Things I learned from Sissy Kat. May she rest in a sunbeam.

Things I learned from Sissy-cat

Anything is better after a nap.

If it doesn’t serve you, hack it up (hairball, food, pieces of string). Purging your life of things that no longer serve you is a good thing.

Don’t settle for something you don’t find pleasing (dirty litter box, lumpy pillow, some people).

Don’t hesitate to speak up (meow) if you have something important to add.

You can always go back to the bowl for seconds. You don’t have to suck it all down in one bite.

A sunbeam is worth a million dollars.

Learn to purr. And purr well and often.

Love a human unconditionally, at least once in your life.

---

With love to my tuxedo kitty. 

May you find cans of tuna, feathers on string, a soft pillow, and all of your friends that have passed before you. And someone to scratch behind your ears until we meet again across the rainbow bridge.

One of your humans,

Rhett DeVane

Ode to a Big Freakin' Can of Tuna

ODE TO A BIG FREAKIN’ CAN OF TUNA

From what I heard, the cashier at Sam’s Club even thought this was over-sized  Have to admit, it’s a monstrous amount of tuna: 4 pound, 2.5 ounces to be precise. Even I can’t consume that many “tiny-fish” sandwiches and I like tuna. A lot.

 I’ll refer to this as the BFC from this point forward, save myself some typing. Special thanks to Gina Edwards, our lovely hand model, for her part in artfully displaying the BFC.

The BFC held enough to make tuna salad for the gang at the writers’ retreat on St. George Island, Florida, November of 2013. This is a serious-minded group of scribes, a talented bunch that will work endless hours pounding out a new rough draft, but still take time to yammer and drink coffee. Gallons of coffee. And chocolate, did I mention chocolate?

I rescued the BFC from the trash. Washed it several times, used some environment-friendly spray cleaner, yet it still reeks of fish. Thing is a work of art, the hulk hero of aluminum cans. And it doesn't deserve some landfill as its final resting place. Heck no. I’m planting something in the BFC, maybe catnip since the scent won’t disappear in this century. My cat family will love it

.

The BFC illustrates something I have always known: writers can take anything, anywhere and weave a fantastic tale around it. One tidbit of overheard dialog in the line at Whole Foods, one flash of shared angst with a stranger, one glimpse of a baby’s grin: there’s a story in there, perhaps a novel. And we will find it and write it, in different voices, tenses, and settings. Yet the shared humanity will echo in our words.

Something as ordinary and benign (mostly, if you don’t count the odor) as a BFC can inspire, make us ask questions, create the answers.

It’s how we make sense of the world. Thank you, BFC, for reminding me of this.

Rhett DeVane

Cross-Purpose Revelation

Cross-Purpose Revelation

Seems I can’t spend time at the beach without having at least one epiphany…something about water rushing to shore and time to think without interruption. Add being a writer into the mix, and the revelations trip all over each other trying to be the most profound.

This trip, the Cross-Purpose Revelation beat out the others. No worry. They’ll be back for seconds like redneck relatives at an all-you-can-eat potluck dinner.

The wind raged the entire four days, flinging sand into the air. The late September sun beat down, oblivious to the fact the first day of fall loomed. Waves crashed to shore, beating the shells to pumice. A scattering of North Florida surfers—thrilled over the churning sea—fought the rip tide on their short boards.

At one spot, a narrow sandbar confused the incoming surf. Primary waves combated secondary waves, sending fountains of spray into the air.

Cross-purpose waves, like life, often came from opposite directions, buffeting me. Which way to go? What’s the most important? What crisis requires the majority of attention? The questions bombarded my brain. Meanwhile, the waves crashed, blended. Ultimately, they all made it to shore, licked a small mark on the sand, then sucked back into the whole.

Where was the grand epiphany? Here goes.

No matter what turmoil, what conflict, what indecision, what cross-purposes life flings your way, the outcome is the same. You make a small mark, then your spirit blends back into the common ocean. And you try not to let the waves pound you to mush.


