January 21, 2021
Volume 51 - No. 03
Fist Fights, Peanut Butter and My Mule, Jude Editor’s Note: We have found a stable of new, outstanding writers, one of which is our old favorite, Pete Peterson.
He, and they, are located in a website known as The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. They have fiction, non-fiction, essays, poems, a blog, and archives with loads of outstanding stories, many of which we hope to present here, in The Paper.
Each writer is asked to file an opening statement, establishing his The Paper - 760.747.7119
website:www.thecommunitypaper.com
email: thepaper@cox.net
or her right to claim status as a “southern writer.” Fact is, everyne is south of somewhere, so you’re likely to find writers from just about anywhere . . . but all have a fascination with the South, and with good writing. Our first offering comes from old friend and brilliant writer, Pete Peterson: Southern Legitimacy Statement:
Sunday mornings at our house it’s grits, red eye gravy, country ham,
eggs over easy and buttermilk biscuits. (Please don’t tell my doctor.) I’ve walked 3 miles to a one room schoolhouse taught by an 18-year old girl with one year of business school and lots of pluck. I’ve followed fox hounds and coon hounds on starry nights and stood in awe of a new day dawning. I’ve dug post holes, cut persimmon sprouts and split cottonwood for $3 a day, been baptized more than once and paid big money at Saturday night pie suppers to share pecan pie with the prettiest gal there. I married one of those sweet-smelling, soft-talking,
velvet-gloved beauties. We didn’t stay hitched long – perhaps my love for bourbon was the culprit – but what’s life without a lost love or two. Today, I’m frequently asked, “What part of the South are you from?” My answer? “I’m still from there. I just can’t get my preacher and parole officer to agree that I can go back.” ••••
Daddy barges though the kitchen door like a burglar outrunning a shotgun blast. He looks like death
Fist Fights, Peanut Butter, and Jude See Page 2