Chapter 7 – No Blood in the Turnip
What’s in you, gonna come out
Our little duplex apartment in Mooretown on a street called Lucille couldn’t have been more perfect. Those freshly painted walls, the new linoleum covering on the floors, and brand new furniture for every room, were simply beautiful. Even the location was convenient, about a block up from my church which was on the corner of Hollywood and Lucille Street. As that saying goes, “A family that prays together, stays together.” I had formed the image of Luke and me walking those few steps to church on Sunday mornings.

Luke was now working for a trucking company with good pay. I quit my job with the Linen service and put Beauty School on hold, to become a full time housewife. It took no extraordinary effort for me to rise out of bed on those early mornings to prepare Luke’s breakfast and lunch. That same effort was given later in the evenings. I listened for Luke’s car, with that loud muffler. The instant I heard it, the water for his bath was run. And Fridays were special…payday. Luke and I had a routine; together we went to the bank to cash his check, paid our bills, and off to the supermarket.

I didn’t object when Luke went out on weekends. There were times I helped him dress; had his clothes laid on the bed for him; shined his shoes. I saw no problem with a man having worked hard all week, going out and unwinding with the guys on Friday and Saturday nights, as long as Luke had taken care of his financial responsibilities. In hindsight, I guess one could say I was like the characters in that Movie called, “The Stepford Wives” only I required the husband to bring his money home to me and I would manage it. I had worked out a durable regimen and all Luke had to do was follow the plan. I had thought Luke was in compliance with that arrangement, until one day Mama cautioned.

“Georgann,” said Mama, “Luke says you take’s all his money and jus’ give him a nuff money to put gas in his car, and a few dollars extra.”

Surprisingly I answered, “But Mama, that’s all Luke needs,” I replied. “Because I make sure all the bills are paid and buy his cigarettes when we go to the market. What more could he ask for?”

Mama shook her head and warned, “Georgann, you shouldn’t take all the man’s money.” I brushed it off, “Aah Mama.” I said, “Luke doesn’t need any more money.”

But I did. In March of 1965, I returned to beauty school to complete my course. Only forty hours were needed No Blood in the Turnip 101 for the Testing Board, and a payment balance of fifty dollars on my tuition. The Board was meeting within two months. With careful budgeting, I could save the fifty dollars.

Luke and I were a team. I made the rules and he was following them. And so far everything was going smoothly. But somewhere within that third month things changed; I became pregnant and Luke gradually started breaking the rules. Instead of Luke coming directly home to get me, he went to the bank alone, cashed his check and brought me the money and the check stub. I thought, Okay, I could live with this. However, several weeks later, the check stub didn’t balance out with the money.

“Luke,” I questioned. “What happened to the rest of the money?” “Georgann, I got a speedin’ ticket,” said Luke. “And I had to pay it.”

Luke’s 1955 Chevy hot-rod was built for drag racing. But instead of racing it at the Drag Strip on weekends, Luke drag raced on the public streets, getting speeding tickets frequently. I was still doing my “Stepford Wife” routine, making it as comfortable and convenient for Luke as possible.

Luke also had the conveniences of what I soon discovered was not a recreational gambling habit; Country Shack was a street over…and Lord have mercy! My carefully planned budget became nonexistent, and the bills began to mount. I completed the hours necessary to get my Beautician’s License. But I could save no money. We got a loan for $150. That Friday evening when we arrived home with the money, Luke, calling me by the pet name he had given me, said, “Ann, let me keep the money ‘til Monday, you don’t need it until then.”

Suspiciously, I asked, “Why do you want to keep it?” “I just want to keep it.” He said, “Don’t you trust me?”

I looked into his eyes and felt guilty as I said within myself, “No I don’t.”

I hesitated, but then said, “Alright, you can keep it. But please don’t gamble this money away!”
“Ann, do you think I’m crazy?” He said. “I know what we gotta do with this money, and I ain’t gonna mess it up!”

Reluctantly, I gave Luke the $150.

Three hours passed. I sat at the window watching for Luke like a hawk. One o’clock Saturday morning Luke came home.

“Georgann, I’m so sorry!” said a teary-eyed Luke. “Please forgive me!”

“Luke! What happened? You didn’t lose the money?”

Luke shook his head, saying, “I lost all the money!”

My opened mouth froze.

However, love is supposed to conquer all. I gathered Luke in my arms. “Don’t cry…it’s gonna be alright.”

“But Ann,” he said sorrowfully. “Monday you s’posed to pay the money, and I done lost it!”

