where the writers are

Patricia Thomas's Writings

Essay
Oct.30.2012
Deep South Magazine
My mother was a gorgeous southern beauty queen, with long brown hair and big green eyes, and my father was a dashing blond who swept her off her feet. They met on a double date and married young, right out of high school. It was a shotgun wedding, as they say in the south, meaning my mother got pregnant and so they got married. That’s what people did in the...
Short Story
Oct.30.2012
Dew on the Kudzu-Celebrating the Southern Written Word
Joan had not been prepared for this at all. Gary, her husband of 30 years, had just returned from his daily run, then walked through the front door into the kitchen and announced to his wife, “I’m moving out.” Joan quietly put down the tomatoes she was holding and sat down at the wooden kitchen table they had bought together. She stared out the big picture...
Essay
Oct.30.2012
Front Porch Review
“Daily we are witness to, or even unwitting participants in, cruel imagery, jokes, language, and attitudes directed at older people,” contends Dr. Robert Butler, president of the International Longevity Center-USA and the person who coined the term “ageism” 35 years ago. In my experience, it is still alive and well. OK. I admit it. I’m a baby boomer. I just...
Essay
Oct.30.2012
Muscadine Lines A Southern Journal
I don’t like the color red. Not red shoes, not red cars, not red trucks, but most of all I don’t like red dresses. This dislike started during the summer when I was 12 years old. I was lucky enough to grow up in a neighborhood full of kids in Geneva, Alabama. My friends, all girls around my age, and I were at that awkward age where we still liked war games,...
Essay
Oct.27.2012
The Mom Egg
My mother, a green-eyed beauty from the South, got pregnant in high school and got married, at age 19. That’s what women did in the 1950’s. She became a wife and mother (of me), making the switch from going to dances in pretty pastel-colored dresses, to cleaning house and changing dirty diapers without missing a beat. She started smoking cigarettes in high school...
Essay
Oct.27.2012
Bella Online Literary Review
One of my favorite possessions is a brass Betsy Ross piggy bank that belonged to my great aunt Emma. It’s a replica of the Betsy Ross house in Philadelphia, very heavy, probably a pound and a half at least, and yet it will fit in the palm of your hand. When Aunt Emma died my brother and sister and I were taken to her house and told we could pick out one of her...
Essay
Oct.27.2012
Southern Women's Review
I woke up immediately as soon as the blue Pontiac turned off the paved road, and I heard the crunch of the gravel on the tires. My mind was on the alert. Something was not right. Having made this trip before, I knew there was no need to be on a dirt road—it was all black top from Auburn to Dothan. Uncle Arthur was driving, giving me a ride to my grandmother's...