R.E. Bradshaw's Blog, page 8

Unleash the Kraken!

"Let no joyful voice be heard! Let no man look to the sky with hope in his eyes! And let this day be forever cursed by we who ready to wake...the Kraken!"~ Davy Jones - "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest"


A line uttered by a famous pirate from a famous movie, by an even more famous actor. I give credit where credit is due. Unfortunately, not everyone plays by the same rules. Credit is due thousands of artists around the world. Pirates are raiding our work and no one seems to be able to do anything about it. Hands are raised in the air, heads shake, but no one gets anywhere in this struggle to hold and maintain copyrighted material as sacred, not to be duplicated by unauthorized persons. 
Arguments for apathy abound. "Come to terms with it," "It's a waste of time to send take down notices," "Pirates are good for business," "Ebooks are too high priced," etc. The list goes on. I'll try to address those quickly. Bull shit! Was that quick enough. Doing nothing when all this started is why we're in the mess we're in. Had the alarm sounded much louder, or had we listened, we would have foreseen the impact pirates have on sales. "If they download a book free, they'll buy the rest." Again, BS! They'll download books for free and laugh at the people who pay for books. Pirates are not good for the lesbian fiction writer. Our readers are a loyal bunch. The core of our readership dutifully buys and will always buy our books. People downloading free books are going to do it no matter what, but continuing to stand by and let the pirates have their way is in no way good for my business. I lost a significant amount of money according to download numbers. I am certainly not alone. About prices, to say that lowering prices will stop pirates is ludicrous. They steal FREE stuff to download. If it's okay for them to steal my work and cost me money, then I would hope the person stating that is ready for me to pass on the losses through the price of my ebook. I'm already charging less than publishers. I'm not doing this writing gig without food and shelter. To authors that aren't incensed about all this I say, they just haven't hit you hard enough yet. When the real numbers start to come clear to you, you'll see. 
All that said, I am joining my fellow authors and readers in saying enough is enough. We are targeting one of the most prolific lesbian fiction pirates out there. Yamlugue1080 or Yamlugue, she changes her screen name from time to time. There has been a call for a letter writing campaign to request politely, but voice an opinion strongly, that she stop stealing from a genre of which she claims to be a fan. Fans don't steal from artists. Thieves steal. Layce Gardner has a sample letter on her blog.(http://laycegardner.wordpress.com/) Saxon Bennet is talking about this too.(http://saxonbennett.wordpress.com/) If you feel strongly that pirates should be addressed, then send an email and a snail mail, (Yamlugue will shut down her email pretty quick I assume,) to the addresses at the bottom of this blog.
I always wondered what a group of women could do with a common enemy. Amazon women were fierce. Modern lesbians are taking on the world. We are strong when we are strong together. Pirates beware, you've poked a slumbering  beast. Davy Jones was right to curse the day the Kraken was unleashed!
One last thing. I have a favorite line from "The Lion in Winter." I use it when someone says something can't be done, like telling me we'll get results with this campaign, "When pigs fly." To that I say, in my best Katharine Hepburn voice, "There will be pork in the treetops come morning. Don't you see? You've given them a common cause..."

email: yamlugue@yahoo.com.ar
Yamila Luciana Guerrier
Cochabamba 948
Ciudad de Buenos Aires
1150 Argentina

