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Lad
Moore is a former corporate vice-president who left the boardroom
in 1998 and returned to his roots in Deep East Texasthe
fountainhead for much of his writing. He retired to a small farm
near mysterious Caddo Lake and the historic steamboat town of
Jefferson. In the solitude of those surroundings, when not writing,
he walks the piney trails among the muscadineswith his ever-encouraging
Australian Shepherd, Quigley.
Life experiences are splashed freely into his
writings. His early years were like a pinball game, shuffling
among caring family members between stints at military school.
His parents divorced early, and his father was always awayfollowing
his dream, soldier of fortune style. There were years of rare
adventurelife in strife-torn Indonesia, Burma, and a year
on board a steamer-freighter sailing the world. In high school
he joined a circusonly one event in a series of rites of
passages that he reflects upon in his stories.
He has written and published many of his works.
A collection of stories, Odie Dodie, has been published by BeWrite
Books. A second collection, Firefly Rides, is nearing completion.
A non-fiction work in progress, Offspring of the Tiger,
will portray what he calls his dizzy relationship
with his fatherone of the storied Hump Pilots of World War
II.
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The
author is honored to have been published more than two hundred
timesincluding in Carolina Country, Amarillo Bay, The
Pittsburg Quarterly, The Paumanok Review, Eclectica, Manx, Danforth
Review, Literary House, The Virginia Adversaria, Adirondack Review,
and in AIM, Americas Intercultural Magazine. His four-story
anthology, Natcherly Bad, was featured Creativity Magazine.
His
prize-winning story, The Firmament of the Third Day,
was published in the Fiction Writers Associations
Best of Carve Magazine Anthology. Burger Recollections,
a burger-shop memoir, has been featured in ABCs of Food
by Peach Blossom Press. In addition, Mr. Moore is a past winner
of The Wordhammer Award and the Silver Quill. His
short story The Day Hunter was nominated for a 2002
Fiction Award at The Texas Institute of Letters.
Enjoy
some fresh "Butter Beans"Lad's inspirational short
stories in e/book download at http://www.shortstuffbooks.tripod.com
Visit
Lad's website at http://www.ladmoore.homestead.com/home.html
Read
Lad's blog: http://www.laddiemoore.blogspot.com/
(25/09/07)
Read
an interview with Trouser Cloninger - one of the many stars
featured in Odie Dodie
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Riders
of the Seven Hills
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Out
Now
Lad
Moore tells tales ... some of them long, some of them short
and some of them - by his own admission - pretty tall. All
of them re-create a world of recent yesterdays to set some
folks to rememberin' and others to dreamin'.
They're
down home yarns of East Texas and dazzling adventure stories
set in the mysterious Far East, they're of store-stove conferences
and dark murders, of the good, the bad and the ugly who've
crossed his many paths.
Lad's
writing has appeared in countless journals and anthologies
and Riders of the Seven Hills is the third of his popular
collections, each of which - although skillfully presented
in dozens of bite-sized chunks - leave his reader with that
satisfying, well-fed feeling of someone who's just devoured
an epic novel.
His
cast of players come and go; sometimes with a character
taking center stage, sometimes with him or her merely in
the chorus. Just as you'd expect in real life. But the creeping
result is real life people who grow familiar as the stories
unfold, events that are fully explored, and places that
almost miraculously achieve solid form as the pages swiftly
turn.
Lad's
short works take shape like the tiny dabs of seemingly random
color in an impressionist painting. The colors combine to
create a living landscape because the brush is held by a
master of his art. Now let's take the time to step back
a little and admire the broad canvas.
Excerpt
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Tailwind
- Days of Cottonmouths and Cotton Candy
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Lad
Moore never knew what tomorrow would bring. Whether he'd spend
the night aboard a steamer ploughing the waves to an exotic
shore or curled on the back seat of a rusting automobile with
a deadbeat circus roustabout. Whether his next new friend
would be a daredevil flying ace or a penniless hobo.
This
collection of true short stories tells of a coming of age
among cottonmouths and candies - the snakebite and the sweetness
of a wide world of wild surprises from the backwoods of
Texas to the jungles of the Far East.
