Travis W. Inman's Blog, page 8

THE MAN AND THE BIRDS

Asked and delivered, Alison.

Sorry this is not an original, but this is a classic. I dearly miss Paul Harvey, who went home to be with his Lord on February 28, 2009. His Christmas tradition was to recite the following story. I humbly submit his genius.

PAUL HARVEY'S CHRISTMAS STORY; "THE MAN AND THE BIRDS"
By PAUL HARVEY, ABC RADIO
Dec 24, 2004, 01:57

Unable to trace its proper parentage, I have designated this as my Christmas Story of the Man and the Birds. You know, THE Christmas Story, the God born a man in a manger and all that escapes some moderns, mostly, I think, because they seek complex answers to their questions and this one is so utterly simple. So for the cynics and the skeptics and the unconvinced I submit a modern parable.

Now the man to whom I'm going to introduce you was not a scrooge, he was a kind, decent, mostly good man. Generous to his family, upright in his dealings with other men. But he just didn't believe all that incarnation stuff which the churches proclaim at Christmas Time. It just didn't make sense and he was too honest to pretend otherwise. He just couldn't swallow the Jesus Story, about God coming to Earth as a man. "I'm truly sorry to distress you," he told his wife, "but I'm not going with you to church this Christmas Eve." He said he'd feel like a hypocrite. That he'd much rather just stay at home, but that he would wait up for them. And so he stayed and they went to the midnight service.

Shortly after the family drove away in the car, snow began to fall. He went to the window to watch the flurries getting heavier and heavier and then went back to his fireside chair and began to read his newspaper. Minutes later he was startled by a thudding sound. Then another, and then another. Sort of a thump or a thud. At first he thought someone must be throwing snowballs against his living room window. But when he went to the front door to investigate he found a flock of birds huddled miserably in the snow. They'd been caught in the storm and, in a desperate search for shelter, had tried to fly through his large landscape window.

Well, he couldn't let the poor creatures lie there and freeze, so he remembered the barn where his children stabled their pony. That would provide a warm shelter, if he could direct the birds to it. Quickly he put on a coat, galoshes, tramped through the deepening snow to the barn. He opened the doors wide and turned on a light, but the birds did not come in. He figured food would entice them in. So he hurried back to the house, fetched bread crumbs, sprinkled them on the snow, making a trail to the yellow-lighted wide open doorway of the stable. But to his dismay, the birds ignored the bread crumbs, and continued to flap around helplessly in the snow. He tried catching them. He tried shooing them into the barn by walking around them waving his arms. Instead, they scattered in every direction, except into the warm, lighted barn.

And then, he realized, that they were afraid of him. To them, he reasoned, I am a strange and terrifying creature. If only I could think of some way to let them know that they can trust me. That I am not trying to hurt them, but to help them. But how? Because any move he made tended to frighten them, confuse them. They just would not follow. They would not be led or shooed because they feared him. "If only I could be a bird," he thought to himself, "and mingle with them and speak their language. Then I could tell them not to be afraid. Then I could show them the way to safe, warm ...to the safe warm barn. But I would have to be one of them so they could see, and hear and understand."

At that moment the church bells began to ring. The sound reached his ears above the sounds of the wind. And he stood there listening to the bells - Adeste Fidelis - listening to the bells pealing the glad tidings of Christmas. And he sank to his knees in the snow.

A Christmas Baby Part II

Cord Bannister tried to force his eyes to pierce the veil of darkness that surrounded him and spy who, or what, had summoned him. He held himself as still as he possibly could, but his shivering body wouldn’t allow him the luxury of being motionless.

Had he heard a voice calling out to him, or had he imagined it? He had heard of men who wandered in the wilderness and followed mirages; perhaps he was hallucinating from the cold. For a long moment he held his tongue, trying to determine what was true and what was imagined. Finally, he quietly responded, “Whose there?”

After a long moment of silence, he exhaled slowly. There had been no ghost haunting him. It was the wind, or perhaps the cold, but there was no response to his question. Wanting to be satisfied that he was alone, he turned his face from the imagined spook and stepped forward again. His foot slipped on an unseen rock, and he fell forward, landing in a pile of broken branches, causing them to snap and scrape against his coat. At that moment, the voice spoke to him again, frail and desperate, “Come to me!”

Not able to dismiss the voice, he swallowed a gulp of air and said, “Who said that? I’m warning you, I’m armed!” His hand dropped to his gun, but his cold fingers couldn’t grasp the grips on his pistol.

“Please,” the voice responded. “Please come to me. I need help.”

“Who are you,” he demanded, but no response came to him. After a moment, he cautiously made his way around the tangle of brush and saw a white shape against the night sky. The shape was hovering over the ground, just at eye level, and was beckoning for him to come closer.

The fear he experienced seemed to warm him and he was able to get his pistol from its holster. The shape continued to hover above the ground and seemed to expand as he was watching it.

The dreadful moan came to him again, and this time he knew it was coming from the ghostly appearance in front of him. The moan overwhelmed what strength he had left and he dropped the gun into the snow, which he stared at stupidly.

“Come to me,” the ghost beckoned him.

With quivering knees, he slowly obeyed the spirit and pressed into the snow, closer to the floating ghost. When he was within five feet of the ghost, he could see that the shape was not a spirit at all, but the white canvass from a covered wagon. The blowing snow had practically covered the wagon, leaving the canvass flapping in the wind. Relieved beyond expression, he continued to move closer to the wagon and asked, “Who are you?”

A woman’s voice pierced the night with a shrill scream of agony, causing his fears to flood over him again. Holding his nerves as steady as he could make them, he lifted the canvass flaps and tried to look into the dark interior.

He couldn’t make out any shapes, but he could smell blood and sweat, and asked again, “Who are you? What’s wrong?”

He could make out some movement of a head and realized that a woman was lying in the wagon and was covered with blankets. “Come to me,” she repeated with a faltering voice. “I need your help.”

“What’s wrong?”

Through gasps of pain she replied, “I’m having a baby, and I’m in a bad way.”

“Oh.” He had no other response. In fact, the idea occurred to him to return to the frozen Texas wilderness for some measure of comfort, but the woman’s plea was stirring sympathy in him. “How can I help you?”

“Please, light the lamp so I can see what’s wrong.”

He fumbled in his pocket for a match, but his numb fingers wouldn’t work. Finally, he was able to force them to grasp a match and he struck it against the wooden boards of the wagon.

The flame was so bright that it offended his eyes at first, causing him to blink. And then he saw the pitiful woman and the fear in her eyes. He spotted the lamp and held the match to the wick. Soon, the entire wagon was bathed in light.

The woman held a bloody hand toward him, “Please come in and help me,” she said with a quivering voice. “This ain’t right what’s happening with the baby. It ain’t coming out right.”

“But ma’am,” he objected. “I don’t know anything about women, or babies, or anything of the sort.”

“You are my only hope.”

“Gosh, ma’am, I don’t even have a sister. I wouldn’t know what to do.” He glanced around. “Besides, your husband will be along shortly, I reckon, and I’ll pay hell for being caught with you.”

“Please,” she pleaded. “My baby is dying.”

He frowned and closed his eyes, and then resigned to the situation and climbed into the wagon. She pulled on her blanket and exposed her bare skin, which caused him to revolt.

“Ma’am, please, this ain’t my place, and you ain’t my wife.”

“What is your name,” she asked between gasps.

“Cord. Cord Bannister.”

“Mr. Bannister,” she began. “My name is Eve Barrett.” She closed her eyes in pain.

Not knowing what to do, he replied shyly, “Howdy do, Mrs. Barrett.”

“Three days ago, my husband left to chase after his hosses, which done run away from us. I haven’t seen him since, and I reckon he is lost to the storm, and the good Lord has taken him from me.” She grimaced in pain again. “I’ve been in labor for two days, and I’m about spent. I’m bone weary, and if I die, my baby will die also. Please help me.”

