is Elvis growing up in Tupelo in a close-knit family with little money attending the Assembly of God Church music and preaching registering deeply moving to Memphis with his parents living in public housing and low-rent homes roaming Beale Street for clothes absorbing black blues and gospel wearing his hair long letting his sideburns grow roaming the halls of Humes High dreaming of singing with the Blackwood Brothers working after graduation at Parker Machinist Shop Precision Tool then Crown Electric Company driving a truck and going to night school dropping by Sun Studio making a demo for his mother then later cutting “Big Boy” Cruddup’s “That’s All Right, Mama” backed by “Blue Moon of Kentucky” rebuffed by the Grand Ole Opry officials suggesting he go back to driving a truck which he does but not before appearing on “Louisiana Hayride,” the Opry’s rival meeting Colonel Tom Parker, ex-carney refusing his contract walking into the induction center speaking courteously “Sorry, Sir, I’d like to serve but my mama’s got this heart condition and my daddy needs me” holing up in his cab on a layover reading the Bible listening to pop tunes and country music radio seeing Ann-Margret, Swedish sex kitten on a billboard on a long haul to LA lusting for a moment, then coming home to his doe-eyed wife Pris and daughter Lisa Marie who favors him all full lips and limpid eyes sometimes sermonizing in a white frame church on Sunday morning singing with the quartet letting the sweet, sweet Spirit lift him up sitting on the front porch swing of his doublewide strumming his guitar in the honeyed twilight of grace land hair white like Vernon’s an ironic smile playing on his face wondering only once in a while what might have been an angel hovering
For those of you who have asked about my decision to publish my novel myself rather than attempting to go the traditional route. This is why I think self-publishing is for ME - not for everyone, of course, but for me.
I'm in the midst of making a few final revisions which I should have done by the end of this week or next. After a LOT of soul searching and pondering I've decided to forego the agent querying thing and go for self-publishing.
Had it not been for Celia Miles, Judy Greber and Earl Staggs I doubt I ever would have even thought about writing a novel - and I thank them for having the faith in me that I didn't have. They're my angels walking the earth disguised as just plain ol' regular human beings. and I love 'em to bits.
I learned a lot about myself during the novel writing.
I loved writing it. Loved it!
I hate rewriting and revisions. I know a lot of people love it. Not me. And the more I do it, the more I tend to not want to do it, which has shown me in bright brilliant lights that I am not one of those "I HAVE to write every single day!" writers.
You all know how I feel about writers - they're my rock stars. I admire and respect them greatly. I'm not one of them. I'm just not and I know it. I don't possess the talent or the pure need and stamina to write as well as my friends Louise Penny, Margaret Maron, Judy Greber, Hank Phillippi Ryan, Deborah Crombie and so many others.
That's not meant as false modesty - I do think I'm a fairly decent writer.
My decision has nothing to do with what others do or want to do, and it certainly doesn't reflect how I feel about traditional publishing. These are, to me, all separate issues.
I have no desire to be a career writer. And if I were, my choice would not be fiction - as much as I dearly love it. And you all know how very much I love a good novel.
I, myself, am at my happiest writing memoir pieces for my blog. And the pieces I wrote which were accepted for two anthologies edited by Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham which I remain immensely proud of. That seems to be the type of work that fills my heart and soothes my soul.
What I decided during the holidays while we were busy driving here and there for Christmas festivites and a lovely wedding in Meridian is that truthfully, even if I were one of the lucky ones to find a good agent who was able to sell my work, I don't want to wait two or three years to 'see' my novel. I want to see it now. I feel like I've worked hard and now I want to see the end result out there.
The feeling isn't based on impatience - I've never had any illusions about making a big splash and making a lot of money - I just wanted to write a novel. Now I'm done and honestly - just want to move on. I don't want to write a book every year, I don't want to have to travel around doing promotion, and I don't want to lose control of my own writing - the writing I've done or the writing I might still do. I just want to do it for "me." Just for me.
I've written the novel I wanted to write. It's not everyone's cup of tea and that's okay. It has magic and best girlfriends. There's pretty clothes and great food. There's laughter and love. Art and a perfect gallery on a lovely little idyllic island in the Lowcountry. There's a ghost or two and a pixie named Earlene who happens to be partial to Christian Louboutins. It's impossible to put a tag on - kinda like the most interesting people I know who refuse to be placed in a single category. Eccentric and flawed. and fun.
