Bett Norris



I get a little sad on Mother’s Day, since my mother passed away in 2008. I would like to start a tradition of honoring mothers that I know. This year, I choose to honor my partner, Sandy Moore. She is a proud mother of three boys, all grown men now, all talented.

Sandy has been reminiscing about her boys this week. She taught them how to fish, how to build a fire. From her, they each inherited a love of animals. She showed through her own life as an artist how to dedicate yourself to creativity. all three of her sons today are skilled and creative in everything they do. They are artists, whether they claim that label or not.

Sandy spent time with her children when they were young. She played with them, attended every one of their games and performances. She cooked three meals a day, a daunting task for three boys with enormous appetites.

As they became young men, Sandy took a job with the McFarland theatre in Dallas. Her middle son Cliff joined her there, and they worked together for ten years.

Today, Cliff is a general contractor, and manages large construction projects. He is also an artist in his own right.

The youngest son, Russell, graduated from art school, and today is still a working artist.

First born Brandon, raised two girls all on his own, until marrying and creating a blended family. Sandy is proud of Brandon as a father. He is also talented, sang in a boys; choir when young, played football, and today works as a landscaper whose creations are wonderful to see.

Sandy is a proud mother, grateful for her three children. Sandy said to me the other day, “I was a good mother.” yes, she was, and still is.

Cliff's sailfish scan0154 Brandon's girls scan0152 Grammy & Taylor scan0002 scan0150 scan0019 scan0020

A Word’s Worth

Saturday, April 18, 2015, at ten am, Cy Brinson ended her life. It was a rich, full life. Cy was a musician, a singer, a painter, a writer, She lived with manic depression, the terrific highs, the horrible lows.

Cy believed that we are all created from energy which cannot be destroyed or snuffed out, but is simply transformed at death and re-enters the universe. She was a sensitive, someone whose spirit, whose soul is open to to others’ energy.

Cy wanted to be in control of when and where she would transform to whatever comes after. It might be nothingness, she said, and that would be okay. Her energy, her spirit, might be reincarnated into energy for this world, for the earth, the air, for all living creatures. The transition might be a return to heaven, that place from which we came, the source of spirit and energy.

Wordsworth proposes in Ode: Intimations of Immortality that we come from heaven, or God, or some other place where we are pure, innocent, loving, where we understand our connection to Nature, that we are part of the earth, air, part of “the splendor in the grass, the glory of the flower.” Wordsworth surmised that when we are born and move from heaven, or God, or the Source of All Energy, we must forget the glory and majesty in which we were created. The innocence of childhood is but a faint reminder of our special connection, and as we grow and learn, the realization of that relationship to all living things, that knowledge of the glory of heaven, all of that awareness gradually diminishes until we are at last adult, and unknowing of those things. “The child is father to the man” Wordsworth states at the beginning of the ode.

This ode, in its entirety, (some 208 lines) is effusive in praising the lovely, wondrous descriptions of Nature. Reading this poem leaves one with a certain wistfulness, a longing for those “trails of glory.”

The child is father of the man;
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing Boy,
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy;

And the poem concludes:

The Clouds that gather round the setting sun
Do take a sober colouring from an eye
That hath kept watch o’er man’s mortality;
Another race hath been, and other palms are won.
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Cy Brinson knew. She never lost the child’s innocent delight. She knew from whence she came. Cy was ready to return to the source of all energy, which can be created but never, ever destroyed. “I have a choice,” she said.

So Cy left us, trailing wisps of joy in every living thing, joy in creating art that moved us to remember faintly, briefly, the glory in the merest flower, the trails of glory that great art, great music, song, dance, painting, the written word, poetry convey to us. Cy was one of the great conveyors of joy. “Be joyful in sorrow,” she said.
Cy's joyfulness.

Cy Brinson, 4-18-2015.

Cy by night

Cy performing
So I am trying to be joyful in my sorrow. It is a good thing to try, even if we don’t achieve it. It is a choice we can make to be more open to the energy all around us, to remember our majesty, to share it with others.

I can feel Cy’s energy now, as I write this. It makes me smile. She is not gone. She is transformed.

The Apocalypse, Penury, and Pancakes.

Well, hey there. So much has happened in just this past week, I thought that it’s about time I catch you up.

First things first: the apocalypse. Anyone catch the season finale of the Walking Dead?

