Hello Everyone! My latest novel, Leaving Henry will be available on Amazon.com any day now. It’s been a long road writing my mother’s amazing story, and I can’t wait to share it with all of you. Below is an excerpt from chapter one! Enjoy and don’t forget to purchase your copy on Amazon next month!

CHAPTER ONE

I woke up on my fifth birthday wet and smelling like pee. Annoyed by the smell, I lay there contemplating whether to remain in my wet, toasty bed or get up and deal with the icy cold temperature in the cabin. Fall had arrived in Henry, and cold air seeped through the walls. In our family’s cramped two-room cabin, I shared the bedroom with my brothers, Clarence and Lucian, and sisters, Escelle and Irene. Being younger, my sisters made me sleep between them, and Escelle, with her leaky bladder, peed on me almost every night. My brothers slept on cots on one side of the room, and my sisters and I slept in a queen-sized bed next to a square window with droopy brown curtains.

I was the last one up, and loud laughter coming from the main room told me where everyone else was. Shivering with the urge to pee, I threw off the covers, ran to the chamber pot by the door, and sat. While relieving myself, my eyes darted to the cloudy oval mirror above the wood bench. I finished my business and shimmied out of my wet gown, leaving it on the floor.

Naked as a jaybird, I ran on my tiptoes, climbed on the wood bench, and gazed into the mirror. My fuzzy red braids hung over my shoulders. Because I had hazel eyes that sometimes turned gray when I wore blue, and long, thick red hair, Pappy called me Red-Headed Gray-Eyed Cat. I didn’t like the name and didn’t know why he called me that. After all, Escelle and Lucian had hazel eyes, and he didn’t call them names.

Chilly, I hopped off the bench, ran to the open pinewood closet in the corner, grabbed a raggedy cotton blanket, and wrapped it around me. I peeked out the bedroom door into the main room. My parents’ bed with black curtains was against the wall, which left little space to walk. Most nights while lying in bed, I heard loud squeaking, Pappy hollering, and Momma moaning. I wondered why they made so much noise, but I didn’t dare ask. Somehow, I knew better.

Past the bed I could see into the kitchen area with a counter, shelves, icebox, and potbellied stove, and the dining table in front of it. To the right of the kitchen was the fireplace with Momma’s rocking chair. On the front wall of the house under the window with orange curtains was the couch with a coffee table in front of it. On the left side of the couch was a side table with the radio on it, and to the right between the couch and the front door was the old windup Victrola record player with a box of seventy-eights underneath. On the same wall as our bedroom door was the closet and Momma’s pump organ, which she played on Sundays and special occasions.

In the middle of the room, my brothers were splashing soapy water in a big tin tub. Having already bathed and dressed, my sisters busied themselves with breakfast. The whole family took baths on Saturdays. It was the only day we all felt fresh and clean. Pappy brought water from the well in big black pots, and Momma heated it on the stove. Momma and Pappy took baths early before we all got up, then the kids took turns bathing using the same soapy water. For the rest of the week, I stunk like a skunk and took whore baths, washing my face, hands, and fanny with a pan of heated water.

I walked into the main room, wrapped in my blanket, eager to bathe as soon as the boys were finished.

“Red-Headed Gray-Eyed Cat! Put some clothes on and take out that stinky chamber pot!” Pappy’s booming, brash voice jolted me off my feet. He was already dressed in his red checkered shirt and blue overalls, ready for work. I ran into the bedroom and hopped into the wet bed, trembling like a leaf. My father followed me.

“Did you hear me?” He spotted my wet gown crumpled on the floor. “Is that yours?” he ranted, pointing at it.

“Yes, sir,” I sniffled.

“How often do I have to tell you not to leave your dirty clothes on the floor? Get that gown and put it in the hamper now!”

“Yes, sir!”

I grabbed my gown, ran to the hamper by the door, and dropped it in. Pappy’s scolding brought Momma into the room, and her almost-six-foot frame towered over him. Two inches taller than Pappy, her stiff brown hair had a brown barrette holding her bangs in place. She stared at my father with daggers in her light brown eyes.