The next novel, when and if it happens, may be a sequel or it may be something a bit more serious concerning the Freedom Riders who came to my hometown of Cambridge, Maryland in 1962 when I was a teenager. That was a time that helped mold me to be who I am today. My 64 year old self who now just wants (as I've said so many times) to spread my wings and try a whole world of new things.
I want to continue practicing and improving my photography, I have bags of needlepoint and knitting which I've missed working on the past couple years while I've been writing "Whimsey" - there's just a whole wealth of things I want to do. Pottery. I really want to try my hand (again) at pottery. Maybe paint a little.
There are still lots of experiences I want to have along my road to Ithaca (and my thanks to my friend Hank Phillippi Ryan for introducing me to this perfect poem).
Ithaka
When you set out for Ithaka
ask that your way be long,
full of adventure, full of instruction.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - do not fear them:
such as these you will never find
as long as your thought is lofty, as long as a rare
emotion touch your spirit and your body.
The Laistrygonians and the Cyclops,
angry Poseidon - you will not meet them
unless you carry them in your soul,
unless your soul raise them up before you.
Ask that your way be long.
At many a Summer dawn to enter
with what gratitude, what joy -
ports seen for the first time;
to stop at Phoenician trading centres,
and to buy good merchandise,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
and sensuous perfumes of every kind,
sensuous perfumes as lavishly as you can;
to visit many Egyptian cities,
to gather stores of knowledge from the learned.
Have Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is what you are destined for.
But don't in the least hurry the journey.
Better it last for years,
so that when you reach the island you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to give you wealth.
Ithaka gave you a splendid journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She hasn't anything else to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka hasn't deceived you.
So wise you have become, of such experience,
that already you'll have understood what these Ithakas mean.
is Elvis growing up in Tupelo in a close-knit family with little money attending the Assembly of God Church music and preaching registering deeply moving to Memphis with his parents living in public housing and low-rent homes roaming Beale Street for clothes absorbing black blues and gospel wearing his hair long letting his sideburns grow roaming the halls of Humes High dreaming of singing with the Blackwood Brothers working after graduation at Parker Machinist Shop Precision Tool then Crown Electric Company driving a truck and going to night school dropping by Sun Studio making a demo for his mother then later cutting “Big Boy” Cruddup’s “That’s All Right, Mama” backed by “Blue Moon of Kentucky” rebuffed by the Grand Ole Opry officials suggesting he go back to driving a truck which he does but not before appearing on “Louisiana Hayride,” the Opry’s rival meeting Colonel Tom Parker, ex-carney refusing his contract walking into the induction center speaking courteously “Sorry, Sir, I’d like to serve but my mama’s got this heart condition and my daddy needs me” holing up in his cab on a layover reading the Bible listening to pop tunes and country music radio seeing Ann-Margret, Swedish sex kitten on a billboard on a long haul to LA lusting for a moment, then coming home to his doe-eyed wife Pris and daughter Lisa Marie who favors him all full lips and limpid eyes sometimes sermonizing in a white frame church on Sunday morning singing with the quartet letting the sweet, sweet Spirit lift him up sitting on the front porch swing of his doublewide strumming his guitar in the honeyed twilight of grace land hair white like Vernon’s an ironic smile playing on his face wondering only once in a while what might have been an angel hovering
This was one of the original versions of a piece I wrote a few years ago. There were many. A better version (edited by the incomparable Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham) was published in the regional anthology WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES. It's a wonderful collection from a group of extraordinary women. I'm proud to be included.
(isn't the cover wonderful?! It was done by Karen Hollingsworth. You can see more of her work at her webpage)
This is dedicated to Celia. She may not remember this, but I'll never forget. When we were at the "Meet & Greet" for WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, standing around chatting, having pictures taken, etc., she looked at me and said, "You were born to write. I want you to stick with it." Celia, every word I have written since you said those words - and every word I ever write until I am no longer able to find words, or to write them, will all - always - be dedicated to you. With my heart.
I spent the first 16 Christmases of my life in the home of my heart. The Arcade Apartments. It wasn't fashionable, but oh my, it was special. Made special by my parents, Hazel & Al Wilkinson, their families and friends and my friends who they always welcomed with open arms. And as those of you who know me already know, it was in Cambridge, Maryland where I was born and raised and still hold dear.
