To Miss Gail Reynolds

TO MISS GAIL REYNOLDS

It all started out so innocently. A few years back, we were wandering around Lone Star Antiques, and I came across a v-mail letter. In all the hours over all the years that I’d spent in antique stores, I’d never seen one. A v-mail letter is a letter sent from one of our soldiers during World War 2, special War & Navy Departments mail service.

You know that it came home with me.

Then, a few months or a year later, I was in our little local thrift store here in Roanoke. (Texas, not Virginia LOL) In a glass case, they had an old photograph, a vintage postcard, and a v-mail letter. In a thrift store – not an antique store. Of course, all three items came home with me.

But they say you have to have three to have a collection. I didn’t have three. I only had two. So, I wandered over to a site that I rarely visit – ebay. Did they have v-mail letters! More than I’d ever need. There was a collection of around 19 letters that caught my eye. All from George Tweed. Most of them to Miss Gail Reynolds, in Munday, Texas. Letters that came here, not that far from where I am in north Texas.

Yes, I had to bid on those. Yes, I won.

Now, I have more than three – so I have an honest to goodness ‘collection’ now. Ha!

But I wasn’t satisfied to put them on a shelf and let them sit. I needed to know more. Especially when so much information is there in the letters. There was enough that I got a sense of who George Tweed was. But who was Miss Gail Reynolds? What were her hopes and dreams? Did they get together after the war? Did life turn out to be what they’d hoped for?

I’ll add a spoiler here. Yes, George and Gail married. They were together the rest of their lives. And an odd thing … they’re buried together at a cemetery in southern California…the same cemetery that my ex-in-laws are buried in. What are the odds of that?

Using these letters, I wrote a story set during World War 2, To Miss Gail Reynolds. I only hope I did this couple justice as I fictionally told a story about their lives, based on the facts that I could find.

To Miss Gail Reynolds is one of the thirteen historical short stories in Pieces of the Past. It’s available on Amazon here:

Idolizing Madge

The story of how an old book from a local antique store turned into a short story – Idolizing Madge. The short story is part of a book, Pieces of the Past, that will be released at the end of this month. But the best part of this … when I got to take the old book back to it’s original homeplace of over a hundred years ago!

I’m a stalker. I’ll publicly confess.

Young or old. Male or female. Few are exempt from my furtive searching. Although, my preferences of victims are narrow. My criteria for who I’ll stalk next rests on one factor. They must be dead.

Hours are spent stalking my prey. Where do I find my victims? Not in the bars. Not on the streets. Not in the schools. My secret preying grounds? Antique stores.

A name on the back of a photo? Gladys M. Cleveland of Hamilton, Montana? You can’t hide behind that lovely vintage photograph. You died in 1952, before I was born, and left your earthly possessions behind. Somehow, the photo with your smiling face encased in the fabulous velvet gown found its way to Texas. Now our paths have crossed, and I know of your life, leaving behind one son and several grandchildren.

Names on vintage postcards? Mrs. Arno Goodman and Mrs. Elmer Gaff – you both still elude me. But the hunt is on. I’ve found others that left behind postcards. I’ll find you too.

A name on the flyleaf in a book? I’ve discovered several new friends in this manner. Alice L. Blodgett, received a book, ‘The Rosary’, in November 1915. I unearthed remnants of your life. Although how your book made its way from the south of Texas to an antique store in north Texas is still a mystery.

Little Carolyn Jane received ‘Raggedy Ann and the Golden Butterfly’ ‘From Daddy’ on October 25, 1946. Alas, with no last names, most likely I’ll never discover who you were, or where you lied buried.

The search for Lydia Mae Ellis is one of my favorite stories. In Lonestar Antiques, I discovered a book ‘Madge Morton’s Secret’. When I saw not only a name, but an address and a date inscribed, I clutched it tightly, never letting go of the book until it was paid for, and it was mine.

Mine, mine, mine!

This newest treasure was mine.

When I went home and looked up Lydia, excitement rushed through me like a cyclone. An obituary online told me so much about this young girl, who grew into an honorable and well-respected woman. Find a Grave even had a picture of her high school yearbook page. Now I even know what young Lydia looked like.

Unfortunately, none of us live forever. Lydia Mae Ellis, who became Lydia Maserang, died February 7, 2000. She is buried in Fort Worth not too far from where she grew up.

