Celeste's Journal

The candles on the Christmas tree were magical tonight.  It is Christmas Eve.  I can not believe how quickly this last year has come and gone.  As always I feel nostalgic on this night.  In our family it was so wonderful.  There were years when we had very little of material possessions.  It was the love that we shared, the faith of my parents that brought a warmth I will remember always.

Blake and I shared the ritual of putting the boys to bed.  Blake reads a story.  I tell a story, (I'm still not very good at reading English), and then we sing two songs that they choose.  They go to sleep wrapped up in our love.

After the boys were thoroughly tucked in to their beds, Blake took me by the hand and led me downstairs.  When we were putting the boys to bed he had put the fires out of the candles.  He NEVER would leave them burning unattended.  He lit them again now.

We sat in his oh so comfortable settee in front of the fireplace.  I love snuggling close to Blake.  He feels so strong, so powerful, I treasure those moments.  I feel protected, beloved, and in the times when I am away from this family I cling to those memories.

I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be the time that Blake would finally propose.  It has been several years since I ran away from Madame LeRouge.  Jamie is almost five years old.  Eric is in school.  He loves school, and always gets wonderful grades for all of his topics.  Eric brings home work that he doesn't need to do but loves to do.  Miss Cready raves and rants about this marvelous boy.  She believes that he will someday do miraculous things for our world.

I KNOW that both of these boys, MY boys, have infinite potential.   I am grateful every single day for their presence in my life.

At first when I lived in town in my charming shop, I would worry about what people would think about my staying at the ranch with two men.  Then I realized that no matter what I did, those people relished thinking the worst about me.  I have given up caring about the opinions of these narrow minded judgmental people.  (Well most of the time anyway).

Snuggling so close with Blake I felt passions beginning to rise.  I did my best to squash them down.  I will never again experience intimacy without marriage.  My lack of celibacy was forced upon me.  It will not happen again.  I do NOT believe in that form of love  before marriage.  A child should be blessed to come into a loving family, not some single woman who has a most uncertain future!  Ah, wishful thinking, the good doctor told me, after Angel was born, that I could never again bear a child.

Blake and I kissed for a few moments.  He took my face in his hands and said, "Celeste, I am grateful every day that we found each other.  You are the best Mother these boys could have."  Then he stopped, cold.  A distant look came on his face.  He stood and said, "Well it's been a lovely day but we'd best get the presents out, and prepare for the morning, don't you think?"

I wish that Blake would get rid of that iron wall he hides behind.  I know that telling me 'I'm the BEST Mother the boys could have,' reminded him of the two women that he lost that WERE the children's 'Best Mother.'"

We gathered the toys from Blake's hiding places.  We placed them carefully on the comfortable settee in the great room.  Next we filled beautiful velvety socks with apples, walnuts, an orange for each boy, and some ribbon candy.  I love the beauty of this unique candy even better than the taste.

I'm weary.  I have sewn like mad this last week.  I had so many orders to fill.  Finally, with my protests Blake hired Sophronia Evans to come and help me.  She is an amazing seamstress.  She's also remarkably pregnant.  Bless her heart, she can barely waddle.  I remember what it was like to carry a child, my Angel.  I will always treasure those memories, until we can find her.  I will never give up trying to find her!

It's after two in the morning.  I know the boys will be awake earlier than early.  Their minds will be filled with the possibilities that Christmas Morning brings.  I've already tried to sleep.  I must admit, my mind may also be filled with wondrous possibilities.  Could Blake have a ring under the tree?  Could this be the time, the day, when he stops living in the past and wishes to love me in the present?

****(This is a note from the author of the Drifting Anchor Series).  You may notice that Celeste says she can't read English very well.  You also must imagine that her journal is actually written in her Native French.  Since I don't speak French beyond a casual Merci Beaucoup, I include this note only as an explanation how she can write in English when she can't read it.

Celeste's Journal

Christmas is coming again.  Not right away.  Autumn leaves are still covering the ground with a carpet of gold.  I love to go to the ranch.  Blake was very thoughtful about the trees that he planted around the house.  He planted several fire maples.  Their crimson loveliness is my favorite.  The leaves are shaped so delightfully.  They explode into brilliance when autumn arrives.

One day when I was watching just Jamie, I took a couple of quilts outside.  First we had a delightful picnic lunch.  We had bread, cheese, some grape juice, and some delicious apples.  Then Jamie fell asleep on the quilt.  I covered him with the other quilt.  I decided to snuggle next to him and watch the leaves waft gently from the trees, down, down onto us.

The next thing I knew Jamie was moving around awakening from his nap.  I felt absolutely the strongest contentment.  We had a blanket of brilliantly covered leaves over our quilt.  I told Jamie to hold still for just another moment.  I told him to watch the leaves over our heads.  The sun was shining through them.  We were far enough away from the ranch house, and yard that we couldn't hear the busy workers there.  Silence was complete.

True to his nature Jamie's stillness did not last very long.  He was up and raring to move!  So we gathered the quilts, shook them, and gathered all of our picnic foods.  I took Jamie in the house and we did a couple of chores.  I think a day needs to be balanced.  We do something fun, then a necessary task, then something fun, and then another necessary task.  I feel much more content with my life when I approach it in this manner.

Eric was soon home from school.  He and Jamie went outside to do one of their myriad daily chores.  Blake came in and talking me by the hand he led me outside.  He asked me to walk with him.  So we walked hand in hand along the path that leads to the river that runs through his ranch.  It was so beautiful.  God's hand was evident in the colors, textures, and smells of the season.

After we walked for about a half hour Blake turned me towards him and slowly, oh ever so slowly, pulled me close.  He kissed me.  A single shaft of wind blew the leaves around us as we kissed.  I never wanted that brilliant moment to end.  I will cherish this day for the rest of my life!

Writing?

I wake up in the morning thinking, what worlds will I create today?  As I format a new book, the character seems to speak to me.  (No, I am not quite delusional, ok, maybe just a little...hee hee).

My book, "Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch" is available on lulu.com   The Nook and Kindle formats are not yet available.  Anyone who lives in the locale around Farmington, Utah may purchase my books, "Beth, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch," or "Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch," at Aunt Addy's Country Home, 58 North Main Street, Farmington, UT.  There is a $3.00 price break.  Online it costs $19.99 plus shipping.  If you purchase your book at Aunt Addy's you can request a book signing for your book.  I will make arrangements to meet and sign.

I have NOT written or published these books in chronological order.  Eventually the order will be as follows, Ardis, Sarah, Celeste, Angela, Lily, Rose, Beth, and the novel to tie up any loose threads, Tapestry.  I write each book to stand alone.  On the other hand, each book fits together like pieces in a puzzle.

In addition, I love to give you a peek behind the scenes, here on my blog.  I will soon start to give a few behind the scenes for Angela, which is the next book to be published.  Angela is feisty, damaged, but wanting desperately to love and be loved.  Abandoned at an orphanage, adopted at the tender age of six by a murdering thief, forced into human slavery, she finds her redemption in the Calkin family of the Drifting Anchor Ranch.

As I write, I grow to love each and every one of my characters.  I LOVE to write.  The printed word is magical to me.  Think of how reading works.  Our eyes see letters, and words, and then our brain interprets the things that we see.  One word, one sentence, can mean something different to pretty much everyone that reads it.  I'm always thrilled when I create a sentence that dances right off the page, and creates joy.

Please, keep reading, and I will keep writing!  You know you're curious to find out more about the Calkin's and their ever so typical lives of the 19th century in Western America.  Thanks for all the support I have received in this process!

A book signing? Really?

It took me 25, long, insecure years to finally get the courage to publish.  Actually these books, these stories were formulating in my head long before that.  I just didn't think anyone would want to read my little books.  I couldn't even get my husband to read them!  To be fair he didn't read novels for the last 10 years of his life because of his many health challenges.  In addition, how many men do you know that want to read a book about gushy, mushy, romance? 

I had heard tales of authors claiming that their writing was driven by the voice of the characters they had created.  I thought that it was a charming idea, but let's face it, a little wacky.  AND THEN, Celeste.  I know very well that one of the first rules in writing is WRITE WHAT YOU KNOW!  I work earnestly to fulfill this standard.  When your story is filled with the passionate joy of words arriving and then being spread across paper, those words need to be from your experience right?

So I begin to write Celeste.  Let's see, oh I think I'll make the character from France.  That's the idea!  Her Father has followed a long generational line of Master Vintner's.  In France his chance of ever becoming Master of his OWN vineyard is zero to none.  He wishes to travel with his family to the reputedly fertile fields of Oregon to develop his own line of wines.

The family immigrate by ship.  While on board all of Celeste's family die.  Innocent at 14 she barely can speak English.  When she arrives at her families destination she has nowhere to go and nobody that she knows.  She is trapped into sexual slavery.

For those who know me, does that sound like something from my life?  I can joyfully announce, NOPE!  I have never faced those types of challenges.  I pray that I never will.

I was so startled by the first several chapters that I wrote that I put them away.  I didn't want to think about any of that awful stuff.  I am a firmly avowed "Happy ever after," sort of writer.  (Yes I DO know that life doesn't always seem to follow that pattern.  That is just when you are looking at life as a finite set of parameters.  When you open your mind to the possibility of eternity I firmly believe there WILL BE a "Happy Ever After."  The book "Celeste", didn't even seem like it COULD have a "Happy Ever After."

