Love is the only thing by Sheila Claydon

Check out my books on the Books We Love website

Although my books have heroines in them, this is a tribute to a real life heroine.

A few days ago I attended the funeral of a very dear friend. She was 93 years old, and if I am lucky enough to reach such a great age myself, I would love to leave behind the same legacy. We met 25 years ago, and from that day on I have always wanted to be like her. She has always been my ultimate heroine. 

Although there is always sadness when someone dies, the memories  recalled and the stories exchanged sometimes offset the grief and this was certainly the case at Shirley's funeral. 

Why, despite her death, is she my heroine? It's simple. She loved people so people loved her.  Her default setting was to think about others, which meant that visiting her was always a joy. Yes, the hot drinks and chocolate biscuits (never plain) were welcome, as was the white wine (after 6 unless it was lunchtime), but the real pleasure was Shirley herself. She was so interested in everything, and who doesn't enjoy a conversation with someone who genuinely wants to know how you are feeling and what is happening in your life. Also, and this is perhaps the most important thing, she never complained. While she had a never-ending supply of sympathy for others, she rarely talked about herself, and if she did it was about happy things, not about the pacemaker she had to have fitted, or her failing eyesight.

Listening to her adult grandchildren recall their childhood visits and holidays with Nanna was heartwarming too. She has left them with so many wonderful memories. The annual family holidays in Greece with anything up to 20 adults and children participating sounded idyllic and yes, the white wine featured there as well. Then there were the bedtime stories, the walks in the woods and on the beach, the meals, the fun.  Making sure that other people enjoyed themselves and had fun was one of Shirley's greatest gifts. 

Her other great gift to her friends and family was her insistence on remaining independent. When her sight failed and she could no longer drive, she moved to a ground floor apartment in the centre of the village so she could continue to do her own shopping and meet friends for coffee or a meal without inconveniencing anyone. Then, at 90, too frail to continue alone, she sold up and moved herself into a care home, still in the centre of the village so she could carry on with her social life. This was despite the fact that both her daughters wanted her to live with them. 

Once settled in the care home she had more visitors than anyone else, and those family holidays continued even though they were now a bit closer to home. Christmas and Easter and many weekends were spent with the family too, and in between she saw old friends and made many new friends. 

I know she was supported by a strong faith, but only once in all the years I knew her did she mention it, and that was when she told me how much she was enjoying her Bible study class and learning how to meditate. She started these new activities when she was 91!

Finally, and the greatest proof of all that love is what everyone craves whether of the two-legged or four-legged variety, was her relationship with dogs. There were always dogs in her life. Her own when she was still able to care for them, and later other people's. For 8 years she provided daycare for one of my dogs while I was working and the intense love between them was mutual. In fact the last time I saw her was when I took my latest dog to see her. In my house the dog is not allowed upstairs (not always enforceable if the grandchildren are around!), and she is certainly not allowed on the beds. When we visited Shirley at the care home, however, they both snuggled up on the bed together without any reference to me whatsoever. 

In addition to all of this, Shirley remained extremely pretty even in old age, and very elegant too. Despite losing most of her sight she continued to dress beautifully, and her hair and nails were always immaculate. This was also part of her attraction. As well as her loving kindness she made sure she was as good to look at as possible despite her extreme old age.

As the priest said at the funeral, 'everyone here now has a Shirley shaped hole in their lives, but it is a hole that is filled with loving and joyful memories.' 

What a way to live, and what a way to go. No wonder she was and will remain my heroine.

Music evokes sweet memories—Tricia McGill

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While transferring stored music files from my computer to my new tablet I came upon songs I haven’t played in a long time and as I listened to each one an almost forgotten memory returned of the exact moment when I heard that particular tune for the first time and why I fell in love with it then. It’s likely that younger people will not have heard of some of these songs or my favorite singers, but like old photos or mementos, each holds a special place in my heart.

Most Saturday mornings my sister and I would visit the local market where a variety of stallholders plied their wares. This sister had a passion for earrings and would spend hours deciding which to purchase, whereas my preference was the music stall where the latest records (remember them, those vinyl things that were in vogue in the 50/60s and beyond).

This was after we possessed a record player of our own, but before that, one of my already married sisters owned one of these wonderful gadgets. She had a copy of Al Martino singing “Here In My Heart”. I’m sure I wore that out, as every time I visited her I played it over and over. I think that was one of my very early crushes—not on Al who was far too old for me then—but with his voice. If you have never heard it give it a Google and I defy you to say it doesn’t do something for you.