As I lurked about, stalking Lydia, I saw she was born August 5, 1913. When she signed the flyleaf of the book in 1927, it was five days after her 14^th birthday. Putting my Private Detective skills to work, I’m guessing that she might have received the book for a birthday present.

But the best part of this adventure was still to come.

I don’t go to Fort Worth often. Although it’s not that far from where we live, with traffic it’s usually an hour plus drive. But when my better half, who is fighting cancer, got transferred to an oncologist in Fort Worth, I found that now we travel here every three weeks.

One day I decided to look up Lydia’s old address and see if it was near the doctor’s office. I about fell off my chair when I saw that her old address was only seven blocks from the cancer center!

Seven blocks!

You know where we ended up after our next chemotherapy appointment was over. Yes, Lydia’s old homesite!

Alas, time keeps moving forward. These fragments don’t remain frozen in place. They end up existing in memories and snippets of pieces of the past littered about in a multitude of places.

Excited is an understatement to describe how I felt to be going to visit the home where Lydia lived when she signed the book in 1927. I carefully drove the seven blocks from the doctor’s office, anticipation mounting with each rotation of the wheels.

And…I pulled up to a small empty lot, no house in sight.

The only remnants of a prior abode existed in a small remaining pile of bricks and debris, along with a curved driveway that gave proof of where the home would have been in earlier years. A large pecan tree appears to be near where the back door might possibly have been.

Despite the lack of structure, I still spent a good amount of time on the small lot, wandering and thinking of Lydia. I wondered if she’d climbed the pecan tree when it was a mere sapling compared to the girth it boasted now. I wondered where she sat and read her books, which she obviously loved. I mused on the fact that 94 years earlier she’d been a young girl on that very lot, turning 14 years old and inscribing books. Now, many years later, I walked the same property, her book in hand, taking photos to document where our paths now crossed.

I’m a stalker. I’ll proudly admit it. Sweet, young Lydia is only one of my victims. There are more in my future. More people to hunt down from the past. Hopefully I’ll be able to make more connections such as this. No one is exempt from my prying, sleuthing ways.

F: Fiddly Bits

F: Fiddly Bits

I still remember the first time I heard the phrase ‘fiddly bits’. It came in an email. The phrase has intrigued me since.

In the never-ending task of trying to reduce the clutter from my office/craft room that is bulging at the seams and threatening to explode, I’d been trying to gradually clear a few items from here and there. Obviously not well enough, as several years has passed and I’m still in the midst of this project, looking as if I’d never gotten rid of a single item.

A lot of tiny little trinkets and tidbits had accumulated from past projects – quilting, jewelry making, and what ever fancy caught my eye. Working at a craft store for six years did not help that obsession!

When I visited a local heritage museum near the house several years ago, and saw the intricate, gorgeous crazy quilts that one of the members made, I knew right away where some of these trinkets were going. On my next visit, I brought a small container filled with beads and charms and whatever I could gather that looked like it would accent a crazy quilt.

Later that week I received a lovely email, thanking me for the ‘fiddly bits’.

The phrase fascinated me. I kept running it through my mind. It was like I was caught in the spider web that is a common theme in many crazy quilts.

According to the English Cobuild dictionary, the phrase fiddly bits means – Something that is fiddly is difficult to do or use because it involves small or complicated objects.

I knew I had to do something with fiddly bits, but I wasn’t sure what.

A few years later, I was working on a book of Christmas short stories – 100 Years of Christmas.

I knew where I was going to use fiddy bits. I created a character, Cecile Barnes. I put her in Beaumont, Texas in 1912, and gave her a chance to work on her stitchery and her crazy quilts, The short story, A Woman and Her Fiddly Bits was born.

Here’s a short snippet of A Woman and Her Fiddly Bits.

A Woman and Her Fiddly Bits

Beaumont, Texas

September 1912

Heavy footsteps stomped up the front steps and resonated into the parlor. Cecile Barnes laid her fountain pen down and shoved her leather-bound diary into the middle of the scrap bag sitting on the floor beside her. She picked up the wooden embroidery hoop framing a colorful crazy quilt square and grabbed the needle as if she’d been stitching all afternoon.