One week later I was watching a documentary with my husband.  (We loved watching them together).  I was stunned to find out that sexual slavery is at an all time high in our world today!  People are actually paid to troll the streets of America looking for unsupervised children that are easy prey.  HORRIFYING!  They also target the mentally challenged.  Even though their bodies have grown into adults, their minds are and always will be childlike.

I don't believe in focusing on fear.  I prefer the practice of faith.  Faith in God, in family, in the fact that this evening the sun will go down, but in the morning the sun will rise again.  Yet it is ever so important that we are educated about the subject of human bondage and sexual slavery.  It simply is no longer wise to leave our unsupervised children in the front yard to play.  Either we must be with them, or they must be in the backyard.  One story told about a child being two aisles away from his parents.  That was all it took for this predator to sexually abuse the child.

Children are our future!  Where would be if Mozart did not mature into his music?  How about Einstein and his mind boggling discoveries.  None of us knows what untold greatness the children in this world possess.  I forgot to mention one of the greatest losses this world would have known.  My beloved parents.  They were humble, but they were powerful.  They spent their money and lives serving others.

It takes only one heart-stopping-tragedy-engendering second to snatch a small child.  Please, watch over our children.  When I'm in a public place with children giggling and playing all over in front of me, I watch ever so carefully.  There will be nobody kidnapped when I'm around!

After watching that documentary I got my Celeste manuscript out and went back to writing.  I am now a believer that you can become so invested in a character that you feel as though they are writing the book.  Oh not some creepy "channeling" sort of way.  I do know that these people are fictional.   If I start to talk to you about these people as though they ARE alive, please stage an intervention and get me immediate help!

This book signing day has been an extremely long time in coming.  I never believed that it actually would.  (I'm working on that insecurity thing of mine).  So tomorrow I will be sitting in a comfy chair smiling brightly and hopefully signing many books.  What a thrill to have written two books.  I have a third novel coming out in the next several months.

My mind is filled with untold stories, and songs.  What a joy it is to create!

Celeste's Journal

Eric was with me for the weekend.  He's such a serious, thoughtful lad.  He's very protective of me, and of his younger brother Jamie.  One day he and Jamie were crossing the road.  A man came galloping into town on a horse.  He was traveling so quickly that he would have run down Jamie.  Jamie was frozen with fear.  Eric simply scooped Jamie up and moved him out of the way.

Blake, Red, and I were all startled at Eric's selflessness.  It's very unusual for a child his age to think of his brother's life first and his second.  I have no doubt that he will grow up to become an amazing man.

I'm often surprised by the maturity of Eric's questions.  Today he asked, "Maman, where did we live before we were born?  Did we come from Heaven?  If we did, what is Heaven?"

I responded, "Those are all excellent questions Eric.  Have you asked your Papa these questions?"

"He's always too busy. 

"Well your Father is a very important man Eric.  He has lots of responsibilities to accomplish each and every day."

"I know.  I just wish that maybe he could count me as one of the tasks that he marks off a list everyday.  I love my Papa, so much.  I would like to go fishing with him sometimes."

Celeste smiled.  "Did you know that I'm an excellent fisher?  I used to go fishing with my brother when we were young.  We never came home empty handed."

"Really Maman?  Would you take me fishing?"

"I have no appointments after 1 this afternoon.  Let's make a sign for the window, "Gone Fishing," lock the place up and go."

Suddenly Eric looked sad.  "I don't have a fishing pole."

I laughed, "Neither do I.  It's a good thing that I know how to make a fishing pole from a stick, and some string.  There are lots and lots of juicy worms where I like to fish.  Carter's Creek is a great place to fish.  With that tiny stream running into it there are lots and lots of fish."

We had a wonderful afternoon.  We caught some beautiful fish.  We took them home and cooked them.  I'm pretty sure that fresh fish are the most delicious food in the world!  I'm going to have a chat with Blake.  He needs to know how Eric feels.  Childhood is so short, and so precious, Blake really doesn't want to miss it!

Celeste Journal

I hold Jamie ever so close to my heart as I rock him.  He is boldly fighting sleep.  His eyelids began to droop downwards, but then he pulls them open again.  I begin to sing to him.  Little songs ma mere sang to me.  Tender verses about safety and love.

Jamie is so beautiful.  His hair is thick and black.  His eyes are a much darker brown than his Father's or Brother's.  Their brown is golden, like the syrup from a maple tree.  Sometimes when you look deep into Jamie's eyes you feel that there is no bottom to them.

His hair is so soft.  It feels as if you are stroking silk.  His lips are perfectly proportioned.  A perfect Cupid's bow is centered in his top lip.  Many people thought Jamie was a girl for the first two years of his life.  I wouldn't call him handsome.  I'd call him beautiful.  His skin is the loveliest shade of almond.  I have never seen  more perfect features on a male, adult, or child.  Even though I'm only  his "Foster" Mother I suppose that I might be a bit partial.  On the other hand he IS beautiful!

I wish that I could have met Sarah, Jamie's Mother when she was alive.  She was going to be, "The Leader of the People."  Her people, her heritage, readied her to lead the People.  The People was the name of her tribe of Indians.  She told Blake that her people had come long ago from Jerusalem to the new world.  In the Bible God calls those that follow Him, "The Chosen People."  Sarah said that along the many years the "Chosen," part was dropped from their tribal name.

She was betrothed at the tender age of ten to a handsome young man named Vanque.  He was two years older than Sarah.

When Vanque grew up he became the Leader of the Protector's.  The Protector's were not Warriors in the typical sense of the word.  In Sarah's life the Protector's had never waged war with other people.  They protected by teaching about planting, fishing, and hunting.  They also taught people about caring for their bodies.  They also showed by example the importance of worshiping the Great Spirit.  (Their name for God).  So the Protector's were a composite of hunter-gatherers, wise men, and doctors.  They had excellent battle skills that they never quit practicing, even though nobody in their lifetime had ever needed those skills. 

I must have thought about Sarah too much.  One night I dreamed that she came to me.  She was so lovely.  Looking at her I understood more about why Jamie is so beautiful.  She said, "Celeste, woman who Mothers my birth child Jamie, and my child of the heart Eric, I wish to honor and thank you.

"You need to know that I'm watching over you and over our children.  Please continue to love them.  You have the heart of a Protector.  You are fierce when you need to be, and gentle when you need to be.  In addition you are close to the Great Spirit.  I know that you pray to him often.  Sometimes I am close listening when you pray out loud."

"Please do not give up on Blake's love.  I am afraid that he will take a very long time to heal and marry you.  Be patient with Blake.  He is a very good man, and he needs a very good woman.  You are a very good woman.  It is an odd thing to try and find a new wife for your husband.  I will always love him.  On the other hand, he is so lonely.  He needs you, and you need him.  So again, be patient, please."

"I know that for most humans it can be difficult to believe that we live after death.  It's especially difficult to believe that we can visit the living after we are dead.  Knowing that, I'm leaving behind a tiny thing that will help you remember and believe."  Sarah leaned down.  Brushing hair away from Celeste's head she kissed the very highest point of her forehead.  "There, now you will remember.  Remember this Angel Kiss that I am leaving for you is very sacred.  It will always help you remember that there are angels watching over you and the family that we share.  I love you Celeste."

The dream was over.  I remember awakening feeling groggy as though I had not slept long the night before.  At first, I didn't remember the dream.

After I had dressed, made coffee and was sitting in a chair in my kitchen, the dream came flooding back.  Quickly I walked into the shop.  There is a large mirror that I placed on the wall.  Slowly I lifted my hair.  There was the faintest outline of a lip print.  I lowered myself into the nearest chair.  Sarah's ghostly visit couldn't have been real, could it?
 
 

Book Signing for Celeste

Two times before I have arranged to have a book signing for Beth, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch, and now my newest publication, Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch.  First my beloved Mama passed away so I had to postpone.  Then the owner of my venue became ill and had to close her store for several months.

The old saying is, "The third time is the charm."  So here we go, third time, and it WILL be charming!  Aunt Addy's Country Home, October 25, 2014, from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m.  The address is 58 N. Main, Farmington, UT  84025.  Both books will be on sale that day.  If you live in or around the area, please join us.

Aunt Addy's is a gift store.  So while you purchase my book you can do some Christmas shopping.  The shop is a charming home from the 1800's.  In the room that used to be the kitchen you can see a remarkable DIY project.  There are beautiful wood floors in all the rooms.  In this room a former owner painted the floor to look like tiles.  It's very well, done, charming.

Aunt Addy's is a consignment shop.  Many of the gifts that you purchase there are home made.  This is a marvelous way of supporting local craftsmen/women.  There is a gift for almost everyone within it's humble walls.  The best part?  The prices are quite reasonable.  So, come one, come all!  It's a book signing party!

Celeste's Journal

A week has passed since THE NIGHTMARE.  I have done my best to keep busy, busy, busy...too busy to let the past have purchase in my thoughts.  I stayed at the ranch this weekend to watch the children.  Red and Blake went on a business trip to Portland.

