Monthly Archives: October 2011

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Whispers in a Library – In honor of Halloween’s Horror Time

Just thought everyone could do with a bit of scary fun!  Beware Librarians.

Whispers floated from the back of the building, the soft words emanating from the office of old Ms. Pemberton.  Clare squinted at the closed
door.  Shaking her head, she flipped the lights back on in the main room of the small town library and briskly walked down the corridor.

Kids, she thought to herself, can’t let an old woman’s things alone.  This was the third time this week she had to get them out of the Librarian’s office.  Teenagers goofing around, thinking that it would be fun being locked in the library all night.  Little did they know, she laughed quietly. Taking the keys from her purse, she slipped the metal into the lock and turned the knob.

“What are you two doing in here?” she demanded as she stepped into the office and turned the light on.

Tommy Totherow and Frances Ledford both looked up in surprised.  “Ms. Ridgely…is it closing time?”  Frances stuttered her eyes wide like a doe.

“You both know it is.  It’s almost midnight. Why are you hiding back here?”

“We were just trying to find out if it’s true,” Tommy stated gallantly.

“Find out what?”  Clare lowered her head and raised her eyebrows.

“If the ghost of Ms. Pemberton actually haunts this place,” he finished.

Clare regarded the two in contemplation.  Ever since the body was discovered in the office one morning, rumors flew around the small Georgia town about her ghost haunting the library.

Smiling to herself, Clare motioned for the teenagers to get out of the office.  “There are no such things as ghosts.  Come on you two, it’s time to go.  I’m sure your parents are wondering where you are.”

As she escorted the young people out of the library, Clare realized she forgot to lock the office door.  Waving farewell to Tommy and Frances, she quickly secured the main entry before anything could escape.  Walking back to the Librarian’s office, she noticed the air had begun to chill, her breath hung briefly as she grew closer to the end of the corridor.

She really needed to be more careful, she thought to herself, or they would get out and then everyone would know.  Nearing the door, she saw a pale wisp forming at the threshold.  Smiling, she looked at the ghost of her reflection, the eyes wide in terror.

“Thank you dear for giving up your body.  This is just what an old woman needed, a fresh new start in this century.  Have fun with the others, nothing above a whisper though, ya hear?”

 

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Simmering Under the Ashes: A meeting with Eva Friedlander – Holocaust Survivor

Dr. Starostina's Special Topics Class "The Third Reich"
Dr. Starostina’s Special Topics Class “The Third Reich.”   Eva Friedlander and Dr. Starostina

 During this semester, my advisor, the lovely Dr. Starostina, is teaching a special topics class on NAZI Germany and the Third Reich.  Part of our discussions have centered around the victims of Hitler’s plan to create a master race, by eliminating those he felt were inferior to the “Aryan” race of Germany.  This list included, along with Gypsies, homosexuals, the mentally challenged, the sick and infirmed, the people of the Jewish belief.  His ultimate plan was to wipe them from the face of Europe. World War II was such a horrific time in Europe, especially for those on the above list.  Our class was privileged today to have Eva Friedlander, a Holocaust and War survivor, give a presentation of her book, the “Nine Lives of a Marriage – A Curious Journey,” which is her memoir of  the war, coming to America and her life here in Atlanta, Georgia, as a displaced refugee.  Eva Friedlander, a Hungarian Jew, and now citizen of the United States is 90 years old and an entertaining speaker.  Our class could not get enough of her stories.  “We are sponges,” commented one of my fellow students, “fill us up.”  With grace, and an overwelming amount of wonderful knowledge, she did just that.

Her opening statement was pronounced and emotional, “No one in today’s generation, understands what it means to be persecuted in their own country.”  While loving her homeland of Hungary very much, she was very dissatisfied with its people during the moments before and during World War II.  Working as a secretary at a legal firm, she watched as the NAZIs move in the politics of Hungary reached to restrict those of the Jewish faith every day.  “Tightening the noose,” she said.  Restrictions were minimal at first, then suddenly, you were told you could only spend a certain amount of time at the grocery store, there was a limited amount of time you could spend at the bank.  One day, the lawyer she worked for, was no longer allowed to practice his law at the courts.  Then the next step, taking families from their homes and forcing them to live with 2 to 3 other families in a small 2 bedroom apartment.  What angered her, was the fact ,that the people of Hungary went along with it.

