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Woodrow's Trumpet
is a mournful sound crying a theme as old as man. You'll hear it long
after you leave the last page. --Greensboro News & Record
Filled with
humor, compassion, and satire. Memorable characters the reader will be
better for knowing. --Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Honest like a
dirt road. A brilliant mirror by which to see ourselves, darkly. --Raleigh
News & Observer
Beautifully
crafted, a tribute to the individualism that cannot be destroyed even by
the dull order of subdivisions and their concrete-covered earth and
tamed grass. --Louisville Courier-Journal
Fresh, true,
funny, sad, a testament to a new talent. --Detroit Free Press
More than a
well-told dark comedy, it's the tale of how any of us can be trapped
and, in turn, trap others by limiting our vision. Rejoice! The South has
a new storyteller. --Nashville Banner
That treasure of
treasures: a good book. --Winston-Salem Journal
From Woodrow's Trumpet:
A chilly spring rain had been
falling for two days when the clouds finally broke in the west. The fat
lady slowly waddled from her purple and orange tent, detouring deep
puddles, on her way to the hot dog stand where Ellis worked. Ellis spied
the huge lady in her tent-like dress, and automatically took a couple of
foot-long wiener buns from the steamer and began lathering them with
chili. He was adding the onions when she sat down heavily on one of the
stools, breathing as powerfully as if she had run a mile.
"Damn, Connie,"
Ellis said, squinting one eye and smiling. "Baby doll, you know I
would have brought you your supper in another thirty minutes. Get your
feet wet?"
"No," Connie said
between breaths. "I need the exercise anyhow." Her great bosom
rose and fell.
The carnival was slow for
opening night. Hard rain had kept the crowd away, and the only
amusements going were the ones under shelter. Ellis watched a sliver of
moon lick through the clouds. "Reckon things will pick up
tomorrow?" he asked.
"Should, if the weather
clears." Connie shredded a paper towel into a pile. She watched
Ellis dice a bell pepper with the end of his spatula, the bits of
vegetable popping on the hot, oiled grill. She liked the lanky boy with
his quick smile and intense blue eyes. Sometimes he lingered at her tent
after bringing her supper, making small talk as if he shared her
loneliness.
Connie sighed. "He
knows, Ellis," she said quietly. "Frankie knows everything.
They got into another fight and Joanie spilled her gut."
Ellis stiffened. He stirred
the bits of bell pepper before shoveling them down the side of the bun.
"Yeah? Knows what, Connie?"
"Don't play dumb with
me, honey. I ain't blind."
"When did she tell
him?"
"Only about thirty
minutes ago. I heard them shouting inside their trailer."
Connie smiled sadly. She laid
two dollars on the counter, took the wieners wrapped in white paper in
one hand, pinched Ellis's cheek with the other, then turned and waddled
away.
Ellis lay two more foot-longs
on the grill. "Hey, Harry," he shouted to a man with tattoos
and gray whiskers manning the other side of the tent. "I'm going to
take a leak."
Ellis walked a quick,
straight path through the midway to the small camp trailer he shared
with Harry. Once inside, he locked the door, then began stuffing clothes
into a battered canvas pack. Into his breast pocket, he slipped a
plastic sack containing a few tablespoons of dirt. He gave the tiny room
a once-over, then stooped through the door, checked left and right, and
faded into the darkness beyond the circle of the midway. He considered
slipping by to say so long to Connie, but decided the detour wasn't
worth the possibility of getting caught.
about the author
Tim McLaurin was a Marine and Peace Corps volunteer who once was
known as Wild Man Mac, proprietor of a traveling snake show. He was the
author of several other books, including The Acorn Plan, Cured
by Fire, The Last Great Snake Show, Lola,
Keeper of the Moon,
The River Less Run,
and Another Son of Man.
He died in 2002.
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