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Where Dew Drops Shine Bright A Dramatized Family History von Holmes, Reginald C. (eBook)

  • Erscheinungsdatum: 31.07.2016
  • Verlag: BookBaby
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Where Dew Drops Shine Bright

Where Dew Drops Shine Bright is a fictionalized memoir of the authors' own family and ancestors. Spanning the early 1900s, Mr. Holmes skillfully tells the story of three generations of strong women who live amid danger, poverty, and domestic abuse. The story opens with two women and a man making a deal that will forever impact their families. As the book progresses, Reginald Holmes' stories of romance, family relationships, heartbreak and survival in rural Mississippi becomes an interwoven tale of the experiences and triumphs each generation passes down for the next to build upon. This is an inspiring and powerful tale of family and struggle; and picking up the pieces.


    Format: ePUB
    Kopierschutz: AdobeDRM
    Seitenzahl: 226
    Erscheinungsdatum: 31.07.2016
    Sprache: Englisch
    ISBN: 9781483578255
    Verlag: BookBaby
    Größe: 2299kBytes
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Where Dew Drops Shine Bright

P ROLOGUE Christmas of 2009 began as yet another Ground Hog holiday for me. As usual, the season arrives weeks before I am ready. By mid-December, I again find myself in familiar but still awkward territory. At my job, I have a multitude of tasks to juggle and my Christmas list remains as long as it is unfulfilled. Still, even with all the trauma the season brings, I do enjoy the quality time shared with family and friends. I also enjoy the smell of my brother's smoked turkeys and the taste of Momma's tea cakes and sweet potato pies. Most of all, I enjoy seeing the sheer joy the season brings to the faces of the little ones. Their unapologetic laughter and natural excitement fills all around them with a festive joy. A few days after this Christmas, my two brothers, their families and I find ourselves at our parents' home. We have all just finished eating healthy portions of left over oven roasted turkey, hard-crusted spicy turkey dressing imbedded with smoked turkey necks, chunky mashed potatoes with mushroom gravy, candied yams, collard greens cooked with slices of bacon for flavoring, and freshly baked homemade biscuits filled with real butter. The wives all cook real good...but nobody cooks like Momma. The women and children busy themselves in the kitchen and family room as we men retire to the dining room table. Sitting at the head of the table, our father sips on a glass of his special tonic water with a slice of lime as I begin pouring shots of my eldest brother's favorite tequila. A jigger of sea salt and slices of lime at the ready, our mouths begin to salivate. Our temperaments begin to mellow as we settle into our now traditional, all male, after-dinner, liquor-sipping bonding sessions. Momma never had daughters. In fact, I can remember one afternoon at a picnic when I was quite young seeing Momma chatting with her girlfriends while pointing at me and saying, "...and that one there, he's my precious baby...but he was supposed to be 'my girl.' " At this comment, I recall turning away with a grimace on my face as all the women began giggling. We never intend to leave Momma out...it just happens. Just as we are about to take our first sip of this expensive tequila, in walks Momma carrying a tattered old journal. My brothers and I quietly sigh and give each other a knowing glance as if to say in unison, "Oh no, here comes Momma with that dang book." We all love our Momma dearly, but the sight of her carrying this 18" x 12" near 5" thick tattered binder containing mostly water stained pages fills us with a twinge of anguish. Here we go again we think, having to listen to another rendition of Momma's old time stories about how hard she and her family had it growing up poor and black in Mississippi. Truth be told, when we were younger these stories told by both our parents about their growing up in Mississippi during the heyday of Jim Crow often enthralled us. Many of their stories filled us with anger and an inherent distrust of whites, other stories inspired us towards high achievement and more than a few brought tears to our eyes from laughing too hard. Yes, my Momma and Poppa were raised in Mississippi during the time when a black person could not look cross-eyed at a white person without the possibility of being beaten half to death, burned out of their homes or hung by the neck from a tree with little to no consequence from the law. Not that anyone who comes to our house today would ever sense either of my parents came from such humble and disadvantaged beginnings. Not with their million-dollar, five-acre California estate filled with fine furnishings of oak, walnut and bamboo; tasteful works of art, coffee tables made of Italian marble, hand-sculptured figurines, chandeliers and other fine crystals from their decades of travel across Europe, Asia, Africa, the Middle East and the American South. As Mom

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