It was pure joy to awaken in the morning and race into the boys rooms.  I stood to watch the sleep slowly creep from their eyes.  I then awaken them fully with hugs and tickles.  The awakening process quickly turns into full scale battle.  Pillows are flung and bashed about.  Finally, finally, after much rejoicing and enjoying, I encourage the boys to wash up, and get dressed.

I take my own advice and dress for the day.  Next I race to the kitchen.  I relish the simply tasks of morning.  I make coffee for me, and hot cocoa for the boys.  I made a Quiche last night.  I start a fire in the stove.  The Quiche simply needs to be warmed in the oven.  It is filled with the most luscious things, bacon, ham, eggs, cheese, and some asparagus that I grew in my very own garden.

In the midst of this joy I could hear Mama's voice in my head telling me to pray.  Softly I say out loud, "I'm sorry to disappoint you Mama but I can't.  I still believe that God is either a hateful being, who rains down pain and destruction on whoever he randomly wishes.  At the very least God is high in his Heavens where he simply does not care about the small tragedies of the earth below."

Pushing those negative ideas aside I call out to the boys, "Breakfast!"

I can't believe how quickly their small legs can move.  Soon they join me in the kitchen.  I don't even have to ask them to set the table.  They quickly, quietly go about this routine morning task.

When the table is set and the food steaming in front of us I say, "Well, dig in boys." 

Eric's rich brown eyes look at me with shock.  "Maman, we can't eat without thanking God!"

In my head I counted to five slowly.  It is never my desire to cause these beloved boys to harbor MY bitter thoughts.  I counted to five to slow down my tongue that wished to rattle and prattle about God and his cruel ways.

When I knew that I was calm and in control of myself I said, "Eric, I'm sorry.  Maman DID forget.  Would you say grace?"  I figured that my little lie was better than the truth in this case.  I hadn't forgotten.  I hoped that the boys would forget. 

Every time that I hear a prayer it feels as though a tight little twist happens somewhere in the vicinity of my heart.  God allowed my entire family to die.  I was alone, and God allowed Madame Le Rouge to inflict evil on me.  I don't know if I can ever let myself feel vulnerable to God again!

Yet I felt a tender warmth as Eric, with his childish voice said, "Oh Father in Heaven, it's a new day.  Please come with us in this day.  Please let Maman know that we love her.  Thank thee Lord for sending us a new Maman. Oh, and bless this yummy food that Maman made for us.  We pray in Jesus name, Amen."

Jamie and I said, "Amen," at the same moment and then smiled at each other across the table.

I write this after the boys have gone to sleep for the night.  They were busy, busy, busy boys today.  Mostly I ran after them, and with them.  We went on a picnic.  There is a beautiful meadow not far from the the ranch house.  The weather was perfect.  Jamie gave a beautiful prayer of grace over this meal.

I was humbled at the notion that Jamie, little, tiny Jamie could, and did pray.  I had helped the boy's say their night time prayers many times.  These prayers were different than their simple night time verses, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take..."  Then they would continue with, "God bless..." 

I try to be a good Maman to these boys even though usually it is from a distance.  At the same time I know that these boys give me much more than I ever give them. 

I wish that I could pray.  If I could I would pray for this beautiful family.  What a gift they are in my life.  I simply can no longer imagine life without each and every one of them.  Even Red has a strong place in my heart.  He is my brother.  He does not take the place of the dear brother I lost, he is altogether a different brother.

Blake, oh I sigh as I write his name.  He is not handsome as most would see him.  His features are slightly rough, a tad uneven.  His eyes are piercing.  Honestly, when he gazes at me sometimes I feel that he can see into my soul and read my thoughts.  That is most uncomfortable when my thoughts are, "I wish Blake could let go of the past and love me.  Marry me."  I don't want him to read THOSE thoughts.

Well, I needs must sleep.  There are not many hours left in the night and I need my rest to enable me to keep up with my energetic, frenetic boys!  Good night.

Celeste's Journal

I heard some poor woman screaming.  I wanted to wake up and go to her, comfort her, give her courage.  The more and more I awakened, the more I realized that the screaming was coming from my own mouth.  Then I remembered.  The dream...THE NIGHTMARE!

I haven't had THE NIGHTMARE for a very long time.  I was hopeful that I might NEVER have that night terror again.  The darkness of my life experience has cast a long, bitter shadow over my happiness.  What good, decent man will ever wish to marry me?

I was just fourteen years young.  I was so innocent of human reproduction.  I had seen animals in our farm in France.  I had no idea that humans also participated in similar experiences.  Mama had barely explained to me that women had a time of menses every month.  I had no idea how that could connect to the sexual, or even what sexual was.

I try hard not to remember his bloated, evil, face.  I don't want to remember his name.  There was nothing left of light or goodness in that man.  I had been dressed up like the village virgin given to a dragon as a sacrifice.  I didn't know that was why Madame LeRouge had me dressed in a lovely white dress.  I didn't understand why my hair was carefully brushed, and then curled in soft curls.  All that I knew was that Madame LeRouge would not let me leave.  She had locked me in to a room in the supposed "Boarding House." 

She had initially told me that her place was a Boarding House.  I suppose it was in a way.  I was allowed to board there.  The payment was my body.

Locked into a room I had pounded my hands bloody beating on the door.  When I tried to climb out of  the window I discovered that it had been nailed in such a way that the shutter could not be opened.

I heard a key turn in the lock of the door.  An older man came in the room.  At a glance I knew that he was evil.  Lust filled his eyes.  There was nothing human, nothing caring, left in those eyes.  They seemed to be the eyes that the Devil himself would have.  Perhaps it was the Devil looking through the man's evil eyes, and his evil purpose.

He began to undress me.  I resisted vigorously.  He backhand slapped me so hard that I tasted blood.  I didn't know until later that he had knocked one of my bottom teeth loose.  That calmed me for a moment because I was dazed.  Quickly I came back from my shock.  I kicked, I screamed, I bit, I fought.  This only seemed to excite him. 

I will not go any further with the horror of that night, that still reaches to me in nightmares.  Suffice it to say that when he left the room I was no longer a virgin.  I was beaten, bloodied, and almost unconscious. 

Emmy, Madame's illegitimate daughter came to me.  She is one of the only ones in this place of evil left with a soul.  She gently washed me all over.  Then she called Tallelujah to help.  The Big Ugly One that works for Madame took off the dress, and underclothing, that were now ripped and bloody.  Then Emmy and the Big Ugly put a nightie on me that was soft and warm as a baby chick.  That was good because I began to shake.  I have never felt so cold in all of my life.

Emmy gently, so gently brushed my hair.  Then she rubbed my head with some sort of soft oil.  It smelled how I imagine soft would smell.  Next she braided my hair in one single braid. 

Tallelujah gave me something in a small cup and told me to drink it.  I didn't even ask what it was.  It tasted vile.  It felt good going down.  I felt a fiery warmth flooding my body.  My anguish seemed dulled by this liquid.  It wasn't that I didn't hurt anymore.  I hurt everywhere.  I just didn't really care, about much of anything.

I had been sobbing the entire time they worked on me.  Emmy now climbed into bed with me.  She told Tallelujah to climb in on the other side.  They snuggled me warm between them.  At first I protested.  Human contact seemed dark and evil after my rape.  Soon their warmth, and the warmth of the liquid smoothed me into unconsciousness.

How I long for a time when the evil of that night will have no more power to take my peace.  It no longer impacts my conscious mind, but my unconscious mind seems as vulnerable to that darkness as I was that dreadful night.

I have thought that I should never write about that place of horror.  I don't want anyone to ever know what it was like.  Yet somehow writing about it, even though it forces me to re-live it, also takes some of the venom away from my soul.  After writing about it, I realize that I will overcome.  There will come a time when I no longer dream that pain, or only dream about it very rarely.

What a blessing it would be to awaken from that dream to the loving arms of a man.  Ironic, since it was the evil arms of other men that took my peace of mind.  Yet, just from knowing Blake Calkin, I remember that there are other types of men.  Kind men, that would NEVER cause harm or pain. 

Celeste's Journal

Eric and Jamie were with me today and then stayed with me overnight.  Red will come and get them tomorrow.  I adore these boys.  I feel as though they are mine.  I simply could not love them more. 

Eric is growing so quickly!  I can't seem to keep pants long enough for him.  I sew him new trousers about every two months.  I leave the hem incredibly thick so that I can keep unrolling them as he grows...and he still grows out of them in two months! 

I asked Red what he was feeding the boys. 

He laughed and said, "I don't know if I should tell you.  If I reveal my secret we may have a superhuman growth of humans!  What kind of a world would it be if all people were as tall as Blake Calkin?" 

I laughed at him.  Blake is very tall.  He's six feet four inches, and our world is not built for anyone that tall.  He has taught himself basic carpentry because he simply could not find chairs or tables to purchase that were tall enough for him. 

Blake also learned some basic upholstering because in his words, "When I'm finished with my work day I need something soft to sit in."

I believe Blake could do absolutely anything that he wanted to do! 

That is the end of my journal for tonight.  A wild thunder and lightning storm has rolled into our little town, and both of the boys are now clinging fiercely to me!

Celeste's Journal

A pounding headache awakened me this morning.  Outside I could hear rain pounding.  Vivid flashes of lightning were punctuated by loud booms of thunder.  I could not pull myself from bed.  I went back to sleep.  And then...  I was awakened by a thunderous pounding on my shop door.

