Fiction South

A New Video by mystery author Eric Wilder.

Brandy Ice - a recipe

My first wife Gail and I moved to Oklahoma City after I had graduated from the University of Arkansas with a M.S. degree in geology. My employment coincided with the Arab Oil Embargo of 1973. Amid long lines at filling stations across the U.S., oil companies had ramped up their drilling activity and I was hired as a young geologist.

Another Arab Oil Embargo occurred in 1978. When this happened, I quit my day job as an exploration geologist and opened my own office as a prospect. Like the job I had quit, my marriage with Gail was also over and I had little money (read none) in the bank. I did have an old Triumph TR4, a Triumph Bonneville 750, and a new relationship with a young woman named Carol.

Carol was blond, beautiful, and wild as hell. During my first six months as an independent geologist, I didn't sell a single prospect. Carol fed me, encouraged me, and lent me money. 

1 pint Vanell ice cream
¼ cup dark Crème de Cocoa
1/3 cup brandy

Blend in blender until smooth then serve in a brandy snifter

Eric's Website

Junior's, an Oklahoma City Legend

Junior’s is a restaurant in the basement of the Oil Center Building. Junior’s was opened by legendary Oklahoma City restaurateur Junior Simon in 1973. It soon became an oily hangout and more oil deals were likely consummated there than in any boardroom.

I ate at Junior’s for the first time in 1978, shortly after meeting my second wife Anne. Anne was the accountant for a little oil company that had an office in the Oil Center. She had once worked for Carl Swan, one of Junior’s original partners.

Junior’s, at the time, was a private club as Oklahoma had yet to pass a liquor-by-the-drink law. You were supposed to have your own bottle (with your name on it!) to get a drink at a bar. It was rarely required and you could get a strong drink almost anyplace, at least if someone there knew you. The practice was known as liquor-by-the-wink. You could also get a “roadie” (an alcoholic drink in a plastic go-cup) to tide you over on your trip home.

Junior not only knew every one of his clientele by their first names, he knew the names of their kids, friends, employers or employees. I don’t recall ever seeing him without a smile on his face.

Since Junior’s was a club, Junior billed his members once a month. I had a medium-sized oil company and often took clients there for drinks, and dinner and my monthly bill almost always ran into the thousands. When my oil company went belly up, I owed Junior more than three thousand dollars.

“I’m broke,” I told him. “But I’ll pay you a little every month until I get it whittled down.”

Junior smiled and put an understanding hand on my shoulder. “Eric, I know you will. Just do your best and I’ll understand.”

It took me more than two years to finish paying my Junior’s debt and I felt like a giant weight have been lifted off my soul when Anne and I finally did. Junior didn’t make a big deal about it. He just smiled, nodded and patted me on the shoulder.

I was in Junior’s the night Penn Square Bank went under, just one of my many memories of the super club that would fill a small book. Mostly, I remember Junior Simon – the best restaurateur the State of Oklahoma has ever seen, and a fine gentleman to boot.

Eric's Website

Murder in OKC

When I moved to Oklahoma City in 1973, the downtown area was a victim of urban sprawl. Many stores and businesses had moved out of the City’s original area for the more affluent outlying neighborhoods. Downtown OKC had long since fallen into disarray and disrepair. There was no new construction, no new businesses and little sentiment to revive this crumbling portion of Oklahoma City.

Like other cities, OKC had its skid row. In the seventies, and to a large extent today, beggars, panhandlers, winos, prostitutes and runaways congregated in an area near the downtown bus station. Hotels, many built shortly after the beginning of the city, remained along the Reno Avenue corridor. Most were run down, shabby, and homes for gamblers and prostitutes. One of these hotels was the Tivoli Inn on W. Sheridan Avenue.

The Tivoli was built in 1922 as a grand hotel. It went through several transformations but in October of 1972 it had degenerated into little more than a flophouse for transients taking a detour off I-40, one of the interstate highways that bisect the city. On October 13, 1972, the desk clerk of the hotel met her untimely death.

