Caddo Lake, in East Texas and Northwest Louisiana, is the location of Eric Wilder's new novel, Ghost of a Chance. Protagonist Buck McDivit leaves his home in Oklahoma and travels to East Texas. Someone has murdered his newly found Aunt Emma Fitzgerald. Buck is apparently the sole heir to Fitzgerald Island, andthe marina and fishing lodge on it. Here is an excerpt from Ghost, describing what Buck saw when he first arrived:"James T. "Buck" McDivit had come to Texas for answers. What he found was a giant lake amid a maze of vines, creepers and lily pads. A place that seemed more like Louisiana than Texas. He quickly realized it was different from both states. Cypress trees grew in abundance, both in the water and out, and Spanish moss, wafting in slow-motion waves, hung from their limbs, caressing the lake's coffee-colored surface. Only the head of a slow-swimming snake disrupted the lake's tranquillity.
East Texas was a place far different from Buck's own home on the flat plains of central Oklahoma. This was a mysterious locale that seemed like a virtual botanical garden replete with subtropical greenery and a climate to match. Buck felt a thousand miles from home.Interstate highway, replaced by rural Texas blacktop, had long since disappeared in his rearview mirror. Untended hollyhocks, blooming in lavender flower falls that saturated humid air with their cloying fragrances, grew wild beside the road. Damp pathways, none leading anywhere in particular, pierced the tangle of vegetation as a flock of cattle egrets winged high overhead.
Egrets weren't the only wildlife in abundance, nor were oak, cypress and hollyhock the only plants bordering the road. Cascades of blue impatiens, crimson-blossomed rosebushes and clumps of green willow painted the terrain from a diverse palette of color.
East Texas is indeed an exotic and mysterious area. Buck meets Pearl and Raymond Johnson, caretakers of Fitzgerald Marina, and their two sons, Ray and Wiley. He soon learns that someone has designs on the islands and is intent upon wresting it from him. Could it be relentless land developer Hogg Nation? Maybe it's Colonel Clayton Richardson, bank and ultra-wealthy plantation owner that has a mortgage on the island. Possibly it's Jefferson Travis, racist judge that leads the New Southern Right, a local hate group. Could it be Bones Malone, amateur archeologist and relic hunter, and former lover of Emma Fitzgerald. And, there are two recently released recidivists, Deacon John and Humpback. These skinheads are after lost Confederate gold from a sunken riverboat and don't care who they have to kill to find it.
Buck meets beautiful Lila Richardson, local antiquities expert and daughter of Clayton Richardson, and is instantly smitten. Is she as complicit as her father and racist uncle, Judge Jefferson Travis? Can Buck really trust her?Many interesting characters inhabit Fitzgerald Island and the touristy village of Deception. Will Buck get the girl? Will he save the island? Will he save himself? Read Ghost of a Chance and find out. It is available at your local bookstore, many places on the web. Please check out Eric's website.
http://www.ericwilder.com
Monday, November 28, 2005
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
East Texas and Leon Russell
Recently I drove from Oklahoma to my parents house in northwest Louisiana. I followed Interstate 40 west to Henryetta, then south down the Indian Nations Turnpike -- almost to the Texas border. Soon after crossing the Red River, you realize that you’re truly in East Texas.It was after five, already late in the day for mid September, when I reached the gently rolling, piney hills near Atlanta.
Yes, Atlanta, Texas – probably named by Georgia transplants looking for fertile cotton-growing land. I had driven for miles in silence when I decided to play a CD. By coincidence, I chose a Leon Russell album that I hadn’t heard in many moons. Russell’s songs were, it turned out, perfect for the remainder of my drive through an area that’s sometimes called the "Pine Curtain."
When my Grandmother, Dale, was alive, she’d had a farm fifteen miles from Atlanta. It was down a narrow, winding blacktop road that continued past the O’Farrell Methodist Church. My Grandmother had been a longtime member. I presume the old wooden structure is still there, but I didn’t stray from my intended location to find out. An adventure saved for another day.
As I continued along the country road, shadows from tall pines beginning to darken endless curves, I had an epiphany. Having lived most of my adult life in Oklahoma, it suddenly dawned on me why East Texas is so guarded, secretive and mysterious. In Oklahoma, vision unhampered by trees, you can see for miles in all directions. In East Texas, you can’t see a hundred yards in any direction. Pine curtain, indeed!Leon was belting out a tune, proclaiming his reasons for leaving the woman he loved and returning to an island. "To watch the sun go down," he sang, "And hear the sea roll in. I’ll be thinking of you and what might have been." His voice, at first blush, seems wavering and untrained. Then you realize his tremolo is calculated, his vocal range probably greater than Pavarotti’s. Like the haunting sound of a slide guitar in the able hands of a bluesy maestro.
To reach my Grandmother’s house, you would turn off the blacktop at the O’Farrell Methodist Church and follow a dirt road another five miles. She lived at the end of the road, both figuratively and in reality. Once, confronted by a dozen guinea hens in our path, my Mother said, "Slow down, Jack. You’ll hit the birds."As if the prove her wrong, my Father stepped on the gas instead of slowing. "You can’t hit one of those crazy fools," he said. "They’ll get out of the way."
Three didn’t, laid testimony by the hollow thump, thump, thump of the birds being crushed beneath the car.No one said anything, but I’m sure my Father felt terrible about the incident. Leon would have understood. You only have to hear his poignant lyrics to realize that.