Glancing at the clock on my wall I realized that my shop was supposed to be open a half hour ago.  I flung on my wrapper, and dashed down the stairs, doing my best to ignore the violent pounding of my head.

Opening the door slightly to hide my state of dishabille I discovered Lucille Butler and her three small daughters, Alexa, Bertie, and Willie.  Now my head was REALLY pounding. 

In her most snippy tone Lucille said, "Are you sick?  We can't risk catching any disease from you."

I wished to slap that smug, snotty, superior look off her face.  I knew that I can not afford to lose her business.  So I said, "No, you can not catch my headache.  Come in.  I will just rush upstairs, dress, and then I will be back to help you."

Lucille did not utter one single word of condolences for Celeste's pounding head.  She sniffed in her most unattractive manner.  "I suppose that will have to do.  Such poor business practices are hard to accept!"

The next hour was torturous.  Lucille pulled out each and every bolt of cloth.  She chose the fabric for her daughters.  Then her daughters proceeded to have a temper tantrum.  Not just one Bond daughter but each and everyone of them. 

At the height of the madness, Blake Calkin strolled in.  Celeste noticed that he hesitated when he saw the Bond girls screaming and wailing.  He smiled briefly, "Lucille, girls."  Blake lifted his hat to each of the Bond's.

"Excuse me ladies but I must speak to Celeste, privately."  Blake took Celeste's arm and led her into her kitchen. 

"Thank you Blake.  I simply can not express to you what a blessing it is to have a distraction from the screamers."

Blake said, "I wanted to invite you out tonight."

"Out?"  Celeste asked.

"It's such a beautiful day.  I thought we could go out to Carter's Creek and have a picnic.  I will bring the food.  I'll pick you up at six?"

Celeste sighed, "Blake it sounds divine.  I have a migraine headache and the Bond ladies are NOT helping the situation."

Blake moved forward and began to massage Celeste's neck, head and shoulders.

The sensation was so marvelous that Celeste felt as though she would melt into the floor.  After only a short time Celeste stopped Blake.  "Blake this feels like Heaven but I can't afford to lose the Bond's patronage."

Blake said, "I'm going to stay while you assist them.  I think they may be a shade kinder if I'm witnessing their actions.  Then I'm going to massage you and get you some headache powders.  I will just spend the day with you.  Do you agree to that?"

Turning Celeste gently around so that she was facing him slowly, deliberately, he leaned down and kissed her gently. 

The kiss was gentle but Celeste's reaction to it was anything but gentle.  She was certain that she could hear fireworks, drums, perhaps an orchestra or two.  "Yyyess Blake, I would love to have you spend the day with me."  

Lucille called out in her most nasal tone, "If you have no interest in assisting me, I can take my business elsewhere!"

Blake whispered in Celeste's ear, "I will NEVER understand how a good man like Willard Bond married th tha thattt  Lucille!"

Hand in hand they walked out into the shop.

Anchors for good, or for bad?

 

Anchors have been used for a very long time.   They provide a way of holding a boat in place.  This is a good thing for many reasons.  It's helpful if you need to stop in one place to fish.  It's helpful if you need your boat to stand so that you can rest for a while.  There are many useful applications for an anchor.

Anchors are extremely heavy.  Not only does the ship pull at them, but they are buffeted by wind, rain, and ocean currents. The above picture is an anchor from the 1800's that was rescued and now plays the part of a reminder of time gone by.

Why did I choose the title for my series, "Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch?"  Why choose an anchor to name a landlocked ranch?  Well, actually, it's not really landlocked, the Columbia River is on part of the property.

Blake Calkin, the founder of the Drifting Anchor Ranch, is shanghaied at the age of 14.  He rises to become a ship Captain, and owns his own ship by the young age of 20.  He has reached an age, 22,  when he wants to build his own ranch, and start a family.  He looks all over the world and just can't seem to find the right place to build.

One night he has his 2nd in command take over so that he can get some much needed rest.  They are very close to the junction of the Columbia River, and the Pacific Ocean.  This is a very dangerous place to be.  The currents of the ocean, reaching the current of this great river creates a dangerous shifting of sands.  Even the most experienced of captains struggle to navigate this portal.  It has been named "The Graveyard of the Pacific," for a very good reason.  There have been myriads of shipwrecks in this space that have been recorded.

Running aground Blake is astonished at the beauty of the area that they have landed in.  He spends an hour walking around looking at the land.  He realizes that he has found the place that he wishes to make his own.

The crew fix the minor damage to the boat, and Blake commands it to Astoria.  There he goes to the land filing office.  He is very nervous that the area has already been sold.  He is ecstatic to discover that he can purchase five thousand acres, even ten thousand if he wishes.  He has wisely saved his money.  He sells the boat to his second in command and travels back to his new home.   He travels the ten thousand acres for a week before he finally determines where he will build his log cabin.  When trying to find a name for his ranch he remembers what led him here.  Drifting Anchor Ranch it is!

An anchor can actually be a negative thing.  If not set properly it can drift, pulling us off our life's course, and even running us aground.  It is good to have your life anchored to something positive, like having faith in yourself, your family, and your God.  On the other hand, if you do not set that anchor properly, by choosing to fill your time with shallow choices, you may find yourself run aground.

Anchors are hugely trendy in fashion right now.  I love it.  I have two anchor purses, an anchor phone case, anchor necklaces, bracelets, and earrings.  Wearing these often gives me the opportunity to speak about my series.  So, if you see a red headed lady with lots of anchors on, that just might be me!

Ripple or Chevron...you choose

When I was young I made a bunch of afghans.  One pattern that I enjoyed crocheting was called the "Ripple" afghan.  During the late 80's, 90's and into the first of the 21st century this pattern fell into disgrace.  People saw it as something only Grandma's would appreciate.

I was challenged one day when my daughter asked me, "Mama will you make me a Chevron afghan?"  I asked her to repeat the question.  Then I said, "What's a Chevron?"  She went to Google and showed me Chevrons.  I guess the British renamed the pattern and it became renewed, something trendy and desirable.

Not only are Chevron's big, they're REALLY BIG!  Chevron's on beach balls, clothing, towels, shower curtains, etc. etc. etc.  Sometimes the pattern all over women at  church makes me slightly dizzy.  I really like this pattern, but in small amounts.

It also reminds me of a trim that was used on clothing in the 60s and 70s.  It was called "Ric Rac."  This was sewn on clothing, towels, etc. etc.  It came in varying widths of Chevrons.

I know that in the 1800's crocheting and knitting was not something done as a hobby.  The products that were created were used as bedding, clothing, etc.  Knitting and crocheting were a satisfying method of clothing and warming your family.

I am not certain that either the Ripple or Chevron afghans were made then, but they may have been.  In the mean time they are just downright fun to create.  I will include links here on how to crochet or knit the things.

http://mosierfarms.blogspot.com  is a grand Chevron afghan pattern that is knitted.  I have made seven and they are absolutely lovely.

http://allfreecrochet.com gives some lovely variations of ripple afghans to make.

Christmas is coming, far too rapidly.  These make lovely gifts, especially in the cold winter months!  I know that any of the characters in my series, "Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch," would love to curl up in one of these beauties and read a good book in front of a warm fire, or just put it over them at night to go to sleep.  Happy creating!

Celeste - Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch

I had a grand book opening re-scheduled twice for my newest book in the series, "Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch".  The first postponement was because my beloved Mama passed at 95 years of age.  The other happened because my venue closed down.  So the birth of my 2nd book in the series, "Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch," fell flatter than bread without yeast, lower than a snake's belly, lower than the lowly earth worm.  Accompanying sound effect would sound like this....slow hiss of escaping air from a tire.

That does NOT mean that the book isn't interesting.  It does not mean that I no longer have any of the books for sale.  I actually still have many of them here in my humble abode.  If any one lives in the Davis County area of Utah and would like a copy of "Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch," that can be arranged through comments on this blog, Facebook or email.

It's time for a delicious recipe.  I've searched for the one that sounds most delicious to me...here it is!

FUDGE

2 cups sugar
1 1/2 squares of chocolate
3/4 cup of milk
1 tablespoon of butter

Mix together, stir briskly until sugar is dissolved and chocolate is melted.  Let boil until soft ball stage, turn into platter, and let it cool.  Nuts may be chopped up and added before it hardens as well.

Fudge is my favorite food.  I love all the myriad kinds of modern fudge.  I rarely eat it because I don't want ONE PIECE.  Doesn't satisfy me.  I want a pound or so...all to myself! 

Sugar was not as common in the 1800's as it is today.  It was really expensive.  Honey and molasses were still very commonly used sweeteners.  An estimate has been made that we, in the 21st century, eat about 500% more sugar than we did in the 1800s.  Our bodies have not evolved fast enough to deal with our sugar overload. 

So, make fudge, and only eat it once a week, right?  Am I right?  Well maybe you should not eat an entire pound of fudge once a  week.  Half a pound would probably be better! 

New Book...Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch

I don't know if I've even posted the fact that you can now purchase my new BOOK, as in old fashioned pages to turn.  We have not yet finished the process to offer the book in Nook or Kindle.  That will be coming.  Lulu.com is the company that carries my books. 

Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch is a character that I have fashioned after so many, many women.  I envision her as looking like a young Naomi Judd, with Reba Macintyre around the edges.  She's also patterned after a beloved friend who helped me to become an "Indie Writer."  That's Independent Writer if you do not understand that particular abbreviation.  I took all of my favorite red heads and put them together, and SHAZAM, out came Celeste.

Then there is the detail that I call the "Celeste," factor.  In high school there was a girl that stood out to me from the crowd as though there were a spotlight over her head.  She was quirky (which usually is a BAD thing in high school, and a COOL thing in college), and she didn't seem to be phased by the persecution of her peers.  We weren't close friends, but we were friends.

Forty years passed, a 27 year marriage was ended by my husband's death, and many moves later I wound up living a block away from Celeste.  THE Celeste that astonished and inspired me by her ability to just simply be who she was, NO MATTER WHAT ANYONE ELSE DID!

The day that we first became friends I told her about finishing the first draft of my novel Celeste.  At this point we had figured out that she was the High School Celeste that I had admired, and that had inspired me to choose the name Celeste for my character in the first place!

Isn't life interesting with it's canyons of twists, turns, and hair raising drops?  There I was meeting a friend that I had not seen in forty years who had inspired me to name my character Celeste, on the day that I finished my first draft of the book?  That seems a little more than coincidence.   However what some would call coincidence I prefer to see as "Synchronicity."  A moment when the past and present aligns to give you a new start for the future.

Celeste (the book) does begin in a rather raw way.  At the tender age of 14 Celeste is trapped into sexual slavery.  All my tales are stories of redemption.  I know that life has the gift of redemption waiting...right there...but sometimes we have to reach...just a bit higher...and then higher...AND THEN HIGHER STILL!  The important thing is to know that none of us is beyond redemption!

Please enjoy the book Celeste, Women of the Drifting Anchor Ranch.  Soon it will also be published in digital format.

Discouragement

I am quite frankly discouraged.  I have been writing this blog for several years now.  I post recipes, knitting patterns, sewing patterns, things that were relevant to life in the Western United States of America from 1860 to 1890.  I can't seem to draw any readership.  For a while people got a little more interested, and then nothing...nada, nee, nine, neit...bupkis.  It's enough to make a writer quit.  Oh how I am tempted.  I think I'll go find a white flag, put it on my front door, and SURRENDER!

Why am I working so hard to find a readership?  The dishes stand tall in my sink, and on my counters because I would rather write than wash dishes.  I have felt that writing fulfills me, but why would I be fulfilled when I know that nobody is reading?  I should just wash those dishes and quit writing...STOP!

I have declared a full on "WHITE FLAG DAY!"  That means that I will not think that I can ever write to earn money.  I will resign myself to being a disabled woman climbing her way up the hill to old age.  I remember as a child hearing the phrase, "Over the hill," in reference to elderly people.  Personally I don't think old age is OVER any hill.  As I approach that nebulous part of life I find that it's the hardest, steepest climb that I have ever experienced, and I have done some powerful climbing in my life.

So...today, I fully disclose that I hurt, my lungs are on fire, and I wish to go back in time about 5 years ago.  My husband was alive, and I could get a hug, each and every time that I wanted or needed one.  He was a giant of a man, in every way possible.  His hugs were magical.  He didn't just hug me, he engulfed me with love.

After he died, I began writing as a way to feel a need to get out of bed in the morning.  Life felt so flat without him sharing it with me.  I don't know why I continue to try to write something that might lift someone else.  Today, I would just like to write something that would lift, me, myself and I upwards.  I need to inspire ME!  Yet even that seems impossible to find.

So, knowing that there WILL be better days ahead, I apologize for my ranting whine today.  SIGH...guess I'll go do the dishes!

In case you trip across this post sa you read my blog let me assure you that there HAVE been better days since then.  I still am not making a living with writing, but that is no reason to give up.  After all, as a disabled senior I'm not even making a LIVING...doing ANYTHING!

I vow never to give in, give out, or give up.  I WILL give love, give hope, and give laughter.  I may definitely have some "White Flag Days," ahead when I will surrender but it will only be temporary.  I will then stand my bulky self upright and keep putting one foot in front of the other, or possibly, rolling the wheels of my wheelchair forward!

Angela

Slowly she awakened.  Stretching she reached as high as her arms would reach.  She yawned hugely.  Then she realized, Henry was gone.  She was not frightened.  Delight streamed through her body.  Henry terrified her on a continual basis.

She had witnessed how coldly he had shot the woman who he had hired to help him carry off his ruse to adopt her.  He told Angela that the woman had to die because she could identify them to the police.  Henry loved to use this as an example to keep Angela in fear.

Angela never considered trying to run away from Henry.  He was a master at tracking and hiding his tracks.  She knew that he would find her.  She also knew that if she proved to be too much trouble for Henry, he would kill her and find another orphan to be his slave.

Caves were Henry's favorite place for them to live.  A cave kept them away from society.  Henry had no desire to interact with humanity.  He believed that he was far superior to any other human being.  As a superior person he eschewed any habitation that would connect either of them to other humans.

They would stay in a cave for a month or two while Henry sent Angela out on a crime spree.  By day he would do research about the town's people.  At night Henry would send Angela into homes to steal money, or precious gems.  Henry would then take them to another city where he would sell them to pawn brokers.  He used different pawn brokers for each town that they had plundered.

They had lived in the Midwest for awhile.  Minnesota, Michigan, Ohio, Iowa, Nebraska, they moved swiftly across that part of the country.  When the law grew a little too close to them for comfort, and winter's unbelievable icy chill spread across the land, Henry stole two horses and away they rode.

He headed to Portland.  He had grown up there, an illegitimate child of a maid.  He felt justified in stealing from the town that had made his growing years so hellish.  Through the years he had plundered Portland many times.

Henry was a master of disguise.  He knew how to change his features completely.  He used this skill set to keep from being recognized.

One day Henry told Angela, "I don't care if YOU are recognized.  You are completely disposable.  A throw away orphan that nobody gives a damn about!  I can easily get another throw away orphan.  The only reason that I keep you now is because I don't want to go through the work to train someone new!"

It was a long trip across the country to Portland, Oregon.  Angela had been abandoned in Portland as a baby.  She had spent six long, lonely years in an orphanage.  Sometimes she wondered to herself which had been worse, the orphanage, or being Henry's slave.  She could never decide.  It seemed as though they were both equally awful.

Angela had enjoyed traveling through the Midwest.  It excited her to see new things, and new people.  She was frightened by people.  Having no experience of normal interaction with humans had left her frightened to simply speak to them.  Henry never allowed her to attend school.  He did not attempt to educate her himself.  He did train her to steal in many difference manners.  She was expert at picking pockets.  Cracking a safe was rarely a challenge for Angela.  She had two qualifications.  Her hearing was excellent.  Her fingers were nimble, agile, and able to perform whatever functions she required of them.

Henry came striding into the cave holding a piece of paper.  "Damn and double damn those Pinkerton's!  Life was so much easier before they started their business."

Angela remained quiet.  She had learned from long experience that when Henry wanted to rant about something it was best to let him rant, until he was finished.

"It's getting so that a body can't steal anywhere and escape notice.  Those damn Pinkerton detectives use the telegram to send messages all the way across the country."

Henry threw the sheet of paper at Angela.  Carefully she picked it up.  She made certain that she didn't rip the paper, or wrinkle it.  Both of those actions would result in her not eating for a meal, maybe two.

Staring back from the paper was her own face.  She was in a plaid shirt, baggy trousers, and had a cowboy hat on top of her head.  The wanted poster labeled her as, "Kid Mysterious."  Henry was simply labeled as "Henry Butler."

"Damn and double damn."  Henry strode up and down the cave.  "I wanted to stay here awhile.  There are more people to rob, and this is a grand place to live.  Now we'll have to move."

"Where will we go Henry?"  Angela spoke in a very soft voice.  She was extremely careful to keep her tone from sounding like a whine.  Henry loathed whining, unless, of course, HE was the one doing it!

The coast.  They still are fairly primitive.  Maybe the Pinkerton's won't be able to follow us there.  After we gain enough money, we'll escape to Mexico.  Nobody will catch us there.  I heard that Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid went there to run from the law.  The law will expect us to head to Canada.  That's another way to escape the U.S. law.  We'll fool them and head to Mexico."

Angela said softly, "May I go to school in Mexico Henry?  I've a powerful hankerin' to learn how to read and write."

"Yeah, yeah.  We'll get you learnin' when we get to Mexico.  Now pack up.  The coast of Oregon will not even know what hit them!"

Angela began the tedious job of organizing and packing their things.

Angela

My mind wandered off the topic with the brilliantly colored butterflies.  I did my best to ignore the droning of Henry's voice.  Today I seriously would like to just go to sleep and never wake up again.

Even though I now cook the meals, Henry still only lets me eat rarely.  I don't know how old I am anymore.  The first two years of living with Henry I knew how old I was.  Then Henry started mixing me up.  He would tell me for a month that I was 8.  Then he would say I was 9.  Just as I started to believe him about that age, he would suddenly tell me that I was only 7, and why couldn't I keep track of my own age?

He feeds me very little so that I stay very small.  The last thing that Henry wishes to have happen is for me to start showing signs of becoming a woman, whatever that means.  He says that a lot.  "You will be no good to me if you start getting big, or show signs of becoming a woman."