My list of heart stoppers is a mile long, so I will choose a few of my favorites:

David Whitfield singing “Beyond the Stars”. I was a pimply teenager when I purchased this and his “Answer Me” at the market, along with Dickie Valentine singing “A Blossom Fell” (this brought back memories of a boy I went out with just once who thought it was cool to serenade me with his rendering—believe me, it wasn’t).

“Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers. (Another one to Google if you have never heard their version). My best friend, who happened to be my cousin, and I would sing this out loud as we walked home from a dance. 

We would go to a local dance hall a couple of times a week and at this time I loved anything by Guy Mitchell. One boy there was Guy’s double and he broke my heart, for although he seemed to like me he took another girl home. Remember “My Truly Truly Fair”?  Ah, sweet memories! Likewise, Johnny Ray and his “Cry” evokes so many memories of that dance hall along with Elvis’s “Heartbreak Hotel”. I can still see us as if it was yesterday. Oh boy, two silly girls at a table in the bar section of the hall, when the announcer on the radio said it was this young man’s first big hit, and I still get that same old tingle in my tummy when I recall the moment he started to sing.

Any song by Vera Lynn, but especially “We’ll Meet Again” or “Yours”, take me back to the old home in North London when I was very young and my mother or sisters would sing along with Vera while I played on the floor, usually behind an armchair in the corner. For some reason I have many memories of me behind a chair. It must have been my private and safe place where I would invent games alone for hours while my older, noisy, siblings went about their life around me.

And what about Bill Haley and the Comets and “Rock around The Clock”? My cousin and I practiced our rock and rolling to him and his “See You Later Alligator”! And there were my brothers laughing at us and our antics while we cavorted in the living room. We went to see Bill and his band perform live in London. An experience never to be forgotten.

Last but definitely not least there was Frankie Laine, my absolute all-time favorite. We also saw him perform live. I can still feel the shivers up my spine that made me hot and bothered when he cracked that whip while singing “Mule Train”. Then there was “Rawhide” and “Cool Water” <sigh> and when he sang “Danny Boy”, well, that was simply the best. I owned just about every one of his recordings and don’t ask me why, but left most of them behind when we came to Australia. And would you believe, my dear father in law sold them all. <Another big sigh> Never mind, I now have his recordings right here on my computer (and on my new tablet & phone) to play at any time to take me right back to my heydays of youth and glory.

Perhaps it is just me, but not many of the modern singers match up to those oldies. For one thing, you understood every word they sang—no mumbling or rapping in those days—just good old fashioned talent and music to dream by. And we didn't swoon over them just because they were young and handsome, but because their songs and style gave us shivers and memories to cherish.

Find all my Books We Love titles here.

When did you last puddle jump? by Sheila Claydon

I've been time travelling again, back into my past.  My companion is my two year old granddaughter who is on a nine week visit from Australia.

When did you last puddle jump? Or balance across a log? Or count pine cones? Or draw pictures in the sand? And why does the wind blow the leaves on the trees and make some of them flutter down to the ground? And why do we walk on the wide paths when the hidden ones made by rabbits and foxes are so much better? And what about shadows, and crows, and the aeroplanes that leave a trail across the sky? And bubbles. There is nothing better than blowing bubbles and then chasing them until they pop.

All this and much, much more and we are only three and a half weeks into the visit.

We don't really forget you know, we just need an excuse to revisit our own childhood, an excuse to arrive home wet, or sandy, or both.  And discussing the magic of the wind, or blowing bubbles, are very satisfying occupations once we remember how to let go of our own reality and fly backwards in time to the days when we were two and a little bit.

I remember reading somewhere that we are our memories. Nothing that ever happens to us, no experience, good or bad, is ever lost. Some of our memories become less accessible over the years of course, but they are still there, just waiting for the trigger that will awaken them. And this month my trigger has been a two year old who has taken me back to a world I once inhabited.

I have two more books to write for my time travel trilogy Mapleby Memories. It's not going to be an easy process because juxtaposing different centuries in one story is difficult. What I've discovered this month, however, is that it will be easier than I anticipated. I just need to find the magic trigger that will transport me to an earlier memory. It might well be my little granddaughter because I already know there will be children in the next book so inhabiting their world as I write is important.