“Earl, why are you yelling at my baby like that on her birthday? She’s only five. Stop screaming at her!”

Pappy frowned and folded his arms. Momma stretched her arms out to me and kneeled.

“Come here, baby. Let Momma give you a birthday hug.”

I ran to Momma and hugged her neck. Her wild, coarse hair tickled my nose. She held me so tight I thought I might suffocate.

“You smell like pee,” she laughed. “The birthday girl needs a bath.”

“Escelle peed on me,” I whispered in her ear.

“It’s all right, honey.” She patted my back. “Let’s pray your sister outgrows that nasty habit one day.” She kissed my forehead, turned me around, and gently shoved me toward the door. “Go take your bath. Don’t take what your Pappy says to heart,” she added. “When it comes right down to it, he loves you.”

To me, it didn’t seem that way. His midnight eyes burned at me. I never understood why he was meaner than a snake, especially toward me.

He turned to Momma. “She has to take out that stinky night pot right now.”

“Not today she won’t.” Momma stared him down. “It’s Little Ella’s birthday, and she should be treated special. Escelle can do it. Take the boys outside so Little Ella can bathe.”

After I heard the front door slam, I tightened the blanket around myself and scooted out to the kitchen, dropped my raggedy blanket, and slowly immersed myself in the tepid water. I grabbed the soap, lathered, and scrubbed my hair, face, and body, determined to wash away the weeklong stink and dirt. I scrubbed my skin until it turned red. After I finished, I felt lighter and cleaner.

I snatched a towel from the chair by the tub and wrapped it around myself as I stepped out. I ran to the bedroom, dried myself, and slipped on my holey panties, white undershirt, blue overalls, and green sweater. Green, my favorite color, reminded me of spring. Then I slipped on my holey cotton socks and boots. The shoes were too tight and made my feet hurt, but I never complained because I knew I would get a new pair at Christmas.

By the time I went back out to the living room, Pappy had emptied and stored the tub. I sat on the floor next to Momma’s rocking chair with my dog, Old Dick, listening to the fire hiss and enjoying its warmth. I gazed at Old Dick’s hairy face, flames reflecting in his big, brown eyes, and raked my fingers through his thick golden hair. He got his name because of his gray eyebrows and his white whiskers. Pappy got him from Wildcat Fruit, the dog breeder who lived two miles up the road from us. Old Dick had been the runt of a litter and needed a home. To everyone’s surprise, he grew into a big, strong dog. I loved Old Dick. He was my buddy and protector.

Momma called me over to the couch to work on my hair, pulling and combing it.

“Ow, that hurts!” I cried out, pulling away.

Momma jerked me back and spoke in a stern voice. “Gurl, keep still so I can braid this mess.”

The back door opened and slammed, and Escelle ran by with the chamber pot. “It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there,” she muttered.

Momma glared at Escelle. “Young lady, what did you say?”

“Nothing, Momma.” She lowered her head and hurriedly left the room.

Momma styled my hair into two long braids and gave me a hand mirror. “Like it?” she asked.

I stared at the mirror. “Yes, mam, I do.”

“Well, good. Guess what I’m fixing for breakfast?” she smiled.

“What?”

“Fried apples and biscuits. Your favorite.”

I wiggled my legs with anticipation and gave a toothy grin. “Can I help make the biscuits?”

“You certainly can.”

I loved the smell of breakfast cooking on the potbellied stove. Momma usually cooked a big breakfast on the weekends. The thought of crispy fried bacon, scrambled eggs, fried apples, and biscuits made my mouth water. Momma carefully arranged thick slices of bacon in the iron skillet, then peeled and sliced the apples and dropped them in another skillet with butter. Soon, the smell of sizzling pork mixed with cinnamon and nutmeg burst into the air.

I stood on a stool to reach the cabinet, took out a large mixing bowl and the flour, lard, salt, baking powder, and milk, and put them on the counter. Then Momma asked me to set the table.

