When people we love pass on we are left with only our
memories of them in our hearts and minds. Recalling touching moments tend to make
us shed tears. Hysterical laughter ensues when remembering a funny story
involving our loved one. Even a favorite phrase or saying sticks, and when
heard again from the lips of another, immediately dredges up memories of the
special person in your life who used the same expression.
Knowing they are no longer around to say them hurts the
heart and soul like nothing else can.
My grandfather passed away in 2005 and the mere mention of
his name makes a lump of tears form in my throat. We were very close and I had
the privilege of growing up and listening to stories of his youth told in a
deep, rhythmic baritone thick with a southern accent. As most storytellers,
Grandpa loved an audience to regal with lavish tales of a world no longer
around, interspersing the stories with nuggets of old-school values and ideals.
Many humid summer nights were spent on the screened-in front porch shelling
peas (yes, I shelled them but no, I refused to eat them) and listening to him
talk about life in southern Arkansas. To say I miss those times would be an
understatement.
One of his favorite sayings in response to the question,
“How are you?” always made me laugh. He’d give a mischievous grin and reply,
“I’m fine as frog hair!”
The first time I remember him saying the phrase I was around
eight and I giggled. “Grampa! Frogs don’t have hair!” to which he replied,
“Darling, it’s so fine you can’t see it, but it’s there. Some things you have
to use your heart to see.”
At the age of eight, I really didn’t grasp the meaning of
the explanation. All I knew was the phrase made me laugh whenever he said it,
and the expression became a running joke between the two of us. The tradition
carried on when my son was born, and my beloved grandfather passed on his
wisdom, morals, and our family history to his great-grandson with each bedtime
story.
Fine as Frog Hair is
the title of my latest book, a short novel (under 12,000 words) with certain
parts inspired by my grandfather. It’s a tribute to a man I loved, respected,
and miss every day
.
Grandpa would cluck his tongue or shake his head if he heard
someone use the expression “Those were the good old days.” His response? “Only
to those who never experienced them.” This story explains why he felt that way,
and how strong previous generations were in a very different world than we live
in now.
I’m thrilled to announce the audio version will be narrated
by Homer V. Jones. I cried when listening to his audition sample. Mr. Jones
sounded so much like my grandfather it was eerie and wonderful at the same
time.
Fine as Frog Hair
is slated for release August 31, 2016 on all retail channels (Amazon,
B&N,
and iTunes) and is
available for preorder for only .99 cents. The synopsis and an excerpt from
Chapter 1 are below.
Can the past
heal the future?
Ninety-year-old
Marvin Hermesch is determined to find out.
After sneaking
out of the retirement home on a hot and humid Sunday afternoon, Marvin embarks
upon a journey. His memory is deteriorating fast, and he’s having difficulty
recalling the face of his deceased wife, Ruthie.
As his
short-term memory slips, it awakens memories buried deep from his younger days
and vivid nightmares of his youth, including the horrors of World War II.
Armed with an
empty journal, some water, and his trusty old truck, Marvin heads to his
childhood home in the backwoods of Grant County, Arkansas for one last journey;
one final battle.
Marvin fights to
regain control of his mind and body by confronting the tragedies of the past in
hopes of healing the future.
Chapter
One
MARVIN SHUFFLED DOWN the
sprawling concrete steps as fast as his old legs would allow. The smell of
gardenias and magnolias hung heavy in the humid, late Sunday afternoon air. The
fragrant aroma embedded its natural perfume on his damp shirt—a welcome
reprieve from the stench of disinfectants and bleach. Sweat sprinted down his
back and face while making his way across the thick grass to the back parking area.
Stopping at
the edge of the blacktop to catch his breath, he wiped the dampness from his
forehead. Glancing around to ensure no one had noticed him slip outside, ninety-one-year-old
Marvin Dean “Junior” Hermesch let a true, genuine smile form—a first in nearly three
years. The only thing standing in the yard was the brick inlaid sign proudly
proclaiming the name of the place, Rolling
Brooks Estates. The faux-gold, trimmed lettering was overly ostentatious
and didn’t reflect the continual nightmare of the poor, elderly souls trapped
behind the doors, stashed away with nothing to look forward to except death.
