notes of jubilee

When the Week Bites You in the Toosh, Eat A Brownie

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 03:14:00 +0000

I am eating a brownie. A very large brownie. I'd take a picture, but since it is approximately the size of Nebraska, it is a teensy bit embarrassing. Okay, okay, it may look ~~exactly~~ something like this:

And, yet, if you knew the week I've had, you'd applaud me for the restraint I've shown in the size of my allotted brownie portion.

Technically, for me, at least, Sunday marks the beginning of a new week. So the horror that was last week should be over. Here's to hoping that this new week holds much less of the aggravation and tears than last week presented. The Ugly Cry is not meant to be a permanent expression. On anyone's face. Especially on mine.

I'm just sayin'

I may have mentioned in an earlier post about a tax refund we were getting. Well, Uncle Sam decided to reach down to the little people (in this case, the Jubilant household) in order to help himself spread the wealth to the even littler people (who refuse to work for a living) and yank that out from under us. Now, not only are we not getting a refund, but we owe. Because of a house we cannot sell and will probably get foreclosed upon anyway.

All because we moved to a state where we can actually afford to live and work in.

How much longer until January 20th 2013?

I know it is terribly selfish of me to say, but if the Lord would hurry up this rapture thing, I'd be much obliged.

In other news, The Calm One has been fortunate to rack up a bit of overtime this past week. His work rarely gives overtime pay. They ask you to work over and make sure that it is 4 hours or less so that they can pay you in comp time instead of actual money. Gotta love the loopholes.

This week, though, thanks to a compassionate supervisor, The Calm One was able to beat the system for a few hours of actual overtime pay. Which we will not see until April, but are happy for it just the same.

Whirling Dervish has been quite the challenge lately. I was going to call it a "phase," but it has lasted well over five months . . . I am at a loss as to what the appropriate wording might be. Unfortunately my vocabulary has been reduced to things like

"You WHAT?!"

"Get In Your Room!"

and

"When your daddy gets home . . . !"

Ah the joys . . . at least there is a bite or two of brownies left. Except, there has been an unusual amount of traffic to and from the kitchen in the last few moments . . .

Gotta GO!

Warring Spirits

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 17:34:00 +0000

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

Today's Wild Card author is:

April W Gardner

and the book:

Warring Spirits

Vinspire Publishing, LLC (November 30, 2011)

***Special thanks to April Gardner for sending me a review copy.***

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

April W Gardner has been a military brat, missionary's kid, and military spouse. After 21 years in various countries overseas, she happily resides in Georgia with her USAF husband and two sweet kiddos. In her free time, April enjoys reading, music, and DIY. In no particular order, she dreams of owning a horse, visiting all the national parks, and speaking Italian.

Librarian, reviewer, and avid reader, April adores anything books. She writes a regular column for the joint blog, Reflections in Hindsight, and is the founder and senior editor of the literary website, Clash of the Titles. She is the author of the historical romance series, Creek Country Saga and the children's adventure series, the Channel Islands Resistance.

Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

In 1816 Georgia, escaped slaves control the land just beyond the American border in Las Floridas. Lost somewhere between white and black worlds, Milly follows hope to the only place that can offer her refuge—the place Georgians are calling Negro Fort. The first, sweet taste of freedom convinces Milly that surrender is not an option. Death would be more welcome.

Major Phillip Bailey has orders to subdue the uprising and return the runaways to their masters. Forced to fight alongside Creek warriors—the same who etched the scars into his mind and flesh—Phillip primes himself for battle. But inside, a war already rages—return for the woman he thought lost to him or concede her to the enemy she loves; follow orders or follow his heart.

Product Details:

List Price: $10.99
Paperback: 286 pages
Publisher: Vinspire Publishing, LLC (November 30, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 098341985X
ISBN-13: 978-0983419853

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Warring Spirits

April Gardner

Vinspire Inspirations

A Division of Vinspire Publishing

Ladson, South Carolina

www.vrpublishing.com

Warring Spirits

Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights

reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval

system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a

review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web without

permission in writing from the publisher. For information,

please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, P.O. Box 1165, Ladson, SC 29456-1165.

All characters in this work are purely fictional and have no existence

outside the imagination of the author and have no relation

whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not

even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the

author, and all incidents are pure invention.

ISBN: 978-0-9834198-5-3

PUBLISHED BY VINSPIRE INSPIRATIONS, A DIVISION OF

VINSPIRE PUBLISHING, LLC

Chapter 1

Phillip knew it was a dream. He told himself again, though it did little good. The children’s shrieks grew louder. The flaming pickets roared with new life, as though fueled by his denial of their existence.

His legs churned, but he couldn’t free his mind of the constant nightmare. At least this time, he reasoned, he wasn’t awake. Small blessings.

And then, he saw her.

Adela.

Arms dangling at her sides and skirt undulating in the waves of heat, she stood across the compound. Her lips were motionless, but her voice echoed through his mind. “Phillip.”

He rushed toward the vision, and she reached for him. “Phillip, love, you must wake up.”

With a cry, he bolted upright.

The silhouette of a woman hovered over him. He stared at her, unblinking, afraid to move and frighten her away.

Sweat poured down his chest—sweat as real as the shadow seemed.

“That’s better,” she whispered. “You’ll be alright.”

He disagreed, but if he spoke, he might shatter her. He’d done it before.

Her loose hair swayed as she moved so near, he should feel her heat.

Taking in the comfort of her presence, he held his breath until his lungs burned with need. Refusing to be contained any longer, air exploded from his mouth. The sound ripped through the cabin, and in one blink, Adela vanished.

A moan built in Phillip’s throat, and he buried his head in his trembling palms. When his fingers collided with the jagged flesh on his face, he recalled again why Adela was no more to him than a mocking shadow, a figment of his deluded, half-crazed mind.

She had turned him down.

Familiar nausea haunted his gut. With a growl, he threw his damp pillow across the room. The sound of splintering glass sent him scrambling for the musket by his bed. He had the unsteady barrel aimed toward the source before he realized he’d been the cause of the commotion.

He dropped the weapon and backed away from it as though it were a copperhead. Blood pounded in his throat. He swallowed hard, terrified of his own mind.

It had been nearly two years. One more night of this and he would prove the gossip correct. He would go mad.

There had to be a better way.

“Help me.” His voice shivered, and for once, he was thankful to be alone. “Sweet Jesus, show me a better way.”

***

Sitting as poised as possible in the bouncing buckboard, Milly rearranged her skirt then tugged her bonnet over her ears. Another rut in the road sent her stomach flying.

“You look fine, Miss Milly.” Isum transferred the reins to one hand then wiped a palm against his dingy, knee-length trousers. A sideways glance topped his crooked smile. “As fine as any white lady in stole clothes.”

Milly squirmed inside her stuffy petticoats. “Borrowed clothes, and don’t call me that. Milly will do.”

“No, miss. It won’t. Best make a habit of it now, before we’re needin’ it.”

“I hate admitting when you’re right.”

Isum chuckled, but Milly pressed her lips and snatched a peek over her shoulder.

“We’ll hear somebody comin’ before we see ‘em.” Isum’s voice remained steady, his demeanor casual, and his shoulders relaxed. His death-grip on the reigns told another story.

Three years ago, he had been as short and wiry as a plucked cotton bush. Now, his muscular, mahogany frame left little room to spare on the wagon seat. According to plantation gossip, the field girls took to nervous giggles whenever he came around. The master had perked up as well and taken to accepting bids.

There was only one thing Master Landcastle needed more than strong field workers. Cash.

The moment whispers in the big house revealed that Isum had been sold and would leave by dawn, Milly took action. There was no way she would let them take the only true friend she had, so ignoring the consequences, she loaded the buggy with vegetables. And one lady’s day gown.

As was their weekly custom, she and Isum set off toward town. Only this time, instead of stopping at the market, they went straight through.

Six miles of red, Georgia clay stretched behind them. Seventeen more before they ran into Spanish Florida. Sixty beyond that, Negro Fort, and safety.

It had been done many times before. It could be done again. But in broad daylight?

Escape stories ran through Milly’s twenty-four years of memory. Had there been a single one where a slave had taken to the road while the sun was at its highest? She shook her head.

But I have an advantage…so long as I’m not recognized.

The July sun beat down on her with mocking strength. She pressed a palm across the back of her stinging neck.

Isum reached to the floorboard then passed her the borrowed parasol. “You’ll be burnin’ if you don’t.”

Since he first came to the plantation as a skinny tyke five years her younger, Isum had been her responsibility. She had cared for him as meticulously as she did her own flesh. About the time his gaze tilted downward in order to look her in the eye, they swapped roles, and his protectiveness had grown in proportion to his towering height.