Thank you, Kristy McNichol

     When I saw the feed hit twitter, I was excited. I turned to the wife and said, "Kristy McNichol came out publicly." I clicked on the link, saw the picture, and read the story. Cool, she looks content and has been in a relationship for sometime. That's great. I'm happy for her, but I'm more excited that she chose to show us. From what I read, she made a public statement because she's tired of seeing the stories about kids being bullied. There are already those that say it's an attention grabbing opportunity. Good, I hope she gets lots of attention. She's right. The bullying has to stop.      What I want to address here are the folks saying, "Who did she think she was fooling?" I'm no Kristy McNichol, world famous actress, (even if her star is a bit dated,) but I had to hide for much the same reasons she did. Her career would have tanked way before she simply faded out of the public eye. She would have been, Kristy the gay actress, not simply the kid everyone fell in love with on the screen. Her income would have been devastated even after she was no longer the star she once was. As a public school teacher, I hid that part of my life for one, because it is my personal life and two, because I wouldn't have been a teacher long if I was out publicly.     When I started seeing the posts commenting on how everyone knew Kristy was gay and how it wasn't a surprise, I felt an old wound awaken. When I finally gave over to latent feelings and mysteries that had plagued me throughout my youth, I fell in love with a woman at 26. Some of my friends were quick to say, "I knew you were gay." Oh really? You knew something about me that I didn't know myself. I didn't know that what I was looking for was a woman. I didn't know she would be the answer to all my questions. If I didn't know, then how the hell did you? I wouldn't recommend this be the first thing you say to a friend that has struggled with telling you their deeply held secret. Maybe you should just say, "Welcome to the family."     I was out to friends and family, but not at work. When I quit my job to write fulltime, I could say it out loud for the first time. I am a lesbian. I have a wife, a son, and I am very happy. My God, was that not a moment to remember. I felt like a weight had been lifted and I had been given wings. It makes no difference that most people, including the students, "knew" I was gay. They never heard me say it. They never heard me say, "This is my wife and that's our son." They never heard me say, "We'll be celebrating our 25 anniversary this year." They never heard me say, "Honey, it's okay to be gay and it will get better." But they can hear me now! I'm sure Kristy feels the same way.     So, yes, I suspected Kristy McNichol was gay. I had the same crush on her that the rest of America had, and looking back, she played a part in the questioning of my own sexuality for years. Kristy and Jodie led the bandwagon of latent sexuality out of my soul. And though it took me 26 years to figure it all out and nearly 50 years before I could just be me all the time, I will always look back on them as the little girls that held my hand while I remained in that dark closet. I know Kristy didn't make this statement without a lot of soul searching and I'm glad she came to the conclusion that she could remain silent no longer. Each person has her own journey to make out into the world. I for one am grateful that Kristy is making hers. Thank you, Kristy. Welcome to the family.


(And yes, I write under a pen name. I started writing when I was still a teacher and as I've stated, you don't come out in my school district and keep your job.  Anybody can find out my real name. It's on this blog site, on my Facebook page, and if you've met me I probably told you my real name. If you're curious, do some research. It's easy to find.)

Just a little rant about piracy, file theft, and Lord, I need chocolate.

 I don't get the argument that file sharing isn't hurting anyone and is actually good for business. So in that world, it's okay for me to go to work and at the end of the day the boss says, "Oh well, I'm not going to pay you for your work today. You going to give me this day for free and maybe I'll pay you for tomorrow, but I'm not promising anything." 
     I write for a living. I don't have a second job. This is my job and it is a REAL job. That's how I take care of my family. As an author, I do give away some of my books. I donate to libraries and book clubs. I help out readers who want a book, but can't afford it right now. People lend my print books to each other and that's okay. Maybe if they read one, they'll buy another. I also participate in the lending program with my ebooks. Someone can buy an ebook and lend it to a friend for 14 days. So, yes, I am giving away my work, but it is my choice. It is not my choice when someone downloads a whole book and gives it away for free online or worse, sells it. Lending a print book to your group of friends or lending an ebook for a limited number of days is one thing, making my work available to millions is theft.
     There is enough free music, literature, art, etc. online without it being necessary to steal, and yes that is exactly what it is. I offer free short stories and other writing that I am happy to see shared. Many other artists do the same and more. Do I hope that generates some book sales? Yes, it's called marketing. I am in a small market genre where every sale counts. I have friends who are independent film makers in this same small market. Everyone loves their latest movie so much that they download it onto YouTube, all the while demanding better and more movies in this genre. How is an independent film company going to stay in business if fans keep giving away their movies for free, forcing them to beg for donations to give the fans what they want? 
     None of us in this genre are making money hand over fist like the big boy publishers or movie producers. We are not millionaires from some far off fantasyland. We are your neighbors, friends, colleagues, working at a job just like you. I doubt any of us put all this blood, sweat, and tears into our art for the money. We do it because we are driven to create, but we still have to eat, keep a roof over our heads, and pay the expenses for producing that art. Bottom line, everyone deserves to be paid for the work they do. So, as I stated, I don't understand the logic of, "I'm doing you a favor by sharing your hard work to the world. You should thank me. I'm generating fans for you." I'm sorry, but a real fan supports the artist by paying for the art, so that the artist can continue to be creative. Art is and always has been dependent on its patrons to survive.  
     File sharing is theft. If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck... well, you know the rest. Really, thanks for the offer to distribute my work and generate fans, but no thanks. That's my job and my responsibility, not yours. If I choose to work all day and not expect to be paid, that is my decision and my right, not yours. I agree that giving the government control over what is and isn't available online is unwise, but then we must govern ourselves. Do not share copyrighted material. Do not stand silently by while your friends and family members do it. Govern yourselves people or the government is going to do it for you. If you see my novels being offered on an unauthorized site, I would appreciate an email - (rebradshawbooks@gmail.com) - and I'm sure my fellow artist would too.

