The Fizgig
Jill Cox Vogt
Author Bio
Originally from the mountains of Johnson City, Tennessee, I have published poetry in literary journals and small presses, including Appalachian Heritage, and taken top honors in national poetry and short story competitions. I have also published articles about the performing arts and written grant applications to fund the arts, as well as a broad array of programs offered by a community action agency. While I never set out to live in various places throughout the United States, from Florida to Montana and several places in between, nor planned for my joke of trying to live in every state ending with the letter “a” actually coming true, I’ve chalked it up to the “gypsy in my soul.” Nor did I plan to work at a university, a newspaper, a matchmaking service, a music company, that community action agency, a major festival (now that was solid fun!), a printing company, among other places (honestly, sheesh).
I have a fabulous son, Colby, and five (yes, five) fabulous stepchildren. My mother lives in Johnson City, Tennessee, my sister lives in Nashville with her family, and my big brother lives in heaven with my father and God. Now, I get up at 5:30 each morning, which no one should have to do unless milking is involved, and proofread medical forms in a cubicle all day.
All of my adventures were worth it, but the gypsy has landed in Louisiana where I live with my husband and dog and books, and don’t say, “I’m freezing” nearly as often as before.
Description
Poet Daisy Young needs to fall out of love with her dead fiancé. Nothing will bring him back to life, and holing up in their condo with boxes of chocolate-covered cherries she calls servings of fruit hasn’t moved her forward. No amount of kindness or casseroles baked with chicken and good intentions has eased her gloom. It’s time to get out of Nashville.
With hastily packed suitcases and Milky Way Bars, she hits the highway to anywhere and runs out of gas in East Tennessee’s mountains, as good a reason as any to stay there. Seeking inspiration for a poem, any poem, she meets,instead, Luke Strann, a carpenter with a secret past.
The last thing she’s looking for is love, and certainly not with Luke, who bears little similarity to her fiancé. Add to that Luke’s bond with another woman that Daisy can’t fathom, and her problem of perfecting a walking, broken heart for months on end. Still, the ways in which they’re synchronized – writing poetry, hiking forests, and learning twenty-dollar words – transform their friendship into a “no promises, no demands” fling. But the more fun she has with Luke, the more frustrated she becomes with a relationship as difficult to grasp as water or wind, with what love is not. Tired of an uncertain future with Luke, she calls it quits. She weighs two choices: run to hope or head back to her family in Nashville.
When her sister, Holly Lula, has a baby boy, Daisy makes haste to Nashville. Nestled in the love of her family and wafts of baby powder, she gets a call from Luke. Their friend’s suffered critical injuries in a car wreck, and Daisy sees no choice but to return to the mountains. To home – but is it home?
The accident ignites Luke’s secret and gives Daisy one more choice, one she’s never imagined.
Set in a time when Tina Turner rocks the radio and phones are plugged into walls, THE FIZGIG chronicles the adventures, the defeats, and the triumphs of Daisy and Luke, with laughter and a host of quirky characters mixed within.
Book excerpt
A full moon—Mom called it God’s elevator button—bleached the darkness out of midnight’s sky. I had a good view of it, looking through the windshield, out of gas on a highway far from home. A second from screaming or crying or both, I made out a fluorescent sign high atop a pole, blinking “Kay’s All Nighter Diner” on and off, on and off. I pressed the emergency flashers, slung my purse over my shoulder, and slammed the car door.
A Jeep and a cargo van sat in a pool of yellow light spilling from the diner’s windows. I stepped across geraniums flanking the sidewalk that led to the entrance just as an old man emerged. His upper body tilted to the left, as though he carried a bucket of rocks. He pulled a toothpick from his mouth and nodded a greeting. I nodded back. The smell of bacon and onions drifted on July’s warm air. I reached for the door papered with things to do in Hillston, Tennessee, events that stretched across the summer of 1984, but changed my mind about going in. I didn’t need food.
“Sir?” I called. The old man twisted toward me. “I’m out of gas – and not for lack of trying to find some. Is there a station around here that I can walk to?
“Travel Mart is up yonder past the city limit sign, but you need gas, I got a can. It’s enough to get you there.”
“No kidding?” I smiled, amazed at how he’d come to the rescue. “Are you the angel I’ve been looking for?”
“Honey, I’m a simple flesh-and-blood man who believes in helping others.”
“And I’m a very grateful woman. Of course, I’ll pay you for it.”
He waved my offer aside and fetched a plastic gas can from the Jeep. He held it in his left hand as we walked along the highway’s shoulder. I was surprised he didn’t use his right hand, since its weight might balance him. I wondered if he was in pain. Maybe he was an insomniac who’d buttoned a plaid shirt up to his chin, tugged on wrinkled brown trousers and gone out for company, to get his mind off things.
“I can carry that.” It was the least I could do.
“I’m old, Old Pete, folks call me, but I can tote it. I lean a little to the left because of my heart.”
“Your heart?” What kind of heart problem turned a person into the Leaning Tower of Pisa?
“Yep. Ever since my wife Alice passed on, it’s been real heavy. There’s sorrow in it now.”
An ache tightened my throat from the thought of him being too sad to stand up straight. I’d never before heard of such a thing, but I understood. Boy, did I.
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, you learn to move on, lopsided or not.” He pushed up his brown-framed bifocals. “You got a name?”
“Daisy Young.” Before I could put out my hand, a giggle burst loose. He’d think I was nuts, although this was a time I wouldn’t blame him. “Excuse me. Our names struck me as . . . they seemed funny. Old Pete. Daisy Young.”