Slices of daily life in a sunny home by the sea. For good measure, the goings-on of the locals around the home are thrown in. The book is liberally sprinkled with madcap…at times, philosophical…conversations between mother and daughter, visitors, tradesmen. Food is plentiful. Tall tales add to the sauce. A ghost seeks help. Stones grow. A snake dances.
Around the home, the wind and the birds whistle. Sunbeams, filtered by trees, limbo across the lacquered wooden floor.
Some nights, danger lurks. Bandits. Gunshots in the wee hours of the morning. A thief sneaks into a neighbour’s home.
Despite the fears, mother and daughter create a haven.
The mother is wise, kind to one and all. Yet she shoots words so sharp, she quells the petty thief and his foul-mouthed girlfriend into submission. The daughter wallows in self-deprecation. The two engage in power struggles over pepper-sauce, wild flowers, the killing of a fly and other such drama.
Through the keen observations of these two, and their interaction with others, the culture of the well-to-do and poor is revealed. Nature takes on a personality of its own, is discussed like beloved and some mad relatives.
The book, a collection of conversations, stories, quips and musings, highlights hope, grief, beauty and humour in a 3rd world setting. It is, in essence, an irrepressible celebration of home.
Available ebook formats: epub mobi lrf pdb html
AUTHOR: About Neena Maiya:
I was born in Guyana…. The Land of Many Waters, on the north-east tip of South America.
Y’all ain’t never see a place like where I come from. Trees walk. Jumbies (dead people spirit) walk day and night – though only a lucky few ever see them.
People tell stories more tall than coconut trees, in fact, they reach the moon before the USA ever land there.
Me? I only trying to record them long-tall tales and share them with the world.
Call me a story-teller addicted to people, music, books, craft, art, earth, sky, sea.
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GUYANA: 132 CARMICHAEL STREET — WEEKENDS
Stabroek News–May 14, 2023 – By Stanley Greaves
FRIDAY
Today was payday. Waterfront workers received wages from the pay office of companies. My Father’s was Sandbach Parker Ltd. Sometimes when he was working elsewhere I had to take his tag, a piece of round copper stamped with a number to receive his pay. Men in the line would ask questions about my identity then send me to the head of it.
Women consorts and common- in- law wives would be waiting outside to secure the household money. Most men usually went to rumshops to celebrate the end of a work week. Huston’s Rum Shop and Bar was conveniently situated in Robb Street between Main and Water Streets near Sandbach Parker. When my Father came home I would examine his pocket. If the rounded end of a big can of sardines or salmon in tomato sauce revealed itself I knew that he had earned twelve dollars, a good week. I eagerly awaited Sunday morning.
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