Her husband, William, hung his bowler hat on the oak coat tree inside the doorway. He removed his jacket and gave it a brief flounce before hanging it on the arm next to the hat. Shaking his head in annoyance, he settled in on the davenport across the room from Cecile. “Sitting with needle and thread again? Have you nothing better to do?”

Cecile had admired her handsome husband when he’d entered the room. With their newfound wealth, he had turned into quite the dapper dresser. But his caustic remarks brushed those thoughts to the wayside. She bit back a quick retort, took a deep breath, and replied, “Today was Women’s Club Day, but the meetings were canceled for the rest of the month. Ada has influenza, so we’re giving her house a wide berth. Decided to do a little needlework instead.”

“What’s new about that? Seems you always have a needle and cloth in hand anymore.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the tatted antimacassar that laid across the back of the sofa. “We were a few workers short in the field today. Several of the fellas are down with influenza too. Manager’s about run ragged trying to keep up with the oil production. May have to hire more men if this well keeps coming in so strong.”

Jabbing her needle into the velvet cloth, Cecile fought back her irritation. Oil, oil, oil. He complained about her always doing her stitchery, but all he talked about was that nasty substance that dominated the whole city of Beaumont. She remembered what it was like growing up there before the population exploded and changed everyone’s lives. It was no wonder she buried herself in her sewing. There was something comforting about working repetitive stitches, binding unrelated fabrics together into an elegant, creative whole.

Making the last featherstitch on the row, she pulled the thread to the back, knotted it, and snipped it off, leaving just a smidgeon of a tail. She softly stroked the line she’d just finished, admiring how much neater her stitches looked now, as opposed to a few years ago when she first learned this technique called crazy quilting.

She’d didn’t enjoy sewing before. Oh, she could perform the task if need be. Most of her clothes and the children’s clothes she tailored herself. Especially in the earlier days when money wasn’t as free flowing. But she never got any satisfaction out of the countless hours sitting at the treadle Singer. Not like now. She peeked in her sewing basket, thinking about what color embroidery floss to use on the next seam and which contrasting stitch she should use. Maybe the corner between the burgundy velvet and the indigo sateen would be a nice place to put the spider web. She didn’t have that motif worked into any of her squares yet.

“Cecile?”

Her head jerked up as she realized that William was speaking to her. “Yes?”

“I’ve been talking to you, and you haven’t heard a single word I’ve said. Your head is off in the clouds again, not paying attention to me.”

“Sorry, dear. I hadn’t—

“I’d asked you where the children were.”

Queen Mary’s Daughter

Welcome Emily-Jane!

I’m very pleased today to be sharing about a new book being released, Queen Mary’s Daughter. I became acquainted with Emily-Jane Hills Orford’s writing when her essay about mothers was included in our anthology, In Celebration of Mothers. I’ve followed her since and am excited to see her historical fiction making its debut this week.

Here’s an excerpt from Queen Mary’s Daughter. Hop on over to Amazon and check it out.

Excerpt #3:

A silence ensued and then the voice Mary Elizabeth had heard only hours before. “I hope you will spare me and make it quick.”

A swoosh.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum…” The voice was halted mid-prayer with a noticeable snap.

“No!” Mary Elizabeth shrieked.

“Princess.” Jamie reached across to where Mary Elizabeth sat on her horse, stunned. He gave her a gentle shake.

“She is gone.” She startled out of her thoughts. “I heard her last prayers. She begged her executioner to make it quick.” Tears cascaded down her cheeks unchecked.

Author Social Media Links:

Website: http://emilyjanebooks.ca

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/realpeoplestories

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ejhomusic

Blog: http://beyondtheordinaryincanadianstories.blogspot.ca/

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1732544.Emily_Jane_Hills_Orford

 

Tales of a Tale #SoCS

I’m participating in writing to a prompt for stream of Consciousness Saturday. No editing, no deliberating and changing things – just writing. The prompt for today is to tail/or tale. Use one or the other. Use both. Just write. You can have some fun with it too – here’s the link.

This was an easy choice for me. Tale – of course, because that’s what I do – I tell tales. Mostly about people or items from the past. Occasionally random totally fictional pieces. But quite often it’s a piece from the past that inspires the story, and very often I find family members entering.

Grandpa Jones did that this week. I’d started a new historical fiction short story – Best Thing Since Sliced Bread. I was using two small cookbooks from 1928 as inspiration. That’s it. That’s the whole nugget of how this got started.