I must get back to work. Stop all this thinking. Epiphanies are exhausting.

The Fun and Trials of Being a Writer

I often wonder what other people do--those not equally blessed and cursed with a need to write. Can they sit and have a meal without picking out details of their fellow diners' dress and gestures? Do they ignore the chit-chat around them? Can they just have a ice-cold beer and blackened grouper sandwich without imagining some story about the blond senior biker woman sitting two seats down?

Well, I can't. And a trip to a local waterfront eatery/cantina yields so much material for future Southern fiction novels, I nearly hurt myself entering snippets on my smartphone's notepad. Why do I need to invent dialogue when I can borrow it for free?

Here you go...

"We have only the finest Walmart wine. The kind with the screw-off cap."
"She's not listening. She's back on the crack again."
"Hey, you're not the only woman in my life."
"Sorry I was lookin' down your shirt."
"I don't know how your liver still functions."
"Gonna be a good day. Most of the staff's still sober."
"You sure are hanging out here a lot. What, did you piss off your wife again?"

Add to this: a rousing conversation about Duck Dynasty--with said biker lady and her, I think, granddaughter. Then, there were the signs...the "no pissin' off the dock" sign (above) and the one suggesting you not leave food unattended because of marauding seagulls. Lord help.

See, this is why I love the South. May hate the heat, the humidity, and some of the narrow attitudes...still...it is a breeding ground for my writing.

Plus, remember...I can poke fun. I'm from here.

Clean Feet and Good Sleep

I have certain rituals—tiny procedures to tame life, force it to “do right.” Governments topple, wacked-out shooters gun down innocents, and tornadoes swipe subdivisions off the map. But if I just cater to specific steps, my speck of space makes sense. Most of the time, I don’t question the origins of the rites. When I do, I uncover nostalgic wisps.

“You will not sleep well if you don’t wash your feet.” My Grandma DeVane’s warning pops into my mind as I lather a thick washcloth. Had I glanced up fast enough, I might have seen her standing beside me with a bar of Ivory soap (so pure it floats!) in one hand and a thin wet rag in the other.

Suppose parents and grandparents tell children all sorts of well-intended lies for fun, or necessity. Several years passed before I dropped the belief that North Carolina cows had two legs shorter on one side so they wouldn’t topple on a slope.

My dad, the jokester. Small wonder I’m a comedian.

I dropped the notion of an obese, jolly dude delivering presents by five or six when my little friends started to laugh at my gullibility. That whole reindeer, globetrotting deal was a stretch, even for me.

But clean feet equals good sleep must have made sense. I’m sure Grandma took one look at my rawhide soles and thought, “oh, heck no,” especially during the summer when I ran around like a yard dog until darkness and mosquitoes chased me inside.

She could’ve said, “You’ll not put those filthy feet on my white sheets.” Too much like a put-down. We Southerners prefer to cushion criticism when possible—wrap it in sugar, serve it with a smile.

Now, fifty years later, I sit on the vanity stool with the wet washcloth dripping on the tile and think about other things my adults told me. Pretty is as pretty does; A smile is your best make-up; and Can’t, never could.

I feel a rush of gratitude for them, those grown-ups that imparted positive—sometimes funny or bizarre—wisdom. Adults that gave me rituals to tame life.

Too bad the rest of this sleep-deprived world doesn't know this secret. I lather again, wash between my toes, then swipe up and over the ankles.

Helping in a small way--the little flute that could.

The Little Flute That Could

My middle room closet is a sucking black hole where once-loved stuff collects--a mini horde of nice things wishing for a useful place in the world. Last week, one of those things raced to its new home, via the nice folks at UPS.

Should've known when I wiggled the case from the top shelf and both cats hid beneath the bed. My experiment with becoming a flute master--years past now--had been ill-advised. Yes, I managed the middle-tone notes, even some of those one octave down. But when I screeched out the high tones, the tectonic plates shifted, the Monarch butterflies changed course, and the animals headed for cover. Plus, I nearly passed out with the effort. Best, I stick with the guitar.

