His Dog Knows Me

I have written before about the Cowhill Council, a group of seasoned gentlemen who meet and enjoy gourmet coffee. We have returned from downtown to our winter home in a grain silo out in the country on Jerald’s five acres. We meet there most mornings, sitting in cozy comfort around a wood stove, coffee cups in hand, enjoying friendship and laughter. Almost every morning for more than a decade, my arrival greeting has always been a head nod and tongue-lolling smile from Nugget, Jerald’s yellow Lab. The dog knows me, knows my Jeep, recognizes it as soon as I turn off the highway. We have known each other since he was a pup. Everyone who has ever had a pet knows that comforting feeling that comes when a dog, cat, or horse recognizes you and looks at you with those friendly, welcoming eyes—eyes that say come over and put your hand on my head—eyes that say “I’m glad to see you.” It starts the day out right.

This morning, on the eve of Christmas Eve, Nugget was not waiting for me. I was late and had other things on my mind, including some repair work at my office, and regret that I did not think much about his absence. Nugget has spent his life on a small acreage next to a state highway and had to be kept up for his own safety. He was allowed to run free, but only under Jerald’s supervision. Jerald had to be there to call him back when Nugget as much as glanced toward the highway.

But early this morning, Jerald was not there when Nugget decided to run like he had when he was young, free as the wind. When Jerald arrived and found him gone, he tried to follow, but Nugget circled back and headed home, happy to have his master follow him in a playful game. But he was old and his reflexes had slowed. He probably never saw the eighteen-wheeler.

As I turned the key in my Jeep to leave this morning, my recently acquired Tom T. Hall CD played "Old Dogs and Children and Watermelon Wine". Tom said, "Old dogs care about you, even when you make mistakes." So true. Jerald’s heart is broken over the loss of his loyal companion and I will certainly miss my old friend. I like to think that Nugget would have wanted to leave us this way, running free. He had serious health problems that were not going away. Maybe he knew it was time to go and wanted it to be on his own terms. Still, it’s hard to say goodbye.  

A Christmas Star and Scar

            North wind whistled through the warped pine boards of the old farm house. Shredded strips of stubbornly clinging wallpaper shivered as if feeling the biting wind. Icicles bought from the five-and-dime trembled on the cedar Christmas tree that had been placed dangerously close to the wood stove. Outside by the dairy barn, twelve-year-old Gray Boy helped Rance and the driver load cans into the back of the milk truck. Jake, six, finished with his work in the dairy parlor, stood with his hands inside his coat pockets, too small to lift the milk cans, but too big to go inside before his brother and father did. He shuddered not only from the cold, but with the excitement of opening Christmas presents after supper. The driver thanked them, wished them a Merry Christmas, and drove away.

            Using bowls of water warmed on the woodstove, the men took sponge baths and put on clean clothes while Trish, fourteen, and her mother Mattie put strips of fresh tenderloin between biscuits and boiled coffee on the kerosene kitchen stove. In the living room, Rance and his sons scooted the worn couch and chairs closer to the fire. Everyone wrapped in quilts, ate their sandwiches and stared at the presents under the tree. Jake finished his cobbler first and waited for a signal from his father that is was time to open the presents.

            A knock came at the front door. Jake and his brother followed their father out into the open dogtrot and saw a blurred image of the milk truck driver through the glass in the door. Rance sent the boys back to the living room and stepped out on the porch. The brothers knew something was wrong, so they eavesdropped through a crack. The milkman’s voice quivered with cold and sadness, but the boys understood enough. A wreck on Jernigan Creek Bridge, a horse lying by the creek with a white star just under its forelock. The little black horse they called Star, who could take a bow, be ridden without a bridle, rear on command, and untie knots, must have learned to open the lot gate.

            Eyes filled with tears, Gray Boy threw on a coat and wool cap and headed out the back door, intent on running to the creek. Rance caught him in the yard, pulled him to his chest, let him have his cry. The horse was really Gray’s, but both boys claimed him, rode him and took care of him, so Rance relented when they begged to go with him. The sight of the little horse, eyes full of surprise and pain, milk cans floating in Jernigan Creek, was forever etched into their memories. Jake thought there could never be another merry Christmas. Gray Boy said he would never own another horse.

            Jake had never played with cars and trucks. He preferred his cowboy hat, six-shooter, boots and spurs, and the stick horse he called Chocolate. When Star came along, he stood Chocolate in the corner, never to be ridden again. When Star was killed, he felt guilty, but he soon began to dream of having his own horse. As another Christmas approached, times were really tough, so a horse was out of the question. Temps in the seventies and fears of another ominous knock on the door ruined that Christmas.