When I started researching 1928, I discovered that the first loaf of commercially baked and sliced bread was sold in Chillicothe, Missouri in July, 1928. Another fun tidbit I learned was that several local delegates returned from the Republican National Convention, held in Kansas City in June 1928. A few weeks after they returned, Chevrolet Day was held – an exciting day where the community dressed up as flappers and sheiks and rode in Chevrolets with contests and prizes.

Perfect! Grandpa Jones was from Dawn, just outside Chillicothe. There were my historical tidbits and I created two fictional young girls to star in the tale.

Earlier this week I was talking to my mom and telling her about the new story I’d started. I explained the Chillicothe connection and how it came about. I mentioned Grandpa and said – he was probably just a young boy in 1928. Mom replied, “No, he was born in 1908, so he would have been twenty. He would have been tom-catting around already.”

Excellent! Grandpa Jones just made his entrance. I replied, “So if he was twenty, and from Dawn – just outside Chillicothe – then he probably would have gone to Chevrolet Day.”

“Without a doubt! That’s all he drove his entire life – Chevrolets!”

Luckily the flapper/actress wannabe/best friend doesn’t have a boyfriend. I have a feeling that she and Casey Jones will be dancing about town in this tale.

And by the way, I apologized out loud to Grandma Jones for having Grandpa flitting about town with the young flapper. Mom said that was alright, he didn’t meet Grandma until years later, when he whisked her off her feet and married her in 1935.

You’ve got to love the life of a writer. A little fact, a little history, and a whole lot of make believe. It’s all in the tales we tell.

Dear Arlie – bike

Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘bike.’

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

 

Arlie rushed to the front door and flung it open to reveal George standing on the covered porch.

He held his straw fedora in his hands, nervously twisting it in circles. “My, aren’t you a lovely vision for this fine Fourth of July?”

Arlie tucked a few strands of loose hair into her bun and primped. “Why, thank you, kind sir. And you are so handsome in your freshly pressed shirt and striking tie. Is it new?”

George shuffled his feet and dropped his head as if suddenly shy. “It is. Got it at John Campbell’s mercantile for our outing today.” He tipped his head up and raised his shoulders as if finding an inner well of courage. “Are you ready to go? I heard the band practicing on the way here. The parade should be starting soon.” He held out an elbow, ready to escort his girl.

“Let me grab my parasol and tell Mother that I’m leaving.” Arlie dashed back inside, leaving her guest standing on the wrap around porch in front of a wide open door.

George awkwardly stood, as if unsure whether to enter, stay where he was, or sit on the porch swing and wait. Before he could decide which plan of action to follow, Arlie appeared in the doorway, tucking an embroidered handkerchief in her waistband, a white lacy parasol dangling from her wrist. Taking his offered elbow, she slid a gloved hand into the bend and the two stepped down off the porch and headed towards Main Street.

A squeaky noise appeared behind them, accompanied by a soft scrunching sound. Both George and Arlie turned their heads to look and saw Arlie’s neighbor on a bike soon to overtake them.

Arlie squealed with delight. “Look at Mrs. Henderson go!”

George chuckled as he watched the woman ride past them, her eyes intent on the road and never veering towards the pedestrians. “Bet the whole population of Ellwsorth will be in attendance today.”

By the time they’d reached the downtown of their small community, Arlie already had her parasol open and was shading them both. Heat waves shimmered off of roofs and surfaces. Dust from the foot traffic billowed around the crowd, but everyone was so caught up in the excitement, that the heat didn’t slow anyone down.

A drum cadence announced the start of the parade and those mingling in the middle of the street quickly moved to the sides, clearing the way for the uniformed drum crew. A vendor passed along behind the crowd hawking his wares. “Flags here. Get your flags here. A penny a piece.”

George dug in this pocket and handed the stubble-faced man two pennies. He and Arlie now had a flag in hand to wave with the other observers. Three motor cars followed, with billowing drapes of red, white and blue festooning each vehicle. The local suffragettes followed at the tail end, waving flags high above their heads, while two women on each side of the group handed out flyers to the crowd lining the street.

Arlie frowned as they passed by. “How I wish Millie were here for the fun today. It’s just not fair that her father spirited them away to Michigan. She’s always been here for the festivities. And Pauline too. This is the second year she’s missed. I wish she hadn’t moved all the way to Los Angeles.”

