The River, Part 1

When it’s hot and humid I remember going fishing with Uncle Tip.  I was a teenager living with my parents on a small, hilly farm in Tennessee about a mile from the Cumberland River, on York Landing Road, during the late ‘60s.  A number of my aunts and uncles lived up and down the road from us. 

Uncle Tip, whose real name was Clifford Settle, was married to Aunt Eunice, one of Daddy’s sisters.  They had moved to the country and built a nice brick house when Uncle Tip retired from working as a lineman for Southern Bell in Kentucky.  One of the trials of being his niece was listening to endless stories about his adventures electrifying that part of Kentucky and working through ice storms to repair the lines.  He was a proud member of the Telephone Pioneers of America and often went to reunions.  But he was kind and patient with me, and missed his only son and grandchildren back in Kentucky.  So he decided to teach me to fly-fish in the river.

During the long, hot summers I spent my time reading books, riding my bike up and down the road aimlessly, working reluctantly in the vegetable garden, cleaning house, weeding the flower beds, helping mother cook dinner, and freezing and canning.  I attempted to tan my pale skin, sweating in the sun, covered with Coppertone, on a lounge chair with my dog panting beside me.  Big excitement was a trip to the grocery store or going to church in town.  Taking up fishing was definitely a better pastime.

The Inner Cowgirl

When I was four and five years old, my favorite clothing was my cowgirl outfit.  A canvas-colored skirt with brown fake leather fringe and a matching fringed vest, I wore it as much of the time as Mother would let me.  I had a cowboy hat and a double holster with cap pistols which I had inherited from my brother, and I think I recall a sheriff’s badge. 

I had a stick horse which I galloped up and down the hallway all day.  The noise of my boots clomping in a horse-like cadence must have been maddening but no one ever stopped me or told me to quiet down. 

I’m not sure where this cowgirl obsession came from.  Perhaps it was just the lure of a more attractive role than playing house.   I wore the outfit so much that the fake leather fringe was stubble.  The worn-out ensemble was replaced at Christmas.  Normally I was quiet, a reader, used to playing by myself.  Something about that cowgirl suit let me be as close to rambunctious and wild as I was able to get.

When I turned six years old and went to school I got over my cowgirl dreams.   I was ladylike and "good." 

Then I saw a necklace at a gift shop a year ago, just before my job was eliminated.  It was a silver chain with a pendant which was a tiny frame for a picture, like a necklace with a saint or a Madonna on it.  This one had a drawing of a girl in Western clothes from the ‘30s or ‘40s, with an inscription, “Our Lady of the Inner Cowgirl.” 

I’ve had that necklace on my mind for a year now.  I don’t believe in making fun of other people’s religious icons, so at first I thought it was sacrilegious and didn’t want it.  But now I feel a need for my inner cowgirl.  I want to get back that feeling of being brave, bold and invincible.

In her exhibit at the National Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame in Fort Worth, Dale Evans is quoted as saying:
"'Cowgirl' is an attitude really. A pioneer spirit, a special American brand of courage. The cowgirl faces life head-on, lives by her own lights, and makes no excuses. Cowgirls take stands; they speak up. They defend things they hold dear.”

Right now I feel tired and sore.  But it’s not too late.  Maybe I can still put on my cowgirl outfit, saddle up and ride to my own rescue. 

Welcome to Her Sense

I make my living as a marketer, but in my heart I'm a writer.  I quit doing any creative writing for nearly 20 years, after I finished my MBA.  The only composition I did was PowerPoint presentations and memos. 

Then my longtime companion died suddenly.  I kept working, kept breathing, went through the daily drudgery.  But I started looking back to old pleasures and talents from the days before I knew him.  I took a writing class at the Hudson Valley Writers Center.  I took several classes.  I experimented with fiction and children's books.  Finally I realized all my short stories were memoir in disguise, so I found my writing home.

I'd like to thank David Surface for helping me come back to writing and Susan Hodara for helping me find my voice.  Special shout-out to my dear friends and family, who are always encouraging, and my classmates at HVWC, who invariably are generous, helpful and accurate!

I'll be posting pieces of memoir/stories and whatever else fits.  Hope you enjoy.