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I’m writing from a land of dripping noses and all-night coughs.
Two weeks ago, my wife was sick. I remember telling her I was invincible. Immune to whatever virus was going around. I told her I was in too good of shape to get sick. I eat my vegetables. I work out. I play full-court basketball twice a week, then go stand in the lake (if you’re not familiar with cold-water therapy, I highly recommend it).
But now, I’m sick, and so are my kids.
I’m sitting in the red leather chair in my office, a cup of green tea to my right, a copy of Peter Gent’s “North Dallas 40” to my left. I’m wearing noise-canceling headphones, but I can still hear my kids running wild above me.
Last night, my son coughed from midnight till sometime after three in the morning. My wife brought him into our bed, while I spent the night in his. He seems to be doing fine now.
Kids are weird when they’re sick. Okay. They’re weird all the time, but they’re especially weird when they’re sick. When I’m sick, I’m a total whimp. I hide away with my tissue paper and let my wife bring me soup, or sometimes a toddy or two.
Kids, on the other hand, keep going, all the way up until they crash. It’s like the drive to play runs so strong in children that they cannot, will not, stop. At least that’s how my kids do this sick thing. They run and run, despite their burning fevers. They play like a pack of wild monkeys, and then, as previously mentioned, they crash.
The crashes come fast and without notice. One minute, they’re fine. The next, the wheels have flown off and their little engines are smoking.
Of all the things people told me prior to having children, nobody ever mentioned sick kids. I was not warned that at least one full week out of every month would be surrendered to all-night cough-a-thons, the putrid stench of Vick VapoRub singeing my nostrils as I try, in vain, to get my son or daughter back to sleep.
Luckily, my wife is a pediatric nurse practitioner. She knows things. Friends text her pictures of their kids’ funky rashes and hairline-fractured bones. When it comes to her own children, though, things aren’t so simple.
The line between “Mom” and “Provider” is distinct. Yet, my wife must constantly straddle it. Like she’s doing now, tending to her sick kids and her sick husband after seeing thirty-four patients on Friday.
Yes, my wife is a beast.
And I’m still sick. Still stuck in the basement, wiping my nose as I type these words into a computer. In a little while, my kids will go down for naps. Or at least my son will. My daughter’s too old for naps now, even when she’s sick.
But I’m not.
| Books authored by Eli Cranor |
Broiler
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The troubles of two desperate families—one white, one Mexican American—converge rest in the ruthless underworld of an Arkansas chicken processing plant in this new thriller from the award-winning author of DON’T KNOW TOUGH.
Gabriela Menchaca and Edwin Saucedo are hardworking, undocumented employees at the Detmer Foods chicken plant in Springdale, Arkansas, just a stone’s throw away from the trailer park where they’ve lived together for seven years. While dealing with personal tragedies of their own, the young couple endures the brutal, dehumanizing conditions at the plant in exchange for barebones pay.
When the plant manager, Luke Jackson, fires Edwin to set an example for the rest of the workers—and to show the higher-ups that he’s ready for a major promotion—Edwin is determined to get revenge on Luke and his wife, Mimi, a new mother who stays at home with her six-month-old son. Edwin’s impulsive action sets in motion a devastating chain of events that illuminates the deeply entrenched power dynamics between those who revel at the top and those who toil at the bottom.
From the nationally bestselling and Edgar Award–winning author of Don’t Know Tough and Ozark Dogs comes another edge-of-your-seat noir thriller that exposes the dark, bloody heart of life on the margins in the American South and the bleak underside of a bygone American Dream. |
Don't Know Tough
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In Denton, Arkansas, the fate of the high school football team rests on the shoulders of Billy Lowe, a volatile but talented running back. Billy comes from an extremely troubled home: a trailer park where he is terrorized by his mother’s abusive boyfriend. Billy takes out his anger on the field, but when his savagery crosses a line, he faces suspension.
Without Billy Lowe, the Denton Pirates can kiss their playoff bid goodbye. But the head coach, Trent Powers, who just moved from California with his wife and two children for this job, has more than just his paycheck riding on Billy’s bad behavior. As a born-again Christian, Trent feels a divine calling to save Billy—save him from his circumstances, and save his soul.
Then Billy’s abuser is found murdered in the Lowe family trailer, and all evidence points toward Billy. Now nothing can stop an explosive chain of violence that could tear the whole town apart on the eve of the playoffs. |
Ozark Dogs
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In this Southern thriller, two families grapple with the aftermath of a murder in their small Arkansas town.
After his son is convicted of capital murder, Vietnam War veteran Jeremiah Fitzjurls takes over the care of his granddaughter, Joanna, raising her with as much warmth as can be found in an Ozark junkyard outfitted to be an armory. He teaches her how to shoot and fight, but there is not enough training in the world to protect her when the dreaded Ledfords, notorious meth dealers and fanatical white supremacists, come to collect on Joanna as payment for a long-overdue blood debt.
Headed by rancorous patriarch Bunn and smooth-talking, erudite Evail, the Ledfords have never forgotten what the Fitzjurls family did to them, and they will not be satisfied until they have taken an eye for an eye. As they seek revenge, and as Jeremiah desperately searches for his granddaughter, their narratives collide in this immersive story about family and how far some will go to honor, defend—or in some cases, destroy it. |
| Previous columns: |
• Writing From: Another Dimension
• Writing from Fearrington Village, North Carolina
• Writing from My daughter’s basketball game
• Writing from My thirty sixth year
• Writing from Forrest City, Arkansas
• Writing from Nap Time
• Writing from Winter Park, Colorado
• Writing from the end of the year
• Writing from First United Methodist Church
• Writing from the end of the first semester
• Writing from the cusp of another visit
• Writing from a Razorback Game
• Writing From: The End
• Writing from Oyster Island
• Writing from Jayne Lemons
• Writing from Bed
• Writing from Witherspoon Hall
• Writing From: Coco
• Writing from the Beach
• Writing From: Crooked Creek
• Writing from a Nursing Home
• Writing from a Firework Tent
• Writing from a Boat
• Writing from the Stars
• Writing from the Pool
• Writing from the Kitchen
• Writing from Summer
• Writing from Kindergarten
• Writing from Mom
• Writing from a Plane
• Writing from Home
• My second novel’s publication
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• A New Marriage Milestone
• An Invitation to the Party
• Writing from a Thunderstorm
• Writing from a Soundbooth
• Writing from “Jazz Beach"
• Writing from the Sabbath
• Writing from somewhere between Little Rock and Russellville
• Writing from my back deck
• Writing from the morning of my thirty-fifth year
• Writing on the day of the college football National Championship
• Writing from the space between breaths
• Writing from 2022
• Writing from the glow of a plastic Christmas tree
• Writing on a rollercoaster of triumph and disaster
• Writing from the drop-off line at my daughter’s elementary school
• Writing with Thanksgiving on my mind
• Writing from the crowd before the start of a Shovels & Rope show
• Writing from the depths of a post-book-festival hangover
• Writing from the Ron Robinson Theatre
• Writing to you on Halloween Eve
• Writing from my bed on a Saturday morning
• Writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand
• Writing from the shade of my favorite tree
• Writing from my desk on a Tuesday morning
• Writing from a pirate ship
• Writing from the airport
• Writing from the hospital
• I'm writing from the water
• Writing from my wife's Honda Pilot
• Writing from my office |
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