Oxford, Michigan
Congratulations Gloria!
Gloria's Bio:
Gloria Nixon-John lives with her four horses, seven dogs, five cats, pet pigeon and her husband Mike in Oxford, Michigan. She is near to completion on a true story about one of the youngest Americans to have been charged with a capital crime and sent to death row in the formidable Eddyville Prison. In Cold Blood has nothing on her telling.
Gloria's novel from memory about growing up on Detroit's East Side called Learning From Lady Chatterley (Which reads like her voice in The Scrub Club) is ready for the asking. As a teacher who writes it was natural for Gloria to contribute chapters to Educators as Writers (Peter Lang Publishing) to mention one recent credit.
Thanks to organizations like WOW Gloria does get some of her musing out into the world now and then. But, it is tough out here in Middle America without an agent. Any suggestions?
The Scrub Club
The three of us belonged to The Scrub Club. I became the founding officer the day Sister Mary Proxima pulled me to the sink in the art room and tried to scrub my eyebrows off.
"Makeup is for prostitutes," her words an explosion of snakes and spittle.
That my brows were clearly a family signature mattered little to Sister Mary.
Sharon became Scrub Club V.P., the next victim of Sister's erasure simply because Sharon appeared in homeroom, lips stained from Welch's Grape Juice. Lucky for Sharon, Sister didn't remove the skin beneath the stains, her natural lips the color of pink Peonies in spring.
We let Antoinette join the club, even though she hadn't been scrubbed but rather inspected by Sister Mary in the girl's lavatory, Sister so certain that Antoinette's brassiere contained falsies or wads of tissue paper. Ha! Every envied inch was indeed Antoinette.
The Scrub Club drifted apart once we graduated high school. Sharon went to college and became a nurse. I became an elementary teacher. Yes, I know, predictable occupations for good Catholic girls. Both Sharon and myself married right after college, again predictable. It was rumored that Antoinette went off to Italy to get in touch with her roots. And, when I first heard the news about her travels I could easily picture her walking through the Uffizi, passersby remarking over how very much she resembles a Botticelli, her sienna brown ringlets, lush eyelashes, ample derriere below a tiny waist.
The wedding invitation was mailed from Rome, Italy, and I swear the envelope smelled of garlic and sunshine. Antoinette was getting married, or so we surmised by the lacy entrata to the gilded invitation, the date on the card the only clearly discernable English. Sharon phoning after these so many years, coaxing me to join her for the trip, an extravagance for old time's sake.
We shared a nervous laugh on the plane, thinking about how many nuns we might encounter so close to Vatican City. Surely Sister Mary Proxima was long gone...knock on wood, sign of the cross.
I wore my little black dress to the wedding, a dress useful for both funerals and weddings. I had grown into a very practical woman. Sharon floating along side me in her chartreuse ankle length chiffon, still the consummate show off. Once over the threshold of the incense imbued chapel we were nothing short of astonished by what we saw. Eight rows of postulates, their creamy white robes reflecting the candle lit alter, backs so straight as to be wooded, their heads covered in lace and bent at a forty-five degree angle like roses nipped at the very base of unopened buds.
And, there was our Antoinette, third row from the front, her untamed locks easy to spot. There she was, bride of our Lord, so innocent, beautiful, and so unlikely a traitor.
***