ReadBooksBy.Faith

All about author Faith Phillips

Faith’s Blog

Death Isn’t Like The Movies

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The author, Jerri Daugherty, and her dad, Ray Bearfoot Daugherty.

Hi there, it’s your old pal Faith but not for long this time. I have seen the future. She lives and writes in Adair County. Part of my dream for this website was to provide a forum for young writers to be published. I wasn’t published until my mid-thirties but when it happened my life was changed. It set me on fire. The opportunity to hand that fire down to another writer, especially an Adair County writer, feels like looking up at the stars. Big and small all at once…

I asked my students to write their personal narratives. I told them not to self-censor and encouraged them to express themselves freely without fear of judgment or reprisal. I was emotionally unprepared for their responses. Passionate young writers are coming up in Adair County and, by God, they are going to tell their stories.

The following piece is from a writer named Jerri Daugherty. I should have known she was a writer the moment she stepped in my room for the first time. She was dead-serious and bespectacled. She said, “This looks to be the room of a witch.”

I wish I had known then what I know now. Ladies & Gentlemen, I present to you the superior and heartbreaking work of my colleague, Jerri Daugherty:

“Death is not like the movies. It doesn’t give you a warning. You don’t get to say goodbye. There is no talking to the dead once they’re gone. They don’t wander around the house waiting to talk to you. There’s nothing but confusion and the bitter realization that you are forced to go on, even if you don’t want to. Sometimes, it goes like this:

     You wake up in the morning to get ready for school. You get dressed, do your makeup, brush your hair, and go to the bus stop. You don’t wake up your parents to say goodbye, especially not your dad, because he was tired the night before. He was sleeping in the rocking chair in the living room when your boyfriend brought you home.

     You head out to school and have a good day. A normal day. Normal, that is, until you arrive at your local vocational college and start to work on your daily module. It’s the same old welding module you’ve been studying for weeks; angles, metals, and so forth. You’re joking around with your friends when all of the sudden your instructor asks you to come into his office.

     I don’t remember all the details. It isn’t a time my brain wants to keep. My instructor basically told me something bad had happened and he couldn’t tell me anything except that it wasn’t good. He looked me straight in the eye and asked if he could pray with me. As a Christian I’m always open to prayer but this seemed different. I let him pray with me. 

     I checked my phone on the way to the office. Nothing. Yet I felt in my heart that the news would be bad. 

    When I arrived at the office the most unexpected sight was waiting for me there: my grandma.

     She said, “Did anyone tell you?”

     Obviously, no. 

     “It’s your dad,” she said. “He’s gone.”

     I was completely dumbfounded. 

     “What?” That was all I could say. 

     There was no way. He was just asleep this morning in bed with my mom. There is no fucking way. 

     We got into my grandmother’s car and I called mom. My brother answered her phone. He was angry. He just kept saying over and over, “Dad’s dead. Dad’s dead.”

     I didn’t want to believe it. I called him a liar and kept asking where my dad was. I demanded to speak to him. My mom finally got on the phone, crying, and told me it was real and to get home as fast and as safe as possible. We hung up.

     Grandma drove the speed limit on the way to my house. I was stunned and staring out the windshield thinking, “this isn’t real, this can’t be real”. If I’d been in my right mind I’d have asked to drive. I would have sped the whole way home, like my brother did. 

     When I got to my house I saw an ambulance and cop cars, or maybe just one cop car, I can’t remember. What I do remember is getting out of my grandma’s car and dropping my bag right there where I stood. I pointed at the ambulance and asked, “Is my daddy in there?”

     I was sixteen years old. I hadn’t called him “Daddy” in years but that’s how it came out that day. Daddy. 

     I don’t remember every single detail. This is all I have: I walked into the house. A lady cop was there and she tried to keep me out. She’s lucky she didn’t succeed because I think I might have hit her. That was my dad in there. I was getting to him one way or another.

     When I got to my dad they had him covered with a sheet-like thing. I grabbed his hand. He was so cold. I started to cry. I shook his hand and begged him, “wake up, Dad, please. Wake up, please, Dad.”

     I was there for what felt like forever. Then Mom said it was time to go. I remember sitting outside with all my family there. Just waiting. Waiting for them to bring my dad out of the house. They left him in there for hours, there on the ground. He didn’t belong there. He didn’t deserve to die on the floor, alone. 

