut up; the new world order had arrived.

 

Here's the opening of one of my projects. Let me know what you think. It's based on a true story, with a smidgen of ole T. Allen added for good measure...

The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road 

It’s not often that I think back to those days growing up in Bucksport, not that I don’t have fond memories, because I do.  Like many tiny coastal towns in the watery edges just a mere rock’s throw from the touristy section of the beach, Bucksport had once made its mark in the rich history of South Carolina’s culture. People not from around here look at the name Bucksport and often interpret its meaning incorrectly. Too many folks I have encountered tend to focus the pronunciation on the  Bucks part of it, thinking it must be a deer hunter’s paradise and that fact weighed heavily into coming up with the name. While deer are plentiful, neither Bambi nor any of his relatives had anything to do with the namesake.  As a young girl living there, I never gave it much thought one way or the other. As an adult, I did research it, looking for answers. Nothing answered the question of why we had been tormented so by what lived there in that house.

Fact doesn’t lift the burden. Bucksport was founded more as a rural port. That’s where the port part of it comes from; sort of easy to figure out if you really put your mind to it. It’s really not my way to spew a history lesson, but for the sake of painting the picture, I guess I must. How else are you going to be able to relate to what I’m going to tell you, that is, if I actually decide to share my deepest, darkest secrets with you.  Believe you me; this doesn’t come easy for me. No, not the history lesson; well, yeah that to, but what I have experienced has been well kept from anybody but those who know what I know. It’s been nearly a lifetime of trying to forget it seems.  I must apologize. I do have a tendency to ramble and sort of drift off point. It might be a tad intentional. The subject matter still terrifies me to this day.  Looking back doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

All right, Bucksport is where me and my three sisters grew up. It was for the most part a fun place to live back in the fifties and early sixties. I say for the most part with reservations that I’ll get to eventually; that is if I can really make myself venture down that path. That was over fifty years ago, hard as it is to believe now. Trust me, I don’t really want to go there but maybe it’ll help if I just say it out loud, but the jury is still deliberating on that verdict. Verdict, that sounds serious, doesn’t it? It sure felt like a life sentence after it started. We were imprisoned so it seemed, with no chance of parole. Daddy wasn’t budging so we were trapped in a nightmare.

Bucksport is nestled between Conway and Georgetown, South Carolina; not so easily found on a Road Atlas. Just follow 701 from either direction and you’ll eventually see the signs; that is if you don’t blink or sneeze. It’s not too far from the sands of Myrtle Beach. Okay, let’s see if I can muster up that history lesson; as best I can anyway.  I might just surprise you and me too, what I learned about its origin. What happened there has surely been on mind lately so I have done a little research? Don’t get too excited though, it’s not much, but maybe it’ll be enough to bring you up to speed. Location is everything, right?

That being said, the rural port is located on the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway at the merger point with the Waccamaw River. Probably more highlighted and recognizable these days is the Bucksport Restaurant and Marina. You can get there by boat or car. It seems to still be a favorite eating place for locals and visitors alike. A man named Henry Buck of Bucksport, Maine moved here in 1820. He came to South Carolina in search of wood and started up a lumber mill in what he named Bucksport; go figure. Somehow he had found out that Horry County had a significant timber industry with cypress, pine and hardwoods in abundant supply, here for the taking.

Henry Buck eventually had sawmills in Bucksport and Bucksville.  A man with money can name whatever he wants after him I suppose. Bucksville was located near Bucksport, why the two different names I don’t really know. Both properties are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, in case you’re interested. The Buck family really has nothing to do with the house where we lived, not that I’ve ever heard, but still the man is responsible for developing the little community.

Henry Buck did well for himself in Horry County, using his personal fleet of ships reportedly shipping three million board feet annually from his little enterprise to Carolina cities Charleston and Georgetown, even to Yankee land as far away as Boston and New York. It was said his wood, ours, had even been used in the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. It put my county on the map back in 1860 as one of the five greatest timber-producing districts in the state. Funny, living there as a child, it never felt like we stood out any kind of way. I guess being way out in the boonies wasn’t so special.

I’m better suited for procrastination. Spouting all this Bucksport history prevents me from getting to the root of the evil, my non history making saga. Anyone of my sisters or me could have probably put Bucksport on the map for an entirely different reason, but daddy would have tanned our hides if he caught us talking nonsense as he called it. I’m not sure who we feared most, daddy or that other one. Who am I really fooling? Daddy didn’t hold a candle to that other one if truth be known. I would have faced his leather strap anytime if it would have made things normal for the rest of us.

