p r o m o t i n g t h e r e a d e r / a u t h o r c o n n ...€¦ · 01/06/2019 · yellowstone...
TRANSCRIPT
P R O M O T I N G T H E R E A D E R / A U T H O R C O N N E C T I O N
AUTHOR INTERVIEW
B L O G S A R O U N DT H E W O R L D
D I S C O V E R F A S C I N A T I N G B L O G G E R S A N D T O P I C S
RAC J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9
L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
E X C I T I N G S T O R I E SF R O M E M E R G I N G
A U T H O R S
SHORT STORIES
A N G E L A P E T C H
What a great month for a landmark issue. As some of you may know, I am in
Yellowstone National Park this summer, and wow, what a landmark! Yellowstone
National Park became a US national park in 1872. I am so glad it did.
In this issue, we have fabulous stories with the landmark theme, fiction and
nonfiction, from authors all over the world. Thank you, authors, for your
submissions.
Our featured blogger this issue is Jena Henry. Jena is a supporter of authors and she
blogs about books she has read. She recently teamed up with Jessica Calhan, blogger
and founder of Books in My Handbag. You will want to follow both of these fab
bloggers.
Get to know Angela Petch in our interview. She wrote a riveting historical fiction
titled The Tuscan Secret. I read it and I couldn’t put it down. The RAC’s Landmark
issue is the perfect forum to bring forward Angela’s book, as it’s set in beautiful
Tuscany, Italy.
Thank you, Readers, for your support, as always. If you have an idea for the RAC,
or come across an author who deserves to be interviewed, please contact me.
Until then, happy summer!
Best wishes,
Joanie Chevalier
Founder & Editor of RAC: Promoting the Reader/Author Connection
Email: [email protected]
FB Group
*Cover Art Credit: David Mark from Pixabay (Plouzane Lighthouse, France)
P R O M O T I N G T H E R E A D E R / A U T H O R C O N N E C T I O N
RAC J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9
L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S
J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9 L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
1A U T H O R I N T E R V I E W :
A N G E L A P E T C H
2B L O G S F R O M A R O U N D T H E W O R L D :
F E A T U R I N G J E N A H E N R Y
3S H O R T S T O R Y C O N T E S T
4
S H O R T S T O R I E S
5S U B M I T F O R S E P T E M B E R
6
A D S & S P O N S O R S
P R O M O T I N G T H E R E A D E R / A U T H O R C O N N E C T I O N
RAC J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9
L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
A U T H O R I N T E R V I E W
A N G E L A P E T C H
Interview with Angela Petch
Angela’s bio:
I live in the beautiful Italian Apennines for several months each year. Such an inspiring
location.
My love affair with Italy was born at the age of seven when I moved with my family to
Rome where we lived for six years. My father worked for the Commonwealth War Graves
Commission and he made sure we learned Italian and visited many places during that time.
Later on I studied Italian at the University of Kent at Canterbury and afterwards worked in
Sicily, where I met my husband. His Italian mother and British father met in Urbino in
1944 and married after a war-time romance.
I wanted to write "The Tuscan Secret" not only for my amazing mother-in-law, Giuseppina,
but also to make people aware of the courage and hospitality shown by families of our
Italian neighbours in our corner of war-torn Tuscany.
This is my first novel and is a story about ordinary people who lived through extraordinary
times. (Please note it is a revised version of "Never Forget" and "Tuscan Roots"). I have
been signed by BOOKOUTURE for a two-book deal and one of these is a slight re-write
of "Tuscan Roots". The new title is "The Tuscan Secret" and has more tension and intrigue
to the story. I am so proud to be a part of this publishing "family", as they describe
themselves, who have patiently helped me to polish the original. It is available to pre-order
at the moment, for 99 pence, and will be published mid-June 2019.
A sequel to this book was published at the end of April 2017.
"Now and then in Tuscany" features the same family that
appeared in "Tuscan Roots". The background is the
transhumance, a practice that started in Etruscan times and
continued right up until the 1950's.
My research for both these novels has been greatly helped by
my kind Italian, country friends, who have vivid memories of
both the Second World War and the harsh times they endured in
their childhoods.
Italy is a passion but my stories are not always set there. I have
also written a novella about two fun-loving ladies of "a certain age" who live by the seaside
in Sussex and get up to all kinds of adventures. "Mavis and Dot" were launched on
December 1st 2018 at St Paul's Centre, Worthing, West Sussex and have received fab
reviews. I have a sequel in mind. All profits from sales go to research into cancer.
At present I am working on a brand new, Second World War Tuscan novel, inspired by the
many ruins I see on my walks in the Apennines. Each dilapidated house holds a story for
me, whether true or invented. I still have to dream up a title for this book, which will be
put in 2020, also with Bookouture.
