Today, I’m posting a review of my new children’s book that was printed in the September/October issue of Ceili, a Publication of the Southwest Celtic Music Association.

Scottish Alphabet
Written by Rickey E. Pittman
Illustrated by Connie McLennan

A Book Review by Dawn Sparacio

How does one write a book review for an ABC book?  There’s no plot, no action, no redeeming moral.  And yet, how does one get the word out about such a book unless there is a review?  This is a dilemma I’m happy to attempt, and only hope my words and screenshots taken from some of the book pages will peak your interest – especially if you are a parent, grandparent, aunt or uncle to a young child.

Scottish Alphabet by Rickey E. Pittman is so much more than your run-of-the-mill ABC primer.  History, culture, and mythology are all included in this simple work.  Illustrations by Connie McLennan made the book an interesting read, even for this old bird!

It is not enough to say this book teaches the ABCs to beginning readers.  Mr. Pittman has included Scottish culture and history in the “sing-song” verses that accompany each letter.  Ms. McLennan’s graphic yet simple illustration style includes not only pictures for Mr. Pittman’s words, but adds traditional art elements (such as Celtic knotwork and woven patterns) and native Scottish animal life to each picture.  While you may not recognize some of the animals (I didn’t!), you at least have a visual idea of some of the native life in Scotland.

The little rhymes Mr. Pittman uses to describe each letter also include words highlighted in bold text.  They may not begin with the letter on the page, but they are often times words that a child exposed to Celtic culture will hear or see.  These highlighted terms are included in a short glossary at the end of the book, with Scottish Gallic words including pronunciation guides.

Very young children will enjoy looking at the pictures as they are learning their ABCs.  Slightly older children will begin to learn a little history and culture as they read the verses.  And those of us who refuse to grow up will delight in the simplicity of a time when all the world was new and everything we saw taught a lesson.

Rickey Pittman’s book Scottish Alphabet, along with other books he has written, can be purchased online at his website:  http://www.rickeypittman.com/books.html.

You won’t understand the good-ole-Boys of the South if you only listen to Jeff Foxworthy and other comedians of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. While their writing and jokes are funny and often true, there can be much more to the Bubbas of the South. I grew up observing the good-ole-boys who lived along the Red River in North Texas and I learned some things from them. There are many synonyms for these renegades and outlaws who made the Texoma region their vacation land– good-ole-boys, rednecks, desperadoes. They are the subject matter of songs we love, songs written by men who have a bit of the outlaw in them–men like Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and Waylon Jennings. I like those songs so much I’ve suggested to my good musician friend, Johnny O’Neal that he create a CD of the many outlaw songs he does. Having played bass guitar with him for over a year, I noticed how the crowds LOVE those songs. The good-ole-boys of the South with their dark, wild, violent and quirky characteristics have inspired many movies. Newspaper articles about them shock us as we read of their bizarre and sometimes brutal escapades. Of course, women in the Red River Valley can also demonstrate the same characteristics.

One day I was listening to my mother, Jessie Faye Pittman (Don’t you just love Southern names?) tell me story after story of the crazy antics of the rednecks who lived along the Red River. I was writing down every one of the tales in total amazement. My mother stopped suddenly and said: “I don’t know what gets into people who live along this Red River. It’s like they’re sick or something.” At that moment the title of my novel popped into my brain: Red River Fever. I got to work, and a year later, I had a novel.

At signings and readings in North Texas, I will often have someone say to me: “You wrote about my uncle, didn’t you? He said he was the one that done that . . .” I assure them that the novel is a work of fiction and that I did not have their uncle in mind. (Do novelists ever change the names and other details to protect the guilty?) These boys along the Red River could get so out of control that I chose this quotation by Thomas Moore as an opening epigraph:

“This wretched brain gave way, and I became a wreck at random driven, without one glimpse of reason or of heaven.”—Thomas Moore.