She frowned, opened the frilly contraption, and settled it against her shoulder. Immediately, her neck cooled. It did nothing for the bile rising in her throat.

Gripping the side of the bench, she failed to tamp down the regret that swelled within her.

The timing was wrong. They would be caught, and he would be sold. She dare not consider her own fate.

They should turn back. It wasn’t too late.

She swiveled and squinted at the road behind them. What options did she have? Mr. Grayson’s features, twisting with his customary, terrifying rage, flashed before her mind’s eye. It’s too late. We can’t turn around.

They should be moving faster.

Isum pulled on the reins.

“Why are you slowing?” Milly sat forward, resisting the urge to yank the whip from its holder and spur the mare to a gallop.

He swiped the floppy hat from his head and mopped his brow with his sleeve. “We ain’t alone. Best we not seem in too much of a hurry.” He indicated with his hat then settled it back in place before taking up a deliberate, relaxed posture.

A horseman topped the next slope.

“Oh God, help us.”

“What you worried about, Miss Milly? You’s armed with the most beautiful smile this side of the Chattahoochee. Ain’t no gentleman gonna see past it to doubt your word.”

But what if he wasn’t a gentleman? Milly forced a wobbly smile then swept her hand under her bonnet, securing any strays.

Within minutes, Isum pulled the buggy to a halt as the gentleman came alongside them. The creaking brake nearly sent Milly scrambling for the trees lining the road. Instead, she angled the parasol to shield her face, presumably, from the sun.

“Good afternoon.” The man’s unfamiliar voice released her pent-up breath.

Easing back the shade, she peered through the lace edging. Long seconds passed before Isum shifted beside her and nudged her back.

Milly lowered the parasol and forced her gaze to the stranger’s eyes. She found them friendly and unsuspecting. “Good afternoon to you, sir.” Tucking her trembling hands into the folds of the closed parasol, she tried for that beautiful smile but feared she fell short of Isum’s expectations.

The man studied her, never once glancing at Isum.

A cold sweat broke out on her upper lip. Like venom, fear coursed through her, poisoning her confidence. Her gaze slipped to the dirt where it belonged.

“You’re a might far from civilization. It’s not exactly safe out here, even with a strapping young buck such as yours.”

Milly’s line of sight skittered to the man’s chest, then, weighted by years of training, fell back to the ground. “I plan to trade with Creek in the next village. I hear they’ll give anything for a little food.”

“So they will, poor devils.” The man laughed, making Milly’s skin crawl. He sidled his horse close to the buggy, and the smell of his cologne wafted down. “I appreciate a woman with a tender heart.”

“If you don’t mind, we best be moving along. I wouldn’t want to be caught out after dark.”

The man’s silence lured Milly’s hesitant gaze. A smile crept up his face. “There they are, those pretty brown eyes.” He tipped his hat, bowing slightly at the waist. “It would be my pleasure to escort you, miss.”

“No.” The discourteous refusal popped out of its own volition. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary. We’re accustomed to the road.”

Eyes darkening, the gentleman reined his horse around, pointing its nose toward the road behind them. “As you wish. Good day.”

Milly nodded but doubted he noticed. “Let’s move, Isum,” she whispered, anxious to leave the man’s dust behind.

A brisk mile later, Milly’s gloved hand still clutched the parasol in her lap. Tears burned her eyes at the thought of what might have happened. She blinked them away to find Isum grinning from ear to ear.

“We done it. We fooled that dandy.”

A strangled chuckle escaped her. “Yes. I supposed we did. He never suspected a thing.” Milly laughed, full and long. It unwound the knotted cord in her gut, and suddenly, the road opened before them and filled with possibilities.

Possibilities of a future. With Isum? He had offered as much, and she hadn’t exactly rejected him. Neither had she accepted. She found it difficult to move past the years of near-mothering to feel something more toward him. And yet, she couldn’t imagine another man on earth who would willingly wed her. And from all indications, he was more than willing.

Taking in a deep, cleansing breath, she turned and found his steady brown eyes on her. All joviality had fled. “Isum? What is it?”

“For half a minute, I thought I was gonna have to kill me a white man, the way he was lookin’ at you. Like you’s a Sunday pastry.”

It was always the same with men. Many women longed for beauty, but for Milly, it was the key to her shackles. Perhaps today would commence the end of her nightmares. Even if it did, it certainly wouldn’t erase what had already been done to her. She tucked her chin against the nagging shame.

Isum grunted and slapped the reins across the mare’s rump. “Ain’t nothin’ you can help.”

At the sound of thundering hooves, she felt the blood drain from her face. A glance behind them revealed four riders closing in fast.

She gripped Isum’s arm, words lodging in her throat.

Jaw clenched, he focused on the horse as he pulled them to a stop. Running was futile. With quivering resignation, she removed her gloves and folded them neatly, just as the mistress had taught her. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Isum, to see hope shattered across his face.

“It ain’t ova,” he mumbled, as Master Landcastle’s men surrounded them.

Milly coughed in the horses’ dust, and probed her mind for a reasonable excuse.

“I thought you were smarter than this, Milly.” Grayson, the overseer, laid one hand across his legs, loosely aiming a pistol in their direction. “A shame what’ll become of you now.” His false sympathy grated on her ears.

Two of the others dismounted and dragged Isum from his seat. He struggled against their attempt to shackle him and was rewarded with a swift kick to the gut.

Milly jumped from the buggy and scrambled to the side of Grayson’s horse. Her nails dug into the leather of his riding boot. “Please, it was my fault. I didn’t tell him I planned to run.”

He guffawed and kicked her hand away. “He doesn’t answer to you, girl. And he’ll pay for his own foolishness. Just as you will.” He jerked the pistol. “You’re riding with me.”

The thought of being pressed against the man for seven miles of rough roads sent Milly back a step. He lunged forward, grappling for the fabric at the front of her gown, but he missed and scratched her neck instead.

She barely registered the burn.

His nostrils flared. “Get over here.”

Milly shied away from his curses then risked a glance over her shoulder.

The other three struggled against a willful Isum. “Hold him down,” one bellowed.

“I’m tryin’!” Metal clinked and rattled as Isum kicked, sending the shackles skidding across the road.

One of the men swore and went after them.

Too late, Milly noticed Grayson’s hand as he swiped for her again. She swayed back and away, but he compensated, stretching farther away from his horse. Fisting her blouse, he yanked her toward himself.

With a cry, Milly locked her knees, sending her lower half sliding under the horse’s belly. She clung to Grayson’s arm, her weight tugging him down with her.

“Let me loose.” His breath puffed hot in her ear.

The horse skittered, its hooves striking the ground so close she felt the vibration through the dirt. It bolted away from them, sending Grayson tumbling from his perch.

Just in time, Milly flipped to the side, avoiding his descending bulk.

He landed beside her with a grunt, his pistol coming to rest inches from her hand.

“Merciful, Lord,” she whispered through dusty lips.

“Grab it!” Isum screamed. Two held him belly-down, while the third locked one cuff on his ankle. His eyes bore into her, begging her to take action.

Grayson’s gaze darted to the pistol the instant her fingers wrapped around the handle. Before he could pull himself to a sitting position, she had the barrel pointed at his head. “Make them stop.” Her voice trembled in time with her hands.

He snorted. “You wouldn’t kill me.”

No, she wouldn’t, but she could cripple him. In a way he’d never hurt another woman again. Without a word, she redirected her aim.

Steady. Keep it steady. She scooted back, further of his reach. “You heard me.”

Grayson glared at her, his jaw working circles.

From the corner of her eye, she noted the stillness that had settled on the opposite side of the road. Isum flailed once more and managed to dislodge himself from under his captors.

“Unshackle him,” Milly called, her eyes never leaving Grayson’s.

“I’ll find you, and you know it.” His voice was gritty with hate.

“Maybe. But not today.”

“Grayson, what do you want us to do?”

“Let him go.”

The manacles clinked to the ground.

Isum pushed up and trotted to her side, lip bleeding and jaw swollen, but looking better than such a struggle should afford. “I got this here.” He took the weapon from her. “Think you can get the buggy into them trees?”

She nodded. If required to get them out of there, she could sprout wings and fly.

The sun had barely moved by the time Isum had all four men bound, gagged, and lashed to the wagon, which Milly had taken as far into the undergrowth as she could.

While he secured the men’s bonds, Milly changed back into her comfortable, plain brown frock then scattered all the horses but two. Leading one to Isum, she smiled. On horseback, they could cut through the forest and make better time. At least until the ground grew too swampy.