Mrs. Friedlander said she was lucky, because she found a job cleaning after the law office shut down, and the gentleman she cleaned the house for was tied to the underground.  He alerted her that it was time she and her mother got out, because people were disappearing and not coming home.  Receiving fake passports and papers from the man, the two women took on different identities and lived in another city.  Normally a blond, Mrs. Friedlander informed us that she dyed her hair dark and work glasses, so no one would recognize her.  Cutting off communication with those they knew, the two women packed a small case and left their home, and did not return until the Allies reached the country.
It was during the time that they were hiding, that the war came to an end for them, but not the hardships.  Daily air raids were stressful, but the two women knew that with the arrival of the allies, the persecution would be over.  “90% of people hiding in the basement with us during the bombardments were not from the area,” she said softly, as the remembrance of the time filled her mind’s eye.  She relived in her words, the day the Russians soldier’s found their group hiding out in the basement of the villa and her brush with almost being raped.
During the time after her speech, there were many great questions about her book.  But one question caught my attention about her homeland of Hungary, and how they are now making laws against the gypsies there.  Mrs. Friedlander answered with a poignant statement, “Simmering under the ashes, the thought is there.  It is frightening to me to see this.  If a country goes down monetarily, it is a breeding ground for the extremist.”
It leaves this writer with a thought.  While we think we have learned all the lessons there is to learn about prejudice, has this world truly?  Or is hatred still “simmering under the ashes?”  Watching the television, I tend to think we are fasting heading back to that time of persecution.
Eva Friedlander and her assistant.
Eva Friedlander and her assistant.

You can read about Mrs. Friedlander and her Husband George in her memoirs, “Nine Lives of a Marriage – A Curious Journey.”  I urge and recommend it.  She’s such a wonderful lady.

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chainbooks.com – Finish what others started!

As one of the writers for chainbooks.com, I thought it would be good today to post one of the starter chapters I wrote for the website.  A unique idea of collaborative writing, those at chainbooks.com just completed the site and all are welcome to visit, and if you like a story, you can write the next chapter, contributing to the growth of the story.  www.chainbooks.com

This is one of mine, titled “Devil in Disquise,” and can be found in the mystery section.

It was darker than she remembered.  Walking through the dilapidated building, the young woman carefully maneuvered through
the crumbling walls of the old mansion.Was it her memory, or was it the nightmares?  She could not seem to recall where they had
been playing that day.  The day Alice Hinkle died was lost to her, and only snippets of a battered picture replayed
itself once the hours of the day faded.

Tiptoeing up the large staircase, she made her way to the second floor. This house always was a mystery, she mused.  Someone else died here too.  Sarah Ledford, the old spinster who lived by herself, incarcerated behind pulled curtains, murdered her lover when he tried to leave her.  His existence forgotten until she passed away, the act hidden until the Sheriff discovered her decaying form lying next to his skeleton in the upstairs master bedroom.

This was why the house drew her when they were younger.  It had an air of the unnatural, a substance of blackness which brought fear and excitement together within her.  In a macabre way, it was enjoyable.

How did Alice Hinkle die?  Her thoughts turned quickly to her childhood friend as she rounded the corner, her eyes darting to the partly open door at the end of the dim hallway.

Her body was found in the basement, twisted and grotesque, her small limbs mangled, lying in a pool of blood like a discarded ragdoll.  It was the only thing she could remember of that day.  Until recently, that memory was kept tucked away, shut in the back corners of her mind’s closet.  She cut herself several months back the blood gushing from her arm must have triggered something in her subconscious.  At least that was the explanation of her doctor, Amy Lowell.

“Your nightmares won’t end, until you go back home, and confront the house,” Dr. Lowell advised on her last visit.

“I’m not sure I want to go back.  I think Alice was murdered,” she protested.  “Isn’t there something else we can do, hypnosis or something?”

“Meg Pearson, you’ve repressed these memories for a very long time.  Perhaps visiting your parents and reconnecting with them will help bring some peace to your troubled psyche.  This episode in your past was very traumatic, and not meeting it head on will only continue the
nightmares. Find out what really happened that day.  Talk to people involved.  You may find your answers at home with your
family and friends.”

Meg sighed, but reluctantly nodded her understanding.  Her youth had been troubled, her relationship with her parents strained.  She did not even venture home to her father’s funeral several years ago.  The choice to come back and visit her mother was a difficult decision, one she had not wanted to make.

Yet, here she was, home.  Meg wanted to stop by the old mansion before heading to her mother’s house.  The place still held sway over her, its darkness mingling with the haunted visions of her nightmares.  There was something about the house; it spoke to her again, even after the many years which had escaped since their mutual acquaintance.

Her hand pushed on the aging wood of the bedroom door, the hinges protesting their use.  She fought the cobwebs and entered the master
suite.  Old Sarah Ledford’s furniture still remained, covered with a veil of dust and age.  Gliding to the window, she peered beyond the
fraying fabric to the overgrown gardens below. Somehow her mind allowed a brief glimpse at a time past, before Alice had died.  Dottie Henderson, Cybil Pruett, Alice and herself found a loose board on the outer fence and trespassed into a new kingdom of girl’s delight.  No one
had been on the property in years, the ivy claiming parts of the brick walls, smashing through the barrier of the windows.
Birds had flown from the chimney, screaming their dislike at the visitors.

