I grew up in the Florida Panhandle and must often explain to non-Floridians that I am not from Miami.  Or Orlando. Miami is a ten hour drive from my hometown and I’ve never been there. Ditto for Orlando.

The furthest east I managed to go in Florida was Tallahassee on an eighth grade choir trip. I ate too many cheeseburgers at a stop in Marianna and threw up those partially digested morsels before we reached the state capitol. It may explain why I never sing after eating anything.

I write satire because it scratches a deep and abiding itch. It seems to be the best response to living in this new Gilded Age. I’ve had readers who ‘ve written glowing reviews to my first novel Mother’s Day and some who did not share the enthusiasm. One person told me to my face that she found the book “very offensive.” I responded with a heartfelt “Thank you!”

I owe a debt to my mom, long deceased. She was barely five feet tall and gave me a love for books, classic films, and double barreled shotgun language. Mom could peel the paint off a battle ship. Or a person’s soul.

When I was ten, I trudged behind her pulling my wagon loaded with our laundry down a dusty clay road off Beale Street in Fort Walton headed for a hole in the wall laundromat that had a dozen washing machines and fewer dryers since it was much cheaper to pay for a wash, then lug the sodden clothes back to our single wide trailer to dry the stuff on the clothes line strung between two long leaf pine trees.

Mom and I had finished filling three washers when a grandmother showed up with two toddlers to panhandle all the sweating customers ( air conditioning was a luxury unknown to us and the laundromat). Granny had a tattered Polaroid of her two toddlers who did not appear to be at all photogenic to me. She thrust the picture into people’s faces, asking “Ain’t my  gran’ babies purty? I need some money. Could you spare a dollar?”

A dollar back then was like ten bucks today.

One lady gave granny a quarter, another a dime, and an especially generous customer gave her two quarters. Then she reached Mom.

“Ain’t my gran’ babies purty?” she repeated as she shoved the picture in mom’s face.

“Get that picture out of my face you stupid bitch! I’ve gotta eat later today and I’ll  vomit every bit of it up if I remember how ugly your grandbabies are! You’re gonna cause a lot of people to choke on their supper today! Get out of here with them ugly kids. They ain’t purty enough to put in a cage in a freak show!” Mom growled.

Granny left stunned with hot tears trickling down her face.

Aubie, the laundromat owner, a meek soul, came from behind his tiny desk.  I was sure he was going to expel us.

He shook Mom’s hand.

“Your wash is free today. I ain’t been able to get that woman to leave. She’s been pestering people here all week.”

As a writer I learned two lessons from this. First, tell the truth you know.  And secondly, when you do tell or write that truth, you may be pleasantly surprised.