I’m going to be creating word-banks and word-lists of suggested vocabulary for those writers who wish to write about the South or about Southern people. The first list is of distinctive types of people in the South. These types of people make excellent characters for your stories. However, they need to be studied, researched, thought about, and interviewed (if possible) so that you will avoid the stereotypical images and provide readers with valuable insights into the human condition and human nature. This list is not meant to be comprehensive, so if you think of another type of person, email it to me and I’ll add it to the list with an acknowledgment that you supplied it. rickeyp@bayou.com Likewise, the definitions I supply are simple key words to help you understand and are not meant to be comprehensive.

*Disclaimer: If you’re hyper-politically correct or sensitive, or have an aversion to slang, or if you are overly concerned about offending people by your words, you might want to avoid the lists I’ll be creating. If course, if you are such a person, you don’t have any business wanting to be a writer anyway.

Types of People in the South:

1. *Redneck – Of the Southern White laboring class.

2. Peckerwood – a rural White Southerner

3. Jezebel – A woman or girl of questionable morality. No Southern mother would think of naming her daughter after the wicked queen of Israel. You can read about her in I and II Kings.

4. *Cracker – a poor Southern white (often from Florida or Georgia). Sometimes used in a racially charged manner.

5. Cajun (aka, “Coonass”) French Acadians whom the British expelled from Canada. They landed in South Louisiana, forever changing the Louisiana landscape.

6. Creole – In its pure sense, a creole is a first generation descendant of Spanish or French colonists. The term has become to be used more loosely to describe South Louisiana culture, or people of color. Though some creoles were people of color, color is irrelevant.

7. Southern Belle – Girls raised to be beautiful and charming in the Southern antebellum tradition, stressing the cultivation of beauty and hospitality.

8. Redbone – a person of mixed race in Louisiana, usually black and Native American.

9. Gullah, Geechi – African-Americans who lived (and live) in the low country of South Carolina and Georgia. They speak a Krio-type language. I’m told we gained our words for “gumbo” and for “goober” (peanut) from them. A rich culture worthy of more study.

10. Quadroon – One who is of one-fourth black ancestry.

11. Octoroon – One who is of one-eighth black ancestry.

12. Towhead – a youngster who is blonde

13. Bubba – I’m sure you’ve heard all the bubba jokes by now. A term used to describe Southern men. A synonym of good-ole-boy, though when used in a family is sometimes a term of affection for the oldest male in the family.

14. Traiteur – A healer in French Acadiana. Mentioned sometimes in the Dave Robicheaux novels by James Lee Burke.

15. Islaños – Of Spanish ancestry from the Canary Islands who settled in Louisiana.

16. Good-ole-boy – Definitions vary. My novel, Red River Fever, is about them. The free online dictionary defines one as, “A man having qualities held to be characteristic of certain Southern white males, such as a relaxed or informal manner, strong loyalty to family and friends, [and often an anti-intellectual bias and intolerant point of view].” I think the part of the definition I put in brackets is debatable. I think it may be sometimes true.

17. Roughnecks – men who work the oil fields.

18. *Hillbillies – from the hill-country of Appalachia.

19. *Gringo – Used by Latins to describe Anglo-Saxons. There is also a legend that the term originates from the Mexican War (1846-1848), when American Soldiers would sing Robert Burns’s “Green Grow the Rashes, O!” Their rough singing was misheard and interpreted as “Gringo.”

20. mulatto – of mixed race

21. mestizo – of mixed Spanish and Native American ancestry.

*Check this site for more comprehensive insights into these words.

Paint It Black: A Short Review of Janet Fitch’s Novel

Having read and enjoyed White Oleander by Janet Fitch (reviewed on this blog, April 03 2007), I suspected that her novel, Paint It Black (Back Bay Books, Little, Brown & Company) would be a good read also. I was correct. I am reading slower than I used to. Perhaps it is the underlining and the marginal notes slowing me down, but I thoroughly enjoyed the novel. I’ve always loved stories about art, artists, musicians, and writers, and maybe that’s why I was attracted to this story of Josie Tyrell, and the tragedies, loves, and nemeses of her life. The novel is rich in allusions, intense in conflict, and the author’s prose and diction is rich. The novel is a portrait of Los Angeles and its bohemian rock music, film, and art scene. It is also a study of grief (over a suicide); of artists, creativity, and their quests for perfection; of dreams and dreamers; of the heavy hand of guilt; of beauty, love, loss, and sadness; and of how people live in and are supported by the music they listen to. Fitch has amazing and intense insights into the human psyche and heart.

