Pamela King Cable's Blog, page 9

My Next Book ... The Sanctum

 


Televenge hovers only a month away ... and I'm thrilled to say the least. But I'm already working on the next book. Actually, I thought it was finished in 2010. After a couple rewrites, it has taken on a life of its own. Here is a preview:



Neeley McPherson accidentally killed her parents on her
fifth birthday. Thrown into the care of her scheming and alcoholic grandfather,
she is raised by his elderly farmhand, Gideon, a black man, whom she grows to
love. Neeley turns thirteen during the winter of 1959, and when Gideon is
accused of stealing a watch and using a Whites Only restroom, she
determines to break him out of jail.




The infamous Catfish Cole, Ku Klux Klan Grand Dragon of the
Carolinas, pursues Neeley and Gideon in their courageous escape to the frozen
Blue Ridge Mountains. After Gideon’s truck hits ice and careens down a steep
slope, they travel on foot through a blizzard, and arrive at a farm of sorts—a
wolf sanctuary where Neeley crosses the bridge between the real and the
supernatural. It is here she discovers her grandfather’s deception, confronts
the Klan, and uncovers the shocking
secrets of the Cherokee family who befriends her. Giving sanctuary, the
healing power of second chances, and overcoming prejudice entwine, leading
Neeley to tragedy once again but also granting her the desire of her heart.


The Sanctum is a coming-of-age
Southern tale dusted with a bit of magic, and set in a volatile time in
America when the winds of change begin to blow.



Blessings to you and yours!

Do Writers Brainstorm Better In A Group?

It's me, brainstorming. I sat with a group of writers in the kitchen, throwing ideas into the air, and bouncing names and places off the walls. I remember thinking how productive is this, really!



But for a writer, brainstorming with friends can produce massive amounts of storyline, character traits, and titles to refer to when you're pushing hard for that next book. So you've got a few thoughts rolling around in your head, but they're not going anywhere. You see a character. What is this person doing, how are they dressed, where are they in terms of time and place?



Literary Agent, Donald Maass has a unique system he uses to flesh out these characters. If you are blessed enough to take any of his classes and/or seminars, do it. It flushes out the gunk so you can think. Not to sound gross, but taking a class from Don, is like a colonic for writers.



In one particular brainstorming session, the light bulb went tilt! tilt!

over my head.



When I finished Televenge , I contemplated my next novel. I love writing about the gritty south, the pretentious north. The religions of both are just as gut-wrenching, but from a totally unique
viewpoint. My group threw out a few ideas and my subconscious went to work.




Over the next weeks, I knew I
wanted to write a novel that included the possibility of the paranormal,
spirituality from different points of view and a character-driven plot. I also
knew I wanted to write in first-person, and last but not least, I wanted the
story to include an animal that has fascinated me all my life—the wolf. I decided on the timeline between November 1959 until March 1960, which was a different route entirely for me. Televenge , my debut novel coming to you in October of 2012, spans thirty years, from 1972 to present day.



But for my new book, I focused on a young girl with fuzzy red hair who
wore thick eyeglasses. For a while, all I had was
an image of Neeley. A skinny, lonely, parentless
country girl who lived on a tobacco farm. I quickly fell in love with her and needed
to write her story. Placing my
little red-headed white girl in the caring hands of the most opposite
character, a seventy-year old African-American male, a rugged individual who
wasn’t afraid of his gentle side, the novel took shape. The what-ifs
began to roll, and each morning the characters revealed a little more of
their story.


It wasn't long, however, and I got stuck. Back to my brainstorming group of friends.  



In a brainstorming session, bring a tape recorder, because you really can't write fast enough. Ideas and thoughts and words fly at the speed of sound. To capture it, you must record the session. But it was at that second brainstorming session that the plot began to
thicken.



I contemplated the one social issue I feel strongly
about. Prejudice. To me, racism is the biggest white elephant in the South. I
know some southern writers have grown up under the care of an African-American
woman hired by their family to cook, clean and care for them. They fondly
remember her as a precious piece of their childhood inspiring them to write
such books as: The Help by Kathyryn Stocket; Plantation and Sullivan’s
Island by Dorothea Benton Frank; The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk
Kid, and The Queen of Palmyra by Minrose Gwin.




I wish I could
say I experienced the wonderful memories of the above authors. But that is not
the case. My experiences were quite
different. Thus, creating a new perspective and a fresh voice.



Although my parents
taught me respect for all people, I soon discovered blatant prejudice in other families around me. As a young girl, it affected me so deeply, I
never forgot it. This began my quest to write a story about
the evils of racism.



On January 29,
2010, The Greensboro News & Record published a special magazine dedicated
to the new International Civil Rights Center and Museum, located in the old and
newly restored Woolworth’s building in downtown Greensboro. In an act of
courage, four black students sat peacefully
at a whites-only lunch counter on February 1, 1960 and changed the world. The
civil rights movement had begun. From that publication, my imagination took off
once again. I wrote dialogue, paragraphs, whole scenes, and sketched it into my
outline.



The area in which I lived at the time,
is rich in tobacco history.
Historically saturated with horse and tobacco farms, today they still dot the
landscape. I also discovered James W. Cole (1924-1967) was ordained into the ministry in Summerfield, NC at the Wayside Baptist Church in 1958. He toured the Carolinas
as a tent evangelist and broadcast a Sunday morning radio program, becoming an
active member of the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and eventually the Grand
Dragon of North and South Carolina. The
man intrigued me. Since the
story was shaping up to take place in North Carolina during that time period, writing Reverend Cole into it was a perfect fit.