In other signs of impending doom, the Supreme Court on Monday decided not to hear another lame suit regarding the Affordable Care act.


Then there’s this. Indiana, Indiana. What in the (modern) world are you doing? Governor Mike Pence, just what did you think this “it’s okay to discriminate” law would accomplish?

I have nothing more to say about this. No, wait. Governor Pence, don’t you realize that people can discriminate just fine on their own, without the help and protection of the state?

I ate pancakes three times this week, the last week of March, a month with thirty one days. We stretched every dollar, counted loose change, and we made it to the end of the month without stealing or borrowing. We made it. I could tell you the final balance in our bank account, but suffice it to know it’s only three digits.. But the point is, we made it through, and we had a pretty good time this month. We got a ramp built, so we don’t have to climb stairs to get in and out of the house. We watched spring arrive, and gloried in the fresh new greenness of it. We dug in the yard and planted things and cut away dead growth, and watched the cows return. We (sort of) adopted a new cat named Wesley. Boo Boo found him first, and he is a real sweetheart.

In other good news, our dear sister friend Cy Brinson, a musician and artist, joined Facebook. Welcome, and we know this was a big step for her.. Check out her Facebook Page here: Keep up with the journey of her novel Effie as it comes into being: movie, stage play, musical, or book? maybe all of the above.

It’s difficult to remain stressed or depressed when spring is so in-your-face gorgeous. Remember that.

And just to send you out into the newly sprung spring, here’s an hilarious song by Miranda Lambert that I think beautifully describes Democrats and Republicans.

Ya’ll take care now.

Feeding Spiders

This morning I got up at 3:30 am. I have always been an early riser. Once I got up early so I could write before work, before others woke, when it was dark and still and quiet.Now I get up early so I can take my prescriptions, so that my twisted and swollen hands might start to work a litter sooner each day. Rheumatoid arthritis is a bitch.

Now that I am retired, I get up early to listen to the roosters crow. I heard the big owl call from the woods. From Farther away, I heard the cows. The peacocks must be late sleepers, because I usually hear them in the evenings. Twice this past week, I have seen armadillos shuffle, nose, waddle across the yard. The cat thinks they might be something to play with.

Mornings, which once were great inspiration, have now become a dreaded enemy. Morning means pain, taking medicine, waiting for it to shift the pain from intolerable to it’s still there but not as bad.  Not bad, not great, but tolerable.

We spend a great deal of time outside on the porch, watching the critters and talking. Most of our days are taken up with doctor appointments. It’s strange how busy we are. One day, sitting on the porch, we saw a huge spider web, stretch from the big oak to the ground, and n the other side from an adjacent tree. In the center, a huge spider. He swung from his structure like a mountain climber, spinning out new strands to strengthen his trap. We wondered whether we could catch a fly and feed it to him to observe what  he did with it. I still want to do that, but prevailing winds and rain forced him to move.

I just now realized that having that large spiderweb in the yard meant that we have not been out there in a while. We have had some cold days, and we built a fire a couple of times. As I write this I am facing east, and the sunrise is obscured due to gathering clouds. Bad weather is predicted for this morning, which means, thunderstorms and a tornado watch. I hear thunder already

I wonder what happens to Mr. Spider when a thunderstorm comes through.

Being retired means I have more time to care about things, and people.  A possible tornado is coming. I need to get the cat inside, and make sure Sandy is inside too. Low clouds and thunder.

What a Picture is Worth

For years now, I have been working on my third novel. Writers are often asked where the idea for a book originates. Sometimes, it’s a phrase that gets stuck in my head and won’t go away. Sometimes it’s an image.  The germination of this current book came from two things that wouldn’t get out of my head. One, an old black and white photo of my great aunt Stella, circa 1960. I don’t know why this photo drifted into my head and stayed. I looked at it for hours.


The other thing that wouldn’t leave me alone was a deep fascination with my family history.  After my mother died, I realized that I no longer have anyone to tell me those stories. And I knew that the stories my mother had told me were warped by my memory of them. So I don’t know now what is real about them and what is not. I wanted to sit with my mother again, just one more time, and ask her about the validity of those stories.

This started me on a quest to find out as much as I could about prior generations, and whether I could verify the stories my mother told me. I asked my aunt, Mother’s oldest surviving sibling, but she claimed she didn’t remember or never knew about the particulars of one story or another. I asked my older sisters if they remembered any details of the family story.