     Too often I wonder if he suffered. Did he call out for one of us? Was he crying? Was he ready? Did he know how much I loved him? Did he know how kind, funny, and important he was to us? Did he take our love with him when he left us?

     Did he know how much I fucking loved him?

     I was, and still remain, so mad. I was mad at everyone because they weren’t him. They were living, breathing, and he wasn’t. I was mad at myself for not saying goodbye that morning. I should have awakened him. I was mad at God for taking my dad away from me. My friend. My supporter. My hero. My first love.

     After the Important People took my dad’s body and everyone left, we all sat in the house confused and crying. 

     We’ve made it so far. That’s not the whole story. It will never end now. It still hurts. It hurts so fucking bad. I still cry and pray, begging God to bring him back. But he can’t. 

     Can He?”

Stella and A Parliament of Owls

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Original painting by Cherokee artist Kindra Swafford.
https://www.kindraswafford.com

Let me tell you a little story about owls. Some of you know the peculiar tale about how a parliament of owls gathered around the night I told my sisters the story that became my first fiction novel. It scared my baby sister so badly that she ran away and cried.

But this is not that story. This is yet another true and very bizarre tale about what happened one night in Proctor, Oklahoma. I stayed over at my family home that night for some reason I cannot now recall. I woke up in the 2 o’clock hour with the strong urge to make water. I might’ve consumed some of my Dad’s wine before retiring. I stumbled into the bathroom and felt struck by a strange compulsion to look out the small bathroom window. Again, I can’t explain why. An old Oak, some wild blackberry bushes and honeysuckle were the only things to be seen back there. Our neighbor Herbie’s field stretched out beyond the fenceline.

My eyes were still bleary with sleep when I peered out the window. But the spectacle I witnessed in the backyard caused them to go cold-sober and wide as saucers. There, sitting on the lowest branch of the old Oak under the yellow light of a full moon was the largest bird I had ever seen. He looked to be four feet in height, his eyes easily the size of my mother’s tea cup saucers. The owl was looking down, directly below his perch. I followed his gaze with my own. Sitting there on her haunches and looking up was Stella, my mom and dad’s gentle-giant St. Bernard. She was a beautiful darling and we treated her as such. My parents sometimes put a pastel beret on her head, which she wore with aplomb.
So there they sat, these two, just staring at each other. I had to get closer for I could scarce believe the spectacle before my own eyes. As I bolted to the door I thought it must have all been a hallucination. By the time I eased the screen door open and crept along the side of the house I had convinced myself that nothing would be there. I knew I would go back to bed feeling very silly.

I slowly maneuvered around the corner. To my horror and great delight there they sat even still, only now I could hear a very strange sound the owl made at Stella. It wasn’t a hoot at all but rather a rapid series of low staccato sounds. I shouldn’t have done it but I felt I had to move closer. The moment I took a forward step, the great horned owl dropped out of that tree like an open-air glider. The staggering sight of it was made all the more spectacular by the whipping sound of those massive wings as they carried him away, off into the darkness. Stella looked at me and if I didn’t know better, I’d believe she had a countenance of embarrassment on her face, to have been caught cavorting after the midnight hour with, of all things, a creature of the night.

When I think about it now I know that it is one of those visions in life that will go with me to the grave. One of those lucky snapshots that can never be replicated. Stella is gone now and she is sorely missed. But she never quite looked at me the same after that. I guess I will spend the rest of my days wondering what message he delivered to her that night, perched up on the gnarled old Oak branch in the light of a full Harvest Moon. #okienoir

In Bubbles and Sunshine

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Oh, there you are! I meant to be here weekly since I began a six-week swearing off of meat, alcohol and social media. My intentions were good last week. I even took a break from writing my River Book (***Lord, please let me live long enough to finish my River Book***) to post a Flog, but inspiration was in very short supply. I couldn’t figure out why or where it had gone. Without the spirit/inspiration my writing is so much crap. At least I can identify it as such when I see it, right? So I spared both of us the misery of an uninspired 2,000 word essay.