“I can take the test next year.” While trying to console Luke and thinking, Lord, don’t let this one incident cause me to give up on him. Help me to have love, patience and understanding.

Meanwhile, putting that one gambling incident behind us, I was a contented pregnant wife, and everything seemed to be going great.

However, the “real” Luke could only play that part for so long. Luke’s coming home from work on Friday’s got later and later, and the money coming up shorter and shorter. It was gradually developing into a pattern, until the dreadful inevitable…he didn’t come home. That’s when the “shit hit the fan,” and I went ballistic.

It was a Friday evening. I was in my sixth month of pregnancy and had looked forward to showing off my prettiest maternity dress for Luke, but he didn’t show up.

I got undressed, went to bed and cried myself to sleep. Saturday morning Luke still had not come home. I began making telephone calls. No one had seen him. Finally, about one o’clock in the afternoon, Luke came home.

“Luke, where have you been?” I asked.

“I was just ‘round to Country Shack.”

“Country Shack,” I repeated, “all night?!”

“Yeah, I got into a little gamblin’ game,” he explained. “I got another speedin’ ticket and I wanted to win the money back that I had used to pay the ticket wit.”

“Did you win it back?”

Luke hesitated then said, “Naw, I lost it all!”

I stared at him with utter disbelief. When suddenly, a pregnancy tantrum emerged and that dark side of me exposed itself. And those main ingredients that I prayed for … love, patience and understanding, momentarily escaped my memory. I made teeth-prints in Luke’s chest! I bit him…I hit him…and I tried to kick him!

Luke overpowered me and finally got me calmed down.

The thought of being homeless, or having to eat pinto beans and biscuits everyday, didn’t set too well.

Sobbing, I asked, “What are we gonna do about our rent and food?”

“Don’t worry about it. I will get the money to buy food, “Luke said with confidence. “We’ll just have to pay the rent next week. Just let me handle it.”

Luke left home and returned hours later with a wad of one dollar bills. The appearance of that money was wrinkled and had the odor of cigarette smoke on it. It was obviously gambling money. I became very familiar with that offensive odor on those dollar bills and in his clothing, not fully realizing it came with the territory.

I felt that I was slowly being thrust into an unfamiliar life … a whole new environment. I realized I had to grow up and be very responsible, if we were to have a good marriage. Because of his squandering ways it was going to be left totally on my shoulders to make it work, until the glorious day when Luke would magically change.

The J C Penney’s lay-a-way paper showed a balance of $10. That cold November Thursday afternoon, I was at the Big House showing Mama the slip of paper that named all the items I had on lay-away. Mama gasped, “Georgann! dat baby ain’t gon’ need all this stuff to start out wit!”

“But Mama”, I said, “I want to have everything that’s going to be needed now, so that I won’t have to worry about it later. Besides, we can afford it, ‘cause Luke got a good payin’ job wit that trucking company.” I boasted, “He makes $70 a week.” Mama’s eyes widened, “$70 a week!”
Mama repeated. “Chile, dat’s some good money. Now don’t spend every penny. You need to save some for a rainy day.”

I thought to myself, Mama don’t realize that every week can become a rainy day with Luke!

Two weeks later, on that Friday evening, our little apartment was sparkling clean, as I awaited Luke’s arrival from work. Seven o’clock I was still waiting for Luke. Eight o’clock…I was still waiting for Luke. By 9 p.m., every car with a loud muffler coming down Lucille Street, I tried to will those cars to be Luke’s car. Around 10 p.m., seven months pregnant and waddling like a duck on that chilly Friday night, I stood at the door on the outside of Country Shack, embarrassed, and on the verge of tears, asking anybody and everybody to summon my husband. I considered myself a nice respectable Christian, and going into a place of that sort was beneath me. But it was more befitting to stand on the outside and acted like the beggar! Finally, some good “Samaritan” made contact.

“Georgann, what you doin’ here?” asked Luke.

“I’m here because you didn’t come home. And I hope you haven’t messed up the money!”

Luke was hyped. His eyes were dancing around in his head, and he was talking fast. “Naw Ann, I ain’t lost the money. I’m on a winnin’ streak!”

“Luke,” I begged. “Please don’t lose the money, ‘cause you promised that we would get the baby’s things out of lay-a-way, tomorrow!”

“Ann, we’ve got plenty of time before the lay-away hafta be out.” Then Luke, in his cunning ways grabbed my arms, kissed my cheek for reassurance and said, “Now, you go on back home and I’ll be on as soon as I hit this big win!” Luke came home about five o’clock Saturday morning, with barely enough money for groceries.