The next time they had come out, they brought Alice’s boyfriend, Don Ashton. Don’s father was the preacher in town. He complained the entire time they were there, making the adventure less enjoyable.  Only after several trips and many promises, they were able to keep him quiet.  It was so very long ago, that the rest of it was lost to the muddled cobwebs of memories which refused to untangle and allow her mind rest.

Sighing she knew she must leave.  The dusk was settling, and the shadows of the lawn were creeping into the house.  She did not want to be here in the dark.  The dark still held terror for her.  It was the time when her nightmares claimed her existence, and Alice’s corpse stared at her with such an accusing face, the bulging eyes screaming at her.  Quickly she made her way down the stairs and out the door. Her car stood humming in the evening light, beckoning her to its safety.

The drive through town caused a variety of emotions to surface.  Things which she kept buried beneath tried to unlatch the door to her soul, but she refused them, placing an even bigger lock on the door. As she pulled into her mother’s driveway, she felt she must contain the urge to turn around in haste. After several seconds she finally opened the car door and slowly made her way up the sidewalk to the front porch.

It was not as she remembered.  How long has it been since she was home? Fifteen years? Maybe, she did not want to remember.  Before her finger touched the doorbell, the entrance flew open, and there stood her mother, Judy Pearson, looking tan and youthful, beautiful and happy.

“Meg, oh Meg!  I am so glad you’ve decided to come for a visit.  Come in dear, come in.”  Ms. Pearson opened the door wider and motioned with her hand to the interior of the yellow frame house.

“Your flowers are lovely,” Meg stated simply, not knowing how to start a conversation that had waited for such a long time to be spoken.

“Well, it’s a hobby I’ve taken up since your father passed on, God rest his soul. Always thought they were a nuisance in his yard he used to say.  He never liked anything pretty.  If it was drab and ugly, it was for him.”

Meg tried to recall his preferences, but found she could only see his unsmiling face as he glared at her for spilling ice tea on the kitchen floor.
“You stupid girl, God didn’t give you much grace did he?” he shouted.  Throwing a towel at her face, he pushed her to the floor.  “Wipe it up,
before I take a belt to you!”  A military man, Mr. Pearson demanded strict discipline in his regiment, as well as his home.  Meg moved the scene from the frame of her mind’s eye, and locked it away again.

“Did you get my message?” she asked softly.

Judy Pearson looked at her daughter for a moment, her brow suddenly furrowed as she sat on the loveseat.  “Sit down Meg,” she gently commanded, motioning to the overstuffed chair across from her.

Meg sat cautiously, the old fears of making too much trouble in her parents’ home returning.  She lowered her eyes and stared at a small
stain on the carpet just beyond the tip of her shoes.

Her mother regarded her with a puzzled expression.  “I don’t know quite how to take what you said.  You’ve been seeing psychiatrist?”

Meg nodded, her eyes still studying the spot.

“What is going on with you?”

“I’ve been having nightmares about Alice.”

Judy Pearson turned white.  Her eyes appeared to sink from her face, and her mouth hung open, like a gapping fish.
Meg thought she resembled Alice in her nightmares.

“My doctor thought if I came back home to talk to people about what happened that day, it may help me settle my mind.”

“God! What a terrible day!” Judy exclaimed her hands coming up to her face to hide her eyes.  “I thought you would have been done and through with all that, Meg dear. I’m sorry…”

“Mom, I need help remembering.  You know, maybe it’s all connected, Alice…Dad…”

Judy stood up abruptly, her fingers intertwining themselves over and over, as she quickly tried to find some chore to occupy herself with.  “Alice’s death and your father are not connected, no matter how much you try to blame the two for your life and your choices.”

Meg felt the bite of her mother’s words.  She swallowed hard, fighting back the scream which welled from the pit of her stomach. Anger was the hardest to contain in her closet, and this time she felt she may not have a firm grip on the lock. She stood up with force, knocking the stool by her feet over.  Her mother turned quickly at the sound.

“I’m sorry,” Meg muttered, her anger quickly vanishing at the scowl.  She bent and set the obstinate piece of furniture back on its legs.  Her mother smiled.

“Let’s not fight dear.  I haven’t seen you in forever, and I want us to become friends.   Can we try again?”

Meg mustered a small smile and nodded her agreement.  “Sure.”

“Good! Your old room is still available. Just like you left it.”

Taking Meg by the arm, Judy Pearson led her daughter down the hall.  Flipping the light switch, she turned the doorknob on the last door at the end of the hall.  “See baby doll, just like you left it.”

