Another Thank-You

Adding to the Gratitude List: Thanks to Kathy Matisko for her kind words about my book on Amazon. Anyone who's experienced Kathy's narrative virtuosity would know that praises from that quarter are rare and precious gems indeed.

My thanks to Nathaniel Thomas, Wes Loder, Steve Page, Doug Arnold, Dennis Murphy, Frank Mulligan and Don Zeiter, for your kind reviews of Up Home on Amazon.com. Your encouragement is what keeps the sometimes reluctant pen moving across the page -- the laxative that keeps the vowels moving, if you please. I am most grateful.

I Speak Only Few Words of English

Я Говорю Несколко Слов По-анлиский Yes, I speak to you few words of English, my friend. Hell of language you have there, if I may say so. Academic commissars took eight-year-old girl in State school, Filled her head with strange alphabet, words said Not at all like written. And your grammar! Свяатой Бог! – Who can say I do that correct? (Так правильно? Не знаю!). Yes, yes, yours is language of Shakespeare and All his followers. God knoweth I stumble through Much of that in University, dictionary at my right – and Аспирин at left. But, friend, do you know Pushkin In original tongue? No matter. My English Is schoolgirl’s English; your Russian is schoolboy’s. But still – you see? – we communicate. Прекрасно! Clem Page 12.VIII.2005 На Ваёмиссинг, Пеннсилвании

A Sunny Day in Coal-Cracker Country

I've been neglecting my blogging practice, I'm afraid. Put it down to the chores of making a living and trying to market a first novel. I know, I know. Excuses, excuses, excuses.... Anyway, speaking of marketing a first novel, Eve and I took a very pleasant little sun-drenched book tour through the Pennsylvania anthracite country this afternoon. We made stops in Lansford, at the No. 9 Mine and Museum, Jim Thorpe (Old Mauch Chunk), and Eckley Miners' Village near Hazleton. I hawked the book with all my might, and confirmed a reading and book-signing date in Eckley on Sunday May 4. If you're in the neighborhood, you'd be most welcome to sit in. With the advent of daylight saving time and a brilliant, breezy afternoon, we came home happy to have put a perfect capstone on the weekend.

Political Correctness

----- Original Message -----

From: Bob Erskine

To: Don Edwards ; Peter R. Davis ; Bob Simonson ; David Sproul ; Jim Haggerty ; Don Egan ; Ed Cashin ; Megan O. Erskine ; Ron Erskine

Sent: Monday, February 18, 2008 8:40 PM

Subject: Definition

Political Correctness > > The following is the 2007 winning entry from an annual contest at Texas > A&M University calling for the most appropriate definition of a > contemporary term. This year's term was Political Correctness. The > winner wrote, "Political Correctness is a doctrine, fostered by a > delusional, illogical minority, and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous > mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely > possible to pick up a turd by the clean end." >

An Incident at the Hoe-Cake Cafe, Chapter IV

"You ladies from the Continental, ain't you?" Caldonius continued to smile as Annie sauntered up until her face was just inches from his. "Come on in, if you ain't too proud. Hot flapjacks. Pork chops. Bacon. Coffee so black it shine like coal. Come on in." Annie turned and faced the rest of the Valkyries. "How about it, girls? Do we eat or do we push this joint in the river? Or do we eat and then push this joint in the river?" "Ah, give the nigger a break, Annie. He's a war hero. Ain't you, honey?" Queenie Quinlan was a high-yellow octoroon whose father was rumored to be a full professor of comparative literature and belles-lettres at Columbia University. She had nothing in her possession that would confirm the rumor, but she didn't discourage it. "Well, I got work to do, ladies. You welcome to step inside for a bite to eat. If not, good day to you." Caldonius turned and walked toward the river side of the Café , to check on the waterworks and the food wheel machinery. After he'd gone a few yards, he turned to see if anyone was following. He saw Annie and Queenie and the others huddled in a tight circle. He heard a Babel of arguing. He shrugged and went around the corner of the building. When he pulled the mallet out of his apron pocket, he was surprised to notice his hand shaking. He went to his workbench, picked up the oil can and headed for the water wheel. The thump-thump of the machinery made a comforting pedal note to the high-pitched anxiety beginning to build up in Caldonius's mind. It's after midnight, but it might as well be broad daylight on the main street of hell. The rolling artillery barrage rumbles on in the distance like the thunder of a receding storm. Star shells and parachute flares overhead make crazy shadows on the ground, all plowed up and stinking like a latrine. I'm running like hell, with the zip and zing of bullets like low-country mosquitoes all around my head, searching for me, finding some of my friends, the muzzle flashes from the Maxim guns out there in the distance. So far to go. So far. Got to run faster. Got to run smarter. Jump the coils of barbed wire. Dodge the bullets. Getting closer now. Over the parapet. Into the trench. Damn! Look at these boys. They eight feet tall. No time to work the bolt on this rifle. Use the bayonet! Bayonet? Yeah! Like you was taught in basic. Stab and twist. Stab and twist. Man, that was easy. Like butcherin' a hog back home. I think we gonna be all right. For today, anyway.

An Incident at the Hoe-Cake Cafe, Chapter III

Anne Boleyn Jones had grown into a big woman. Now in her late twenties, she stood at six feet one inch and weighed a well-proportioned one hundred fifty pounds. When she was a little girl, she'd been fiercely competitive in all endeavors -- a tomboy. Her teachers in school had nicknamed her Up-And-At-'Em Annie. Her father, Nick Jones, lived in a falling-down farmhouse just outside Alfalfa Junction, where State Highway 452 met the River Road. Old man Jones smoked, got drunk, collected firearms and ate canned corned beef hash because it reminded him of the tinned bully beef for which he'd cultivated a taste during his Army days. He collected a modest veteran's pension for undistinguished service during the Spanish-American War and supplemented his income by selling night crawlers and bloodworms to the fishermen who fished the Susquehannica and its tributaries. "Reason God made guns is so white men can shoot niggers," old Jonesy said one night at Sam Pardee's speakeasy in Alfalfa Junction. Sarah Jones, Annie's mother, shielded her daughter for as long as she could, deflecting and often absorbing the impact of Nick Jones's alcoholic rages. But one night, after the old man had chased her a quarter-mile down the River Road, waving his Army-issue revolver and threatening to blow her goddamn head off, Sarah Anne Jones took cover in a patch of woods and waited until the old man had stumbled back to the house and passed out. Then she crept back, collected her five-year-old daughter and one carpet bag containing her important possessions, blew out the pilot light, opened all the valves on the gas stove and set fire to a pile of oily rags in the basement. Explosions and fire lit the night sky behind them as Sarah and Annie walked up the road to Alfalfa Junction. Sarah's older sister, Emma James, proprietress and owner of the Grand Continental Hotel., took them in as long-term guests. The Grand Continental was neither grand nor continental, and was a hotel only in the sense that it provided living quarters for a dozen or so unmarried young women and temporary recreational lodgings for traveling salesmen with cash in their pockets. Sarah and Annie settled in and Sarah earned room and board by cooking, cleaning and tending to the endless female problems of the working girls.