I started digging through, which was very helpful. At a certain point, I developed mission creep and had to wean myself from that site.

I want to know certain things that may be buried and forgotten about my family heritage. Frustrated still by all I couldn’t find, I began writing my family history as fiction, making up the missing parts.

I don’t want to disclose here those questions I couldn’t answer. I haven’t finished the book, and I don’t want to eave clues that may not make the final cut.

I enjoy peeling back layers of hushed, whispered history. It’s spooky and strange.  It feels like I am doing something clandestine. I’ll just leave you with this.

A girl grows up in the rural South, on a farm at the end of a dusty dirt road. She wonders about her family, about the societal heritage lost to them because of the Civil War, about the secret heritage no one talks about, ever, and she wonders about herself, why she doesn’t seem to belong, about where she will go when she grows up, because she can’t stay there, on that muddy-in-the-spring, dusty-in-the-summer farm. She can’t forever run barefoot through the woods when the dogwoods first bloom, because she is a girl, who will become a woman who must put away such things. What if she doesn’t want to keep the family secret? What if she wants to embrace the secret part of her heritage?

Blithe Spirit

Robin Williams was found dead yesterday. That doesn’t seem real. It seems impossible that such a force could be stopped.

I am angry, not because he died, but because of the atrocious obituary found on It mentioned the long line of comics who also died from suicide or drug overdose. It talked a little about his genius and his career. And CNN made his death seem pedestrian, something Robin Williams never was.

If you want to read a better farewell, go to Robin Williams takes on the Actor’s Studio, or read the New York Times tribute, or this one: Huffington Post eulogizes Robin Williams.

Rest in peace, Robin. Rest now, in peace.


Tonight, I sat on the back porch and listened to the fireworks in town. Because of the trees, those enormous oaks, I couldn’t see them. Instead I looked directly overhead, into those massive, moss-hung trees, and I watched fireflies blink on and off. I heard the ubiquitous drone of frogs, I saw a big low moon through the branches, and I watched the fireflies put on their own show.

I talked to my mother. I said, it’s okay, Mama. I am glad to be here. Here, in the countryside in north Florida, on my back porch, looking through the trees at the moon. I didn’t think I would ever say that, but I am happy simply to be here, where I am, with my partner.

Honestly, the back yard oaks are so big that the house is under their canopy. I have to stretch my neck way back to see a clear bit of sky.

I remember when we first moved here, I couldn’t wait to sneak outside every morning and watch the daylight grow. I haven’t seen fireflies since I was a child and we would run around catching them, putting them in Mason jars. I hope that Mama set them all free once we were inside and asleep.

I love photos, but I don’t have any of these memories. Instead, we have this place that so reminds me of where I grew up that it feels like home. I never thought I would feel so much like home that I forgive it for being Florida and not Alabama.

Yes, I sit every morning now, most mornings, and have coffee out on the porch, under the trees, watching the light grow. I talk to myself, I talk to my mother, and maybe to God, and I give thanks, just to be exactly where I am.

Independence. That’s what I feel now. Free from regrets, from sadness that things haven’t turned out quite how I imagined they would, but in some ways, better. Which says something about my imagination, I suppose. Not at all what I thought my life would be like now, but no bitterness because it is different. It just is. And I have my partner, and she has me, and we are both reliving our childhood memories to some extent. We are also making new memories that I hope will stay with me as long.

Fourteen years we have been together. No, it’s not our anniversary yet, but Sandy asked me today, and I realized that I have never had anything for fourteen years, except that seminal time from birth through high school, when my mother, my family, was really the center and the filter through which I saw and learned so much.

I am happy, Mama. It’s okay now.

From one back porch, to another.


Not Just Another Day

Andi Marquette is at it again. check out an excerpt of her latest novella From The Hat Down here.  Then do what I did and buy the darn thing so you can finish reading it.

Today is #DDay70. I tried to post on that Twitter hashtag but something kept going wrong.

images    description-d-day-quote-jpgD Day cemetery


Sally Bellerose has done it again. She won this year’s Saints and Sinners short fiction contest. Then she generously posted it here for your reading pleasure.

I love it when writers I admire do things like that.

I woke up at 2:30 am this morning, don’t know why. I made coffee, turned the internet machine on, and saw the date. There are some we don’t forget.  Many veterans of that singular day in World War Two might be surprised that someone not of their generation remembers that day. So many young men buried in that cemetery in France.