There are small children in the first book, Remembering Rose, as well. Children from three different centuries, and although it doesn't say so in the book, I guarantee they all loved to puddle jump.

Sheila Claydon's books can be found at Books We Love and Amazon

She also has a website and can be found on facebook  and twitter

No phone, no wifi...will travel. By Sheila Claydon

In my last post I told you I was going to cruise through the Mediterranean in March. What I didn't know at the time was that I would also experience an almost total communication blackout. Unlike the US, few of the countries I visited had a tariff agreement with my telecommunications supplier so mobile roaming fees were exorbitant. On board ship the wifi was even more expensive as well as being so slow it was a waste of time. All of this meant that I was without email, phone or any social media for almost 3 weeks. Consequently I left my phone behind whenever I went ashore, which meant a complete photo blackout as well. There are no pictures of the trip, just memories, and how colorful they are.

I listened avidly to the guides instead of looking for things to photograph when we were ashore; I watched the people who walked by while I ate at pavement cafes; I noticed the birds pecking at crumbs under the table; I smelled the flowers. I learned more about Greek and Roman architecture than I ever would have if I'd had my camera with me because, instead of taking shots of the ancient sites I visited, I sat and listened to the guide without any interruption. It was the same when I had a gondola ride in Venice, and when I saw the monkeys on the rock in Gibraltar. No photos. Instead a memory of narrow waterways snaking between lofty, crumbling buildings, and then a traffic jam of black gondolas. I have a mind's eye view of a monkey stealing a tourist's hat in Gibraltar too, and the tricks the guardian of the rock used to get it back, something I might not have noticed if I'd been busy with my phone/camera.

On a coach journey I noticed the strange tipped over buildings in Albania, made uninhabitable by the government because they had been built without permission, and I heard the unnecessary but embarrassed apologies of the guide as she explained the poverty of her country. Then there was the bullet embedded in a wall right next to my head when I visited Dubrovnik. I'd have missed it if I'd been taking a picture of the scenic street instead and I might have missed what the guide was saying too. He was a young soldier during the 1990s who fought in the Serb/Croat war, so naturally he wanted to talk about it and show us exactly where the Serbian soldiers had taken up position and destroyed eighty per cent of his city in bombardments that sometimes lasted for 24 hours. It really brought home to me the horrors of what we had only seen on TV. That bullet said it all.

Listening and watching without being distracted by the ping of a phone or the need to take a photograph, I learned a whole lot more, and now that I'm home again the memories remain vivid.

The same happened on board ship. With no email or wifi to distract me, I watched the other passengers instead, making friends and listening to a lot of personal stories. There were a quite a few elderly British people on the cruise, mainly because the ship set sail from a home port so no flights were involved, and by the end of the trip I had gained a great deal of respect for so many of them.  Despite suffering significant disabilities or, in several cases, life threatening illnesses, their stoicism and enjoyment of life was amazing. I am lucky enough to still be reasonably fit but I hope when this is no longer the case that I will be as brave.

I was especially affected by the woman who, less than a year ago, jogged every day and regularly looked after and played with her young grandchildren. That was before she was suddenly struck down with such a devastating illness that she is now confined to a wheelchair, her body bent and disfigured in a horrible way, and in constant pain...yet she smiled and talked and was interested in other people, and when the ship berthed in foreign ports she insisted her husband take her wheelchair onto local trains and other transport so she could pretend she was still 'normal.'

People and places are truly amazing when we take the time to really look at and listen to them. My phone will be taking a back seat on future holidays too.

Cabin Fever, which is about life on a cruise ship, and which I wrote after cruising through New Zealand to Australia, is available from Books We Love and on Amazon, as are all my other books. They can be found at http://bookswelove.net/authors/claydon-sheila/ or on Amazon at amazon.com/author/sheilaclaydon

WHO am I really? by Sheila Claydon

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My publisher has suggested that I and my fellow authors start the year off by introducing ourselves properly on the Books We Love blog. It's a much taller order than it seems. It depends is the only answer I can give about who I am and what I do.

Although I'm always a wife, a mother, a grandmother, an aunt, a cousin, a friend, a colleague, and a neighbour, I'm also a writer, a reader, a gardener, a cook, a dog owner, a traveller, a walker, a carer, a Yoga practitioner, and a whole lot of other things besides, and that's before I get on to control freak, micro-organizer and (you might already have guessed this) list-maker! Then there's my working life  - the jobs I had, the things I learned - but I'm not even going there.

