H.M. Flath's Blog, page 3

Dear Reader – Blogging 101

The Honey Wagon Ambush

The route that Marty took on his way to and from school included the whole length of Main Street. It was an interesting walk for him because of all the activity that surrounded the businesses along the street. There were several businesses that intrigued him; the pool hall (which was off limits for an eleven year old boy), the beer parlour (where only men twenty-one years or older were admitted), the drug store (that housed strange paraphernalia), the two hardware stores (where all the sports equipment was sold), Yee Eddy���s General Store (where you could buy hard five year old candies), the two garages (which displayed beautiful new 1951 cars and trucks), but none of these held his interest more than Tweedsmuir Hall.

Tweedsmuir Hall was the site of many functions for the community of nearly five hundred, the most important of which, according to Marty, was that of showing picture shows. Every Thursday evening, Saturday afternoon and Saturday evening, the weekly feature would be shown. The bill board which advertised the current show as well as up coming ones was placed in front of the hall and only a few feet away from the sidewalk. On Mondays, the day that changes were made, Marty would leave home a few minutes earlier than usual so that he could stop by and study the bill board. Eagerly anticipating an action show as a western Marty was often disappointed because he did not like musicals especially if Doris Day was featured.

It was on a mid September Monday morning when Marty stopped to view the billboard that he spotted the posters for Broken Arrow, the story of Cochise. Broken Arrow featured James Stewart as Tom Jeffords and Jeff Chandler as Cochise. With his heart thumping against his chest, he ran as fast as he could to the school playground where he would break the news to his good pal, Jimmy.

Two weeks later each with the admission rate of fifteen cents in hand, Marty and Jimmy lined up in front of Tweedsmuir Hall eagerly awaiting for the Saturday matinee doors to open. In oder to ensure a front row seat, Marty and Jimmy had stood in front of the doors for at least a half hour. They would not risk having to sit far back to the rear of the hall where their view would be totally blocked. They were not disappointed. Jeff Chandler was their hero: he was tall, erect, shiny black hair, chiseled face and body, proud and fearless.

Following the show and with imaginations running wild, Marty and Jimmy laid plans to emulate Cochise.

���I want to be like Cochise,��� exclaimed Jimmy.

���So do I,��� retorted Marty, ���but we have no horses, no bows, no arrows and besides there are no wagon trains to ambush.���

After some silence and with thoughts racing, Jimmy quietly whispered to Marty, ���We can make bows and arrows and there is one wagon with a team of horses in town, the drayman; we will ambush the drayman.���

So it was and after scouring the town as well as the town pasture, Marty and Jimmy were each able to fashion a bow and several arrows. Even to their surprise the bows made from partially dried willow, strung with leather shoe laces, were quite effective. They tested several kinds of arrows, some with shingle nails driven into the tips, others were blunt. All had chicken feathers wired securely at the tail ends of the arrows.

���We have our weapons, now we have to plan the ambush!��� Exclaimed Marty. ���Where will we ambush the drayman���s wagon? We can���t start shooting arrows at his horses while he is delivering parcels in town: he will see us,��� mused Marty.

���You���re right, but – aha aha, the drayman also hauls the honey wagon. We can ambush him at night as he is loading the wagon with honey from the honey pots,��� replied Jimmy.

���Wow! Good idea! We could hide behind a fence and when he stops by an outhouse to take out the pots of honey, we could shoot the horses in the ass,��� Marty replied enthusiastically.

���I have a better idea,��� suggested Jimmy. ���He uses the trail that goes through the town pasture to get to the open pit dump so we could hide in the bushes and when he comes by, we could shoot the horses in the ass.���

���Okay, let���s do it,��� agreed Marty. ���All we have to do is find out when he is making his next haul.���

Two weeks passed from the time that the plans were laid. During that lull time, the warriors had scouted the best location for the ambush. Several rehearsals in the proceedings had occurred. Distances were calculated. The ambush was simulated. Reasons for escaping their houses after dark were deliberated. Just like Cochise. Nothing was overlooked.

Marty had just finished his supper when Jimmy knocked on Marty���s door and whispered to Marty that he had just seen the drayman loading the wagon.

���Mom, I am going out for a while, okay?��� Asked Marty.

���Where are you going? It is getting dark outside,��� said his mother.