But then I went outside! Here’s a little backstory: I’ve basically been working on nothing but books for a few years. That’s great for my career but bad for my ass. I gained twenty pounds in the last two years. Instead of giving in to my usual wont for some quick fix, I employed the advice of a professional nutritionist. She tricked me into believing that exercise (gasp) is a necessary part of a healthy every day life. After three months I finally agreed with her and began walking (and hiking, as we’ll see later).

I joined a group on Lake Texoma known as the Filibuster Book Club (FBC). I woke up early Sunday morning and took out alone for a walk around the perimeter of Lake Texoma. I walked for forty-five minutes in one direction and noted two bags of concrete washed ashore. Strange, I thought. There on the bank, not far past the concrete, lay a solitary bone. I examined the bone. It was long and heavy (just like a thigh bone, perhaps?). Most curious of all, in my estimation, was the fact that it had obviously been sawed by some sort of power tool. That’s when my imagination took the wheel. I just wrote a true crime novel last year. Now I’m finishing the first draft of a fiction novel about bones on a river bank. Then I found this cut-up bone on the lake shore. It was all too much. I carried the bone back to the lake house, photographed it, hid it up in a tree (dogs, you know) and sent the photo to a contact I have in law enforcement.

Then I went in and told the members of the FBC what I’d found. None of them cared, nor were they impressed. I was put off by their cold indifference so I showed them the bone. The First Lady of Filibuster rudely googled up a page of dog treats and shoved it in my face. You know, the sort of treats that one might buy at a place like PetSmart. There on the web page was an identical replica of the bone I’d just found on the shore. It was too late. I’d already sent the bone photo to the O.S.B.I. Sure enough, an hour or so later I heard back from the agent: “Looks like a cow bone.” He was gracious enough to not call me a moron. That’s when I realized that after this fourth book is finished it is high time for your old pal to get out of the bone business.

Lake Texoma, where I went to a book club gathering and found A Bone.

I’ve just returned from a beautiful place in a national forest, hence the wellspring of new inspiration to post a Flog. Now is the time when I should be doing work on the book but today I allowed myself a splurge. We went to a place deep in the valley of the Buffalo National River. The timing was perfect because Spring is nigh. The clear and cold streams were flowing full, the fish were biting and new growth began to appear in the forests.

We went for a hike to a point called Hawk’s Bill Crag. Now, it isn’t a difficult hike. I looked it up later and the distance is only 3 miles. The trail is officially designated a Moderate Hike (by people who hike, I reckon). The truth is I gassed out about five times hiking to and fro. The walk down to the crag was all downhill. At the bottom I saw a guy who appeared to be in just about the same shape as myself, holding a tree in a lover’s grip and gasping for breath. “Uh oh,” I thought. But it was too late. I was far too committed by then to turn back. The end result was well worth the pain. Along the way we crossed over a small mountain rivulet that ran down until it found the bluff’s edge and spilled over in a dazzling, sunlit waterfall. The rock formations along the latter part of the hike looked like something akin to a mini-Stonehenge, leaned up against one another in strange configurations. Hawk’s Bill Crag jutted out into the high open space of the great valley just like a … well, like a … oh, you know.

People were sitting out on the rocky overhang, some basking in the sun, some apparently in quiet meditation and prayer. The warmth and peace of the place made each of us feel as though we ranked among a rare few on earth who had been let in on some magnificent secret. The great river valley stretched out for miles below, from horizon to horizon. These are moments that satisfy the desire for inspiration – moments in which a human feels very small.

I did manage to haul myself back up the mountain but you better believe I floated my ample apple shape in a bubble tub for a couple of hours afterward. That was one dirty bubble, let me tell you.

Hawk’s Bill Crag at the Buffalo River in Ozark National Forest

On the last day we went down to the river’s edge where people were putting rafts and kayaks in! We were shocked because the river water is something like 50 degrees right now. After a few amateurs turned over in their canoes we managed to only laugh just a little and whisper-yell at the rest of the family to come over and have a look. The kids made castles in the sand. My little niece and nephew ran around in the nearby field just as it was beginning to green up. They used a wand to throw up a trail of bubbles in the air as they ran laughing. A puppy chased after them, biting at the bubbles. A shaft of light shone down in the very place where they ran and for a moment it appeared as though my nephew might be in the midst of levitation. When I looked at the photo later and noted their faces I realized that the spirit/inspiration is no mystery. It is always found right next to the river in sunshine and bubbles.