I’ve tried to analyze why this novel affected me so deeply. Maybe it’s because I’ve known nude models like Josie and writers, artists, and musicians like Michael. Perhaps it’s because, like Michael, I am often haunted, and have my own personal demons, demons that refuse to be exorcised.

Here is Fitch’s website: http://literati.net/Fitch/ She is a brilliant and insightful writer. Her writing deserves our attention.

Though there many more I could have selected, here are some of my favorite quotations from Paint it Black:

“Nobody ever really loved a lover. Because love was a private party, and nobody got on the guest list.” (1)
“[E]ven lies could be true, if you knew how to listen.” (27)
“She just kept talking, like a drunk arguing with ghosts . . .”(32)
“How right that the body changed over time, becoming a gallery of scars, a canvass of experience, a testament to life and one’s capacity to endure it.” (67)
“The stupid things you say in the rain, that can’t ever be washed away.” (81)
“Pen had no sense that someone might want to keep her private life private. Privacy wasn’t even a concept. She’d never closed a bathroom door in her life.” (83)
“Each man kills the thing he loves”—Oscar Wilde (This is repeated many times in the novel and has to be a theme).
“It was the way the world really ran, in little signs and signals.” (160)
“Girls were born knowing how destructive the truth could be.” (236)
“Sometimes things that happened were just too solid to move, like some huge bookcase or black breakfront that had dug its legs into the floor over the years.” (272)
“That kind of tenderness couldn’t be permitted to last. Nothing that beautiful could live long. It wasn’t allowed. You only got a taste . . . then you paid for it the rest of your life. Like the guy chained to rock, who stole fire . . . You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.” ( 278)
“You gave things away you couldn’t afford to lose. Private things. You showed yourself and you couldn’t take it back.” (306)
“Insomnia and the hulls of dead dreams blowing across the floor of the empty rooms like dry leaves.” (337)
“It was a mistake you could never recover from.” (351)
“(Her soul) A moldy old scrap only fit throwing away, not even the devil would take it on consignment.” (361)
(I love the desert, and I love this quotation Fitch has) “[S]he understood people who’d choose to live like that, isolated in a dry hard terrain, so far from comfort . . . Hard people, whose own company was even more than they could stomach.” (378) And here: “[T]he Arabs invented zero, because they were a desert people, at home with absence. . . This was his landscape, bitter cold, populated only by rocks and strange leafless trees, no softness or mercy, no touch of green.” (411)

Lyrics to “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes
I see a line of cars and theyre all painted black
With flowers and my love both never to come back
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away
Like a new born baby it just happens every day
I look inside myself and see my heart is black
I see my red door and it has been painted black
Maybe then Ill fade away and not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facing up when your whole world is black

No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue
I could not foresee this thing happening to you
If I look hard enough into the settin sun
My love will laugh with me before the mornin comes

I see a red door and I want it painted black
No colors anymore I want them to turn black
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes

I wanna see it painted, painted black
Black as night, black as coal
I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky
I wanna see it painted, painted, painted, painted black

Pam Tackett, the GT coordinator and teacher for Union Parish, sent me this list of funnies that her gifted students came up with. Some of them, after tweaking, might make good lines or topics for stories, maybe even a series.  The student’s name who supplied the quotes and created the comments is Codi McAllister, a student of Ms. Tackett’s:

