Today has been filled with university work as we wrap up the semester.  However, I stopped work long enough to make a post on this blog.

Guy Clark is one of my favorite songwriters. I posted his beautiful waltz, “Magnolia Wind” last May.  Here is another song of his that I do in my little one man shows. It’s called, “Soldier’s Joy 1864.”  One source said that Clark and Shawn Camp co-wrote the song, imagining a Civil War soldier learning to play the fiddle after losing his leg during the war and passing down the art of fiddle playing from generation to generation. Here are the lyrics:

SOLDIER’S JOY, 1864  by Guy Clark and Shawn Camp

Now at first I thought a snake had got me
It happened dreadful quick
It was a bullet bit my leg
And right off I got sick.
I came to in a wagonload
With ten more wounded men
Five was dead
By the time we reached that bloody tent.

Give me some of that soldier’s joy
You know what I mean.
I don’t want to hurt no more,
My leg is turning green.

Well, the doctor come and he looked at me,
And this is what he said.
Said your dancing days are done, son,
It’s a good thing you ain’t dead.
And he went to work with a carving knife
Sweat poured fell from his brow
Bout killed me trying to save my life
When he cut that lead ball out.

Give me some of that soldier’s joy
Ain’t you got some more,
Hand me down my walking cane,
I ain’t cut out for war.

Well, the red blood run right through my veins,
It run all over the floor
It run right down his apron strings.
Like a river out the door

He handed me a bottle, said,
Drink  deep as you can.
He turned away and turned right back
With a hack-saw in his hand.

Give me some of that soldier’s joy
You know what I like
Bear down on that fiddle boy,
Just like Saturday night.

Give me some of that soldier’s joy
You know what I crave.
I’ll be hitting that soldier’s joy
Till I’m in my grave.

 So many buildings, schools, roads, and parks were named after someone or something in the Civil War.

A friend sent me this information on this park. I thought some of you must have certainly passed it in journeys and would like to know the origin of the road and park’s name.

Site of Confederate Park
Located on FM 1886 (Confederate Park Rd.), 1.5 miles
west of SH 199 (Jacksboro Hwy.), Fort Worth

Local businessman Khleber M. Van Zandt organized the
Robert E. Lee camp of the United Confederate Veterans
in 1889. By 1900 it boasted more than 700 members. The
camp received a 25-year charter to create the
Confederate Park Association in 1901, then purchased
373 acres near this site for the “recreation, refuge
and relief of Confederate soldiers” and their
families. Opening events included a picnic for
veterans and families on June 20, 1902, and a
statewide reunion September 8-12, 1903, with 3,500
attendees. The park thrived as a center for the civic
and social activities of Texas Confederate
organizations. By 1924 the numbers of surviving
veterans had greatly diminished, and the Confederate
Park Association voluntarily dissolved when its
charter expired in 1926. (2000)
From: http://www.rootsweb.com/~txtarran/historical03.htm

If you have stories of how any places in our area can trace their names to the Civil War, please send them to me.

rickeyp@bayou.com

Today is exam day at ULM.

Stories of the Confederate South is my collection of historical short fiction, formerly published by Booklocker and recently published by Pelican. Here is a short excerpt from one of the stories entitled, “Just Another Confederate Prisoner.” This story is about a boy from West Monroe High School who is uprooted and taken into Yankee Land. (If you remember, the West Monroe Football team’s mascot is The Rebels).

Just Another Confederate Prisoner

The vilest deeds like poison weeds
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man
That wastes and withers there:
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate,
And the Warder is Despair.—Oscar Wilde

