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Reading, Writing, Pondering: Big Life Themes, Literature, Contemporary/Historical Issues |
 Welcome to the 14th century, in a farflung outpost of the Holy Roman Empire, and a new Convent outpost of the terrrifically powerful Roman Catholic Church. Sound historically dull? Hopefully not so--for this is NOT an ordinary 14th Century Convent. Back after a six-year hiatus.... From NaNoWriMo historical Supernatural novels in Scotland, Michigan, South Alabama and historical horror in Standwood Station, GA-to the Phantom Northern Woods-to singlehandedly refighting the American Civil War-to exploring Social Justice and standing for First Amendment rights under the U.S. Constitution-we deal out horror, Supernatural, Historical, fantasy, mystery, and more. We do not fear outspokeness. And always, always, always, We Do History. Find it here. We write it. We read it. We hold strong opinions. We orate. Meanwhile, whether we're writing or just reading, we love to rave about books and authors right here!  |
| March 23_ I completed Book Two of The Testament Logging Corporation Chronicles yesterday, and began Book Three today. Also yesterday the concept came to me for Book Four. This morning I also found the concept (thankfully!) for the stage play I'm determined to write for April Script Frenzy www.scriptfrenzy.org I credit a “local” WDC author, who in 2007 suggested a sort of collaboration, in which I would bring one of my characters (a fictional historical figure) into the setting of one of his stories. A wonderful idea! Except that I quickly discovered the character to which he referred was not mine, but central figure in a historical -set short story on WDC which I had reviewed glowingly. However, the idea seemed so promising that I quickly wrote a precis using a character of my own invention, set in 1750, on two topics near and dear to my imagination: Slavery (both in the Caribbean and in North America) and Afro-Caribbean and African historical Spiritualities So: yesterday morning I woke up knowing this precis would be mutated into a stage play, and actually, I think it might just work! Today's free read, from Book One of The Testament Logging Corporation Chronicles (unedited version as yet), The Phantom Logging Operation Chapter 17 The brown wooden door at the back of the narrow alcove, which I now noticed was just to the side and rear of a long shop counter, opened on to a very steep flight of stairs, with a narrow landing at the top marked only by a high key-shaped window. Presumably this window looked out over the back of the building, if I still had my directions correct. When I reached it, I found there was indeed a door to my right, which would place the attorney's office directly behind the front windows bearing his sign. Another door across the hall was unmarked, and I assumed it led to storage. I reached for the knob on the right-hand door, reading the sign which read “Benton Squires, Attorney-at-Law,” but before my fingers touched the knob, a deep voice indicated, “Come in.” I startled but proceeded, turning the knob and opening the door to a wide, spacious office carpeted in a dark green carpet-not plushy but still comfortable to cross. Diagonally across from the door perched a long partners' desk, angled perpendicular to the front windows and with the attorney's back to the side window. A rotund balding man in a shiny worn brown suit sat behind the desk, glancing at me as if my interests were of no particular importance. In fact, after his gaze barely touched me, he went back to turning over pages of a file with his left hand, smoothing his flabby jowls with the right. “Excuse me, sir. I'm looking for-” “You're looking for Benton Squires, I am he, and you are Rory Lewes.” Chapter 18 I realized I should have been surprised that he knew me-I couldn't say he “recognized” me-but after the events of yesterday it now took a great deal of shock to startle me. After all, once you have seen the dead driving-and the seriously dead- the charred- driving, beaming, and grinning-a mere Attorney calling out my name with recognition did not faze me. Not now. So instead I turned to him and nodded, unspeaking. “And you are here about your parents' estates, are you not?” Parents, plural? Estates? News to me. If not for that county tax assessor notice this morning, the letter from the Testament Logging Corporation attorney at Madison Mills, and the packet of Mamma's papers, I wouldn't know there was anything “to know.” “Take a seat, Mr. Lewes.” He waved toward the straight chair in front of the desk. I noticed then that his own chair was a nicely upholstered, nail-studded wood-a swivel. I had at one time been interested in cabinetry and furniture design-my Daddy had dabbled in that while working for Testament, before he went off to die in the European Theater. If he had returned from the War, I believe he would have taught me the art, and perhaps my future would have included woodworking in addition to, or in replacement of, mechanical employment. I moved to the indicated chair and performed the suggested action, still without speaking, still without removing my gaze from his face. I waited in silence until he decided to speak. It was a rather lengthy wait; we must have remained in the tableau of still life for a good five minutes. “Mr. Lewes. What do you know about Euphonia?” “I know nothing-except that earlier this morning I received a county tax notice that I own a plot there. I have no concept of what, or where, is Euphonia. As far as I knew until an hour or two ago, I own only the plot on which I recently constructed my cabin, and which I plan to utilize for my business.” “You refer, of course, to your rather extensive property on the Knox Road, five miles to the northeast of Knox.” |
| Greetings, Gentle Persevering Readers, Today I completed my 2nd novel this month-the first I began on Dec. 9, and completed on March 11. The second, which turned out to be the second in a series (with the Dec.9-Mar. 11 being the first) I began on March 1, for MarNoWriMo (March Novel Writing Month, an off-season version of NaNoWriMo in November). Well, I completed the March novel today, in 22 days. On March 12 I had the concept for Book Three of the series, so I'll begin that tomorrow; and today the concept for Book Four arrived. Books One, Two, and Three will be clearly related, and sequential-Book Three is a stand-alone, and set in the same locale, but with several differing time periods (we can finally get out of May 1957 for a while  )and with the central character being the evil entity/Corporation of the Series title. Also, luckily for me cause I'd miss 'em if 'twere not so, at least 3 of the characters of Books One and Two will be making their appearance-but how different they will be in Book Three!I'm thinking now that Book Three, the sort of stand-alone, will be converted into a stage play script for April's Scripting Frenzy. I hope. Otherwise I'll be writing a novel at 2500 words per day plus creating a 100-page script. Hmmhmm. In sadder news, Stewart Udall, whose tenure as U.S. Secretary of the Interior provided four national parks; and Liz Carpenter, First Lady Ladybird Johnson's Press Secretary, both passed away, on Saturday March 20 (the first day of Spring). They will both be deeply mourned. http://voices.washingtonpost.com/postmortem/ Another environmentalist alert: the Monarch Butterfly population is drastically declining. Please take time to read David Knowles' report at http://www.aolnews.com/science/article/monarch-butterly-population-has-dropped-d... Endangered species are sold on the Internet: http://www.aolnews.com/science/article/internet-fuels-threats-to-rare-species/19... Today's Free Read: from The Phantom Logging Operation Chapter 16 Hardware purchases complete, I loaded up the trunk and headed further into town, seeking out Courthouse Square. That building wasn't hard to miss: a four-story of blindingly whitewashed stone, with a reflective dome which on certain summer afternoons angled the sun's rays just accurately to cause drivers to lose control and create a morass of fender benders. The attorney's building was nearly as easy to locate. In the next block beyond the Court House, at the far corner on the left, was a clean white stone facade with a tasteful sign above the front door reading “Deaneasson Antiques/Rare Books Sought and Found.” On the last window of the second story was another sign, this one much smaller, reading simply “Attorney-at-Law/Civil and Estate Practice.” I seemed to have found what I sought, so I turned the Merc into one of the available angled spaces and emerged, checking for a separate entrance for the upstairs office. I couldn't see anything, so decided to ask in the Antiques shop, and stepped in to the accompaniment of a pleasantly jangling bell just over the door. The shop was quiet and shady, not crowded up as I had expected. The merchandise seemed to be plotted out tastefully and with a note of elegance; plenty of space was left between displays for shoppers to browse. Every wall was stuffed with books, some of which might possibly have been first editions for all I knew. The interior space appeared larger than I expected. At first I saw no shopkeeper to question about the attorney's office entrance, so I wandered to the left, away from the display cases of antique jewelry and dishes on the right, and walked toward the books. Yes, I had been right: one shelf held what appeared to be the entire collection of Mark Twain, in first edition; below that, the same for Jack London, and then a shelf of firsts of James Fenimore Cooper. Behind me a throat-clearing harrumph startled me and I believe I actually jumped before I calmed and turned. A middle-aged gentleman, several inches shorter than I, with long black hair combed straight back from a high forehead, greased down, and curling slightly beyond the collar, stood behind me. He wore an actual velvet smoking jacket (yes, I had seen them in movies) of a deep rich maroon, over a white silk shirt and old-school English tie, with black dressy slacks and poufy loafers with tassels. He said no more, just continued to gaze at me, till I began to feel uncomfortable and as if I had no business here. I stared back at him, gazed around, cleared my own throat which had become unaccountably congested, and finally asked, “I was looking for the entrance to the Attorney's office, upstairs.” He waved a well-tailored right arm toward the rear of the shop, to the center of the back wall. Now that I paid attention, I could see a brown door set in a recess, and assumed that was it. I murmured a thank-you and stepped toward it, but now he began to address me, or at least to speak, as it seemed he was looking at the books while he talked. “Seven generations,” he proclaimed in a fruity British accent. I was reminded of butlers in those old 1930's black-and-white films Leill and I used to take in at the retrospective theater in Champaign. She always laughed at the fashions, the accents, and what she considered the “silly goings-on,” but I found them indicative of a simpler time, where folks possessed moral values, and knew how to act on them; when everything wasn't so hurry-flurry and narrow-minded; when the goal of the day was not to report “the pinko” on the next block or in the next office or film studio. My mental forays and my continued approach to the alcove door neither fazed the fancy gentleman nor discontinued his monologue. He continued in the same plummy accent and exact same vein of discourse as I reached for the doorknob: “Seven generations of the same bookseller in our family: my five-greats' uncle, he was, who founded our establishment, there in Glasgow. (That is in Scotland, young man.) Harley Deneasson by name: Dealer in Rare Books and Antiquities by profession. Now of course (he said more softly) the focus here is primarily on the Antiques; the Rare Books don't sell as well” (he sniffed) “in the backwoods. Nor do the Antiquities as they should, I am afraid; were it not for the consistent purchases and orders from collectors and other rare booksellers of my acquaintance in Europe and in the more-civilized regions of this forsaken territory, I would indeed be at a loss for profit.” |
