Where Are You Bat Masterson?

When I was a kid one of my favorite TV shows was Mr. Lucky. It was about a professional gambler that ran a casino on a ship anchored just beyond the three-mile limit to avoid trouble with the Feds. I remember that Lucky always wore a tuxedo, usually white and he was suave and debonair, at least until provoked.

Mr. Lucky lasted only one season, from 1959 until 1960. It was filmed in black and white, probably the reason few fans remember the series. The thing I remember most is that Lucky was a true hero.

Like the TV characters of that era, as portrayed by Steve McQueen (Bounty Hunter), Richard Boone (Paladin) and Nick Adams (The Rebel), he could only be pushed so far before losing his temper and teaching the bad guys (usually very bad!) a much needed lesson in life. Like many shows of the day, the music outlived the series.

Such TV series are gone, replaced now by endless game, dance and reality shows. Maybe we need a return of the hero with a flawed past and a heart of gold. Where are you, Bat Masterson?

Fiction South

Passion and Pathos

In writing, one maxim is true: all successful writers have “steel balls.” For every success story, there are hundreds of rejection slips, mostly impersonal. When I was trying my hand as a short story writer, I lived for the hand-written note from an editor that validated me as a writer. I received one such note that kept me going for almost a decade.

Many writers try their hands at writing short stories because, well, they are short. Short, maybe, but not easy. Short stories, at least in my opinion, are harder to master than writing a novel. You don’t have the luxury of four-hundred pages to develop your plot and characters. A good short story writer can do this in twenty pages. A great short story writer can do it in ten.

I began writing short stories many years ago in an attempt to hone my writing skills. Before I started, I read short stories written by Poe, Guy de Maupassant, Ian Fleming – yes, Ian Fleming – and many others. My all-time favorite short story is Ballad of the Sad Cafe by Carson McCullers. Every great short story elicits passion and pathos, and leaves you thinking about it for days, maybe even years later.

If you are an aficionado like me, a wonderful short story will make you cry and wring you dry. I have written more than sixty short stories and have received at least a few handwritten notes from editors, but none more important to me than the one I received from The New Yorker, the most influential short story market in the world.

My handwritten, unsigned two-sentence note said, “I liked your story and almost took it. Please send more.” The short story was A Talk with Henry, about an old black bartender at a bar near a southern campus. I don’t know if the passion and pathos are there, (I think they are) but the note from The New Yorker editor kept me writing.

Fiction South

Boggy Creek Monster

I grew up about thirty miles from Fouke, Arkansas, the location of the 1960’s and 1970’s sightings of the infamous Boggy Creek Monster. I never personally saw the monster (read Bigfoot) but I discussed the sightings with a close friend that I trust and that lived near Fouke and had relatives there.

Bo Smith told me that at least two families in rural southwestern Arkansas saw the large humanoid on more than one occasion. Is it possible that at least one and perhaps a family of the creatures live in southwest Arkansas? The short answer is yes.

For those of you that have the pictures I published of Jeems Bayou, you already realize how much rough, swampy, hilly, unpopulated land lies within the three-state area known as the Ark-La-Tex. Could a wild animal hide forever in the woods of the Ark-La-Tex? Go into the forest and look for a deer in daylight, or a bobcat or coyote. It is unlikely that you will see one.

Have I personally seen a Bigfoot? No, but I have I seen and heard strange things in the forests of the Ark-La-Tex more times than I can remember. Is there really a Boggy Creek Monster? Maybe not but spend the night camping in southwest Arkansas sometime and I think it will cause you to admit that at least the possibility exists.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Buzzards and Butterflies

There were at least a dozen Monarch Butterflies in my backyard today when I went for a walk with my pugs. I only had my Nikon with the relatively short zoom and was unable to get any close-ups. Hurrying into the house, I returned with my Pentax and 200mm zoom lens.

Even though I didn’t manage to take any “drop dead gorgeous” pics, I had a great time clicking away at the fast moving little creatures. Most of the Monarchs had departed when I returned to the backyard but there were dozens of large yellow butterflies. Dressed in shorts, tee shirt and flip flops, I snapped away as mosquitoes made a meal of my legs and ankles.

After watching the first half of Alabama drubbing Arkansas, I threw in the towel and decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. Monarchs were everywhere, flitting in front of me but never quite close enough to get a shot with my Nikon. Reveling in the gorgeous creatures flying around me, I was unprepared for what I saw next.

As I topped the hill about a mile from my house, I saw a huge turkey buzzard in someone’s front yard. I stopped, extracted my camera, put it on full zoom and began clicking away. I was close enough to hit the huge buzzard with a spitball, but unfortunately not close enough to get a clear picture.

My little Nikon is great for taking still photos, mostly close-ups, but out of its element when taking action shots. As I looked at my pics upon returning to the house, I saw that all I had was a blur.

It was a gorgeous day in Central Oklahoma. I missed most of the good butterfly pics and totally flopped on the buzzard pic. Arkansas, my favorite team, was creamed but hey, it was a gorgeous day in central Oklahoma and you can’t have everything.

Gondwana

Pascal's Manales Bread Pudding - a weekend recipe

I have used Pascal’s Manale as a setting for two stories, both featuring Mama Mulate, my fictional voodoo mambo/Tulane English professor. In the short story Conjure Man, Mama visits Pascal’s during a hurricane to visit her much younger boyfriend/bartender. In my novel Big Easy, Mama and Wyatt Thomas seal a partnership that sets the stage for the stage for the French Quarter murder mystery.

There is no better place on earth to eat a few dozen oysters and drink cold Dixie Beer while waiting on a table to dine on Pascal’s signature barbecue shrimp and finish up with what may be the best bread pudding in all of New Orleans.

Below is the recipe for their bread pudding from the Pascal’s Manale website.

Ingredients:
3 Loaves French Bread
15 ozs. Raisins
½ Gallon Whole Milk
½ lb. Sugar
10 Eggs
½ Pound of Melted Butter
3 ozs. Vanilla Extract

Directions
Cut French bread into cubes. Pour milk on French bread. Let milk soak into bread. Add the remaining ingredients to French bread mixture. Mix with hand until blended evenly. Pour mixture into ungreased pan.Pre-heat oven at 350 degrees. Bake for 45 minutes to 1 hour. Makes 15 or more servings.

Topping
3 ozs. Brandy
1 lb. butter
8 ozs. sugar
2 ozs. vanilla extract

Let butter sit at room temperature until very soft. Add the remaining ingredients and blend with mixer until smooth. Pour over bread pudding.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

A Cat Named Max

Cats are graceful creatures that never really have an owner and I’ve told many stories about those that have occupied large places in my heart. One of them was a big tom, a little special and just a bit more memorable than most.

All our acquaintances knew that Anne and I were cat people and rarely a week passed that someone didn’t try to give us one. We usually resisted or else we would have had hundreds of cats instead of the handful we felt responsible for. A cry for assistance occurred one day that we couldn’t ignore.

Friends of friends owned a small apartment complex and someone had abandoned two cats in an upstairs apartment. A week had passed before the property owner found out and by this time the two felines were traumatized. Anne and good friend Bruce rescued them from the locked apartment after much ado and lots more trauma.

Both cats were solid white, one a young female, the older a grown male. Bruce fell in love with the little female and took her to care for. The big tom was half-crazy from his stay in the apartment and it was soon apparent that if Anne and I didn’t take him we would have to have him put down.

We named him Max because there was a Mel Gibson movie out at the time called Mad Max and this new addition to our family qualified as more than a little wacky. Max was a cross between a Siamese and a Manx. He was solid white with slightly crossed blue eyes. He had only the semblance of a tail and his hind legs were longer than the front ones. Even though fixed, Max had a heavily muscled torso and tufted ears that caused him to look like a white bobcat. Oh, and he was very strong.