More history, fact, a lot of black folks resided in Bucksport. Last head count I can actually remember seeing was from the 2010 census where the population was reported as being somewhere around 876, the negroes accounting for nearly 80%; whites coming in a not so close second at less than 8%. I guess Henry Buck could be blamed for these skewed numbers. In his day he was the largest owner of Negro slaves in Horry County, needing them to help out on his 20, 000 acre plantation. I always chuckle when northerners tend to want to blame the south for being slave owners. Henry was a damn Yankee and he brought them here. Funny if you really think about it; those fleets of ships bringing over those poor kidnapped Negroes from Africa flew the United States flag, not the confederate one. It’s always been easier for them to blame us than look in the mirror I reckon.

We grew up surrounded by Negroes back in our time in Bucksport. It was just the way it was. As an eight year old, I didn’t think much about it one way or the other. They were part of our lives. I didn’t see any right or wrong side of it; not like folks prefer painting the picture today. We southerners get a raw deal, based purely on the acts of a few, blaming us for mistreating them, the Negroes. I never mistreated anybody, black, white or any other color. I sure didn’t steal them from their villages and whisk them away to this country. I have never owned a slave. Stop stereotyping us as evil. It won’t work on me. I know what evil really is. I’ve experienced it. So have my sisters. Five long years can wear you down. Sadly we had no say so about where we wanted to live or what was best for us. It was what it was and we had to learn to cope with it. In a sense, I was enslaved to the circumstances.

Looking back, I’d like to hang the blame on my parents for putting us through this, but what were they supposed to do? The Burgess family had to live somewhere. Besides, daddy never believed us or maybe he did, but admitting he did would mean he had to do something about it. Maybe he didn’t know what to do so he buried his head in the sand, a more convenient approach to avoiding it. Mama knew. I know she knew. She was trapped like the rest of us though. I wonder if she ever experienced what we did. I mean the full experience. If she had, I honestly believe she would have talked daddy into leaving. It would have most likely fell on deaf ears. Daddy was too strong willed. He wouldn’t have left even on her say-so and pleas. He was too proud to admit to such nonsense. He had no desire to be the laughing stock of Bucksport. That’s why he hushed us up, forbidding us to spread silly rumors.

There was nothing silly or rumored about what was happening. I know. I was there. It happened to me and it wasn’t my imagination. Ask my sisters if you don’t believe me. Cancel that. They’re not going to tell you anything. Maybe after I clear the air, one or more of them will step from the shadows and back my story. Then again they might just leave me out on that limb by my lonesome. What’s the point of airing the dirty laundry now and risking everything? Many would just think it was silly talk conjured up by children or worse still, they’d peg the whole lot of us loony birds, that crazy Burgess clan.      

Taking a deep breath isn’t going to kick start this, that’s for certain. It’s been buried way too long and way too deep.  Fifty years but yet I can’t completely shake it free. Maybe I should run this by mama first. Daddy is gone so he no longer has a say in it. Sadly mama is in sort of a fragile state. She has what they used to call hardening of the arteries or old timers. Her mind just isn’t what it used to be. No, she’s not crazy. Years ago she had her opportunities to cross over into crazy land, just like the rest of us, but she was too feisty to give into it, I suppose. She is just old and in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was a good day when she remembered I was Rebecca. Her sickness can’t really be blamed on the past. We’re all way past the straight jacket days. I babble on, don’t I? It’s just tough to choose a starting point. A story deserves an ample beginning, a time before it happened. I hate just jumping right into the middle.  After all, five years is not a lifetime, even though as a child it seemed like an eternity. Living down on Ports Harrelson Road wasn’t always bad but when it was, bad was our worst nightmare.   

Did I already use my mulligan? Oh well, if not sure, call a 'provisional do-over.' Here's a wedge shot from the Whomper files:

The Golfer’s Kitchen Pass

 

 

One can not play a round of golf if one can not make it to the golf course. Oh how often does the avid golfer or striving Whomper attempt to justify to a spouse, a significant other, parents or the boss why they should be allowed to play that beloved round of golf.