Stepping across the threshold, Meg felt transported back in time to 1993, and she was fifteen once again.  Her ribbons, school books, posters, animals and other knickknacks had waited for her return, their placement within the four walls still in line with the General’s command of preciseness.

“You kept everything?” Meg asked in disbelief.

“I felt taking it down was removing you.  While your father demanded it, it was one time I refused him.  Felt good to disobey that man for once.  He was such a difficult person,” she sighed.

Meg picked up one of her old teddy bears.  Its familiar feel softened the harshness of the rest of her mother’s house. “I need to get my bags out of the car,” she said, as she quickly put the toy back into its place.  Old habits die hard she thought, as she carefully arranged his body to stay in line with the others on the shelf.

Outside, she stood for a minute, looking at the other houses on the street.  Trees had grown taller, the paint more worn than she recalled, but all in all, they had not changed in the past fifteen years. Across the street, Mrs. Taylor was watering her rose bushes.  Seeing Meg, she raised her hand in a brief wave.

“Meg Pearson is that you?” she cried in delight.

Smiling, Meg crossed the street.  Mrs. Taylor was the only kind person she remembered from her childhood.  Teaching history at the local school, Mrs. Taylor had taken Meg under her wing during some difficult times with her father.  Meg never forgot the sincere understanding and affection the woman had shown her.  She had a son who was six years older than Meg, Steven.  Steven had graduated high school before Alice’s death, and was in college during the whole affair.  Meg only remembered him briefly, when he came to their door with a basket of fruit his mother sent over.  Steven stood awkwardly with the gift, his eyes never leaving her face.  Thrusting it towards her, he murmured how sorry he was about her friend.  After he turned to walk back across the street, Meg could only stand and watch him go. For a small moment, she felt some connection to this boy who looked at her directly, with a gaze that seemed to know who she was without even asking, but it was lost as soon as he slammed his door shut.

“Meg, you have grown into a fine young woman.  How are doing dear?”  Mrs. Taylor inquired kindly.

“I am fine, thank you.”

“It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you.  Are you living in the big city?  Did you get a dream job after leaving us?”

“I went to college, but I don’t know if I have yet to find that dream job,” she laughed lightly.

“Oh to be young again!  I would give anything to be single and living in a big city.  So much art, music and life.  You must come for a visit before
you go back, and have some tea with me. I want to catch up on what’s been happening with you.  Steven calls, but doesn’t visit as much as he
used too.  I enjoy having youthful people around, keeps me young.”

Meg nodded, “I’ll try to swing by in the next couple of days.”

“That would be fabulous. When I told Steven I heard you were coming, he said he wanted to perhaps come for a visit also.”

Meg’s heart skipped a beat.  “He did?”

“Personally, I think he’s had a thing for you.  You know it was his idea to make a fruit basket for you after we heard about Alice’s death.  He sat up several nights in a row staring at your house.  I’ve never seen him that concerned before.”

Meg grew quiet.  Her memories never incorporated Steven until the day he appeared at her door with the basket.  Had she known him before that?  Fragments of conversations hung in the particularly dark aspects of her mind’s closet, but they were incoherent.  The youthful voices were limited to the shrill scream of Dottie and Cybil, and the quiet specter of Alice. She could not bring forth any recollection of Steven except for that one day.

“I never knew that,” she calmly stated.

“Well anyway, he never married.  I figured it was because he was waiting for someone like you maybe.”  Mrs. Taylor smiled hesitantly.

“I’ll see you later.  I’ve got to finish unpacking.”  Meg waved and crossed the narrow street. She felt uncomfortable at Mrs. Taylor’s words and wanted to end the conversation.

Gathering the things from her car, she entered her mother’s home and went to the bedroom at the end of the hall.  In her sanctuary, she placed her belongings with those of her past.  The present items of her life seemed underscored compared to them, as if those of her past wer expressing
such indignation that she brought such nonsense into their room.

“Mind your manners,” she commanded gently to her teddy bear, feeling as though she was the intruder.

Unpacking her clothes, she found room for them in her youthful bureau.  Opening the top drawer, she noticed a slip of paper sticking out from the top of the space.  It did not give easily, the tape which trapped it to the interior wood sticky with age.  It was an old note from school.  Dirty and yellow, the paper was fragile, as it appeared to have been opened and closed repeatedly.  Read and re-read, she assumed.  Looking at the small square, she tried to visualize what the content must be.  It must have been important for her to take the time to hide it.

Sitting on the bed, she stared at it.  It was daring her to open it, the lettering hidden beneath the creases calling to her, wanting freedom from the cell of the unknown.  She carefully erased the folds, and held it up.  The pencil marks were fading, but not so gone that she could not make out their message.  What she read, alarmed her, and fear tuned itself within her heart.  The ghost of Alice found its way home.