For the first few days, we fed and watered Mad Max while giving him a wide berth. There were other cats in the family and soon he began to cozy up to us. He liked King Tut and followed him wherever he went. Tut was as regal as his name implied and I think he liked having a lieutenant around.

After a year or so, we noticed Mad Max was looking sick so we put him in the cat carrier and took him to Dr. D our friendly vet. He spent the day there and when we picked him up, Dr. D explained what had happened.

“Tailless cats tend to rub their rear ends in the grass and occasionally get plugged up. Max had an excretion ball that solidified to the point it wouldn’t pass. We gave him a sedative and then soaked his rear in warm water until we could extract it.”

Dr. D gave us some antibiotics for Max and the big boy was back to his normal self in a day or so. As time passed, he became an integral part of the family. He loved his daily full body strokes and began demanding his share of the attention. He was still sort of nuts and if you rubbed him once too often he would take a swipe at you with his powerful paw.

Another couple of years passed, along with the oil boom. Anne and I were struggling and had little money to go to the doctor or dentist, the cats relegated to emergency only vet visits. One incident finally occurred that we had no money to let the vet remedy. Max had developed another petrified poop ball in his rear and he was miserable by the time we noticed it.

“You’ll have to fix it or he will die,” Anne said.

I knew that she was correct. Drawing a bucket of very warm water, I pulled on a pair of gloves and prepared for the worst. I needn’t have worried. Powerful Max was too sick to fight. He didn’t even squirm when I lifted him and lowered his rear into the warm water.

I don’t know how long it took but the petrified poop soon began to soften. I finally got hold of it with my gloved hand and worked on it until it finally came loose, Max and me both breathing huge sighs of relief as it did.

Max and I both survived the petrified poop ordeal and he lived with us altogether for almost ten years. He met his demise early one morning in a dramatic fashion. Anne was walking outside to get the morning paper when she heard a commotion in the garage. The cats liked to sleep there, roosted on the hoods of our car and we always kept the door cracked so they could go in and out.

As Anne stood looking at the garage door, a large German shepherd came bounding out with Max in his mouth. Anne chased them down the street in her robe and nightgown, yelling at him to stop as she ran. The dog paid her no mind and quickly outdistanced her, disappearing down the block. We never found Max’s body.

Max was limp, his eyes closed when the large dog came running out of the garage with him. Our vet told us the dog probably killed him the moment he got him by the neck.

“He probably never knew what hit him and I’m sure he never suffered,” Dr. D told us, hoping to make us feel better.

Mad Max met his dramatic demise, hopefully without suffering, and Anne and I consoled each other with the knowledge that he was a grown cat when we got him. He lived another ten very good years with people that cared for him deeply before the dog got him.

Yes, Max was a little different and slightly crazy but we loved him despite his less than perfect qualities. Max was a special cat, and sometimes you love special beings in ways hard to explain – except in your heart.

Gondwana

Spirits of the Night

Twenty days have passed since I saw the two ghosts cavorting on the street beside the creek that cuts through the Tall Oaks II addition in Edmond, Oklahoma. I look for them every time I walk, including the evening of the Autumnal Equinox, and have not seen them since the first occasion.

There is a large tree beside the creek and I noticed the next day during my walk that there is an old tree house in it. It has likely occupied its place in the tree for many years because, to my knowledge, there are no children living in any of the nearby houses.

I usually sit at the pool behind my house when I finish a walk, cooling off and playing with my two pugs. Darkness occurs now before eight and it is often well past that time when I give the pups a treat and go inside. Last night, I heard something in the alley behind my house – a sound that I couldn’t identify.

At first, I thought it was a large cat. I walked back toward the alley but the sound didn’t recur. I can’t be sure, but it was like a Boy Scout trying to emulate an animal to convey a signal through the darkness to a nearby friend. Maybe it was, but no boys, or children, live behind me in that direction.

Western Oklahoma City is mostly flat and has few trees. This changes rapidly as you approach Edmond. The town is situated on hilly stretch of land, dissected by many creeks, some small and some large. Many tall trees and lots of flora grow in and around Edmond, especially around the creeks. Elevations can change a hundred feet or more in a short distance and Permian sandstone outcrops in many places.

Wildlife abounds in the largely undeveloped areas around the creeks. Residents commonly see foxes, skunks, opossums, rabbits, squirrels, hawks, owls and even deer. Having assimilated into the neighborhoods, these wild animals roam free at night, eating cat and dog food – and maybe an occasional cat or dog.

Are there ghosts that also haunt the creek beds? Haunting may be the wrong word. I believe there are spirits that wander the neighborhood. I have seen and heard them, but it is my opinion that they are benevolent and mean no harm to anyone. Until I catch a picture of them with my trusty digital Nikon, you’ll just have to believe me.

Gondwana

Losing Your Mojo

I was surveying some shallow gas wells near Billings, when I recalled the first well I ever drilled in Noble County. I briefly recounted the story to the three people in the vehicle with me but I omitted telling them about the pathos I felt at the time.

It was near the lowest financial ebb for Anne and I following the eighties oil bust. We had a very large glass piggy bank that we had filled with coins over the years and we had agreed to wait until our most desperate moment before opening it and spending the coins. The time finally arrived.

We were expecting thousands but there was only about two-hundred-sixty dollars in the glass pig. The money tided us over for the moment but we got down to our last dollar on more than one occasion. Somehow, every time our money became dangerously low I would somehow manage to sell a prospect or make a few bucks doing a little consulting job.

There were few real jobs available in the State at the time and there was a joke going around about a geologist that applied for a job flipping burgers at MacDonald’s.

“Sorry,” the manager told him. All the geologists that work for us have Master’s Degrees.”

The story wasn’t far from the truth.

Before the “Bust”, I had an ego as large as Texas. Geologists must have a second sense to find oil many miles below the earth’s surface and the best are dubbed oil finders. I knew that I was good and I knew that I was also incredibly lucky.

One of the founders of Texas Oil & Gas once told me, “Eric, you have a gift. You’re an oil finder. There aren’t many around like you and if you can find oil and gas the world will beat a path to your door.”

It didn’t seem like anyone was searching very hard for me in 1989 as I remember going a year without selling a prospect. Somehow, Anne and I managed to eke out a living but my pocketbook and my ego had taken a huge pummeling. I had lost my mojo and everything I touched seemed to turn to turkey poop.

My dreams, along with my ego, took a severe bruising. I continued working and had the idea for a drilling prospect in Noble County, a county I had never previously worked. Unable to afford professional drafting I drew the map on a sheet of typing paper and colored it with a used set of thrift store colored pencils. It took me a while to find someone that even wanted to look at it.

One weekend I read an ad in the Sunday Oklahoman classifieds posted by someone with a Dallas area code. The tiny ad said they were looking for a geologic prospect. I called the number before finishing my first cup of morning coffee.

Two days later a man driving a Volkswagen with a large rubber roach attached to the roof drove into our driveway. He had a small exterminating company in Dallas and he drove a bus at the DFW Airport. Before the crash, he had worked in a phone room raising money. He thought the time was right and that he could raise enough money on his own to drill a well. He left Oklahoma City with my hand-drawn maps after giving Anne and me a check for $7000.00. We were on Cloud Nine.

Two years passed and he hadn’t drilled the well. He finally called and told me in his slow Texas drawl that he had decided not to drill it.

“My engineer says even if we find what we’re looking for that it will be drained.”

I spent the next hour convincing him that his engineer was wrong. Tom D was (is) a good man. He could hear the neediness in my voice and knew that if he had been there in person that he would have seen me on my knees.

