I'm happy to share that my story "Close But Not Too Close" was published by [Alternate Route] in Issue 13, Spring 2024.
Find me on page 110 surrounded by plenty of wonderful poetry and short fiction.
"How had they ended up in this strange little town?
Well, their friends had raved about it. A must-see, they insisted, with glorious mineral springs and an adorable brewery.
She’d been doubtful."
Thanks [Alternate Route], and thank you for reading.
Last week I helped the local Dress for Success set up for a sale.
When I say we have inventory: for three hours, with music blasting, a dozen of us moved boxes and crates, swept and organized and stashed, hiding the bras and boring suits and displaying sequinned tops and immaculate jumpsuits on velvet hangers. Another volunteer and I swapped out work shoes for sale shoes, arranging towering heels and swanky boots by size and shape.
Young sorority women came in for the day, the first group torn between helping out and trying on sale items to purchase later. One rocked a pair of white cowboy boots, each of us hooting and wow’ed as she sashayed through the shop. Another modeled the latest in Gen Z style, an eyelet festival skirt with a crop top and Chucks.
My co-volunteer found at least six cute work dresses, two blazers and some strappy gold sandals for less than a hundred bucks.
There’s nothing like the power of fashion.
A friend took a few of us on a road trip to Donaldsonville last week.
Population about 6000. Former state capitol (for three years). Home to the first black mayor (Pierre Caliste Landry) and not a few rootsy musicians.
We visited an old schoolhouse (not realizing, duh, we needed to make a reservation for the full tour of the River Road African American museum), and learned about the Sears Roebuck/Julius Rosenwald /Booker T. Washington partnership that led to the construction of schools.
Out back of the school was a well-tended garden. A little girl, eight or nine, rode up on her bike and hopped off to give us the skinny on the garden, pointing out pepper plants, watermelon vines, and where the chickens used to live. Her name was Dallas, or Shalay, and she had three siblings or two, depending on which version of her fanciful tales you believed. We left her at the corner, worried she’d wander off with out-of-town strangers, and she called after us with a twinkle, I have one more surprise for you. That garden? It’s mine!
We lunched at the Grapevine; I dined on crispy fried green tomatoes, mashed potatoes, and tart, cheese-cakey lemon icebox pie.
After a hot, sweaty walk by the river and a stop at an immaculately sorted grocery store for water, we headed home, with one pitstop for roadside peaches and creole tomatoes, and nostalgic candy at Cajun Village.
I’m continuing to pitch agents, submit short stories and excerpts, and refine my drafts while I wait.
I’m reading a ton--World War 2 histories, British mystery novels, celebrity memoirs--and thinking about a video project or two (I love ‘em but they take so much tiiiiime).
And, living life. Working of course, volunteering, going to shows.
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I stopped by a brewery in my neighborhood yesterday to drop off some kids’ books. One Book One New Orleans is partnering with chef Isaac Toups and wife Amanda, who’ve taken food insecurity on full-steam. Books, food, mutual aid, and love, all on one humid patio. Amazing.
