ReadBooksBy.Faith

All about author Faith Phillips

Oklahoma Author

Wherein I Bathe With My Editor

by

Under the River Bridge

We were supposed to go to the courthouse to file our marriage license. Couldn’t find the license at first … but Trophy Husburnd hunted it down in the back of the truck. It was just a *little* rumpled. Still good though. We went to the courthouse. The clerk took one look at it and said, “you don’t have a second witness,” and sent us away. It was my one job to have my mother sign the marriage certificate. I failed.
So, conveniently, we were on our way to meet Mom and Dad for breakfast. She signed it. So we went back to the courthouse for the second time. The clerk started the filing process. For some reason I felt shocked and said, “WHEW! It’s really official!” I didn’t realize all the people in the office were listening. They started laughing. ALL OF THEM. At first I thought they must be laughing at an inside joke but, no, they were laughing at us. One of the ladies said, “your entire face just turned beet red!” And then everybody had another good round of laughs.

Finally, a nice young gentleman standing in a window box offered a word of encouragement. “Well, now at least no more stress or anxiety,” he said. I nodded my head in agreement. “Sure,” I replied, my eyes bugging out. “No stress. No anxiety.” Everyone just stood there in silence for one moment more, then they burst into laughter again. I felt like I was doing a 7 minute set at the Loony Bin.

I’m glad my Trophy Husburnd seems ok with this version of life. We often say to each other, and I actually believe it to be true, that no other human could tolerate either one of us long-term. He takes it all in stride. For the first time in my life I have granted someone editing rights over my work. If I write something that offends him and he lets me know, I will edit it out. It’s one of the perks of the job. I made the dude my Editor-in-Chief. It’s a BIG STEP. I memorialize life almost every day in some sort of writing – my journal, a silly facebook post, this blog… Not many people are willing to tolerate that level of intrusion. I happen to think he’s the only one up for the task.

After we took care of the marriage license business I said, “take me down to the river bridge.” We bathed in the river. It was 47° Fahrenheit. When we were done I asked, “do you wish you had a normal wife?” He just said, “No,” without further explanation. See what I mean?

I’m soaking up these verses about freedom from fear today:

Be strong and of a good courage, fear not, nor be afraid of them: for the Lord thy God, he it is that doth go with thee; he will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.
Deuteronomy 31:6

The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? the Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?
Psalms 27:1
I like to recognize my fear and then run at it HARD until it is overcome.

I still feel very uncomfortable/insecure about the health part of this blog but I’m just going on with it until it either becomes something or I just get bored with it altogether.

Day 2 Menu

Ham and cheese omelette

Leftovers: Butternut squash, 5 oz hamburger

Spinach and blueberry tuna salad, Primal Kitchen vinaigrette, sunflower seeds (LAY OFF ME IM STARVING)

Oh yeah, I’m also drinking half my body weight in water ounces (!!!) That’s a lotta watta.

Honesty: I lost four pounds, then I gained eleven back and now I lost another four. I’ve never been good at math but I think this means I’m WINNING

(I also had 3 glasses of pinot noir tonight)

Ok, see you soon. #okienoir

Death Isn’t Like The Movies

by

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?”

December Flog: Special Okie Music Edition

by

I like seeing you here for the December Flog: Special Okie Music Edition. Despite the title, I don’t have a musical in the works. But that could be pretty interesting, yeah?

In a perfect world, the holiday season is supposed to remind us to be grateful, to make us more aware of blessings, and then help us find joy that can be made complete by giving that very joy away to others. That’s what I’ve learned in my time on this rock, at least. This is a long overdue Flog Post about the blessing of music in my life and the joy that flows from it.

Since the third book took off this fall I’ve participated in several interviews with the media. Perhaps the most common question I get concerns music. All three of my books have soundtracks that augment the story in some way. Perhaps that sounds weird. Let me explain, by telling you about the first time music took its hold on my pen:

In 2008 I left Tulsa the day after a Bob Dylan concert and began to drive back to Ardmore, where I lived and worked as an attorney. I put the radio on scan because I couldn’t find any good music on the usual stations. I was struck by the sound of a haunted song. The voice was deep, the song simple; it had a rockabilly bass line that grabbed me. It was Sanford Clark singing The Fool. I was mesmerized. The song ended and then a voice floated from my speakers that made my ears catch fever and my face turn red. You know those voices in music that cannot be mistaken? You hear the very first note and you know who’s singing? Neil, Bob, Leon … this voice was like those. I’d never heard a voice so velvety, inviting, and somehow knowing. I could tell this guy had some knowledge that I really needed. The connection on my end was immediate. The radio host was Steve Ripley. He spoke with great passion about Leon Russell and Will of the Wisp and played a track off that album. I can’t explain it exactly, but somehow the inspiration Steve conveyed in his radio show set off some strange combustion in my own brain. In an instant the outline of an entire fiction novel appeared in my head. I could see it like a movie and scrambled to write down this unexpected gift.

