From the Piney Woods

By PJ Hamilton

"From the Piney Woods" is a stirring tale of resilience and perseverance, chronicling the life of PJ Hamilton. Raised amidst the challenges of rural poverty and family dysfunction, PJ's story is a raw and honest portrayal of her struggle to find stability and happiness. As she navigates the complexities of young love, familial turmoil, and perso

• Language: English
• Publisher: TPKK Concepts
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798218352325

PJ Hamilton

PJ Hamilton, acclaimed author of the 'From the Piney Woods' series, masterfully blends Southern charm with mystery. A native of the South, Hamilton's deep connection to the region's culture and landscape breathes life into her storytelling. With a flair for creating vivid, relatable characters, her novels transport readers straight into the heart of the Piney Woods, weaving tales that captivate and linger long after the last page. A storyteller at heart, Hamilton's work celebrates the richness of Southern life and the complexities of human nature.

Book preview

From the Piney Woods

From the Piney Woods

From the Piney Woods

PJ Hamilton

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TPKK Concepts

Contents

Dedication

1 Childhood Memories

2 A Bad Dream

3 Angels from Heaven

4 Hunger

5 A Father's Love

6 First True Love

7 He Loves Me...He Loves Me Not

8 A Gentle Man

9 Seasons of a Flower Petal

10 High Standards

11 The Truth Hurts

12 A New Daddy and a New Life

To my beloved son, Kyle,

In the pages of this book lies not just a story, but the essence of a journey shaped and inspired by you.  You are the heartbeat of my life's narrative, the driving force behind every word written and every lesson learned.  Your presence has transformed me, guiding me to depths of understanding and heights of love I never knew possible.

You, Kyle, are the reason for the person I am today.  Your laughter has been my music, your challenges my lessons, and your love my unwavering light.  This book is a testament to the incredible impact you have had on my life.  It is because of you that I have found the strength to grow, the courage to face the unknown, and the wisdom to embrace life's complexities.  With every page turned, know that it is your spirit that breathes life into this story.

With all my love and gratitude, Mom

1

Childhood Memories

Settling onto a well-worn leather sofa in a dimly lit room, I offer a half-hearted smile to the woman seated behind a desk of rich mahogany. I muse silently, aren't psychiatrists supposed to have a chair by the sofa, waiting for the patient to spill their thoughts while lying back? But here I am, meeting Barbara, my first-ever psychologist. We exchange pleasantries before she asks that all-too-familiar question, So, what brings you here today, PJ? It's a broad question, one that could eat up our entire hour. Reluctantly here and armed with sarcasm, I reply, Can you erase the memories of a terrible childhood and the slew of bad decisions I made just to get away from it? Barbara offers a warm smile, suggesting I start from the earliest memory, and then casually mentions I should journal my thoughts post-session, bringing them along next time. Journaling? As if I'm not swamped enough. Here I am, a 26-year-old single mom juggling three jobs to provide for my toddler, Kyle. I wouldn't even be considering therapy if it weren't for my previous job footing the bill - a settlement of sorts for a sexual harassment issue involving my boss's superior. But hey, why not give this therapy a chance? Besides, I think to myself, Barbara could use a new sofa. Why not help out? After all, it's not like I'm the one paying.

The piney woods of East Texas, with their rolling hills, dense pine forests, and shimmering lakes, are a world apart in the vast landscape of the Lone Star State. Here, in this lush region, the warmth of Southern hospitality thrives, as does the bustling logging industry, the heartbeat of local life. Sawmills dot the landscape, supported by a network of ports, railroads, and family farms, each playing a pivotal role in the vibrant community.

In East Texas, large families are as common as biscuits and gravy at breakfast or squirrel dumplings at supper. My family was no exception. Nestled in a small community near Nacogdoches, we were a lively household. I was the fifth of seven children born to my parents. Our childhood, before the turmoil of divorce, was a tapestry of innocent and simple joys.

Growing up with three brothers and three sisters, it was easy to blend in, a blessing that often allowed me to sneak away with mischievous escapades. I have vivid memories of swimming in the street gutters after heavy rain or daringly jumping off the house roof, trying to see how far I could leap before crashing to the ground.