“What can I do?”

“You’ll need to cut the baby out. He’s breech, I tell you. The baby is breech.”

“Cut it out!” he exclaimed in horrer. “Tarnation, woman!”

“You have to do it, Mr. Bannister. We’ll both die if’n as how you don’t do it.”

He protested with his entire being. “There ain’t no way no how. I don’t know the first thing about cutting out a baby. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Her eyes were burning into him. “Just cut me here,” she was pointed to the bottom portion of the bulge on her extended belly. “Just do it quick like. If you’re quick like, we might both live.”

His hands were shaking and his voice was faltering. “I can’t do it. I don’t know how.” But his words were wasted. Her eyes rolled into her head and she either fainted or died.

Cussing like a sailor, he fumbled in the unfamiliar wagon and found a butcher knife in a small wooden box. He then found a crock jug of liquor and promptly uncorked it. Lifting it to his lips, he pulled hard from the jug, and then poured a small amount on Eve’s stomach. He then stretched the blade over her skin and closed his eyes. “Dog gone I wish I’d been shot robbin’ that bank.”

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Mary Ellen stepped from the warmth and comfort of her home and made her way along the path that led from her house to the Salt Fork of the Brazos River. The night was dark, and the snow had stopped falling, but the wind was still howling. She was fully clothed, and was wearing her buffalo skin coat.

Having thought the idea through completely, she decided it would be better for Bart if she didn’t appear to be a suicide. She wanted to make it look as though she simply got lost and then died of exposure, that way Millicent Scott wouldn’t be able to gossip about her death. Remarkably, she was at peace with her decision. It was a very logical conclusion for her that this was the only solution to her problems. Besides, she reasoned, death was not so bad. Bart would be upset for a few days, but he could find another wife pretty quickly.

Of course, a new family had moved into the old Jackson homestead. They had a daughter who was somewhat pretty and very sensible. She had noticed that Bart had smiled at her when she was introduced to him. Lovina Hardy. That was her name.

Mary Ellen thought about that name for a moment, and then said it out loud, “Lovina Barrett.” She frowned and then said, “Mrs. Lovina Barrett.” The words didn’t sound as nice as Mary Ellen Barrett, but that was a small concession for Bart’s happiness. She was younger and fit, and had good child bearing hips. She would do fine.

She pressed the tears out of her eyes. “Remember,” she said. “You’re doing this for Bart, not yourself.”

She paused a moment when she reached the edge of the cotton wood trees and listened for the sound of the posse returning, but she heard nothing. “Well,” she smiled to herself. “This is a good time to die.”

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The night had been a blur. One moment Cord Bannister was simply a fugitive from the law, the next he was a surgeon, trying to find enough thread to sew a woman’s belly back together. The baby had cried furiously at him for rudely interrupting his journey of birth, but had settled down when Cord clumsily wrapped a blanket around the baby, making it look like the burritos Senorita Fuentes made with beans and cheese.

After a few minutes, Eve stirred and opened her eyes. Soon, a smile washed across her face and for a moment her dry, tanned face looked pretty. She held the baby close and allowed it to nurse. Cord immediately tried to leave, but he was so busy sewing the stitches on the incision that he wasn’t allowed the luxury of modesty.

Over the course of the next hour, Eve instructed Cord on how to care for her son, and instructed him that the baby was to be named after his father, Dale, and after his emergency physician, Cord. So, on the evening of December 24, 1873, Dale Cord Conley was born in a covered wagon somewhere near the Salt Fork, and somewhere near Justice, Texas.

Despite his best efforts, Eve succumbed to her wounds early on Christmas morning, but she died holding her newborn son, which gave her peace. Cord buried Eve beside the wagon while the baby slept, and then spent a few minutes digging through the wagon for what few supplies could be had.

He found an old red coat that Dale Conley must have worn during the Civil War that was bright red, indicating that he was an artillery soldier. The coat was a miserable color for hiding in the snowy wilderness of Texas, but Cord decided that he was no longer hiding from the posse, and that he would find them and surrender as soon as possible.

He wrapped his warm buffalo coat around baby Dale and put on the red artillery coat for himself. The sky was clearing when he stepped out on his return trip to Justice, and the sun threatened to shine a modest warmth upon them for their journey.

After several hours of walking, he found an old cabin near the river and stepped inside to warm some milk for the baby. In the daylight, he was appalled at how dirty the baby was, having never been properly cared for in the wagon. He heated some water in an old pot and searched until he found a bucket of lime in the barn. He mixed the lime and water together, hoping it would make a type of soap, but when he placed his hands in the mixture, he felt his skin burning, and saw how the red sleeves of the old coat had bleached white where the lime touched it, so he abandoned the idea of bathing Baby Dale. Instead, he fed him by allowing him to suckle canned milk from an old glove he’d found in the wagon. Once the baby was fed, he wrapped him up like a burrito, and they started out again. If he kept up a good pace, he might make it to Justice by nightfall.

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Mary Ellen was frustrated. First, she was alive. Second, she couldn’t figure out how to properly die. She wanted to freeze to death, but while wearing her coat, she simply didn’t get cold enough. She wanted to discard the coat, but still wanted the death to look natural, so her body must be recovered properly clothed.

As she sat on the river bank and watched the sun climb into the afternoon sky, she thought about how hungry she was, and then she remembered that she hadn’t prepared anything for Bart to eat should he return today from the manhunt. She contemplated returning to the house and putting a stew together for him, but decided that he would be somewhat distraught over the tragic loss of his wife and might not want to eat supper.

What she needed to do was end her life quickly. If she fell into the river, she might be too cold and wet to properly recover. With a nod of her head, she determined that she was going to accidentally fall into the river, and the sooner the better.

She approached the water’s edge and watched for several minutes as the river gently rolled past her. She pursed her lips together in anticipation of the cold shock of the water and then frowned at herself. “Darn!” She said to herself. “I should have left a note at the house that said, ‘Please meet me by the river. I have something important to show you, signed, Millicent Scott.’” She nodded to herself. Yep, that would certainly fix her wagon, to be put in jail for murdering the sheriff’s wife.

But, she would have to return to the house and write the note, and then she would warm up. While she was there, she would go ahead and fix the stew, just in case. But, if she did that, the posse would return and she would lose her opportunity to die as a Christmas present. No, it would have to be now or never.

“I suppose,” she reasoned to herself. “That some fitting words should be spoken for this solemn occasion, seein' as how God ain't seen fit to send me a Santa with a baby.” She closed her eyes and said, “Father God, into your hands I release my spirit. Please accept my soul, even though I ain’t deservin’ of Your kindness. Please help my husband to discover that young girl livin’ at the Jackson homestead. She might not be the pertiest woman, but she does have good hips, and that there is worth a pound of salt.”

A tear formed in her eyes and she brushed it away carelessly. She lifted her foot to step into the river when she heard a man singing, Away in a Manger.

She smiled warmly and said, “Thank you, Father. I can already hear the angels singin’ as they welcome me to eternity.” The song was growing louder and in a desire to actually see the angels singing, she opened her eyes and what she saw caused her to gasp.

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“Oh my,” was all she could say due to the greatest shock she’d ever witnessed. For out of the trees lining the river, Santa Claus emerged and stumbling over a root, plunged head first into the river. For a moment, the world stopped moving, and Mary Ellen stared in complete shock of what she’d witnessed.

Suddenly, Santa’s head emerged from the river and he gasped loudly as he tried to breathe through the shockingly cold water. He found his footing and stood, discovering that the water was only knee deep. He was holding tightly to a small bundle, which immediately began to cry like an infant.

“Tarnation!” he bellowed as he splashed through the river and onto the river bank only a few feet from where Mary Ellen stood. He had not seen her standing there, and when he turned, their eyes met. “I’m mighty beholding to you if you’d spare this child.”

Mary Ellen’s eyes fell to the bundle in his arms and realized that he was holding a very mad baby boy in his arms. The man pressed the baby into her hands and then fell face first into the snowy river bank, his red coat staining the snow around him.