Then I started writing again.

Bubbles & Sunshine at the Buffalo National River

I hope to meet you in the Twain?

Always with love,

Your Cowgirl in the Sand

Hello Author in the Sand.

Farewell, Old Bean

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An original piece created by Murv Jacob in 2012.

Yesterday I received a single sentence in a message that changed the world of Oklahoma Art forever: “He’s gone.” Murv Jacob, the prolific painter and Old Master of the Tahlequah North End was gone. It is time now for us to say, “Farewell, Old Bean”. He left behind a treasure trove of fantastic stories about his time with the Beat poets, the Grateful Dead, Haight-Ashbury and so much more. It is a comfort after his departure to exchange these stories with each other one more time. Another great comfort is to gaze upon the wondrous works with which he left us. As a storyteller myself, I wish to leave a record of my own personal stories with Murv.

Most of my first novel was complete when I left law practice in 2011 to pursue a writing career. I felt confident in the book but one detail occupied my mind. What would I do about the cover? I considered artists from all over the state and even asked for online book cover submissions. Nothing was a perfect fit. To paraphrase the Supreme Court, I felt like ‘I would know it when I saw it’ and I trusted that conviction. After months of searching and exasperation I feared I may have to settle for something less than spectacular if I ever wanted to publish my book. My sister Stacey encouraged me to stop by an artist’s gallery in Tahlequah. Murv had already been famous for years by then but somehow I’d never heard of him. I must have been the only person in eastern Oklahoma who didn’t know of this legendary painter and his work.

My sisters insisted on visiting the Jacob Gallery. We walked in and I was immediately taken by the magic feel of the place. Scores of magnificent works of art adorned every inch of space. Crystals lined the window ledge. Bob Dylan was spinning on a dusty, old-school C.D. player. There, sitting before the canvas with his palette and brush, barefoot and wearing a pair of frayed, cut-off jean shorts was the man who would paint my book into life: Murv Jacob. He started asking questions. If you know Murv then you know that he directed the conversation. You did well just to sit back and hope your brain kept up. He asked me to describe my book to him in just one word. A book in one word!! Finally, I blurted out, “EERIE!” His countenance brightened and he proclaimed in his gruff manner, “Eerie?? Oh, i can do eerie. My middle name is Eerie. I was born on the BANKS of Lake Eerie.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. He said we could choose from any of his magnificent works for the cover art. I was floored by the generosity and began to peruse his paintings. But my sister Stacey wasn’t satisfied. She is notorious for being much more forward than I. She told Murv we wanted him to paint a commissioned original work for the book cover. He asked if we were able to pay for such a thing. My baby sister, Melissa, said, “I can go get a hundred dollars.” The room shook with Murv’s hearty laugh. “No, no,” he said, “I’ll do it for free.” We were so naive and didn’t understand until later that his original work sold for thousands of dollars. I described an outline of the book for him and mentioned the spooklight and a couple of owls that were central to the novel.

When I went back several weeks later he was sitting in his space with an anatomy book of owls laid out at his feet. He had already begun the spectacular night sky, which featured a Native interpretation of Orion and various constellations. A mysterious light floated in the water at the bottom of the work and below that sat two glorious and EERIE owls. I cried when I saw it. My body was covered in chills. Murv had mystically intuited and painted my vision.

Skull on the Trail: an original commissioned piece by Murv Jacob.

One of the many comments I’ve read about Murv in the last 24 hours is that he was intimidating. Some people admitted they were a little scared of him. It is true that to enter that gallery meant you were about to have your beliefs challenged. You would need a constitution able to withstand a fierce grilling. You couldn’t be easily offended by ideas that didn’t match your own. Most of all you had to be able to withstand being made to feel uncomfortable. Murv didn’t care about making people comfortable. He cared about challenging the power structure, societal norms and the status quo. The greatest artists of our time make us feel uncomfortable. That is the place where where growth and creation come from. Nothing comes from stasis. Murv was a master agitator and perhaps that explains his prolific output. It is one of the many reasons why I loved him so much. He was so bold. He also had a side, especially when it came to his children, grandchildren and his beloved Debbie Duvall, that was so tender and nurturing. He championed women. I don’t believe he could have  painted the beauty and delicacy of our world as he did without an in-depth understanding of the feminine perspective.