So there she rested in her blue velvet enclave, wishing she could meet someone, anyone, who might be able to produce silken sounds. Not me, clearly. Then I read a Facebook post from my friend Paula Kiger, about how she donated her flute to a band in Moore, Oklahoma. The devastating tornadoes took a huge toil there--lives, property, schools. Like so many folks, I watched the television coverage, wishing I could somehow help. Some small way...

Paula put me in touch with a gracious teacher who is spearheading the band instrument drive. A company there takes the donated instruments, gives them a tune-up, and a student that might not have a chance otherwise is provided with the means to make music. I love that!

For a few dollars, the people at UPS secured, wrapped, and handled my little flute. I tracked her progress across the country, and Angie sent me a Facebook message when she made it to Oklahoma.

"Guess what came in the mail today??!?!!" Angie messaged, "A very special flute! And a really
nice card. Thank you so very much. It plays very well!"

How many folks like me have perfectly good band instruments idling in their closets? The kids that once loved them, maybe even tormented the family while learning to play, are long gone to college and other lives. What if those instruments could make their way into the hands of deserving students? And all it cost was a few bucks to UPS...

If you would like to contact Angie, she prefers to be reached  via email: angietaylor@mooreschools.com.

Tell her Rhett DeVane sent you. Then mail off your flute, horn, whatever...and wait for that warm glow to start--you know, the one that cranks up when good flows from one person to the next. 

We're all in this together. Please share this with your friends!

Peace to the Little Flute That Could. 

Rhett

Beauty isn't everthing: Lessons from Mom's kitchen

 

 

I enjoyed lunch at local bistro recently. Like most of these small eateries, it was decorated to invoke an artsy feel: modern paintings, welcoming color palate, intimate seating, and an outdoor patio for those seasonal days when the Southern humidity stepped aside. Though I appreciated the ambiance and, after sampling the food, would return, I couldn’t help but think of the vast difference between the trendy art of food presentation and the Southern down-home style of cooking from my mom’s kitchen.

My mama didn’t worry about “pretty food.” I can’t recall a time when she actually garnished a plate with a carrot trimmed into a curlicue or used a tiny rectangular plate to center a sandwich the size of a marshmallow. No reduced sauces swirled around the roast like it had been attacked by a kid’s Spirograph. More likely, it rested in a puddle of thick gravy. And I guarantee you, the meat was bigger than a two-inch square.

She didn’t concern herself with the concepts of complex tastes or textures. Just good food, and plenty of it. Pinch of this, tad of that. Mix it till it looks right. Dig your hands into the dough and feel if it needs more moisture. Shell the peas and cook them fresh from the garden. Chill thick scarlet slices of beefsteak tomatoes, ripened on the vines. Whip up a hoecake of cornbread—no box mix—and sear it in a cast iron skillet.

Small wonder I was leery of trying my hand at cooking until I reached my late teens. My gravy turned out lumpy. The cake suffered “sad spots.” And none of my initial efforts were much to look at.

Here’s where the life lesson came in. “Don’t worry, sugar, if your cake has a crack clean through. We can heal that with icing, and besides, if it tastes good, that’s what really matters. Beauty isn’t everything.”

Beauty isn’t everything. Imagine that.

“You will get better and better, the more you practice. You can do anything you set your mind to.”

Profound truths uncovered. Thanks, Mom.

Thoughts on Random Things

 

 

Have you ever--and I know you have--opened your silverware drawer and wondered what's up with this random butter knife?

 

 

Or maybe it's a spoon matching no pattern you've ever owned. Seldom, a fork. And why is that, do you suppose? Forks must have a hard time repositioning themselves.

 

The strange knife with the floral pattern embellished on its handle spurred me to ponder about random possessions. They flow through my life like river flotsam: scarves, socks, serving utensils, plates, even at times, animals. They show up for a time, then move with the space/time continuum. Beamed in to help me make a sandwich or to lick my hand, then gone when I think to chase them down.

