So what would be my starting point in this new life? My do-over?
The answer, I discovered, had been right there in front of me all along.
Alex. To be there for her, to use the scar on my heart to be strong for her, be the family she needed. Maybe I’d found a sister, just not the one I’d envisioned.
Sister was gone. I would never get absolution from her.
God, it killed me to say that.
But somewhere inside, I thought I could face it now. That it didn’t hurt as much as it once would have. I touched my bracelet. Under the harsh light of Glory’s ruthless realism, I began to see all those markers I thought were Fate, all those turns in the road, differently. Maybe Sister hadn’t been leading me to her, after all. Maybe I was finding my way to myself instead.
Whatever there was of Sister in this world lived inside me and nowhere else. All I’d learned from her about not giving up, no matter what life threw at you. About sticking like glue to those who were important to you. The only way I could make amends now was to live up to the powerful example she’d set.
“You would have liked Sister.”
There was a long pause, and when Glory spoke, her voice was a little hoarse. “I expect I would.” She patted my knee a couple of times, and then she stood. “You ready?”
She might have been talking about the house or forgiving myself or the sword competition. Maybe belonging in Jewel. I wasn’t altogether sure.
But it didn’t really matter. I rose and sucked in a big ole breath like you do right before you jump into the deep end of the pool. “Yeah. I guess I am.”
And I followed her inside.
Sally Scull
Woman rancher, horse trader, champion “cusser.” Ranched NW of here. In Civil War Texas, Sally Scull (or Skull) freight wagons took cotton to Mexico to swap for guns, ammunition, medicines, coffee, shoes, clothing and other goods vital to the Confederacy.
Dressed in trousers, Mrs. Scull bossed armed employees; was sure shot with the rifle carried on her saddle or the two pistols strapped to her waist.
Of good family, she had children cared for in New Orleans school. Often visited them. Loved dancing. Yet during the war, did extremely hazardous “man’s work.”
SWORD WOMAN
“You’re up next,” says the lady in the calico vest and skirt. It slays me how the people of Cross Plains, who appear more suited to rodeos and church picnics, get behind the Conan the Barbarian Festival when their forebears would have gladly run Robert E. Howard out of town on a rail. The more I read about the man, the more I realize he was one weird dude.
Yep, it’s June, and I am in Cross Plains.
Yesterday, Alex, the baby and I accompanied Glory on the tour of Howard’s home, a small, plain white frame house frozen in the 1930s. A sweet little woman in a polyester pantsuit showed us the room where he killed himself, proudly pointing out a typewriter just like the one he used, the one that wound up spattered with his blood.
I grabbed little Valentina (Alex, it turns out, has a sentimental streak) and left the room. Some things are not meant for tiny ears to hear. Who can be sure what babies comprehend?
So anyway, like I said, it’s June, and I’m still living in Jewel, in Molly’s house, where Alex and the baby live with me and I am actually not too bad at babysitting. I am pretty much running the store and café with help from Alex and Millie and Glory, while Lorena and Ray have fired up the RV again.
I have my own cheering section here, though Valentina is farther away than I’d like, up in the stands with her mother. I do believe I could compete better with just one more sniff of the baby’s neck, that talcum-powdered, milky smell that is all the innocence and hope in the world. “I’ll be right back,” I say to my escort.
“Not so fast, big girl.” Glory grips my upper arm just above the cool engraved metal armbands she loaned me to go with my bracelet. “Don’t chicken out now.”
“I’m not. I just—” I search the crowd for familiar faces. I spot first Alex, then Jeremy, who is waiting anxiously for Alex to turn eighteen so he can tell me to butt out. I see Ray nod from beside him. Lorena, holding hands with Ray, smiles reassuringly.
I’m still not a part of a couple myself, but that’s okay. I’ve got my hands full, being a sister, an aunt, a granddaughter. And who knows what to Glory.
“Eudora O’Brien—” My name is called over the loudspeaker, and my stomach is an icy ball of nerves.
“Remember, watch your opponent’s eyes, and you’ll know his next move,” Glory counsels.
Yep, that’s right, his next move. Conan is everywhere at this event, but not many women are into Red Sonja or Dark Agnes, though most of the men surely are. If I want to compete, I have to go against a Conan.
Good thing I found my mojo. My steel springs and whalebone. I’ve learned a lot from Sister and Mama and Big Lil, from Dark Agnes and Lorena and Glory, strong women all. I take a deep breath and get ready to walk out into the ring.
“Go get ‘em, Red,” a very familiar voice calls out from behind me. “Kick that Conan poser’s butt.”
No way. No freaking way.
I’m tempted to turn. To assure myself it’s really Val, but even if it is, I am not the same person he left. I have a family now, even if it’s nothing like the one I envisioned. I have experienced my own reincarnation as someone I would never have recognized but am coming to like quite a lot.
Though, to be fair, if Val has come back to Jewel, he’s probably not the same person, either.
Just then the judge beckons me so instead of looking, I give a V for Victory sign over my shoulder, grip the pommel of my sword and start walking.
Maybe Fate’s throwing me another curveball, but hey, everyone needs a little adventure.
Sometimes you just have to take the leap and see where the road leads.
