A view of home after the storm

CENTURY — We parked on Church Street and walked, viewing up close the recovery effort as locals repaired or salvaged what they could after an EF-3 tornado skipped through the town two weeks ago.

The buzz of distant chainsaws carving fallen trees carried on a light breeze, alongside the scent of wood dust and smoke. Debris was mounded in piles along the streets and in yards. Roofers replaced shingles and plywood on one house while heavy equipment left deep ruts in yards to shove fallen trees aside.

Trees still standing were coated in fiberglass flocking and sparkled with twisted vinyl and aluminum sheets. Blue and brown tarps draped the roofs of houses and public buildings, and plywood covered missing windows.

The view down Mayo to Front Street.

A stillness settled in, under warm sunshine and a cloudless blue sky.

I grew up in Century, and everywhere I looked last weekend, my memories collided with the devastation. Here was the place I went to high school. There, a shop I worked one summer. Over there, the hospital where my grandmother built her career. The church where I was baptized. The remains of a house my friend grew up in. The streets where we rode our bikes.

My cousin’s house. My aunt and uncle’s house. The Health Department. The pharmacy.

Some of them sustained only slight damage. Some were reduced to piles of kindling.

The Baptist church where we had parked showed little damage beyond some missing vinyl siding that exposed old tongue-and-groove wood walls and cracked paint on its bell tower. Pastor David Boyd greeted us in the gravel lot, explaining how the church was being used as a base of operations for volunteers from the First Baptist Church of Holt, who were helping to clean up and restore order in the area.

Century Methodist Church

“They’ve been over at the Blair house on Front Street this morning,” Boyd said. “Mr. Blair was at work when the tornado came, but his teenage kids were home. The wind picked up the house, moved it over 12 feet and set it down again. It’s a miracle nobody was hurt.”

Right next door, the 114-year-old Methodist church leaned precariously, having been shifted off its brick foundation pilings, bent and broken. Braces nailed against the exterior walls kept it from collapse until interior relics could be salvaged, as well as pews and stained glass windows. The future looked uncertain for the historic structure, built with the aid of the original lumber company that established the mill town in 1901.

As we walked back toward our car, a voice called out, “You hungry?”

Volunteers from Pineview, Ala.

A car and a pickup truck were stopped on the street, and people from the vehicles knocked on the doors of wood frame houses across from the churches. A man in a Red Sox ball cap repeated his call to us.

They were from Liberty Baptist Church in Pineview, he explained, a tiny community about 13 miles north in Alabama. They’d cooked 300 meals of smoked ribs and chicken, and gathered a carload of cleansers, paper supplies and other household needs that they were passing out.

“The Lord has led us to help these people out,” said Howard Hoomes. “We’re going door-to-door. Even the people that works, we want them to get free food.”

Pastor Boyd spoke with the group as they passed, thanking them for their gifts to the people struggling through the recovery. He clapped me on my shoulder and said, “Wouldn’t this make a good story?”

I nodded. Yes, it would.

Peace.

Under the moon and the Milky Way

Photo by Andrew Wardlow

PANAMA CITY BEACH — Walking under a full moon last weekend, I listened to oak limbs creaking, the hiss of leaves shuffling in a breeze, and tried to convince myself there was more happening in the dark.

That the trees were shifting to keep an eye on me as I walked. That something lurked unseen among the limbs or in the utter blackness under the gnarled branches.

It didn’t work.

I know the woods around my house, sparse as they are, host foxes, deer, rabbits and coyotes, snakes and squirrels and other beasties. I have seen a hawk glide over the trees, and a large horned owl perched atop a pine, and I have heard the call of a lonely whippoorwill in the night.

But I have not felt the chill of fright on those empty streets, walking under the vast open dome of the Milky Way, or seeing the landscape light up in shades of blue as clouds parted for the moon. I have not feared the unseen creatures in the wild, or even the ones in my over-active imagination.

I wasn’t always so assured in the night. As a child, I hated going into my back yard after sunset. My family lived on the southern boundary of a small town, with a few acres of woodland surrounding the house. I was convinced something supernatural and predatory walked behind the fence at night; I heard it moving when I went out to feed our dog, or on evenings Mom asked me to bring in laundry from the clothesline.