I have lately starting working on my next novel again. This time the important thing will be finishing it. Following Andi’s and Sally’s lead, here’s a little excerpt:

Marengo County 1880 The Morgans

“If you can’t kill ‘em with kindness, you might as well shoot ‘em,” Mama said, standing calm as a glass window pane, smoke still rising out of the barrel of her shot gun. Us kids were all lined up on the edge of the porch, running to a halt when we heard the blast. I pictured Mama with a leather headband, one single feather in the back, wearing a buckskin skirt with fringes swaying. Boy, was I wrong about that. Daddy had reached us by now, dinner napkin still around his neck. He didn’t stop on the porch, but went right on into the yard and yanked that twelve gauge out of Mama’s hands.
“What in Sam Hill are you doing?” he yelled, loud but not as if he really was mad. I guess we all were trying not to laugh, because a loaded gun is nothing to laugh at.
Mama just pointed up the dirt road to Grandma’s house, about a hundred yards away. We all looked that direction and saw Uncle Ulmer, staggering around the yard and talking to himself. “Don’t worry,” Mama said. “I didn’t shoot him, I shot at him. If I wanted to hit him, I would have, you know that for a fact.”
We all did know that as fact. Mama always hit what she aimed at. I knew, but the younger kids might not, that there was no way that shotgun could have reached that far, so Uncle Ulmer was never in any real danger. The best use of a shotgun is the loud noise it makes when you chamber a round and the fearful loud boom when you pull the trigger. That tends to make anyone in close vicinity take off at a run.
The thing is, Uncle Ulmer couldn’t run. Even as drunk as he was, he knew well enough not to make Mama mad enough to really shoot him. Uncle Ulmer lost a leg in the War, and ever since, he stayed drunk as often as he could sneak some moonshine into the house. Daddy whittled a nice piece of cypress into a leg. It had straps on it, and a foot too. Uncle Ulmer saved it for occasions when he had to dress decent. He preferred a simple peg leg for everyday use. He hated using his crutches or a cane because he wanted his hands free, so he stomped around the yard like a pirate, his face showing a dark beard, punching holes in the ground with every step, waving his brand new Winchester and muttering.
No telling what Uncle Ulmer had done this time to provoke Mama to fire a warning shot. Seeing him stumbling around the yard with a loaded gun was probably enough. Having survived the War, all but his leg anyway, Uncle Ulmer always paid attention when a weapon of any kind went off. It made him start twitching and shaking like a dog with fleas. Even in his drunken state Uncle Ulmer appreciated the scattering effect of buckshot and Mama’s good aim enough to abandon further escalation of hostilities.
“Every one of ya’ll get back in the house and finish your supper. I’m not staying up past dark to get the dishes done. Young Charles, you get me some water as soon as you get through. You should have done it before you sat down to eat, as you well know. Now scoot, all of you.”
We all scooted, even Daddy. Mama wasn’t mean, not ever, but I had seen her kill a cottonmouth with her hoe. Nobody ever doubted Mama’s intentions, that’s for sure. My daddy was Charles Barrett Morgan, who came from a fine Southern family who owned hundreds and hundreds of acres and slaves to work them, before the War. I kept a picture in my head of Daddy too, imagining how he must have looked, and this picture was pretty accurate. I know because Daddy told us stories often enough about his family and all their land and slaves before the War.
The fact that our land was all that was left of the thousands of acres the family once owned meant something to Daddy. It meant he was not like every other struggling farmer. His family had long grown cotton with slave labor. The land he plowed behind a cantankerous old mule, its rich dirt sifting into the cuffs of his pants, into the creases of his skin as he walked every step of his property, his father and grandfather had surveyed from the backs of beautiful horses saddled in gleaming leather, and they wore shiny black riding boots, like the kind you see in that portrait of George Washington. I picture them as they watched the overseer, who watched the sweating black people, who lived in a string of cabins that were all gone now, except for a few for sharecroppers, land owned now by the Duboses who came here after the war and bought up all the land, slowly getting the Morgan land piece by piece, until it all shrunk down to the last quarter section we lived on, and the ten acres Grandma Morgan held.
Settled back at the supper table, Daddy finally asked the question all of us wanted to. “What was Ulmer doing this time?”
Mama held the baby on her lap and fed her mashed field peas. “William Dubose is all you need to know. That man has built a bank in town. I swear he won’t be satisfied until every single piece of dirt and every dollar in this county belongs to him.”
Whatever Mr. Dubose had bought, that wasn’t the only reason Mama was mad. Her few remaining family members kept getting pushed farther and farther back, into the deep woods. See, Mama was a Choctaw Indian. Now Dubose owned all their land and the timber on it too.
I always believed that one reason Daddy tried to cling tight to his ancestry is because he was so ashamed of Mama’s Indian background. It caused me to wonder why he ever married her in the first place. I think he did it because he was afraid of Mama’s father, who lived deep in the woods beside the river with the Mowa band.
If Daddy, a fine, upstanding, Christian example of generations of white breeding in the Morgan clan, had been sincerely true to his own heritage, he would have married someone from another upstanding family and kept Mama in a cabin in the woods to have his children, who would grow up on collard greens, corn, fish, squirrels, and deer meat. I wouldn’t have minded that secret life so much. As long as he saw fit to bring me books, that is.
He couldn’t resist those dark brown eyes, that blue-black hair, the cheekbones and the spine. He did a fine trade business with the Choctaw, because they respected Mama.
Charles Barrett Morgan, Mama often said, is so contrary he would argue with a fencepost. All the Morgans are contrary, she claimed. Maybe that contrary streak is what gave him the courage to marry Mama. I know it certainly is responsible for most of the whippings I got.
I also know that white-skinned, blue-eyed boys and girls everywhere in the county sure gravitated to our family. Something about the brown eyes that turn to black when we get snapping mad, the dark brown hair, the way we go quiet sometimes, all traits I link back to Mama’s side, attracted every skinny white boy with over-sized Adam’s apples and big knuckles to my sisters, and the same was true about the girls with curled hair and starched dresses coming to see my brothers, who fell for the lowered eyelashes and sweet smells quicker than water skittering on a hot skillet.
I used to wonder why Mama stayed with Daddy when they fought so much. Now I know that when brown eyes change to black, it isn’t always because of anger. It’s something else that turns them dark, inward-looking, opaque. I know that I have eight brothers and sisters, and all of us were born no more than two years apart, some of us only separated by fifteen months, a pair by only twelve months. By my calculation, Mama stayed in a constant state of gestation for almost eighteen years. Daddy liked those snapping dark eyes.