I'm no different from anyone else of course. We are all made up of the little bits of  everything that are our day-to-day lives. It's how we form the memories, some bad, some good, that we reminisce about as the years go by. Oh hang on a minute...I'm a writer (it said so in the list) so I am a little bit different after all. Its why I store all those experiences in my sub-conscious until I'm ready to retrieve them and download them onto the pages of my latest manuscript.

I'm not proud of it, but it's how it is. When I travel most of the details of the journey remain lodged in my brain. A new environment is uploaded to my sub-conscious lock, stock and barrel and sits there until I need it.  Time spent with my grandchildren, visits to family, walking the dog, talking with friends, shopping for a neighbour, even visiting someone in hospital...it all goes into the swirling cauldron of memories that I call upon when I'm writing.

Sometimes an experience will trigger an idea for a story and when that happens, it will, if left to its own devices, weave itself around the memories I have stored in my head, rejecting some of them and trying others for size until the outline of a new story emerges with very little conscious effort on my part. It's not until I fire up my lap top that the real effort of joining it all together begins.

In Reluctant Date the trigger was a place I stayed on a holiday. This somehow wove itself into another landscape 3,000 miles away, picking up a hero and heroine on its journey. In Mending Jodie's Heart the idea for the story was prompted by an actual event involving horses and disabled children, which, before I knew it, had turned into the When Paths Meet trilogy. Then, in my latest book, Miss Locatelli, half-forgotten memories of Italy forced themselves back into my consciousness as soon as I realized my heroine had to visit Florence. A magazine article about a jeweller triggered that one.

When I look back at the dozen or so books I've written so far there is a real bonus, however, because every one of them has special memories woven into the story. None of them are about me or my family although, inevitably, some of the characters will display traits I've observed in the people I know, but the story still resonates with me on a personal level. The children in my books often behave in the same way my own children and grandchildren did when they were small, and then there are the animals. Dogs, horses, birds...even the wild ones...all trigger a memory. The grown up characters too. I rarely spend long describing any of them. They are just part of a continuing story of memories that I like to think helps to make my stories real.

So that's who I am. Someone who is made up of little bits of a lot and who never knows which bit she is going to wake up to.  Today it was the micro-managing/list-making persona. Tomorrow it's grandchildren day, so cooking, cuddling and playing games will dominate along with supervising homework and listening closely to whatever they want to tell me.  With any luck I'll wake up to my writing persona the following day and by then I'll have more memories to call upon, so when the book I'm writing at the moment, Remembering Rose, is published at the end of June, I will be able to read it and remember.

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All of Sheila's books can be found on the links below:

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She also has a website and can be found on facebook

One of My Favorite Christmas Songs - Roseanne Dowell

  One of my favorite Christmas songs is Round and Round the Christmas Tree by Bing Crosby.  We start singing it right about now.
I'm sure by now you know I love Christmas. It's my favorite time of year. There's something magical about it for me. I'm not sure what it is, maybe it's my childhood memories or maybe it's being with family. I love everything about this time of year, shopping, the hustle and bustle of getting ready, buying gifts, even wrapping them. Not that I have many to wrap any more. Even though our family has grown by leaps and bounds, finances haven't. I've had to cut back and for my kids and the married (or coupled) grandchildren, I often make them something. The rest of my grandchildren get something small to open and a gift of money. To me spending time with my family is more important than any gift. It wasn't much different when we were growing up. Money was tight back then, also and gifts weren't plentiful. Honestly, I hardly remember any of my Christmas presents. Memories from the time spent with my aunts, uncles and cousins - well like the commercial says - Priceless.
Every Christmas Eve, my aunt and uncle came to our house with my four cousins for dinner. We had a traditional dinner -which I make to this day, but instead of having it on Christmas Eve, we do it a week before Christmas. It gives us another day to celebrate and be together.
After dinner, we always went to my grandparents' house where other aunts and uncles gathered. There weren't any gifts to open for anyone but my grandparents. Until this moment, I can't honestly say I noticed. Christmas wasn't about the gifts.Christmas Day we went to my aunt's and uncle's for dinner. Yes, the very same ones we spent Christmas Eve with. Again, no gifts were exchanged. It was a time for family, love, and making memories. Yes, Christmas is my favorite time of year and always will be.
To each and everyone of you, I wish you all a Blessed and Merry Christmas.

