God knows where Daddy found the money to take 6 kids to St. Augustine. Somebody at the Sheriff's office must have given him passes. That was the way we were able to do many things that most "normal" kids got to do regularly. Thanks to free passes, all eight of us went to the drive-in every time the feature changed. The older boys got to sit in the outdoor seats near the concession stand while Sissy and I sat on the car fenders. The little guys watched from the back seat and got to pee in a jar.
Free passes also allowed us to see those Clydesdale horses that time they came to town. I was about ten, I think. Eye level to a Clydedale's penis. I thought the poor thing was losing his intestines and innocently asked Jimmy what was wrong with it. I think he called me a moron or some other word that meant "stupid" but sounded an awful lot like something dirty, so I just assumed the thing was a giant peawhacker. Well, cow! How was I supposed to know?! Once, we almost got free chest-x-rays. But not due to passes. The TB-mobile was parked downtown with a sign out front that clearly read, "Free chest x-rays," and Daddy thought it a great opportunity, as none of us had ever had an x-ray before. The announcement terrified me and I began to hang back from the rest of the family - mom and dad, Sissy and the two little ones. I'd be asked to remove my clothes, which was sure to reveal my terrible secret, and just as Daddy approached the trailer, I surreptitiously reached inside my blouse and pulled out the four squares of toilet paper I'd stuffed into each of my bra cups. "Ah, hell," said Daddy as I tossed the little paper wads into a trash barrel, "they're closed." Of course, Sissy was privy to the fact that I stuffed my bra with toilet paper because she was doing the same thing. Of course, she was a year older than I was, and therefore wise to the fact that no one in the TB mobile was going to ask anybody to get naked while they watched, which probably explained why she wasn't diving into her bra, too. The trip to Florida was special though - it was the only real family vacation we ever took. Of course, we didn't have passes for any of the paying attractions, but we saw plenty of alligators and tortoises - mostly on the side of the road, but a few parks had them, too. There were other free sights to see on the ride from Tennessee to Florida. I've tried unsuccessfully for 60 years to dis-remember a number of grotesquely mutated animals that we felt compelled to see simply because it was free. At the old stone fort, which was also free, I found what the boys called a mini-ball, supposedly fired from a musket or some other ancient firearm. "That's nothing," they said. They'd found lots of those at the battlefield in Chickamauga. And indeed, they had quite a collection back home. So I was going to start my own. At the tippy top of the fort, Daddy wanted a photo of all of us kids. We seated ourselves in random order along an open wall that overlooked the grounds far, far, farrrr below. Apparently, Daddy didn't like the way we'd arranged ourselves and asked grace-less Claudia to move to the opposite end, which she promptly executed by "tight-walking" the narrow ledge behind us. When she was safely seated again, Mom, who had turned white as a sheet, collapsed against Daddy's shoulder where I think he administered artificial respiration to revive her. The vacation ended quite miserably that evening as I recall, because mom and dad had unwisely checked us out of the hotel BEFORE we went to the beach; so that we had to endure the ride home in gritty, wet clothes because there was no place to change on the beach. I can still hear Mama grumbling about that "bloomin' sand." She complained about it at every mention of Florida for the rest of her natural life, proclaiming she couldn't understand why in the world anybody would want to live there.
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Let me tell you about my son, Bobby and the fairies. Although it's irrelevant to the story, it was his last year on this earth, which makes this memory so priceless to me. He was nineteen years old and so beautiful it made my teeth hurt. It was summer. He'd been out with friends that day and now it was late, and dark. I was sitting on the front porch steps, enjoying the cool of the evening. Bobby and I didn't truly converse too often, but there were rare occasions when we could carry on an interesting or civil conversation without raising our voices. His passion came from me, but it didn't make it easy when we were passionate about conflicting ideas. He didn't like to talk about his friends or what he did with them, so I didn't ask about his evening; I merely asked if he'd had anything to eat and he responded cordially that he had and that he was fine - just tired. We were chatting amicably when I spied movement in the lower portion of the big sugar maple in our front yard. The tree was directly in front of us and less than 30 feet away, so our view was good, yet we couldn't make out what the movement was. I asked Bobby what he thought it was. He studied for a few minutes more and then shook his head and said he didn't know. "What does it look like to you?" he countered. I hesitated to say, because for all the world, it looked to me like fairies dancing in the moonlight! I said, "I don't know, what does it look like to you?" He turned his head this way and that, trying to get a fresh angle on the object before us. He finally snickered and said, "Actually, it looks like fairies dancing!" To which I responded, "I know! I wasn't going to say that, but that's exactly what I thought! What do you think it is, really?" He said, "I don't know! I can't figure it out! It looks like fairies!" And then he laughed out loud, which made me laugh. I told him I had to know what it was and that I was going to go down and check it out. "Don't do that just yet, Mom" he said. "Let's just watch for a while, okay?" "Okay," I said. "Let's just enjoy it then." We sat on the steps for a good while afterward, still talking, but reporting intermittently that the fairies were still there. Finally, I told Bobby that I was ready to go in and asked if he was coming. "Yes," he said, "but I'm going to find out what that is first." I was so curious by this time that I was relieved I wouldn't have to wait til morning to find out. Bobby's slender body blocked the fairies from my view at first, but when he turned sideway to look at me, I could see the dancing fairies were still there. "You're never going to guess what it is," he said. "What?" I asked, more curious than ever. "Come look," he said. I flew down the steps and as I neared the tree I made it out. "Oh my God," I said. "It's just an oil can!" The shiny metal bottom of the round cardboard can was gold in color, and the movement of the leaves stirring in the breeze was casting moving shadows on it as the moonlight filtered through the tree, making it appear as fairies dancing in the moonlight. "How come we haven't seen that before?" Bobby asked. "Because your dad just put that can there this afternoon," I explained. Bob had added oil to the crankcase in our car earlier and just stuck the empty can in the crotch of the tree and forgot about it. "Well, it was kind of magic while it lasted," Bobby said. And I agreed. The experience was truly magical.