 

Random things intrigue me, especially in my writing life. What is the story of that knife? Did it coast in with a shared loaf of banana bread and leave as easily with a tin of cookies? Do ghosts appear and make themselves sandwiches, leaving their favorite knives behind? That would explain the fact I seem to never run even with the sliced turkey/cheese count. Maybe they're the ones leaving the pickle jars in the refrigerator, with just one lonely dill bobbing in a gallon of brine.

 

Do these same entities move my car keys and the novel I was reading? Hm...

 

See what comes of me having time off to think?

 

 

My best to you for a Happy New Year. It will, no doubt, be filled with degrees of emotion. Good and bad.

Random and predictable.

 

May you always find random things to bring a little wonder into your life.

 

Rhett DeVane

 

 



The Muses Return...and bring their joy.

 

THE MUSES RETURN 

The universe has sneaky ways to remind me of things I’ve conveniently forgotten. Kudos to the universe. It’s light-years ahead of me in the smarts’ department ( like that’s news).

The first tap came last weekend when I spotted and purchased a framed quote in a gift shop—more of a slap than a tap. Here’s the quote:

“Promise me you will not spend so much time treading water and trying to keep your head above the waves that you forget, truly forget, how much you have always loved to swim.” –Tyler Knot Gregson

The quote hangs in my bathroom, where I will read it every morning.

The second El Kabong came as I replanted a clump of volunteer clover. A small grey rock with the word JOY etched on one side fell from its hidey-hole in a stack of planters. This rock, a gift from a friend many years ago, had vanished amidst the garden rubble. Add to this: clover is associated with luck. Double whack.

The word JOY is one letter away from being the word JOB.

How many times recently have I transformed writing into a job rather than a joy? Too many. Many seminars I’ve attended in the past few years have focused on the “work” of writing. The phrase wormed into my heart and my joyful creative life turned into a toil, a struggle, a JOB. Shame on me for insulting the muses.

Third knock on the noodle came via author Cheryl Strayed. I devoured her creative nonfiction “Wild”, then moved on to order “Tiny Beautiful Things,” a book filled with questions and answers once published as an advice column.

One selection reminded me to simply write…that it is my joy, my calling, my purpose. To quit worrying about whether this book or that one will land in the hands of some New York publisher: that is not my concern. So many things in this life are clearly chance, fate… My mission is to WRITE THE BEST BOOK I CAN.

The importance of  perfecting the craft can’t be downplayed. And it gets both easier and harder, the longer I do it. The necessity of approaching agents, yammering on Facebook and Twitter, and networking still exists. No one is going to show up at my door, contract in hand, and sweep me away in a limo. It’s up to me to do my part.

Yet…

I pledge to allow joy to overshadow jabber. My clutch of muses—a temperamental inbred bunch who hate Southern humidity and flee for Canada in late May—are back. Glad to see y’all. Missed you. Hope you’re ready to dance, because this writer is ready to lead, or follow.

I don’t need a fourth clobber to get it. I’m smart that way.

Does God laugh?

 Does God laugh?

One sure-fire way to eject yourself from a bad case of election year doldrums (when you want to puncture your eardrums with an icepick if you hear even one more session of muck-raking): think of someone you like and allow their laughter to ring in your memory. This works for both folks "on this side" and others who have "made their transitions." You will instantly feel uplifted. It works. Amazing.

My father's laughter boomed, like his voice. He opened his mouth wide and let the mirth whoosh out. My mother's was more timid, a little chortle at first, then full-on belly laughter if she was really tickled. My sister's sounded a lot like my mother's, with a little wind chime quality that made everyone around her smile. And my brother? He's still on the earth, so I can ring him up and hear his laughter. Or I can call its gentle rumble from memory. Either way.

I can call to mind the laughter of coworkers, life-long friends, family members, and sometimes casual acquaintances. Some snort, some titter, some guffaw. And they never cease to make me smile when their mirth--as individual as their fingerprints--calls to me from its file in my mental storage.