“All right,” he finally said. “You talked me into drilling the well but I’m only doing it because I believe in you. I hope you don’t let me down.”

I barely had any swagger left by this time in my life. As he began drilling, I knew that this was his one and only shot at success. If he drilled a dry hole, he was on his back to driving a bus at DFW again. I had pretty much badgered him into drilling the location, a well about which some engineer was still shaking his head. With my ego damaged and mojo gone, I now had a ton of guilt on my shoulders to make matters worse.

All sorts of scenarios are possible from this point of the story. We could have drilled a dry hole prompting Tom D to commit suicide, or something equally horrible. It didn’t happen that way. We nailed the zone, just as planned. Anne and I had three percent of the well and it came on for one-hundred-forty-five barrels of oil and four-hundred-fifty MCFG. The well made us lots of money over the years and it is still producing.

Hundreds of wells later my damaged mojo has never fully recovered and I don’t suppose it ever will. As I returned from Noble County, I thought about Tom D and that first well. I also thought about the good times Anne and I had during the bad times and it made me sad that she isn’t alive.

Times are tough these days and maybe my age and my own experiences qualify me as someone that can give a little honest advice. It’s just this – Never quit believing in yourself no matter how bad things become. You can’t really lose your mojo, but sometimes you have to remain persistent to coax it out of hiding.

Gondwana Press

Circles of Life

I began watching Steve McQueen on TV in the 60s. He played bounty hunter Josh Randall in the series titled Wanted: Dead or Alive. McQueen was one of a kind.

There has never been another leading man before or since that could portray his depth of emotions with little more than a blank expression that conveyed more depth in silence than any other actor could summon forth with every word and gesture they have.

McQueen never appeared in a bad movie but my favorite is The Great Escape. He has the courage to defy the Nazi’s and escape from the concentration camp on a captured motorcycle. When he jumps the tangle foot wire, the evil Nazis in hot pursuit, you know that this is a man of substance. Hopelessly tangled in the wire, he awaits the hoard, still defiant, playing with a baseball, the silent symbol of American resolve.

Tonight I was listening to Dusty Springfield, my absolute favorite diva. She was singing her cover of Windmills of Your Mind from McQueen’s film The Thomas Crown Affair (watch the original and not the remake). The song is pure poetry.

Listen to Dusty’s version. If you’re not yet a fan, you will be. Hey, and please take my advice and catch a few old McQueen flicks and they will hook you too.

Fiction South

Skip's Salsa

When Anne and I first married, we lived in a large house with many windows that overlooked a small body of water called Ski Island Lake. My Cousin Skip worked for Capitol Records, recently transferred to OKC from Austin, Texas. Since he was new to the City, he spent lots of time with us and we enjoyed him immensely.

Skip would usually ride a bike from his apartment to our house. He was slender and had a goatee and thinning hair he usually covered with a jaunty Panama hat. Skip knows more about the recording industry than almost anyone on earth, and he and his wife Connie recently retired to Austin after years in New York City and Los Angeles.

Whenever Skip visited Anne and me during his short stay in Oklahoma City, he always brought us LP’s or tapes, mostly of new and rising artists that we had never heard of before, but soon would. He could make salsa and guacamole dip like no other person I have known, before or since and here is his simple recipe.

5 green onions
1 clove garlic
¼ cup fresh cilantro
1 half lemon or lime, squeezed
3 or 4 jalapeno peppers, seeded (How hot do you want it?)
3 ripe tomatoes
salt and pepper
1 Tbsp olive oil

After making sure all the ingredients are crisp and ripe, uniformly dice on a chopping block with a sharp knife and then blend very gently in a food processor. After transferring the ingredients to a large serving bowl add the lemon juice (or lime if that’s what floats your boat) and salt and pepper to taste.

Chill for an hour or so in the refrigerator while you slug a few Coronas or Tecates, or just grab a bag of your favorite tortilla chips and indulge yourself immediately. Either way you will be in Heaven.

Fiction South

Caramel Cup Custard - a weekend recipe

Arnaud’s is a famous New Orleans restaurant that I visited the first time when I was in the eighth grade. Even though I have eaten at hundreds of restaurants since, I still remember my first Arnaud’s experience with vivid recall.

Check out their website. It is wonderful and not pretentious. Like many buildings in New Orleans, the one housing Arnaud’s is haunted, perhaps by Count Arnaud himself. What more can you ask for than ghosts, great food and the French Quarter?

Here is an original Arnaud’s recipe straight from their website.

Caramel Cup Custard

Simplicity and elegance are underscored in this deceptively modest dessert. It comes to table molded as the cup shape in which it is baked, then overturned on a saucer for presentation. The silky smoothness of the custard is a revelation. It has long been a standard at Arnaud’s and would be impossible to remove from the menu.

½ cup granulated sugar, for the caramel
1 tablespoon water
3 large eggs
¼ cup granulated sugar
2 cups whole milk, scalded
½ teaspoon best quality pure vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 275°.

In a small, heavy skillet over low heat, stir the ½-cup sugar and 1-tablespoon water until the sugar melts, is free of lumps and turns a light caramel color.

Divide the caramel among six 4 ounce custard cups and let stand until cooled.Beat the eggs with the 1/4 cup sugar and add the scalded milk slowly, while stirring. Add the vanilla and strain carefully into the prepared cups, to avoid disturbing the caramel.

Place cups in a pan of hot water. The water should come almost to the top of the cups. Cover with foil. Bake slowly for 1-1/2 to 1-3/4 hours, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean.Remove from the water and cool to room temperature. Chill until serving time.To serve, run a knife around the edge of the custard and invert the cup onto a small plate.

Serves 6

Louisiana Fiction Writer

Lost on Route 66

Growing up, my favorite television series was Route 66. I never really knew where Route 66 went but I rarely missed an episode, and never on purpose. All I had to do was hear the Theme from Route 66 to get in the mood for adventure.

Todd Stiles and Buzz Murdoch were my heroes. Buzz always got the girl and Todd always got a broken heart but whatever happened they faced it with a sense of adventure and élan.
Todd and Buzz were Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. I’m not sure who was which (or maybe which was who). One thing I do know, that lusty red Corvette was their faithful steed that carried them into battle.

The highway known to the faithful as the Mother Road bisects Oklahoma and is only a mile from where I live, Edmond’s 2nd Street. If you travel east, you will soon reach the little town of Arcadia where the main attraction was once the Round Barn. Now it is a café and filling station named Pop’s. The café features hundreds, maybe thousands of different sodas from around the world. The same billionaire oilman that owns an interest in Oklahoma’s new NBA franchise owns Pop’s.

If you head south on the Broadway Extension (along the old path of Route 66) out of Edmond you’ll be taking the same historic road many Okies used when moving to California during the Dust Bowl. The landscape is still fairly green from lots of spring rain but later on, in the dog days of August when the grass is dead and dust devils are twisting along the highway, it’s won’t be hard to imagine a ghostly procession moving slowly along the road with you.

Marilyn and I were in a local restaurant when two men sat across from us at the oblong bar. They were well into their second Budweiser when they asked the bartender about Route 66. The young man shook his head and pointed them to a wall in back where they had a few pictures. Even though he had lived in Edmond all his life he proclaimed to know little about Route 66.

The bartender’s statement got me thinking about what else we don’t know about important things that are right under our noses.

With my fiction writer brain working overtime, I wondered if the two men were sons of Todd and Buzz. Maybe I wasn’t so far off. They left the restaurant just before Marilyn and me. As we climbed into our car, I watched as the back of a gorgeous 1960 Corvette disappeared around a darkened corner. Yes, it was fire engine red.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Walking and Writing

Several things have occurred since I began walking regularly in June, all of them beneficial. My blood pressure, blood sugar and heart rate are all lower. Although I haven’t dropped much weight, I feel energized and I am getting more work done lately. My walking has provided another benefit, one I never expected.