It’s Raining

In Florida, when it rains, it really rains. For days, sometimes. For twenty four consecutive hours, as in the present case. And by rain, I mean steady, continuous, fill up the ditches then the roads rain.


Photos don’t do it justice. Rain is water, after all, and it goes where it wants to go and fills up everything. Low thunder rumbles, and I am glad it sounds very far away. Last summer, lightning struck one of our biggest trees and killed it. When the thunder gets closer, when I can hear the crack of the lightning, then I get worried, restless, as if there is some escape and I should make for it.

Rain is all encompassing. There is no escape. We are closed in, enveloped, and will soon be overflowing.

The farmer/rancher who has the acreage behind us just yesterday finished plowing up[ the winter grass, harrowing Sandy called it, and laid off rows. I think he means to plant peanuts again. Now that will have to wait.

We will have to wait to get our little acre mowed. We have to wait to haul the week’s trash to the road for pick up by the county truck.

Rain puts a hold on so much. No grocery shopping today. Have to make do. Can’t make it into town on the roads, can’t load and unload groceries in this downpour that never slacks, never stops.


This is the view out of my office window. Sorry about the flash. It rains, then for a while it rains harder, then it goes back to just raining. May I remind everyone that the last time it rained like this, I got the Blazer stuck in my own front yard. (In the country, people drive their trucks across their yards, or anywhere else it suits them.)


The Blazer has four wheel drive. Which I forgot about. And the neighbors towed it out. You know the story. The point is, we had so much rain that the ground couldn’t absorb it all.

I love living in the country. This kind of rumbling, non-stop rain reminds me once again of rain I experienced as a child, watching sheets of it pour down from the eaves, I think that was Hurricane Betsey. We lived in the house out another road from Sweetwater, and there was a  salt lick for the cows where we waited for the bus. (I don’t see farmers do that any more. I wonder why?) That house still stands, and the last time I drove by it, was still occupied. I remember the little old lady who lived across the road from us, in a sharecroppers cabin, in the middle of a cow pasture. There was corn planted all around out house.