Taking this one step further--as I tend to do--I wondered if God laughs. Plenty of spots in the Bible refer to joy. To peace. One place in Ecclesiastes (3:4) speaks of a "time to laugh." But nowhere do I find tales of God or Jesus laughing. Hm...

One fellow, well-versed in biblical knowledge, commented that we might not want a jester as the ultimate leader. Imagine your surgeon with your life in his/her hands, yukking it up. Okay, I get that. But...

I like to think God, the universe, the ultimate power (however one perceives it), as taking time to listen to both our laments and cries for help/mercy/compassion and to hear our laughter. Seems everything is about balance, and why should this be any different? The sound of human suffering, the pounding of the war machines, the heartbreak of everyday living must somehow, in my humble estimation, seek the flip-side music of chortles, guffaws, and giggles.

The job would be intolerable otherwise.

I hope God laughs.







Swimming lessons, Southern-style

(note: this is nothing like the life preserver mentioned in this piece.

I could find no samples to match. I think the company burned all evidence.)

I lounged by the Trousdell public pool and experienced an epiphany. As a writer, I live for a good epiphany. As soon as I grab one by the short hairs, I slam it to the ground and wrestle it onto paper. My characters depend on me to supply these profound thoughts. I like to share.

Epiphany. Epiphany. Epiphany.

If I repeat it enough, the word sounds absurd, a silly term some frat boy invented after knocking back a fifth of Jack Daniels Black while watching a babe curl her body around a dance floor pole.

Must’ve been the endorphins behind this particular epiphany. I had completed ten laps (ten!) and felt fairly righteous. For once, I wasn’t parked at home in front of the laptop. I had actually expended energy. And no paramedics got involved.

Bears hibernate in winter; I hibernate in summer. I should’ve been dropped off in Canada as a wiggling infant. Stupid stork with a faulty GPS landed me in the Deep South. Dixie has its good points: sweet tea, chicken ’n’ dumplings, extra syllables in every spoken word. The stifling heat and humidity aren’t on the short list.

Back to that epiphany. I have focus issues from late May until mid-October.

A scene popped to mind as I watched one of the lifeguards work with a group of children. The “sink or swim” school: my father’s version a swimming lesson.

The year: 1961. July. Air hotter than a three-peckered billy-goat. Me, at four and a half, in an aqua and lime one-piece swimsuit. Wispy blond hair. Knock knees. A dimpled smile—until my daddy lashed me into a Day-Glo orange marshmallow and tossed me (yes, tossed) into the middle of the family pool. Let me add here: we weren’t wealthy. My daddy built that in-ground pool. If he wanted something, he made it himself.

The screams could be heard all the way into town, and we lived three and a half miles from Chattahoochee. Nowadays, it would’ve been enough to summon a team of child welfare agents with their official notepads set on stun. Back then, the nearest neighbor probably paused for a moment, then shrugged. Just another snot-nosed kid learning to dog-paddle.

Non-swimmers didn’t survive long in my neck of the Florida panhandle. Everywhere I turned, a body of water loomed: Lake Seminole, the Apalachicola River, numerous ponds, springs, pools, and deep mud holes. I had to learn to swim. Or die. Or fall prey to one of the gators/snakes/snapping turtles/river monsters that lurked in wait for floundering children and small yippy dogs.

What I know now:

1.    Daddy was only a step away.

2.    That ’60s-era flotation device could’ve bobbed a mature manatee three feet above the water’s surface.

3.    I was in more danger from choking from that vest than drowning.

4.    My daddy taught me a valuable life lesson.

Here’s the epiphany:

Everything important I have ever done, I’ve learned by jumping in (or being tossed in), and figuring out how to survive.

Education was crucial. Teachers guided me. Mentors praised and scolded. But learning by doing, swallowing the blinding fear and a good amount of pride, was, and still is, the best way. The only way.

I’ve found this true in my writing. When I started out years ago, I knew little about point of view, plotting, character development, original language, or effective dialogue. I simply wished to tell a story. And I did. Just not well.