A Murv Jacob original t-shirt.

One of my favorite Murv Jacob stories involves this picture from Ethiopia. My buddy and colleague Scotty Batie was in Ethiopia doing work for the Oklahoma-based non-profit Rise Up, Inc. when he spotted this unmistakable style. It was a Murv Jacob original t-shirt worn by a villager. When Scotty posted the photo someone commented, “Oh, that must have been left over there by Faith Phillips,” presumably because I had been to Africa for a couple of years before the photo was taken. But no, I hadn’t brought any Murv shirts to Africa during my time there – though I wish I could have taken credit. It is best that we never know how that piece of Tahlequah Native vibe made it all the way across the great ocean to the far side of a massive continent. Great beauty is found in The Mystery.

Within two months I’ve lost the two men most responsible for my unlikely entry into the Oklahoma Arts: Steve Ripley and Murv Jacob. I know that I am just one of thousands they fostered. I never visited Steve or Murv that I didn’t find them working with some new up and comer. Steve and Murv reminded us with their legendary tales that it is cool to be an Okie – a sentiment that had begun to fade from our collective consciousness. They heralded a revival of literary, musical and artistic creativity that continues to grow even today. They paved the way for young Okie artists to pick up and run with the rich artistic heritage that permeates genuine Oklahoma culture.  That kind of generosity is invaluable to an aspiring artist. They shared their joy with us. Now it is our responsibility to keep giving that joy away by fostering other aspiring artists. Keep the dream alive. I promise, in honor of my beloved friends Murv and Steve, to do my part.

Murv insisted over and over again that I needed to read Jason and the Argonauts. He said there was some deep meaning I needed to find in that particular piece of literature. I never got around to it but now I think I will head to the library.

The last words Murv said to me were, “You are a dumpling.” It was one of the nicest things anyone ever said to me. It describes very simply the great affection  we felt for one another.

Signing off ’til the arrival of Spring. With love from Your Dumpling.

Okie Noir and the Waters of Renewal

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Pictured here: the Mark Twain portion of the Mississippi River Tales Mural. The paintings cover the Great River’s flood-wall in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. (I think he likes me, he really likes me…)

 

What is Okie Noir? It is the struggle and pain, survival and rebirth of people in this land, the place where we descend from outlaws and survivors of attempted genocide and the Dust Bowl. Speaking of Okie Noir, can I get a do over and can I get a witness about these last two months? Remember that song A Long December by Counting Crows? Specifically the part where Adam Duritz sings:

“it’s been a long December and there’s reason to believe Maybe this year will be better than the last…

If you think that I could be forgiven I wish you would…”

That song’s been fluttering around my brain for weeks now and not just because I’m a Gen X’er with a penchant for melancholy 90’s tunes. The end of 2018 stretched on so looooong, I wasn’t sure it was ever going to let us go, even into January. 

Life’s been rough around here of late, from illness and death, depression and anxiety, friends and loved ones wrestling with old ghosts we believed long buried, myself included. While we know these things are continuously present in existence it’s still difficult to grasp what others experience until those same birds come home to roost with you. The one good thing that comes from a painful struggle is renewed empathy for your fellows. Empathy can pull us from the brink when we put it into practice as a community. When you discover the person who disagrees with all your politics and all your dogma just lost a beloved family member all those things that created a gulf between you go right out the window (or at least they should). The proper human reaction is to go to him and offer comfort of some kind. You don’t ask questions, you just go.

January was supposed to be the month I neared completion of my masterpiece, my fourth book that I optimistically like to call my River Book. Let us just say that as of today, I’m three weeks behind schedule. Nonetheless, I intend to publish my River Book this year (***Lord, please let me live long enough to finish my River Book***).

The book is inspired by the true story of bones my sister found on a creek bank in Adair County. That discovery inspired me to imagine this person’s life in the place where we call home. It is the story of all of us in the Ozark foothills; our struggles, connections, spirituality, addiction, grief, humor, music and family… all set alongside the life giver of the Illinois River and its tributaries that tumble down to us from the mountains. This book will be my ultimate expression of #okienoir . 

