Check it out: www.amgarner.com

If You Love All That's Southern

It's official: the new website is up and running: www.amgarner.com
You can read selections from UNDENIABLE TRUTHS plus my interview with Rank Stranger Press.

Also, a new, fun video of Southern Gothic: Philip Shirley reading his short-short story "Charisma" at www.philipshirley.com

That's What I Like About the South

My new collection of short stories--UNDENIABLE TRUTHS--will be released November 1, and I can't deny that beneath my calm exterior there is an ember of excitement. No one could ask for an easier, more fun publishing experience than working with Carter Monroe and Rank Stranger Press. I still cannot figure out why a post-avant poet (Carter) would spend time and energy publishing a Deep South and rather conventional short story collection. Carter's own signature poetic persona is Billy Putrid: think Berryman's DREAM SONG narrator with a punk rock slant. I think of my own narrators--dog killers, forgetful ghosts, wistful country music musicians--and scratch my head. One thing is for sure: Carter can't walk a straight conversational line. If he calls to talk "business", before he is two sentences into the conversation, he will be telling me about the local North Carolina sausage he ate for breakfast. Or singing the lyrics to some obscure blues song. Carter has a great singing voice and is not shy about using it.

Carter attracts friends like a lost puppy. People would do anything for him, eager to jump on the bandwagon of his projects. This has worked to great advantage for me personally since his good friend Kristin Fouquet is not only a fine flash fiction writer but superb photographer. Kristin's photograph of a street musician is on the cover of UNDENIABLE TRUTHS. I could not have dreamt a better photo for the cover. If you are not familiar with Kristin's work, go to her website www.kristin.fouquet.cc and look at a few samples.

I keep waiting for the first shoe to drop, not the second. I keep waiting for Carter to freak out, for the galleys to come back in some hierglyphic-looking font, the spacing suddenly wrong on every line. I keep waiting for something to be DIFFICULT. But with Carter as weatherman, directing the fronts, I don't think that's going to be the case. I think a hurricane could shoot on-shore in North Carolina, drop 50 inches of rain, float Main Street Rag's press out into the Atlantic, and Carter would think about it, laugh about it, and forget about it.

Carter Monroe has nothing to prove and no one to impress.

And maybe that's what I like about the South.

The Squash Parade

Although I only saw the film "Doc Hollywood" once, several years ago, it was one of the few movies I actually saw in its entirety when my children were small. As I remember, it was not a particularly good film but one of the few movies of that time period I didn't sleep through. Any film that starts out with a gorgeous Porsche roadster plowing into a wooden fence has my attention. O, the heartache! O, the waste! And then the question: can the Porsche be repaired?

Other than the wreck and repair (twice) of the roadster, I can't tell you much else about the plot of "Doc Hollywood," but I remember it served up a slightly off-kilter, comic comparison of life in the fast lane vs. life as I've always known it: life in the dirt lane. Other than the Porsche scenes, there is one other scene I've never quite forgotten. The little town had a parade honoring its most successful agricultural crop, the squash. The movie offered a solid rendering of the small town parade. Nothing like the Macy's parade on Thanksgiving or the Parade of Roses on New Year's Day. Just the local folks hamming it up, walking down the middle of main street and waving to their neighbors, some folks pretending to be dignitaries, another walking down the street leading a pig on a leash.

Through the years, I have remembered this movie scene as I have lived many Fourths of July in the manner the folks in the Bend of the River celebrate. Even those of us who have never been to D.C. or Boston to see the grand fireworks shows and to hear the Marine Band or the Boston Pops conspire on a summer night to make us feel some kind of patriotism deep down in our souls, well, even those who have never seen it in person have watched it on television, thanks to satellite dishes. So I think we know we are missing the mark, but that's not stopping us.