| I reached 50K+ today on the current novel, begun March 1-The Haunted GreenHouse.-50,797 words. That makes me at 55,330 word count for March 1-21 (I completed the earlier novel on March 11). I'll soon be finished with THG and on to Book Three. Today's free read: Chapter 11 The Chevy roared past the actual end of the drive, tossing divots of sod out from under the wheels, then executed a 360-turn and headed back down the drive. Just before it reached the back corner of the house, the headlights flashed on and then off and it roared away. I flinched, leaping back from the window, and myself raced back to the front curtain, which I pulled aside ever so slightly so I could watch it nearly upend turning out of the driveway and on to the road, headed toward-Knox. Suddenly I realized that most or all of the horrors of the day centered around, not just me as observer, witness, and perhaps target, but around the tiny village of Knox, just down the road from me: three had come at me from the direction of Knox, and behind it, The Big Forest; two had driven toward Knox, and I knew the pulp-wood cast-offs truck had parked by the General Store there. I didn't as yet know to where the flatbed with the incinerated gangster sedan had disappeared. Something had to be connected to Knox AND The Big Forest both-and somehow, apparently to me. All this definitely bore some serious and diligent thinking, but I was too distraught to do it right now. The persistent pound of the storm's precipitation on my roof, and the roaring Chevy engine as it tore up and down my drive just now had conspired to produce the onset of a migraine. I decided on another cup of coffee-very strong-to see if that would alleviate some of the tension in my skull, and the biscuits were ready, so I quickly fried up a stack of pancakes and wolfed them down with maple syrup and hot buttery biscuits. Hmmhmm. Food doesn't cure all ills, but it sometimes does help with my headaches, and it provided a momentary distraction from anxiety and fear. When supper was finished, I realized the rain had diminished to a smooth steady roar. My near-migraine had calmed itself too, so I poured myself another cup and sat down to the table I had just cleared, staring out the back kitchen window through the water spots. Now that I could see the drive, I realized what a nasty job that old pickup had performed: I would have to regrade it myself once the weather turned clear and the mud finally dried. Not a pretty nor pleasant job, grading and smoothing by hand, but necessary before the next rainstorm, or worse, ice storm in the late fall. I would have to drive down to Collins Junction and rent a grader from the hardware store. It suddenly occurred to me a trip to the city soon could serve a double purpose. I needed to find out more about the property Mamma's folks had deeded to her and Daddy when they wed, the land that they lived on when I was born, and their little house where I came into this world. I had thought earlier this afternoon about that piece of property, and now it occurred to me to wonder why that had not been included as part of the estate-or maybe it had, I really had not taken care or effort to look through all the paperwork provided me by Mamma's attorney, Jerome S. Jones of Urbana, nor to sort through the papers and certificates I had emptied from her desk and boxed up to go through later, when my grief subsided. I decided now I probably couldn't wait on that moment-if it ever came-so I would need to go through it, and I cudgeled my brain to remember what I had done with that box. I really hoped now that I had not packed it away with her furniture and clothing, which I had stored in a rental garage in Champaign till I could bear to sort through it. The elderly lady who owned the garage never used it, and I knew she needed the little extra income. A regular customer at Joe's Garage, I had serviced her old Buick and kept it running crisply. She was happy to let me store Mamma's possessions for as long as I needed to alleviate the grief; she once told me she well remembered her pain at losing her own mother, quite some many years back. {Think, Rory!) I admonished myself. (Has your brain gone to mush what with all this spooky, scary, stuff? Be a man. What would Dad do?) Well, since Dad had been brave enough to face off with the Huns-and before them, a couple decades working for Testament Logging Corporation-I knew he would tell me to be brave. I knew I must-no matter how I acted, these events weren't going to stop on their own. If I wasn't going to turn tail and run, or hang myself from a garage beam (but I hadn't built the garage yet) then I would have to take action and find out all I could on my own, and then act on the new information. I surely could not live like this. If Daddy's being killed in action in the War didn't destroy me, if Mamma's dying too young to suit me of that old bone cancer didn't wreck my soul, if Leill's running off mockingly for a blackjack scum didn't ruin my life, well by golly, neither would these missing drivers-burnt husks-dead men driving going to stop me either. I would live my life, and live it well, despite them all. Chapter 12 Despite the spooky and frightening events of the previous afternoon, despite the direct attack on my property resulting in the temporary destruction of my driveway, despite the eventually diminishing storm, I actually slept peacefully and soundly, I thought even dreamlessly. If dreams there were, I remembered none, for which I considered myself thankful. I woke before dawn, plans and goals tumbling through my head. I would not rent the hand grader just yet, unless the muddy drive was sufficiently dry. Thankfully, due to yesterday's storm, I had parked close to the back of the cabin, so I could probably avoid most of the new driveway ruts developed by the old Chevy truck. I'd make that decision in a little while, after breakfast, when I readied myself to leave. Meanwhile, I had to start breakfast-another quick pile of flapjacks, skipping the biscuits because I was in a hurry-and after eating, I'd hunt out the box of Mamma's papers I'd been wondering about last night. Sometime during the night, in my sleep, I seemed to recall I had brought that box along with me, keeping in the trunk of the Merc while I stored her whatnots, clothing, coats, and furniture and dishes in Miz Hazel's garage. After Mamma died of the bone cancer, the year before Leill and I met and married, I had not tried to sort through her papers. She had told me after she went in hospital to call her attorney, Mr. Jones (I had not even known she had been to see one) and he would take care of the death duties and the paperwork for her small estate (that was her adjective, not mine). Then she reminded me that I would be grieving, and not to concern myself with sorting out her papers and diaries while I was sad; all that could wait till later. “Box everything up, Rory,” she had told me. “Do what you wish with the furniture and clothing; the Goodwill would surely be happy to take them-or you could sell it all. It won't matter to me when I'm on the Other Side, now will it?” she admonished me with a small smile. “Do what you want with that, and just put my papers away till later. Eventually you'll feel like going through them. Call Mr. Jones and he'll walk you through the funeral arrangements and show you all about the land your Daddy left to you.” All that was news to me, for Mamma had never talked much about the Northern Woods region: not Knox nor Rennald nor Collins Junction, nor about the land she and Daddy homesteaded from the time they married, nor about her folks' land or lives, and never, ever, about The Big Forest. When she talked about Daddy, she told about his work for Testament Logging Corporation, all his travelling and so forth, how some weeks he hardly ever was home, but what a good provider he was, working so hard and so many hours a day at that job just to keep their roof intact and keep Mamma and me fed and clothed. To hear Mamma tell it, Daddy was a hard-working, diligently striving saint, and I guess maybe he was-I never had call to think otherwise of him. Breakfast seemed to speed by, and I quickly washed up the few dishes I'd used, setting the fry pan to soak. I turned down the kerosene lamp and went in the front room to hunt for that box. Without a shed or garage or attic, I lacked hiding places as well as storage spaces, so I kept a small metal safe containing my land deed, discharge papers (I had spent my own quality time overseas during the Korean Conflict), paycheck stubs from my tenure at Joe's Garage in Champaign, and Social Security card; and oh yes, the marriage certificate to, and final divorce decree from, Leill. Chapter 13 My unconscious mind had directed me aright: the box of Mamma's papers proved to be on the high shelf in the small closet I had built in the back corner of the living room, to hold coats and boots (our winters up here are long and ugly). The metal safe of my important items sat snugly on the floor in the closet's corner, away from trouble, but I had apparently placed Mamma's box on the shelf just in case of damp or mold. I didn't remember that planning, but I must have done it just the same, because there it sat, just awaiting my perusal. I pulled it down and carried it toward the armchair beside the front window. Although the day had dawned brightly, for some reason I decided not to open the curtain. Instead I lit the little kerosene lamp, and started sorting through the box in the chair, while I stood beside it. This wasn't the time to read through Mamma's diaries, nor to sort out her accumulated tax litter. I hunted only for property deeds, foreclosures, bills of sale, escrow forms, closing papers, and so forth. I was nearly to the bottom of the box, stacking her numerous diaries in the chair and setting the loose papers and tax forms and stubs on the table, when I turned over a tax booklet from 1944 and found what I sought: a big manila envelope, the kind you find in bank loan officer's files or at attorneys' offices, with Daddy's name first-crossed out, then Mamma's-also crossed out, but looking to have been done later, as the ink on Daddy's name was nearly flaky; and below that, my own name: Rory Donald Lewes. The packet was full and felt stuffed. I almost feared-no I did fear-to open it. I turned it over and over in my hands and then took the cowardly option: I stood up, tucked it under my arm, and piled everything else I had emptied out back into the box, which I then replaced on the shelf. I pulled out my jacket, pulled on my boots, and picked up the car keys from their hook on the kitchen wall. After checking that the wood stove was out, I let myself out the back door and locked it behind me. Strolling around the corner of the cabin, I gazed in either direction. The ruts the pickup had torn up were much worse back of the house, toward the end of the drive. That would definitely require fresh grading; but between the back of the cabin and the road, the drive appeared fair for now. I'd pick up the grader while I was down in Collins Junction and could probably start on the drive this afternoon. I hopped in the Merc and headed down the drive, turning east on to the highway headed for the Rennald turnoff. After yesterday's speeding excursion to outrun the oncoming threatening storm, I needed gas before proceeding to Collins Junction, and I wanted to take a quick peek at the packet, and to make a phone call to find an attorney in Collins Junction who could take care of incorporating my proposed Plant Nursery as a business. I knew I would need a license but not what all else, and I thought a lawyer the best way to go. Chapter 14 The drive to Rennald was remarkably uneventful and I was pleased. Earlier when I was digging through the box of Mamma's papers, I thought I had heard a rusty engine snort out on the road but I had been so absorbed I ignored it; in any event, it didn't stop but proceeded on so I decided not to worry. At Rennald I stopped first at the Gas 'n' Go to fill up, then walked next door to Todd's to see when he might next need me. As it turned out, he was prepared to schedule an entire weekend of diesel mechanic work for me, and I heartily agreed: the more I earned, the faster I could set up the Plant Nursery I had my heart set on. After Todd's I stopped in at the butcher and asked him to hold two trout for me for later along with a slab of bacon (he bought fish on consignment from some of the young farm boys with time on their hands) and then I went in to the Post Office to check my mail. Oddly enough, another surprise of sorts was waiting for me there. Inside the box was stuffed about half full with sale fliers, a end-of-fiscal-year notice from the County Tax Assessor listing my properties on which taxes would be due in February of next year in conjunction with my birthday, and an envelope