* * *
Thank you Angela, for taking time out of your busy schedule to tell us a little bit
more about yourself, and your writing. I understand that you live in two places, the
UK and Italy. How does that work for you?
Thank you for inviting me to talk! Our “bi-life” is interesting as the two locations are so
different. In England we live in a busy area along the southern coast near our five
grandchildren. We spend our summer months in a remote valley in Tuscany where peace
and tranquility are key. I run a little holiday business here with my half-Italian husband to
top up our pensions! Here, I have plenty of time to write, so for me it is almost perfect. I
do miss my children and grandchildren, however. Life is not perfect.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I saw that you held a writing conference last year. Will you have one this year?
Our first writing week was a great success and we
are repeating it from September 11th – 18th. Last year
we had a tutor leading us, but we decided to gear the
sessions this time to (optional) discussions and to
include plenty of writing exercises to get participants
to think outside their boxes. On Friday 13th Kathryn
Bax, from One Stop Fiction, is coming along with her
son, Kent, to guide us with tips for self-publishing
success. I discovered she lived near us in Tuscany
and we have become friends. Facebook is a fantastic
medium: I love the way the writing community can
pull together.
We have also reduced our price to
£550, which includes airport transfer
from Bologna, accommodation,
delicious food and wine, coffee and
tea on tap. In addition, there will be a
couple of excursions to local towns,
plus a Flash Fiction competition. Last
year it was won by a novice writer
who was thrilled. If anybody would
like details, then please contact me as
there are a couple of spaces still
available.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Let’s get down to your books. I just read The
Tuscan Secret, and wow, I was impressed with
this gripping and emotional story.
Congratulations! Tell us how this story came
about.
Thank you so much, Joanie. xx
My 93 year-old mother-in-law is Italian and she met
a handsome British army captain during WW2 in
Urbino. They fell in love immediately and after their
wedding in Venice, she moved to England as a young
war bride. She had a tough time adjusting to the new
culture, but she tells me she would do it all over
again. She was so much in love. Over the years, she
has told me many stories about her time in the war,
when her home town was occupied. Her father
helped the partisans and harboured escaped POWs.
When we found our ruined
watermill here in Tuscany, I
discovered that it was located right
along the German defensive area
known as the Gothic Line. I speak
fluent Italian and picked up many
anecdotes about this time from
elderly locals. I was inspired to
combine all these stories into a
novel, principally for Giuseppina,
my mother-in-law. The original
version had the title “Never
Forget” when I self-published it
via a company that went bust
(taking all my royalties).
Subsequently I self-published with
CreateSpace with a new title and some revisions and called it “Tuscan Roots”. Then, it
was picked up by my present digital publishing company, Bookouture, who asked me to
make further edits. I am very happy with the finished result of “The Tuscan Secret”. The
book has travelled along a few paths, but it is now reaching a wider audience which I
struggled to do by myself.
I wrote it from the heart – there is a lot of personal history invested in my writing and, now
that my lovely mother-in-law is suffering from Alzheimer’s, I am satisfied some of her
memories have been recorded. Her generation went through so much and didn’t talk about
their experiences very much. So, my book is like a voice for her.
Marvis and Dot, a story about two older best friends, is
another book of yours and I see that proceeds from this book
go to cancer research. Is this story based on someone you
knew?
This is a very different genre and yes, it is based on someone very
close to my heart. I lost my best friend over thirteen years ago and
I have dedicated it to Olga. We used to love traipsing round the
charity shops (thrift stores) and auction houses looking for
bargains whenever we could find the time. While we were out, we
called each other Mavis and Dot, and generally hammed it up a
little.
Sadly, she fell very ill with ovarian cancer and to cheer
her up, I started to write gently humorous stories about
“us”. They made her smile and she drew a sketch of our
characters which I hang in my downstairs cloakroom in
England.
After she died, I put the stories in a drawer until one day
I read one out to my writing group. It raised laughter
and so I decided to write a novella, adding a few more
stories to my original three. I have been asked if I will
write a sequel and I think I will. Mavis and Dot seem to
appeal. Watch this space! (I am in the middle of editing
a sequel to “The Tuscan Secret” at present, so I will
need to move my head from Tuscany to the British
seaside…)
Angela, what do you like to do for fun? What are your hobbies?
I love playing tennis, which I was told to give up after a big shoulder operation last year
(but I have disobeyed the surgeon and listened to the physiotherapist who said I was
strong enough!) I also love walking in the mountains here. As writing is a sedentary
occupation, any exercise is welcome. Cooking is another interest and reading (it goes
without saying – I don’t think you can write without reading lots).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Readers are dying to know:
Chocolate or chips? Definitely chocolate (especially dark, dark)
Mountains or Beach? Mountains or a beach far from crowds
Stay up late or Get up Early? Get up early – when my ideas are fresher
Dog or cat? Both
Thank you so much for inviting me to chat. I also appreciate this fabulous site which
offers so much support and information.