Two "must do's" during the daylight hours of July 4 in the Bend of the River are fishing and swimming. If it is a hot day, dig your worms early, go out and catch an entire stringer of crappie and as many big bass and you can. After you are thoroughly sweaty and sunburned, it's time to go swimming to cool off. The best place to swim, of course, is Smithsonia Light, a tiny island with its own tire swing and shell shallows. Where we fish, I'm not telling. The hog-sized bass that got away on Saturday must be a lake record, and we plan to go back with a better plan very soon.

The other daytime activities vary. Before dawn, the smoker was loaded with ribs, so you know at some point there is pork to eat, but in the meantime there is a swing on a shady screened porch, and next to it is a stack of unread books. There are three canoes, a sailboat, and of course the yard is strewn by this time in July with windsurfing equipment just waiting for 15-20 mph from the South. There is croquet, badminton, a White Mountain ice cream maker, ceiling fans, and a lot of crushed ice and drinks to go with it.

By the time dusk falls, we are applying the sunburn gels and watching the pre-show of the lightning bugs (fireflies)rise up from the lawn. For the last three days, kids have run down to their docks with fireworks 'teasers': a string of firecrackers, a handful of bottle rockets, an occasional Roman Candle launching its glowing red, green, and blue fireballs fifteen feet at the most into the air. About the time the lightning bugs reach the treetops, we grab our flashlights and lawn chairs and head out for the dock. We don't actually know for sure that there will be a fireworks show, but we're feeling lucky.

There are sparklers, Birthday Cakes, screaming MeMe's, more Roman Candles. By 9 pm a flotilla of bass boats, pontoon boats, and a few cabin cruisers have assembled about 200 feet out. When the first of the real fireworks appears--this year it was a large golden chrysanthemum shower with the report of a cannon--traffic comes to a halt on the Natchez Trace bridge. It's time to watch the show.

We don't know exactly who pays for this, but we suspect one of our neighbors must have an interest in TNT, the local fireworks company. This is not the kind of fireworks sold at the neighborhood Southern fireworks stand, a grubby trailer guarded at night by a mean dog and a guy with a shotgun loaded with bird shot. This is the kind of spectacular, coordinated fireworks show that could only be attempted by someone who has read the rulebook and served an apprenticeship. The show starts out slow but works up by degrees. People are catcalling and whistling, clapping and rebel-yelling. The double star helix in red-white-and blue creates a war-like yell of appreciation. So what if it's not Boston and instead of the Pops playing the cymbals in the background, someone has cranked up their stereo with Sweet Home Alabama for the forty eleventh dozen time? For the Bend of the River, it's grand.

Even the next morning early, kids are still running out onto the piers shooting off firecrackers and bottle rockets.

And I'm thinking I need to buy a copy of "Doc Hollywood" as my very own.

I need to see that Squash Parade one more time.

Homage to Frank's Peas

I've been dreading writing about this but can no longer put it off. Our longtime friend Frank Johnson, grower of pink-eyed purple hull peas par excellence, died suddenly in January. At the funeral (which had the largest attendance of any funeral I have ever attended, despite the cold blustery dark day), our neighbor Tim Sharp gave me a solid handshake and looked me dead in the eye before he delivered this warning: "We're gonna miss Frank."

I had already thought of that.

My husband and I are relative newcomers to County Road 2. We've only been there twenty years. No matter that my husband's ancestors who came here from Virginia before Alabama was even a state are buried less than ten miles away. For a couple of generations, the family had been back living in Virginia, so when we purchased the run-down river camp twenty years ago so our four-year-old twins could learn how to fish, swim, canoe, and just plain play outdoors, we were outsiders, unaccustomed to the code of conduct of the area. For example, back then when we drove down County Road 2, we did not perform the de rigeur raised-index-finger greeting. (When you're driving down Co. Rd. 2 and meet another vehicle, you don't smile and wave, you simply raise your index finger and maybe give a slight nod. It does not matter if you actually recognize the vehicle or the driver. To be on the safe side, you perform the raised-index-finger greeting to all pickup trucks and dirty SUVs you meet on County Road 2, thereby avoiding slighting anyone.)Twenty years ago, Frank Johnson immediately took us under his wing, our guardian angel on Co. Rd. 2. Frank not only showed us the lay of the land, he took care of our land.