PS. If you're thinking it's easy to get a file pulled down after someone loads it on a  site, you are sadly mistaken. The ISPs are uncooperative and simply ignore anything but a legal attack, which again cost me money. If you think that's fair, by all means, share away. If you have a conscience, think before you click - it could mean your favorite artist can keep creating one more day. 


Now, I shall consume chocolate, because Harry Potter says it calms you down.

Abe

     I was twelve years old that summer. I had a little buddy named Perry. Perry was ten and had a medical problem, so his heels didn't touch the ground and he walked funny. I didn't care. He was my buddy. Both of our moms worked at the courthouse. We were courthouse brats, making it our playground. The old courthouse sat on the edge of Currituck Sound and is now a national historic site. I lived about a 1/4 of a mile from it and Perry lived closer to the huge red brick building. It really isn't that big, but to us, it was gigantic. The courthouse was built adjacent to the ancient jail, which was constructed in the 1700's. It's iron bars still visible and irresistible to two imaginative kids. We were sure pirates had been held there in chains.     I drank my first beer with Perry. We found one floating in the sound, hot, the tin can faded. We went to the old country store across from the courthouse, bought a grape soda and mixed that beer with it. It was nasty and we vowed not to try that again. I also smoked my first pot with Perry. We weren't bad, we just found some pot the deputies dropped while taking pictures of it for court. We dried it up, stole some rolling papers from some older kids, and fired that puppy up. Nothing happened except we coughed a lot and vowed not to do that again, either.     We would sneak into the balcony and peek at the court proceedings, until the bailiff would give us the evil eye. Perry and I were privileged to watch people be led in cuffs into the mysterious belly of the jail, where we were never allowed to go but damn if we didn't try often enough. We did finally get to see it when a deputy took us and locked us in a cell, just to scare the crap out of us. It worked and we stopped trying to get in there. Sometimes the inmates would offer us money out the windows to bring them smokes and drinks. Back then you could buy a pack of cigarettes, even beer, if you told the old man at the counter it was for your mom or dad. We never lied to the old man, because he would ask your parents about your shopping habits if he were suspicious. We never brought the prisoners anything either, because the Sheriff said if he caught us, he'd tan our hides. Ah, but then there was this one time.     Just down the road from the courthouse was the Maple Prison. It was a medium security prison. My dad even taught some classes there for extra money. He was a school principal and still had to work part time to make ends meet. Escapes were frequent and they often ended up breaking into the school cafeteria to get food. We lived on the school grounds and my dad always got a call when there was an escape. (More on that later.) The prison also provided the county with workers, menial labor jobs, like janitors at the courthouse. That's how Perry and I met Abe.     The first time I saw Abe, he was talking to my mother. Okay, he's talking to my mother, he has to be a good guy, right? We had been around so many prisoners, one more wasn't a real shock, but Abe was different. Abe looked like Paul Newman, at least in my twelve-year-old mind. He could have stepped off the screen and walked right out of "Hud," as far as I was concerned. He was wearing a tight white tee-shirt and the white prison pants with the stripe up the leg. Abe was charming and smart and didn't mind us tagging after him as he cleaned the courthouse floors and bathrooms. I always felt important when he'd ask me to check the ladies room so he could go in. I asked him why he was in prison. He told us someone stole his tools and he stole them back, 'cept he got caught. That didn't sound fair to us, so we never looked at him as a thief or criminal. We three became fast friends.     