Monday, May 22, 2017

Planting the Seeds

Last Thursday, I bid an emotional farewell to my kinders. I love this group. I love every group that walks through my door but this group and I...we just get each other. Fun loving and humorous, they think I'm hilarious. They're my own miniature-sized fan club. Who doesn't enjoy that? 

You would think I would savor those last few weeks of school with my kinders but I am not at my best in May. Our end of the year program, kinder graduation, assessments and report cards stress me out and I develop into this overbearing stage mom. "Places everyone!" 

Amazingly, those kiddos love me anyway. Mind you, one of my more outspoken boys boldly called me a meanie a few times and boy with the face of an angel commented to the girl next to him, "Well, she's a little grumpy!" The girl gleefully tattled to me but instead of reprimanding the boy as she desired, I angled an exaggerated stink eye at him and in my best Sam Elliot voice drawled, "You talkin' ugly 'bout me boy?" All the kinders laughed and I joined in, disrupting class completely. See, they get me and even when I'm grumpy they know I love them. 

The intensity of May is increased by the taunts of my biggest critic whispering in my ear that I haven't done my job well enough. Who is this mean girl? Myself! "What," I wonder, "if I didn't teach the kinders everything they need to be successful in first grade?" 

Those words send me into a tizzy reviewing everything possible. Kinders on a good day have a fifteen-minute attention span at a time. May routine busters like program practice and end of year celebrations make five minutes of on-task behavior difficult. Frenziedly reviewing concepts isn't as effective in May. It's like my dad used to tell me when I was in college and I would cram a few hours before a test. "If you don't have it by now," he said, "cramming isn't going to do you any good." It's true. 

When the last kinder walked out the door Thursday and I could think rationally, I reminded myself that I have spent nine months planting the seeds of knowledge that will hopefully blossom in the fall of first grade. I'm so thankful I got to witness their metamorphosis as learners this year. They have touched my life and I will never forget them.  

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Under Arrest: The New Timeout?

My sister sent me a link today to an article about the arrest of ten-year-old John Benjamin Heygood who has Autism. Reportedly, he scratched and kicked a paraprofessional and a school board member and there was a warrant out for his arrest. You are not misreading this. They actually arrested an Autistic ten-year-old boy! 

The mom recorded the whole thing. The video is heartbreaking. It shows the boy repeatedly crying out that he doesn't know why he is being arrested. Seriously, I'm with him. When did arresting a student become the go-to move for educators? I can understand if he brought a gun to school and began waving it around but really??? 

I went to college twenty years ago and all my professors preached "best fit" for special needs children. Hmmm....at what point did those educators decide the best fit for that kid was in the back of a squad car? You know this seems surreal and perhaps an isolated incident but I think this call the sheriff first and ask questions later is a new trend. I've even seen it at my little school in Oklahoma. 

I am not an expert on Autistic children, but I've taught a few. They don't process the world the way other kids do. Sometimes it's system overload for them and that is the way they deal with it. Walk a mile in their shoes or their parents. Isn't it our responsibility as educators to help those kids cope? Every educator and child has a right to feel safe but how does arresting a child help any situation? Is this the direction we want education to go? Think about it. Given the right circumstances, that could someday be your kid crying for you in the back of that squad car. 

Tuesday, April 18, 2017

Remembering My Primal Landscape

This week for my creative writing class I am to write a short story that takes place in my "Primal Landscape." What is that, you ask? Well according to the instructor, Amity Gaige, our primal landscape is "the place in which you were raised." I haven't even begun writing the story but I spent yesterday thinking about my somewhat chaotic childhood and the neighborhood I called home for eleven years in Lawton, Oklahoma: the nineteen hundred block of Taft Avenue. For inspiration, I went fishing through old pictures from my childhood and the memories these pictures evoked could fill several pages. 

When I picture my childhood in my head, visions of summers hanging out with the kids in the neighborhood are what I see. I won't go into long details (who am I fooling?) about my childhood but I will tell you some things I do remember when I think of my primal landscape.  

Six years old. Summer of 1969. 

