Booksbyfay

2021-06-30T14:10:00.004-07:00

And he will place the sheep on his right, but the goats on the left. Matthew25:33 The sequel to My Memories Of Animals Large and Small is now on the market. The title of the paperback book is Sheep On The Right Goats On The Left. The book is in kindle and nook ebooks, too. In this book is more stories about the animals I took care of from the 1990s until recently. Some are humorous. Others were cause for worry like when for months something was making a banging noise in the barn. Still others are sad like when my favorite sheepdog, a Border Collie named Brandy, died. Here is an example of what is in this book. Chapter 13 Hogs In those days when we wanted to buy livestock, we liked going to the salebarns in Belle Plaine and Tama. On one of those visits to a salebarn, Harold decided to buy two sows which were going to farrow soon. That was my first time taking care of sows. They were in the middle room of the barn. Harold put a wooden gate in the opening and opened the roll door so they had fresh air. He decided to put a shelf on the wall and set a radio on the shelf so the sows had music to keep them calm. I wasn't sure why he did that until later. We found a radio works to keep female rabbits calm, too. The radio is a distraction from other noises. One of the sows had her pigs just fine. I climbed over the gate and put another wooden gate up to make a small wedge-shaped pen for a space for the sow who was soon to have her pigs so I could keep them apart. In a day or two, I was doing chores and found the sow had delivered a good size litter of pigs, but she didn't like them. When they wanted to nurse, the sow barked roughly at them to leave her alone and moved away from them. I thought maybe she was hungry and was waiting for me to feed her. Maybe she'd settle down after she ate. I climbed up the gate and started to climb down the other side with the feed. The sow bark loudly and gave an angry squeal. I looked over my shoulder. Oh yeah, that was an angry squeal all right. She was coming at me. Her slobbering mouth gaped open with large teeth bared as she raced at me like she meant to do me in. I didn't hesitate to scramble back over the gate and set the pail down. When I wheeled around, the sow was biting at the wooden gate, taking out on it her regret that she didn't get there quickly enough to nail me. I tried to go back to breathing normally as I backed up, thinking that gate wasn't strong enough to stand her abusive bites. I might have to make a fast getaway out of the barnyard. We moved the sows to the east side of the barn with their pigs where they had more room. It was clear something was wrong with the sow, and her pigs weren't going to live long if she didn't settle down. The pigs already had the long narrow look from being hungry. They were squealing loudly since their mother ran at me. The sow might take out her irritation on her noisy little pigs next while they pestered her, wanting to nurse. This was the problem that brought on my first call to a vet. Usually, I considered calling a vet Harold's job but he was at work. Turned out this was one of those tasks that stopped being fifty-fifty when animals were sick, and I was the only one home. The local vet was well known and had practiced around the community for years. In this area at the time, cattle and pigs were the main livestock. So I found myself beside the tall, broad-shouldered vet looking in at the upset sow, still growling at her pigs. I explained the problem. He listened quietly. I took it this vet was a man of few words, or he just didn't have many women customers. The vet asked me how long we'd had the sows. I told him not long at all. He said sometimes moving the sows just before they were going to farrow upsets them. This sow had a psychological problem from being moved to a strange place. I wasn't too convinced the sow had a mental problem. I wanted to ask the vet if I needed a psychiatrist for the sow, but he didn't look like he had a sense of humor. I had to take into consideration that he had been treating animals for years. He diffidently knew more than I ever would about animal health. I did point out that Harold had turned the radio on for the sows to help calm them. Later as I thought back about the vet's assessment, I recalled how upset Duffy, our first goat, was at being moved from her former home and all her friends when she was so close to giving birth. At the moment, I really didn't have time to give anything much thought except that sow was going to take me out if I tried to feed her, and she'd starve her pigs or harm them if something couldn't be done to help her soon. The vet eased close enough to the sow to give her a shot, but he didn't say what the medicine was, and I didn't have the nerve to ask what he gave the sow. He said she'd probably quiet down shortly from the shot which did sound encouraging to me. In an hour, I stayed hidden along the barn wall when I slipped up to check the sow. She finally had laid down and her pigs were nursing as the sow grunted to them. I was so relieved. Not only for the sow and pigs, but this meant I didn't have to worry about getting in her pen to feed her. My memory on many facts is rather vague sometimes, but I can tell you exactly what day I had the vet come to care for the sow. It was August 16, 1977, the day Elvis Presley died. I know this because the radio announcer broke in on the music with the bulletin while the vet and I were talking. I did some computer research on farrowing sows and found symptoms like this sow had does sometimes happened. I told Harold before the sows farrowed again I wanted somewhere to put some farrowing crates to get the two sows we had contained so I could give shots safely, and the sow couldn't get at the pigs or me if she was in a bad frame of mind. Maybe next time, the vet would tell me what I needed to give the sows if I asked for the medicine to give the shots myself. I learned long ago I should be careful what I ask Harold for. That was all the incentive he needed to have a hog house built and brought in. Once the building was in place Harold put in fourteen farrowing crates he bought from someone. “This is an awful big hog house. We only have two sows,” I reminded him. Harold had a fix for that problem. He bought twelve more sows and a boar. Soon I found myself in charge of a fourteen sow farrowing house. How did that happen so fast I wondered. Anyway, everything worked well at birthing time just like I thought it would with the sows crated. The sows went in easily enough for the feed in the front of the crates. Once they were safely contained, I kept a close watch on them, because I just when they should give birth. By farrowing time, I had talked to the vet. He sold me bottles of medicines to keep on hand for the sows which made me happy. I gave shots to the sows which kept them from getting feverish and injections to let down their milk. Plus, I had goat milk to feed the extra pigs or pigs that needed to be fed before their mothers had milk. I did need the goat milk. I kept count of the number in the litter as the pigs were born, and when the sows had more pigs than they could feed, I made sure the runt pigs over the sow's dinner plate limit had their colostrum and took them in the house. In fact, I always liked the idea that the sows had a big litter. It wasn't any harder work saving newborn pigs than it was any other newborn animal. I got a high-sided cardboard box to put the pigs in. At first, when the two or three pigs squealed in the middle of the night that they were hungry I got up and fed them. I was using a couple of Duane's baby juice bottles. Those bottles got a lot of use over the years for other animals. Eventually waking up for feeding times grew as tiresome as making the trips to the barn during lambing. I soon decided I had to come up with a better method for feeding the pigs so I didn't have to get up in the night. I took some denim strips from old blue jean legs and tied them around the bottles and tied the bottles onto the handle of the cookstove's oven door so the bottles hung down in the box. In the night, I'd wake up just enough to hear the pigs grunt and squeal that they were hungry, and then came the sucking noises. Pigs are smart. They caught on right away to where the bottles were. Except for one night when I had three pigs instead of two in the box and only two baby bottles. I found out pigs don't like to take turns drinking. They all want their share at the same time. The racket was loud as two of the pigs squealed and scuffled over the same bottle. By the time they swung the bottle back and forth a number of times taking it away from each other, the bottle dripped dry, and they didn't get to drink the milk. The pigs kept squealing that they were hungry. I didn't get up to see about them, thinking they would live until morning. Surely soon they would give up and go to sleep. Remember I said pigs are smart. One of the little fellows decided he had enough of me ignoring him. He was hungry, and he intended to do something about it. He scaled the box side, fell over the top, and came through the kitchen, the living room, and into the bedroom squealing all the way as he trailed me like an experience bloodhound. He circled the bed, keeping up his war-hoops. I was pretty sure he'd soon be scaling up the covers after me if I didn't get up. Harold mumbled, “Someone is paging you.” I figured I had no choice but to get out of bed and take the pig back to his box. Since the other pig had emptied the remaining bottle, I warm enough milk for my little bloodhound, and the other hungry pig each their own bottle. It wasn't long after that I determined those three pigs were old enough to wait until morning to nurse. Besides, it was a warm time of year. The pigs could survive in the barn. I put the pigs in a lambing pen way way way out in the barn where I didn't have to listen to their complaints in the night. I figured the pig who hurled over the box wouldn't be able to scale the lambing pen wall. By then the older vet had retired, and another vet was in the office. I went to the vet's office for medicine. While he was getting what I asked for, I told him about how smart the pig was to find me in the middle of the night for his bottle. He had his back to me, mixing up the medicine for me. He turned to me and said seriously, “Maybe you should have knocked that pig in the head.” I gave him a hard, no way would I do that look. He grinned. He'd been joking to get a reaction from me, but I'm sure that sort of thing happened in farrowing houses when the sows had more pigs than they could feed. It just didn't happen in our farrowing house. This vet reminded me of what the retired vet had said to me one day. I wondered if my reaction to treating my animals had been passed from the one vet to the other. One time the older vet was still in the office when I went in to get medicine for a ewe. I explained the ewe was sick. He asked me all the right questions. How old was she? How long had she been ailing, and what were her symptoms? I told him she had pneumonia and tried to sound confident. Of course, I was new at diagnosing animals, but I'd looked in the book I bought and that seemed to be the diagnoses that went along with the symptoms. The vet took my word for it and gave me a bottle with three doses of antibiotic in it and instructed me about how to use the medicine. He gave me his classic serious look as he said, “You know some people say a sick sheep is a dead sheep.” I wondered if that was the reason he took my word for the diagnosis and felt a little irked at him. If I was wrong about what was ailing the ewe, according to sheep health lore, she was a goner anyway. I didn't want to hear the old wives' tale some people said. I curtly informed the vet not one of my sheep were going to die if I could help it. I saved the ewe, and now I had the name of the antibiotic on the bottle so I could order next time from a mail-order catalog. Some time back I started ordering from the computer. That is what I've been doing ever since. If I do come across an ailment I don't know, I call a vet. The vet comes, diagnoses for me, and gives me the medicine I need. From then on, I recognize the ailment symptoms and keep the medicine on hand to use for that ailment. The bottom shelf in my refrigerator door has always been the place to store animal meds. Of course, I did have a vet curious when he told me the medicine he'd try on a lamb. I said I had already tried that and it didn't work. He asked me where I got my medicine so I said from a mail-order catalog. Maybe he thought he wasn't the first vet I'd called about the lamb. I named all the different medicines I had tried on this particular lamb and nothing seemed to work. The vet grinned at me. He said I used a cure or kill method. He might have been right, but usually, I succeeded with a cure for the patient even if I wasn't sure which medicine worked. This vet was the one who told me I should throw away my mail-order catalog. I was losing him money by not coming to him. He smiled as he said that, but he was right. While I was promoting for the sheep industry, the literary group in town decided to have me show them how to spin wool. The meeting just happened to be at the house of the elderly vet. He wasn't home that night. He was probably waiting for all the women to leave his house before he came back home. The women at the meeting seemed interested and asked questions about spinning and caring for sheep. The vet's wife smiled at me and said, “Before Doc left, he said to tell you he still thinks a sick sheep is a dead sheep.” I smiled. Doc had remembered our conversation from several years before. I must have made an impression on him. My reply to his wife was, “Tell him I still disagree with him when I'm the one taking care of my sheep.” I was wrong about one thing. Doc did have a sense of humor. He got in one last zinger through his wife. He didn't want to be there to face me himself. Paperback books can be found online at Barnes and Noble and Amazon. Ebooks are at Barnes and Noble for Nook and Amazon for Kindle. Also, Smashwords.com has my ebooks. For paperback https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sheep-on-the-right-goats-on-the-left-fay-risner/1139647974?ean=9781666297935 Kindle https://www.amazon.com/s?k=Sheep+On+The+Right+Goats+On+The+Left+by+Fay+Risner&i=stripbooks&ref=nb_sb_noss Nook https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/sheep-on-the-right-goats-on-the-left-fay-risner/1139647974?ean=2940162227724

2021-05-20T08:53:00.002-07:00

My Memories Of Animals Large And Small For forty-six years, I jotted down stories about taking care of my animals and fowl with the thought that someday I would like to become an author. When I saw on the Keystone Library Bulletin board that there was going to be a six weeks Writer's Workshop I signed up. The teacher was a retired English teacher. She encouraged all of us in that class to write about things we knew. For me, that was my animals. When I handed in my first story, the teacher gave me pointers on how to write the story better. When the class was over, she told all of us that we could bring any other stories to her at her home and she'd edit them for us. I took her up on that offer. She talked a local newspaper into putting a Writer's Column in the paper. I sent in several of my stories and it was so great to see my work in print. By the late eighties, I was ready to try writing a book. From that one, I wrote two about Alzheimer's while I was working at the Keystone Care Center. It's still a great place to work and for residents to get the care they need. Self-publishing became easy in 2008 online. I had eight books to publish which sold on Amazon and now I am ready to sell number 64. My Memories Of Animals Large And Small. In the early eighties, my son was gifted with the first three books of Dr. James Herriot, the vet from Yorkshire Dales, England. He began jotting down his stories in the 1930s and later turned them into books. Lately, I decided I might be able to do the same thing so I dug my early stories out of the drawer and began to type them into manuscript form. The later stories I had put on Facebook and had copies on the computer. What surprised me was the fact that I had enough stories for three books. So my working with sheep in the first book had to be almost as rugged in the winter as when Dr. Herriot trudged through knee-deep snow and blizzards in England. Some of the stories are scary like when a disagreeable cow takes her birthing pains out on me, or when the new bull has a dislike for women in general and charges me when I kept going in his pen. So meet Bobtail, Samson, Mr. Quacker, and the rest of Fay's menagerie in her first days of tending livestock. Paperback Books, regular and large print and Nook ebooks are at Barnes and Noble online. https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/memories-of-my-animals-large-and-small-fay-risner/1139509108?ean=9781666289633 Paperback book is in Amazon and ebook is in Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B095GG29XL/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=My+Memories+of+Animals+Large+and+Small+by+Fay+risner&qid=1621524779&sr=8-1 https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0959LQK2T Ebook is at Smashwords. https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1084944 Coming sometime this year will be books two and three in the series.

A Tribute To A Century Old Woman

2020-12-09T08:14:00.001-08:00

We lost the head of our family December 5, 2020. We were so fortunate to have Minnie Risner in our family for a 100 years. I realized a few years ago she had many stories to tell so I wrote a book about her life. Some families will think about parts of a loved one's life after they died and have questions, but it's too late. Hopefully, Minnie's family will never have to wonder about anything that happened to Minnie, because their questions were answered. Minnie was an amazing Christian, wife, mother, and friend who excelled at anything she did. She led by example for her family and anyone else who knew her, and she was loved by everyone. At age 9, she was in the timber picking greens for her mother to cook and found a pretty wildflower she just had to have. She dug it up and transplanted it in a tin can. An aunt saw how much Minnie prized that flower and asked if she could buy it. Minnie refused to sell. That was the beginning of her love for plants. She was taught by her mother about gardening and her Grandmother Jewell about flowers. She picked up knowledge along the way by reading to share with others. She was our Master Gardener. During warm weather, her company received a tour of her bountiful garden and beautiful flowers that she was so proud of. The next thing to do was sit on the front porch in the shade and drink ice tea while they visited. Turning fourteen was the beginning of Minnie's growing up. School ended at eighth grade in Risner Big Rock one-room schoolhouse. The school sat next to Risner Big Rock House, the home of her future husband, Henry. Minnie became good friends with the young school teacher who lived with the Risners. In the spring and fall, the school was let out for six weeks so the children could help in the fields. The spring of her fourteen year, Minnie planted corn for her Grandpa Harvey Phillips and her Uncle Jim while they prepared the soil and laid out the rows. Minnie was so quick at planting she had time to fish in the Myatt River while she waited on the next row to be laid off. One time she caught a very large fish and was very excited when she pulled it out of the water. She ran back to her grandpa to get help to carry the fish. In Arkansas's summer heat, Minnie hoed her father's cotton field. She helped her father with the milking, and her mother prepared her to be the immaculate housewife she became by teaching her cooking, canning, housework, and sewing. Life for children was harder a 100 years ago and death was an accepted part of their life at an early age. At ten, Minnie went with her mother to her Aunt Emma's house to help sew clothes for stillborn twins. As soon as the twins were dressed, Minnie was allowed to see how well the garment she sewed looked on one of the babies. In her teen years, she sat at the bedside of a very sick friend with other teens until the boy died. All preparation for doing the same through her adult years. Children didn't get allowance so during the winter Minnie set box traps and caught rabbits. She could kill the rabbits herself, skin, gut them and hang the hides and carcases on the clotheslines to freeze. She had customers in town who bought the meat, and someone bought the furs. She went on to become a good shot with a 22 rifle, because they lived in an area where poisonous snakes crawled in the yard, and blacksnakes were after her chickens and eggs. When company came for a meal, Minnie usually fixed fresh fried chicken. There weren't any freezers or refrigerators because they didn't have electricity, and they were lucky if they had an icebox. Minnie had a flock of chickens. The hens laid out, hatched chicks that became her chicken dinners. The lot the chickens were in grew grass as tall as the chickens. Just their heads showed when they stood up. Minnie got as close as she dared, sighted a rooster, and shot. He went down. She hurried to the spot, knowing she had work ahead of her before the company came. She had to scald and pick off the feathers, cut the rooster up and get him in the skillet. She was so glad she hit the rooster on the first shot, but when she picked him up she realized he was her flock rooster which wasn't good. She wouldn't have more chicks hatch that summer, and the tough rooster wouldn't fry well. She'd have to stew him or fix chicken and noodles. Minnie was a great cook, but there was one time when she had made a cake that failed. In her day, there weren't cake mixes so she mixed a cake up from scratch, expecting her sister Ethel and Ethel's husband, Frandell Risner, who was Henry's brother. Minnie was hurrying and forgot the baking powder in the cake. The cake was flat when it baked. Minnie didn't want her company to see that horrible cake. Frandell would have teased her. So she threw the cake back under the front porch and made another cake. Her company came and she went outside to greet them. The family dog came out from under the porch dragging her cake like it was a delicious bone. Minnie had to confess what happened. In Minnie's teenage years, she did have some fun times, and she was competitive. She'd find out when the neighborhood boys were going to have a horse race. She was so petite she had to climb on a tree stump to slide on her dad's plow horse. Minnie would take off to the country road to enter the race. More times than not she won the races. I teased her it was a wonder she found a husband. She was always better than the boys at what they did. At fourteen, Minnie was playing hide and seek. She hid in her father's barn loft where she could see the tree that was base out through a loft window. When the coast was clear, she decided the quickest, least-watched way to get to base was to jump from the loft into the horse manager of hay and climb out the barn window. She didn't have the plan well thought out. The distance down from the loft was more than she thought, the hay manager wasn't as full of soft hay as she thought, and she broke her right leg. They didn't have a car so her father Fred went to the neighbor and asked him to drive them to the doctor. So for months, Minnie wore a cast which slowed her down. Trips to the doctor and shopping were made in the farm wagon in those days. Minnie had something in common with George Washington. She couldn't tell a lie. When it came to questioning her about her health, she wasn't a complainer, and she didn't want to confide in anyone if she was ailing. She didn't like going to doctors or taking medicine. She wasn't raised that way a hundred years ago in the heal yourself days with herbs from the timber. So I'd asked if she was feeling okay. Minnie would give me a thin lipped smile and a slight nod yes. I soon figured out, she didn't consider that a lie when she didn't speak. Knowing that I confided in the last doctor she had so the doctor knew to watch the answer she got from Minnie. Minnie had lived long enough to give sage advice when asked. I bent her ear more than once, and wish I had written down what she told me. The only advice I remember is when I told Minnie someone had given me something I didn't really want, but I took it because I didn't want to hurt the person's feeling. Minnie said, "That was good you did that, because that person may give you something next time that you really like." At fourteen, Minnie was baptised in the Myatt River next to her future husband's childhood home and the school they both attended. Minnie always liked to read. Her favorite book up to then was Uncle Tom's Cabin until she was given her first Bible. She had read her Bible through many times. When we cleaned her house out, we found Minnie never had a Bible she didn't like. We knew that from her collections of them scattered around the house. She taught Sunday School and in the late 1980s when Henry and Minnie moved back south for four years, Minnie opened up the country church at Pleasant Valley they used to attend and became the lay preacher there. Her mother was the song leader. I'd always found Minnie meek and soft-spoken. I was surprised to see her stand in front of a congregation and preach. Her knowledge of the Bible gave her the confidence to deliver the message. Minnie believed in the power of prayer. She kept an updated prayer list and before she went to bed, she prayed for each person on the list. What was amazing to me was when she added President Ronald Reagan to her prayer list after he was shot in the 1980's assassination attempt. That wasn't all, she sent him a letter telling him she was praying for him and a get well card. That got her a card back from the White House from Ronald and Nancy. I didn't know that until I was working on her book. I kept saying who does that? What an amazing thing for her to do. By the way, she still had connections to the White House when she turned 100, because she got a birthday card from President Trump and his wife in September. Minnie looked forward to her family gathering in her large basement family room on every holiday and her birthday. She loved having everyone with her when they all had such busy lives the rest of the time. She'd never learned to drive so she loved outings to our place where we gave her tours of our garden and animals. As soon as we'd eaten, she'd be saying, “You can take me home now when you have time.” She didn't want to stay gone too long just encase she had company. When I wrote Minnie's story I interview relatives and friends. In later years, Minnie attended the Christan Fellowship Church that used to be in Belle Plaine. Her Pastor Jack Andrews told me it never failed when he saw Minnie, he'd say, “How are you today?” She replied, “Aw, like common.” I looked through some of Minnie's Bibles and found this handwritten passage in the back of a scuffed Bible she used so much. I believe she looked to that passage for comfort when her father died. He was not a well man and was severely burned by a grass fire he started. He'd have been in a lot of pain. Today, I think Minnie would again turn to that verse for comfort for herself, and I believe it applies to her. She was in pain from her broken wrist, and weary because at the end of her life she needed so much help at the nursing home. Revelation 21:3-4 "And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.” One thing I am sure of when Minnie stands before God, if he asks how she is, her reply will be, “Aw, just like common.”

Christmas With Hover Hill by Fay Risner

2020-11-30T09:26:00.001-08:00

One more Christmas book to tell you about. I always like adding humor to my stories, and this book has plenty of humor. One of my ideas for the book came from watching NBC Today years ago. A piece was on using robots to work as servants. Another idea I saved was one of many pictures I took at the Kalona Salebarn Carriage sale. They usually had one in the spring and one in the fall. I wanted a supply of horse-drawn pictures to use on my Nurse Hal book covers since I make the covers myself. The most usual horse-drawn item was a Cinderella Coach. I couldn't imagine what it was used for, but I had to have the picture to use someday. Lately, as much as possible, I set my stories in Iowa. So what this book consists of is a robot with an attitude that was a Christmas gift for a Northern Iowa College Professor. She loves her brother but hates the gift. So what caused her to change her mind when she takes off on a leave of absence to parts unknown with a very expensive robot after her brother says he will take the gift back. How does the Cinderella Coach fit into the story? You have to read the book to find out. Sold on Amazon and Barnes and Noble in paperback. Ebook in kindle, nook and smashwords.com

Synopsis Elizabeth Winston grew up not caring about Christmas. This Christmas is going to be much worse than the holidays she and her brother, Scott, shared with her divorced parents. Her former boyfriend, Steven Mitchell, showed up to pester her about renewing their relationship now that his marriage has ended, and Elizabeth vows that is not going to happen. She looks forward to sharing Christmas with her brother, Scott, but he says he won't be able to spend Christmas with her this year. He has a business trip. His present for her is an expensive and obnoxious robot house man by the name of Hover Hill that he says will make life easier for his sister. Just her luck to be stuck with a mechanical man to share the holidays with. To make matters worse, Elizabeth is fit to be tied when she figures out the robot was planted by ex-boyfriend Steven Mitchell to brainwash her into taking him back. Her brother, Scott, betrayed her when he helped Steven by saying the robot was his gift. She's so mad at both men she slips out of town, taking Steven's expensive robot with her and leaving her old life behind only to walk into a new set of problems. She just wanted to hide out for six months, but that isn't easy in small Wickenburg, Iowa. Gossip about her flies faster than the rumors that come out of the Silver Dollar Tavern. Susie, at the Maidrite Diner, bragged to her customers she got a good look at the handsome man that Elizabeth is shacking up with. The minster's wife complained local farmer, Bud Carter, hasn't been to church for a month of Sundays. She wondered what his problem was. Holly, from the Antique Store, said the reason why is Bud's spending more time at the pretty newcomer's house in the country than he is at his place. The grocery store checker said Elizabeth acts nervous like she's hiding out from someone. If Steven Mitchell or her brother comes to town looking for her, with all the attention Elizabeth is getting now, she fears all they have to do is ask, and they can get directions from anyone in town to the old Carter house before she makes it through Christmas With Hover Hill.

2020-11-25T08:25:00.001-08:00

Christmas is near, and most of us are staying home looking for something to keep us busy. If you're looking for holiday stories, here is one I wrote. I save ideas just in case some day I might be able to write a whole story. I'd never paid much attention to the bucket list idea until I was in Walmart one day. I was in the restroom, trying to the the automatic soap dispenser to put soap in my hand. After several swipes under the dispenser, a shopper came up beside me and used the dispenser by her. I asked, "How did you get soap? I can't make this dispenser work." It tickled the woman. She swiped her hand again and said, "Just like this." She had a hand full of foamy soap, but the procedure she used looked to me about like what I had been doing. Oh, well, I'd try again. I swiped and had a handful of soap. The woman smiled. "There you go. You can take that off your bucket list." We both laughed, and she disappeared. Suddenly, I'm looking at myself in the mirror and wondering why I looked like I should have a bucket list. So when I wanted to write a story, I went through my saved ideas, came up with one and still mulling over I should have a bucket list, I came up with this story. The poem was a Christmas gift from a nephew that I had saved. I felt it went along with this story. You might find this book different than most Christmas stories, but I think you will like it. Paperback books are found at Amazon and Barnes and Noble in 12 font and large print. The ebooks are in Kindle, Nook, and smashwords.com.

When Leona Krebsbach found out just before Thanksgiving she didn't have long to live, she took charge of her life like she had always done since the doctor thought she might die in a month. She bought a small spiral notepad and titled it Christmas Bucket List. On each page of the notepad, Leona listed something she needed to get done while she still had time. Details like her funeral headed the list. She didn't want to leave anything for her daughters to have to worry about after she was gone. She kept her illness a secret until after Thanksgiving when she had all but one thing completed on her bucket list. Finally, she was as ready to die as she was ever going to get. She called her daughters and invited them to a tea party. Now was the time to tell them. At her age with a long life behind her, Leona Krebsbach wished she felt better prepared mentally for the end. She should have been ready to go, because she would be with her beloved Clarence. If only she had managed to atone for that one regretful time that happened so many years ago. If that didn't weigh on her, she knew her mind set would be different, but she couldn't change the past. Even if she wanted to, she didn't have enough time. She reasoned her bucket list wasn't designed to take care of that one regret unless a miracle happened to change Leona's Christmas Bucket List.

