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 else's business.
Then Sam Cole crosses a line even the mountain won't tolerate.
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.
The debut novel, book one of the Cole Family Saga, Yankee Doodle Daddy is a gripping, historical thriller set in the untouched coves of mid-century 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.
Yankee Doodle Daddy is the first in a five-book journey of resilience and reckoning. Perfect for fans of Rick Bragg’s All Over But the Shoutin’, Where the Crawdads Sing, and The Bible of Blackwater.
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
Under Construction
Allow me to introduce myself
My name is Leanne Bright Cloudman and yes that is my legal name. I have lived my entire life in the state of North Carolina, though the woman who gave birth to me could never remember for certain which county I was born in and chose to have even less memory of who might have sired me. Since nobody wanted me, I was turned over to the North Carolina Baptist Children’s Home who eventually found someone to raise me. I apologized numerous times to that poor couple who took me to raise. What was described as determination and curiosity when I was small became stubborn and sass as I grew older. It was a constant disappointment to mother that I preferred to chase rabbits in the thicket with the dogs and ride my horse without benefit of a saddle – much more than I cared to learn to crochet and sew dainty stitches. Besides- the ribbons in my hair were just shredded by the saw briars and that was a waste. I can honestly say, I have always been frugal.
After more than 20 years of matrimonial exile on the coast of North Carolina where all anybody ever does is sweat, choke on black mold and run from hurricanes, I have returned to my home among the trout streams and mountain laurels of my childhood. I am content in that regard.
I am and have always been, a storyteller and a musician. Neither were a choice, but talents I was born with and have bled and cried over for most of my thirty-nine and holding years. And yes, this is the south – we are allowed to hide our age even unto death or marriage which in my world have been much the same thing. Of course, the majority of us are proud of the ones among us who are a bit different. Instead of hiding them away in an institution, we park them in a rocking chair on the front porch for entertainment on Saturday night.
I have currently outlived three husbands and half a dozen more fiancés. Let me assure you, beyond reasonable doubt, I had nothing to do with any of their deaths.
At some point in what Daddy refers to as my misspent youth, I figured out that people would pay me good money to play my songs in public. The fact that great amounts of alcohol and platinum blonde hair were involved, was thankfully lost on me. Mother was beyond pleased when I left what she called “being in bars every week” to “get a real job.”
Then- saints preserve us- I made another amazing discovery. People were semi-agreeable to paying me to put on paper my stories and musings. Not as much, mind you, as they paid me to play music, but then, there was next to no alcohol involved in the storytellin’ venture and the dyed hair and ridiculous amounts of stage makeup were optional.
I am happy to say at this point in my life, I can make a pound cake it takes two hands to lift that will melt in your mouth. My sausage gravy and cat-head biscuits would make any meemaw proud. I know it is necessary to have a ham in order to make red-eyed gravy for your grits and all floggin’ roosters should be sent to freezer camp. I know that foods that are breaded and fried or cooked over an open fire are much better than food you can’t pronounce. As if that isn’t enough, I make an exceptional glass of sweet tea.
I have forgiven myself for never being to find a husband that made a decent farm hand or at the very least was aware that roosters do not lay eggs and hens don’t need a rooster to lay eggs, just to hatch them. I have learned that asking for forgiveness causes about as much trouble as asking for permission and is not nearly as much fun. I am also painfully aware of proper grammar. I simply choose to speak in a manner that is much easier for my neighbors to understand and ain’t gonna get me laughed at around here near as often.
I hope you enjoy my stories. If you don’t, remember, I’m an old woman and it’s not polite to make old women cry.
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.
The loss of a spouse is something like losing a limb I would think. A part of you is gone. You still feel it, like it is still attached to you, but it isn't and it never will be again. I decided I could not type the words that would tell the story of our adventures together. Not yet. Maybe soon. Maybe another day, or week, or month. But not today.
It Never Really Leaves you...
Grandaddy vs. villa
In the early 1900's my Granddaddy worked for the Southern Pacific Railroad as a telegraph operator. They received word that an operator up the line a ways had been shot. Because their office and living quarters were in a box car, they realized it provided very little protection against Pancho Villa and his band of not-so-merry men. They got busy and lined the boxcar with railroad ties to slow down the bullets. They cut rectangle outlets every few feet so they could get a clear shot themselves. They spent some sleepless nights until Villa fled back to his side of the Mexican border. Villa ended up getting assassinated, and Granddaddy ended up coming back home to North Carolina. He worked for the railroad until he retired, but in a more stationary position running the railroad depot in Glen Alpine NC. That place held many good memories for my Daddy and made for lots more stories to tell children and grandchildren and greatgrandchildren. After the depot had been closed for several years, Daddy made a deal with the railroad and bought the building. He tore it down and carefully moved all the pieces to his property in Burke County. There he built a house using much of the lumber and beams from the depot. The house still stands to this day and probably will be there long after my grandchildren are gone. I spent many nights in that house, one of the most memorable was a personal visit from Santa Claus. But that's a story for another day.. Hope you enjoy your scenic routes...
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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"The struggle is ever-evolving, but the
Sprit that overcomes it remains timeless."
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.
Leanne lives now in the shadow of the Appalachias where many of her stories were born. She enjoys her critters and her plants and her alone time on a farm in a place she fondly calls "the middle of nowhere." It is a peaceful place the locals refer to as God's Country.
You might want to be careful about getting too close. You could find yourself "smack dab in the middle" of one of those stories she weaves.
Happy Reading!!