Music to Read By – Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys

If you’re reading A Good Kind of Knowing, thank you so much. Here’s some good old-fashioned music to read by – fits well with Chapter 2. Full playlist for the whole book coming soon!

Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys – Faded Love


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Music to Read By – Nothing Like Merle Haggard on a Friday

I’m continuing to feature songs here that are mentioned in my novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, which is chock full of music and song references.

This one is also found in Chapter 1, and should put anyone who loves love old country in the mood to two-step.

Take it away, Merle.

Merle Haggard – Silver Wings


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Music to Read By – Let Patsy Speak to You

The main character, Sera, in A Good Kind of Knowing, loves Patsy Cline. Of course, I do, too. I love her voice. I loved that she was kick-ass. I loved that she had to fight her way into the boys’ world of Nashville. I love that Loretta Lynn was her best friend. I love that she and Charlie had a turbulent, brilliant kind of love. As you might guess, Sweet Dreams is one of my all-time favorite movies, too.

So, here you go. If you’re reading the novel, this is a good song to go along with Chapter 1.
Patsy Cline – Walkin’ After Midnight


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First Installment of A Good Kind of Knowing Music to Read By

Since my new novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, is all about music, I plan to post, every now and then, samples of the songs and artists mentioned in the story. Eventually, when I can find about an hour of previously unbooked time, I will put together a formidable playlist for those who want to read and listen at the same time. It’s gonna be EPIC. That’s my new word, by the way, when I’m trying to sound hip. Something tells me even using the word, “hip,” however, just blew my 43-year-old cover.

Here’s the first installment of Music to Read By:

First, the one and only Willie Nelson.

Next, how about some Texas Tornadoes with Freddy Fender?

And then there’s Charlie Sexton. Remember him?

And Ms. Nanci Griffith.

Finally, a necessity. Vintage George Strait.

Happy Friday, Y’all!


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Celebrating With Willie

Tonight, I’m celebrating the fact that my new novel, A Good Kind of Knowing, broke the top 100 in sales in its category on its first day out as an ebook. Yeehaw!  I’m pretty excited.

So, I thought I’d toss out a little Willie for everyone … it’s the song mentioned in the first paragraph of the new novel. In fact, since the novel is all about music, and there are tons of songs referenced in the story, I’m putting together a playlist for anyone who would like to listen along to relevant music while reading certain chapters. Stay tuned.

But for now. Take it away, Wille honey.

 


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River Days and Swamp Coolers

This is my new best friend, the portable swamp cooler I call, “Al.”

I haven’t been updating this blog as much as I’d like (and not near as much as my publisher would like I’m sure!) Life has been exceptionally crazy of late, though, so I have a good excuse. Let’s see … we moved from the mountaintop to the foothills of Denver, and I’m slowly emerging from grief mode. I have purchased a portable swamp cooler and drag it around me like some folks drag around their oxygen tanks. I also left the job I’ve been at for six years (the longest time I’ve ever been in one job) and started a new job that I’m loving. My son started first grade at a new school, and my husband lost his job. Yeehaw! But things are settling down now. Or will soon.

So until I have the ability to write more than a paragraph, I thought I’d go through some of my old stuff and post a short piece of my previous work.

Following is one of my favorite little mini-essays that I wrote about my childhood, growing up on the banks of the Guadalupe River. Much of my third novel I’m working on right now takes place along the river. Thanks for reading! (And my apologies if you’ve read this before.)

RIVER DAYS

The South Texas Guadalupe River in all its muddy loveliness.

Patterns exist in every childhood. Eating warm oatmeal for breakfast. Going to church at 9 a.m. on Sundays. Catching the bus after school.

Well, I rarely ate anything as healthy as oatmeal, only went to church on Easter and Christmas, and rode the bus just once, to see where it went. But the one pattern that stands out most in my years of growing up in South Texas is this: for about 10 years, every other Sunday, my two sisters and I piled into the back of my father’s 1979 green Ford truck with the camper on the back, sat on cattle feed sacks so hard we could feel every cube inside, and sang Tammy Wynette songs until my parents had driven the 20 or so miles to our bi-weekly destination.