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One week later, the entire town of Justice gathered to pay their respects for Cord Bannister as he was laid to rest. Reverend Whitaker delivered a powerful sermon about the destructive nature of sin, and the great black eternity of facing God without the saving knowledge of Christ. Amidst several amens, he cleared his throat and said, “I know and appreciate that Cord was a sinful man, and that his ways were deep and dark. But in his last moments of life, he reformed his ways and saved a small child who would have died had it not been for Mr. Bannister’s gallant actions. Sadly, Cord Bannister died of pneumonia shortly after his act of heroism, thereby saving the town of Justice a court hearing, something for which we are all grateful. Normally, we would be condemning such a man as Cord Bannister, but today we are honoring him. I’m proud to point out that he selflessly devoted the remainder of his days to protecting an innocent life, a life that is now in the capable hands of Sheriff Barrett’s family. I know that God’s grace will guide them and that there will be long days of prosperity in their generosity of taking in a child and raising him as their own. I suspect that this child will be cared for as if he were born into their loving home.”

“Amen,” the crowd responded, and a procession was formed to escort Cord Bannister to the cemetery at the top of the hill. Mary Ellen walked along behind the pall-bearers, humming gently to her new son, and realized that second chances are the true meaning of Christmas.

A Christmas Baby Part I

After a rather long siesta, I'm interupting my slumber to offer you a holiday story. This is a story set in the very early days of a pioneer town in the ranch land of West Texas called Justice. Justice never officially existed, but it lives on in my stories and in my mind. Please take a moment to enjoy this Christmas special, and then take time to enjoy your families during this holy season.

I present to you the first part of a two part story, A Christmas Baby.

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Dale Conley, exhausted and hungry, returned to his wagon an hour after sundown, defeat apparent in his eyes. Victoria, his wife, swollen with child, raised herself to a sitting position and quietly observed his face when he peeked through the curtain separating her from the cold night air. He had bad news.

“I chased them blamed horses fer more than three miles before darkness forced me back.” He removed his sweaty hat and slapped it against his leg, forcing a cloud of dust to erupt around him. “I almost had them onct, when they were down by that sandy bottomed river down yonder, but they pulled away as I reached for the rope. How on Earth does four horses, who are tied together, mind you, run down through that brush without getting’ tangled up in sompthin? I beg you to tell me.”

Victoria sat quietly and listened to her husband as he spilled his frustrating news into the small wagon. She knew better than to interrupt him, and she knew he wasn’t asking questions for her to answer him back.

“Why, I oughta…” He growled. “Why, I oughta return to Justice and wring that drover’s neck what sold me them horses. They was probably trained to run off the first chance they got and return home.” He slapped his leg again, producing a second dust cloud. “I’m a gonna kill him. That’s what I’ll do.” He stood and stared at his wife a moment before bellowing, “Well, what? Don’t you have anything to say?”

Victoria curled her lips into a frown and shook her head slowly. “No, I ain’t got nuthin’ to say. You’re gonna do what you see fit, and that’s all.”

“Durn right.” He looked at the fire, which was now burned to coals. “Dad blamed woman! Git out here and fix mah supper. Cain’t you see that I’m all tuckered out from chasin’ them horses?”

Without a word, Victoria rolled onto her knees and crawled from the wagon onto the dusty prairie. She stood a moment and tried to arch her back, but the baby was too much for her small frame, and she placed a hand on her aching lower back. She sighed inwardly and reached for a black cast iron pot hanging from the sidewall of the wagon. “I got these beans ready; they just need some heatin’. Would you mind addin’ some wood to the fire? It’s hard for me to crawl under the wagon for the wood.”

Dale growled in protest, but reached for the closest limb and began to break it into smaller pieces. Once he had enough limbs broken, he tossed them onto the coals and sat on the ground near the fire. “Mercy, my dogs are barkin’. It’s been a long time since I walked that fer.” He paused in thought as he rubbed his feet through his boots. “In fact, it was the War Betwixt the States that I last walked that fur. And that did us no good. Then blamed Blue Bellies routed us right out of Virginia, but Hood’s Texas Brigade made ‘em earn it. Why, if we hadn’t of been forced into those Carolina hills, why, we’d of give ‘em what fer!” He pulled a pipe from his pocket and held a lit match to the bowl, puffing small mouths of smoke with each drawl. “I walked all o’er Virginia, from Fredericksburg, to Gettysburg, to the Wilderness, and down to Appomattox Court House.” He puffed a moment on his pipe. “O’ course, I had to get back home after the surrender. That’s a powerful long trip back to Texas.”

Before he could finish his well rehearsed speech, Victoria brought a plate of beans and a round, flat, cold biscuit to him. He accepted them and lifted his boot, which she received in the air and tugged on until it slipped from his bare foot. Once his boots were stacked neatly against the wagon wheels, she returned to the fire, poured a cup of scalding black coffee, grounds and all, into a small blue enameled cup and handed it to her husband. He sipped quietly on the coffee and gulped his beans, almost without breath. Once finished with his supper, he said, “Well, sir, I’m gonna hit tha hay. Get me up early, ‘cause I need ta track those blamed horses, even if I have ta walk all the way back to Justice.” He stopped a moment and examined the cloudy night. “It feels like snow ta me. If it snows, we might ne’er get them horses back. Well, sir, I’m off ta bed. Don’t ferget ta wake me early. Specially if’n it starts ta snow, ‘cuase I gotta get them horses back.” With that, he crawled into the wagon and buried beneath the blankets, leaving Victoria to tend the fire and secure the camp for the night.

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Mary Ellen Barrett spooned a dollop of thick corn meal mush into a bowl and set it gently in front of her husband, who eagerly dipped his spoon into the steaming cereal. “Would you care for another cup of coffee, Bart?”

He glanced at her and said, “What I want is for you to sit down with me and enjoy your breakfast.”

She exhaled loudly and sat next to him on the narrow bench. “How’s your breakfast?”

He smiled warmly. “It’s fine, just fine. You can make mush mighty tasty. I can’t hardly wait until that new snow clears enough for that shipment from A.W. Dunn to come in from Colorado.” He grinned as he added, “The Mother City of West Texas.”

“Mother City, indeed!” huffed Mary Ellen. “It’s more like Dodge City than anything else.”

“Just be glad all the rowdy folk spend their time in Colorado, not here in Justice.”

“I intend on Justice being a place to raise a family, if…” Her voice trailed off.

Bart frowned and quietly sipped his coffee. “If, what?” he asked, gently.

“If we could have a family to raise.” She was unhappy.

“We will have a family. It just ain’t happened yet.” He sipped more coffee. “Just give it some time.”

She picked up a cheese cloth and busied herself wiping her hands. “How much time does it require? We’ve been married for almost four years.”

“When God’s ready.”

“Well, when’s He gonna be ready?” Her voice started to crack, but she pressed her face into the towel and steadied her voice. “When’s He gonna be ready?”

Bart shrugged. “Hard to say.”

“Well, I’m ready. He needs to hurry up.”

Bart set his cup down hard. “Careful,” he scolded. “No need to blaspheme.”

“I didn’t blaspheme,” she shot back at him.

“Maybe not, but ever’ where you spit the grass dies.”

She didn’t respond for several minutes. Finally, she broke the silence. “You don’t know what it’s like to be the only woman without a child.”

“You ain’t the only woman without a child.”

“In the town of Justice I am!” she argued. “There are a dozen families here in town proper, and I’m the only one without a child. It just ain’t right.”

“Well, God’ll see to it, sooner or later.”

“I want Him to see to it sooner than later. It’s humiliatin’ to be the only barren woman around.”

“Would it make you happier if there were other barren women around?” Bart knew he shouldn’t have asked, but it was too late, she was already starting to cry.

She buried her face in the cheese cloth again and gathered her strength. “I just don’t know how to face that Millicent Scott. She’s just so uppity about it all.”