I remember playing outside all day and being disappointed when Mom called me in for the night. When I was a kid, being outside was the coolest place to be. There weren't any iPads or video games and our television was black & white and only three channels. I know. Disadvantaged childhood. I remember the adults sitting on the porches in the evening chatting while the kids played up and down the block. Parents didn't periodically look for a glimpse of their kids on the horizon like we do today. If they heard a gaggle of kids laughing somewhere on the block, they knew their kid was with them and just fine. Though I had my group of similarly aged friends, I remember times when fifteen kids with ages spread across seven or more years would be playing a game of Red Rover or some other yard game. I remember hiding in the neighbor's bushes in the dark, trying hard not to giggle for fear of being heard by whoever was 'it" during a game of Hide and Seek. aWe didn't hide in our yards, we hid all along our block.  I remember playing badminton and catch in neighbor's yards. I remember my friend, Lee Ann May's mother discovering bats in their tall tree and all of us girls would lay on the lawn in the moonlight under a big sheet and scream everytime we saw anything batlike fly over. I remember sitting on the hood of Mr. May's station wagon and pretending we were in high school and acting like we were calling a boy we wanted to date while sharing a plastic sleeve of crackers.



I remember all my friends were afraid of my older sister, Linda.
Linda giving me the stink eye-her, her trademark look
and brother, Howard watching as I shove snacks in
my mouth. 
Linda was fifteen when we moved to Taft in 1969. She was nine years my senior and had spent her first thirteen years as the well-behaved, favorite daughter of our Army Colonel dad. A built-in babysitter who took care of younger siblings from a very young age, she was mature and a deep thinker. The ugly circumstances surrounding my parent's divorce changed her forever. She was pissed off at the world, rebellious and not very patient with her siblings, their friends or her parents. My sister is my best friend now but back then, I tried to stay out of her way. One of my most vivid memories I have is of her locking us all out of the house while my waitress mom was at work during the summer. My fourteen-year-old brother Howard and his pals, Rocky and Jerry had managed to climb up on the roof and into the attic window.  I saw them laughing in the window as I headed home from playing. Being five years younger and a tattletale, I yelled, "I'm gonna tell Linda!" They began scrambling out the window to escape onto the nearby roof but got tangled up and fell in a heap on the grass below. I ran to them but they were already running through our neighbor's yard and hopping the fence. Linda was that scary. As an adult, I appreciate Linda's fierceness. You mess with me, you deal with my sister. 

I remember the feel of Mr. Corcoran's grass. Weird I would think of this but when I think of childhood summers, I always think of that grass. Mr. and Mrs. Corcoran were our elderly neighbors who spent much of their time tending their grass and flower beds. When we first moved to Taft, our other neighbors, the Noriega's warned us the Cocoran's were very nosy and would yell at you if you walked on their grass. That first summer, I discovered their grass was different from ours. Their grass was wide bladed and was green even when the scorching summer sun had burned everyone else's dirty yellow. Best of all, in the evening if you walked across it, it was cool. I can still remember the delicious feel of my bare feet in that cool, forbidden grass. It was from the Corcoran's I learned that sometimes it's better to ask forgiveness than permission. 

I remember the locust's song. Yesterday when I thought of my childhood, the song of the locusts played across my mind. In the summer months when the sun would start to go down, the locusts would begin this loud, vibrating buzz that would permeate the entire neighborhood. To me, this is the song of summer and my childhood. As an adult, I don't hear it as often and that is probably because I'm not outside as much but if I do, I am immediately transported to summer in the 70s on Taft Avenue.

My friend Donna and I standing barefoot in Mr. Corcoran's 
grass decked out in our hand-me-down play clothes. We
had just returned from a tour of the neighborhood and felt
very stylish. 
I remember I had a talent for dramatic play and accents. I've always been a drama queen and no one appreciated that more than my friends. Mr. Noriega's mother-in-law, Mac came to live with them just before we moved to Taft and despite a twenty year age difference, she and my mom became fast friends. One day, mom brought home all these dresses. There were cocktail dresses, house dresses, and long lacy nightgowns. I can remember my pals and I playing on my friend Stephanie's porch just down the block. We were all dressed up in the dresses and I was speaking in an English accent that impressed all my friends and giving them the backstory on our pretend play. I couldn't make up my mind if we were English or Irish so I made us both. "You see," I told them, "we are from England but mother delivered us in the back of the family car on the border of England and Ireland so we are English-Irish." I'm always amazed to think these girls let me boss them around like that. Today, most girls would have said, "You're not the boss of me!" 