My parents owned a camphouse on the banks of the Guadalupe River in South Texas. The cabin sat high on a grassy hill, just a stone’s throw from the river, and looked like it was put together with wood glue and a roll of aluminum foil.

Early on, my father had tiled the concrete floors with free, leftover linoleum squares from the lumberyard, so each one was a different pattern. Rusting iron beds lined the front room like an army’s hospital ward, the mattresses thin as slices of Wonder bread and holding fast to the mildew that only river air can provide. The bathroom’s toilet and sink showed only hints of ever being white; the well water’s sulfur had painted them brown and yellow and red, making them look like something fit for a horror movie. The kitchen was an old school bus, attached to the back of the camphouse by a welder’s hand. The kitchen-bus ran the length of the back of the house, the floors slanted down so much you could lose your balance bending down to pick up a dropped potato chip.

Our first chores when we arrived on Sunday mornings were the following: open the wood shutters that covered the screened windows in the front and back, securing them with baling wire. Check the bathroom and kitchen for water moccasins. Help Mom unload the brown grocery bags and stay out of Daddy’s way as he lit the barbecue pit.

After that, we were free.

Unlike at home, where my mother kept a tight handle on cleanliness, we could come and go as we pleased, river mud and all.

We could eat greasy burgers on buttery Texas Toast.

When a rain shower would develop, we could spend time inside, jumping from one iron bed to the next—a highly developed form of chase.

We could play on the tires that hung from century-old pecan trees as swings, and land on our knees, not worrying a bit about the grass stains.

We could build mud castles next to the swift currents of the Guadalupe and walk around all day with streaks of dried, clay-like dirt on our feet, arms and legs.

My sisters and cousins and I swang on a rope swing like this one out into the river. I wish I had photos of ours, though, because it was way better.

We could dangle from a thick, rough rope tied to a sturdy oak branch and let ourselves fly like birds out over the river, then fall from the sky with our stomachs in our throats, into the deep water, then float on our backs, feet first, down to the boat dock.

And we could run back to the camphouse, hair dripping wet, swimsuits filled with river silt, and walk straight into the kitchen to grab a cold Dr. Pepper, leaving footprints while hopping from a green paisley tile to one with sunbursts of orange.

Something about those days on the river has stayed with me through the years, as have the raised white scars on my knees—from landing on rocks in the river or cracked pecan shells near the tire swing.

I was at my best then, I think, when there were few rules and even fewer moments of doubt. I, along with my sisters, didn’t just live out the hours on those Sundays, we attacked them, like something fleeting. Like chasing dragonflies in waist-high weeds.

Risks seemed inevitable, even expected. We were wild. We were tomboys. We were fearless. We were laughter and dirty cheeks and sunburned noses.

We were our truest selves.


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The Best Comfort Foods, Texas Style

We all have them. Those favorite foods that we turn to when we’ve had a fight with a significant other, when the work day was like walking through a war zone, when you feel like you’ve been beat up one side and down the other, when things are just not going well at all, when we need a little bit of warmth for the soul. Yes, I just used the phrase “warmth for the soul.” Next thing you know, I’ll be planning office parties and wearing Christmas sweaters. It could happen?

Seriously, I found that when I moved away from Texas, my favorite comfort foods from home became even more important to me. So, here are some of my top Texas comfort foods and the memories they stir up like a nest of Yellow Jackets. (Or something much nicer that warms the soul but that I can’t exactly think of right now.)

Mmmmmm. Rings of Texas pit sausage. Can you smell it?