“Do you ever hear from her?”

“From Pauline?” Arlie waited for George’s nod of agreement before continuing. “Yes. A postcard now and then. Not often enough. But several times a year. We were so close for so many years. She’d often take the train down from Bloomington and join us at Old Settler’s Park for different events. Now our little group this year is down to me and Alla.”

“And me,” George reminded her.

Arlie patted his shoulder in reassurance. “Yes, dear George. You too. The best part of the day.”

He grinned slyly. “Maybe before the day is over, I can make it even better for you.”

“Better? Come now, dear man. How could that be? Do tell.” Arlie pursed her lips in a pout.

“Tell? And ruin the surprise? That would never do. You’ll just have to wait for the fireworks to find out.”

“Not find out till the fireworks? But that’s hours and hours away!”

The crowd began dispersing and moving down the street towards the park. George, the ever perfect gentleman, held out his arm to guide Arlie along. “My sweet Arlie. You’ll just have to wait in suspense. Now, let’s join the others at the picnic, lest they think I’m hogging you all to myself for the whole day. Much as I’d love to do that.”

“Give a little hint at least?”

George stopped and turned to look her square in the eye. “A hint? Hmmmm…fireworks and the desire of my heart…a lover’s moon…Arlie Shinkle on my arm…”

“George Noble Paxton. That does not constitute a hint.”

“Then I suppose you’ll just have to wait. Let’s go eat. I’m famished and my stomach has been rumbling for some of your Cook’s delicious fried chicken.”

Return to TUESDAY TALES here.

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Dear Arlie – business

Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘box.’

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

The small group finally arrived at the meadow, their journey slowed by the joking and lollygagging along the way. As they headed towards the small corpse of trees where they typically laid out the picnic blanket when they came to the creek to play and cool off, Arlie spoke up. “I’m so excited about the picnic and fireworks this year.” She tried to suppress a widening grin. “I even have a new frock to wear for the Fourth. It’s got huge blousey sleeves with a fun red, white, and blue trim.”

George looked in her direction and winked. “I’m looking…”

Before he could finish his thought, Millie butted in. “I won’t be there this year. I’m going to miss it.” She pursed her lips in a pout.

Arlie stopped and spun around. “You won’t be there? But why ever not? You’re always part of our little gathering. You, me, Alla – and Pauline before she moved. You have to be there!” Arlie gestured emphatically as if the waving of her hands in the air would make it so. She paused and scrunched her eyes, little lines around the corners emphasizing her worried look. “But what about the flyers? I thought you were going to help your mother and her friends pass out the flyers we folded the other afternoon. The ones advocating our right as women to vote.”

“Father’s being a beast. He took some time off from the bank. We’re going to motor up to Michigan on Monday.” Millie frowned and stuck out her tongue. “For the whole month! Imagine! What am I to do up there for the whole month with no friends? Although – it is awfully strange that he’d come up with this grand idea so suddenly. Almost as if he’s out to foil Mother’s plan to participate with the suffrage group.”

Quiet Alla spoke up from the rear. “Michigan? Why there? You have family there?”

Although Millie’s tongue returned to its proper place, the frowny pout remained planted on her face. “No family. Father says one of his business associates told him of an Inn that’s a wonderful place to holiday at. Sauble Inn, if I recollect. There’s supposed to be a grand lake with rowing and fishing. I imagine Father will be planted behind the end of a pole for most the days. It shall be dreadful. I know I’ll pine away from loneliness.”

A young woman always shows her sunny disposition. Words that Arlie’s mother frequently admonished her with came floating through her mind to haunt her. And, although she was slightly concerned about how it appeared that Millie’s father was attempting to sabotage his wife’s activism activities, thoughts of spending time with George crowded out her other concerns. “Well, if there’s rowing that should be delightful.”

“I suppose. At least it shall be cooler up there,” Millie conceded.

Arlie turned and began walking again towards the shaded glen. “Speaking of cooler, let’s sit down the blanket and basket and go cool our feet first before we eat.”

The rest followed and soon all six were down at the creek removing shoes and socks. The three boys were slowed as they rolled up pants legs, while the three girls simply picked up the edges of their skirts and were wading about in the ankle deep creek.

George was the first of the boys in the water, trousers up about his knees and hat still in place. He made his way towards Arlie.