It became apparent that Luke’s word meant zero! I was getting a rude awakening. My fantasy of the “hard working man” who takes care of his family didn’t quite represent Luke. Work presented no problem for Luke. But he had problems being responsible with money! Not only that, I got another eye-opener…Luke’s ability to read was very limited. But, that was not going to be an obstacle to my plan. Mama’s wedding gift…she had said I was going to need it. She didn’t lie! … Luke and I had Bible Study.

On January 25, 1966 Jeff was born. Three months later Mama babysat Jeff, while I returned to Beauty School. Six weeks later, I finally got my license and Maple Sudds started working at a beauty parlor within walking distance from the house.

For several months it seemed that things were going well. Luke was home on weekends more, did well with his financial obligations. I saw a glimmer of hope!

But soon, Luke made me realize that I had had no business trying to impersonate the “potter,” because he certainly wasn’t going to continue imitating the “clay.” One Friday Luke went to work and didn’t return. I had enough of Luke! Six o’clock Saturday evening, Daddy helped me load Jeff’s baby bed with all our belongings. Before the crack of dawn Sunday morning, a longing and tugging at my heart for Luke and our little three-room apartment found me tiptoeing to the telephone.

“Hello!” Luke answered in a drowsy voice. “Luke,” I whispered into the telephone. “I wanna come home!” “OK Ann. Gimme time to get my clothes on and I’ll be there.”

Shamed-faced, I couldn’t look Mama in her eyes. “Mama,” I said, “Luke is comin’ to get me.”

“What?” Mama yelled. “Chile, giv’da boy a nuff time to miss you!” she continued, “He jus’ might straighten-up and fly right!”

Looking down, I said, “I wanna go back home to Luke.”

Mama shrugged her shoulders, shook her head and said, “Georgann, it ain’t no sense in you bein’ dat bigga fool!”

“Girl!” said Daddy, “you had me borrowed a car, took that baby’s crib apart, loaded all that stuff, and now you talkin’ about going back!” said an angry Daddy, “well don’t expect me to help you anymore!”

Nannie puffed on her cigarette, and strangled. Her eyes stretched the size of two fifty cent coins as they rolled to the ceiling. “Gurl!” she gasped, “you love dat boy’s dirty drawers!”

After all was said, it didn’t have any measure over my love. Luke came and got Jeff and me. And we were back in our castle!

My Amazing Journey Continues …

MAPLE SUDDS Fall 2015 (1) RevisedMy writing journey has been the most challenging endeavor with trial and error. And I must give credit to “The Village!” So many people that God placed in my life to help me on this journey. Within those twenty-one years, there was a two year span where I got burnt-out and put it on the back burner. Thinking, who is interested in my life?

I’m just an ordinary Black woman. There’s nothing unique about my story. It is a familiar story of many families. However, that small still voice said, “It’s not all about you. It’s about helping others.” If sharing my story prevents someone’s child from being raised in a negative home environment, which for some can cause low self-esteem, destructive classroom behavior, high school drop-outs, and eventually incarcerations, then I have accomplished my purpose.

Many will see themselves in my story, or someone they know. My book is not a self-help book, or a feel-good story with a happy ending. It provokes many emotions; some will laugh, cry, get mad, and wanna whip my butt for being so dumb.

My story is personal, but it’s also universal and IS an eye-opening story, especially for my African American community. It is an UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH!

But, I must warn the reader, if you are highly sensitive to profanity and the N–word, this book is not for you! However, in the words of Robin Roberts, “I’m making my MESS my message!”

My book titled, NO BLOOD IN THE TURNIP: Memoirs of a Codependent/ Maple Sudds.  Read passages from the book and several reviews right here on the website. The book is available online at www.booklocker.com, or order & pickup at www.barnesandnoble.com.

I am having a Book Signing: Hamilton-South Caddo Library, 2111 Bert Kouns Industrial Loop: Saturday, September 10, 2016, from 10:00–12:00pm. You’re invited to come join me and talk or purchase the book.  

“AHHH! What life teaches!”