  1. Real Texas barbecue– I spent my childhood Sundays soaking up the smell of mesquite wood from my dad’s barbecue pit and smoker. Mom would make her magic marinades, and Daddy would man the pit. You haven’t tasted perfection until you’ve had their barbecue, whether it’s brisket sealed with that crisp black goodness of flavor or ring sausage that literally bursts with juice when you take a bite. No sauce needed. It’s rare for me to find good barbecue up here in Colorado, but every now and then, I’ll chance upon something that’s at least edible. And even mediocre barbecue takes me back to weekends on the Guadalupe River, trying to avoid the water moccasins, and swinging into the river from a rope tied to an old oak tree. And river mud. Lots of river mud between my toes.

    These turtles are called Texas River Sliders, and you can see them everywhere along the Guadalupe. And no, I don't eat them and they are not a comfort food. But they are cool.

  2. Texas chili – It has to be my mom’s recipe, of course, with just a kick of spice. My mom always seemed to have a pot of chili in waiting, and now we celebrate the first snowfall at our home at the top of a mountain each year by making a pot of Mom’s chili. Secret recipe hint: It has cornmeal in it. (Funny side note:  When I first reread this, I had left out the “a” in front of “My mom always seemed to have a pot” … so it read “My mom always seemed to have pot.” Frankly, that would have been a way more interesting childhood.)
  3. Potato soup – I know it’s a common theme here, but my mom makes the Best Potato Soup Ever.  She always made it for me when I was feeling under the weather, no matter how busy she was as a working mom of three crazy kids.
  4. Beer Nuts– Yes, I’m talking about those sweet-salty nuts you find at convenience stores next to the Slim Jims and teriyaki jerky. My dad loves Beer Nuts, and they remind me of him.

    Beer Nuts

    Admit it. You're jonesing for some of these right now, aren't you?

  5. Peach ice cream – Nothing says summer to me more than peach ice cream. One of the real treats of visiting my Mammaw and PawPaw back in the day was fishing for catfish in their tank (let me know if you non-Texans need a translation of a tank) and then cooling off with their homemade peach ice cream … with fresh peaches and lots of cream and the perfect amount of sweetness. I have yet to find a commercial brand that makes the cut, but I keep trying. (Sorry, Blue Bell. I’ve known Elizabeth Hart’s ice cream and sir, you’re no Elizabeth Hart.)

Now (maybe because I have a problem?), I also have Colorado comfort foods — but I’ll cover those in another post, because I’ve made myself really homesick and hungry now. Where are those Beer Nuts when you need ‘em?

What’s your favorite comfort food? What does it remind you of? I wanna know!


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Everything I Learned About Cooking I Learned from My Mama (Even Though She Doesn’t Let Me Near Her Kitchen)

I need this cup.

I come from a long line of control freaks.

In fact, the need to be in control at all times has been handed down through the generations to my mother, and to my sisters and me, like bad costume jewelry. This is no secret, especially to our husbands, our children, our coworkers (Shut up, CCG.)

We don’t just like to be in control, we pretty much demand it without saying it out loud. We kinda mow people down with our opinions and our plans. (I hereby apologize to everyone I have in the past, or will in the future, take down like a Craftsman 3-in-1 self-propelled chopper.)

I think in some psychotherapy circles our control freakishism could be considered a treatable illness, but for us, it’s just how it is. Our unstated mantra: Get in line and follow our lead, or get the hell out of our way while we make this particular thing happen. (Being control freaks isn’t very fun for us, by the way. It might seem like it is, because we tend to get our way (a lot), but it’s actually quite exhausting. Some people go to the gym to feel the burn, we just manage our loved one’s lives.)

All of this is to bring me to the point of today’s Mother’s Day-themed blog post. My mom is one of the most talented cooks in the state of Texas, maybe in the whole damn country. She could season up a cow patty, smother it in her gravy, and you’d eat it like it was a sirloin and ask for more. No exaggeration. She’s that good. I seriously don’t think I have ever eaten anything — anything — in my 43 years as her daughter that I didn’t like. (No comment needed here about the effect of this on my hourglass figure.)