It’s a long story and I’ll spare you the details, but eventually Steve Ripley was the first artist to recognize something in me and my work. He invited me to enter a door into a world of artistic creation that I didn’t believe I deserved to walk through. He will likely not be tickled by this public reference because he is such a private person, but he remains the single most responsible party for my inspiration to write for a career. When I picture the whole thing in my mind-dreams, Steve opens the door wearing a top hat and that trademark smile. Thank you Steve, for sharing your joy with me. I promise to keep giving it away.

Recently I came across a quote from one of my favorite writers, Michael Ondaatje. It explains the music and literature connection better than anything I ever came up with: “The rhythm of music has been the biggest influence on my writing – it’s not Wordsworth, it’s Ray Charles. Music has been such an important part of my life. The elements that I have when I’m writing is closer to music than anything else I know. The music in the words.”

If music brings joy to your life, and surely it must, please explore these Okie artists who so generously contributed to my latest book. They comprise a list of incredible talent. Just tapping your toe doesn’t pay the bills, you know? So spend some dough on the music that you dig this year. Many of these artists released albums in 2018 and/or have upcoming releases scheduled for 2019.

They are, in order of appearance in Now I Lay Me Down:

Carter Sampson     Lauren Barth     Kalyn Fay     Wink Burcham     Samantha Crain     John Moreland     Evan Felker

Buffalo Rogers       Nellie Clay          John Calvin Abney     Tequila Kim Reynolds     John Fullbright

Looking for something super fresh? Check out the debut album from the West Coast band Dark Mondays on Itunes and Spotify, headed up by lead vocalist (and Cherokee citizen) Natahne Arrowsmith. Her voice is sublime and rich, like dessert (listen and you’ll hear what I mean). This dark jewel carries a moody vibe that lives up to the band’s name. Dark Mondays also offers up several interpretations of classic Christmas tracks with innovative vocal acrobatics from Arrowsmith. It can be a most satisfying experience to start a new tradition.

Itunes https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/come-sundown-ep/1434478114

Spotify https://distrokid.com/hyperfollow/darkmondays/fkQ5

Now hear this: mark down two more upcoming 2019 albums from my dear friends – The Red Dirt Rangers release their 10th recording, described as “the live sound they’ve been looking for since Cimarron Soul, with lead and rhythm accordion players” in 2019! Follow their Kickstarter and release dates on Twitter and Facebook.

The Okie musician’s musician, Joe Baxter, drops his vintage collection, The Weather,in 2019. I was lucky to get an early glimpse of this album. It is GORGEOUS, full of yearning, dark romance, vulnerability and as always with our old pal J.B., it is quintessential Okie Folk. I daresay it is Okie Noir. Just my style.

Here are my last two book dates of the year and then I’m DONE for quite some time:

Tuesday, Dec 11 in McAlester, Oklahoma, accompanied by the former prosecutor from Now I Lay Me Down, Judge Maxey Reilly and the acclaimed Okie singer/songwriter Nellie Clay. We’ll be at the public library there at 11 a.m. and then at Common Roots that afternoon for a signing from 4 – 6 p.m.

Friday, Dec 14 at The Branch in Tahlequah, Oklahoma, 7 p.m. This time the real performance will come from our beloved and talented Buffalo Rogers. I get to be the lucky sidecar. Oh, how I relish being the lucky sidecar. Seriously.

Ok, it is past time to sign off now. Thank you so much if you stuck with me through to the end. You take care now and give that joy away.

“Listen, I shew you a Mystery. We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be transformed.”

 

Hell Canyon, Part 3 of 3

by

 

This is my spooky gift for your October. It is a serialized short fiction piece originally published in 2011, before any of my books went into print. Perhaps we may call it a prequel. The infancy of Okie Noir. Curl up in your favorite chair, pull a blankie over your lap and hear the rain softly tapping on your window. Then again, let us hope it is only the rain. Please enjoy Hell Canyon, Part 3 of 3

He and Shell walked back toward the creek. Their voices swirled together in the wind that blew through the canyon.

Aunt Cindy told me later that I threw the awfullest fit you ever saw when Shell left that second time.  I fought so hard I even got loose of her for a second and took off after them. I only made it a few steps before she snatched me back up again. I wonder sometimes if maybe I sensed that something bad was on its way. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to let her go. Maybe.