I have four writing projects going and recently finished the first draft of my new novel Bones of Skeleton Creek. I had pushed hard to finish the book, not allowing myself to spend much time correcting grammar or spelling. I didn’t even have Word’s grammar and spell checker turned on. When I finished the first draft, I began reading, almost immediately finding passages, paragraphs, and sometimes entire chapters that needed mending.

I try to walk about five kilometers every day, except Thursdays when I have a few beers at the pub with the boys. What I have happily found is that sometime during the course of my walk, ideas for ways to improve my story almost always occur. My writing isn’t the only thing to benefit. I also seem to solve business problems more readily while walking.

For all you writers out there, I have found two writing programs on the web. I am using both programs and I’m happy to report that they are both wonderful. Amazingly, both programs are free. They are yWriter5 and Celtx.

YWriter5 is a novel writing program that will do practically everything except type the book for you. Not quite, but it is very powerful and will assist you in building a story from scratch, or help you make your draft of a novel better.

Celtx is a screenwriting program that will do anything the expensive programs will do. This powerful program even has a storyboard feature. So does yWriter5, by the way. Here are links to Celtx and yWriter5.

I also found a great book for aspiring screenwriters called Save the Cat. The title sounds strange, but the book by screenwriter Blake Snyder is excellent. Get the programs, get the book, and then get to walking and writing.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Just Keep Writing

People often ask how I came to write my first novel. My wife Anne and I had a little oil company caught up in the eighties oil bust. Angry creditors threw the company into involuntary bankruptcy on the day before Thanksgiving in 1983, soon tossing us as debtors-in-possession and appointing a trustee. What ensued in our lives was total chaos.

Anne was devastated and I was incensed. We had an IBM AT (one of the first personal computers) and a DOS-based word processing program called Framework. With self-righteous adrenaline coursing through my veins, I began writing a novel loosely based on our company’s bankruptcy.

That finished novel still resides in a box somewhere in my garage. Yes, I made all the freshman errors that a new writer experiences (bad plot, skewed point of view, too much description, screwball dialogue, etc.) but I learned one thing for sure - I love to write. I began checking books about writing out of the library and I began haunting local writer’s gatherings (you may remember my story about attending a romance writer’s conference).

I also learned that there are more new books published every year than there are readers to read all of them, and since a writer only makes a buck or so for every volume they sell, there’s often little profit in the endeavor unless you are John Grisham or Clive Cussler.

With that in mind, here is my advice to every one of you that thinks you have a book lodged deep within you. First, find the motivation and then write it as fast as you can. That’s right, don’t edit a thing, just regurgitate it, and get it on paper (or in a computer file) as quickly as you possibly can.

Don’t even start if you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. Don’t do it for the money, but because you love the tactile feel of a pen or pencil in your hand, and adore the mental vision of blue ink forming beautiful patterns on a blank sheet of paper.

Do it because you love creating fantastical worlds and plots, and because there’s a story in your head that needs extracting before your brain bursts from the pressure, and above all keep writing, even if your own mother laughs when she reads your magnum opus.

Gondwana Press

City of Spirits

Ghost seekers agree that spirits often haunt the location where their physical bodies met an untimely demise. If this is true, few cities qualify as a city of spirits more than does New Orleans.

We all remember Katrina, 2005’s killer hurricane that inundated eighty percent of New Orleans after the failure of practically every levee in town. The City evacuated ninety percent of the population of the southern metropolis, and almost fifteen hundreds lives lost, along with untold property damage. As devastating as it was, Katrina wasn’t the worst disaster ever to beset the Big Easy.

Those of you that have read Anne Rice’s vampire novels are familiar with the City’s plague years when thousands died from yellow fever, cholera and malaria. During these terrible times, genteel whites often turned to practitioners of voodoo to protect them from the ravages of disease.

New Orleans has always been a mixing bowl of diverse humanity and beliefs. African religions have melded almost perfectly with European Catholicism and it is often difficult to know where one begins and where the other ends. One thing is sure. No City in the world has seen the almost continual pendulum swing from extreme excitement to soulful affliction.

If it is true that spirits remain near the location where their physical bodies met their untimely demise, then walk down Rue Bourbon sometime, stroll between the aboveground crypts in the St. Louis Cemetery #1, or go for a streetcar ride down St. Charles Avenue past the places where citizens once bought and sold slaves.

There will be spirits walking beside you on Bourbon, and in the cemetery, and riding on the streetcar as you traverse St. Charles. If you can’t feel their presence, then don’t worry about looking for them anywhere else because your own soul is interminably damaged.

Fiction South

Fixing Bootsie

A large field overgrown with brush separated the last rent house that Anne and I lived in from several giant apartment complexes. Tenants in the apartments were constantly coming and going, often abandoning their unwanted pets along the way. Since we had three cats of our own and treated them like kings and queens, some of the cast offs naturally gravitated toward our house.

Our three cats were Hamlet, a black male; Whiskers, a black and white female and also Hamlet’s mother; and Chani a calico (calicos are always female). We fed them every evening on the front porch and it wasn’t long before we had other hungry cats nosing around, looking for food. None of them ever went away hungry.

We soon had three new cats that called our place home. The O.J. Simpson trial was in the news at the time so we named the stray orange fixed male O.J. The female brindle that appeared about the same time naturally became Nicole. Bootsie was a very large black and white tom with a black marking on his white chin that looked like a boot. Unlike O.J. and our other cats, Bootsie still packed all his equipment.

O.J. was friendly. Nicole was standoffish and Bootsie aggressive, terrorizing all the other cats and generally acting like the bully on the block. We weren’t doing well financially at the time and couldn’t afford to take them to the vet for their shots and examinations.

“When we get some extra money,” Anne said, “We’ll take them to Dr. D and get their shots. And when we do, we’re getting Bootsie fixed.” The thought worried me because Big Black was a grown cat. “He’s a cat, Eric, not a human. We need to neuter him and that’s what we are going to do.”

“But -” I complained.

“No buts. The only thing saving his little balls is we can’t afford to take him to the vet right now.”

Anne had lung cancer at the time and she told me, “Please don’t let me die in a rent house.”

It was 1997, not a very good year in the oil biz, but I had somehow managed to sell a geologic idea to an oil company. With my profit, I leased three-hundred and twenty acres on a prospect idea that I had in Major County, Oklahoma. It was a wonderful prospect and a company offered my money back and a twenty-five thousand dollar profit. I was hungry but I knew the deal was worth much more. It didn’t matter because I still got a very large lump in my throat when I turned down the offer.

Two weeks passed, my rear-end puckered, praying that I hadn’t fallen in love with a prospect that was never going to sell, at least for the price that I was asking. After another week passed, I considered returning, hat in hand, to the company whose offer I had rejected and beg them to take it for twenty-thousand dollars. As things would happen, I didn’t have to.

Another company finally decided they couldn’t live without the prospect, almost doubling the first company’s offer. I probably could have sold the deal for even more money but I didn’t reject this proposal. With it, I had enough money to make a large down payment on the house where I still live, and my good friend Banker Bob bent his bank’s rules slightly to lend me the rest. We even had enough money left to take the cats to the vet.

I was nervous for Bootsie but needn’t have been. Following the operation, his aggression quickly disappeared. He also stopped fighting and bullying the other cats. When Anne and I got the two Maine Coon Kittens, Rouge and Tabitha, Bootsie took them under his wing, lying with them on the couch and grooming them with his tongue. When people came to visit, Bootsie would jump into their arms and put his arms around their necks. All the other cats, needless to say, were very happy with his new persona.

