In the mood to enjoy a little armchair traveling, I pulled an old favorite from the bookshelf. When the bookmark slid from between the pages, I expected it to be the water taxi ticket from our girls trip (me, Mother, Anderson) to Venice in 2008.
I am always tucking precious keepsakes into my books. Never would I have thought it would be my ticket to the 102nd Floor Observatory of the Empire State Building. I brought back very little from the trip to New York City that fate filled summer -other than a few souvenirs for the kids and two journals filled with notes that would become WE SHARE THE SAME SKY.
That was 15 years ago! Where does the time go? And, why does it pass so quickly?
The moments, the memories that comprise our lives are precious—-the good ones and the bad ones too, for they both shape us and define the paths we will choose.
Christmas is around the corner, but it’s not too late to purchase a #book for the #bibliophile in your life! Available On Amazon #ElizabethMozleyPartridge
This past November, my husband and I were deep in conversation when our driver suddenly stopped due to traffic. As we looked out into the rainy streets of New York City, I was stunned to see Paley Park just steps away. She (because she is too beautiful to be anything else) was glossed with rain, just as she had been the first time we met in 2007. Time has a funny way of bending in on itself. So much has happened since then, but I am still the same girl; I still believe in all that is good. And, I know I am blessed.
When we returned home, I pulled out a copy of the book I wrote about my weeklong retreat in New York City ~ WE SHARE THE SAME SKY, A MEMOIR. And, I located the chapter where I mentioned my first introduction to Paley Park. I’ve included a partial entry here.
WE SHARE THE SAME SKY, A MEMOIR Elizabeth Mozley Partridge
2 Simplicity – free of complexity, refinement, or pretentiousness
For only a moment, I forget where I am. I have awakened to the sweet sound of rain, its drops playing out a song on the sill and making a tattoo of patterns on the glass, droplets that splat, gather and run. I’ve awakened in the past, on my old couch. How often I slept my lonesome weekends through.
There was that one soaking April I awakened to find the French doors of my living room standing open, thrown wide the night before to let in the breeze. I both loved and hated that white room, with its spacious doors set across the back. On the second story, it sat as if nestled within the limbs of trees. This morning the rain had made heavy the syrupy smell of warming wisteria and its scent had come inside with the wind to blanket the house. I had risen, prepared a pot of coffee, put Madeleine Peyroux and Miles Davis on the Hi-Fi.
I was determined that spring to make myself happy. Often, I’d waste the day away. Surrounding myself with cookbooks pulled from the shelf, I’d browse the stacks for something to cook, something to have waiting for the children when they returned from the weekend with their father.
So, I have claimed today as one of those days. It will be a day without destination, a day wasted away without purpose. But, really, in all things there is purpose.
Darting along the sidewalk, I sidestep a woman scolding her son for being late. These kids are still in school and will not be out for another week. Continuing the school year through June would be unbearable in Alabama. I turn, and cannot help but watch the woman. Having entered the store behind me, she continues with her barrage of corrections. Something in her tone reminds me of my mother. She is not really angry, but the voice holds the tone of determination.
Mother used to grab me by the shoulders, demand that I meet her gaze and then with an intensity that sank into my bones she would declare, “I want you strong and independent. I don’t want you scared to try things like I was.” She and my father loved me and my younger brother. That was obvious. But, we were never smothered with affection, never spoiled. The objective they sought in child rearing was clearly to produce two kids who were sure of themselves and independent.
Growing up in the country as we did, my brother and I became inseparable. The isolation created between us an amazing bond. But, it also fostered a desire to go solo. When sports began to consume Oba’s weekends, I was left alone in what had always been a shared adventure. Strangely, rather than feel this as a loss, it grew into an inexplicable love, an unequivocal joy. Instead of accepting invitations from girlfriends for a day shopping or burgers and a movie, I preferred instead to spend my days hiking to the lake that sat nestled in the woods, gather a pile of pine needles to make a soft place where I could curl up for several hours in the quiet and read. Other days, I’d throw a shovel in the back of our old truck, and spend hours riding the countryside searching old home places for daffodils. I learned early that I am very comfortable setting out on my own.
