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.
.When Sam Cole crossed that final, unforgivable line and left one of their daughters for dead, the "quiet wife" vanishes. In her place stands a mother with a double-barrel shotgun and little left to lose. The pull of both triggers and a tumble down the stairs ends Sam Cole’s reign of terror—but Carrie Beth’s actions to save the lives of herself and her daughters have subjected her to a brand new nightmare.
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 being revealed and a decades-old cycle of violence begins to claw its way into the light.
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
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.
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...
Sometimes you just need to sit and pet a chicken.
It Never Really Leaves you...
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.
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 able 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.
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.
Excerpts from The Struggle Continues...
The Sad Demise of Imagination
Every so often, I have a tendency to become very passionate about something. These events my family once called Soapbox Moments. Today, I am faced with the sad demise of imagination!
Kids have been out of school across the state for a month, the new is wearing off and "I'm bored," is setting in. So, I went looking for ideas to throw out to the wonderful moms who are ready to pull their hair out and it's not even August. What I found was utterly disheartening. Did you know you have to buy something in order to quell your child's, or grandchild's boredom? Well, you don't! That's just what the mainstream media wants you to believe. Yep, there's that renegade thing coming out again, but it's ridiculous..
Okay, Soapbox Moment coming on...What ever happened to imagination? Remember, it's when you suggest an idea to the kids and they take it and run with it? You don't have to buy anything, order anything, download anything or turn on any electrical switch. You just crank up the creative in the kid!
Think back to when we were small. (And no that was not the dark ages) We'd head for the woods and become anybody we wanted to be. We'd play until we were called in for supper and then weren't real excited about ending our day. We played cowboys and Indians, pioneers and my personal favorite - Tarzan.. We'd pretend we were stranded and had to find a way to survive. We'd build forts and tree-houses and forage for things to eat. Water was easy...it came from the creek. (Not safe now, apparently). We used our imaginations!
My parents and grandparents did the same thing. I've got a whole collection of stories about things they did as children. Of course, many of the ones Paw and his twin brother got into, according to my Aunt Hazel, are probably not things you'd want your children to do these days... but they had fun and they came up with the ideas out of their own imaginations. That's the point I'm trying to make. They used imagination to keep themselves occupied and it didn't take much effort.
My kids did the same thing growing up. Of course their characters and settings were a bit different from mine, but imagination was still rampant. I taught them the first lesson of the woods and turned them loose. Just for your information, that lesson is: "Stick that moves is not a stick."
Catching crawfish (that’s what we call them) could fill an entire afternoon. Building dams out of rocks to make the water deeper, creating things out of materials they found in the woods. They were pretty big on creating clubs and deciding how they would be run. (Way out of my realm as a child). My son could come up with hundreds of ways to "save the world," when he was ten. My daughter could come up with just as many ways to defeat his minions. Now my granddaughter is learning to do the same things when we can pull her away from her computer long enough.
It may not be politically correct in the eyes of our current society, but considering some of the things that are...I'd rather teach kids to imagine the amazing and come up with their own ways to save the world.
Considering the current economy, maybe imaginations in children will make a comeback. It's certainly running rampant within our government. I know, I'm probably dreaming, but it could happen.
When my granddaughter was small, she believed the big people could make anything happen, So....close your eyes and reconnect, then teach your children and grandchildren they can go anywhere, without ever getting into the car; do anything they can dream, and be whoever sounds like fun today! If you're bored, turn off the computer, the television and the phone and join in. Family time might take on a whole new meaning!
The Wrath of God
The old-timers call it the “Wrath of God.” I always thought that was a little extreme. After the summer of 1992, I agreed with them. They are talking about lightning. When we were little and a thunder storm came up, Amie(my mother), would always take me and Gary (my brother), to her room. We would lie down across her bed and she would tell us stories till the storm passed. We knew as long as our feet didn’t touch the floor, we were safe. Pawpaw (maternal grandfather), always said the “lightning run the floor”.
In the summer of 1992, I was in the midst of my second marriage. I use the term marriage loosely and only as the legal term for the pitiful partnership in which I found myself. I had needed a farm hand. I found one, but couldn’t afford to pay him. Being the survivor that I am, I married him. Needless to say, Paw has yet to allow me to forget that one. I promised him if I ever decided I had need of a farm hand again, I would just hire one. It would be cheaper and much less stressful.
I had dreams for as long as I could remember of being self-sufficient. It was all worked out in my head. Within a year we were well on our way. We had goats for milk and cheese, with plans for soap making. Feeding them wasn’t a problem as they ate everything that wasn’t behind locked doors. We had beef cattle for meat and fertilizer, planning after a few years to be able to sell off the calves for enough to buy sileage and we cut the hay ourselves. We raised rabbits for sale as meat and sold enough to pay for their feeding as well as using them for a secondary source of meat for the table. The hides came in handy in making all sorts of things. We had chickens for eggs and meat. We sold enough eggs and homemade bread to pay for their feed. We had a large vegetable garden and what we didn’t raise enough of, Amie and Paw always had surplus to make up the difference. We had plans to buy a sow and a hog to raise meat from, selling off the ones we didn’t need. I was planning to build a dam and a water wheel to produce our own electricity and someday maybe even sell the excess back to the power company. I had it all planned. I’d had endless discussions with Paw and cleared it all with him. The problem was, I hadn’t cleared it all with the Lord. I figure he decided it was time to bring me down a notch or two.