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When it Rains, it Pours – Can Anyone Really Manage Money in this Economy?

This week is winding up to be one of “those” weeks.  Yes, I know each and every one of you have experienced times like this, when you feel that your cup is truly running over, but not in a good way.  The old proverb, “when it rains, it pours,” is following me around like a bad odor, or like a green fog you see in cartoons.

What happened?  (I know you are asking, because you want to see if yours adds up to mine, and we can compare notes about how the stars have it out for us.)

My dog went into labor this past Sunday.  It would have been okay, I guess, but my beagle happened to have difficulty and the first one died, and the second one was headed that way, but I saved it.  THEN, the third got stuck, and poor Paisley had to be rushed in the morning to the Vet to have emergency surgery.  This was not good.  I’m in school and on unemployment.  Anytime emergency surgery comes into conversation, it is never good money wise, and in this case, when handed the $524.00 vet bill, I could feel the migraine coming.  Good news, one other puppy was alive and brought home with her brother.

Tuesday informed by my bank that I had to pay $140.00 at 2:00 pm. This needed to be to paid by 4:30 pm or it would report negatively on my credit report.  Hmmmm, did I mention I was in school and on unemployment, and just got handed a $524.00 Vet bill?

Wednesday, had no money and no gas to get to school.  (Gas has risen .40 cents in the past week.)  Running on fumes I remembered I had $20.00 to pick up at a local consignment store.  I bought a .79 cent coke and put the rest in my tank.  Needed caffeine to keep awake because I spent the night trying to catch up on homework I missed doing this past weekend. Got to school, and realized a 6 page draft is due in one of my classes, and I haven’t even had a chance to start.  Worried about Paisley.

Thursday, spent all day at school, took a writing test at 7:00 pm for the education department after tutoring all afternoon.  (Still driving around on the $20.00 Thank GOD, but now wondering how long that will last.)  Had to buy groceries also on Tuesday, and spent double what I normally do, even though I brought less than what I normally buy!! Everything has doubled.

Luckily, now I have noodle soup, and lots of beans and rice now, so I will not starve, but being in this situation has made me extremely sensitive to others who have it worse.  I know it seems like I am complaining, and I guess in a way I am.  I feel like I have already been down this road too many times when I was younger and rather naive about money management.  But now I’m in my forties, and it should not be this way because I have mastered that lesson.  What happened?

I read articles on Yahoo written by a lot of different reporters who explain how you can save zillions in just 20 years, by cutting out all the non-essentials.  I wonder if these people have actually lived in the real world.  We have cut out all the non-essentials, and other than constructing a tent out in the yard and living there, we are pretty much down to the very bone, and still do not have the means to cover all our bills.  (And these bills are not credit cards, just expenses for everyday living).  I am convinced that no matter what I try, there is never going to be enough at this time to pay what needs to be paid.  As long as gas stays above $3.00 and unemployment rates high, as well as groceries prices excelling into the “I can’t afford that” range, we will not ever experience any type of organized money management, much less a savings account that has more than .72 cents in it.

When it rains, it pours.

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The Large Blue Tub – Part Two (A Tribute to the Civil Rights Movement)

As I historian, I am always researching.  Getting a tub full of old letters, documents, papers, and so forth from my grandmother’s cedar chest was a gold mine for me.  I have been shifting through the chaos for a while and jotting down notes about what I’ve found.  This particular post deals with my great-grandmother Martha Neely Gay.  For those who have read Book One, “The Forgotten Spell” of my series Legends of Green Isle, you will be familiar with some name dropping here.  My characters like Ms. Stacey, Thomas and Ned Neely, Miranda and her mother, Martha Gay, and of course Matt and his brother Toby Kelly, all carry the honorary names of those in my family’s history.  Referencing back to part one of “The Large Blue Tub” written last month, I have continued going through the letters and papers of Ms. Mary Louise Gay, (my grandmother’s aunt) and discovered a blank envelope with a large amount of papers and newspaper clippings in them.  After carefully extracting the aged paper, I discovered it to be a letter from the Forest Park Baptist Church dated March 31, 1954 from Pastor G. Nelson Duke, addressed to T.G. Gilbert (my great-grandfather) and Family.  It was a kind regard from the pastor for the passing of my Great-Grandma Martha Neely Gay, and in the letter he gave the information about the verses he read from the bible for her, and also a poem.  She died on a Sunday afternoon, March 21, 1954, after waging war with a heart ailment for about five weeks.