As I further
pondered the civil rights movement, I checked my notes from my brainstorming session and saw I had written down the word, Cherokee. I began to think of civil rights for all
people, which led to the Native American plight in my story. According to my father, our family’s
historian, my great grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee. Listening to the pain of the Cherokee voices inside my head, I knew I had to include them.



The wolf finally
appeared in the story. Wolves are about family and order. The wolf is a subtle character, but still a voice to be reckoned
with. I had studied the wolf carefully, and found there were people who loved
wolves enough to create sanctuaries for them. Later, I discovered a wolf sanctuary only a four-hour drive from my
home. A wolf sanctuary in the Blue Ridge Mountains and the town of Bakersville. We drove up the
side of a mountain leading to a sign that read, The Wolf Sanctum. From that moment, I called my novel, The
Sanctum .

 

When I pulled my outline together, I sat for one last brainstorming session with my dear friends. It didn't take long before I felt I had the inciting incident. The book is complete and hopefully, with God's blessing, it will be published.

 

Televenge was such a personal story, I didn't feel the need to brainstorm. But for future books, you can bet I will gather my brainstorming group together for at least three sessions per story. In addition to your research, a writer should not be afraid to ask for help.

 

Brainstorming. It's a writer's boost from ideas rolling around in your head, to getting it onto the page.

 

Try it.

 

Blessings to you and yours.

Would You Drink the Kool-Aid?



 

 
Isn't is amazing that you know to what I am referring?




'Drinking the Kool-Aid' in urban slang, has nothing to do
with that wonderful, fruity drink we guzzled by the gallon when we were kids.
It refers to the 1978 cult mass-suicide in Jonestown, Guyana. Televangelist,
Jim Jones, took cyanide and some kind of sedative and mixed it with Kool-Aid to
poison his massive following at Jonestown. It may have been Flavor Aid, but no
matter what he used, we know what it means when somebody says, "Don't
drink the Kool-Aid!"



I watch a great deal of religious TV, mostly because it's
what I write about. Some of it moves me, most of it—does not. Watching one
particular televangelist recently, I was moved to tears. Not because of what he
was saying, singing, or pushing. It was the faces in the crowd that kept me
glued to the screen. Each face was wet with tears. Those precious people,
reaching out for hope, for a healing, for God. Their hands raised, these folks
had come to that great arena to worship, receive a blessing, and touch the hem
of their Creator. It grieved me so, I eventually had to change the channel.



I sure hope that televangelist knows the tremendous
responsibility on his shoulders. I wonder.



The new face of televangelism is still pretty much the old
face. One of prosperity messages and miracles. The difference is that the
audience has grown by mega leaps and mega bounds. In a bad economy, a great
majority turns to God for help. They’re attracted by those prosperity messages.
The problem as I see it, televangelists can lead sheep to the slaughter like
nothing and no one else. They can bring out the tears and sell God better than
Tony the Tiger sells cornflakes. They can whip up a batch of Kool-Aid, knowing
millions of honest hearts would drink it. And for some reason, we Christians
are hesitant to hold our pastors accountable for what they say and do. They
don't have to be perfect. In fact, I'd prefer if they were not. But we tend to
overlook these rock stars of religion, and confuse the human with the
divine, believing every word they speak comes from The Almighty.



Many years ago, I never missed church. I believed, tithed,
raised my hands in every service, answered hundreds of altar calls, and gave
love offerings instead of paying my light bill. I trusted and obeyed. Sowed my
prosperity seeds and read every prosperity scripture over and over again. I
gave out of my need. For years I lined the pockets of a pastor who traveled
around the world, taking my husband with him, leaving me to suffer alone at
home. Until one day I asked myself this question. Do I feed my kids or pay my
tithe? I fed my kids.



For years I had loved my preacher, believed in my pastor,
and gave everything I had, including my spouse, to the televangelist my pastor
had become. In the end, it didn’t matter because I rebelled and “sealed my
fate.” I was rejected, divorced, and eventually homeless.



Is there such a thing as a good televangelist? No doubt some
possess honest hearts with admirable intentions. But it’s tough to retain those
intentions, that good heart, the humility required and pay for expensive TV
time. I speak from experience. Be careful. Don’t be a gullible Christian. The
wolves are still out there. And so is the Kool-Aid.

 

Blessings to you and yours.

Dinner With The Girls




They were only 15 by the end of the summer. Girlfriends. Meeting for dinner at the Diary Queen next to the Ocean View Restuaruant because after they pooled their money, they only had six dollars. Besides, Jimmy Johnson, the cute boy in Social Stuies, lived on the same street.



Ten years later, the group of 25-year-old girlfriends agreed to meet at the Ocean View Restaurant because the beer was cheap, the band was good, and there was no cover. And lots of cute guys.



Ten years later, the 35-year-old friends shared the cost of a babysitter and met at the Ocean View Restaurant because the cosmos were good, it was close to the gym, and if they went late enough there wouldn't be too many whiny babies.



Ten years later, the 45-year-old girlfriends met at the Ocean View Restaurant because the martinis were big and the waiters were college boys with nice bums.



Ten years later, the 55-year-old girlfriends met, once again, at the Ocean View Restaurant because the prices were reasonable, the wine list was good, it had windows that opened (in case of a hot flash) and the fish was good for their cholesterol.



Ten years later, the 65-year-old ladies argued that the Ocean View Restaurant wasn't what it used to be, but the lighting was good and someone had a coupon for the early bird special.