            The year Jake turned eight, he feared that there would be no money for Christmas presents at all.  Rance had been sick for months. They had lost half their dairy herd to a devastating drought. On Christmas Eve, a cold mist seemed to tease that more rain might be coming. Christmas Eve opening of presents came and went. Jake struggled to keep from crying when he only got warm socks. Rance and Gray went outside and Rance returned with a hissing lantern and Jake’s coat. Mattie and Trish rose and followed Rance without a word being spoken. Jake reluctantly left the warmth of the fire and followed them into the mist, across the muddy dairy barn lot, and into the dark hall of the hay barn.

A mousy little bay filly with ribs showing seemed to be leaning against the barn wall for support. Gray held her lead rope. Bite and kick marks scarred her dull, mangled coat. Her forelock, mane and tail were tangled and full of straw.

Mattie propped her elbow with her hand, dabbed at her eyes. Gray Boy handed Jake the rope and whispered into his ear, “If that horse dies tonight, and it looks like she will, don’t you cry, cause it’ll ruin another Christmas.”

Rance put a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “Haven’t had her more than an hour or two. No time to clean her up. Figured you’d want to do that, anyway.”

            Jake barely heard. He did not see a wormy little filly. He saw Koko, Champion and Trigger in the sparse light provided by that lantern. He named her Scar, not for the bites and kick marks, but for his favorite horse on a radio program called Dr. Sixgun. 

Delta County Literary Festival

Dr. Tarpley called me in his early stages of planning for a literary festival in Cooper, Delta County, Northeast Texas. He asked if I would join other Delta County native writers and read an excerpt from one of my books or short stories. I said sure—just like I always do when Fred asks me to do something. But this retired college professor of Lit and Lang and renowned linguist, grammarian, and researcher is full of enthusiasm and ideas and I was not confident he would actually pull this one together.

When I first started writing novels, people frequently asked me what I did when I left the financial services profession. My answer: “I Write.” The next question was almost always, “Yes, but what do you do the rest of the time?” or this one, “Yes, but what do you do for a living?” I soon began to give this answer: “I wait each day for Dr. Fred Tarpley to give me an assignment.”

Using Fred’s famous name gave my writing legitimacy, somehow, and the answer was close to accurate.  I seldom speak in front of a group of writers or readers that someone does not approach me and ask about Fred or send a greeting to him.

For the Delta County event at the library in Cooper, Fred planned to have his former student Charles Bailey, also a well-known professor of English and literary critic, Susan Albright Hyde (A Listing Wind), and Judy Miller Falls (Brush Men and Vigilantes) to read. When Fred told me that he planned on having it on Sunday at three, I checked the Cowboys’ football schedule. I told Dr. Tarpley that the football game would not be over and few would come. I had a vision of us Delta County writers reading to each other.

When Fred suddenly took ill, I expected the event was cancelled and sort of put it out of my mind.  But when Charles Bailey called me from Houston on Saturday night to say he was coming, things changed. I could not reach Judy Falls, Carol Beth King (now Delta Chamber prez), or anyone who might know details, but if Charlie was driving from Houston, I could surely drive from Commerce. I called Susan and the event was on. Then someone told me it had been advertised in the Cooper Review and Paris News. Fred would want his idea to come to fruition, even if he could not be there.

To my surprise, all of the seats filled (thank-you Delta County readers). Fred will be proud to learn this. I felt appropriately chastised for my negativity and was once again reminded of how infectious Fred’s positive influence can be.

Judy Falls told some very personal and inspiring stories about people she has met and circumstances encountered as a result of her flawlessly researched book about this area of Texas and conflicting loyalties before and during the Civil War. Charlie read two short stories from the late Dr. Gaynor Janes, eldest son of Dr. Olen Janes. Charlie is related to this famous and revered Delta County family of physicians.  Then Susan Hyde read from her soon to be released novel about a 1936 murder trial in Delta County (and a poignant love story). Charlie followed with a story published in Memories of Old ET that brought back memories of the ETSU campus during the period surrounding President Kennedy’s assassination and funeral.

I read two excerpts from my novel, Go Down Looking, to be released May 2012.  I also wanted to talk about the interconnectedness not just of the readers, but of the people who attended, but there just was not time. For example, Charlie and I graduated from Cooper High in the same year and attended ETSU in Commerce at the same time. Judy Falls was only a few years behind us. Judy and I have worked together on several writing and research projects and I have called on her for Delta County research on more than one occasion. Her book and my Biscuits Across the Brazos came out the same year. And or course, Carol Beth (Berry) King served as emcee in Fred’s absence.