Home of Whitney Montgomery, Poet
(1877-1966)
Born in Navarro County in white-columned house across pasture south of this site. Began to write poetry when he was 15 years old. Author of more than 500 published poems which appeared in many major magazines; won numerous poetry prizes.
Moved to Dallas, 1927. Was editor and publisher of “Kaleidograph” magazine and press. Helped to organize and was vice president of the poetry society of Texas.
I Own a Home
I can not boast of a broad estate,
But I own a home with a rose at the gate.
I hold the title, and I keep the keys,
And in and out I can go as I please.
My home is not grand, but I live content,
For no man sends me a bill for rent.
And no man comes with a brush and a pail
To paint a sign on my door, “FOR SALE.”
I can not boast of a broad estate,
But I own a home with a rose at the gate.
Reading Group Guide
The Goddess of Fried Okra
Find your personal signposts on Pea’s road trip
1. Have you ever taken a road trip to find yourself? If not, do you wish you had . . . or think you might still do so?
2. Pea begins her journey lost in the landscape of grief, and for much of the book she is looking for Sister and hoping for signs to lead her there. How much of her search is motivated by a belief that she will actually find Sister reincarnated?
3. Pea says once Sister died, she lost all she ever knew of home, that all she knew of family came from Sister. What does it mean to have a family? Is family always comprised of those related by blood?
4. What significance does fried okra play in this book?
5. Is there a theme among the markers quoted in the book? Does your state have similar markers? What’s the most interesting one you’ve ever seen? Which one did you like best in the book?
6. How do you feel about how Mama mothered Pea? Was Sister more of a mother than Mama was? Are there other mother figures in this book?
7. Female power is a theme in this book. Which characters
demonstrate aspects of female power to Pea?
8. How does Pea learn who she is? What influences have shaped her as the book begins? Who are her guides as the book proceeds? Are there people in your life who’ve served as guides for you in your own journey toward understanding yourself?
9. Given Val’s background, why do you think he’s returned to Jewel? Do you believe he’s gone straight or not? Is Ray as influential on Val as Lorena is on Pea? Do you think Pea and Val have a future together? If you do, what do you think that future consists of?
10. The importance of sisters is another theme in the book. How does having or not having a sister impact a woman’s life? If you lose a sister, can you ever fill that place in your heart?
11. How important is the world of women in your life? Do you think that as you age, your women friends become more important or less so?
12. If someone very important to you begged you to assist them in dying or to allow them to die, would you? Could you? What do you think the ramifications to you emotionally would be, either way?
Acknowledgments
Sometimes life gives us gifts of pure grace; one such for me was meeting Pea. She began as an exercise in sheer fun—sitting on my deck in a wicker rocker, taking a few weeks off from my contracted writing to see if, after several years as a working writer, I still remembered how to play, how to write for the sheer fun of it, a joy too easily lost under the pressure of deadlines and expectations, both mine and others'.
I knew nothing about Pea, even her name at first—only that this woman was on the road searching for the reincarnated soul of the sister she desperately missed. It all seemed like a lark those first few days, drinking this killer Mexican iced coffee recipe while listening to birdsong under my live oaks and seeing where Pea would take me next.
When it was time to get back to my deadlines, Pea was never far from me, and over the next few years, I returned to her often, letting the flight of fancy take me away whenever possible. It led to such adventures as the Conan the Barbarian Festival in Cross Plains, Texas (yes, it’s real, though the sword-fighting competition is only my idea of what should go on.) Then there were the back roads meanderings to check out various markers; in the course of doing so, my husband added to his collection of photos of oddball sights one misses when traveling by interstate highways. (And my thanks to Betty Dooley Awbrey and Claude Dooley, authors of a wonderful resource called Why Stop? which was invaluable in locating some of the markers.)
There are many I need to thank for believing in both me and this book: my family is already mentioned in the dedication, as is my dear friend Kathy Sobey. My longtime friend Barbara Pearce colluded with Kathy in beginning jars of quarters to save for frocks for the movie premiere (how lovely it is to have friends with faith.) Others, some of whom read Pea in various incarnations and all of whom encouraged me not to give up on her include Karen Solem, Chris Flynn, Marsha Zinberg, Beverley Sotolov, Karen Hicks, Bob and Margarite Holt, Nancy Munger, Mark Mitchell, Trista Black, Pam Parker, Charlotte Greene, Amber Pearce, Kerrie and Jim Steiert, Dinah Dinwiddie, Barbara Keiler, Patsy Meredith and Karyn Witmer-Gow. I will never be able to thank you all enough for helping me keep my faith alive.
To Deborah Smith and Debra Dixon of Belle Books, mongo thanks for loving Pea as I do. Working with these bright, talented and dedicated women has been more fun than the law should allow, and I am filled with admiration for both who they are and what they’ve accomplished. Two savvier women one would be hard-pressed to find, and every author should experience the sheer delight of being immersed in such a charmed atmosphere.
About Jean Brashear
A 5th-generation Texan, award-winning author Jean Brashear enjoys cooking with the bounty of her former Marine husband’s vegetable garden and likes making her own breads the old-fashioned way. (If you ask, she might share her recipe for biscuits so tender and flaky they will make you weep.) She and the man she’s loved since they were teenagers live in Texas with their shaggy, stray, escaped-from-the-circus dog. Jean loves to hear from readers—her website is www.jeanbrashear.com
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