Ten years later, the 75-year-old friends found their way back to the Ocean View Restaurant because the food wasn't too spicy and the place was handicapped-accessible. And it had an elevator.



Ten years later, the 85-year-old girlfriends discussed where to meet for dinner. Finally, they agreed to meet at the Ocean View Restaurant because it sounded nice and they had never been there before.



By Anonymous ...



Blessings to you and yours, :-) My how time flies.

Don't Get Your Panties In a Wad!

It was my first real writing award. 2003 at the Burlington Writer Awards in North Carolina. No Time For Laura, a short story that was eventually published in Southern Fried Women .  A baby step. A little taste of success that kept me hungry for more.






Some of us shoot ourselves in the foot before we take one step toward success. It could be the environment we were raised in, or lack of self-esteem, but the negativity has to stop at some point if you want to see a return on the thousands of hours you put into your writing.




I listened to a webinar last evening. Now, I'm not a fan of veg-o-matic salespeople pushing their get-rich-quick ideas on the Internet. I've listened to a few of them and they're a real turn off. The seller gets rich while the buyer gets confused and gives up. But Kristen White, a personal media expert, sparked my interest. I saw her at the BookExpo in New York City this past June, and decided to listen to five or ten minutes of her webinar. I ended up listening to the whole thing. Google her and sign up to listen to her next webinar. She's got some fantastic marketing ideas. Not sure I'm going to buy the program, but her step-by-step coaching system to put your product, book or brand in the spotlight and build a solid platform is intriguing. http://www.instantcelebritysuccess.com




However, some of the things she said got me to thinking. One something in particular, and that is I have to stop any negativity wanting to creep into my mind on a daily basis. I have to quit focusing on those who don't like me or my views or ideas and concentrate, instead, on those who do. Or will.




Lately, I've read a few Facebook posts by people who get all riled up because somebody doesn't agree with their views on one thing or another. Mostly politics and religion. The usual. But everyone has an opinion and the right to voice it. We don't have the right to sling mud in the process. Who cares, really, if someone doesn't agree with you? Our differences are what makes the world go around. It makes life interesting. As long as no one gets hurt, a little friendly banter is good.




Love your neighbor, and don't get all shook up if your neighbor doesn't share your views. There is something to love in everybody. Find it. Concentrate on that instead of the negative. And don't get your panties in a wad over things we can nothing about. Life is too damn short.




Give it a rest. Take a step back, and let go of the stress.




Laugh.




And just don't count your blessings. Share them.




Blessings to you and yours.



Does Jesus Really Need our Money?




It was a marathon "praise-a-thon" to raise money.
For the religious TV station, or missions, or for a new satellite to preach
God’s word to the world. I perched myself in front of the TV, watching folks
stand at their seats with arms raised, moving and swaying to the music, eyes
all watery, and shouting out a few praises in between stanzas.






A group of professional singers and musicians blanketed the
stage, leading the auditorium from one tear-jerking song to the next. I sat
thinking no TV audience could possibly be moved enough to donate by watching
this. But the on-screen total kept growing by the minute. A man in 70s couture
shouted loud and long about sowing seeds of prosperity. Giving in faith. He
testified because he didn’t rob God of tithes and offerings, that had God
blessed him. In fact, God had saved him from a life of poverty, sickness, and
disease. And then one day, because he was a tither, a check for six thousand
dollars mysteriously showed up in his mailbox. Praise God!






Phone numbers blinked at the bottom of the TV screen and I
wondered how many of these marathon offerings I've sat through in my lifetime?
Does God really need my money? Or does He really intend to test my faith on a
regular basis by whether or not I give my last dime?






I suppose that depends on whether or not we take the
scriptures literally. The condemnation I feel for even writing this weighs
heavy on me, because I was brought up on the covenants of God. On the
conviction of the Holy Spirit. On the literal meaning of each and every
scripture. And if you did not believe as we did, then whoa be unto you, you
sinner. You were dead already.





I understand why praise and worship offering marathons
exist. Somebody needs to carry the burden to pay for TV time. It might as well
be you or me. But I also know the fear involved. I swallowed that dogma for
years and chased the feelings of eternal security until my feet were worn to
bloody stubs.






Am I now an apostate? Have I forsaken the cross?






No.






I've grown tolerant. I've learned God's love cannot be
explained or compared to the love we know as humans. I've learned that we cannot
control God by "giving until it hurts." I've even grown tolerant of
folks praising God on camera and living like the devil when the house lights
are turned off.





After some time, I changed the channel. Tithing and giving
can be looked at in a different way. For me, giving to a down-and-out family
across the street is doing God's work. His hand reaches out to the poor and the
homeless when we give food and shelter to the needy. You don't do it for
recognition, but for love and compassion for your fellow man. That, my friend,
is following in the footsteps of true Christianity.






I think many evangelicals have lost their focus of what it
means to give. We've become so wrapped up in believing that God wants His
people to have the best, that we forget Christ lived and dwelt among the poor
and the destitute. I'm not saying it's wrong to have nice things, and I don't
have a problem with sitting in a pretty church, but I do have a problem when it
becomes the focus of a church to make sure their pastor lives in the lap of
luxury. I have a problem with pastors who wear designer clothes when some in
his congregation can barely feed their kids!






