Works by some old friends and a few new ones
I know, I know, I promised fiction and essays on the 15th and didn’t deliver. That’s pretty much what everyone expects, isn’t it — me being a day late and a dollar short? Oh well. The wait was worth it,...
Heat by Dempsey Miles
Southern Legitimacy Statement
Honeysuckles, Chopped Pork BBQ and Muscadine Wine
I remember walking from my grand mama’s house with my brother. We’d walkthrough the lane that was in truth a two way, one way street. I mean the signs said one way but cars went both ways and nobody seemed to mind because everybody in Starkville, Mississippi knew that the one way was a two way. The lane contained the most magical delights almost year round. There were pecan trees, peach trees, pear trees, and a long row of sugary sweet honeysuckle vines; and that was just on one side of the road. We never seemed to mind it was all on somebody else’s property. I am sure they didn’t mind sharing with all the kids who walked that lane.
My Uncle Johnny barbequed pork almost year round, no matter the season, in every type of weather. He cooked whole hogs for other folk’s barbeques and party’s. He owned a little farm, with a cinder block smoke pit in the rear. He would slow cook the hogs for long hours then once the meat cooled he would chop it up, adding grand mamma’s secret vinegar and tomato based spicy sauce. The kids made sure to hang around near enough to be unofficial, official tasters. As much as we tasted it was a wonder there was enough hog left to serve at the party. That chopped barbeque served on white bread with homemade potato salad and collard greens was always a show stopper. Add a little sweet tea, or an ice cold Budweiser, and you were in it to win it!
A Mule’s Gotta’ Die by Molly Dugger Brennan
Southern Legitimacy Statement: Southern Legitimacy Statement: My family, having disappointed everyone on the European continent, arrived on the shores of Virginia in the early 1700s to start anew. Being too lazy to pack for another big move, we have stayed in Virginia ever since and made the best of it. I live in the Shenandoah Valley with my husband and the trifecta of Southern legitimacy: a porch, a pack of dogs, and pie.
First Hunting Trip by Berrien Henderson
Southern Legitimacy Statement (*as if this essay needs one, the title is the SLS, don't you think?) Although my son and I didn’t get to shoot any squirrel, the lesson, the bonding, nor the experience was lost on my little boy and me. Plus, there's the bonus of its being a rather traditional Southern/rural outing.
Public Domain by Glenda Beall
The Southern Legitimacy Statement of Glenda C. Beall.
Having grown up on a farm in south Georgia, I learned to drive a tractor when I was six. At fourteen, I passed my daddy’s driving test, when I conquered the red mud-rutted road to our house. My favorite toys were Daddy’s Bull Durham bags and empty matchboxes. I grew up on sweet iced tea, fresh yard eggs, grits, homemade biscuits and Mayhaw jelly. My home is still in the south, but in the mountains now. And folks here sell yard eggs, put up vegetables in the summer, and help out their neighbors when they can.
I can’t imagine living anywhere else.
Fat Tuesday by Gary Powell
Southern Legitimacy Statement: Gary V. Powell is a North Carolina writer with his back against New Orleans.
Just Like His Daddy by C. Ciccozzi
Southern Legitimacy Statement
My parents were born in the south. Colloquialisms are so ingrained in me that when I repeat them, people in the western states look at me like I’ve got a caterpillar perched on my nose. I don’t think I’ve pronounced the ‘g’ on any word ending with ‘ing’ since I learned how to talk. I say pillas instead of pillows and windas … well, you get the idea. My brother taught me how to catch crawdads in a can when we were kids. He also shot me in the face with his BB gun. Ouch!
The Recidivist by John Branscum
Southern Legitimacy Statement:
My father was possessed by a trailer. My sister gave into the influence of a creek full of evil spirits housed in wrecked cars. I myself am unduly vulnerable to the influence of heavy metal and hip-hop. I wear my shirt open two buttons – not on purpose but because this is simply the kind of animal I am. I partially grew up in a trailer in Big Flat Arkansas, without electricity, that smelled kind of funny because of the dead salamanders. I almost fell over in the outhouse while simultaneously balancing on the one plank that wasn’t rotten and taking a crap. I had few friends as a teenager in Kentucky. And the ones I did have were mostly dogs and trees. I’ve killed a lot of things and felt bad about it, but can’t figure out any other way to live.