We liked to swim and Perry and I were subject to just jump in anytime. The water was right there and nobody cared that we swam without adult supervision. Hell, you had to walk a 1/2 mile out to just get over your head in the shallow sound. Unless you jumped off the ferry dock, which had I done so, would have resulted in my tail being whipped "till you can't sit down." I did it once to say I did and prayed my daddy wouldn't find out. He never did. I swore not to do that again, either, after I watched my dad and some of the men fish one of my friends from the depths of the ferry dock, dead. Anyway, as it turns out, Abe loved to swim too.     The prisoners were always dressed in the white prison attire. Abe was no different. He had only that set of clothes with him. He could not get them wet, so we acquired a bathing suit from Perry's dad's wardrobe and spent hours splashing alone with a state prisoner. We were sworn to secrecy, because Abe wasn't supposed to be swimming. He was our friend and we decided he needed to have a little fun. I know what you're thinking, but he was never more than the big brother we both wished we had. I never felt in danger with him and he was so much fun, throwing us in the air, playing ball, hunting crabs. We had a blast that summer.     Abe had five years to go on his sentence. That fact alone makes me wonder now if he was just in prison for a simple theft, but back then we didn't care. As the summer drew to a close and school loomed ahead, Abe started complaining about always having to wear that white uniform. We were sad that we wouldn't get to see Abe every day, because he would be gone by the time we got home from school. We wanted to buy him a gift. Perry and I had a little birthday and grass mowing money saved up. We pooled our stash and went to the little store to see the old man. The store was almost as ancient as the jail, with wooden floors that creaked when you walked. The old man sold farm jeans and flannel shirts. He even had underwear and white tee-shirts.     The old man eyed us suspiciously when we made our purchases. I had Perry look in Abe's clothes while we were swimming, so we knew what sizes to get. We bought a pair of pants, underwear, tee-shirts, and a flannel shirt. The old man wrapped our gift in brown paper from the butcher counter. He asked who the clothes were for and we said it was a gift for Perry's uncle. Somehow we knew not to tell it was for Abe, even though we saw no reason a man couldn't have a change of clothes. That afternoon we gave Abe his present. He was so happy. He hugged us both and we all cried on that last afternoon together.     A week later, my father got a phone call about an escaped prisoner. I listened as he commented and repeated back what was being told to him about the prisoner's particulars. After a few minutes, I heard the name and my heart stopped. Dad got off the phone and told my mom, "You know that fella that works at the courthouse, Abe, well he walked away from there this afternoon. They found his white uniform in the bathroom. He must have got hold of a change of clothes somehow." Well, our secret didn't stay secret too long. The old man ratted us out in no time. There I was, all of twelve years old, an accomplice to an escape. We didn't get in too much trouble. I think the adults saw how stricken we were for being duped.     I never heard about Abe being caught. I think about him from time to time and wonder if he remembers those two kids that looked past his criminal record and saw a friend. I hope he changed his life for the better and has lived a good one. He may not remember us, but I'll never forget helping Abe escape. I like to think of him as Cool Hand Luke on an adventure. Hope it was worth it.
(R. E. Bradshaw is a writer of fiction. The names and events here may have been changed to protect the innocent.)