I love this time of year. I didn't used to. When I was younger, I hated to see the end of summer. To me, it meant the end of fun and the beginning of another school year filled with heartache. Not that I hated school, but I always felt I was missing out on something far more exciting than sitting at a desk all day. Today, I feel kind of sorry that I didn't appreciate more my good education, my good friends, my wonderful teachers. But I have learned to appreciate fall. Instead of viewing it as the termination of something good, I'm now thankful for the cooler weather, for the changing of the seasons - something that folks in some areas of our country rarely see, and for the gathering of friends and family at our mutually favorite holiday, Halloween. Best of all, these cool mornings are perfect for sitting on the deck with a warm sweater, hot coffee, and a pen and paper. The juices begin to flow and I write as fast as I can, but not as fast as the thoughts come to me. Some of my best ones elude me before I've written them down. You see, I'm working on my new book, and I can't wait to get past the first chapter! I may change the title, but for now I'm calling it, "The Nestries, Book II - Rani and the Sad Squash." Progress has been slowed by my husband's recent surgery, but he's recovering rapidly now and I look forward to spending more and more time outdoors with my pen and paper, writing my next book and hopefully, my first best seller. I'll keep you posted!
I'm pleased to announce that I have begun that promised sequel to "The Nestries, A Fairytale For All Ages." It will continue in the same fashion as "Nestries," including more adventures and misadventures with our charming little faerie, Rani. You'll meet the new owner of Anna's Nest, but expect some other interesting characters as well! It's a very busy time for me right now, but the book should release early next year. I'll keep you posted! In the meantime, happy reading!
After I’d finished my first book, I never thought I’d write another. It was so hard! I wasn’t retired then, and I did all my writing in the wee hours of the morning before heading to work. Since retirement, however, I’ve written two more. What can I say? I love writing. I’ve always loved it! And now I’m talking about the actual physicality of it.
My love affair with cursive handwriting began in second grade when I was introduced to “The Palmer Method,” and was asked to create a page-full of what Sister Mary Richard called, “compact ovals.” (Google it; they’re really fun! Report back if you can’t find it and I’ll tell you about them!) I loved the scritchy-scratchy sound of that fat-pencil graphite sliding across my paper. I still like using pencils, but only if they’re long ones with a wicked sharp point and a plump pink eraser. No more dull ugly stubs for me! And who doesn’t like the sensuous feel of a sleek-barreled ink pen in their hand, and the sexy feel of it as it glides effortlessly across a sea of white. It just feels so natural to me. And I like it. In fact, I enjoy writing so much that, when inspiration eludes me for a story, I create lovely lists instead. Any kind of list will do. I like them all. I might try to list all the flowers in my garden, or perhaps all the precious fur babies I’ve owned who are waiting for me on the other side of the rainbow bridge, or the guys and gals I played softball with; or, the names of all those long-defunct softball teams – and yes, there have been many. More than once I’ve tried to list all fifty states from memory, and then, when that’s done and I’m still so inclined, I’ll try to list their capitols. I know! I know! It’s nutty. I don’t know anyone who admits to ever doing this. But that’s one of those things that makes me Denise – a bit quirky, a lot inquisitive, but always a writer! Let me know about those compact ovals. I promise you’ll find more than a grocery list waiting. Her father rose from his chair and removed his belt. Cassie trembled in fear. “No, Daddy, please! Please don’t whip me again! I want to go, Daddy! Please? I have to. It’s my destiny!” Cassie fell to her knees, sobbing.