I realize most churches claim to be good stewards with their
money. I'm sure some would permit you to see where their money is spent. Many church
congregations are extended family to their members, loving them and caring for
their needs during a family crisis. Church families can be a real blessing. But
when televangelists hound you week after week to hand over your ten percent in
addition to your love offering—they not only take away from the local church,
they’re also manipulating you to give out of fear. Fear that you won’t get that
raise, that new car, or the healing for your bad back. That you’ll miss out on
an “anointing” that comes with supporting their ministry. TV preachers and
marathon praise-and-worshippers know exactly what to say to make you weep. They
can send you to the phone to donate before you realize you've left the comfort
of your Lazy boy.






We can reach out in many directions, inside and outside
of the church. And we shouldn't feel guilty for it. I believe He blesses us
according to the intents of our heart. I've experienced the stranglehold of a
megachurch. I know first-hand the guilt involved in not paying your tithes. But
never again will you see me clutching my hard-earned money in my hand and
walking down the aisle to throw it at the pastor’s feet. A pastor who wears
Italian leather shoes and Armani suits. I'd rather take my chances and give it
to the panhandler on the corner.





Find a charity. Sponsors for children in underdeveloped
countries are needed, as well as here in America. With our economy the way it
is, struggling families in your own neighborhood need help. Be an anonymous
donor. Give your ten percent or more to a hurting family. Pay their light bill,
a mortgage payment, or stock their cupboards with groceries. Control where your
money goes. Leave a note on their door with a word of encouragement.





That is the priority of us all. Christian or
not.





Blessings to you and yours.

It's My Birthday And I'll Cry If I Want To ...




Yes, this baby girl was me. I was Calendar Baby of the Year. They plastered my little face on calendars everywhere. Thank God there were no toddlers wearing tiaras back then, or my debutante mama would have toted my frilly butt from one Holiday Inn competition to the next. (Notice the finger waves in the hair. Lordy.)



She kept me in crinolines and frilly dresses. Bonnets, gloves, and patent leather shoes. Hair bows and lacy socks that matched the lace on my panties. They tell me I was a prissy little thing. Until the day I discovered playing in the dirt roads in front of Grandma's house was a lot more fun! Could be that stubborn Leo trait that follows me to this day ... "I'll play in the dirt if I want to!"



I can't believe it. Another year. Ugh. Loved those birthdays when I was a kid, but they can slow down a bit now. Trouble is, it seems they show up more often as I grow older. I was thinking about life back then. Back when a gallon of gas was 22 cents, a movie ticket was 70 cents and the cost of the average home was $11,000.00. What happened to us? We of the baby boomer generation, will we leave this world in a better place for our grandchildren? Well. I suppose that's a blog for another time.



It's my birthday, so I'll try to end on a happier note. I'm not saying which year I was born but you might guess from the following:







The year I was born:




Marilyn Monroe married Joe Demaggio

Elvis was King




Popular Movies:

White Christmas

The Caine Mutiny

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea




Popular Books:

Live & Let Die - Ian Fleming

Lord of the Flies - William Golding

Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien




Born in my year:

Ron Howard

John Travolta

Christie Brinkley

and my friend, Oprah Winfrey




Swanson introduced TV Dinners! Yay!




The first mass vaccination against polio put scars on our arms




The first RCA color TV went on sale!




Eisenhower was President




Churchill was still Prime Minister of England




Snow tires with studs cost $15.00 each




and last but not least ...




Playtex Magic Controller Girdle went on sale.

You know, the one with reinforced garters,

no-roll sides and no-hike-up backs

$7.95 at your favorite department store











First grade picture. Still got those finger waves.







Blessings to you and yours.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 14 ~ The End







~~~Sunday, May 10,
1953~~~



Odie
spent the last night on his farm laying his important papers, along with a few
pictures of Savina, where Thirl would see them. In the crude barn he’d built
after the first one burned, Odie cleaned the horse stalls and said goodbye to
his small herd. He fed his dogs, chickens, hog, and his horses, and then laid
the feedbags where DeDe could find them easily. Hanging his head and dragging
his body through the house, he gathered Savina’s belongings and what few
clothes he owned and put them into two boxes to be given to the Baptist
missionary fund. Finally, he collapsed into a chair and stared into a blazing
fire until morning.



~~~Monday, May 11,
1953~~~



Outside,
the low light of dawn came quickly. The sun won its battle and the storm clouds
departed, leaving behind ragged wisps of black and gray streaking the blue sky
like soot on a clean sheet.



 Odie had one last mission. His car totaled,
his truck confiscated by the authorities at the cook shack, he relied on his
bay colt to help him fulfill his last duty to his friends. Seizing the reins,
Odie swung up onto his horse’s back, knees tight around the animal’s barrel of
ribs. The horse uttered a great whinny, tossed his head, and broke into a lope
across the hill. Odie wiped tears from his eyes with his coat sleeve and headed
for Colored Holler.



~~~



DeDe’s
body, slow and heavy, rolled out of bed early. She had filled her washing
machine with boiling water from the stove. Sleeping the day away under a pile
of blankets was an option she’d considered. Except something made her get out
of bed. The sunshine, perhaps.



Sheets
and towels went in first, then underwear, socks, Thirl’s T-shirts, colors, and
lastly—Thirl’s work clothes. The same wash-load line-up every week for the past
few decades.



At
the bottom of the basket the smell of coal rose from dirty pants and shirts.
Her hand shook lifting them out—they were her son’s. She shoved them into a paper
bag with no intention to wash them. DeDe set the bag in his room and closed the
door behind her. She wanted the room sealed off, kept as a tomb. What would
we ever use it for anyway? DeDe forced her mind to go blank, refusing to
think of the fresh graves at the end of town.



~~~



The sound of a horse brought men
and women out to their porches in the hollow.