He gave her a boost then adjusted the stirrups with a swiftness that spoke of a lifetime in the master’s stables. Giving her foot a pat, he winked. “Now who’s the mastah of himself?”

She fingered the bonnet’s ribbon tied beneath her chin and shook her head. “It’s a bit soon to be so confident. We have a long trail ahead of us.”

Mounted, Isum directed his horse alongside hers. With a quick yank, he loosened her bonnet’s ribbons. “You don’t need that no more. From here on, we’ll be exactly like the Almighty created us to be.”

One hand pressed to the top of her bonnet, Milly leaned out of his reach.

He clucked his tongue. “Your feet can run, but your heart, it gotta stop chasin’ after lies. It’s time you be who you’s meant to be.”

Who I’m meant to be? “And what exactly am I?”

“A child of the King. And my girl. Nothin’ else mattuh.”

Milly snorted, as he took her mare by the bridle. “We ain’t leavin’ ‘til you know it.”

“I know it.”

“Then take it off.”

She fingered the edge of her bonnet, while Grayson’s gaze gouged her back. She was more terrified to remove it than to turn the mare toward Florida. Heart running wild, she lifted the bonnet until a breeze tickled the hair on her forehead.

With a smile born of unending patience, Isum released her horse.

She set the cap in her lap and ran a hand over the braid worked in a circle around her head, its coarse, frizzy texture accusing her of her tainted heritage.

Her line of sight traveled to Grayson. From where he sat tied to the wagon wheel, the hatred emanating from his eyes scorched Milly’s weak resolve.

“I can’t.” With a jerk to the reins, she twisted the horse’s bit out of Isum’s reach. Gripping the saddle with her thighs, she settled the bonnet back in place. A swift kick of her heel set the mare on the backwoods trail to Spanish Florida.

Isum might be doomed every day to face their reality, but Milly had been blessed with the option to hide.

What slave in her right mind would choose otherwise?

***

For the third time in an hour, Major Phillip Bailey checked that his musket was properly primed and loaded. The Apalachicola River wound along on his right, and Creek warriors fanned out on the left. He was trapped. It had only been two years since many of these same warriors had surrendered to General Jackson at the conclusion of the Red Stick War.

The sight of them now, wild in their feathers, piercings, and tattoos, set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. For every one of the hundred and sixteen, blue-coated regulars on the march to Prospect Bluff, there were two—supposedly ally—Creek warriors who slogged across the boggy ground next to him.

The odds were far from comforting. Sweat pasted his silk neck-stock to his throat.

He scanned the surrounding pines for any sign of danger, whether from runaway slaves or friendly Creeks turned hostile. Downriver a ways and set back into the forest, the outline of a dwelling took shape. Like the many other slave-owned shacks they’d come across, the place appeared abandoned, but that didn’t mean the owners weren’t lurking in the shadows, waiting to ambush them.

Silent as ghosts, a group of warriors split off and swarmed the farmstead. Within minutes, they rejoined Phillip’s column empty-handed.

If what was said about the runaway’s leader proved true, Chief Garcon wouldn’t allow Phillip and his men to waltz into the area without a dandy of a fight. It was no secret the Americans intended to neutralize the fort on Prospect Bluff, the stronghold they called Negro Fort. Its name alone struck fear in the hearts of southern Georgians.

General Jackson had jumped at Spain’s approval of his crossing the Spanish-American border to defuse the tension and reclaim American property—the slaves. With its swamps, alligators, and prowling Seminoles, Las Floridas was wild country. Toss in three hundred armed and desperate runaways, and the place became hell on earth.

Phillip had been the first to volunteer to invade that hell. Alligators and runaways, he could handle. Creek warriors were a different matter altogether. Running into them on the southerly trail had been a surprise to both parties. It just so happened that, this time, Creek and American objectives ran parallel. Or so the Indians said…

Without warning, a regular stepped out from behind a tree blocking Phillip’s path. His rifle arm jerked. “In the name of all that’s holy, Corporal Higgins, get back in line.” Phillip spoke from between clenched teeth.

“Yes, sir. Just taking care of business, sir.”

Phillip noted a smirk on the nearest warrior. He scowled back.

The natives might see him and his men as a bunch of untrained idiots, but Phillip knew better. When not attacked on the sly and when properly prepared, there was no equal to Phillip’s army anywhere in the Americas. Hadn’t they proved it two years earlier by crippling the Creek Confederacy?

He passed Higgins’ scrawny frame as he busily fastened his broadfalls. “Didn’t mean to scare you, sir.” A poorly contained leer plucked at the man’s freckled cheeks.

Phillip opened his mouth to refute the charge and put the private in his place, but the gravelly voice of Sergeant Garrigus beat him to it. “Idiot. You can’t rattle the major. He’s got nerves of iron.”

“Is that right?”

“After what he’s seen? You bet.”

Garrigus’s praise sounded sincere enough, but Phillip knew the truth and prayed every day no one else would discover it. “Enough chatter back there. Keep your mouths shut and your eyes peeled.” He cast a sideways glance at longtime friend and surgeon, Captain Marcus Buck.

Marcus returned it with a faint smile that raised his flawless cheeks. Eyes, nose, mouth—each feature lined up perfectly. He might be a favorite with the ladies, if he took his nose out of medical books long enough to notice.

Involuntarily, Phillip’s jaw twitched, tugging the taut skin around his scar.

“Where’s Enoch?” Marcus’s gaze skimmed the area.

“Are you enjoying the quiet too?” Phillip subdued a grin and jerked his head toward the end of the loosely formed column. “I put him to work keeping Cook company.”

“Indians making him nervous?”

“Him and me both.” It wasn’t the only thing Phillip and his young slave had in common.

Moisture sucked into his boot as he stepped into another pocket of muck. Swamp water soaked his half-gaiters and spattered his dirty white breeches. He shook his foot, longing for a pair of clean, dry stockings. An arduous, two-day trek behind them, Camp Crawford might have been nothing more than tents and pickets, but right now, it seemed pretty near to heaven.

An Indian, head shaved on the sides, loped from the front of the line toward Phillip. His black hair, collected into a long tail, flipped through the air behind him. His face was a solemn, purposeful mask, and he clutched a tomahawk, as if ready for battle.

A drumbeat sounded from nearby. Or was that the blood pounding Phillip’s eardrum?

He strengthened his stance and gripped the musket barrel, ready at any instant to swing it into position. Sweat dripped into his eye, but he refused to blink and miss even one of this warrior’s breaths.

The Indians had caught him unawares before. Never again.

As the man neared, the path cleared before him. Ahead, a commotion scattered the column.

This was it. The moment Phillip had been anticipating. One swing of this warrior’s blade would be the signal for the rest to attack. By sundown, every last American scalp would dangle from a pole.

Unless Phillip did something to stop it.

The drum increased its tempo. In his mind, he was back at Fort Mims, the fires licking at his heels. The world narrowed to the warrior streaking toward him. Phillip had known better than to trust these savages, but Colonel Clinch hadn’t listened.

Phillip should give some sort of call to battle, but his brain went numb. Breath ragged, he raised his weapon to his shoulder and pointed the muzzle at the warrior’s chest. His stiff collar dug into the base of his head and his sweaty finger trembled against the cool trigger as he waited for the red man to raise his tomahawk.

Instead, ten paces away, he came to a halt, his brown eyes boring into Phillip. The warrior lowered his weapon and slipped it into a loop on his waistband. Arms limp, his lean body visibly relaxed as he stood before Phillip.

Except for the drum in his ear, silence surrounded them,

Why didn’t he attack? Indians never surrendered. Surely, it was a trick.

“Major?”

Phillip blinked, then allowed his gaze to flick to the side.

Marcus laid a hand on Phillip’s arm, and he flinched.

“Easy, now,” Marcus sounded as though he were calming a terrified child instead of addressing a superior officer. His voice rose barely above a whisper. “The men are watching. There’s no call for this. Not this time.”

A massive vulture soared above them, pulling Phillip’s focus back to the man before him. As much as Phillip searched, he found not a hint of malice in the warrior’s steady gaze.

He dropped the tip of his musket and sensed two dozen warriors lowering their bows in response.

As realization of his error took hold, heat crawled up Phillip’s neck, burning his scar. He focused on the black ostrich plume trembling in the air above Marcus’ bicorned hat as he turned to the warrior.

“It’s nothing personal, you see. Major Bailey fought at Mim’s place. Next time you’re careless enough to run up on him that way, I’ll let him have at you,” Marcus stated with a half-grin.