addressed to Rory Donald Lewes, Esq., at my former Urbana, Illinois, address. I had not lived there since February, three months earlier, but apparently the Urbana Post Office was faithfully performing its forwarding duties. Really odd was the fact that the return address was in Madison Mills! It was too thin to contain a packet of papers, but it surely was addressed correctly-or would have been had I remained in Urbana. I noticed it did not say, “Mr. and Mrs. Lewes,” but only my name. Interesting. I tossed the sales papers in the nearest provided receptacle and headed out the door, jumping in the Merc and pulling down the street past Todd's Garage, then turning the corner and parking in the alley between the back of his building and the vast vacant lot that once had housed the textile factory, now just a broken-windowed shell on the far side of the lot, a block farther away. I ripped open the lawyer's envelope first. It was headlined in fancy script on expensive cream stationery, listing an Attorney Richard Layles Carnathy in Madison Mills, State of Algonquin. Over to the right-hand side in slightly smaller letters was the phrase: “Counsel for Testament Logging Corporation.” Uh-oh! How did a company that had not been heard of (by me anyway) in almost two decades-or its attorney of record-have anything to do with me, Rory Lewes, itinerant mechanic and cabin-building homesteader in the Northern Woods? I read on into the body of the text: In re the Estate of Maggethe Edna Calhoun Lewes, you are hereby requested to contact Attorney Benton Squires, Civil and Estate Practice, in Collins Junction, at your earliest possible convenience.” Here a Collins Junction telephone number was appended, but that was all. No thank you, no goodbye or sincerely yours, no signature line nor name. Odd-very, very odd. Well, I had been given a tiny bit of information, a name, and a telephone number, so I would make what use of this I could. I was headed for Collins Junction anyway and would save the long-distance telephoning cost and look up this attorney when I arrived,before I went on to the hardware store for the hand-grader. I was about to put the transmission in gear when I remembered the tax notice. I stopped to open that envelope and received my second-perhaps third, actually-surprise. My name, the post office box number, and my birth date were listed accurately. But I was noted as owning three plots, not one. According to this, I owed property taxes (or would when my birthday rolled around in February 1958) on the land on which I had just recently constructed my cabin and would soon begin building my proposed Plant Nursery business. That plot I expected to find listed. I did not expect two additional plots, neither of which I recognized, listed ahead of my land. One had an address of “Knox,” the other one read “Euphonia.” “Euphonia”? What-or rather where-was that? If that was a town, city, or village, certainly I had never heard of it. The tax notice was stapled, and I had assumed it held simply a carbon copy for my records. That much proved to be true, when I turned over the first page, but below that it contained a second page, with its own carbon. The second page caused my heart to leap into my throat. Listed next to each of the two formerly unknown properties-one at Knox, one at this mysterious “Euphonia,” was typed: “Under current lease to Testament Logging Corporation, Madison Mills.” Chapter 15 My mind just closed all this off at that point, folding up the paperwork, stuffing the attorney's missive and the tax assessor's notice into the packet of Mamma's papers, after I had opened up that taped-shut envelope. I very carefully omitted pulling out any of the contents of her envelope-now mine, I guess-because I had overloaded on emotional and psychological stimuli and for the moment could not bear any new, additional, data. I put the Merc in gear again, rolled on down the alley, and turned off on to the street leading up to the highway I had come in on. Once on the highway I had another 20 miles to drive, and now I decided I would take care of my other errands first. So when I arrived in “the big city,” I headed on to the hardware store and rented the hand-grader and a few other appropriate tools. I also ordered up a selection of lumber, as I had decided sometime during the drive, unconsciously, to start on construction of the Plant Nursery. To that end, I entered into a conversation with the store clerk, who of course had queried me about the sizeable purchase of lumber. “What're you going to build, Rory?” he asked now. After the job of building the cabin, he and I were on a first-name basis, though I continued to call him Mr. Oakes. “Goin' ahead with the Plant Nursery I told you about, remember, back in February when I first moved back up here.” “Sure enough, I do remember, Rory, and a good thing it'll be. How soon do you think you can get it running? Will you be needing some help on the construction? My two nephews are looking for summer work, starting in a week or two.” “They would be an enormous help, thank you. I also need to ask you about business licenses-did you go through an attorney to get yours? See, I've never been self-employed before, not exactly sure how to go about this.” “Ayeh, used Benton Squires over on the Square, in that two-story white stone building on the corner, in the block past the Courthouse. Has the whole upstairs there for his office. Downstairs has an antique store and rare book dealer. Here, I'll give you his telephone too,” and with that Mr. Oakes produced a charge slip, pulled out the wooden box in which he kept index cards with customer information, and wrote down a name, phone number, and address. Handing it to me, he asked, “Shall I tell Wayne and Davy you'll be needing them, then, Rory?” “Absolutely, tell them to come on as soon as they can. I'll be grading tomorrow, maybe later this afternoon, and on the weekend I'll be at Todd's Garage in Rennald. They can call over there then, or either stop by, and let me know when they can start working with me.” [/b} |
| Well, Gentle Readers, today I surpassed 50K on MarNoWriMo (March off-season National Novel Writing Month), and signed up for April Script Frenzy. This is in addition to the new novel I'll be writing just as soon as I finish the March novel. Whew! Never written a script before, but I just couldn't resist the Creative Challenge. For Script Frenzy, the goal is 100 pages, rather than 50K words. That's said to be 3.5 pages per day. But you must know I still intend to crank out a daily 2500 words on the novel!! So here is today's free read, again from The Phantom Logging Operation which I had begun posting from a while back. Remember now, this is the unedited version To recoup, I'll repost Chapters 1-5 today again and add Chapter 6-10:THE PHANTOM LOGGING OPERATION a Novel by Archie Standwood Book One: The Testament Corporation Chronicles (because it's not just logging, after all) Prologue: The Phantom Northern Woods Tales are set in an alternate historical probability, in which The Northwest Territories were divided differently than in our own “consensus reality.” In this reality, The Northwest Territories became Wisconsin and Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, and Ohio. Each existing state is called by its full name: “State of-” as in State of Wisconsin, State of Michigan, State of Illinois. In The Phantom Northern Woods, there are three states where today only Michigan and Wisconsin stand: one state between them, like an inverted triangle, heavily forested, bordering Canada to the North-the State of Algonquin. It is this state which harbors the infamous “Big Forest.” In The Phantom Northern Woods, each existing state is called by its full name: “State of-” as in State of Westerley, State of Minnetonka, State of Illustrian. There are three states where today only Michigan and Wisconsin stand: one state between them, like an inverted triangle, heavily forested, bordering Canada to the North-the State of Algonquin. It is this state which harbors the infamous “Big Forest.” Chapter 1 The faded-red 1928-style cab yanked behind it a long unwieldy flatbed of precariously loaded pines. Within the darkened cab, shadows shifted and drifted, fluttering aside at the last moment of view to reveal what I'd already suspected: the log truck possessed no driver. Both the driver's seat and the passenger side were empty, yet the headlights glowed like twin eyes of some bird-of-prey, and the truck barreled down my road, headed east toward Collins Junction. Well, I assumed the destination would be Collins Junction, the county seat, the only town of any size anywhere in our county. It was the only community still with a sawmill- even if it ran only three days a week. I stood by the corner of my newly built log home, keeping I hoped well out of sight, peeking at the cab and praying that whatever was not inside would not see me. To the southwest, in the direction from which the log truck had appeared, was only the little town of Knox, really more of a village. A mile or two further back began a vast empty pine forest, extending way West and North, a combination of original timber and second growth from the logging boom of the 1920's, when timber was an extraordinary industry in our state. Back then the mill in Collins Junction had run six days a week, three shifts a day, so my Daddy had told me. But when the logging industry collapsed in 1932, the loggers took to riding the freights as hobos, or disappeared out to the Southwest, toward Arizona and California, hoping for work, or at least for heat, which is an event that occurs here only in July. I hadn't realized any new logging operations had begun near The Big Forest; nearly as long as I'd been alive (I'd been born in 19-Ought-30), the old operations had been closed and by now, in 1957, all remaining traces were eradicated from sight by new forest growth and old roots. I didn't remember the old access road into the forest being locatable, either, so it was a mystery to me as to where this bizarre log carrier could have manifested from-or why. I decided to take a little ride out toward Knox, and see if I could find any new operations between there and my land. I lived 12 miles east of Knox and from my house, east and southward, Collins Junction was another 25 miles. Back nearly directly south was Rennald, but the turnoff for it was 5 miles east of me. Perhaps that strange truck was headed there. Yet my amazement was not yet to end. As I turned from the southwest corner of my house, where I had just finished planting a row of perennials- the corner toward the Knox Road-I heard yet another loud, raggedy, engine approaching. Expecting that perhaps the phantom log truck had circled around on some unexplored back road and returned, I looked toward the east, but suddenly my attention was impelled in the opposite direction, from which the driverless log truck had first appeared. Approaching was a square wood-sided truck, also red, paint faded almost to the point of exhaustion, engine laboring as if on a steep climb-although our road had no grade at all; and once again, this truck possessed no driver. Ah, but this one did include a passenger, a dark-complected male bundled in a dark green jacket, golf cap pulled down over his brow, apparently staring out the passenger window so that I could not see his face; nor really, did I wish to. This was becoming way too spooky for me. My heart urged me to race back inside the cabin and lock all the doors and windows, but my mind insisted there must be a logical explanation, if only I could find it. I yanked the keys out of my left-hand jeans pocket and juggled them in the air for a moment, trying to decide which of my organs to heed. Finally, mind won out, so I jogged along the side of the cabin, across the back lot, and up to my '49 Mercury coupe, parked at the far end of the driveway from the road, just ahead of the property's wood lot. I jumped in, gunned the engine, and backed up sufficiently to turn around, then headed down the drive. Just as I came within sight of the road, I heard another motor approach, and hoving into sight was a similar square wood-sided truck, this one loaded with pulp wood leavings-the crown branches from cut logs. A really upsetting sight in the cab met my eyes: this time there was a driver (the first had contained no one; the second no driver, just a passenger), a burnt husk himself-yet he drove, and he turned his eyeless gaze upon me, then suddenly floored his gas pedal and roared west in the direction of Knox and the