…And time to gather your copy of Feast or Famine (The Sharecropper’s Son)
Thank you to my husband and the Hill family for sharing their history and graciously allowing me artistic liberties.
As if your shoulder brushing
against my breast in a crowded room
meant anything to me…
As if your smile would thaw my frosty heart…
As if your constant assurance could overcome my cynicism…
As if the invisible boulevard would never rise up and beckon.
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The street lamp glows in the bleached mist only three floors below us.
I blow streams of smoke into the black night and hum to the drone of the unseen road.
Be steel my bleating heart!
Be quiet! Be silent, hard steel.
As if wearing your tee shirt made us lovers.
Just FYI I’ve been a little more adventurous lately. I don’t know why – do I need a reason?
Okay we’ll call it a mid-life crisis. But if it is mid-life that means I will live to be well over one hundred years old. Oh lord, I’m not sure that is a good thing.
Hey, speaking of good things, you know what’s NOT?!
It’s a string (hence being called a thong) with a triangular bit of material cut in such a way to cover the symphysis pubis. You know – the lower lady parts… the mound (where nowadays the lawn is scalped)… the rug (where if there is any carpet it more than likely does not match the drapes)… the… well You know!
Lord I’m having a hot flash or a blushing fit; I don’t know why I am trying to explain something everyone over five years old already understands.
Maggie and Linda wouldn’t blush. Heck, their mothers wouldn’t blush — they would all wear thongs. They would all do things too — terrible things I
might have done wouldn’t do but they would probably be ashamed of me airing my dirty laundry so to speak. But hey, I’m among friends, right? I’m just living out loud and flinging cake against the wall. 😉
Anyway, back to my story with a slight digression.
I tried to wear one of the darn crack-crawling, butt-scratching, awkward little invaders years ago because they were supposed to be sexy. Yeah. Well. Digression complete.
As I mentioned earlier I’ve been feeling adventurous. Did you notice the polka dot explosion of color going on with my fingernails? And that even holding the thong is somewhat awkward.
I do have to admit the scrap of material is more comfortable than it was two decades ago. As a matter of fact it’s so comfortable one might forget to pull it down when they go to use the restroom and then have to peel the damn soggy thing off and you’ve got pee on your hands and — I mean, I’ve heard that could happen.
Okay the useless thing is more comfortable but I still don’t get it – it serves no real purpose. If all you’re worried about is panty lines you might as well go commando, am I right?
Well ladies [& gents] if you like your thongs, keep your thongs and wear that hanky thread proudly but as for me…
Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!
It was a cat very similar in appearance to pretty Kitty Puddin’ Jam [aka Jammin’ Jim, One-Eyed Jimmy Jones, Jimmy Jam and plain Jimmy] who played the character Strudel in the short A Hard Candy Christmas. The story is beautifully narrated by Julia Gayden Nelson.
Dolly Pardon’s song Hard Candy Christmas played in the background, fueling my imagination as I pecked out the words to the story.
Strudel was actually a stray feral cat who sought refuge with me through one rare snowy winter. Jimmy insists he could play the part and probably win a prestigious theater award. He would also totally love to hang out with Dolly.
I would like to think Donald Crowley would be impressed with this new cover but he (for whatever reason) is not returning my calls.
Encase you don’t know Don, here’s a little bit about him — or rather his past.
Donald S. Crowley was a CPA by day; a bean counter; a number cruncher and a certified bore. By night he was as stimulating as the hero in his latest read with all the social skills of a brick and to make matters worse he was in love with a door. Not just any door, number four was special. Her alluring smile had caught Donald’s eye when he was just a boy and she called him by name. Despite years of therapy and medications she still called to him. Now he would risk his life to see her again and to finally know what lay behind
Door Number IIII.
Available wherever e-books are sold.