Back then, Frank was still using his dad's old red tractor which he lovingly maintained like a museum piece. He never let our property grow up in tall weeds and saplings. For twenty years, without ever once having to be asked, Frank drove the mile of so from his farm down Co. Rd. 2 and bush-hogged five times a year: right before Easter, Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, and then right before the first frost. If he happened to show up when we were actually there, we would have a cold Coke (Diet Coke after he developed diabetes)sitting on the front porch facing the river, and Frank would tell us all the news that was worth repeating. He knew who had bought what land, who was about to build a bigger lake camp, who was running for county office and whether or not they were likely to win. If he knew the kind of news some people like to share about other people's hardships and vices, he never repeated it. If a couple divorced, for instance, the divorce was an unavoidable fact, but the cause of a divorce never mentioned.

I don't remember the exact year of Frank's first phone call telling us the peas were ready, but at some time many years ago Frank started planting a large field or two--one of corn and one of field peas--to share with everyone he knew. EVERYONE. And Frank knew lots of folks. Rich or poor or in-between, black or white or old or young, all had the same invitation to come pick peas while the picking was good. I will be honest. Frank's corn was just so-so and its quality depended on what rain the skies had provided. But Frank's peas were simply the best. Just the right combination of soil, sun, and pink-eyed purple hull seeds I guess.

On Memorial Day, I pulled the last two packs of Frank's peas from the freezer and got out my own guest list. I used another Frank's recipe (Frank Stitt, THE SOUTHERN TABLE) and made Pink-Eyed Purple Hull Peas Salad. The broth, which was to be discarded, was so rich that I froze it to eat by myself at a later date with some cornbread. I'll say my own little prayer of Thanksgiving at that time for Frank, his generosity of spirit, his kindness, and his peas.

The World You Live In

In the May 2009 THE ATLANTIC, Jeffrey Goldberg in an article "What Now?" poses questions about how the average person on the street views the current economy. Goldberg quotes a Nobel laureate "'You no longer know the world you live in,'" the laureate told him. "Right now, it's unclear what rules apply. I'm surprised Americans aren't more panicked."

As a writer, it is true. I don't know exactly what rules apply right now. Certainly publishing is falling off a cliff, and the ground in front of us is uncharted territory. Last year I had an agent tell me that she no longer was interested in fiction and would only look at my completed non-fiction manuscripts. When I whined that I had worked hard on my short fiction and wanted to see it in print, she asked "What for? It's embarrassing."

"Embarrassing?" My throat went dry. I felt panicky. "Embarrassing?"

She then explained that my short fiction was fine as far as short fiction goes, but she felt the form was dead in the water. Kind of like writing Shakespearean sonnets or imitations of Browning's dramatic monologues. Fine in its own time, but not what the world reads now. She really liked my non-fiction and wanted to see only that in print, wanted me to build a reputation on that.

I wonder what changes I will see in our Professional Writing major here at my university in the next five years. Several courses in our major come from the Communications department, courses preparing students to join a print newspaper organization, writing the types of articles that print newspapers have depended upon for a century or more. Basic News Reporting. Feature Writing. But now that the print journalism world is shrinking fast, now what?

And then there are the creative writing courses we provide in the English department. Short fiction. Poetry. Novels. I see the courses in film writing/screen writing remaining strong as they stand. But what about fiction and poetry? If no one is publishing these forms, who will keep writing in them? Of course the compromise may be Kindle. Or perhaps there will be no compromise at all. Maybe the world will cling to its respect and high regard for paper and ink literacy, its love of writing in the margins for the benefit of our grandchildren. Try writing in the margins on Kindle.

The course that I am placing bets on is New Media Writing, a course in which the image and the electric medium are the tools. Longwinded, verbose, multisyllabic: out. Short, concise, image-centered: in.