Blown
through his early years like a tumbleweed by the 'Tailwind'
his glamorous absentee father used as his aviation call
sign, and fearing his harsh Oriental stepmother, he lived
in envy of kids in the humdrum mainstream of solid family
structure.
Only
when he looked back over half a century of life, did Lad
realize that it was the very uncertainty of those bitter-sweet
years that had made him the unique man he became
and that it was time to write down the whole breathless
adventure.
These
experiences - fabulous in the truest sense of the word -
fuelled the unquenchable curiosity and strength of will
that formed the core of a man who was to become successful
in business and a master in the art of story-telling.
How
can good come from evil? How can adversity reap character?
As these stories tell: It's all about lessons learned by
doing and the influence of wisdom where it is least expected.
It's all about listening and seeing - with the senses honed
to a razor's edge.
It's
all about harnessing the tailwind.
Read
an Excerpt Paperback
ISBN 1-904492-02-9 eBook
ISBN 1-904492-00-2
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Odie
Dodie - The Life and Crimes of a Travelin' Preacher Man
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It
would be a cold day in the storied caves of Hades before
anyone got any better at it than Odie Dodie. When he flashed
that smile and touched their hand, long-malnourished moths
escaped from tightly clasped wallets. He sold what everybody
wanted
Gods eternal love and forgiveness: the always special-of-the-day.
Roll up
roll up
for
The Very Rev Odie Dodie. Gods worst nightmare!
Lad Moore builds a collection of twenty tales of stark reality,
hanging on the wobbly hook of a phony, money grubbing, licentious
gospel-peddler, Odie Dodie and his unholy glory bus.
He sees his flock as sheep there for the fleecing.
The sad acceptance by the gullible rogue religion Odie Dodie
pitches by the dime make Lad Moores interim tales
of simple humanity all the more poignant.
Never since Steinbeck and Hemingway has an author written
so tightly, entertainingly and honestly about what matters
most
The
simple truth!
Read
an Excerpt Paperback
ISBN 1-904224-37-7 eBook
ISBN 1-904224-36-9
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click the image for direct purchasing information |
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Vindicating
the Kaiser by Lad Moore
At
the neighborhood mission my grandparents founded, there was a
rough old man in denim overalls who always got to the services
early, but sat on the last pew and didnt mix much with the
others. Sonny Cox told me that the old man was mean. He said that
people around town named him Kaiser, because that
name had something to do with the enemy in the Great World War.
In my world, Sonny had credibility because he was on the junior
varsity basketball team and was already shaving his chin. Sonny
also told me that the Kaiser was so mean they ran him out of the
bowling alley because the old man bowled overhand.
To rest his case, he said that Kaiser Bill ambushed dirt daubers
with a 12-guage shotgun because they were carrying off his
soil. I noticed that the Kaisers arms were covered
with dark bristly hair and were about the size of footballs where
they disappeared into chambray sleeves. Sonny warned me about
those arms, and said I shouldnt get too close. That
old man is as quick as a cobra and has a five-foot reach,
he said.
From then on, I was fascinated by the mystique
of it all. I remember raising my head like a periscope above the
top of the pew and looking two rows back to study the Kaisers
face. If my grandmother caught me staring, she pinched the back
of my leg just below my knee. I would squint in pain, slump down
like a feed sack, and twist back to face the front. Even so, I
was able to steal some long looks, and I saw that his face was
deeply pocked and leathery. Once, at an after-church dinner, I
noticed that something wet and reddish-brown had pooled in one
of those giant pockmarks. It looked like blood, and lent strong
credence to some of Sonnys warnings. I asked my grandmother
about it, and she whispered that it was Red Ribbon Tobacco. From
that day on, I connected Red Ribbon with blood and pockmarks,
and stayed well clear of it.
One morning before church started, I lingered
to stare at Kaiser Bill through the parted burlap curtains that
divided the Sunday school rooms. His eyes met mine, and he smiled
ever so slightly and winked at me. It was clear that I had been
discovered, and a sudden rush of fear made me quickly turn away.