1. SAVE THE WHALES. COLLECT THE WHOLE SET.
No. Free them. They are not a collectors item.
2. A DAY WITHOUT SUNSHINE IS LIKE, NIGHT.
And a night without moonlight is like, dark.
3. ON THE OTHER HAND, YOU HAVE DIFFERENT FINGERS.
As on the other foot, you have different toes.
4. I JUST GOT LOST IN THOUGHT. IT WASN’T FAMILIAR TERRITORY.
I told you not to let your mind wander, it’s too small to be out on its own.
5. 42.7 PERCENT OF ALL STATISTICS ARE MADE UP ON THE SPOT.
Only 53.6 people just got that.
6. 99 PERCENT OF LAWYERS GIVE THE REST A BAD NAME.
That last 1% doesn’t exist.
7. I FEEL LIKE I’M DIAGONALLY PARKED IN A PARALLEL UNIVERSE.
It’s better than a perpendicular intersection…
8. HONK IF YOU LOVE PEACE AND QUIET.
BEEP!
9. REMEMBER, HALF THE PEOPLE YOU KNOW ARE BELOW AVERAGE.
The other half are not.
10. HE WHO LAUGHS LAST, THINKS SLOWEST.
Remember that Dustin…
11. DEPRESSION IS MERELY ANGER WITHOUT ENTHUSIASM.
And being angry at someone that’s depressed makes you a cheerleader of sorts….
12. THE EARLY BIRD MAY GET THE WORM, BUT THE SECOND MOUSE GETS THE CHEESE.
If you’re a bird, be an early bird. If you’re a worm, sleep late.
13. I DRIVE WAY TOO FAST TO WORRY ABOUT CHOLESTEROL.
That is why they make cereal bars.
14. SUPPORT BACTERIA. THEY’RE THE ONLY CULTURE SOME PEOPLE HAVE.
FREE THE WHALES!
15. MONDAY IS AN AWFUL WAY TO SPEND 1/7 OF YOUR WEEK.
We should omit it.
16. A CLEAR CONSCIENCE IS USUALLY THE SIGN OF A BAD MEMORY.
A guilty conscience isn’t neccissarily a good thing either.
17. CHANGE IS INEVITABLE, EXCEPT FROM VENDING MACHINES.
And credit cards
18. GET A NEW CAR FOR YOUR SPOUSE. IT’LL BE A GREAT TRADE!
Unless, of course, your spouse divorces you, and wins the car.
19. PLAN TO BE SPONTANEOUS TOMORROW.
Why not spontaneously plan to not be spontaneous?
20. ALWAYS TRY TO BE MODEST, AND BE PROUD OF IT!
OK! I’M MODEST!
21. IF YOU THINK NOBODY CARES, TRY MISSING A COUPLE OF PAYMENTS.
If you don’t get a call, try being depressed, then get someone angry at you.
22. HOW MANY OF YOU BELIEVE IN PSYCHO-KINESIS? RAISE MY HAND.
I already did.
23. OK, SO WHAT’S THE SPEED OF DARK?
87.4 % of that of light.
24. HOW DO YOU TELL WHEN YOU’RE OUT OF INVISIBLE INK?
The write-ee doesn’t understand your message. Could you understand ” Will you go to the da”
25. IF EVERYTHING SEEMS TO BE GOING WELL, YOU HAVE OBVIOUSLY OVERLOOKED SOMETHING.
Oh yeah…. you’re still here…
26. WHEN EVERYTHING IS COMING YOUR WAY, YOU’RE IN THE WRONG LANE.
If everything is running from you, take a bath.
27. HARD WORK PAYS OFF IN THE FUTURE. LAZINESS PAYS OFF NOW.
however, hard work hurts you now. Laziness hurts you in the future.
28. EVERYONE HAS A PHOTOGRAPHIC MEMORY. SOME JUST DO NOT HAVE FILM.
Others have no memory card.
29. IF BARBIE IS SO POPULAR, WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BUY HER FRIENDS?
Why do you think Barbie is so popular?
30. HOW MUCH DEEPER WOULD THE OCEAN BE WITHOUT SPONGES?
31.2 % of the water in the sponges wouldn’t be in the sponges.
31. EAGLES MAY SOAR, BUT WEASELS DO NOT GET SUCKED INTO JET ENGINES.
And platypuses are God’s sense of humor.
32. WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU GET SCARED HALF TO DEATH TWICE?
Sucks for you.
33. I USED TO HAVE AN OPEN MIND BUT MY BRAINS KEPT FALLING OUT.
Have you checked your pocket?
34. I COULDN’T REPAIR YOUR BRAKES, SO I MADE YOUR HORN LOUDER.
It’s people like you that ruin my peace and quiet! Hey look another bumper sticker. BEEP!
35. WHY DO PSYCHICS HAVE TO ASK YOU FOR YOUR NAME?
You’d know if you were psychic.
36. INSIDE EVERY OLDER PERSON IS A YOUNGER PERSON WONDERING WHAT
HAPPENED.
Yet inside every younger person is an older person thinking, ”what an idiot”
37. JUST REMEMBER – IF THE WORLD DID NOT SUCK, WE WOULD ALL FALL OFF.
Then, because the sun sucks, we’d all be pulled into a fiery death.
38. LIGHT TRAVELS FASTER THAN SOUND, WHICH IS WHY SOME PEOPLE APPEAR BRIGHT UNTIL YOU HEAR THEM SPEAK.
Except for deaf people.

