New Book “The Jazz Preacher”
I have finally finished the book I have been writing. It is my story and it is called “The Jazz Preacher.” Order your copy from our web-site www.davidbaroni.com
Here is an excerpt from the first chapter:
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Beginnings
On a high bluff overlooking the mighty Mississippi River rests the sleepy, charming, historical town of my birth and childhood. Natchez, Mississippi is a beautiful town filled with majestic oak, pine, and Magnolia trees (the Magnolia blossom is the state flower.)
The summertimes of my childhood brought a sweltering heat and suffocating humidity, slowing everything and everybody down. Three O’clock in the afternoon came cloaked in a sultry, sleepy stillness as young and old alike sought shelter from the humid haze, napping in the shade on the wrap-around front porches, or beneath the huge moss-draped oak trees that symbolized the old south. As Bobbie Gentry sang in her hit,
“Ode To Billy Joeâ€: “It was the third of June, another sleepy dusty Delta day.â€
There was one creature, however, that never slept. The Mississippi Mosquito was a legendary nuisance- attempting to ruin every picnic, baseball game and restful nap by its pesky presence. It was not unusual to be suddenly slapped in the face or arm by a friend or sibling, followed by a grin and a one word explanation: “Mosquitoâ€. One was never quite convinced of the validity of the claim until the rescuer pointed to the remains of the critter, evoking a mumbled “thanks†from the delivered.
The heat seemed to fuel the mosquitoes feeding frenzy, and one-bug-at-a-time pest control could never turn the tide in the favor of us human beings, (or as my seven year-old brain heard: “Human Beansâ€!) There had to be a better way to claim our rightful dominion over these winged nuisances.
There was: The Fog-a-Machine!
Many a summer’s reverie was interrupted by the growing roar of the pesticide truck engine sounding its alarm. Help was on the way! It was time to wage chemical warfare against those pesky mosquitoes! The lazier ones among us were rousted, and a palpable excitement manifested itself in a shout: “Here comes the Fog-a Machine!†(Lest the reader think that we were easily entertained - which we usually were, but that’s beside the point- by merely observing the puttering of an old truck spraying fog out of its hinder parts, read on!)
I still chuckle and shake my head in wonder as I recall running with my friends behind the pesticide truck that regularly patrolled the neighborhoods, leaving a cloud of dangerous chemicals in its’ wake. We tried to hold our breath and not get lost in the poisonous fog, giggling and calling out each other’s names to make sure our comrades were safe.
Our parents warned us about following the fog truck, not so much because of the health dangers of breathing the stuff but more out of a concern that we would lose our way and wander into the path of traffic. After three or four blocks of that euphoric entertainment, the five or six of us neighbor kids would give up the fight and roll together on the nearest lawn, laughing and holding our sides, gasping for breath. Who needed video games and computers?! Ah, the joys of childhood…