I hadn’t yet moved to Oklahoma in 1972 but I remember hearing about the murder of Phyllis Jean Daves. Daves, age 49, was the desk clerk at the Tivoli Inn the night of her death. According to accounts in the Daily Oklahoman, she was beaten, robbed and strangled to death.

On October 13, 1972 (yes, it was Friday) she was dragged into the elevator and apparently still fighting for her life when she and her attacker reached the sixth floor. Her nude body was found under a bed in room 607 and rape was likely attempted but never consummated. Two former employees of the Tivoli Inn were suspected but later cleared of the crime when they failed to provide a match to bloody hand prints held as evidence.

I remember hearing stories of blood covering the lobby walls from the horrific struggle that ensued. The crime remains cold, never solved. Urban renewal of downtown Oklahoma City began in earnest during the latter seventies, the Tivoli Inn razed in 1979 to make room for the Myriad Gardens.

Nothing remains today of the old Tivoli Inn but memories and some old photographs. Most Oklahomans don’t even remember it, nor does anyone remember Phyllis Jean Daves, or worry much about who killed her, or why.

Eric's Website

A Man Named Glome - prehistory in Oklahoma

In my book Blink of an Eye, fictional detective Buck McDivit obtains a piece of ancient pottery from a dying American Indian man. It prompts him to travel to eastern Oklahoma to find out about the origin of the mysterious black cup. At the Spiro Archeological Center, Buck meets the area supervisor, a young Native American woman named Thorn Little Deer for whom he has an instant attraction. Later in the book, they visit an Indian witch named Yellow Paint Woman at her cabin located in a remote part of the Kiamichi Mountains. Though Thorn and the old woman are pure-blood Caddo Indians, they both have pale blue eyes. Check out A Man Named Glome and find out why.

A Man Named Glome

Before the written word, there was only the word of mouth. Unfortunately, oral history is often lost forever, or else progresses beyond the bounds of reality to enter the realm of lore and legend. It is absolutely true that many important circumstances occurred that were never recorded.

Often, only mysterious artifacts remain that possibly foretell significant historical events. Oklahoma has such a mysterious artifact. It is located in eastern Oklahoma, close to the Arkansas border, near the tiny mountain town of Heavener and it is now known as the Heavener Runestone.

Discovered in 1874, the Heavener Runestone is a large slab of rock that bears eight letters identified as Norse Runes. There is little controversy as to the origin of the runes. According to popular conjecture, Vikings visited Oklahoma around 700 A.D. to 1000 A.D. A Danish scholar has translated the Heavener Runestone as a land claim by a man named Glome. Four other runestones have since been located in Oklahoma.

What does all this mean? The facts are so sparse, that perhaps they lend themselves only to the dangerous imagination of a dedicated (or possibly demented) fiction writer. Since I fall into at least one of those categories, I’m presenting my picture (albeit fictional) of the Runestone’s origin:

By 874 A.D., people of Norse origin had begun colonizing Iceland. Continuing their westward quest, they reached Greenland in 984 A.D. Still hungry for colonization, these people wanted more. Sometime after 984 A.D., a lone Viking longboat powered by oar and sail headed south.

These fifteen, or so, explorers soon encountered the east coast of what would eventually be known as the United States. They continued sailing south, stopping only periodically to gather food and water. They didn’t stop for long because they were looking for something.

They were looking for a large estuary of fiord because the shallow draught of a longboat almost perfectly lent itself to the exploration of shallow and narrow waterways. It needed no harbor, and was light enough to pull ashore and be carried overland, should the need occur. The Norse explorers finally found this estuary at the mouth of the Mississippi River, some 5,000 miles from where they had embarked. Their trip to that point had taken three months.

The explorers continued up the Mississippi River until they reached the confluence with the Red River. They continued their journey up the smaller waterway instead of continuing north on the Mississippi because the narrowing river signaled to these ancient mariners that, like their faraway homes in Norway and Denmark, they were possibly nearing a settlement.

