Front Porches: Open Diary Collection of Short Stories.

As early as 5, my Mama, Lulu Jack, would frustratingly send me & my siblings packing, from Wisconsin, south, to Alabama for the Summer. I'd hop from my Grandmother Bonnie's Sun-baked front porch, cross the red dirt road, tree branches draping over them, like silk robes, no sidewalks, that official border County-line between Prichard to Mobile. I'd plop down, sweat beads Mardi Tuesday around my neck, meditating by the 100-plus year old Great Live Oak Tree, that still stands today. I'd sit under the coolness of Ms Dane's shade as She stands like some ancient Sentinel guarding over my best friend's crickety porch. Sipping my Camellia sinensis tea, Ms Dane opens another imaginary book conjuring up inside her tiny head. I'd rest at her bosom, listening to the rosy stories my Oracle slowly brews like hot Chili on a subzero February winter's day. "The deepest Oak roots, are also the branches...", My 110 year old best friend, chants to me. 'Ms D' is an herbalist, a grand master priestess. She teaches me ROSE MAGIC.