There’s something intriguing about the saints. One movie that really made me think about the way saints attract and influence us is the movie, The Saint, with Val Kilmer. Anyway, I wanted to make this post about the patron saint of my three favorite countries: Wales, Scotland, and Ireland.  I intend to visit them all some day.

Wales

The patron saint of wales is St. David. He was born around Pembrokeshire and died about A.D. 601. March 1 is St. David’s Day and the Welsh traditionally wear a leek or a daffodil. (Shakespeare alludes to this practice in Henry V). St. David was abbot-bishop at Mynyw (St. David’s). He was known for his opposition to heretics and founded over a dozen monasteries known for their extreme asceticism. His shrine at St. David’s was an important pilgrammage destination.

Scotland

St. Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland. He was the brother of Peter, a fisherman. His symbol is the saltire. (St. Andrew’s Cross was the origin of the state flag of Alabama and of the Confederate Battle Flag. St. Andrews (the city and famous golfing site) became a destination for pilgrims. His day is Nov. 30.

Ireland

The patron saint of Ireland is of course, St. Patrick. (A.D. 389-461) There is more to say about him than I can post, but here are the lyrics to a popular song about him, written by Henry Bennet. The song is said to date back to the 1820s.

Saint Patrick was a gentleman, he came from decent people
He built a church in Dublin town and on it put a steeple
His father was a Gallagher, his mother was a Grady
His aunt was an O’Shaughnessy and his uncle was a Brady

The Wicklow hills are very high and so’s the hill of Howth, sir
But there’s a hill much higher still, much higher than them both, sir
From the top of this high hill Saint Patrick preached a sermon
Drove the frogs into the bogs and banished all the vermin

There’s not a mile in Eireann’s isle where dirty vermin muster
But there he put his dear forefoot and murdered them in clusters
The frogs went plop, the toads went flop, slapdash into the water
The snakes committed suicide to save themselves from slaughter

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue he charmed with sweet discourses
And dined on them at Killaloe in soups and second courses
Blind worms crawling on the grass disgusted all the nation
Down to hell with a holy spell he changed the situation

No wonder that them Irish lads should be so gay and frisky
Sure Saint Patrick taught them that as well as making whisky
No wonder that the saint himself should understand distilling
His mother had a shebeen shop in the town of Enniskillen

O was I but so fortunate as to be back in Munster
I’d rebound unto that ground and nevermore should want, sir
There Saint Patrick planted corn, cabbages and praties
He had pigs galore, a gra a stor, altar boys and ladies

Something You May Not Know About Lincoln:

One of the first targets of Lincoln and his administration as the Civil War was getting underway was the state of Maryland. He arrested legislators, citizens, the mayor and police chiefs of Baltimore, censored newspapers and arrested editors, abolished habeas corpus,  suppressed all political opposition, suppressed free elections, occupied Baltimore and other areas of the state with the military, and placed Baltimore under marshal law. (He did this other places too. In fact, DiLorenzo says in his fine book, The Real Lincoln, that Lincoln arrested over 13,000 political prisoners in the North!)

Ironically, Maryland’s present state song, “Maryland, My Maryland,” commemorates Lincoln’s invasion, purge of pro-South leaders, and his takeover of the state. Though formerly allied with the Union against the South, there were many regiments from the state who fought with the South. It should also be added that Maryland remained a slave state in the war.

This site says this about the background of the song (the same site is also the source of the lyrics):

“Maryland, My Maryland” was adopted as the State song in 1939 (Chapter 451, Acts of 1939; Code State Government Article, sec. 13-307).
The nine-stanza poem, “Maryland, My Maryland,” was written by James Ryder Randall in April 1861. A native of Maryland, Randall was teaching in Louisiana in the early days of the Civil War, and he was outraged at the news of Union troops being marched through Baltimore. The poem articulated Randall’s Confederate sympathies. Set to the traditional tune of “Lauriger Horatius” (“O, Tannenbaum”), the song achieved wide popularity in Maryland and throughout the South.