Follow Angela:
Amazon Author Profile
Website
P R O M O T I N G T H E R E A D E R / A U T H O R C O N N E C T I O N
RAC J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9
L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
B L O G S A R O U N D T H E W O R L D
J E N A H E N R Y
Jena Henry: I am a writer, blogger, book reviewer, and bon vivant and
encourager. I have lived my entire life in Tropical Ohio. My goal is to make friends
with everyone in the world. I wrote a fiction series, The Golden Age of Charli,
that presents the problems and praises, and the love and laughter of family life
and retirement. My passions are blogging, reading and reviewing, and writing.
My life is a WIP.
****
I met Jena through social media several years ago. All along, she was a friendly
and supportive friend to all authors. I’ve watched her blog grow, and I always
look forward to reading her blog, where she is never out of ideas or books to
review. (Authors: Jena loves to blog book reviews and feature authors, so don’t
be shy in contacting her.)
The newest idea to come to fruition is to team up with Jessie Cahalin, another
supporter of indie authors. She has a wonderful blog called Books in my
Handbag.
In Jena’s words:
Welcome to the world of Jena’s Golden Chapters with Jessie Cahalin at Books
in my Handbag. Each month, Jena explores Jessie’s Handbag Gallery, selects
a novel that piques her interest and then peeks at the opening
chapter and reviews it. You are invited to look inside Jena’s
glamorous, golden handbag. Let’s see if she can tempt you
with some golden reads.
If you are a booklover, you will want to read the Golden
Chapter reviews and take time to browse through all the
lovely books and handbags in the Handbag Gallery.
Read more about the creation of the Golden Chapters here.
***
Jena also blogs about new releases. Jena doesn’t skimp on detail; I think that’s
why she ’s just shy of 15,000 subscribers to her blog. (It’s at 14,994…let’s get
her over the top, RAC Readers!)
Here is one of her latest reviews, and you’ll see that she is fair, honest, and
detailed. What reader wouldn’t want to follow Jena?
The Unlikely Life of Maisie Meadows by Jenni Keer My rating: 5 of 5 stars
When I read Author Jenni Keer’s first book, The Hopes and Dreams of Lucy Baker, here’s how I described it. “…a story that evokes a certain adorable mood. This debut novel is part fairy tale, part Wizard of Oz, and completely loveable and engaging.” Once again, the same magic spins its joy in Ms. Keer’s second book, a humorous fiction novel.
When we meet Maisie, she has a boyfriend and a job. By the second chapter in the book, she has no boyfriend, and no job. But, she does have Nigel, who is a…oh I’ll let you find that out for yourself.
It’s delightful getting to know young-adult Maisie. In addition to the no job and no boyfriend situation, she has a fragmented family. But, she’s not one to say “Why me?”
She fixes her job situation by taking a marketing position at Gildersleeves Antiques. What a wonderful part of the story- Gildersleeves has plenty of quirky characters, along with an equally exotic assortment of cast-offs, collectibles and treasures.
And that’s how Maisie discovers a teapot from her past, which belonged to the Mayhew sisters. Is the teapot magical? Will it help her solve her other problems?
The charm and strength of Ms. Keer’s books are the characters. And in this bo ok, she has given us so many quirky, yet redeemable people to get to know and love. From the employees at Gildersleeves, to the six Mayhew sisters, and Maisie’s mother, father and four siblings, we have an abundance of treats to savor. My favorites (in add ition to Maisie) were Arthur, an older, lonely man and Maisie’s emotional mother, Beverly. Although I really shouldn’t pick favorites as I am leaving out two very wonderful and important gentlemen. And then there’s that one guy at the care home.
Throughout the story, Maisie continues to put one tidy and well -organized foot in front of the other, and she ends up being a “restorative tonic” for all. With themes of family, friendships, aging, and antiques, which are really all tied together, we find what’s important to cherish in Maisie’s unlikely life.
Is Maisie a bit slow to catch on to things? Yes. But, by the end of this charming and totally satisfying book, Maisie works it out. And when she does, I felt as happy as Nigel. Everything comes together and even the garden gnomes find a place to belong.
In the author notes, Ms. Keer mentioned that she was relieved to have completed the notoriously tricky second book. Not to worry- the story of Maisie surpasses the loveliness of the first book. There are so many more characters, feelings and thoughts, and so many perfect phrases and word pictures. I did feel confused by the first chapter of the book - but it was like unpacking a mixed-lot bin of collectibles- once I sorted it out, the pleasures were revealed. Enjoy this gentle, endearing book!