It followed me on nighttime walks with my older cousins near my grandparents’ home. Or so they would tell me, weaving ghost stories and legends as the moon trailed us in the sky and noises carried from the trees lining the road.

It lurked on the corner, just outside the cone of light from the street lamp. It hid in the bushes beside the bedroom window, waiting for me to look outside so it could reveal itself. It never did, except one evening when we were moving into our home (I was 7) and my uncle (13 years old) snuck up to the window to scare me silly.

Even as an adult, I have felt my hackles rise from some unseen but nonetheless sensed danger in the dark. Because I have also learned to trust my instincts, I make it a rule not to remain in places or situations that cause me to feel uneasy.

But that hasn’t been the case of late. Maybe there are enough real-world dangers that imagined ones don’t register any more. Maybe I have put aside the childish fears of youth, or exorcised them through my writing.

But more likely, I think, I have merely recognized that I’m where I need to be for this time, and that includes a bit of walking under the light of the moon, in the narrow lane between the deep shadows, where leaves rustle and something unseen goes bump in the night.

Peace.
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(This is my Undercurrents column for PanamaCity.com and The News Herald this week.) 

Free on Kindle Saturday

My first novel, Welcome to the Dawning of a New Century, will be FREE from Amazon's kindle store tomorrow, Saturday, May 4.

This is not part of Free Comic Book Day.

This is in recognition of the annual Sawmill Day celebration in Century, Florida, where the tale is set. The novel focuses on fictitious events leading up to the town's centennial celebration in 2001 (a party that never happened, at least not to the extent shown here). It's comical, weird, satirical, touching, sexy, and violent. It takes the form of several interconnected short stories and essays, leading to the climactic events of Sawmill Day.

And for one day, as Century celebrates its history in the real world, you can get this story for your Kindle device or Kindle app on your phone — for FREE.

>>Click here to check it out<<

And May the Fourth be with you.

'Century' novel now available on Kindle

My first published novel, "Welcome to the Dawning of a New Century," which debuted in late 2004, is now available for Kindle devices and other mobile devices that run the Kindle app.

>>Click here to check it out<<

Going through it to format it, I got the chance to revisit it like I haven't done for many years, and I'm relieved to say I still like it. If you have ever had the chance to re-read something you wrote many years ago, you may know how it feels - kind of like reading something that's familiar, but that you don't recall writing?  Often, I cringe when I read old work.  I did run across a few passages that I think I would have done differently if I had them to do over, but for the most part I'm pleased with this still.

If that's not a lukewarm endorsement, I don't know what is.  That's not how I meant it.  What I meant is, I liked this book and was very proud of it, and I still do and I still am.  Please check it out (you can read about 2.5 chapters in the preview).

If you've read it, please write a review. Thanks!

Books Alive 2013 Photo Post (2 of2)

FSU-PC Holley Center

Books Alive took place at FSU-PC this year, moving across the street from its former home at GCSC. The move allowed the author tables to occupy the main floor entrance, meaning great traffic, and the rooms are larger, meaning fewer standing-room-only situations. Also, you can't beat the view of the bay. The local "authors" got the prime location at the entrance, and the featured ones shared tables across from the book sales area.

Kayla and Nick May

I was set up beside Nick May, who was accompanied by his wife Kayla. (Two of my favorite people on the planet, if I haven't told you this before, which made for a fun morning.) They brought a candy dish but no candy, so I put my cough drops in it.

Wilson, Angier

Greg Wilson and David Angier shared a table. They co-wrote "Salvaged Santa," and David just released "The Madness of Joe Francis." David and I were longtime colleagues at The News Herald, and we're hoping to write a novel together later this year. Probably most of that work will involve sitting by a fire and drinking manly portions of alcohol.

Murphy on Skype

I was assigned to introduce and moderate the session for Mary Murphy, a former CBS 60 Minutes producer who made the documentary "Hey, Boo," about the writing of "To Kill a Mockingbird," the production of the film and the cultural impact of the two. She was sick, however, and couldn't travel, so we ended up connecting with her via Skype.