“I said, spread out!” He said, the belt biting repeatedly into her flesh. Obediently, she lay face down on the floor and raised her arms above her head. “Ow, ow, ow! Oh please, Daddy, please don’t hit me again! I’ll do whatever you say! Please stop, Daddy!” Sobbing open- mouthed against the hardwood, she tasted tree wax on her tongue and prayed it had toxins that would kill her. “Skirt!” George commanded. Cassie dutifully lifted her skirt to expose the bare flesh on the back of her thighs. “Please, Daddy! I won’t! I promise! You can stop now, Daddy! I won’t do it again, I promise!” “You won’t do what?” George maintained focus as he spoke, his arm constantly in motion. “I won’t mention Hollywood again, Daddy. Oh, Daddy, please! Don’t hit me anymore. Ow!” Desperately seeking intervention, she pleaded with her mother. “Please make him stop, Mama. Please! Oh, God, help me!” "How many times am I going to have to do this?” George asked. “When are you going to learn you’re nothing special!” “I know it now, Daddy! You can stop now. I know I’m nothing special! Please stop now, Daddy! I can’t—I can’t breathe—I don’t—I don’t want to die, Mama. Please help me.” Cassie was still. “Betty, get her out of here, she’s fainted again.” “Cassie, wake up, honey. You need to go to your room now. Come on, I’ll help you. Now, Cassie!” Betty helped her daughter up the stairs, tended to the lacerations on her back and thighs. She gave her three aspirin and told her not to come back down again. “If you get hungry or need anything, just dial 1-1-9-1. It’ll make the phone ring, but don’t worry, your dad won’t answer.” “Mama, please. I don’t want the job now. If I can’t have the money I don’t want it anymore. The money’s all I wanted! Why would I work if I’m not going to get any money? Please, Mom, won’t you help me?” “Cassie, we are not going to discuss this! You will take the job and you won’t say another word about it, do you hear me?” “Okay, fine,” she said. “Will you leave the aspirin, please?” “I’ll leave two more but don’t take them for at least an hour. I’m sorry, Cassie. I can’t fight your father on this. Just please, honey, for heaven’s sake, quit talking about Hollywood!” “Fine, I said. Will you go now, please? I’d like to die in peace.” “Get some sleep, dear. You’ll feel better in the morning.” The proximity of the Martin’s apartment to Cassie’s home meant she could walk home from work. This, too, was an important factor in Cassie’s taking the job, because a car for Cassie was never a consideration and never would be. She’d be without wheels forever – or until she could buy her own car. But by all that was holy, she vowed, she’d be taking a Greyhound to Hollywood! The Martin’s apartment building abutted Newton Street Pharmacy, a dusty old eyesore trying hard to emulate a 50’s style ice cream parlor. A Wurlitzer juke box in the corner played last month’s hits, but no one seemed to mind hearing “He’s So Fine” by the Chiffons played repeatedly for three months. A few Formica-topped tables and a handful of Naugahyde booths accommodated the small clusters of teens and young adults who gathered there to unwind with friendly conversation, rock and roll music, and a grease-soaked menu. Sam Gordon was a charter member of the Newton Street “gang,” which included eight others, all of whom were former schoolmates except for Jeremy. Because they’d grown up together in the neighborhood, the older members had been patrons of Newton’s since grammar school, while the seventeen-year-old newcomer was just somebody’s cousin’s cousin who simply had time to kill. Despite the brassy-yellow hair that screamed “bottle job,” Jeremy was possessed of a certain charm that gained him the admiration of a host of boy-crazy girls, and the respect of most of the males in the Newton group. Because Sam had five dollars at stake on a bet he made with Jeremy, he was waiting at the corner for the Taylor girl to come out of the Martin’s apartment. Sam knew she was there, because he had an inside source by the name of Angel Westin who shared what she knew. She told Sam that Cassie’s parents kept her on a short leash, that boys didn’t ask her out because it was common knowledge she was a leg-locked virgin who wouldn’t spread ‘em for a bicycle. She didn’t put out or make out, they said, so, undergoing a third degree from her tough cop father was hardly worth the effort of getting a date that seemed unpromising at best. Because of her appearance, Cassie was certainly not unpopular, but by her own choice, she kept a low profile at school. When Cassie started toward home, Sam flipped away his cigarette and propped against the retaining wall to wait for her. Cassie was tempted to cross the street when she saw Sam standing in her path, but fearing she’d offend the boy, she stayed on course. As she approached, she tightened her sweater around her and clutched her books close to her chest, as if to make herself invisible. “Hello,” said Sam. “Hello,” said Cassie, then quickly lowered her eyes. She’d seen this guy before. He was usually hanging out at the drugstore with his friends, but sometimes he loitered on the sidewalk alone, smoking and looking around. And once, she’d seen him talking with a girl she recognized as an underclassman at her school. Most times though, he was laughing it up with his friends, which made Cassie wonder if they were making vulgar jokes about her, as she imagined all boys did. They all seemed to like talking trash about girls. If a girl wasn’t popular, they’d call her derogatory names, making fun of her physical features to compensate for their own inadequacies. They ogled the co-eds as they descended the stairs at dismissal, and then lied about what they’d seen under those new miniskirts the girls were wearing. Cassie figured this guy was no different from the rest; they all seemed to have one-track minds. But this one looked classier than his friends. Nicely dressed and clean-shaven, he seemed the least likely to have a criminal record. Still, it was risky to trust him. First and foremost, he was a male with dangerous apparatus. Second, her father had frightened her with stories about the punks that hang out on Newton Street. ENJOY THE TEASER? GRAB A COPY TODAY! https://www.amazon.com/Good-Liar-Denise-Camille-Frye-ebook/dp/B073X7KP1P/ref=sr_1_5?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1500579004&sr=1-5&keywords=the+good+liar AuthorHello. I'm Denise Frye, retired Executive Assistant, writer, actress, and now, a brand new blogger. |
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