i remember this place. a traditional Italian family lived here. the smell of meatballs and homemade sauce overpowered your senses inviting you in. lace doilies adorned the kitchen table. plastic pride covered the furniture. linens hung on the clothesline signaling sweet smells of Spring. the barn was once a Soda Pop warehouse, Liberty Beverage. the family is gone now, mom and dad died packing up their stories for a different journey. kids moved out and away. the bank took the house many years ago, leaving it to rot and decay. once there was a neighborhood street, a welcoming family who were proud to call this forgotten dwelling a home. the horseshoe placed upwards over the barn door to hold in all the power it brings and good luck. i remember a happy home and her inviting smells. the cracks of neglect and decay, worn paint can’t take the horseshoe memories away.
A gorgeous 5 Star Review that describes in detail the beauty and complexity that is “Georgia Pine” The perfect synopsis, with a Kristin Hannah and Penny Vincenzi mention. This book’s author is in excellent company.
“Georgia Pine” – love the name, love the character, love the novel!
“For those of you who fell in love with Harry in “The Vast Landscape” and wanted the saga to continue, Jacqueline Cioffa has answered your call with her new novel, “Georgia Pine”. It continues the story of Harrison, Zack and their daughter Addie and her 4 girls – each one uniquely searching for her own happiness. Interwoven into this is the story of the narrator, who, after an accident that has left her permanently physically disabled, is able to escape her broken body into the vast landscape of her imagination. And in so doing unwittingly inspires a reader, who is walking a tightrope between living and dying, to opt for hope. Another great read from Ms. Cioffa! She continues to top my list, along with Kristin Hannah and Penny Vincenzi.”
If I make it to the lake maybe the twenty ton meteor I’m dragging might feel less like a load.
Jacket, gloves, hat, boots, dog, collar, leash. It feels like a sepia tone, monotone, monotonous chore.
Four scrappy, grungy, mean looking dudes (straight out of a redneck murder flick set in absolutely NOwhere) dressed in FULL hunting gear stand by the water’s edge cocking rifles. RIFLES, a friggin’ case full of them.
Is that even legal? The bridge clearly states DO NOT CROSS, muthafo.
…I make a mental note of the license plate, gray four door something or other.
Should I run? Dare turn my back? Will the greasers shoot my dog?
Play it cool, take it in very long strides. You’re being ridiculous.
I spot a man parked at the opposite end of the park and speed up. (yay cardio, fuck off fatty liver)
The fellow seems pleasant enough, but what’s up with the 15 or so credit cards sprawled out on the dash?!!!? UGH.
“Need a phone?” he offers with a nod and a dirty smile.
GROSS, HELL NO. “Nah, gonna wait until I’m out of here,” (like twenty traffic lights between me and this shady situation).
“Detective’s daughter.” I throw that it out into the universe, force of habit and good luck charm.
Shit man I have got to chill with the Killing marathons, except Holder is hot.
Death by duck.
I feel lighter, must be the sweat across my brow.