Asa

     I was twelve years old that summer. I had a little buddy named Jeffrey. Jeffrey was ten and had a form of MS. His heels didn't touch the ground and he walked funny. I didn't care. He was my buddy. Both of our moms worked at the courthouse. His mom worked for the Sheriff and my mom worked for the County Manager. We were courthouse brats, making it our playground. The old courthouse sat on the edge of Currituck Sound and is now a national historic site. I lived about a 1/4 of a mile from it and Jeffrey lived next door to the huge red brick building. It really isn't that big, but to us, it was gigantic. The courthouse was built adjacent to the ancient jail, which was constructed in the 1700's. It's iron bars still visible and irresistible to two imaginative kids. We were sure pirates had been held there in chains.
     I drank my first beer with Jeffrey. We found one floating in the sound, hot, the tin can faded. We went to the old country store across from the courthouse, bought a grape soda and mixed that beer with it. It was nasty and we vowed not to try that again. I also smoked my first pot with Jeffrey. We weren't bad, we just found some pot the deputies dropped while taking pictures of it for court. We dried it up, stole some rolling papers from some older kids, and fired that puppy up. Nothing happened except we coughed a lot and vowed not to do that again, either.
     We would sneak into the balcony and peek at the court proceedings, until the bailiff would give us the evil eye. Jeffrey and I were privileged to watch people be led in cuffs into the mysterious belly of the jail, where we were never allowed to go but damn if we didn't try often enough. We did finally get to see it when a deputy took us and locked us in a cell, just to scare the crap out of us. It worked and we stopped trying to get in there. Sometimes the inmates would offer us money out the windows to bring them smokes and drinks. Back then you could buy a pack of cigarettes, even beer, if you told the old man at the counter it was for your mom or dad. We never lied to the old man, because he would ask your parents about your shopping habits if he was suspicious. We never brought the prisoners anything either, because the Sheriff said if he caught us, he'd tan our hides. Ah, but then there was this one time.
     Just down the road from the courthouse was the Maple Prison. It was a medium security prison. My dad even taught some classes there for extra money. He was a school principal and still had to work part time to make ends meet. Escapes were frequent and they often ended up breaking into the school cafeteria to get food. We lived on the school grounds and my dad always got a call when there was an escape. (More on that later.) The prison also provided the county with workers, menial labor jobs, like janitors at the courthouse. That's how Jeffrey and I met Asa.
     The first time I saw Asa, he was talking to my mother. Okay, he's talking to my mother, he has to be a good guy, right? We had been around so many prisoners, one more wasn't a real shock, but Asa was different. Asa looked like Paul Newman, at least in my twelve-year-old mind. He could have stepped off the screen and walked right out of "Hud," as far as I was concerned. He was wearing a tight white tee-shirt and the white prison pants with the stripe up the leg. Asa was charming and smart and didn't mind us tagging after him as he cleaned the courthouse floors and bathrooms. I always felt important when he'd ask me to check the ladies room so he could go in. I asked him why he was in prison. He told us someone stole his tools and he stole them back, 'cept he got caught. That didn't sound fair to us, so we never looked at him as a thief or criminal. We three became fast friends.
     We liked to swim and Jeffrey and I were subject to just jump in anytime. The water was right there and nobody cared that we swam without adult supervision. Hell, you had to walk a 1/2 mile out to just get over your head in the shallow sound. Unless you jumped off the ferry dock, which had I done so, would have resulted in my tail being whipped "till you can't sit down." I did it once to say I did and prayed my daddy wouldn't find out. He never did. I swore not to do that again, either, after I watched my dad and some of the men fish one of my friends from the depths of the ferry dock, dead. Anyway, as it turns out, Asa loved to swim too.
     The prisoners were always dressed in the white prison attire. Asa was no different. He had only that set of clothes with him. He could not get them wet, so we acquired a bathing suit from Jeffrey's dad's wardrobe and spent hours splashing alone with a state prisoner. We were sworn to secrecy, because Asa wasn't supposed to be swimming. He was our friend and we decided he needed to have a little fun. I know what you're thinking, but he was never more than the big brother we both wished we had. I never felt in danger with him and he was so much fun, throwing us in the air, playing ball, hunting crabs. We had a blast that summer.
     Asa had five years to go on his sentence. That fact alone makes me wonder now if he was just in prison for a simple theft, but back then we didn't care. As the summer drew to a close and school loomed ahead, Asa started complaining about always having to wear that white uniform. We were sad that we wouldn't get to see Asa everyday, because he would be gone by the time we got home from school. We wanted to buy him a gift. Jeffrey and I had a little birthday and grass mowing money saved up. We pooled our stash and went to the little store to see the old man. The store was almost as ancient as the jail, with wooden floors that creaked when you walked. The old man sold farm jeans and flannel shirts. He even had underwear and white tee-shirts.
     The old man eyed us suspiciously when we made our purchases. I had Jeffrey look in Asa's clothes while we were swimming, so we knew what sizes to get. We bought a pair of pants, underwear, tee-shirts, and a flannel shirt. The old man wrapped our gift in brown paper from the butcher counter. He asked who the clothes were for and we said it was a gift for Jeffrey's uncle. Somehow we knew not to tell it was for Asa, even though we saw no reason a man couldn't have a change of clothes. That afternoon we gave Asa his present. He was so happy. He hugged us both and we all cried on that last afternoon together.
     A week later, my father got a phone call about an escaped prisoner. I listened as he commented and repeated back what was being told to him about the prisoner's particulars. After a few minutes, I heard the name and my heart stopped. Dad got off the phone and told my mom, "You know that fella that works at the courthouse, Asa, well he walked away from there this afternoon. They found his white uniform in the bathroom. He must have got hold of a change of clothes somehow." Well, our secret didn't stay secret too long. The old man ratted us out in no time. There I was, all of twelve years old, an accomplice to an escape. We didn't get in too much trouble. I think the adults saw how stricken we were for being duped.
     I never heard about Asa being caught. I think about him from time to time and wonder if he remembers those two kids that looked past his criminal record and saw a friend. I hope he changed his life for the better and has lived a good one. He may not remember us, but I'll never forget helping Asa escape. I like to think of him as Cool Hand Luke on an adventure. Hope it was worth it.