The sky rips open and rain begins to spill onto the city. The echo of thunder ricochets off the skyscrapers with alarming intensity! It is unlike any sound I’ve ever heard. I sprint to the nearest cover along with every other soul who didn’t have the foresight to bring an umbrella. Just as quickly as it came, the rain slackens, then tapers off to a slow drizzle. Covering my head with a jacket, I tiptoe through the puddling water on the sidewalk and continue skipping between shops, searching for shelter within each, seeking enjoyment that requires no thought, just an aimless filling of the senses with shape, color, sound and scent. There is no hurry, no course to follow, just the pure enjoyment of an overcast gray sky, the creamy glow of traffic lights, the rain itself bouncing between the buildings as it picks up pace again. There is nothing so soothing as the low sound of distant rolling thunder and the muted light of a dreary day.
I turn a corner onto an unknown road and find the fountain. I know instantly that it will be my favorite and so silently claim it as a place of my own. It reminds me of one in downtown Gadsden next door to the old Pitman Theater on Broad Street. I mark it in my mind so I can return later. I have stumbled upon Paley Park, established in May 1967, a month before my birth! The plaque near the entrance reads, “This park is set aside in memory of Samuel Paley, 1875-1963, for the enjoyment of the public.”
Two questions come: Why is no one here? and What day is it? The realization that I’ve begun to let my days blend together brings a sudden smile. I feel that I am making some sort of progress, but toward what I am unsure. Folding my jacket and placing it in a chair, I sit back to appreciate what can only be a temporary moment of seclusion. The backdrop of the park is the waterfall, a twenty-foot sheet of falling water. Cobblestone pavers cover the ground and, all around, ivy buffers the encasement provided by the opposing buildings. The park is filled with the green foliage of trees with which I am unfamiliar, and a profusion of potted yellow and white flowers. The wind having died down with the passing of the storm, now blows gently through the trees and birds reappear to bathe in the puddles that remain. Bending, I collect a white rock that seems so out of place. Pausing before pocketing it, I notice its jagged edges, its surprising heft, and the way its surface glints against the light.
For centuries, man has erected fountains. Originally begun as wells that provided the city with water, fountains later sprang up, creating a place to congregate, a place to relax. The longest recorded conversation between Jesus and another person took place at Jacob’s well with the woman of Samaria. The Persians are often credited with creating the first garden fountains and Romans the aqueducts and public baths.
Sitting here alone, reflecting on these things, two memories come to mind. I remember the sense of fulfillment I experienced when Anderson, my daughter, and I drank from the fountain on a hillside in Rome, where the cold water poured out onto the streets from the ancient aqueducts.
Though warned not to drink from it by our guide, we couldn’t resist; ambivalence must surely be an inherited trait! The other memory is of a time when having tired of a lecture on the relationship between Southern food and literature I’d made my way through the streets of Natchez, Mississippi where I stumbled upon St. Mary Basilica and its simple but gracious fountain that sat surrounded by old oaks. Rather than being overcome by the majesty of the sanctuary, I was taken instead with the unassuming oasis.
Neither of these memories are distant enough to have been forgotten or shelved, and yet they are seldom, if ever, recalled. But, they come to me now and the recollection of these happy times, these times I felt fulfilled, seem to ease the anxiety that has kept me in constant company these past months.
I cannot explain the need to revisit certain buildings and places, or why it is that they are of such importance to me, a Southerner. But, I think that the love for this city’s landmarks is a universal thing. Most people understand the importance of place to the human spirit. Just as individuals are unique, the characteristics of a place which appeal to us, those to which we attach some meaning or connection, are just as varied, just as distinctive. A place that holds no appeal to one person may be of inherent importance, almost sacred, to another. Yet, experiencing ties to a place and being drawn to one are very different; while we are drawn to those that supplement our soul, we become tied to the one that breathes of home. When people reside in an area to which they feel no attraction or sentimental connection there is often the recognition that something inherent and fundamental is missing. And so they search.
Elizabeth Mozley Partridge, an excerpt from WE SHARE THE SAME SKY, A MEMOIR All books available on Amazon.