2020-10-12T13:39:00.001-07:00

Book 12 of the Amazing Gracie Mystery Series. On sale at kindle, nook and smashwords.com and paper back in regular and large print in Barnes and Noble and Amazon. Synosis Gracie Evans wasn't the only one upset when the Locked Rock, Iowa newspaper editor wanted to compete with big city papers by starting a gossip column. Appearing in the gossip column wasn't the way Locked Rock citizens wanted to find themselves in print. That didn't stop the newspaper from selling more copies, because everyone had to find out if they were in the gossip column each week. Shortly after two women were mentioned in the gossip column they were murdered. Gracie Evans suspects a mouse trap drummer who has been going door to door. He has an eye for pretty young women, but Gracie doesn't have proof that he murdered the women. Who wanted to punish the women mentioned in the column by murdering them? Chapter 1 The time was early spring It was a morning in 1906 right after breakfast at Locked Rock, Iowa's Moser Mansion Rest Home for Women. A squirrel scampered across the yard to the maple tree with one of last year's walnuts in its mouth. In flower beds on the block, yellow daffodils and all colors of tulips shimmered in the slight breeze. As usual, the three Moser Mansion residents were lined up in their rockers on the front porch. Melinda Applegate and Madeline Patterford had slipped into quiet reverie with their chins resting on their chests until Gracie Evans's sudden brassy voiced outburst startled them. The two women flinched as they came out of their stupor, trying to make sense of Gracie's explosion. Gracie crumpled up the latest Wednesday copy of the Locked Rock Review newspaper and slapped it on the lap of her dark brown cotton skirt. She rubbed the long, dark gray braid wound around the top her head with an arthritic forefinger as she groused, “This newspaper's new-fangled notions beat everything I ever seen.” Melinda raised a perturbed eyebrow as she watched Gracie mistreat the newspaper. “Gracie, could you be careful with the Locked Rock Review? I haven't had a chance to read it yet.” Madeline patted her dark French knotted hair back in place as she leaned forward in her rocker to look around Melinda. She stared down her long slender nose at Gracie. “Oh brother! This early in the morning and you're already dissatisfied with something. Melinda's right. Take care not to damage the Locked Rock Review just yet. I want my turn to read the newspaper, too.” “Here, take it.” Gracie grouched as she whipped the wrinkled newspaper out at Melinda. As she grabbed the paper, curly, white-haired Melinda said sweetly, “Thank you. Now, what is wrong with the newspaper this time?” Madeline leaned forward again to listen. “The owner, Roy Madison, is going to let the newspaper put in a gossip column. The editor, George Hightower, has a help wanted ad in there to find a person to write the column,” groused Gracie. Melinda groaned. “That is too bad. Maybe no one will apply for the job. I'm surprised at Mr. Madison. As the owner of the newspaper, you would think he wouldn't want to do such a column in this small-town newspaper. Hopefully, he will change his mind if he hears enough complaints against such a column.” Madeline shook her head. “Oh, brother! That won't happen, Melinda. Moxie Applegate told me when I was at the library last Wednesday she heard the editor has quit the newspaper over a dispute with the owner. He's just waiting for the new editor to arrive from out east before he leaves. I gathered from Moxie that the man tried to stop Mr. Madison from running the gossip column and was ordered to do so or quit. So he quit. A new man is arriving all the way from Boston to take over. Moxie understood Mr. Madison said the new editor can do what he wants with the newspaper. He's giving the man free rein. Mr. Madison is hoping that the man will be able to increase sales with his fresh ideas. That's what Moxie said.” “This is the first I've heard of a shake-up at the newspaper. You sure were quiet about it,” Gracie declared. “Really, I hadn't heard about this either. Is this so, Madeline?” Melinda gasped. Madeline shrugged her shoulders. “Really, and I'll have you know I didn't know there would be anything note-worthy about what happens with the newspaper's staff coming and going. So Gracie you might as well get used to changes in the newspaper and expect more of them to come that we aren't used to reading about. This eastern editor will be doing things the way they're done out east. In that area, the large city newspapers have had gossip columns in them for some time.” “Guess that explains why the editor said the reporter of the gossip column would remain anonymous. In a small town like this, reporting dirt on friends and neighbors could very well get a person tared and feathered some dark night. It must be a whole different situation when the big cities out east do it,” Gracie surmised with a grunt. “Why is it so different?” Melinda asked. “In the large cities, the newspapers can talk about anyone they want. With the population being as large as it is, not as many people know the people getting talked about in the gossip column so it doesn't matter,” Gracie surmised. “Well, I expect it matters to the people who are mentioned in the newspaper,” Melinda declared. “Right,” Madeline added. “What is put in those gossip columns are never anything nice, and usually ruins reputations. There's no undoing what is said in print.” “That's true for sure,” Melinda agreed. “But I wonder what gossip there would be in a gossip column for a small town like this one which would surprise anyone. All we have to do is talk to our friends to find out what is going on with other people in town.” Madeline began her rocker in slow motion. “The newspaper we took in New York had mostly stories about what man was stepping out on his wife with another woman.” “Well, you know what they say?” Gracie rubbed the arm of her rocker as she studied the street down to Main Street. “I'm afraid I'm going to be sorry, but no, Gracie, what do they say?” Melinda asked with her left eyebrow raised. Gracie looked down her nose at the curly, white-haired woman beside her. “If everything is all right in the hen house, men don't have to borrow eggs from the next-door neighbor woman.” “Really, Gracie. I don't think I have ever heard that saying before. What does borrowing eggs from a neighbor have to do with a man cheating on his wife,” Melinda declared. “Melinda, Gracie is trying to say the man didn't go next door to get just eggs from the woman who lived there,” Madeline explained. Melinda's face turned beet red. “Oh? Ohhh!” “Gracie you've been single your whole life. And you are an expert on married men who cheat on their wives how?” Madeline asked. “Just going by what I've seen around here over the years,” Gracie said quietly. Madeline snapped, “Well, I can tell you what I know about a newspaper in the big city. My brother wound up in one of the newspapers in New York. That paper had a very mean gossip column, and my brother was in it.” “Was he running around on his wife or was the gossip column wrong?” Gracie asked. Madeline slowly nodded. “Well yes, my brother was guilty of cheating on his wife, but the awful experience of having the multitude of readers in that newspaper know a shameful thing like that about my brother proved to be an embarrassment to my whole family.” “Oh my! Madeline, I am so sorry to hear that happened to you,” Melinda commiserated. “Gracie must be right. That just goes to show you a gossip column is a bad thing to have in our newspaper.” “Well, that is all past history. My brother said he was sorry for what he did. He made up with his wife after he was exposed in the newspaper and remained faithful after that. I got over it. So did the rest of the family, because we love my brother and his wife and their children,” Madeline shared. “If getting caught made things better in the long run for your brother and his family maybe it wasn't such a bad thing,” Gracie declared. “Thanks to my sister-in-law's forgiving nature, my brother turned out to be a good example. That is if there is such a thing when people's mistakes have been aired in the newspaper. Plenty of families were split apart and their lives ruined by such news leaking out in the gossip column,” Madeline declared. “The subscribers never forget bad rumors they read about someone they know.” “Guess we will have to wait until next week and see if anyone applies for the job,” Gracie said. “Maybe we're worrying for nothing. We may not be the only ones in this town that think Roy Madison has a bad idea. What the readers ought to do is speak up and tell him to forget the gossip column.” For once, Melinda and Madeline nodded agreement with Gracie. “If we hear anyone mention they feel the same way we do, we should tell them to threaten to drop their subscription to the newspaper if a gossip column is put in it,” Madeline decided. “That is a good idea. Gracie, wasn't there any good news in the newspaper?” Melinda asked. “Find out for yourself. It's in your lap,” Gracie said as she leaned back in her rocker. “Fine! Hopefully, I can make heads or tails out of the news if I can make out the words in the crinkled places.” Melinda narrowed her eyes as she scanned passed pages one and two to the third page. “Here is Moxie Applegate's social column. It's always interesting. She says Thad Sawyer and his wife Ivy were in town Saturday to do their shopping. The seed corn salesman has been making his rounds of the farms with corn for farmers to plant. Sunday night was a shivaree at the Cloy Smith home for their daughter, Renee, and her new husband, Roy Hansen. Folks said they had trouble hearing the next day after listening to all the pot banging, but they sure had fun. Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Scancot had supper at the Lyle and Mary Kroy home.” Melinda laid the newspaper down. “Not anything harmful in Moxie's column. That's for sure. It's always nice to read about what other people in the area are doing.” “Depends who you are,” Madeline said, grinning. “From what I heard after church last Sunday when women gathered to visit, there was one person who felt slighted by Thad Sawyer. A neighbor to the Sawyers said usually the couple stop by her house on the way into town to take her sister and her along with them. Or at least get their order for groceries so the Sawyers can stop by with the groceries on their way home. They hadn't done it, and she was miffed, thinking they slipped by her house on purpose so as not to bother with them.” Gracie defended the renter of her Three Oaks farm. “Thad probably was in a hurry to get back to planting corn. He didn't have time to fool around in town waiting for two old women and his wife while they all tried to get their shopping done.” Madeline continued, “Well, Elmer Scancot's sister, Eunice Smith, was telling the Hopwood sisters that Elmer and his wife haven't been to visit with her, their own kin, in months. She saw in the newspaper's social column when they do come to town they spend an evening with the Kroys. Listening to them complain tells me that even Moxie's social column isn't all that great if people read it and get riled up at others.” Gracie and Melinda didn't have a defense for Moxie so they relaxed back in their rockers and closed their eyes, pretending to nap. After lunch, the Moser women decided to walk to the library uptown. Moxie Applegate had extended the library hours to all day Wednesday since Locked Rock was growing in size and there was more interest in the library. It was a beautiful spring afternoon to be outside. The walk was just a little over a block long and good exercise if Gracie was to believe Madeline. The women waved at people in their buggies as they rolled by and shouted a greeting to people sitting on their front porches. Locked Rock, Iowa was never very busy on a Wednesday, and this afternoon wasn't any different. Saturdays were sale days when crowds showed up in town. The farmers and their wives called Saturday trading day when they came in to trade their excess vegetables, fruit, eggs, and grain for groceries and livestock feed. Men stood in groups in front of the stores. They discussed the weather, commodity prices, and how well their corn crop was doing. When that subject was exhausted, they spun a few tall tales while they waited for their wives. “If the library is as busy as usual this afternoon, we should get some opinions about the gossip column in the newspaper from some of the other women,” Madeline said and got agreeable nods from the other two women. “Remember, Gracie, we're going to tell anyone that complains that they should stop buying the newspaper,” Melinda reminded her. Gracie grouched, “I'll remember.” As they crossed the street, Gracie walked in the middle of the group. Melinda was waving energetically by the time Gracie looked her way. “Who are you waving at?” “Donald Jackson. See, he's waving back,” Melinda said quietly. Gracie humphed. “Business must not be very good if he has the time to stand in the doorway watching people go by.” “The way I got it from Lois Harwood at church Sunday, the dressmaker's business is so good he has hired three dressmakers to help him out,” Madeline informed them. Gracie eyed Madeline. “Is gossip all you do with women after church?” “Those discussions weren't the same type of gossip as the newspaper plans to print,” Madeline defended. “Really, the dressmaking business is that good these days?” Melinda whispered, perking up as she turned toward the store. “We should go over there and look in his shop window to see the latest fashions. You know he changes the clothes in that window with the seasons.” Madeline was all for that. “Let's do it. The winter selection will be put away by now and the new spring fashion on display.” “What do you think, Gracie?” Melinda asked when Gracie didn't offer to walk toward the dress shop. Gracie was studying Madeline again. “It has occurred to me we don't need to read the newspaper for gossip. All we have to do is stand in the same group of women after church that Madeline visits with if we want to know what is going on around here.” “Oh, brother!” Madeline hissed. Melinda groaned. “Gracie, Madeline won't share any news with us at all if you keep aggravating her. How about looking at the latest fashions in the window?” “All right, but can't we go to the library first?” Gracie complained as she studied the pale-faced, beady-eyed man with a walrus mustache leaning against the door facing with his legs crossed at the ankles. “No, we can do that afterward,” Melinda said, all excited about what she'd see in the dress shop window. Madeline sided with Melinda. “This won't take long. Perhaps, there will be an outfit that strikes your fancy, Gracie.” Melinda snickered as Gracie grunted, “That will be the day.” The women liked to tease Gracie for her lack of fashion sense. The elderly, former farmer always stuck with her usual outfits, a tan blouse and a brown full cotton skirt. Her friends knew that about her and liked to point it out to her every time they had a chance. “You have choices, Gracie,” Melinda said sweetly. “You can wait here until we come back, and go on in the library. We'll meet you there, or you can come with us now.” Madeline and Melinda looked both ways to make sure they wouldn't get run over and headed across the street. “I'm coming with you.” With a glum look on her face, Gracie tagged along behind. “Good afternoon, ladies,” the dress shop owner greeted politely in his monotone voice. “Good afternoon, Mr. Jackson,” replied Melinda. Madeline added her greeting and explained, “We wanted to check out the fashions in the window.” “Go right ahead, ladies. I just put the latest spring garments out for display,” Mr. Jackson said as he waved his hand at the window. Gracie shifted until she was behind the other two looking over their shoulders as they stared through the window. “Is that not a pretty dress to wear to church?” Melinda asked with awe in her voice as she stared at a soft, white lawn dress with long sleeves and a full ankle-length skirt. Madeline pointed at the dress next to Melinda's choice. “I'm rather partial to the dark blue one with the slim-fitting skirt. Do you have a favorite, Gracie?” “Nope! Nothing here in my style. Can we go now?” Gracie hissed. “Ladies, I have your sizes on file. Any time you are ready to order a dress of your choosing it can be made in a week's time,” Donald Jackson pitched. “That's fast,” Madeline declared. “I've hired three new dressmakers to help me get garments ready faster,” Mr. Jackson declared. Melinda smiled at the shop owner. “Well, let me think about it, Mr. Jackson.” “I agree. I do have plenty of clothes. I just like the excitement of wearing something no one has seen me in before,” Madeline said. “Can we go now?” Gracie insisted, not daring to look at the store owner as she tugged on Melinda's white blouse sleeve. She was sure he was frowning at her. Probably blaming her for him losing a sale. “Guess we better,” Melinda said with a sigh. “Thanks so much for letting us look and dream,” Madeline declared, smiling at Mr. Jackson. Gracie glanced his direction then before she could turn her back on him, Mr. Jackson's mouth curved into a weak twitch. Gracie assumed that was the best grin he could bring forth at the moment. His pale blue eyes seemed to ice over as he eyed her, giving Gracie an inner shiver like a cold north breeze had struck her. After they were out of hearing as they crossed the street, Gracie said in a hushed voice to the other two, “I don't know how you two can stand to be around that man. He gives me the creeps.” “That is just your opinion, Gracie. He's a nice man and has always been polite to me,” Melinda disputed. “I agree,” Madeline said, siding with Melinda. “Besides, he is always up to date on the fashions from out east. Women in this town appreciate his sense of fashion. We would all look like frumps without him updating our wardrobes. Just ask anyone.” Gracie shrugged her shoulders. “I still say there is something strangely off about a man who prefers to own a business that sells women's unmentionables.” “Oh, brother,” Madeline snapped. “That's just one sideline to having a dress business.” “Right,” Melinda agreed. “We need someone to buy underwear from so it is a good thing that Mr. Jackson sells such things.” “I can't help it. Even the fact that the man has all of our body sizes written down seems creepy to me. I prefer to sew my own unmentionables like I always have,” Gracie hissed as Melinda opened the library door. From behind Melinda and Gracie, Madeline grumbled, “Gracie, you're like a spit in the wind. What you say can easily blow back to splat your face if you don't keep your opinion to yourself.” “Enough you two. Someone might hear you,” hissed Melinda as the entry door hinges creaked when she opened the door. Quickly she turned a smile on as most of the women turned from the shelves of books to see who entered. And this is how the tale of the Locked Rock, Iowa gossip column murders began.

Jacob's Spirit - 4th and last installment.

2020-09-13T07:28:00.003-07:00

Chapter 13 Two weeks later Ellen decided after morning chores, it was time she weeded her flower bed in front of the house. Lambquarters and dandelions were about to overshadow the flowers. She stepped out on the porch and breathed in deeply. Nothing beat the fresh country air mingled with a hint of mowed hay and fresh-cut grass in the house yard. From the cheeps and chirps coming out of the trees and bushes, the birds sounded like they loved the day as much as she did. Wrens flew in and out of the two wren houses Jack hung in the lilac and spirea bushes. Those spunky little birds were favorites of Ellen's. She loved to hear them chortle when they were happy. They made her laugh when they were irritated. The way they darted at her with warning chatter made her duck when she came too close to their birdhouses while she was mowing the yard. She didn't blame them for being very protective of their nests. Splotches and the other cats were always on the prowl for baby birds that fell out of the nests. The land was flat so Ellen could see for over a mile, but that wouldn't be for very long. She could row the corn plants in the fields right now. The corn stalks grew fast and would soon be so tall she wouldn't be able to see any activity in the neighborhood unless it was right in front of her driveway. Ellen listened to the cattle bawl to their scampering calves in the pasture behind the barn. The worried cows were telling their calves to slow down and stay close. The fat hogs nosed feeder lids up to eat and let the lids fall with a tinny bang when they backed away. Once in a while, a bossy hog would squeal roughly at another one. The rooster crowed often and clucked to his hens to join him when he found a swarm of juicy bugs. Pleasant country sounds to a farmer and his wife. Once she sank to her knees in front of the house, Ellen pulled the weeds and sprigs of grass from around the yellow and orange marigolds as she hummed Ain't No Mountain High Enough. She'd heard Diana Ross sing that song on the radio. A disturbance among a flock of crows pecking at gravels in the road and at corn spilled from a grain truck made Ellen curious. She twisted to look over her shoulder toward the road. Something caused a squirrel to scamper up a buckeye tree at the end of the driveway. She put her attention back on the flower bed until she heard gravel crunch under a slow-moving car's tires behind her in the driveway. That was what was the matter with the crows and the squirrel. A car had slowed down to turn in. The shiny black Buick drove close to the house and stopped. Two women were in the front seat. The driver's side window whined down as Ellen stood up and slapped the dust off her knees. “Hello,” called a lady dressed in a fashionable, navy blue pantsuit and white ruffled blouse. “Good morning,” returned Ellen as she shaded her eyes from the sun and walked to the car. “Can I help you?” “I'm Susan Chester. Years ago, this farm used to be my mother's childhood home when her family homesteaded the farm. We were driving by, and Mother thought she'd like to see the place one more time. Would you mind if Mother and I looked around?” The driver asked. She opened the door and turned sideways so her black loafered feet touched the ground. “No, I don't mind at all,” Ellen said. “As a matter of fact, I'd love to hear the history of this farm. I know very little about it.” “Thank you so much. Wait until I help Mother out. She's going to be delighted by this.” As Susan rushed around the car, Ellen noted she had dark brown hair with gray threaded through it. If Ellen guessed right Susan looked to be in her fifties. Standing against the open door, Susan helped her mother from the car. The frail, short, elderly lady supported herself with a wooden, ornately carved cane. Susan held a protective hand on her mother's elbow to help her walk across the gravel driveway. Slowly they walked around the front of the car toward Ellen. Susan introduced, “This is my mother, Alice Reasoner. Her family name was Stonebaker. Ellen stuck her hand out to shake hands with the older woman. “Nice to meet you, Alice. I'm Ellen Carter. My husband, Jack, and I own this farm now. We've lived here fifteen years.” The woman's eyes saddened as she stared at the fairly new, ranch style home. “I wish I had stopped in sooner. This isn't the house I lived in with my family.” “No, but we lived in the same house you did when we first moved here so I know what the two-story house was like. We tore the old house down a few years back. It was in need of a lot of expensive repairs when we moved in. We decided it was wiser to build a new house,” Ellen explained. “I took plenty of pictures of that house before we had it demolished. If you would like to have copies of them, I'd be glad to get them made for you.” Alice smiled at her. “Yes, I believe I would. Looking at pictures would be nice to help refresh my memory since I don't recall as good as I once did.” “You have a nice home,” Susan complimented. “Thank you, we like it. Leave an address with me so I can send you the pictures when I get them developed.” Ellen replied. Susan smiled. “I'd be glad to.” Ellen suggested, “Maybe we can walk behind the house for a better view of the farm site if you would like that. At least, you can see as far as the corn and bean fields. Behind them is the hayfield and pasture where we keep the cattle.” She led the women to the back yard. That gave them a full view of the outbuildings and the flat Iowa farm fields that once belonged to Alice's family. The sheep had bedded down in the shade of the barn and were chewing their cuds. They rose at the sound of strange voices and headed single file to the pasture. Susan pointed at the sheep. “Quite a flock of sheep you have there. Oh look, Mother, see the cute lambs.” When her mother didn't answer, she looked at her to see why. Alice turned her head one way then the other with her full concentration on the surroundings. “Susan, it's hard to believe how things have changed.” Astonishment filled the elderly woman's voice as she recalled the way the farm looked in her youth close to a century ago. “The outbuildings are gone that stood over that way.” The woman pointed near the barn. “Pa had a tool shed and chicken house next to the barn.” She pointed at the grass beyond there. “What now is your sheep pasture used to be a large grove of walnut trees and apple trees of several varieties. We kids picked the nuts up. What we didn't crack and pick out for Mom to use to bake with, we sold to earn money. Part of the apples Mom canned into applesauce. She had us pick the red delicious apples by the pails full and carry them down to the root cellar. It set just west of the house. We poured the apples in bins, and they lasted us all winter. My oh my! What a treat those apples were during the winter when Mom gave them to us on special occasions. On years when we had a plentiful bounty, there were plenty of apples left to sell. We were a large family, and my folks were always looking for ways to make money.” The elderly woman twisted on her cane and grew solemnly quiet as she stared at the barn. Her face saddened. “Is something wrong, Mother?” Susan asked. “My brother, Jacob, fell off that old barn's steep roof and died.” Chapter 14 “That is sad. Mother, you never told me before that you lost a brother to an accident. How did it happen?” Susan asked. “Jacob wanted to help the men re-roof the barn so bad he pestered Papa to let him help. Papa said no. He told the boy he was too young to be up that high with the men. Jacob wasn't one to give up if he wanted something. He was stubborn that way. So he kept wheedling Papa until when the neighbor men came to help with the roof our papa gave in. He said Jacob could help put the tin sheets on. My brother was thirteen if I remember correctly. My oh my, that happened so long ago, but that dreadful day feels like it happened yesterday in my head. I was two years older than he was. It was a day that stuck with every member of my family until the day they died. Jacob was so proud when Dad handed him his own hammer and a nail apron of his very own just like the grownups. He put that apron on and filled it with roofing nails. Then he strutted around in front of the men to show them his apron, bulging with nails. Only Papa never thought about Jacob being a boy who never did know any fear. If he'd had time to give his decision a second thought he'd have told Jacob to stay on the ground where he belonged. For the rest of his life, Papa said many times he sure wished he had done just that. Jacob always liked high places. He would climb higher in the apple trees than the rest of us to pick the apples. He shinnied up the walnut trees just like a squirrel to shake the limbs so the nuts would fall for us to pick up. Poor Mom missed Jacob so much after he was gone. If she knew the tricks he pulled, she'd have tanned his hide good for doing them stunts. If she had known how that day was going to end, she sure would have told Papa to keep Jacob off the barn roof. Anyway, Papa did tell the boy he didn't want to catch Jacob climbing up on the high pitch, but my brother didn't listen. As soon as Papa wasn't looking, Jacob climbed up to the pitch of the roof to work. He lost his balance and slid all the way down and plummeted off the barn. It was right over there in front of that barn door where he landed.” Alice pointed to the door that Ellen let the sheep out of each morning. She continued, “When Jacob hit the hard barnyard ground, he lit wrong on his leg, and it snapped.” Ellen gasped as she remembered the little boy she saw sitting in that very spot with a broken leg. Alice and Susan focused on her. “Oh, I was just thinking how terrible that was for him. Do you remember how Jacob dressed?” “Sure, he wore what all other boys did back then. A chambray shirt and overalls,” Alice replied. “Did he have a straw hat?” Ellen asked. Alice nodded. “Of course, he did. All the men and boys wore a straw hat in them days. They were out in the sun most days. Why do you want to know that?” Ellen knew she sounded too eager so she said casually, “I was just trying to picture your brother on the ground. Do you happen to have a picture of him?” Alice nodded. “No, cameras cost a lot of money in those days. We couldn't afford one.” “Mother, go on with your story,” Susan encouraged. Ellen patted the elderly woman's shoulder. “Yes, I am so sorry I interrupted you, Alice.” “Where was I? Oh, yes, the women fixing a meal in the kitchen heard Jacob scream all the way to the house from the barn. They dropped their spoons and knives and boiled out of the house to run to the barn to see what happened. The men and my other brothers scrambled down the ladders and gathered around Jacob. Everybody watched as Papa gathered the little fellow in his arms and followed along as Papa carried him to the house as fast as he could. Jacob was in bad shape, and my folks had their hands full taking care of their hurting youngun, crying, and moaning like he did. The neighbors stood around on the front porch for a while, talking, and waiting for news of Jacob's condition. Finally, they decided to go home and come back another day. Oh, they could