Growing up in Delta County, I knew of Gaynor Janes and revered his father, but had never met him until my first book was released. When he discovered that Dr. Olen Bartlett in the Rivers trilogy was based on his father, we became fast friends. It was very poignant to hear Charles read the stories that Gaynor had shared with me. Gaynor’s wife D’ drove from Houston to hear her late husband’s stories read. As for Susan Hyde, I worked with her when her book was in manuscript form and wrote a very early review. Also, the murder trial that inspired her novel was a story I related to my grandchildren that kept them entertained for years as we traveled the paths that two young girls and their mother followed. They were mesmerized by that story more than anything I ever read them.

Fred is improving in a Fort Worth rehab center. Wish he could have been there.

Searching for a Reclusive Author

Left in Jeep with the top down in July heat headed for Hohenwald, Tennessee. I hoped to meet and visit with author William Gay. I read his Provinces of Night and was mesmerized. When I saw a photo of the author beside a crude painted poster of Jimmie Rodgers, I knew that had to be some type of connection between us. I had heard he was somewhat reclusive, so my chances were doubtful. To give my pragmatic left brain an excuse for chasing such a wild goose, I told it that I was going to do some family history research. My maternal great grandparents came from Maury, Tennessee.

Spent first night in a real fleabag motel. A driving overnight rainstorm (6 inches) filled the Jeep floorboards overnight. Yes, I had a cover, but it collected more water than it repelled. I pulled into a covered service station bay and managed to get the top up and Velcro the side windows in the pre-dawn dark.

Jeep windows fogged up quite a bit as the temp dropped about thirty degrees when I headed into the mountains. Discovered ballpoint pens had rolled off and blocked defroster.  Smoke boiled out of tall trees as temperature dropped. Road very winding, up and down and I was constantly threatened with log trucks, but held my own. Jeep handled well.  Kudzu everywhere.  Must have crossed six or seven rivers including the Beech. Crossed the Tennessee River on Alvin York Bridge (hero of First World War) from Tennessee.  Over Coon Creek, Rushing Creek, etc… Finally made it to Hohenwald and checked into only motel in town. Pretty crummy and worn out, but paradise compared to first night.  Took the precaution of examining the room before I gave up my credit card this time.  Also checked for ice machine, which was second only to cleanliness in importance.  Don’t need chocolates on my pillow, but I require ice. 

Next morning, I drove down to old home that had been made into coffee shop/bookstore just off the square.  Looked for William Gay’s books and did not find a one. Asked owner about him and the guy turned up his nose and told me to ask his wife.  When I did, she just said, “He’s a hermit.”  They told me he had moved to another part of the county.  Hohenwald is in Lewis County (named for Explorer Meriwether Lewis, who is buried here).

Went to Chamber of Commerce and picked up some info. and maps.  Nice lady there said Gay comes to library quite often, but is reclusive and strange.  Of course, I already knew that from seeing pictures of him and from reading his stuff.  Made me want to meet him even more.  Said she would give my cell number to lady at library when she returned.  Maybe she could help. 

I drove up to Columbia, Tenn., county seat of Maury County, where my maternal grandmother was born.  Had to almost strip and give up my pocket knife to get into courthouse where county clerk (called by different title there) seemed unfamiliar with the concept of marriage licenses and birth certificates.  Finally, someone told me that archives were kept in the old jail across the street.  Great old restored building and helpful people there.  Found marriage license for great grandparents. Their old farm is now a state park in Maury County and in Marshall County, (Lewisberg County Seat), Nathan Bedford Forrest (Civil War Hero) memorial is also on their old farm.

Satisfied to have accomplished at least something, I headed back to Hohenwald, taking a little side trip on Natchez Trace Parkway.  Very, very nice Jeep ride.  Close to Choctaw country and more ancestors.  I learned it’s common practice to name roads for residents, so I located William Gay Road in late afternoon. Only one house on the road’s dead end.  “Beware of dog” and “Trespassers will be shot and survivors prosecuted” signs.  Dogs would not let me get out and knock. They literally tried to chew the tires off my Jeep, so I turned around and came back disappointed.  Wish I could have taken a picture, but camera was back in motel room.  The house was built with rough-hewn timber, not logs, and had several different types of rusted sheet metal on the roof.  Gay was a carpenter by trade, so I wondered if he had built it. Interesting place.  Would love to have seen the inside. I settled for a Jeep ride through Tennessee Hill Country and lucked on Grinders Creek, a place mentioned often in Gay’s novels. Looks just like he described. 