���A bunch of kids are playing Kick the Can and they want me to play,��� begged Marty.

���Okay, you can go but be back before the nine o���clock curfew bell rings.���

���Sure mom,��� came the reply from Marty.

Quickly the warriors fetched their weapons from their secret hiding place, checked the arrows and then headed out to their rendevous with the honey wagon. The two warriors scurried swiftly and silently down the alley, crossed the highway, then entered the trail that lead to the dump. They followed the trail across the railroad tracks and into the town pasture. The barbed wire gate that prevented the town resident���s milk cows from escaping the pasture, was lying open when they arrived.

���Mr. Gulak has beaten us here,��� exclaimed Marty. ���We will have to run and set up our ambush quickly because it won���t be long before he returns with the empty wagon.���

The fenced open pit where the honey was dumped was located at the farthest corner of the pasture. A small open clearing lay between the dump and the groves of aspen mixed with willow bushes. The warriors knew exactly where to position themselves so that they would not be seen but were close enough to the trail to score a good shot. They had practiced the drill several times. As the warriors crouched silently in wait, they heard the drayman talk to his horses as he backed the full wagon into position and soon after the sound of rushing, gushing honey could be heard. The smell of honey wafted over them, telling the warriors that the action would start very soon.

���It won���t be long now,��� whispered Jimmy. ���Get ready.���

A few more minutes passed. The dark silhouette of the team of horses with Mr. Gulak sitting on top of the wagon came into view. Each warrior stood up, placed the bow string into the notch at the back of the arrow, pulled back the arrow as far as an eleven year old arms could and waited with hearts pounding and sweat running down their cheeks. As the victim approached, the unsuspecting drayman could be heard humming a tune. That, and the merry jingling sounds made by the unused trace links, were all that interrupted the quiet of the darkness. Silently and simultaneously, the arrows were unleashed striking their mark. Reacting to the impact of the arrows, both horses suddenly and unexpectedly lurched forward and kicked at the unknown attackers.

Pulling on the reins, Mr. Gulak yelled, ���Whoa Jean! Whoa Pat! What the hell���s the matter with you Jean? Whoa!��� Bewildered as much as the horses as to the cause of the outburst, Mr. Gulak stopped the team, climbed down from his perch and talking softly, he calmed down the horses.

Meanwhile, Marty and Jimmy vacated their hiding places, raced ahead, settled into another hiding place and reloaded. From their hiding places, the warriors could sense that this time the approaching team and driver were excitable and confused. Mr. Gulak could be heard muttering to himself as he held the reins taut in case the team decided to run. Again, just as the team passed by, the warriors unleashed another two arrows and again effectively striking their intended targets but with different results. Jean had had enough of the pests that were annoying her. Being struck twice in the ass by blunt arrows was more than she would tolerate. Rearing up on her hind legs she drove forward with all her might carrying Pat, Mr. Gulak and the wagon with her.

���Jean, Jean! For Christ���s sake, Jean!��� Mr. Gulak yelled as Jean took the bit in her teeth and began to run away as fast as she could, taking Pat along with her.

The warriors jumped out of their hiding places and watched as the honey wagon disappeared in a cloud of dust. Yipping and laughing, the warriors followed the trail back to town. Except for the settling dust, there was no sign of the drayman and his team.

Marty walked into his home just before the curfew bell rang. His mom who was working in the kitchen asked, ���How was Kick the Can?���

���It was fun,��� came the reply.

Dear Reader

��The Attack on the Honey Wagon

�� �� �� �� ��The route that Marty took on his way to and from school included the whole length of Main Street. It was an interesting walk for him because of all the activity that surrounded the businesses along the street. There were several businesses that intrigued him; the pool hall (which was off limits for an eleven year old boy), the beer parlour (where only men twenty-one years or older were admitted), the drug store (that housed strange paraphernalia), the two hardware stores (where all the sports equipment was sold), Yee Eddy���s General Store (where you could buy hard five year old candies), the two garages (which displayed beautiful new 1951 cars and trucks), but none of these held his interest more than Tweedsmuir Hall.