“She’s from the East. That’s how folks are from the East.”

“That’s no excuse. She ought not to be so haughty about our troubles. Why, just yesterday, she was gossipin’ with the prayer group about us…” tears welled in her eyes again. She sighed heavily and tried to straighten her dress. “I just want to have a baby. I’m a plain woman, and I’m not real smart, and I want to honor you by giving you a son.”

“I’m not…”

"I know," she cut him off. "If only God or Santa would give us a baby."

"I'm not…" He was interrupted by the sound of gunfire echoing through the air. “What the?” He dashed to the door and shoved it open. A man was running at him from across the snow covered street. “Sheriff! Come quick. They’re hittin’ tha bank!”

“What is it?” Mary Ellen pressed in behind him.

Bart grabbed his pistol and shoved it into his pants while pressing his head into his hat. “Someone is robbin’ the bank.”

“The bank?” she questioned. “We’ve only had it for two weeks, and it’s already being robbed?” As she spoke, more gunfire rang in the still morning air and a galloping of hoofs splattered snow across their front doorstep. Bart sprang from the doorway and fired at the three riders as they rode past. One of them hunched over the saddle horn, but stayed on his mount.

Mary Ellen lurched at the loud bark of the pistol and recoiled into the house. “Bart? What’s happenin’ out there?”

“Stay back, Mary Ellen,” he shouted to her. He took careful aim and fired again. “Blasted! They’re gettin’ away.” He returned through the open door and grabbed his buffalo skin coat and a holster. “I’m goin’ after ‘em. Fix me a poke and I’ll be off. Make it enough for three days.” He disappeared into the street.

An hour later, he had a small posse assembled at the livery stables, waiting for him to lead the charge across the frozen Texas prairie. He grabbed his saddle bags and his bed roll from Mary Ellen, who was waiting for him at the front door. “They already have a head start. I cabled Dick Ware, the Ranger in Colorado to meet us on the River. If we don’t catch them within three days, we will return home to regroup and try again.” With those words, he leapt upon Ribka, his horse, and galloped down the short street and into the mid-morning sun.

“Good luck, my love,” she whispered to him as he rounded the bend and disappeared from her sight. When she finished sweeping the dirt floor for the second time that morning, she gathered two wooden buckets, and made her way to the well near the future site of the town square. While drawing water, she glanced across the snow laden street and saw that Millicent Scott was watching her from her husband’s store front window. She stood below a sign that read, Wilfred Scott, Attorney at Law and Physician, and laughed daintily at Mary Ellen as she lifted the heavy bucket of water from the depths of the well. Not willing to relinquish the opportunity to assert her own social status, Millicent stepped from the wooden boardwalk onto the street and walked to the well lifting her long dress in her hands.

“Why, how do you do, Mrs. Barrett?” she asked pleasantly, her Georgia accent adding an air of dignity to her words.

“Good morning, Mrs. Scott. Are you well?” Mary Ellen replied with practiced discipline.

“I am well, indeed. I was observing that you were struggling with those buckets of water. Would you like for me to dispatch my eldest son to your aid, seeing that you have no one to help you?”

Mary Ellen refused to expose her anger to Millicent, but the attitude of her words nearly betrayed her true thoughts. “Mrs. Scott, that won’t be necessary. I’m capable on my own, thank you.” Her face was scarlet and she refused to make eye contact with her opponent.

“How remarkably independent of you, Mrs. Barrett. Most women in your place wouldn’t have the temerity to stand so proudly, knowing they are incomplete.”

She ignored the callused remarks and continued to lift the bucket of water from the well.

"Perhaps," Millicent persisted. "Santa might bring you a baby, seeing that you can't provide one for your husband, who must be worried that he won't have a son to pass on his name."

Mary Ellen pulled the second bucket of water from the well and it slipped from her hands, splashing Millicent across the front of her dress. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Scott. How clumsy of me. Maybe I could use some help after all.” Millicent turned with a dignified, harrumph, and made her way across the street to the safety of her husband’s office.

Mary Ellen, embarrassed beyond belief, carried the buckets of water to her house and collapsed into her rocking chair where she wept bitterly. Why? She pled her case to God. Why must that horrible woman torment me so? She cried until her sorrow abated enough to brood in her chair. Santa? If only it was possible. She pressed her eyes closed and tried to stop the tears. I simply hate that woman. Why must I suffer so? Why would You give her children when I can’t have any at all? Why would You openly bless that treacherous woman while I serve You in humility? Maybe You are punishing me for some of my past sins? But why does my husband have to suffer from my evil heart? If he hadn’t married me, he would have a family and he wouldn’t be laughed at. If he hadn’t gotten stuck with me, he’d be better off. Maybe I don’t deserve to live.

With those ill thoughts, she began to dwell on reflections she should have dismissed. Somehow, the poison of the words she couldn’t speak aloud began to erode at her wavering self esteem and she evaluated whether or not she had the right to live, if shame were her fortune for and evil heart and the future she must embrace.

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The three bank robbers barreled across the Texas grass land heading for the broken country that separated the high plains, commonly referred to as the Llano Estacado, and the rolling hills of West Texas. If they could make their way past the Double Mountains, then they could turn and weave their way into Mexico, some 200 miles to the south.

Cord Bannister pulled reign as the three companions crashed through the dense growth of mesquite trees that grew along the edge of the cap rock, mingled with the cedars that dotted the canyon walls which thrust above them. Only when they stopped did he realize his dire mistake—his horse was quivering, and steam poured from his sweat soaked hair. He’d pushed the horses so hard and fast that they would probably die from exposure to the plummeting frigid winter air. “We’d better get off and walk a spell.”

Aubrey, who had been hunched over his saddle horn, slid from his mount and landed with a dull thud in the icy snow. Cord swore at him, but when he didn’t move, kicked him with the toe of his boot. “Get up, you lazy bum.”

Aubrey didn’t respond, so Cord growled under his breath and rolled him over onto his back. He was dead. “Well I’ll be.” He looked up at Pat and grinned. “They got him. I wonder how long he’s been dead?”

Pat, whose face was stark white, replied, “Who knows? He slumped over like that as we rode out of town and I just thought he was hurt.”

“Well, he ain’t hurt no more.” He grabbed Aubrey by the coat collar. “Give me a hand and we’ll drag him underneath that overhang.” He glanced up at Pat, who was staring blankly at him. “Pat? You alright?”

Pat focused his eyes on Cord’s uncaring face and whispered, “No. They got me too.” With the confession he lost his resolve and he, too, collapsed from his steed and landed in a ball near Aubrey’s body.

Cord shook his head. “Well, when it rains it pours.” With no love lost between them, he grabbed Aubrey by the collar and drug him under the lee of a cliff in an unnamed canyon a few miles away from Justice and left him lying face up on the cold ground. Returning to Pat, he examined him for signs of life and found him breathing shallow and quick. He opened his coat and found the bloody wound that creased his abdomen. “Ah, Pat,” he complained. “You’ve been gut shot. That’s too bad, ‘cause you weren’t half bad at safe crackin’.” He grabbed Pat by the collar and began to drag him. “I’ll leave you here with Aubrey. Maybe you two can look out for each other in the life to come.” Depositing him next to the body, he turned to examine his back trail. Night was falling, and the clouds overhead promised more snow. “If I’m lucky, it’ll start snowing again and cover you fellows up, then they will think they are still chasing three men, not just one.” He turned to his horse and had a second thought. “What a minute. I seem to remember that Aubrey had a gold watch.” Returning to the body, he pilfered his pockets and removed a gold watch, a small pouch of tobacco, and eighteen cents. “You blamed fool. Didn’t you carry any matches? How am I supposed to smoke this tobacco without matches?” He leaned over Aubrey and began to pull on Pat’s coat pocket. When he touched Pat, his eyes opened and he examined Cord with confused eyes.

“What’s happening?”