Pappy made our rectangular kitchen table not long ago. It was large enough to seat the entire family, with a chair at each end, a bench on each side, and Lucian’s highchair next to Momma’s seat. I set the table, making sure Pappy had his favorite tin mug. He always sat at the end of the table facing the front door, a safety habit he said he got during the war.

It wasn’t long before he strolled in from outside, propped his shotgun against the table, and flung his coat onto the back of his chair. He sat, tossing his hat on the table, and Momma poured him a cup of coffee.

Pappy was a hard-working sharecropper who worked our family’s land and Mister Johnson’s, a white farmer who lived three miles from us. Pappy kept a five percent share of the crops, and Mister Johnson got the rest. Pappy bought his tools and supplies on credit at People’s Drugstore and used his mule to till the land. After harvest, Pappy paid off his debt with half of his share, using the rest to care for the family. I looked up, and Pappy was smiling at me.

“Hey, birthday girl, what are you doing over there?” he asked.

“Helping Momma make biscuits,” I smiled, relieved he was no longer angry at me.

“That’s good. Every girl should know how to cook. One day, you’ll have a family of your own.”

I secretly disagreed. Marriage and a family would someday be in my future, but my dream was to leave Henry. I wanted a better life.

I kneaded the biscuit dough until my fingers ached, then Momma came over and shaped the dough into twenty biscuits while I arranged them on the cookie sheet. Momma slid them into the fiery oven and closed the door.

By the time the biscuits were done, everyone had gathered at the table, hungry and eager to devour the morning meal. Momma put the biscuits in a basket on the table with a bowl of fried apples. She brought out the rest of the food, Pappy recited the grace, and we all dug in. Pappy finished his meal before the rest of us, rose from the table, and put on his coat and hat.

“I have work to do. I’ll see you later,” he said.

“Bye, Pappy!” everyone shouted as he grabbed his gun, opened the door, and walked out.

After everyone finished eating, Escelle cleaned off the table while Momma washed dishes at the sink. My brothers chased each other, playing hide-and-seek. I ran to my room and cleaned my teeth with Arm & Hammer’s baking soda and a twig toothbrush. Momma tore twigs off the black gum tree in the back, and we chewed on the ends until the wood softened into a brush. She kept four twig toothbrushes in a box in the bedroom for us to use in the winter. In the summertime, she kept them on the porch with a pan of fresh water so we could brush our teeth and wash our hands and faces after playing outside.

After I cleaned my teeth, I wanted to see Grandmother Ella. I snuck to the closet, slipped on my green coat and wool hat, and ran to the back door.

“Young lady, where are you going?” Momma shouted.

“I want to visit Grandmother Ella. She promised to make me cookies for my birthday.”

Momma rolled her bottom lip. “Well, since it’s your birthday, I guess it’s all right.”

“Thank you, Momma!” I blew her a kiss.

“Don’t stay too long. The animals need to be fed.”

“Yes, mam!” I opened the door, and Old Dick ran out. “Bye, Momma!”

“Bye! Hurry home, I got a surprise for you!”

“Whoopee! I can’t wait!”

I stepped outside, shut the door, and rubbed my shoulders to warm myself. The brisk, sharp smell of fall hovered in the air, stinging my nose and lips. I could see my grandparents’ white two-story house with the black door on the hill above the barren cotton patches. When he died, Grandfather Grier’s white father left him the land we all lived on. When he and Grandmother Ella married, he built their house on the hill. Her eight children were adults by then and had moved away, so only she and Grandfather lived in their house. When Pappy met and married Momma, Grandfather Grier allowed him to build our cabin and one for his mother, Grandmother Clem. I asked Momma why we lived in a small, shabby cabin instead of a lovely home like my grandparents. She told me Pappy couldn’t afford to build a bigger house, and he was never one to accept handouts from her father or anyone else. A proud man, Pappy insisted on providing for his family on his own.