�� �� �� �� ��Tweedsmuir Hall was the site of many functions for the community of nearly five hundred, the most important of which, according to Marty, was that of showing picture shows. Every Thursday evening, Saturday afternoon and Saturday evening, the weekly feature would be shown. The bill board which advertised the current show as well as up coming ones was placed in front of the hall and only a few feet away from the sidewalk.On Mondays, the day that changes were made, Marty would leave home a few minutes earlier than usual so that he could stop by and study the bill board. Eagerly anticipating an action show as a western Marty was often disappointed because he did not like musicals especially if Doris Day was featured.

�� �� �� �� It was on a mid September Monday morning when Marty stopped to view the billboard that he spotted the posters for Broken Arrow, the story of Cochise. Broken Arrow featured James Stewart as Tom Jeffords and Jeff Chandler as Cochise. With his heart thumping against his chest, he ran as fast as he could to the school playground where he would break the news to his good pal, Jimmy.

To be continued …………………..

Christmas 1946 (As I remember it.)

Christmas 1946 (As I remember it.)

The assigned reading for the Christmas program had been given to the participating Sunday School members well in advance. The length and complexity of the reading given to an individual was dependent upon the individual���s age and familiarity with the German language. The readings had to be memorized and then delivered with no stumbling over pronunciation and surely the wrath of both the pastor and God would be evoked should any part of the reading be forgotten.

My assigned passage was printed on a beautifully decorated bookmark; the image of baby Jesus lying in a manger with Mary and Joseph by his side with heavenly rays of light shining down on the baby. The perimeter of the bookmark was adorned by green gold leaves with my verse printed at the bottom in fancy old German script – one sentence in length. Even though I was unable to decipher the writing, I was insulted that I should be given such a short assignment – after all I was seven years old and in grade two. My brother Eddy���s and my sister Vonda���s assignments were much longer, therefore, much more important. I knew in my heart that I was capable of delivering a much longer verse – at least the length given to Eddy – maybe not Vonda���s but Eddy���s for sure. Dutifully, mother took each one of us separately and practiced the pronunciation of the German words with us until she was satisfied that our pronunciation was acceptable. We were then left on our own to memorize the assignments.

Zion Lutheran Church was located approximately nine miles northeast of Radisson Saskatchewan and approximately thirteen miles southeast of Hafford, Saskatchewan. Our farm was located five miles south of Hafford which made the distance from the Flath farm to Zion eight plus miles. It seems like winters came earlier in those days than they do now and definitely there was much more snow often driven by fierce north winds. I do not know if that is true or not but by December the main road between Radisson and Hafford was, as well as all surrounding country roads, completely snowed in. Since the municipalities had no snow plows all motorized vehicular travel was suspended until the coming spring. All travel to school, town or church was by horse and sleigh.

Because of the distance and uncertain weather our family did not attend Zion Lutheran Church services on a regular basis during the winter months. I did not complain because, for me, the service was very, very long. It took much self discipline plus a few cuffs to the head to sit still for an hour and a half, understanding only the occasional word during the whole time. Missing regular church service was fine with the one exception, that being the Christmas Eve pageant. Even though I was disappointed with my limited contribution, I prayed every night that there would be no storm or severely cold temperatures on the night of the pageant, I knew there would be a huge bag of goodies waiting there.

God must have heard my prayers because on that night in 1946 the moon was full; it���s light reflecting off the pure white snow made the night nearly as bright as the day. The sky was crystal clear; the air was brisk but not cold and there was no breeze or wind. It was perfect. In addition, the Eaton���s winter catalogue order had arrived and Eddy and I had new felt winter boots, new underwear, new mitts and new woolen stockings. Eddy had on a brand new mackinaw and I was wearing the one that Eddy had outgrown. All was in order. I knew my verse flawlessly. I had new clothes to show off. The weather was perfect. I was ready and excited.

At breakfast on the morning of the pageant, my siblings and I were informed that Uncle Adolph���s family would pick up Auntie Olga and Hertha, come to our place, change horses, then all would travel together in two sleighs. The reason for the change of horses was that the distance to Zion and then back home was more than thirty miles which was too far for two horses pulling a bobsleigh with at least nine people in it, over questionable tracks made in the snow covered roads. Uncle Adolph���s sleigh full of my cousins and aunts arrived near noon and after having lunched on Dad���s fresh homemade sausage, herrings and bread, everything was ready for the long ride.