Sadly, Bootsie, like Anne, has gone to the great beyond, but while he was here, his operation transformed him into one of the most lovable cats that I have ever had. I’m not really sure what the moral of this story is, but just in case it gave any of you ladies out there ideas about your tomcatting husbands, I ask you to remember Anne’s wise words:

“He’s a cat, Eric, and not human.”

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Lurking Gators and Puckered Behinds

The little town where I grew up is located in the northwest corner of Louisiana, a part of the state not usually thought of as swampy. Perception matters little because a very swamp-like body of water known as Black Bayou exists less than a mile from my parent’s house.

Southern summers are always hot, northwest Louisiana no exception. I was a sophomore in college before my parents ever got an air conditioner and it always seemed more comfortable outside rather than in. We often wore our swim trunks beneath our jeans so we could go swimming and cool off whenever we were near water, almost anytime because lakes, ponds, streams and bayous abound near Vivian.

Black Bayou is a shallow body of water, usually not much deeper than ten feet. Like the name implies its surface is coffee-colored with visibility little more than a couple of inches. Giant cypress trees with bloated trunks line the bayous perimeter - in the water that is - and they resemble old women draped in shawls because of the Spanish moss hanging from their outstretched branches.

With algae and aquatic plants growing abundantly in the water, Black Bayou would probably not qualify as a prime swimming spot for someone from California or Florida but to us Louisiana boys it was like a dip in a tropical oasis. We would swim almost anywhere but it didn’t stop us from trying to frighten each other with tales of giant alligators and huge gars with rows of razor-sharp teeth.

One summer day my friends Billy and Ronnie and I went fishing on Black Bayou. The hot Louisiana sun sat directly overhead, cooking down on us as we sat, cane poles in hand, on the bayou’s bank,. Without even a nibble for the last hour, Billy suggested we quit fishing and go for a swim instead. We had an old wooden paddle boat so we pushed it toward deeper water and piled in.

“I know you two are probably afraid but when we get out to the middle I’m going to jump in head first and go all the way to the bottom,” Billy said.

“Who’s afraid?” Ronnie asked.

Billy had big ears that protruded straight out from the short brown hair on his head. Like Ronnie and me he was skinny as a rail, his face freckled from constant exposure to the sun. He was grinning, obviously pleased with the concerned reaction elicited by his insinuation of our bravery, or lack thereof.

“If you’re not afraid, you should be. There’s hollows down there twenty feet deep and that’s where the biggest gators and gars lurk.”

“Jump in,” I said. “We’re right behind you.”

Billy did just that, holding his nose and tumbling backwards out of the boat like we’d seen Lloyd Bridges do on the TV show Sea Hunt. Not wanting to step down into the water overgrown with aquatic vegetation, Ronnie and I followed his lead.

Billy was no braver than Ronnie and me but he was enjoying the macho display of daring he was trying to project. He was ten feet from the boat when he ducked his head beneath the bayou’s inky water and dove toward the bottom. Ronnie and I waited for him to surface, beginning to wonder as the seconds ticked away if he’d perhaps become trapped beneath a waterlogged stump, or some other submerged debris.

Like most everyone that spends lots of time in the water, Billy had a good set of lungs and nearly two minutes had passed before his skinny face and big ears came splashing up out of the water.

“Come on, you two. It’s great down there. I think I even grabbed hold of a big gator’s tail.”

Billy’s smiling smirk indicated he was having a good laugh at our expense. We weren’t worried about his daring-do behavior; we’d seen it all before. I was more concerned about the slimy tentacles of lime-green algae meandering through my toes in the warm water. It was then that Billy let out a bloodcurdling scream and began stroking toward the boat as fast as his skinny arms could move.

So absorbed at getting into the boat, he almost capsized it as he hurried out of the water. Ronnie and I assumed that it was just another trick to scare us. We’d both experienced his antics before and neither of us was going to bite this time around. We both stayed put, treading water while trying mostly unsuccessfully to keep our toes away from the icky plants caressing them. When Billy failed to stick his head up after five minutes, we decided to investigate.

Ronnie held one side of the boat as I crawled in, and I balanced the opposite side for him as he followed. Billy was sitting in the bottom of the boat, white as a sheep and wielding a paddle.

“Quit your act,” Ronnie said. “We’re not falling for it this time.”

Billy finally peeked up over the side of the boat and then dragged himself onto one of the plank-like seats. Without speaking, he pointed to a spot about ten feet from the boat. It took only a moment for Ronnie and me to see what he was pointing at.

A half-submerged tree protruded from the shallow water with two of the largest water moccasins I had ever seen were sunning on the branches. As we watched, a third snake swam past them, his ugly head cutting a periscope-like path as he moved steadily toward us. With no exchange of information other than our shared snake sighting, we grabbed our paddles and began stroking back toward shore.

Neither Ronnie nor I bothered smiling or razing Billy as we hiked down the lonely dirt road back to Vivian, our butts puckered, and the resultant tightening it caused making talking and any attempt at facial expressions virtually impossible.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Big Billy's White Bean Chicken Chili - a recipe

Several years ago, I sold a geologic prospect to a Dallas company. Much as it is now, times in the oil patch were tough. Part of the requirement for buying my prospect was that I had to help them “promote” it to the industry. They paid my airfare and expenses, and their engineer Don and I spent almost a year traveling all over the country trying to sell it. We never quite accomplished our goal.

After a day of showing the prospect to various Dallas companies, landman Charlie and I visited a dark Texas bar to unwind from the stressful day. He thought I was crazy when I heard a booming voice in the darkness and I said, “I know that voice.”

It was a friend of mine holding court at the bar. I hadn’t seen him in ten years, but no one on earth sounded like him. He was big, six four, three-hundred pounds and his voice was as deep and melodious as any television announcer was. His name was Big Bill Boorhem.

We renewed our friendship and he subsequently bought a prospect from me and drilled nine shallow wells on it. He and Kathy, his significant other, moved to Seattle on their sailboat, and then back to Texas. When Anne became ill with cancer, they would come up from Texas, cook for us and generally try to help us keep our spirits up.

Bill owned a restaurant for a time in Dallas called Suds and Duds. He knew many great southwestern recipes and loved “Austin” music.

Bill, alas, didn’t live much longer than Anne, succumbing to lung disease. No, he wasn’t a smoker. Here is one of his recipes that I recited to my Mother over the phone and she returned to me sometime later in a letter.

Bill, like me, loved beer. I got him to drinking brewpub beer and he became somewhat of a “beer snob.” His favorite was Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. I’m telling you this because I know you will love his recipe. When you are having your first scrumptious bowl, pop the top on a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and toast Big Billy for both of us.

Big Billy’s White Bean Chicken Chili

1 ½ lbs chicken breast, cut into bite sized pieces
2 Tbsp olive oil
3 large cloves minced garlic
1 tsp cumin
½ tsp cayenne pepper
½ tsp chili powder
½ tsp salt
3 cups chicken broth
1 lb white beans, cooked and drained
1 large onion, diced (about 1 ¾ cups)

Heat a large pot over medium-high heat. Add oil, onion, celery, chicken and salt. Sauté until the onion is transparent and chicken begins to brown. Add remaining ingredients.

Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer, covered, for 45 minutes.

Top with a dollop of sour cream, a sprinkling of cheddar cheese, and sliced green onions just before serving.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Stormy Sky Oklahoma - pics

A few Oklahoma pics.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Tulsa, Tornadoes and Life's Curve Balls

Back in the early nineties two petroleum engineers, friends of mine asked me to testify for them at the Oklahoma Corporation Commission on a geologic matter. Their geologist was out of town, on his honeymoon.

“The map is already done,” Irv told me.