When my father died in Afghanistan, I think my mother lost her mind. Most nights, she’d get crazy drunk at the Backdoor Lounge, and even though she got two DUI’s, she didn’t let up. The drinking gave her a mean side, too. One night just after last call, a man called her a drunken whore, so she sliced him a couple of times with a straight razor. It’s hard to imagine one’s own mother, her eyes glazed and hard, standing over a whimpering, bleeding man like she was a Southern belle avatar of blood.
One night she brought a man home. He spent that night, and the next thing I know, he’s moved in with us. I know my mama’s entitled to have a life, and it’s not her fault that my Daddy’s Army Reserve unit was attacked, but I still didn’t cotton to the man being around. I don’t think my daddy would have liked him either.
One morning, I fixed myself some grits and sat down at the table, leafing through my Civil War Times magazine. He stumbled into the kitchen.
“Coffee’s made. Help yourself,” I said.
“What on earth are you eating?” he said.
“Grits. Want some?”
“Hell, no. I can’t believe some of the things you Southerners eat?”
Oh, great, I thought. Mama’s taken up with a durn Yankee. “Yeah, we’re Southerners. Where are you from?”
“Iowa. You know where that is?”
I stood and stacked my dishes in the sink. “Yeah, that was the Yankee state that wouldn’t let any black folk live there. I guess they weren’t fightin’ to free the slaves.”
After he left for work, Mother joined me in the kitchen. She was in a tear, scrambling around, fighting her way into her work clothes. I poured her a cup of coffee and set it on the counter. I asked her, “When is this new boyfriend of yours going away?”
“Jim’s not leaving. We’ve decided to live together.”
“You’re kidding me. Daddy hasn’t been buried two months and you want to shack up with this freeloader?”
“Don’t you get pissy with me, Joseph. You make our relationship sound trashy.”
“I don’t have to make it sound trashy—it is trashy and you know it is.”
“Well, he’s not going to leave. We could move into his apartment, but this place is bigger. We’ve even talked about getting married.”
I looked at her ring finger—seeing a white ring of skin where my daddy’s wedding band had been. “I think you’ve lost your mind. Must be some kind of mid-life crisis.”
“Well, if you don’t like that information, you’ll like this even less—we’re moving sometime next month.”
“Where to?”
“Davenport, Iowa.”
“I don’t want to go. I want to finish school here.”
“You’re only sixteen, so you will go. The West Monroe Rebels will do fine without you. When you’re seventeen, I’ll sign for you to get out on your own and you can do what you want. Now, you get your butt out the door and get to school without getting another tardy.”

*    *    *

At any rate, the book is now available. You can read Pelican’s press release about it here and you can get a really good deal on the price if you order it online: http://www.pelicanpub.com/Press_Release.asp?passval=9781589805187&title=STORIES%20OF%20THE%20CONFEDERATE%20SOUTH

I had a long but fruitful day. I left the house before 6 am and just returned home (about 8 pm). The signing at Cherry Books went well. I signed my Jim Limber Book and for the first time at a bookstore, the recently Pelican published, Stories of the Confederate South. I met so many cool people today: Teresa Fruchey, the manager; Charlotte LaRue, a reputable writer of romance and mystery novels; Robert Sims and his family (Robert works with the University of New Orleans. I signed a book for his bright and beautiful daughter, Amanda); Woody and Susie Falgoust, the owners of the bookstore, and so many others (including members of KA, a college fraternity that wants to book me for a speaker/entertainment).

At the bookstore, I did a reading from my children’s book for the kids and also played my guitar and sang some songs. This store will definitely be a place I’ll return to. In case you missed my earlier entry about the store, go to this link: http://www.houmatoday.com/article/20070826/BUSINESS03/708260310/1001

On the way home, I stopped at Laura Plantation (Creole), outside of Vacherie, and talked to them about including my book in their store.  God blessed me with beautiful weather today, and as I traveled I listened to a book on tape, which I nearly finished and  I’ll comment on later.

I can tell it’s the Christmas season. Traveling as I do in the dark so often (both literally and metaphorically), I’m seeing beautiful holiday lights. Yesterday in Ft. Worth, I saw a giant air-filled Santa, with his arms extended in an almost Messianic pose.  Today, I saw two inflatable Santas on 4-wheelers. I wonder if Yankees would have appreciated that sight.

I love this gypsy writing life.

