My books and writings...

The Cricket's Serenade

2006, Genesis Press/Distributor: Kensington Publishing
Available at Amazon.com:
www.amazon.com/Crickets-Serenade-Black-Carolita-Blythe/dp/1585711837/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1304030624&sr=8-2

and Barnesandnoble.com:
http://productsearch.barnesandnoble.com/search/results.aspx?WRD=the+cricket's+serenade&page=index&prod=univ&choice=allproducts&query=the+cricket's+serenade&flag=False&pos=-1&box=the+cricket's+serenade&r=1&box=the cricket's serenade&pos=-1&ugrp=2

An ambitious, mixed-race politician from privileged, upper class Kingston society. A poor, seemingly average young woman from the countryside of St. Ann. A wave of black pride and Bob Marley's words giving weight to the African movement. A marriage of convenience to secure votes. Violence, politics and secrets wrapped in the past. Two intersecting lives leading to one extraordinary story.

The Caribbean Writer
"Psalms" - Short Fiction

1996 University of the Virgin Island Press

www.thecaribbeanwriter.org/index.php?option=com_content&view=article&id=600&catid=13:volume10&Itemid=2&section=volume
(Volume/ Volume 10 - 1996/ pg.2 Short Fiction)

Twenty-five years of marriage to the irascible and philandering George Rodgers has got his wife Bertha thinking about a separation even more permanent than divorce!

Transitions Abroad
No Age Limit, At Last - The Complete Parisian Experience

Nov/Dec 1999

http://www.transitionsabroad.com/publications/magazine/9911/study_abroad_no_age_limits.shtml
Always wanted to learn a foreign language in another country and think you missed your chance by not doing it sophomore year, you can still do it. Any age, any budget.

SkyWritings
Las' Lick - "Small Town Joy" - An article

Nov/Dec 2003

SMALL TOWN JOY - By Carolita Blythe

      Twelve McDonald descendants have just arrived in Ocho Rios from “foreign.” Two cars designed to hold a maximum of five people each have been rented. The math doesn’t quite figure, but it will have to work because we all need to go back and forth to Stepney, a small village in the mountainous interior of St. Ann. We’ve all returned to Jamaica to say our goodbyes to the family matriarch – my mother’s mother, my grandmother, my cousin Kayanna’s great-grandmother.
      We leave our hotel in Ocho Rios and start on the main road towards Runaway Bay. My Uncle Striker’s directions call for a left after reaching the police station there – which will take us up to Brown’s Town. This might seem simple enough, but consider this; there are many lefts to be made in Runaway Bay, and as far as we can see, no structure makes mention of being a police station. Not one street name has been listed in the directions because said directions were given by a Jamaican. Since most of the roads lack noticeable street signs anyway, using points of interest is probably more relevant. For example, "Take the main road to the bent coconut tree. Make a left. Go as far as Aunt Eulie’s Jerk Shack. Make another left. When you get to the half-finished house on the hill, veer right, and there you are." Fortunately, there is a curved arrow announcing the turn-off to Brown’s Town.
      The nineteen miles between Brown’s Town and Stepney feature narrow mountain roads and dramatic altitudes. Hairpin turns are the norm, and no guardrails are offered as protection. Good driving skills and a strong disposition are necessary. Fortunately, my Uncle Henry possesses both because for people who like to take their time, Jamaicans are always in a hurry when they get behind the wheel. I glance over to the side of the road at the burned out shell of a car just as someone overtakes us on a blind curve. Ah yes, Jamaica. Drive at your own risk!
     Like other small communities such as Alva, Ewarton and Retirement, Stepney’s difficult to reach location keeps it hidden to all except those with ancestral ties to the area. At its core is its church, perched atop a hill and partially hidden behind the graceful branches of a poinciana tree. There are few diversions here. Many people still farm the land their relatives have owned since the days of slavery and family takes precedence over all else.
      Grandma Thelma lived in a small two room home with a corrugated zinc roof. The pastel pink house sits on a rock-filled, sloping hill. Had it been built without a concrete foundation underneath to level it out, it would have leaned on about a forty-five degree slant and we would have needed suction shoes to walk from one side of the home to the other. The McDonald family plot is located just across the lane and the white of the tombs and headstones are in stark contrast to Stepney’s ore filled red dirt. It is a peaceful place, even when one of the local boys pulls out his massive speakers and begins blaring everything from Jimmy Cliff to Toots and the Maytals to Sean Paul. The grapefruit trees that form a border around the plot seem to absorb the noise. Grand Uncle Taylor By and his son Junior, two grand aunts who died as children, and great grandmother and grandfather who were born in the mid 1800’s can be found there. No one is afraid of the graves being so close by since they contain loved ones. And when the sun goes down and night envelopes the village in darkness, the relatives who still call Stepney home gather up at the bar, order a Red Stripe, Dragon Stout or the ever popular white rum, and swap stories about those who came before.
      One cousin is about to slam a domino down with emphasis, but he is not so invested in the game that he is unable to correct a bit of misinformation when someone mentions that Grand Uncle Clarence once lived in Panama. "No, mon. Clarence was never in Panama. It was Cuba, mon. Before Castro."
      Cousin Carol introduces herself and shares vivid memories of me running around my grandmother’s yard when I was but two years old, and my grandmother calling out for me to be careful on the slippery rocks. There is worry tingeing grandma’s voice, but appreciation of my childhood zest puts a twinkle in her dark eyes.
      The night is crisp, and as I ease out onto the bar’s steps, I can see my warm breath against the cool air. This is also Jamaica – not the Jamaica of the warm, balmy beaches but the Jamaica of the chilling mountainside breezes. I gather my cousin Candy – whom I have only recently met for the first time. She has spent most of her adult life in Ottawa and I in Los Angeles. Followed by several other villagers, we carefully maneuver ourselves down the dark lane leading away from the bar. My eyes never really adjust to the night, and it’s not until I’m right upon a young boy that I realize there is someone in my path. The DJ has just shut off his music and we can make out haunting voices harmonizing in a spiritual. They are gathered in the most level part of grandma’s front yard. The three benches they occupy tilt a bit downwards at an angle. There is a light bulb hanging from an avocado tree illuminating the many faces. There stands my mother, Uncle Striker, Uncle Henry, and many of the villagers - all taking part in this nine nights celebration. An older relative whispers about how beautiful my grandmother was. Someone else talks about how she remained in Stepney her entire life while others moved on to Kingston and to “foreign” to make their fortunes. Grandma’s fortune was her children and her grandchildren. Since they were always coming back to her, she never needed to leave Stepney. The village pours its heart out in song in celebration of my Grandma Thelma, who, in less than twelve hours, will join the relatives who have gone before her in that family plot. I am happy for her life. I am sad for her loss. But I’m among family, so even the sadness is colored by laughter. Cousin Marva, who leads the singing, keeps losing her way. Giggles emanate as someone mentions that she “nevah lost her way when she was up at de bar.” An hour later, I feel another wave of sadness, but an exhausted voice suddenly announces, “De soup is ready. Come get you mannish watah now.” Seems we had forgotten about another cousin who had been given a giant kerosene tin, a cow, bags of flour, several yellow yams, scotch bonnet peppers, thyme and all spice and banished to an enclosed pit to come up with enough food for fifty people. As the poor man wipes the sweat from his brow, I can almost hear Grandma’s gentle voice chastising us for making this big fuss over her and for nearly “giving de bwoy heatstroke,” and I know she will always be here in spirit.