have finished roofing the barn right there and then that day, but the banging would be loud and irritating to an anxious family and a hurting boy. You can imagine how all that banging would sound to an upset family I reckon.” Ellen thought about how she'd felt while she listened to the banging noises she'd heard for months. “You bet! I can agree that would be annoying all right. The neighbor men were just being thoughtful.” “Yes, we had good neighbors back in them days,” Alice assured her. “What happened to Uncle Jacob after that, Mother?” Susan asked. “Yes, finish the story,” Ellen encouraged. “Well, Jacob's shin bone poked clean through the skin about halfway up his lower leg. It was a horrible sight for all of us to see. I'll never forget it, and the rest of my brothers and sisters said the same thing. The poor little guy was in so much pain it hurt the rest of us to hear him crying. We felt so helpless since we didn't have a close doctor in them days. We all took turns caring for his needs and sitting up with him. Mom and Papa had to tend to Jacob's injury themselves. Papa got the bone set as best he could, but Jacob remained in pain. He groaned, cried, and talked out of his head from the high fever brought on by infection. In a few days, the leg swelled up to three times its normal size. The leg turned black, and the wound oozed green pus under the bandage. We knew he didn't have long to live when Papa told us his leg had blood poisoning in it. He died of what we now know as gangrene a week after the accident.” “How sad for your family.” Ellen patted the woman's bony shoulder. “It was. Jacob was my youngest brother and such a mischievous little guy. Everyone in the family loved him so much.” Alice pointed toward the sheep pasture. “Papa dug the boy's grave over in the back of that pasture under one of those oak trees in that row. I believe it was the third one from the end headed this way. I've looked over this way every time we drive by and think about my brother's grave. It saddens me the wooden cross that marked his grave has been gone for years.” “Mom, the wood would have rotted a long time ago,” Susan said. Alice nodded agreement. “I know.” “You didn't have a funeral for Jacob?” Ellen wanted to know. “Sure we did. Just as luck would have it, we heard a traveling preacher was close by on his circuit. Papa went for him. My folks had Jacob laid out in the parlor in the wooden coffin Papa and my other brothers made him. Neighbors from all around came for the funeral.” Chapter 15 “Why didn't your family bury Jacob in a cemetery?” Ellen asked. “Wasn't a community or church one around. Why, it was miles to the nearest town. Back then, farmers had their own family cemeteries and some let the neighbors bury their family members in them. Papa and Mom migrated here from Germany and homesteaded this farm. Jacob was the first to die in our family, so Papa thought we should have a resting place on our own land. Besides, Papa always felt guilty after that for giving his permission to Jacob to go up on the barn roof. He wanted his son's grave close by so he could go visit the boy when he felt like it. Just to pray over Jacob and tell him how sorry he was for letting him get hurt. Mom always had a yard full of flowers so she'd walk out there often with a bouquet of whatever flowers were blooming at the time. It gave my folks comfort to be able to tend to Jacob's grave. When the depression hit, one of my brothers was having a poor go of it on this farm. My folks lived with him and his family. Finally, my folks lost the farm when they couldn't pay the property taxes. None of the rest of the family died before we moved away, and Papa had never gotten around to putting in a fence around Jacob's grave. My other brothers, sisters, and me had already all grown up and moved away from home. We had families of our own. By then there were well-kept cemeteries for everyone to be buried in. No one in this neighborhood wanted to be buried by Jacob. Once the farm changed hands, it wasn't likely the owners would want a growing cemetery taking up space in their pasture. So Jacob's grave wasn't taken care of after my parents and brother and his family moved. By the time, the farm changed hands a few times more the cross was gone, and the next owners didn't know about the grave. It's been so long now, I guess no one in the neighborhood is left to remember that Jacob is even laid to rest by that tree except me. My generation of the family is about gone and the one before me is gone. My oh my! No one left to care about poor Jacob's resting place.” Alice wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks to dry the tears. The three women stared at the base of the third oak in the row of trees. Each consumed with their own thoughts about the little boy who didn't get to see his fourteenth birthday. Three years before, Ellen buried her border collie, Sherman, in the pasture under the oak tree second from the end. A dreadful thought came to her now that she was reminded of burying her dog. What if she had picked that third tree to bury her dog under and dug down into the rotted coffin? The only reason she didn't choose the third tree was she'd noticed the sunken ground. At the time, she thought the ground looked odd and decided to bury the dog by the next tree. Now she knew a human being was most likely buried in the sunken spot. She vowed she wasn't going to dig in that spot for any reason. She might even let Jack invest in weed spray to kill the thistles in the pasture from now on. It had been her idea to save money by spading off the thistles each spring. Not that she ever spaded deep enough to disturb a grave, but she just didn't like the idea of poking the ground over a grave. It wasn't respectful. “I buried my favorite border collie by the second tree about three years ago,” Ellen shared as she pointed across the pasture. “What happened to him?” Susan asked. “Sherman wasn't trained well enough to follow commands yet. One morning, he happened to see the neighbor's hogs in the cornfield across the road. Before the field was planted, the neighbor let the hogs run. Sherman thought it wasn't right that the hogs were close to the fence. Guess he thought they were going to get out and come over here. He barked and growled, then took off on a dead run. I yelled at him to stop, and he didn't listen. About the time he was in the middle of the road a grain truck loaded with grain barreled down on him and killed him.” “I bet you missed him if you thought enough of him to give him a grave. Just think, the spot you picked is right next to my brother.” Alice smiled as a comforting thought came to her. “Jacob loved dogs. He must be pleased to have a dog resting next to him. He's probably claimed your dog as his own by now.” An image of the boy in pain Ellen saw from the window on that May night flashed through her mind. “Alice, what time of year did you say Jacob's accident happen?” “Early May best I remember. Just when the days began to warm up so the men would be comfortable working on the roof on a sunny day.” The old woman's eyes clouded over at long ago put away memories coming to the surface. “Mother, how old did you say Jacob was?” Asked her daughter. Hoarse from so much talking, Alice croaked, “He turned thirteen in January and thought he was near growed.” Ellen digested the information, thinking that was about the age of the boy she saw. “Alice, which leg did Jacob break?” “Oh my, oh, that was so long ago. I think it was the left one.” Yes! The little boy in front of the barn might have had a broken left leg. Suddenly, the details she saw that night in May and what the elderly woman was describing seemed so eerily similar. Enough so that the very idea made Ellen scared and excited all at the same time. Alice wobbled as she shifted on her cane to face her daughter. “Susan, reckon we better go. I'm getting a bit tired from standing on my feet so long. I need to sit.” “You're welcome to come in and have a cup of coffee with me while you rest. I'd love to visit with you some more,” Ellen invited. Alice shook her head as she trudged on heavy feet toward the car with Susan hanging on to her arm. Her weary voice trembled. “Not this time. I want to thank you for letting me look around though, but it has brought all the sadness back connected with this farm. Believe I just ought to go home and rest.” “Maybe another time for sure, Alice. You are both welcome to visit any time you want,” Ellen assured her. She could see remembering back to a sad time for her family had taken a lot out of the elderly woman. Susan nodded as she helped her mother get seated. “Understand, Mother has buried that story about her brother so deep in her memory, she didn't ever bring it up. Looks like doing so today has taken a lot out of her.” Ellen sighed. “I agree. Poor Alice summoned up a lot of energy to tell us her story. I appreciate that she did.” “Anyway, we both enjoyed the scenic view of the countryside as I drove here today. This is a lovely part of the country. I'd love to bring Mother back for another visit. Maybe next time won't be so hard on her,” Susan replied. “I've always thought this area is pretty. I can see why homesteaders picked here to farm a century ago. You're right about your mother. Now that she has the story of Jacob out in the open, coming here next time will be easier for her,” Ellen said. “Oh, don't forget to give me Alice's address.” “Oh yes. Thanks for reminding me.” Susan opened the glove box and got out a small, black leather box. She opened it up and took out a business card. “I'm an insurance agent. My address is on the card. Mother lives with me now.” “I'll get her the pictures soon,” Ellen assured. She backed out of the way and waved at the car as it moved down the driveway. Chapter 16 About an hour later, Jack's old farm truck rumbled into the driveway and took off toward the outbuildings. Barely able to contain her excitement, Ellen peeked out of the living room window to see which way Jack headed. When she saw him stop the pickup and back up to the feed shed, she ran to tell him she had company while he was in town and what she'd found out. “Guess what happened, Jack?” She spoke in-between pants as she stopped by the back of the pickup. “The hogs got out while I was gone to town after the feed. Sorry you had to get them back in by yourself,” Jack guessed as he concentrated on unloading the feed sacks from the pickup bed. Ellen shook her head as he lifted a sack to his shoulder and took it to the stack inside the feed shed. “No, not this time. I had visitors.” “Who was it?” Jack asked, placing the sack on the stack. He returned to the pickup with his eyes on the next sack. “An older woman and her daughter. The older woman lived here when she was a child.” “What did they want?” Jack lifted the sack onto his shoulder and returned to the shed. “The older woman wanted to walk around the place and reminisce about living here. She liked growing up on this place, but she missed the old house we tore down. It was her childhood home. I told her I'd send her some pictures of it. Remember all those pictures I took inside and out before we had the house razed. They are going to a good cause now.” Jack laid the sack on the stack. “Uh huh, I guess.” “Well, her name was Alice, and she told me the most amazing story about what happened on this farm,” Ellen said, mounting excitement growing in her voice. “That right.” Jack reached for another sack in the pickup bed and walked back to the shed. “Do you want to hear the story or not?” Ellen snapped. She was tired of watching her husband pace back and forth. She wanted him to stop working and pay attention to her. What she had to tell him was important. Jack laid the sack down and headed back. He stopped on his return and focused on her. “Sure, what did she have to say?” “Years ago, her brother, Jacob Stonebaker, was killed when he fell off our barn roof. Well, he didn't exactly die when he fell. His leg broke, and the bone came out of the skin. They didn't have a close doctor, so the wound got gangrene and then Jacob died,” explained Ellen. “Really? That poor kid must have really suffered.” Jack's face scrunched up as he heard the excitement in Ellen's voice. He was curious now. What did she found so exciting about such a sad story? “Really and get this. He turned thirteen in January and fell off the barn in May.” Jack wrinkled his nose at her, not getting the point. “So?” “Don't you see? The banging we've heard started in January and ended in May. The boy's father gave him his own hammer and nail apron. That hammer we found where I saw the little boy sitting in the barnyard has J.S. carved on the handle. I know because I looked the hammer over. That could easily stand for Jacob Stonebaker's initials. Another thing! The older woman said Jacob broke his left leg. Remember the boy I saw that night in front of the barn. I told you his left leg twisted under him like it was broken. Don't you think that's quite a coincidence that I saw a boy who matches the description of Alice's dead brother?” “I might if you hadn't been dreaming while you were sleepwalking that night. I don't believe a spook named Jacob lives in our barn. In fact, I don't believe there are such things as spooks.” Jack threw another sack on to his shoulder and turned his back on Ellen. He was ready to end this weird conversation. “He doesn't live in our barn exactly. Don't you see? He just wanted to finish the roofing job he didn't get done before he fell off the barn and died,” Ellen said, exasperated by Jack's attitude. Jack twisted around half way to the feed shed. “You telling me you do believe in dead people who you can see?” He responded with a serious face. Ellen tried to defend herself. “No, of course, I don't believe in dead people returning, but I have heard stories about such things. There are people who believe such things.” Jack turned around to face at the feed shed door. “Yeah. Sure! Answer me this. Why after all these years would this spook wait until now to suddenly appear?” “Well, I don't know the answer to that, but I happen to think Jacob did return to help roof the barn. His sister said he had looked forward to helping the men and was really eager to get on the roof. Besides, you haven't found out any other reason for the banging noises, have you?” “Nope,” Jack said shortly on his way back to the pickup. “You didn't tell those two women what you think you saw did you?” Ellen slowly shook her head. “No, I wouldn't do that.” Jack looked relieved. “Good! Want to help me unload the rest of the feed?” “No way! I have to start lunch.” Jack didn't appear to believe her. She might as well drop the subject and retreat to the house before he put her to work. That evening after supper, the Carters settled down in the living room. Laid back in his recliner, Jack watched television as usual, and Ellen read her Good Housekeeping Magazine while she rocked. Mid-evening, the banging began in the barn. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Oh no! Jacob is back. Guess I was wrong. He isn't done roofing yet,” Ellen blurted out. Jack scowled at her, causing Ellen to put her hand over her mouth. “I don't know what to think about that overactive imagination of yours, but you have got to stop thinking this nonsense. You just wait here. I'm going to find out what that banging noise is right now and put an end to all this nonsense.” “Don't worry. I haven't any intention of going to the barn with you. I don't want to run into Jacob face to face. The one time I saw that poor little boy spirit with a look of suffering on his face was enough for me,” Ellen assured him. Jack was exasperated by what he thought was his wife's twisted logic. “I am going to prove you wrong once and for all, before you tell the neighbors our barn is haunted. I don't want the word to get around the neighborhood that you are mentally ill. What would people think of us?” “Go ahead and find out for yourself. I'll let you meet Jacob this time. I understand from his sister, Alice, he was a nice little boy but mischievous. He liked monkey antics just like you and playing jokes on his sisters. You two will get along just fine.” Jack waved his hand downward at Ellen as he opened the front door. While he was closing the door, Ellen called, “Tell Jacob I said hi and to knock off the banging. We're tired of listening to it.” Chapter 17 Ellen rocked as she listened to the night time noises outside, filtering through the open window. The tree frogs were in a sing-along with the crickets, and a hawk moth flapped its wings against the screen. She closed her eyes and pictured when Jack entered the barn. The door banged shut. When he flipped the light switch on, the ewes muttered. As he walked among them, they baaed louder. In a few minutes, the hammering noises started again. This time the noises took on a faster tempo and grew louder. The sheep sounded upset. They tried to drown out the noises with deafening, protesting bleats. Ellen grew apprehensive, trying to figure out what on earth was going on in the barn. Jack was out there alone with those noisy sheep and with the spirit of Jacob or whatever was causing the banging. He should have been back by now if he didn't find anything wrong. She didn't like the idea of going to the barn after Jack told her to stay in the house, but she couldn't stand the suspense. She had to go find out if Jack was all right whether he liked it or not. Maybe he needed her help. Walking quietly, Ellen slipped in the barn's walk-in door and edged her way along the hallway. She glanced at the wall. Jacob's hammer was gone. He must be hammering away with it from the sounds of things. Easing between the now empty lambing pens, she opened the door to the holding room. As she looked around the room, she spotted Jack on his knees by the corn bin wall. Ellen couldn't believe her eyes. He was nailing a piece of tin on the bin wall with Jacob's hammer. “Jack?” He looked over his shoulder at her and went back to hammering. “I thought you didn't want to be in the barn tonight. What you doing out here?” “The hammering didn't stop after you left. The banging was worse. I thought you must need help. It sounded like you and Jacob were in a hammering duel to see who could drive a nail the fastest. I couldn't imagine what was going on. My curiosity got the better of me so I had to come see if you were all right,” Ellen explained. “So the banging I heard all these months was you doing it by yourself?” “No, just part of the banging was me tonight. If you remember, I've been with you in the house when we heard the banging noises.” Jack stood up. He pointed to the piece of tin on the corn bin wall and a small pile of shelled corn in the straw bedding. “See that tin I nailed over a hole. That rat hole has been the problem all along.” Ellen squealed, “I don't believe you. The rats made the banging noises for all these months.” “No, Silly. The sheep did the banging,” Jack declared. “Sure! The sheep did the banging all those times,” Ellen said in a disbelieving tone. “They sure did. The rats gnawed a hole through the corn bin wall,” Jack explained. He was overdoing it on the patient tone as if he had to be explicit and simple for her at the same time. He wanted to make sure Ellen understood. “The rats went inside the hole to eat corn. The sheep smelled the corn and saw a few kernels on the floor the rats dropped. The ewes ate those. They were smart enough to know how to get more. Each time one of them banged on the corn bin with her hoof, corn fell out of the hole. When we came into the barn to look around, the ewes stopped what they were doing to see if we were going to feed them. I just happened to catch one of the ewes in the act this time of hitting the wall with her hoof.” “So Jacob wasn't here,” Ellen said, clearly disappointed now that Jack had solved the problem to his satisfaction. Jack nodded. “No, Jacob wasn't ever here for sure, and I just put an end to the banging noises unless another rat gnaws a hole in the corn bin.” “Okay, you win.” Ellen started for the door. “Let's go back to the house.” Jack hung the old hammer on its nail in the hallway and followed her outside. He sped up and rushed around her. The program he'd been watching on television must be about over. He wanted to see how it ended. Ellen trailed behind, thinking about the time she saw Jacob with his broken leg, sitting in front of the barn. She paused and turned to look up at the steep barn roof. Then she stared at the spot on the ground in front of the barn where she saw Jacob. How could she have imagined him? He looked just like his sister described him and so alive. If she hadn't seen the real Jacob, how could her description of the boy be so much like Jacob's sister's. Besides, that hammer Jack picked up off the ground had the initials J. S. on it. The hammer had to belong to Jacob, and he'd taken it off the barn wall that night to use it. Jack couldn't explain away the hammer so he'd just ignore that detail. That husband of hers needed a practical explanation for everything in his life. His problem was he didn't have any imagination. Well, at least not like the suggestive imagination she had. Jack needed to use logic to explain the banging noises. The ewes kicking the corn bin wall was the right explanation for Jack. In his mind, her seeing Jacob was only a dream. She smiled at a thought. Wouldn't Jack groan if I suggested that Jacob's spirit might return every year from January until May to work on the barn roof since he seemed to like them? It made perfect sense to her. Jacob's sister, Alice, said Jacob turned thirteen in January and was roofing the barn in May when he fell and broke his leg. The months coincided with when they heard the first banging noises to when she saw Jacob. Then again, maybe she better stop trying to convince Jack and keep that notion to herself from now on. Jack might quit waiting for the neighbors to have her committed and do it himself. Jack turned around and realized Ellen wasn't right behind him. He came back to where she'd stopped. “Come on, Slow Poke. Give that imagination of yours a rest. I don't believe I can stand your cooking up anything else for a while.” Ellen could see from the glint of humor in his eyes that she'd be in for a fair amount of teasing in the future. “You're like an old dog with a bone. You're going to gnaw this bone for a long time, aren't you?” “Not a real long time,” Jack drawled, grinning at her. “I won't have to. I know you too well. You will come up with something new and far fetched before long.” “Oh, you think you're so funny.” Ellen slipped passed him and headed for the house. She stopped short, thinking she wanted to get the last word in with Jack just once, and she had an idea. “I've been thinking.” “Oh no! Now what?” Jack grumped, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets as he waited for her to let him in on her idea. “It's not right that Jacob doesn't have a marked grave. Now that we know his resting place is by that third oak tree I want to plant flowers for him by the tree. I'm thinking I can transplant some of my mums, irises, and peonies there. That way he will have blooming flowers over him all summer. Those perennials were here when we moved in, and I imagine the same flowers were here when Jacob was alive. I'll bet that was the kind of flowers his parents put on his grave ever so often. Maybe it will help him rest easier so he doesn't have to return if someone still remembers him.” Jack shrugged. “Sounds like work to me.” “No, it's not. I transfer flowers around here all the time. Now where was I? Oh, yeah! Jacob's sister said his father made Jacob a wooden cross. It had rotted away a long time ago, so no one even remembers Jacob's resting place but her. Could you make another one? I could paint his name on it. I'll ask Alice for the exact dates to put on the cross. She will like seeing a marker at the head of Jacob's grave when she drives by.” “I suppose I could do that much. You know don't you that the sheep will eat the flowers down to the ground right away,” Jack declared. Ellen tapped her lips with a finger as she thought. “Oh yeah, you're right. We can fix that problem. You need to buy hog panels to fence in the grave to keep the sheep away from Jacob's cemetery. That will keep them from eating his flowers. Fix one panel so it swivels in and out so I can take the mower in there to cut the grass.” Jack's eyes narrowed as he calculated the cost of panels. “How many hog panels are you talking about?” Ellen shrugged. “I don't know. Measure the spot. My border collie is buried under the next tree. The pen might as well be large enough to include him, too. I'll plant the flowers in a row between the two graves.” “Sure thing. Any other animals you want to bury in that spot as long as you're taking pasture grass away from the sheep?” Jack asked sarcastically. Ellen shook her head, ignoring Jack's tone of voice. “No, not yet, but there will be plenty of room if I need to bury one. One thing is for sure, Jacob's going to rest easier if we fix up his resting place. It must have been sad for that little boy to think he had been totally forgotten all these years. Maybe that was the reason for the sad look on his face instead of the painful leg when I saw him.” Her face lit up at another thought. “Alice said he probably liked the idea of having a dog buried beside him. She said he liked dogs. You should make a cross with Sherman's name on it, too. Don't you think Jacob will be happy with a cemetery with his very own dog in it, Jack?” Before Jack could answer, Ellen took off for the house. The soft groan she heard emitted behind her was satisfaction enough that she'd had the last word. Jack was too soft-hearted not to fence in the graves. Two weeks later, Jack had Jacob's cemetery fenced in. The irises and peonies were blooming behind the two crosses for Jacob and Sherman, the border collie. On another board painted white Ellen wrote in black letters Jacob Stonebaker's Cemetery. She nailed the board to the third tree, facing the road so Alice could see the sign if she happened to come by. Ellen was so proud of the way the cemetery looked she took a picture of it to send Alice. That way she'd see what they had done right away in case the elderly woman didn't get another chance to drive by their farm. On a night it was too hot to sleep, Ellen knew a few cooler nights were still yet ahead with blackberry winter a few days away. She hated to turn on the air conditioner just yet and have to turn it right back off. She tossed and turned. Finally, she decided to go to the kitchen to get a glass of water. On her way by the hall window, her mind went to the night in May when she saw Jacob. When she retold the tale later, she'd always say the fact she saw him would always be a puzzle to her. Ellen parted the lace curtains and glanced out at the barnyard. What she saw made her freeze to the spot. Jacob was back, and beside him was Sherman! Only this time, the boy was standing on both feet. On his head, his straw hat was in better shape. The boy smiled at her to let her know he wasn't in pain anymore as he mouthed the words, “Thank You.” Ellen understood what he meant. He wanted to tell her that he appreciated her concern for him, and he was content now. He patted Sherman on the head then gave her a sideways wave goodbye with his right hand. Beside his leg, he held his hammer in his left hand. He gave the appearance of being done with his work, and he wanted her to know she wouldn't have to worry about him coming back anymore. Ellen wondered if he'd hook his hammer back on the nail on the hallway wall before he left. She hoped he did. Next time Jack looked for the hammer, he'd accuse her of losing it. She didn't intend to explain about her latest visit with Jacob so she'd just have to take the blame. While she watched Jacob's spirit fade away, Ellen returned his wave and whispered, “You're welcome, Jacob. I'm glad that you can rest in peace now.” THE END About the author Fay Risner lives with her husband on a central Iowa acreage along with their chickens, goats and cats. A retired Certified Nurse Aide, she now divides her time between writing books, working in her flower beds, the garden and going fishing with her husband. Fay writes books in various genre and languages – historical mystery series, Stringbean western series, Amish series set in southern Iowa and books for Caregivers about Alzheimer's. She uses 12 font print in her books and 14 font print in her novellas to make them easy to read and reader friendly. Now her books are in Large Print. Her books have a mid western Iowa and small town flavor. She pulls the readers into her stories, making it hard for them to put a book down until the reader sees how the story ends. Readers say the characters are fun to get to know and often humorous enough to cause the readers to laugh out loud. The books leave the readers wanting a sequel or a series so they can read about the characters again. Enjoy Fay Risner's books and please leave a review to make others familiar with her work. Other Books by Fay Risner Nurse Hal Among The Amish Series A Promise Is A Promise Doubting Thomas The Courting Buggy The Rainbow’s End Amish Country Arson Joyful Wisdom Hal’s Worldly Temptations Second Hand Goods As Her Name Is So Is Redbird Emma’s Gossamer Dreams You have Got To Love Adalheida Wasser Amazing Gracie Historical Mystery Series Neighbor Watchers Poor Defenseless Addie Specious Nephew Will O Wisp The Country Seat Killer The Chance Of A Sparrow Moser Mansion Ghosts Locked Rock, Iowa Hatchet Murders The Wayward Preacher Westerns Stringbean Hooper Westerns Tread Lightly Sibby The Dark Wind Howls Over Mary The Blue Bonnet-novella Small Feet’s Many Moon Journey A Coffin To Lie On - novella Ella Mayfield's Pawpaw Militia-Civil War Christmas books Christmas Traditions - An Amish Love Story Christmas With Hover Hill Leona’s Christmas Bucket List Fiction Listen To Me Honey novella Jacob's Spirit-novella Cowboy Girl Annie -novella Robot Grandma - novella Katrina's Gift - novella Nonfiction about Alzheimer’s disease Open A Window - Caregiver Handbook Hello Alzheimer’s Goodbye Dad-author’s true story Detective Renee Brown Mystery Series The Answering Machine Knew - novella One Big Bat – novella Crystal's Beau - novella Mrs. Pestkey's Cat Knew Innocent Until Proven Guilty