Of course, not all our adventures went unnoticed. Often, getting caught meant a swift and stinging encounter with a switch from the large bush in our front yard. Each of us contributed to the bush's near-barren state, having been sent to pluck our switch for a spanking. Despite attempts to outrun her, none of us could ever match Momma's speed; her discipline was as swift as her feet. In the car, she somehow managed to quell our backseat bickering and kicking with one hand while driving with the other.

Momma was the sole daughter among three brothers. Fiery red hair, a mere five feet in stature, she more than made up for her size with her fierce temper. At 16, she married our Daddy, because of a whirlwind romance with one of those boys down the road – much to her father's chagrin. I never met my grandfather, as he passed before I was born, but Momma often spoke of him with a wistful, far-off look. Her hazel-green eyes would mist over, and she'd quickly turn away, hiding her tears from our young, curious eyes.

These memories, a blend of joy, mischief, and the sting of discipline are the threads of my early years in the piney woods – a time of simplicity, family, and the profound imprint of a mother's love and strength.

Momma was a striking woman, but the years of endless chores had etched lines of fatigue on her once youthful face. Her days were a relentless cycle of laundry, washing endless piles of clothes and diapers, then hanging them to dry on the clothesline. She bathed the babies in the old kitchen sink and spent hours over the stove, cooking meals that filled our modest home with warm, comforting aromas.

Daddy was a rare presence in our daily lives, often absent for long stretches. But I vividly recall the excitement that buzzed through us whenever he returned. He was a tall man, over six feet, with a robust frame and thick, black hair that matched the depth of his brown eyes. Those eyes, I remember, could twinkle with mirth one moment and darken like storm clouds the next, reflecting his unpredictable moods.

On the rare occasions, he took us along, Daddy would drive to the nearby town of Lufkin, where he'd visit a string of lady friends or catch up with his family. He was one of ten siblings – all uncles except for one aunt, whom I never had the chance to meet.

In East Texas, large families were the norm, a familiar pattern in our community. It often seemed like everyone in that area was somehow connected, a vast web of kinship spanning the rolling hills and pine forests. Daddy was always angry with our momma, yelling, hitting her, or throwing her against a wall. Since Momma was so feisty, she did not take it well and would always fight back. So, the yelling and hitting seemed normal to all of us.

The question of why Momma and Daddy stayed together despite their evident discord often puzzled me. Surely, there must have been a spark, at least seven times, evidenced by the seven of us children. But love and liking are curious things, especially seen through the eyes of a child in a large family.

As the fifth child in our brood of seven, I was thrust early into the world of grown-up truths, including the mysteries of the birds and the bees. My older brothers, always looking for a bit of mischief, took it upon themselves to educate their younger siblings. They seemed to relish unveiling these secrets, eagerly anticipating our reactions.

But I wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. So, when they divulged the facts of life, expecting me to be shocked, I feigned indifference. I know! I declared boldly, before scampering away. Only in solitude did I allow myself to express the shock and bewilderment that such revelations truly brought. In those moments, alone with my thoughts, I grappled with the complexities of adult relationships, a world that seemed as vast and perplexing as the piney woods surrounding our home.

My first-grade year is filled with the kind of excitement that only a child can find in the mundane – the daily walk to school or the bus ride home. My head is often lost in daydreams or buried in a book, leading me into some peculiar predicaments.  One afternoon, while waiting for the bus, I found myself in such a predicament. My leg gets wedged between a brick wall and a steel post right in front of the school. The more I struggle, the more my knee swells. The school secretary, a somewhat frumpy woman, calls the Volunteer Fire Department for help. Soon enough, Jethro and Jim Bob arrive, hooting with excitement over the call. They free my leg using a combination of grease and ice, all while my schoolmates on the bus watch. The embarrassment washes over me as their laughter fills the air, and I find a seat with grease all over my legs and somehow, on my face, too. I vow then and there to learn to ride my brother's ten-speed bike to avoid the bus – and the ridicule – forever.