My 9th birthday. That's me on the l
I remember believing my friends would always be my friends and we would marry, raise our kids together and grow old together. When my step-daughter, Hayley was about to go into 7th grade, I warned her that would be the year she would make some new friends and she would shed some old ones. I was right and I knew this because I experienced it. The people I told my deepest secrets to changed with the onset of puberty and so did our friendship. Some matured quickly and some like me, did not. A few of my friends remained my friends until well into adulthood and I attended their weddings,  their children's weddings and sadly, their parent's funerals. The majority of my friends went off to college or married and only with the advent of Facebook did I even know what had become of them. Ask any eight-year-old if she is going to be friends with her BFF forever and she will tell you emphatically yes. That isn't usually the truth and that's okay because even though those kids are icons from my childhood and wouldn't trade the memories I have with them, I'm thankful I have an identity that is separate from them.


My friends during my 12th birthday slumber party. The last summer
of my childhood. In the fall, we would go off to Central Jr.
High and discover new interests and make new friends and
keep a few of the old. That is me in the back, second from the
left. 
My family was very dysfunctional when I was a child and though some memories are tough, I have great memories of my friends and my crazy family. I wouldn't want Seth to have to grow up like I did, but sometimes I kind of think he is missing out. 









Sunday, April 16, 2017


Happy Easter! It's been a lovely day at our house that started with church, then dinner and an Easter egg hunt at the home of my BFF Nessa C's parents house in Devol, Oklahoma. Kevin had to stay home because he didn't feel well but Nessa packed him leftovers and then we went home and Kevin, Seth and I took a long family nap.

Of course when I woke up, I had to start on my creative writing assignment for Coursera. I have always bragged that I am the queen of research because I loved researching my papers when I was in graduate school. I even researched some of Nessa's and Kevin's. So when instructor Amity Gaige gave the assignment to research and write the start of a story 500-750 words long that takes place in one of the following places: 

  • a foreign country
  • a hospital
  • a blackout

I smugly thought, "I'm the queen of research so I got this!" NOT! I struggled. 

Initially, I planned to write a spy novel intro set in Vienna at a university. After spending a fruitless hour researching, I realized I was only scratching the surface. Then I Googled "blackout" and found the New York City blackout of 1977. It was so interesting! I still spent a panicked couple of hours researching because I didn't want some New Yorker to critique my story and call me out as a phony. 

Here was my research method: 

  1.  I watched a couple of YouTube documentaries 
  2. I researched further and found where the greatest amount of looting and vandalism occurred. 
  3. I went on Google maps and found that location and looked at it on street view.
  4. I searched the real estate site, Homes.com and found apartments above shops for sale in the area. Though New York has changed in the last forty years, some of those apartments, thankfully haven't had many updates. 
Once I did this, I had my story in my head. If I was writing a story for a story I planned to publish, I would have spent probably weeks or more researching but I felt I had enough for a 750 word intro. 


My story takes place in Brooklyn on Utica Avenue in an area that saw a lot of vandalism and destruction. 

I only had to write the beginning of the story and I got the satisfaction of stopping it at the most exciting part. It must have whet Seth's appetite because after I finished reading it to him, he was concerned about whether there was going to be a happy ending and when was I going to finish it. Listening, Kevin said it sounded like a "real" story. Best compliment ever from my husband who prides himself on not giving out compliments like candy. So here is my story or at least the beginning of it. I will finish it some day, I'm sure.  BTW: the title kind of sucks but that is my weakness. I never know what to name my stories. If you think of something, let me know. 


In the Dark

Sheila placed the needle on the new forty-five she had purchased from the record store earlier that day and turned toward the full-length mirror on her closet door. With the first shake of the tambourine she moved her hips and then sang with K.C. “I’m your boogie man, that’s what I am.” A phone rang in the hallway and she ran to answer it. Sheila grabbed the yellow handle of the wall phone and said, “Hello!”