Nappy-headed
children peeked through windows. Smoke floated out of every chimney. When the
horse stopped in front of Jabo’s house, Mama Ola clopped out on the porch, her
eyes stern and her lips stiff.



Odie
tipped his hat. “Ma’am.” He remained on his horse. “Mister Kelly awake?”



“Nawser,
you g’wan now … git. We don’t need no trouble up heah.”



Hephzibah
stepped out on the dilapidated porch and wrapped a shawl around her
mother-in-law. “Jabo’s in the house. He be out directly. We’re grievin’ too,
Mist’ Odie.”



“I
know. You loved my Savina, and I appreciate what you done. You know what I come
fer?”



“I
knows why,” said Hephzibah. “You ready to tell the Nettles the truth?”



“I
am.”



Jabo
walked out with his rifle. “You do this, Mist’ Odie, you do this right, or ah
swear ah hunt you down mysef.”



“I
promise, Mister Kelly. I promise to make the Nettles’ world a little happier
today. I’m goin’ to prison, probably for the rest of my days. You’ll have no
fight from me, Sir. Was my bullet that killed Cole Farlow two nights ago. I’m
gonna pay for that.”



Jabo
nodded. “Come inside then.”



~~~



Thirl,
having the week off, roamed the house, the porch, and the yard, bumping into
his wife at every turn. His mind weary, his hands empty—his heart needing a
reason to beat, he carried the heavy basket of sheets to the back yard for DeDe
to hang them on the line. Needing to be near her, Thirl handed her clothespins,
until the first glimpses of the funeral procession for Cole Farlow moved up
Nicholas Street. Recognizing the few cars that followed the hearse, Thirl
walked back into the house and stepped out on the front porch. His legs buckled
under him—falling to the steps, his eyes fixed on the motorcade rolling by
slowly. He had no idea where they were burying him … he didn’t care.



~~~



The
sheriff arrived early to arrest Odie at his house, but when he walked up on the
porch he saw a note had been tacked to the door. You can find me at Thirl
Nettles’.



~~~



Squeezing with his feet, he gave a
little hey-yup and set the horse into motion, waving goodbye to Jabo and
his family. He headed to Widen. Odie passed houses at a slow trot; it’d been
many years since folks had seen a horse in the middle of town.



DeDe heard the noise of the crowd
getting louder as she hung clothes on the line. It sounded as if the whole town
was walking up Nicholas Street again.



Thirl stuck his head out the back
doorway. “DeDe! Come quick. It’s Odie riding his horse up the street. Ya ain’t
gonna believe this.”



            DeDe wiped
her hands on her dress and walked inside. The air in the house was
electric. Watching Thirl limp out to the
front porch, DeDe's head tingled and music played inside
her again. Grief moved aside for a moment as she stepped out on the porch with
her husband.



            Odie sat on
top of his horse that pranced in the street by the gate. Odie’s right hand was
wrapped around the chest of a smiling baby boy propped in the saddle in front
of him. The baby looked to be about ten months old. DeDe ran to Odie and
reached up. Tears flowed as she laid her hand on Odie’s leg. The book of life had never closed. In moments it was revealed to her mind.



Gazing at the boy for a second,
Odie tentatively touched the child’s forehead and cheek. He folded the blanket
down around him and allowed the baby to slip off his saddle, out of his large
hands, and into DeDe’s arms. He had James’ eyes and Savina’s mouth. And red
hair. Lots of dark red hair.



“The
most powerful force in the universe is gossip,” said Odie. “Savina didn’t want
anybody to know, didn’t want people pointing at her baby, calling him a
bastard. It was my fault they didn’t marry sooner. But they was gonna leave
town next month, get married, come back later, after some time had passed. Jabo
and his family been takin’ care of the boy all this time, that’s why Savina
spent so much time there. He was born last July fourth.”



Thirl
walked up behind DeDe and put his hands on her shoulders, then touched the
child’s head, smoothing down his fine hair. The baby smiled, its toothless
little mouth opened with a gurgle. With his finger, Thirl wiped drooling spit
from its chin.



Odie
choked on his tears. “Thirl, meet our grandson. This here is Emery. Emery
Curtis Nettles. Son of James and Savina, grandson of Deanna and Thirl, and
Josephine and … me.”



Thirl
unhooked a sack of clothes and diapers tied on the saddle. Odie laid his hand
on Thirl’s shoulder and smiled.



“We’ll
take good care of him,” Thirl said and nodded. He shook Odie’s hand.



DeDe
kissed the baby and held him close as a silent police car nosed through the
parting crowd and pulled up behind the horse.



~~~Thanksgiving
1953~~~



The music dueled in the barn.
Thanksgiving held a special meaning this year to the residents of Widen. Groups
of men and women played their fiddles, banjos, and mandolins. A few guitar
pickers joined in. They danced and sang old mountain songs from their past and
set rows of food for the town to partake together, giving thanks for an end to
the strike.



Thirl raised Emery to his
shoulders. “Mamaw, you want us to bring you some cider?”



“No, you boys go on. I’m gonna sit
here a spell and listen to the music.” She hesitated a moment. “Thirl?”



“Yes?”



“I want … I want you to know how
much I love you.”



He smiled down at her as he patted
his grandson’s legs hanging around his neck. “You’re a fetching woman, Deanna.”



She smiled back. He had been her
rock. She wanted him to know.



Watching her husband carry his
grandson with the same love and affection he once carried James Curtis in the
Thanksgiving barn, the pain of loss pulled at her insides. She’d grown weak in
her mind. Mournful. Raising Emery only put a Band-Aid on the infected wound of
losing her son. Even Doc Vance worried about her—part of his rounds to sick
folk included a visit to the Nettles family every week.