My mom's version of chicken cacciatore would put this one to shame.

Even her so-called “mistakes,” are delicious. It doesn’t matter what the dish is, a soup, casserole, salad, cobbler, breakfast taco, you name it. If it’s a “Sue’s Surprise,” you’d elbow out a hungry child to get to it first.

But here’s the rub: She doesn’t allow people, like, er, her daughters, in her domain. Her kitchen is pretty much off limits. She may say she wants your help, but she doesn’t mean it. Because she needs to do it her way, which of course is the right way.

That means that everything I learned from her had to be learned on the sly. (Lucky! It just so happens that sly is something I do well.) I watched her from around the corner of the living room when she thought I was dusting. I memorized her techniques while she thought I was merely playing jacks or pick-up-sticks under her feet. (You didn’t have to nudge me so hard with that nasty old pink house shoe, by the way, Mom.) I even caught her at a low point after some surgery one time, while she was still under the influence of a great many pain killers, and convinced her to tell me some of her recipes that she keeps only in her head. I am not above resorting to these kinds of tactics for the greater good of society and the culinary arts.

My beautiful mother with an unknown stinkbug.

Nowadays, I think I’ve turned out to be a pretty good cook, too. (Not at legendary level, like her, but I can make a batch of enchiladas that’ll make you want to slap your pet alligator twice. Which sounds a little more risqué than I meant it to.) Basically, I can make her chili and her ranch dressing and her cornbread, but I haven’t mastered her apple pies or chicken-fried steak or roasted turkey.

I’m still learning, though. Every time I go home, I’ll continue to make mental notes, before she (figuratively this time) kicks me out from under her feet again. I’ll park myself at the kitchen table and watch her do her magic, whether she likes it or not. I’ll hold my son on my lap, as he watches her, too. I’ll tell her how amazing and beautiful she is, and how much I love her and her cooking.

But chances are, even with this little bit of kissing up, she still won’t let me mess around in her kitchen.


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What Being a Texas Woman Means

A friend recently sent me an article that was posted in Garden & Gun’s online magazine (I know! Worst magazine title ever, even if you are into squeezing a trigger) about what being a Southern woman means. It’s an excellent little piece.

Here’s one of my favorite insights: “It also means never leaving the house with wet hair. Not even in the case of fire. Because wet hair is low-rent. It shows you don’t care, and not caring is not something Southern women do …”

This. Is. Texas.

Mostly, though, the article got me thinking about what it really means to be a Texas woman. (Because when you’re from Texas, even if you move on like I have, you’re still a Texan. It’s not something you can ever leave behind. In fact, for me, Texas has only become more important as I’ve tried to make a life somewhere else. Texas is home. Texas is family. Texas is my heritage.)

I’ve been so lucky in my life to be surrounded by amazing Texas women from all walks of life: Women who grew up on farms and ended up running huge ranching operations on their own. Women who grew up in Houston and Dallas and Austin who go on to lead meaningful nonprofits and run international companies. Women who quietly make their own mark in small towns that are miles and miles from a metropolitan area. Women who drive 18-wheelers. Women who devote everything they have to their church or their art.

So, while I always fear over-generalization, I wanted to point out some commonalities I think exist in all of these different kinds of women — characteristics that, in combination, make Texas women truly unique. These are only my thoughts, of course — I’d love for others to add to the list (or argue with my perceptions). Here it goes:

Don't Mess With Texas Women.

1. Texas women are fiercely loyal. We’re seriously like German Shepherds on crack. A Texas woman will stand up for her man, her family and her close friends, protect them and guard them with her life — if they have earned her trust. Once you make it into a Texas woman’s inner circle, she will do anything for you. We have each other’s backs, even if we don’t necessarily agree with your actions, or if we haven’t seen you in 10 years.