It was her Nana. “Sheila, I’ll be longer than I thought.” The ladies at church were meeting to discuss how to get the community center reopened.  Recent funding cuts had closed many community centers in Brooklyn. Some neighborhood kids were finding illegal ways to entertain themselves since the closings.  

“I’ll be fine till you get home Nana,” Sheila said.

“No, you go downstairs to Papa’s shop.” She said. “Encourage Papa to take a break. He loves talking to you.” Nana said.

“I will Nana.” Sheila hung up and sighed. Well K.C. and his Sunshine Band would have to wait. She bolted the door to their apartment and made her way down the narrow stairs that led to the outside door.

Opening the door, she drew in a scalding breath as the heat coming off Utica Avenue hit her in the face. This was her first visit to New York.  Having lived all her twelve years in Oklahoma, she was no stranger to the heat but Nana said they were having a heatwave in New York like no other July before it. 

Papa’s shop was below the apartment and the shop entrance was on the left side standing shoulder to shoulder with their apartment door. Papa had closed Seller’s Fine Watches at five o’clock, almost four hours earlier. The iron security lattice that protected the glass and brick façade of the store from any burglar bold enough to smash in the window, stretched across the exterior and locked in place. The sun was just going down below the horizon, leaving behind a pink streak that was fading fast.  

Sheila rang the shop bell. Behind her, she heard the raucous laughter of teenage boys on the corner across the street. She was sure these were some of the boys her Nana said were up to no good and needed the entertainment a community center could provide.  She heard the bolt on the shop door pop and saw her Papa smiling in surprise. He opened the door and reaching for the lock on the iron lattice to slide it open said, “Sheila. What you doing—.” Without warning, Brooklyn turned dark like a giant hand had reached out and turned off a light switch on the world, leaving her feeling confused. From across the street, she heard a collective yell of, “Whoa!” This was followed by, “What the hell,” and various shouts of surprise up and down the block. There was a crash somewhere further down the block to her right.

“Papa?” she said. Papa scraped the iron lattice across the sidewalk and his warm hands grasped her arm. His comforting voice said, “It’s okay baby girl. We need to get inside. Now. It looks like a blackout.” They pulled the bars quickly across the storefront and locked them. 

The air in Papa’s office was beginning to get stuffy. The electricity had been off for almost thirty minutes. Glass breaking shattered the darkness.  

“What was that?“ Papa said. “Stay here.”  

“No.” She said.

He hesitated but said, “Then stay close behind me.”

In the shop, she could see an orange light beyond the windows. Muffled shouts punctuated by breaking glass. Papa pulled her arm forcing her to crouch low. Peeking from behind the display case they saw someone had built a fire. It painted the chaos on the street in an evil light. The entire window of the electronics store across the street was shattered and she watched as dark figures slipped between the shards of glass, carrying large pieces of merchandise. These weren’t just the boys she had seen on the corner up to no good. There were adults, men and women frenziedly crashing through other windows and taking things. Without warning, Papa pulled her back towards the office. This time his steps were rushed and uncaring of the counters that bumped her hips and arms. They had only gone a few feet when their world exploded in glass shards. 

I hope you liked it. Interesting side note: Did you know that the blackout of 1977 is seen by some as the catalyst for hip hop music's popularity?  If you want to read further about that, click here.



Easter photo credit: Franklin Park Library <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/88488351@N00/13927160663">easter2014 052</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">(license)</a>
Blackout Photo Credit: http://www.boweryboyshistory.com/tag/blackout

Friday, April 14, 2017

Not Just a Flash in the Pan


I was off today and so I decided to make a decision about that story I wanted to submit to the Women on Writing Flash Fiction Contest. I spent a couple of hours on a story last weekend but it just refused to be boxed into a 750-word limit! All the things I thought were great about it, didn't make the cut and I found I just didn't like it anymore. What to do? 

I had an epiphany during recess yesterday. I would take one of my mom's childhood stories I wrote a few years ago and see if it fit and it did and I even found I liked it better. I just uploaded it a while ago and hopefully, the judges feel the same way. I won't know for sure until midsummer but I'm satisfied...I think. 