When I get home, I immediately ask to borrow my brother’s bike. It’s far too big for me, but my stubbornness won’t let that stop me. He agrees, likely thinking I won't manage to ride it. I drag it to a road with a big hill, thinking it a brilliant plan. Memories of my old bike, crushed under Daddy's car, come flooding back. I had earned the worst spanking for leaving it in the driveway – his huge hands were always more dreaded than the switch.

As I raced down the hill, I realized the brakes didn’t work with the pedals like my old bike. In a panic, I crashed into a heap of leaves to stop – I had no idea the brakes were on the handlebars! I pushed the bike home, tears streaming down my face. But these aren’t tears of pain from the crash; they’re from the dread of facing my classmates' sneers on the bus tomorrow.  I decided to confide in Granny when I got home. She always has a way of putting things into perspective. She’ll probably remind me that summer is just around the corner, and soon enough, the school bus – and its sneering occupants – will be a distant memory.

Granny, my mother's mom, lives right next door in a house that feels like a world apart from ours. With seven kids constantly at play and often at odds, our home is a whirlwind of activity and noise. But Granny’s place? It's an oasis of calm and cleanliness. She's always sweeping, and her house has this unmistakable aroma of fresh soap and brewed tea – a scent that somehow spells peace.

Our occasional sleepovers at Granny's are a special treat. We’d drift off to sleep under sheets fresh off the clothesline, their clean, airy scent lulling us into the most peaceful slumber. Waking up there is another kind of magic, especially the smell of toast. Granny has this art of buttering toast perfectly, right to the very edges, and somehow, it's the best toast I’ve ever tasted.

The fragrances of summer at Granny's are etched in my memory – toast, of course, but also honeysuckle, magnolias, fig-trees, blackberries, and sunflowers. During summer rains, the streets outside would turn into rivers, and we'd swim in them, laughing and splashing, as long as Momma kept an eye on us. Sometimes, the rain would fall even as the sun shone brightly, and Daddy would say, The devil’s beating his wife – a strange saying that meant the rain was her tears.

In Granny’s kitchen, a bowl of ceramic fruit always catches my eye. Among the collection, there's a banana with tape around it, a silent testimony to some mishap. Nobody admits to breaking it, but I have my suspicions – my older sister Karen probably knows more than she lets on. These small mysteries and moments at Granny's house weave together a tapestry of simple yet profound joys from my childhood.

Karen, the fourth child and Daddy’s darling is as different from me as night is from day. Momma often dresses us like twins, and while we may look alike, our temperaments are worlds apart. I'm the sensitive, shy type, whereas Karen is bold and unbothered by others' opinions. Then there’s Richard, the third-born and another of Daddy’s favorites. Granny often remarks that Karen and Richard were born during a time when Daddy wanted children, implying the rest of us were… surprises.

Richard, the family's prankster, has a knack for making everyone laugh. He's always whistling some tune or another. One day, I ask him to teach me, and he agrees, but on one mischievous condition: Once I learn, I must whistle during prayer at church to thank God. And, if Momma scolds me, it means the devil’s got her, and I should whistle louder to save her soul. With Richard’s guidance, I pick up whistling quickly. So, there we are in church, heads bowed in prayer, and I start whistling. Momma gives me that stern shut up now look. In my mind, that's the devil at work! I dutifully whistle louder, thinking I’m saving her soul, only to be promptly whisked away for a spanking. When I explain Richard’s role in the whole fiasco, he soon finds himself in the same predicament.

Over at Granny's house, there's this ceramic Buddha used as a doorstop. It's a strange, green figure with a fat tummy, sitting cross-legged with closed eyes. It's slightly bigger than my doll, and I steer clear of it, always walking around this odd statue. Granny thinks it’s so funny and she claps her hands together ever so lightly, which is more of a gesture than clapping. She’s got just one tooth left in front – a common thing around here, where people let their teeth go and then get dentures made by someone skilled in whittling.

Granny's conversations, though, are always so intentional, so full of attention. In a house brimming with six siblings, the concept of one-on-one time is nearly unheard of. But with Granny, I feel heard and important, a feeling that's both rare and cherished in the chaos of our big,