Kretzer

Jayson Kretzer purchased a "33 Days" combo pack from me of my "pamphlet" of 10 flash-fictions based on the songs on The Offer's album of the same name, along with a copy of the album. David Angier also picked up the two-fer. I was pleased with sales this year, especially because of the variety of things I sold, including both of my novels, both of my short story collections, one of my column collections, one of the anthologies I edited, and a couple of the anthologies I have stories in. It's good to offer folks choices, I reckon.

Boss and a Hat

Mark Boss is a writer friend of mine. You should download his books now before he becomes famous and expensive. (I read a chapter of his new Untitled Crime Novel today, and it's fantastic.) I joined him and our mutual writing friends Carole and Ruth for lunch, then left my trademark hat behind when I hurried back to the conference. Mark was kind enough to save it from a life of abandonment and misery, selling itself on the streets just to get by.

Me and Kathie

Terra and Me

This is the part where I get to hug people, which is always my favorite part. Kathie Bennett is the daughter of Gerry and Barbara Clemons, and the sister of (among other siblings) Scott Clemons. She's a literary publicist for many of the authors at Books Alive, and she's a source of encouragement for me. I appreciate her more than I can say. When I asked her if one of the authors might be interested in visiting my Education Encore class while they were here, she suggested the gig to Terra Elan McVoy, who was -- let's face it -- pretty awesome. My class loved her, which just goes to show that they do have good taste in writers, despite listening to anything I've been telling them. Now I have to go back and continue to teach the class after she just raised the bar.

Morris and Owens

Jacqueline West

These next pics are pretty well self-explanatory, as they represent authors meeting fans and telling stories and signing books. The only one I want to make special mention of is Michael Morris and Janis Owens. I joke that coincidence surrounds them to such an extent that the universe has begun to revolve around them. Then I take this picture, after which Janis tells the lady in black that "Tony comes from your neck of the woods." The lady is named Lydia. She lives in Pensacola. Her next-door neighbor is Buck Showalter, former manager of the New York Yankees, who hails from my home town. His dad was my middle school principal. His mom was friends with my grandmother. His sister was a counselor at the elementary school when my son attended there. I wrote the newspaper article when the town renamed the baseball park after him and his dad, "Showalter Park." Then Michael and Lydia start quoting the same Bible verse as they discuss how Lydia was the name of Paul's first convert; Lydia is the name of the main character in Michael's next novel, which he's calling "The First Convert." See what I mean?

Terra Elan McVoy

Erin and Erica (Go Gators!)

Last photo is of two of my coworkers at The News Herald (the only two I saw that day), one of whom was brave enough to wear her Gator jacket to Seminole territory.

I marked this entry as No. 2 of 2, but I believe I will be following it up in a few days with some thoughts on the event as a whole, with a couple more photos.  Right now, I need to get back to work. This novel is not going to rewrite itself.

Peace.

New Signing 'Dawns' for Century City Limits

My dad sent me a link to a story about the new signs at the town limits of Century, Florida, where I grew up and which is the setting for my first novel, "Welcome to the Dawning of a New Century."

The cover of that book features one of the actual signs installed at the town limits in 1999, which I likened to headstones, and which have now been replaced by the new saw-blade shaped signs that are a homage to the origins of the town as a sawmill camp and feature the rising sun.

Don't know when I'll be there again. It has been a while.

But I was joking with my friend Karen on Facebook today that you haven't really been anywhere until you've been to the gravel lakes at Mosquito Flats, so you can see it's always in the back of my mind.

Something I Learned at Church

One of my earliest memories of going to church is at the age of seven or eight. I realize how odd that is, because I was raised in church. I have vague memories of being in the nursery room, playing with toys and hearing a preacher’s voice over a speaker in the room (which I later learned was being piped directly from the pulpit); I recall napping in a baby bed in the church nursery, that half-awake awareness and sense of letting go; I recall images of my grandmother sitting with me in a pew, of her giving me cherry-flavored cough drops, of standing in the pew beside her to sing songs as she held the hymnal, of putting my head in her lap and falling asleep when the preacher started preaching.

But those early images aren’t vibrant memories. They blur together.