Arlie giggled and kicked up a foot, splashing water in his direction.

“Arlie Shinkle…” he started in protest, then chuckled and splashed a handful of water back towards her. “You better behave, or I’ll get even at the fireworks.”

“Now just how will you get even then? There’s not a bit of water about at the park.”

“No, no water. But there’s watermelon – and cold drinks. You just never know, my sweet girl.” His eyes twinkled as he teased her.

After an hour splashing about, the friends returned to the picnic area, cooled and refreshed. They dug into the hamper with relish, eating as if it were their first meal in a week. Full and replete, they lounged on the plaid, woven blanket. William and Eddie soon snored away, their heads propped up on their rolled up jackets. Arlie and George spoke quietly to one another, seated next to each other at the far corner. Millie and Alla, wanting to give their friend a little private time with her beau, grabbed their cameras and headed back down to the stream.

          

Return to TUESDAY TALES here.

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Dear Arlie – picture prompt

I’m taking a break from Ten O’clock Scholar to work on a historical short story for an upcoming anthology. Dear Arlie is a fictional tale about five friends in their early 20’s, set in 1911. While fictional in nature, snippets about these real women have been taken from actual postcard correspondences between Pauline Washburn and Arlie Shinkle.

In Tuesday Tales, we write to a weekly word prompt. Once a month we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to a picture prompt, so the posts will be 300 words or less.

Return to TUESDAY TALES here, to read other fun tidbits of upcoming works.

Arlie shook her head vigorously, causing a lock to spring from her tidy bun and drape down the nape of her neck. “Not this year. After all, I’ll be turning twenty. I’m getting much too old for that now. Don’t you think?”

When Alla and Millie merely looked at her with questioning gazes, Arlie shrugged her shoulders and chattered on. “Besides…then I can’t invite the fellas to join us. A taffy pull would be fun. The boys would join us, loving anything with candy and sweets.”

Alla snickered. “And by boys you mean George. Right?”

A haughty rise in Arlie’s shoulders hinted at her inner agitation. “Naturally I mean George. Just as you’d enjoy pulling taffy with William.” She stuck her lower lip out in a pout. “But Mother nixed that idea. She said July heat is too ferocious to have molasses boiling all afternoon.”

“Arlie Lorraine Shinkle…” Millie spat the words out in frustration. “So what are you planning for your birthday party? Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“Well…I was…maybe…” Arlie hemmed and hawed.

“Spit it out,” Alla commanded in a rare show of authority.

“I was thinking a picnic in the meadow. I’ll ask Cook to fix us up a picnic basket with fried chicken and finger foods. We could go to that shady glen nestled at the bottom of the meadow. After lunch we could wade in the stream. Get our feet wet.”

“You just want to show off your trim ankles to the guys. You’re such an indecent lass sometimes.” Millie giggled at her impudent accusation. “You are inviting the fellows, aren’t you?”

As Arlie nodded in agreement, a distant rumble of thunder echoed across the skies and through the room. All three girls dashed to the bay window.  The wind whipped elm branches about and the sky darkened with the threat of an imminent thunderstorm.

Three friends – circa 1911

Return to TUESDAY TALES here.

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Peonies and Peppermint

It’s November, time of the frantic NANO 30 day sprint. If you can call it a sprint. By the end of the 30-days, trying to write 50,000 words during the month, it hardly feels like a sprint. More like a long distance endurance challenge.

But for many writers, including this procrastinator, sometimes a challenge of this nature is what pushes us forward, urging us to hit a huge goal. And since the past two months I barely completed writing 10,000 each month, I’m looking forward to hitting some larger marks this month.

Because it’s NANO, I’m taking a break from the story I’ve been (slowly) working on the past few months, Manifesting Love Club. This month is a new tale, a historical fiction called Peonies and Peppermint. It’s set in northwest Arkansas in the late 1800’s.

Jennie Lee Barnes, her husband David, grown daughter Eliza Jane and her husband Luke, moved to this part of Arkansas three years prior, following the Civil War. Being ‘Northerners’, from Missouri, the neighbors are slow to accept these newcomers. Molly, a young girl from a neighboring farm comes to fetch Jennie’s help in birthing a baby for her mother. When Mr. Rider arrives home, he’s not so pleased to see the women there, despite his wife needing assistance.

