Angus-Dubhghall (Monroe’s Celtic ensemble–with myself, Tom & Mary and Brad) will be performing for this event. Please do come if you can.

At a rendezvous at Fort Washita in Oklahoma–oh, it must have been around 1999 or 2000, I talked with one of the sutlers there who made skunk caps (like a coonskin cap that David Crockett is pictured as wearing).  I asked him how he got his hides for the skunk caps–which he sold out of at every rendezvous, and they were high dollar items–and he shared with me the secret of trapping skunks. He had been often hired by schools and churches to trap troublesome skunks. If you can imagine a church or a school with a surfeit of skunks living there, you can see the problems that would create. Here’s how he said one should trap a skunk.  The problem with skunks is that no one in the city or county government wants to help you trap them. If you do find somebody, you’ll pay big bucks. Now, if you’re too sensitive and don’t see skunks as a pest, and are willing to live with their threat of rabies and odious odor should they choose to set up residence near you, and think of skunks only as love-lorn Pepe le Pews, you should probably not read on:

1. Buy a wire box trap from True Value Hardware. They’re not too expensive and you can use them for other pests such as coons and possums (I live in the garden district in Monroe, Louisiana, and have had to trap and execute 6 raccoons and one possum. They were literally EATING my house!)

2. Insert all but the entrance into a thick garbage bag.

3. Bait the trap with sardines. He said skunks loved sardines.  For coons I use a package of cat food.

4. If/when the skunk is trapped, scoop up the trap, tighten the end of the trash bag and pick up the trap. That way, you won’t get sprayed.

5. Have a 50 gallon barrel filled with water waiting nearby. Open the top of the bag enough to slip the wire cage containing the skunk into the barrel. The skunk will drown, and according to the mountain man who trapped skunks and other critters for a living, will not spray anything. You can then bury the dead skunk, dispose of him in some other way, or skin him and sell the hide (for a very good price) at the next rendezvous.

Here is the short story that won honorable mention in the 24 hour short story contest I entered not long ago.

“Ten Pounds Short” by Rickey E. Pittman

Ellis B. slashed a diagonal line on that day’s date on the calendar. The annual Festival of Pumpkins in Paris, Texas was only a week away.

Ellis B. Evans, like his grandfather, grew pumpkins.  His grandfather had been killed by the Kiowa in 1871 in Young County, in what was known as the Warren Wagon Train massacre.  His grandfather and other teamsters had been hired to take supplies to Fort Richardson.  The two Kiowa chiefs, Satanta and Big Tree, killed most of the teamsters and tied Evans’ wounded grandfather to a wagon wheel and roasted him to death.

The Evans family then moved to Paris, Texas where many Welsh families had settled in the days of the Republic.

Ellis B. grabbed his denim jacket hanging on a peg in the hallway of his Jim Walter home. “I’m going to the pumpkin patch, then to town,” he said to his wife.

“Why am I not surprised?” she replied. “Tell your friend Jessie Fae hello if you see her in town. That woman is so stuck up. When I’m around her, she doesn’t pay me any mind. It’s almost as if I’m not there–or as if she wishes I weren’t there. If she thinks she can . . .”

“Oh, stop it,” he said. He tried his best to not slam the door as he left the house, but he didn’t succeed. Dorothy just didn’t understand. She didn’t understand his love of pumpkin farming.  Pumpkins were a beautiful fruit, both food and ornament, with skins of white, green, blue, red, and tan as well as the ubiquitous orange.  Ellis B. loved the roasted seeds, the bread, soup, candy and pies that pumpkins produced and he loved the stories about them in our holidays and legends.

Ellis B. intended to produce the largest pumpkin ever grown. So far, the largest had come from Rhode Island in 2006 and weighed 1502 pounds. He didn’t have to surpass that weight by much, but if he did, his name and his pumpkin would go down in history.

No, Dorothy–and yes, ironically she was from Kansas–did not understand his love for pumpkins. Nor did she understand Jessie Fae.  Of course, he didn’t know if he understood  either of these two women. He knew he had to sort things out quickly. If he did not, then circumstances would make the decision for him. His grandfather had always said, “To not make a decision, is to make a decision.”

He walked the field until he came to his prize pumpkin. He felt that the many weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured a blue ribbon at the Festival of Pumpkins. He imagined the envious stares of the other pumpkin farmers and his chest puffed and swelled with impending pride. He patted the pumpkin and said, “Soon.”