“You’re dying.” Cord replied coldly. “I’m going through your pockets.”

Realization overcame Pat and he barked out, “burn Hell…” before he passed out again. Cord shook his head in disbelief and finished stealing from Pat’s pockets. “Confounded!” he lamented. “Don’t either of you keep matches?”

He returned to his horse and grabbed the reigns. He noticed that ice was forming on the horse’s coat where sweat had collected. “Mercy, the temperature is dropping fast. I’d better find some shelter that ain’t got dead men in it.” Riding his horse, and leading the others behind him, he continued along the cap rock and made his way to an eastern face on the cliff above him where the wind wasn’t molesting him. Knowing he had to build a fire in order to save his horses, he dismounted and began collecting wood. He built the fire in the corner of the overhang where some hackberry trees sheltered the rock face and kept the snow from gathering. Kneeling in the soft leaves, he brushed an area clean from debris and kindled a small flame, which he fed with leaves and twigs until enough of the fire existed to burn on its own. Leaving the fire for a moment, he made his way into the canyon and collected enough firewood for several hours of burning. Before he could return to the fire, a spark popped from the flames and ignited the soft leaves underneath the hackberry tree, causing smoke to billow.

The horses, simply tied to a tree branch, spooked at the sudden burst of smoke, whinnied loudly and bolted from the shelter of the cliff into the snowy Texas landscape. Cord, who was close enough to witness the incident, but too far away to prevent it, yelled in frustration at the galloping horses and then stared in dismay as his best hope of salvation evaporated in front of him. Suddenly, he was alone with the cold as his sole companion.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

For a long moment he simply stared at the horse tracks across the empty stretch of snow that lay before him. The pain in his half frozen feet finally forced him to accept that he had no hope of retrieving the horses until the storm passed. The nagging cold pressed against him and the frigid air burned his lungs as he breathed frustrated gasps of reality. Returning to his fire, he huddled against the numbing cold, desperately wishing he’d taken time to grab his blankets before gathering firewood. His blankets and the money that was still in his saddlebags; money that was uncounted. He had no idea how much money he no longer possessed.

The next morning found him glaring at an additional three inches of heavy, wet snow, the kind that caused a man to lift his feet completely above the snow before placing them carefully on the frozen ground, making walking an effort. He was no fool. He understood that without the horses he stood little chance of evading escape from the posse that was possibly within striking distance already.

Cursing himself a fool, he stepped into the barrier of snow and began to press into the wilderness that lay beyond him. Before an hour had passed, he knew he made a tragic mistake as he struggled against the deep snow. A layer of sweat had collected under his shirt, a layer that would freeze once he stopped moving. He had to find shelter soon after he stopped moving or he would die of exposure.

To make matters worse, the gentle, peaceful snowfall was growing heavier, erasing the footprints he left in the snow behind him. The posse would likely abandon the search once the snow removed all evidence of his passing, and all hope of rescue would be lost.

Around mid-day, the weather turned against him and a sharp, cold wind began to swirl around him, and the snow changed from fat, heavy flakes to a fine powder that swirled around him, diminishing his ability to see beyond a few yards at a time. By dusk, he lost his bearings and, without having a visual of the landscape around him, he imagined that he was walking in circles. Fear began to claw at him as he embraced that without a miracle he would freeze to death in the night and would remain alone in the prairie until someone stumbled across his dead body in the spring.

As the night grew darker, and the wind increased in strength, he began to hear ghosts calling out to him, whispering his name, beckoning him to join them. Fearing that his death was imminent, he started running across the snowy field in a drunken manner, fleeing his tormentors. His terror carried him along the edge of an abrupt slope and he lost his footing and half slid, half fell, across the crest of the short hill. Landing in a snow drift that was several feet deep, he began to gasp heavily. The wind wasn’t able to torment him while he was buried in the drift, so he stopped struggling and allowed himself to relax for a brief respite.

While he lay on his back in the snow, the ghostly cry began to wash across him again. Only this time the ghosts were closer than he remembered, and their horrible, terrifying screams were more pronounced than they were a moment before.

His mind flashed to his childhood, when his grandmother would read to him from A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickins. Even as a boy he feared that the ghosts who haunted Scrooge would come to him at night and demand that he give an account of his own life. This was a secret fear that plagued him throughout his life—a fear that almost consumed him. And now he lay dying in a snow drift and the reality of the spooks who haunted him was piercing his heart to the point of death. Finding no peace away from the howling wind, he once again pressed against the snow and forced himself to stand. He trudged through the drift and turned in stark terror when a bloody scream tore through the darkness around him.

“Shut up!” he tried to yell, but his lips were too cold to properly form the words. “Leave me be, spirits,” he pleaded. “Let me die in peace,” he whispered into the cold night air.

The ghosts began to call after him, almost sounding like wolves howling to the moon, with long, mournful cries that pealed great layers from his heart. His eyes were darting across the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of his tormentors, but his vision couldn’t press against the black air. “Oh, God!” He cried out. “Spare me this torment and take me quickly!”

Faintly, he heard the voices responding to him, “Harroughoouuuah.” The cry was shrill and terrifying, and closer than it had been a moment before.

“Oh, God!” he cried out again. “Please show me the light, and I will turn from my sinful ways.” He turned in a complete circle, trying to determine where the ghost lay waiting for him. “Please, God,” he pleaded. “Please don’t let me die in the darkness and allow the spirits to take my soul…”

But his plea was interrupted and he turned to face the voice in the darkness. “What do you want with me?”

The hair on his neck prickled when he heard the mournful reply, “Come to me.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mary Ellen spent most of the night sitting by the fire wishing her husband would come home. She never slept well when he was away from home, and his job as sheriff kept him away more than she ever thought possible.

She hated being alone more that she was willing to admit. For when she was alone, her thoughts about being barren gnawed at her, chewing a hole in her heart. For the past two nights she had sat by the fire, occasionally drifting into a frightful sleep. But, no sooner than she would drift off, the fire would die down and she would wake up cold.

“I’ll bet that Millicent Scott is sleeping well,” she said into the coals in her fireplace as she poked the ashes. “She’s content knowing that her family surrounds her.”

Without realizing she was talking to herself, she continued to lament her misery. Whenever she looked in the mirror at the Mercantile, she saw a plain, uninteresting woman staring back at her with accusing eyes. She never considered herself pretty, and she always felt that her husband had settled on her because there were few women folk to choose from in the West Texas ranch lands. Before they married, Bart went on a cattle drive to Kansas and brought home a bolt of calico for her as a gift. She assumed that he wanted her to sew a dress that would make her prettier. Shortly after she made the dress, Bart married her and took her to the future town site of Justice, where he had purchased a lot to build a home. He told her, “As we grow as a family, I will add more rooms to the house.” He bought more lumber, which he stored under an oil clothe in the barn for the day he would build an extra room.

After two years of trying to have a baby, they fell into hard times. Bart’s haberdashery was lost in a fire and they struggled to make ends meet. Finally, Bart sold the extra lumber to pay his bills, and Mary Ellen watched as her extra bed room evaporated in front of her eyes, along with the child she couldn’t give her husband.

She became more desperate to conceive, but every home remedy she knew failed her. She slept with a frog under her pillow, which was suggested to her by Old Lady Turner, who grew up in the Tennessee mountains. She tried waving smoke from a cedar branch over their bed, which was a custom of the local Kiowa tribe. She tried mixing algerita berries with cactus pulp and applying it as a poultice to her belly. She even tried swallowing whole bird eggs, which a carpet bagger from the East said worked for his wife.

She returned to her knitting and gazed wantonly at the enormous blanket that was once intended to be for her baby. She planned on giving the blanket to her precious new born son two Christmases ago, but that was not meant to happen. Now she had an extraordinarily large blanket but no child to wrap. Furthermore, she had no present to give her husband this year. They seldom had much to give each other, but they always managed to find something. This year she had nothing to give and it caused her to be further depressed.