Anyway, here is an excerpt from my novel, Red River Fever. If you want to know more about rednecks and why they fascinate the American public, I hope you’ll take a look at it. This quotation introduces another strange Valley character, a religious man who called himself Enud the Prophet. He and his congregation are contemplating the spread of the mythical Red River Fever that sweeps through the Valley every few years:

“At a dilapidated farmhouse outside Durant, members of the Good Hope Pentecostal Church gathered for prayer and meditation. The foundation of the house had been skewed by shifting soil, and the right corner of the wood-shingled roof slanted toward heaven. Inside, a dirt dauber buzzed in the corner and crawled up the cabbage rose wallpaper into its earthen sarcophagus, and a brown recluse spider scurried across the sloping floor toward the group sitting around a battered oak table.
A large redheaded man stretched out his leg, squashed the spider with his boot and whispered, “The spider taketh hold with her hands, and is in kings’ palaces.” He licked his finger and flipped through a ragged bible. His finger rested on verses underlined in red ink, marked so long ago that the ink had bled through the pages. “ The good Lord has spoke to me and I have a verse to share, my brothers and sisters,” he said. “It’s time. Soon the earth shall disclose its blood. Jeremiah 48:8 says, ‘And the spoiler shall come upon every city, and no city shall escape: the valley also shall perish . . .’ ”
“Is it the fever?” a woman asked.
Enud stared at his Bible. “I’m afraid so, Sister Ethel. I’m afraid so.”
The supplicants knelt together. As the sun set, the shrill monosyllabic sounds of unknown tongues broke the quiet of the valley’s encroaching darkness—a darkness they could feel.”

Yesterday, I attended the Library Event sponsored by Region VIII ESC in Mount Pleasant, Texas. Patty Duke is in charge of the program, and as usual, she did such a great job. I rose at 3:00 a.m., was on the road by 4:00, there by 7:30, left at 12:45 after the program ended, and arrived in Monroe about 4:30 just in time to do a couple of errands and teach my class at Delta at 5:00.

This morning at 10 a.m., before my Academic Seminar Class at Delta, I’m showing various musical instruments and performing some songs for my grandson Mason’s Montessori class.  The Monroe school is called Nature’s Way and I can tell attending the school has been a good experience for Mason (who is now three years of age). My daughter Rachel made a good point: The cost of Montessori instruction differs little from the price of good day care for little ones, so you might as well place the children in a nurturing and educational environment.  If you are unfamiliar with Maria Montessori’s philosophy of education, you can read about it here

You can read about the Nature’s Way school in Monroe and its philosophy here:

Teaching in a Montessori school must be much like teaching gifted students (in the public schools that still believe in REALLY serving gifted children and when they let you develop them).  I’ve talked to many parents that have used the Nature’s Way school and they are very pleased and vocal about how the school helped their children.

AUTHOR EVENTS: I’m to be working with the Honey Grove, Texas ISD this Friday. It has been nearly a year since I’ve been to the schools there, but I remember I had such a grand time.  Beverly Ann Herriage is the district librarian.  This town has an interesting history. According to the city’s homepage, There is a legend stating  “in 1836 as Davy Crockett was traveling to join the Texas Army at San Antonio, he camped in a grove just west of the present town square, on the bank of Honey Grove Creek. In letters he wrote to Tennessee, he told of the ideal place where he had camped, the “honey grove.” It was so named due to the abundance of honey in the hollow trees.

In 1842, the first settler, Samuel Erwin, arrived to make the “honey grove” his home. Erwin was a friend of Davy Crockett. In fact, Crockett performed the marriage ceremony for Erwin and his wife. B.S. Walcott came to Honey Grove in 1848, laid off the town and sold building lots, and progress really began to speed up in the tiny town. Honey Grove was incorporated in 1873.”

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I presented a program at ESC Region XI’s Library Harvest in Fort Worth. I spoke to the  librarians on this topic: “How to Have Affordable Author Events.” I intend to type the outline I followed and post it in the near future. Below are two photos of the event. One is at my author table (note my little Leprachaun)  where I was signing books and the other was taken while I was speaking. Tomorrow, I’ll be at ESC Region VIII’s conference in Mt. Pleasant, Texas. I’ll leave for that event early in the A.M. and will post something on it tomorrow night.

A week or two ago I was driving to Oklahoma to visit my parents, Gene & Jessie Pittman, and I heard this song on The Range, KHYI 95.3, which is as far as I know, Dallas’ only Americana station. You can see the station’s site here:) This is my favorite Dalls/Fort Worth radio station. In my many travels to the area, if I’m not listening to a book on tape, (thanks to Beautiful Bonnie Blue of Region XI), or listening to a song over and over again to learn the lyrics, I’m listening to NPR or the Range. As I’m a guitar player, this song registered–yes, even cutting into my selfish heart a little (not as much as it should). I’ve always liked songs, stories, and movies about guitar players. (“While My Guitar Gently Weeps” by the Beatles, “Tennessee Flat-Box” by Johnny Cash, “This Old Guitar” by John Denver
“Tonight I Just Need My Guitar” by Jimmy Buffett, and many others). Guitars to guitarists are like swords to Vikings–we name them (B.B. King named his Lucille, my Taylor is Fionna) and we revere them.