Big Woods, belching gray exhaust fumes from the sawed-off tailpipe. The afternoon had progressed from strange, to bizarre, to unbelievable. I didn't know whether to pull out on the road, turn west toward Knox and the Northern Woods beyond, turn east toward Rennald, or beyond, Collins Junction, or back up the long drive, run inside the cabin, and lock the doors, pulling down all the window shades. I was beginning to wonder why I had insisted on moving here after my divorce in February. When my wife of 8 months had run off on me, claiming a blackjack dealer down in Vegas as her new toy, I signed the divorce papers the sheriff's deputy bought me, packed the little I owned into the Merc, and headed for the property my Daddy had left to me when he passed over in May of '41, that came fully into my possession two years ago when my Mamma died of a painful, lingering bone cancer. I hadn't ever used it, had not even seen the land, for when Daddy enlisted in September of 1939 in the Canadian Air Force, Mamma had carried me to Champaign, State of Illinois, where she still had people, and I had grown up there. I'd married late, at age 26, but I guess I still wasn't wise enough to choose well. I liked my mechanic job at Joe D's Garage, going to church on Sunday mornings, and a beer or two on the back porch on a Saturday evening. Leill liked the high life, or so she said, and eight months into the marriage she was off to Vegas like a shot. More power to her; I packed and went home to the land that Daddy had given me. According to what my Mamma told me before she died, I actually had grown up in this region: I wasn't quite sure where was my birthplace here, for Mamma had never actually specified. But she had told me often that when I turned two, Daddy had moved us from this section of the County down to Rennald. That was the year the Logging Operations here in The Big Forest had shut down. Daddy had logged in the eastern stretches of The Big Forest, for the Testament Logging Corporation out of Madison Mills, about 50 miles distant, and it were a good-paying job for the times, least until the Great Depression rolled in with its suicides and bank collapses, and everything in our world just turned upside down. As far as I knew, I also still held title to that little tract of land; Daddy had built a 3-room cabin on it just before the wedding, and Mamma had birthed me there. They had managed to hold on once the Depression started; Daddy was real skilled with his hands, so when the timber boom collapsed in 1930, he was able to stay on with Testament Corporation by working for them as a travelling maintenance man, going from site to site and keeping all their equipment in good repair. For some reason unknown to me, Testament did not suffer in the Depression as many of the logging and mining firms did. While other firms collapsed, or filed bankruptcy, or just disappeared, while owners threw themselves out of high office windows, or ate their pistols, or just disappeared, Testament Corporation persevered, even thrived, as if the Great Depression was instead for Testament an economic boom time. The timber operation near Knox in The Big Forest was closed, but the main plant in Madison Mills kept right on running, and Daddy sometimes had to go as far as Kenosha, over West in State of Wisconsin, to do a job of repair work. Most of the time, Mamma said, Daddy would travel down to Trent, or over to the sawmill at Collins Junction; about once a month or so he'd be called in to work at the Main Plant in Madison Mills, and sometimes he might be up there for a week or two. He and Mamma had given up the rural homestead in 1932, when I turned two and the Logging Boom collapsed, and moved to Rennald, to a house right at the edge of town that Daddy built himself (for he was handy that way, both with house carpentry and with furniture-making, and just with all kinds of woodwork. I often dreamed that if he had lived on and not died in the Second Hun War, he and I could have owned a furniture-making, cabinetry, wood-working business together, up here in the Northern Woods. In 1936, Daddy was asked to move up to a full-time position in maintenance at the Madison Mills main plant. I was only 11 when Daddy died in the Europe War; he enlisted in September 1939, with the Canadian Air Force, right as soon as Hitler invaded Poland. I was 9 and a half then, and it was then that Mamma moved us to Champaign, since her folks had already both passed away also-though I did not know when, nor did I remember them, so I supposed it was before my birth. Testament Logging Corporation sure was on my mind these last few moments, ever since I had seen that first bizarre log truck with its missing driver. None of the three odd trucks had any kind of markings or insignia; I had heard no sounds of saws or digging or axes; there was no reason to think anything was happening down to The Big Forest. No reason to think-yet I knew. I knew. Chapter 2 I decided it was not yet time to start playing possum, nor to wimp out and be cowardly. Rennald was closer-the turnoff to the Rennald Road only 5 miles to my east-so I turned left and headed east first. Right then it was only about 2 o'clock of the afternoon, plenty of time to check Rennald and then turn back toward Knox and The Big Forest beyond, and still be home, parked in my driveway, and inside my cabin before dark. For some reason, the thought of being abroad tonight just skittered me. I could drive all the way out to Rennald and back in near the time it would take me to go to Knox. Just the idea of driving toward The Big Forest skeered me-just skeered me today-but then if I did drive to Rennald first, when I came back this way it would be later in the afternoon-and maybe I wouldn't have the courage to try for The Big Forest-I was not sure now that I ever would. Then I remembered how my Daddy had braved the Hun Hordes in the Big War, and how he had died keeping my country safe. I remembered how Mamma talked to me about how Daddy was so brave during the Great Depression too, working at menial maintenance jobs, travelling whenever and wherever Testament Corporation told him he had to, being away from Mamma and me, just to keep our roof over us and keep us fed and clothed-and I knew I couldn't be such a weakling and disrespect everything my Daddy ever stood for. I sat no longer resisting at the end of the drive. Instead, I put the Merc in gear and headed right, to the west, toward Knox and The Big Forest which I now so feared. Chapter 3 I sped in the direction of Knox, knowing the faster I arrived the faster I could conclude this investigation and head for home. There were 3 more borders of perennials to plant, after all; wood to chop-nights were still cool and would be through June; and I needed to work on insulating the cabin. I had just finished constructing it, as the property had held only one very old, shabby, collapsed house, sitting about a half mile farther back into the land than did my cabin. I had looked it over when I first arrived, and deemed it not worth the extreme efforts of trying to repair it, nor the extensive cost of materials. Hardly enough lumber was left intact to reconstruct one wall of a single room, the flooring was almost all the way through, the foundation only dirt, and the chimney in several chunks of charred brick. Seemed a shame to waste the site, already laid out as it was, but then I was only one person, and a job that size-repairing and virtually replacing and entire homestead would have been more than I thought I could handle. So I decided to leave that site alone, and instead I chose a plot a ways back from the road, and to the East a bit, to build my cabin. I pitched the tent I'd brought along from Champaign, rolled out my sleeping bag, and on the nights that were just too chilly-which were most nights, curled up in the back seat of the Mercury. All of this passed through my mind as I sped on toward The Big Forest, and all of it faded away as an old black Chevy truck passed me in the opposite direction, driven by a dead black man, and came to a stop in the middle of his lane, waiting while a scrawny white hound crossed the road. “Rory,” I reminded myself. “You already know this guy-by sight-you've seen him passing up and down the road a hundred times since you first started work on the cabin, remember? Many times he's even thrown up his hand at you.” That was right-but this is the first time I'd noticed he was already dead. Maybe he wasn't earlier-on the other hand, maybe he had been all along. That truck, I would say, was about 9, maybe 10 model years old. Geez, my own Merc was 8 model years old. His Chevrolet was older than that, I thought. He must be coming from Knox, I thought-or maybe (though I really hoped that wasn't the case) from The Big Forest. Nothing else lay out this way, on this road. To get anywhere- to any bigger town-you had to go east and then south to Collins Junction, and from there, gee, you could get to Trenton, Troy, even eventually Madison Mills! But on the virtually untravelled highway on which I lived, it was Knox and then The Big Forest to the west, the turnoff to Rennald (another tiny town) a little east of me, and then east of that, the road to Collins Junction. I couldn't even remember any farmsteads or isolated houses on this road-that is, houses sitting out by themselves without farms. Far as I could think, it was just my new cabin as far as housing, unless I had missed some houses set back up in the woods somewheres. Chapter 4 Just about as soon's as I had passed the Dead Man in his black Chevrolet truck, a roar behind me made me spin to see. I glanced first toward the sound, then toward the lane, hopin' that scrawny white hound had moved on. No squealing rubber, no bawlin' dogs, so I guessed he'd made it on across okay. That dead black Chevrolet was out of sight already too. Gee, the road sure was fillin' and emptyin', fillin' and emptyin', somethin' fierce this afternoon. The source of the racket pulled into the far lane and roared up beside me. A flatbed truck loaded with an old, old Chevrolet sedan-what used to be called a “gangster wagon”-my Daddy would surely have recognized them on the streets of Kenosha when he worked maintenance for Testament Logging Corporation-flashed by me, but not before I saw the driver, yet another burnt husk, leaning forward and lookin' toward me. Despite there bein' no flesh on that skull, I swear I could feel it smilin' and glowin'. As it sped up and passed, I saw the sedan had been badly burnt too; it looked like a blowtorch had played over it and blistered off all the paint. This had really been a bad day for me all around, and it was barely three o'clock. Thankfully I had planted my perennial beds; I doubted I would accomplish anything more today. A storm threatened to be breaking over The Big Forest, so I determined to ride only as far as Knox, stop in at the small general store there for some provisions, and then get myself back home. The next few miles were uneventful, but the approaching storm darkened the day considerably. The little store stood on the opposite side of the road, just the near side of Knox, and as I glanced in both directions to pull across the road, I saw that the tall-sided wooden bed truck loaded with tree crowns and pulp wood castoffs was parked at the far end of the gravel lot beyond the store. At an angle to the road, all I could see was the end of the truck and a peek at the side. I hoped-strongly hoped-that the burnt driver was in the truck, or gone, or just a hallucination, and that I would NOT encounter him in the store. I parked on the near side of the store, climbed out, and strode toward the door. As I approached, it opened and an old geezer walked out, nodded his grizzled head at me, spat a chaw out into the lot, and clambered over to the old rocker at the far end of the porch. Inside was shady and musty-smelling, and a layer of dust seemed to overlay all the shelves and merchandise, even the plank flooring. Well, no matter; the canned goods I could wash at the pump before opening them, and as long as the flour and sugar and corn meal came in canisters, they should be safe enough to use. I selected the cans and canisters I needed, added some hardware and tools, and carried the load to the counter where I began to lay it out while checking around for the clerk, nowhere to be seen. As I glanced toward the back room's doorway, a woman rose up right in front of me, behind the counter, as if she had just lifted up from the floor on a trap door with spring. Chapter 5 At this point, I truly