I have never been a short story reader and when I started this idea of writing, I envisioned a full-length novel. Lately, I've had to write so many short stories for my creative writing courses on Coursera and I've discovered I like writing short stories. I think it's because I have ADHD. I get bored easily and short stories mean I can write and move on to the next adventure. 

I haven't given up my full-length novel idea but feeling inspired, I Googled short story contests and found the Women on Writing Flash Fiction Contest. Hmmm...I thought. Flash fiction...interesting...and uh what exactly is that? Flash fiction are very short stories that can range from 100 to 1000 words. I wanted to know more so I went on Kindle Unlimited and found a little gem of a book about flash fiction: Writing Flash Fiction: How to Write Very Short Stories and Get Them Published by Carly Berg.  I was a little skeptical about flash fiction but Berg makes sense. According to her, flash fiction "forces you to write tight like nothing else. With so little space to tell a story, you soon hone your craft." 

It has been said by those less tolerant of my effusive manner that I have diarrhea of the mouth. That has kind of carried over to my writing. Without fail, I write about three hundred words over the limit on my writing assignments. Most have 500-1000 word limits. I always have to go back and cut and edit until it's within the allowable limit. This process though frustrating has taught me so much about editing.  As Berg says, "Every word has to carry its weight or be cut." Plus, she makes a good case for writing flash fiction: It is a good way to get published and have your work seen and if it doesn't get published, you haven't spent all that long on it. I haven't given up on my novel, "The Ivys" but I'm willing to put it off in an effort to gain experience. Well, I'm keeping it short tonight. Wow. Maybe all this flash fiction is good for me.  Talk to you tomorrow. 



Photo credit: Walt Stoneburner <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/8404611@N06/7946581522">Write In Journal</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Day 19 and I'm Still Blogging Along!

I saw this meme and had to use it. It is especially meaningful because Gene Wilder's Willie Wonka was one of my first girlhood crushes and my kinders are performing this play in less than two weeks. Yikes! I'm spontaneously breaking out in song all day. My current favorite song is, I Want it Now!

Soooo-It is day 19 of my Shut Up and Blog Challenge! Now if anyone actually followed my blog except my sister, Linda it would be noted that I did not blog yesterday. Actually, that is not true. I may not have written a new post but I added to and made better a post from two days ago about my book-inspired adventure in Savannah. I found a few pictures I wanted to add and then because I was talking about author J.D. Horn and his Witching Savannah series, I felt it only right to put in a link. So see, I was blogging😛!

Tonight's post will be short because it was Easter party day and I have little kindergarten footprints all over my back.👣👣👣 I'm worn out! Currently, I am working on a new post about how fate and a rainstorm brought me to my job teaching at Big Pasture. I want to find a few photos from the early days so my adoring fans...uh fan will have to wait. 

I've really gotten attached to blogging every day but I'm going to work harder on quality rather than quantity. Millions or so it seems that way, of people blog. What sets the well-known ones apart from the pack is quality. I will blog every day but I may not post every day. I did say this was going to be short, right? Well, then I better shut up. Good night. 🌕💤

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

In Search of the Crossroads


In my obsession with writing, I have rediscovered reading. I have read several books about the craft of writing from Stephen King's On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft to Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. One of the suggestions I have read and heard by King and others is that reading fiction is good for writing. King in his book has a lot to say about this: 


 I have been a voracious reader since I was a kid. I was the kid whose mom had to come in at midnight and threaten to take away the book before I would turn out the light and go to bed. This love continued throughout my adult years. That is until I got an iPad and the world was literally at my fingertips. Games, videos, social media all drew me into their web and away from my favorite pastime: reading. Mind you, I listen to audio books but mostly children's chapter books that Seth and I listen to together. It has been awhile since I lost myself in the dreamlike world of fiction. 