Although I loved both grandmothers, I loved visiting Grandmother Ella the most. Her big white house always smelled like chocolate and lilac perfume, and she had the warmest smile and sweetest disposition. Tall, plump, and fair-skinned, she had blue eyes and snowy white hair pinned into a giant fuzzy bun. Sometimes she and I sat by the fire in her old rickety rocking chair, me in her lap. I loved to rest my head on her warm bosom and listen to old stories flowing from her ruby-red lips. Not only did I hear Bible stories, but she told me about my great-grandfather Walter Clark. Half Chickasaw, he pitched a tent under a chestnut tree, and when he needed help, he sang to the great white dog in the sky. I asked Grandmother about the great white dog, and she told me he was God in disguise. For the rest of my life, I never forgot that story.

Walking across our yard, I noticed a purple finch sitting on a branch in the weeping willow. I wondered if it was lost, because most birds had flown south for the winter. I stopped and threw my head back, admiring the pretty little red bird, then continued walking. Old Dick stopped along the way, sniffing, marking his territory, and covering his waste.

Crossing the cotton patch, the prickly, barren stems snagged my coat. Pappy and Grandfather made their living growing cotton and other crops and raising farm animals. Maple trees separated Pappy’s fields from Grandfather’s, and red and yellow leaves covered the ground. Growing cotton was hard work, but it kept food on the table.

As we arrived at my grandparents’ house, the sun’s rays bounced off the roof, and the lilac curtains my grandmother made covered all four front windows. Ivy plants hung on the wooden porch railings and along the roof. I sprinted up the porch steps and pounded on the door. The door swung open, and Grandfather’s tall figure loomed in the doorway. He had straight black hair streaked with gray, and squinty green eyes on a weather-worn square face. His rumbling baritone voice shook my insides when he spoke.

“Well, here’s the birthday girl!” He grinned, showing big teeth stained from smoking cigars and pipes over the years.

I bounced on my feet, shivering. “It’s cold out here!”

“Well, come in here, little girl, before you freeze.”

I hurried in, and he shut the door. He stooped over, and I hugged his thick, warm neck. He hugged me and kissed my forehead with a sparkle in his eye.

“How old are you, Little Ella?”

“I’m five years old.” I blushed, twisting.

“You’re growing like a weed, little girl,” he chuckled.

As expected, the house smelled delicious, and the living room was cozy and warm. Kindling crackled and popped in the rocky fireplace where two wooden rocking chairs sat. On my right was a burgundy couch on a frayed Persian rug. To my left sat a black console in front of the window. A delicious chocolate scent lured me to the kitchen. I pulled off my coat and hat and hung them on the rack near the door. Walking through the dining room, I passed the large round cherrywood table and chairs with red velvet seats. The buffet, filled with my great-grandmother’s fine white China, sat snugly against the wall.

As I moved down the hall, I stopped and gazed at the black-and-white photograph of my great-grandfather, Walter Clark. His faded picture was one of the few left in the family. Other photos had been lost over the years, and our family was too busy surviving to pose for new ones. Grandfather Clark had worn a suit the day he was photographed, and his stern, dark-brown eyes had a hint of fiery rage. His handsome chocolate face was minus a smile. One day, I asked my grandmother why he looked so angry. She told me Grandfather Clark lived a short, hard life, spending most of his time in slavery, and his stern face reflected life in the South.

I arrived in the kitchen and found Grandmother sliding fresh chocolate walnut cookies onto a large white platter. She greeted me with her warm and welcoming smile.

 “Happy birthday! How’s my Little Ella?” she asked in her honeyed voice.

“Fine. May I have a cookie?”

Grandmother laughed. “Child, didn’t your momma feed you this morning?”

“Yes, mam, but those cookies smell so good.” I blinked my long lashes. “Besides, it’s my birthday!”

“All right,” she laughed. “Just one. Please, don’t tell your Momma.”

“I won’t.” I grabbed a cookie and gobbled it down.

Thank you for reading. Look for Leaving Henry on Amazon after Labor Day!