I Ain't Said Nothin' But A Word...

I come from a family of way too many "change-of-life" babies. Change-of-life babies are conceived and born to middle-aged mothers who are supposed to be menopausal. A relative recently gave birth to a beautiful baby girl and she is still shaking her head at the absurdity of it. You see, her last child is now in his late teens. She wasn’t planning for any more babies and definitely not one coming some eighteen years after her baby boy had been born. The prospect of two AM feedings and diapers had me cringing, the very thought moving me to reconsider my birth control options. If I came up pregnant at this stage of the game, me and baby both would be screaming and pulling out our hair. Wouldn't nothing be funny about any of it. The relative had me doubled over with laughter however as she continued to stress that she’d been in menopause because surely menapause was supposed to make a difference. She kissed her infant daughter’s cheek and proclaimed. “God truly has a keen se

I remember him being way too young to be predicting his demise, a young man barely out of his teens and too far from his prime to be foreseeing such a short future. But Horatio Lorenzo Edwards couldn’t see himself making it to his thirty-fifth birthday. He couldn’t see it and I couldn’t fathom how he could be so accepting of a life not lived to a ripe old age of senior citizen discounts and benefits. Then thirty-six came and went, followed by forty and Horatio was having such a good old time that he quickly changed his mind, deciding that old age might not be such a bad thing after all. But Horatio won’t see old age. Disease has managed to stake a claim on his soul, stealing in like a thief in the middle of the night to take what doesn’t belong to it. Diagnosed with lung cancer, Horatio has declined treatment, convinced that treatment is far worse than the disease itself. Horatio has witnessed treatment ravage far too many his family members without curing them completely or extending

Family Reunion by John Holyfield Family fuels my writing. I have no problem acknowledging their contributions to my creative energy. They share their lives with me and in return, I twist fact to fiction and change the names to protect the guilty. This weekend we celebrated our family reunion in Bluffton, South Carolina. Family came from far and wide to reconnect with loved ones and introduce kin found and born since the last time we’d all gathered together. The weekend was a sweet reminder of all that should be truly important in our lives and what we should focus on most. Our family historian recited the history during the banquet ceremony and it was with great pride that we all sat and experienced our family’s journey over the last 146 years. My great-great grandparents were slaves. My great grandparents were born free, just four short years after the signing of the emancipation proclamation. They grew up to be sharecroppers in a small Southern town, rooting their family firmly in

My very special new friend and I met for dessert last night - ice cream sundaes at a popular ice cream parlor. It’s one of those places where they slap your cream on top of an iced table and then mix and spoon stuff like nuts and candy into it before slapping it back onto an ice cream cone or into a cup. The dark chocolate with almonds, fresh strawberries, and fudge mixed in was truly delightful as we sat outside and people watched. Right next door to the ice cream parlor is this too cute Italian restaurant with a sign at the door that says your meal is made fresh when ordered so don’t be giving folks a hard time if they don’t’ fast food your meal to the table a la McDonald’s-style. It’s a romantic little joint as evidenced by the many couples dining couple-like at these adorable tables designed especially for a party of two. So we’re catching up on each other’s day and people watching and in particular watching an exquisite woman who is watching us from the driver’s seat of her car. W

Hot damn! Tame A Wild Stallion has gotten excellent reviews! Romantic Times Magazine gave it 4-1/2 stars and made it a TOP PICK! for the month of June. Now that's a grand, ride 'em, cowboy, kind of moment! I have to tell you, the story had me a little nervous. I had to really work for this one because Mark Stallion wasn’t just any ordinary man. The brother is special and I was determined that all his special jump right off the pages. Michele “Mitch” Coleman was also a unique woman, not easily swayed by wealthy eye candy. It was important to me that her uniqueness not be missed. I was also acutely aware that after the success of To Love A Stallion that I had to really bring it or else. I wasn’t but so confident that I’d gotten it right and I was just a touch worried that my readers might be disappointed. For me this coupling had to be worthy of entry into the romance history books. Thus far it looks like I done good. My baby is doing its thing out in the reading world and ap