2. Texas women hold grudges. If we feel a wrong has been committed against us, or against those we love dearly, we will never forgive you for it. It’s just a fact. You can apologize, and we might accept the apology at face value, we might even say that we forgive you, but you’ll never be in our inner circle again. Never. And you’ll miss that, because our trust and loyalty are pretty awesome things to have.

3. We’re going to do what we want, so you probably should just go along with it. A friend of mine asked me one day if I thought Texas women were high maintenance. She was thinking of the Dallas (the city, not the old TV show) stereotypes out there. My response was no, not at all. Now, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t Texas women who demand nice things in life (the mansion, the car, the jewelry). What it does mean is this: Texas women don’t stop until they get what they want. Maybe they’ll ask you for what they want. Maybe they won’t. But either way, they’ll push forward and find a way to make it happen with or without you. It’s not high maintenance, it’s perseverance. It’s “lead or get the hell out of the way so I can.”

Friday Night Football in Texas

4. We get football. We understand the game because we likely had fathers or brothers or college boyfriends or mothers or aunts who loved it. Or maybe we loved it, too. After all, football is big in Texas. BIG. It’s a huge part of the culture, whether you live in the city or a small rural town. Texas women grow up with the excitement of Friday night games and cheerleading and the marching band, and pep rallies. It’s just part of the fabric of Texas life. Some Texas women go on to love it their whole lives, and some don’t. But either way, they still get it.

5. Texas women know that when someone is grieving, sending over a brisket, a broccoli-cheese casserole and a pound of coffee is the best way to express how much you care. Period.

6. Texas women, if they are moms, are deeply involved in their kids’ lives. If her son is playing football, she will be at every game, no matter how far she has to drive. If her daughter wants to play softball, but the family can’t afford a team uniform and fees, she will work an extra job, or sell breakfast tacos at work, until she earns enough to make it happen.

7. We hold it together in tough times. We’re powered by a hardy history and kick-ass ancestors. Remember, Texas was a god-forsaken place back when it was first settled: Difficult to farm, little water, hard ground, harsh weather. I think those resilient women of yesteryear have stayed in our genes throughout time. You tragically lose a husband or a child? You curse, you howl in agony, and then you put yourself back together and make it through it. Your son goes to jail for an unspeakable crime? You hold your head up high and visit him weekly. A hurricane destroys your home? You rebuild it, stronger. And sure, Texas women cry. But then we wipe those tears and figure out how to go on.

8. We understand that you can draw more flies with honey than vinegar. We know how to use that strategy to, say, get out of speeding tickets, or get another desired result (see #3 above). But we have plenty of vinegar to share if you get on our bad side. Texas women love a good fight, and we know how to fight with words that’ll slap you harder than a happy hound dog’s tail.

9. Texas hospitality is unique, too. We don’t welcome just anybody into our homes. But when we do ask you to come in, you can expect a glass of cold, sweet iced tea, and an invitation to stay for dinner and pie. And if you’ve earned our trust (see #1 above), you can make yourself at home from then on out. Just grab what you want out of the refrigerator and be sure the back screen door is shut tight.

10. Finally, yes, Texas women like to look good. Appearances are important. It’s rare to find a Texas woman who will go to the grocery store without at least a little makeup on. I personally think it all comes back to the fact that we need a whole lot of self-confidence to fight our way through life, and by wearing those nice-fitting jeans and a sparkly belt (even after the age of 45) to buy toilet tissue, we give ourselves the edge we need to run our little (or big) worlds.

I miss my Texas gals. Every one of you, even if I don’t wear makeup to the grocery store in Colorado any more.

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BOOK NEWS! It’s been an unbelievable week so far for Blue Straggler. The novel hit the #1 best-selling position in both comic fiction and humor categories on Amazon, and on its first free promotion day, 7,000+ people downloaded it to their Kindles. Someone pinch me!


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A Land-locked Girl’s Memories of the Coast

This is the resort we stayed at in Cancun. Swanky!