Since the weather was cooperating, Dad decided to hitch Babe and Topsy on to the open box sleigh rather than the covered caboose. A fresh thick bed of straw was placed on the floor of the sleigh box and an assortment of chairs and benches lined the sides of the box. Blankets and feather quilts were taken from the beds and placed in the sleigh as well. My aunts, mom and some of the younger children piled into the lead sleigh while the older ones and Uncle Adolph piled into Uncle Adolph���s rig. Space was limited on the sleighs and because of the time away, the oldest brothers stayed behind to do the farm chores and keep the home fires burning. Everything was in order and I could feel it in my heart that the long ride to Zion with my siblings and cousins would ensure a fun filled and entertaining time.

By four o���clock we were ready to go. Dad and his team of Babe and Topsy led the way followed closely by Uncle Adolph and his team of Dickie and George. The horses were put into only a brisk walking pace because there was plenty of time and should anyone���s feet get cold, they could stomp their feet while walking behind the sleigh and not get left behind.

Someone had made the decision that all those who had parts in the program would recite their parts out loud to all others in the sleigh. One by one, as the horses made their way along in the brilliantly clear silent night, little voices could be heard reciting their passages. There was no one near to hear except perhaps the occasional rabbit or coyote. Once the obligatory reciting was completed, spontaneous singing of Christmas carols erupted from both sleighs. The crunching sound of the horses hooves and the squeaking sound made by the steel covered sleigh runners on the frosty snow, blending with the voices of twenty wayfarers filled the silence of the countryside.

Soon one little jab to the ribs lead to another and within minutes, the singing was interrupted by jostling and shouting. Not being satisfied with just jostling about in the sleigh box several of the older ones leapt out and into the knee deep snow and began wrestling around, throwing snow at those left in the sleigh, washing each other���s faces with snow and shoving handfuls of snow down each other���s neck. Cousin Peter, who was my age, and I leapt out of the box to join in the melee. No one except our parents and small children escaped. Following a severe tongue lashing issued by my Dad, one by one we picked ourselves up, dug as much wet snow as we could from the back of our necks, shook snow out of mittens, wiped melting snow from our faces, brushed off clumps of ice that clung to our woolen pants and coats.

We climbed back onto the sleigh to continue our trip. Everyone was quiet and each one, in our own way, had to deal with soaked and cold clothing. Peter and I crawled under a blanket, covered our heads and were content to just lay quietly snuggled in the bed of straw hoping that our clothes would be dry before we arrived at church. All remained quiet until we had to veer off the well travelled road and on to a seldom used trail which would connect us to the road that fronted Zion. This route had not been used since the last snowfall so now Dad���s team had to break trail but still hunkered down in our nest, Peter and I were not aware of what was happening.

Suddenly the smooth even pace of the horses became jerky and anxious voices could be heard. I popped my head out from under my blanket to hear Uncle Adolph urging Dickie and George to keep going. Something was wrong. Following a few short jerks, I felt the sleigh box begin to tilt and the next thing I knew the sleigh and box were lying on their side. The entire contents, people, blankets, chairs, benches and straw were spilled into the snow and as I dug myself out, I saw Dickie and George standing patiently in snow that was nearly belly deep. We were stuck in a snow drift two miles from Zion. Dad���s lead sleigh managed to cross the drift without incident but the runners on one side of Uncle���s sleigh broke through the snow drift more than the other, causing the rig to lean and finally tip over.

Following a short consultation, Uncle and Dad decided that it would be best to unhitch each horse separately and lead it out of the drift. Without having a load to pull, Dickie and George would emerge from the drift quite easily. Fortunately there was plenty of help available because now the sleigh had to be righted, the box replaced and the whole rig had to be pulled out of the drift. All who could, were ordered to trample the snow down and pack it. Back and forth we marched until a reasonably flat packed area was created. The sleigh was righted easily and with all the strength of growing youth, the box was replaced. Unfortunately, the dry heaps of straw were now mixed with snow as were the blankets. Blankets were shaken, chairs and benched replaced, the team was backed up to the double tree and rehitched. The rig was pulled out of the drift without any further complications and reloaded with people. The journey continued!