Jacob's Spirit novella second and third installment

2020-09-12T14:55:00.001-07:00

Second and Third installment of Jacob's Spirit novella Chapter 5 Once inside the warm house, Ellen stood for a moment, shivering as the warm air covered her. With fumbling fingers, she unzipped her coveralls and let the house's warmth soak into her clothes. She knew she didn't have much time to waste on the luxury of warming up if she wanted to save those two lambs. She'd have to make do with what heat she could absorb while she worked. Every minute counted. Ellen opened the refrigerator door and selected a hundred-millimeter bottle of medicine from among the other animal medicine bottles she kept on the door's bottom shelf. From that bottle, she'd draw the medicine to give the ewe a shot that would hopefully make her come to her milk. Ellen got the syringe out of a cupboard drawer and drew in two millimeters. She left the syringe lay on the counter and put the bottle back in the refrigerator. What she figured out fast when she became a sheepherder was she had to do more than just have patience as Jack had told her. She learned a lesson that included the hogs and cows, too. Vet bills become costly, so Ellen read up on animal diseases and veterinary medicine. She became the farm's amateur vet to save them money. Thank goodness for computer knowledge, books written by experienced herdsmen, and veterinary medicine catalogs to order the medicine from. A sack of lamb milk replacer was propped against the side of the refrigerator. Ellen dipped the plastic measurer included in the sack of powdered milk until it was full and dumped the powder into a bowl of warm water. She stirred until the powder was well mixed. Next, she brought two pop bottles topped with skinny, black rubber nipples out from under the sink and filled them. She stuffed the bottles in her coveralls pockets and hoped the milk stayed warm while she fought her way back to the barn. Ellen squeezed the plastic syringe in one gloved hand, making sure the needle was pointed away from her. That was a must while she climbed over the fence. Bang! Bang! Bang! The banging noises again! That didn't help Ellen feel any steadier when she reached the fence. She wasn't sure she'd successfully make it over the slick fence. If that wasn't worry enough, listening to the loud banging at that moment didn't make her eager to go to the barn. Ellen held on tight to the panel and braced one foot in the icy space, dreading the thought that she could lose the syringe in the snow and have to hunt for it. She'd worried for nothing. She managed to climb safely over the fence and plod through the snow to the barn with the syringe still in her hand which was good news. By the time she made it to the pen, the medicine in the syringe had frozen which wasn't so good. She held the syringe under the heat lamp and waited for the medicine to turn to liquid again. Thank goodness it didn't take very long. Ellen forced the ewe into the corner of the pen and leaned into her so the mother had to stay put while she received her shot. The ewe wasn't crazy about the idea and struggled to get away. With only one free hand to hold the strong ewe around the neck, Ellen was relieved when she had the shot given in the neck and could turn the ewe loose. She felt a nudge on the back of her leg and looked behind her. The lambs had warmed up and were hungry. That was a good sign. One was nosing her leg, looking for milk. The other lamb was nudging the twin and bawling at the top of its lungs. Ellen backed away from the mother and lay the syringe on a ledge above the pen. She pulled a bottle out of one pocket and picked up a lamb. She stuck the baby under her arm and squeezed the plastic bottle. Warm milk squirted from the nipple into the lamb's mouth. That was all the hint the baby needed to start sucking. It emptied the bottle in no time. Ellen put that lamb down and picked up the twin. She was glad to see that baby was as hungry as the other one. Now the two of them would lay down under the heat lamp and sleep. A satisfying feeling welled up in her that not even the bitterly cold temperature could dampen, knowing she had helped the two lambs survive. Ellen listened to the restless sheep in the holding room. The banging noises had stopped sometime. She had been so intent on taking care of the lambs that she didn't even notice when it happened. For her peace of mind, she was just glad that the noises had ceased. She left the lambing pen room and stood just inside the holding room, watching for any ewes by themselves. She didn't see any loners so she made a pass through the milling flock as she looked for more new lambs. She was relieved to find this check was a dry run. In the worst way, she wanted to get back to the house for a cup of coffee. She needed to warm up and get some rest before she made the next trip in two hours. So she made the trek out of the barn, waded the barnyard snow, climbed the fence, and walked around the house to the front door. She guessed where the steps were and was right this time, scooped the snow off half the porch again so the door would open, and entered the house. Ellen took off her coveralls, cap, and scarf and lay them over a chair on top a heat register to drip dry. She slipped the bottles out of the coverall pockets. Once she rinsed them out in the sink, Ellen turned them upside down in the dish drainer. Now the bottles were ready for use again if she needed them. It didn't take her long to warm a cold cup of coffee in the microwave. She wrapped her stiff fingers around the cup and savored the warm liquid as she drank it. Before she lay down on the couch, Ellen set the Big Ben alarm clock for midnight. She knew she wouldn't wake up until morning if not for that clock's loud alarm. With a heavy blanket for cover, she curled up, ready to doze off. Bang! Bang! Bang! At first, Ellen thought she was dreaming already. She opened her eyes when she heard the noises repeated and decided it must surely be something blowing in the wind this time. Bang! Bang! Bang! No, this was the same crazy noises she had listened to on other nights. Banging that seemed to be coming from the barn. Just her luck, Jack wasn't home to send to the barn to look for what caused the noises. She was on her own. She'd have to suck it up and go back out there in two hours. Ellen threw her arm over her eyes and tried to ignore the noises as she dozed off. Two hours later, the alarm clock jingled. She rubbed her eyes and turned off the alarm. It couldn't be time to get up yet, could it? She felt like she'd just dozed off. To make sure, she glanced over at the time on the clock. It was midnight all right. As Ellen bundled up again, she worried about what might be happening in the barn. So far Jack hadn't found what caused the noises. This late at night, the thought of what could be the problem spooked her. If dealing with a blizzard wasn't enough, she had weird banging noises to worry about. Chapter 6 As bad as the storm still was, Ellen debated whether to skip this check. She listened to the roar of the wind with dread. She would again be in the midst of the storm. The wind whipped around the house, and falling snow hit the back of the house with a force that sounded like sleet. At the moment, the one thing she didn't hear was banging sounds. Maybe that was a good sign. She would hate to lose lambs because she'd turned into such a big chicken she couldn't make herself go to the barn. When Jack came home in the morning and found out she didn't check the sheep in the night, he'd never let her hear the end of it. She didn't have a choice. She had to suck it up and make the midnight rounds in the barn. Ellen stepped outside and found weather-wise nothing had changed, but she knew that already from just listening in the house. She waded the snowdrifts that had covered over her tracks from before as if she hadn't been outside. Once she climbed over the fence, she leaned into the wind and struggled to get to the barn door. When she went through the lambing pen room, she glanced over at the twins. They were curled up together, still sleeping. The ewe was beside them with her head resting on her two outstretched front legs, enjoying the lamp's heat, too. Just in case, Ellen opened an empty pen door, so she'd be ready and walked into the holding room. When the sheep parted, she spotted a ewe muttering to a shaky, wet lamb, just born, on the far side the room. She picked the lamb up by the hind legs and headed backward. What that baby needed was some quickly provided warm nourishment. Once she had the lamb and ewe in the pen, Ellen pushed the ewe against the pen wall and grabbed her front and hind leg down near the hooves. With a grunt, Ellen flipped the ewe on her side. Trying to stay out of the way of the ewe's four thrashing legs, she plopped down on the ewe's spongy, soft wool-covered stomach. Good thing the lamb stayed fairly close even though it had shied away when Ellen tackled its mother. Ellen had to stretch and could just barely reach it. She placed the lamb on its belly in front of the ewe's bag and squirted thick colostrum milk into its mouth. Unlike the last ewe, she was glad to find this mother's milk supply was right there. The lamb readily nursed. In a few minutes, it had all it wanted to eat and stopped sucking. Ellen pushed the lamb away. She got up fast, trying to avoid the ewe's flying hooves. She put her hand behind the ewe and twisted her over on her stomach. With a struggling effort, she managed to rise to her feet by herself. Ellen turned the heat lamp on and put the lamb under it. That heat made the wet baby shiver almost as much as the warm milk had. The lamb sank down in the glow of the lamp and closed its eyes. Ellen was sure this newborn would be all right as soon as it dried off. She studied the ewe a moment to see if she tried straining. It didn't look like the ewe was going to have another lamb. Surely, she'd have given birth by now. Ellen made another trip around the holding room. She didn't hear any new lamb cries or see any of the ewes off by themselves muttering to babies. No banging noises either which was a good thing. In the shadow of a support post in the middle of the room, Ellen looked down just in time. She almost stepped on a limp, chilled lamb sprawled in the bedding. The newborn looked dead. Ellen squatted down and watched its sides. She could see its shallow breathing. She grimaced. She had probably missed finding the lamb before while it was in better shape. Now the poor baby was too cold to nurse. While Ellen seemed interested in the lamb, one of the ewes came forward and nudged the lamb with her nose. She muttered to it, proving she was the mother. Glad to see the ewe claim her motionless baby, Ellen picked the lamb up and walked backward to the pens. She put the ewe in one and lay the lamb gently down in the straw under a heat lamp. Since she was going to have to take the lamb to the house to warm it up, Ellen rushed into the hall and headed to the stack of empty feed sacks piled against the corn bin wall just inside the barn door. She grabbed a sack and rolled it around the lamb to shield it from the northwestern gale outside. Time to make the trip back to the house. Climbing over the fence while she held onto the sack bundle with one hand wasn't easy, but she made it. She staggered through the snow to the front door. Ellen was able to open the front door a crack and squeezed inside. She didn't want to take the time to shovel snow while she had an emergency on her hands. She carried the precious sack into the kitchen and unrolled it next to a heat vent so the warm air would hit the lamb. She noted the snow melted water tracks her boots left across the kitchen floor. She kicked them off and carried them to a boot tray under the coats. When she finished caring for the lamb, she'd have to grab the mop and take care of that mess before she stepped in the water and soaked up her socks. She only had three pairs of heavy boot socks, so she had to keep them dry as long as possible. What she needed now was newspapers from the rack in the corner of the living room. She rushed in there and grabbed a handful off the pile. After she spread the newspapers on the warm air vent, she laid the lamb on them. Next, she turned up the thermostat so the furnace would run for a longer period. She placed a layer of newspapers over the wet lamb to help hold the heat in and placed the corn sack on top to hold the papers in place. Since the lamb wasn't able to drink, Ellen was going to have to tube feed it. She mixed up two-ounces of milk replacer in a bowl. She pulled the newspapers back to uncover the lamb's head. Keeping her fingertips on the side of the lamb's neck so she could feel where the tube was going, she inserted the red, rubber feeding tube down the lamb's throat. She poured the warm milk slowly into the two ounce syringe attached to the tube. The milk dripped from the syringe into the lamb's stomach. The cold lamb was barely conscious, but it shivered when the warm milk hit bottom. Ellen had done all she could do for the lamb. Only time would tell while it dried off and warmed up if she had done enough to help the lamb survive. From experience, she knew in about two hours the lamb would be crying to be fed a bottle of milk or be lifeless under the newspaper insulation. As Ellen covered the lamb back up with the newspapers, she spoke to it. “Please don't die, Baby. Your mama is waiting to take care of you in the barn.” Chapter 7 After she flopped on the couch, Ellen set the alarm clock for two in the morning and covered up for her next nap. She pulled a blanket over herself to help rid herself of chills. Soon in a hazy state, Ellen wondered about putting all this effort out for Jack's sheep. She could have been comfortable while blissfully asleep in her warm bed all night. Best of all, the night would have been spent without an alarm clock annoying her into wide-eyed alertness every two hours. All she had to show for the evening was a weary to the bone tiredness and a searing chill clear through her. Plus, the motionless mound of newspapers on the kitchen floor in the warm draft from the furnace vent which was making the house stink like wet wool. Bang! Bang! Bang! Oh no! That noise was back again. She put her hands over her ears to shut the banging out. At that late hour, Ellen was too tired to do more than have a fleeting feeling of regret before she dozed off. She futilely wished that Jack was home to send to the barn the next time. It seemed to Ellen like she had just drifted off to sleep when she heard the clock's loud clattering alarm going off beside her. She turned off the alarm and put her feet on the floor. She groaned, “That was a fast two hours.” From the kitchen came loud crackling rustles of newspapers and a startled baa brought on by the noise from the clock. Ellen got to the door just as the paper mound flew apart. The lamb tried to scramble to its unsteady feet. With each attempt, its legs sprawled out in every direction. It couldn't get a footing on the slick linoleum. With a sigh of relief, Ellen felt a rush of success. She had saved this lamb's life. Now she could take it back to the barn. The next hurdle was the lamb had been away from its mother for two hours. She hoped the ewe claimed it and let it nurse. Otherwise, she'd have to bottle feed it. Either way, this was one more lamb she could mark on the live side of the tally sheet. While Ellen dawned her winter garb, the lamb was still busy trying to stand. All four legs kept sprawling out, and the lamb bawled louder with each frustrated try. Ellen grabbed the lamb and wrapped the feed sack around it to ward off the shocking cold outside. She tromped down the porch steps, surprised to see they were visible. She glanced around. The wind had calmed. Only a few lacy snowflakes floated lazily from the black sky and lit on her and around her. After she rounded the house, Ellen saw Mother Nature had shoveled the path for her along the fence. She could open the gate to get into the barnyard. That was a great sight since she wasn't so sure she had the energy to climb over the fence even this one last time. Ellen hurried into the barn and stopped at the lambing pen where the lamb belonged. She set the bawling bundle down and watched to make sure the ewe accepted the lamb. The ewe ran to greet her baby and sniffed along its body and under its tail to make sure the baby was hers. She recognized the lamb and gave it a few licks of her tongue to tell it she was its mother. As the lamb wiggled its tail in agreement, the ewe nosed it along her side, trying to say get busy eating. Ellen watched the lamb goose the ewe's udder. Then its head disappeared under the ewe. Ellen heard smacking as the lamb's tail twitched back and forth. She said under her breath, “Thank goodness. I'm not going to have to carry bottles for that lamb.” After the lamb had been away from its mother for two hours, the ewe might have decided not to claim it. Now that the lamb was dried off, it could have smelled strange to the ewe since it slept under the newspapers. If the sheep butted the baby to keep it from nursing, Ellen would have had to take the lamb back to the house and put it in a cardboard box. It would be her responsibility to feed it. If left in the pen too long, ewes had been known to kill newborns by butting them when the ewes didn't want anything to do with the lambs. Lambs thrived and grew faster when they nursed mothers milk. Besides, Ellen was always glad not to have the bottle feeding job when she could get out of it. Ellen made a pass through the holding room and all was quiet. She went back to the lambing pen that held the ewe she gave the shot to and found the ewe now had a good milk supply. That was good news. She left the barn with a lighter step to her gait as she went back to the house. It helped not to have to fight the drifts to get back and forth. A gust of wind blew a clump of snow loose from the porch roof. It sailed down and narrowly missed Ellen as she climbed the steps. Thinking ahead, she reminded herself she still had one more check to go before morning. Yippee, I can hardly wait. Before she curled up on the couch, she set the alarm for four in the morning. On that final check before morning chores, Ellen had a dry run. She was glad not to find any lambs to pen up. She'd done enough for one night with the weather as difficult as it was. Now the wind had died down. The barn temperature was rising from the body heat of the flock. Lambs born just before daylight would have a better chance of getting on their feet and nursing without her help. All she'd have to do is put the mothers and babies in a pen with a heat lamp on. Maybe things weren't so bad after all. The snowstorm was over. Mother Nature had shoveled Ellen a path to the barn which was great since she was too tired to use the shovel anymore. A peek in each of the lambing pens assured Ellen the night's newborn lambs were all fine and quietly napping. As she walked back to the house, Ellen told herself this time she was going to sleep in her bed without setting the alarm. She felt like she could sleep for a week. At least, she deserved to sleep until she was rested even if it was after six in the morning when she woke up. Stiffness had settled into her leg muscles from fighting the frozen drifts and climbing the fence so many times. It felt good to stretch out in her bed. Besides, she was tired of laying on the couch. It wasn't all that comfortable. She hoped she'd dream of warmer nights when it was her turn to go to the barn to check for lambs. Hopefully, she'd dream about falling into enormous drifts of delicious vanilla ice cream instead of wading cold snow. The minute Ellen closed her eyes, her ears picked up the banging noises from outside. Bang! Bang! Bang! The rhythmic banging caused her to open her eyes wide. She stiffened and listened. No way was she going back to the barn right now to find out what was causing the noises as tired as she was. She was tired enough that she could sleep through anything, and those noises always stopped when she entered the barn. What Ellen decided she didn't want was nightmares about running into spooks frolicking around in the barn. She chided herself about letting her vivid imagination get the better of her. Whoever heard of anyone that had a haunted barn. Chapter 8 January made an icy slide into February. Jack and Ellen heard banging for a few nights, and then the noises stopped a few nights. The cause of the banging sounds remained undetected by Jack every time he searched the barn. The noises stopped as if on cue the minute one of them entered the barn. After listening to them for so long, the sounds were as irritating to Ellen as the first time she'd heard them. February sailed into windy March. The month of March didn't start out any more peaceful than February. The banging persisted, but at least, lambing season was almost over. There were only a few late lambers left to watch, so it wouldn't be long before Jack and Ellen wouldn't have to make special trips to the barn at night. One morning when Jack went with Ellen to do chores, he spotted a slim, blue Bic cigarette lighter laying at the base of the wall ladder to the hayloft. He picked the lighter up. “How do you suppose this lighter got in the barn? Have you taken up sneaking a smoke, Ellen?” Ellen snapped, “No! You know better than that. I sure don't remember seeing the lighter there before, but I might have walked right by it without noticing. You and me are the only ones who have been in this barn in ages.” Her eyes widen as she added, “As far as I know.” Jack flipped the switch wheel and turned the lighter on. The flame went as high as it could go. “Anyone that tried to light a cigarette with this lighter would have burnt their nose.” He looked up toward the loft opening and said softly, “Ellen, I'm climbing into the hayloft. If I yell at you to run, you get to the house fast, lock the doors and call the sheriff's office.” “Why?” Ellen whispered as she frowned at him. “Stand over by the outside door. I'll tell you as soon as I come back down.” Jack climbed the ladder steps. He hoisted himself into the loft and disappeared from sight. Ellen backed up to the outside door, opened it, and impatiently waited to hear from Jack. She decided to stick one foot outside and leave the other one in. If she had to run for help in a hurry, she wanted to be ready. It crossed her mind that by the time Jack tried to come back down it might be too late for him to tell her what was wrong in the loft. She didn't even want to think about what he expected to find. In a few minutes, Ellen patted her chest with relief as she saw Jack appear and climb down the ladder steps. As soon as his feet touched the floor, Ellen ran to him. “Did you find anything wrong?” “A bale of hay broken and made into a bed up against a stack of bales. A tramp spent the night up there, sleeping in that loose hay. That lighter had to belong to him. He had the lighter turned up to the max so he could see what he was doing when he climbed the steps to the loft and made his bed.” “Oh my! That is scary. A stranger stayed in the loft overnight. He had the flame on that lighter up way too high. If he'd accidentally dropped it, he would have burnt down the barn,” Ellen declared. “That's right. Something else I hate to tell you, but he was probably already up there when you came to check the sheep last night after dark,” Jack suggested with a grimace. “Great! Just what I want to hear and picture in my mind,” Ellen said dryly. Jack nodded. “I'm sure the tramp left the barn early this morning. I'm guessing he turned the lighter on to see to climb down the steps. When he got to the bottom, he turned the lighter off and missed his pocket when he went to put it away.” Later, Ellen wished Jack hadn't put that idea in her head. Now just the thought of a scary man hiding in the loft overnight would be enough to make her nerves jittery every time she had to go to the barn at night. Her mind raced with what might have happened to her if she had come face to face with a strange man. It gave her the creeps when she thought this might not have been the first time a bum spent the night in the loft, and it might not be the last. All day, Ellen glanced out the window toward the barn. Her mind raced as she obsessed about running into unexpected visitors out there at night. When it was time to check the sheep, she hated to go. This might be the night someone would be sleeping in the hayloft again. Maybe the same tramp would come back after dark, looking for his Bic lighter. Talk about a good mystery for Agatha Christie to write. The title might be Ellen's Death In The Barn At The Hands Of A Tramp. That evening as if worrying about the tramp wasn't enough, the banging started again after Jack and Ellen settled down in the living room. With that horrible incident from the night before in mind, Ellen laid her book in her lap as she asked, “Hear those irritating banging noises again? You don't think it's another bum looking for a place to bed down tonight do you, Jack?” “No, I doubt a tramp would make any noise to let us know he was hiding in the barn. If you recall, we didn't have a clue the other one was around last night. He was very quiet, because he knew we wouldn't want him to be in our loft. I bet he probably hated losing that good igniter though when he went to light up a cigarette today.” Jack grinned at the thought. “I don't find anything funny about this. I'm just glad that he didn't come back to look for his lighter. That's all I'd need to give me a heart attack, running into a scruffy looking stranger in the barn,” Ellen retorted. “I wouldn't worry too much about it. That was a rare thing to happen. Probably will never be another visitor in our loft. You're safe enough in the barn at night,” Jack reassured her. Bang! Bang! Bang! Ellen rubbed her forehead. “When will that banging ever stop? I'm having enough trouble sleeping at night without having nightmares about what is roaming around in the barn and wrecking it.” Jack eyed her for a few seconds. Finally, he asked, “What's that book you've been reading for so long?” Ellen held the book up. “Why are you trying to change the subject? I don't know what that has to do with the noises. I'm reading Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie. I don't get many pages read at a time with as busy as I've been. It's taken me all winter to read this one book. Why you want to know?” Jack studied her intently. “What's the book about?” “A young woman who had a reoccurring dream about seeing a murder. She goes to look at a house that's for sale and finds the inside of the house is like the one in her dreams but without the dead body on the floor. Why?” “There you go. You have that spooky story on your mind every night when you go to bed. You just naturally dream about strange things like murders and tramps. You should find stories to read that don't leave such an impression on you after you go to sleep,” Jack suggested. “I guarantee you would sleep better at night.” “I don't know why you bothered to bring this subject up. I don't think my choice of reading material has anything to do with what has been banging out at the barn,” huffed Ellen. She amended, “At least, I haven't been dreaming about a murder.” She paused as she raised an eyebrow at Jack and added, “Yet.” “You're the one who said you dream about murders and tramps. I just gave you a reason why you don't sleep well. I didn't mention the banging noises, now did I?” Jack asked, sounding irritated. “No,” Ellen said quietly. “Guess you didn't.” Chapter 9 If dealing with mysterious banging noises and worrying about tramps using their hayloft for a Motel Six wasn't enough, Ellen soon had one more tale to add to her story. One evening, she was in the barn on the final check of the sheep before bedtime when the electricity went off. The power failure plunged her and the sheep into darkness. The sheep didn't seem to mind. They probably thought Ellen was leaving the building and had turned the lights off. They were used to living in the dark at night. She had been tossing straw for bedding into some of the lambing pens, getting ready for the last of the new lambs. That was when total darkness hit. Ellen was afraid to move. Had someone turned the lights off on purpose? Perhaps, a tramp was with her in the barn again. She listened intently. No noises came from outside the lambing pen door. She heard only muffled noises from the sheep and their lambs in the holding room as they bedded down for the night. After she propped her pitchfork against the pen, she felt her way over to the switch to flip the lights on. With her hands out in front of her, she stopped when she felt the wall. Ellen reached up to where she thought the light switch should be and stuck her hand into a cobweb. She quickly wiped her fingers on her jeans, hoping the spider hadn't ridden along on her hand and the webs. On the next try for the switch, she found it. She flipped it a few times and nothing happened. Great! The electricity was off. How could that happen on a calm night like this one when the wind had laid. She could understand a power failure happening in a lightning storm or during a really windy day. She didn't have any idea how long the lights would be off. Since there wasn't anything she could do in the dark, she might as well make her way along the walls to the outside door and go to the house. As Ellen reached for the knob on the lambing pen door, she heard the outside door's rusty hinges squeak. The sound grated on her frayed nerves. Her heart pumped faster as she drew her hand back away from the knob and waited. Someone opened the outside door and came in. She diffidently heard footsteps coming her way. Great! A tramp was going to climb into their hayloft for the night again. He had managed to put her in the dark, and she was out in the barn alone with a stranger. Jack was watching television. He didn't have a clue what was happening to her. It might be too late for her by the time he realized she'd been gone too long. Ellen needed a weapon to defend herself. She felt along the top of the pens until she'd backtracked to where she'd leaned the pitchfork. Her hand flailed around until she found the wooden handle. With both hands in a tight grip on the handle, she realized she wasn't too steady on her feet. Her knees started shaking about as much as her hands trembled. She had a right to be scared. A dangerous stranger was on the other side of the door. One who might murder her if he knew she was here. With the tines pointed toward the door, she braced herself against a lambing pen to keep from sinking to the floor. She tried to keep her breathing shallow so she wouldn't be too noisy. She was afraid she might cry out and give away she was there so she bit her bottom lip. Ellen told herself her best hope was the tramp couldn't know she was in the barn. He'd climb the ladder and hide in the loft like before. As soon as she felt safe, she could slip out, hopefully undetected and make a run for the house. The lambing pen door hinges creaked as the door slowly opened. The hair stood up on the back of Ellen's neck. Oh no! He's coming in here! Her throat constricted, trying to hold back a scream. She raised the pitchfork's business end higher just as a flashlight beam blinded her. A male voice said, “Thought you might need a flashlight to see how to get back to the house.” Ellen leaned the pitchfork against the wall and braced herself with a death grip on the pen while she patted her chest. “Oh for Pete sake, Jack! It's you!” “Who did you think it would be? What were you doing with the pitchfork? It's too dark to do any work, isn't it?” Jack asked. Ellen kept a hand on the lambing pens as she came to meet him. “I heard you coming, but I didn't know it was you. Do you know how close you came to getting stuck with the pitchfork? I almost turned you into the largest shish kabob you ever saw. You should have called out who you were, before you sneaked up on me. You know how jumpy I've been lately.” “I wasn't trying to be quiet. I figured you would hear me coming. Who did you think it would be?” Jack chuckled as he eyed the pitchfork behind her, thinking she wouldn't have the nerve to hurt him or anyone else. “I did hear someone coming, but I had no way of knowing it was you. I thought it might be that tramp again, going up to the loft for the night.” Ellen sure didn't want to hurt Jack with the pitchfork. Push come to shove, she was pretty sure if it came to her life or a tramp's, she'd have poked a stranger invading their barn if she was cornered. Ellen was aggravated at Jack for not speaking up when he entered the barn. She knew she was way too jumpy, but Jack should be more understanding. The next morning they found out when the electric company called that they had just started doing what they called brownouts around bedtime to save electricity. The night before had been the first brownouts, and the Carters hadn't known it was going to happen. From then on, Ellen carried a flashlight to the barn just in case she found herself in the dark. Chapter 10 Bang! Bang! Bang! One evening after supper, Ellen's nerves got the better of her. “Enough is enough.” Unable to concentrate, she slammed her book shut and dropped it onto her lap. “I wish that incessant banging racket would stop. It's driving me batty.” Jack tried to suppress a grin. “We'll find out what that banging is all about one of these days.” He teased, “Who knows. Maybe it's a ghost repairing the barn. Gosh dang, I hope he's doing a good job. He has to be tired by now, what with putting in those long hours he's put in all these months and working in the dark to boot.” “Very funny,” snapped Ellen. Why did Jack have to bring up ghosts? He knew that would set her imagination spinning. Leaning her head back against her rocker, she closed her eyes and pictured a transparent spirit with a hammer in his hand. He struck at a nail until it sank into a loose board. After he was done, he faded away. Ellen shook her head as if that would stop her from thinking such thoughts. If only it was that easy to get rid of the banging noises or tune them out. Before bedtime, Ellen dreaded her turn to check the sheep, but she wasn't about to say so to Jack. That would just lead to more teasing on his part. Dang Jack. He made her a bundle of nerves by putting such thoughts in her head. Ellen flipped on the hall light and walked to the lambing pen doorway. She opened the door, felt for the light switch and turned it on then peeked in. Nothing out of the ordinary in there except what was in her imagination. Since Jack mentioned a ghost, that was all she could think about while she was in the barn. She was more aware of moving shadows and the skittering sounds of scurrying mice. She couldn't shake the feeling some spirit might be hiding somewhere in a dark corner watching her. She would walk right passed him, and he'd jump out at her. She didn't want to imagine what the ghost would do next. Dang Jack. He made her a bundle of nerves by putting such thoughts in her head. Suddenly, sprigs of hay flitted down from above and landed right in front of her. As she watched the sprigs land by her tennis shoes a prickly sensation crept across Ellen's scalp. Maybe that's not a ghost up there! Looks like I have more to worry about from a tramp right now than I do a ghost. She aimed the flashlight beam at a small crack in the floor. It reflected off two glaring eyes. “I know you're in the loft. Come down here this instant,” Ellen ordered. She backed away. The unblinking eyes continued to stare at her through the crack, watching her movements. She turned and darted back down the hallway to flip on the light. She had better go find out before she said anything to Jack. He'd have another reason to make fun of her if she was wrong. “Whoever you are, I'm telling you right now, you can't sleep in our loft. Get down here!” Ellen ordered. The eyes continued to glare at her. With shaky knees, she climbed the ladder determined to find out who was using their loft for a hiding place and get rid of him. She sure didn't want to wake up in the night and find their barn on fire. Walking to the edge of the stacked square hay bales, Ellen sniffed a mixture of alfalfa and clover. A pleasant aroma normally, but at the moment, the scent made her want to sneeze. The good news was, she didn't smell cigarette smoke. She looked down at the fingers of light filtering up through the loose hay from the hallway below. Whoever was peering through the crack had moved. She pointed the flashlight along the empty floor behind the haystack, but the small beam created too many shadows. She couldn't see anything out of place. All was quiet at the moment. Whoever it was had to be hiding behind one of the stacks of bales up against the wall below the loft's outside door. Ellen slipped over the side, prepared to go down below to search. She just hoped if she scared the person into coming out of hiding he didn't harm her when he made his get away. Finding finger and toe holds between the bales, she climbed slowly down the stack. When her toes touched what she thought was the floor, Ellen felt a soft lump under her foot. Thinking the lump was a pile of loose hay, she let her weight down. A piercing squall shattered the quiet, causing Ellen to swallow hard. Scuffling ensued under her foot, rattling the loose hay that flew in every direction. Ellen jerked her foot up, ready to climb back to the top of the stack. Something had a tight hold on her leg. Needle sharp pains stabbed through her left ankle, causing her to thrust her foot against the haystack to rid herself of whatever was hanging on. “Let go of me!” She shouted, her voice trembling with a combination of fright and pain. Chapter 11 Piercing pains in her ankle ran up Ellen's leg. Now she was frightened enough to let out a scream to equal the one she'd heard below her. She lost her grip on the flashlight while she tried to keep her balance as she clung to the stack of bales. The flashlight hit the floor with a thunk and tumbled away. Ellen didn't wait to see where it stopped. She scrambled back up the bales as fast as she could. Behind her, Ellen heard the rustle of loose hay along the length of the loft, headed away from her. She looked down and directed her flashlight toward the noises. Her calico cat skittered through the flashlight's beam, running in the opposite direction. The cat scampered up as high as it could go on a stack of bales in the far corner and crouched down, eyeing Ellen with a grievous stare. Oh, my goodness. It's just my cat. “I'm so sorry, Splotches. I didn't mean to step on you,” Ellen apologized between puffs. Ashen faced, she felt her heart beating non-stop against her ribs. She plopped down on a bale to catch her breath and grabbed her ankle in a tight grip. Holding it wasn't enough to help rid it of pain. That cat had dug into her ankle on both sides with all her claws leaving lines like on a road map. Sighing deeply, Ellen summoned the energy to stand and walked over to the loft opening, turned around, and backed down the ladder. “What are you doing up in the loft this time of night?” Out of nowhere came the sharp question. Ellen's head snapped in the direction of the outside door. Jack leaned against the door frame, waiting for an answer. “Jack, I already told you once before not to sneak up on me!” Ellen scolded, missing the last step. She staggered when her feet touched the floor. If bumping against the wall hadn't saved her, she would have landed flat on her face. Jack didn't budge to help her. He stayed where he was with his hands jammed into his jeans pockets, waiting for her explanation. “If you must know, I thought I saw eyes watching me through a crack in the loft floor. I wanted to find out who was up there this time,” Ellen snapped. The corners of Jack's mouth twitched. “Who was it? Surely not the ghost or was it? Did he have one of my good hammers?” Jack pointed at the barn wall. “That old one hooked to the nail isn't worth using on a large project.” “Ha! Ha!,” Ellen said curtly. “All I found was just my calico cat, Splotches, looking for a mouse in the loose hay.” She kept her eyes on the floor and tried to ignore her painful ankle. She started toward Jack and had to really concentrate to walk without limping. Now before she got to the house was the time to plan how she was going to keep Jack from finding out she was wounded. Ellen didn't want to look at Jack's smirking face if he ever found out the truth about what happened. So it sure wouldn't do to tell him she stepped on the cat, looking in the hayloft for his ghost or a tramp. She'd have to wait until she was in the bathroom to see how bad the scratches on her ankle was. Iodine would help avoid an infection, but she didn't look forward to using it. That stuff was going to burn like fire. Maybe for a few nights, she'd have to sleep in her socks to keep Jack from spotting the claw marks painted with iodine. He'd think nothing about her wearing socks. Her feet were always cold. What she hadn't counted on was being lectured by Jack all the way to the house as he followed her. He didn't like her exploring the hayloft by herself after dark. “You know how dangerous a thing that was to do. At the very least, you could have scared up a wild animal like a coon or a possum. Either animal would have attacked you if they felt cornered.” Ellen kept walking. Her mind was on taking a couple of Tylenol as soon as possible and checking out her ankle wound. “Are you listening to me?” Jack snapped. “Yes, I hear you,” Ellen retorted. “Good! You have to face it. At the very worst, you might have come face to face with a tramp who would just as soon kill you as let you go.” Jack caught up with Ellen and placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “The next time you hear noises in the barn, you come get me. Is that clear?” “All right! You've made your point, Jack,” Ellen said, too exasperated by the way her ankle felt to want to put up with her husband's lecture. “Don't get sore at me. I just don't want anything to happen to you,.” Though Jack was serious, he said it in a softer tone. Suddenly, Ellen felt bad for snapping at him. “You're right. I promise I won't go up to the loft at night again by myself if I hear noises.” She put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, no!” “Now what's wrong?” “I didn't do what I went to the barn to do in the first place. I forgot to check the sheep. I'm sorry, Jack.” She started around him to go back to the barn. Jack stopped her by grabbing her arm. “Hold up. You go on in the house. You're as white as a sheet. Looks to me like you need to sit down. I'll go to the barn.” Ellen's nose scrunched up as she said, “I left the flashlight in the loft, and it was still yet on, running down the battery. If you want, you could get it for me while you're in the barn.” Jack's left eyebrow raised. “Okay, anything else?” “No, that's it, but gee, thanks for helping me out!” Ellen exclaimed. “You're welcome. Just remember you owe me one,” Jack said with a smirking grin. Perfect! Ellen thought as she hurried to the house. While Jack was gone that just might be enough time to doctor her ankle. Chapter 12 One sleepless night in early May, Ellen finally gave up trying to doze off and slipped out of bed. Jack was snoring so loudly she couldn't possibly go to sleep if she did get sleepy. When her bare feet touched the cold floor, she hissed. She needed to put socks on to warm her feet up. That and drinking a cup of warm milk might help her doze off. When she passed the open, living room window, a blast of chilly air billowed the curtains out in front of her. Ellen stopped to gather the white lace panels in her hands. She parted them to look outside to see if it had frosted yet. During the Three Kings, they always had at least one night it frosted. That evening, she had covered up her strawberry bed which was full of blooms. She was glad to see the ground didn't have a frosty white sheen to it. It dawned on her as she studied the still night, she hadn't heard the banging noises for at least a day or maybe two. By now, she'd gotten used to the noises though she still didn't like listening to them. Sometimes, she was even able to tune the sounds out and lose track of how long it was from one time to the next that she'd heard the banging. Other than the cool temperature, it was a pretty night. The barnyard glowed with a yellow cast, lit by a large full moon. The sheep were quiet, sleeping in the barn. Until the sheep shearer came, Jack kept the flock locked up at night. A stray rain shower or dew sinking into the thick wool was enough dampness to make shearing tough. Suddenly, a movement in front of the barn caught Ellen's attention. She knelt at the window, folded her arms on the sill, and studied what had caught her attention. She blinked, opened her eyes wide, and blinked again. She would have thought she was dreaming if she didn't know for sure she was awake. How could she not have seen the shadowy form before? In just a blink of her eyes, he had materialized. She shut and opened her eyes again. He was still there. In front of the barn, a small boy sat on the ground. He was dressed in a blue chambray, long-sleeved shirt and faded blue overalls like farm kids wore years ago. His left leg twisted under him in an awkward way. Beside him lay his straw hat with the crown flattened and the brim frayed. Next to the hat was a claw hammer. From across the length of the barnyard, as if drawn together like a magnet to metal, Ellen and the boy's eyes met. The pained expression on his face tugged at Ellen's heart. His lips moved wordlessly as if he was speaking to her, but from that distance, she couldn't make out his voice. Ellen squinted, trying to read his lips. It looked like he was begging her for help as he pointed to his twisted leg which surely was broken. Overwhelmed by the pained look on the boy's face, Ellen felt like the distance closed between them. She turned the curtains loose and reached out a hand to help him. The cold, unyielding window screen bit into her fingertips, stopping her. At first, the gusty northern breeze carried the strong scent of sweet honeysuckle from the vine below the window. Suddenly, with a whirlwind force, the wind swirled the lace curtains around Ellen's face, blocking her view. She couldn't stay there any longer, staring helplessly out the window. She knew she had to do something to help the boy. Ellen rose to her feet. “Wake up, Jack! Come to the barnyard quickly,” she shouted as she ran for the living room door. Beneath the flutter of her white cotton nightgown whipping around her legs, her bare feet fairly flew over the lawn. When she rounded the house, the barnyard came into view. Ellen stopped abruptly to survey the yellow glow on the ground in front of the barn. It was empty. The boy had promptly vanished as fast as he had materialized the moment she took her eyes off him. “Where's the fire?” Jack puffed, rushing around the house. He hopped on one bare foot then the other, zipping his jeans as he hobbled along. “There's no fire. I saw a little boy sitting in front of the barn, and I wanted you to come see for yourself. We need to help him. He was hurt,” Ellen said. Jack looked confused. “A boy? Did you recognize him?” Ellen shook her head. “No, I've never seen him before. He was a cute little fellow though.” “How old was he?” Jack asked, staring at the empty barnyard. “He looked to be about thirteen or fourteen years old. The oddest thing was he was dressed like people dressed years ago in a blue chambray work shirt and overalls.” “You think that was the oddest thing about your whole story?” Jack scoffed, staring at her like she had a screw loose. Ellen shrugged. “Well, I just meant the way he dressed was peculiar. We wouldn't see farm boys dressed like that today. Beside him were a smashed straw hat and a claw hammer.” “A smashed hat …. a claw hammer …. and a boy dressed funny? You saw all that out here in the dark from inside the house?” Jack said slowly, not sure he had heard Ellen correctly. “The moon gives off plenty of light to see by,” she excused. “Look around you and see for yourself.” “Maybe, but what would a strange boy be doing out here this time of night?” Jack combed his fingers through his hair while he tried to clear his sleep muddled mind. “I don't know why he was out here. Since he was a stranger, he might have been a runaway. All I know is he was hurt. I could see that, and he was in a lot of pain,” Ellen declared. “He wanted me to help him. I know he did.” “You could tell all that from in the house?” Jack repeated. Ellen nodded insistently. “Yes, the boy's left leg was broken. It had to be from the way the leg was bent backward under him. There was pain written all over that poor little boy's face.” “Listen to me, Ellen. You have been upset between the tramp sleeping in the loft and all banging noises we can't find an explanation for. Are you sure you weren't sleepwalking and dreamed all this up?” Jack sounded concerned. “No, I know for sure I wasn't sleepwalking. I was having trouble falling asleep. That's why I was up.” “Because of the banging noises?” Ellen looked at her bare feet as she recalled what had happened. “No, because of your snoring. There hasn't been any banging for a few nights. I was on my way to the kitchen to get me a glass of warm milk. I just happened to look out the window and saw the boy sitting on the ground in front of the barn.” Ellen could see Jack still wasn't convinced. He slanted his head to one side as he studied her. “Are you still reading that mystery book about a woman who dreams she sees a murder in someone else's house? Maybe that book is what triggered your dream.” “Jack, I finished that book a month ago, and I wasn't dreaming tonight,” Ellen snapped. “I think that story has stuck with you in your sleep though,” Jack declared. Ellen shrugged her shoulders, tired of arguing. That surely wasn't how it happened, she thought. I know what I saw, but Jack isn't going to listen to me. She walked through the barnyard gate. “I want to go look at the spot where I saw him.” Jack followed her, grumbling that he wished he had his work boots on. “If you step in sheep poop, your feet will wash,” Ellen retorted. “I don't have any shoes on, either.” “That isn't what bothers me. My feet are too tender to be walking out here,” Jack complained, stepping gingerly on the hard, rough hoof pocked ground. Ellen ignored his grumbling as she knelt down. “Oh, my! Here's his hammer. Right where the little boy left it. I could see the hammer on the ground from the window. All that's missing is his hat. It sure was flattened. He must have fallen on it when he broke his leg, but he liked it well enough to wear it anyway.” She looked the hammer over and handed it to Jack. “Look at the old, scared up, wooden handle.” Now she was convinced that she had seen the boy. “Maybe we should look around for him. He couldn't have gotten far dragging a broken leg. Think we should call the sheriff's office and get some help out here to search for him?” Jack shook his head as he glanced at the hammer. “No, I'm not convinced you saw a boy. We'd be mighty embarrassed if the sheriff sent his deputies out here to search this time of night and they came up empty handed. Besides, this old hammer was in the barn when we moved here. It hangs on the hallway wall. You've passed by it many times. You must have used it and didn't put it back. You know you're always leaving my tools lie around.” He's right about me using his tools and forgetting to put them back sometimes, conceded Ellen to herself. But I've never used that hammer. I'd remember if I did. Jack's right about it always hanging on the wall though. Wonder what this hammer has to do with that boy? Clearly, Jack hadn't appreciated being woke up abruptly in the middle of the night to go on her wild ghost chase. “I can tell you I have never used that hammer. Why don't we go back to bed and try to get some sleep?” Ellen felt foolish after hearing Jack's reasons why she had imagined the little boy. She wasn't going to convince him she was telling the truth unless she had more proof. The next morning before she turned the sheep loose, Ellen set her grain buckets down and did a search of the barnyard, looking for the boy's high top farmer shoe tracks. She didn't turn up anything but sheep hoof tracks. Nothing to get excited about. Ellen didn't find any evidence to support who she saw in the barnyard the night before or who she thought she saw. Feeling helpless, she knew she didn't have anything to back up what she saw unless she could find the little boy. So not talking about what happened might be easier than trying to convince Jack she saw something unusual in the barnyard. The best she could hope for was he'd forget that night ever happened. The only problem was she wasn't going to be able to forget what she saw. She poured grain in the feed bunks and opened the door. The sheep jumped out of the barn and bucked as they raced to the bunks. As always they were glad to be free for the day. Ellen went into the barn to look for a late lamber. She walked through the dust motes, shimmering in the sunlight. Cobwebs swayed from the ceiling as a breeze came through the open door. One day soon, she reminded herself, she'd have to get the old broom and bat down all the cobwebs before they dangled low enough to stick to her red stocking cap. The barn was the same as any other day. Nothing seemed out of place and she didn't find any new lambs. Only a litter of cute newborn kittens with her calico cat, Splotches, snuggled in the straw bedding in one of the lambing pens. Ellen counted five babies as blotched with colors as their mother was. She wasn't so sure she was glad to see that. Calico kittens were always females. That meant she had five more potential mothers. As she walked in the hallway, she glanced up at the old hammer Jack had hooked back on the nail. She took the hammer off its nail and turned it over in her hands. She found the initials J S crudely cut in the hammer's wooden handle. Who did that hammer belong to? A few days later, Ellen realized for sure she hadn't heard any banging noises since the night she saw the little boy. Just maybe since the banging had stopped and the boy hadn't reappeared that meant he moved on for good. She might be able to forget she's seen him now. No need to be so nervous around the barn anymore, thinking the boy was going to materialize in front of her. Now what she needed was a few good nights uninterrupted sleep. Maybe that would help her get rid of all the anxiety she'd felt for months.

2020-09-07T13:31:00.001-07:00

The first installment of a novella that was inspired by my living most of what happened in this story while raising sheep on my parents' acreage.