I’m getting so much work in Texas that I’m thinking of making a sign to hang on my door saying, “Gone to Texas.” Evidently after the Civil War,  many tacked signs to their doors with the initials, G.T.T.  Texas, having successfully resisted Yankee invasion, had not suffered the economic hardships many states had. The Federal government’s scorched earth policy, its war against the civilian population of the South, and the oppression of Reconstruction had so ruined people’s lives that they looked to Texas as an opportunity to rebuild their lives. I know my Confederate ancestor was one of these. He left Alabama and moved into East Texas. I’ll have more on him in a later post.  At any rate, it looks like Texas is going to be a target state for me, at least as long as Monroe (ironically/sarcastically called Funroe by some) is my anchor city. I really must make arrangements to get to the East Coast.

This has been a marvelous trip. Things accomplished:
1) I set up a program and a book signing with the Texas Civil War Museum for Saturday Feb. 16. I spent about 3 hours touring the museum and studying its displays. This has to be one of the finest Civil War museums I’ve ever visited.

2) I met with my contacts at the Region XI Education Services Center, toured the facility, and discussed future opportunities.

3) Met with the director of the Azle, Texas Public Library and introduced my books and program.

4) Met with the manager of the Barnes & Noble in Downtown Fort Worth and talked about a signing there in January or February.

I was also able to eat at two famous Fort Worth eating establishments: Risky’s Steak House in the Stockyard section of town and Billy Miner’s in Sundance Square. Downtown Fort Worth was beautifully lit for the holiday season, and I heard a school choir doing Christmas carols and was able to see a movie: Love in the Time of Cholera.  Good movie overall, but I would have lost many of the subtle nuances and symbols if I hadn’t read the novel first.  After I view it again, I’ll post a little review of it.  I’m surprised at how much I love Fort Worth. The city is much easier to drive in than Dallas.

I’m headed back to Monroe this morning in just a little while. I have a few chores to do and must prepare for my signing in South Louisiana tomorrow. The rest of my month is booked solid. No free windows of time. I used to have free windows of time in the days when I was a slave to the school system.

My friend Michele, a wonderful gifted teacher and very talented writer who is in Egypt attending a conference,  sent me a text message yesterday.  She said, “Sitting on the Nile, listening to Faith Hill and the call to prayer.” She’s always been able to spot the ironies of life. I’ve always had a fascination with the desert. (Is that my just desert?) I hope she’ll write a entry for this blog concerning her trip.

I’m in the Fort Worth area today, working with  media, school, and library contacts for my book signings and programs, making some book sales, and doing some exploring. I’m sure I’ll have some good stories to post. I also am supposed to meet with the Texas Civil War Museum folks to talk about a program there and to introduce them to my books.  You can learn more about the Texas Civil War Museum here:  http://texascivilwarmuseum.com/Programs.html

North Texas . . . What a prosperous area! So different from North Louisiana. I know I say the same thing I travel anywhere else: That’s an indication of what?  The weather was perfect yesterday driving in, and looks like it will be the same today.  I’ll be back in Monroe on Friday, and then on the road again early Saturday morning for Cherry Books in Thibodaux.  Today I decided to post a short story, sort of auto-fiction, that was published a few years ago. The title is “Like a Good German Soldier.” It was published in Alternative, a literary journal of Eastfield Community College, Mesquite, TX, Spring 2001.