Here are the lyrics:

The despot’s heel is on thy shore,
Maryland!
His torch is at thy temple door,
Maryland!
Avenge the patriotic gore
That flecked the streets of Baltimore,
And be the battle queen of yore,
Maryland! My Maryland!
II
Hark to an exiled son’s appeal,
Maryland!
My mother State! to thee I kneel,
Maryland!
For life and death, for woe and weal,
Thy peerless chivalry reveal,
And gird they beauteous limbs with steel,
Maryland! My Maryland!
III
Thou wilt not cower in the dust,
Maryland!
Thy beaming sword shall never rust,
Maryland!
Remember Carroll’s sacred trust,
Remember Howard’s warlike thrust,-
And all thy slumberers with the just,
Maryland! My Maryland!
IV
Come! ’tis the red dawn of the day,
Maryland!
Come with thy panoplied array,
Maryland!
With Ringgold’s spirit for the fray,
With Watson’s blood at Monterey,
With fearless Lowe and dashing May,
Maryland! My Maryland!
V
Come! for thy shield is bright and strong,
Maryland!
Come! for thy dalliance does thee wrong,
Maryland!
Come to thine own anointed throng,
Stalking with Liberty along,
And chaunt thy dauntless slogan song,
Maryland! My Maryland!
VI
Dear Mother! burst the tyrant’s chain,
Maryland!
Virginia should not call in vain,
Maryland!
She meets her sisters on the plain-
“Sic semper!” ’tis the proud refrain
That baffles minions back again,
Maryland!
Arise in majesty again,
Maryland! My Maryland!
VII
I see the blush upon thy cheek,
Maryland!
For thou wast ever bravely meek,
Maryland!
But lo! there surges forth a shriek,
From hill to hill, from creek to creek-
Potomac calls to Chesapeake,
Maryland! My Maryland!
VIII
Thou wilt not yield the Vandal toll,
Maryland!
Thou wilt not crook to his control,
Maryland!
Better the fire upon thee roll, Better the blade, the shot, the bowl,
Than crucifixion of the soul,
Maryland! My Maryland!
IX
I hear the distant thunder-hum,
Maryland!
The Old Line’s bugle, fife, and drum,
Maryland!
She is not dead, nor deaf, nor dumb-
Huzza! she spurns the Northern scum!
She breathes! she burns! she’ll come! she’ll come!
Maryland! My Maryland!

Scots Whae Hae (Confederate Version)

I transcribed the lyrics from the 12th Louisiana String Band, a fine group of Confederate musicians. In my Scots-Irish program, I often do the original version written by Robert Burns that records the words of Robert the Bruce to his men at the battle of Bannockburn. As so many Southerners were of Scottish origin, a Confederate version of the song should come as no surprise.

Rally round our country’s flag
Rally, boys, haste, do not lag,
Come from every vale and crag,
Sons of liberty

Northern vandals tread our soil,
Forth they come for blood and spoil,
To the homes we’ve made with toil,
Shouting slavery

Traitorous Lincoln’s bloody band
Now invades the freeman’s land
Armed with sword and firebrand,
Against the brave and free

Arm ye then for fray and fight
March ye forth by day and night
stop not till the foe’s in sight
sons of chivalry

In your veins the blood still flows
Of brave men who once arose
Burst the shackles of their foes,
Honest men and free

Rise then in your power and might
See the spoiler, brave the fight,
Strike for God, for truth for right.
Strike for liberty.

Rose O’Neal Greenhow is one of the most interesting women of the Civil War. I encourage you to read more about her. She was a spy for the Confederate Government. Here is a short story I wrote about her and her daughter. I’ve included a photo of Rose and Little Rose. Let me know what you think of the story.

Little Rose and the Confederate Cipher

Sacred Hearts Convent, England, 1871

The nuns here taught me that a “cipher” is a dark secret. My life’s been filled with dark secrets, and most of them the world will never know, and some of them I’ll never understand.

My father died not long after I was born, and I’ve no memory of him. I was only nine years old when my mother drowned in 1864. She had left England on a blockade runner, but the ship grounded on a sandbar off the coast of Virginia. Fearing capture by the Yankees, she tried to escape, but her rowboat overturned and the Confederate gold she carried dragged her to the ocean’s bottom. I still miss Mama, but I don’t cry for her like I did. I know I’m not the only child who lost her mama in the war of the South’s secession, but it doesn’t make losing mine any easier.