Jacob's Spirit Novella Fay Risner Cover Art Picture of Duane Risner Circa 1971 All Rights Reserved by Author Fay Risner 2017 Published by Fay Risner at Smashwords Copyright 2017 Fay Risner Revised 9/7/2020 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to the actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locals are entirely coincidental. Excerpts from this book cannot be used without written permission from the author. Booksbyfay Publisher Author, Editor, Publisher Fay Risner fayrisner@netins.net This book was written for my son, Duane Risner, because the story was one he shared with me the day an elderly visitor stopped by to reminisce with him. The cover picture taken of him when he was 10 years old is a double exposure taken back in the day forty-odd years ago when cameras used film. I had forgotten to roll the film to the next number. Dear Readers, This story is part fiction and part nonfiction and here is why. Years ago, we lived on a farm that was homesteaded in the 1800s. In the 1970s, an elderly woman and her daughter stopped by one day to reminisce and look around at the elderly woman's childhood home. Our son, Duane, gave her the tour, and she shared her memories. She pointed out where farm buildings used to be and groves of walnut and apple trees. As her memories flooded back, she pointed to the far side of the pasture toward a row of trees. She told Duane and her daughter about a young brother that was buried there. He fell off the steep barn roof and broke his leg. One end of the bone came out through the skin. In those days, country doctors were a scarcity. Since there wasn't one close by, the family tended the child and hoped for the best. He died of gangrene. I'm not sure why he was buried on the property, but there might not have been a public cemetery close. Or, maybe the family intended to have their own family cemetery when the first death occurred. The first owners would never have dreamed that a hundred years later the farm would be sold several times to other people that weren't related. We drive by other family country cemeteries like that in our area. The small burial places are now known as pioneer cemeteries. The boy's marker had been a wooden one. After it rotted away and the property changed hands, the boy buried under the trees was forgotten. Today I doubt there is anyone left in this area that knows the story. Birth certificates were required or death certificates in the 1800s so nothing was documented about a young boy that died from gangrene. Since the elderly woman wasn't sure of the grave's exact spot under one of a line of trees, I can't pinpoint where the body was buried. I don't even know the given name of the little boy so I made up the exact location and name. As for the rest of the story, my husband and I had a large flock of sheep while we lived at that farm which was on a busy highway. One winter, I really did hear strange banging noises at night that seemed to come from the barn. I did grow nervous about going to check the sheep by myself since we discovered a tramp had slept in the hayloft and dropped his lighter. So there is much of me in the character Ellen Carter except I didn't get a chance to meet Jacob's spirit as Ellen did. My husband, Harold, is the one who solved the mystery about the banging. You will discover the answer at the end of the story. I do want to thank my son, Duane, for letting me use this childhood picture of him when he was around ten years old. Back in the day when we used film, I forgot to wind the camera to the next number before I took another picture of him. That made the picture double exposed. When I ran across the picture, it made me think of Jacob's spirit standing by the barn. I decided it would make a good book cover. In 2003, I entered a short story version of Jacob's Spirit in the Arkansas Writer's Conference in the category Grif Stockley Mystery. I was awarded third place. By writing this story in book form, here is my attempt to keep a little boy's memory alive that I call Jacob. Enjoy, Fay Risner The Barn In the barn, the ghost, the girl When I came home from school She sat upon the hayloft stairs In a dress of layered tulle Half-hidden from the shadows Her body turned away Her little gloves, pale and clenched Over her little face It was as if she took my hand It was as if she knew The earth held only part of her And I should know it too I’d seen the man out in the field Immersed in dancing flames A barn had once burned down out there Long before we came The land stretched wide beyond the house Who knows what lay beneath What other men were lying there And would show themselves to me It was as if he took my hand It was as if he knew The earth held only part of him And I should know it too It was as if they caught my ear It was as if their breath Would say, would sing The dance of life continues after death Chapter 1 January 21, 1977, a day in the life of Ellen Carter that she would always remember. That date helped her mark the beginning of her favorite story. A tale that she passed down through the years to her family. Of course, she knew none of them believed what she told them had really happened. They were certain the story wasn't anything other than a tall tale spun out of her imagination. Who knows? Perhaps, as the story was retold by family members from one generation to the next, there might have been an unintentional addition made here and there to the facts that helped to liven up the story. If Ellen's relatives did that, they were actually the ones that made her story the tall tale. That particular Saturday evening in January was one of those bitterly cold winter nights preceded by an accumulation of fourteen inches of snow in the two days before. After plowing the state highway for two days for the Department of Transportation, Ellen's husband, Jack, had spent all day Saturday cleaning paths around their house and the driveway so they could get out if they wanted to go somewhere. After supper, he stretched out in his recliner to watch television or fall asleep. Whichever came first. Ellen cleaned up the kitchen before she came to the living room and sat down in her rocker. A cold draft on her back caused her to shiver. It radiated off the window behind her that faced the north. She got up, pulled her rocker away from the window, and went back to reading a book. She tilted her ear toward the window as she stopped reading and rocking simultaneously. Concentrating on what was going on outside, she laid the book, Sleeping Murder by Agatha Christie, in her lap. She shoved her long brown hair away from her face and listened intently. Bang, bang, bang! “Jack, what's that noise?” “What noise are you talking about?” Jack mumbled, keeping his eyes and ears glued to the television. Ellen slowly shook her head. That television was the worst invention in this modern age as far as she was concerned. The program Perry Mason was on. Jack never missed that show if he could keep both eyes open. She frowned at her husband. He wasn't paying any attention to what was worrying her. He was stretched out with his legs crossed at the ankles. The lanky, dark-haired fellow's only movement was an occasional downward, nervous wiggle of his big toe stuck out of a hole in the toe of his Rockford sock. “Sh! Jack, will you listen? That noise!” Ellen hissed. She wrapped her hands around the rocker arms, braced herself and stood up. “Something is banging around outside. Hear it?” She walked behind the rocker to the window. Cupping her hands around her slim face to shut out the ceiling light's glare, Ellen leaned against the cold pane and tried not to breathe. If she fogged up the glass with her warm breath, she'd never see anything. She looked beneath the row of sparkling icicles on the house eave at the dense darkness. With her eyes squinted, she strained to see beyond the barnyard to the barn. “What do you see?” Jack tried to sound interested as he divided his concentration between Perry Mason and her. She knew his curiosity about what she heard wasn't that great. He might miss something that was important to Perry's case. “Nothing at all. It's pitch black and quiet now.” Ellen couldn't hold her breath any longer. She inhaled deeply and let out a puff. That warm air fogged up the glass. With a shrugged, she gave up and backed away from the drafty window. With a loud sigh, she picked her book up from the rocker seat and settled down. A commercial was on so that got Jack's attention. He twisted his head toward the window and listened intently a moment. “The wind is really strong tonight. I guess it's blowing in another snowstorm. Probably tore a barn board loose and causing it to flap in the breeze. Or, one of us forgot to hook a barn door at chore time.” Jack gave Ellen an accusatory look over the top of his dark-framed glasses. “I'll look around while I'm checking the sheep for new lambs. The ewes will start popping at any time. I suppose it's my turn to go to the barn, isn't it?” “You know very well it's your turn.” Ellen chose to ignore the twinkle in Jack's eyes as she looked at the wall clock. Almost ten o'clock. Any time now one of them usually went to the barn to check the sheep. She wouldn't even dignify Jack's accusing her with an answer that the banging might be her fault. She was very careful about shutting and locking the barn doors, and he knew it. Since Jack didn't get a rise out of Ellen from his suggestion that she left a door open, he teased, “I'm thinking if it is going to snow soon I might ought to stay near the phone. If my boss at the DOT shop calls for me to come to work to plow snow, I can get going faster.” Ellen knew what her husband was up to with that staying near the phone ploy. “I just looked outside, and I didn't see snow falling yet. The snowstorm we had yesterday and the day before is long gone. According to the weatherman on channel two, there isn't another storm due this week. If it makes you feel any easier about going to the barn, I'll listen for the phone to ring. I'll come get you right away if you need to go to work.” “Guess you settled that problem.” Jack went to the coat pegs in the kitchen and bundled up in his winter garb. He grabbed the flashlight on the shelf above the pegs. When he opened the door, he braced himself for the blast of cold air that assailed him. “Here I go. Watch for my signal if I need your help.” Ellen rushed back to the window and cupped her hands around her eyes. With her nose pressed against the glass, she listened to the wind howl. Inhaling deeply, she held her breath again to keep from fogging up the pane while she waited for the signal from Jack. He always flicked the light switch twice if he needed help to pen up a ewe with newborn lambs. Chapter 2 Ellen thought about Jack acting like he didn't want to take his turn going to the barn. She knew he was teasing, but it sure didn't hurt him to take turns with her. After all, when he was called to work during lambing season to plow roads at night, like the last two nights, she was stuck with taking care of the sheep by herself. She could have flipped the light switch several times, and it wouldn't have done her any good. Jack wasn't home to come help her. During inclement weather, Ellen was stuck with taking care of the sheep and other chores while Jack was gone. It was a well-known fact that lambs usually were born in a blizzard. She'd read going into labor during storms, whether it be humans or animals, had something to do with the barometric pressure dropping. In a few minutes, the barn lights went off. Jack was outside, projecting his flashlight beam over the front of the barn. The golden circle of light headed north as Jack walked around the side and headed toward the back of the barn. Soon he came around the opposite side of the barn and climbed over the fence. As he walked across the back yard, the kitchen window's light cut him a path to the house. Lacy snowflakes floated through the flashlight's yellow light, looking like those stirred up in a Christmas snow globe. Ellen hoped the ewes waited a few days to start dropping their lambs so both Jack and she would be home to take care of them. Thinking about snowy winter nights made Ellen wonder if Agatha Christie ever started any of her mystery books with – It was a densely dark, freezing cold and stormy night. The minute Jack came through the door, she barraged him with questions. “That was quick. It's snowing, huh? Don't worry. You didn't get a call to go to work yet. You didn't signal for me to come. Weren't there any new lambs? What were the banging noises? I haven't heard it since you went outside.” She took the flashlight from him and placed it on the shelf while he took his wool parka off and shook the melting snowflakes into the waste can. Jack slipped free of his coveralls and hung them on the empty coat peg before he spoke. “How about a cup of coffee? I sure could use one to warm me up.” “Sit down at the table, and I'll get us both one.” Ellen poured water in the compartment on the Mr. Coffee maker and flicked the switch. While he watched his wife scurry around the kitchen, Jack sat at the table and rubbed his hands together to warm them up. “I'll answer your forty questions if I can remember them all. No, there weren't any new lambs. For that I'm glad. This would be a hard night to fool with warming them up and not freeze ourselves. I didn't see any of the ewes hanging off in the corners by themselves. That's a good sign. I think the sheep will be all right until we check in the morning at chore time. Yip, it has started to snow, but just lightly. The channel two weatherman just might have been wrong with his forecast about no snow, but what else is new. Hopefully, we're just going to get a dusting that blows across the blacktops, so I wouldn't get called to work for that. The wind is cold and strong, blowing the storm through fast looks like.” “I told you the weatherman said the snowstorm was over for a week at least,” Ellen said. “I hope he knows what he's talking about and all we get is those few flakes. Let's see. Where was I? No, I didn't find anything that would cause the banging noises. I checked all the way around the barn which wasn't easy. Behind the barn, the drifts are knee and thigh-high. No loose boards that I noticed anywhere. Since the noises stopped when I got to the barn, it was impossible to tell where the banging came from.” Ellen placed two cups of steaming coffee on the table. “But you heard it when I did, didn't you?” Ellen didn't want him to say later that she had been hearing things. Jack nodded as he blew into his cup and then took a sip. “Yip, in here with you, I heard the banging, and right after I went out of the house, I heard the noise again.” In less than five minutes after they became relaxed in the living room to watch the news and weather, the rhythmic noises, like something banging around, started again. The banging continued after they went to bed and most of the night. Ellen couldn't sleep for listening to the disturbing racket. She didn't know how Jack managed to sleep. Then again, maybe it was because he snored so loud, he couldn't have heard any other racket over his own. Finally, Ellen slipped out from under the quilts and sat up. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when her toes touched the cold floor, but she was determined to take another peek around outside. She tiptoed to the window and scanned the back yard. Everything seemed to be all right between the house and the barn. Jack was right about them just getting a dusting of snow. It had stopped snowing. By mid-morning, the sun's heat would have the white coating melted away. Standing that close to the window, she shivered from the cold radiating off the glass. Her nightgown wasn't thick enough cotton to withstand the draft. She crawled back into her warm bed. More than likely whatever was making the noises would still be there in the morning. No sense losing sleep over it, she told herself. She grinned. That thought sounded like something Jack would say to her if he knew she was up. She shouldn't be up that late at night, wandering around the house barefoot on the cold floor. Jack would tell that, too. Ellen slipped back under the covers and noted that Jack was still sound asleep. Nope, he certainly wasn't worried about the noises or anything else in the middle of the night. He was dead to the world as they say. Chapter 3 One night a week later, Ellen laid her half-finished book on the living room lamp table and glanced at the wall clock. Ten o'clock. Her first check for lambs since chore time. She was home alone. Jack had been called out to watch the roads because of an impending snowstorm. After she'd listened to the wind howl around the house for the last two hours, she dreaded looking out the window. But she grew curious about what she was going to face when she went outside. The wind had just about gotten loud enough to drown out the banging noises she'd been hearing for days. Ellen roe from her rocker and peeked out the north window. Since she'd left the barn at chore time, what she'd been hearing was a blinding blizzard. It had settled in, slapping snow between the house and the barn. She stared into the snowy darkness. Behind the virtual swirling white wall obliterating the barnyard was the outline of a large dark structure she knew to be the barn. Oh, for Pete sake! Why did I let Jack turn the buck in with the sheep so early last summer during that cool spell in August? At the time, he said the sheep would only breed on cool nights. I might have known he would wind up working at night during lambing season. That means I get stuck with all the sheep checks during snowstorms. All I had to do was be smart enough to count ahead one hundred and fifty days to find out what time of year the sheep would lamb. I sure know now without counting since it's midwinter. I'll be prepared next summer when Jack wants to turn the buck in with the ewes in August. I'll tell him to wait a month or two until the nights are really cool to breed the ewes. Remembering back to last spring, buying sheep was Jack's idea. She usually realized too late that he could be quite the salesman when he wanted to be. This time his bright idea came after trying to figure out another way to make an income on the farm. “Small animals were easier to handle than cattle,” he had told her. “The barn is just the right size to keep sheep in. What do you think?” “Go for it.” Ellen mistakenly consented without first checking into the details of sheep raising. She just couldn't imagine how much work sheep would be. At the time, Ellen thought she'd like to watch lambs romp after each other in the barnyard. In the spring when she traveled by farms with sheep, she'd always loved watching lambs frolic after each other. Jack didn't waste any time. At the next sale barn livestock auction, he bought fifty Suffolk ewes and a buck. As long as the ewes were on grass in the summer having them wasn't a big deal. They weren't part of the chores. When fall arrived, Jack fed the ewes shelled corn in outside bunks, so they still weren't part of Ellen's chores. She kept her hens and broilers fed and watered and remembered to gather the eggs each afternoon. Another chore to her was their large garden she kept hoed. In season, she gathered the vegetables and freeze or canned them for winter use. Besides her household duties, those chores kept her busy enough. When lambing time was close, Jack began his campaign to get Ellen to help him take care of the sheep. He began by telling her the research he'd done on ewes. From what he'd read about caring for ewes and lambs at lambing time, it was clear to him the sheep needed a woman's touch. Precisely, he meant Ellen's special patient care and lots of attention. She fell for it, looking forward to the thrill of finding newborn lambs; a single, twins, or triplets wobbling along beside their mothers. Penning up the lambs with the mothers and watching to make sure the lambs thrived before she turned them loose sounded like fun. If the fact was in the books Jack read, he failed to mention the percentage of lambs she'd have to bottle feed four times a day. Some ewes had a bad bag so the lambs couldn't nurse, or a ewe wouldn't claim her lambs. Jack sure didn't bring up the fact that there was a percentage of ewes having multiple births that would have to have the lambs pulled in order to save them. Later when the first difficult delivery happened, he told her the job was hers since her hands were smaller than his. He reasoned it was easier for her to go in after the lambs. Now that Ellen was ready to leave the house, she thought back about the exact words Jack used to con her into taking care of the sheep. At no time did he mentioned freezing cold weather and winter blizzards when she'd be doing lamb checks. At that moment as she listened to the storm, Ellen dreaded going outside, but she didn't have a choice. This time of year she wore a heavy flannel shirt, long johns, and jeans. Now she struggled into her olive-green coveralls that hung on the peg next to Jack's woolen coat. She pulled a red knit cap over her brown hair and tied a wool gray scarf around her neck. With all that outerwear on, she could barely move. She hoped she'd be warm enough. After Ellen stuffed her boot sock covered feet into her snow boots, she put on wool-lined chore gloves. Now she was about as insulated from the blizzard as she was going to get. She grabbed the large, square, red flashlight off the shelf above the coats. With a grimace, she did a double check to make sure she hadn't forgotten an article of clothing. She couldn't think of what it would be, so she guessed she was prepared to face the elements. She had to be since she didn't have a choice. Jack wasn't there to take her turn. It wouldn't be right to let baby lambs suffer in the frigid barn without attention. It certainly wouldn't help their farm's profit column where sheep raising was concerned if she let any newborn lambs freeze to death from neglect. Ellen gripped the doorknob tight in case the wind caught the door and blew it out of her hand. She braced herself and faced the bitter blast of air that hit her in the face. The gust threatened to knock her sideways. Gripping the porch post, she stepped across the porch in the knee-deep snowdrift. In the glow of the front yard night light, the eddying motion of the dense, white haze was proof of what she imagined the storm would be like as it obscured everything from her sight. She was used to Iowa winters, but she had to steel herself for what was ahead of her before she moved forward. The porch steps were buried as deep as the whole porch foundation. Taking a guess about where to step, Ellen plunged off. She missed the steps and sank knee-deep into her flower bed. She waded around the corner of the house and was struck by a strong nor-eastern gust, carrying a swirl of blinding snow. It was hard to see what was right in front of her let alone what was ahead of her. Moist flakes lashed at her face. She ducked her head so that her nose and chin were inside her coveralls and scarf. No longer than Ellen had been outside, her chin was stinging from the snow plastered on it. Her nose burned as she inhaled the freezing wind. Ellen squinted to see where to put her feet as she tried to figure out what was ahead of her. A powder-like mist blew along the top of the white heap that had barricaded the barnyard gate on both sides of it. Ellen could see for sure she'd wouldn't be able to get the gate open. Shoveling would do no good. The wind would drive the fine snow right back in the hole where she took a shovel full out and all over her, too. She'd have to climb over the cattle panel fence behind the house. Walking into the storm's full force, her glasses plastered with snow, blinding her. Ellen stopped long enough to take off her glasses and put them in one of her coverall pockets. Then she grabbed a fence post with a heap of fluffy snow on top that reminded her of white icing on a cake. With a grip on the wooden post, she climbed the panel and swung one leg over. She was able to get a toe hold in the panel. With as tight a grip as her cold fingers would allow on the panel, she swung the other leg over and climbed down. Ellen made her way across the barnyard to the barn which looked like a black, snow-capped mountain until she was closer. Once she reached the barn wall, she found the drift in front of the gate had made its way along the barn. The drift was deep in front of the walk-in door and about a foot and a half away. She opened the door as far as she could and squeezed through the crack. Chapter 4 Inside, the barn was pitch black, and the banging noises were clearly audible, sounding really close by. Ellen's hand trembled as she felt for the light switch beside the door frame. She flipped on the barn lights and was thankful to still have electricity on a night like this one. At times, in wind and ice storms, the electric wires became disconnected. That put them in the dark for hours. At least, she might be able to see what was making the banging noises if the sounds kept it up long enough. As the other rooms in the barn lit up, the sheep became disturbed, realizing that they weren't alone. They moved restlessly in the straw bedding, making loud rustling noises with their feet. In unison, they bawled, making a lot of racket. They thought it was feeding time. She pulled her handkerchief out of her coveralls back pocket and wiped the melting snow off her face. Then she dried off her glasses so she could use them. The barn felt almost warm to her face compared to the tempest raging outside, even though with the wind chill the temperature was around zero. It was the heat from the animals that made the difference. As Ellen walked into the lambing pen room, she heard an unmistakable sound, the soft muffle of a new mother in the holding room. What she wasn't hearing by the time she reached the holding room door was the banging noises. That had stopped. As nervous as the banging made her, she was glad not to hear it with her so close. She opened the door. The startled sheep scattered. In one corner were two shaky lambs wobbling on their feet. They gave squeaky baas at their concerned mother as she licked first one than the other, trying to dry their wet wool as fast as she could. Ellen picked up the newborns by their back legs. Ice crystals had formed on their short white nap already. They needed to warm up fast so they would feel like nursing. She held the lambs down low so the ewe could see and smell them while she backed toward the lambing pen door. The worried mother stayed right with Ellen and her lambs until the family was in one of the eight lambing pens. Quickly, Ellen shut the door to keep the other sheep out and went back to shut the pen door. She looked over the pen wall at the new family. This was too cold a night to walk off and leave the lambs with the hope they would survive on their own until morning. Ellen went in the pen and pushed the ewe against the wall. She held the mother there with her legs while she reached under the ewe's belly. She squeezed both teats, checking for a stream of milk. Just her luck, the ewe hadn't come to her milk, or she had a bad bag. Either way, that meant the lambs would have to be fed by Ellen at least one time until she gave the ewe a chance to feel better. When she came back from the house, she'd bring a shot of medicine that helped new mothers let down their milk. Ellen wasn't thrilled that she had to make a trip to the house and come back to the barn right away. She'd have to fight the snow and climb the fence with two bottles of warm milk and a syringe of medicine. Knowing that every minute was precious to the new lambs' survival, she positioned a heat lamp over the shivering twins to help them dry off and hurried away. When she opened the walk-in door, a sharp blast of crisp wind drove the snow at her and took her breath away. Ellen shivered as a good handful of snow came off the top of the door and slipped passed the back of her coveralls collar and scarf. It melted and trickled down her back as she climbed the fence. As Ellen battled the frozen drifts, she tried to step in the half-filled tracks she'd made coming to the barn. It was easier than walking in deeper snow, making new tracks. She rounded the house and found the porch buried deeper with snow than when she left. The drift was piled high against the front door and along the porch to right under the window sill now. Ellen could see the top of the handle of the scoop shovel she left leaning against the wall. She grabbed the handle and tugged it out of the snow. The shovel was plastered with wet snow. She bumped it against a porch post until the snow fell away in clumps. Now she could clear the portion of the porch in front of the door. That's all the digging she needed to do to get into the house.

2020-09-06T15:50:00.000-07:00

I know somewhere I have pictures of this house in the summer time when the bridal bushes were blooming and the buckeye tree was leafed out, but all I could come up with was this winter scene from 1962 when we first moved to Iowa from Schell City, Mo. This house near Keystone, Iowa has a long history as most places do, starting back in the 1800's when the farm was homesteaded by a family from Germany. I don't know what year the house was built, but I imagine it was considered grand for the time. There was a cistern by the back entry room that went into the kitchen. A small room off the kitchen was big enough for a long table. The cupboard in the kitchen wall had doors on both sides so dishes could be taken out of the cupboard in the dining room or kitchen to set the table. Between that table in the dining room and another table in the kitchen during harvest season the help could all sit down to eat. Three other doors were in the kitchen south wall. One door led to the living room which had two doors on the west side for two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms was later turned into a bathroom. Until then the outhouse was just north of the smokehouse behind the house and is still there. The second door in the kitchen led to the full basement under the house, and the third door led to a large parlor with a shiny wooden floor. A door in the dining room led to the parlor, too, which was handy when they had company. I can imagine parties and dances being held in that room. The enclosed front porch led right into the parlor or left into the living room or straight ahead upstairs to two bedrooms and an unfinished room known as the attic. I don't know why that room was never finished off, but it was always the room to store odd and ends in. Once in the early 1980's, two women stopped by to walk around the place. We were living in the mobile home. Our son, Duane, was outside so the women talked to him. I didn't realize the elderly woman of the two was part of the original family until it was too late. The women left, and Duane came in to tell me the elderly woman was brought by her daughter to look around the home place. She described a walnut grove where one lone walnut tree stood in the pasture. A small grove of apple trees were out there and a row of elms along the fence. Some of the elms were there at the time, but none of the apple trees. It was just before 1900 when the elderly woman's father decided to re-roof the barn, and tragedy struck the family. One of her brothers, around thirteen, wanted to help the neighbor men who came to work on the barn. Her father told the boy he was too young to be on the barn's steep roof. The boy begged to be allowed to help, and his father gave in, a decision he regretted later. The boy fell off the roof and broke his leg. The bone pushed out of the skin. This was at a time when there wasn't a doctor near them so all the family could do was take care of the boy. His leg got gangrene and in a few days he died. There wasn't a church and minister either at that time so someone tracked down a traveling minister and asked him to do the funeral service at the house. At that time, everyone had their own cemeteries on the land so the boy became the first one and as it turned out the last to be buried under one of the elms in the pasture. His grave had a wooden cross at the head and with time the cross rotted away. Memory of his death and grave disappeared with time. From this story, I came up with a story I will put in my blog next. The barn had three rooms. The one on the east was the milk parlor. I don't know how the farmer used the middle room, but the room on the east was the chicken house. The hatchery set south of the barn. I suppose the upstairs was the hatching room and the bottom was where the chicks were sold or raised. At one time a young man slept upstairs in the hatchery and took care of the chickens until the hatchery burnt. Kerosene incubators started fires many times, but I don't know if that was the cause. I know in the eighteen years my husband, son, and I lived in the mobile home we put the barn to use with a sheep flock, a goat herd, raising pigs and calves. After 1900, the farmer and his wife were old enough to retire and wanted to move to Keystone to live so one of their son took over the farm. There wasn't an old age pension in those days so the son paid so much a month for farm rent, and that was what the elderly couple lived on. All was going well until the Great Depression came. The prices of all agriculture related production dropped, and making a living was hard. The son sold the cows and laid off the hired hand that had been sleeping in the dining room turned into a bedroom. Lincoln highway/highway 30, a dirt road with foxtail wavering along the sides, was traveled by cars and pickups in the thirties. A gas station had opened up in Belle Plaine. The farmer decided to try his hand at selling gas. He pulled a chicken brooder house up by the road and got Standard Oil to lease a small place the brooder house/station set in front of the house. That might have been the second gas station on highway 30 in Benton County, Iowa. Behind the station beside the house were two cabins, each with a wall in the middle so both side could be rented to travelers. Later those two cabins were turned into chicken houses and moved a little further to the west. The idea for income might have been a good one but still the property taxes needed to be paid. In a few years, the farm was put up for sale to pay the taxes. Someone else paid the taxes and owned the whole farm, and the station may have been turned back into a chicken house. A structure was built for the station back from the highway which was being improved and ditches put in. In 1952, that station burnt, and another station was built a few more feet back from the highway and structure is still there today. Several renters lived in the house for a few years at a time and ran the station. The farm land was rented to other farmers. In the early fifties, the couple who lived in the house held a wedding for their daughter under th the buckeye tree in the front yard. In 1958, my grandparents lived there and operated the station. Plenty of company, many of their nine children and their children, visited my grandparents in that house. In 1962, they were old enough to retire and draw social security so they turned the station and house over to my parents. Dad and Mom eventually bought the acreage and lived there until Dad died in 1999 and Mom died in 2002. Mom was a great cook and knew how to fill the table with food for any occasion. We will always remember the family gathering there. Their grandson, my son, owns the property, and the memories of the good times there will always be in my family.

Fay's Reflections on Minnie's Home In The Hollow

2020-09-02T07:00:00.001-07:00

Fred and Cyntitha Phillips My mother-in-law is about to turn a hundred years old and in the nursing home now. We're fortunate enough to have her life's story told by her to me when she was in her early nineties. Her memory was keen. I taped Minnie as I questioned her so I had her story in her words and added details. I self published her story for her large extended family so everyone would be able to have a reference book when questioned by grandchildren and great grandchildren. Even I have to go to Minnie's book and look up details. That's what happened when I brought home a framed and matted poem titled The Home In The Hollow Minnie had cut from a magazine or newspaper years ago. I've studied the poem and wondered what special place it was that Minnie connected the poem with. Finally, after going through the book, I had a duh moment. I've been in this family fifty six years and have been to the home in the hollow that Minnie felt was so special. Those of us who have been in the family half a century have all felt the same way, because each time we went to the home in the hollow the couple that lived there made us feel at home. Minnie probably couldn't phrase how she felt about place, and the poem did it for her. Now I am thrilled to be the keeper of the poem. This couple, Fred and Cyntitha (pronounced Sin tith a) Phillips were Minnie's parents. Behind Fred and his beloved Tithe, down the hill from the house, is Dye Creek. This is the last farm they owned together and was called the Dye Place. The roads are winding red clay and before street signs everyone gave directions to travelers to go by whoever lived along the road at the time. Fred and Tithe lived on this place from 1948 until Fred died in 1981 and shortly there after Tithe moved to Thayer, Missouri. I imagine the family named Dye were the first to homestead that farm or at least lived there for so many years that no one living could remember the first owners. Therefore the creek was given their name and the Dye place name stuck from years of their living in that hollow. No need to change it to the name Phillips place. Others wouldn't know here the farm was by that name. Harold knew his way around the area well since he started life there. We went so often that even I could find my way around. We'd get to a country driveway that headed north and one that headed south. The north one went to Minnie's sister Ethel and her husband Frandell Risner. The south driveway went to the Dye Place. The road had cattle guards on it to keep the cattle that grazed on grass and tree sprouts from getting out. Made for easier driving when we didn't have to get out to open and shut the barb wire fence gates. In no time, we made a bend and there was the meandering Dye Creek in the hollow and on the hill was Fred and Cyntitha's house with an open porch in front and one in back. The yard was fenced with a picket fence and yard gate. We drove through Dye Creek past the spring house that the cold spring water rushed through. In side that shed was milk, cream and butter chilling. In days gone by, that was the refrigerator. Fred and Tithe met us at the yard gate with greetings and hugs. The days there were spent eating Tithe's good cooking and resting under in the shade of the trees. Come dusk we listened to the crickets, frogs and whippoorwills. The very birds the poet was referring to.

Home In The Hollow by Frank Dycus 1987 There's a home in the hollow with a bubbling stream. Where I can lay down and dream and dream; And I can go places I've never been. And I can be old or a young child again, A home in the hollow where peace lives on, Where life can stand still with the breaking of the dawn. There's a home in the hollow with tall, tall, trees, Where wee creatures live way high in the leaves; And each night they join on their porches to sing, With the frogs and crickets by the ponds and the spring; And all the nightbirds join in on the song, And the home in the hollow feels like it belongs. There is a home in the hollow where the morning sunrise is a great breathless wonder to the beholder's eyes; Where a child can grow happy, wiser, and strong. And family ties can go on and on; Where people can share in the joy they give, At home in the hollow where the good people live. I'd never heard of Frank Dycus so I looked him up. Here is his biography. He is best known an accomplished songwriter. b. Marion Franklin Dycus, 5 December 1939, Hardmoney, Kentucky, USA. Dycus initially had no thoughts of pursuing a career as a songwriter. At school he was reckoned to be studious and was writing poems to his mother when he was 14. He relocated to California in 1955 and soon afterwards, he enlisted in the US Air Force. He learned to play guitar and with his friend, singer Don Gonsalez, formed a duo called Don And Frank. They attempted to be soundalike Everly Brothers and found regular bookings over two or three States sometimes opening for touring stars such as Jim Reeves and Buck Owens and for a time they were regulars on KPEG Spokane. After discharge in 1962, Dycus spent a short time in Nashville but failed to find work and eventually settled in Wichita, where he worked for Boeing in the aircraft industry and also hosted a radio show on KATE. In 1967, he returned to Nashville and worked as a songwriter in Pete Drake’s music publishing company. In 1970, Dycus formed his own company, Empher Music, in partnership with Larry Kingston and Roger Fox. They achieved several minor hits including Wynn Stewart’s Top 50 with ‘Paint Me A Rainbow’. In 1972, they sold their company to Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner and Dycus joined Parton’s Owpar Publishing. He also managed Parton and Wagoner’s Fireside Recording Studios. At Wagoner’s instigation, Dycus made some recordings of a skiffle nature as Lonesome Frank And The Kitchen Band, with Wagoner helping out with backing vocal on some tracks. In 1979, he worked in Sweden with Abba’s drummer and other local musicians before returning to the USA to record an album that gained Swedish release on Sonet Records. In 1981, George Strait gained his first two Billboard chart hits with Dycus’ songs namely ‘Unwound’ (number 6) and ‘Down And Out’ (number 16) and the following year Strait gained another number 6 hit with the Dycus song, ‘Marina Del Rey’. In 1987, Dycus, who had been in failing health for sometime, had heart bypass surgery and was inactive for more than two years. In 1990, after initially deciding to retire from the music business, he formed a new publishing company in Nashville and gained further success with George Jones’ recordings of ‘I Don’t Need Your Rocking Chair’ and ‘Walls Can Fall’, songs he co-wrote with Billy Yates.

The Cave AKA Our Root Cellar

2020-05-21T07:53:00.001-07:00

Here is an old picture from 1959 on our farm at Schell City, Missouri taken when I was a child by me. Mom gave me free rein with our camera and now I'm glad she did. My father had taken my Uncle Bob Hammontree, Uncle Moe Bright and Cousin Marvin Hammontree squirrel hunting on a fall day. My mother and Aunt Short were in the kitchen fixing lunch for all of us which included me, brother John and cousins Don and Keith. In the picture is the top of our large chicken house showing over the root cellar. My parents had leghorn layers and sold many of their eggs to a hatchery. Dad checked the eggs by witching with a wire. If the wire waved back and forth, the egg held what would someday be a rooster and if the wire made a circle the egg would become a hen. I don't know how accurate he was, but the hatchery bought the eggs anyway. The hens that stole out a nest of eggs and hatched chicks were taken care of and in a few weeks those chicks became our fried chicken dinner when we had company. As usual when Dad took a break he filled his pipe. This is the picture I used in a story I wrote and sold to Good Old Days magazine about our root cellar (the mound of rocks behind Dad) which we called the cave because it was a dark, damp, cold cement cellar in the ground with snakes in it sometimes. It sit right behind the house. Mom stored her canning from our large garden and fruit trees, plus strawberries from our garden patch and blackberries from the pasture on the two shelves over the bins of potatoes. That was our food for all winter. When a storm was brewing, we'd remove the wooden egg box on an old bench at the back of the cave and sit down, bundled up in a quilt. The egg box stored the eggs from our large flock of hens until it was full. What we didn't eat, Mom used to trade for groceries. That's why she always called shopping going to do her trading. Besides eggs, she traded blackberries, strawberries and potatoes. Storms in the middle of the night in tornado alley always kept Dad jumpy. Fearing a tornado, he paced from window to window to watch the sky. Us kids would get woke up after the rain started to pour, the wind roared and lightning split the sky to make a run for the cellar until the storm stopped. Dad must have liked to watch the storms. He stood in the doorway. As soon as it was safe, we all went back to bed. Stories had it that once before we moved to that farm a tornado came alongside the house without doing much damage. Our dog, Ginger, had a liking for all babies. She had carried a litter of kittens up and laid them on the back steps. The mother cat wasn't too happy with her. Another time, she fought with a mother hen to catch a new hatch of baby chicks to take care of. She gingerly carried each chick in her mouth down into the cave to keep safe for herself. We came home from town and found the hen angry with feathers fluffed up, attacking the dog from behind all the way to the cellar. On investigation, we found out why. About half of the hen's baby chicks were in the cave. We had to give them back to the hen and shut her up somewhere until Ginger forgot about adopting the chicks. The cement steps to the cave were always cool in the summer. Mom was always sending one of us to the cave to get her a jar of something to cook. I always hated finding a large black snake laying on the steps. Usually, I'd put up a fuss until Mom or Dad came and moved the snake. One time I was getting a jar off the shelf and noticed a jar next to it had a baby snake curled up in it. I quickly backed out of the cave, leaving the jar Mom wanted sit. Dad went down to the cave and put a lid on the jar with the snake in it and carried the critter away so I could go back after the jar of food Mom wanted. She canned meat as well as garden produce and fruit because we didn't have a freezer in those days to keep the hog or cow Dad butchered by hanging the carcass on the limb of the large mulberry tree behind the cave. It was a lot of work to can quart jars of food on hot summer days on a wood-burning cookstove. Our wooden refrigerator, called an icebox, was on the back porch where it was cooler. It had a space that held a large block of ice which kept it cool to hold leftovers and lemonade and ice tea until the block melted. Under the ice space the melting ice dripped into a pan Mom had to empty often. Each time we went to Schell City to get groceries and gas in the car, Dad stopped at the ice house next to the gas station and bought a block of ice. This all took place for us in the forties and fifties in Vernon County, Missouri. My how times have changed now, but for me it is fun to look back on those carefree days when my parents worked so hard to make their family a home and I enjoyed the freedom of exploring over our farm.