This post was going to be about the verses and poem, but something changed my direction. (I think it was the news about the celebration of MLK new memorial in Washington, D.C.)  The pastor referred to the verses  of Matthew 25: 34-40 as a reflection of my great-grandmother’s life and how she treated people around her.  I got curious so I picked up the Bible and read them.

Then the King will say to those on His right, “Come you who are blessed of My Father,

inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world.  For I was hungry,

and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger,

and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison,

and you came to Me.”  Then the righteous will answer Him, saying ”Lord when did we

see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty, and give You drink? And when did we see You

a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You?  And when did we see You sick,

or in prison, and come to You?”  And the King will answer and say to them,

“Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine,

even the least of them, you did it to me.”

My Great Grandparents lived in the heart of turmoil in the 1950s.  Times were definitely changing, and so were the people in the South.  In 1954 the U.S. Supreme Court struck down the “separate but equal” doctrine which formed the basis for state-sanctioned discrimination by way of the Jim Crow Laws.  On May 17th, 1954, just two years before Martha Neely Gay passed away, the Supreme Court also ruled that racial segregation in public schools was unconstitutional.   With this in mind, I go forward about a year after great-grandma’s death in Montgomery, Alabama, and enter Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King.

Rosa Parks, after hearing a speaker talk about the brutal murder of a young African-American, decided the next day that she had enough of discrimination.  When the bus driver asked her to give up her seat to a white person, she refused and was arrested.  It did not take long for Martin Luther King to become involved and he put forth the Bus Boycott in Montgomery which lasted about a year after this incident until December 20, 1956 when a federal decision, Browder v. Gayle took effect, and Alabama’s law, along with Montgomery’s law, requiring segregated buses, was ruled to be unconstitutional as well.  The Bus Boycott was one of many successful things which happened for the Civil Rights Movement, and took place not too far from where my family lived in Alabama.

Not far from Forest Park Baptist Church, there is now a MLK Expressway.  I know you are probably asking where this is going, right?  Well, I thought about the verses, and what the author truly meant by them.  The heart of the matter?  Well we need to treat everybody with equal kindness, compassion, thoughtfulness, love, and quit trying to separate those good things from our human nature based on irrational judgements of people just because of the color of their skin, their sex, or their handicap.  We all put our pants on the same way in the morning, one leg at a time, and if you cut any human, we all bleed red.   We, as educated people, need to look at those around like they may be Christ in disguise, and treat them the way they should be.

While Civil Rights has made immense progress, there is still some work to be done.  I guess I will dive back into the large blue tub and see what other connections I may find in there.  I think I want to see about the letters from World War II.  Hey, you guys have a great day, and do not forget, love conquers all things.

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Short Story – Grandma’s Blackberry Patch

It’s been one of those days.  Here is a little short story which the emotions decided to write.  I do not know why, but I cried while writing it.  I guess it was because the emotion which wrote it was sadness. A work in progress which will be submitted to this year’s Prose contest for the Corn Creek Review here at Young Harris College  

            Grandma Tinning died on a stormy Saturday night last fall, right before my thirteenth birthday.  I was there with her, as well as my mother, and I remember the smile she gave to me as she drew her last breath.  The release of her soul was peaceful, her face relaxed as she left this realm, and traveled to the place where grandfather waited for her.

I remember mother being very upset, her world upside down, tears flowing freely, without any regard for proper appearance in front of the doctor and others who gathered with us, as they covered her mother with an old quilt kept on her bed.  While the rest of the family held mixed emotions concerning grandma’s death, especially one of my aunts, for me, it brought deep sadness to my heart; the only child of the eldest daughter, her death marked the progression towards the hollowing and aging of my soul.

Grandma and I were very close, and often when I visited during the holidays or summers, we would steal away from the rest of the family.  Tired of the formal attire, and attitude, to which our family adhered too, we sought the uninhibited flowers and trees, which coaxed in both of us, the wanton desire to mix with the inhuman, and converse with those who lived among their branches.  Grandma loved walking down to her gardens and talking about the wildness of youth, and what she did as a young girl to quiet her untamed heart.  Even though she was my grandmother, she seemed to understand what flamed a girl’s secret desire, and spoke of love with such a passion, that it kindled in me a fire which could only be extinguished once we reached the secret gate behind the blackberry patch, and entered into the magical world beyond.

Back behind grandma’s blackberry patch, there was a secret opening to a hidden refuge she created long ago when grandfather was alive.  It was a place she always talked about with love, as they both shaped it to be their own hiding place from the rest of the world.  The place held mystery in my eyes, and as she opened the wooden gate, it was almost as if we stepped from this earth into another world not visited by humankind very often.  Grandma Tinning
would tell me about the fairies that lived back in the dark corners of the garden, and how she visited with them every month when the moon was full.  The fairies first appeared before grandfather died, marking a strange pact for both of them, she told me. Only after his passing, as grandma became alone, did she find a new friend to keep her company.