The next day, I walked downtown to the chamber again and found that the librarian had called Gay on my behalf. The reclusive author told her that he might call me.  Went to library and the librarian gave up his correct number (after I gave her one of my own books.)  I called.  He confirmed that he had tried to call me but lady had given him one digit wrong on number.  Told me to drive on out to his house.  Seems his wife divorced him and took the house on William Gay Road. 

Followed his directions to Little Swan Creek. His house is up a slight hill just before the bridge that crosses the creek.  He shares a road with other folks that live up the hill behind him.  William looks just like what he was most of his life, a drywall man who may have drunk and smoked a little too much.  However, this drywall man is brilliant.  Hair hangs in ringlets as if it had never seen a comb, over his collar but not as long as I have seen in pictures of him.  House is logs with red tin roof.  Nice enough, but he has not abandoned his hillbilly heritage.  An abandoned pickup sits in front of a small shop, the bed full of V-8 cans and assorted trash.  Think he was sipping V-8 the whole time I talked to him, alternating with puffs of his cigarette.  Said he and his son are trying to quit.  Interesting that I also consume a lot of V-8.  End of his left index finger has been pinched off.  Mine, too. 

Room filled with books.  Hundreds.  Fireplace and wood stove in the room, but no overhead light.  Room very dark.  Paintings scattered here and there.  (Yes, he paints, too.)  A few guitars and a few books on how to compose music.  Big books on Van Gogh art and lots of DVD’s and all kinds of books.  While he talked on phone to his daughter, I perused the shelves and found our tastes a lot alike, especially in movies.  (I offered to leave so he could talk in private, but he motioned for me to stay). 

I kept offering to end my intrusion on his privacy, but he urged me to stay and talk.  We talked about his writing and some funny stories.  I told him that the scene with Albright and the hog was the funniest I ever read.  Asked him about characters in Provinces of Night, Fleming, E. W. and Boyd, etc… Told me he was a little bit Fleming (a seventeen year-old boy), a little bit Boyd (the boy’s father), and a little bit E. W. (the grandfather).  Same answer I give when people ask me if I am Jake in my books. 

He had a director’s chair with the name of his book of short stories on it.  They made a movie recently based on one of the stories in Hate to see That Evening Sun Go Down. Hal Holbrook plays the old man. I have since seen the movie and really enjoyed it.

 

He got a call from his movie agent while I was there about another book Twilight.  It has been optioned for a movie, also.  Don’t like it was well as Provinces, but still a very good read.  After my visit, I learned that Provinces would be made into a movie starring Kris Kristofferson called “Bloodworth”. I liked the movie, but not nearly as well as the book. I also learned that his publisher for The Lost Country is having trouble and holding up its publication.

I told him I had written him in the first part of 2007 after reading Provinces.  Said that was about the time his wife kicked him out and he never got the letter.  He seemed impressed that I brought along a copy.  He’s won numerous prestigious awards, primarily for his magazine short stories, but also for his books.  He’s a visiting writing scholar at Sewanee, University of the South.  Oxford-American magazine commissioned him to write an article about his experiences going to a college campus as a scholar when he never attended college.  He has read himself into brilliance.  Though I expect there was something genetic going on, too. 

A lady in town asked him if he got help with his writing.  He asked, “What kind of help?”

She said, “Well, your people was never very smart and you wasn’t either.  Figured you got some help.”

Based on his stories, his family was both poor and violent, doing everything wrong to the excess.  Although he had a huge appetite for books and magazines and regularly entered writing contests, he followed the same path as the rest of the family for most of his life until he started winning competitions for his stories.  I was a reader as a kid, but always felt guilty about it and never read any heavy stuff unless I had to.  Wish someone had told me reading was never a waste of time.  I recall reading a comic book (we called them funny books) when Daddy ran a service station in Commerce.  I was about ten and was supposed to watch the front while daddy did some mechanic work in the garage behind.  A customer went to get him because he could not get my attention to take his money.  Daddy had to shake me I was so engrossed in reading what was probably a comic book.  Don’t think that has happened before or since, but I get the impression that William Gay lived his life inside books because his outside life was so bad. 

I praised him for the dialect in his writing because I consider it perfect.  He said he listened to folks around there a lot.  Recently, a man on a construction job complained, “My old lady ain’t put a hot meal on the table in weeks. The bitch will be laying on her ass when I get home tonight.”  When asked what he would do if he she did have a hot meal, he replied.  “I won’t eat a damn bite.”  I found that hilarious and so typical. 

I told him I had met Flannery O’Connor once when she came to ET.  He asked which year and knew exactly when she died.  Asked if she was frail when I saw her.  He said he had always wanted to meet her.  He told me of many writers who had influenced his writing and life, including a fellow who wrote stories for the Progressive Farmer magazine.  He has an incredible memory for authors and book titles.  Wish I did.  I can remember details inside books, but have trouble with titles and authors. 