LIKE A GOOD GERMAN SOLDIER

ONE MAY AFTERNOON I WAS PLAYING WITH MY WORLD WAR II TOY SOLDIERS ON MY FRONT PORCH.  I wove a jeep and a tank through elaborate battle-lines of German and American soldiers, and as usual, the Americans gave the Nazis a beating.
My father opened the screen door, stepped onto the porch and carefully maneuvered his way through the carnage of my battlefield. “Come on, son.” He walked toward our next door neighbor’s house.
“Yes, sir.” I scooped up my armies and threw them into their cardboard shoebox and trotted after him.  Barefoot, I hopped across the sticker-filled scorched grass, taking care not to step in the black-dirt cracks which often served as trenches and bomb craters in my war games.
I followed him up to the door.  After he rang the doorbell, a man appeared. He was younger than my father, with a blonde crew cut and ice-blue eyes.
“Yes,” he said, with a thick accent I had only heard on Hogan’s Heroes.
“I’m Amos,” he said, “and this is my son, Eugene.  We live next door and want to welcome you to our neighborhood.”
He smiled and opened the door. “Please, come in, and thank you.”
A very young and pretty woman sat at their dining table reading an issue of Life Magazine.  
“I am Rennicke,” he said, “and this is my wife, Erma.  We are from Germany—from Dresden.”
“I’m from West Texas, myself,” my father said. “Eugene here was born in Dallas.”
“Please sit at the table and have some refreshments,” Erma said.
“That’s mighty nice of you,” my father replied.
Erma stepped into the kitchen and returned with bottled Cokes and a plate of cookies. My father took a long swallow of the Coke.  “Ain’t nothing like a cold Coke on a hot day. It gets real hot here in Texas sometimes.”
“Dresden could be warm at times as well,” Rennicke said.
My father nodded. “Reckon so. I hope you like it here in America. My wife always wanted to see Germany since her grandparents came from there. I had a couple of uncles who saw Germany in World War II.  I was drafted the day after the war ended and sent to Alaska.”
On the wall hung a picture of a German soldier in military dress.  I rose from my chair and stepped closer for a better look.
“That is Rennicke,” Erma said.  “He was sixteen when that photograph was taken.”
“You were a real German soldier?” I asked.
“Yes. Like your father, I was drafted,” Rennicke said. “But I did not fight Americans.  Germany sent me to the Russian front.  Amos, what duty did you have in the army?”
“They made me a clerk,” my father replied.
“I was a photographer.” Rennicke stepped to a bookshelf and picked out a photo album.  He laid it on the table and opened it. “See?”
“Cool!” I said.  I could hardly believe my luck. A ten-year-old like me getting to meet a real Nazi. And he had war pictures!  This was even better than the last neighbor’s South American monkey.  I scanned the room searching for swastikas and scooted my chair closer to the table so I could have a better look.
Rennicke slowly turned the pages, talking about each picture.  Occasionally he would ask Erma how to say something in English.  Most of the photos were of soldiers marching through deep snow, bombed cities, and battlefields strewn with dead bodies.  On the last page, he pointed to two very dead Germans, lying side by side in their greatcoats, their arms stiff and reaching into the air.
“They were my best friends,” he said.  “We grew up together.  We were so young, but we were good soldiers. We knew the war was lost, but what could we do?”
I saw tears in Rennicke’s eyes, and Erma reached over and patted him on the shoulder.
My father nodded. “It’s always hard on a man to lose a friend.”
When our visit ended, my father invited the couple to come over that night to listen to country music and to enjoy a Mexican dinner my mother planned to prepare.  They thanked us and we excused ourselves.
As we walked home, my father said, “I know he was a Nazi, and you know my uncle was killed by one of their snipers, but I reckon we can’t hold that against Rennicke and Erma, so you be real nice when you talk to them.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.  As my father ruthlessly punished any mistreatment of people generally, the thought of abusing our Nazi neighbors had not entered my mind.  My father’s punishments were few, but memorable.  Probably brutal enough to cause any Gestapo agent to nod in approval.
Later that afternoon, Clifton Ray came over to see me.  As usual, he was loaded down with equipment for our war games.  He handed me one of his wooden toy rifles with a roll of caps, and we divvied up the dummy grenades he had purchased at the Army and Navy surplus store.
I snatched the German helmet. “I want to be the Germans today.”
“Why?  You always make me be the Germans,” Clifton Ray said.
“I just want to be the Germans today.”
“You’ll lose.”
“I know.  This time, let’s pretend we’re in Russia.”
“Where’s Russia?” Clifton Ray asked.  “Ain’t in Mexico is it?”
“I don’t know where it is, but it’s got lots of snow.”
We played until dark, tossing grenades and sniping at each other from prone and standing positions.  As mother called for me to come inside and clean up for supper, Clifton Ray jumped from behind the bushes and fired the final bullet of our conflict.  I died—dutifully and dramatically—like a good German soldier.  Clifton Ray saluted me, gathered up his arsenal, and walked home.  The German helmet still on my head, I rose from my imaginary death-bed of snow and saw Rennicke on his front porch with a camera.  He took my picture, nodded, then stepped back into his house.