Here's my Christmas gift to all of you. I hope you enjoy it.
HOME OF MY HEART
As much as I dearly love these mountains and our life here, my heart often gets a longing for my childhood home. I grew up in a small town on the water and it’s essential to my very soul to get back to it when I can. Back to where I learned how to ride a bike. Learned how to drive a car. Kissed my first boyfriend. And even learned what it meant to have my heart broken by a best girlfriend. Back home to stand on a riverbank and stare out into the expanse of forever where the sky and sea become one, in a small town named Cambridge, on the eastern shore of Maryland. A land of charming, gracious living.
I feel its pull, and know its tug at my roots; calling me home. I feel that need to cross bridges over huge expanses of water. To watch white sails skimming elegantly across sun speckled azure seas like ballerinas on-stage. When I mention this urgent need for water to Donald he points out that we have a creek, and we have a pond - a pond chock full of rainbow trout, by golly. True enough. And quite lovely. But. Not big enough for need of a bridge, and certainly not big enough that I'll ever see a sailboat out there. I need to smell marshy smells. Need to eat crabs that have recently been blissfully swimming along minding their own business. I need to spend a little time with friends who have known me since we were kids. People I can just be myself with; letting down all walls and defenses. So off I scoot to where I’m safe in the knowledge that lifelong friends will open their arms and their hearts yet again and give me back my sense of home. Where I can feel salty air cling to my skin.
I get to cross my bridges over huge sweeps of water, and, just as lovely – smaller ones. The Chesapeake Bay Bridge makes my heart swell. The Choptank River Bridge into Cambridge makes me cry buckets.
Once I’ve crossed that bridge, there’s an almost indefinable pervasive sense of wholeness that wraps me in a hug. A sense of peace not easily explained, but effortlessly understood by anyone who has experienced the joy of returning “home.”
From the time I was 3 months old until I was 17 we lived in a grand, if somewhat bedraggled, old apartment in The Arcade. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and dining room had immense bay windows. Those two rooms opened into one another through an archway. The kitchen was huge with a separate pantry and our stove was an old timey thing on high legs.
This kitchen was “the” place to be. Many an hour was spent sitting at the kitchen table looking out the windows. One window overlooked a big grassy lawn, which sadly, after a few years, became a parking lot. Sad for me as a kid ‘cause there went my back yard. Fun for me as I got older, however, and enjoyed observing some of the goings-on that took place when folks didn’t realize there were eyes above them. Oh my – the tales this girl could have told!
From the other kitchen window we would watch the rear door of Woolworth’s and see who was coming and going. Thus began my love of people watching.
This was not Eloise at the Plaza. This was small town living. We were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we had been out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant socializing, mixing and mingling with the folks buying tickets to see a movie. Since everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are you’s?" to get up those stairs.
None of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked. Which also meant we never knew who might be there waiting for us. Rest assured, there was always someone. It might be one of my aunts, uncles or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends from school. Amazingly enough, as odd as it might now sound to some, it was never cause for concern back then. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station." And the kitchen was the hub where everyone gathered. Even if we weren’t there.
That wonderful old kitchen was where we had most of our meals. The dining room was for “special occasions.” We had, of course, that ubiquitous chrome and leatherette table and chairs; a set I’d surely love to have today.
This was where we sat for conversation and gossip over a cup of coffee. Hot chocolate for the kids.
And it’s where I sat and watched my mom and dad cut a rug.
There was a radio that sat right inside the kitchen door. I have the most delightful memories of my dad scootin’ through that door, turning up the radio and leading my mom into a vigorous jitterbug all over that room. Oh my. Could they dance!
I remember a lot of laughter around that table, one day in particular . . .
(Laws, I hope my dad forgives me for telling this one!)
When I was growing up there were a couple of "stag" bars in Cambridge. No women. I don't know if they specifically ever said "No Women," or if women just wouldn't be caught dead in them. There was one not far from our apartment called the DD Bar. It was owned by a friend of Dad's, and it was a wonderful little place. I adored it. The DD Bar was one of those grown-up "No Kids Allowed" places I would sneak into under the guise of “needing to see my dad.” Then acting all stunned and bewildered about why I had to leave when my mom showed up at the door to retrieve me. It was a long, narrow, and dark. With a charm that only bars from that era can possess, without a smidgen of artifice. There were maybe 4 booths in the front, along with a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail. There were also pinball tables, a shuffleboard table and a dart board. Nary a fern to be seen; plastic or otherwise.