Ebooks On Sale For A Cause

2020-03-20T15:21:00.000-07:00

Ebooks on sale for a cause. From today until April 20th, smashwords.com is having a sale of books by many of it's authors at 30%, and 60% off and for free. The reason is to make the ebooks afordable for so many people quarantined or willingly staying in their home. If you have a favorite author check to see if there are books by that author on smashwords. Or if you like bargains, check out the site to find a book to read. My ebooks are on sale for 30% off and I have listed them below so you can see what choices I have written. Nurse Hal Among The Amish Series A Promise Is A Promise Doubting Thomas The Rainbow’s End Amish Country Arson Hal’s Worldly Temptations Second Hand Goods As Her Name Is So Is Redbird Emma’s Gossamer Dreams The Courting Buggy Joyful Wisdom Bender Creek Bridge's Troubled Water Amazing Gracie Historical Mystery Series Neighbor Watchers Poor Defenseless Addie Specious Nephew Will O Wisp The Country Seat Killer The Chance Of A Sparrow Moser Mansion Ghosts Locked Rock, Iowa Hatchet Murders The Wayward Preacher Who Killed The Schoolmarm Westerns Stringbean Hooper Westerns Tread Lightly Sibby The Dark Wind Howls Over Mary The Blue Bonnet-novella - Small Feet’s Many Moon Journey A Coffin To Lie On-novella Ella Mayfield's Pawpaw Militia-Civil War Christmas books Christmas Traditions - An Amish Love Story Christmas With Hover Hill Leona’s Christmas Bucket List Fiction Listen To Me Honey – novella Cowboy Girl Annie -novella Jacob's Spirit - novella Robot Grandma – novella Katrina's Gift – novella Haunted Teapot On Whistler Street -novella Nonfiction about Alzheimer’s disease Open A Window - Caregiver Handbook Renee Brown Mystery Series The Answering Machine Knew - novella One Big Bat – novella Crystal's Beau-novella Innocent Until Proven Guilty-novella Mrs. Pestkey's Cat knew-novella

Signs of Spring Maybe

2020-02-29T08:14:00.001-08:00

Signs of Spring Maybe Usually my first thought of spring comes with the robins. Might be too early for them to show up though. I suppose they're held up somewhere south by the Missouri snowstorms. However, I've been paying attention to other signs right here at home. Two weeks ago one evening after dark, I looked out the window and noted the Case tractor in the machine shed was glowing in the dark. It might have been the way the yard light on the barn shone on it. So I poked my head out the back door for another look. The west end of the machine shed was lit up all right, but no way was I going to tread through ice and snow in the dark to turn of a light when I knew I'd come face to face with a raccoon. The next morning when I turned off the light, one of the two wild hens who spent the winter in the machine shed was missing. That night the machine shed was lit up again. The next morning the other wild hen was gone, and both ends of the machine shed was lit up this time. I knew the reason was a wiley raccoon. He left tracks in the mud the size of a dog. He weighed almost as much as a dog, too. I'd say his eyesight and smell were failing him if he needed the lights on to catch the hens. Yesterday I noticed seven eagles in the cornfield across the road. They always show up in February, and each year the number of the flock increases. They spend a month or so in a small timber by us and go on to one of the rivers to nest and fish for food. The flock looked to be in a conference about how to get a chicken or one of my cats. They may have already had a rabbit dinner. The two rabbits I've seen scampering around here haven't been sighted for a few days. Not that it bothers me. The rabbits can eat their weight in garden plants and then some. Three days ago I let the chickens loose. They didn't care about the strong north wind, and that it was cold underfoot. Freedom felt good after being shut up since October. I've found they have good memories. Odd Man rooster headed for the barn, ready to go to his second home. I had the doors shut so he went on a sit down strike in front of the walk in door. He crowed for hens to join him. None did so he sat all day with a cold north wind ruffling his feathers as he stared wistfully at the door and crowded for me to open it up. At dusk, I shut the chicken house door and thought Odd Man went in. Next morning there he was just after sunrise, stubbornly doing his sit down strike again in front of the barn door. I don't what snow bank he hid behind, but he'd hid out. I was determined he wasn't going to be a raccoon's meal so I didn't open the barn door. That evening I didn't see Odd Man anywhere. Before I shut the chicken house door I peeked in. Odd Man was close to the door as if he might bale out if one of the roosters gave him a hard time. Two nights of being outside was enough. I felt as if we'd played a game of chicken for two days, and I won. Yesterday afternoon. was the goat revolt. I was about to leave home when I looked out the west window. All eleven head of goats were grazing by the garden. They had been shut in the barn for months. When Oliver Billy decides he has had enough of being closed in by four walls, he does something about it. This wasn't his first escape. He'd butted the roll door until he could squeeze though a crack, and every nanny followed him. I have wanted to let them go, but right now there is an ice berg in the gate hole, and the gate is open. The snow was supposed to blow on through and across the lot. That didn't happen. The goats came over the drift and were free, proving they always find an open gate hole. I picked up a two gallon pail I keep on the porch and walked outside where they could see me, calling, "Come on." The herd came running, but would only go over the icy mound if I went first so I walked them back to the barn and shut them in. I knew that wouldn't work for long so I improvised by using what I could find to close the gate hole. Note the picture and realize I'm not an experienced fence maker. Don't laugh until you had to get in a billy and his nannies.

Just as I was leaving for the third time to get the plywood, one of the nannies squeezed out the roll door again. She ran to me and followed me. I knew if I didn't hurry I'd have to get the other ten in again. Once I had the plywood in place, I opened the roll door and let the goats go. Even the freedom to roam where they live didn't satisfy Oliver Billy. He nosed my fence and butted the plywood to see if it would fall over. I popped him on the head with my pail. He got the message for the moment and backed up to follow the nannies to graze in the hay field.

What I found this morning was Oliver's message about my gate. He knocked the plywood down and went back to the barn to wait for to be fed. Just proves to me, I'm never going to win playing a game of chicken with him. Tomorrow is to be a warm spring day. Hopefully, the ice berg melts fast or softens up so I can shovel out enough of it to close the gate. If not, I'm going to be chasing goats daily and even in my dreams. If these are signs of spring, I'd rather go back to the tried and true signs like robins and morel mushrooms. The story I just posted about signs of spring is one of the many experiences that I've had taking care of animals. These real life experiences are what I use in my Nurse Hal Among The Amish series by Fay Risner. Nurse Hal has had many livestock related incidents that actually happened to me first. Want to read any of the Nurse Hal series and try to pick out what really happened to me first? Starting March 1st for a week my ebooks are going to be on sale for half price at smashwords.com.

Meet Curious Cat - continued

2020-02-14T08:23:00.004-08:00

My cats are barn cats, very independent and usually appear for food, stand back until I feed them and then dig in. In no time, they disappear again. Curious Cat is different from the rest of the pack. My first sight of her last spring was when I headed for the chicken room in the loft. I reached the top of the stairs and saw the long haired, gray mother cat stretched out on the floor letting five kittens nurse. One a long haired gray like Mama, two black and whites, a dark gray and a long haired black kitten. I exclaimed to the alert mama that they were a pretty bunch. The sound of my voice sent the kittens racing to wedge themselves in a space behind two hay bales. All but one that is. One of the black and white kittens came toward me. I'm guessing they were two weeks old since they had lost the wobbly gait of newborns. I picked the kitten up and patted her, wondering why she was so friendly, and she began to purr. It's not usual to find a kitten that small that will take up with people. Usually, they hiss, spat and growl to keep people way from them. It occurred to me this kitten should be doing just that. She needed to be cautious if she was to make it to a adult cat. I took her to the spot I saw the others head and sat her down with them, hoping the hissing and spatting her siblings aimed at me taught the kitten what to do. A couple weeks later, the kittens were out of the loft and exploring the barn. Dangers were many in the barn such as wild animals after the cat food and stray tom cats. I spoke to the kittens. They scattered for cover all except the black and white kitten. She came to me. As I patted her, I heard a ruckus at the foot of the loft stairs. A grumpy, sitting hen came from the loft after some food and water. The long haired black kitten ran over her feet in his haste to hide. She mistook him for a rat and before I got to them the kitten was a goner. Lesson number one for the other four kittens. Grumpy sitting hens have the right to be irritable. They lay eggs for three weeks and spend three more weeks sitting on their eggs in a dark hiding place, only coming out for something to eat and drink. The next phase of the kittens lives I enjoyed watching. They spent hours tumbling over each other and batting at grass or a feather. Finally, the time came for the kittens to be taught how to hunt. Long haired Mama cat took the mirror image of her and headed to the machine shed to have him spend three weeks in training. She taught the kitten how to tight rope on the rafters to catch roosting sparrows and to sneak up on mice skittering on the dirt floor in the dark. She might not have been so selective, but he was the only one who seemed interested in learning. The dark gray and the black and white male didn't think they needed help. The friendly kitten preferred to hang out with me in the barn which wasn't teaching her how to be a cat. Finally, Sideways cat convinced the kitten to hunt with her. I didn't mind as long as they stuck to the hay field or the garden, but I worried about the kitten when I saw Sideways cat streak across the road without looking either way, down in the ditch and up the other side with the kitten behind her. They disappeared into the cornfield. I feared Sideways cat might get lost or lose the kitten. There was a reason I felt that way. She has a few loose screws from what happened three years ago. Sideways cat darted across the road and was struck by a vehicle. I didn't see it happen but know that must have been the cause of her infirmity. For a long time she was stiff and sore enough she rarely moved. I carried her food and water. When she could walk, the cat walked sideways. Her head went right and her backend listed to the left. I wanted to pass her many a time and was never sure which side to go around. Her peculiar gait finally got better, but her head cocks over to the side, and she twists her neck to look up at me. I shouldn't have worried. She took good care of the kitten, and soon the hunting lessons ended. One day while I made up the next morning's feed, the kitten showed me how much she'd learned from Sideways by batting at loose hay, smelling for mice and inspecting the corn sack. At that moment, I was hoping she didn't come up with a mouse. I've had experience with many of the fast, furry rodents jumping up to run away as I screamed and went the opposite direction. The kitten went back to following me while I d0 chores. She jumps up on the cat food container and rides with the lid over to the top of a lambing pen. As soon as I feed the cats, she rides back to the container and jumps down to gobble a few bites before she catches up to me to watch me feed the goats. She follows me upstairs and waits for me outside the chicken room. She has adopted me so I decided it was time to name her. I pondered how she stretches her neck out as she watches my every move closely. It's almost like she is job shadowing, but since she can't carry a bucket or hay bale I decided she must be just curious about what I do. So her name is Curious cat. Actually that name wasn't my first choice. Nosy cat came to mind, but I didn't stick with it. I was afraid I'd hurt her feelings.

Meet Curious Cat

2020-02-14T08:11:00.000-08:00

Leona's Christmas Bucket List by Fay Risner

2019-12-08T09:34:00.002-08:00

I have one more Christmas book to share. This one is on Amazon, kindle, Barnes and Noble and nook and smashwords. We’re always hearing the phrase bucket list, but I hadn’t thought about making one until I was in Walmart one day. The store had just changed the soap dispensers to hand activation in the bathroom. I was looking for a button or lever, not paying any attention to the lady next to me until I noticed her hands were soapy. I asked how she got the soap. She said just wave my hand under the dispenser. It worked. She laughed and told me I could erase that off my bucket list. She left and I found myself with bigger worries. I’m studying myself in the mirror wondering what made her think I needed a bucket list. Ideas began to turn into a story which was helped along by a newspaper article about a woman and her doll. The winter's pace poem waa a Christmas writing by nephew Shane Herman and I asked him if I could use it in my book. It fit perfectly.

synopsis When Leona Krebsbach found out just before Thanksgiving she didn't have long to live, she took charge of her life like she had always done since the doctor thought she might die in a month. She bought a small spiral notepad and titled it Christmas Bucket List. On each page of the notepad, Leona listed something she needed to get done while she still had time. Details like her funeral headed the list. She didn't want to leave anything for her daughters to have to worry about after she was gone. She kept her illness a secret until after Thanksgiving when she had all but one thing completed on her bucket list. Finally, she was as ready to die as she was ever going to get. She called her daughters and invited them to a tea party. Now was the time to tell them. At her age with a long life behind her, Leona Krebsbach wished she felt better prepared mentally for the end. She should have been ready to go, because she would be with her beloved Clarence. If only she had managed to atone for that one regretful time that happened so many years ago. If that didn't weigh on her, she knew her mind set would be different, but she couldn't change the past. Even if she wanted to, she didn't have enough time. She reasoned her bucket list wasn't designed to take care of that one regret unless a miracle happened to change Leona's Christmas Bucket List. RRA Winter's Pace By Shane D. Herman The summer air and springtime flowers have quickly been replaced By that time of year more cold and frigid A kind of arctic place The ice nips at your fingers and bites at your toes As falling snowflakes kiss at your face So light up the tree and hang all the stockings And drape all the holiday lace As Christmas approaches with unbridled cheer And the people shopping make haste It is when friends and family come together as one That makes this a season to embrace So from me and mine to you and yours And everyone else in the holiday race I invite you all to take in the moment As we all move at a Winter's Pace. Chapter 1 Goose feather size snowflakes glittered in the street lamp's golden glow, floating lazily like crystalline down. The ground outside the basement window of Limestone City, Minnesota's United Methodist Church turned white in a hurry. The scene made Leona Krebsbach imagine angels in Heaven with a wing shedding problem. Suddenly, the elderly woman felt light headed. She leaned her thin frame against the window sill for support and frowned. Please not now. The sinking feeling brought annoyance with it. Here in church of all places. Why couldn't this wait to happen until she was home? Why did she have to be bothered while she wanted to enjoy the winter view? Leona knew full well the weak spell made her face head on, that after years of watching similar scenes, this would be the last time she'd see a first snowfall. She wouldn't stand at this basement window ever again, gazing out at the dead grass between the church and the parsonage as the ground turned white. Out of all the snowfalls in a winter, she aways favored this first quiet, slow snowfall of the season. Quiet except for the banging of the lanyard against the flagpole in the post office yard across the street. Heavy nostalgia built as agonizingly as any pain might in her chest. At least, she hoped that was the cause of the unwanted pressure. With all the twinges she'd had lately, she couldn't be sure these days if she needed to brace herself for the end right away or not. So far the twinges had been false alarms. When the feeling passed, Leona sighed deeply and straightened back up. She took a deep breath and tried to bolster herself to face the fact she had to get ready for far worse moments yet to come. She had already decided she didn't have any intention of immediately taking to her sick bed and going quietly from this world. Not as long as she had the energy left to keep up her winter's pace. No telling how long she would have stood at the window, mesmerized by the gently falling snow, if Pastor Jim Lockwood hadn’t cleared his throat softly. Slowly, Leona turned to face him. The minister gave her a warm smile. He probably wondered why she hadn't left yet so he could lock the church basement exit door and go back home. The rest of the bible study group had cleared out some time ago. Leona admired the dark haired, dark eyed young minister. He was just like the son she'd wanted to give her husband, Clarence, and couldn't. She wished Jim Lockwood could grow old as pastor of this church while her grandchildren needed guidance, but she knew that didn’t usually happen. After a few years, ministers always got the call to go far away to another church. They moved out of the lives of the parishioners that had grown fond of them, leaving the congregation to have to get used to another minister. At her age, Leona knew she was a fine one to talk about getting used to changes. She figured out a long time ago she shouldn't mind changes in everyone else's life if the changes were for the better. In fact, she always looked forward with excitement to the new changes she made in her own life over the years. Like the time when she went back to school at the community college to learn to use a computer so she'd be able to carry a conversation with her grandchildren. She had to learn about the digital age after her grandchildren said her typewriter was as extinct as dinosaurs. These days when she made herself think about the changes ahead of her she wished time could stand still. She knew that was an impossible thing to ask the Lord to do for her, but she still wished just for a short time she didn’t have to face the inevitable. Putting off telling everyone that needed to know wasn't going to make a difference. She was pretty sure if she kept her illness a secret that wouldn't stop her death from happening. That would be a cruel thing to do to her family. She had to suck in how she felt and get up the courage to tell everyone that mattered in her life her days on earth were numbered. The twinges she'd felt lately were just a warning signal to prepare her. Her disclosure better be soon. At her age with a long life behind her, she admonished herself that she should feel better prepared for the end than she did. If only she had managed to atone for that one time she regretted so many years ago. If not for that moment in time, she knew her mind set would be different, but she couldn't change the past no matter how much she would like to do it. No bucket list was designed to take care of a tall order like that one, especially on such short notice like the one she'd been given. Leona gave the minister a wan smile. “You been standing there long?” “Didn’t want to sneak up on you and startle you while you were deep in thought,” he said as he crossed the room to look out the window with her. “You looked very pensive. Are you thinking about anything in particular?” “Several things. Life for one,” Leona said. “I was thinking how the seasons are like my life. I remember with fondness the spring time of my youth with loving parents and siblings. In the summer of my life, I married a wonderful man and raised two great daughters. Sharing the years of fall with a loving husband, that left me too soon, gave me many memories to keep me warm in the winter of my life. I've lived a long time and have been truly blessed thanks to God.” Pastor Jim put a hand on Leona's back as he stared at the snow. “You always manage to have a parable or story to fit the moment. Beautiful outside, isn’t it? God designed nature to paint everything white in time for the holidays. If only the snow covered landscape could stay pristine all winter instead of turning a dirty brown.” Leona chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean, but no way can we criticize the dust that blows in from the fields. That dirty farm land is what makes the income for farmers and businesses around here. Not unless you’re willing to make due with smaller collection plates.” “Smaller collections are a given this time of year anyway. Especially with the way the economy is now. The whole community has had to learn to make do, but we must keep praying that times will get better soon.” Pastor Jim gave Leona a sincere look. “I'm sure you know how to make do better than my generation. You had experiences in your life with tougher times then the rest of us will ever know. Times when you had to make do.” Leona sighed. “I expect that’s right. Make do and do without sometimes, too. That's something younger people today have no idea how it was. If the same thing happened to them, I fear they wouldn't know how to cope with the struggle. During the depression in the thirties, I saved everything, even broken items just in case I had a use for them or needed parts off the junk for later on. Clarence and I were savers just like the Krebsbachs before him and my family before me, the Palmers. My daughters would tell you I still save too many useless things even now when I shouldn't worry about finances. That's why my house has so many cluttered closets, and the outbuildings still hold things that Clarence couldn't bear to throw away. When I was first married, Clarence and I didn’t have money to buy writing paper so I could keep in touch with my parents. They were just two counties over, but we didn't have time to go see them as much as I would have liked. Sometimes, it was a matter of not having enough money in the budget to buy gas for the car. I wrote my mother as often as I could. I made do by tearing pages out of old Sears and Roebuck catalogs. I’d write my letters on the margin. Even then, I still had to sell enough eggs to pay for the envelopes and stamps.” “I’m sure your parents were happy to hear how Clarence and you were getting along no matter what your message was written on,” Pastor Jim assured her. “In those days, faith in the Lord, a good husband, loving family and friends put our struggles into perspective. I always felt rich in ways that counted. That rosy outlook is what kept Clarence and me going and looking forward hopefully to a promising future. That outlook paid off as you can see,” Leona told him. “Well put. I'm working on a Thanksgiving sermon to emphasize that very thing, wise lady. We should all learn to count our blessings just like you had to do in hard times, and I'm sure you still do now. When days are difficult, we have to learn to look forward to better days. Once a lesson is learned, we don't soon forget it, do we? My parents saved many things just like you did. No one knows how to save these days, and we do need to learn to recycle more than we do. I hear all the time that this nation is a country of wasteful people.” “Clarence always said you can look in the review mirror and lament the past. Or, learn from hardships faced by others, meaning our parents, and do a better job in your life time,” Leona said sagely. Pastor Jim nodded agreement. “A wise man, your Clarence. If you don’t mind, I'd like to quote you.” “I don't mind.” “Have a good attendance at bible study today?” He asked. “Yes.” Leona fiddled with the straps on her black purse. Assuming she was nervous about the drive home, Pastor Jim cautioned, “Drive carefully going back to the farm. Doesn’t take long for a wet snow like this one to make the roads slick. With night coming on, black ice is hard to see when it forms on the salt brined pavements.” Leona glanced out the window. The snow hadn't let up. If anything the flakes were coming down faster. “I’m a safe driver. I've had long years of winter driving practice to prove it.” She clutched her purse to her waist and turned to face the minister. “Pastor, I’m not ready to leave yet. I've been waiting for you to show up, because I have something I need to talk to you about.” “You sound serious. Now we must be going to get to the real reason you were so pensive when I came in. Let’s sit down.” Pastor Jim took her elbow and led her over to the black folding chairs lined up around one of the long white tables. He pulled out two chairs and held onto one until Leona eased into it. Leona plopped her purse and bible onto the table. As Pastor Jim sat down, she shifted the chair to face him. She had to look him in the eyes so she could use his strength to get her words out. “I need to tell you this will be my last time leading bible studies.” “What? Th -- this is so sudden. I hate to hear you want to stop. What will we do without you?” He blurted out, flustered. “Don’t worry.” Leona patted his hand reassuringly. “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I took the liberty of asking Becky Smallwood to take my place. I thought I would make my leaving easier on you if I help you find someone else.” “Thank you for thinking about me. Becky’s okay, but just the same no one can take your place. You've been the best teacher for the job for so many years,” Pastor Jim said adamantly. “Besides, I’ll miss talking to you on Wednesday nights.” “I appreciate that. I know I’ve been as predictable as this snow, showing up here for years. Don't worry. Becky will be a fine teacher. She is very knowledgeable about the bible and a fast learner.” Leona licked her lips, mustering up the courage to continue. “Things have to change from time to time. That’s just the way life is. Sometimes, we aren’t given a choice so we have to make the best of it.” “Did someone say you can’t lead bible study anymore? Tell me who it is. I’ll have a talk with that person right away. I don't want you to stop teaching,” demanded Pastor Jim. “Actually, I was talking about you in regard to your accepting this change. You're right though. Someone did let me know I had to stop teaching bible study classes.” Leona paused, giving the minister an amused look. “I wager you talk to that someone every day, Pastor. Just the same, no amount of your pleading or praying will change the fact that I have to quit. What I need to tell you now is the hardest part, the reason why I'm quitting.” Looking into her sad, brown eyes, Pastor Jim's brow furled. “I’m not going to like this, am I?” “Probably not. Don't feel bad though. I’ve had trouble facing this myself so I know how you will feel when you hear my news. It's time to start talking about this problem out loud so I picked you to be the first. I want to practice on you. I hope you don't mind. I need to face this dilemma I have head on, but it has been hard taking the first steps. So in order to help me stay motivated, I've made a bucket list.” “A bucket list,” Pastor Jim echoed. “Yes, I have many details I have to take care of right away. Actually, I don't have much time to do get them done you see. One of the first details on the list is now taken care of, finding my replacement for bible studies.” “Making a list to remind you to get things done for the holidays is fine, but calling this list a bucket list might be a poor choice of words,” Pastor Jim reproached. Leona gave him a doleful look. “No, I used the right words.” “What’s wrong?” Pastor Jim croaked. “I’m going to die soon. I have liver cancer,” Leone said bluntly. The young man combed his hand through his hair and fixated on the floor. “I've felt something was wrong for a while now. You’ve lost weight, and your complexion is pale. I hated to bring it up. Knowing how efficient you are, I prayed you were on top of the situation and going to the doctor.” “Your prayers must have worked. I did get checked out. The doctor said there wasn't anything that could be done for me. You see I didn’t have much warning. Apparently, I'd had the cancer for some time and didn't know it. The doctor said I have only a short time left to live.” Leona rifled through her purse and brought out a small spiral notepad with Christmas decorations scrawled over the cover. “So just to show you I'm not joking, this is my bucket list, and I have to get the list completed as quickly as I can. Actually, I'm calling this a Christmas Bucket List, because that might be my deadline,” she said with dry humor. Pastor Jim combed his shaky fingers through his dark hair again. “I want to do anything I can to help you. Is there some of that list I can take care of to help you complete it?” Leona flipped through the notepad pages. “On page two of my bucket list is get details out of the way for my funeral to take the burden of details off my two daughters. Of course, I want to ask you if you will conduct the funeral service here.” The minister took her hand. “That’s a given, dear friend.” “Good. Now for scriptures, since I've lived in the country my whole life I've always been partial to the twenty-third psalm. You can pick the rest of the scriptures you want to fit into the service. The two songs I want the choir to sing are Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art. If my girls have a hymn they like, they can add their favorites to make them feel better if they want to do that.” “All right. Done,” Pastor Jim said briskly as if they were planning details for a soup supper. While she read the items aloud, Leona was busy checking off the details in her notepad. “I was going to ask Becky Smallwood to sing a solo, but I didn’t have the heart to heap bible study duties on her and burden her with my demise and performing at my funeral all at the same time. So maybe she could lead the choir.” “What did you have in mind for her to sing just in case?” “Becky nails any song she sings. How about The Wind Beneath My Wings?” Leona asked. “I think everyone likes that one.” “That would be a super choice and fitting for you. Please allow me to work on these details in this bucket list of yours,” Pastor Jim insisted. “All right. I still have to contact the pallbearers I decided on to make sure they are prepared when Arlene calls them. I’ve already been to the funeral home, made arrangements there for the visitation and settled the bill. The casket I picked out is very pretty. It's dark pink with roses on both sides the handles.” Leona stopped to catch her breath. “You have been very thorough, I see. Not that I'm surprised. This is just the way you tackle everything you have always set out to do. Head on,” Pastor Jim said softly. “Yes, I’ve managed my life the way I wanted until now. I don’t see any reason to leave the details of my funeral for my family to have to do,” Leona assured him. “Besides, there’s some comfort in knowing how my life will end, and what will happen at my funeral.” “Not many people have your courage to face the end, planning like this, dear lady,” Pastor Jim said admiringly. “Well, it took some doing to get to this point. I’ve reasoned with myself about dying. You see, I've done my best to live a decent life. At least for the most part, I think my family will be proud of the way I lived. I think I know where I’m headed, and that's a comfort,” Leona said, pointing a finger toward the ceiling. “Carrying out my final details for my daughters so they won't have to gives me peace of mind.” “I can vouch for the honorable way you have lived your life. I'm as sure as you are that you will go to Heaven. I've always admired your self control that allows you to take charge of any task. Even at such a difficult time in your life as this one. You have the presence of mind to make your final plans by yourself, and do whatever else needs to be done. You always handle adversity head on, because you're a very strong woman,” Pastor Jim complimented. She cocked her head to the side. “I think the modern term the grandchildren and my daughters use for me is control freak. I've always put myself in charge, and I figure on doing that until the end so I know everything is done right to my satisfaction and goes smoothly.” “When it concerns the end of your life, no matter what anyone would say I will stand with you on this. I think you’re entitled to run the show the way you want it,” he joked with a weak smile. “Thank you,” Leona said as she reached over and patted his arm. “Somehow I just knew you would be on my side.” Pastor Jim looked worried. “Always, dear lady. This is upsetting to me to say the least. How is your family taking the news?” With averted eyes, Leona said, “They don't know yet.” “What! Your daughters need to be told. You should do that soon, before they hear the news from someone else,” Pastor Jim cautioned. “I will. So far the people that know, I told to keep this to themselves until I've had time to tell my family. I'm dreading that so much, but I plan to tell them right after Thanksgiving is over. Arlene will want to smother me with kindness or boss me around. Diane will be a basket case that we'll all have to take care of. So why spoil the last holiday we'll have together for the rest of the family,” Leona explained. Pastor Jim nodded. “I understand that, but you've been their rock for all these years. This will seem like a sudden blow to your daughters and hard for the whole family to absorb for a while. I guess you will not be able to come to church soon. Where will I find you for visits? The farm?” “No, my health will decline fast. I’ll need medical care very soon, and I don't want to burden my daughters and their families. Right after Thanksgiving, I’m moving into The Willows, a hospice house on the outskirts of town. Come there to see me whenever you have time.” Pastor Jim took a deep breath before he spoke. “Can I borrow your bible? I didn’t realize there would be a need to bring mine with me from the parsonage just to lock the church door.” Leona handed her worn thin bible to him. “Let’s pray,” he said, already bowing his head. She glanced out the window. The wind moaned a wailing cry as it whipped around the building, churning the snow into a furious haze. She needed to head for home right away. All she left home with was her handbag, and a prayer that this winter day would go well. She wasn't sure that would be enough to guarantee her a safe return home the way the storm had intensified. Other winters, she had always put an emergency supply kit in the car, but she hadn't gone to the bother this time. “I appreciate the prayer, but you know you don’t have to pray for me right this minute. I’ve accepted what is coming, and I certainly do expect you to be by my side to bolster me later on when I weaken,” Leona insisted. Gripping her bible in his hands, Pastor Jim said, “And I will be very glad to be there anytime you need me, dear lady. Just bear with me this once. I'm not only praying for you. I have to pray for strength for me so that I will be able to help you. I'm not going to be able to take your news too well until I get used to it,” he said, his eyes a misty blur. Leona laid a frail, blue veined hand on the pastor’s strong one. She said with a touch of humor, “Can you make it a short one, Pastor? I need to head for home soon. Like you said the roads will be slick. You see I can’t die in a car wreck today. I haven’t finished all the arrangements for my funeral yet, and I still have to complete the rest of my bucket list.” A few minutes later, Leona turned off the tree lined street and drove down Main Street. She noticed the last minute shopper hustle that always went on the day before Thanksgiving. Almost every parking place had a vehicle in it. That wouldn't change now until after Christmas shopping was over. Loretta Abbas hustled along the sidewalk, her arms loaded with bags. She stopped by her car and looked up as Leona drove by. Loretta fumbled with her car door, got it opened, set the bags on the back seat and managed to wave at Leona all in a heartbeat. Loretta was probably in a hurry to get home before dark, too. Seeing the woman was a reminder that Leona needed to call her. She wanted Loretta to head up a coat and clothes drive from one year to the next for the Indian Settlement. If Loretta turned her down, maybe the woman would be kind enough to find someone that did have time to volunteer. Suddenly, Leona felt maudlin about not being able enjoy the Christmas holiday. She had always looked forward to Arlene and Diane's yearly visit right after Thanksgiving. They spent a day with her, putting up the tree and decorating the house just like they did when they were children. Leona relished buying just the right gift for each member of the family and baking Christmas cut out cookies with the grandchildren. She made a large amount of fudge and divinity so the girls could take a box home. After a few failed attempts over the years, Arlene and Diane gave up trying to make candy. They told her they would rather enjoy the candy she made. The effort Leona put forth to make the holiday special for her girls and their families when they came home had always been a labor of love. After this, the girls and their families would have to make due with special memories from this Thanksgiving. She wouldn't be doing anything about Christmas except taking care of her bucket list if it wasn't done by then. Suddenly, Leona realized she was coming up to the grocery store parking lot. If she was going to make pumpkin pies, she needed more milk and eggs. Leona stepped on the brakes and fishtailed. She negotiated the turn into the parking lot and realized the lot was full of cars. Near the entry door, Leona spotted an empty handicap parking spot. She shouldn't park there. She wasn't legally able to, but she considered this an exception. She had to be careful. Falling on the slick concrete and breaking a hip wouldn't enhance her Thanksgiving plans. Luckily, Leona found one shopping cart left in the corral. She grabbed it and took off for the milk and egg section. By staying in the middle of the aisles, she dodged past the other shoppers, lingering along the sides. There weren't too many jugs of milk left. Leona put one in her cart. She thought better of that and picked up another. Her grandchildren drank milk. She was reaching for an egg carton when someone tapped her shoulder. Leona turned and found her son-in-law, Steve, grinning at her. “Fancy meeting you here, Leona.” “I guess. Looks like most of the town is in here right now. I was lucky to find one shopping cart not in use.” Steve nodded agreement. “Me, too. So about ready for the big day tomorrow?” “You bet and looking forward to every minute of it,” Leona assured him. “I thought you might be.” Steve turned serious. “Leona, how you feeling these days?” Leona questioned sharply, “Where did that come from?” “My secretary said she saw you coming out of Dr. Crane's office last week.” Steve shrugged. “Arlene hasn't mention you not feeling well so I thought I should ask.” Leona fumbled around with the egg carton, trying to find just the right place for it in the cart. “Leona, are you stalling?” “I might be,” Leona said stiffly. Steve came along side her cart so he could see her face. “There is something wrong, isn't there?” “Steve, you're a dear to worry about me. I plan on talking to Arlene and Diane right after Thanksgiving about my doctor visit. Can you keep what your gossiping secretary saw to yourself until then?” Steve grinned. “Sure.” “Promise me. I know how hard it is to keep from telling Arlene something like this, but this is important to me,” Leona implored. “All right, I promise, but only until after Thanksgiving. I might break my promise if Arlene doesn't get an explanation from you soon,” Steve said earnestly. “Now aren't you the hard taskmaster,” Leona teased. Steve shrugged. “I'm just concerned about you. Is there anything I can do for you until you talk to Arlene?” “Just enjoy tomorrow with me,” Leona said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I'll handle the rest in my own good time.” “Fine, but like I said make it soon. You're right. I don't like keeping secrets from Arlene. You know, driving isn't great tonight. Out in the country it has to be hard to see where you're going. You want me to take you home? We could leave your car in the parking lot, and Jason could drive it out tomorrow as we come,” Steve suggested. “Certainly not. If it's hard driving now, then you would have to come back to town by yourself. It will probably be even worse after dark. I don't want to have to worry about you making it home. I'll be careful. This isn't my first experience at driving on slick roads you know,” Leona chided. “Now I best get to the checkout lines. Might be a long wait for my turn. See you in the morning.”