My earliest true, detailed and haunting memory of churchgoing is of a morning early autumn or early spring (I have a suspicion when*), the sun still low, the heat and humidity rising. Dad had dropped me and my little sister off (I don’t think he stayed for church in those days, or maybe it was Sunday School he skipped, or maybe I'm confused about this part altogether). The children’s Sunday School classes were in a small brick outbuilding behind the main church, and I was supposed to hold my little sister’s hand and walk her to her classroom (she would have been four or five years old at this time) and then go to my classroom a door away in the same building.

Her classroom door was locked. No one answered when I knocked. I tried the door to my classroom and found it locked as well. I tried the nursery door, a rising fear in my chest. Finally I found all four doors were locked. No one answered my knocks. I checked around the corner, where the car had been. The car was gone. I don’t recall if there were other cars in the gravel lot, but it seems like there were.

I didn’t know what to do, and I felt tears well up. I kept hold of my sister’s hand and went to the back door of the church. I didn’t know at the time that this was an entrance to the fellowship hall, which also doubled as a Sunday School classroom for the elderly members. It was locked. No one heard me knocking, and I was afraid to shout.

In fact, I was afraid to walk around the church to the front or look for other doors. I’m not sure if I even understood that I could do that. I was scared to leave the Sunday School building area in case someone showed up to open the classrooms. I was scared to wander, and I can’t claim I was watching out for my sister; my fear was my own, and she appeared merely confused by what I was doing.

So I sat on the little concrete walkway in front of the classrooms and put my back against the red brick. My sister sat down facing me and crossed her legs “Indian-style,” as we said then. She kept asking me where her teacher was and what we were doing. I don’t think she was frightened; I think she may have thought I was being bad or disobeying. I think she may have expected me to get in trouble.

She took a piece of gravel and scratched on the walkway, making light zig-zags on the smooth finish. I picked up a piece of gravel, too. I started scratching on the concrete — and this part of the memory is clearer than anything else about it. I scratched out three words:

“I HATE THIS.”

I was angry by now. I don’t think I actually cried, but I felt like it. I felt lost, betrayed, abandoned. No one was coming, I thought. I began to wonder if Mom or Dad would ever come to get us, or if Grandma would show up with cherry cough drops. I hated being there alone. I hated worrying about what was going to happen next, and yes, even worrying about my little sister. I shouldn’t have to do this. I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to go home.

We waited a long time. I don’t know how long. It may have been ten minutes, but it felt like hours. It reminded me of the long days I spent at age four in a daycare center where I was bullied by the older kids and neglected by the staff. I wanted to escape, and I felt truly trapped.

Finally, a woman came out the back door of the church and saw us sitting there. I remember she was tall and slim, at least in my mind’s eye. She wore a bright flowery dress. She had short dark hair. I don’t recall her name, but I knew even then that she was a member of the church. She asked how long we’d been waiting, and I told her I didn’t know, and I tried to shield the words I had scratched onto the concrete.

The panic rose in my throat. I was afraid someone would see. That she would read what I had written and be angry at me. That I would get a spanking from my dad.

If she saw, she didn’t mention it. She took our hands and led us inside and got us a drink from the cold, cold water fountain. She took us to a classroom upstairs, where older kids (teenagers!) were having a lesson. They gave us paper and crayons, and we drew pictures. After, the lady led us to the church sanctuary where Grandma met us.

I never forgot those feelings — the anguish of abandonment, the fear of being punished for expressing my anger. They continued to haunt me throughout my life. When my father and mother split, for instance. When I sat alone on the school bleachers and wrote bad poetry in high school. When I rode a bus to basketball games and not one other member of the team spoke to me. When I realized my few close friends weren’t going to go to university with me. Every time I try to write about real emotion and find myself backing off or tempering my language because I feel the need to find a kinder way to express what I’m experiencing, or to hide my true emotions, or that of the characters in my imagination.

I’m not sure exactly, but I think this is something I learned at church.

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* Today I think this must have happened on the morning when everyone set their clocks back an hour — and if my parents forgot to change our clocks at home, then they may have dropped us off at church an hour early. We were at Sunday School at what we thought was 9:30 a.m., and no one was in the church because it was actually only 8:30 a.m. That means we sat outside for about an hour. Still, this doesn’t explain why we were taken to an inside room instead of going to our regular classes. I guess that part will remain a mystery forever.