Now you know this writing thing is my latest obsession and unlike some, it has stuck so if Stephen King says good writers read, I'm going to read. I went on Amazon-I have an Amazon Prime account and a Kindle Unlimited account so I have no reason not to read. On Kindle Unlimited, I found Jilo by J.D. Horn. Jilo is wonderfully suspenseful and colorful. This is not the first time I have emersed myself in Horn's magical world. Jilo is the fourth in a book series that absolutely fascinated me two years ago and sent me on a journey of a lifetime. Sounds dramatic, huh?  So what was the series that sent me on my journey? The Witching Savannah Series by J.D. Horn. 



Witching Savannah Series

It was Christmas break 2015. I had had a really rough year. My mother who ha
d Alzheimer's and who lived with me had to be put in a rest home the previous July and passed away three months later in October just days after her eighty-eighth birthday. I could go into detail about her last year but it's too painful and I can't. Let's just say that for the three years prior to her death, I could hardly leave the house, except when I was at work and had a caregiver for her.  No road trips or a  weekend to see my sister, Linda, not even a trip to buy groceries. That became Kevin's job. My life became about caring for my mother. So in October, she passed away and it was like we were both free. She wasn't suffering and I didn't have to feel the guilt that comes from dreading my daily visit with the raving, child-like woman my mother had become. 


So fast forward three months later to Christmas break 2015. I was diagnosed with pneumonia the first Monday of my two-week vacation. Now you would think this would totally ruin my vacation but it didn't. In fact, it was awesome. I had doctor's orders to rest because my pneumonia was bad and I did rest and completely without guilt. I didn't worry about my classroom or even housework because Kevin insisted I rest. Within a couple of days, I had seen every Harry Potter movie and binge watched a couple of series on Netflix. I went to see what Amazon Prime had to offer and got sidetracked on Kindle Unlimited. One thing led to another and I downloaded J.D.Horn's The Line: Witching Savannah Book 1.  


I visited Savannah when I was fourteen for a weekend with my mom and sister back in 1977.  I loved that elegant old city and always dreamed of going back. I began reading The Line and fell in love with the character of Mercy Taylor, the only unmagical member of Savannah's premier witching family, the Taylors. Now Savannah of today doesn't quite look the same as 1977 but that wasn't a problem because Horn paints a vivid picture of Savannah, both real and imagined in his book. He does such a thorough job of creating this canvas of magical Savannah intermingled with real Savannah that this is believable. Do I believe there are witches in Savannah? No...sort of...well...you never know. 


Before long, I was on Google Earth trying to find the crossroads of Normandy Street and the long forgotten path where Mother Jilo performs her magic. There is a crossroad! Now whether anyone does their "root magic" business like Jilo is anybody's guess but I was sure it was possible. That's what good author's do. They sell you the dream they are weaving to the point where you believe it like a child believes Santa is going to shove his jolly butt down millions of chimnies on Christmas Eve! 


I finished that book within a day and I was hungry for more so I downloaded and began reading the second book, The Source and then two day's later the final book, The Void. I was now officially obsessed with Horn's Savannah. Now I suppose a good blogger would give more details about the books but I don't want to ruin it. Read them. If you like paranormal books about historic places and big magical families, you will love them. 


At the end of Christmas break, my lungs were better and I went back to school. In January Kevin got some great news from the V.A. His military disability rating had been upped and therefore he had several thousand dollars coming to him because his claim was retroactive. I had recently reconnected with Kevin's oldest daughter, Hollie and hatched a plan that my BFF Nessa C and I in the following June would drive all the way to Pennsylvania and back to pick up Hollie and her three daughters so they could spend a month with us. Kevin agreed. He was excited to see his daughter. Now Kevin hates to travel so with the exception of a short honeymoon to Fredericksburg, Texas, Kevin and I have never been on a vacation. I felt I was looooong overdue for a vacation and because I worried I might never get another, I was determined we were going to take the most scenic route to Pennsylvania. A route that included a three-day side trip to Savannah. I know. I'm the worst but I don't regret it. 

Nessa and I doing the tourist
thing in Savannah's historic
district

Mine and Vanessa's road trip was an adventure that had pitfalls and wrong turns that made our trip very memorable but when we got to Savannah at 12:00 a.m. the second night of our journey, everything went right. We walked the semi-deserted riverfront-it was a weeknight, and I remember the smell and the moist breeze and thought, "At last." Our hotel was in the historic district just one street over from the riverfront. For the next three days, we walked and toured and saw all the sights Savannah had to offer. 


