“Place retains its significance to the human spirit because we tie to it the emotions of our memories.”
Elizabeth Mozley Partridge
WE SHARE THE SAME SKY, A MEMOIR was published and released January 14, 2014; a second edition published February 13, 2018. The work chronicles my solo sabbatical to New York City the summer of 2007 and revolves around the typical NYC experience: exploring neighborhoods and cultural enclaves; gorging at Manhattan’s famous and not-so-famous restaurants and bakeries; history on both well-known and unfamiliar city landmarks and icons. Woven throughout are reflections on growing up in the South -providing a refreshing and intimate look into the Southern female psyche.
The trip, which was originally based upon an exploration of the city’s ever-changing neighborhoods, became a journey of personal understanding. The memoir addresses the importance place plays on one’s cultural identity and the affect our beliefs have on the choices we make in our daily lives, for faith is the inextricable link that ties us all together.
From this morning’s reading: “I walked across an open field at winter’s break as the sun danced on the last few drifts. I imagined my fears would melt one by one as I learned to love myself.” L.Lewis
Just as we enjoy the change of seasons, we must pause and appreciate the varying stages of our lives. How often I awaken and rush into my ‘to do’ list without taking a moment to read, reflect, look about appreciatively at my surroundings, my life. There is much to be thankful for.
FROM HERE TO THERE, THE LONG WAY HOME ~ T. E. Stephens
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.
CENTIPEDE is the story of an eleven year old child, who when faced with seemingly insurmountable odds, survives and succeeds in obtaining the life every child deserves.
Willa Cather Jennings, who detests her given name and therefore goes by Willie, is the lone survivor of her family’s harrowing murder. Consumed with emotion, she finds herself traveling with Thomas, the manic depressive stranger, who stepped in to save her.
The two travel together through North Alabama, the Appalachia to the Outer Banks in North Carolina before arriving in Savannah, Georgia where they join his sister Jane. Along the way, Willie’s dependency on Thomas turns to trust; he, in turn, finds new meaning in life through his friendship with the child.
In Savannah, Willie -who grew up in a fragmented and impoverished family -finds comfort, happiness and belonging. But, just as she comes to terms with her past and embraces her future, Thomas returns to Alabama seeking vengeance and Detective Nicholas Cox, an old friend of Willie’s mother who has been searching for the missing child, pieces the past and present together.
~Several years ago, my students asked why I had not written a book for them; it was then that the idea for Centipede was born.
As a teacher, the majority of my time is spent with children. At the end of the day, many return home to ideal family settings; many more do not. There are some who rarely see their parent or guardian and so they’ve learned to fend for themselves. Willie is one of those children. You know the kind -the kid who is self-resilient, who harnesses the magical power of imagination to make it through the especially rough times.
Many children live in a low socio-economic area; the poor are quietly poor. When I read parts of Centipede to my students, I saw recognition as they acknowledged the similarities between the heroine’s life and theirs, and how her indomitable spirit mirrors their own.
For my dearest Anderson, the darling daughter who complains so loudly, stirring praise of CENTIPEDE as she scolds her mother for never mentioning her favored book.
CENTIPEDE is dedicated to my sweet granddaughters~ Bug, Goose & Duck-duck. I pray they are always as fierce and loving as they are now.
The urge within man to protect home, family, country cannot be quieted.
We didn’t see the wounds, my cousins and I. We were children. 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.
Timmie Eugene Stephens was a good man. I knew it then. I know it now. Love made him more so. He radiated unfettered love like the sun relinquishes it’s 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.
God bless them all, every man and woman. Honor and Remember.
In the mornings, as I am getting ready, I listen to audiobooks -the classics. Between writing, work, family and daily reading… it’s just something I need. I’ve been listening to John Muir, My First Summer in the Sierra. This morning I had to turn it off.
You see, the need to roam is cutting deep.
The women of my family always taught to mix both work and pleasure into my day. Both, because they each provide the soul with something it needs -accomplishment, pleasure, appreciation.
So today, I will work on a query letter for the novel I’ve just completed. I will find something in the house that needs organizing and cleaning. I will read a little, take a walk between storms if possible, watch an old movie.
And, I will dream about returning to Key West, soaking up the hot sun and sounds of happy people. I will read about the lobstering towns along the coast in Maine and make notes for ‘someday’.
I will hear John Muir’s wistful words, his reverence and love of the Sierras in my mind!
I hope this day finds you all happy and healthy. And, I hope you find joy in it as well.
As I walked in the rain this early morning, I paused, looked about appreciatively at the gray skies, raised my face to the cool breeze. Everything was fresh and clean.And as so often happens, with each step my mind held to the places I still long to see- Japan, France.
Immediately, within my mind I saw the places of my reading; how sadly the pragmatic in me pushed against my dominant romantic self, reminding that things are not as they once were.
And yet, Iwonder.
When I visit these places – because you see, I am sure I will -will I find the glimmer of times past, old ideals lingering there?
Often these days I look about filled with disdain and long to seclude myself and wander alone, hold tight to my peace and appreciationof what beauty in the world remains.
I know that just as places must change, so too must the people. We are not the same as we were 10, 30 years ago. Individuals have changed; society has changed.
While I know this, my romantic heart longs for truth in man, loyalty -the soul which holds tightly to ideals of family and home. But, I am afraid these things are like spent leaves of last season, clinging to the relenting branch.
Yet, I must believe we can take heart, thank God that the time will come again -the seasons will change and the green of youth, the unfurling of the bud and leaf, admirableideals -all will be reborn and flourish again.
Elizabeth Mozley Partridge, Alabama Author 