I stopped at O’Farrell Road and took a picture. Everyone needs a memory. This is just one of thousands that sometimes recur when I hear a certain song, see a particular building, or drive a familiar stretch of road.When I reached my parents home in Vivian, stopped the car and rolled down the windows, the sun was beginning to set, crickets and tree frogs, like Leon, harmonizing in the distance. As I switched off the singer’s last dulcet refrain, I realized there were people in my past that I had left behind in order to return to my own island. And that sometimes the destinations we think we simply have to reach are places that we never really left. http://www.ericwilder.com http://justeastofeden.blogharbor.com http://energyissues.blogharbor.com http://ericwilder.blogspot.com
Yes, Atlanta, Texas – probably named by Georgia transplants looking for fertile cotton-growing land. I had driven for miles in silence when I decided to play a CD. By coincidence, I chose a Leon Russell album that I hadn’t heard in many moons. Russell’s songs were, it turned out, perfect for the remainder of my drive through an area that’s sometimes called the "Pine Curtain."
When my Grandmother, Dale, was alive, she’d had a farm fifteen miles from Atlanta. It was down a narrow, winding blacktop road that continued past the O’Farrell Methodist Church. My Grandmother had been a longtime member. I presume the old wooden structure is still there, but I didn’t stray from my intended location to find out. An adventure saved for another day.
As I continued along the country road, shadows from tall pines beginning to darken endless curves, I had an epiphany. Having lived most of my adult life in Oklahoma, it suddenly dawned on me why East Texas is so guarded, secretive and mysterious. In Oklahoma, vision unhampered by trees, you can see for miles in all directions. In East Texas, you can’t see a hundred yards in any direction. Pine curtain, indeed!Leon was belting out a tune, proclaiming his reasons for leaving the woman he loved and returning to an island. "To watch the sun go down," he sang, "And hear the sea roll in. I’ll be thinking of you and what might have been." His voice, at first blush, seems wavering and untrained. Then you realize his tremolo is calculated, his vocal range probably greater than Pavarotti’s. Like the haunting sound of a slide guitar in the able hands of a bluesy maestro.
To reach my Grandmother’s house, you would turn off the blacktop at the O’Farrell Methodist Church and follow a dirt road another five miles. She lived at the end of the road, both figuratively and in reality. Once, confronted by a dozen guinea hens in our path, my Mother said, "Slow down, Jack. You’ll hit the birds."As if the prove her wrong, my Father stepped on the gas instead of slowing. "You can’t hit one of those crazy fools," he said. "They’ll get out of the way."
Three didn’t, laid testimony by the hollow thump, thump, thump of the birds being crushed beneath the car.No one said anything, but I’m sure my Father felt terrible about the incident. Leon would have understood. You only have to hear his poignant lyrics to realize that.
I stopped at O’Farrell Road and took a picture. Everyone needs a memory. This is just one of thousands that sometimes recur when I hear a certain song, see a particular building, or drive a familiar stretch of road.When I reached my parents home in Vivian, stopped the car and rolled down the windows, the sun was beginning to set, crickets and tree frogs, like Leon, harmonizing in the distance. As I switched off the singer’s last dulcet refrain, I realized there were people in my past that I had left behind in order to return to my own island. And that sometimes the destinations we think we simply have to reach are places that we never really left. http://www.ericwilder.com http://justeastofeden.blogharbor.com http://energyissues.blogharbor.com http://ericwilder.blogspot.com
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Mysterious Jeems Bayou
Jeems (pronounced James) Bayou begins as a small creek in east Texas. It soon widens and eventually flows into Caddo Lake. Here are a few pics taken last week.
http://www.ericwilder.com http://ericwilder.blogspot.com http://justeastofeden.blogharbor.com http://energyissues.blogharbor.com
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Top Ten Deadliest Creatures
According to the website http://www.livescience.com the ten most deadly creatures on earth are:
10. Poison Dart Frog
9. Cape Buffalo
8. Polar Bear
7. Elephant
6. Australian Saltwater Crocidile
5. African Lion
4. Great White Shark
3. Australian Box Jellyfish
2. Asian Cobra
AND
1. Mosquito (they carry parasites that carry malaria and their bites result in more than 2 million deaths per year).
Just East of Eden has moved to a new blog host. The location is http://justeastofeden.blogharbor.com . Please check it out. Myblogsite is shutting its doors and will no longer host anyone after 11-30. Also, check out Livescience.com, its an awesome website. Thanks, Eric Wilder http://www.ericwilder.com http://ericwilder.blogspot.com
10. Poison Dart Frog
9. Cape Buffalo
8. Polar Bear
7. Elephant
6. Australian Saltwater Crocidile
5. African Lion
4. Great White Shark
3. Australian Box Jellyfish
2. Asian Cobra
AND
1. Mosquito (they carry parasites that carry malaria and their bites result in more than 2 million deaths per year).
Just East of Eden has moved to a new blog host. The location is http://justeastofeden.blogharbor.com . Please check it out. Myblogsite is shutting its doors and will no longer host anyone after 11-30. Also, check out Livescience.com, its an awesome website. Thanks, Eric Wilder http://www.ericwilder.com http://ericwilder.blogspot.com
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Moonflowers
Moonflowers bloom after the sun has set, thus the name. The large blossoms exude a wonderful fragrance. They last only one night and are gone soon after the sun arises.
http://www.ericwilder.com http://justeastofeden.myblogsite.com http://ericwilder.blogsite.com http://energyissues.modblog.com
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