The Preacherman by Hannah Spicer
Southern Legitimacy Statement: I proudly claim Southwest Virginia as my home. I grew up in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains with three brothers. My childhood was spent roaming through the woods, choppin' off roosters' heads (Mom said we couldn't have more than one rooster at a time), and going to school. When I was fourteen, my daddy taught me how to drive a tractor. When I was fifteen, my little brother taught me how to shoot a gun (only because them darn coyotes kept snatchin' the baby cows - I would not have touched a gun otherwise).
As I grew older, people seemed to think that these things were something to be ashamed 'bout. I tried to write things that didn't quite sound like me, but were about city people. I don't know a darn thing about city people, except what I read in books. Therefore, my writing wasn't that great. Then, I started writing about what I know - country people, and my writing sounded pretty good.
I say, leave the city writin' for those that live in the city. Me? I am goin' to write about the country and my beloved Appalachian Mountains.
The Treehugger by Dawn Corrigan
Southern Legitimacy Statement: I live in East Alabama, otherwise known as the Florida panhandle.
Herself, Alone by John Riley
Southern Legitimacy Statement
In August there was always the river. On dog days, school beckoning, the joy of uninterrupted time between the morning and evening chores long absorbed by a sun that had flattened your expectations of what summer would bring, I seemed to always find myself at the river. Some people are drawn to fire, others to water, moving water that is, even if the movement is nearly imperceptible, and in my South the summer heat warned me away from fire. It was the river inching through the thick woods that lured me to come, preferably alone, to come and clear away a spot to sit among the dead leaves and rocks and branches, to come and immerse myself in the stream of thoughts and dreams and ambitions that, yet unbruised by the world, raced inside the visitor sitting above the patient river.
April Issue
Fabulous, isn’t it? We’re not through yet. It’s April Fool’s Day but we’re not kidding about the quality of this month’s poetry… it is as good as it gets! From Tim Peeler to Carter Monroe to Cathy Smith Bowers and...
Cathy Smith Bowers: The Poet Laureate of North Carolina: Six Poems
Poetry Editor’s Note:
Each April the Dead Mule publishes a Poet Laureate of a Southern State at the top its list of fine poets. This year’s honor goes to Cathy Smith Bowers, Poet Laureate of North Carolina. Born in South Carolina and Southern to the core, Cathy is the sixth in the Dead Mule’s April Poet Laureate Series.
So help me welcome Cathy to our Big Ole Southern Family.
Prairie Markussen: “The Women of Scottsboro”: A Chapbook
Southern Legitimacy Statement:
I once had a migraine in Savannah. I saw the cherry blossoms blooming in Macon. I ate shrimp and grits in Charleston. I survived a family vacation and a freak storm in Ft. Lauderdale. I did not "Eat at Joe's" in Nashville, but I saw the sign. I drank wine and fell in love with a bearded man I'll never see again in Makanda, Illinois, and while that might not be the official south, it seemed pretty darn close.
Jenny Billings Beaver: “With or Without”: A Chapbook
Southern Legitimacy Statement:
Hey Ya’ll. My name is Jenny Billings Beaver (used to be Jenny Elizabeth Billings – SO OLD FASHIONED) and I have lived in North Carolina my entire life. I grew up on a dairy farm – in fact, I lived so far in the country that we didn’t get cable, pizza deliveries or any-kind-of-traffic until 2002. I didn’t have a bike, I rode around our 30 acres on a golf cart – that was long after we moved out of our marigold yellow mobile home with white shutters and grassy green carpet that sat under a weeping willow (it died when Hurricane Hugo came through in 1989). I drank only sweet tea the first 18 years of my life, still call my grandfather “Poppa”, love me some grits and sausage (with a lil’ mustard, of course!) and for god sake – married a man with the last name “Beaver” on Halloween. Bless my heart!
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