When I was less then half as old as I am now, I had dreams (or practical plans) of being a teacher.
It didn't work out. I wasn't nearly as responsible as I needed to be to teach the kids who I met during my student teaching. I was 23. There's nothing more be said about that, except that I'm a late bloomer and as such didn't even think about ordering big-girl panties until I was about 30.
I got to thinking tonight though, about a couple of things.
One is that I've not shared with you a couple of good books I've had the pleasure to read, if you're into 'hillbilly scary OMG is that the way it is' story telling.
Now y'all know I love a good spook story. But this gal, Emory Raxter, does it so gruesomely and well that there's no candle I could begin to hold to her tales.
Disclaimer: I had the pleasure of editing her novels, through the odd auspices of my ex-husband, who worked with her to get publishing. I know, it's weird, But it works. Life is strange, ain't it?
Emory. She's the deal. She knows what she's talking about. She lives in the byways and shadowy hollers of the past and the odd angles of our strange present. She takes words and corrupts them to her pleasure, wending bright stream of hope through black holes of despair, until I as a reader could NOT put the dang books down until I knew how they ended.
The first book was...graphic. The second, enriching, in a truly dreadful way.
And while you do, look here, to understand, fully, that the rough and tumble everyone for himself life she describes so lovingly and horrifyingly is real, right now, in YOUR country.
Not that it's bad, but that it's real. Those people are us. They are tough, strong, and smart. And have almost no truck with us. It would behoove us all to know that tucked into the deep mountains of the eastern United States there are people who are fierce, noble, sometimes dirt-poor, and utterly capable.
I know. I taught them back when I had dreams of being a teacher a million years ago. From those kids in my classes I learned that the folds of earth they called home were as inscrutable as their attitudes toward school and those of us that came from the Flatlands. The ice-blue eyes and scruffy go-at-anything attitude reminded me of my gramma, she of the poor Irish of New York. I'll bet we're related. (Mom, are we?)
No matter. Just go read Emory's books. You'll get the idea.
And have a happy weekend.