My husband and I just got back from a few days in Cancun. (Note to Mom: We were not attacked by, nor did we see, one armed bandito, which was a little disappointing after all the hype.) We did manage, though, to successfully escape two snowstorms and windchills below zero here on the mountain.

Overall, it was a good time that included a large quantity of unlimited, top-shelf alcohol, some fun-loving friends and hours spent catching up on some great novels on my Kindle. (By the way, ever heard of a Tequila Boom-Boom shot? I have now. If I could go back and rewrite Blue Straggler, the main character Bailey would definitely be drinking those.)

Now, let me be clear: I am not a beach girl. I do not long to surf or own a long board. My skin’s typically so pale all I have to do is look at the ocean and I’m burned. I never, not once, wanted to be a mermaid. (I wanted legs, dammit!) I couldn’t sail a boat to save my life. I am not one of those women who look good in a bikini, tankini or ini of any kind. Sea water stings my eyes. I don’t particularly care for mold. I don’t like being shark bait. The constant sound of those waves gets to me after a while. And I will never, ever look good with that whole wind-blown hair thing. If given the choice, I would much rather be standing at the top of a 12,000 ft. peak than floating in any ocean, no matter how turquoise the water.

However, every now and then, I need the sea and a break from All Things Mountain. Plus, I do enjoy sea kayaking, snorkeling, building sand castles, shell hunting and a Jimmy Buffet song or two.

Colorado, of course, offers none of that. (Jimmy B., does come to town every five years to play huge stadium concerts, though. Land-locked parrot heads, rejoice!)

This is a lovely shot of Port Aransas, courtesy of Creative Commons/Flickr.

During my childhood in South Texas, we often headed to what we simply called “the coast.” Port Aransas, located on the Texas Gulf of Mexico, was only a few hours away from my  hometown, so my parents could drive us all down in our 1970s-era custom party van with the swivel seats and curtains in the back, spend the day on the beach, and drive back that evening.

I distinctly remember that every day trip to the coast involved a great deal of pre-weather anxiety for us kids: My parents would nix the trip if the forecast called for more than a 10 percent chance of rain. We’d all hover around the kitchen radio the evening before, listening to the local radio station, KCTI, for the latest.

More memory snapshots: Getting to buy a new beach towel at Kmart in Seguin every summer. Feeding large flocks of aggressive seagulls that would swoop down to take bread out of my hands. Floating on large black inner tubes (the kind we’d use to float in the Guadalupe River, too) out in the waves. Keeping constant watch for jellyfish, which were not only in the water but all along the beach. My mom looking so glamorous in her swimsuit and sunglasses. My dad drinking Pearl beerunder the blue tarp we’d put up for shade. Eating summer sausage and blocks of cheddar cheese and greasy bargain potato chips and drinking ice-cold Dr Pepper out of glass bottles from the well-stocked cooler. Being completely unaware of my body and how it might look to others, concentrating only on jumping into the big waves as they tumbled to shore. Feeling the strong undertow grab me and buckets of sand, drawing us quickly out into the surf. A sense of pseudo-panic when I’d take a momentary break from swimming and playing in the water to realize I had drifted so much that the blue tarp and the custom party van were becoming far too small in the distance. Resting on those plastic-tube folding lounge chairs with hinges that got more and more rusted each year. And of course, after we got back home, those large gobs of Noxzema cream we’d all have to apply to our beet-red, sunburned skin.

Remember these?

We may not have had perfect, white-sand beaches or round-the-clock waiters bringing us drinks called Purple Rain and Superman under the shade of coconut trees, or Elvis impersonators as the evening resort entertainment , but we did have fun back then. Too bad there won’t be time for a run to Port A when I’m in Texas in March for my book signing tour.

What are your favorite beach memories? Please share below! I’d love to hear about them.

Random Texas music note: The Court Yard Hounds, wrote and recorded a tribute song to the Texas coast. Listen to it here.


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