The Indian stared at Phillip, long and probing, until his eyes softened and mystified Phillip with their sudden depth.

“No, best stop me, Captain Buck. No sense creating more work for yourself.” Phillip’s attempt at humor fell flat. He cleared his throat and turned to the Indian. “You have a message for me?”

The warrior nodded. “A white man. We found there.” He gestured toward a sandbar in the middle of the river.

Phillip’s pulse slowed. He swallowed and willed his voice not to tremble. “One of ours?”

“A seaman. Wounded here.” He tapped his shoulder.

“One of Sailing Master Loomis’ men?” Marcus asked, his voice rising with disbelief.

Phillip resumed walking at a quick pace. “My thoughts exactly, although it was my understanding that no vessel from the naval convoy was to enter the river until we’d arrived.”

“They weren’t,” Marcus confirmed.

The warrior took up a limping step beside them. “There is more,” he said, halting Phillip in his tracks. “Two dead. This side of river.”

“Sailors, as well?” Phillip asked, hoping the dead were runaways.

“Perhaps. Their white bodies lie naked.”

Marcus hissed a curse, while Corporal Higgins’ face lit with anticipation. “We gonna see action?”

“Never mind that,” Phillip said. “Did you hear the Indian’s report?”

“Yes, sir. I heard.”

Phillip pointed two fingers downriver. “Take it to Colonel Clinch, on the double.” At the sound of Higgins’ scurrying footfalls, Phillip turned to Marcus. “Surgeon, you’re with me.”

A silent crowd gathered ahead—around the wounded sailor, Phillip surmised. “Clear out,” he called as he shouldered his way through the throng. “Give the man space to breathe.”

Marcus followed, bumping into Phillip’s back when he stopped short. His breath caught in his lungs. Scalped and brutally stabbed, two stripped men lay in a puddle of blood, their features frozen in twists of agony.

Soldiers shifted, allowing the doctor room to press his fingers to each neck. He stood, retrieved a kerchief from his pocket, and wiped his hands, staining the cloth red. “Give me someone I can help, for heaven’s sake.”

As Marcus stepped over the bodies, a tremble began deep inside Phillip. The quiver grew, moving into his stomach with a painful shudder. “We camp here. Private Davidson, inform Major Collins. Garrigus, set up a perimeter.” He tore his eyes from the grisly scene, stepped back, and then turned to Marcus. “Captain Buck, see to the wounded sailor, wherever he is. I’ll find you shortly. I’m going to look for tracks before we lose daylight.”

Night was falling fast and with it, his composure. The skirts of his coatee slapped the backs of his legs as he quick-stepped toward the shelter of the woods.

He pressed his lips tight and willed his stomach to cease its rebellion. Eyes riveted to a massive cypress twenty yards in, he forced certain images from his mind. Images of Fort Mims, of the dead and dying, of the corpses he had trampled in his fight for life.

Satisfied the cypress hid him, he rested his hands on his knees. His head swam, and the world tipped. Closing his eyes, he focused on keeping his breath even and his army rations where they belonged.

At last, he regained a measure of control—enough to be presentable to his men.

These memories should not hold such power over him. And yet, they did. With more ferocity each passing month.

Furious at himself, he ripped the bicorn from his head and hurled it into the shadows.

A soft cry followed, emanating from the darkness beyond.

Every muscle in Phillip’s body froze, as he strained to pierce the obscurity of dusk. He saw nothing, heard nothing—besides voices carrying from the riverbed. Had he imagined the sound? If he had, the fact wouldn’t astound him. Not anymore.

The cry had possessed a human quality. Would he go so far as to say feminine? His mind replayed the sound. Yes, he would. Had there been a female with the sailors? Phillip knew of no situation where that might be permitted.

Unwilling to believe he was hearing voices in his head, he set out in the direction his chapeau bra had landed. Musket going before him, he proceeded with carefully placed steps and peered into the ever-darkening forest beyond. This could be a trap, but it was worth the risk if it squelched the notion he was indeed mentally disordered.

Ears finely tuned, he crept toward his cap which lay before a scanty shrub.

The bush shook violently. Phillip jerked his musket up then back down as a woman sprang from concealment.

Her skirt snagged, abruptly halting her flight. As her hands battled to extricate the fabric, she lifted her bonneted head, exposing large, fearful eyes and a face which glowed pale in the waning daylight.

Unless the encroaching night was playing tricks on him, this woman was white. Not the midnight skin of a runaway or the smooth olive of a Spaniard, but white. Nearly as white as Phillip.

He settled the butt of his musket at his feet. “Ma’am? What are you doing out here?”

Her struggle grew more desperate until the sound of ripping preceded her tumble. Mostly hidden by palmettos, she scooted backward on the ground.

Still many yards distant, Phillip reached a hand to her, unable to imagine why she might be afraid of him. “I won’t hurt—”

A black man, large as a bear, darted from behind a thick pine to Phillip’s right. His sprint carried him across Phillip’s path and directly toward the woman.

“No! Get away.” Her words came out a garbled croak.

“Halt!” Phillip flipped the weapon back into position and aimed it at the slave’s chest.

Unfazed, he kept moving and would have intercepted the woman except for the stone she hurled. It thudded off his shoulder and stopped him dead in his tracks.

He swiveled to face Phillip, who had shortened the distance between them, his eye never leaving the musket’s sites. “One more step, and before the night's out, I’ll bury you where you stand.”

The man’s shoulders rose and fell with each rapid breath, but his stony face showed no fear. “Then you bettah do it. Otherwise, it’ll be you what's buried. See, I plan to make it to that fort, and losin’ my life to do it is no mattuh to me.”

Phillip’s brother, Dixon, had often said that a man who didn’t value his own life made the most dangerous of enemies. This one wouldn’t live long enough to become that. Phillip leveled his musket’s barrel at the big man’s heart.

In response, he took a single step forward.

“Don’t shoot!” The woman stumbled forward, placing herself between the runaway and the iron-tipped muzzle.

Reflexively, he skipped to the side to maintain his aim on the man. “Step away, ma’am. Don’t want you hurt.” What was she thinking?

She mirrored his movements, keeping herself between them. “No one needs to get hurt.”

“Move away from him, and let me handle this.”

She faced Phillip, her large brown eyes pleading. “Let him go. Please.”

“Woman, are you crazy?” The black man voiced Phillip’s own thoughts.

She was either insane or suffering from over-exposure.

Weapon still trained on the runaway, Phillip took a quick step forward and flailed at her, trying to grab her by the arm.

She skittered to the side, and he swiped nothing but air.

“Get out of the way,” he snapped. Not one of his men would have dared defy his command, yet this woman stood her ground.

She backed further away from him and dangerously close to the black man. “He didn’t run a hundred miles just to be shot down defenseless in the woods a day away from the only chance at freedom he’ll ever have.” Her voice shook, but her rigid back told Phillip she wouldn’t give in any time soon.

With his mind concocting a way to move the woman and save both their necks, Phillip was only half-listening. “What are you talking about?”

Although shadows fell across her face, Phillip didn’t miss the softening of her eyes or the quiver of her lips. Her passion for this slave’s freedom furrowed Phillip’s brow.

“If you were fighting for your life, wouldn’t you want a fair shot at it?” she asked.

Like a Red Stick’s arrow, her soft-spoken question pierced him, immobilizing his thoughts to anything beyond one image—his brother’s doom-stricken features and the blood-thirsty warriors that swarmed him.

“Yes,” he rasped.

Surprise widened her eyes and parted her lips—a lovely image to return to after his disturbing trip to the past.

For one instant, Phillip would have done anything she asked. He lowered his musket and stretched a hand toward her, but before he could even shift his stance, the slave lurched forward.

He encased the woman in his arms, lifting her and covering the lower half of her face with a massive hand. “Hush, now, or you’ll call ‘em all down on us.” Her startled cry preceded the man’s swift backward steps. He hurled a steely glare at Phillip. “You ain’t seen nothin’. Ain’t talked to nobody. You hear, soldier?” The ferocity in his voice chilled Phillip’s blood.

One quick twist of the man’s hand was all it would take to snap the woman’s neck. Berating himself, Phillip released the barrel of his weapon and let it drop to the ground with a soft thud then splayed his hands in front of him. “No need to hurt her. Let her go, and I’ll never breathe a word I saw you. You can go right—”

The slave flipped the woman’s legs into the air and caught them under his arm in the same instant that he took flight.

Three seconds into Phillip's pursuit, common sense won out, and he came to a quick stop. If he were going into the wilds after an unpredictable giant, he had better have a squad backing him.