I’ve known all along that water would be a central character in this book. The Cherokee people are intrinsically connected to the water as a source of food, medicine, celebration and cleansing, to name just a few. The river was known as The Long Man with his head(waters) in the mountains and his feet in the sea.  The ancient ritual of “going to the water” was a cleansing practice performed every morning to start the day. Cherokees would go to the river to pray and submerge themselves regardless of the temperature. The old Cherokees would wade out waist deep just after daybreak and throw water over their heads and pray, “wash away anything that may hinder me from being closer to you, Creator.“

Research for the River Book caused me to seek out some of the most amazing locales in the Ozarks.  The headwaters that flow clean and clear down ravines come together to create a mighty force greater than anything man can control. Gushing underground rivers bubble up out of mountains in some places, the source of which remains quite unclear, even to geologists. These things stoke my fire and renew my dedication to remain childlike with wonder and awe even in these days when I feel like an old woman, weary of the world.

I make no attempt to obscure the obvious influence of Mark Twain in my own work. Life on the Mississippi is the reason why I’m calling this fourth book my River Book. The genius in what he did was to shine light on the darkness and even mine humor from it at times. If my River Book is done correctly it will do the same. Sometimes we are the shadow, sometimes the sun. 

Now you must pardon me as I submerge myself onecet again.

“wash away anything that may hinder me from being closer to you, Creator.“

 

Letter From A Bluff-Dwelling Troglodyte

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Hoy, hoy! How are you feeling now? Has the bloating subsided a bit? Same here. This is your short, end-of-year letter from a bluff-dwelling troglodyte, your old friend from the Ozarks.

I’m working on the fourth book now, something informally called my River Book. So-called because it remains without an official title (***Lord, please let me live long enough to finish my River Book***). As a result, it is time to make a road trip through the Ozarks, the mysterious and beautiful place where I grew up. My only true home. ‘Tis a very strange thing, to research your home. As it turns out I didn’t know that much about the place. The library had volumes of books on the Illinois River and the Ozarks. One in particular described the Springfield Plateau as a prosperous place and home to several Fortune 500 companies. Then the discussion turned to the Ozark region where I grew up, the foothills of the Boston Mountains, on the Arkansas/Oklahoma border. The book pointed out that the people in this area are widely viewed as “bluff-dwelling troglodytes”. I had a good laugh at that. I texted my Dad about the phrase and he said, “Yes. That’s the Phillips clan. Bluff-dwelling troglodytes who will shank ya if you disturb our fishing hole. Then perhaps write a poem about it.”

The research week begins at Hogeye, AR, a place where the Phillips part of my family settled in the 1800’s and incidentally (perhaps) the same place where the Illinois River is borned out from hundreds of little rivulets run down from the hills. They join together to become a force that flows north, crossing the Oklahoma border and turning back south again to bring verdant life to NE Oklahoma. I like to think my Cherokee descendants saw the river after their bitter journey on the Trail of Tears and felt they’d found the closest thing to home for their family.

After Hogeye it’s off to Noel, Eminence and Blue Springs, Missouri. There’s also some place called the Land Between Two Lakes in Kentucky I’m headed for, not because it is considered the Ozarks but because it was on the map and demanded to be seen. Then on to Adams, TN where a strange and disturbing occurrence happened to one poor family in the 1800s. It’s all over now but I’m curious to take a peek. I can’t help myself. All of this brings me around to The Big Date on New Year’s Eve. I’m supposed to rendezvous with a guy named John at the Opry that night. From the Illinois River to the Cumberland, it seems. My family is due to meet me there. Dear ole Dad said several months ago, “We all need to go see Prine before one of us drops dead.” We could not argue with his logic.

This is my question for you: is it ok to wear a shirt that reads “Goose Springsteen” on the front to a John Prine concert? What if my sister made it special for Christmas? I feel like Prine would get it. He has a fine sense of humor if his music is any indication.

Wish me well on the road. If we see each other out there let us share a honk and a snog. Look here, we’re going to make it after all. I leave you with some Prine lyrics for to bake your brain casserole. I guess I’ll see you guys on the latter side of 18.

Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery 

Make me a poster of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to 

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go 

~Prine