Thanks to Netgalley, Avon Books UK and Rachels Random Resources for a review copy. This is my honest review.
****
Take a look at Jena’s website for more delightful surprises, and then subscribe.
The Reader World is lucky to have you, Jena… and that’s my honest opinion!
Connect with Jena:
Goodreads
P R O M O T I N G T H E R E A D E R / A U T H O R C O N N E C T I O N
RAC J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9
L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
S H O R T S T O R Y C O N T E S T
The following talented authors submitted to RAC’s First Annual Short Story Contest. The
winners will be announced August 10, 2019, and the top twelve stories will be published in our
September issue.
Thank you, Authors, and good luck!
Trisha Kelly Christopher Allen Sarah Northwood
Marbea Logan Jacky Dahlhaus Joseph Willson
Fiske Nyirongo Paula Puolakka Jane Jago
Cynthia Austin Rashida Murphy Graham Clayton
Maree Collie Clabe Polk Celia Micklefield
Karen McCrea Karen McCrea Nellie Neves
Lindy Spencer
The Judges for the contest are:
RAC’s Elite Reader Group. See more about the Reader Group here.
Suzan St Maur, author of many books, and founder of How to Write Better
(HTWB). Learn more about Suzan here.
Daniel Scott White, founder of Longshot Press. Learn
more about Daniel here.
Thank you, Judges!
P R O M O T I N G T H E R E A D E R / A U T H O R C O N N E C T I O N
RAC J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9
L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
S H O R T S T O R I E SC H R I S T O P H E R A L L E N
C . A . A S B R E YG I L L I A N B I R D
J O A N I E C H E V A L I E RJ A N E J A G O
T R I S H A K E L L Y
T O N I K I E FE V A P A S C OL I S A P O S T
E L I C I A R A P R A G E RJ O S E P H W I L L S O N
Cris Cannon (aka Christopher Allen) After a tour of duty in the military with the United States
Air Force 2nd Security Police Squadron Christopher Allen embarked on what would become a
30 year career in law enforcement, beginning with the Dayton Police Department at Dayton,
Ohio and wrapping up with the Ashville Police Department at Ashville, Alabama.
Dashiell Hammett's novel 'The Thin Man' and the following series of movies inspired Allen's
project, Before the Thin Man: The Prequel to Dashiell Hammett's 'The Thin Man'.
As Hammett drew from personal experiences from serving in the military and working as a
Pinkerton detective Allen also draws from similar experiences when writing.
Before the Thin Man: The Prequel to Dashiell Hammett's 'The Thin Man' is available in
paperback and Kindle ebook format on Amazon at http://amazon.com/author/thinmanpi
Chris Asbrey has lived and worked all over the world in the Police Service, Civil Service, and private
industry, working for the safety, legal rights, and security of the public. A life-changing injury meant
a change of course into contract law and consumer protection for a department attached to the Home
Office.
In that role she produced magazine and newspaper articles based on consumer law and wrote guides
for the Consumer Direct Website. She was Media Trained, by The Rank Organization, and acted as a
consultant to the BBC's One Show and Watchdog. She has also been interviewed on BBC radio
answering questions on consumer law to the public.
She lives with her husband and two daft cats in Northamptonshire, England—for now. She’s moving
to the beautiful medieval city of York.
Blog - C.A Asbrey - all things obscure and strange in the Victorian period http://caasbrey.com/
The Innocents Mystery Series Group https://www.facebook.com/groups/937572179738970/
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/mysteryscrivener/
Amazon - https://www.amazon.com/author/caasbrey
Twitter - https://twitter.com/CAASBREY
Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/17899618.C_A_Asbrey
Innocent Bystander Amazon http://a.co/d/a7JTnh5
Mother and Grandmother, Jill Bird is passionate about creativity, travelling and angels and believes
story telling can be immensely liberating as well as therapeutic. As a teacher, she once wrote and
produced plays for the 7-11year olds in her charge, something she found truly inspiring. She's been
hooked on writing ever since. Gill presently works as a Spiritualist Medium and workshop facilitator in
the UK and lives in Hertfordshire with her husband Bruce.
Joanie Chevalier. Founder of RAC: Promoting the Reader/Author Connection; Founder of Our
Indie Author Room FB Group, a place where writers in all stages of their career go to learn,
inspire, and teach.
Joanie loves the outdoors and nature, reading and editing, and she thinks her two Chihuahuas
are adorable. Her writing is a blend of everything she likes to read: suspense, horror, crime,
psychological, non-fiction, and a good short story.