I prayed that we would not be late for the Christmas pageant and after hearing assurances from Uncle Adolph, even though Peter���s and my snug nest was destroyed, I felt better. I decided that I would stand up for the remainder of the trip because what was left of the straw was now mixed with snow. By returning to our straw net, there would only add more water to my already soaked clothes. Huddled close to Peter and others, I took stock of my situation: I still had my cap and mitts, my feet were cold and wet as were my hands and my pants were frozen stiff. In order to try to warm my hands, I stuck them into my pants pocket and in doing so I realized that it was in my pocket where I had stored my verse. It was gone!

Momentarily, a sense of panic engulfed me but I quickly reasoned that I did not need the written passage. After all, I knew it perfectly. To prove it to myself, I began repeating it silently over and over again. It seemed like only a short while later that the lights shining through the church windows came into view.

When we finally reached the church yard, many others had already arrived, each using their own unique mode of travel. There were sleighs like ours. There were cutters pulled by one or two horses. There were cabooses with smoke rising from their little chimneys. As we were getting out of the sleigh, Louis and Reinhold arrived proudly seated upon their mode of transportation. Astonished we turned our collective attention in the direction of the loud roar. I had heard talk but this was the first time I witnessed it. With a deafening roar and snow swirling all around the contraption, Louis and Reinhold���s homemade snow plane made its entrance. Fortunately the motor was shut off quite a distance from where all the horses were parked.

Wet, weary but still excited I followed the family into the church. Wonderful warm air along with two ushers greeted us at the door and told us where to put our coats and where to sit. The church was lit by two gas lamps hanging from wires secured to the high ceiling. There was a huge ornately decorated Christmas tree standing opposite the pulpit. Eagerly Peter and I took our seats. Even though the pews were packed, all was quiet except for the occasional muffled cough, the whimper of a child and the constant hiss made by the burning gas lamps. No one would dare carry on a casual conversation prior to the service. After all had settled in their pews, one of the bigger boys strode to behind the organ and began to fill its bellows with air. Back and forth he pulled the pump handle as the organist tested the organ. When she was satisfied that it contained enough air she began to play. The pastor soon followed and the service began. Following a litany of German carols and prayers that took eons to complete, it was time for the Sunday School to contribute to the service. Dutifully, several of us, boys and girls around my age, were called up to the front, turned to face the congregation and began to recite our passages.

Still cold and wet and with my nose dripping, I stood shivering like a drowning rat and petrified of the sight before me. I had never faced so many expectant faces in all of my short life; however, after my initial shock I focussed on my one line and while looking down at my feet I silently repeated my verse. I knew it! I repeated it again and again.

���Harry, Harry, it���s your turn,��� Peter whispered as he gently jabbed me with his elbow.

Confidently, I raised my head, looked up at the congregation, opened my mouth to speak and nothing, nothing came. Nothing! All eyes were on me; there were hundreds, peering, waiting, silently urging me to speak. Panic set in. I began to cry.

 

To be continued ………………………………..

A Review – The Seeds of Sorrow by Lisa Brown

A Review – The Seeds of Sorrow by Lisa Brown

The Seeds of Sorrow is a very well-written historical fiction, family saga. The time period encompasses approximately fifteen years, beginning in 1919.

In Lisa Brown���s previous novel, The Porter���s Wife, Sarah, a widow with 5 children, had emigrated from Manchester, England, settling in Winnipeg, Canada in 1904. Sarah found love again and Sam became a real father to all of Sarah���s children. This novel, The Seeds of Sorrow, focuses on the adult lives of 3 of Sarah���s children, Margaret, Agnes and Mary with the principal character being Agnes. This novel does stand alone, but is all the more captivating having read The Porter���s Wife.

The story begins with the marriage of Agnes and ends with the death of her husband. The years in between were filled with love and support for each other, the birth of two children, the trials of coping with a shell-shocked husband, a move from Winnipeg to Vancouver, their attempts at creating a life when work was scarce, the tragic death of their son and then the depression and the denials. Throughout, the reader feels the importance of family, the close knit family relationships and the strong work ethic to be self-supporting and independent. The ending to the story was so appropriate and it was expected but at the same time I hated that Art���s life had to end the way it did.

The women in this story are very strong. Agnes��� strength throughout her marriage to her husband Art was unbelievable. Unfortunately she did not share her burdens and sorrows with her sisters but then she was far too proud and too strong of a character for that. Had she shared her heavy load, perhaps her destiny would have been much different from that depicted in the Prologue.