If Daddy needed to work for a couple hours on Saturday afternoons, he thought it was a great way to make some extra money. Where else could he earn a few extra dollars while hanging out with his buddies laughing and watching a ball game on TV?
We had a local radio station and on Saturdays the DJ, Ed Brigham, would make a phone call to give away a free prize to someone if they could answer the question of the day.
On this particular Saturday, Mother and I were home, in the kitchen, and the radio was on, of course. We heard Mr. Brigham announce that the question of the day phone call was about to be made. We crossed our fingers hoping it would be our phone to ring. Well, it didn't, but we did hear a very familiar voice over the radio say "DD Bar, Al speaking."
How fun! My dad!!!!
Mr. Brigham said "Hey Al, this is Ed Brigham, how ya' doin'?" After a few minutes of small talk exchanging some "how's the family" kinda stuff, Mr. Brigham told Dad he would win two free tickets to the Arcade Movie Theater if he could answer the question of the day.
You could hear all the local Cambridge bar flies talking and hollering and laughing in the background, along with the TV blaring and pinball machines ping-pinging. Dad told everyone to quiet down 'cause Ed had a question.
The question was "How long is a decade?"
Well, Mother and I laughed and she said she guessed she and Dad would be going downstairs to see a free movie soon.
Then we heard dad over the radio yelling to the guys in the bar "Ed wants to know how long is a duck egg?"
WHAAAT?!?
Mother and I just about fell in the floor screaming we were laughing so hard.
A DUCK EGG?!
You could hear all these men saying stuff like, "a Duck Egg? Hell, I don't know, Jim Bob - what do you think?" Answers like "2 inches, 3 inches - oh hell no, an inch and a half," and things like "Who even cares??" “Is that a real question??” were all loud and clear over the radio. This went on for awhile and finally dad stopped laughing long enough to say "Well, Ed, we think maybe an inch and a half."
Ed Brigham was hysterical and said "Al. Hazel is going to kill you. NOT a Duck Egg! A DECADE!!!!!!!!"
Dead silence on Dad's end. Then he started laughing really hard and had to tell the guys he'd made a mistake. When he told them what the question really was we could hear them hootin’, hollerin’, shoutin’ and a brayin’ – mass hysteria.
For years, when we went out to eat or went shopping downtown, someone would holler "Hey Al! How long's a Duck Egg?!"
We all share a common bond of memories of “home.” Those special moments which make our homes unique and special.
I have a beezillion of them.
There was a little mini-community besides the movie theater in the Arcade lobby. There was a jewelry store, a beauty shop, an insurance company, and the gas company. I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with me. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation.
The three of us were also piling into the car for a weekend away every so often; usually to the beach and boardwalk in Ocean City. One particular weekend while we were off doing who knows what, one of my uncles was going to paint our dining room. Mom & Dad bought the paint and said it should be enough to cover the walls well enough if he was careful.
Our dining room was a big room with a big bay window. The sun would shine through that window seems like all the time. Well, that ol’ sun told some tales on those painters.
When we got home on Sunday evening, everyone was really pleased about how terrific the room looked with its new paint. Mother was pleased as punch.
The next day was a whole different story, let me tell you. Wheweee.
Seems my uncle, who was quite the artist, invited a friend to help him. Adult beverages were involved. Artistic tendencies arose. From the muses came pictures of Mickey Mouse and all his pals on our dining room walls. The painters, at some point, realized this was not what my folks had in mind when they asked to have the walls painted, so they painted over the Disney guys. But, not well enough. With the sun streaming into the windows, those images showed right through the paint.
Its made for hilarious stories since, but things were a little tense around the apartment for awhile. They did put up another coat of paint and it did help, but even years later, if you knew where to look, you could find a shadow of Mickey's face. Or Goofy's. And, honestly? It was a fun and lovely thing. What is lovelier, after all, than a home that possesses a bit of whimsy and can make you smile? That is, after all, what makes it "home."
Note: If you're interested in purchasing a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, I think there are still some copies available through Celia's webpage. Along with another regional anthology I'm quite proud of, CLOTHES LINES. AND some of Celia's books may still be available there also.