Twitter: https://twitter.com/JoanieChevalier
Our Indie Author Room: https://www.facebook.com/groups/140420759945489
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Joanie-Chevalier/e/B00P1946MS
RAC FB Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/628658504160896
RAC Website: https://readerauthorconnection.com/
Jane Jago is an eccentric genre hopping pensioner, who writes for the sheer enjoyment of
the craft and gets in terrible trouble because of her attitude. Find out more about her at:
tinyurl.com/t9pkll3
author.to/janejago
Trisha J Kelly was born in London. She has worked in various places. No longer
confined to 9-5 she is living her dream by writing, receiving great feedback and
wishing she started sooner!
Trisha lived in Colchester Essex for over 50 years and has now relocated to Norfolk.
Married with two adult sons and sharing life with two naughty twelve-year-old,
Lhasa Apso dogs.
Trisha runs an indie group on Facebook (Indie self-publishing) and helps moderate
in others.
https://www.facebook.com/TrishajkellyAuthor/
https://www.trishajkellypublications.co.uk/
https://twitter.com/Trishajkelly
https://www.instagram.com/trishaj.kelly/
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Trisha-J.-Kelly/e/B06XHJZPDP
https://trishajkellypublications849565963.wordpress.com/
https://www.tumblr.com/blog/scarlettandmasoncreator
https://www.pinterest.co.uk/trishakelly123/
https://www.linkedin.com/in/trisha-kelly-17093a167/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16563050.Trisha_J_Kelly
Toni Kief, from a small Midwestern town and a family of high spirits and laughter. Presently lives
in the Washington state, she plans to stay for the view, trees, and friends. Her life story includes
years in Insurance claims as one of the first women outside casualty investigators. A longtime civil
rights activist, she shares stories about lunches with politicians, leaders, and artists. Toni didn’t
start writing until she was sixty years old as a challenge. She joined a writer’s group that specialized
in flash fiction, presently writing novels. Toni prefers to write about people of “a certain age.”
Finally retired she continues to gathers stories prime for embellishment in extraordinary situations.
Toni is a founding director of The Writers Cooperative of the Pacific Northwest. For additional
stories and books visit her website www.tonikief.com.
Eva Pasco. A Jill-of-all-Trades in the progression of life until I earned my
Bachelor of Science and Master of Education degrees: a factory fatale gluing
eyes on pairs of lion slippers at Capitol Heel Lining; collating booklets at
Sidney-Higgins Bookbinding; getting downright dirty at H & H Screw Products;
medical secretary; teaching in the third-grade classroom trenches.
Undergoing a midlife restlessness after retirement, I revived my dormant flair for
writing.
I've published a Nonfiction Memoir collection consisting of anecdotes pertaining
to growing up during the Sixties.
My primary genre is that of Contemporary Women's Fiction--Lit with Grit,
featuring flawed, feisty females over forty. My larger-than-life characters plunge the depths of despair prior to
becoming empowered in seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.
Lisa Post, a 47-year-old housewife, grandmother and writer. She has submitted works to RAC
Authors and has her own blog humorously called What nana Lisa says. She is all about her kids and
grandkids and her blog is based on her life with them. She has also worked on several pamphlets
and training worksheets for her company that she writes and distributes. She is an all-around upbeat
and vibrant being.
Elicia Raprager. Elicia wrote and drew as a child. In her teen years, both became passions.
When her mental health declined, she returned to these hobbies. Although Elicia struggled, she
challenged herself to remain positive. The best compliment Elicia can hear is, “you inspired
me.” Elicia actively blogs. She opened up about her mental health on social media and was
overwhelmed by encouragement and gratitude. She prioritizes self-care for mental and physical
health. Elicia will share her story in her future book, Share a Smile: Thriving in Life and
Treatment. In August, Elicia will be published in a compilation book, Inspirations: 100
Uplifting Stories for Daily Happiness. Stay updated by following Elicia Raprager at
www.shareasmilewithelicia.wordpress.com;
https://www.facebook.com/Elicia-Raprager-Author-398108577675608/
J.P. Willson is an accomplished chef who’s worked in some of Vancouver and
Victoria’s most prestigious kitchens. Having put pen to paper from a young age
as simply a hobby and now as a published author of two self-help books. Living
and working in Victoria, British Columbia with a children’s book and a pair of
non-fiction works in the very near future, life has become anything but laid
back and ordinary.
https://allauthor.com/profile/12monkeys
https://www.jpwillson.ca
https://www.facebook.com/flustered
Feel free to share this issue!
Do you have a story theme idea? Do you have a favorite indie author you would love to see interviewed?
Contact us: [email protected]
Join us in our Facebook Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/628658504160896
See all our blogs and posts at RAC’s Website: https://readerauthorconnection.com/
A Midwestern Edwardian Home
By Christopher Allen
© 2019 Christopher Allen
“Five-Thirty-One.”