Up early for a walk in light rain & stopping often to jot down quotes for BORN TO SUN. I’m standing here in the road wearing a mask (allergens in the Deep South are deadly) & on my phone. But, clearly I have no choice for once the characters are created, they never stop talking. And, if I don’t pause to write it down, it is gone.
This morning it is the voice of Auntie (Ms. Fomby) who will not be quiet.
“I have walked through life with a wounded heart and it has made what could have been beautiful, miserable.” Ms. Fomby, ‘Auntie’
The setting ✔️ #DauphinIsland
The plot ✔️ #WontTell
The characters ✔️~ The more they talk, the more concrete & real they become. You have to have the main plot down first, otherwise these people take over! And THAT is what makes #writing wonderful.
“Practicing faith promises that we will begin to feel successful in all our experiences because we are walking through them peacefully, trusting that God is at hand. Believing in God, being truly faithful, can be the greatest success of our lives.” Karen Casey
This little blue book was picked up and purchased when I needed it most. If I had opened the front cover and realized it was written for those struggling with ‘addictions’ I would have thought it didn’t apply to me, and foolishly, I would have set it aside. It is a wonderful guide to seeing life clearly, dealing with the highs and lows that come our way – the uncertainty of life. It teaches that we must trust that everything is as it should be, and that all along our travel through this life, there must be lessons. ~ After all, that is the whole point- isn’t it?
The human spirit calls out, seeking a hero. My Pop-Pop was that man. He left his WWII account of the landing at Anzio. Available on Amazon ~FROM HERE TO THERE, THE LONG WAY HOME.
FROM HERE TO THERE, THE LONG WAY HOME ~ T. E. Stephens; published by Elizabeth Mozley WWII, The Italian Campaign
“One seems to learn fast, and we’re bound together in the knowledge that nowhere else does a man learn to trust his fellow man. The weakness of one man may cause the death of others. Out of all this comes the strength, the pride, and trust of one another. Some of the men may have hid their fears by talking a lot, others making wisecracks and jokes, while others just kept silent. I guess I tried to hide my fears by just smiling.”
In the early 1980s my grandfather, Timmie E. Stephens whom we lovingly called ‘Pop Pop’, bequeathed his brief memoir of World War II to our family members as a surprise Christmas gift. Until that time, I had only thought I knew the man.
Pop Pop’s memoir chronicles his service as a soldier during the Italian Campaign, from Anzio to the Po Valley, with the 135th Infantry. Short stories are scattered throughout his reflections and include: arriving in Casa Blanca, the Anzio landing, hand-to-hand combat with a lone German soldier, several trips to the Evac Hospital, a buddy going AWOL, rescuing an unknown G.I., finding a wine cellar in a vineyard and singing to the men as they got blisteringly drunk, holding-up with Italians in the countryside, singing gospel songs he wrote to his buddies as they sat around their foxholes and watched phosphorus shells bursting overhead, the barrage of messages from Propaganda Sally, seeing Prime Minister Winston Churchill as he toured the Italian front near Rome, the letters from home -the stories go on and on.
My grandfather’s account of his time on the front came to an end as his unit moved into the Po Valley. Here, he was severely burned and sent to the hospital for almost a year. While there, he witnessed the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, and later, returned stateside on the John L. Clem, U.S. Army Transport and Hospital Ship. After several stays at intermediate hospitals, he was admitted to Northern General Hospital in Tuscaloosa, Alabama which at that time was the world’s largest burn hospital, specializing in skin grafts. During this time he was recruited by the government to participate in a War Bond Tour, which put him right back in Gadsden, Alabama speaking before friends and family.
As children, my cousins and I didn’t see the wounds. We saw things clearly, people clearly, the way children do. We saw our Pop Pop for the man he was, radiating goodness and joy from within some inner, ceaselessly brimming, well.
Memories can be funny things, but those of my childhood remain clear. Our grandfather was a good man. He radiated unfettered love like the sun relinquishes its heat out into the world. Pop Pop taught us young’uns (his word) about God. He taught us when we stood beside him, following his movements as he grasped handfuls of white bread and held it up into the air. We stood beside him in the knee high water of the murky Coosa River and waited for the ducks which must have watched from overhead for this old man who beckoned daily. And down they would come in swoops so close that we trembled in fear at the onslaught of such undisciplined beasts.