My book, Time To Love Again is about a widow who faces another lonely Christmas - Fifty-eight year old, Rose Asbury  doesn’t care that people think she's a recluse or that the neighborhood kids thinks she's a grouch. She just wants to be left alone. She doesn’t need anyone and no one needs her and that’s just fine. At least she didn’t until this year. For some reason this year is different. Suddenly, Rose is melancholy and discontent with her life. And the man next door doesn’t help matters. He insists on speaking to her. So her stomach tumbles every time she sees him, that doesn’t mean anything. Hunger pangs, nerves, Rose just wishes he’d leave her alone. Or does she? To top it all off, his granddaughter and her friends insist on playing in Rose's yard, sledding, building snowmen and throwing snowballs at her house. Then Rose's sister’s ghost shows up and life changes drastically. Available at Amazon

Below is the song Round and Round The Christmas Tree. You can hear it on: YouTube

Round and round the Christmas tree
Presents hanging there for you and me
Lights all shining merrily

Christmas a week away

A-ring around the Christmas tree
Children making up a melody
Grown-ups laughing happily
Christmas a day away

Wishing, hoping, boxes to open
But we agree it's right to wait
Turkey and dressing, after the blessing
And there's just a night to wait

Round and round the Christmas tree
Opening presents with the family
One for you and two for me
Oh what a Christmas Day

Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong,
Ding dong, ding dong, ding dong
Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la

Round and round the Christmas tree
Presents hanging there for you and me,
Lights all shining merrily
Christmas a week away

Lights all shining merrily
Christmas a week away
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la

Wishing, hoping, boxes to open
But we agree it's right to wait
Turkey and dressing, after the blessing
And there's just a night to wait

Round and round the Christmas tree
Opening presents with the family
One for you and two for me
Oh what a Christmas Day
Oh what a Christmas Day
Oh what a Christmas Day
Oh what a Christmas Day
Oh what a Christmas Day

 You can find my latest book All's Well That Ends Well at Amazon 

Memories Taste of This ...by Sheila Claydon

Typing The End is the best and the worst part of finishing a book.  I've just done that, which means I'm about to say goodbye to Miss Locatelli. One more check when the manuscript comes back from the editor and then it will be out there. The thousands of words I've wrestled with for the past few months won't belong to me anymore, they'll belong to my readers.

The fact that all those words have finally been shaped into a story I'm happy with, is, of course, the best part. Seeing it published is pretty good too. So what is the worst part? It's saying goodbye to the characters I've lived with for so long, and it's saying goodbye, too, to the memories.

Miss Locatelli is set in London and Florence which are both places I know quite well. I worked in London for a number of years and lived a short rail journey away for even longer. In Florence my Italian friends took me to every corner of the city as well as the surrounding countryside when I visited them, so using both places as a background was easy. The difficult bit was the editing because Miss Locatelli is a romance not a travelogue. For me it was also a trip down memory lane.

My hero and heroine visited places I hadn't expected to see again and they let me choose what they were going to do each day as well. I was also allowed to decide what they ate, which was wonderful because I love Italian food. One of their best and happiest meals was roasted eggplant with tomatoes, so if you want to experience a little of their life, here is the recipe.

1 large eggplant cut into cubes
4 large plum tomatoes cored and quartered
3 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons Sherry wine vinegar
3 tablespoons chopped fresh oregano
1/2 cup crumbled feta cheese

Preheat oven to 450F/230C.  Toss eggplant and tomatoes with oil and vinegar, then spread out on overproof dish. Sprinkle with most of oregano plus black pepper and sea salt. Stirring occasionally, roast for between 30-40 minutes until eggplant is tender and golden brown. Transfer to serving dish. Sprinkle with feta and the rest of the oregano. Serve with stuffed zucchini and a large glass of chilled white wine.

Enjoy!

Now, meal eaten and the journey through my memories complete, I'm saying goodbye to Miss Locatelli and the whole cast of characters who were part of her story. So what is next? A new book of course, and this one will probably include a bit of time travel as well.