The police took statements after she disappeared. When I was old enough I went back and read through all the reports I could find. Shell and Grandpa had filled up the entire gallon bucket with bones from that creek bed. They came back to camp at dusk, both convinced Shell had found a human skeleton. Everyone was disturbed but agreed that they would contact the authorities first thing next morning. Shell and Cindy went to sleep in the back of the camper and Grandma took me into the tent with her and Grandpa.

Cindy’s police statement said she woke up in the middle of the night just after 3:00 a.m. Said she heard a train whistle and a pack of coyotes screaming all at once. She was frightened by that awful sound so she sat up and looked out the window of the camper. She saw a faint glowing red light off in the distance but couldn’t say for sure whether it was a tail light. She watched until it faded away, then went to lie back down again. That’s when she realized Shell was gone. She yelled for Grandma and Grandpa and they came tripping over each other out of the tent, wild-eyed and confused. Once they understood that Shell was missing, Grandpa grabbed a flashlight and went through the entire RV camp rattling families from their sleep and shouting for Shell. He tore through that camp up one side and down the other. But she was gone.

The police arrived half an hour later but they weren’t too excited over a teenaged girl gone missing. They had a lot of questions about how our family got along and if Shell had any reason to run away. They even hinted she might’ve run off to escape her responsibility of raising me. That suggestion made Grandpa so mad he nearly went to jail himself. The only reason he didn’t was because Grandma started crying and begged him to get hold of himself.

When daylight came, Grandpa saw that the bones had vanished too, bucket and all.  He told the police about finding the skeleton on the creek. They looked at him like he’d lost his marbles and sent a man down to comb over the creek bed. He came back after fifteen minutes and said he didn’t find a thing.

After a week of searching, Grandma said we had no other choice but to go back home. Grandpa drove us to Oklahoma, turned around and drove right back to Hell Canyon by himself. He was out there for a month before Grandma wrote him a letter saying he’d lose both his daughters if he didn’t come back in time to give Cindy away at the wedding.

He came back like she asked, but he never stopped hounding the Fallow County police until the day he died. Eight years after Shell disappeared the stress of it finally took him. God as my witness, people really can die of a broken heart. That’s one thing I hope you never have to see.

Strange how people in this little town still conspire on what really happened out there in the middle of the desert. My neighbors speak to each other in hushed tones that come to a sudden halt when they see me coming. They must wonder why I keep looking for her after all this time. But maybe none of them know what it’s like to lose their mama. Maybe it really isn’t fair to expect anyone to understand. That was the summer my mama disappeared. And I don’t guess I’ll ever stop hoping she finds her way back from Hell Canyon.

 

(Originally published by Quentin Bomgardner, Kelly M. Roberts and The Red Dirt Chronicles)

#okienoir

Hell Canyon, Part 2 of 3

by

Welcome back. This is my spooky gift for your October. It is a serialized short fiction piece originally published in 2011, before any of my books went into print. Perhaps we may call it a prequel. Curl up in your favorite chair, pull a blankie on your lap and hear the rain softly tapping on your window. Then again, let us hope it is only the rain. Please enjoy Hell Canyon, Part 2 of 4

We were road weary by the time the camper pulled into the RV park. Grandpa went to check us in at the front office. The park was a nice and clean. They even had a pool. Everyone had taken turns riding in the back of the camper except for Grandpa. The only decent breeze you got back there was if you stuck your face right up next to the window vent, so the pool looked mighty inviting.

Shell was the only one who didn’t want to go swimming. She had spotted an old creek bed running a ways back off the road. She wanted to get down there and hunt for fossils. Back home we had piles of white rocks riddled with little horseshoe and screw-shaped fossils in our garden. Shell never went for a swim at the creek without bringing a few of them back.

Grandpa told her not to stay gone too long since we’d be eating supper pretty quick. So she took off and left me there with Cindy and Grandma, splashing around in that nice, blue pool. We have pictures of that, too. Pictures of Cindy and Grandma passing me back and forth, my chunky baby arms bobbing on the water’s surface. We spent half an hour or so in the pool before Grandma said it was time to get out. Aunt Cindy saw to it that I got dressed while Grandma started supper.

Before too long Grandpa asked, “Shell back yet?”

In truth, everyone had been busy and kind of forgotten about her. Cindy was annoyed and said she’d go fetch Shell back from the creek.  Cindy took off down the two lane black top. When she was put out she walked pretty funny. It was a fast clip that made her head bob up and down. That’s one thing I remember for sure, the sight of Aunt Cindy’s arms swinging back and forth, fists clenched, head popping up and down, just like a chicken.

When we saw Shell and Cindy walking back together, we knew they were having a fuss. Cindy was barking at Shell and gesturing up at the sky with both hands. We could see that Shell was carrying something. Grandpa said he figured she had found her fossil.

When they reached camp, Cindy was still worked up and turned her attention to Grandma.