Maple with both young sons _Page_1As a child, I was taught the most important things if life were God, family and church, also, respecting your elders. I considered myself a fairly decent, obedient, God fearing and level headed girl, until I reached my sixteenth birthday and a high-school senior. I came into my own, and made an unwise choice. Against all odds, I went against the grain of a relationship that was doomed from its beginning. I disobeyed my Grandmother, and broke her heart. And disobedience has consequences. However, in everyone’s life there is a journey. Because of the choices we make, some of our journeys are long and difficult. “AHHH! What life teaches!” My book, NO BLOOD IN THE TURNIP: Memoirs of a Codependent, is a creative nonfiction narrative, depicting the emotional struggles of an African American family based in Shreveport, Louisiana, in a neighborhood called Mooretown. The story has drama and humor, with raw and compelling dialogue. I shares lessons learned, in hopes of helping others. My self-published book has a rating of four stars and is movie material. Please take a few minutes and check it out! 

My Amazing Journey

It was 201MAPLE SUDDS Fall 2015 (1) Revised0 when the first copy of my book titled, NO BLOOD IN THE TURNIP: Memoirs of a Codependent, was printed. An ex-coworker called and she said, “Maple, I didn’t know you could write a book!” I laughingly said, “I didn’t either!” Becoming a writer wasn’t even on my radar. During my teenage years, I was a reading fanatic of Modern Romance and True Story magazines, and a sucker for a sad story with a fairy tale ending. Although I do not possess a formal degree, with the exception of a high school diploma, I do have an unofficial degree in “Dumbness and Naivety.” And Chile, I definitely earned that degree! When I began my writing journey, I enrolled in an English class, typing and creative writing class, and several other classes. Also, being an avid newspaper reader contributed to my writing. Whenever I got stuck on how I needed to convey something, oftentimes I came across something in the newspaper similar to what I was trying to convey. It is no surprise that I’m sometimes amazed at myself for having the audacity to write. Perhaps that’s why it took me twenty-one years to complete my book.

The journey has been the most challenging endeavor with trial and error. And I must give credit to “The Village!” So many people that God placed in my life to help me on this journey. Within those twenty-one years, there was a two year span where I got burnt-out and put it on the back burner. Thinking, who is interested in my life? I’m just an ordinary Black woman. There’s nothing unique about my story. It is a familiar story of many families. However, that small voice said, “It’s not about you. It’s about helping others.” If sharing my story prevents someone’s child from being raised in a negative home environment, which for some can cause low self-esteem, destructive classroom behavior, high school drop-outs, and eventually incarcerations, then I have accomplished my purpose.

Many will see themselves in my story, or someone they know. My book is not a self-help book, or a feel-good story with a happy ending. It provokes many emotions; some will laugh, cry, get mad, and wanna whip my butt for being so dumb. My story is personal, but it’s also universal and IS an eye-opening story, especially for my African American community. It is an UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTH! But, I must warn the reader, if you are highly sensitive to profanity and the N–word, this book is not for you! However, in the words of Robin Roberts, “I’m making my MESS my message!”

Casandria Hilliard writes: “Yes, I really enjoyed reading this book. It has a lot of life learning lessons. All I can say. Well Done! It was Great!!”

My book titled, NO BLOOD IN THE TURNIP: Memoirs of a Codependent/ Maple Sudds. Visit www.maplesudds.com to read passages from the book and several reviews. The book is available online at www.amazon.com, www.booklocker.com, or order & pickup at www.barnesandnoble.com.

You’re invited to join me for a Book Signing: Hamilton-South Caddo Library, 2111 Bert Kouns Industrial Loop: Saturday, September 10, 2016, from 10:00–12:00pm.

We protest and demonstrate about Black lives matter, but when we kill each other does it matter?

Dear Young African American Males… Straight Talk:

On Mother’s Day I received one of the best gifts, the gift of Courage—Courage to write about something that has been troubling me for quite some time, but was reluctant to because of the uncertainty of how it could be received.  So I spent my Mother’s Day making a conscious decision to throw all caution to the wind and write a public letter, because our neighborhoods are becoming like the old west, “Have gun will travel!”

Young men, why are you warring with your brothers? What is the problem, that it can’t be resolved without bloodshed? Did he steal your Air Jordan tennis shoes that you paid over one-hundred dollars? Does he wear his pants farer below his waist than you? Are you frustrated because there isn’t a father present? Are you frustrated because there is a father figure in the home, but not a role model? Have you been reared where the head of the household is the mother, who is angry with a black male and has taken all her disappointments, insecurities, resentments, and anger out on her children, and unknowingly, has transferred her pain to you?  Alvin F. Poussaint M.D.  said, “Unable to fight back, women can unknowingly transfer their rage toward their sons—just because they are male.  Black boys in female-headed households feel the hurt most when the mother is angry with a black male. If they hear their mom yell, “You’re no good, just like your father!” tragically, young men, the pain of those words can be deep-seated and you over-compensate with rage.  If you were raised in that type of environment, you are angry and don’t realize the root of your anger. Young men, I realize as parents some of us has missed the mark!