As far as I know, Southern Missive is the only site to post the lyrics to this song. I transcribed them, so if I made a mistake, please let me know. The chord changes I figured out. If you want to purchase the song, you can do that here: If you have a song you want me to run down and find the lyrics for, let me know and I’ll do my best.

Mama Said (Pick in His Pocket) by Take Root : Lyrics and Chords

Come all you young fair ladies,
Hear what I have to say
Don’t marry a man with a pick in his pocket
Or you’ll live to curse the day
You’ll never have the things you need
To make a decent life,
If you marry a man with a pick in his pocket,
You’ll be a poor man’s wife.

He’ll leave you in the evening,
When the sun is going down,
You’ll sit home all by yourself,
While he’s out on the town,
Cause he don’t care about nothing,
Except to play a guitar and sing,
He’ll come home with just a pick in his pocket,
And a pick won’t buy a thing.

Now when you were a small girl,
You thought the whole thing through,
You’d grow up and you’d marry a man
Who’d take good care of you,
So heed this word of warning,
Or your future will be dim,
If you marry a man with a pick in his pocket,
You’ll be supporting him.

And when you lie there sleeping,
Dreaming dreams of bliss,
He’ll stumbling through the door
And wake you with a drunken kiss
And you’ll know the dream is over
But it’ll be too late by then
Cause you married a man with a pick in his pocket,
Look at the mess you’re in.

Cause you married a man with a pick in his pocket,
Look at the mess you’re in.

(They play it in Bb. Capo Fret III.) If you listen to the song, you can easily hear the chord changes. Here’s the chord progression of a whole verse:
G C G C G F C D C D G C G Bb C G

SATURDAY Sept. 13

Tomorrow morning, I’ll be at the Daily Harvest Deli & Bakery, performing. I’m so looking forward to it and I wish Teresa tremendous success with the debut signing of her cookbook. Sunday, Tom and I will be performing for the Celtic Society in West Monroe.

Thursday, I was at the Library Harvest of Region XI in Fort Worth. I’ll have some photos and information to post about that event and my day (today with my Aunt Winnie) in Garland, Texas tomorrow night.

Tomorrow, I’ll be presenting a program at the Region XI Library & Media Services for their annual Library Harvest event. You can read about the event and see the schedule here: I will also set up school and library programs and sign some books. There’s a good chance I might be able to provide some entertainment as well. I’ll have my guitar with me at any rate. I’ll be back to Monroe Friday night as I must be at Teresa Gordan’s Daily Harvest Bakery and Deli bright and early Saturday to do some guitar /vocals there for her special event. She’ll be presenting her new cookbook (that I edited) and signing them. Should be a grand day.

Here is a photo of me in my little story-telling tent at the Jackson Celtic Festival. It was taken by a friend, Dr. Mack Barham. Mack is a reader, a known photographer, and is a committed patron of the arts in Northeast Louisiana. I taught his son in junior high reading class and I was also his soccer coach. I can tell by the chord I’m making that I’m doing Leonard Cohen’s song, “Hallelujah.” That song is a favorite of kids and adults both. I believe the song’s popularity is a result of the Shrek movie.

Few battles of the War Between the States  have captured the attention of people as much as the Battle of Gettysburg, PA.  This is an excerpt from one of my stories in my collection of short fiction entitled, Stories of the Confederate South. The soldier is in the 15th Alabama, and an Irishman from Connemara. You can read more about the book the story comes from by clicking on the book’s link/icon on this page.  The story was inspired by a song of Jed Marum.