Her foot tapped in time to the
music. She shoved stray hairs back into place and closed her eyes, absorbing
the low cry of the steel guitar.



“Nobody
cares if you can’t dance well. Just get up and dance.”



She
recognized him. Herald Wingate. DeDe turned toward the voice; her mouth opened
but remained silent.



He
hiked up his same nasty boot on the bench beside her and rested his arm on his
leg. “God will not let you suffer what you’re not able to bear.”



“I
cain’t bear anymore.” Anger filled her throat like she was choking on a piece
of meat.



“He
knows that. But you’ve got to find the strength He sent you a while back to
raise this young’un.”



“What
strength? When?”



“The
night you heard the angels sing. That was for you, Deanna.”



“Just
who are you? Why did you come back here?”



“He
sent me, to tell you that. Who I am doesn’t matter. Your suffering is over.
You’re to be a witness to those who will still have some suffering to do.”



“That’s
my purpose? To help others get through their suffering?” She turned away from
him, indignant, and stared straight ahead to watch people dance.



“Yes,
and to raise their child. They’re watching you, you know. They’re proud of
you.”



DeDe
continued to stare at the dance floor, ready to match him word for word. “Who’s watching me?”



No
answer.



Jugg
Pyle’s fiddle began to play Angel Band, and the aroma of apple blossoms
filled the room. She turned to speak to his face, but his face was gone. Along
with the rest of him. Nobody had seen him that night, nobody but DeDe.



~~~



Odie’s trial lasted for months. He
was found guilty of first-degree murder and given life in prison. The Clay
County grand jury handed up a series of indictments, from holding up the
railroad and stealing dynamite to blowing up the bridges, and the murder of
Cole Farlow.



In November 1953 the evidence
gathered by the FBI was finally laid before a federal grand jury in Huntington
against the UMW strikers. More of the striking miners found themselves doing
time in a federal prison. The United States Department of Justice regarded the
indictment as the most important attempt to deal with labor violence under
civil rights statutes. Widen’s reign of terror was over.



~~~May 1954~~~



Spring came again.



            In the mountains, near the shadows of town, side by
side in their graves, the young lovers slept under the apple tree. Close by the
humble walls of the little Baptist church, in the heart of Clay County they
laid, unnoticed. Daily the tides of life went ebbing and flowing beside them.
Every Sunday throbbing hearts filed past where theirs were at rest. Every
Sunday Pastor Jessie searched the scriptures, but their minds were no longer
busy. Their eyes were closed for eternity. Every Sunday the toiling hands of
the Pastor shook those of his congregation while their hands ceased from their
labors and a thin gold band laid forever buried under a stone in a cabin now
abandoned. Every Sunday weary feet drug into a sanctuary to rest from a weeks’
worth of backbreaking labor in the mines, but their feet had completed their
journey. Every Sunday the Pastor reached across his pulpit for the souls of his
congregation, but their souls had walked to the light.



As Pastor Jessie concluded his
sermon, his gaze fell upon Thirl, DeDe, and their grandson asleep in his
grandmother’s arms. He stretched his arms above his head, and held his black
King James in his right hand. His voice bellowed and he wept aloud. “The United
States Government may have ended the strike, but Savina and James Curtis ended
the hatred of family against family, brother against brother, man against
himself. Their love was not in vain. God’s ways are not our ways, His thoughts
not our thoughts. Who are we to know the plan of God?”



“The violence and sorrow in Widen
will not be put away and forgotten like an old picture book, but passed on for
future generations to never forget what has happened here. This tale of woe is
not the sole possession of one family, but of all families in this town. For
all are punished. Let us pray and let us remember.”



~~~



He played coal miner with his toy
truck on Nicholas Street. On warm sunny mornings he could be found sitting in
the dirt, a little redheaded boy with brilliant blue eyes and coal dust on his
feet.




The End

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 13

~~~Saturday, May
9, 1953~~~



            She’d survived the night. DeDe sat up slowly,
feeling the creak and snap of each vertebra. She’d slept in James’ bed, or
tried to. She wanted to smell him, feel where he had been only hours before.
What little sleep she did get was filled with dreams of him as a baby, crying
at her feet, toddling behind her as she hung sheets on the line, or playing
with his puppy.



            Swinging her feet over the side, she put the sole of
her foot down on one of her son’s drawings sticking out from under the bed. A
picture of Savina. James had not shown this picture to her. There was a curious
look in her eye; she looked strange … different … not his best drawing of
Savina. DeDe noticed it was dated July, last year. She carried the drawing to
her chifforobe and placed it in the box with the rest of his drawings. Until
she could bear to put them into a scrapbook in her old age, they would be
buried there.



            “Bury,” she said aloud. The word stuck in her
throat.



            DeDe wasn’t a stranger to burying a child. But she
had not known her stillborn son. This was different.