Join us as we take a step back in time and peek in on the life of these families from the past. Then return to TUESDAY TALES to read more story snippets. Each week Tuesday Tales authors write to a word prompt, except for one week a month when we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘island.’

“We don’t need you Northerner’s here meddling in our business.”

Jennie hesitated before answering, trying to remain polite, despite the man’s rudeness. “Molly came to fetch me. Your wife needed assistance.”

“Oh, fiddle-cock she did. Now…skedaddle. Git on out a’ here.”

Eliza looked on anxiously as she gathered her mother’s supplies and tucked them back in the basket.

“Now…John…” Martha protested weakly from the bed where she lay nursing the baby. “Mrs. Barnes only…”

“Hush, woman,” the angry husband commanded. He tightened his shoulders and banged his fist on the table shaking the pail of water remaining from birthing the baby. Water sloshed over the sides and ran down the crude hewn legs, leaving a damp circle of wetness in the packed dirt floor. “They did enough damaged here during the war. She needs to just git on home. Better still…” His face turned a bright shade of scarlet as he continued his rant. “Git on back to Missouri. We don’t need you and yore likes here.”

Mr. Rider took a step closer to the bedside and Eliza scurried to her mother’s side, clutching her mom’s basket tightly in her hands, as if the woven basket could protect them from the wrath of an angry, six foot tall man.

Jennie started to open her mouth – then thought better and clamped it shut. Grabbing her daughter’s hand, the two fled the tiny abode, unsure how far Mr. Rider’s temper would flare.

The two women hurried back to their own property, arm in arm, not saying a word until they were clear of the Rider’s rickety cabin. Their stride was harried and purposeful, making the return journey almost as quickly as when they’d rushed to their neighbor’s aide.

Jennie was the first to break their silence. “Doesn’t he know the old saying about ‘no man is an island’?” she muttered, more to herself than to her daughter.

“Probably not, since I don’t know what you mean by that. I’ve heard you say those words before though. Just never gave it no mind to what you meant by it.”

“Simple enough. Merely that no one is self-sufficient. Everyone relies on others. Even if its neighbors you don’t like ‘cuz they’re from the north.”

“You make them fancy words up yourself?”

“Not a chance.” Jenny laughed and the stress lines around her mouth eased a little. “My granddaddy used to say it quite a bit. Came from one of his treasured devotion books. The one he read most often, after his Bible. Think it was an English author. Way back before his time even.”

“Surprised you even remember the saying. You must have been a small tyke.”

“Indeed I was. Barely knee-high to a grasshopper. I loved that old man to pieces.” A gentle smile appeared as Jennie seemed to step back in time, fondly recalling memories of her younger years. “Used to sit on the floor by Granddad while he read scriptures and devotions to us in the evening.”

The women didn’t tarry and kept on walking. Each seemed lost in their own thoughts. As they rounded the final bend before their property, Jennie burst out suddenly. “I remember! ‘No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main.’ It came back to me…just as if Granddad were reading aloud to me.”

“And that is what being neighborly is all about,” Eliza replied.

“It surely is, daughter.”

David stood in the open doorway of their log structure, watching his wife and daughter return. “I was worried. You’ve been gone quite a while since Eliza fetched your remedy basket. He stepped back and let the women enter. “Everything alright at the Rider’s?”

“That hard headed, obstinate man!” Jenny spit out. “You’d think we gone done and killed his favorite hog, the way he was going on. Why, just remembering what all he said has me all worked up like a wet hen again.” She moved to the wash basin sitting on the table and started scrubbing her hands as if she could wash the angry words from her mind. “Wantin’ us to go on back to where we came from. And with us just there to help his wife,” she sputtered.

—Thanks for stopping by! Join us next week for another excerpt from Peonies & Peppermint. For more reading pleasure, return to Tuesday Tales here.

Peonies and Peppermint – bread

It’s November, time of the frantic NANO 30 day sprint. If you can call it a sprint. By the end of the 30-days, trying to write 50,000 words during the month, it hardly feels like a sprint. More like a long distance endurance challenge.

But for many writers, including this procrastinator, sometimes a challenge of this nature is what pushes us forward, urging us to hit a huge goal. And since the past two months I barely completed writing 10,000 each month, I’m looking forward to hitting some larger marks this month.