Within moments, the only evidence left of the woman’s presence was the dread constricting Phillip’s chest that no one would believe she’d even been there.

Life has gotten away with me and I have not been able to finish this book. What I've read, I've enjoyed. I look forward to reading more. For other book reviews, please visit these sites:

WV Stitcher

Come Meet AusJenny

Labor Not In Vain

Counting it all joy,

Just Write {poetry}

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 06:20:00 +0000

Mendicant to Millionaire
Subject to Sovereign
Rags to Riches
Sparseness to Spoils

Crazier dreams have come true.

Worthless to Worshiped
Heartache to Heaven
Forgotten to Famous
Limited to Everlasting

Crazier dreams have come true.

Everyday to Extraordinary
Moments to Monuments
Ignorant to Informed
Fallen to Faithful

Crazier dreams have come true

Counting it all joy,

Mish-Mash Monday

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 18:52:00 +0000

Is it Monday, again? Already?

Where DID the weekend go? Where did last week go, for that matter? The Calm One had the week off and it flew by so quickly, that I could have sworn last week only had two days in it instead of seven. Huh . . .

Anyway, I am feeling a bit lighter today. No, I didn't lose any weight (I wish). But I made a decision that will affect me and my family for the good. I finally put an end to a situation that was incredibly toxic. It was choking the life out of me because of the stress. I didn't realize how toxic the situation was until I eradicated it for good. I really can't be more specific than that, other to say that a burden has been lifted.

The huge albatross has flown away. The anchor has been raised. The sails hoisted and the wind feels good on my face!

There will be consequences that I will have to deal with, for sure. And it's effects will be long lasting. People I love will not understand and could possibly be hurt since they won't or will refuse to understand. But sometimes you have to ask for grace from them to trust you because you are doing what is right for your family.

Soooo . . . "Grace, please!" I held on for so long because of fear of those repercussions, but no more. Take me or leave me. Love me or not . . .

I have letitgoooooooo!

****

Tomorrow the chickadees have their Valentine's Day parties. At least, the two younger ones. Do intermediate school kids have parties still? I have not heard one way or the other from the school and The Cruise Director has indicated no interest when I bring it up. Hope he's not disappointed come tomorrow.

So, we are in the midst of Valentine's Day card making. Actually, they are more like postcards. And "we" is really "me." But isn't that the way it goes sometimes? The cards we are making look very much like this

Both my daughter and my son approved this ~~message~~ Valentine and it seems suitable for boys and for girls. The idea is to have your child write something nice in the speech bubble about the person to whom they are giving the Valentine. We are going to add a teeny packet of sour pop rocks to the card also. Dollar Store approved. Mother approved. Child approved. It doesn't get any better than that.

***

Let's see . . . what is on Jubilee's cluttered kitchen table this afternoon?!

-- THE book manuscript. Just when you thought you were done editing and could give it a rest . . . dum-dum--DUM!

-- A cup of lukewarm masala chai. I've been typing so much, I've forgotten to drink it!

-- Two laptops, only one of which is being used presently.

-- A pair of newly purchased ultra fashionable (sah-weet!) sunglasses, thanks to a Lane Bryant gift certificate and a generous neighbor.

-- Two cell phones. Both of which probably need to be charged, but neither of which are connected to the charger.

Well, that's my Mish-Mash Monday. How about yours?

Counting it all cluttered joy,

My View Today

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 16:00:00 +0000

My View Today

I am working on a granny square baby blanket for a dear friend who now lives across the country. She is having a girl and I cannot wait to finish this and send it to her. I almost have enough squares to complete the blanket. Soon, soon, soon!

The long tan wooden object is my back scratcher. I have three children who never, ever are willing to give their mama a back scratch. Hence, the need for the handy tool. It follows me around the house. I cannot live without it. It is a sad thing. And a very good thing. I'm just sayin'.

You may also notice the gigantic candy bar under the headphones. I rarely indulge because of various health issues, but I saw a sale and couldn't resist this time.

And, of course, there is my ever present cup of ice water. I don't know if it's the water or the ice that I like best. Yes, I do: it's the ICE! Even in cold weather I have to have my ice. And when it melts just enough -- it gets to where it's perfect for crunching and annoying The Calm One.

I make no apologies for the quirkiness that is me. It's one of the fun things about being married to The Calm One. I put up with junk and so does he.

A marriage made in heaven.

Counting it all joy,

Freedom Friday

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 18:13:00 +0000

God wants us to be free from guilt. He doesn't want us to drudge up the past mistakes we have made and beat ourselves up over it. He already took our punishment. Punishing yourself is a waste of what He endured for our sins and shame.

Go ahead, let yourself off the hook. Take the step to free yourself from the guilt.

Let it Goooooooooo!

Counting it all joy,

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday - The Pet Shop Edition

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 17:29:00 +0000

I have three chickadees. Two of them are represented here, so I couldn't resist posting this picture. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, dear reader.

This post is linking up to 5 Minutes for Mom.
Counting it all joy,

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 02:30:00 +0000

So much of me goes into you.
I am privileged in what I get do . . .

This mothering.

I know, at this time, you need so much of me.
The bouts of crying, temper tantrums and defiance.
The snuggles and kisses.
Arms that stretch long and wide.

Being seven must be hard.
A trying time.
First grade woes are big ones in your world.

In our little Jubilant world.

I cover you with prayer.
Often.
Again and again.

And I am not ashamed to admit, I cover myself in prayer
so that I can nurture you better.
Protect you better.
Let you make mistakes
Be silly and funny and entertaining.
To learn.
To be free.

To let you grow.
In grace and in wisdom.

You see -- being a mommy is hard too.
A trying time.
A rewarding time.
A frustrating time.
A blessed time in our little Jubilant world.

And I wouldn't want to share it with any other seven year old but you.

Counting it all mothering joy,

Mish-Mash Monday

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 01:41:00 +0000

It's Mish Mash Monday Once Again!

Hello my dear readers! Hope you had a great weekend. The Calm One has been able to string together a few days off and we are enjoying the down time while the kids are at school. Plus we both have more energy to spend on the chickadees once they arrive at home.

Today in Mish Mash Monday news . . .

I am proud of: a really great crochet project.

It's not perfect, but I like it just the same. The pattern is from The Lovely Crow. She has great patterns and she offers video help so that if you are a visual learner, like I am, then you don't have to completely rely on a written pattern. Love it!

I am listening to: Whirling Dervish shooting his nerf gun. Erg.

I am needing to: clean my microwave. Ew.

Right now, on my cluttered kitchen table:

-- a bottle of Elmer's glue

-- a half consumed cup of decaf iced tea

-- a child sized headband (black with rhinestones)

-- a brown marker that is perched precariously on the edge of the table

That is refreshingly fewer items than last week!

And THAT, dear reader, is joyful.

Counting it all mish-mash joy,

Freedom Friday

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 16:00:00 +0000

Freedom Friday -- This is a quote that Max Lucado tweeted last week. Love this reminder.

Give your worries to God who isn't worried about anything and is big enough to handle whatever comes your way. He can handle it. His shoulders are broad.

And that makes me joyful.

Counting it all joy,

A Not-So-Taxing Realization

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 15:16:00 +0000

Last night, after finishing my Can "Finances" and "Peace" Actually Go Together? post, I sat down to do taxes. Because it seemed like the right thing to start on at 10:30 at night.

Also, I may be a glutton for punishment.

I couldn't finish because we are still waiting on a W-2 that seems to have mysteriously fallen into the cracks of our great country's snail mail ~~chasm~~ system. But I pushed on, just to get an idea of where we stood. I was pleasantly surprised on several accounts.

I hope I was not dreaming. Although, it is entirely possible since I started them so late in the evening and have known to nod off whenever any kind of mathy situations arise. It took a lot of convincing before my daughter believed that 2 + 2 + zzzzzzzz did not actually mean she was learning algebra.

I'm just sayin.

But, back to the taxes. We are getting back the least amount we have ever been refunded since we've been married. Which is good because that means we've kept more on the front end of the paychecks. But there is still that ecstatic feeling to know we are getting a refund.

Even though it was our money in the first place. And the IRS has had use of it for an entire year. And just now are getting it back to us -- without interest. Welcome to the good ol' big government way of doing things.

Dave suggests that the very first step to financial freedom is to create an emergency fund of at least $1000 -- $500 if you make less than $20,000 a year. Totally makes sense. It also seemed totally impossible for us as we sat through that very first class. If we hadn't been getting a refund this year, it would have taken us a very, very long time to create this fund.