The Norsemen continued up the Red, a journey taking another month until they reached what is now southeast Oklahoma. There they stopped because the gnarly, highly dissected Ouachita Mountains reminded them of their own Nordic homeland. Also, it was probably as far as their longboat could take them. By now it was fall. Exhausted from their arduous journey, the explorers established a base camp, intent on weathering the coming winter.

These early Norse explorers were a hardy lot, used to long sea journeys. This trip, though, had taken its toll, possibly because of periodic contact with inhospitable Native Americans. This is likely because many hostile tribes settled along the waterways traversed by the explorers. When they finally reached southeast Oklahoma, only ten Norsemen remained.

Somewhere in the wilds of southeast Oklahoma, the remnants of a Norse settlement remain, still waiting to be found. When spring finally arrived, there weren’t enough men left to crew the longboat on its trip back to Greenland. Six men decided to try anyway and abandoned their settlement. After saying their final farewells, they started their trip downstream, toward the mouth of the mighty Mississippi River.

Three men remained, one of them named Glome. They headed due north, looking for that elusive Viking settlement they hoped in their hearts might exist. Although they never found the settlement, they soon found the peaceful valley where the tiny town of Heavener is now located. On a flat spot on the way to the top of Heavener Mountain, they rested. From this vantage, they could see the entire valley below. There was game in the mountains and fish in the streams. They felt safe and established a base camp.

Two of the men finally departed, continuing their quest, while Glome waited behind on his mountain-top vantage point. During his time alone, he marked his stay with what is now the Heavener Runestone. His two companions never returned but marked other rocks along the way to mark their journey.

All six Norse explorers that left in the longboat made it to the mouth of the Mississippi River, into the Gulf of Mexico where a seasonal hurricane forever ended their journey. Glome and the other two Vikings lived out their lives in eastern Oklahoma and western Arkansas. Did they prosper, or were their lives fraught with danger? No one can say, but next time you see a person with bronzed skin, high cheekbones, and blue eyes, I hope that it gives you cause to ponder the question.

###

Born near Black Bayou in the little Louisiana town of Vivian, Eric Wilder grew up listening to his grandmother’s tales of politics, corruption, and ghosts that haunt the night. He now lives in Oklahoma where he continues to pen mysteries and short stories with a southern accent. He is the author of the French Quarter Mystery Series set in New Orleans and the Paranormal Cowboy Series set in Oklahoma. Please check it out on his Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and iBook author pages. You might also like to check out his website.

Shrimp Arnaud - a recipe

I have found New Orleans Recipes, a great old cookbook by Mary Moore Bremer. The book I have is the Tenth Edition published in 1944. Unlike most modern cookbooks, this one presents its recipes in a simple way that encourages intuitive cooking. Here is Bremer’s recipe for Shrimp Arnaud.

Six tablespoons of olive oil, two tablespoons of vinegar and one tablespoon of paprika, one half teaspoon of white pepper, one half teaspoon of salt, four tablespoons of Creole mustard, on half heart of celery, chopped fine, one half white onion, chopped fine, and a little chopped parsley.

Mix well. Chill; Serve on cold boiled shrimp, about twelve to a serving.

Enthrone on crisp, chopped lettuce.

Eric's Website

Dave's Sausage Balls - a recipe

My wife Anne, like myself, was a boxing fan. When she was alive we often hosted fight parties for many championship boxing events. There was always lots of beer and our friend Ray, immortalized in my story Chicken Fries would always bring brownies.

Dave, my buddy who sold me my first motorcycle would bring his famous sausage balls. Later, when times were tight, just Anne, Dave and I would get together for a fight. One fighter we never missed was Mike Tyson.

Tyson, at the time, was still young and going through opponents like an Oklahoma tornado. When he was scheduled to fight a no-name boxer, Buster Douglas, no one wanted to watch the likely one-round event except the three of us.