Because it’s NANO, I’m taking a break from the story I’ve been (slowly) working on the past few months, Manifesting Love Club. This month is a new tale, a historical fiction called Peonies and Peppermint. It’s set in northwest Arkansas in the late 1800’s.

Jennie Lee Barnes, her husband David, grown daughter Eliza Jane and her husband Luke, moved to this part of Arkansas three years prior, following the Civil War. Being ‘Northerners’, from Missouri, the neighbors are slow to accept these newcomers. But Jennie Lee finds that her herbal remedies and midwifery skills go a long ways towards gaining their acceptance.

Join us as we take a step back in time and peek in on the life of these families from the past. Then return to TUESDAY TALES to read more story snippets. Each week Tuesday Tales authors write to a word prompt, except for one week a month when we write to a picture prompt. This week we’re writing to the prompt ‘bread.’

“Over here!” Eliza called out first. “Coltsfoot. A huge patch coming up.”

Jennie stepped over to Eliza’s side of the hollow and kneeled next to Eliza who was already plucking the fresh greenery sprouting from the earth. The women spent several minutes, tugging the emerald stalks that poked their way through the mulch of oak and sassafras leaves. Jennie added a handful to Eliza’s basket. “Better to keep it all together and not have to sort it out later.”

When they’d cleared a good portion of the patch, leaving some to grow and propagate, Jenny stood and wiped her brow. Looking over at her daughter, she squinted, as if sizing her up to see how she was holding up. Not even a bead of sweat glistened on Eliza’s brow. Jennie decided that they were good to keep going a bit longer.

They hadn’t wandered far from their first treasure trove when Jennie found the next. “Over here. There’s some nettles on this side.”

The women plucked gingerly on this crop. Even so, Eliza still muttered an occasional, “Ouch!”

Jennie laughed softly under her breath. “I see you don’t have as much experience at picking nettles.”

“No, I don’t, Mother. Honestly. I don’t know how you’ve done this for all these years.”

“It’s not so bad really. Look for the youngest ones. They’re not as prickly.”

“My fingers are starting to burn.” Eliza stuck a finger in her mouth and sucked on it to try to ease the sting.

“I’d say rub it with parsley when we get back, so you don’t get a nettle rash. But, I don’t think the parsley has come up yet. I’ll put a salve on it instead.”

“You and your herbs. Leave it to my mother to know what to do.” She stopped and looked at her mother with a quizzical expression on her face. “How’d you learn all of this?”

“Why, from my mother, of course. And her mother, too. Mostly from Granny, I suppose. She kept all the knowledge in her head. Walking through the woods with her was like having a talking book with you.” She smiled and paused, reflecting on her memories before she continued. “She knew more about plant medicine than anyone around. I don’t know but a small piece of what all she knew.”

Eliza sat on a large rock and let her mother finish pulling what she wanted.

Jennie glanced up and saw that her daughter looked paler than when they’d set out. Moving slowly and carefully up the hill towards where Eliza sat, Jennie plucked a folded dishtowel from her apron pocket. She unfolded the towel to reveal two slices of bread nestled inside the towel. “Here, dear. Have a bite to eat. I brought us each a slice. Then, let’s head back. We’ve got enough. Once your father digs the sassafras for me, I’ll be set for a good bit.”

About half way back to their cabins, Eliza looked up by a rock over cropping. She squinted and held her hand up over her eyes. “Look at all the brambles up there. It looks like berry vines. Maybe blackberries. Don’t you use blackberry leaves for something?”

“I make a tea with the dried leaves. They’re probably not leafed out enough yet. I usually harvest those around May or June.”

“You’re right. They’re not very green yet. Looks like they’re just budding. We’ll come back later to get some.”

“That would be nice, dear. I always appreciate your help. I’m surely pleased with what we did find today.”

They neared the spring and sat their baskets and walking sticks down to wash their hands and rest for a moment.

The peace was broken by the frantic calls of a young girl. “Mrs. Barnes! Mrs. Barnes!”

Jennie looked confused. She stood and surveyed the landscape, looking for the source of the cries. She finally spotted the youngster, their neighbor’s daughter, running down from the back side of the house. “Molly?”

 

—Thanks for stopping by! Join us next week for another excerpt from Peonies & Peppermint. For more reading pleasure, return to Tuesday Tales here.