But we know our God is bigger than our financial needs. Our God is bigger than our financial screw-ups. We serve an awesome God who has reminded us time and time again that there are more important things than overdrawn checking accounts (*sigh*) and homes that are ready to be foreclosed upon (*ouch*).

And that, dear reader, is a very very joyful realization.

What has God allowed YOU to realize this week?

Counting it all cent by cent joy,

Can "Finances" and "Peace" Actually Go Together?

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 03:12:00 +0000

Tonight was our second class in the Financial Peace series. I think Dave Ramsey put it best when he said that those two words don't usually go together.

It's the best oxymoron I can think of: Financial Peace

We all probably know that finances are a big issue with couples. I can say that while we have had our issues and disagreements, we've only had one fight about money. Mostly because I bit my tongue a lot (and I mean a lot) when we were first married. I probably did not bite my tongue enough for The Calm One's sense of comfort.

We are total opposites. It's what I love about us and what irritates the bejeebees out of me. Funny how that works. God sure has a sense of humor.

I am so excited to attend this series of classes and to know that The Calm One is 100% on board and committed. What a relief. Finances are hard enough when you are on the same page, but to not have both partners committed to the same goals . . . whoa.

I cannot even imagine.

So, having said all that, our finances are still in the toilet. It will take a while to get things straightened out. But these classes, pep talks from my dad, prayer and heartfelt discussions with The Calm One have lead to peace.

Actual, honest to goodness peace.

And for that, I am joyful.

Counting it all joy,

(I am in no way compensated for this post. I am just thrilled to be a part of an FPU class and get our finances back in order!)

Mish-Mash Monday

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 16:00:00 +0000

(Only today, it's on Tuesday because I can totally roll with the fact that I screwed up the scheduling of my posts. Yay me.)

Here is the Mish-Mash!

Today, I tried this water "recipe" which I found on Pinterest. My kids and husband HATE it. I love it. Yay! More for me! It's from shewearsmanyhats.com. It may look like ordinary lemon/lime water, but it's not. Nnnn-nnnn. She adds cucumber slices too. Um wow. Love it. I have gotten in ALL my water today -- and then some. It's unsweetened too -- bonus!

***

I totally scored this birthday: My mom sent me a gift card to Hobby Lobby. AND I used a 40% off coupon. {What did you think I meant by scored?} This is part of my new stash.

Hello Granny Ripple Blanket! Here I come! Well, after I finish a totally cute baby blanket for a dear friend. At least the picture in my head is totally cute. I'll keep you posted.

***

I get to go out twice for my birthday! My husband's aunt and uncle gave us a gift card for Christmas to our favorite steak joint. Can you tell there is a story behind this?

Well . . . we dropped the chickadees off at our aunt and uncle's house and made our way, via GPS on my cell phone. Evidently, I had a brain lapse when I decided to use the cell GPS because we have ended up in some odd places we never meant to to when using it. I swear the thing is out to get us. I know somewhere, someone is laughing hysterically at the gullible owners of a white Toyota Camry.

At any rate, we blindly put our trust in the maniacal GPS and ended up next to a wooded field near Houston. I won't tell you how many times I asked The Calm One to stop and ask for directions. I stopped counting after 15. He stopped counting long before that, but not before his eyebrows permanently lodged in his hairline.

A-hem.

About 30 miles and two attempts at different restaurant sites later, we gave up and went to a completely different steak joint altogether. But didn't have a gift certificate for.

All was not lost because we still were able to throw peanut shells on the floor, we got seated almost right away (on a Saturday night no less) and for the very first time I ordered one of these:

This peach margarita had my name written all over it. And it was good! I am not a drinker by any stretch of the imagination, but I've been known to order a strawberry daiquiri or a fuzzy navel on an occasion or two.

The waiter laughed at me (I sense a trend here). He evidently thought it was funny that I had no idea if I wanted salt or sugar to line the rim of the margarita glass. That's how much of a non-drinker I am. BTW, I got sugar. Not that it mattered because I used the straw he stuck in the drink.

He probably laughed at that too. Whatevs.

Since we didn't use the gift certificate on that night, we are going this Saturday. Again, without the kids. Maybe I'll order a real drink this time.

***

Since this is Mish Mash Monday on a Tuesday, I am going to throw caution to the wind and let you in on a little secret. I am a slob when it comes to house cleaning.

There. I said it.

*insert sigh of relief*

In fact, I don't have pictorial proof, but I can tell you that tonight we couldn't eat at the kitchen table because it currently holds:

*two laptops - I have no idea why they aren't on laps
*an unopened bottle of water
* two used cereal bowls with spoons
* two Valentine's Day gift bags that won't go to Whirling Dervish's and The Affectionate One's teachers for another week or so
* a lego - from the Star Wars collection
* a measuring cup (1/2 cup if you were wondering)
* an envelope containing two of each of WD's spelling words so we can play the matching game when he gets home from school tomorrow.
* and a pile of papers, nearly all of which are tax related in some way

Did I actually admit to the fact that I am housekeeping challenged? I did? Oh, okay. Are you sure? You are? Oh.

What kind of fruity drink can I order that has whiskey in it?

Counting it all Mish-Mash Monday joy,

I'm Gonna Take Two and Call You In the Morning. Assuming I Survive.

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 01:06:00 +0000

they may or may not look like these guys -- only a younger version

I am sitting in a room with five males playing Xbox. They are so loud and . . . and testosterone-y. They are taking turns singing "Staying Alive" yelling "Hoo-Ah!" and laughing at/slamming/scorning their opponents. Their feet smell, their pits are sweaty and they have annihilated the junk food stash.

They have been here a total of 11 minutes. It feels like 11 hours.

Is this normal? Do I need to be worried? Is there a 12 step program for mothers of boys? I may need to attend a meeting, if for no other reason than to get out of the house.

My eyelid is twitching. My hands won't stop shaking and I am praying for my medication to kick in.

Now that my oldest is nearly a tween and so are his school and church friends, I can see that there will be a lot more of Xbox and Nerf Wars than I originally thought in my immediate future. Oops. There goes the other eyelid . . . Good thing I love these guys.

But, I may need to buy earplugs and up the medication.

I'm just sayin'.

Counting it all youthful joy,

Free Family Fun -- Part Deux

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 16:00:00 +0000

Last time we started our list for free family fun. Today, I have come up with a few more ideas to add.

* Tell a Silly Story Ever since my kids realized that "Mommy is writing a book," they have been interested in writing a book of their own. I let them get on the laptop and click away on the keys. But they get stuck and often. Also like mommy. A-hem.

I have found that if we "write" a story together, then it becomes much easier for them to be creative. We pick out a couple of characters and a minimal storyline.

Two worms look for something to eat.

A old, old tree with a tire swing drops it's leaves one by one.

A child thinks a kangaroo is in his closet.

You get the idea. We try to stay away from scary scenarios, but if a scary scenario can turn into a silly one, then it turns into fun.

It sparks the imagination and yet gives a guide for where the story might go. Each family member can only contribute one sentence at a time. It keeps everyone involved and no one has the chance to get bored since their turn is coming up.

* Terrific Taffy Pulling Party It may sound terribly old fashioned, but one of the best Christmases I remember as a kid is when my dad let all six of us kids (including cousins) pull taffy. We still talk about it. It was a bit of a mess for my parents, but it was great fun for us. I haven't been adventurous enough to try this with my own kids yet, but I plan to. And I have all the ingredients in my pantry already. You probably do too. You can find the recipe for the sticky, stretchy stuff here. Don't forget to take pictures!

* Bubble Station Even my tween is into bubbles if they can come out of a plastic gun or a big hoop. Usually my two youngest like to run around and pop the bubbles even more than making their own, so it works out well for everyone. In the past, we have even put on music to see how many bubbles they can pop before the music ends.

The only downer is when the bubble run out.
Well, THIS is the solution to that little dilemma! And here is the recipe to go with it:

2 1/2 cups water
1/2 cup corn syrup
1/2 cup Dawn dishwashing liquid

Put water and corn syrup in a bowl and microwave for 3-4 minutes. Stir to combine. Gently mix in dishwashing liquid. Put in a nifty dispenser like this -- and viola!

Hope these ideas add to your free family fun list. What ideas have worked for you in the past? Please share in the comments!

Counting it all joy,

Free Family Fun -- Part One

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 16:00:00 +0000

We are broke. There, I said it. No mincing words. Nothing left to the imagination.

Done.

So what's a mama to do when her chickadees need to be entertained? Here are a few ideas that I have gleaned from the WWW and from my own imagination.

Hold onto your pony tails. It's gonna be a ~~bumpy~~ fun ride . . .