A Prayer from Little Round Top

Jim leaned his back against an oak to catch his breath, and used its broad trunk as a shield while he reloaded. Bullets bored into the tree, chewing off chunks of bark and notching its edge until the side of the tree resembled a saw blade.  The torrent of lead dug into the ground about him, and the Minnie balls slashed branches and saplings and brush, and ricocheted or flattened against rocks. At least there’s a breeze, he thought, and he sucked a deep breath into his lungs. It’s Southern air, he thought. Blowin’ my way.
He watched his friend, Sean, scramble to the left of him in bare feet across the slick, moss-covered rocks, his Enfield slung across his back. The hillside was steep, so Sean’s hands clutched branches and bushes to steady his ascent. Even over the rifle shots and cannon, Jim heard Sean wretch after he too found a shield-tree.
He and Sean had woven their way to this point through the boulders and trees, past the dead, past their own wounded friends, relatives, and comrades who would be abandoned to the Federals’ mercy if the battle were lost.  Behind them, black-powder smoke crept along the ground like a malignant fogbank, veiling the blood staining the moss and leaf-covered ground and congealing in puddles on rocks. Giant boulders rose above the clumps of slain men like tombstones.
Like the other soldiers of the Fifteenth Alabama on this Pennsylvania hilltop, Jim coughed and gagged and choked on his swollen tongue. He licked his parched and split lips, wishing he had a canteen. Hours before, the captain had gathered all their empty canteens and sent a squad of men to fill them.  The squad had not returned, meaning that they had been caught in a firefight or had been captured. He and the other men of the Fifteenth had now gone six hours without water, and the heat had steadily increased. Many men had fallen out due to heat exhaustion. Having already taken heavy losses, Colonel Oates was now left with only 400 men and officers to make this crucial assault on the Federal flank.
Jim tore open a cartridge with his teeth, and the acrid taste of the powder only made his dry mouth pucker even more. He emptied the powder into the barrel, squeezed in the cartridge, and rammed it home.  Jim rolled down the hill to get closer to Sean, then called out, “Who are we facing, Sean?”
“The green uniforms are Vermonters.  I think the blue are Maine men.”
“Those Vermonters are crack shots.  They’ve got the eyes and patience of hunters.”
“Aye, that they do.”
“Where’s Sergeant O’Connor?” Jim asked.
“Ahead of us.”
“He’s a fierce man.”
“Aye, there’s no fiercer Irishman for sure.”
Jim studied the side of the mountain, littered with the scattered forms of his comrades in their Tuscaloosa gray uniforms. We’ve got the Yankees on the run, but many of us are going to die here, he thought.
“Well, you rested up enough to move closer?” Sean said.
“Aye, Sean.” Jim picked out a tree, about fifteen yards ahead. He blew out his breath, doubled over and ran to it.  A green uniform rose on the summit, and some lines from Sir Gawain floated through his consciousness. He raised his Enfield, steadied its barrel against the tree, and fired.  The green uniform tumbled backwards.  He fumbled inside his cartridge pouch for another bullet.
The firing intensified—Spencers, Sharps, Enfields, Springfields—and he heard bullets pass overhead in waves of muffled sound. A rebel yell echoed as the rapidly thinning ranks of the 15th rallied and neared the summit. He marked and started for another boulder a few yards in front of him. A lead fist burned its way into his chest and knocked him on his back. Damn good shots, those Vermont boys, he thought.
He closed his eyes. Ellen’s face materialized, and he wondered how she would take the news of his death, wondered if she would know, wondered who would win this battle. Ellen, I love you so much.  God Almighty, I do.  And, as he always did in moments of stress, he thought of his sister. He reached into his canvass haversack and his shaking fingers found Sarah’s small daguerreotype. He looked at his twin, and saw her as he liked to remember her, before the famine and the sickness, before they had locked her from his sight in the coffin.
Through his blurred eyes he could make out the blue-tinted outline of Big Round Top about 1,000 yards away. The mountain’s base was shrouded in smoke. A Federal in the signal corps stood on its bald, weathered cap and flagged some distant artillery, and heat waves refracted the man’s form and the blue haze of the sky.  He remembered contemplating the two Round Tops as they marched on the double for this attack.  The two rounded mountains seemed like stiff sentinels in the gently rolling hills of Pennsylvania, stone children spawned by ancient volcanoes in a forgotten turbulent age.

*     *     *

This weekend was an important event for me personally as it was the first public signing of my new children’s book, The Scottish Alphabet. The book was received well and I had a grand time story-telling to the little ones and to adults as well. The weekend was important in other ways as this news release indicates.

SEPTEMBER 5-7, 2008 DECLARED CELTIC HERITAGE WEEKEND

(Jackson, MS) – Governor Haley Barbour issued a proclamation that the weekend of September 5-7, 2008 is declared “Celtic Heritage Weekend” to coincide with 17th annual CelticFest Mississippi, a weekend celebrating the music, dance, and culture of the seven Celtic nations of Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, the Isle of Man, Brittany, and Gallicia.