2019-11-18T12:41:00.000-08:00

Christmas is coming and winter will be upon us soon. We will be wanting to spend more time inside, trying to find something to occupy us on a snowy day or long evenings when the days are shorter. If you are a fan of Amish stories you might like this one - Christmas Traditions. What better Christmas gifts to get someone you think might have everything than a book or a gift certificate for a download of an ebook of their choice. Books are great gifts for residents at nursing homes, too. I have given away quite a few of my books to residents. I've written some holiday books and thought I might share them with you. You can find them on smashwords.com. Nook and Barnes and Nobel, Amazon and kindle plus other sites you can Google.

It's funny what triggers thoughts for me that turn into a book. My first Amish book was a Christmas story. I bought a box of Christmas cards to send out and studied the picture. It was a couple in a sleigh on a snowy day pulling up in front of a house that didn't have electricity. The house looked Amish to me. So I'm thinking why would a couple visit an Amish house on Christmas day? That couple turned into one woman out on her own in a horse drawn sleigh to visit the Yoder farm in my story, and the story evolved from there. It was selling that book that made me realize there was a market for Amish books. That's what spurred me on to write my Nurse Hal Among The Amish series. When I started hearing from readers about Christmas Traditions, they said they wanted another book about Margaret Goodman Yoder so they would know what happened to her. Since I was knee deep in Nurse Hallie Lindstrom Lapp's story I decided to move Margaret to Iowa. By making her a good friend to Nurse Hal, it helped Nurse Hal, an Englisher, adjust to Amish life easier. Margaret and Hallie had a lot in common. I enjoyed hearing the comments when the readers realized Margaret Goodman was living by Nurse Hal. They said it was like getting reacquainted with an old friend. I was glad that I came up with a solution for the readers and Margaret Goodman future. So enjoy the first chapter of Christmas Traditions – An Amish Love Story. Synopsis Fay Risner brings readers the story of an Amish man and a once Amish woman. Follow the twists and turns in their lives while they make each other miserable. At the same time they try to carry out their Christmas Traditions for the little boy they both love. Levi Yoder threatens to make this Margaret's last visit. A visit which proves to be very different from all the others. A terrifying fire sets a girl's dress on fire during the Amish Christmas school program, and Margaret struggles to save a girl that falls into an icy creek. If that isn't enough excitement, a Yoder cow nearly kills Margaret. While forced to nurse Margaret back to health, Levi rethinks his buried feelings for this woman he once loved. Chapter 1 That Monday afternoon, Margaret Goodman’s destination seemed forever away even though the Yoder farm was only seven miles from Brightwell, Pennsylvania. She was traveling alone so she was thankful for the tranquil, winter conditions. If a snowstorm had threatened before she left town, she wouldn’t have been brave enough to make the trip on her own. Watching the pristine countryside slide by her bright red sleigh helped just a little to soothe her frayed nerves. She slid under the snow laced trees that loomed over the packed road. In the swift breeze, weighed down branches swayed like stick skeletons, dancing a jig which let loose snowy clumps on her. Drifted, white mounds rolled across the pastures, making a colorful contrast with the black and red cattle milling about brown, frazzled hay stacks. Along the way, the recent snowstorm turned homesteads, set against the dark blue sky, into scenes lovely enough to paint on Christmas cards. The Pennsylvania countryside really was beautiful in the winter. Not that Margaret was in any mood to enjoy what she slid by. In her heart, she knew she couldn’t appreciate anything around her until she managed to live through this coming week and escape back to Brightwell. The road was invisible, covered with packed snow rutted with sleigh runners and buggy tracks. If it hadn’t been for the rows of snow capped, cedar fence posts on either side of her, she’d have felt like she was on a great adventure, blazing her own trail across the frozen tundra. She knew all the beauty that surrounded her would have put anyone else in a festive mood for Christmas coming Monday next, but not her. She bounced around somber thoughts about what dreaded incidents could happen from one day to the next in the week ahead of her. When the time came, Margaret planned to muster up the strength to pretend to be joyful. She wouldn’t bother to do that until after she stopped the sleigh in front of the Yoder house. Just thinking about it, her mood turned despairing to say the least. She felt unsettled and anxious. The winter scenery couldn’t change the turmoil that churned inside her. She wasn’t sure anything would. Like bad tasting medicine, she had to accept whatever happened in the next few days and handle each situation the best she could. The freezing breeze whipped her dark brown, curly hair away from her head, causing a chill to run through her. Margaret felt goose bumps pop up on her legs. She huddled down in the seat, holding the reins in one hand long enough to tug her walnut dyed, wool lap robe up higher. That done, she went back to worrying. She was a day later than usual. Would it matter to any of them at the Yoder farm that she hadn’t arrived on Sunday afternoon? Had any of the Yoders worried about why she hadn’t shown up yet? When she did arrive, would the fact that she was late make Levi Yoder’s opinion of her worse than it already was? She'd waited until that morning to prepare for the journey. Rushing to gather everything she wanted to take, she packed the sleigh at the last minute in haste. Now way down the road, she had the feeling she might have forgotten something. She did a mental check list. Christmas gifts covered the back seat, a large, wicker basket full of food sat next to her and beside her feet was her clothes stuffed, tan, tapestry valise. She’d hidden Faith’s journal under the sleigh seat out of Levi’s sight until she could give it to his son, Luke. This year that diary was what she had to remember to pack above all other things. If she forgot anything else she’d meant to bring it was certainly too late now. She would have to make due without whatever it was. She couldn’t help arriving late, and she wasn’t about to offer an explanation. Her private life wasn’t up for discussion. Nothing she said would do any good anyway as far as Levi Yoder was concerned. She just hoped what plans Levi, his father, Jeremiah, and son, Luke, made to celebrate Christmas, for Luke’s sake, didn’t include something she would regret missing. Unlike the hustle and bustle in town, the quiet countryside embraced peacefulness. The only sounds were made by her red sleigh and the four white stocking hooves on her black horse, Pie Face. The runners crunched, slicing through the ice crusted snow. The sleigh bells jingled in time to the horse’s steamy, labored snorts and rhythmic tromp as he moved at a fast pace. In the last mile, Margaret whipped the horse to hurry him to race the sinking sun. The words, Please let me get to the farm before dark, played over and over in her head like an out of tune song. Nightfall was one more reason for her to worry over her late start. She told herself she'd feel less anxious when she finally spotted a column of light, gray smoke spiraling up above the Yoder hickory and mulberry grove. The tree lined lane was just ahead to the right. Margaret pulled back on the reins, bringing Pie Face to a walk. She entered the shaded lane, traveling under the entwined glittery white, soft snow covered branches that made a shaded tunnel. Half way down the lane, a rabbit darted out of his nest in the drifted snow and zigzagged past the horse. Startled, Pie Face shied sideways. Margaret pulled back on the reins and brought the horse to a stop. She could feel her heart racing. She took a deep, calming breath and flicked the reins over Pie Face’s back. No time to panic now. She was almost to the house. Margaret tossed away the worry about dark over taking her like so many empty pea pods when she finally came into view of the large, two story, snow capped, farm house, but she still had plenty more worries to take its place. Pulling back on the reins, she stopped the horse by the split rail fence that surrounded the yard. Luke’s brown and white beagle, Moses, bounced off the porch and down the path. He stood on his hind legs and looked in the sleigh while he woofed a high pitched greeting. “Hello, Moses. How have you been?” Margaret answered back. “Woof, woof.” The beagle wagged his tail with such speed that his chubby backend swayed. Bouncing off the sleigh, he took off in a run. He circled the sleigh while he did a sniffing inspection. “So you’re happy to see me. That’s encouraging.” Margaret said under her breath. She looked up at the house roof. The stone chimney chugged pale gray, smoke plumbs that floated higher and higher into the sky, turning into hard to see thin wisps. A sudden change in the wind brought a down draft drifting toward her that smelled of hickory wood. Someone had recently stoked the fire. The two story, farm house, with peeling, white paint and sun bleached wood, had a grossdawdi haus built on the east side. The addition was added for Levi’s father, Jeremiah, when Levi married Margaret’s sister, Faith. The outhouse, smokehouse, chicken house, and pig pen were ahead of her. The large, red barn complete with granary and root cellar stood off to the left. Levi Yoder, tall, muscular and handsome, stalked through the deep snow toward her from the woodpile by the barnyard split rail fence. He carried an armload of lengthy fire wood propped on his shoulder. Even though she fought with herself not to feel hopeful, her heart raced faster at the sight of him. As Levi came closer, his rugged features were just like she imagined in her thoughts and dreams over the last year. A lump formed in her throat as she watched the sinking, fiery sun behind his back create rosy streaks in his straw colored hair where it curled on his coat collar. As Levi walked close enough for Margaret to get a good look at his face, any growing excitement she felt spiraled backward to dread again. It only took a quick glimpse to make her tense up. Any sparse drop of hope she’d had that Levi would welcome her this time faded as fast as the dimming daylight. Any brief thought that the man might be worried because she was a day late, she could discard like dirty wash water out the back door just from watching his foreboding posture as he marched at her. She tried to hold back the mounting anguish that wanted to creep onto her face. She should have known better than to expect any change in that strong willed man. Nothing about him ever changed. She had to face it. He never would change. At that moment, his piercing eyes and high boned cheeks above his bushy, blond beard appeared to be chiseled by a stonemason. The scowl on his face, Margaret knew for sure, even if he never said so out loud, had been brought on by her arrival. In all these years, her presence always had the same affect on Levi Yoder. Why did she ever hope that he would change in a year’s time? That man ever changing his opinions on anyone or anything was never going to happen. The wood Levi carried was too long to go into the cookstove. He must be ready to prepare the fireplace in the meeting room. Would it have hurt him to warm the room up before I arrived, ran through Margaret’s mind. The meeting room was only used on a Sunday once in a blue moon when it was the Yoders turn to have church. Just for her, the room was opened more days in a row the once a year she visited. However, she’d arrived a day late. Maybe Levi hoped she wouldn’t show up at all. This year of all the years would be the one that he definitely wouldn’t want to face her. He probably hoped she’d changed her mind about going through with her plan concerning the journal. In that case, he might have reasoned that she’d decide to skip her appearance at the Yoder farm this year if the journal had been her initial reason for the visit. There would be no need for him to bother going through the chore of opening up the meeting room that he only did begrudgingly for her. Well, Levi was wrong. It made her blood boil to think, in all the years they had known each other, that man never understood her concern had always been for what was best for Luke. Anything she tried to do to improve the situation between Levi and her wasn’t enough to make him want to try to get along with her. Quickly, Margaret glanced around to see if Jeremiah or Luke were coming to greet her. She didn’t want to start out this visit with only Levi’s cold, reluctant help and snappish greeting. She’d mentally tried to prepare herself for what could happen at the Yoder farm, but Margaret realized while that fair haired man strode toward her, she needed more time to steel herself for the strife to come. Although in the back of her mind, she already knew she had no real way to prepare for the clashes between Levi and herself. Like always, she’d do her best to stand up to the man and hope her bluff worked. As she watched Levi approach, she felt like prey stalked by a lion. In the next week, it was going to take all the courage and bravo she could muster to keep from being eaten alive by this angry, sullen man. Levi’s father, Jeremiah, stood in the barn door. His bent back was to her. Locks of gray hair peeked out from under his black, flat crowned, big brimmed hat. With a touch of panic, Margaret wondered where the boy was. She didn’t make the effort to travel this far one time a year in the dead of winter, Levi allowed her, for any other reason than to see Luke. Especially not this time when she had to make the trip from town without her husband, Harry. Particularly this year when this visit was more important than all the other trips. Because if Levi remembered she was bringing the journal to Luke, he’d be against her showing up. She knew he'd fight her every step of the way, and she was determined to come anyway. “Aunt Margaret, you are here!” The boy shouted from the kitchen doorway. He dropped the empty water pail and the egg bucket in order to wave at her. Making a leap off the porch, Luke ignored the clatter behind him. He was long gone by the time the buckets shot off the porch and pitched noiselessly into the snow piled by the path. With Moses right behind him, the boy sprinted through the gate hole so fast his wide brimmed hat flew from his head. It landed in the drift at the base of the yard fence. He was so excited he didn’t realize he had lost his hat, but Moses did. He halted long enough to sniff Luke’s hat, before he scampered over to bounce off the sleigh. In his haste, Luke’s mop of yellow hair, the color of corn kernels, flapped away from his ears. He skidded to a halt by the sleigh and jumped up and down. Excitement gleamed in the boy’s glittering, blue eyes. “Wilkcom! It’s so late in the afternoon, and you didn’t come yesterday. You might not be coming, I feared. Hurry up and get down.” Margaret put her hand on her chest to slow her thudding heart. It was such a comfort to see this boy, a younger version of Levi. She just had to look into his smiling face to know that he very much wanted her here. Bolstered by his greeting, Margaret teased, “Sorry I’m late, Luke. You need not have worried. I’ve never missed being here for Christmas yet, have I?” “Not ever, Aunt Margaret,” Luke stated with zeal. Feeling a little more sure of herself, Margaret laughed at the child’s enthusiasm while she tossed the lap robe aside. She drew her red cape tighter around her shoulders and pulled her trapped, freeze dried tresses out on top of the cape. Gathering up her dark brown, wool skirt in one hand, she held the other hand out to the boy. “Please, Luke, help me down. My legs and feet are so stiff and numb from the cold, I may have trouble walking.” The frozen snow crunched under the weight of her stinging toes. The tingle in her chilled feet contrasted drastically with the sudden heat that bored into her back from Levi’s eyes. Margaret twisted to look through the steamy vapors rising above the horse’s back. The man watched the exchange between his son and her, but no way could she make out what he was thinking. His face was as blank as a freshly, washed blackboard. “Hello, Levi.” Her husky voice sounded mechanical to her ears as she looked into the man’s cold as ice, unwavering, blue eyes. She turned back to see Luke’s worried expression. He glanced at his father and back at her. At least in front of the boy, she had to make a stab at being civil to Levi for this precious child’s sake. Besides the week would seem a terminally, long visit if she let Levi get to her at the very beginning of her stay. She smiled down at Luke and patted his head to reassure him. Levi must have thought the same thing as he watched his son. “Wilcom, Margaret Goodman. Best get inside and warm up,” he said, his tone quietly clipped. Margaret glanced over her shoulder. If Levi’s short pretense at an invitation hadn’t been remote enough, his face, emotionally frigid as this winter day, told her she was not really welcome in his home but tolerated for his son’s sake. Margaret concentrated on the boy. That always took away the sting of Levi’s words. She pointed to the wicker basket on the sleigh seat. “Luke, please carry that inside for me. I’m ready to warm up and have a cup of tea right now.” Margaret forced cheerfulness into her voice. “First, let me give you a proper hello. You’ve grown so much. You must be a foot taller than last year.” She drew Luke to her, engulfing him in an enthusiastic, bear hug. “Only four inches,” corrected the boy. “All out of tea,” Levi put forth shortly. He looked straight ahead as he marched past Luke and her. “Figured that. That’s one of the things I brought with me in the basket,” Margaret shot back at Levi’s ramrod, straight back as she trailed after him. Setting the basket down, Luke picked up his hat. He beat it against his leg to rid it of snow and put it back on. Margaret paused to look back at the western sky while she waited for the boy. The sun had slipped half way below the horizon, creating long, red fingers across the sky. In the fading daylight, the old man still leaned in the barn door, but he faced the house now. No doubt watching with interest the underlying discord between Levi and her. She could imagine that he might not want to be any closer than the barn during their initial meeting. “Jeremiah Yoder, come in out of the cold if you have time. Have a cup of tea with me,” she hailed, beckoning to him with a wave of her hand. Moses stopped his inspection of the sleigh when he heard Margaret’s voice. The dog caught up to her and whined for attention as he sniffed at her skirt. She reached down and patted his head before she turned and trudged with Luke on the snow packed path toward the house. Behind her, she heard the chickens squawk in alarm. Jeremiah must have scattered the flock as he walked across the barnyard. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to ease away some of the tension that had built up in her all day. She was so very thankful that Jeremiah chose to come when she called. He never liked to take sides between Levi and her. Just the same, Margaret needed that old man to be near her at first as a buffer until she had time to get use to the chilliness that radiated off Levi. It had always helped bolster her spirit to know that Jeremiah liked her to visit almost as much as Luke did. Jeremiah did his best to respect his son’s wishes and Amish law when he was at the Plain people gatherings, but in the privacy of his own home, he wasn’t afraid to show how much he thought of her.

Christmas With Hover Hill - Holiday book by Fay Risner

2019-11-08T14:13:00.001-08:00

November is here, and holiday books are in the stores. I have one I thought might interests readers. The title is Christmas With Hover Hill. Set in small town Iowa, this book is humorous, romantic and even a little weird with the presences of an obnoxious house servant named Hover Hill. Look in Amazon and Barnes and Noble for the paperback in regular and large print, and kindle, nook and smashwords for the ebook. Here is the synopsis for the book Elizabeth Winston grew up not caring about Christmas. This Christmas is going to be much worse than the holidays she and her brother, Scott, shared with her divorced parents. Her former boyfriend, Steven Mitchell, showed up to pester her about renewing their relationship now that his marriage has ended and Elizabeth vows that is not going to happen. Elizabeth always looks forward to sharing Christmas with her brother, Scott, but he says he won't be able to spend Christmas with her this year. He has a business trip. His present for her is an expensive and obnoxious robot house man by the name of Hover Hill that he says will make life easier for his sister. Just her luck to be stuck with a mechanical man to share the holidays with. To make matters worse, Elizabeth is fit to be tied when she figures out the robot was planted by ex-boyfriend Steven Mitchell to brainwash her into taking him back. Her brother, Scott, betrayed her when he helped Steven by saying the robot was his gift. She's so mad at both men she slips out of town, taking Steven's expensive robot with her and leaving her old life behind only to walk into a new set of problems. She just wanted to hide out for six months, but that isn't easy in small Wickenburg, Iowa. Gossip about her flies faster than the rumors that come out of the Silver Dollar Tavern. Susie, at the Maidrite Diner, bragged to her customers she got a good look at the handsome man that Elizabeth is shacking up with. The minster's wife complained local farmer, Bud Carter, hasn't been to church for a month of Sundays. She wondered what his problem was. Holly, from the Antique Store, said the reason why is Bud's spending more time at the pretty newcomer's house than he is his place. The grocery store checker said Elizabeth acts nervous like she's hiding out from someone. If Steven Mitchell or her brother comes to town looking for her, with all the attention Elizabeth is getting now, she fears all they have to do is ask, and they can get directions from anyone in town to the old Carter house before she makes it through Christmas With Hover Hill. My husband and I were at the Kalona, Iowa salebarn one time during a carriage auction, and I spotted the Cinderella coach I used on the cover of this book. I would never have believed that such a thing existed, but there it was. I never knew the story behind that carriage but have always been on the lookout for book cover pictures. Most of the time, I don't know what book I will use the picture on until much later. When I was writing Christmas with Hover Hill and cynical Elizabeth Winston tells handsome farmer, Bud Carter, she doesn't believe in fairy tale romances, it made perfect sense to me that the Cinderella coach was the perfect cover for the story. Of course, I added the bows to make the coach festive for the holiday when it plays a part in the story.

Sideways Cat

2019-09-15T07:54:00.001-07:00

Just one of many animal stories I have used in my Nurse Hal Among The Amish series. If I had paraskevidekatriaphobia, a word I can't pronounce, which happens on Friday the 13th during a full moon, I'd have sent Harold to shut the chickens up Friday night. Weather man says it will be 30 years before Friday the 13th and a full moon happen on the same night. So it is a circumstance so rare we rarely hear of anyone who had bad luck. I'm just glad I didn't miss the pleasant, late summer evening which reminds me how much I love living where we do. Sideways cat was waiting on the back door step as usual to escort me to the chicken house. I didn't bother to tell her I found my way there and back all last week without her when she took off on vacation. I'd wondered what she was up to and supposed she was looking for better living conditions than a barn and plenty of cat food handy. Since she's back, I suspect she found we are the only ones in the neighborhood that doesn't have dogs. Besides, the cat food buffet is open all the time in our barn. It was a cool 65 degrees and no wind at seven forty five. In the middle of June, I had to wait until nine twenty. I imagine the farmers started the saying going to bed with the chickens back in the day when they worked from dawn to dusk without the aid of headlights. At dusk, it's bedtime for chickens no matter what a clock says, and at daylight, the roosters are crowing let us out. For some reason, that night Odd Man roosted under the bench on the front porch. He may have had a narrow escape from a raccoon or possum, or he has paraskevidekatriaphobia and was just playing it safe by hiding. The peaceful quiet clued me in that I no longer heard the deafening buzz o f locusts. I'm not missing the demise of those fortune tellers of cold weather. What I did notice was the peeper frogs, that sing in a high pitch choir each spring to tell us warm weather is coming, have now moved from the pine tree grove into the hayfield. I don't know what they are trying to tell us about fall. I understand these inch and a half frogs can be heard from a mile away. I believe it, and the song is not nearly as pretty when the tiny frog is giving a distress call by our upstairs bedroom door in the middle of the night, but that's another story. Sideways cat stopped to get a drink out of the chicken trough while I shut the hen house door. Being an escort for me must be thirsty work. She watched me come toward her and went through the gate hole ahead of me, headed for the house. To the west, the sun had disappeared over the fiery horizon, and to the east, peeking over the corn field was the amber full moon that kept the night lit for all the chicken predators. We passed under the butternut tree just as a sparrow let out a loud cheep and rustled leaves as it settled down to roost. I'm thinking it was a sparrow anyway. All the pretty song birds have migrated already. Sideways cat twisted her neck, turned her head over as only she can do and stared into the tree with her tail twitching, but she kept going. Once we reached the back door, her job was done. She turned and headed back to the tree, thinking she might get a snack on her night hunt now that the sparrow was in his roosting stupor. She has learned her lesson. This is a safer hunt than the ones in the ditches or on the road. Why do I call her Sideways Cat. It's because her head, cocked sideways, is always in front of my left foot and her back end is in front of my right foot. Harold thought maybe on one of her night hunts a couple of years ago she was hit by a car. I'm never sure which direction to go around her so she doesn't trip me. It's safer to let her she lead and I follow.

Odd Man Out Rooster

2019-05-06T08:09:00.000-07:00

Odd Man Out--We hatch our chickens each year, plus we never weed out any older hens so we have grandmothers and great grandmothers. Not real productive, but fun to watch when they fly out of the hen house and spread out to look for bugs. Since we never know when we'll lose a chicken to a predator, our practice is to save two roosters with the pullets and put the rest in the freezer. By having two roosters when the wild critters roam, we have a fifty-fifty chance one survives the summer to produce chicks. Last spring, we caught the pullets and two roosters in the chicken room in our hay loft and put them in the hen house. Every two years we change roosters to ensure good hatches. A few weeks later, I'm doing chores and enjoying a nearby rooster crow Good Morning. After a closer look, I spotted the crower, a small chicken which I thought was a pullet. I'm thinking I never heard of a pullet that crows. Oh, no, it's a rooster. We didn't need an extra rooster. Two usually battle out their territories, select their girlfriends and go their separate ways. I debated catching Odd Man Out, but the other two roosters didn't mind him so why should I. What a difference a year makes. By this spring the cocky little bird filled out some. The other roosters must have just realized he wasn't a pullet. He had the nerve to woe some of the hens away from the larger roosters. It didn't go over well for him when the roosters ganged up on him. After some rough cock fights which Odd Man didn't win, he still refused to give up his rights to procreate. The other two roosters punished him by banning him from the chicken house at roost time. So Odd Man has learned his place around here. Even though his life is in danger at night, he sleeps in the barn. He even convinced one hen to feel sorry for him and join him. Each morning, he crows loudly while it's safe to boast to his competitors that he's still here. It's easy to be brave when the other roosters are shut in the hen house while this place is his domain. His hen follows behind him on a bug hunt, waiting for his Come Here cluck. All that bravado fades the minute the chicken door opens. Odd Man hides in the barn. As soon as he thinks it's safe he sneaks into the hen house to eat corn. The roosters usually are on watch for him and chase Odd Man from the chicken yard. Like the chicken house, it's evidently off limits. The rest of the day he and his hen hides out in the front yard like in a game of hide and seek, he repeatedly crows, “Find me if you can.” The story you just read is true. Some day, I might need a story to add to my farm scenes in my Amish books. This one will be filed away for future use.

You Have Got To Love Adalheida Wasser

2019-04-24T16:14:00.002-07:00

I'm in the editing process for my next Nurse Hal Among The Amish book in the series. Often something that has happened on my acreage appears in one of my Amish books as a problem for Nurse Hallie Lindstrom Lapp. The book I am working on now You Got To Love Adalheida Wasser has two such problems. One middle ways of the book is about a billy goat Nurse Hal bought which butts down a new water hydrant Hal's Amish husband has just hooked up. He is gone to the salebarn, but the bishop comes to visit and offers to fix the hydrant for Hal. Those of you that read my posts on Facebook will recognize a post I made about this time last year about the Sweet Potato Thief in my basement. I saved all the comments and tips on how to catch the rat which kept outsmarting me. So the first chapter of this book will look familiar to many of you that knew my story about the rat. If you were one of the contributors whether it be advice or a comment, see if you can pick out your part in this chapter.