James Curtis had slept his last
night in their home. She slid her hand along the top of the closed casket that
rested on two sawhorses in her front room. How could she find the strength to
put on her blue funeral dress, eat breakfast, and face the crowds again? How on
earth could she lower her son’s body into the ground and keep on living?



~~~



            DeDe
stumbled into the church, watching Pastor Jessie greet people with a
double-handed shake.



            “You and
Thirl need anything, anything at all, you call me, hear?”



            DeDe smiled
weakly, but said nothing.



            She walked
to the front pew and looked into the sleepless face of Doctor Vance; his
glasses had steamed up from humidity and tears. She sat next to him. Hands
clasped together, twisting in her lap, she avoided his gaze.



            “He was a
good son.”



DeDe cleared her throat. “Thanks,
Doc. I just want this day to be over.”



He leaned toward her. “But you
can’t let grief consume you, Deanna.”



            She nodded.
“People give in to grief the way they fall in love. Grief will be my constant
companion for the rest of my days.” Doctor Vance squeezed her hand, then moved
over so Thirl could sit beside her.



            The crowd
grew quiet, except for a low volume of grumbling and dissension when Odie
walked up to the altar where his daughter’s casket lay next to James’ at the
front of the church. He stood disheveled in a wrinkled suit and placed each
hand on a coffin. His shoulders heaved up and down until Thirl stood and guided
him back to the front pew for the eulogy. Tears rolled down Odie's cheeks, unchecked.
The crowd of mourners murmured among themselves over such a blatant display of
forgiveness.



            Aging
years since DeDe had seen him last, Odie was frail, hairless, and embryonic.  His old man’s shoulders, thin and lifeless,
moved beneath the fabric of his jacket as he grabbed hold of James Curtis’ casket and
hoisted it to his shoulder. DeDe prayed for Thirl’s bad leg when he raised
Savina’s casket to his own shoulders. Sixteen men in all carried Savina and James
to their final resting places. Sixteen men who were neither union nor company
on that day.



Odie had appeared on their back
porch to ask his friends for forgiveness and grieve with them. Thirl had
contacted the sheriff and requested Odie be allowed to go to the funeral and
then get his house in order before they arrested him. The Nettles took responsibility
for Odie, promising the sheriff that he would be at his farm on Monday morning.
Thirl made a promise to his old friend that he would sell his farm and put the
money in a fund for miners’ children.




            Thirl, DeDe, and Odie were miner's children who became miners. It was only fitting they carry one another's burdens and share in each other's sorrow on the day they buried their children--together. They buried them under a Golden Delicious apple tree in the church cemetery, two rows down from a tombstone barely readable. Herald Wingate, Born 1884, Died 1909, Friend of C.G. Widen, town founder.



... the last part of Coal Dust On My Feet will post tomorrow.

Coal Dust On My Feet ~ part 12

~~~Friday, May 8,
1953~~~



DeDe sat on a log near the old
church in the cemetery as the rain fell pitilessly upon her. The trees offered
little protection. It was as if someone had poked a hole in the awning of green over her head. It
wasn’t a cleansing rain. She knew it wouldn’t renew her. Instead she expected
it to wear her down, obliterate her features, and allow her to dissolve back
into the earth like warm rain on snow.



            Leaning
forward, she crossed her arms on her lap and hung her head low as the fat drops
turned her auburn hair into a twisted brown mop. Her thick yellow
housecoat, now drenched and clinging to her thin body, hung like a wet rug from her shoulders. Her pale
feet, covered with mud, lined her naked flesh like wounds as she cried huge
heaving sobs.



DeDe had felt certain Thirl would
find him, safe. Drunk, maybe. But not dead. The devastation and grief in her
husband’s eyes had told the story. Her head pounded from a river of endless tears and a
restless night’s sleep.




When Thirl returned at dawn with Pastor Jessie and no
one uttered a sound, DeDe instinctively knew her son was dead. Still in her
robe, she bolted from the house like one who had lost their mind. Careening down
the street to no place in particular, her march ended at the cemetery behind
the church staring down the hole that had been dug for Savina’s funeral.



            DeDe rose on shaky
legs on that dreary morning. She felt Thirl standing behind her. It was only
natural that he would follow her. She took a breath to gather her strength,
turned around and stepped closer to her husband, narrowing the distance.
Pounding her breast with her fist, emphasizing each word, she said in a voice
betrayed, “God has allowed my child to be stolen from me. He has deceived me!”



            Thirl caressed her
face in his hands. His voice was low and hoarse. “You don’t mean that. He loves
you, Deanna.” His arm steadied her, and his kiss to her forehead spoke of a
love come down from God, a love she would have to trust more completely in the
days ahead. Leading her to his car, he gently put her in.



The
rain poured down once more, and the old Plymouth’s defroster sputtered and
coughed against the fogged windshield. Just as Thirl and DeDe got back to the
house, the storm subsided. Sunlight washed over the leaves of the dogwood in
the yard and the tree glowed. It lit up and sparkled like tiny flashlights had
been attached to every branch. Flashlights through the valley of the shadow
of death.



That’s
when they saw them: the neighbors, half the town scattered across the lawns. They had got in their cars and drove to Nicholas Street, or opened their front
doors forgetting to close them, and walked into her yard and her neighbor’s
yards, and stood there—silent. On her tiny lawn and porch, each person held some
part of themselves: an arm pressed to a chest, a hand up across a forehead.
Union sympathizers and men and women loyal to the company, mixed together for
the first time since a gunshot maimed Thirl last September.



Edith Holcomb wore only one shoe.
Tessa Butcher clutched her newborn to her chest, her other three children
strung behind her as she bolted across the street. By mid-morning there were
twenty more people draped across her porch, front room, and at her kitchen
table—sniffling into  handkerchiefs, wiping tears. Opal Hamrick’s
scream broke the silence in the yard. “Goose Digg told me, but I couldn’t
believe it.”



            Some
of the men wanted to know where the Farlow boy was hiding out. Some guessed which paths over the mountains he’d take.



