R. S. Williams

All I want is to get the words right.

Hillside Monday: 8/31/15


“After the Show, Part 1”
Pure Life Studios
LaGrange, Georgia – 21 August 2015

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Orange You Glad It’s Caturday?


Denver, Colorado – 3 August 2014

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Waiting for the Tooth Fairy


Leadville, Colorado – 9 August 2014

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Wednesday Photo: 8/26/15


“Which Way? (Found Type)”
LaGrange, Georgia – 20 April 2015

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Dreaming School

No matter how long you’ve been away, the saying goes, you’ll still have the occasional dream about school. They come out of nowhere, for even less reason than most dreams do. They’re almost always bad.

There’s the one where you’re back in ninth grade and wake up naked in the middle of PE class (or AP English, or Typing II, or wood shop). Everyone has those. There’s also the less-common one where it’s your college graduation day, and your family’s sitting way up in the gym bleachers waiting to see you walk, but you just found out about that elective you didn’t know you had to have. Now the course is meeting under the dais where the governor and the college president and all the other bigwigs are sitting, and you don’t know how the hell you’re supposed to be two places at once, and then Waylon Jennings (who’s served as The Balladeer for this entire scene) suddenly breaks the fourth wall and calls your name for you to come up and get your diploma, which turns out to be an angry water moccasin.

Yep, school dreams are like that.

In mine, though, I’m rarely a student, and usually the teacher. Even though I’m no longer teaching, I’ll probably always have these nightmares—like the one with an enthusiastic student who looks entirely too much like my hell-raising four-foot-nine Polish great-grandmother, and who comes to class in a circa 1963 fox-fur stole and toting a moldy squished-flat pineapple cake in her backpack. Or the one about a class I forgot to teach that’s now been meeting without me, in a barn that I cannot find, for three years. Or the one that woke me screaming, in which a rabid half-human, half-cow administrator will stop at nothing to make a Biblical burnt offering out of me in the middle of the library.

Sometimes, though, I have a classroom dream worth remembering…

The classroom was the smooth, flat, sandy yard under the red oaks at my grandmother’s tiny Methodist circuit church. My English 1101 students were turning in their most important essays of the semester. It had just rained, and the moss around the red oaks’ roots was slippery. I could smell the arborvitae in the cemetery, and the oil soap scent of the church wafting out from under the crooked old front doors.

“Watch your step,” I called to my students. “It’s slick over by the clubhouse.” One by one, bleary-eyed yet relieved, they said hello to me, set their essay packets on the concrete block picnic tables, and walked back down the dirt road toward Mr. Mac’s store and the paved road back to campus.

Except for one student.

“Professor, I need an extension,” he said after shaking my hand. We had all been in this class together for the last thirteen weeks, yet this dream-student acted as if we had just met.

“You know my late paper policy,” I said. Exhausted from a long day, I began stacking the other students’ papers and sliding them into my canvas tote bag. “This essay is worth 30% of your grade. We’ve been working on it for three-and-a-half weeks. Why don’t you have it?”

He sighed and waved toward the grass beyond the clubhouse, toward the ball field where both my grandfathers and most of my great-uncles played baseball almost a century ago. “When I was in Afghanistan, my unit got hit by a mortar attack one night, and a bunch of IEDs exploded under my Humvee—”

—and with those last words, the ball field ripped itself from the earth and into the air, sweeping us into a whirling dirt-filled dream-tornado that set us down just outside Kabul, in the middle of the night, with APCs and tanks and gunfire and artillery and God-knows-what else making me think this really might be the end, and my student getting severely wounded and losing a leg that was somehow reattached in the field and looked more like a plastic human-sized Barbie doll leg than that of a grown man.

After his leg was reattached, my student kept narrating the story of his return home from Afghanistan. The dream-tornado picked us up and set us down yet again, this time in Mobile, Alabama, where he would have to walk all the way home to Los Angeles. In El Paso, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me shrieking along with him onto a freight train back to California.

In the rail yard, the dream-tornado picked us up again, setting us down at a bus station in L.A., where my student was gunned down by a car full of gang members and left to bleed to death in front of the 7:18 to Albuquerque. But he pulled the bullets out of his own torso with his own hands—I watched all this in horror as he narrated—and he lost a lot of blood and almost died yet again. This was why it took him a really long time to get back to campus, he said as the wind grabbed us anew…especially after he had spent a summer in Alaska working on a fishing boat, and nearly drowned when the Queen Susie II capsized in stormy seas.