I left after a couple of hours and drove up the Natchez Trace toward Nashville.  Got off a little early and headed toward Grinders Switch (home of Minnie Pearl).  There is a water tower and an abandoned depot, but little else there.  Really great Jeep riding though the winding hills and across winding railroad track.  Back down through pretty mountain scenery and to Hohenwald by bedtime.  A good day.

William Gay

William Gay first came to the Sewanee Writers Conference in 1999 as a Tennessee Williams Scholar. Later that year, Gay published his first novel, The Long Home, which received the James A. Michener Memorial Prize. Gay returned to Sewanee in 2000 as a Walter A. Dakin Fellow and served as the Tennessee Williams Fellow for the 2000-2001 academic year. Gay then published another novel, Provinces of Night, and a collection of stories, I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down, which contained stories that had been published in the Missouri Review, Georgia Review, Oxford American, Atlantic Monthly, and Harper's. His stories have also been anthologized in Best American Short Stories, New Stories from the South, O. Henry Awards Prize Stories, Best New American Voices, and Best American Mystery Stories. In 2006, he published his third novel, Twilight, and was named a USA Ford Foundation Fellow by United States Artists. In 2010, MacAdam/Cage will publish his new novel, The Lost Country.

News from the Rivers

The last four months have been some of the best of the year as far as writing is concerned. I was honored to be interviewed about Rivers Ebb by Jack Drucker of The Book Club program. The interview was aired by stations in Tampa Bay, Florida and Little Rock, Arkansas. Jack said that my third novel does for the Texas Panhandle what How Green Was My Valley did for the valleys of South Wales.  Listen to the interview by clicking the podcast on my website.

My fifth novel, Go Down Looking is deep into the editing phase at Tate Publishing, moving steadily forward toward a spring 2012 release. And I am approximately 90% done with the first draft of my sixth novel (still unnamed).

During Bois d’arc Bash festivities in Commerce, I led a “literary tour” of the places mentioned in my Follow the Rivers Trilogy.  I had done this on a less formal basis once before and the second time was even more fun because Emmett Day and his daughter came along. A. L. Day Elementary School in Commerce was named for his father. Emmett recently celebrated his ninety-sixth birthday and has maintained his lively wit and intelligence. He lives in Washington but flies back to Texas on a regular basis to visit his wife’s grave and other acquaintances. He also has Delta County connections. Wife Roxey lived just inside the county. We visited the sites where characters in my novels lived and died (including graves) and where significant scenes took place (like Dad Flannigan’s store). I explained the small differences between what really happened and how I fictionalized the people and events and why I chose to write it the way I did. They were surprised, as most people are, to learn that two people (not just one) died on the day of a terrible tragedy described in Rivers Crossing.

I also made a presentation to the Friends of the Mineola Memorial Library. What a terrific group. They were attentive and responsive. The primary key to such events is having at least one member of the audience who has read some or all of my books and I was so pleased when one of the members stood and gave me a ringing endorsement. Another key is to get questions, and this fine group obliged. This was my first time to read from the prologue (I call it the front bookend) to Go Down Looking.  I am usually hesitant to do readings, because heads start to nod as soon as you open the book, but not this time. I hope it was a combination of good audience, good reading and good writing.

I also had a once-in-a-lifetime (hopefully there will be more) experience when the Friends of the Sulphur Springs Library arranged “An Evening with Jim Ainsworth”. Trice and Pat Lawrence, Terry Mathews, and others really went beyond the call in making this a successful event. Terry, Arts and Entertainment Editor for the Sulphur Springs News Telegram, asked me questions about all my books and asked me to read excerpts she had selected. Doesn’t get much better for an author than to have someone else choose reading selections they like. At the end, I read from Go Down Looking again. In publicity leading up to the event, the group arranged interviews with many media outlets including Enola Gay with KSST radio, County Line Magazine, Front Porch News and many others. My head got a little swelled and I almost ran off I-30 when I saw my name on the huge billboard outside of town. Headlines and articles described me as “An Authentic Texas Cowboy” and “World Champion Team Roper”. If it were only so, my lifelong dreams would have been realized.

At another event in Pittsburg, I realized that I was going to have to open a Twitter account and start actually doing something on Facebook, and return to my old blog (abandoned since 2008). So here we go.  In future postings, I plan to do some short book reviews on what I am reading, a few movie reviews, and a few short stories. I am looking forward to telling readers of this blog about my trip to the Tennessee Hills to meet one of my favorite authors. Stay with me and tell your friends.