“Look what she did! Shell went and dug up a bone on the creek!” Cindy’s face was red and her arms were crossed against her chest. “Momma, I TOLD her to put it back but she wouldn’t listen. She wanted to keep digging!”

She turned and faced her sister again. “Shell, why do you always act just like a FREAK?”

“Settle down, settle down, girls.” Grandpa said. “What’d you find Shell? Bring it here and let’s have a look.”

“Frank, I don’t approve her dragging up a bone of any kind to camp, whether it came from a horse or Howdy Doody. We’re fixin to eat.” Grandma said flatly.

“Oh, we’ll wash our hands, Mary,” he said in reply. Grandma gave up and went back to peeling potatoes.

“Come on now, whatcha got there Shellie?” She walked over and gave him a thin curved bone. Nicks and grooves on the weathered surface hinted that maybe it had been gnawed on by an animal.

“Probably some stray dog wandering the road got hit by a car,” Cindy said over her shoulder.

“It isn’t a dog.” Shell said.

Grandpa had been turning the bone end over end in his hands. “How do you know that, Sis?”

“Well, I think that’s a clavicle. I mean, I’m pretty sure of it,” she said. “We just studied over it in Anatomy. My textbook said only animals that walk upright have bones shaped in this particular way.”

The camp went silent while the rest of the family considered her statement. Shell was enrolled in the county Vo-Tech nursing program. Even Cindy had to admit that her younger sister was better versed on this subject.

“Oh, Dad, can’t you just stop encouraging her?”

He didn’t acknowledge Cindy’s question. “Well, after dinner I’ll walk down there with you and we’ll see what we can dig up, how about it?”

Shell brightened up considerably.

“Ok. I’m just glad somebody believes me,” she said, shooting a sideways glance at her sister.

Grateful the argument had died down, Grandma fanned out a faded pink sheet over the concrete picnic table. Everyone forgot about the bones for a spell and laughed and talked over beans and fried potatoes.

After dinner, Grandpa walked to the back of the camper and returned with a gallon bucket.

“I guess you’re planning on coming back with a body in a bucket, Daddy?” Cindy sniffed.

“Maybe. We’ll see,” he said.

 

***to be continued next Sunday***

(Originally published by Quentin Bomgardner, Kelly M. Roberts and The Red Dirt Chronicles)

#okienoir

Hell Canyon, Part 1 of 3

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My mama disappeared that summer. Funny thing about memory, sometimes I don’t know the difference between my own true recollection and things I’ve been told. Maybe that’s due partly to hearing bits and pieces of this story over and over again, my whole life, from the time that photo was taken to this day. And now look at me. Sitting here telling the same story all over again.

See, that trip was our last family vacation. Cindy (she’s the pretty one with the hat) had only been off to college for two months before she came back and announced her engagement. The wedding was set for October. Grandpa Frank said we would take one last family vacation together before Cindy’s no-account city boy married into the family.

Grandpa mapped out the drive and explained that the planning part was just as much fun as the doing part. He took out a big atlas of the United States and pointed out the route from Okemah to Hell Canyon. We’d stop in at the RV park in Hell Canyon and camp for the night, then wake up before daylight next day and drive on to the coast. Grandpa made the whirring sound of a car engine as he dragged his finger along Route 66 from Okemah all the way out to California. Cindy rolled her eyes and looked away. But Shell’s eyes were filled with light and excitement. She laughed every time Grandpa’s finger stopped and took off again on the map.

Cindy always said Shell was Grandpa’s favorite, despite the fact that she was the only natural born trouble maker of the whole bunch. Grandma had a hard time making Shell behave. In fact, sometime shortly after Shell’s thirteenth birthday, Grandma just threw up her hands and said she was through trying. She had washed Shell’s mouth out with soap, thrashed her with cedar branches, grounded her for life, threatened her with boarding school and finally resorted to begging. But Shell never would give in. She’d take her lumps and keep right on with whatever scheme she’d cooked up in the first place.

Grandma would cry and say Shell was hell bent. But Grandpa didn’t believe that at all. He said she was just thirsty for life and tended to gulp it down quicker than most could tolerate.

When I was born, Shell was just sixteen. Grandma told everybody that I would be enough to quench Shell’s thirst for a real long time. Shell named me Frances, but no one ever called me that. On the day I was born Grandma said I was her little June bug and from then on I was called Junie.

It was my second birthday when we all loaded into the camper truck and set out on the road for our last trip together. Shell picked out the traveling music. A steady beat shuffled us along the road while Hank Williams howled, “Then I hurried straight home and packed…And if I didn’t go, I believe I’d blow my stack.”

…to be continued…

 

(Originally published by Quentin Bomgardner, Kelly M. Roberts and The Red Dirt Chronicles)