After services were over the unthinkable happened. He invited
me out to his farm to ride his horse. As I looked into his face,
I quivered with fright. But the lure of an afternoon on horseback
and my grandmothers nods of reassurance seemed to make it
okay.
We drove out to the farm in his faded flatbed
truck. I dont think I took my eyes off the floorboard except
when I cut them slightly to the side to study his gnarled hand
on the gearshift knob. It was the size of a baseball mitt, with
wadded-up fingernails that resembled half-melted plastic spoons.
My grandmother had taught me to respect the hands of toil. Hard
work is honorable, she said, God loves working men.
I was glad I studied his hands. My heart relaxed into a rhythm
of reliefthe same feeling one gets when a hound comes at
him with curled lips, but then wags his tail.
Kaiser Bills farm on Five Notch Road
looked weathered and tired. The barn had such a lean to it that
at high noon there was still a wide shadow on one side. He had
a long hen crib nailed to it, and it hung at a steep enough angle
that eggs rolled forward and stopped at the lips of the boxes.
The barn aint plumb, but my eggs
gather easy, he said.
The trepidation I felt about going to his farm
was erased as soon as he lifted me up onto the back of his plow
horse, Gert. I rode her bareback except for a feed
sack blanket, and she had that good horse smell--like damp hay.
I rode alongside Kaiser Bill as he repaired fences that day, re-stretching
a section where a tree had fallen across it.
Dutch elm disease, he explained,
peeling back the powdery bark. I wish it would infect the
bull nettles instead, but I guess that wont happen. Its
natures ironylike how Bermuda grass grows in my walk
but not my yard.
That first visit to the farm was the beginning
of a bond between a still-malleable boy, and a man not yet willing
to concede to uselessness. Soon it seemed I was out at Kaisers
farm more than I was home. I helped him with chores, fed the animals,
and rode Gert to the end of Five Notch Road and back every Saturday.
In the evenings we sat together on the porch swing, celebrating
the red-rouge Texas sky. We shared cookies and iced tea, and to
this day I am still fascinated by his ability to safely partition
the cookies from the Red Ribbon tobacco in his mouth. There was
something confessional about those evenings on the porch, and
I told him things about my life that only my pillow knew.
My mother left me when I was six months old,
and I felt forever stained by that fact. When kids asked me why
I lived with my grandmother, I reached for the paint that would
portray my mother at her best, but they were painfully shallow
colors. I needed to salvage honor from disgrace, so I told my
friends she was a Cherokee Indian. I told them that she had died
from cholera, a disease once so rampant that most kids had seen
it carved on at least one relatives tombstone. I knew there
was something very honorable about being Cherokee, and I was especially
proud of having embellished my mothers character.
I didnt have to lie so much about my dad,
because his exploits were certifiable. His work in freelance aviation
called him to strange places around the world, and my telegram
collection included cables from Rangoon, Calcutta, Bombay, and
Djakarta. His cable address, Tailwind, best summed it up. He was
forever rushing away, and my memories of him are limited to the
three short years we lived together. My favorite picture of my
dad was the one in front of the Great Pyramids, wearing a fez
and a crisp khaki uniform with an abundance of pockets on it.
The photo captured a swirl of dust behind him, and I could almost
hear the sound of the wind squeaking across the hot sand. I knew
that the smile on his face was fleetingnot lasting beyond
the click of the camera shutter. I knew that as soon as the photo
was taken, his lips would return to their tight, pursed line.
In all my memories of him, I never recall him genuinely laughing.
He was a serious man, and his lifestyle was as hurried as his
death, at age 41.
It wouldnt be fair to either man to say
that Kaiser Bill became my father figure, but suddenly fate thrust
the comparison upon me. I was spending the weekend with him, and
we stayed up late Saturday night listening to my favorite radio
serial, Gangbusters. I awoke the next morning to crowing roosters,
but something was missing from daybreaks usual sensory cues.