I just shake my head and smile.

I absolutely adore my wife, but... sometimes I just have to shake my head and smile. I am a writer. I don't leave home very often and I'm usually in sweatpants and a tee shirt or flannel pajamas. I may or may not have brushed my hair or made an attempt to look anything but frazzled and overly caffeinated. I do take daily showers, but I can maintain that crazed writer look for weeks at a time, venturing out of the house for short periods and only if absolutely necessary. A ball cap and a jacket is all that need be added to the ensemble if I am forced to go to the store. I am not above wearing my house shoes to the Seven-Eleven when I run out of coffee at three in the morning.
Today, I had to see my new accountant. I actually got dressed, did my hair, and put on make-up. I even wore real clothes. I looked half-way decent for the first time in months. It felt good to be out and about. I saw a few people I knew, who commented on my appearance favorably. I was feeling good about myself.  When I got home, I did not change back to the "uniform," as it is affectionately known. I waited for the wife to come home from work.
She came in and went about removing her professor persona, chatting casually, and blessing the stars that one more semester was over. She made no comment on my effort to not greet her at the door wearing the same thing she saw me in this morning. I really didn't expect her to. She's not too good at picking up on subtle things. I mean, I was straight and chased her, the lesbian, for a week before she noticed I was blatantly hitting on her. So, I'm used to having to hit her over the head with a brick to get her attention.
About two hours later, after I had changed clothes, the following conversation took place.
Me: So, did you notice I was wearing nice clothes and make-up, earrings and everything?
Wife: I noticed when I came home. Your hair looked really good, too. I thought about it the minute I saw you.
Me: So, you noticed.
Wife: (Grinning broadly and very proud of herself) Yes, I did. You looked very nice.
Me: Okay, honey, let me explain this to you. The appropriate thing would have been to comment out loud.
Wife: Oh, okay. (The realization hitting her like a ton of bricks.) Sorry, honey, really I am. I guess you'll get me trained one day.
Twenty-four and a half years with her, I should know better. God, love her, I just shake my head and smile.

Remember that one time...