I kept dog-paddling, barely keeping the vital airways clear. Each time I failed, I’d cough and sputter, curl up for a bit, get ticked off, and dive in once more. Soon, I lengthened my strokes, creativity flowed, and I improved. And I’m still working on it.

A hybrid, I’m not. Nothing fancy. I require no special pampering, no expensive fertilizer, no designer pot, no private gardener.

I’m as tenacious as a ditch weed.

But that’s an epiphany for another day.

Some funny thoughts on a stinky subject...

Some may say writing a blog isn’t REALLY writing—I differ on that opinion—but I’m taking a break from novel revisions and have some dumb stuff to say. Blogging, the perfect junk food.

I have amazing friends. Truly. The kind of folks that I can talk to about anything, anytime, and at great length until we’re just sitting and breathing into the phone headset like we did when we were teens and didn’t want to hang up long enough to do anything else.

I’m referring to the kind of folks that will discuss bodily functions at ease, pouring over solutions to basic human issues. The huge one for the weekend, especially given our Deep South humidity and mind-killing heat: sweat.

I took a quick count of the half-used antiperspirants languishing in my bathroom cabinet. Languish is a perfect word right now. Any action above the languish level might bring on a stroke. Yes, I realize a toiletry is not capable of languishing. I know it’s wrong to lavish human qualities on inanimate objects, but I do. I worry about my poor little Honda Claudia sitting out there in the full-on sun. Worry she might come down with an automotive version of melanoma, a curling paint carcinoma curable only by a visit to a body shop. Yikes.

Where was I? Oh yeah. The official household antiperspirant tally.

Seven. If you don’t count the line-up of powders. Seven! And I’m not some weirdo cosmetic hoarder. Anyone from “down here” knows you have to rotate them, like tires (geez, back to the automotive thing again.) I’ll bounce along, perfectly ladylike for a couple of weeks, then suddenly whatever brand — and generally layers of powder and Secret/Dove/Dial/Degree/Stink-Away — fails to live up to its label. One minute I’m a flowery dewdrop. The next, redneck road kill festering on the asphalt. I can almost hear those folks in marketing snickering. “Make up a new brand name Phil. She’ll buy it.”

My friend told me about a foolproof product, a “clinical-strength” waterproof deodorant that kicks the caps off the others and leaves their waxy little domes cracking in it’s wake. A waterproof deodorant! Imagine.

We pushed the discussion one step beyond absurdity. No small surprise. To a new product we’d like to see: underarm shellac. A spray-on product kin to polyurethane, beautiful in its simplicity, a cure for underarm moisture and the hordes of foul bacteria building homes and schools in their dark hovels. You could market two versions: satin finish for everyday and high-gloss for those evenings out. Perhaps add a shimmer of disco glitter for that special event.

Then I had to break the creative magic spell. “How would you let it dry? I mean, if you have your arms raised, then you wouldn’t be able to lower them. And if you sprayed and clamped them shut, you couldn’t drive or brush your teeth.”

Back to the drawing board.

For now, I will venture out in my poor, beleaguered little Honda, in search of that atomic strength stuff that probably sells for  half a paycheck. And if if works, I plan on buying my friend lunch soon.

Rhett DeVane

Fiction with a Southern Twist

Rhett's author website

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A Good Cleaning Out

“You look like you could use a Good Cleaning Out.” My Grandma DeVane looked at me with appraising eyes, seeing through muscle, connective tissue, and blood, straight to my guts. How did she do that? Must’ve been with the same “eyes in the back of her head” she called to action when I misbehaved out of her direct line of vision. Mama had the same talent.

A Good Cleaning Out entailed a supersized serving spoon of something slick and vile, in Grandma DeVane’s case, mineral oil. Others in my age group, and from the Deep South, have reported similar experiences, but with castor oil. Heaven help that any of our generation lived past twenty, what with drinking from the water hose, riding in the back of speeding pick-ups without safety restraints, and biking without helmets.

The cure for a bad cough was a drop of kerosene on a sugar cube. But that’s another story. No small wonder I would not have been the best choice as a taste-tester after the BP Gulf oil spill. My body’s acclimated to petroleum products. Shrimp and Grits with pure sweet crude might bring misty reminiscences of Grandma’s home remedies.