Our second evening, I decided to find the crossroads of Normandy Street and the forgotten path. As we made our way to that part of town, I watched with fascination how the houses turned from historical and genteel to shabby with people sitting on their porches enjoying their evening. These were true residents of Savannah who lived beyond the grand facade of the historic district.  When we finally reached Normandy, I was disappointed to discover a six-foot cyclone fence and gate barring my path. Now you may ask yourself, would I really have walked to the crossroads? No. I'm crazy but not that kind of crazy. I sure would have driven as far as I could. I was disappointed but I was also excited because the crossroads was somewhere behind those gates. Maybe not Jilo's crossroads but the one that J.D. Horn had decided to embellish on and put in his book. 

The entrance to the road known as Saul Court which according to maps, curved and led to Normandy Street. I looked at Google Earth and found this image which was exactly what Vaness and I found we went two years ago. However, upon moving forward on the map, I found an older picture that showed a housing project that had once been on this road. Interesting...

Earlier that day, we had gone to Tybee Island with Nessa's childhood friend Raymond who lived in a small town nearby. Raymond was a wonderful tour guide. We were going down the highway and he said, "Look over there." He pointed to a spot up ahead, under an overpass. He went on to explain that there was tent city under that overpass where homeless people lived. Bells went off in my head and I remembered in The Line, Mercy tells of a homeless encampment near the country club and very close to the crossroads. I immediately pull out my phone and look up our location on Google maps. Sure enough, that encampment is right near the fabled "crossroads."

Now Nessa and I chronicled all our road trip adventures on Facebook. Every post began with, "Dear Friends" and ended with "Your friendly Thelma and Louise." We however, did not share our search for the homeless encampment because I was rather ashamed of the fact that I found entertainment in such a thing. Why am I sharing it now? Hmmm...because this post is not really about the encampment. Instead, it is about chasing that elusive dream of magical Savannah and the mythical crossroads in Horn's book. It's about the power of books and how they can inspire you. 


 When I discovered I wouldn't be able to get near the crossroads, we went driving around the historic district and then I talked Vanessa into going to find the homeless encampment. As we made our way out of the historic district to head to our destination, we discovered a pilgrimage along the side of the road. There were people-individuals, couples and small groups leaving the tourist ridden historic district and heading the way we were. I saw the man who had sold me a corn stalk rose the day before. His enthusiasm and humor winning me over even as Vanessa gave me the stink eye to not encourage him. Where I wondered were all of these people going?  They were what my mom would have called down in the mouth. As we neared the point where we had seen the encampment, I realized that when the sun went down, and the tourists thinned out, these people who worked the tourist district in whatever manner, walked home. Home to the encampment. 


We don't like to think of the people who are part of the tourist landscape living like this but it is a hard reality. It seems so wrong that in a city so graceful and beautiful that there are people living like this. Especially for a small town girl like me who only see's homeless people when I venture into the city.  I had taken this journey out of the historic district in pursuit of entertainment and discovered these were real people's lives. This sadness did not dim my need to see the encampment. 


The sun was going down and I saw the fires before I saw the people and the tents. As we got closer, I begged Vanessa to slow down but she wouldn't go as slow as I liked. She didn't think it was a good idea and she didn't want the people to know we were there for a show. I'm glad she didn't. As we went past, I could see the movement of the fires and the people cooking their dinners over them and milling around their tents. The blur of our passing made it seem otherworldly. It reminded me of stories of gypsies around a campfire. I know it is fanciful but that it what it reminded me of. I made Vanessa make a u-turn six times so I could see it in detail. 


So what you may ask is the purpose of this blog post? It's to remind you that if you let it a story can move you, suck you in and take you on a journey real or imagined that you won't forget. I am enjoying Horn's latest novel, Jilo. I miss the modern story of the Taylors but I think I'm only a third of the way through Jilo's story and it is gooood! There are some scary, things that go bump in the night stuff in this novel set in the 1930s and 50s. If that is your thing, grab a copy of J.D. Horn's Jilo. 


Have a good night.