Kudos to Mr. Prentiss Smith a Shreveport resident, who wrote an article on April 17th in Sunday’s Times, “The truth is maybe we can’t handle the truth”.  It was so poignant.  Mr. Smith said, “The truth is when you have a whole generation of young men and women who have never been parented, who are having children that they don’t know how to parent, you have a prescription for insolence and bad behavior.” We protest and demonstrate about Black lives matter, but when we kill each other does it matter? Or is it more of an acceptance? Have we become so desensitized to the violence that taking one’s life is just as normal as breathing? Are you warring over ownership of turf? Or, are you warring over—Drugs? Whatever your driving force is to this violence, it must stop! Young men, you have a life worth living. Too many Black Americans have fought, and lost their lives for you to have an opportunity.  If you’ve gotten frustrated because of the limited opportunities there are for high-school dropouts, you can get your GED and take up a trade.  It’s not too late in becoming productive citizens. There is always someone willing to give you a fresh start.  Ask Chef Jeff with the television show, “Flip my Food.” He hasn’t always been a chef.  He wrote a book titled, “COOKED: From the Streets to the Stove, from Cocaine to Foie Gras” by Jeff Henderson.  His compelling life story is so fascinating!  You’ll be amazed!  It’s very inspiring, and encouragement for you young brothers.

Well Young Men, I would love to have gotten you in a private setting to have this conversation. However, someone had to speak-out. So who better than a seventy-one year old Black woman who has made mistakes herself, who raised two sons in a destructive home environment where one of her two sons is currently incarcerated?  In conclusion, my beautiful young Black males you have so much potential.  I hope something I’ve said will resonate in your intelligence.   Because our jails are overflowing with young black men and the streets of Shreveport will continually be soaked with your blood!  … PEACE!!!

Maple Sudds Bernard

Local author speaks up about codependency, dysfunction and her faith in God

, alexa.talamo@shreveporttimes.com 12:30 p.m. CST February 17, 2016MAPLE SUDDS Fall 2015 (1) Revised

Shreveport resident Maple Sudds said her book, “No Blood in a Turnip: Memoirs of a Codependent,” took her 21 years to write. In her book, Sudds describes a turbulent relationship with a drug-addicted husband she first married for love, and the pain and turmoil she felt watching her two sons climb an escalator from school suspensions to incarceration. The snapshots are all told by a natural storyteller with a strong sense of humor, resilience and faith in God.

Read the entire story …

No Blood in the Turnip, Memoirs of a Codependent, took me 20 years to write and saved my life.

coverThe year was 1993 and from my life experiences to date, I felt that I had been through the fire and came out pure gold. I knew what life was all about and decided to become a part-time drug counselor.

In the classroom everyone had their own personal stories of addictions.  I felt that I was the only “normal” one there.  I had never been drunk, done drugs, smoked, gambled nor shoplifted.  I thought drug counseling was my calling and I felt an air of self-righteousness, because I wasn’t like “those” people.  I did not have a disorder, because, my life had been centered on my family, church and being a “good” Christian.

I wanted to become a drug counselor to help people. I was asked if I had any problem with addiction.  “No, but I know how devastating it can be, because my husband made my life a pure hell!”  Oh Lord! Please don’t let me start crying.

I shared my story. Had I ever attended an Al-Anon meeting?  “I don’t need no Al-Anon program! My life is fine now, ‘cause that’s all in the past.”

The facilitator suggested Al-Anon because I seemed to be carrying some emotional baggage.  “Emotional baggage!?”  He stated that while I was telling my life experiences that I had a dazed look and was crying.  “Well, if you’ve been through what I’ve been through, you would cry too!”

He suggested that before I can help anyone that I need to be in a recovery program myself.  One of the students said that I was an enabler.  “How did I enable them? I was doing my part as a wife and mother. I did everything that I could possibly do to help them and get them to do what was right but nothing worked.”

I was getting confused because I knew I did not have a problem. They just want to dump on me because I’m not like them. One student stated that I have codependent characteristics? I was defensive and refused to read an assigned book, Codependent No More and it went onto a shelf to collect dust.

Fast-forward to 2003. I had been writing and rewriting my life story.  I attended church every Sunday and this one Sunday I was crying and asking them to pray for my oldest son and puzzled why both my sons went in and out of jail like a revolving door.   Friends said “It’s not your fault and they are just like their father.”