I don’t remember much about the evening, or the fight, except that Buster Douglas connected with Tyson’s jaw and knocked him clean out. I also remember Dave’s sausage balls. This week, Dave was kind enough to send me his sausage ball recipe. Here it is and I hope that you enjoy them as much as I did.

ERIC'S WEBSITE

Truth and Lies

My Dad has Alzheimer’s and lives in a rest home in Oklahoma City. His short term memory has virtually vanished, but he still remembers my brother Jack and me, and at eighty-nine he remains in very good physical condition.

While Dad’s long-term memory comes and goes, he almost always remembers about his tour of duty during World War II. This is an excerpt from The Fighting Men of Louisiana:

He served as a code clerk in the message center in Ireland, France, Luxembourg and Germany. He took part in the campaigns of Normandy, Dinard, Brest, the Crozon Peninsula, and Luxembourg. In Germany he saw action at Haertgen, from the Roer to the Rhine, and in the Ruhr Pocket, and was in the Elbe River area on V.E. Day. He has the Combat Infantryman’s Badge, the Good Conduct Medal and the European Theatre of Operations Ribbon with four battle stars.

Dad was always reluctant to talk about his experiences in the War but he retold one particular story enough times that it remains ingrained in my mind. I told the story in my novel Prairie Sunset in the words of eighty-year old John Warren.

John and Attie have met a young married couple, Hulk and Lillie Mae at a campground in a remote valley deep in the Ouachita Mountains. All four people suffer from their own personal demons and during a particularly magical night, their inhibitions lessened by a magical dip in a mountainous pool heated by hydrothermal energy, John is encouraged to tell a story about the War. John’s story is my Dad’s story, exactly as he told me so many times.

John’s (and Dad’s) story from Prairie Sunset

Comforting darkness, piquant chili and pacifying effect of strong beer combined to loosen their tongues. Coaxed by Attie, Lillie Mae and especially Hulk, John told several amusing vignettes from his youth.

Hulk finally said, "Were you in the war, John?"

After hesitating a moment, he said, "Yes, I was."

"Well tell us a war story," Hulk goaded.

Poignant memories flooded John's mind and he smiled sadly, unconsciously grinding his toe against an empty cardboard carton in front of him.

Hulk prompted, "We're you in the Battle of the Bulge?"

Waves of nostalgia crested John's mental bow and he said, "Wasn't supposed to be, but I was."

"Please, John," Lillie Mae said. "Tell us."

John did, beginning slowly, and then warming to the tale. "The Bulge was Hitler's last attempt to turn back the advancing Allies," he said. "For a month and a half the Battle lasted, called the 'Bulge' because Germans failed to break through the line, only succeeding in bending it. I was a radioman in the signal corps, too young to serve but I had lied about my age and joined anyway. One night an old colonel appeared at the communications tent, needing to relay a message to Patton. Since we were out of direct radio communication with the main force he decided to deliver it in person. He conscripted me to drive the jeep for him.

"The night turned bitterly cold. Snow had fallen for days, piled high on both sides of the road. Continuing night and day, the line of battle had spread out many miles, constantly moving like an angry sidewinder. When sun came up the following morning, we realized we had somehow crossed the enemy line.

"Germans, besides many other things, were excellent soldiers. We found ourselves caught, along with an advancing column of American infantrymen, in a crossfire ambush. Fresh from the States, our boys were young, mostly teenagers, barely out of diapers, and none had ever seen a German, much less been under fire.

"Finding yourself caught in the middle of a fire fight is like walking a railroad track at night. Hearing the loud blast of a whistle behind you, you turn and stare into the lights of the monstrosity, twenty feet away, and bearing down on you - the remains of your best friend already chewed up beneath its wheels.

"When the attack began, the noise was frightening and extreme - beyond imagination for the uninitiated. Along with gunfire and violent explosions, steel, dirt and stone whistled randomly around our heads. When our inexperienced boys dropped their rifles and ran for cover, German marksmen began dropping them in their tracks. Blood was running in the ditches, staining the snow crimson, when we reached the center of the column. Unarmed, the old colonel jumped from the jeep and ran directly into the path of the retreating GI's.