“All you have to do is go over it for the Judge and answer a few questions for the group that’s protesting our spacing hearing,” Ron added.

The task seemed simple enough and I agreed to help them out in the hearing scheduled for consideration in Tulsa. As we all drove east down the Turner Turnpike, their lawyer John regaled us with stories about when he was a Captain in Korea, working for the Military Police.

It was spring, the weather wet and stormy, much like Oklahoma’s weather today. Running water filled ditches on both sides of the turnpike and clouds were a dark shade of ominous gray. You didn’t have to be an Okie to know there was yet another storm brewing overhead.

The Tulsa branch of the Oklahoma Corporation Commission is in an old school building near the west edge of town. We headed for the coffee shop to discuss our strategy and to look at Mike’s exhibit.

“What do you think?” Ron asked after I had studied the map in silence for a solid ten minutes.

“There’s a little bust in the contouring,” I said.

Irv grabbed the map out of my hand and said, “Where?”

I showed it to him. “It’s not a material bust. Just something I’d have probably done myself if I had been contemplating marriage and honeymoon in Jamaica.”

John, our attorney, appeared concerned and Irv asked, “What’ll we do?”

“I can correct the contour with a pencil but it changes the map’s interpretation. I don’t think that it would be to your benefit,” I said.

“We can ask for a continuance,” John said.

“I don’t think it’s that big of a deal,” Ron said. “Like Eric said, the bust isn’t material. The other side probably won’t even notice it.”

“What are you grinning at?” Ron asked me, seeing the smirk on my face.

“Mike, the opposing attorney used to work with me at Texas Oil & Gas. If he or his geologist notices the bust they’re going to scream bloody murder.”

“So? What can they do about it?”

“They’ll pick us apart,” John said. “Maybe we should call for a continuance.”

“Nah, we’re here. Let’s do it,” Ron said. “If things get nasty then put me on the stand.”

“Is that all right with you, Eric?” asked Irv.

“Hey, I’m just a hired gun. You tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll give it a shot, but – “

“But what?” Ron demanded.

“Mike is an attack dog. If he smells blood, he won’t stop until he has us gutted and quartered.”

“I say we’re here and we should put on our case. What we’re asking for is the right thing. That little bust in the map is immaterial.”

“I think Nixon said the same thing about the Watergate Tapes,” John said with a grin. “But hey, it’s your call. Eric and I are both just hired guns.”

“Don’t give me that malarkey,” Ron said. “We need to get a ruling on this hearing today. Let’s go for it.”

“Fine,” I said, “But I think we should disclose the error and explain why it has no relevant meaning.”

“It’s such a minor error, they’ll never notice it,” Ron said. “Let’s don’t show our hand before it’s played.”

I had a lump in my throat as I was sworn in before the judge. I knew that there was a narrow line I had to traverse without telling a lie. I also felt a little dirty because I intended to testify only to what was positive about our case and say nothing about what was negative about it.

John understood my quandary and questioned me about the exhibit without asking me to stretch the truth. Shortly after he finished, I sat facing the doggedly resolute eyes of Mike, the opposing attorney. The first words out of his mouth were, “Mr. Wilder, did you notice that there is a geologic bust in your exhibit?”

“Yes, but it’s not material,” I said, protesting.

Mike slammed his hand against the lectern. “Not material? Judge, this exhibit is a total fabrication meant to showcase their argument in the best possible light – a false light,” he added.

“Judge,” John said, standing. “May I approach?”

Mike and John stood in front of the administrative law judge’s bench, bickering back and forth when a bailiff burst into the courtroom.

“Judge, we have to evacuate to the auditorium. There’s a tornado bearing down on us.”

We had all heard the rain and hail pelting the windows. Now the wind had picked up and was rocking the walls. “Recess,” the Judge said. “Everyone follow the bailiff.”

A hundred or so of us sat for around thirty minutes in the auditorium of the old school building, expecting the roof to fly off at any minute. Finally the tornado passed but the storm continued, rocking the old building with rain and wind. Because of the continuing tornado watch, the Judge had little choice but to call for a continuance to the hearing. Ron laughed as we headed back down the Turner Turnpike toward Oklahoma City.

“John, I should have listened to your advice. We were getting our asses kicked in there.”

Talk of the hearing quickly changed to the tornado that barely missed us, and then to other things. I’m a boxing fan and as John began regaling us with tales again, I learned that he was once the manager of Sean O’Grady, Oklahoma City’s former world champ.

To put a cap on this story, Mike the geologist returned from his honeymoon and corrected the minor bust on his map. By the time the next hearing occurred, attorney Mike had lost all his explosive ammo and Ron and Irv prevailed easily.

Alas, Ron and John are no longer with us. Like my Dad, John suffered from Alzheimer’s and lived next door to him in Reminiscence before he died.

Seeing him there reminded me of the Tulsa tornado story. It also reminded me that life is good at throwing curve balls, and sometimes when it does, the only thing you can do is ask for a recess. If you don’t, Old Mother Nature may just request it for you.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Ghosts, Demons and Kindred Spirits

Some people search for ghosts while others spend their lives trying to avoid them. I am one of the latter because I know that spirits are real and with us everyday. Yes, there is every manner of transient being among us - ghosts, demons, angels and kindred spirits, and any one doubting this is not paying attention.

I have lived in my house for eleven years. The man that Anne and I bought it from committed suicide three days after he sold it to us - not in the house, but not far away. Anne died about six months later. These are just two spirits that I know to whom the house is connected.

I have told this story before but I feel it bears retelling. Anne died in March but we’d had one last Christmas together. She had graduated from law school late in her life and had only practiced for four years before her death. She had met three young women and one young man that she called her law daughters and law son. Anne and I never had children of our own.

That last Christmas, all of our law children spent several days with us. They bought Anne a stuffed frog that had a button on its foot. When you squeezed the button, the stuffed animal would croak out "Jingle Bells." I left the frog sitting on the living room mantle and forgot about it.

The following Christmas Eve, I was standing in front of the mantle, staring at the frog when it began croaking "Jingle Bells." I was standing ten feet away and never touched the button. The next morning, Christmas Day, the radio on the nightstand next to my bed suddenly began playing. It was early and I can't remember much but I think Brenda Lee was the singer and she was wishing me a very happy Christmas Day. I had never used the awake by music function on the radio. It came on by itself.

I remember when I was a child, I was always afraid there was a monster under my bed, or in the attic. Now I know that spirits surround me, but they are the benevolent variety and they wish me no harm. My pug Princess barks at them at night when they stir around the house. Animals, it seems, attune to the supernatural more than humans are. She usually falls back to sleep quickly, as even she realizes that she is in no danger.

Some people spend their lives searching for ghosts. Even though they may be sitting beside them, they’ll never see because they obviously haven’t a clue.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Domino Parlors and Old Fords

Marilyn and I were driving through downtown Edmond when she asked me to stop the car. She wanted to show me the building where the pool hall and domino parlor was once located.

"Pull into the alley,” she said

The only entrance to the domino parlor was through the alley. Edmond condoned dominos but not, it seemed, on Main Street. It was a little different in Vivian, Louisiana where I grew up.

We looked behind the building where the parlor was once located. Replaced by the back entrance of a gift shop, it was not there anymore, but it got me to thinking about the domino parlor and pool hall in Vivian.

My grandfather and Uncle Grady were both pipefitters by trade. The nature of their job often predicated that they were away from home a lot, often in different states, building an electrical generation plant, or such. When they weren't away from home they could usually be found in downtown Vivian, at the pool hall, playing dominos.

When my grandfather finally retired, he spent much of his time in the domino parlor, driving downtown around ten every morning. He generally stayed there until it was time to eat dinner.