Riding passenger tonight, Don began reaching for the mic hanging from the dash. “I
knew it wouldn’t last”, he said as he grabbed the microphone. As he pulled it toward his face, the
tightly coiled cord stretching, he and his partner merely looked at one another in silence. For that
small moment the only sound was the windshield wipers slapping time to the passing street
lamps.
“Five-Three-One, Salem and Superior”, Don replied as he pressed the transmit key.
“Five-Thirty-One, one to transport from Grandview to State”, came the dispatch from the
mobile unit’s speaker.
“Clear.”
“2200 hours, KA80261”
“Five Thirty One dispatch, KA80261 at 2200 hours”
Rob immediately started turning the wheel at the upcoming intersection before Don hung
the mic back up. At the clicking sounds of the mic being returned and the scanning of the radio
resumed he looked at his partner saying, “It could be worse.”
“You’re right about that. This should keep us on the board at least a couple of hours.”
Arriving at the hospital within just a few minutes they parked away from the emergency
room entrance and walked up to the building. This milk run transport was anything but an
emergency call.
As the elevator shuttered to a stop and the doors parted they were met by one of the
hospital security staff. “You’ll need to secure your firearms before continuing onto the floor”
was heard as they stepped off. They both managed to resist a sarcastic comeback to such a
routine matter and quietly walked to the bank of steel lock boxes on the opposite wall.
With their service revolvers secured and wearing empty holsters they were escorted back
to the ward’s nurses’ station. Their passenger, a Miss Nell Geyer, was already seated there with a
nurse completing her transfer paperwork.
“Officers, this is Miss Geyer. She’s been very cooperative and polite. You should have
no issues”, the on-duty nurse said while handing Don the bulging legal length envelope after the
paperwork had been sloppily folded in threes and jammed in. “Miss Geyer, these gentlemen will
take you across town to the State Hospital. Do you have any questions?” Miss Geyer said
nothing but slowly moved her head from side to side. Don, looking up from his unruly bundle
said, “Alright miss. If you’re ready let’s go.”
Pulling away from the ER entrance Rob keyed the Motorola mic again. “Five-Three-One
dispatch.”
“Five-Three-One.”
“Five-Three-One transporting on adult white female from Grandview to State. Starting
mileage 132229 your time.”
“Clear Five-Three-One. Twenty Two Fifty Eight.”
Hanging the mic back on its hook Rob glanced into the rearview mirror and said, “So
Nell; mind if I call you Nell?”
“No. Please do. It’s fine.”
“Nell… do you mind if I ask about that big bandage?”
She reached up with her left hand and barely touched the bandage with her fingertips and
said, “Oh this? No, I don’t mind?”
“So, I can’t help but notice that’s pretty big to be on your neck. So what happened?”
“Oh, I cut my throat”, she said rather matter-of-factly.
“Cut your throat?!”
“Yeah… with an electric carving knife. It was really stupid. I should have never done it.”
“I guess not! That must’ve really hurt.”
“Oh, did it ever. That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I’ll never do that again.”
The cruiser turned onto the State Mental Hospital grounds passing under their wrought
iron arced entry way and the start of the drive. The campus of matching red brick buildings came
into view.
“Well Miss Geyer it looks as if we’re here”, said Don.
“It’s alright. In a week or two I’ll be back home”, she replied, again in an almost
monotone matter-of fact inflection. Fitting for the atmosphere.
It was about four in the afternoon when the radio came to life with its slight static crackle
and, “Crew Five Thirty Three dispatch”.
“Five-Three-Three”
“Five-Three-Three dispactch, please notify Five Thirty we have a “D” “B” at this
location.”
“Clear.”
Rob looked over at Don and said, “Don, they’re only four blocks away. Let’s swing by
and see if we can help with anything.”
“Alright.”
One of those older Edwardian jobs built just after the turn of the century these houses
originally had the horsehair plastered slat walls and solid tongue-in-groove hardwood floors.
With a full basement and adjacent coal rooms there was no room for anything but the monstrous
‘octopus’ coal burning heater. With a solid wooden beam base structure they were built like a
tank and would last forever. By now most people had replaced the huge ‘octopus’ job for much
smaller and efficient systems. This opened up the basements to be converted to additional living
space too. And with residential coal deliveries long gone most coal chute doors were
permanently sealed shut and the rooms were merely a place for more storage. And the detached
garages at the back of the yard opening to the alley were no longer small horse barns but rather
housed the family car.
Entering the back door where the basement stairs would be Rob and Don descended to
the scene. They met another officer posted there waiting for the other responding personnel. Rob
completely ignored the salutations and walked directly to the hanging victim. She had fashioned
a noose over and back down one of the beams and around her neck. A kitchen chair was lying on
its side almost directly under her. Her neck was stretched to nearly twice its normal length. She’d
been here for some time.