"Thrusting rifle after rifle back into the hands of those child soldiers, he admonished them to hold their ground. Around us, the battlefield was alive with explosions, hot lead and the mortally wounded screaming for help. A mortar round exploded near the jeep, spraying me with dirt and shrapnel. When I wiped my face, the blood on my hand was not my own.

"Any one of a hundred Hun marksmen could have dropped the colonel. None did. Maybe they were awed by his bravery and coolness under fire. Maybe a higher force was protecting him. With confused soldiers dying all around him, he coursed the length of that bloody road, exhorting them to turn and fight. One-by-one their youth dissolved in a mire of smoke and torn flesh, and they became men in the hot cauldron of battle. They did turn and fight, hanging on until reinforcements arrived."

John grew silent and Attie squeezed his hand, feeling the intensity of his pain. Finally he chuckled and it drew into a hoarse laugh.

"Know what's funny?" John's rapt audience shook their head without answering. "I remember the Colonel as old, but he was probably no more than forty. Years younger than I am now and I still think of him as an old man. I can't remember his name and I don't suppose you'll ever read about him in any history book, but he did as much as anyone to defeat the Nazis."

Suddenly aware of frogs, crickets and distant owls, John realized no on had spoken for an interminable period. When she saw he had finished the story, Lillie Mae put her arms around his shoulder like a mother comforting a child. Hulk remained silent, torn by his own conflicting emotions.

Having nothing else to say, Hulk and Lillie Mae said goodnight, leaving John and Attie alone beneath a yellow moon and sparkling stars. John hugged Attie, drawing for a moment on her strength before speaking.

"In more than sixty years, I've never told that story to another soul."

Attie patted his shoulder and said, "Some of us hold painful memories inside us until the day we die. Its time you let this one go."

Eric's Website

Damp Morning Glory

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Pink Hibiscus

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Stormy Oklahoma

High winds and rampant tornadoes.

A Story Told With Help From Literature's Giants

http://features.csmonitor.com/books/2008/05/30/a-story-told-with-help-from-literatures-giants/

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Discarded Gold - a slightly surreal short story

DISCARDED GOLD

By Eric Wilder

Three old men on a park bench watched as she passed by them. Blonde, bouffant hair, the red ribbon tying it matching her dress, tight and short. Replacing the magazine on the rack, I hurried from the corner drugstore, chasing after her down the street.

"Wait," I called as she was about to get away from me.

Executing a perfect one-eight pirouette, she faced me, curtsying, smiling. When she blew me a kiss I saw she was no more than eighteen, and maybe younger.

"You dropped this."

"Not mine," she said.

Withdrawing the bogus blue silk scarf, I basked in her green ephemeral eyes, desperate to bite her puffed lower lip.

"Sorry. Would you have a sundae with me?"

"Will you take me home afterward?"

"No car," I said.

"How old are you?"

"Old enough to drive."

"Can you dance?"

We both could. Swirling bodies collided as intersecting cosmic rays beamed from a ceiling strobe. Sweat beaded my brow. Our bodies, moving in time, colliding, touching, caressing, becoming enamored, interacting, made love to the beat. The girl and I kissed.

Later, along the beach, hypnotic moonbeams splayed crystal sand. Midnight breakers crashed against the shore, rounding tiny quartz crystals surviving from seamless streams that had never twice touched the same drop of water.

A distant fire.

"I don’t even know your name."

"Emil," I said. "And yours?"

"Collette."

"I love your eyes, Collette."

"What else do you love?"

"Water," I said, gazing across the moonlit bay.

Far out across the bay, dolphins broke the rolling waves.

"I’m fifteen," she said, licking lips so red and swollen that they defied gravity.

"You’re lying."

She didn’t bother denying my accusation.

Behind us, two gulls groused over a dead fish bobbing upside down in the surf.

"Who are we, Emil?"

"Two people," I said.