I never saw either Grandpa Pitt or Uncle Grady drink a beer or slug a shot of whiskey. I think that Grady was a teetotaler but I heard from my Mother that Grandpa was known to take an occasional nip of whiskey.

Grandpa lived to almost a hundred, but he quit driving sometime in his eighties. It happened abruptly when he pulled out on Louisiana Highway One into the path of an oncoming truck. The collision totaled Grandpa's Ford Fairlane. He was unhurt except for a few bruises and scratches. By this time, Uncle Grady had taken over the reins of family patriarch. He informed Grandpa that he had seen the last of his driving days and he absolutely refused to let him buy a new car.

Losing his driving credentials did not stop Grandpa from frequenting the domino parlor. He began walking to town every morning and then back home at night - even until he was almost ninety years old.

My good friend Rod and I visited the den of iniquity one weekend when we were both home from college. The place reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Old men sat at the table's playing dominoes and they didn't bother looking up when we entered the door.

Red paint on the floor had almost worn away by decades of work shoes and oilfield boots walking across it. The pool tables were probably mahogany but the wood had so many cigarette burns that it was hard to tell. Their red velvet stained almost black. The two teens with arm tattoos and cigarettes in their mouth didn't bother looking up as Rod I gave the place the third degree.

My grandfather died when he was ninety-seven years old. He continued playing dominoes until he became a little senile and I think that he finally forgot how to play.

While Edmond is growing - now the third largest town in Oklahoma - Vivian is in decline. There are no new businesses to speak of, except for the Wal-Mart on Louisiana Highway One. Main Street Edmond is growing while Main Street Vivian is largely a row of empty buildings.

I doubt that most teens today have even heard of dominos, but I bet Grandpa Pitt and Uncle Grady are playing right now with the angels in heaven. I don't know if they have old Fords there, but if they do Grandpa probably drove one to the parlor.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

A Bayou Runs Through It

It's likely true that the lessons you learn as a teenager do as much to cement the real values in your life as anything else. That said, I spent many of my teenage years attending college in Monroe, Louisiana. Majoring in geology, I took many science courses but I also dabbled in English and the arts. Probably the most important course that I took at Northeast Louisiana was a lesson in life - a lesson in how to cope in a world filled with no family and mostly strangers.

When I attended NLSC, a gallon of gas cost thirty cents, or less. A Coke was a nickel and you could buy a pitcher of beer for a dollar. My favorite watering hole, along with that of most of the male population of the college was the Trianon. I wrote about the Trianon in my short story A Talk with Henry. Henry was a real person and I took much of the dialogue for the story from actual conversations.

I started college during summer school, at the tender age of seventeen. My Brother Jack and close friend Elwin also attended summer school the same year. The year was 1964. There was an air show at the airport that summer and a local pilot offered plane rides in his Beechcraft Bonanza for a penny a pound. Jack, Elwin and I all took our first ride in an airplane for a cost of less than five dollars.

A Bayou runs through the campus of what is now the University of Louisiana at Monroe. During summer, Bayou DeSiard is a hot spot for students. While not quite Florida, sun bathing students line the beach and it was, and is, a great place to meet members of the opposite sex. Jack, Elwin and I went swimming every day that semester and even light-skinned Eric had a tan before the end of summer.

At night, Jack, Elwin and I would haunt the Trianon. There were gambling machines, the walls black, lighting dim and music loud. We chugged lots of beer and discussed every important world issue there was. At summer's end, Jack and Elwin both flunked out, unable to return the next semester because of poor grades. I made it, passing, but barely.

Today, I can't remember a single course that I took that summer. As far as grades are concerned, I almost flunked my first semester in college, but now it doesn't seem so important. Looking back, I think that I probably aced the part of my life that was most significant at the time.

Fiction South

Changing Spots

I got an email from Dr. K, my graduate school adviser. I had emailed him after seeing his address in a University of Arkansas geoscience newsletter. He mentioned that the geology department had merged with the geography department and that it was much larger than when I was there. He bemoaned the fact that the department was leaning more and more toward geography and less and less to geology.

“When the last three of us geology professors retire, most of the students won’t even be able to spell geology, much less practice it.”

He also bemoaned the fact that I never became the “King of Antimony,” a title he had bestowed on me because of my thesis about stibnite, the ore mineral from which antimony is derived.

While at the U of A, Dr. K had me rewrite my thesis at least seven times, no mean task in the days before Wite-Out, and on a manual typewriter.

“It’s the academic process,” Dr. K told me. “The only way to really learn something.”

I disagreed vehemently at the time but now I’m not so sure. The first draft of a novel may take a year to write, but that is only the beginning of the work. Strangely, most books require about seven edits, and even then, there are probably mistakes lurking that subsequent readers will find. With the advent of the word processor, this process is easier, though no less time consuming.

“Didn’t know you were such a well known author,” Dr. K said in his email. “I will have to look some of your books over and make sure the sentence structure is correct.” Well it doesn’t seem to me that Dr. K will ever retire because, no matter the passage of time, a leopard never really changes its spots, and I’m not sure I could survive his “academic process” on nine books.

Fiction South

The Commander’s Palace is one of the finer restaurants in New Orleans. Here is one of their recipes from their website.

SHRIMP AND TASSO WITH FIVE PEPPER JELLY

36 Jumbo shrimp (shelled and deveined)
6 oz. Spicy tasso (julienne into 1" strips)
36 Pickled okra
5 Pepper jelly (see below)
Crystal Hot Sauce (see below)

Make a 1/4" incision down the back of each shrimp and place one stripe of tasso on each incision. Secure with a toothpick. Lightly dust each shrimp with seasoned flour and fry.

Placed cooked shrimp in a bowl with 4 oz. of Crystal hot butter sauce and toss until well coated.Spread 5-pepper jelly on the bottom of a small dish and arrange shrimp on the plate alternating with the pickled okra.

FIVE PEPPER JELLY

1 each Red, Yellow and Green peppers diced
1 Jalapeno
1/4 tsp. Pepper Flakes
6 oz. Karo Light Syrup
6 oz. White vinegar

Put light syrup and vinegar in a pot and reduce until sticky. Add remaining ingredients and cook until the peppers are soft. Add salt to taste.

CRYSTAL HOT SAUCE BEURRE BLANC

5 oz. Crystal hot sauce
Pinch of garlic
Pinch of shallot
2 oz. Heavy Cream
1 1/2 lb. Butter

Sauté garlic and shallots in a pan with a little butter. Add Crystal Hot Sauce and reduce by 75%. Add cream and reduce again by 50%. Slowly whip in softened butter a little at a time.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Ghost Hollow

GHOST BOYS OF EDMOND Here are two pics I took yesterday. the first pic, taken while there was still light, is the ghost creek that winds through Tall Oaks II in Edmond, OK. This is where I saw the large black cat.

The second pic is looking down the road at the hollow where the creek crosses under the road, via a culvert. This is where I saw the ghosts, just after dark.
Gondwana

Prairie Sunset Excerpt

The weather in central Oklahoma has been gorgeous lately. Tonight is a near full moon, and yesterday I witnessed one of the most gorgeous sunsets that I have ever seen. When atmospheric conditions are right, no place on earth has sunsets any more gorgeous. One such sunset was part of the inspiration for my novel Prairie Sunset.