Every year at Christmas my family sits around and people tell stories. Now, these can be stories that make you think about the meaning of Christmas and family, or they can be unfortuante reminders of some crazy thing someone did in the past. Like back in the sixties, early seventies, when women went through a period where wigs were all the rage. My mom had gorgeous blond hair, but she wore a wig like everyone else. We were on the way to Granny's house. It was a warm Christmas day and she had the window down a bit. She turned to reprimand my brother and I for something and leaned too close to the window. Whoosh! The wig went flying out of the car. We turned to see it blowing down the highway. Dad had to turn around so Mom could retrieve it, but needless to say, she wasn't happy with the way it looked. She tried patting it back into place and put it on, but the moment she walked in Granny's house, her brother's started giving her grief about the wig that looked exactly like it blew out the window of a car. Dad snatched the wig off her head and said, "Yeah, but what's underneath is worse." There she stood with her real hair all smashed down to her scalp. My mom was sooooo mad. I believe there may have been some foul language involved.
They love to tell the story of me roller skating down the road, on Christmas morning, wearing my new white skates, a tutu over my cowboy pants, six shooters strapped to my waist, my new red cowboy shirt and matching hat, and twirling a baton. I don't think it's that funny. I was obviously confused. Glad I figured that out.
The one story they have to tell, especially if there are non-family members in the room, involves me, as well. I was two and a half years old and just 10 1/2 months younger than my brother. My mother was stressed to the limit. If you've read my blogs then you know we were hellions. On this particular Christmas Eve, my mom was running around trying to get us dressed for the community Christmas pageant. In our rural community, Santa made visits to each home with children before the pageant started. Once Santa left the house, the family would proceed to the community building. Our house was just down the road from the community center, so we had to be ready to go as soon as Santa made his visit or we would be late arriving.
Well, mom was trying to get us and herself dressed. Of course, my dad did not participate in such activites. It's a generational thing, I believe, but dad's job was not taking care of the kids. I was dressed when Santa came to the door. I do not remember any of this, so I have to rely on my parents' memory. Santa came in and sat down in the big easy chair. My brother crawled on his lap and told him what he wanted. Then it was my turn.
Santa lifted me up and sat me on his leg, which I straddled like a pony. He said, "You look very pretty. I like your dress. It matches my suit."
I was wearing a red velvet dress with white lace trim, white socks with lace, and those hated patent leather shoes. I've seen the pictures. I was very well dressed. A big red bow in my hair. Here's where it gets good.
I leaned over and whispered to Santa, "I have to tell you somethin'."
He smiled, expecting me to tell him what I wanted. "Tell me," he said.
This my mom's favorite part.
I said, "Santa Clause, my momma forgot to put on my underwear."
My mom says Santa rapidly lifted me off his leg and stood me on the floor. She apologized and scooped me up and took me to my room to finish dressing me, calling over her shoulder as she left. "It's a wonder I'm wearing underwear. These kids are driving me insane."
I never got to tell Santa what I wanted. So, later at the community center, I walked up to Santa in the middle of the room and said very loudly, "Santa, I am wearing underwear now and so is Momma."
Happy holidays, however you celebrate, and don't forget to wear your underwear.

Thankful for Small Miracles

Nannie holding one of her great-grandchildren.
It's a miracle I'm here. Really, it's amazing the trials and tribulations generations of families go through over the centuries and here we are. Today, on this Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the hearty men and women who built this great country and made my existence possible. For some reason, one in particular sticks out today, Nancy "Nannie" Holloman, born in 1874.
Nannie's story is one of strength I will never possess. At the age of sixteen, she left her family in Wayne County, NC to travel with a preacher and his family west. She was an unusual girl in her rural community of farmers, in that she had been to school and could read and write. Nannie was to be the preacher's children's teacher. The rest of the story is a bit cloudy. This is what we know from the few things she said over the years and the facts I could dig up through public records.
The preacher's family made it to Pulaski County, Arkansas in 1890. Sometime within approximately two years of arriving, Nannie had a son and a daughter. The daughter was my great-grandmother, Flossie Elizabeth, born in 1892. Nannie would never say much about the circumstances of the births. Family legend says she married and something happened to her young husband. There is no record of a marriage or birth for either child. I know, because I have personally thumbed through all the birth records for this period in the Arkansas archive. Records of births were not always recorded, so we take her word for where and when the children were born.
At some point, the eighteen-year-old mother decided to come home. With a child barely toddling and one on her hip, Nannie Holloman walked from Little Rock, Arkansas back to her home near the coast of NC. She stopped in Memphis to pick cotton, earning money for food and the rest of the journey. Onward she trudged for months, taking rides on wagons when she could, and nursing those babies through it all. It is a miracle that she made it back with both of them healthy.
Unmarried and unable to care for the children alone, she gave them both up for adoption, with the stipulation that they always know who she was. My great-grandmother, Flossie, was taken in by a childless couple living just a mile down the road. Everyone always knew Nannie was Flossie's birth mother. Nannie married and had more children, but played a big part in Flossie's life, especially after her adoptive mother passed away. Nannie outlived her daughter, dying in 1955 at the age of 81, seven years after Flossie.
I am told that Nannie was a quiet woman and that most people would never believe she was strong enough to do what she did. I can't imagine the willpower it took to walk all those miles with her children, but I am so glad she did. It is because of this act of uncommon strength and many more, by the ancestors that came before me, that I sit here today. There are other stories I discovered through my genealogy research that by some small miracle my family line survived. I am thankful today for my family, crazy and whacked out as it is. Fore, it's their blood that flows through my veins and I can only hope some of the incredible strength of my amazing ancestors. Thank goodness for small miracles.