"Are we fated?"

"Let’s have our cards read and find out."

Greasy strands of black hair protruded from the dark woman’s red bandanna. Bulbous nose, puffy face and her high cheeks frowned. Malignant eyes stared at us across scarred and stained oak. Liver-spotted hands nervously fingered frayed tarot cards.

"I can contact the spirits but it will cost you fifty."

Collette punched me when I asked, "Don’t you know any cut-rate spirits?"

My pointed sarcasm failed to faze Mother Midnight. She took my proffered offering, albeit far short of her request.

"The moon is full," she said.

I gazed at the ceiling but only broken tiles stared back at me.

"Are we in love, Mother?"

"We are all in love," she answered.

Mother’s black cat wound through my legs as we exited into the back alley. Overturned cans of trash reeked of spoiled fish. I stole a kiss and grasped Collette’s hand.

"Spirits are weak tonight," I said.

"And life is fragile," she said, exciting me further with her own unexpected kiss.

Multicolored rockets exploded in the distance, momentarily startling a starless sky.
Collette and I held hands. High above reality, like multicolored balloons we floated, unpunctured by sharp earthen prods.

"The streets below are dark," I said.

"But the sky above is light," she answered, her smile colliding with red and green reflections bounding away from flickering streetlights. "And my heart is full." Before I could answer, she said, "I left my skates on the street."

"Leave them," I said. "Thieves be damned."

An approaching streetcar with an ancient electrical heart struggled as it climbed the steep hill on its way toward us. Raising a finger, I flagged it, grasped Collette’s hand and pulled her through the door. Above us, the lazy sun split the hazy dawn as Collette’s creamy thighs peeked from beneath her short red skirt.

"I love the dawn," she said.

"Let’s make love at my place," I said.

"We’re making love now," she answered.

"But there’s no music here.

"Then you’re not listening to the breeze."

Rush hour. Carbon monoxide wafting up from endless vehicles pointing in straight lines toward oblivion. The noise began filling my cavities of desire with mental glue.

"It’s still morning," she said

"Every twenty-four hours," I said.

"Must this end?"

"Well, I should go to work."

"Does your work usurp beauty?" she asked

Encroaching noise drowned my words, but I had no answer anyway.

Revolving doors belched tired humanity from rotating mouths and explosions of energy surged in the streets. Cancerous mutants died slowly as they hailed streetcars, inhaling life, exhaling death. An old gray dog brushed my leg. When I reached to pat his head, he turned and disappeared behind trash cans lining the nearby alley - probably in search of discarded gold among forgotten scraps of life.

END

http://www.ericwilder.com

Welcome to Never Land

A welcoming sign located south of Billings, Oklahoma.

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Lost in Oklahoma

Here is a Saturday pic taken on I-35, heading north.

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gondwana press

Musings of a Dangerous Mind

Here's a reminder to visit Eric at his website. http://www.ericwilder.com/

Buck McDivit Revisited

The protagonist of my first novel, Ghost of a Chance, was Oklahoma cowboy detective Buck McDivit. A mysterious lake in east Texas was the backdrop for the novel that highlighted lost Confederate gold, Indian artifacts, the ghost of a girl, and murder. I’m presently working on a sequel to Ghost of a Chance, this time with the action occurring in Oklahoma.

The working title of my new book is Panther Stalking and the story involves modern-day cattle rustling, a compound populated by female pagans, and of course, murder. I’m about twenty thousand words into the novel.

Before starting on Panther Stalking I wrote a Buck McDivit short story to reintroduce myself to a character that I haven’t visited in almost three years. Prairie Thunder plants McDivit back in his home turf of central Oklahoma. Moonlighting as an assistant medical examiner, McDivit helps investigate the death of an American Indian artist. The story leads him to Oklahoma City’s historic Paseo District.

Anyone who read Ghost of a Chance and is interested in reconnecting with Buck McDivit is invited to visit my website http://www.ericwilder.com/. Sign my list and I will email you the short story in PDF format.