believed I had experienced enough-enough shocks, enough horror-for the rest of my life. I glared at the witch behind the counter, whose bun was so tightly yanked back from her face that she resembled a skull, and whose black bombazine dress looked like something out of the turn of the century. Before she could even speak, I held up a cautionary finger and turned away, headed back up toward a center aisle where I remembered seeing a selection of plant and flower seeds. I picked up a trowel and several packets of perennials, tossing a few azalea packets in for good measure. I considered asking if they stocked rosebushes, but figured to wait until my next trip to Collins Junction for that. Way my life was going, I might be driving down to the big city sooner rather than later, just to get away for a while and spend some time in sanity. But for now, I just carried my extra purchases to the counter, set them down, and reached for my wallet. Silently she totaled them up, then handed me a bag and pointed to the total showing on the old-fashioned register. I paid and received my change while simultaneously bagging up, ready to get on out of there. Maybe she was mute, or just didn't care for this particular customer; I sure didn't care. I nodded an equally silent thanks, stepped to the door, and out onto the porch, where of course I encountered the burnt husk driver of the pulp-castoffs truck, fixing to enter the store. Chapter 6 Immediately I thought better of stepping outside, and instead I spun around, almost dropping my purchases in their sack, and moved back inside and alongside the nearest aisle. Scuttling more than walking, I pretended to hunt for some precious and essential item I might have overlooked, but I needn't have attempted concealment. The door did not open at once, and when I peeked above the shelf in front of me, I noticed that the figure behind the counter had turned her scary self toward the archway behind her and to her left, as if she had heard a noise from what must have been the store's back room-probably a storeroom or tool shed, I guessed. (Wait, Rory! A tool shed? What use would a general store, small as this one is, have for a tool shed? A storeroom, yes. Surely some kind of delivery truck brought in the canned goods and perishable notions-the flour, sugar, coffee canisters-and most likely a nursery, perhaps at Collins Junction, delivered the plant and grain seeds. Granted, this general store did offer trowels and other gardening and planting implements, but only in small quantity. I could not cudgel my brain into identifying whatever subliminal clue had inspired me to think of “tool shed” in the back.) As I continued to ponder that topic, the counter witch turned more fully toward the darkened archway, just as a young girl, appearing about twenty or so, rushed through it. Her waist-length dusty blond hair was pulled back with a wide cream-colored ribbon, her eyes were stretched wide, and her expression bordered on both astonishment and confusion. Deeming it imprudent to press closer to the front door, instead I sidled back along the shelf toward the side wall, and around behind it. The shelf stack immediately behind the front shelves were lower, and I could readily see over them and watch the strange goings-on unfolding at the archway. “Alice! What in the world-? I sent you to pack away those Easter items we didn't sell-” Hmm-so there was a storeroom somewhere in the building-but a tool shed? Surely not! Alice's expression changed to distraught. “I did, Aunt Jennie! That's where I found this!” The girl-Alice-held up a mottled, spotted old book that appeared to be an antique ledger, or perhaps a journal. Whatever it was, the covers and the page edges were foxed, and appeared in some places stuck together. Clearly the item was both old, and long untouched. I turned from contemplation of the book to look at the old witch's face just in time to watch her pale and step back, nearly stumbling behind the counter. “Alice,” she croaked, “where did you find that? “Upstairs, Aunt Jennie, as I told you: while I put away the Easter merchandise! It was in that small two-shelf faded yellow bookcase, in the back corner”-Alice turned and pointed diagonally to what would have been the southwest corner of the building- “past the two shelves with the Christmas and Thanksgiving merchandise.” Clearing her throat several times before she could achieve anything more than a throaty rumble, Old Witch-now named Aunt Jennie-told the girl, “There isn't anything back in that corner, Alice! And-that-book-should not have been anywhere in that storeroom.” Chapter 7 This had become way too intriguing to leave now. I leaned on the shelf in front of me, till I noticed a discouraging wobble, so I straightened up and tried to look as if I had overlooked picking up some essential household or gardening item. Actually I had: I needed mulch for the perennials I had laid out earlier today, before all this weirdness had begun. I slid up and down the aisles, one eye on the ladies behind the counter, the other toward the front door in case Mr. Burnt Husk himself decided to walk-er, shamble-through it in search of supplies or condiments or first-aid kits. The older woman behind the counter started to shift her attention in my direction, so I quickly grabbed up a bag of mulch and headed her way. Slamming it down on the counter, I inquired as to whether they had a sharp axe, a yard rake, and a large shovel in storage. She allowed as how they had and motioned young Alice to the counter to begin ringing up my new purchases, while she scowlingly backed through the archway, presumably to wherever the tools such as I had requested were located. (In the elusive tool shed, perhaps?) Alice calculated the cost of the mulch, shovel, ax, and rake and gave me the total. I paid her while with downcast eyes she counted out my change. I kept trying to think of conversation starters-I really was intrigued by that mottled, spotted old book, which she had laid on the far side of the counter-but questions like “Do you live here, then?” and “Are you from Knox?” seemed both puerile and nosy. Then too, the old bat would most likely return at any moment, dragging my tools, and I would be caught redhanded-or open-mouthed. I was wrong, after all; she returned empty-handed, pointed to the front door after glancing at Alice to be certain I had paid in full, and only mumbled to me, “Carl has your tools outside by your car.” I thanked them both, gave a tiny lingering smile to Alice, and headed back out, checking carefully as I opened the door to make sure I was not about to have a face-to-face encounter with char, and crossed the porch. Down the steps to the Merc, and sure enough, there waited the old geezer I had seen earlier on the porch, shovel, rake, and axe bundled in his scrawny old arms. I thanked him, unlocked and opened the trunk, and laid the tools, the mulch, and my other purchases inside. He moved away silently; as I slammed shut the trunk, I glanced up at the shimmering faces of Alice and the old witch staring through the grimy pebbled glass of the front door. Chapter 8 Pleasing as it was not to see the burnt husk around anywhere, I was still somewhat dismayed to find that his equally-burnt out truck had disappeared. That might mean he was lurking somewhere out and about, and I might yet encounter him on the road. My original intent when I left the cabin only an hour or so ago, maybe even less, had been to drive to Knox and then on into The Big Forest, checking around for any signs of a new logging operation or other. But after the experience I had already undergone today, I thought devoting my attention to a little home life would be best. So I hopped behind the steering wheel (now mindful of how easily any driver could become the counterpart of the burnt husk) and proceeded cautiously out of the gravel lot and back on to the road. I had checked carefully in both directions, and no traffic was to be seen or heard, smelled nor sensed. Reaching home with only a trunk filled with purchases to be put away would have been most pleasant, as would a nice afternoon drive on this isolated country road in warm sunshine. Instead, no sooner had I pulled out of the store's lot than the clouds already roiling over The Big Forest, which lay behind me, suddenly darkened to an ugly slate-gray, with flashes of lightning streaking through from cloud to cloud, like a child playing hopscotch in the sky. Predatory rumbles surged ahead and seemed to surround me on all sides. Behind me, the General Store and its gravel lot disappeared behind a curtain of blinding gray as the clouds released their anger, so I hit the gas and sped up to try to outrun the storm. This twisting road was difficult to drive even in perfect conditions, and with the rapidly darkening day and my fear of that oddly commencing storm, conditions were far from ideal. I moved as fast as I thought prudent, much as if I was being chased by the Hounds of Hell, and I was within sight of the cabin's driveway before the rain caught up to me. As I slowed and braked, I caught sight of that old black Chevrolet truck, the one I had watched earlier stop for the crossing hound as I drove to Knox. It was stopped on the side of the road, just past my drive, on the other side, facing toward me. In the encroaching twilight I could not see the driver, and did not care to stop. If I hurried, perhaps I could unload the trunk and take at least the foodstuffs and the plant seed packets into the house; the tools, after all, could wait, and the Merc had a nice solid-fitting trunk lid. For some reason, my mind was racing as if I must provision against an oncoming blizzard of many days' duration, for I “just knew” I had to get everything perishable or nearly so, out of the trunk and into the house, where I must lock and bar the doors and windows. Why, my mind didn't share with me. In view of the oncoming weather, I elected not to go on to the end of the drive to park next to the feed lot as I usually did. I had graded the long drive expecting to eventually add a garage and yes, a tool shed, as I hoped to open a Plant Nursery this summer, on a small scale. But none of those buildings had yet been constructed, so I had to park in the open. Today, I whipped around the back of the cabin, narrowly missing a bed of just-planted perennials, and leaped out, popping the trunk and grabbing as much of the groceries I could, making sure to pull out the paper packets of seeds on this first trip as well, just in case the storm reached my property before I could return from the house. I could get wet, and survive, but not those seed packets. Once at the door, of course I had to juggle my load because I had forgotten to keep the keys in my hand, but quickly I unlocked the back door and opened it, racing to the counter to unload. One more trip to the trunk and I found myself reaching for the trowel, the rake, the shovel, and the axe, in a semi-daze slamming down the trunk, checking my pocket for the keys, and returning to the house, where I stood the tools next to the door, which I closed and locked. I then raced throughout the cabin, checking windows in each room, but not before I had ascertained the front door was also firmly locked. Chapter 9 After I ascertained that every opening into the house had been secured, I headed for the wide front window which was as close as I could manage to a picture window. I know it may seem unusual to try to fit a picture window into a log cabin, and why on the front side facing toward the road, but I had always admired the window in my Mamma's living room in Champaign. As a young boy I had determined that when I had a home of my own, a picture window it must include. My home with Leill was a narrow two-story duplex, half of a row house on the east side of Urbana, Champaign's twin city. It was all we could afford on my mechanic's job at Joe D's garage. It was good enough for the first year or so, though-but then our first year only lasted 8 months before she was gone. I knew right then, that from now on, I was building a home for me, the way I wanted it; and whether or not a woman ever again became part of my life, I would still have my home, the way I wanted it. That was my new promise to myself. My head was so fogged with these thoughts of the past that I nearly overlooked the present. Just as I pulled aside the curtain (the living room and bedroom windows were the only ones I had managed to cover so far), a boom roared out overhead and lightning forked to earth diagonally across the road from me, the flash