Coming Soon from R. E. Bradshaw Books

Stuff My Mother Says

I keep seeing "**** my dad says." I'll admit my dad says some funny things, but the real comedian in my family is my mother. Now, some of the things she says she means to be funny, but most of the real humor is in the ear of the listener. My daughter-in-law who is from Oklahoma thinks my mother is hilarious. She'll say, "What is that your mother says?" I try to think. It could be, "Poor as Job's turkey," (never have figured that one out,) or "He's rich as 4 feet up a mules tail" (censored according to audience,) "Lord, willing and the creek don't rise, " or maybe my favorite from childhood, "I want you to wish in one hand and poop in the other and see which one fills up the fastest."
I could go on, and I will. There are the threatening ones, because we were hellions. "I'll snatch a knot in you." "My God, I hope you have two just like you." "Don't let your mouth write out a check your ass can't pay for." "I will beat you within an inch of your life" (That was an idle threat, but it worked.) And last but not least, another favorite, "Y'all are driving me crazy. You're going to have to come peek at me through the bars on Sunday." There was the constant threat that we would drive her to the Sanatorium.
Other favorites: "You are slower than molasses running up a hill in January." "It's colder than a witches tit." "Slicker than owl shit." (uncensored and only used out of the public eye, after all she is a southern belle.)
But, sayings aside, some of the funniest things are just stories about my mom. My most favorite recent incident happened while we were visiting one of my friends. Sylvia has been a dear friend of mine for years and our mothers are friends and fellow Eastern Star ladies. My mom starts telling us how she has planned out her funeral down to the last detail and already prepaid. No one likes to have this conversation with their parents, but she just kept telling us how she had picked out the songs, verses, and order of things. When she said, "I am going to be cremated before the service, because I don't want people looking at me. There will be an urn of ashes, but I rented an empty coffin so there would be somewhere to put the blanket of roses," Sylvia and I cracked up. We laughed so hard we were crying. I asked Mom why we couldn't just put a table up there or something. She said, "I want the flowers to look nice. They won't look right on a table." This sent us into convulsive laughter, while she looked at us confused and said, "What?" We never did explain to her why that was so funny, other than to say the people at the funeral home saw her coming.
On the way home that day she was quiet for a few minutes and then said, "I guess that is silly to pay for an empty casket."
"Yes, Mom, it is. I promise your service will look nice."
She was satisfied with the answer and said she was going to get some of her money back.
I wondered out loud, "How do they market it after that, used casket on sale? That isn't a very good pitch line. Do you they use the same one for all the rentals?"
I almost drove off the road when she said, "I told them mine better damn well be new, because I didn't want someone else's casket."
When I could stop laughing, I said, "No, Mom, I don't guess you want a used casket even if no one's ever been in it. Get your money back."
I guess I shouldn't tell too many of my mother's stories here. She is my best source of material and I need to keep some of it for later. I'll leave you with my mother's first comment on learning I was gay. It wasn't funny then, because I thought she might really do it. Now, it makes me laugh. You need to know that TPI stands for Tidewater Psychiatric Institute and was just across the Virginia border from where we lived.
My mother put her hands on her hips and said, "You are not a lezzzzzzbiaaaan. I will slap your ass in TPI so fast it will make your head spin."
She is now the mother everyone goes to for counseling when they find out one of their children is gay. She tells them that the child is still the same child they loved the day before. Now, that makes my head spin.