I remembered the book the facilitator had suggested and took it off the shelf.  This was a reality check.  I took my children to church every Sunday but what were they witnessing at home?  I have learned so much and share it in my book.  No Blood in the Turnip, Memoirs of a Codependent, took me 20 years to write and saved my life. Perhaps my life experiences were no mistake; it was just my path.

Red City Review

TwitterFacebookEmail

No Blood In the Turnip: Memoirs of a Codependent by Maple Sudds

Taking its name from the well-known adage (you can’t get blood from a turnip), No Blood In the Turnip tells the remarkable story of Maple Sudds as she progresses through the various stages of life, from childhood to young adulthood and finally to motherhood.  Throughout the years, Maple is confronted by a variety of obstacles that begin to alter the way she behaves around her family – in particular her father, and, later, her husband.  Maple’s father is absent during the majority of her childhood days, and yet she needs him in order to be provided with basic necessities like food, clean water, and a roof over her head.  Without even realizing it, her unresolved issues with her own father lead Maple to pursue a marriage with a similarly inhibited husband.  Codependent (if you’re unfamiliar with the word) is the term given to “one who has let another person’s behavior affect him or her, and who is obsessed with controlling that person’s behavior.  This painful fallacy leads many people into unproductive – and even destructive – marriages, by preying on optimism and making a person believe that he or she can really change their spouse’s behavior, that they are helping them become better people.  Truthfully, though, it’s only another form of enabling.  After realizing her mistake, Maple seeks to turn things around in order to help her two sons avoid making the same mistakes with their own families later on.

No Blood In the Turnip is a smart mix of memoir and social sciences textbook; readers get an excellent blend of both research and story.  Throughout her book, Maple muses upon the self-defeating aspects of codependency, and how it tends to propagate problems in future families by rewarding (or at least letting go unpunished) these destructive behaviors.  She posits that by improving the family dynamic today, we can help ensure a stable family structure further down the line, a theory that makes great sense.  Maple’s story shows how even unconscious learned behaviors can actively impinge upon your happiness, and, hopefully, will inspire readers to take a closer look at their own lives and gather the courage to make a change.

To purchase a copy of No Blood In the Turnip, click here to find it on BookLocker.com

Testimonial from Sharon P. Burford

The old saying, “You can’t get blood from a turnip,” characterizes something that is extremely difficult. Maple is a woman who has lived an interesting, though challenging life.  I met her one evening while she was babysitting for a family member.  Her inner strength and spiritual countenance were evident in her quiet demeanor and in the wisdom of her eyes.

Life was not easy for her. As I read the draft of No Blood in the Turnip, I was reminded of one of my favorite poems by author, Langston Hughes – “Mother to Son” in which a mother tells her boy that “Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.”  Maple’s life was like that.  She tried to control the situations and people around her, but it was not an easy task – actually it was impossible.  As she struggled through life, she looked for any crevice or hand-hold to hang on or climb up, and she never gave up.

Maple began to keep a journal of her actions and her thoughts.  This book, No Blood in the Turnip, is comprises of her life events, her trials and her tribulations.  The book reads like snapshots taken in random sequence.  Each snapshot gives a bit of history, a lot of emotion, and the story of a woman who just keeps on trying to make things better.

Not to say that Maple was always perfect; it is just not possible to survive the streets of Mooretown without a bit of anger, fear and manipulation. When her whole world seemed to be slipping away, she tried to control, to “patch,” and to hold on too tightly.  She had a picture in her mind of the life she wanted for her family, but the men in Maple’s life were not always easy to deal with and not always helpful as fathers, husband and sons.  She fought so hard to save her marriage and to keep her sons from the dangers of drugs and life on the streets. She tried to lead and control their paths, but it was not meant to be.

The book is also a testimony to faith; a reminder that God is always with us.  Sometimes the only light in the darkness is the one that comes from faith.  God always gave Maple “just enough light for the steps she was on.”  His voice was heard in the darkest moments. Her relationship with Jesus, her church community and her family kept her going when many other people would have given up on themselves and others.

The book is filled with hope that her sons still have the opportunity for better lives that are productive and blessed.  With this book, Maple, shares her story and her healing.  She hopes that others faced with similar trials will learn from her mistakes and make wise choices.  She wants other women to find their faith, develop their talents, and learn to live without destructive relationships.

I hope you enjoy reading No Blood in the Turnip as much as I did.

Sharon P. Burford
Professional School Counselor
Shreveport, Louisiana