A gust of cold wind caused him to shiver, and he glanced up, watching the sky darken too quickly, the way it does in Texas when a blue norther was coming.  Another gust ripped through the treetops and bright, painted leaves whirled through the air and rained on his field of pumpkins.

Ellis B. heard an infant’s cry and turned his head. At the top of the hill, under the old Maple, he saw her silhouette. He began walking her way.  When he reached her, he could see the blue shawl he had given her, draped over her head and shoulders.  Her arms clutched a bundle to her chest, and she fumbled with the buttons on her blouse.

“Jessie Fae,” he said.

“Ellis B.,” she said. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come.”

“You knew I couldn’t say no to you. How is little Jimmy Dale?” He could see her shake from the cold. Her lips were blue and her teeth rattled slightly.

“He’s real sick, Ellis B.,” she said. “Won’t stop crying. You nearly caught me feeding him.”  She pulled her shawl tighter across herself, trying to shield the baby from the wind.

“You take him to the doctor right away.” He handed her a roll of twenty-dollar bills.

“Thank you.”

“Have you told her yet?” she asked.

“No. I was going to wait till after the Festival of Pumpkins.”

“Maybe I should have named your son Pumpkin instead of Jimmy Dale.”

“Don’t be like that. He’s your son too. I’m going to tell her.”

“And leave her?”

“Yes.”  He placed a hand on one shoulder and drew her close to him. “I swear I will. It will be just you, me, and little Jimmy Dale.” He looked over her shoulder at his fields, green foliage dotted with balls of orange.

“I’m not Cinderella, Ellis B. There’s no pumpkin in that patch of yours that’s going to turn into a fancy carriage to take me to the party. If I get out of this mess I’m in, it’ll only be because you took me.”

Ellis B. knew he couldn’t ask her to continue with their secret much longer. Nor did he think he could either.

He kissed her goodbye and returned home. He spent several restless nights that week, wrestling with the knowledge that these would be the last nights sleeping next to Dorothy. He knew love was not free. There’s always a price to be paid. If he wanted to be with Jessie Fae and little Jimmy Dale, then he would have to make the break.  Jimmy Dale needed a father.

Jessie Fae did take Jimmy Dale to the doctor. The doctor sent the baby to the hospital, and within a week, the baby had passed on.

Ellis B. won the blue ribbon at the festival, but came short of the world record by ten pounds—the exact weight of little Jimmy Dale when he died.

Jessie Fae moved to be with her parents in Abilene, and Ellis B. remained with Dorothy and began planning next year’s pumpkin crop.

Word Count 995

Lee Cody and I have been working nonstop for 2 days on our book–our working title is The 14th Denial–a book that will tell the story of C. Lee Cody, Jr. who worked in Jacksonville, Florida, with the Duval County Sheriff’s Office for seven years, reaching the rank of Detective Sergeant. In 1964, in the midst of the volatile times surrounding the Civil Rights Movement, Sergeant Cody solved one of our nation’s worst hate crimes and paid for it with his career.  In the years since, Cody has collected a mountain of evidence that reveals blatant racism in high places, a horrifying tale of cover-ups and corruption involving sheriffs, judges, mayors, and even the FBI– leading to flagrant violations of the 14^th Amendment and the Civil Rights guaranteed citizens under our nation’s Constitution.

I should be able to submit the book to one publisher this week that has expressed interest as well as query letters to several agents who market nonfiction for we truly feel the book has potential beyond the printed book form.  If all goes well, I should be able to return to Monroe tomorrow, though every time I come here, it gets harder and harder to leave. I just wanted to leave you with the short summary of the book I’m working on and some photos. Below is the beautiful Katy, a friend and fan of my books. She is actively trying to help me find some places to perform down this way. With her in the second photo is my co-author, Lee Cody. He is a great man who has more than paid his dues in life. His story has been told on Oprah, Dateline, Court TV and the History Channel–with invitations to return when he has the book. Look up the story of Johnnie Mae Chappell and you will find his name, and there’s a reason for that.

Katy, Longbeach, MS

C. Lee Cody, Author of The 14th Denial

The third photo is an crane, an origami piece one of my Delta students made for her PowerPoint project. I have named the crane, Stephen.

Stephen Crane: Origami

Following the crane is a photo of a GAT, a type of lighter one of my students showed the class how to make with just staples, tape and AA batteries. I should have more photos to post very soon. Likely the next batch will be of the Celtic Festival.