And as far as the Nobel laureate's surprise that Americans aren't more panicked about the economy: well, a few of us are Southerners. We live every year through tornadoes and hurricanes. We've seen our mountain forests decimated through over-cutting, The Hand of God (which plant biologists identified as Chestnut Blight), and now acid rain. We've had to work at share-cropping and coal-mining. In the last twenty years, we've lost over 500 of our named mountains to mountain-top removal methods of mining, where the trees and all vegetation are removed and nothing is left afterwards except a plain of bare rock with some fake green grass seed mixture sprayed on the top. The money from this devastation never stays in our region. Our grandparents who had any money in the bank during the Great Depression lost every penny they had scraped and saved while the banks kept right on expecting mortgage payments on time. So what's new? Or "What now?" as Jeffrey Goldberg asks, upset that his broker will not return his calls.

Did he really think his broker was his friend?

The South will suffer right along with the rest of the world, but it won't be the first time.

Prosperity has never felt very real to most of us with accents anyway.

Leaving Wind

As fortune would have it, last week the air-conditioning stopped working in our house here in town. Since it is already hot here--high 80s in the afternoons for about five days in the row--we simply HAD to drive out to our redneck camp on the Bend of the River. This is the time of year when final exams hit and the yard in town needs a ton of TLC, and then there is the pressure washing away of the winter's dirt, etc. etc. etc. We threw some jeans in a bag, remembered to load up the dog, and left the fertilizing of the roses and planting of the impatiens for another day. Or perhaps even another life if the truth be known. Once we pull into that long driveway leading down to the river and close the chain behind us, time expands at exactly the same rate that it contracts when we are anywhere else.

So what do we do there? Well, for starters I read alot. And cook, which means pouring over very good cookbooks. Then there is the swing that faces the sunset every afternoon on the long screened porch. I like to write in that swing. It's the same swing I sit in when my husband decides the wind is strong enough to windsurf. He likes an audience, someone to admire the fact that although his hair is mostly gray, he is still agile and has great balance. The dog and I sit there and watch his good fast rides, the way the board splits the water, the million dollar smile on his face we can see from halfway across the lake.

Windsurfing seems like a fairly anti-intellectual activity. There's a board, a sail, a fin to keep you from slipping around too much on the surface of the water. Actually, there are MANY boards, and MANY sails, and MANY fins. And wetsuits, drysuits, water shoes, gloves, etc. It takes more gear than one might realize in order to windsurf. But then there is some intellectual Zen mental activity, too. Here again, more than one might think.

Such as the first cardinal rule of windsurfing: Don't leave wind to find wind. I think we first heard this about twenty years ago on the Outer Banks. People used to go there to surf the Canadian Hole, the ocean, the Sound. There was the angle of the wind to consider. Would it be best to be at Avon or around the Hatteras bend at Ocracoke? Where was it blowing the hardest? So many decisions! So much wind! We were on the Atlantic side, sitting up near the dunes, when my husband wondered out loud "Where should we go?" before he verbally recited the list. Where would be The Very Best Place to be right now: that was what he wondered. That's when someone turned to him who had just had a great little run and smiled. "Don't leave wind to find wind." Since then we have heard this wisdom at more than one windsurfing destination. Whether on the Tennessee River in North Alabama or sitting in a beach park on Maui, when windsurfers begin wondering about greener wind pastures, as long as there is enough wind to fill a sail and push a board, someone will smile and repeat the refrain. "Don't leave wind to find wind."

There is at least one dab of wisdom involved in being in the present tense, making the best of the hand you've been dealt, willing to be happy where you've landed.

After five or so days---who was counting?--we came back into town to check the AC. Someone had flipped the wrong switch under the house in turning on the sump pump. One tiny flick of a finger and we were back in the AC business.

On the drive back into town, my husband had said "As long as the wind was blowing, who cared if there was AC?"