When Marvin
arrived at his new home two years prior, he’d gasped at the beauty of the building
and grounds. At the time, he thought the lovely surroundings would help ease
the pain of selling his home and moving into the assisted-living facility full
of complete strangers. The three-story, red brick exterior sported six
enormous, white columns gracing the porch encircling the entire place. A
well-manicured yard dotted with weeping willows made the area look more like a
scene from Gone with the Wind than a retirement home.
The beauty was
a fake façade—a siren’s call beckoning weary travelers of life with false
promises of rest and sanctuary. The place was nothing more than a fancy, large
mausoleum, complete with thin and frail corpses shuffling around inside. The
residents were dried up husks of their former selves, betrayed by their own
bodies and minds. The life sucked out of them little by little each passing day
of incarceration.
Squaring his
once strong shoulders, Marvin took a deep breath, letting the sweet aroma of
the flowers invigorate his soul. They reminded him of his birthplace; made his
heart thump with excitement, knowing the backwoods of Grant County was today’s
destination.
Marvin refused
to spend the remainder of his life withering away while the staff and other
residents watched him wilt from afar. He was just a name and number—a frail
body occupying Room 272—and when he passed, another aged soul would slip into
his spot.
The residents
were like elderly cattle huddled together, never noticing when a member of the
decrepit herd dropped to the ground.
Two years of
having every move monitored, no say in what to eat, when to sleep, who he
shared a room with, how he lived, was
more than enough.
It was time to
go. Time for Marvin to head back home and reconnect with his roots before the
dark shadows of confusion overtook his thoughts forever. He feared the next bout
would be a permanent break, trapping him inside the twisted hallways of a
shattered mind.
Picking up his
pace despite the intense waves of heat billowing up from the pavement, Marvin
reached his old Dodge truck. He tried, yet couldn’t recall, how long it’d been
since he’d driven. Weeks? Months? A year? Would he even remember how to operate
the thing?
Gnarled
fingers shaking, Marvin unlocked the door and climbed behind the wheel, tossing
the bag full of goodies on the floorboard. The tattoo on his right forearm of
an anchor with the words USS Langley
had faded, yet under the bright afternoon sun, the bluish-black ink seemed
brighter. Pride swelled inside his concaved chest. He’d been a Gunner’s Mate on
the ship during World War II—and was one of the fortunate who’d survived after
she’d sunk.
Unwilling to
revisit those memories, Marvin
glanced at his hands. The thick, silver wedding band still held its place of
honor on his left ring finger even though his beloved wife Ruthie had been gone
for almost ten years.
Thinking about
his beautiful wife, even though he missed her so bad it made his chest tighten,
was much better than reliving the horrors of the war. For years, he’d kept the
terrifying images locked away in the deepest recesses of his mind. Once
discharged, he’d gone on with life, married, owned a successful construction
business, and enjoyed the companionship of friends and his wife. Those
activities helped keep the memories sealed away.
Things changed
when Ruthie passed on from cancer. The lock inside him weakened, and when
Marvin moved into Rolling Brooks Estates
after suffering several falls at home, the
mental lock snapped in two, releasing the horrid visions of the war which
haunted him day and night.
“Not gonna
think about that! No you aren’t, Junior. Not today. It’s time for a Sunday drive
to clear the cobwebs from the head. Yes siree!”
Forcing all
his concentration on the ignition switch, Marvin said a silent prayer for the old
V8 to behave. He grinned when the truck started right up. He patted the
cracked, worn leather on the dashboard. “That’s my girl. You’re all I got left
to rely on. Let’s take us one last journey, okay? Just two old hunks of junk no
one cares about riding off into the sunset. It doesn’t matter what anyone
thinks about us, right? Like Meemaw always said—if we’re breathing, we’re fine
as frog hair, aren’t we Bertha?”
With one last,
loving caress of the worn dash, Marvin put the truck into drive. He gave a fake
salute in the direction of the retirement home then glanced in the rear view
mirror. His cloudy, blue eyes stared back at him with a renewed sparkle. The
thick waves of white hair curled up at the ends from the sweat on his brow.
“God, when did
I get so old? I’m certainly no longer a towhead. I’m an old gray dog ready to
revisit—in person—the vivid memories of my younger days before the recollections
disappear for good.”