It was late summer, so an occasional thunderstorm was not unusual. On that afternoon, the sky was turning black quickly and the leaves were turning. I knew we were in for a bad storm. The kids and I were in the barn trying to finish up feeding chores early and get back to the house before it hit. I had just parked the tractor when a sound like an explosion shook the ground under my feet and sent chickens, goats and kids scrambling. I calmed everyone down and told them it was just thunder and we’d better hurry or we were going to get wet. Chris ran ahead to the door and then came back screaming a word all farmers fear worse than death. Fire! The converted chicken house that was being used to store straw upstairs and equipment downstairs had been struck by lightning. The flames were already shooting high into the air. I ran for the house and the phone, the kids racing after me. Chris continued to scream and Lindsey was shocked into silence, liquid fear coursing down all our faces. I called the fire department and headed back out the door to the barn. The air was already thick with smoke. I had visions of the goats, chickens and rabbits trapped with no way out. I told the kids to stay back and just off the road to lead the fire truck in. I realized later that was foolish. By that time you could see the fire for miles. I didn’t know what to do first. I opened the gate to the chicken coop so the chickens could get out. I ran the cows and goats out of the barn and put up the rails so they couldn’t get back in.
Looking back on things, I have no doubt I was in shock or struck with a major case of stupid, I’m not sure which. The upstairs of that chicken house was full of straw and it was burning like someone had poured gasoline on it. I ran into the downstairs of that inferno and started trying to drag equipment out through the big double doors. Most of it was too large to move by hand and I still had enough of my wits about me to go after the smaller stuff. I close my eyes even now, and I can still feel the oppressive heat. I can hear the roar of the flames and the snapping and popping of the fire eating through wood. It was so intense at that point that it was hard to breathe. I had almost made it to the doors dragging a fence post digger when somebody grabbed me around the waist from behind and hollered for me to let the digger go. He drug me through those doors just as the second story came crashing down. Everything was moving in slow motion and then it seemed there were firemen everywhere. Neighbors shouting and huge streams of water coming from every direction. I felt I had been given a glimpse of the fires of hell. Then it hit me how hot it was where I was standing and the barn was even closer. I ran to the upstairs of the barn which had been converted into a rabbit house and began spraying everything in the rabbit house down with the water hose. I knew most of the rabbits couldn’t handle this heat. They had fans to help keep them cool just from summer sun. The heat from that fire was enough to kill my rabbit business without the first spark ever hitting the barn. A fireman called up that I didn’t need to wet down the barn, that they had the fire under control and it wasn’t going to spread. A neighbor woman who had come up to see if she could do anything to help, told him to leave me be. She understood I had to do something. My efforts were futile. In a matter of a few hours, most of my well laid plans were reduced to ashes and left over wisps of smoke. All Daddy’s farming equipment except for the tractor was burned beyond recognition. The site was covered with a twisted mass of melted steel, sheets of roofing curled up from the heat like cruel wet confetti.
The firemen had all left. A neighbor had taken the children to the house, but I was still so terrified. I ran around spraying with the simple garden hose little flair ups of fire until the wee hours. My brother came and tried to calm me, but I was inconsolable. I wouldn’t accept that there was nothing I could have done. I couldn’t fix this.
We didn’t lose any animals to the fire, but we might as well have lost them all. The heat from the fire sterilized the special meat rabbits. We couldn’t raise anymore. The smoke had made many of them sick and some died. The others eventually ended up in somebody’s freezer. Within the next two weeks, I lost a calf I had raised from the bottle to a neighbor’s dogs that got loose and then lost all my chicken’s to the farm hand’s hunting dogs that got loose and killed them all. A migrant worker killed my billy goat to use for some kind of satanic ritual, then my best milk goat was hit by a truck that was unfamiliar of the habit goats had of crossing the road when a car came.
The combination of the fire and the tragedies of the next few weeks did more than destroy things and kill animals. It broke my spirit. I was humbled in a way that no occurrence in my life or the words of any person ever could have.
I never found out who pulled me out of the chicken house before the roof collapsed. Nobody ever came forward. Maybe the Lord sent me a guardian angel. Who or whatever he was, he saved me from more than the fire. He saved me from myself. I am forever grateful.
I had hoped that someday, Mr. Cloudman and I could rebuild that dream together, but before he passed, I was still trying to convince him we didn’t need a rooster for the hens to lay eggs, just for them to hatch.
Should I ever be able to start over, I will not allow the thought to enter my mind that I can do anything without the blessing of the Lord. Once again, the proper respect for all I am allowed, by the grace of God, is instilled deep within me. There is no fear greater in my heart than the fear inspired by incurring the Wrath of God.
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...
Upcoming Events & Literary Readings
Meet the Author
Saturday, August 15th
1-3 pm
First 15 readers get free pastry prepared by our host.
Thalia's on Main St
North Wilkesboro, NC
Ask questions, have your copy of Yankee Doodle Daddy signed, get a early info on Book 2, Cole Mountain Survivors.
A few books will be available for purchase.
Drawing for Yankee Doodle Daddy tote bag.
Latest Stories & Chapter Updates
I am hard at work on Book 2, Cole Mountain Survivors. I had some issues keeping this Crissy Lee's story and not falling back on Carrie Beth too often.I have deleted and rewritten chapters frequently to stay between the lines. I'm also learning about the new characters and how they should react in different situations. I'm enjoying it. If you haven't read Yankee Doodle Daddy, please do. It is the foundation for the entire series. Happy Reading!!
About the Author
"The struggle is ever-evolving, but the
Sprit that overcomes it remains timeless."
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!!