A couple of Februarys ago I informed da Hubbs and my babes, Olivia and Noah, that I enjoyed writing. “I am going to write a book,” I declared, one evening. I was going to become an author.
Where this curious notion came from remains a mystery to me. However, it might have something or another to do with my recent inability to maintain a stable body temperature or read anything written in a typeface smaller than billboard sized letters. I guess, I figured, “I’m in my mid forties; it’s time to be reflective and share some wisdom.” There’s that, and the feeling that everyone in the world doesn’t “get me,” that my dear husband should just up and die out of sheer stupidity and that, though I hate to admit this, I may have lost my sense of humor for good. I fear daily that I am transforming into a terrifying hybrid of Hannibal Lecter and Scarlett O’Hara. I’ll rip your heart out and eat it with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, but I’ll proceed with the back of my hand firmly pressed against my forehead like a full-blown diva. Presently, like Miss O’Hara, I’m trying to get through each day the best I can and remember that, “Tomorrow is another day.” Remembering where and what I came from and writing it down helps soothe my alternating brooding and surly temperament.
I thought I would share a little bit of what I’ve been working on. I hope you enjoy this little excerpt. I’m almost finished with the rough draft of the book and I welcome your thoughts and encouragement!
So, here goes …
The Seminal Idea
This is a chronicle of one woman’s life, the fat girl she never was, the hardships she never endured, the opportunities she wasted, the evil she never encountered. Juanita Steve is the reluctant participant in a life that she wants to fall deeply in love with - unfortunately, it just wants to be “friends.”
PROLOGUE
There is in the state of Texas, north of the Hill Country and east of Big Bend, a medium-sized town called Abilene. If you were to have looked in the white pages of a local phone book, one published around, say, the early to mid-seventies, you’d find a listing that shares a telephone number with two other listings. A generation ago, the population of 1217 Beechwood St. consisted of one grandmother, three mothers, five daughters, two sons, two aunts, five sisters, one brother, five cousins, one flying Gold Fish, a squawky Budgie parakeet and one extremely anti-social alley cat. And, if you’ve done the math, you are right in assuming that the true occupancy of said address, while still quite high, didn’t quite equal twenty-four actual bodies. One person held many positions in the family—a mother whose adult daughters had children of their own, as well as sisters who were aunts to the others’ children, for example.
I got to hold several positions in that family tree, I was a granddaughter slash daughter slash sister slash cousin slash niece. All of us came together shortly after the husband slash father slash son-in-law slash brother-in-law slash uncle slash sorry-son-of-a-bitch named Steve, took himself away. The year was 1971, and the distance from 1217 Beechwood Street to our former, less populated house, was roughly the distance an Olympic athlete might have to fling himself to set the National Long Jump record. But, it was far enough away to feel like a fresh start for my mom, Josie, my older sister, Avon, my brother, P.Q., my little sister, Jane and me.
At the end of Beechwood Street, which to my knowledge had no actual Beech trees growing on it, was Calvary Baptist Church. This was our church and the place where my older sister and brother found Jesus. To be honest, the only thing my little kid brain could do with that information was to ask, “Where had Jesus been? … and wonder aloud, “Why hadn’t he called someone to let them know he might be late or something?” ... because, apparently people were worried and looking for him. I was always misunderstanding the significance of phrases like that. I also thought they were saying the Verg and Mary. This spurred questions like, “Who’s this Verg guy? And what were his intentions concerning Mary?” I remember thinking that maybe that was the name of the angel who came to tell Mary that she was going to carry the son of God. My Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Edwards, was the first person to tell me the whole story from start to finish about the Virgin Mary and the day she got the news. I remember telling Mrs. Ed, that I would have told that angel, ‘No thank you, and walked off to find my mother as quickly as possible.” I had been taught that this was an appropriate response to strangers passing out candy, why wouldn’t it have work on angels passing out babies?