Bird in the brush, tune in your heart; life was pure and simple in his eyes. Hard work and pleasure went hand in hand. He would call us to him, show off his newest creation -a miniature water wheel in the front courtyard; a sunken porcelain claw foot tub filled with fresh dirt, compost, and red worms for fishing. He taught us about the fruits of the Catawba trees -you know, it’s worms! The fish we would surely catch filled our dreams, and his.
The knowledge he shared, the lessons he taught, are the things I still believe. They are the way I see the world. And through his appreciative eyes the world is beauty all around. Never will I forget his influence on my young life, the pride I felt when we listened to him quietly play his guitar in church, singing a hymn he had recently penned. Never will I forget sitting near as he shared his stories of Anzio and the brave men he called ‘buddies,’ nor the sacrifice he so willingly made for our country.
Travel when you can – hop a flight, ride the train, or just step out of your own back door and roam! Join me for a week roaming New York City & reflecting on growing up in the rural South! amazon.com/Elizabeth-Mozl…
THE FRINGES is Southern Gothic through and through. A subgenre of Gothic fiction in American literature, the story takes place in the American South. The elements of deeply flawed, disturbing & eccentric characters, hoodoo, decayed & derelict settings, grotesque situations, & sinister events stemming from poverty, alienation, crime & violence are knitted like a finely spun web.
REVIEW: “Put down that Harlan Coben or James Patterson book you’re reading and instead pick up this novel by Elizabeth Mozley.
Why? We read to escape, but we also read to connect with characters who are a little bit like us. The distance that words written on a page provide allow us to experience excitement and danger vicariously.
There is plenty of treachery in this novel, and there is an abundance of love. There is something about stories set in the American South like this one is.
Like any good Southern Gothic there are graveyards and bastard children and nostalgia for the past. Through the five women around which this story unfolds, Mozley examines the values of the South such as loyalty and deeply ingrained decorum.
That is not to say that all is well in Memphis. With the mix of strong women and coarse men, violence is never far away and the bonds of loyalty fray. There are entanglements aplenty with the usual culprit at the center…money and sex.
The passages of dialogue ring true and the pacing of the story keeps you turning the pages. There is even travel to a place far away from Tennessee–both distance and culturally–that came as a surprise.
If the old adage to write what you know is true, Mozley knows a thing or two…
I think this book is worth your time reading…compelling dialogue makes an interesting movie.
So what are you waiting for Hollywood? Option this book. It will be a hit on Netflix…
Seriously, order it today.” Don Jacobson @BigSurfDon
DANCING ALONG THE FRINGES TO THE SIGN OF SILENCE is Southern Gothic through and through.
A subgenre of Gothic fiction in American literature, the story takes place in the American South. The elements of deeply flawed, disturbing & eccentric characters, hoodoo, decayed & derelict settings, grotesque situations, & sinister events stemming from poverty, alienation, crime & violence are knitted like a finely spun web.
Join me in reading Dancing Along THE FRINGES To The Sign Of Silence! (A whole lot of Southern & more than a little wicked.)
“Put down that Harlan Coben or James Patterson book you’re reading and instead pick up this novel by Elizabeth Mozley.
Why? We read to escape, but we also read to connect with characters who are a little bit like us. The distance that words written on a page provide allow us to experience excitement and danger vicariously.
There is plenty of treachery in this novel, and there is an abundance of love. There is something about stories set in the American South like this one is.
Like any good Southern Gothic there are graveyards and bastard children and nostalgia for the past. Through the five women around which this story unfolds, Mozley examines the values of the South such as loyalty and deeply ingrained decorum.
That is not to say that all is well in Memphis. With the mix of strong women and coarse men, violence is never far away and the bonds of loyalty fray. There are entanglements aplenty with the usual culprit at the center…money and sex.
The passages of dialogue ring true and the pacing of the story keeps you turning the pages. There is even travel to a place far away from Tennessee–both distance and culturally–that came as a surprise.
If the old adage to write what you know is true, Mozley knows a thing or two…
I think this book is worth your time reading…compelling dialogue makes an interesting movie.
So what are you waiting for Hollywood? Option this book.
Elizabeth Mozley Partridge, Alabama Author 