While we were living in that house, Daddy went fishing and came home with a wash tub full of perch and catfish. He showed me how to scrape off the scales of the little perch, how to cut them open and dig out the insides. I thought it was great fun. I got to play with a knife, and Daddy got his fish scaled, skinned and cleaned pretty fast. There must have been fifty fish in that wash tub. I believe that Daddy did that a lot, tricking me into thinking work was fun. I was only six or seven. The others were too old to fall for it I suppose. I played with little things that Daddy called swim bladders. He popped one for me, and said that’s what keeps fish from sinking. Mama wouldn’t let me eat any of the perch. She said they were too full of bones. She cut fillets off the bigger catfish for us, and we dunked them in Catsup. It was a sure sign of maturity when Mama let me eat a whole catfish by myself. I carefully slid the meat off the bones.

My big brother Jimmy had a dog when we lived in that house, a pitch black hound. I remember somebody ran over him or shot him and Mama flying down the drive to cuss them out magnificently. My older sister Charlotte probably remembers the details better.

There’s a lot of things I want to ask my older sister about, now that Daddy and Mama and Jimmy are gone. I hope she can recall more details than I can.

When we lived on the other side of Sweetwater, in the house that Daddy built, I remember summer thunderstorms so sudden that steam rose from the paved road. It brought some relief from the heat, so grownups gathered on the porch to enjoy it, and the kids, if there was no lightning, were allowed to run around in the yard, splashing and sliding through the puddles, celebrating the rain. Mama caught rainwater, as I’m sure most people did, in tubs placed at the corners of the house. I distinctly remember sliding on bare feet across the grass, soaking wet, but it felt so good.

Mama told me stories, and I never doubted her sincerity when I was growing up. She told some stories over many times, and now I wonder why. Now, I wish I could remember every word of those tales. My Aunt Duck, Mama’s sister, isn’t as much of a story teller, and claims not to remember some of the things Mama told me. That may be true, because she got married and left home when she was very young. Her life and memory got filled up with raising her own kids, I suppose.

The rain has eased up a little. Thunder still rumbles in the distance, so I know more rain is coming, rumbling its way toward us here on our little plot of ground that has helped me remember and enjoy so many simple things from my childhood, like fishing, and dogs, and rain.

The point is the rain, falling down in glassy sheets that made me feel like I was inside a waterfall. I remember both those houses. I remember the salt lick. I remember the old lady. I remember the black dog, and the fish bladders, and scales sticking to my skin. And I remember the rain.
















I Dreamed About Ellen Hart

ImageI dreamed about Ellen Hart last night. I was a houseguest. The entire main floor was a kitchen. She had a sixteen-year-old dog, and a young one who kept bouncing around our feet. It was morning, and I was in pajamas and a robe, and she was cooking like a mad scientist, while I watched animals play outside. That’s all I remember. Maybe it’s because I recently read and reviewed The Cruel Ever After. Or it was something I ate.


Lately, I have been dreaming about my brother. In one dream, he was very young, and he kept following me and teasing me. I begged my mother to make him stop, but she just said, that’s what brothers do.

I barely remember my older brother when he was that young. He was a teenager, then out of the house and gone as I was growing up.


He would have looked like this, in the dream. When my brother was that age, I was probably a baby. I never noticed it before, but in this school photo, he has that same half grin that Mother had. You can barely see, but he is wearing a chain with dog tags in the picture. I never noticed that either, but I do have clear memories of him wearing dog tags. Now I wonder, whose were they? My daddy’s from his time in the army? I never really thought about it.

I’ve told you this before, but if you haven’t yet caught on: Jill Malone is one of the finest writers anywhere. You should read her essays here: And then, you should read her newest novel, Giraffe People. I think it is her best yet, but her previous books garnered so many awards that some people may disagree with me.

While I am raving about writers, here’s another one that I greatly admire and envy, Sally Bellerose. You can catch up with her here: And then go read her wonderful book, The Girls Club, because she has another book in the works. I’ll keep you posted about when that one comes out.

As for me, I am wandering around in my latest work, just stopping here and there to admire, moving on, not quite settling down to do a cohesive run through the whole thing, because I don’t think it is whole yet. Memories come and go like dreams, like old faded snapshots, and that is how this new book is shaping up. IN the mean time, if you miss me, go read this: What’s Best for Jane.








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