When I ask him what it means, "Becoming a woman," he responds crossly, "You're not so dumb that you don't know that little girls become women, and little boys men, are you?"

"Dumb, stupid, lazy," these are the words that I hear the most coming from Henry.  I try not to believe what he calls me.  After all, he has a small child to do his stealing.  Doesn't that make HIM lazy?

We had a close call yesterday.  It was a very busy day in a very small town.  I don't even try to remember the names of all the towns that we travel through any more.  So in Mud Wallow, Oregon I was supposed to be stealin' wallets from the towns finest.  Henry has me dress in my one and only dress.  He has me braid my hair the night before.  Then for that day I take out my braids and brush my hair until it shines.  He says, "You're uglier than a wart covered toad, but people won't believe that you could steal, cuz' you are just a dumb, ugly, girl."

I was doing really, really good.  Then it happened.  Just as I was putting a wallet into my secret skirt pocket a man came up from behind.  "Little lady, did you just take this man's wallet from him?"  I immediately began to cry.  "Mr. I don't know why you say something so terrible about me?  I don't have no brains.  I am just in town to get my new baby brother some milk.  Ma is turrible sick.  She don't have no milk to feed my brother.  We don't have no cow or goat, so I was just hopin' that somebody could help us get enough milk to feed the baby until Ma gets better."

"Pa left us to go east and get some work.  That was about 5 months ago.  He ain't never came back.  He ain't sent us any money.  We ain't got a single idea 'bout how to fetch him home.  The baby just cries all the time.  Poor little thing he is most hungry."

"Never mind your story.  You'll be coming with me now little Miss."

"Where you takin' me?  Ma needs me.  None of the other ones are old enough to help.  Ma has a high fever.  She be talkin' out her head for a whole week now.  Little Petey's cries are gettin' weaker all the time.  My other 6 brothers and sisters ain't helping at all with nothin'."

The law man dropped his hands off me.  "What sickness does your Ma have.  Is it real contagious?"

"Nah.  Only four of my brothers and sisters got it.  They ain't got no pox.  There is red blisters...small...all over their bodies.  They talk out their heads most of the time.  I guess we be lucky that the babe ain't have it no more.  Of course, he was the first one to get the sickness."

Now both men were stepping away from me.  The lawman says to the other man, "I ain't touchin' her again.  She could be talkin' the measles.  People die from the measles.  We'd have to quarantine the whole town."

"Don't worry Officer.  I didn't have much money in that old wallet anyway."  Both men turned and started to walk away rapidly.

I held my arms out to them.  "Where are ya goin'?  We need help!  The babies gettin' a little better but he'll starve soon unless..."

"Sorry kid, can't help you.  I've got my own family to think about."

Henry like to laughed his fool head off when I told him the story.  When I took out the wallet from the 'Family man,' there was a bundle of $20.00 bills.  Quickly I sneaked one of them bills out from the rest.  I slipped the one bill into my sleeve.  I was amazed that Henry didn't seem to notice.  Most times that snake of a man has got more eyes in his head than is strictly natural.

Henry bought us potatoes, onions, and a great big roast beef.  We feasted that night.  Henry even let me eat lots of food.

Angela

The wind cooled her heated soul.  The sun shone softly on the air around her.  She sang as though each moment was her last.  Angela had been gifted with music.  It was not a wish, not a once in awhile want, it was a need that moved through her days and nights.  Music made her feel alive.  During the darkest parts of her difficult life it brought comfort, and courage.

Henry detested music.  He called it a waster of effort and time.  He forbid Angela to sing...at all.  Angela had learned the hard way not to sing around Henry.  She had gone ever so hungry time, after time, after time, before she finally succumbed to his selfish wish for silence.

The moment that Henry was gone Angela filled the air with the sweetest of notes.  Her voice was untrained.  Yet in her case her adoration for the gift of music made up for her lack of trained polish.

She sang with the birds in the trees.  She sang about the ripple of the water when she skipped a stone across.  She sang about life, about love, about pain, about sorrow.  She sang, and sang, and sang.  She had only ever been taught a few songs in her young life.  In church at the orphanage they were taught many classical hymns out of the small book.  Hungry for music, she would learn each every entire song in 2 hours of church.

Angela took the hymns home with her in her clever mind and changed them.  Copying the work of others initially, she would then expand on it, change notes to suit her desires, adding words that she preferred to the original text.  Throwing her head back she would perform for a field of daisies nodding with the breeze.  Song birds in the trees answered her musical entreaties.  There was always a stage in Angela's mind, and she performed on it as often as she possibly could.

Her favorite performances found her gowned in gold and silver taffeta and lace.  Ribbons of gems of be clasped about her alabaster neck.  She would stand very still and lift her head slightly.  In her imagination she was waiting for the audience to calm and become still.  Then she would lift her head proudly and song would pour forth from her soul.  She adored the power of that time.

When Henry came home, he would find her kneeling in front of the fire stirring some sort of food for a meal.  He never thanked her for preparing food.  He never commented on its taste or texture.  Angela learned that his thanks was communicated in a series of caveman like grunts.  Once relaxed and sated Henry would become slightly less repulsive.  Sometimes he would even request that Angela sing for him.  Angela loved those times the best.

Windy Wonder - Angela

Crouching at the mouth of the cave Angela reasoned and rationalized.  "What Henry, don't know, can't hurt him.  If I don't get out of this stinkin' cave, I'm going to become as crazy as Henry."

Talking to herself gave Angela comfort.  She spent a great deal of time alone.  Even when Henry was with her, she was alone.  He never listened to her.  He just talked at her.  Angela had learned early that the only person that had anything worth saying to Henry, was Henry.

Wind, Angela felt a tiny touch of it.  A gentle nudge, a wind whispered word, "Angela, come out, come out, and play.  Henry won't ever know."

Angela could only listen to the invitation of nature's bounty for so long.  Finally she burst forth from the cave.  She suddenly had an image of a mole, popping her head out of the underground darkness.  Quickly she felt a kinship with that poor old mole.

Ferocious, untamed, Angela felt the force of the wind pound against her.  She put her finger in her mouth.  Once that finger was moist, Angela held it up in the air.  It was a crude determiner but it worked for her purpose.  Angela said, "Let's see.  How does this work?  Oh, right.  You suck on your finger, get it wet, and then hold it up in the air.  The wind is blowing from the North.  That's good, because North winds don't do much damage."

Angela stood very still  on the mountainside.  She imagined herself a mighty Queen of Egypt.  She was holding court.  Standing tall and majestic she said,  "I know that you would not have stolen bread for your family if someone had just reached out and helped you.  Go in peace brother."

Angela's imaginary court faded away.  Henry was there.

He grabbed her roughly by the ear and pulled her back into the cave.  "You haven't the sense of a flea!  Don't you know that people are trying to find you to put you in jail?  I told you to stay put.  I guess you're just too dumb to be trusted.  Don't try that again.  If you don't listen to me, I will turn you over to the police.  I don't think you would last very long in jail.  The others in there would kill you."

He tossed her onto the ground like a piece of trash.  "You are trash you know.  Nobody wanted you.  They threw your naked butt onto the front of the orphanage and left you.  The Matron of the Orphanage said that you were almost frozen to death by the time she heard you crying.  You're very lucky that I keep you.  Nobody else would want you.  I only want you to get in the small places that I can't reach.  When you get any bigger, well I don't keep things that I don't need."

Angela had a quick mental image of Henry shooting the woman that he had paid to act the role of her Mother.  The woman had been foolish enough to think that Henry would actually pay for her assistance.  The name that they had given the Matron was Helen.  Angela knew that wasn't her real name.  The woman seemed actually surprised when Henry pulled out his gun and shot her dead.

Henry then picked up her lifeless body.  He had been living in a cave.  There was a place in the cave with a drop so deep you could not see the bottom.  This is where Henry put her body.  "Nobody will ever even miss her.  She was trash, like you Angela.  Remember, this is what I do to trash.  If you don't listen and do what I say, or if you try to run away, this is how I take out the trash."

Angela tried to obey Henry.  On the other hand sometimes she just had to live.  He was often gone for a very long time.  Angela would stay in the cave for a few days but eventually she had to get out in the light, into the wind.  Henry tried, usually successfully, to squelch any normal, healthy desires out of her.  In his world she was only good to him when she did exactly what he said.

Henry never hit her.  He also never hugged her.  A useful tool was his mental description of Angela.  He did not wish to have to train another useful tool.  He starved her to keep her from growing.  Angela no longer knew for certain how old she was.  She knew that she was six years old when Henry adopted her.  With no calendar to mark her passing years she had become completely confused about her age.  Sometimes Henry told her that she was eight years old.  Two weeks later he would tell her that she was ten.  Once Angela was foolish enough to say, "Henry, a little while ago you told me that I was eight years old.  How can I have gotten two years older in a couple of days?"

Henry looked at her with the coldest of disdain.  "Girlie, I do NOT know what you're talking about.  I never said anything about you being eight years old.  Well, maybe I told you that when you actually WERE eight years old.  You are a little too young for your brain not working right but I've heard of such things.  You ARE getting a little too large.  That means that you will only be eating tonight.  As a matter of fact I will only feed you from now on at night.  I can't have you get too large!"