Chapter One “Ach! This is awful,” Hallie Lapp grumbled to herself. She placed her hands on her hips and stared in the sweet potato bin in the basement. Not believing what she saw, she picked up one of the large sweet potatoes and examined the gnawed hole middle ways of the potato. She fingered several more in the bin that looked just like the one missing a good-sized chunk out of it. “What could have happened to ruin these nice sweet potatoes? Maybe I should show this one to John. He might know.” Hal hurried up the basement stairs, out the mud room door and around the side of the house. Usually, she'd have enjoyed the country sounds: her rooster crowing, and the baas, moos, and neighs coming from the pasture. Hal liked to listen to the trill of the red wing blackbird, the coo of mourning doves and the croaking of pheasants. Right now she wasn't in any mood to take pleasure in anything. She needed to find her husband. Last she knew, John was going to repair the pig pen. From the agitated sounds of squealing pigs, she figured he was still at it. She yelled, “John, John, where are you?” The black-haired, bearded man raised his head above the wooden boards on the pig pen fence he was repairing. “Over here.” He placed his elbows on the top board and leaned against the fence, waiting for Hal to get to him. Holding her prayer cap on top her carrot red curls, Hal rushed to him. Their young children, Redbird, Beth and Johnnie stopped a game of tag to find out what was happening. Their mother seemed really worked up. Hal thrust the sweet potato out for John to see. “What could have made this big hole?” John took the damaged potato and inspected it. “Looks like a rat ate on it to me. Where did you have it?” “In the basement with the rest of what's left of the crop we raised. I went down to get a few to fix for lunch and found three with holes in them just like this one.” What John said finally sunk in. Hal moaned. “Surely, we don't have a rat in the basement?” The children looked at each other. The girls' faces expressed fright. Johnnie grinned. John nodded. “Jah, looks like we do. Rats love sweet potatoes.” “We can't let all those good sweet potatoes get wasted by a rat. What can we do?” Hal asked desperately. John climbed over the fence and handed the potato back to his wife. “I'll get you a live trap out of the tool shed to put in the basement. Move the rest of the sweet potatoes upstairs to the mudroom until you catch the rat.” Hal trailed along behind John, wondering how it had became her problem to catch the destructive rodent. The children followed behind them to find out about the live trap. John went into the tool shed and came out with a small live trap just big enough for a full-grown rat. He showed Hal how to hold the door open and pull out the trigger hooked to the flap at the back of the cage and slip it under the door. “Toss a small chunk of sweet potato to the back of the trap for bait. When the rat goes in for the bait, he will step on the flap, and the trap door snaps shut.” “All recht, I will give this trap a try,” Hal grumbled, taking the trap by the handle. Johnnie reached for her free hand and focused on his father. “I can help Mama.” “That would be really great. Denki, Johnnie,” Hal declared. The three children followed Hal down the basement steps, searching the basement floor for movement. The girls hoped they wouldn't run into the rat, and Johnnie was hoping he'd at least get a glimpse of the speedy creature. Once Hal had the trap set, she asked the children to carry the remaining sweet potatoes upstairs and lay them in a cardboard box in the mud room. While the children helped her by doing that, Hal started lunch. After the children rescued the sweet potatoes, Beth set the table. Redbird peeled the damaged sweet potatoes to boiled for lunch. Now that he wasn't needed, Johnnie went outside to see if he could help his father. The next morning, Hal eased down the basement steps to check the trap. In the loud voice she used to talk to Able Keffhoppre at church, she called repeatedly, “Mr. Rat, I'm coming. If you're still in here get out of my sight. Please do that for me.” Before she reached the bottom step, she heard faint skittering noises travel across the basement floor. The same noises ended up behind a row of canned peaches on one of the shelves across the room. She squeezed her eyes shut and clamped her lips together to keep from screaming until the noises ceased. After the room had been quiet a few seconds, Hal opened her eyes and searched the dimly lit basement, listening intently. She sighed, wishing the basement had lights. She shook her head. Face it, Hallie, the small basement windows has worked for what I've done until now. She'd never had to worry about dodging out of the way of a rat before. No amount of light would be enough if she came face to face with that rat again. The rat's hiding place was behind the jars. She knew that. We aren't going to eat another jar of canned peaches until that rat is out of here. She edged slowly closer to the sweet potato bin and peered in. The trap was still set but without some of the bait. The piece of sweet potato was missing except for a scattering of peeling crumbs. What irked Hal was the square of stale cornbread was still in the trap. The rat didn't touch it. She couldn't understand why the rat didn't like her cornbread. He shouldn't be so particular. Hal went back upstairs. She picked up a small sweet potato tuber from the box and cut it in half. She laid one half in the refrigerator for later bait and silently prayed she wouldn't need it. With the chunk in hand, Hal eased back down the steps, her voice raised to get the rat's attention. “I am coming Rat. Get out of my sight fast. Please!” Though the basement was eerily quiet, she took little comfort in that fact. Even thought the rat stayed hid, she was still in the same space as the rodent. To her way of thinking that was still way too close for her comfort. Hal threw the chunk inside the trap, aiming for it to land at the back beside the stale cornbread. The chunk landed on the flap and threw the trap shut with a loud clunk. Hal took hold of the trap and lifted the front up so the bait rolled to the back behind the flap and reset the trigger. Now that was done. No way was she going to wait around to see what happened next. She didn't want to be around when the rat came back. She hurried up the steps and made sure the basement door shut tightly. A morning later, Hal made her way to the basement to make the daily check of the live trap. She conversed with the unseen rat on the way down. “Here I come, Rat. I'm coming down the steps right now. Stay hid.” Instead of skittering sounds, she heard strange clicking noises coming from the sweet potato bin. She froze halfway down and tried to make sense out of what she heard. Hal decided there was no way to know until she looked at the trap. She clamped her right hand over her mouth as she eased over to the bin and peered in. A healthy, beady-eyed rat, the size of a small kitten, bit the metal cage bars with his sharp teeth. He took one look at her and went ballistic. He tramped over the piece of stale cornbread which he was still refusing to eat and raced back to the front. The rodent hesitated just long enough to bite cage bars as he raced. Hal cringed as she stared at the panicked rat. Now what was she supposed to do? John was busy cleaning out the hay mow for haying season. Johnnie was too little to carry the cage up the stairs with that strong rat bouncing around in it. She figured the girls would refuse if she asked them to help her. Hal couldn't say she blamed them. She didn't want to get close enough to the cage to carry it either, but she didn't have a choice. She caught the nasty creature so she had to get him out of the basement. She assumed that was what John would say if she asked him to come get the trap. One thing was for sure and certain. If John had other ideas, she wasn't going to be the one to kill that rat. Hal picked the cage up by the handle and held it away from her, afraid the rat might bite her through the cage bars if she let the cage brush against her skirt. She hustled back to the stairs, wanting to get the rat out of the house as fast as she could. It was unnerving how the rat squealed as loud as a mad sow, trying to say, “Let me out of here.” A step at a time, Hal eased up the open steps, balancing the trap on each step as the rat made his laps back and forth. The rat could have easily overbalanced her when he lunged one way and then the other, slamming into each end of the trap. For sure, she didn't want to fall down to the basement floor, especially with the occupied trap falling along with her. The rat might end up on top of her. No way could she stand that happening. As much as she hated being near the rodent, Hal suddenly felt pleased with herself for catching the sweet potato thief. Soon the rat would be out of the house and wait until she showed John she caught the rat by herself. That pleased feeling didn't last long. Three steps from the basement door, Hal set the trap on the step. The rat made another lap and lunged at the trap door. The door popped off the trap and sailed through dark space behind the basement steps. Following the trap door, the rat took a ten-foot nose dive to the floor. The square of hard-as-a-rock cornbread sailed after the rat. It was so dark below the stairs, Hal couldn't see his landing if she had watched. She didn't, because she was too busy screaming as she scrambled to get up the last three steps, gripping the empty trap. Hal slammed the basement door shut and propped herself against it to keep from collapsing. Fudge! Why did that trap door have to break? She stared at the empty trap. That piece of rock-hard cornbread followed the rat as he fell. Was it too much to hope the cornbread knocked the noisy creature unconscious? Not that she had any intention of going back to the basement to find out. John burst through the back door, and the children rushed through the front door. They all converged on Hal at the same time. “Are you all recht?” John asked, grabbing Hal by the shoulders. “You are so white,” Redbird noticed. “Mama is shaking,” Beth said, taking Hal's hand. “She's sick,” Johnnie guessed, puckering up to cry in concern for his mother. Hal shook her head. “I am fine, kinner.” Her hand shook as she held the trap out to John. John face held a dead pan expression as he took the trap. “Where's the door?” “In the basement with the rat,” Hal wheezed. “Your old trap broke when the rat hit the door.” John's eyes twinkled as he tried to keep a straight face. “It was a new trap.” “Well, it's not anymore,” Hal proclaimed. “Blame that old rat for it breaking. Not me.” “Where is the rat?” John asked, glancing around them. Hal swallowed hard to keep from crying. “How in the world should I know. He ran away.” “I'm sorry the rat got away,” Johnnie said sympathetically. Hal hugged Johnnie. “So am I. Believe me I really am. Right now I'm thanking my lucky stars I didn't have the trap door turned more toward me when the door came off. I was almost to the top of the basement steps. There wasn't room for that awful rat and me together on those steps. Thank goodness, the rat flew out into the air and plopped to the basement floor. John, is there any chance that the rat died when it hit the cement?” Hal asked hopefully. John turned to his son. “I do not think so. Johnnie, you want to go down and look under the stairs to see?” “Sure enough, Daed,” Johnnie said enthusiastically. Hal moved slowly away from the door, hoping that her shaky legs would hold her up. “I will bring you another trap which is a little bigger and better made than this one,” John said, trying to appease Hal. “Fine! I will set the larger trap with a piece of cornbread, a chunk of sweet potato and a stale marshmallow for dessert.” Hal rubbed her forehead with a trembling hand. “Would it be too much to ask for the rat to find his exit hole and go back outside so I wouldn't have to catch him again?” John's lips quivered, suppressing grin. “Jah, I am afraid so, Hal.” The thud of Johnnie's feet hurrying up the wooden steps preceded him in the doorway. He looked disappointed. “I did not see the rat. Just this piece of cornbread and crumbs.” He held his hand out with the cornbread in it. John turned to face his son. “Reckon we better go find Mama that trap before we eat dinner.” The trap John handed Hal was larger but made of a lighter weight metal. After lunch, Hal threw the bait, sweet potato chuck, the stale cornbread and a hard marshmallow, to the back of the trap and carried it to the basement. In her hurry, she forgot to warn the rat she was on her way down, but her footsteps were enough noise to alert the rat she was invading his territory. His skittering was loud until he ducked behind the peach jars. Silence as far as Hal was concerned was a blessing. As quick as she could, set set the trap and hurried to the safety of upstairs. The travails of Hal and the rat goes most of the way through the book which is really about an elderly woman known as the Wise Woman, and then the billy takes out her husband's new hydrant. More later when I have the book completed and for sale.

The Grieving Widder Woman-book 11-Amazing Gracie Mystery Series by Fay Risner

2019-03-11T09:06:00.001-07:00

Once again American's Miss Marple, Gracie Evans is running down clues to a mystery - Locked Rock, Iowa's town drunk's disappearance. She has the help of her two coharts – Melinda Applegate and Madeline Patterford. Gracie doesn't sit and knit like Miss Marple. Instead, she rocks and dozes while she dwells on the mystery at hand. Join Gracie Evans in solving this latest mystery – book 11 – in the series Amazing Gracie Mystery – set in a small town in Iowa in the early 1900's. Amazon link for paperback and ebook https://www.amazon.com/s?k=The+Grieving+Widder+Woman&i=stripbooks&ref=nb_sb_noss Barnes and Noble for paperback and ebook https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/The+Grieving+Widder+Woman?_requestid=5629674 smashwords.com https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/927289 The Grieving Widder Woman was my entry in the National Novel Writing Contest in November 2018. Synopsis for the book According to the gossips, they haven't seen Florence Moffatt's husband, the town drunk, staggering home in the wee hours of the morning for days.. They ask Florence where Elmer is. Florence says he's away on business which makes Gracie Evans scoff that Elmer never worked a day in his life. One day Florence shows up at the Bible Study group in black widow weeds and announces Elmer passed away in Cedar Rapids. She's going to bring him home in a rented wagon. Women frown when Florence says her friend, Preston Terrell, is going on the trip with her. When asked what caused Elmer's death, she gives anyone who asks a different story. When she arrives back in Locked Rock in a week's time, an expensive, walnut casket trimmed in gold is in the back of the wagon. The town turns out to help Widder Moffatt mourn at a nice funeral for good for nothing Elmer Moffatt. From then on, Gracie and her friends see Florence spending her spare time by Elmer's grave, crying and praying. Gracie wonders what Florence's problem is and decides to find out. How could the Widder Moffatt be confused about how Elmer died? Florence should be so glad to be rid of him that she shouldn't have to play the part of The Grieving Widder Woman. Here is the first chapter of the book Chapter One Gracie Evans pushed a hastily placed hairpin securely into her braided ring crowning the top of her head as she slipped into her chair at the kitchen table for breakfast. She noted to herself it was way too quiet in the room. That made her worry something was wrong. She scanned the rest of the Moser Mansion residents at the table who had showed up ahead of her. Molly Moser Lang, owner of the mansion, seemed to be in a world of her own. Deep in thought, she had her elbow on the table and her fist under her chin as she ran a finger over the red and white checkerboard tablecloth. Molly had taken to wearing her honey shaded hair in a bun on the back of her neck instead of loose and shoulder length. A sign she was feeling more like a matron than a young woman. Molly was a pretty woman inside and out. Gracie knew that would never change with age. Orie Lang, Miss Molly's husband, had the Locked Rock Weekly Review stuck in front of his face. Gracie wondered if it wasn't time the man gave up and started using reading glasses. He was about Molly's age and good-looking, with a mop of black hair. Gracie figured it wouldn't do any good for her to say anything to him about his vision. If anyone brought up reading spectacles Gracie could just hear him say what did he need glasses for when he was a farmer. He would wind up getting them broke. A few years back, Agnes Barnes, the housekeeper, took Pearlbee Washington's place as the cook when the dear old soul passed away. She mumbled to herself as she plopped two skillets on the wood cook stove to cook sausage patties and eggs. Gracie could hear the pop and crackling of burning wood from clear across the room. By the time she broke eggs in one of the skillets, the lard was hot. Gracie heard the loud sizzle when the eggs hit the skillet bottom. A pop of flying lard landed on the back of Agnes's right hand. As she rubbed her hand with her apron, the middle-aged, dowdy woman snap to herself, “The nerve. I should say.” Gracie wondered why now of all mornings after fixing eggs and sausage cakes for years did the unexpected pop of hot lard seem so vexing to the woman. The work counter across from the stove was white with flour from Agnes's biscuit making. The pan of biscuits was in the oven. Gracie already knew that because she heard the oven door on the stove slam shut just before she entered the kitchen. She figured the wood cook stove's oven door had slipped from Agnes's hand. Now it crossed her mind she figured wrong. As Gracie studied the Moser Mansion's Rest Home For Women's housekeeper's face, she realized something was in the wind. Agnes was usually an easy-going gossip, but not this morning. She was wound up as tightly as the busted mainspring in Gracie's father's railroad pocket watch. Her silver streaked, brown hair was frizzled. Agnes looked like she had walked to work in a stiff wind and forgot to comb her hair before any of them came to breakfast. “Where is Malachi this morning?” Gracie asked Molly. “Agnes says he has already eaten breakfast and went outside to work in the garden and mow the yard,” Molly answered. “Reckon it's better for him to work in the cool morning air. Besides, as slow as he's getting, it takes longer for him to get anything done.” Shuffling feet behind her made Gracie twist in her chair. “Morning, Melinda,” she greeted cheerfully, hoping for at least one resident who would be cheerful right back. After all, Melinda Applegate was usually the glass half full type of person. Her greeting was followed by Miss Molly and Agnes greeting Melinda. Mr. Orie crumpled the newspaper onto his lap as he said good morning to both of them. Melinda said a meek, “Good morning, everyone” By that time, Gracie was focused on Orie. She frowned as the newspaper filled with creases and disappeared from view. It was no wonder the news was hard to read by the time she got a hold of Locked Rock, Iowa's weekly newspaper. Lately it had been full of creases, and now she knew exactly who was to blame. Not wanting to dwell on the crumbled newspaper for fear she might offend Orie out loud, Gracie focused on Melinda's serious face. “Your feet any better?” The curly, blue-white-haired woman shuffled over to her chair and eased into it. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her black skirt before she placed her red checkered napkin on her lap. Melinda gave a tug on the top end and stretched the napkin up over the lace ruffles on her white blouse as she talked. “No, Gracie, my feet are not better so that I can tell anyway. Though I don't believe they're as puffy as yesterday. Dr. Carter said it might take a few days. I'm suppose to stay off my feet to notice a difference.” Melinda frowned as she thought about the fuzzy blue house shoes she had been shuffling around in. “And I should wear sensible shoes which I don't have. Even my dressy shoes are too tight.” Molly smiled weakly, knowing how much Melinda valued her neatly dressed appearance. “If Dr. Carter's recommendations are going to help you soon, then you best do what he says until your feet aren't swollen anymore.” “Oh, I will, but if I see anyone coming besides all of you, I'm going to my room and hide until the company leaves. I don't want them to see me in these sloppy house shoes,” Melinda declared. Behind them, Madeline Patterford entered the room. “Oh brother, Melinda, just wear longer skirts if you have them so you can tuck your feet out of sight and be comfortable in those house shoes. Bad feet are no fun. Besides, you can't go for our exercise walk with your feet swollen and hurting.” Melinda looked very thoughtful. “Tucking my feet in under my skirt might work. As for walking, as much as I enjoy our walks, you and Gracie will have to go without me until my feet get better.” Orie slid his cup over to the edge of the table. “Agnes, when you have time bring me another round of coffee? My cup went dry.” “Sure thing, Mr. Orie. Right away.” Agnes picked up a couple of potholders from a stack on the corner of the work counter. She reached over the sizzling sausage cakes to the back of the stove and grabbed the large blue and white granite coffee pot by the handle. It was time to fill all the cups. Agnes scurried to the table. Her hand shook badly as she tipped the pot down over Gracie's cup so she put her left hand over her right one to ease the shaking. Gracie wondered if she should scoot her chair back from the table in case Agnes spilled. By the time Agnes moved on to Orie's cup, Gracie caught Molly's eye and nodded at Agnes's shaking hands. Molly, alerted that something was wrong, frowned as she watched Agnes move on around to fill her cup, then Madeline and Melinda's cups. “Agnes, dear, are you feeling all right this morning?” Molly tried to sound casual. Agnes shrugged. “Just rushing a little more than usual this morning I reckon. For some reason I feel like I'm behind.” “Take your time, Agnes. We aren't in any hurry,” Molly assured her. The cook beelined it back to the cook stove to dish up breakfast, mumbling huffily, “There ain't anything wrong with me, I should say.” Gracie's eyebrows raised at Molly as Agnes made three trips to set the filled, trembling plates in front of each of them. The younger woman shrugged her shoulders and dismissed Agnes's cranky disposition. She didn't want to pry too much into the woman's business. “Well, what have you ladies got planned for your day?” “Reckon this morning I'll get some fresh air on the porch like usual,” Gracie said. “Me, too,” agreed Melinda followed by Madeline nodding her agreement. Molly said, “ Miss Melinda, I'll have Orie bring a footstool out to the porch for you to put your feet on. I suggest you use it for a few days to keep your feet up like the doctor wanted and see if that helps the swelling. If not we better go to Jackson's Dress shop and find you a pair of shoes that feel right on your feet.” “All right,” Melinda agreed quietly. “This afternoon is the Bible Study Group's meeting at the church,” Gracie announced. “Are you going, Miss Molly?” Molly's hand went to her cheek. “Oh my, yes. Thank you so much for mentioning the meeting. I had completely forgotten today is Wednesday. Fine thing, the most important meeting for me not to forget about when I'm the chairwoman this year.” “Are you ready for the meeting, dear?” Melinda asked. “Yes, I do have my agenda ready. The discussion is when to have the cemetery clean up day before Decoration Day and we need to organize the picnic on the holiday. Guess I better be at this meeting since I want clean up day to be well-organized and the Decoration Day picnic as well. Last year, I felt the organizing has something left to be desired. The Bible verse I picked and Bible reading pertains to our working to spruce up the Locked Rock cemetery.” “Good. Since we're all going, we can walk to the church together after lunch,” Madeline offered. “Reckon we could,” Gracie agreed. Looking gloomy, Melinda gave a loud sigh. “I think with the way my feet feel I better stay home, Miss Molly.” “Oh, my, no need for that. You shouldn't be walking to the church so I'll have Malachi hitch up the horse to the buggy and bring it around. We can all ride to the church,” Molly offered. Gracie scooted her chair back. The legs screeched loudly on the black and white checker board floor. “For now, I'm headed to the front porch if you ladies want to join me. Mr. Orie, are you done with the newspaper?” “Sure, I am. Here you be, Miss Gracie.” Orie handed the crumpled newspaper across the table to her. As the three elderly women walked out of the kitchen, Gracie heard Molly's instructions to Agnes about what to fix the twins and Shana for breakfast. Next, Molly headed to the stairs with the intention of getting the Lang's adopted, teenage daughter, Shana up. She could help the five-year-old twins, Jenny Nora and Jessie Ned, get dressed to keep them from dawdling while Molly made the beds. If left on their own, the twins would wake up with nothing but playing on their minds. The women had settled in their rockers too late to see Marshal Bullock come out of his house across the street and head for his office downtown. His wife, Sara, was bent over the flower bed in front of the house, pulling weeds out of her marigolds. When she heard the mansion porch door bang shut she straightened up, turned around and waved at the women. With her hand shading her eyes, she looked up at the climbing sun and decided it was time to go to work at the switchboard in her house. Gracie watching the neighborhood and read the newspaper. From the back yard came some screaming. A boy's yell, “It's my ball. You can't play with it.” A girl's high pitched, angry scream, “Mama!” Melinda said, “What is going on in back?” Gracie looked over the gold rimmed reading glasses on her nose. “The twins are awake. Need I say more?” Melinda just shook her head. Later that morning, Agnes emerged from the mansion's front door on her way home to cook her husband an early lunch before she came back to serve the mansion residents an oven-baked beef roast, potato and carrot lunch. “See you later, ladies,” Agnes said hurriedly, not looking either direction as she crossed the porch to the steps. “Not so fast. Agnes. Stop right there, and tell us what is your problem this morning?” Gracie barked, folding the newspaper and laying it on her lap. Agnes froze to the spot and gripped her hands together to keep them from shaking. She said over her shoulder, “Nothing worth bothering your head about Gracie Evans.” “So there is something wrong.” Melinda used a hushed tone. “I - I said it wasn't anything to worry about, didn't I?” Agnes sputtered as she turned to face them with tears in her eyes. “Oh, brother! We're all your friends, after all. Please tell us what is wrong. Maybe we can help you,” Madeline said kindly. “There is nothing anyone can do as far as I can see,” Agnes began. “Unless one of you have a remedy for getting this town shut of Elmer Moffatt.” Gracie leaned forward in her rocker. “What has that old drunkard, Elmer Moffatt, done this time?” “More times than not in the wee hours of the morning the awful man walks home before daylight,” Agnes shared. “So? The man spends his whole night at the Silver Slipper Saloon downtown, drinking and gambling. He's done that way as long as I've known him,” Gracie said dismissively. “I know he has, but that always made him his wife's worry or whoever else he disturbed while at the saloon. Not mine,” Agnes spit at her. “How is Elmer suddenly your problem?” Madeline inquired. “Lately Elmer is headed home as I'm headed to work instead of going home earlier. He weaves from side to side so I can't figure out which way to go out around him. I think he does it on purpose. He cackles like he's being funny and belches loudly.” Agnes shuttered. “For sure a crude man he is. I don't know how his wife, Florence, stands him.” “Last time I sat by him in church, Elmer smelled like he hadn't had a bath in ages,” Melinda offered. “I had to breathe through my handkerchief during the whole sermon. It was that awful.” “I don't remember Elmer coming to church.” Gracie twisted in her chair to level a look at Melinda. “I think that was probably the last time I remember him at church on Sunday. I think the congregation gave him a hard time so he gave up coming,” Melinda told her. Agnes wrung her hands together. “I'm telling you, ladies, I don't know how much longer I'm going to come to work before daylight with that man on the streets. I'll just have to move your meals down an hour to try to avoid him.” “That might work,” Melinda agreed. “Mr. Moffatt wouldn't be expecting the change in your routine.” Gracie slapped the arm of her rocker. “Well, it won't work for me. I've always eaten my breakfast early. Don't figure on stopping now.” Agnes ran her shaky fingers through her flighty hair as she pleaded, “Then help me figure out a way to keep Elmer Moffatt away from me. Sometimes he gets a weird look in his eyes and winks at me. Why, it's like the old drunk is flirting with me, of all people.” “That is hard to believe,” Gracie said dryly. Melinda gave her a hard look and turned her focus back to Agnes. “Dear, I don't blame you for being so very upset. Can't you take a different path to work?” Madeline clapped. “Good idea, Melinda.” Agnes grunted. “I thought it would be except I tried that, and I swear Elmer waited to see which block I took to come here so he made sure to meet me.” Melinda put her hand to her chest. “Oh dear, this is awful.” Madeline sat up straight in her rocker. “I have an idea. Tell Mr. Orie about this. Ask him to come get you and bring you to the mansion in the buggy for a few days until Elmer Moffatt gets tired of playing his little games.” Agnes's eyes rolled from side to side as she gave the idea some thought. “That might work. Well, I better hurry home. If I'm much later, I won't have my husband's lunch on the table and back here by the noon meal.” The women watched Agnes hustled down the walk and through the yard gate. Melinda gave a sigh as she removed her slippered feet from the tapestry covered footstool. “What's the sigh for?” Gracie asked. “I have a problem, too,” Melinda lamented as she held her legs up and stared at her puffy feet in the fuzzy blue slippers. “I can't go to the Bible Study meeting in these awful house shoes. I'll just have to stay home.” “Surely we can think of something to help you out,” Madeline said. “Think, Gracie. What can we do?” “Why ask me? I don't have any fashion sense. I'd mostly likely wear the house shoes and be hanged with what the others think of it as long as my feet felt better,” Gracie declared. “No surprise there. We guessed that about your fashion sense a long time ago when all you ever wear is tan blouses and brown cotton skirts,” Madeline snipped. Her face suddenly brightened. “I know what to do. My feet are a little bigger than yours, Melinda. How about you borrow a pair of my shoes to wear until you get a pair of your own?” Melinda frowned. “I hate to put you out that way.” “It's not putting me out. I have plenty of shoes. When we go in to eat lunch, I'll go to my bedroom and get a pair for you to wear,” insisted Madeline. When Agnes talked to Molly and Orie at lunchtime about her dilemma, they were all for helping her. They didn't want their breakfast routine messed up any more than Gracie did. The next morning at dawn, Orie drove Agnes passed the Moffatt house. Agnes kept a watchful eye on the fading darkness around the buggy. She grabbed Orie's hand and pointed at the staggering man. Just now at the end of the block, Elmer weaved his way home. He stopped and leaned on Alvina Wisecup's picket fence while he watched his intended victim ride by him. First surprise twisted his drunken face, then he belched and laughed a sinister cackle as if the joke was on him. Once the buggy past him, Agnes couldn't resist a glance back. Elmer staggered on toward his yard gate, and it rankled Agnes even more that he was still cackling to himself. “Mr. Orie, that awful man acts like this is all a joke to him. Do you think bringing me to work is going to keep Elmer Moffatt away from me?” “I sure hope so. We'll give this a week and see what happens. If Elmer doesn't change his ways, I'll have a talk with him, and if that fails, I'll have Marshal Bullock talk to him. I doubt that Elmer would like to go to jail.” Agnes settled back on the buggy seat. “I should say. I feel better with you on my side.” I hope readers enjoy my latest cozy mystery. Here are the links to find the book and ebook.

2019-03-07T09:14:00.002-08:00

Besides reading books and writing books, quilt making has been my past time during this long and snow filled winter in Central Iowa. In keeping with my other quilts my comforters have a story put with them for the couple who receives my comforters. The tops were put together last winter and laid back to finish this winter so I was able to tie out three different tops. The first comforter was large blocks with butterflies and the other two were five inch blocks set in a color pattern to make them distinctive. The square and butterfly quilt

HISTORY OF Comforters In American Colonial times most women were busy spinning, weaving and making clothing. Meanwhile women of the wealthier classes prided themselves on their fine quilting of whole cloth quilts with fine needlework which required no piecing. Quilts made during the early 1800s were not constructed of pieced blocks but instead whole cloth quilts and medallion quilts. Pioneer quilts made in North America and through the 1900's had worn-out blankets or older quilts as the internal batting layer, quilted between new layers of fabric and thereby extending the usefulness of old material. A comforter's only difference from the quilt is padding. They were usually filled with feathers, wool, polyester or silk-based material. Comforters were easy to wash and hung on the clothesline to dry maybe once during spring cleaning. Also, large pieces of material cost money and anything that could be used for another use was never thrown away. With all the work a pioneer woman had to do during the day, she didn't have time to piece fancy quilts. Material came from the box of less faded pieces on ragged clothing. Perhaps a good size square in a comforter would have been the back of a man's shirt or a woman's dress skirt. Forget about trying to piece tiny butterflies on a comforter like that which was all hand sewn. To hold the top, middle and bottom together, hand spun yarn from their sheep flock was used to tie the comforter layers. I like the idea of putting a story with a quilt and my name and quilt date on a back lower corner. This is a long enduring piece of bedding that can be handed down through the ages. By the time the third or fourth generation gets a quilt like that they haven't a clue how the quilt or comforter came to be made or who made it. For me, Fay Risner, this was a quick top to sew on the machine. In 2018, I saw a quilt like it on Facebook made by a friend. Seeing her quilt gave me the idea the knit I had saved from my mother's supply of woven rug material would work in such a top. I picked out the earth tones and cut out foot squares. Once I laid a row of blocks on the bed across and length wise I measured from block to block to find out how wide the strips had to be to make the comforter at full size. My friend put stars in the joined corners of the strips, but appliquéing small stars wouldn't have been a fast project since I'd have to sew around every point slowly. So I used butterflies which is one of my favorite objects to use in quilts anyway. That was a way to use small cotton scarps of material to brighten up the comforter's earth tones, and I could appliqué the antennas with black thread as I sewed the body onto the wings. Simple, easy and fast. Knit stretches so quilting it by hand to the backing wasn't as easy as quilting on cotton layers. My stitches weren't all neat and the same size on the back which doesn't make this a ribbon winning quilt. This quilt is definitely a comforter – designed to keep you warm on cold winter nights. One that will be long lasting for many years to come. I consider this handmade comforter a labor of love. While you use this comforter think of me. Now here is the next two comforters which share the history of the comforter story.

Merry Christmas To One and All

2018-12-09T08:07:00.002-08:00

The Overly Friendly Holiday Mouse T'was a cold winter's night close to Christmas when we Risners nestled down in our recliners. Harold watching television, and me stitching on my Grandmother's Fan quilt spread in hills and valleys on my lap and cascading over my feet to the floor. Mid evening the quiet was broken when Harold spotted a mouse flash from the dining room into the living room. The furry speed demon ducked under the couch but not for long. For half an hour, Harold insisted on giving me a play by play of the mouse's marathon as he crisscrossed the room, looking for a suitable nest for the long winter night. On the mouse's next sprint, Harold announced the four legged racer dashed under the couch. After that nothing but silence which meant Harold didn't see the mouse anymore or was interested in television or he dozed off. I concentrated on my stitches. It was the dark movement on the quilt above my knee that made me glanced up. The MOUSE peeked over the bunched quilt at me. His beady, glittering, tiny eyes stared into my startled, wide eyes. My thought was now was when Harold should have given me a mouse alert. Remember me. I'm the one that didn't make a sound as the rat, AKA Sweet Potato Thief, propelled himself toward the live trap door, busted the door and catapulted to the basement floor. Mice have the opposite affect on me, especially one in my lap. I screamed at the top of my lungs. The mouse took my not too subtle hint and in the wink of an eye scampered over my feet and down the quilt. Now I had Harold's attention. His recliner came up with a clatter. “Are you having a heart attack?” I shot out of my recliner and frantically shook the quilt while I watched around my feet. “I don't know. I might be. Let me take my pulse, and I'll get back to you on that. The mouse was in my lap, walking all over my quilt with his dirty feet and staring at me.” “I didn't see him,” Harold said as if this was no big deal. “Of course not. You had to be awake to see him. Next time I will shoo him your direction so he can sit in your lap,” I offered. The rest of the evening as I kept a watchful eye, I made sure my quilt was piled high in my lap instead of dragging on the floor. As I quilted my problem solving skills began forming in my mind. Obviously, I didn't have enough sticky traps statically placed. I'd buy more. For a few minutes, I contemplated placing the traps all around my recliner for protection from lap mice. Maybe I could make a small sign with an arrow on it, pointing to Harold's recliner, signifying that way to the mouse's next race track. Nah, extra sticky traps were a bad idea! No way would that work. I'd be the one to get stuck in the sticky traps. Besides, I was hoping that mouse wasn't dumb enough to try scaling Mount Quilt again after the reception I gave him. So I did what I thought was the logical thing by surrounding the couch with sticky traps and hoped we didn't have company. UPDATE: I'm happy to announce in this house not a creature is stirring except the two large ones in their recliners wishing all of you Merry Christmas and a Happy, Healthy, Varmint Free 2019.