Rob immediately recognized Nell from just two weeks earlier. When he did, he smiled.
He didn’t smile because he is morbid or thought anything was funny. No, it seemed more like a
final interaction between the two. A final conversation and the joke was on everyone left behind.
Rob realized when Miss Geyer told him how stupid it had been to cut her throat with the carving
knife she merely meant the method was a poor choice.
THE END
The Waning of Mrs. Moon C.A. Asbrey
The Moon Mausoleum, Caddo, Oklahoma
Molly Moon must have been a remarkable woman. At least we assume she was, despite knowing very little about her in her lifetime. We do know that she committed suicide in 1904, while her husband was away on a ‘hunting trip’. We also know that her husband liked her to wear expensive clothes and jewelry. Perhaps she was lonely. By the time her husband returned to Caddo, she had been dead and buried for a full two months.
We know that there had been domestic troubles between them and that he left hurriedly on the hunting trip. While he was away she drank an ounce of carbolic acid. She had turned back the covers on her bed, but never made it there. She was found on the floor by neighbors. In the note she left, she stated that she was of sound mind and felt justified in the actions she had taken. She also felt sure that ‘He’, with a capital ‘H’ would forgive her and would be the final judge. Apparently her husband took that to mean himself.
Mr. Moon had been generous to his wife, financially, if not with his time. When he arrived back from the hunting trip, he came back with two expensive dresses, traveling implements, and gifts of jewels. The bereaved husband was said to have sent them back unopened.
Mr. Moon was distraught. He asked a local undertaker if she could be embalmed. He was doubtful, after such a long time underground, but Will Hatton, a fellow businessman and undertaker, agreed to take a look.
Mr. Moon wrote to The Cincinnati Enquirer asking for a retraction of their initial reporting of the circumstances surrounding his wife’s death and burial. They published Mr. Moon’s letter along with an accompanying letter from Denison funeral director and embalmer, W.H. Halton. It’s clear from the letter that Mrs. Moon was unhappy and mentally unwell. True to the times, Mr. Moon found any suggestion of poor mental health to be unedifying. He sought to project a different image of his late wife.
Whether his next actions were due to guilt, undying love, or a mixture of both, we will never know. W.J. Moon built a brick mausoleum. It wasn’t pretty, and would later be compared to industrial installations such as telephone exchanges or electricity sub stations.
Inside the mausoleum was a glass coffin, where the now embalmed Mrs. Moon was placed. She was dressed in the beautiful gown he had bought for her birthday. He appealed to the respectable women of the town, and succeeded. They assisted him in taking his wife from her grave, washing the body, and re-dressing her in a way he saw fit.
The locals saw him as a grief-stricken husband, and looked on in sympathy as he brushed her hair, attached jewelled pins, and laid her in as grand a manner as he thought possible.
All a little strange, but this is when it got even stranger. In a week or so he repeated the process. Then he did it again, and again, and again. It became a regular ritual, and was seen as so strange that the white people of the town refused to assist him any longer. He then paid poor black women. They also found the whole thing very uncomfortable, and complained of the spooks and spirits. They also eventually backed off, despite the money being very good. The mausoleum had a good through breeze, and the drying wind was perfect to mummify the corpse. There were small windows though which the body could be viewed, but the walls were twelve inches thick and the building had steel doors. He employed a caretaker who wound his wife’s watch, took people on tours, and cared for a bunny he kept there. Once the bunny died he closed the building.
W.J. Moon then continued these rites on his own. He washed and redressed the body until it ended up mummified. He had been a successful local businessman, but he was reported as being obsessed with his late wife, and could talk of little else. It wasn’t long before he was being avoided, and very soon after that he was ostracised.
William Judson Moon never got over his wife’s death. There are some who say that he was not hunting, but on an extravagant and hedonistic buying trip for his stores. The dresses and jewels he brought back might support this version of events.
Despite his apparent obsession, W.J. Moon married again only two years later. That marriage to Pearl Bedtelyon, of Michigan, ended in legal action when it broke down, and he claimed she had married bigamously. It’s notable that Pearl accused him of beating her and that “he forced her to go on her way to the home of her parents in the State of Michigan, and so insufficiently was she supplied with ordinary and necessary wearing apparel in which to travel in a public conveyance that she was forced to stop at the town of Muskogee on her way to the home of her parents and from lady friends borrow the necessary clothing in which decently to travel on the railway.”
In this report we may have some inkling as to why he felt so guilty about Molly’s suicide. We also have to bear in mind that while his in-laws left his sons with him, they insisted in taking his daughter and brought her up themselves.