The Proclamation notes that large numbers of Irish, Scottish, and Welsh immigrants settled in what is now Mississippi as early as the mid-1700’s, establishing homes, farms, and communities. These Celtic settlers made significant contributions in every aspect of life which are still felt today.

The Celtic Heritage Society (CHS) was founded in 1992 by Celtic music and dance practitioners. The mission of the CHS is to preserve, promote, and present traditional Celtic art and culture in Mississippi.

CelticFest Mississippi is the main outgrowth of the CHS mission, celebrating traditional Celtic culture over three days with stage performances, workshops, food, drink, and specialty item vendors. The event takes place at the Mississippi Agricultural and Forestry Museum.

Regardless of personal ethnic background, all Missisippians share a common culture influenced by those who settled the area. Some sources estimate that as much as three out of every four Southerners can claim Celtic ancestry.

For more information, please visit the CelticFest web site: www.CelticFestMS.org. The Celtic Heritage Society is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization with the mission of promoting and preserving the arts and culture of the Celtic nations. CelticFest is a family-oriented event, and all CHS events are open to the public.

CelticFest’s sponsors include: Fenian’s Irish Pub, Guinness, Cabot Lodge Millsaps, Branch Cable, Wine & Spirits in the Quarter, the Jackson Irish Dancers. This project is also funded in part by a grant from the Mississippi Arts Commission, a state agency and by the Southern Arts Federation in partnership with the National Endowment for the Arts and the Mississippi Arts Commission.

This weekend at the Celtic Fest in Jackson,  was an extraordinary weekend.  I met so many fascinating and artistic people. One of the many interesting people I met was Dianne Stefanick, an intelligent and beautiful volunteer worker for the festival.  She is also an art therapist with a very impressive resume.  I’ve long believed in the healing, redemptive, and creative power of art, and talking to her helped solidify my beliefs about that. What follows is an article she gave me defining art therapy.

ART THERAPY DEFINED

Art Therapy is the therapeutic use of art making. within a professional relationship, by people who experience illness, trauma, or challenges in living, and by people who seek personal development.  Through creating art and reflecting on the art products and processes, people can increase awareness of self and others cope with symptoms, stress, and traumatic experiences; enhance cognitive abilities; and enjoy the life-affirming pleasure of making art

Art Therapists are professionals trained in both art and therapy.  They are knowledgeable about human development, psychological theories, clinical practices, spiritual, multicultural and artistic traditions, and the healing potential of art.  They use art in treatment, assessment, and research, and provide consultations to allied professionals.  Art therapist works with people of all ages: individuals, couples, families, groups and communities.   They provide services, individually and as a part of clinical teams, in settings that include mental health, rehabilitation, medical and forensic institutions: community outreach programs; wellness centers; schools; nursing homes; corporate structures; open studios and independent practices.

The American Art Therapy Association, Inc. (ATTA) sets educational, professional, and ethical standards for its members.  The Art Therapy Credentials Board, Inc. (ATCB), an independent organization, grants credentials.  Registration ( ATR) is granted upon completion of graduate education and post-graduate supervised experience.  Board Certification (ATR-BC) is granted to Registered Art Therapist who passes a written examination, and is maintained through continuing education.  Some states regulate the practice of art therapy and in many states art therapist can become licensed as counselors or mental health therapists.

This has been an overwhelming and wonderful experience, with little sleep. The Scottish Alphabet book is selling well. Tom and I have performed three times, and we have one more to go today. I did two story-telling music sessions, and have one to go. There will be many photos of this event. So many talented musicians and dancers, so many fascinating people. Here are three photos to get thoughts on this event started.

The first photo is of me last March, doing storytelling in Baton Rouge, LA. Though not connected with this present festival in Jackson, it is one of my doing storytelling on stage.

The second photo is of me with volunteer workers of the Northeast Louisiana Celtic Society.

The workers are Tina, Rhonda, Amanda, & Gloria. They worked so hard to promote the society and W. Monroe’s upcoming Celtic Festival.

Guinness, along with Fenian’s Pub and Cabot Lodge (where I’m staying in Jackson), is one of the official hosts. Here are the Guinness Girls, whose task was to promote Guinness by photo ops.