You can find more of Sheila Claydon's books at

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The Happy Place - Gail Roughton

           “I need to visit my happy place.” How often we hear that! But what, exactly, is a happy place? And where is it? “Oh, it’s all in our heads!” you say. Well, that’s right. And then again—it’s not. We all carry our permanent happy place with us. See, it’s not limited in location or the space-time continuum. It can be with you any place, any time. All we have to do is remember. Remember the place where magic lived, where memories were made, the memories of things past that shaped us, changed us, molded us, into the person we are. Where was my place? A little beat-up, sun-seared wooden fishing dock on the banks of Stone Creek.

I was born in the Deep South in the 50’s and grew up in the early and mid-60’s. It was a pivotal time in history when the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War, and the space program began to drag even the sleepiest little Southern town kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century. Rowan & Martin regularly socked it to the country as Laugh-In looked at the news, and Simon & Garfunkel sang of their brother who had died so his brothers could be free. None of that made much never-mind to me, though. I was busy following my Daddy around like a shadow whenever he was home from work. He was a construction foreman and a master carpenter. On weekends, he’d take me to his building sites, where I walked on the long light poles of Macon’s Henderson Stadium when they still lay on the ground and wrote on the chalkboards of schools-to-be long before students entered their doors. Daddy’s gone, but most of the structures he helped build still stand, strong and functional, still in use. That’s rather a form of immortality, don’t you think?

We lived a few miles outside the mid-sized Middle Georgia city of Macon in a small country neighborhood of only four or five houses, perched on the banks of Stone Creek Swamp. Readers might recognize the name from The Color of Seven. Stone Creek itself ran about half a mile behind the house. I guess I was nine or so when our neighbor “up the hill”, Mr. Emory Scoven, built the dock over the spot where Stone Creek expanded into a small pond.

Mr. Emory was a retired railroad man who lived with his brother, sister, and sister-in-law in the house on the hill next door to us. I ran in and out of that house without knocking, with total impunity. Nobody in our neighborhood knocked back then. I loved the other residents of that house, Mr. Will, Miss Lucille, and Miss Ethel, but Mr. Emory? Mr. Emory was a modern day Pied Piper. Children loved him like lint loves wool. Once upon a time the neighborhood had brimmed with kids who’d dogged his every step, but in my time, the child population was down to one. Me. And on summer days when school was out and Daddy was still at work, I trailed the man unmercifully while he tended the yards and fruit trees he so loved. If he ever grew impatient or tired of my company, he never showed it. His railroad tales were better than the fairy tales of Hans Christian Anderson and the Brothers Grimm.

Late spring and summer evenings were the best times of all. Daddy came home from work, showered and ate. That’s when we headed out the back door to join Mr. Emory at the dock and cast our lines into the leaf-brown waters of the creek. The three of us sat for hours in perfect contentment, talking or not talking, it really didn’t matter either way, while the corks from our fishing lines bobbed on the water. It didn’t matter if we caught anything, either, and in fact, we preferred not to, especially since we always released any fish caught that evening back into the creek when incipient darkness forced us back up the trail toward the house. We caught some of those fish pretty much every day. I learned to recognize them over the course of a summer because all fish don’t look alike, not even fish of the same species. They have individual shadowings of color and irregularities in their gills and fins.

That’s childhood. That’s my happy place. The creek, the dock, Daddy and Mr. Emory. Sitting cross-legged on bare planking, slapping at mosquitoes as they discovered my bare arms and legs. Cane poles only, of course, because rods and reels were useless in the close confines of the creek and its small pool and would only catch uselessly in the brush and undergrowth of the banks.

I remember the sound of the frogs as dusk fell, and birds flying low across the pond’s clearing. Sometimes you could see the head of a water moccasin swimming across the creek further downstream, crossing a safe distance from the intrusion of the dock upon their territory.

Nothing else on God’s green earth feels like late evening in the spring in the Deep South. The air feels like velvet, light trembles off the water, birds fly overhead. The sounds of the frogs and insects make their own symphony. I have no pictures of that creek and dock to post. Digital cameras were far into the future. Children don’t think of such things as recording special moments on film. No matter. There’s no way any camera could have properly recorded those moments, those men, that place, that time. The photographs are in my heart. They always will be. I take them out and look at them frequently, especially when I’m writing. 

I know somewhere out there, they’re still fishing together on the banks of Stone Creek. I love you, Daddy. I love you, Mr. Emory.

Country Justice

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