Sometimes I dream of the day Mama and I were arrested and sent to Old Capitol Prison. I had just looked out the window. “Lincoln’s Pinkerton man is back, Mama,” I said.

My mother, also named Rose, had been writing on a small piece of paper. The handwriting was strange to me. Confederate cipher she called it. She set down her reading glasses and dropped the pen into the inkwell. “Tell me what you see, Little Rose.”

“He’s outside talking with two Yankee soldiers. You want me to open the door?” I heard the man knocking.

“You know they’ve come to take me to prison.”

I nodded.

“My friends warned me.” She blew the blotting sand off the paper and rolled it into a tiny cylinder. “So, I want you to take this. Put in your stocking, and promise me no one will ever see it. Tell me, Little Rose.”

“I will never show it to a living soul.”

When I opened the door, the Pinkerton man strode past me and said, “Rose Greenhow, you and your daughter are under arrest for treason.” He nodded to the soldiers with him. “Search the house.”

“You’re going to arrest Little Rose too?” mother asked.

“Those are my orders.” He grinned cruelly. “As General Sherman said, ‘There is a class of people—men, women, and children—who must be killed or banished before we can hope for peace and order. To the secessionist . . .’

“Death is mercy,” my mother said. “I know what General Sherman thinks. I’ve entertained him in this very house. What are you looking for?”

“Information you’re intending to pass to the enemy,” he replied.

My mother glanced at me and smiled. “You’ll find no evidence of that here, sir.” I wanted to spit on this man and his guards who had come to arrest my mama. My ill will must have shown on my face because my mother placed her hand on my shoulder and said, “Rosey. Shhh.”

Old Capitol Prison was a terrible, dilapidated place. Once it had been a grand boardinghouse where she had been courted by men like Congressman John C. Calhoun. It wasn’t grand when I saw it. I still recall the gallows I could see through the iron bars of our window and the others there with us—blockade runners, spies, and Confederate general. There were even newspaper editors from the North who had dared to criticize Lincoln or Stanton or Seward.

We weren’t given much food in the five months we were there. Without the help of some of the other prisoners and people on the street who would slip us food, we would surely have starved to death. At times I was so hungry and cold that I would cry myself to sleep on that hard prison bed. I knew my mother was hungry too, but she never complained. She would just pat my back and sing softly to me until I fell asleep. She had a toughness that most mothers don’t have.

One day, that Yankee photographer, Matthew Brady, came to Old Capitol Prison and photographed us. I’m told he did it because we were the most notorious Confederate prisoners there, and I guess it means something to be famous like that. Brady’s photograph is the only one I have of my mother. The photograph will tell you some things about us, but it won’t tell you of the hardships we endured there—the abusive guards, the bugs, the hunger, the cold, nor will it tell you about the cipher in my gray stocking.

Mother never told me what the cipher meant, nor if that little piece of paper was what the Yankees were looking for. I had always meant to ask her about it.

Years later, I stand outside the convent my sister had placed me in when Mama drowned and whispered my goodbye. I sighed and wondered what parts of me had been left in its cold stone walls, my home now for over six years. The nuns had been good to me, tutored me, cared for me, but they couldn’t take the place of my mama, the “Wild Rebel Rose.” Nor could they take away the anger and pain in my heart. My mama’s war had cheated me of my childhood and taken away my mother and sisters. I couldn’t decipher why it all had happened to me.

At my sister’s house, I retired early and found myself missing Mama. I removed my scuffed shoes and carefully peeled the gray stocking off my foot, waiting for the faded cipher to fall out and float to the floor like it had every night. It didn’t. I panicked and quickly turned the stocking inside-out. I realized that the little piece of paper was gone.

The cipher I never understood was lost. Just like my mother. Like my childhood. Just like the lost cause of the Confederacy. But I had kept my promise to my mama. I have never shown that piece of paper to a living soul.