The historical events and places in this story have been well researched and written with accuracy in every detail: the Great Depression, Prohibition, descriptions of railway stations and streets, the Vancouver environs.

The author has cleverly created emotional and vivid pictures in brief, two or three sentence paragraphs of captivating description which, in my opinion, was exceptionally well done.

I did find that The Seeds of Sorrow was slow moving in the beginning but following the family���s move to Vancouver, I was totally hooked and did not want to put the story down. Overall, it was a great story and I would recommend it to anyone who enjoys a good read and especially to those who like historical fiction.

A Review – The Porter’s Wife by Lisa Brown

A Review – The Porter’s Wife by Lisa Brown

Through Goodreads, I received a copy of The Porter’s Wife by Lisa Brown in exchange for an honest review. The Porter’s Wife is a well written love story beginning in 1901, set near Manchester, England. The historical picture of the common worker in the factories during the early 1900s is well painted by the author in which one can only imagine the life that was endured.

“He shoveled coal into the ovens.”

“His eldest son …………. carted away factory waste and sewage.”

“Mr. Arbuckle, a large man with an angry disposition, a man who respected no one. His laborers worked under continual threat of abuse, both physical and verbal.”

“The courtyard was overrun with filth and communal cesspits.”

This is the story of kind, thoughtful, loving, gentle Sarah, a pillar of strength. It spans her teenage years, her love for and marriage to Thomas, the birth of several children, the early death of her loving husband, the nurturing and caring of five young children, the immigration to Canada and finally the letting go of a life and the memories of England which then enabled her to love again. The story takes the reader on an emotional roller coaster encompassing joy, anguish, love, compassion, sorrow and tragedy.

The several other characters in the story just so naturally evolved. William and his sister Eleanor, who was Sarah’s best friend, were fountains of kindness and benevolence, with no discriminatory thoughts of the ‘have’ and ‘have nots’ of that society. Sarah’s children were strong and loving – a true reflection of their loving home and family life.

One criticism I have is that the tone of the story changed dramatically following Sarah’s immigration to Canada. In England, life was hard, cruel and tragic. In Winnipeg, Canada, life seemed just too easy. Perhaps the author intended that change in feeling for the reader but I found it to be somewhat disconcerting as I expected some hard challenges in this new land which simply did not happen.

Overall, I really enjoyed The Porter’s Wife and I would recommend it as a very good read, especially to those who enjoy historical fiction.

The Porter's Wife - A review

A Review - The Porter’s Wife by Lisa Brown

Through Goodreads, I received a copy of The Porter’s Wife by Lisa Brown in exchange for an honest review.

The Porter’s Wife is a well written love story beginning in 1901, set near Manchester, England. The historical picture of the common worker in the factories during the early 1900s is well painted by the author in which one can only imagine the life that was endured.
“He shoveled coal into the ovens.”
“His eldest son ............. carted away factory waste and sewage.”
“Mr. Arbuckle, a large man with an angry disposition, a man who respected no one. His laborers worked under continual threat of abuse, both physical and verbal.”
“The courtyard was overrun with filth and communal cesspits.”

This is the story of kind, thoughtful, loving, gentle Sarah, a pillar of strength. It spans her teenage years, her love for and marriage to Thomas, the birth of several children, the early death of her loving husband, the nurturing and caring of five young children, the immigration to Canada and finally the letting go of a life and the memories of England which then enabled her to love again. The story takes the reader on an emotional roller coaster encompassing joy, anguish, love, compassion, sorrow and tragedy.

The several other characters in the story just so naturally evolved. William and his sister Eleanor, who was Sarah’s best friend, were fountains of kindness and benevolence, with no discriminatory thoughts of the ‘have’ and ‘have nots’ of that society. Sarah’s children were strong and loving - a true reflection of their loving home and family life.

One criticism I have is that the tone of the story changed dramatically following Sarah’s immigration to Canada. In England, life was hard, cruel and tragic. In Winnipeg, Canada, life seemed just too easy. Perhaps the author intended that change in feeling for the reader but I found it to be somewhat disconcerting as I expected some hard challenges in this new land which simply did not happen.

Overall, I really enjoyed The Porter’s Wife and I would recommend it as a very good read, especially to those who enjoy historical fiction.

Buried Children Review

Buried Children by Daniel Farcas

A Review

I received a copy of ‘Buried Children’ from the author, Daniel Farcas via a Goodreads connection.