lighting the old Chevrolet pickup, still on the far side of the drive, nearly tipping into the ditch. Sure enough, that old black man was behind the wheel, but it didn't appear he moved or even flinched that close to the lightning. Well, maybe as being dead, such like didn't disturb him, or maybe he had finally took stock of himself being dead and now decided to act accordingly. The rain slammed down so fiercely that between lightning flashes I could not see the old Chevrolet, the ditch next to it, the road, nor even my drive and front yard. My poor perennials were taking a beating; I could only hope that somehow the water table could absorb all this precipitation and that by some miracle they might survive. The afternoon had been an almost non-stop rendition of one spooky horror after another. When it wasn't on the road with me, it was in my head (what was in that old account ledger that scared that girl Alice so at the General Store? What put in my mind at that store the notion of them having a tool shed-and why would that matter?) I was at the point of total befuddlement. I thought about resting, but knew I couldn't sleep. Usually a soft gentle rain soothes me, but this was neither soft nor gentle, but rather akin to a malevolent, purposeful, storm. No sleeping in this and no resting either. The cabin began to feel chilly and I felt a little numb, even though I had avoided the rain. I returned to the kitchen, fired up the wood stove in the back corner, and filled the stovetop percolator with water. A warm cup of coffee sweetened with cinnamon and chicory ought to warm me up. While I waited, I began putting up the foodstuffs, and I packed the seeds away into a drawer for safety (there was an odd thought again!). I lit two kerosene lanterns, one on the table and one on the counter by the sink, and washed up my breakfast and lunch dishes while I considered the nature of my supper. If the weather had held , I had planned to walk down to the creek at the back of my property and try to catch a couple of trout. None of that for supper now, as I would be underwater as soon as I stepped out my back door. Not for the first time, I wished that my cabin had electricity; lantern light was warm and cozy under the right circumstances but in an unexpected and terrifyingly heavy storm such as this, glowing overhead fixtures and conveniently placed floor and table lamps would be oh so much more reassuring! Chapter 10 When I wanted a meat dinner I had to drive to Collins Junction to the big IGA there, or run down to Rennald and pick up something at the small butcher's shop downtown next to the Gas 'n' Go and Todd's Service Garage. Without electricity, I couldn't keep a freezer, so fresh meals were touch-and-go, a quick drive or a walk to the creek and hope for fish to be lured to my bait. While I prepared for my planned Plant Nursery, I worked occasionally and sometimes full weekends at Todd's. I had some diesel experience from my jobs in Champaign and Urbana, and I put that to good use on weekends, servicing the various farm tractors and combines and harvesters. South and southwest of Rennald were fertile fields, far enough from the shade of The Big Forest for crops to grow well, as long as their selection was tailored to our harsh winter weather, which often seemed to extend from September through June. The storm today was exceptional-our precipitation tended to be white, cold, and in the form of snowflakes-and I pondered again whether it related to the other odd events of today. I decided to make biscuits and pancakes, and open a can of green beans I had just picked up at the General Store in Knox. While I waited on the baking, I sat at the round wood table with a cup of hot java and stared out the uncurtained back window behind the wood stove. Rain, rain, everywhere was rain, slicing and slashing like knives, relentless in its fury. Yes, I personalized it; I still perceived it as a purposeful event, this unaccountable storm. Two thoughts kept pushing through my mind, and trying to distract myself, I stood up from the table and walked through to the living room, checking around the curtain once again. Now I could not see the old black Chevrolet truck: either it had disappeared, or the still strident rain blocked my view. No, here came another lightning bolt, farther away this time, southeast across the open land in the direction of Rennald. No truck in sight, nothing untoward-other than this rain. Now I had no more distractions to pacify my raging thoughts. I picked up a book from the end table and immediately set it back down. The novel had riveted me from the first page when I read it in a bookstore in Collins Junction, and I was nearly halfway through, but my eyes wouldn't settle on the words, nor my mind stay still long enough to focus on fiction. I could not stop turning over two particular aspects of today's strange events, both of them linked to the Knox General Store and the two ladies working there. First was the persistent notion that had struck me while hiding between the shelves after I had seen the burnt truck driver shambling toward the front door: the notion that the General Store had not just a storeroom, but a tool shed, and that in some way this was important-to me. Second was that old ledger that the girl Alice had discovered upstairs at the Store, that the old witch said “should not have been anywhere in the Storeroom,” and that had so spooked and confused the girl. What was in it, why did it disturb Alice, why was Old Bat so upset it had been found, and found by Alice? And why did these two occurrences upend my mind much more so than the burnt husk of a driver, the dead black man in the Chevrolet, the burnt driver of the flatbed loaded with the blowtorched gangster sedan, and all these other bizarre events? A roar and a sputter beside the cabin grabbed my attention just then, and I raced to the kitchen and peered out the window by the stove. I couldn't see anything at first, past the driving rain, then that old black Chevrolet pickup hove into sight, tearing gobs out of the drive, speeding toward the end of the drive where I planned to build a garage and beside that a tool shed. I couldn't see the driver-if there was one-and I felt unaccountably afraid to unlock the back door, step out, and confront him. At this moment, fear washed over me in waves like standing under an outdoor shower; but instead of getting clean, I was feeling more and more numb, powerless to stop this onslaught of events, most of which seemed to center around me. I could have had no conception of why, nor could I have foreseen their eventual outcome. |
| Fess Parker, famed actor, is dead at 89. http://voices.washingtonpost.com/postmortem/ http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/washington/2010/03/fess-parker-davy-crockett.htm... -*- I was on a Facebook Truckers Support page today and noticed a comment from a lady who bashed those of us who oppose coal mining: she suggested we turn off our electricity then. Well, I am very cognizant of my carbon footprint-I turn off lights everywhere I go, I've done without a vehicle for the majority of my life since birth-thereby saving fuel resources-I don't eat meat. However, does this person really think that just one environmentalist-or fifty-or ten thousand-turning off their electricity will stand in the way of mining progress and continued mountaintop removal? Or does she just not think? Today's Free Read: I was too short to reach the high shelf in the hall closet without a stepladder, so I fetched the 2-step from the kitchen cabinet and climbed up. I was hunting the family's old Monopoly game to play with the kids; it was our way of keeping alive memories and partially assuaging some of our grief, over the six months since Jamie passed away. Monopoly had been his favorite choice to play with our four children, occasionally alternated with Scrabble, and tonight the kids had specifically requested it. New Year's Eve, and we ought to all have been together; instead, it was the four young ones, myself, and the Spirit of their Dad. I remembered pushing the board game to the back of the shelf after Jamie's final days in Hospice, not wanting for a while to remember. I stretched out my hand but still couldn't touch it, so I tried a farther section of the shelf. On the bottom step of the ladder I could reach, but not yet see. Then my fingertips brushed against something that wasn't the ragged cardboard of our old well-used Monopoly game. It was slicker, like wrapping paper, and along the corner diagonal I could feel ribbon. Quickly I scanned in memory all the presents the children had received this year; without Jamie's income, there hadn't been as much, although our church had provided quite a few along with Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner provisions and canned goods. I was certain all the presents had been given out, opened, and quietly exclaimed over, but surely this was a gift I had just found. Climbing to the upper step, precarious and uncertain, I peeked over the shelf. There in the far left corner all the way to the wall rested the pesky elusive Monopoly box; and to its right, a package wrapped in silver, with a bright green ribbon, Jamie's favorite colors. I pulled it toward me, tears spilling down my cheekbones. I remembered it now: the fancy antique chess set I had acquired for our last Christmas together, one year ago. I couldn't recall why I had not gifted it; but then, memory returned: by Christmas that year, Jamie's brain tumor-as yet undiagnosed-had begun to alter his personality. Just before the holiday, he and I had argued, surely about something simple and irrelevant, and I had in a temper pushed his gift to the back of the closet after he had stalked out of the apartment to cool off. All the Christmas money I had that year, once the kids' gifts had been bought, had gone for this ivory chess set for my beloved husband. It was to be our last Christmas together, ever, and in my anger, I had pushed it aside and forgotten it. I collapsed onto the stepladder in tears for all we had lost: the kids, Jamie, and I. |
| RIP Alex Chilton, star of the pop groups Box Tops and later Big Star, dead at age 59, in New Orleans, unexpectedly. http://www.popeater.com/2010/03/18/alex-chilton-dies/ Southern Appalachia is not the only region of the U.S. distraught over mining practices. The San Gabriel Mountains in California have been targeted for mountaintop mining, on a scenic ridge near Azusa. Residents of a nearby town, Duarte, are up in arms and protesting mightily against the proposed destruction of the scenic views, hiking, and the environmental dangers to both children and wildlife. They need only photograph the permanent damage left to former mountains in Appalachia should they require graphic proof to present. http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-outthere18-2010mar18,0,5630358.story Today's free read: "Findlay's Table" A Historical Mystery A stray beam of late-afternoon sunlight stretched across the conservatory floor toward the side table, hunched like a cowered troll in the deep archway dividing Mimi's conservatory from Edmond's study. Although Edmond had passed on three decades earlier, the room in which the gathered group sat was still considered his. Mimi, conversely, had passed away only last week. A sprightly one-hundred-and-one, Mimi's departure from this life had not occurred due to lingering illness or debilitating health conditions-not even to a car wreck or household fall. Her maid Ella had found Mimi at 7 AM on a Tuesday morning, just last week. Ella had spoken to Mimi on her way out the evening before. As usual, the older lady puttered in her conservatory, checking for leaf mites, and spoke with her usual abstracted but kindly disinterest. When Ella arrived to start her day, she called out to Mimi and received no answer. Checking the master suite first, she then went immediately to the conservatory, where she found her employer deceased. Her expression and posture indicated she had died in convulsions. The autopsy ruled cause of death to be belladonna-deadly nightshade-a plant Mimi refused to keep in the conservatory because of its potential danger. Attorney Jackson Willmont shuffled the files he had removed from his briefcase. The five gathered in a rough semicircle in the study looked occasionally at him, and frequently out of the corner of their eyes toward the crouching side table. Never did anyone turn toward the conservatory, scene of Mimi's ugly and painful demise. "I realize how painful this is for all of