* Seeking Silly Stuff. Now, I could have gone all conventional and said a "Scavenger Hunt," but usually this brings to mind a lot of preparation, so it often geets nixed right away. Or is that just me? At any rate, I take the easy way out. We go to a park we haven't visited for awhile and I make up clues as we go along.

"Find me something bumpy." They scamper off and look for a bumpy object.

"Bring me something that crawls." My son once asked a mom if he could "borrow" her baby for the game. Her reaction and mine for that matter are for another post . . .

"Look for an object that has at least three colors on it."

It's funny some of the things they come up with and how they justify some of their finds (i.e. stranger's baby). My ten year old is too old for this game *sigh* But he joins in anyway and he is the funniest when he tries to justify the silliest of objects to satisfy the quest.

* Doodle Painting I originally saw this idea on Pinterest. It then lead me to Delaware County Moms. And I love it. Even my ten year old gets into this kind of thing. And all of the ingredients, you probably have at home already. Bonus -- and also the point of this post!

* German Spotlight. I have mentioned this a time or two, I know. Probably because it brings back such memories from my childhood. Wait 'til dusk. Break out the flashlights with fresh batteries (trust me, stopping in the middle of the game to fiddle with batteries = no fun). Establish your boundaries and "home base" for safety and play hide-n-seek. Yes, in the dark. You get hit by a light, you are out.

This is a great game to play in fall or spring when it gets dark sooner, but it's still not too cold to deter the fun.

* Family Photo ~~Phun~~ Fun Throw up (that may be a poor choice of words) an old sheet to use as a background or find a great tree for a twist on locale and let the kids take silly pictures. Yes, let THEM use the camera. Dress up in silly clothes or make mustaches out of construction paper and snap away. Don't forget, parents have to participate too! Have fun looking through the photos on the LCD screen or on the tv after the shoot is over.

Which naturally leads us to the next activity that can be done the same day or saved for another day . . .

* Attack of the Archivers Preserve those memories and silly pictures -- don't let them just sit on your SD card! Slide those printed out photo shoot pictures into a small photo brag book. But only after you dress them up a little. Mount them on colored paper, add a sticker or two and write a silly caption that makes you laugh. Slide in the little album or post on the fridge. For those of you who loathe scrap booking, STOP HYPERVENTILATING: THIS IS NOT SCRAP BOOKING. Just keep telling yourself that and it will go much easier. No need to get fancy. Just do it. For the kids.

* Dinner Danger Okay, okay this really isn't a dangerous activity, but your kids will enjoy the sense of danger or intrigue the name implies. Unwrap the labels from a few (preselected) cans before you get the kids involved. Gather around the table with said cans and a can opener. Each child gets to pick a can to open and "serve" for dinner. The family members who are not serving must wear blindfolds and let the server feed them a bite or two of whatever is in the can. Once they have sampled the mystery food, let them take off the blindfold to enjoy the reactions of the others.

You can choose to heat and eat or just dig right into the can. Depending on how adventurous you are. If you don't eat what's in the can, you don't get to serve. Simple as that. Or you can make up your own rules to fit your family.

Whatev's have fun with it!

Hope these few ideas sparks your imagination and fun in your family. I'll be back later with more fun free family activities. Enjoy!

Counting it all joy,

Freedom Friday

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 17:34:00 +0000

When someone mentions the word freedom, many things may come to the listener's mind.

Freedom with regard to our patriotism.

Freedom from debt.

Freedom from slavery.

Freedom from fear.

Today, I am taking the opportunity to address the freedom from fear. Mainly because I have issues with fear. My brother posted this quote on FaceBook this morning and I had to share it. Mostly because I need to remember it.

I hope it helps you too.

Counting it all joyful freedom,

Editing and Then More Editing and Then . . .

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 20:19:00 +0000

I have finished the editing that my novel needed so desperately. I wasn't aware, at first that it needed so much attention. I felt good about my writing. And then, I let it sit and marinate, so to speak.

Maybe I marinated.

At any rate, I did some blog hopping and found out a couple of ways that I could make my writing even stronger. Back to the ~~drawing board~~ computer screen. It felt like drudgery at first. I was disappointed that my ~~first~~, ~~second~~ third draft was so, so, sucky.

I hate that word. It's abominable. I do not let my children use any form of that word. But there really isn't another word that describes it better. Truly. It stank. See? Just not the same effect.

And then, as I trudged through, I began to get excited about my story again.

Because of the changes, the pace of the story picked up and the action felt more immediate, dynamic, more alive. I was more alive. And it felt gooooood!

I know there is a lot of work yet to be done. I need an editor who will work for ~~free~~ cheap. And I need an agent who will guide me through the next steps. Even if those next steps are more editing. I already know there will be more editing and writing involved. And I am up for it. Because I've fallen in love with my story all over again.

But it's there. Ready for eyes other than my own (and the eyes of the sweetest, most self-sacrificing aunt anyone could ever have -- Thank you, Aunt Mary!).

And now I have posted the "it's ready" post. And that fact makes it all so much more concrete than anything else I've done in the last seven months.

Eek! Maybe I should go through it one more time. Just in case . . .

Counting it all nervous and jittery joy,

Would Someone Make Up My Mind For Me Already?

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 00:33:00 +0000

I am so joyful (and relieved) to know that God has enough grace and mercy to cover my mistakes. Even when I don't know I've made them.

Being a mom is tough. This is not news, I do recognize that fact.

The Internet is a wonderful thing. I say that because it has been making me wonder quite a bit lately if I stack up. Comparison is not such a wonderful thing. And yet, it happens.

Often.

I visit Pinterest and find so many healthy recipes that I'd like to try some day. I have tried several, but there are so many out there, that it makes me shudder when Mac & Cheese sits on our dinner table yet again.

I glance over Face Book and see all the things my friends and their families are doing. Maybe we should take up letter boxing. I should be gearing up for another 5K. And oh, I forgot to send out that condolence card.

I read a blog or two and find out that soy is bad for you. Not that I was ever tempted to try tofu, but do you know soy is in just about everything? And under the guise of many, many different names? More labels to read and more multi syllabic chemicals to avoid.

Am I a bad mother, I wonder, since I refuse to pay 3Xs as much for Nutella than for regular old peanut butter? Especially since my chickadees eat an entire jar in half the time a jar of peanut butter would sit in the pantry? Should I be giving my children probiotics instead of vitamins? And now, juice is said to have arsenic in it. Did I unwittingly flirt with Autism when I had my children vaccinated?

I guess this is why we pray over our food and plead with The Almighty during bedtime prayers to protect our children. And here I thought it was a matter of showing reverence and gratitude. Even our prayers seem so much more complicated these days.

I am so glad that not only does His blood cover all our sins, but his grace and mercy covers my mistakes, my ignorance and my lack of energy. It's a big job covering all of that.

And I thought being a mom was hard.

Counting it all joy,

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday - The Coney Dog Edition

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 16:00:00 +0000

We stopped in at a coney dog shop after church last Sunday. I just realized that not one of us ordered coney dogs . . .

Huh . . .

Here's my girl, The Affectionate One. She just finished up mini corn dogs and was giving her "Please?!" face because she wanted ice cream. She got it. With a face like that, how could we refuse?

This is Whirling Dervish. He's the baby of the family. But don't call him that, or he'll karate chop you! He was pulling away from Mommy because he didn't want his picture taken. *sigh*

And this is The Cruise Director. He wasn't too thrilled about having his picture taken either, but didn't complain because he wanted to snag a refill and take it in the car. We have stuck to our "no eating and drinking in the new-to-us-car" rule for the most part. Funny how we have to clean out the car so much less now.

{Happy Wordless Wednesday to you! I am linking up to 5 Minutes for Mom.}

Counting it all coney dog joy,

Wallerin' But Tryin Not To -- But Failing Miserably

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 14:29:00 +0000

Oh, Geesh.

Here I am sitting, having a really good pity party with a nice helping of bitterness for hors d' oeuvres when I get hit with pearls of wisdom (from Twitter of all places) that basically tells me to knock it off.

Do all you can to maintain loving, peaceful, and healthy relationships. We cannot be right with God and wrong with man.

Let every detail in your lives - words, actions-be done in the name of the Master, Jesus, thanking God every step of the way. Col3.17.MSG

I am feeling stressed and overwhelmed. And alone. I want to lash out, stomp my feet and possibly even kick someone or something. I want to dig in my heels and refuse to do what I know must be done. And then, when I finally do it, I know what will happen: I will want to gloat and feel all self-righteous about it.

I hate this about myself.