John and Attie are two improbable, moonstruck lovers. Near the end of the story, at Artist’s Point outside of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, they stop their RV to watch the sunset. Here is a short excerpt of that scene from the novel Prairie Sunset:
* * *
Laboring up steep Highway 71, Attie managed to pass several slower moving, sight-seeing vehicles. When they reached the highest point, south of Canada, on the old highway, Attie pointed into the distance.
"Eureka's just beyond the horizon. Seventy miles as the crow flies."
"Look there, Attie. A rainbow on the horizon. Must be where our pot of gold lies."
"Don't see it."
"In the distance," he said. "Where you pointed."
"Road's too steep. I'll take your word for it."
Passing through Fayetteville, Springdale and Rogers they neared the final stretch of highway before reaching Eureka Springs. A road sign said 'next fourteen miles steep and winding'. It was. Spiraling ever upward the narrow road flattened only briefly, forming a river valley. Having gouged its course between two rounded peaks, the river meandered lazily into the distance, creating a lovely mountain vale in its wake.
Crossing the river, Attie pointed 'Ol Betsy up the steepest mountain they had yet encountered. Ascending the incline, the engine coughed and labored. Overlooking the river below, their view became even more dramatic as they climbed ever higher. Near the mountain's crest the winding roadway took a wide loop, affording a spectacular view of the meandering river, far below.
"Pull over Attie," John said.
Responding to urgency in his voice, Attie wheeled the RV to a scenic turnout by the side of the road. "You all right?" she said.
"We're not going to make it to your house before dark. Let's stop here and watch the sunset."
In the western sky, the golden orb had already begun its descent. Attie parked and waited until John opened the door and fresh air, damp with impending rain, flooded the vehicle. Stepping to the ground, he smiled and stretched his arms.
"Attie, I feel as if I've finally come home."
"You have, John," she said, taking his hand. "We both have."
Together they walked to the cliff's edge and sat on a large limestone boulder overlooking the valley. Purple martins, leaving daytime roosts in search of insects, swirled high overhead and in the distance a chorus of tree frogs began their nocturnal serenade. Damp breeze whistling through the pines joined the melody, harmonizing with a company of crickets lilting like a thousand violins.
Tightly squeezing Attie's hand, John said, "It's beautiful."
"Yes it is," Attie said, gazing at the red radiating sphere burning a luminous swath in fading sky as it descended toward the valley floor.
"Once," he said. "On a spring night in western Oklahoma I saw a sunset almost as beautiful. Particles of dust from some volcanic eruption in the Pacific filled the sky. Invisible during the day, dispersed particles became fiery streaks of crimson incandescence at dusk."
"A beautiful sunset is something to remember."
"Attie, you remember the horse races?"
"Course I do."
"Remember when I told you which horse I was betting on? You said he was the biggest nag on the track - had never won a race."
"And you were too stubborn to listen."
"I bet on his name, Prairie Sunset, because until I met you that sunset in western Oklahoma was the loveliest vision I'd ever seen."
"You're incurable," she said, nudging his ribs and moving closer. Putting her arm around his waist, Attie felt a tremble beneath her touch, like a bridge abutment, stressed with age, beginning to tire and collapse.
"John, need a heart pill?"
"Already took two," he said, his breathing suddenly coming faster and then in short gasps.
"John!" Not answering, John closed his eyes and shrank back against the boulder. "Get up John. We're just outside town. There's a hospital there."
Neither speaking, nor opening his eyes, John grasped Attie's hand. Squeezing it tightly, his lips began to quiver and he fought to open his eyes.
"Attie," he said in a whisper. "Help me up."
"No!" she said, tears welling up in her red-rimmed eyes."
"Help me Attie," he said, his voice low and becoming increasingly hard to hear.
She encircled his waist, struggling to lift him. Managing somehow to boost him into a sitting posture, she positioned herself behind him, bracing his frail weight between her legs, against her body, embracing him as death's head danced ever-narrowing circles above them. Finally, it kissed his cheek.
"This can't be happening. Not now. Not so close to home. Let me help you to a doctor."
Holding her hand, John shook his head and said, "Don't cry Attie. This has been the happiest week of my life. I never met a kinder, sweeter person than you." His voice was barely a whisper when he squeezed her hand, one last time, and said, "I love you, Attie. You kept your promise and took me to the Magic Fountain. Before I go I want you to make one more promise."
Clutching his hand in a desperate clasp, Attie nodded sadly, as tears streamed down her red and puffy face.
"Bury me on an Arkansas hillside, facing west. I'm home now and I never want to leave again."
Attie promised. Then, until the sun had long disappeared below the western horizon, and distant thunder heralded gentle rain, she clutched him to her breast, crying silent tears as she rocked him in her arms.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Perry, Oklahoma Pics

Here are two pics taken in Perry, Oklahoma, one of the courthouse - made famous as the place that first indicted Timothy McVey, the Oklahoma City Bomber - and the library.

Gondwana

Spirit Children of Tall Oaks II

I began my walk earlier tonight than usual and it was not yet dark when I reached the place where I saw last night’s spirits. I nevertheless approached the bottom where the creek goes under the road with anticipation, and with caution.

I didn’t get a good look at the two beings last night but I think they were boys, about ten or eleven. The more I have thought about what I saw, the more my mind is playing tricks on my memory. I am now convinced that what I saw were two Edmond, Oklahoma ghost boys that use the creek as a conduit to move from place to place without detection.

I had my trusty digital Nikon in my pocket this evening and took a picture of the tree-covered low spot where the creek goes under the road. Even though darkness had yet to totally fall, the picture turned out completely black, except for a few spots of circular light.

What light remained, as I rounded the corner and began walking up the hill to my house, was disappearing fast. There was something sitting in the road in front of me - a large black cat that I had never before seen. The cat ambled into a culvert under the street.

Tomorrow, I will begin my walk a little earlier so I can capture a picture of the place where I saw the two ghosts, or later so that I might catch another glimpse of the spirit boys. Even if I don’t see them, maybe I’ll get a picture of the black cat that lives in the culvert.

Fiction South

Ghosts of Tall Oaks Creek

August in central Oklahoma began as a scorcher, with multiple days of one hundred plus temperatures. It ended with a whimper, days damp and cool, and the nights almost chilly.

Days have grown shorter, darkness falling before I finished my walk tonight. A creek courses through the area, cloaked on both sides by trees and thick vegetation. All manner of wildlife, including foxes, coyotes, raccoons, possums, and even an occasional deer, call the creek home and use it as a conduit for stealthy movement. Tonight, I saw something other than a wild animal.

About a half mile from my house, thick tree cover effectively blocks the moon and stars. As I walked down the gentle hill to the spot where the creek crosses the road, I saw the faint outline of two people walking toward me. I couldn’t tell if they were male or female, young or old. As I strained to see whom it was, one of them darted into the trees.

I was walking at a fast clip down the hill, straining to get a better look at the person walking toward me. As I approached the creek, I realized that the person dressed in ephemeral white was actually moving away from me. The person had a light. At first, I thought it was a flashlight, but they held it over their head like a torch - a torch so faint that it cast only the dimmest of light. By now, I was wondering if the two people I saw were actually real, or perhaps spirits out for a walk.

The entity disappeared for a moment behind a slight bend in the road. I increased my pace, expecting to see two walkers, dressed in white, strolling ahead of me when I rounded the slight bend. Instead, I saw nothing but darkness. There was no place the two beings could easily have gone that I wouldn’t have seen them. I continued toward the house, looking back over my shoulder for the entities, but seeing only flickering fireflies.

The golden moon, nearly full, glowed as I exited the trees. A little voice inside my head told me that I either didn’t see what I thought I saw, or else there is a logical explanation to the mystery. I guess anything is possible.

Louisiana Mystery Writer

Cousins - a pic

Here is an old picture. The little boy on left front row is my brother Jack (he still has that shirt), the little girl next to him my cousin Angela. The girl behind Angela is my cousin Carolyn Sue. I don't recognize the girl behind Jack, but her name is Anne (at least I think). The picture was likely taken in 1945.

Gondwana