Strange, I recall feeling better after the Good Cleaning Out. Purified. Near holy. Crapping like a crippled goose had to bring some rewards.

Cleaning out “stuff” brings the same sense of ahhhh with less intestinal agony. Closets, the garage, my piles of writing tablets and author flotsam. Amazing how purging my work space will often summon the muses. They don’t abide clutter. It makes them pack their little literary duffle bags and check out.

Nature abhors a vacuum. As soon as a clean space announces itself, paper, books and stuff rush to fill it. The cycle renews.

But for one second, I sense the importance of a Good Cleaning Out.

Thanks, Grandma.

Rhett DeVane

Fiction with a Southern Twist

Rhett's Website

The Writers4Higher Blog

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The Best Gifts are Free.

Last Saturday, I had the pleasure of attending a little fish fry for my brother Jimmy’s birthday. Jimmy—Gabby—is my only living sibling. Our sister Melody passed away at the young age of 61, a few years back. Jimmy was golden before that—the older, wiser, and goofier sibling—but he became more dear to me after we lost our sister. Jimmy shares the DeVane family sense of humor and gift of gab. He and I can talk to just about anyone about anything, for hours. Makes running to the grocery store for just milk and bread an all-morning affair, at times.


Back when none of us had any money for presents, we would fashion heartfelt gifts from whatever we had on hand. Cards were drawn in ink, permanent markers, or crayon. For a few years, holiday gifts had to be handmade. And those were the ones we most valued.


Keeping with this Southern cracker-ingenuity tradition, I decided to make Jimmy’s gift. But what? Then the perfect solution appeared: a sign for his new recording studio. See, my brother, in addition to many other hats he has donned over the years, holds great love and respect for classic country music. For years, he co-owned a little private radio station in Quincy, Florida—WGWD. People knew they could depend on the station to air music not heard on mainstream, prerecorded formats. The DJs even made their own commercials for their advertisers, and often threw in tidbits about the recording artists. Imagine that.


When the station sold last year, the cries flew to the heavens! Where did y’all go? Where will we find anyone like you? So Jimmy and his cohorts launched a station onto the Internet, and it took off like a scalded dog. Soon, they had to change to a commercial status because of the high listener volume.


All this, to share why I made this sign. And how. I found a cruddy piece of sawed-off cedar. Brushed the dirt and cobwebs away. One end hadn’t been cut evenly, but that was perfect. I don’t generally use tools with the capacity to saw off digits, as I work as a dental hygienist, and write my novels with those fingers.


I searched for black paint for the lettering, but all of my art supplies had long since dried to cracked plastic. Run to Lowes? Nope. I blew out three black markers and two colored markers on that rough wood.


Next, how to hang it. I drilled two small holes (drills don’t generally maim) and ran a piece of wire through. I added a little flair with packing jute wrapped around the wire, using a knot I recalled from my macramé days. Then I added a little bow at either end.


Finally, to preserve the precious sign. No problem. I had spray polyurethane. I dragged the sign to a cement block outside. The spray container was useless—not empty, but clogged beyond hope and no pressure. Go to Lowes? Nope. I found a can of waterproofing—the kind you use on tents and hiking boots—and hosed down the sign. It sat outside to dry and get over the stench.


The next morning, I wrapped the handcrafted treasure in the gift paper I had on hand—luckily, birthday—and left for the party. My brother took one look at the sign and hammered a nail over one window in his little Internet studio for it to hang.


Whoever said the best things in life are free must’ve made gifts too. My brother's smile proved it.


Listen to Gabby’s show Monday through Friday, 8 till 10 p.m. EST.
Here’s the link: XMRB Internet Radio Station

Love you, bro!
Your "other sister," the one who writes novels and is near'bout as cathead crazy as you are,

Rhett DeVane
Fiction with a Southern twist
Rhett's author website
Rhett's writer's blog: Writers4Higher