Coffee. I didnt smell coffee. I got out of the bed and skipped
through the living room toward the kitchen. The venetian blinds
were tilted, and the ribbons of sunlight on the floor had inspired
my hopscotch gait. The coffeepot sat washed and empty, like we
left it the night before. Suddenly I knew there was something
very different about this day. I moved in quiet half steps down
the hall to the bathroom, its door standing open. Kaiser Bill
was on the commode, his pajama bottoms pulled down past his knees,
with a Texas Monthly magazine resting on the elastic waste band
like a little tray. He was leaning forward slightly--his hands
clasped and folded across his knees. He didnt seem to know
I was there. Then I looked into his unblinking eyes. The kind
blue pupils were gone, and there was only gray.
Kaiser Bills funeral was the only one
I ever attended besides my dads. There werent many
people there, mostly strangers. Then I saw Sonny Cox sitting on
a crowded sofa in the only room where smoking was allowed. I squared
my shoulders and marched right up to him as he fumbled his cigarette
trying to stand up. I wanted him to know right then and there
that he was dead wrong about the dirt daubers, and that Kaiser
Bill had never once been bowling.
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An
Interview with Trouser Cloninger of Low
Melody Farm
Interview by Lad Moore, Author of "Odie Dodie"
Lad:
Good Morning. First tell me the origin of your unusual name.
TC: You mean Trouser? Well, when I was a little
tweet, we was cockeyed poor. I slept in one leg of a pair of my
Daddys overalls-you know, like a sleeping bag. Mama called
me the Trouser Boy. Reckon now thats my name.
Lad:
Tell me what you remember most about Low Melody Farm and your
childhood.
TC: Daddy believed that a kid oughta have chores,
like a list of regular things to do. You couldnt play or
fiddle around until that list got checked off. And you couldnt
cheat-Daddy had a copy of the list in his bib all times.
TC sighs. But mostly
it was a good childhood. Full of adventures. I pretty much played
by myself. Didnt like the little Neds-the Townies I mean.
I rather play sticks than townie games.
Lad:
Sticks? What is that?
TC: Sticks is when you cut a small pole about a
yard high. And you find other poles in the woods and they smack
each other. The pole that breaks loses. But if you be careful,
like pick a persimmon pole, you can whup every other stick.
Lad:
Okay, Now about that story you told in the book Odie Dodie.
What do you think the tale about Ferro and the fishes is really
all about? Is there a moral or lesson to that story you wanted
readers to learn---a special message?
TC: In my head I followed some kind of direction
that I wasnt in control of. It was a dream, but not really
a dream. Because I rode that tractor down to Caddo Creek just
like the story says. I didnt make that up.
Lad:
But in the tale you tell of sleeping by the Iron Ore Pond and
waking up after what was a long rest, reciting the tale of the
fishes.
TC: But in that dream it actually happened. I came
swooning out of my body. My body was at Iron Ore Pond, and my
figment was on the 8-N Tractor, like I said. I was with Ferro
and the Fishes on their ride to Progunder.
If you read the story again, you will recognize that it is the
Good Book tale of Exodus. The fishes are freed and they follow
their new leader. But they forsake him later, and they all die.
Lad:
Is that the fate of mankind today?
TC: I look around and I see the merriment and the
frolic, and the forgettin of the rules. I think that is
what happens when things get too good and nobody has a chores
list. Also, you surprisingly can learn that the leader is just
plain wrong. Yep, leaders sometimes hear the wrong drummer, but
there aint no one there that can tell them anything, because,
well, they are the Deciders.
Lad:
But in the end, the faithful fishes all die. Is that what all
of us can expect?
TC: 'Spose so. The big Ten-Star General Julius Caesar
was the best leader of all the big wars of the Roman World. But
even he learned there was a fiddler to be paid.
Lad:
And what was that?
TC: There was a simple but trusted scribe that whispered
in his ear the warning, that All Glory is Fleeting.
Then look what happened to Rome.
Lad:
We could all learn from that. But to sum up, what is the best
lesson we can learn from the fate of the fishes at Progunder?
TC: That singing man Bob Dylan had it right. Do
you know what he said?
Lad:
Not actually.
TC: He wrote these words once: He said, Dont
follow leaders. Watch your parking meters.
So I trustes, I mostly obeys, and I serves my chores list. But
I keep one eye squinted in case the Deciders is wrong.
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