Here is a short story I wrote sometime ago. It’s about 900 words. Sort of on the silly side, but then sometimes we just need to laugh.

A GIFT TO CHARITY

Charity whirled the chair around so that Mrs. Sutherland faced the mirror. “There Mrs. Sutherland! You look fabulous! As the Bible says, ‘If a woman have long hair, it is a glory to her.’ This hairdo is my specialty. Someday, I’m going to own my own salon, and do nothing but Christian hairdos! Just like Saint Martin!” She kissed the small rosary hanging from her neck and sent a silent prayer to the saint’s icon taped to the mirror.

Mrs. Sutherland’s face revealed no emotion—none at all. With her fingertips, Mrs. Sutherland gingerly touched the tip of the foot-high beehive. Then her jaw dropped, her teeth clinched and ground, and a primeval sound, a high-pitched whining scream, erupted. “I look horrible! Johnboy! I should sue you!”

Johnboy, owner of the Le Jolie Blonde Beauty Salon, replied, “Oh, Mrs. Sutherland! You are such a tease. I’ll be right there. Johnboy to the rescue!” He laid down his scissors and comb, then patted the shoulder of his customer. “You sit still, honey, and let that solution do its work.”

Charity admired Johnboy. Extremely talented and confident, last year he’d nearly won the Golden Scissors Award. He cut a striking figure with his platinum blonde hair in a fashionable coiffure, his black silk shirt, black Armani leather pants, and Driving Mocs. However, upon seeing Mrs. Sutherland’s hair spiraling up in a tall beehive, he placed his hand over his heart. “Oh, my God! Charity, where on earth do these bizarre ideas come from? She looks like Marge Simpson!”

“More like the Bride of Frankenstein!” Mrs. Sutherland said as she clawed at the plastic protective cape. “Johnboy! I’ll never return to your salon again! Needless to say, I’ll not pay for this!”

Johnboy followed as she fled the salon. Charity heard Mrs. Sutherland’s sobs mingling with Johnboy’s pleadings. “No accounting for taste, I guess,” she said.

When Johnboy returned, he collapsed in one of the chairs in the waiting area. The receptionist hurried over and fanned him with an old copy of Glamour Magazine. When Johnboy revived sufficiently, he yelled, “Charity, I want to speak to you. NOW!”

Charity cringed, but walked over. “Yes, sir,” she said.

“Charity, I’ve tried to overlook your past shenanigans, but I can’t afford to lose any more business because of your ineptness. You’re fired!”

“Fine! I’ll take my client list and just start my own beauty shop!”

“Charity, you signed a no-competition clause when I hired you. They’re not your customers—they’re mine! And thank God they are! Do you realize how psychologically damaging it is to ruin someone’s hair? Of course you don’t! You ruin somebody’s hair every week with these new, wild hairdos of yours! Now, leave my salon!”

Crushed, Charity sobbed all the way home. She knew she was an excellent hairdresser. More than that, she hated the idea of losing her clients. She had worked so hard to build up her list, and now Johnboy would get them all. Then, she had an idea of how she could get her client list back. At midnight, she drove back to the salon.

Charity sighed. Breaking into a building always looked so easy on television! But she had been teasing the door lock with a bobby pin for almost ten minutes and it didn’t show any signs of opening. The ocean surf pounding in the background drowned out any clicks that she thought she was supposed to be hearing. Suddenly, the door flew open, she fell forward with a grunt, and there she stood a man, standing behind her chair and cutting Johnboy’s hair. “Come in, Charity,” the man said. “Your client list is on the table.”
“Do I know you?”
“My name is Martin.”
“Saint Martin de Porres,” Johnboy added in a giddy voice. “The Patron saint of hairdressers!”
“You’ve been drinking again, Johnboy. A saint? He doesn’t even have a tonsure!”
“Monks have tonsures, Charity, not saints, silly girl!”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Oh my God! So much has happened! First, Mrs. Sutherland called. It seems all her friends love what you did with her hair! Then Martin visited me tonight. He knew I actually fired you because of jealousy, and he pointed out that he had given you a special gift, just like he had given me, and that these new hair designs you’ve been using actually came from him. Please, forgive me. If you want your job back you can have it, but Martin thinks you are ready to go out on your own. If you do, I’ll front you the money to start your own salon.” Johnboy studied his reflection. “Excellent technique, Saint Martin. I can see why you’re our patron saint.”
“Thanks! As a barber in Dominican monasteries, I picked up a trick or two. So, Charity, it seems your prayers are indeed answered. You will soon have your own salon and much business will come your way. That is, if you want.”
“Yes, I do. Thank you.” Again, Charity kissed her rosary and sent a silent prayer of thanks to Saint Martin.
“You’re welcome,” Martin said. “Go home, Charity. Johnboy and I still have a few things to discuss so he can win the Golden Scissors next year. Besides, you’ve got a salon to plan.”