you as family members and friends; but the terms of Mrs. Oveltree's will specified that the funeral could not take place until after the formal reading of her will and codicils. Now, as you must realize, the actual interment occurred following the release of the deceased by the Medical Examiner's Office. It was a private event, unattended except for the required legal witnesses-again due to the terms of the will." Attorney Willmont's eyes roved over the assembled, smirking slightly as he said "how painful," as he knew very well that at least one of the group had been responsible for the need to gather here today. Clearing his throat once more, he shuffled the stack of papers he held above his crossed knee, then looked up and around at the group. "Mrs. Oveltree wrote her will for the penultimate time seven years ago," he told them. "I was the Attorney of Record for that will, as had my father been for Mr. Oveltree's final will, and Mrs. Oveltree's earlier wills." Mimi's great-niece Maizee Oveltree Whitaker interrupted, spinning in her cushioned Victorian armchair, pointing toward the former maid Ella, sitting in solitude in the back of the room, almost in the shadows, out of sight of the table. "What's she doing here? I want to know!" demanded the granddaughter of Mimi's younger sister Marsha by a distant Oveltree cousin. A trim and still svelte fashionable 41-year-old, Maizee had descended from some money and had married into a substantial fortune. Intelligence and grace, however, had declined to be part of the package. Ella apparently ignored Maizee's discourteous outburst, but shifted slightly in her straight chair as Attorney Willmont's steady gaze fell on her. "Miss LaRue's presence is required here today, Mrs. Whitaker, just as is yours." Maizee's complexion enflamed and she looked away from the maid toward the attorney, then at her husband on her left. He shrugged slightly and looked away, the first of the group to gaze directly at the side table. Willmont followed Ervin Whitaker's glance, then his gaze returned to his papers, which he shuffled once more and finally cleared his throat. "Are there any other questions before we begin?" The term "or complaints" remained unspoken, yet it was clear in Willmont's demeanor. When no one responded, he continued. "Mr. Oveltree?" He addressed the older man slumped in the armchair to the far right, gazing out the picture window onto the lush grounds. "Hmm..what? What is it?" Grantham Oveltree, Mimi's far younger brother, straightened in his chair and peered myopically toward the attorney. Often known in familial circles as The Afterthought, Grantham was only seventy-six, a generation younger than Mimi and Marsha, born only a year apart. Some relatives often speculated that perhaps Grantham did not really belong in the family at all. Nonetheless, in his younger years, he had made a career for himself as a playboy in the classic sense: a gambler, rabble-rouser, and generally useless spendthrift. Had he been born early enough to be an adult in the 192o's, he would have fit in excellently. In his later years, Grantham had settled down somewhat; or more accurately had calmed down. No longer did he frequent sleazy pubs and low-rent dives, but he still held neither useful employment, nor any charitable volunteer position. Indeed, in the last two decades he had become a rather reclusive individual, seldom even appearing at family functions; rather he remained secluded at his estate, attended by his houseman Manfred, who had accompanied him today, and was also present for the reading of the will. Attorney Willmont visibly controlled the involuntary eye-roll, cleared his throat, and continued. "Under the terms of Mimi Oveltree's will of 7 years ago, the bulk of the estate is divided between the surviving relatives, as Mimi and Edmond had no surviving offspring. At that time, that included Mrs. Oveltree Whitaker, Mr. Grantham Oveltree, and Mrs. Oveltree Whitaker's brother Janson. Of course, with Mr. Janson Oveltree's sudden disappearance 7 years ago in the Peruvian jungles and the legal declaration of his death just last month, the estate for the most part now devolves to Mr. Grantham and Mrs. Oveltree Whitaker. Maisee had straightened at the beginning of this peroration and now visibly slumped, once again looking to her husband for confirmation or affirmation. He still refused to glance in her direction, instead continuing to stare at the side table. Willmont continued, shuffling more papers. "That is, the bulk of the estate is to divide between Maize Oveltree Whitaker and Grantham Whitaker. From the initial estate, a bequest of $100,000 is made to Ella Mary LaRue." A gasp of disagreement issued from Maisee. Willmont held up a cautionary hand. "In addition, the recent codicil, composed immediately following the legal declaration of death of Janson Oveltree, adds one additional bequest." "The furniture piece popularly known in the family as Captain Findlay's Table is hereby bequeathed to-" "No! It is mine! It's mine!" A scream erupted from Grantham as his manservant Manfred leaped to attention and bent over the old man now clutching desperately at his chest. "Mine!" he gurgled. "I did it all for the treasure in Findlay's table..." The final words were gasped as Grantham collapsed to the floor, foam dribbling from his lower lip and eyes rolled up in his head. |
"Keeley's Ride" Short story, sequel to "Torchlight" Keeley paused and pushed her fiery hair off her wet forehead and back out of her eyes. Once again, she wished she’d caught that train back east as she’d planned. Instead, her escape from Kansas didn’t happen the way she’d figured it. Before she could leave town her guardian’s body had been discovered and an outcry ensued. Nothing would suffice but that she must leave immediately, so she hopped the stage to Cheyenne, and from there worked her way to the Bar_RM Ranch, where she now toiled in the stable, saddling Missy to go search for the missing calf. If it weren’t for the mamma cow’s bellerin’, Keeley would just leave well enough alone. But she knew if that cow was still hollerin’ when the boss man rode back from town, there’d be hell to pay-again. She’d had enough of overbearing domineering men in her life. After all, if it hadn’t been for her guardian’s over-developed sense of control, she’d never have shot an arrow at him. Saddling Missy, who didn’t seem interested in riding out today either, Keeley headed for the creek, figuring the calf might be out there caught in a bush-or not; really she didn’t care. She just didn’t want to listen to another man’s rant. But as she approached the creek, which still burbled from the spring melt, she heard the calf’s plaintive lowing, and pulled up near a bush where the little fool had become entangled. When she reached down to pull it loose, she saw back in the branches of the shrub a bonnet, worn and dusty and faded. Keeley yanked at the calf to move it out of the way, and fell back on her posterior. Getting up grumbling and dusting herself off, she pushed the calf away and it ran back up the slope. She reached into the bush, scratching her arm badly as she did, and pulled at the bonnet wound snugly into the branch. She didn’t need another bonnet; this one looked as if its better days were decades in the past. Yet it hung heavy, as if weighted, so she decided to take a closer look. She reached in her pocket for the blade she always carried now, since her near miss on the stagecoach, and ripped at the ties, nearly dropping the bonnet’s weight as she did. She sank to her knees, almost under the shrub, and pulled the bonnet toward her, gasping as she looked into its interior. It was filled with gold coins! Just then a loud click resounded in her consciousness, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder. The ranch foreman, Jack Grinnell, stood there aiming his rifle at her eyes. “Gimme it!” he demanded, grimacing. “Just hand it over! It’s mine!” Keeley thought as fast as she could. She had no intention of surrendering this much gold; there surely was enough in the bonnet to pay her train fare from Cheyenne to Boston to find her grandparents, wealthy shipbuilding heirs. She didn’t have time to think nor plan; action was required. She looked him in the eye: “Okay. Let me stand up and I’ll hand it to you. Just back up and give me some room to get up.” As he backed away a few steps, Keeley swiftly stood, stepped to one side, then swatted at the rifle barrel with the weighted bonnet. Grinnell cursed as the barrel dipped, but she expected that, and conked him on the temple. As he collapsed, Keeley bashed his skull once more, then swiftly packed the bonnet of gold into the saddlebag and jumped astride Missy. She raced away, headed for Cheyenne on a stolen nag, carrying a treasure she’d found by serendipity, leaving another victim behind her. |
| As I promised yesterday, here is the link to Peter Graves' obit on Post-Mortem, the Washington Post's special obituary page: http://voices.washingtonpost.com/postmortem/ A beachgoer on Hilton Head Island, S.C., was killed when struck by a plane crash-landing. http://www.aolnews.com/nation/article/plane-hits-kills-man-along-hilton-head-sc-... Two human interest stories: In Iran, Ayatollah Ali Khamenei , supreme leader, is callign a halt to the annual ancient Chaharshanbe Soori, a festival held on the eve of the final Wednesday before Spring-this year that's March 16, today. Specifically, he wants to stop the practices of fire jumping and feasting, which can lead to "harm and corruption," and do not accord with the tenets of Islam. The Festival is held to commemorate Persian New Year, which begins Saturday this year (March 20). http://edition.cnn.com/2010/WORLD/meast/03/15/iran.new.year.crackdown/index.html... On a much sadder note is the increasing tension, grief, and anxiety on the campus of Cornell University at Ithaca, N.Y., where 3 students since Feb. 17 have died at Fall Creek Gorge, a picturesque and scenic ravine on campus. Four deaths have occurred this year likely to be ruled as suicides, and three of them occurred at this Gorge. http://www.aolnews.com/nation/article/fall-creek-gorge-suicides-have-cornell-uni... http://www.nytimes.com/1994/11/05/nyregion/another-fatal-plunge-has-cornell-aski... Today's free read: “Torchlight” Keeley returned to the general store carrying the filled kerosene lantern. Setting the lantern down behind the counter, she found a bow and shot store owner Jackson MacDonald. He stared at her, startled; then bent forward at the waist, slumping against his end of the wooden counter. “Whaaat?” was all he managed as his balding knob hit the counter with a sickening thud. A moment passed; then his slack body slid off the counter’s edge and onto the floor. Keeley waited, watching it carefully for further signs of movement, and when seeing none, she backed away, upending the lantern and spilling out the kerosene from one end of the counter to the other. When it was empty, Keeley tossed the lantern over the counter at his end and heard a satisfying smack as it slammed into his corpse, then a “whoosh” as the kerosene ignited. She backed away hurriedly, turned and ran out through the front door, slamming it shut behind her. As she sped down the pair of steps from the wooden porch to the dirt road in front of the store, Keeley heard the roaring of the flames and was knocked flat by the out rush of air as the window glass exploded outward. Quickly she picked herself up, running at top speed away from the village. She could wait until later, in safety, to pick shredded glass from her abundant red hair. Keeley raised her skirts to her knees and put on a new burst of speed. She no longer knew where to head, but Keeley knew her life here was over- just as finished as that of her dead employer, incinerating in her wake. As Keeley raced toward the whistle of the oncoming steam locomotive far in the distance, she patted the side pocket of her long skirts. Yes, all the papers were still there, the set of deeds and certificates for which she had ransacked the store’s small office while her employer was still in Topeka tending to his political ambitions. Keeley now possessed the evidence; and MacDonald? Well, he was deceased, and his business would soon be in ruins. No cause would be determined: just a fire of inexplicable origins. And the orphan girl he had “befriended” some months ago? Gone, of course, just like many orphans of that time: gone off into the sunset, into the West, gone to seek her fortune; or so most would assume. Gone: that is all that would matter; MacDonald was dead and his temporary employee-ward was inexplicably gone. What could be easier? Keeley ran on, on toward the whistle, knowing she wouldn’t make it to that train, tonight, but realizing there would be other trains, other times, to other destinations; and she, Laughlin Keel MacDonald, would be aboard. Yes, Keeley would seek her fortune, but not in the West: back East, in Boston, Keeley would find her true grandparents. |