I hate that I am not stronger.

I hate that I just cannot see what needs to be done and do it without a wound licking and tears first.

I hate that I cannot change people to do things my way or to be, what I think, are better people.

Log? What log? I can't seem to see very well at the moment. I must have something in my eye. Maybe I need contacts.

You may wonder what has set off this tirade. It was a simple thing really: I wanted help. I was refused that help and then I felt like that gave me permission to go ~~mental~~ on a rampage.

I still want to indulge in a nice, long, deep anger strike. My farmer friends would make some kind of reference here to wallerin' like a pig. The image would fit all too well, I am afraid.

I can feel that my blood pressure is still way too high. I keep telling myself to uncurl my toes and fingers. And though I know I need to pray, I am resisting. Because that means I will have to change, but it doesn't necessarily mean that the person and circumstances that has brought me to this point will change.

And it's not fair. This is where, if I were four, I'd be sticking out my tongue. Oh who am I kidding?! The bottom lip has fallen far, far from the place God put it. And it feels good.

And so not good.

Trying desperately to find the joy,

Top Ten {Tuesday} Styles I'd Never Be Caught Dead With

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 06:21:00 +0000

I was browsing the 'net and came across some unusual styles for 2012. These are the Top Ten {Tues} styles you will NOT catch me wearing or carrying. Ever.

This may be Dior, but you won't catch me with this on my arm. I'd be too afraid some kind of flying creature would want to nest in it. And then have babies.

This grey cowl looks more like a straight jacket for one's neck than an accessory to keep warm. Just looking at it makes me short of breath.
Breathe . . . breathe . . . breathe . . .

I love a good piano boot like the next gal -- no, no, I don't. I can't even get through that whole sentence without snickering. And what is up with the toes sticking out but no leg? Yikes.

Sleepover anyone?
This Louis Vuitton is probably too pricey for me anyway, but looks like those sleeping bags for kids that have the pillow attached.

Um, how can that even be one person's hair? Knowing that it must be from six or fourteen different people who had to give up their hair for this style to work is enough to gross me out. Not to mention that IT LOOKS ABSOLUTELY HORRENDOUS. You don't even notice the girl herself because she has too much hair going on.

This jacket couldn't look more like a shower curtain if it were hanging in my bathroom. And I'd never do that, BTW. And paired with blue socks really makes me shake my head.

What is the first thing you think of when you see this picture? My first thought was "Ack! Spider Woman!" And then, "What the heck is that thing on her chest?"

When I started having babies, I looked high and low for a diaper bag that didn't look like a diaper bag. Why would someone carry a purse that looks just like a diaper?

I am sure these are super fashionable in, you know, FASHIONABLE circles. It makes me ask, if I'm gonna pay big bucks for those shoes, I want the rest of the shoe to go with it. And fewer colors, please.

Oh, heck no. I don't know if this is supposed to be a deer, a cow or something in between. All I know is that I don't need something that makes anyone think "heifer" on the top of my head. Or anywhere near me, for that matter!

If you had to choose, which of these "fashions" would you adopt for 2012?

(I am linking this up to Oh Amanda's Top Ten Tuesday linky party.)

Counting it all strange and wacky joy,

Words That Have Become Words, But Shouldn't Have

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 19:21:00 +0000

The Pioneer Woman asked today,

Here's what I think: "Orientate" is not a word. Correct? Or is it one of those words that isn't a word but became a word?

She is sooooo-ohhhh-ooohhhh correct. Orientate is not a word, but a group of letters that someone put together because they thought it sounded like a word. And then, more people picked up on it. And then more and more, and MORE! Acccckkkkkkk!

If you are curious, here is my emphatic response to her Twitter outcry.

Commentate is another popular "word" that is often used. And out in public! Gulp! The correct word to use is comment. I realize that there is a large ~~incorrect~~ group of people who believe that commentators commentate, but sadly, they do not. They comment. And while we are on the subject: it is my belief that sports commentators comment way too much. Waaaaay too much. But, that's could just be ~~bitter~~ me.

Instantaneous and Instantaneously. You can find these in the dictionary. And they are not strictly incorrect. However, I seem to have fallen into a pet peeve mode, so I am going with it.

(I am actually in a very good mood. I have no idea why this has come up today of all days. But I am committed now.)

Instant and Instantly are correct. Instantaneous and Instantaneously are, I believe, made up words to try to convey a greater sense of urgency than the words Instant and Instantly. Ridiculous. Nothing can be faster than instant, right?! Right?!

And then we have those who like to use "more instantaneous." ugh. It's enough to put this English major in an early grave.

Next on the list is my biggest pet peeve. It is also not strictly an incorrect word, but two words that when used together, is incorrect. "But yet." Saying that phrase is like saying "but, but" Redundant. And completely annoying. It is correct to say "and yet." Let's all make Jubilee a promise, okay? Try really, really hard to not say this phrase EVER again, m'kay? Thankyouverymuch!

Well, there are more letters that people use together because they think they are words, but I'll stop. Besides, I am afraid I lost most of you at my "But yet" rampage. *sigh*

What words do people use that give you the heebie jeebies?

Counting it all wordy joy,

The Tale of Christmas Trees Past

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 18:58:00 +0000

Okay, okay . . . I know that Christmas was a long time ago . . . but I also know that my dear readers will not mind if I post a Christmas related post. It's still timely because some of us you are just now taking down ~~our~~ your Christmas trees.

{I once helped a friend take down her roommate's tree in March. Her roommate wrapped lights (six or seven times) around every other branch on each tree limb. I wish I were kidding. It took three hours to take the tree down.

I soon loathed the very mention of that roommate's name. Then I got to know her and The Calm One and I ended up being in her wedding. Funny how life works . . .}

At any rate. I am ~~swiping~~ taking a cue from Holly from June Cleaver Nirvana and posting the evolution of our usually artificial Christmas trees over the years. Enjoy!

The Tale of the Tree

Oh, how newlywed wife loved decorating the tree when she and The Calm One were first married. Coordinating bulbs and decorations, white lights. It was a joy. They even put up the tree TOGETHER.

After nearly four years of marriage, mommy began birthing chickadees. And they soon embarked on the toddler phase of decorating the tree. Notice how very few decorations are at the bottom of the tree?

Then came the "Mommy, I help?" phase. How can a mommy say "no" to such emphatic pleadings from her very own offspring? The tree suffered a bit of humiliation, however. Mommy smiled and smiled. Daddy smiled and smiled. Even though both of them dearly wanted to do some rearranging for aesthetic purposes.

Enter the kittens. The kittens wanted to help too. Their kind of help drove mommy and daddy nutty. It made the chickadees laugh and laugh. More humiliation for the poor, poor Christmas tree . . .

Soon the chickadees grew and argued over the colored bulbs and where they should go. From his place on the recliner, Daddy suggested throwing everything at the tree and see where they landed and be done with it. Mommy considered his option with interest and then agreed. The youngest insisted on hanging the star at "the top" of the tree. Even the tree breathed happily.

If mommy would have allowed, this is how the tree would have looked this past Christmas. Though there was great eagerness in the Jubilant land at first, no one was interested in finishing the tree.

Only mommy wonders how the tree will look next year. Everyone else is too busy playing Lego Star Wars III to care.

The End

Counting it all joy,

Better Late Than Christmassy Never

noreply@blogger.com (jubilee) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 17:00:00 +0000

I am just gettin around to catching up with some of my favorite craft blogs. Seems I've missed some great Christmas stuff. I will be finling these ideas away for next year. Which, at this moment means I will be pinning them to Pinterest so as to not lose the ideas in the rather clumsily categorized bookmark/favorites on my laptop's toolbar!

I adore this red burlap wreath. Little Birdie Secrets has so many neat ideas. I love many kinds of wreaths to be perfectly honest. And if it is red, it's a bonus. Don't know where I can find red burlap, but something tells me that if I wait until closer to Christmas 2012, then I will have more success.

And then there is this gem. This is also by Little Birdie Secrets. It's a simple thrift store frame, painted white. Add some sheet music and a berry wreath. You can pin your Christmas cards to it or leave it as it is. Lovely.

I am also planning on trying my hand at making these peppermint marshmallow straws from Mad in Crafts. My chickadees enjoy marshmallows more than just about anything else (Unless it's M&Ms). These would be quick and easy and you can do a bunch in a short amount of time.

All these great ideas make me wish for Christmas all over again. Not sure how that is even possible since this Christmas practically wore me out. And if you remember, I was all about skipping the stress of Christmas . Or at least as close as I could get to a stress-free Christmas!

Counting it all late Christmassy joy,