This story is certainly not for every one. It is a tragic story that is emotionally wrought, gut wrenching and makes tears flow down ones cheeks.

‘Buried Children’ is the story of several unwanted children who were abandoned to an orphanage in Bucharest, Romania. Within the orphanage, they were abused, physically and emotionally, especially by ‘Jailor’ and ‘Mama’ and as a result, they ran away from the orphanage only to become street children, homeless children, living in the sewers of the city. They lied, begged, stole, killed and did whatever they had to do in order to survive.

What can I say? ‘Buried Children’ is wrought with grammatical errors which, in my opinion, affects the flow and readability of the story. However, in all fairness to the author, who was born in Romania and whose English is a second language, the style and manner in which it was written does assist with the impact that the story has upon the reader and the author may have intended that to occur by deliberately choosing to let it stand without correction. In spite of the errors, I was emotionally caught up and riveted to the story as I read page after page and could not put it away.

The characters, nameless and known only by a name given to them by the other children, are not well developed with perhaps the exception of Vlad. As for the characters with the names of Blackie, Crow, Spot, Nicu, Tuca, Burned, Jail, Carrion, Crazy, Nelu, Stammered, One Eye, etc. it was okay. I, as a reader, knew so little about them and that worked just fine for me ................. I didn’t want to know where they came from or who they really were. It seemed insignificant to me. What was significant, was the reality of the situation ...................... children being left in orphanages, being abused, becoming nameless street children, homeless and living in the city sewers!

Since reading ‘Buried Children’ I have done some research on the Communist Dictator Nicolae Ceausescu, on the history of Romania during the years that span the time of this story and I have also attempted to get some information on the situation of orphanages in Romania at the present time. I have yet to understand why the number of orphans and unwanted children remains so high in Romania. I could understand it when the law forbade contraception and abortion but that law was immediately rescinded upon the execution of Nicolae Ceausescu in 1989. Any story that inspires me to do that kind of research, in my opinion, has really achieved a certain level of excellence and I thank the author for having inspired me in this way.



Overall, ‘Buried Children’ is a spellbinding story with realities that are hard to swallow. It would probably appeal to most people with the exception of the weak hearted and those who have difficulty dealing with tragedies. I wonder how many situations of similar stories exist today.

Writing Assignment #9

Writing Assignment – Day 9

Changing Moccasins – Point of View (Write a scene at the park – Write the scene from three different points of view.)

The Litterbug

It is a beautiful sunny day without a breath of wind. The sky is as blue as an azure sea without even one fluffy white cloud to break the monotony of the vast expanse of blue. There is only one slender white tail of a jet which has recently passed over high above and beyond recognition by the naked eye.

It is a perfect day for a walk in the park. There are few people out and about ……………… all is quiet and peaceful.

A young man carrying a bag of popcorn is strolling along the curved walkway munching slowly on the popcorn and tossing the occasional one to the pigeons who have learned that persistence in fluttering around the young man with the popcorn may reap even a few more kernels.

Eventually, the popcorn is gone and the young man is left with an empty brown paper bag which he crumples into a ball. He looks around for a garbage can but cannot find one.

“Okay, what am I to do now?” He thinks. “No garbage cans. No pockets in the clothes that I am wearing. Nobody is looking. I’ll just drop it over here by the tree. At least I’ll be rid of it and I won’t have to carry it home.”

The young man innocently looks the other way as he casually drops the crumpled bag behind his back and under the tree. He then hurries to move on before anyone sees what he has just done.

Unfortunately, the young man’s littering activity has been observed by two individuals and the young man has been anything but discreet.

“Young man,” called a little bent-over elderly lady, as she abruptly jumps up from a park bench and runs after him.

“You have just dropped some garbage on the ground in this beautiful park. This park is for everyone’s use and certainly not just for you alone. Just think, if everyone who came through this park, does what you just did, the park would no longer be beautiful. It would be a garbage dump! You have no right to destroy it. Go pick up your garbage!”

The little old lady is very angry and she chases the young man, shaking her fist at him as he tries to escape the verbal barrage by quickly exiting the park gate and heading down the street.

“Oh, oh, more garbage,” mutters the park cleaner as he stabs the crumpled up brown paper bag and lifts it to deposit it into the bag he carried over his shoulder.