I would really like to find myself a benefactor, a charitable patron who would be willing to gift me a monetary endowment to help further my literary career. Historically, some visual artists have been exceptionally blessed to have a benefactor fund their artistic efforts by purchasing their artwork or just gifting them monies to help them create their masterpieces. I don’t know of a writer who has been that blessed. Certainly, there have been many writers who were fortunate to win writing grants or be selected for fellowships, but nothing like having a private citizen hand them monies to fuel their basic necessities while they write that great American novel or who funded workshops and writing classes to help improve an author’s skills. I want a benefactor who will help me publish a book I’ve already written. It’s an exceptional story that has placed second in a major, national writing competition and a story that has garnered me much attention. Unfortunately, I can’t find a publ

I am in this very funky place right now. A conversation with an old friend truly has me reeling. I think most people make the assumption that what they do and when they do it makes perfect sense to everyone else because it makes sense to them. Just because there was no long, drawn out discussion about the whys and how comes of your actions, you think folks who love and care for you would inevitably understand. I know I did. I discovered yesterday just how wrong I was. People only understand what they see. They don’t have a clue about the stuff you don’t share with them or what they haven’t been witness to. My marital status or lack there of would seem to be a point of consternation for people in my life, most especially my children. Why I chose to leave on this date and not that date, why I didn’t leave that month when I said but this month when I hadn’t, why I left at all or why I didn’t leave sooner, would seem to be a point of issue for some folks. Many are still dwelling on details

I raised six children. All of them were mine whether I’d given birth to them or not, and I did not give birth to them all. I have never differentiated one from the other and most folks who know us couldn’t tell you which ones I’d carried for nine months and which ones I hadn’t. My love for them and their well-being has always been endless and continues to fill me each and every day. One of the darkest moments in my marriage was the year the ex-hubby was asked what he’d done to acknowledge me for Mother’s Day and his response was, “Nothing. She’s nobody’s mother!” I was crushed that I could raise a man’s children as my own, one born outside the marriage, and he could say something so cruel and cold. The ill-will of that moment was diminished as I opened the homemade gifts and loving cards from my babies, proof positive that as a Mom I was doing something right. It was a difficult adjustment when my kids left home, their lives headed in a direction I could no longer control. More difficu

I met a young man yesterday who was just too smooth for words. He reminded me of an old-school player from back in the day. He had Marvin Gaye’s swagger, Barry White’s bravado, and Sam Cooke’s classic good looks in a deep, dark Hershey's shade of chocolate. He was also 29 and still wet behind the ears but you couldn’t tell him anything. Baby boy was a walking man-machine with more ‘playa-playa’ lines than the He-Man’s handbook should ever allow. Thirty years ago I would have tried him on for size just to see if he fit. He’d have been one of those disposable toys you played with until you got tired of playing and then you’d have to toss him aside for the next best thing. That’s of course if he hadn’t tossed you first. Letting him go would have been easy though because clearly he wasn’t up to anything but a good time and a good time was all he’d have been worth. Today, I can only smile at his efforts because the player was trying way too hard to make an impression. The most interesti

For every ex-husband who deserves a few words of thanks and for every ex-wife who knows why... Dear Ex-Hubby, Thank you so much for all your sweet words. How could I have forgotten why I have all this love in my heart for you, and for us, together as a couple! I’m delighted to see that your church has helped you find God because that sincere display of Christian behavior is to be commended. My day wouldn’t have been complete without you reminding me what a horrible, horrible person I am. How much I miss being told what a whore and tramp I have been for all these years. Thank you for reminding me of all the wonderful moments we’ve shared because I certainly had forgotten how sustaining and comforting it is to have you rant and rage at me with such venom. I can’t for the life of me figure out why I would have wanted to leave all of that anger and hostility behind. What in the world could I have been thinking not to want to hold on to all the bitterness and hurt that comes when I least ex