| Actor Peter Graves is dead at 83. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/03/14/AR2010031403098.... http://www.popeater.com/2010/03/14/peter-graves-dead/ http://edition.cnn.com/2010/SHOWBIZ/TV/03/14/obit.peter.graves/index.html I'll post the Post-Mortem obit link here when it becomes available. Today is the 25th anniversary of ".com" http://edition.cnn.com/2010/TECH/ptech/03/15/internet.anniversery/index.html <div align=center><a href="http://www.safekids.org/how-you-can-help/take-action/we-believe.html"><IMG src="/preview!www.safekids.org/assets/images/how-you-can-help/take-action/join-safe-kids-we-believe.png" alt="Join Safe Kids We Believe Campaign" border="0"></a></div> This week is Poison Prevention Week. Please take all precautions to keep poisons away from both children and pets! - - - - “An Afternoon at the Exposition” a historical short story Vividly I remember that afternoon in Jackson Park. I strolled quietly along, glancing over the exhibits at the Columbian Exposition. Now late in October, the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893 had been open to public view for five months. I slowed to pass time till my rendezvous in Hyde Park near the University. At two of the afternoon my married love and I would meet at a café, and spend the afternoon in reminiscences and hopeful plans until time came for his return to the family homestead. Between exhibition buildings I pulled my leghorn hat lower over my brow to protect my gracious complexion, and to conceal my face should Barry’s children be lurking around with their nanny, Priscilla. Midway across the exhibition Mall I spotted the children- all four, but the Nanny was not their guide. Rather, they gamboled in the company of their mother, the notorious Lelah Stanhope Ramsbottom herself: the enigma of my nightmares, the bete noir of my daydream hopes. I rushed around the corner of the nearest exhibition hall, till on the far side I stopped to catch my breath and realised I had raced away for naught. Lelah would not have recognised me, nor would the children. A few moments of cautious breaths and the opportunity to ponder indicated that I might have been more obvious by my sudden flight; so I turned back in the direction from which I had just fled, and approached the building on the opposite side of the Mall. Music issued forth, introductory notes, and as I paused again to listen, I heard children singing: Good morning to you, Good morning to you, Good morning, dear children, Good morning to all. Oh! It was the commemmoration of the two schoolteachers from Louisville, who had penned this song for their kindergarten to sing each morning. The cold, clear children’s voices raised in song aroused speculation in my own heart; would there ever be children of my own to sing-the product of Barry and I? If only— Tears swiped at my eyelashes as I turned from the Hall and faced away, lest I encounter once again those four products of Barry’s current life, the reasons he claimed to hold back the flood of his utmost love for me. Quickly I made for Hyde Park and the Loomis Café, where my lover would await me with that special glow and that shine in his beloved eyes when I appeared in sight. * Barry indeed awaited me at the café, in our favourite table near the corner bay. But his customary glow and shine were absent; instead, he bore a frown and a downturned glance when I entered the café. What could be wrong? Oh, surely I had not been spotted-but no, Lelah did not know of my existence. But something was amiss; my love could not even match my gaze. “Abagale! We’re finished. My wife-“ “Lelah is expecting. And so, too, is Priscilla.” |
| While pondering on the topics of today's blog, I discovered that this is the birth date of scientist/visionary Albert Einstein, and it is also Pi Day. (and in the U.S., or parts of U.S., we observe the commencement of Daylight Saving Time) For us non-mathematicians, please know that Pi is the ratio of circumference to diameter in a circle. March 14 was chosen as it's holiday because Pi approximates 3:14, or 3-14, and because March 14 is the birth date of Einstein. There's a link below to a very interesting article on CNN.com which goes into great detail about Pi, and about the observances of this date. Additionally, yet more folks have been killed in avalanches while snowmobiling; I'm constantly surprised that snowmobilers overlook the fact that the vibrations of sound can trigger avalanches. One zoo in China has allowed tigers to starve, allegedly because of insufficient funds to provide the tigers' daily meat. And China's 300 remaining elephants are squashed into a tiny patch of land. http://edition.cnn.com/2010/TECH/03/12/pi.day.math/index.html?hpt=C1 http://www.aolnews.com/nation/article/daylight-saving-time-may-throw-off-our-int... http://www.latimes.com/news/nation-and-world/la-fg-china-elephants14-2010mar14,0... Today's Free Read-continued from The Phantom Logging Operation Chapter 5 At this point, I truly believed I had experienced enough-enough shocks, enough horror-for the rest of my life. I glared at the witch behind the counter, whose bun was so tightly yanked back from her face that she resembled a skull, and whose black bombazine dress looked like something out of the turn of the century. Before she could even speak, I held up a cautionary finger and turned away, headed back up toward a center aisle where I remembered seeing a selection of plant and flower seeds. I picked up a trowel and several packets of perennials, tossing a few azalea packets in for good measure. I considered asking if they stocked rosebushes, but figured to wait until my next trip to Collins Junction for that. Way my life was going, I might be driving down to the big city sooner rather than later, just to get away for a while and spend some time in sanity. But for now, I just carried my extra purchases to the counter, set them down, and reached for my wallet. Silently she totaled them up, then handed me a bag and pointed to the total showing on the old-fashioned register. I paid and received my change while simultaneously bagging up, ready to get on out of there. Maybe she was mute, or just didn't care for this particular customer; I sure didn't care. I nodded an equally silent thanks, stepped to the door, and out onto the porch, where of course I encountered the burnt husk driver of the pulp-castoffs truck, fixing to enter the store. Chapter 6 Immediately I thought better of stepping outside, and instead I spun around, almost dropping my purchases in their sack, and moved back inside and alongside the nearest aisle. Scuttling more than walking, I pretended to hunt for some precious and essential item I might have overlooked, but I needn't have attempted concealment. The door did not open at once, and when I peeked above the shelf in front of me, I noticed that the figure behind the counter had turned her scary self toward the archway behind her and to her left, as if she had heard a noise from what must have been the store's back room-probably a storeroom or tool shed, I guessed. (Wait, Rory! A tool shed? What use would a general store, small as this one is, have for a tool shed? A storeroom, yes. Surely some kind of delivery truck brought in the canned goods and perishable notions-the flour, sugar, coffee canisters-and most likely a nursery, perhaps at Collins Junction, delivered the plant and grain seeds. Granted, this general store did offer trowels and other gardening and planting implements, but only in small quantity. I could not cudgel my brain into identifying whatever subliminal clue had inspired me to think of “tool shed” in the back.) As I continued to ponder that topic, the counter witch turned more fully toward the darkened archway, just as a young girl, appearing about twenty or so, rushed through it. Her waist-length dusty blond hair was pulled back with a wide cream-colored ribbon, her eyes were stretched wide, and her expression bordered on both astonishment and confusion. Deeming it imprudent to press closer to the front door, instead I sidled back along the shelf toward the side wall, and around behind it. The shelf stack immediately behind the front shelves were lower, and I could readily see over them and watch the strange goings-on unfolding at the archway. “Alice! What in the world-? I sent you to pack away those Easter items we didn't sell-” Hmm-so there was a storeroom somewhere in the building-but a tool shed? Surely not! Alice's expression changed to distraught. “I did, Aunt Jennie! That's where I found this!” The girl-Alice-held up a mottled, spotted old book that appeared to be an antique ledger, or perhaps a journal. Whatever it was, the covers and the page edges were foxed, and appeared in some places stuck together. Clearly the item was both old, and long untouched. I turned from contemplation of the book to look at the old witch's face just in time to watch her pale and step back, nearly stumbling behind the counter. “Alice,” she croaked, “where did you find that? “Upstairs, Aunt Jennie, as I told you: while I put away the Easter merchandise! It was in that small two-shelf faded yellow bookcase, in the back corner”-Alice turned and pointed diagonally to what would have been the southwest corner of the building- “past the two shelves with the Christmas and Thanksgiving merchandise.” Clearing her throat several times before she could achieve anything more than a throaty rumble, Old Witch-now named Aunt Jennie-told the girl, “There isn't anything back in that corner, Alice! And-that-book-should not have been anywhere in that storeroom.” Chapter 7 This had become way too intriguing to leave now. I leaned on the shelf in front of me, till I noticed a discouraging wobble, so I straightened up and tried to look as if I had overlooked picking up some essential household or gardening item. Actually I had: I needed mulch for the perennials I had laid out earlier today, before all this weirdness had begun. I slid up and down the aisles, one eye on the ladies behind the counter, the other toward the front door in case Mr. Burnt Husk himself decided to walk-er, shamble-through it in search of supplies or condiments or first-aid kits. The older woman behind the counter started to shift her attention in my direction, so I quickly grabbed up a bag of mulch and headed her way. Slamming it down on the counter, I inquired as to whether they had a sharp axe, a yard rake, and a large shovel in storage. She allowed as how they had and motioned young Alice to the counter to begin ringing up my new purchases, while she scowlingly backed through the archway, presumably to wherever the tools such as I had requested were located. (In the elusive tool shed, perhaps?) Alice calculated the cost of the mulch, shovel, ax, and rake and gave me the total. I paid her while with downcast eyes she counted out my change. I kept trying to think of conversation starters-I really was intrigued by that mottled, spotted old book, which she had laid on the far side of the counter-but questions like “Do you live here, then?” and “Are you from Knox?” seemed both puerile and nosy. Then too, the old bat would most likely return at any moment, dragging my tools, and I would be caught redhanded-or open-mouthed. I was wrong, after all; she returned empty-handed, pointed to the front door after glancing at Alice to be certain I had paid in full, and only mumbled to me, “Carl has your tools outside by your car.” I thanked them both, gave a tiny lingering smile to Alice, and headed back out, checking carefully as I opened the door to make sure I was not about to have a face-to-face encounter with char, and crossed the porch. Down the steps to the Merc, and sure enough, there waited the old geezer I had seen earlier on the porch, shovel, rake, and axe bundled in his scrawny old arms. I thanked him, unlocked and opened the trunk, and laid the tools, the mulch, and my other purchases inside. He moved away silently; as I slammed shut the trunk, I glanced up at the shimmering faces of Alice and the old witch staring through the grimy pebbled glass of the front door. |
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