GAT: Emergency Lighter

West Texas Highway by Lyle Lovett , written by Boomer Castleman and Michael Martin Murphey

Lovett does the song in the key of F. I was not happy with the arrangements I found on the Internet, so I posted these. I lowered the key a half step, and changed one chord (the third one) to fit the music better than the posted chords I found. You can hear the obvious changes, so I listed them like this instead of trying to match them directly where they changed. If you’re trying to learn this song, I hope this post helps.  I also transcribed the lyrics directly from Lovett’s song on his Step Inside This House CD.

E7, A7 (bar chord), (Chord with these notes: A#-E-MUTED D- C#-F#-muted E) E-C#-F#-B7,E7

Now I was driving down

A West Texas highway

I seen a hitchhiker

And his thumb was pointing my way

He didn’t look suspicious

He didn’t look any too clean

So I, I put on my brakes

And I opened up the door

I could tell he was a bum

By the boots that he wore

He said I’m going down to Haskell

Got a woman back in Abilene.

He told me, Son,

East Texas is where I come from

I been riding that Jacksonville rodeo

And I got humdrum

I’m traveling around

A whole lot of Texas I’ve seen

Yes, and I’m mighty glad

You was pushing down my way

In your fancy clothes there

And this shiny Chevrolet

I’m going down to Haskell

Got a woman back in Abilene

Well he was grinning like a possum

A mighty happy rascal

He waved good-bye

When I let him out in Haskell

And that’s about the last

Of that old road tramp

That I’ve ever seen

But I’m still wishing

To this very day

That he had my clothes

And this shiny (big) Chevrolet

And it was me going to Haskell

With a woman back in Abilene

REPEAT LAST VERSE

During my recent drive to the DFW area to do book signings at 4 Sam’s Club stores, I listened to my favorite radio station there, The Range, and as usual, I heard a song that I couldn’t live without learning. It was another one by Guy Clark, one of the finest songwriters that has ever lived. As I am working hard on writing my own songs, I thought this one had good application to my own life and mind. I personally transcribed these. I know they are more accurate than other versions on the Net.

“Some Days You Write the Song” by Guy Clark

It’s just one of those days you can’t explain

When nothing’s right or wrong

Too much wine or not enough

So you just play along.

There’s no rhyme or reason

Ain’t a damn thing you can do

Some days you write the song

Some days the song writes you.

Searching for a melody

To sing my soul to sleep

Reaching for some harmony

Down inside of me

Some days you know just how it goes

Some days you have no clue.

Some days you write the song

Some days the song writes you.

You can fall

You can fly

Get low down or get high

You can try or just leave it alone.

You can search for the way

You can curse, you can pray

But the words have a way of their own.

It don’t matter how much it hurts

You’ve got to tell the truth.

Some days you write the song

Some days the song writes you.

Now you may think I just made this up

But I would not lie, that’s true

Some days you write the song

Some days the song writes you.

The Brendan Voyage: A Review by Rickey E. Pittman

I’ve had few books pique my interests and hold my attention as much as The Brendan Voyage by Tim Severin. First published in May of 1978, it’s one of those books that after reading you ask, “Why didn’t I find out about this book years ago?” This book is the story of “how a crew of five, later reduced to four, sailed a medieval boat, [curragh] made of leather, across the [North] Atlantic . . . .”  The author and crew were determined to prove that the legendary voyage of St. Brendan as related in the medieval text of the Navigatio was “not a legend at all, but a fairly factual record of a voyage to North American hundreds of years before the Vikings and nearly a thousand before Columbus.

If you are as intrigued by Celtic history as I am, you will find this an exciting read, and you will delightfully learn more than you intended or expected.  Severin’s prose is rich in historical and modern allusions and details, providing insight after insight into the minds of the medieval monks and what it means and meant to sail on the ocean in an ancient boat.

The author so details the making and sailing of the Brendan, that I felt I was there with him on the cold northern seas every step of the way. I learned facts about the North Atlantic, its fantastic beauties and its savage dangers that I never would have imagined. The accounts and details related of the whales, the ice, the strange lands, the birds of his historical reenactment of Brendan’s voyage that I learned are too numerous to mention.  About the title of this review–it’s not quite accurate. Actually, it seems that other Irishmen had found the Americas even before Brendan.  But that’s another story

I was so impressed by this book that I’ve decided to incorporate St. Brendan and his voyage into my Scots-Irish program that I do for schools.  Here are a few quotations I found interesting in The Brendan Voyage (Hutchinson Publishers):

“The seventh wave is said to be the worst, the one that does the damage in the turmoil of an ocean gale” (1).