“This is in God’s hands. Let the sheriff take care of this,” Thirl said in spurts, barely audible.
“There’s been enough killin’. Leave it alone, boys.”



             Stiff breezes blew through the windows, filling the front room
in a sea of floating white chiffon—surreal and ominous. Clergy from
area churches descended, while Pastor Jessie along with his wife and two daughters in tow
organized food, spoke to Jugg about a double funeral, and started a prayer
circle in the Nettles’ front room.



DeDe dried off and changed her
clothes, but her face never dried completely. Covered with tears, it
felt chapped and raw to the touch from so much wiping.



Trickles of silence filled the morning until someone caught a glimpse of Dewey Wilson running across the road in his
stocking feet. His shadow flung out in front of him, painted long by the early
sun, Dewey arrived at the front steps heaving for breath. Clutching a newspaper in his
hands, his socks soaked with morning dew, he pressed through the crowded yard. “They’re callin’ for an end to the strike! Where’s Thirl?”



            Lottie
Digg, a nervous, pinched woman in a blue housedress, stood on the porch, her
hands around her Bible. “Where d’you think he is, Dewey? He’s in the house with
DeDe.”



Dewey bolted inside and laid the
paper gently in Thirl’s arms. “This won’t ease yer pain none, but looks like
the strike might be over. It’s over because this town’s finally come to its
senses. This town and them vultures in Charleston. James had to die for it to
happen, but it ended it.” He turned to DeDe. “I’m sorry, Deanna. I’m sorry your
boy had to die for all of us.”



            “Kinda
makes me know how God must’ve felt.” DeDe’s voice was as dense as freshly
poured cement. “But let’s remember all the families that’ve lost someone they
love in the past few days. I hear the Frame family is burying Charles today. So
many families are mourning in Widen.” She nodded in appreciation of Dewey’s
words and hung her head.



Later, the house filled with
another shift of townsfolk. Visitors brought food—dozens of casseroles, pots of
beans, a ham, a few pies—gallons of tea. One preacher or another led many weeping mourners in prayer. Lottie stood to read the Psalms. Her gentle reading voice wavered only
slightly. “How is this God’s will, Pastor?”



            Thirl wandered to the back yard to smoke with some of the
men, his face calm, almost blank. DeDe roamed the peopled rooms of her house,
walking from bedroom, to porch, to kitchen, wishing they would all leave. But
she didn’t have the heart to tell them to go—they were all grieving. She wanted
to be alone when the undertaker brought James’ body back to the house. They
would be quick about it and bury him beside Savina tomorrow.



            She stopped and looked out through the rusted screens at
the hazy view of the back yard filled with people. They weren’t good at much.
All they knew was mining. Nobody had made it to college. But the one thing they knew how to do was pray. If the town had one
talent, it was faith. They
believed in the power of Jesus Christ. The same yesterday, today, and forever.
They had been raised up in the shadow of this great faith, in the vast
floodplain of belief. To DeDe, Jesus was more real than the people of Widen. As
she walked to the school or down the path across the creek to the store, she
often heard His voice. He was her comforter, her most intimate friend. As far
as DeDe knew, Jesus was a Baptist. To say you didn’t believe in the existence
of God was like saying you did not believe in corn flakes, or sunsets, or that
the earth was round. But in the last few hours, His voice had gone silent.



DeDe crept into the bathroom to be
alone. She sat on the floor. The sun strained through the window, the light
bounced off the chrome handles in the tub and shimmered across the porcelain.
It filled the small bathroom with an underwater radiance. It
felt like somebody had taken the needle off the record and for the first time,
the music she’d heard her whole life, the music that played all around her,
just stopped. She’d never heard such silence. DeDe rubbed her ears for a moment
and thought perhaps she’d gotten something stuck in them, some water from the
rain that morning. She shook her head back and forth. But there was nothing.
Just silence. And sorrow. She’d had no premonition of her son’s death. She felt
betrayed.




~~~



When the last mourner had gone and
James Curtis was laid out in the front room, Jugg Pyle, Widen’s undertaker,
closed the casket’s lid for the night. DeDe hoped Jugg thought about the
morning he and Dewey had stood in her kitchen and argued with James about
shoving the strikers off the hill. She hoped they both thought about it good
and hard.



“I’ll be by in the morning to get
things ready for the funeral procession,” Jugg said.



            Thirl nodded, shook Jugg’s hand, and closed the door
behind him. Exhausted, he fell into his worn chair. His elbows angled
on the arms, Thirl turned pages of his Bible. Its spine crackled under his grip. His
eyes took in each paragraph, quick and hungry searching for answers.



At midnight the house was finally
quiet. DeDe sat with her arms outstretched on the kitchen table, her hands
folded, staring at a blank wall. The emptiness of it all caved in on her.



How can I be childless?





Childless.




Childless women have more than one church dress; wear pretty shoes and sweaters
with no stains. They smell of perfume, not spilled milk or fried bologna
sandwiches. Their stomachs are flat and their breasts—small and manageable.
They go to Summersville for permanent waves and live in tidy houses with clean
walls, floors, and pretty towels and pillows they never use. But I never
cared about all that. And yet, Dear God, I learned to be content with the one
child you gave me. Now You have taken my only son! How do I live with the
memories of him. Tell me God, how do I do that?



            DeDe pulled her arms back, laid her hands in her lap
and her head on the table.


            Thirl heard the knock at the back door and sighed.
“No more, not tonight. Not at this late hour.” But DeDe had already stood and

opened it, finding Odie Ingram standing on the back porch in the dark, with his hat
in his hand.