“Before I had you Lucille, the fairies were my companions,” she whispered with a smile.

She still conversed with them from time to time, she confessed, and during the light of the full moon, the fairy prince would become human just for her, and whirl her into waltzes, to music played by the numerous grogs and frogs that formed the night time band. As a child, I believed every word, and watched as the dusk would come, and the lights would fill the garden and the blackberry patch, and grandma would pointand say, ‘there, Lucille, there  under the willow trees, behind the blackberry patch, there is where my prince and I will dance next time the moon is full.’

Watching them lower her into the frozen ground, away from the beauty of light, and fairy magic, caused something within me to die as well.  Her stories, which were once clear, began to fade, and my memory refused to hold on to them.  It was only after the funeral came and went that I began to understand why there was so much mixed emotion about her passing.

“Celia, mother was getting senile.  All those stories she told Lucille about fairies living in her garden were plain nonsense.  Why, she was eighty plus years living in a child’s world.”

That was my Aunt Estella, the youngest of grandma’s daughters, but she thought herself the wisest.  Aunt Estella did not marry like my mother and her sister, Maggie, instead choosing to continue her education through graduate school.  She was actually a PhD, but my mother did not like calling her doctor, because she felt Aunt Estella went to school just to get the title so she could look down on others.

“Stella, there is no reason to badmouth mother in front of Lucille.”

That was Aunt Maggie.  A middle child, Aunt Maggie faired the best of all of them.  Quiet and aloof, shy and mild-mannered, she married a very handsome doctor, whose practice thrived in the rural mountains of Tennessee because of his and his wife’s gentleness and caring.

“Mother loved her gardens, and if they were magical to her, and made her happy, then that is all that matters to me.  You need to stop Stella, before we say something each of us will regret.”

That was mother.  Always the mediator, never wanting to fight, but would if she felt a wrong being committed.  She was also the divorced woman, whose decision to take her own life into her own hands, instead of allowing her husband to control it for her, ended a fifteen year marriage.  She was happier now, more so then with papa.

“Both of you need to realize the woman was living in a dream world towards the end of her life.  I bet if you look at her will, she made changes, leaving everything she owned to this supposed fairy prince.  I bet there was some man who came every month pretending to be this wonderful lover, and got her to change her will.”

Aunt Maggie sighed, the sound heavy and impatient.  “Stella, is that all you care about, mother’s will?  I think this is the umpteenth time you have brought it up.  Really, sister, you disappoint me.”

“Mother’s will was locked up after father died.  She has not touched it.  All she cared about after dad’s death was her garden that he built for her.   I handled her money transactions.  She did not want to bother with any of it, she told me,” my mother replied.

I kept quiet, sitting alone by the large window overlooking grandma’s blackberry patch.  Did any of them know what lay behind it?  Had grandma taken any of them to the secret gate into her world of magic?  I wondered if they even knew how wonderful the fairy lights were at dusk.

“Well I still want the will read out by my attorney.  I do not want any unforeseen obstacles to probating the estate.”

“For God’s sake Stella, the woman’s not been in the ground more than a day, and all you can think about is mother’s will and things.  It is just stuff, no bond of love, or word of comfort, will come from it,” Aunt Maggie retorted angrily.  I could see Aunt Estella was getting to her nerves again.

“I do not want to stay here any longer than I have too,” Aunt Estella snipped briskly.  “I had enough of this manor when I was younger.  Mother never took to me like she did you and Celia; there was never any ‘love bond’ between us.  I rather not dwell on unpleasant memories.”

I watched Aunt Estella march from the room, her shoulders thrown back, black suit starched to stiffness, never giving way to creases or touches.  I always found her to be very sad.  She was so smart, but not smart enough to realize what she needed to do to belong in a family.

“Celia, that woman cannot be our sister, she is like a dragon, her fire scorching everything it touches.”

My mother took a smoke from grandfather’s old cigar box.  It was one of her hiding places in the manor.  When things became tense, she would puff on about half of it and then gag, often voicing her wonderment at why she ever picked it up.  This time I saw her hand shaking, and she drew a breath longer than normal, her eyes watering.  But whether from the smoke or something else, she refused to allow the liquid to escape its captivity.

“I have never understood Stella.  She always seems to think only of herself.  Mother left the estate to be divided equally among us.  It is almost like she is afraid of being left out,” mother murmured as she exhaled the cigarette smoke.

Aunt Maggie said nothing.  Her eyes wandered around the room until they caught me in their study.  Nodding, Aunt Maggie smiled lightly, the motion brief, as her eyes reflected sorrow that her heart could not contain.  I could tell she was deeply affected by grandma’s death also.