"No Henry, I'm starving!"  Angela stood upright and glared at Henry in challenge.

"Dumb girl, you know better than to talk back to me!  You won't get to eat until TOMORROW evening now.  If you quit talking back I might let you have some water today."

Henry had several reasons to not feed Angela much food.  He wanted to retard her growth, keeping her weak kept her from trying to escape, and it saved him money to only feed himself.  When he did feed Angela it was a pitifully small quantity of food.

Angela had seen looks of sympathy from others when they were in public.  She knew that she looked sick.  Sometimes when Henry actually let her out of the cave she would eat grass, or dirt.  They didn't provide nutrition but just the action of chewing felt good.  Angela began to eat bugs.  It made her queasy at first but she was unbearably hungry.  After a while it didn't even make her queasy.  It also gave her a little strength and nutrition.  She was very careful to hide her bug consumption from Henry.

Life had forced Angela to be strong.  Clever, imaginative, and determined by nature she found ways to get around Henry's cruelty.  Henry would order her to go into a grocery store and steal food.  Sometimes, if the store was very busy and Henry was across the room from her, she would stuff food in her mouth and chew quickly.  Once she had swallowed the food, Angela reasoned, Henry could not take it back.

One possibility that Henry had not considered is that even though Angela was far too thin, she still grew taller.  Terrified that her growth would cause Henry to kill her Angela began to slump down.  She hopeed that Henry would not notice her subterfuge.

Some nights Angela would wake herself up screaming, "No, don't kill me Henry!"

Henry would growl, "Shut up and go back to sleep."

Lying in the darkness of the cave Angela twisted and turned trying to find a comfortable position for her bony body.  It was darker than a night sky.  Her eyes would never adapt to the blackness.  Even though she could not go back to sleep she would squeeze her eyes tightly shut.  Her imagination would take her away, away from the cave, away from hunger, and most importantly, away from Henry.
 


  

Angela

"Well you certainly bungled that one!"  Henry was raging.  He paced up and down in the small cave where they were hiding from posses and people.  "What were you thinking?  Oh wait, that's right, you're a dumb girl child that doesn't have a brain in her tiny shrunken head!"

"Henry I just..."

Henry's fist clenched and unclenched.  He drew his fist back as though he was going to strike Angela in the face.  "I don't want to hear any of your foolish excuses!"

Angela shook her head in frustration.  She kept quiet.  Her thoughts would not stop.  SHE had not bungled the robbery.  Henry had.  The investigative work that he had done was completely, irrefutably WRONG.  Henry was becoming lazy and sloppy.  After all, he was not risking much.  In his mind Angela was easily replaceable.

He had sent Angela in to crack a safe and crawl through an impossibly tiny space.  She had not even crawled all the way through the window before she heard an alarm sounding.  She saw people rushing about.  As quietly a possible she backed out and raced to Henry. 

Henry continued his ranting, "Why did you come back here?  You very probably led the Sheriff right to us!  I can't believe that anyone can be so stupid!  You had better remember that if you ever cause ME to be threatened I WILL hang you....slow and painfully!"

Angela walked over to the pile of groceries and reached in to pull out a stick of jerky. 

Henry snatched it away.  He put his face invasively right in Angela's face.  He screamed,  "You can't be thinkin' that you get to eat after your stupidity!"

Angela finally reached her breaking point.  She kept her face inches from Henry's face.  She screamed back at him, "This is YOUR FAULT!  I did everything that you told me to do.  If you starve me any more, I won't be able to rob anybody.  When they find my dead body, dead from starvation, they'll find you and charge you with murder.  Then they will hang YOU!"

A look came on Henry's face that Angela had never seen before.  If it had been on any one else's face she would have called it respect.  On Henry's face, Angela was quite certain that he simply accepted the truth of her statement.

"Make dinner witch!  You will eat tonight, not because of the stupid dangerous way that you stood up to me.  You will eat dinner because you will need energy to pack us up.  We escape tonight.  In the dark nobody will be looking for us.  If they are, they will not be looking for a man and his daughter!"  Henry's face again was revoltingly close, "Don't get the foolish idea that you have value to me.  Killing you would be so easy and pleasant for me.  I can train a new child any time I wish."

Slowly Angela backed away from Henry.  She had seen him shoot her faux adoptive Mother in the back.  She didn't trust Henry, never, not at all.  As she went about the process of cooking she tried to focus on the pleasure she would sustain in eating food, glorious food! 

Rose's Jelly Roll

Beat yolks of four eggs until light.  Add 1 cup sugar and beat well.  Then add whites beaten stiff and one cup of flour to which as been added one teaspoon baking powder.  Last add 6 Tablespoons of boiling water.  Beat this mixture for two minutes.  Put it into a greased pan and bake in a moderate oven about twenty minutes.  When it's done turn it out.  Roll it into a dish towel and let it cool.  Unroll and spread with jelly or filling.

Chocolate Filling

Mix one square of chocolate with one half cup of water.  Blend in one half cup of milk (for our modern time you can substitute coconut milk, almond milk, or soy milk).  In a saucepan blend these three ingredients until the chocolate melts.  Mix one half cup of sugar, and two Tablespoons flour.  Combine the milk blend with the sugar and flour blend.  Cook for about twenty minutes (low flame about twenty minutes).  Add one half teaspoon of vanilla, and then cool slightly before spreading it on the roll.

Onions in Unlikely Place

ONIONS

Sad, sick, solo. These are three negative S words. I was in a hospital bed after kidney stone surgery. The doctor who removed the 6 millimeter kidney stone from my kidney tube was kind enough to inform me that he was the best urologist in all of Portland, Oregon.

I had told the surgeon that I have an extensive allergy list to medicines. I suggested two medicine that work marvelously well for me after surgery. Unfortunately, I knew this information by a quantity of negative medical experience. The good doctor (did I mention that he knew that he was the best urologist in all of Portland, Oregon)? Refused to give me those two medicines. He gave me two others. They didn't work for me, and my body went into shock from the severe pain.

One of our two daughters was several states away at college. The other daughter was unreachable at a church activity. My husband was too ill to come. My beloved Papa had been dead for years. My sweet Mama was in her 80's and she was also several states away. I had never felt so lonely in all of my improbable life.

One of the nurses asked me if I could call a friend. They could the reach the “Best Urologist in all of Portland, Oregon.” It might be easier to refer to him by his acronym, buiaopo. (Stop and say it out loud. It also sounds good if you adapt the letters just a little bit into bwahpo or bwahpoo). Apparently since buiaopo never makes mistakes he is precluded from needing to answer either his landline or cell phone. (I don't sound bitter do I)?

After several hours of suffering, I called a dear friend. I had already thought of calling her but because of physical disability she struggles constantly with mobility and money. I knew that it would be very difficult for her to get to the hospital where I was. When I called her I apologized but she didn't even hesitate. She said that she would be there as quickly as possible.

While I waited for her I distracted myself by thinking about my childhood. I was born with severe allergy asthma. I also had very little immune system. My allergies would trigger infections, and infections would trigger my allergies. I was in and out of the hospital constantly. The only treatment for asthma at that point in time was to give oxygen. My parents struggled constantly with the negative financial realities of having a severely ill child.

I continued to be medically fragile as I grew older. Somehow through all of this I never felt as though I were a burden. Both of my parents told me over and over that I was a miracle. They made my difficult childhood a blessing for them and for me. In this hour of pain and illness, counting my blessings such as, my remarkable husband, children, parents, and siblings made this difficult time pass faster.

When my friend Joni arrived she walked in the door with both of her hands behind her back. Joni usually walks in with her hands behind her back. She will open those hands and in them will be nestled some homemade treasure. Sometimes it's a fridge magnet with a glorious panoramic picture, or a delicious cookie, but Joni's loving hands are never empty. This time when she pulled her hands out she held a large, yellow, onion.

She was concerned when I began to laugh and cry simultaneously. When I could speak again I asked Joni why on earth she had brought an onion. She told me, “Three times I felt impressed to pick up the onion and bring it. Two times I put it down. I was certain that it was a crazy thing to bring to someone sick in the hospital. The third time the impression was too strong to deny and so I brought the onion.”

Joni had never known my Father. He died many years before Joni and I became friends. My Father LOVED onions. He grew them in our enormous garden. He ate them on bread, sometimes with cheese, or sometimes he ate them fresh out of the garden, like most people would eat an apple. He put onions in our Christmas stockings. He also put fruit and candy, but I believe that in his mind the onion was the best thing in the stocking.

When my brother married Louise, my beloved sister-in-law, she HATED onions. Soon it became a joke back and forth from my Dad to Louise, and from Louise to my Dad. When Louise had surgery and was in the hospital Dad had a florist make her a beautiful floral bouquet. Alas it was made entirely out of flowering onions. It was gorgeous, but didn't smell very aromatic.

The next Christmas Louise made Papa some homemade chocolate covered onions. One year for Christmas Papa gave Louise 50 pounds of onions. Louise was perplexed. She said, “I rarely even use one onion in an entire year! What was I going to do with one hundred pounds of them?”

When my Papa died Louise said that she was certain he would find a way to make onions grow in her lawn.

When I saw that onion in Joni's hand I knew what it meant. It meant that even death couldn't stop my Papa. It also meant that I had an amazing friend who is deeply spiritual.