“So, you can see, it’s been a rough semester,” my student said as the dream-tornado plopped us back under the red oaks. “I’ve been through a lot.”

“You sure have,” I said. “But I still need your paper.”

Then I woke up.
For once.

© R. S. Williams (all rights reserved)


Hillside Monday: 8/24/15


“Back Yard, Monday, 11:25am”
LaGrange, Georgia – 13 July 2015

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He Loves Me…from 8 ’til 1


Denver, Colorado – 6 August 2014

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Wednesday Photo: 8/19/15


“It’s Lonely at the Cart Corral”
LaGrange, Georgia – 6 July 2015

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Hillside Monday: 8/17/15


“Any Porch In a Storm”
LaGrange, Georgia – 19 July 2015

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“I got tickets to see Elvis one time,” my friend said, “a couple years before he died.” He nodded toward the huge reproduction Warhol print of The King that hangs in my den.

“My God! When was this?”

“Mmmm…I was still in college. Probably my junior or senior year, ‘73 or ‘74.” He took another deep swig of his beer.  “He came to Auburn. Played the old coliseum.”

I shook my head in wonder. “Now that’s special.”

But I doubted my friend’s story. No way Elvis Presley, at any point in his career, would’ve come to a (then) backwater town like Auburn, Alabama. No way Colonel Tom Parker would think a bunch of college kids would come see old, fat, sweaty, drug-addled Elvis. No way.

Later, though, I got online and looked it up. Sure enough, there it was—March 5, 1974, Auburn Memorial Coliseum, 8:30pm. Well. Damn.

“People can say whatever they want about Elvis,” my friend continued, “but they can’t deny that he was one hell of a performer. He may not have written the songs he sang, but by God he could take any song and interpret it like absolutely nobody else could.”

“That’s the truth,” I said. “When I was growing up, Elvis was old people’s music. I couldn’t stand him. But once I started researching country music, I realized how important he was, and still is, to all kinds of popular music.” I got up and poured myself another bourbon, neat. “So, tell me about the show. You’re the first person I’ve met who’s actually been to an Elvis concert.”

“Well, I was dating this gal who was an Eastern Airlines flight attendant,” my friend said. “I’d bought tickets for her, my aunt Lorene—she’s 87 now, still loves Elvis—and myself. My girlfriend flew into Mobile, rented a car, and drove up for the concert. She mentioned the show to her mama, though, and of course her mama wanted to see Elvis, too.”

“Now that’s cool! One young lady, two old ladies, and a young fella all going to see the same Elvis show.”

He sighed. “Well, by the time we all got to Auburn, there was not even one extra ticket to be had. Wasn’t even any scalpers selling them around town or out in front of the coliseum. Solid sold-out.”


“So I gave my girlfriend’s mama my ticket, and waited outside.”

I blinked. Hard. “You mean to tell me that you’d been an Elvis fan since junior high school, you’d waited all those years to see him, and when you finally got a chance to go to one of his concerts, you gave your ticket to your girlfriend’s mother?”


“That girlfriend—she was your first wife, right?”

He chugged the last of his beer, then sighed again. “No. We broke up that Christmas.”

I’m still not sure whether my friend’s tale is one of great foolishness, or of great love. But maybe, like any good story, it’s a little of both.

In memory of Elvis Aaron Presley
8 January 1935 – 16 August 1977

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The View from Cannery Row


Nashville, Tennessee – 18 September 2014

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Wednesday Photo: 8/12/15


“Fuchsia Satin Is a Girl’s Best Friend”
LaGrange, Georgia – 29 July 2015

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Hillside Monday: 8/10/15


“Street Sneaker”
LaGrange, Georgia – 26 July 2015

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Sunday Morning Coming Down


Waffle House #646
LaGrange, Georgia – 19 July 2015

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Wednesday Photo: 8/5/15


“A Blessing at Sunset”
Northern Troup County, Georgia – 30 July 2015

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Hillside Monday: 8/3/15


“Storm, Seven Miles Away”
LaGrange, Georgia – 22 July 2015

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So Blue, So Bright, So Cold

SoBlueSoBrightSoCold_COPY_2014-12-29_12.58.28 HDR

Heard County, Georgia – 29 December 2014

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Wednesday Photo: 7/29/15


“Lily, Late Summer”
Denver, Colorado – 6 August 2014

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Hillside Monday: 7/27/15


“Something (Not) Borrowed”
LaGrange, Georgia – 23 July 2015

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Some Strings Attached


LaGrange, Georgia – 11 July 2015

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