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I’m writing from the first day of summer.
This isn’t an exact science. In fact, I don’t think the “real” first day of summer actually falls in May (I should’ve probably Googled it), but that’s not what I’m trying to write about.
This is the same thing Ray Bradbury was talking about in “Dandelion Wine” when he said the sound of lawnmowers firing up across his neighborhood, the smell of fresh-cut grass — those were his summer signals.
For me, it’s the lake.
There’s a certain smell to it when the days grow longer and hotter. A little fishier, maybe. Something similar to the Gulf, which is where I was last week, a town near Tampa I’d never been before called St. Petersburg. The day before that I was in Miami.
The salt air was thick and warm. That smell was everywhere. It felt like cheating, a preview of days to come. I hadn’t been that far south since my freshman year of college when I went off to play quarterback for the Florida Atlantic Owls.
There’s a Raymond Carver short story called, “So Much Water So Close to Home.” If Carver were writing about my first year of college, he might’ve entitled that story, “So Many Universities So Close to Home.”
Boca Raton was a world away from Russellville.
But I went, partly because I wanted to play for Howard Schellenberger, partly because there was an ocean down there, six miles to the east of the campus. For a boy who’d grown up listening to his dad’s Jimmy Buffett cassettes, the water’s pull was strong.
“Mother, Mother Ocean, I have heard your call…”
Though my stay in Boca lasted only one season, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. I swam almost every day, went surf fishing after practice and out to the clubs on weekends. One time, I attended a house party where a linebacker named Cergile mixed his infamous “Hunch Punch” in a five-gallon Gatorade jug.
I was the only Arkansawyer on the roster. I wore boots and Razorback caps. I grew my hair down past my shoulders. I longboarded to class. I made some good friends, too. Guys I still keep up with.
One of those guys met me in St. Pete last week. It’d been fifteen years since our last encounter, a one-night jaunt to Ginnie Springs where we snorkeled all day and drank all night, then woke up the next morning and said our goodbyes.
Things were different this time around.
We both had kids. I’d lost my hair and was about forty pounds lighter than when I’d played ball. But the important parts were the same. The bond that we’d formed all those seasons ago was still there.
The years fell away as we told stories we’d almost forgotten and the breeze blew in off the bay, carrying with it that same scent that always signals summer, connecting the ocean to the lake I now call home.
Don't Know Tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
Previous columns: |
• Writing from Mom
• Writing from a Plane
• Writing from Home
• My second novel’s publication
• A New Marriage Milestone
• An Invitation to the Party
• Writing from a Thunderstorm
• Writing from a Soundbooth
• Writing from “Jazz Beach"
• Writing from the Sabbath
• Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
• Writing from my back deck
• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
• Writing from the space between breaths
• Writing from 2022
• Writing from the glow of a plastic Christmas tree |
• Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
• Writing from the drop-off line at my daughter’s elementary school
• Writing with Thanksgiving on my mind
• Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
• Writing from the depths of a post-book-festival hangover
• Writing from the Ron Robinson Theatre
• Writing to you on Halloween Eve
• Writing from my bed on a Saturday morning
• Writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand
• Writing from the shade of my favorite tree
• Writing from my desk on a Tuesday morning
• Writing from a pirate ship
• Writing from the airport
• Writing from the hospital
• I'm writing from the water
• Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
• Writing from my office |
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