“Well, I guess I should be grateful. It is people like that young man, who do create my job. At least I have work that needs doing.”

Writing Assignment #8

Writing Assignment – Day 8  - June 11

Go to a public location and make a detailed report of what you see.  (The twist ……… write the post without adverbs.)

 

The graveyard lay one mile west of the town; on the north side of the old highway number five. More than three hundred gravestones, the oldest dating back to the early twentieth century, marked the plots of those community members that had at one time or another called this community “home”. There was an orderly manner in which the plots were arranged, with the oldest located at the very southwest corner of the first row of graves. Over the years the number of rows had worked its way to the east so that by 1983 the newest grave dug lay approximately in the center of the graveyard one third of the way up.

Many years prior to 1983, the town had planted spruce seedlings around the whole perimeter of the graveyard as well as surrounding the site with a five foot high page wire fence. The seedlings had thrived, so that by 1983 they provided shelter from the fierce northwest winds, as well as providing a comforting backdrop for the graves. Even with the protection of the spruces, the winds that blew, the rains that fell, the hail that hammered, the ice that cracked, the frost that heaved the earth and the lichens that grew on the stones, had worn down the inscriptions chiseled and cut into the tombstones of those who came before.

Writing Assignment # 6

Writing Assignment #6

Writing Assignment Day 6 – June 9, 2014.

(Write about the most interesting person you’ve met in 2014.)

 

It was that time of year again, the warm sun had once again cast its supremacy over old man winter and the thick blanket of snow. All that remained were a few stubborn mounds of snow that had accumulated under the shade and protection of the one hundred foot fir trees. It was that time of year …………. the time between the vanquished snow and the rebirth of the birch trees that had stood dormant for five months.

The previous winter supply of fire wood had been largely consumed by the ever hungry stove that had kept us warm during the winter months. Now it was time, time to wake up the old trusty chain saw, sharpen the ax, fuel up the quad, dig out the work boots and begin the annual ritual of converting the standing birch trees into cords of firewood before the trees came back to life.

The chosen unsuspecting victims stood proud and erect in the lower reaches of the wooded portion of the property and after packing a few sandwiches and testing the equipment, I set out to begin the task which would take several days of hard physical labor to complete.

I always looked forward to this task. It was just the forest, the deer, the bears, the birds, my chain saw, my quad and me. No one to answer to, not a complicated mind numbing job, no major decisions. I found hard physical work good for the soul as well as the body. Eager to begin, I powered up the saw, not conscious of how I was disturbing those that lived in the area of my work.

The saw worked perfectly. The buzzing and whining of the saw, the noise of crashing trees and the occasional grunt from me drowned out the gurgling sounds of snow melt rivulets and the chirping of the forest birds. After felling several trees and feeling very satisfied with my effort, I shut down the motor of the saw, opened my back pack, took out the thermos of hot coffee, unwrapped a tuna fish sandwich, sat down on the trunk of one of the felled trees and began to enjoy my lunch.

All was silent, I was alone surrounded by nature, or so I thought. Just as I was about to take a second sip from my thermal coffee mug, I sensed another presence. Something or someone was active in the bush behind me. I could not see it but I knew it was there. Slowly as I focussed my eyes in the direction of the sound, a figure came into view.My first thought was that it was a a bear, just out of hibernation, who had detected the smell of my tuna fish sandwich but I quickly realized that it was indeed a person.

My next thought was that this person had, like the bears, just come out of hibernation. He stood not less than six feet four inches. His foot long greying red beard, along with his shoulder length hair, had not seen a comb in many days. His arms hung loosely by his side with his knuckles reaching down to his knees. He stood somewhat hunched as his grey blue eyes seemed to pierce my brain. He almost seemed to float rather than walk as he came into the clearing.

What to do? Do I run? Do pick up my ax to defend myself? Or do I say “Hello” and offer him a sandwich? Before I could make a decision and before I could speak, he said, “Do you realize what you are doing?”

Quizzically I looked into his eyes and responded, “I don’t understand what you mean. This is my property, these are my trees and I will do with them what I want. I need the wood to heat my house.”

“I cannot stop you from doing what you are doing but just think about what you just did to the forest, the birds and the animals that enjoyed this place before you showed up.”

No other words were spoken. He turned and drifted back into the darkness of the forest.