Big Easy Book Trailer

Murder Etouffee Book Trailer

Name of the Game

Eric Wilder's Book Covers

Sex, Football, and Chicken Wings

Last night on Nightline there was a segment on the world's hottest pepper. The pepper comes from a remote part of India and one restaurant in Chicago uses it to make what they advertise as the world's hottest chicken wings. A Nightline reporter interviewed the chef who informed him they made their customers sign a waiver before serving them their specialty hot wings. This is because the Indian pepper is 2000 times hotter than a jalapeno on the SHU scale, a scale for measuring the caipusun content (the chemical that makes it hot) in a pepper.

The Nightline reporter mentioned that humans are the only creatures that will eat a pepper. Supposedly, not even a rat can be trained to eat one. Why then are hot, spicy foods so ingrained in the diets of many cultures, Americans as well?

A psychologist interviewed by Nightline said that hot wings prepared with the super-hot pepper was probably consumed mostly by young men, often as a challenge and often during a televised sporting event such as Sunday's Super Bowl. Hot spicy foods do have at least one benefit. They cause the release of endorphins and provide the effect of something similar to a runner's high. When couples consume the spicy fare together, they are often more sexually attracted to each other. This, I guess, should make hot wings and other hot, spicy foods the date food of choice.

The report got me to thinking what else that humans do that other creatures don't. For one, only humans run marathons and play team sports, such as football. There is an important connection here that I haven't yet grasped but one thing is sure - Americans, Nightline reports, will consume 90 million pounds of hot wings during the Super Bowl. That's right, 90 million pounds!

That brings me to the Super Bowl tomorrow. The most watched television event of the year has little to do with whether the Patriots or the Giants are the best football team. It's really all about peppers, team sports and sex, and you can bet there won't be a single rat watching the event.

http://www.ericwilder.com/

Here’s a pic taken a few years back at a motorcycle race in Houston at the Astrodome. Pictured are Eric Wilder, friend John Callaway, and a gorgeous model (I believe she is a Denver Bronchos cheerleader).

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Other Inhabitants

My new pup Princess sees ghosts. I have no doubt that there are ghosts in the house. Marilyn and I have both seen the evidence. A few nights ago, Marilyn heard a loud crash. When she investigated she found nothing.

Neither Marilyn nor I are afraid. Ghosts are rarely, if ever, harmful beings. I think they just subsist, alongside of the people that are presently alive.

The house that we live in was built in 1975 and I am aware of only three spirits that might inhabit it – Anne, my wife that died of lung cancer; my mother that died of lymphoma, and Randy, the man that Anne and I bought the house from that killed himself three days later. There could be easily be others.

I admit that I don’t understand the afterlife. I barely understand the present life! Still, my pup sees spirits. When she does, she barks and carries on. She’s just a baby but even she isn’t really afraid of the other inhabitants of our house.

http://www.ericwilder.com

Heroes

I'm watching the LSU - Ohio State championship football game. As I watch, I think of two things: the game is in the Superdome of New Orleans. My thoughts return to 2005, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. Geraldo Rivera is reporting from outside the Superdome. The building resembles a giant sarcophagus, the gray people in the background little more than eerie wraiths all but devoid of life.

My second thought goes further back, to the fifties. When I was a boy, my family and I would listen to the LSU games on the radio, enraptured by the running of Billy Cannon. He always somehow found a way to pull victory from the jaws of defeat. Listenting to our scratchy old radio, I always felt that Billy would break a tackle, put his shoulder down and run for a touchdown. I was never disappointed.

Seeing the two grand teams playing tonight in the Superdome, I get the same feeling about the people of New Orleans.

Go Louisiana!!
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Shops on Chartre Street, New Orleans

Marilyn and I visited New Orleans six months after Hurricane Katrina and parts of the visit are chronicled in my book Murder Etouffee. I came across this picture today while looking at some of the photo files on my computer. It was taken on a street in the French Quarter, Chartre Street I believe, although I’m not sure.

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