Rickey Pittman
rickeyp@bayou.com
1105 N. 8th St.
Monroe, LA 71201
318-547-2906
995 words

One of the most significant growing areas of the Dallas-Fort Worth Area has to be Weatherford. I was there Saturday. I was interviewed by Linda Brooks Bagwell at KYQX-FM at 10 a.m.  I found this beautiful lady interesting, literate, and skilled in her fields of study. Here is a photo of us after the interview:

Here is a photo of me and Randy Cook at my book signing after the radio interview at the Lark Bookstore just outside of  Weatherford. Randy is the owner, a man devoted to books, reading, and the promotion of the arts. I predict you’ll hear more of him in the future.  Here is the store’s website: Do yourself a favor and check it out.

A Short Review: A Model Summer by Paulina Porizkova

I first met Ms. Porizkova this past January at Kathy Patrick’s Girlfriend Weekend. After listening to her speak, and conversing with her as she signed my book, I must say that I am most impressed with this lady—especially after having read her new novel, A Model Summer (Hyperion).  I mean, not only is this lady stunningly beautiful, but her writing reveals that she is sensitive and an acute observer of life.  And if you are as fortunate as I was to meet her in person, you will find her polite and caring.  If you’ve been following the reality shows, you know she was appointed a judge, replacing Twiggy, on America’s Top Model. She also had a short stint on Dancing with the Stars.  She has appeared in movies: Anna, Portfolio, Her Alibi, Arizona Dream, Thursday, Roommates and Knots. She is married to Ric Okasek and they have two sons. Model, actor, writer—how much talent can one woman have?

Now to her novel. A Model Summer is the story of Jirina, a fifteen-year-old model. The story is of her first summer as a professional model. You could read this as an expose of the modeling business, a tale of innocence lost, or just as a young lady’s rite of passage. I would say that this book could be helpful and would provide valuable life-insights to any young lady who aspires to be a model.  Being a successful model is harder than people think, and an industry that can cause an individual to crash and burn.  I’m not sure how much of the novel is auto-fiction, not that any writer would admit anything in a novel to be autobiographical, but the suggestion is there. At least, we know the author is someone who knows the fashion industry. Indeed, she knows secrets that the fashion industry has cloistered.  Her writing style is smooth, I found it had a distinct voice, the plot is captivating, and so many of the lines were superbly written. I feel fortunate to have met Ms. Porizkova, and even more fortunate to have read her novel. I truly wish her the best.

Here are photos of the author and of the novel’s cover.

I’ve been researching some songs for my Civil War program, and I was rather shocked to find that in Lincoln’s administration, Septimus Winner, the man who wrote “Listen to the Mockingbird” (see earlier post) was arrested for treason during the Civil War because he wrote a song calling for the reinstatement of McClellan as commander of the Federal Army. I was shocked, not because Lincoln arrested someone who wrote and said things he didn’t like, but because the offense seems so harmless.  One site I found says this of Mr. Winner: “During the Civil War, Winner was greatly affected by the political atmosphere. His composition “Give Us Back Our Old Commander: Little Mac, the People’s Pride,” was written in plea to President Lincoln for the return of Union General McClellan who had been removed from command. The song was considered anti-Union and Winner spent a brief time in jail on a charge of treason. Winner was released from jail only after agreeing to destroy all remaining copies of the song.” You can read Winner’s full biography and achievements here:

Unfortunately, the sanitized, revised, mythologized version of Abraham Lincoln is the only Lincoln that many people know. Lew Rockwell has an extensive list of free articles you can read about Abraham Lincoln. These articles make good reading for high school and college students. You can find that list here:

Here is a poster of Lincoln from a Confederate point of view:

I’ve just returned from Oklahoma (a place without Internet and cell phone service) and am tired and overwhelmed; thus, the entry today will be short. My mother’s surgery was successful and she is doing well. Thank you readers for your kind prayers and well-wishes.

As a Civil War writer, I understand that my task is not only to reveal to you new information in my blog, but to direct you to sites where you can find interesting information about the Civil War in North Texas and Indian Territory. Here is a great site that is devoted to a family history during the Civil War. I found it absolutely fascinating, a site full of information. It is entitled, A Short History of the 22nd, 31st and 34th Texas Cavalries, with emphasis upon the Fannin County Texas McFarlands (and their neighbors and relations) in the Civil War. You can find it here:

I’m still waiting on some photos of last Saturday’s author event, but when I receive them, I’ll post them. I did get some reading accomplished during my trip, finishing A Model Summer by Paulina Porizkova (review coming soon) and Little Altars Everywhere by Rebecca Wells.