The Navigatio is said by many to be an Immram, an Irish voyage story. “It is the main surviving record of a Christian seagoing culture which sent boat after boat into the North Atlantic or regular voyages of communication and exploration . . . What sort of men, then, were these monks who deliberately launched out into the Atlantic in small open boats? Many must never have returned, but perished at sea” (259).

Here is a photo of the Brendan, the curragh that Severin sailed to America.

The Brendan: A Curragh that sailed from Ireland to America

This past Friday, I presented my Scots-Irish program to the first and second graders at Forest Ridge Elementary. The kids and staff were wonderful. I’ll try to post some more photos of the day soon. This was my first visit to College Station, but I’m sure it won’t be my last. As I’ve said before, I love going to Texas. Here in the photo with me is Christy Rhodes, the librarian who scheduled the program.  I now have another “favorite librarian”  to add to that growing list.

Christy Rhodes, Forest Ridge Elementary, College Station, TX

On the way back to Louisiana, I had Sam’s Club signings scheduled in Longview, Tyler, and in Shreveport.  Longview came through, but the other two will have to be rescheduled due to my books not arriving.

Two Leprechaun’s Go into a Bar–A Very Short Story . . .

Two leprechauns, Seamus and Angus, go into the Rainbow Lounge, an American bar in Fort Worth, intending to have some fun with the locals. They put on cowboy hats and boots, and enter singing, “Somewhere, over the rainbow,” for that is a leprechaun’s favorite American song. They climb up the barstools having sung their little hearts out. The jukebox is now playing Randy Newman’s song, “Short People.” One pounds on the counter with his shillelagh. “We’ll have a pint and a half,” he said. “For each of us.” The bartender evidently knew something about Irish pubs because he brought each of them a pint of Guinness and a glass of whiskey on the side. “Here you are. Pints for you half-pints.”

Still determined to mess with the bartender’s mind, the other leprechaun said, “I’m in desperate need of a job. Would you hire me?”

“What kind of job do you want? A short-order cook?” the bartender said. “Or you might make a good secretary, writing in short hand in all.”

“Can you turn on that TV above your head there. Maybe there’s a futbol game on.” Angus elbows the other leprechaun, “He probably doesn’t know the difference between American football and soccer.”

The bartender hits the remote and a soccer game came on. The Irish were playing the Swiss.

“I used to be quite the soccer player,” Seamus said.
The bartender smiled. “I would have thought your sport would have been baseball–you know, playing short-stop or something.”
Angus had taken all he could from the smart-ass bartender. “Would you stop the short jokes? I’m getting worked up.”
The bartender wiped the counter, then flipped the towel across Angus’ face. “I always heard leprechauns were short-tempered. Pay for your drinks and get out. You owe me twenty dollars. In gold of course.”
“Well,” Angus said. “You know how this is going to end up. Our gold is buried in Ireland. We’re a little short on funds, so we’re going to have to short-change you.”

*For those of you who haven’t ever heard the song “Short People” by Randy Newman, here are the lyrics:
Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
Short people got no reason
To live

They got little hands
Little eyes
They walk around
Tellin’ great big lies
They got little noses
And tiny little teeth
They wear platform shoes
On their nasty little feet

Well, I don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
`Round here

Short people are just the same
As you and I
(A fool such as I)
All men are brothers
Until the day they die
(It’s a wonderful world)

Short people got nobody
Short people got nobody
Short people got nobody
To love

They got little baby legs
That stand so low
You got to pick em up
Just to say hello
They got little cars
That go beep, beep, beep
They got little voices
Goin’ peep, peep, peep
They got grubby little fingers
And dirty little minds
They’re gonna get you every time
Well, I don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
Don’t want no short people
‘Round here

Last week I presented a program at the SCV camp in Sherman, Texas. They were a great group. One thing I will say about members of such historically focussed groups is that they are readers.  Because of them, I’ve added three new books to my library:

Requiem by W.J. Tancig (1968) An epic poem that I can’t wait to read and contemplate.

Battle Pieces: Civil War Poems of Herman Melville – I’ve had my eye on this book for a few years, and after passing up purchasing it twice before, I finally obtained it.

A History in Brief of the 11th Texas Cavalry prepared by members of the Colonel George R. Reeves Camp – This is my prize acquisition of the trip.

I will attempt to post reviews of these and others works on my blog in the near future.

SCENES FROM JACKSON, MS CELTIC FEST

Here are a couple of photos from the Celtic-rain Fest in Jackson this year. The first is of Shawndi Holton, a creative writing teacher in Mississippi. The second is of the Guinness Girls touring the grounds.  They were fine representatives of a fine beer!

At Jackson Celtic Fest

Guinness Girls