As I was diligently paying bills for the month, I grabbed a writing pad randomly from a stack near my computer. I found this poem I wrote last April. As I read it, I remembered the poem, know the poem’s persona, but I don’t remember the actual writing of it, though I know I was hurting badly during that time.  I thought the poem was worth posting and that it reveals something significant regarding our human existence.

Friends are betrayed

Because of duty, politics, jealousy,

For 30 pieces of silver,

For a bit of life-drama perhaps,

Sometimes, they’re betrayed for no reason at all.

Betrayal slashes through to the heart,

To the core of your being,

Severing the arteries of the soul,

Causing you to bleed to death in sadness.

Betrayal is a lead-filled blackjack

Pummeling, hammering, pounding,

Until you hemorrhage  inside,

Until kidney, liver and heart have burst.

It’s like a rape . . .

An act of violence,

A breach of trust,

And the betrayed ones,

Are never, never the same again.

Today has been a made scramble with banking, work on my Website, calls for my signings, and I put up our Christmas tree today. It’s one of the fake ones with like a million branches you plug into the trunk in alphabetical order. It actually looks real nice when decorated. I wasn’t in town the day after Thanksgiving, the traditional day of setting up Christmas trees in my family, and yesterday I was at ULM all day, so today was the first chance I had to get that chore done.

I’ve got appointments in Texas all day Thursday, so I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon and will return to Monroe sometime Friday. I’ve a signing at Cherry Books in Thibodaux, Louisiana,  Saturday morning. I’ll be signing both books of mine, Jim Limber Davis: A Black Orphan in the Confederate White House and Stories of the Confederate South.  Here is their contact information: 985-446-0182  1050 Canal Blvd, Thibodaux, LA 70301

There’s a really good article and some photos about the new bookstore, its owner and Terry Fruchey, the manager. Here’s the link for that article: http://www.houmatoday.com/article/20070826/BUSINESS03/708260310/1001

At my book signings, I’ve met many people who are interested in writing about the Civil War—also known as the War Between the States, The Recent Unpleasantness, The War of Northern Aggression, and other titles. You may have your own reasons for your desire to center your writing on this conflict, but here is a list of reasons more writers should address the Civil War:

1. This war forever and permanently changed America. This conflict is a reference point, a turning point in our culture, in politics, and in our history.

2. Many of the issues of the war are still relevant and interesting to thinking people. Remember that most of this generation have been fed misinformation and stereotypes and don’t know that the generic, oversimplified and dumbed down historical facts in the textbooks doesn’t tell the real story of the Civil War. So, as a diligent writer of the Civil War, you will become an instructor.

3. You will have a specifically targeted and huge audience. Avid Civil War readers have several things in common. They tend to be literate, well-read, they enjoy learning new facts, they love hearing facts and stories they already know if they are told from an interesting and unique perspective, and most important of all for a writer—they buy tons of books.

4. You will grow from your writing.

5. Your reading audience will grow as a result of your research, insights, and prose.
Writers do shape society. Think of how Stephen King and other writers have influenced our ideas of horrors. Strong writers today are shaping the consciousness of the Civil War too.

6. This is an opportune time. Never, at least since the generation of actual combatants, have we had such rich and thorough resources.