To make matters worse, she received a letter in the post from her sister, who lived near Dallas, telling her that they were expecting their sixth child next spring. Six! Her sister made a point of saying that they had run out of names and were going to let their eldest child name the baby.

She herself had so many beautiful names picked out for their babies. She wanted to name their first son, Bartholomew Mathis, after his father. And then would come Margaret Grace, and then Luther Daniel, and then Polly Frances, and then John Bailey, after her own father. Then Dorcus Susannah , Prudence Elizabeth, and finally, Rufus Gerald. After that, she could claim that she ran out of names, but not until that time came.

But it was not meant to be. Her poor husband had been so excited about starting a family. He talked about having a large family and passing his business down to their sons as an inheritance. But after a few years, he stopped talking about it at all. When his store burnt, he quit trying to develop a future and simply stepped into the roll as a sheriff, a job that held little future for them.

What hurt her most was seeing Bart stop talking about his future sons. She wished so much that she could take back her wedding and allow him to marry a woman who wasn’t barren. She loved her husband dearly, so much so that it seemed logical to her that he would be better off if he could have a better wife. Perhaps her best course of action would be to simply stop living. Perhaps if she were gone, he could move on with his plans. Perhaps she would die of exposure before he returned from his manhunt. Perhaps she should do something while it was still cold enough to freeze to death.

The idea was absurd to her at first, but as the night grew longer, and as her weariness overwhelmed her, she began to see logic in her idea. Soon, she had convinced herself that there was no hope for her, and she really had no choice but to kill herself. It would be her present to her husband.

Omega Point 2012

After several long months of pounding the letters on my keyboard, I now have a rough draft that is editable and publishable. Here is a sneak peak of the story line:

Omega Point 2012

The ancient Maya have a secret. They have the ability to commune with the gods from a mysterious portal that they have the ability to control. When the story opens, the Maya are struggling internally. Someone is plotting to overthrow their governmental system and it appears that individual has the help of The Dark One, whom all believe to be a god.

...

At the annual Council of Chiefs, the Maya nobility and elders are gathered to open the portal and seek the will of the gods. They also intend on sacrificing a virgin in honor of a slain king. Something goes wrong and the portal malfunctions, trapping the chiefs and elders in a time warp. The portal closes and the Maya lose the ability to control it.

...

Because the portal malfunctions, a series of things occur that change the world: the Maya culture disappears, the subversive one takes control of the kingdoms, and the virgin is trapped between realities for more than a millennia.

...

We will discover the future of the world--it's only a matter of time

A Halloween Story

Thanks for stopping by. I'm taking a short break from my break to share with you a timely story about Halloween. My family has long held the practice of bringing Christ into Halloween, and the following story is a reflection of how this tradition came to be.

Hopefully, most of you have read When Love Calls, the novel I wrote a few years ago. The story I'm about to share is an excerpt from the sequel, Love's Determined Grace, which is still in production and soon to be on the market, I hope. This excerpt is from Chapter Fourteen, and is a rare glimpse into the lives of the Harvey Family a few years following the conclusion of When Love Calls. I pray that you will enjoy this short intrusion into the Harvey household, and I hope that the story will help focus your walk with Christ.

The Harveys spent several months in the hospital following the tragedy surrounding the birth of their son, Alston. (I don't want to give away any of the story line.) Because of the time they spent in the hospital, they missed Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. And now, I present to you:

Love's Determined Grace
Chapter Fourteen
Lilly deeply regretted the family didn’t get to participate in any of the fall and winter festivities that were common traditions. One snowy afternoon in January, Lilly was trying to locate a skirt that would fit her enlarged waistline, which was a trophy she collected while sitting in a hospital room daily and eating brownies nightly. As she pushed aside a long red cocktail dress, which had no hope of fitting her, she found a Halloween costume, which she’d purchased for Mariah several months before Alston was born. Mariah was continually enamored with Indian maidens, and loved to pretend that she was an Indian princess. When Lilly ran across a maiden playsuit on a closeout rack at the mall, she bought it and tucked it away until Halloween came along.

She held the costume at eye level and examined the genuine imitation leather and beads, determining that Mariah would outgrow the costume before the next Halloween. In a flash of inspiration, she decided that they would celebrate the holidays they’d missed while in Georgia. When she suggested the idea to Caton, he greeted the thought with enthusiasm. A plan was launched that afternoon which would allow the Harveys to celebrate lieu holidays throughout the month of January.

The biggest challenge with re-celebrating Halloween in January was finding a pumpkin that would be suitable to carve. The other was the fact of having no other families in the area that would participate with a trick-or-treat night. However, in reality, having other families participate was irrelevant, as they lived so remotely from other homes that they usually didn’t go door to door trick-or-treating, unless Mariah was at a party in the Village. That’s when Lilly had a second inspiration. She would incorporate the idea of Easter eggs into a trick-or-treat night. She had Jane and Susan secretly hide various chocolate treats throughout the outbuildings surrounding the big house.

The challenge of the pumpkin was left to Caton. Somehow, he managed to deliver a fairly decent pumpkin the night before the planned Halloween party. When Mariah saw her father carrying a pumpkin in his arms, she was ecstatic and hyper beyond control. Lilly was proud she ever had the idea.

The next afternoon, while Mariah was posing in her costume for photos in front of the fireplace, Caton casually asked Lilly, “So, are you going to cry like you did last year?”

She giggled at the memory and pushed him away. “Don’t you rub salt into my wounds, Mister.”

Jane, who was helping Mariah with the feather in her hair, couldn’t resist the urge to meddle into the private dispute. “So, what’s this all about?”

Lilly placed her hands on her hips and boldly declared. “Oh, Mr. Self Righteous had a melt down one Halloween when I wanted to take Mariah to the harvest festival dressed as a witch.” She glanced at Caton. “And it wasn’t last year, it was several years ago.”

Jane was enthusiastic. “There has to be a great story here. Who wants to tell it?”

Caton smirked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Lilly tisked him from afar. “Oh, please!” She looked a Jane. “I’ll tell you. In fact, it was our worst fight ever.”

Jane was all ears. “Great! Do tell!”

“Well, it happened this way. Caton has never been a big Halloween participant—which involves something about his church and his mother.”

Jane squinted as she tried to make sense of that information. “What does that mean?”

She rolled her eyes and flashed a smile at her husband. “I donno. It has something to do with Satan… or worshiping Satan on Halloween.”

“What?” Jane asked in complete surprise.

Caton grunted in disapproval and stood. “I’ll tell the story, if you don’t mind.” Lilly quietly sat back down, satisfied that she’d managed to poke the bear into getting involved. “Jane, I’ve never really celebrated Halloween as a child. I can remember one year where Mom let us dress up and go to the neighbor’s houses for trick-or-treat. Of course, we lived much closer to the Village in those days, so it wasn’t such a big deal. The only thing I remember about that night was making my Mom mad because we ate all our candy and ruined our supper. After that, we stopped participating in Halloween entirely.”

Jane was incredulous. “You’re kidding me! You stopped Halloween because you ate all your candy and got in trouble?”

He shook his head. “No, not at all. Shortly after that, several families in our church decided that Halloween was all about celebrating Satan, so we stopped interacting entirely.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He lifted his shoulders. “No, it’s true.”

“But Halloween isn’t about worshiping Satan.”

“I know that now. But it was a bitter struggle for me to evolve to the point where I could admit that.”

“Why?”

“Because I grew up believing that way, and once you have that notion in your head, it’s hard to change. We always assumed that Halloween was evil because it was so pagan. On the other hand, Lilly grew up participating in every Halloween event that came along, so it was a day filled with fun and games for her. After Lilly and I married, she pressed me for a reason why I was so opposed to celebrating Halloween. All I knew was that I grew up believing Halloween and everything attached to it were evil. I couldn’t articulate why, but I knew I believed it.”

