The Storytelling
Vision of
Leanne Bright Cloudman
Presenting the highly anticipated debut fiction novel, Yankee Doodle Daddy, alongside a legacy of soulful non-fiction and short stories.
On Cole Mountain, a simple whistle isn't a song. It’s a warning to hide.
Deep in the mist-shrouded coves of Appalachia, Carrie Beth Cole lives by a grim mountain code: a man’s home is his, and his wife is his property. What goes on in a man’s home ain’t nobody elses business. For years, her daughters mopped up the blood after her husband Sam Cole’s moonshine-soaked rages. Carrie Beth’s only defense, whistling Yankee Doodle, is the signal for her daughters to vanish into the secret room behind their bedroom walls.
When Sam crosses a line even the mountain won't tolerate, brutally injuring one of the girls, the "quiet wife" vanishes. In her place stands a mother with a double-barrel shotgun and nothing left to lose. The pull of both triggers and a tumble down the stairs ends Sam’s reign of terror—but Carrie Beth’s nightmare is only beginning.
Arrested and put on trial for murder, Carrie Beth faces many in a community that would rather protect a violent tradition than a woman's life. But the secrets of the cove are finally being revealed. As her daughters; Crissy Lee, Sammie Lou, Jessie El, and Jenny May, stand by her side, a decades-old cycle of violence begins to claw its way into the light.
The debut novel, book one of the horrifying Cole Family Saga,
Yankee Doodle Daddy is a gripping, historical thriller set in the untouched coves of 1940’s Appalachia, that sheds light on the heavy cost of secrets and the relentless power of a family determined to turn a house of fear into a home of hope
Reminiscent of the voices from Rick Bragg in All Over But the Shoutin',
The rich country characters delight like those of Leah Weiss in If the Creek Don't Rise,
The pain caused by moonshine mirrored in another North Carolina backwoods story The Moonshiner's Daughter by Donna Everhart. Yankee Doodle Daddy will also appeal to those who enjoyed The Bible of Blackwater and Where the Crawdads Sing.
TURN ON SOUND
The Scenic Route
When I was growing up, my family traveled frequently. Daddy had a tendency to take what he called shortcuts. They were never shorter and they usually meant he had taken a wrong turn. He started telling us that he was taking the scenic route. This became a joke in later years until I realized some of the best stories we heard were found on The Scenic Route.
For many years, I chronicled the adventures my late husband and I enjoyed and those people we met along the way in a column published by various newspapers. We called it The Scenic Route.
Last night, I prepared myself mentally and physically to sit down this morning and put fresh words on the screen. I cleaned the space on and around my work desk in the hope that I might avoid distractions when clutter draws my attention away from writing. I set the coffee pot, I set an alarm - which I never do anymore - because I have a Finn. That explanation is a story for another day. I went to bed to sleep instead of allowing myself to drift off in my work chair. I had prepared for everything. I was ready.
I got up with the alarm which totally upset the circadian rhythm of all three dogs. They sat on the front porch for fifteen minutes just to let me know in no uncertain terms they were not happy with my plans. That business taken care of I took my first cup of wake-me-up to my desk and sat down at my computer. I took my first sip and it hit me.
Like a serious punch in the gut, the initial pain that I cannot compare to anything else, the loss of breath and the utter loss of control. There were no words, no thoughts, just pain.
It Never Really Leaves you...
Excerpts from The Struggle Continues...
My Truth
I was born on January 26, 1961, somewhere in the State of North Carolina. It was a normal full-term pregnancy. There were no complications noted. I died on February 6, 1962. There were no flowers, no funeral, no small grave, nobody sang for me. My body was still alive. My spirit however, was confused and traumatized. My identity was gone forever. I remained a nameless little baby girl being shuffled from orphanage to foster home and back to the orphanage. Never being allowed to bond too much. Never allowed “too much attention.” At some point in time I was given the name Phyllis. It was just temporary, so they could tell me apart from all the other babies in limbo. I cried a lot. One day I just stopped crying. No one was listening.
I had committed no crime. I had no knowledge of the man and woman who conceived me, nor any memory of my birth. I was, by law, incompetent to make decisions concerning my welfare. Therefore, the State of North Carolina deemed it in my best interest to place me what appears now to be some sort of warped witness protection program. In July of 1962, I was given a new name, a new identity, a new place to live, a new place to have been born, a new family. All information concerning my “past life” was eradicated.
I am an adoptee in the State of North Carolina.
Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not saying that being adopted has been an unfavorable experience. Actually it was the best possible thing for me. I had a wonderful family and opportunities I would otherwise have never had. I love my adopted family and will always be thankful for them. That is not the point. My problem is within the lies and secrets that permeate every thing associated with adoption. The uneducated stigma that is attached, the questions that will never be answered follow adoptees like a black cloud. I am now an adult. I no longer need the protection of the lies, the State wishes to tell. I need the truth. My Truth, however painful it may be.
The really sad reality is, the State of North Carolina and its legislature has had numerous opportunities to restore adoptees to a normal state of life after reaching adulthood. They didn’t. They have actually had four bills that I know of before them on this issue since 1987. They just keep looking the other way. I was actually in attendance at a study committee meeting in 1999. It was very disheartening. No adoptee was allowed to speak. They listened only to people on the other side. We lost again.
These people have the opportunity to give adoptees back some self-respect and allow us the answers to questions that most people take for granted. They can give us a medical history instead of endless testing and guesswork. They can allow us to no longer feel like criminals when we seek information about our heritage. They can allow us to finally become a member of the human race, instead of a spectator. They can give us the truth. Our Truth.
Where were you born? Does that question cause you to break out in a cold sweat and struggle over the answer? I know where, but the state says I was born elsewhere and I have to be careful I don’t answer that question truthfully. Do trips to your child’s pediatrician cause you to have a panic attack? You see I can’t answer any medical questions. I don’t have that information. What is your heritage? I am Cherokee and Scottish on one side and Mexican and Apache on the other. Of course I cannot claim this on any “real documents.” Because the State of North Carolina decided I was Caucasian. Oh I have the paperwork to prove it, but most do not and I cannot use what I have. I am forty years old and I was reduced to tears today in the Social Security office simply trying to get a new social security card. You see, I don’t have a birth certificate. Has that ever happened to you? Probably not. Unless you’re adopted too.
The Struggle Continues...
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About the Author
Leanne Bright Cloudman believes that words are the bridge between history and hope. This philosophy breathed life into her acclaimed non-fiction work, The Struggle Continues, a narrative that explores the endurance of the human spirit. With a background rooted in soulful storytelling and intellectual depth, Leanne crafts narratives that don't just tell a story—they ignite a legacy of imagination and resilience.
Free Writings
A curated selection of previously published columns, excerpts from 'The Struggle Continues', and new literary explorations shared freely to ignite your imagination.