“Well, tomorrow it will be over and done with.  Let her attorney read it over, for pity’s sake, so at least she feels in control of something.”  Mother stamped out the smoking cigarette in
the ash tray at the corner of the desk, her lips drawn into a frown as she punished
the piece of tobacco, twisting it and mashing it until it was just a small piece of white pulp.

I stayed at the window long after they left the room.  The evening breeze was picking up and the sound of the rustling leaves was comforting.  It was like grandma’s voice, soft and
assuring. I could hear her whispering in my memories, to come and follow her out to the blackberry patch, leaving the unkind world behind, and seeking the solace of magic, in the secret place beyond.  The manor was deathly quiet, and I suddenly felt that I could not take its silence any longer.  The sun was still above the horizon, and I needed to find our place once more, before all was abandoned as youthful things are most often discarded, into the back of a box, and they allowed grandma’s secret garden to become overgrown and forgotten.

Escaping from the crowd which was congregating down below, I slipped through a side door and into the freedom of grandma’s yard.  Running towards the blackberry patch, I was delighted to see the fairy lights already peeking in and around the green leaves and dark crimson berries.  Her magic had not faded yet.

Following a half hidden stone path, I quickly darted around the edge and squeezed through the thorny branches, as they tried to keep me from the secret gate.  Grandma was back there, I could feel her hand reach for me, and I wanted to be with her, for just one last time, to hear her tell me of her fairy prince, and the midnight waltzes under the silvery full moon.

Squeaking with irritation at being burdened with opening, the hinges to the gate finally gave way and allowed me entrance.  I crossed the threshold, and stepped into grandma’s fairy world.  It was as I remembered it, the color flowing like an endless sea of flowers, the scent intoxicating.

Her fairy lights darted quickly, hiding themselves from view, uncertain of the visitor which suddenly intruded into their kingdom.  The frenzy which I felt earlier, dissipated as I walked to our stone bench by the lily pond.  Cottonwood seed floated on the gentle wind as I place myself on the center of the cold seat, and I sang the calling song, which grandma taught me many years ago, the hum of the words seemed so forlorn now, more so than before.

And I waited.

The ticking of time passed more rapidly than I wanted and I sang again, this time with more urgency.  Yet, the fairy lights stayed within their shelter and refused to show themselves.
No matter how hard I sang, none came forth, venturing to visit like they did when grandma was here.

Then as the sun settled at the edge of the earth, the shadows filled the garden, and the vibrant colors begin to wash from their places in the petals.  Once in awhile I saw the brief glimpse of fabric behind one of the azalea bushes, or passing behind the dogwoods and crepe myrtles, but the movement was gone before I could clearly see the pattern of the dress.
Now as I think back, it seemed to me to resemble the gay frock that grandma used to wear.

As the sun laid itself to rest, the full moon rose, and I stayed, my hope to see the fairies one last time powerful, and unyielding.  I glanced at the orb above me in the night sky in anticipation.  Would her fairy prince come out now, to dance with me like he did with grandma?

Time waned, and the air became colder, and the cottonwood stopped their dance, and the flowers lost their colors entirely as the light of moon bathed them in quiet sorrow, and washed them of their life.  I shivered.  Grandma’s prince did not come.  And as the silvery glow became obscured behind thick, dark clouds, it was then, that I realized, grandma’s magic had said its farewell.  The garden behind the blackberry patch became just like every other ordinary garden, and I was alone.

by

Somewhere in between Self Pity and Happiness

I am a writer.  I write fantasy, sci-fi and horror.  The Poetry Muse did not start speaking to me until about a couple of years ago when my ex-fiance left and the most wonderful man in the world entered my life.  It was at this time, that my emotions wanted to speak, but not in story form.  So I let it, and every now and again, the muse makes an appearance and some form of poetry escapes me.

This poem was written in Spring.  I was waiting for my 1950s History class to start and then, all of a sudden, the words poured forth.  Luckily I had my journal in my backpack. So here is this one:

Somewhere in between Self Pity and Happiness

The days have crept away, their life such frailness

taking with them to the setting sun, all the sorrows and wishes for what might have been.

Lying awake in the darkest hour, listening to the silence of night

I ponder,

I wonder,

what has happened to such precious time?

The hours spent in turmoil, thinking myself the unjust or persecuted.

When all which lay before me was the whimsical path of God.

Setting in motion a journey which took me

to somewhere between self-pity and happiness.

Should I choose to look back,

all I would see,

is the youthful charade of self-doubt.

It was always there, simmering underneath

and once the shell removed, its shadow lifted.

Truth.

Laid bare, exposed and bright.

My happiness is self-made, and self-pity is its death.