Lilly jumped into the conversation. “It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I’d never heard of anyone being offended by Halloween, and I had no idea that he would react as he did.”

“Why? What did he do?”

“I brought home a small costume of a witch with a black cat perched on her shoulder. It was the cutest outfit I’d ever seen. There were little brooms printed on the pattern, with a little kitten holding onto the broom as if it would fall off. When I saw it, I simply had to buy it. When I showed it to Caton, he acted as if I’d thrown away all of his baseball cards.”

Caton grunted at her and she whispered in a loud voice, “Which I’ll never do again. But that’s a story for another day.”

“So, go on. How did he react?”

“It was strange. At first he thought I was joking, so he laughed. When I called to Mariah and had her try on the outfit, he became irrational. He was so angry that he didn’t know what to do. Now mind you, I’m not expecting him to be opposed to Halloween. So, when he yelled at me and made Mariah change clothes, I became very upset. He was accusing me of glorifying Satan. It all seemed so unfair.”

“A miscarriage of justice, if you ask me.”

Caton replied, “We’re not asking, Jane. Thank you.”

Lilly patted her husband on the knee. “To his credit, when I challenged him to defend his position, he couldn’t answer me at that moment. But, he did the research. He discovered something that made us all reconsider what we believed.”

“What was that?”

Caton spoke. “When I traced the roots of Halloween, I discovered it originated from an ancient Celtic feast called Samhain. The druids believed that on the eve of Samhain, the veil between the physical and the supernatural was pierced, allowing witches, demons, and hobgoblins to roam the earth and harass the living. In order to protect their lives, the people would disguise themselves as demons and ghouls, and they would carve faces into gourds, lighting candles inside of them to ward off evil spirits. They would also try to appease the spirit world by leaving offerings of food and other treats.

“The Christians of the day attempted to take the pagan elements of Samhain and convert it to a holy day. They proclaimed that God had triumphed over evil, and proclaimed that Jesus had supremacy over all the superstitions. So, all Hallows Eve, which later became Halloween, was an effort by the Church to overtake the beliefs in the ghouls with the power of the Gospel.”

“Yawn. What a boring story. What’s there to get all upset about?”

He shrugged. “Honestly, it was a well intended, but misguided reaction by contemporary Christians. I mean, Halloween is heavily dominated by paganistic elements, and a lot of Christians chose to run and hide from this one night, instead of engaging it and try to bring glory to God.” He scratched his nose. “Actually, I was one of those Christians that were dead set against even acknowledging Halloween in any way whatsoever. When others told me that Halloween was a satanic holy day and that anyone participating in any Halloween related events is inadvertently worshiping Satan. But, when I admitted that I didn’t know why I believed that Halloween was evil, I was able to research the truth. I was a bit surprised at what I’d found.”

“Me too,” Lilly volunteered. “While Caton was preaching against Halloween, I was being awakened to the idea that many of the things Christians do on that day don’t necessarily bring glory to God, either. I don’t believe that it glorifies God in any way to dress as a demon from Hell, or some supernatural enemy of God. But, on the other hand, I don’t see any harm in a child dressing up as something that is innocent and harmless. Last year, Mariah dressed up as a Cabbage Patch Doll. And let me tell you, she was cute!”

“I’ll bet.”

“Wait, let me show you the pictures.” She pulled a photo album from the bookshelf and laid it open in Jane’s hands. “See? There she is.”

“Oh, she was so cute! What is that? She’s wearing glasses!” Jane turned the page. “Well now, what’s this?”

Lilly leaned forward and blushed. “Oh, that? I decided to dress up as a fairy.”

Caton leaned forward. “I remember that outfit. It was my favorite.”

Jane nodded. “I’ll bet. Look at those curves.”

Lilly was flushed red from blushing. “Caton wouldn’t let me wear it out of the house.”

“I don’t blame him. Yikes, I need to try it on and see if I can…”

“I don’t think so,” Lilly interrupted. “You would only get in trouble if you wore that outfit.”

“Jane?” Caton offered. “Lilly can wear that outfit any day she wants extra attention from me. But I refuse to let another man see her dressed as a fairy. That’s reserved only for me. Right, Baby?”

Lilly winked at him. “Darn right!”

“Now, now, you two. Settle down. So, how did Caton dress up?”

Lilly frowned. “He wouldn’t. He said it was pure foolishness to parade around in a costume.”

“What a stick in the mud.”

“Tell me about it.” She smiled and blew a kiss at her husband.

Mariah, who had been patiently waiting for the grown ups to finish their boring conversation tugged at her mother’s blouse. “When can we carve the pumpkin?”

Lilly glanced at Caton. “When do you want to do it?”

He glanced at his watch. “I was thinking of driving to town to check on the crew working at the Apple Tree Hotel, but it’s getting pretty late.” He knelt down and pulled Mariah close to him. “How about we do it now? Would that be alright?”

“Yeah!” Mariah shouted. “I’m ready.”

“How about Miss Jane? Is she ready?”

Mariah excited turned on her heals. “Are you ready, Miss Jane?”

“Why not? What are we going to do?”

Lilly explained their tradition. “We carve out the pumpkin and then Caton reads 1 Corinthians 15. It’s really simple. Sit down and watch.”

Jane sat on the hearth in front of the fireplace and watched as Caton cut a hole into the top of the pumpkin. As soon as she could, Mariah began to pull the seeds and sinew from the pumpkin’s interior. While she worked, Caton asked her, “What does the pumpkin represent?”

“Our heart.”

“What does the gunky stuff on the inside of the pumpkin represent?”

“Sin.” She loved to play this game, and she answered with gusto as she squished orange goo and seeds between her fingers.

“What does Jesus do with our hearts?”

“He takes away the sin.”

“What are we doing with the pumpkin?”

“We’re cleaning out the pumpkin, like Jesus cleans out our hearts.”

When they scraped the final gunk out of the pumpkin, Lilly carved a cross in the pumpkin, where a face would normally go. While Lilly and Mariah busied themselves with the cross, Caton picked up his Bible and read the passage from 1 Corinthians 15, the great chapter on resurrection, and which boldly declared that Jesus had triumphed over death. When he came to verse 55, Mariah joined him in saying, “O Death, where is thy sting? O Hades, where is thy victory?”

Caton concluded his reading with, “The sting of death is sin, and strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, my beloved family, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord.”

“Amen,” Lilly said.

Caton then asked Mariah, “What is the purpose of the cross on our pumpkin?”

“It’s the cross that Jesus died on when He cleansed our hearts from sin.”

“Why did He die on the cross?”

“So that I wouldn’t have to.”

“To what?”

“Daddy!” she exclaimed. “To die!”

“Oh, that’s right.” Then he watched as Lilly placed a candle inside the pumpkin and touched a match to the wick. “What does the candle represent?”

“The light of the Lord in our hearts.”

“Okay, Mariah, go turn off the lights so we can see the pumpkin.”

“Yeah!” She jumped and ran to the light switch, sending the room into darkness, save the light from the fireplace and the gentle glow emanating from the pumpkin. As Mariah climbed into her mother’s lap, Lilly began to sing, “This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine…” Soon, all, including Jane, were singing the age-old children’s hymn.

Prioritizing

Hello. Thanks for stopping by.

I'm certain you've noticed that I've struggled to get new stories posted for your reading pleasure.

The truth is, I've been working on a very time sensitive writing project that has consumed all of my free time. My new work is titled (working title) Omega Point 2012, and is a fictional Sci-Fi story that revolves around the Maya and their prophecy that the world will end in 2012.

Your patience is appreciated. I'm very close to being finished. As of today, I have 175 typed pages, 90,000 words, 25 chapters, and about 20,000 words to go. I can have it finished by October if I really bear down. In order for me to do that, I've had to cut out all my blogging activities.

Thanks for understanding, and I'll return to action soon--I hope!

Bootless Beretta Haggard, US Army

As I continue to honor those who have served us, pay special attention to this particular story. It has more twists and turns than a Texas twister!