You must be creative to ensure success or be prepared to pay the consequences when these explanations don’t hold water. If you’re a golfer; you’ve been there and will most assuredly find yourself there again.

Sometimes your little schemes have worked; other times doomed from the beginning, you stammered and stuttered, failing to execute. The perfect golfing kitchen pass must flow effortlessly from that golden tongue of yours.

You ask why you could possibly need a pass. Why not sneak off secretly to that round with the buds? Guaranteed, you most certainly will shoot that personal best low round, break some type of club record or sink the elusive hole in one. Secure your kitchen pass first then celebrate guilt free and openly.

From the pages of the Golfer’s Kitchen Pass Manuel, here are some of my favorite passes:

1. Invite her family to visit. Making sure there is a golfer among them. Take that in-law for a round allowing her quality time with her non-playing relatives.
2. Invite your family for same reason as above; however, it is important that you ensure she’s compatible with yours before you strand her with them.
3. “It’s a company tournament and it would look bad to my superiors if I didn’t participate. Besides, it’s free golf.”
4. “It’s a Vendor treat; it doesn’t cost me to play today and its part of the job.”
5. “This is my forth round on my local’s pass and I’ll receive a free round next time I play.”
6. “This is my free round on my local’s pass.”
7. “But honey, Angie and Mary Ann are letting John and Carl play this afternoon. Now how would it look if I didn’t join them?”
8. “John’s wife is out of town for the weekend and we’re obliged to keep him occupied because you know how he has that wild streak. We’re playing Saturday and Sunday to keep him out of trouble.”
9. Parlay Mother’s Day into a kitchen pass. “Just for you on your special day, let’s do an early brunch (your choice of restaurants). Afterwards, I’ll take the kids or grandkids, and/or son-in-law golfing. Relax, do what you want to do on me and enjoy some quite time alone or with your daughter.” 
10. Pick a vacation spot with a golf course, all inclusive with the green fees or free rounds of golf included. Guilt free golf guaranteed especially if you treat her to the spa.
11. Pick one of those plus 90 degree days: “Honey, would you go with me to the course today? I know you don’t like to play but it’ll only take four or five hours of your time. Pick a rainy day or day of greater than 50% rain predicted and ask same as above. Pick a cold day and you know the drill. She’ll gladly let you play without her.
12. Have one of your buds call your house to ask if you could join him. Make sure you know when he plans to call and let your significant other answer the phone. Trust me, they will not say no. Typical answer: Doesn’t matter to me or he does what he wants. Grab the clubs and exit the building quickly, Elvis!
13.  “Gerald has a two for one pass so he’s letting me split the cost with him.”
14. Go shopping with her or do something that isn’t your cup of tea. This can be later parlayed into a golf outing.
15. Encourage your wife to go out on an afternoon with the girls. Helps justify that day of golf with the boys. Better still, have the wife invite some of her girl friends over for the weekend; gives you an excuse to get out of their way. Even better, encourage her to go visit the girl friends for the day or weekend. Free golf if you do not give her the opportunity to develop a “honey do list” of projects for you.

                        Kitchen Pass Tip: Remember you may strategically utilize “the sad puppy dog look.” Tilt your head slightly. Squint or partially close your eyes. Have that slight whimper in your voice as if in submission. Lip quivering is not a bad touch. Do not try this unless you have practiced and perfected it. While projecting, ask can you play a round with the boys.

            The “I can’t help you pass” - You’ve been out of town on business for a few days and your flight returns @ 11 AM Sat morning. Your buds are playing at noon. Decision, do you go straight from the airport and join them on the tee box or go home first? You’re on your own on this one. If your marriage or relationship is on the rocks, and you’re looking to put that final nail in the coffin; by all means tee’em up.

            Off Limits: Christmas, Thanksgiving Day, Valentines Day, her birthday, anniversaries, graduations, family funerals,  if she’s sick, if she’s in the hospital, non golfing family or friends visiting.

The Kitchen Pass Creed

I, your name, swear to execute the appropriate golfer’s kitchen pass, delivering an academy award performance, and leading by example for those less fortunate. I shall maintain my integrity as I overcome insurmountable odds ensuring my spot on the round’s final four. I shall encourage my playing partners to support each GKP with the same vigor, conviction and sincerity as I so that they will never be doubted by those expected to grant them. To protect the GKP manual, I must not abuse the passes and will not divulge the manual’s existence to those granters of the pass. I will enjoy the round guilt free and encourage others to do the same.