Two days later when I spoke to my Mama I told her about the experience. She started to cry. Through her tears she told me that the night when I was so sick she had felt that something was wrong with me. At eighty-five and two states away she couldn't be there in person to help. She prayed and asked God to let my Papa find some way to help. Has God ever answered your prayers with an onion?

The story doesn't end there. My husband and I moved when our daughters were both grown up and gone to college. We were very excited to buy a new bed. We wanted a four-poster bed. We looked everywhere. We used the classifieds, the online computer advertisements, and word of mouth from friends. We looked for months. Either the bed was too expensive, or it wasn't what we wanted, etc. etc.

My husband found a one-day sale of solid wood furniture in the newspaper. We went to the sale and found a lovely four poster bed. It was perfect, just what we were looking for. The posts were about eight feet high. I didn't notice what was on the top of each poster. Imagine my surprise when we put the bed together at home and discovered that on top of each of the posts was a hand carved onion. I've looked ever since and have never seen another four poster bed with onions on the posters. The bed was made in India. Any statisticians out there who would like to tell me the odds that we would happen to find a four-poster bed with onions on the posts?

I'm not finished yet. Nyle and I loved thrift shopping. We once spent four hours in a shop. Nyle would troll up and down the aisles sifting through the trash to find treasures. I finally was weary. I sat down in an old chair with a book that I was going to buy. Nyle continued his quest.

After reading a chapter of the book, Nyle suddenly appeared by my side. He seemed excited as he held a wooden decorative plaque towards me. I looked at the plaque. It was attractive but it didn't inspire excitement for me.

Nyle said, “Look closer.”

I looked closer, and then I WAS EXCITED! The plaque was the same wood finish as our onion posted bed, and there in the middle of the wooden plaque was a hand carved, bas-relief onion in all its wooden glory!

Nyle and I talked again about the odds of finding this onion-laden piece of furniture to go with our onion laden bed. It did feel suspiciously as though Papa was still letting us know that he was close.

Every night that I climb into my onion bed I grin. I think of my beloved Papa and the joyous time when I will hug him again. I remember him tucking me into bed as a child. I feel the same sense of safety and protection now that I did then. Before I go to sleep, I thank God for a deeply spiritual friend named Joni, my Mother's faith, my Papa who loves me beyond death, my husband's patient quest for treasures, and my gratitude for onions.

Angela - Part 2

Henry had taken Angela's one dress out of his backpack the day before.  It was hopelessly wrinkled.  Henry took a rock from the fire and putting the dress on a large flat topped boulder he put an old mitten on and used the hot rock to press out the worst of the wrinkles in the dress. 

Growling at Angela, Henry said, "Put this on, and then sit still.  If you get this dress dirty, or wrinkle it again...well you aren't hungry are you?"

Angela carefully, oh so carefully put the dress on.  She turned to Henry for him to fasten the dress in the back.  When he laced up the dress it was quickly apparent that it was straining at the seams to cover Angela.

Henry made an impatient sound.  "You had best stop yer growin' girlie.  If you get any bigger ya won't be any help ta me!  We both know what I do with people who have served their purpose to me, and don't any more, right?"

Angela nodded silently.  She was afraid that any words she used would be the wrong words.  She knew all too well that Henry had no patience, none at all.

Next Henry pulled out her Sunday shoes.  They were scuffed and dusty.  Henry pulled out some fat that he had saved from a seagull they had eaten the day before.  He rubbed the fat in the shoes.  Next he pulled out an old shirt of his.  Using the shirt he polished the shoes.

Finished with the ablutions he handed the shoes to Angela.  She sat down on a log to put them on.  She had to squeeze really hard.  The shoes were quite obviously too small.  She did not utter a complaint.  Growth had become a fearful thing to her.  Nightmares were filled with Henry's murderous wrath as she grew to be too large for usefulness.

Now Angela and Henry sat in the Cafe.  Angela had noticed that there was a crowd gathering outside.  It seemed as though they were all dressed in their Sunday best.  Angela spoke solemnly, "Henry, why are we here in town today?"

Henry finished his mouth full of food slowly before responding, "It's a town event.  Everybody who is anybody will be there.  That means that you and I will make lots of money picking pockets."

Angela sighed within her own mind.  She knew better than to make the smallest sign of defiance to Henry.  He had never struck her, or shown any sign of physical violence.  That was not his way.  Instead he preyed upon Angela's young, sensitive mind.  For punishment, Henry  also stopped any and all food.  The longest he had gone without feeding her was five days so far.

After that five days Henry cussed and grumbled because it took Angela a week of eating and drinking to regain her strength.  He didn't really care about her illness, other than how it affected him, and his growing bank account.

The crowd began to push forward eagerly.  Henry dropped a penny at his plate, and said, "Come on Ang, the action will begin shortly."

Angela needed no prompting.  She knew exactly what was expected of her in a large crowd of people.  Energy of a nervous, excited, type seemed to pump from all the people.  The crowd was densely packed looking north.

When Angela saw the gallows her heart felt as though it had dropped from her chest.  She tried to push her way backwards.  She had no desire to witness someone's death.

Grabbed by Henry he whispered in her ear gruffly, "What's a matter?  Too chicken to see a criminal die?  This man deserves to die.  He killed another man."

Angela felt it best not to comment on Henry's hypocrisy in the situation.

"Git to work you!  I think you WOULD like to eat.  There is going to be a really big picnic tonight.  The whole town will be there.  I hear that they will have fried chicken, and your favorite chocolate cake."

Henry pushed her roughly forwards, "Git to work!"

Angela slowly, unobtrusively, began to work the crowd.  Her dress had deep, large pockets.  She targeted first the men.  It always seemed silly to her that men would carry their wallets in their back pockets.  That made them easy prey.

Women were not much better.  They had frilly, foolish, fragments of frippery,  hanging from a cord off their wrists.  Angela had a small pair of scissors that allowed her to cut the cords easily.  The women did not even notice that their pocketbook was gone until much later.

It was easy pickings today.  Everyone was preoccupied as a young boy was pushed forward to the stairs, and then onward to the noose.  Angela tried to pay attention to her work, and not what was happening in the front of the crowd.  For once Angela was grateful that she was too short to see over people.

She didn't hear the last words of the minister, or the young man.  There was such noise in the crowd that it covered what was happening on the gallows stand.  Unfortunately, when the hangman pulled the long handle that dropped the floor out from under the boy's feet, the crowd became completely silent.

Angela heard the sound of the drop, and then she heard the young boy.  In building the gallows they had not prepared for a skinny, teenage, boy.  It took a very long time for him to die.  Angela heard him crying, and choking. 

Then she heard a woman's scream, and hysterical crying.  The woman screamed, "God in Heaven, why have you forsaken us?"

Henry grabbed her arm.  He whispered harshly in her ear,  "Why have ya stopped?  Get busy.  This is prime time for workin'!  Remember there will be delicious food at the picnic this evening!"

Angela couldn't say a word.  Leaning over, the only thing that came from her heaving stomach was a bitter bile.  All of it fell directly on Henry's brand new, shiny boots.  Then blessedly, Angela fainted, and knew no more.

Angela--Part 1 of a 2 part section

Angela was excited, and nervous.  Correction.  She was as excited as she ever was with Henry.  There always seemed to be some dreadful experience waiting to trap her in endless woe.  After witnessing Henry shooting and killing the woman that he had help him adopt Angela she was aware of Henry Butler's depraved nature.  Angela knew that if she did not do what he bid he would have no sorrow in killing her.

So she did her best to act nonchalant.  Happy, positive, emotions seemed to touch a threadbare nerve in Henry's wretched soul.  Angela had no desire to light his all too sensitive fuse.

Angela was starving.  Henry found each and every excuse to keep from feeding her.  He did this on purpose.  Fighting with nature he tried in every way he knew, to keep Angela from growing.  He knew that once she was taller than five foot two she would be useless to him.  At that point he could no longer use her to climb into the small spaces that helped him rob others. 

Henry also knew that he saved a great deal of money when he purchased food for only one.  He was not thrifty, he was not even just cheap.  No, he was penny pinching, bone deep, stingy.  No matter how much money they stole, to Henry it was never enough.  Angela knew nothing about Henry's large growing savings account in a national bank.  He never volunteered to share the proceeds of their robberies with her.
 
Angela had learned to live vicariously.  When Henry ate at a restaurant, and gave
her only water, Angela would smell the smells wafting through the café.  She would watch every mouthful that Henry ingested, and she would pretend that she felt the textures, and tastes in her own mouth. 

Henry once saw her glancing at his food with rapture.  He covered the dish with his arm and said, "What are you mooning over?"

Angela shook herself mentally.  It never did any good to get Henry's attention.  She had not meant to do so now, but she was just SO HUNGRY!  Thinking quickly she said, "I was just imagining how I would cook that beef.  I was thinking about the natural seasonings that exist all around us in the wild."

Henry looked from the tip of her tiny toes, to the top of her strawberry blond hair.  "Well, well," he said in a rough whisper, "I guess I'll leave the cooking to you now!"

Angela did NOT smile but a warmth filled her heart.  If she could do the cooking, surely she could sneak a tiny bit now and then.  That's all she needed, just a small bite to keep her from feeling so awful.