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As an author, the 60 year hidden story of the poor whites and blacks, along with one woman narrating the coming of age era of The Misinformation surrounding theDiaspora of southern people from the lower Appalachian farms to dismal city dwellings is shown, in truth, as how quaint towns, small farms, and independent people were turned into fully impoverished farm dwellers or large communities steered toward flood zones of Great Lakes Cities.

The author’s style of mixing humor into abysmal circumstances, or to take you into the cold fear of harm always lurking along the path from an agrarian child to city woman has led Amazon readers to 5 start declarations of the beauty, suspense, the unspeakable mixed with the salvaging of a soul and the deepest respect from roots of injustice and poverty. People speak of their inability to control tears from

People speak of their inability to control tears from the sorrows and then from the laughter as only a southern Sand Mountain born girl can tell of the darkness versing the light–The innocence always under attack from forces of evil, and how people place their hopes in the hereafter just to make personal degradation unhinge them from their and her families example of the multitudes who would make a decision to hang on or to head, “North.”

The historical age and the assassination of John Kennedy, The CivilRights Movement, and watching Washington burn after the death of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King chills one into the reality that we were a country on the edge of collapsing from within for while, “Grapes ofWrath,” showed the mass migration to California of the Oklahomans–

Never before has the lives and deaths of Southern Appalachians people and places have never been recorded as the disaster and diaspora heaped upon American citizens without apology or even to acknowledge that such a move south to north was engineered.–The death of small farms and sharecroppers,the mystical experiences which separated these farm dwellers to know the seasons, to interpret the wind, and to know of angel interventions and it is all the made up pretty word, “Pinkhoneysuckle.”

The book, the movie in development took first place in Hollywood 2012and Honorable Mention in San Francisco 2012 Book Festivals. It is now known on both sides of the Rockies and has book followers as distant as, P.R. of China, the city of Wuhan.  2014 PBS WGUC, Cincinnati, interviewed by Lee Hay, Cincinnati, A noted PBS star in Mid West selected to do a series based on the life of Kentucky neighbors, Rosemary Clooney and Family.  Interviewed by Donna Seebo, Seattle radio and NW in program on, “Pinkhoneysuckle,”–Donna Seebo’s programs go on to Armed Forces Radio and Supports Wounded Warriors, USA.

The Author

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Revealing in truth and in fiction one woman’s experience of growing up in a 3rd world America hidden by the structure of its own roots as this country evolved from hidden people of the Appalachian mountains and valleys. The author will not allow you to know the places where fiction ends and basic facts of her life take over, for she says of it that pain is a treasure chest.

Open it, and look inside, but at the end of it; Long to find out more. How could one live the realities of the hidden white poor, especially when you were reminded every day of the horrid truth: Worse off than you were the black poor, and the bottom feeders in a river will fight for turf and for respect because a whole lot of people knew hunger, the absence of health care, and the adults wanted you, no; they warned you to keep your mouth shut or what hide you had, the skin the covered your bones would be beaten off, and until that happened.

You did not know, “Nothing.” Church called out that the prophets loved you, and there was going to be a day of reckoning, so like the apostles of old that it was all coming to an end left you petrified because one could never be good enough. Oh little girls and women; Just lean over, and if your skin shows; Then you have asked to be brutalized in the worst of ways. Girl, you’re not pretty, even though your skin is porcelain; you can see them in the classroom crossing their eyes and laughing that bunch of boys other school girls want something from.

You do not get it, for everything having to do with boyfriends until you find one like the television families growing up in Hollywood then is just a pack of danger. Everyone laughed at the idea that you wanted to fix your hair, but it grew like an Indian squaw and were it not for your old man putting the word he out that he would kill the son of a bitch that defiled you.

Then you would have been, “Mashed,” into the mud, for girls and women needed to be marked by the earth itself. You saw your friends get babies around school or disappear to girls homes, and words like incest, or laying down with a no good boy not desiring to marry left them worn out women, but, “No,” They were still girls like me. Daddy did a really good thing protecting us from the snakes he could see, but the hidden one was going to use you as a no account because he could get by with it. Daddy never suspected that family was not always virtuous. The trembling girl lived to tell the story. “God;” I lived.