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the archives of the Whomper Files comes another mulligan...

License to Kill 

Well old 007 does hold these credentials but I have experienced the thrill of the almost kill far too many times. Some of my whomping buddies were just not meant to be behind the wheel of a golf cart, putting in jeopardy those of us that share the cart with them.

Maybe there ought to be a sanctioned drivers test before one may be granted permission to drive a golf cart. As a young man, I walked with a pull cart, tough to wreck one of those. And those tour professionals just don’t know what they’re missing by walking or maybe they do.

            Whether electrical or diesel, the ultimate all terrain vehicle can maneuver the worst contours on the course, and the drivers can overcome any obstacles placed in their path. Carts are made to go where our ball lands. Where do I start?

            Playing Parkland Golf Course, Scottish foursome format with my female whomping buddy driving the cart, we were completing #6, a dog leg to the left. Adult beverages had already come in to play and the noon hour still lurked a couple of hours away. Maria Andretti, at the wheel, decided to make an evasive maneuver, without consulting her co-pilot of course. There I sat, legs extended, propped and crossed, arms folded on my chest, and a twelve pack cooler resting on the floor between us, when the hard left appeared out of no where. Both me and the cooler tumbled from the cart, arms, elbows, ice and beer, poetry in motion. Unharmed, but lesson learned – hold tight and keep the beer away from the driver.

            I witnessed two of our playing partners back a cart down a slope into a creek on #7 at High Meadows Country Club. Big healthy boys, they huffed and puffed, walking the next two and half holes carrying their clubs.

            I’ve almost been raked from the cart by low hanging limbs and then that same left turn maneuver nearly tossed me from the cart; concurrent incidences on the same hole at Quail Creek. Fortunately, I had a hand hold and feet were planted firmly on the floor, lesson learned and remembered.

            Then I recall the Dukes of Hazard General Lee leap, I being the driver this time on #4 at Hickory Knob Resort. Severe down slope, steep hill to be exact, I had a good run going when we hit several deep ruts. The cooler behind the seat launched, offering up ice cubes and beer projectiles, dumping the entire contents on us and almost ejecting my cousin. He did manage to save the beer and most of the ice. It certainly made for interesting pop topping thereafter when his can’s contents spewed like Old Faithful. It had no impact on my water bottle.

            Then there’s bump drafting, with similar NASCAR racing results. The bumper car strategy works like this. The trailing cart bumps the leading cart inflicting whiplash to those in the lead cart; all in good fun of course. I witnessed one driver on the very first tee box, ease up and then bump one of our whomping buds lightly on the back of his legs.  We laughed as he jumped. Old Dale Earnhardt thought he had his cart in reverse and pressed the gas peddle a second time. The cart slammed into buddy number two again, this time wedging him between the carts; not so funny that time. 

            “Rules, we don’t need no stinking rules!” Do they really put those little wooden markers and ropes along edges of the cart paths for a reason, and don’t you receive bonus points for hitting them? I suppose cart path only usually means cart path only. Please keep all limbs inside cart at all times and if you don’t understand this one, drive through a mud puddle while dangling a leg or while hanging your head and arms from your cart.

            Bag drops are not necessarily just located in the parking lots. They can be found on the cart path, in the fairways or in the rough. Why do we tip those cart attendants if they can’t properly secure our clubs on the cart?

            Make a game out of it by trying a few of these ideas:

 Drive off while your partner is either making his club selection or is trying to replace clubs.     

Don’t necessarily wait until your rider has both feet in the cart with butt firmly planted before you press the gas; very effective with anal retentive partners. And never let an Obsessive Compulsive drive because the round is all about them.

 Park strategically close, partner side, to a ten foot gator and sit firmly behind the wheel as if not paying attention.            

Back up with that annoying alarm going off while your buds are striking the ball or making a key putt.

            One last thing, I have this marvelous short cut maneuver I like to pull on first time, unsuspecting cart buddies.  Crossing the street between holes #11 and #12 at Quail Creek, there’s a narrow foot bridge over a ditch before you reach the cart path. Traveling at near full speed I veer at an almost impossible angle and caddy-corner the bridge causing my riding partner’s butt to lift in a prune pucker. I’ve made it so far every time but what might the odds be for next time?  Who’s riding with me?