Bootless Beretta Haggard, US Army
Born on January 24, 1973, in the Smokey Mountains near the border of Georgia, Beretta Haggard grew up in the small village of Ducktown, Tennessee. His parents moved to Ducktown when he was a child where they started working as naturalists with the Cherokee National Forrest.

Beretta was an only child, but was surrounded by animals of every sort. “Have you ever seen the Beverly Hillbillies?” he asked through a heavy Southern accent. “We were just like that! We had farm animals that were bottle fed, and Poppa even adopted a mule deer he found along the highway one day. That deer’s momma had been hit by a car and had to be put down. So, we took it in and it became a family pet.”

It was Beretta’s love for animals that generally shaped the direction his life would take. Graduating as a valedictorian from high school, he had every intention of going straight to The University of Tennessee in order to study animal science and become a veterinarian. However, his plans were interrupted when Gulf War I broke out following Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait. He answered the call to serve his country when President George H. Bush mobilized the 82nd Airborne to remove the Iraqi invaders from Kuwaiti soil. He enlisted in the U.S. Army late in the fall of 1990, and signed up to be an airborne infantryman. Because he was only 17, he had to have his father grant him permission.

His time in the Army was anything but uneventful. He arrived at Fort Benning, Georgia, and became a proud member of the 1st Battalion, 38th infantry, a boot camp training unit, where his drill sergeant advised him how to be the best soldier he could be. Toward the end of his boot camp cycle, Beretta was the Platoon Guide for the First Platoon. Charley Company was engaged in the field training exercises called Escape and Evasion, which is a 36 hour war game designed to prepare infantrymen for combat. During the exercise, the point-man in his platoon tripped and fell into a ravine, badly gashing his leg. “I saw him go down. He landed funny when his pants leg snagged on a tree root, and the laces around his boots got tangled around the root. He was dangling off the creek bank and he hit his head. When I got to him, he was covered in blood. I thought he had a head wound, but he was bleeding from a gash on his leg. I could see that he had a deep puncture wound and that he was losing blood fast. It was an artery, ‘cause I could see the blood squirt out about five feet every time his heart beat.” Beretta gazed distantly out the window as he recalled the story to me. “I was lucky to have been an Eagle Scout. I had taken some basic first aid courses, and I remembered how to apply pressure on wounds.”

What Beretta did was nothing short of heroic. Without wasting time to cut Private Morgan from the tree, he went to work trying to stop the blood. “I had nothing to tie up the bandages, so I took the laces from my combat boots and used them to tie the bandages around his leg.” With his swift action, Beretta saved the life of Private Jimmy Morgan, who would have bled out in only minutes had he not have acted so swiftly. When the medics arrived on scene, they found Beretta wearing only one boot, but applying pressure like a seasoned paramedic. “That’s how I got the nickname, Bootless.” The name stuck with him for life.

After airborne training, Beretta became a proud member of the 82nd Airborne. He arrived at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, just as the 82nd became the vanguard in Operation Desert Shield. Although he missed the first deployment to Operation Desert Shield, he was there for the invasion on January, 16, 1991, one week short of his 18th birthday. In the short 100-hour ground war, the 82nd drove deep into Iraq and captured thousands of Iraqi soldiers and tons of equipment, weapons, and ammunition. During that campaign, as the 82nd bore down on the entrenched Iraqi Republican Guard, Bootless Beretta Haggard received another opportunity to become a hero. His squadron was working a machine gun nest built into the side of a low rise… “We were trying to flank that machine gunner. As we approached from the right, a child, barely ten years old, spooked and ran out of that machine gun nest. We were shocked to see that a kid was hiding in there with those soldiers. But, as we came within 20 yards of that position, an Iraqi soldier threw a grenade at us. I don’t know what was worse,” he tried to explain. “Knowing that a kid came out of that hole, or realizing that he was running right into that live grenade. I didn’t really think about it. I just ran across that gunfire and did a flying tackle on that boy. The grenade exploded just as we landed in the sand.” Beretta was able to save the boy’s life, but he did so at the expense of his right leg. “My foot was still in the air when the grenade exploded. My right foot was completely severed just below the knee. I truly was bootless now!” This particular incident is even further amplified by the fact that his squad was able to seize a large stash of weapons grade plutonium by taking down that machine gun nest. Had that plutonium not been seized, it very well could have been developed into a nuclear weapon.

Thus ended Beretta’s military career. He was shipped stateside and discharged as a fully disabled veteran. But, Beretta refused to stay down. He was eligible for vocational rehabilitation with the Department of Veteran’s Affairs, so he enrolled in the University of Tennessee, only this time on Uncle Sam’s ticket.

Once again graduating with honors, Beretta worked as a veterinarian for a farm and ranch clinic in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Specializing in the care of large animals, he began to work with the local horse breeders. One case of particular interest: he was the primary care veterinarian for Five Alarm Fire, the race horse that won the Triple Crown of Thoroughbred Racing, which includes the Kentucky Derby, Preakness Stakes, and the Belmont Stakes. Most avid fans of horse racing will remember that Five Alarm Fire was the thoroughbred that developed eye cancer and had the first successful eye transplant for horses. Not only that, but Beretta was able to use the cancer tissues from that case and eventually developed the cure for equestrian eye cancer, in a joint effort with the University of Kentucky. The treatment focused on creating protein resistant nuclei that target cancer cells and eventually strangle them, eliminating the cancer causing cells in a matter of weeks.

While the treatment is still in the testing phase, the Food and Drug Administration is adapting the treatment for use with humans. In each test case, the cancer cells have been removed, without a trace, from each of the human test subjects. It is entirely probable that cancer will be eradicated by the end of 2010. The creation of the Protein Resistant Nuclei prompted Beretta to become the first veterinarian to win the Nobel Peace Prize.

Why have you not heard about this? The answer is very simple. In 1973, when Beretta’s mother learned that she was pregnant, she decided that having a baby would ruin her career path, so she had an abortion at the age of 19. When she did so, she forever altered the course of human events. Because Beretta was never born, Private Morgan, a father of twins, and a devoted husband, died from exsanguination resulting from a leg wound when he was in boot camp in Georgia. His daughters grew up without a father and became wards of the state when Mrs. Morgan committed suicide following her husband’s death. She couldn’t bear to go on without him.

Because Beretta wasn’t there to save the Iraqi boy from the grenade, Hassani died. Hassani would have been the man who would later work as an intelligence operative with the CIA, and who would locate a hidden lab in Iran where scientists were developing weapons grade smallpox. Because Hassani died as a boy, over 1500 US soldiers were exposed to the smallpox during the second Gulf war and each died from that exposure.

Because Beretta wasn’t born, he was unable to develop the cure for cancer, which was derived from a unique treatment used to cure eye cancer in a race horse.

Why haven’t you heard about Bootless Beretta Haggard? Because abortion was made legal through a monumental court case called Roe v. Wade on January 22, 1973.

The Prayer of Cyrus Brown

The Prayer of Cyrus Brownby Sam Walter Foss
“The proper way for a man to pray,”
Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes,
“And the only proper attitude
Is down upon his knees.”

“No, I should say the way to pray,”
Said Reverend Doctor Wise,
“Is standing straight with outstretched arms
And rapt and upturned eyes.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” said Elder Slow,
“Such posture is too proud.
A man should pray with eyes fast-closed
And head contritely bowed.”

“It seems to me his hand should be
Austerely clasped in front
With both thumbs pointing toward the ground,”
Said Reverend Doctor Blunt.

“Well, I pray while resting every day,”
Said Mr. Henry Pack.
“So I should think you say your prayers
While lying on your back.”

“Last year I fell in Murphy’s well—
Headfirst,” said Cyrus Brown.
“With both my knees a’stickin’ up
And my head a’pointin’ down.”

“And I made a prayer right then and there,
The best prayer I ever said,
The prayingest prayer I ever prayed,
A’standing on my head.”