He tried to prove that Pearl’s divorce wasn’t valid as residency requirements weren’t met. A judge found against him and awarded Pearl alimony of $1,000 a month. Quite a sum back in the early 1900s. He was, however, a rich man. He owned a number of stores and a large hotel.
He was then met Lula Mae and married her in 1909. They moved to Dallas and opened a store. He died of cancer in 1923. Lula Mae had his body returned to Caddo and had him interred beside Molly.
Older residents of Caddo still say that they have seen Mrs. Moon’s body. It’s a mummified skeleton with long flowing hair. It was seen as a rite of passage for local youths to pluck up the courage to look at the corpse, for a time. Nowadays the windows are opaque and dirty. Molly Moon gets to rest in peace at last.
This tale only proves that there are some stories you can’t make up.
The Lighthouse
Gill Bird
The Lighthouse always intrigued me, even when I was a little girl. I was all the more intrigued because it
stood right on top of Belvedere Cliffs, rather than perched precariously on a rock somewhere in the
middle of a swirling ocean: that's where lighthouses belonged didn't they? Where bright lights burrowed
their way through deep dark mists to beckon you home, and ghostly bells rang out into the dark night
warning you to stay clear. And most people definitely did steer clear of Belvedere Cottage.
I loved reading books, so this cosy lighthouse, didn't quite fit the picture I had of Grace Darling rowing
through the night to pluck survivors of Paddle steamer Forfarshire to safety single-handed, but it drew me
like a magnet.
This lighthouse had its own newly white washed cottage to one side surrounded by a pristine white picket
fence. It was just so very peaceful up there, that it was hard to see how it's tranquility could be affected by
any tragedy.
And then of course, there was the Lighthouse keeper himself, or as he preferred to call himself 'the
Captain'. He always stood at the front door pipe in hand smiling. Shouldn't lighthouse keepers be working
on keeping everything spit spot: that light right at the top of the tower for instance? Hasn't I known, he was a Lighthouse keeper, I'd have thought he didn't work at all. Or maybe he'd just lost
heart?
There was something familiar about the woody smell of his pipe though, although I couldn't quite put my
finger on it.
Most of the time he'd stand thinking, gazing out to sea puffing away on an empty pipe, making curious
phutting sounds as his lips clamped round its briar wood. Sometimes that phutting would be accompanied
by the biggest of sighs.
On his head he wore a blue denim Baker boy hat. It was a while before I realised how skilfully he used
the brim to hide away, when his normally smiley eyes were overflowing with tears.
Over the years we got to know one another really well.
When I grew up and eventually married, my visits to the Captain were the one blot on my otherwise
blissfully happy marriage, "Why on earth do you bother with that old crackpot? What's he to you?" Lucas
wanted to know.
But I was always drawn back to Belvedere Cottage, and not even my loving hubby could stop me.
I'd bring some sandwiches and Captain Moses made very strong tea. The cottage was definitely a man's
home: very silent and functional, and devoid of a woman's homely touch, except for one faded black and
white photo of a beautiful young woman with laughing eyes. The picture was always accompanied by a
single fresh red rose, but I knew better than to ask about either.
That is until the Captain was preparing to take his leave. That's when, he finally opened his heart to me.
'Anne and I were made for each other. There was never anyone else for me but her. Money was an issue
of course in those days, so when we made enquiries about the cottage and found it was up for a peppercorn
rent for anyone who would take on the Lighthouse too, we went for it. Life was an adventure in those
days, the sky was the limit for Anne and me, so we'd sit on the cliff top watching the sun go down making
our dreams, gulls cawing overhead, feeling the woosh of their powerful wings spread wide overhead as
they played on the wind. Such joyful times, with all our life ahead of us... Until the night of the storm that
is. If we ever argued it was about the drink. That night was no exception. The storm raged outside our
cottage, and I raged away inside, eventually sleeping the night away in a drunken stupour. The last time
I saw her was through glazed bleary alcoholic eyes. In the morning she was gone too, her body given up
to the raging sea, as she struggled to do something about the ship being battered on the rocks below. A
job I should have done.
"And then Annie," he whispered tears cascading from his eyes, as he looked straight into mine, "They
came to take my tiny baby daughter away from me too. And that baby girl was you."
The one thing which was my saving grace was I was an athlete, I could run All this meant, I was an
outsider, so took to raking long lonely walks out along Belvedere Cliffs on long summer nights when
everyone else was out boozing and hunting for girls. That wasn't the way it was for me or Anne. Anne
choose to spend time up on Belvedere Cliffs too alone.
The Ghost of Yellowstone Lake Dorm
Joanie Chevalier
When I came to work at Yellowstone National Park for the summer, I had no idea
I’d be thinking about ghosts. When I heard that Jenni, a young college-aged
woman from Taiwan, a seasonal resident of the dorm, began crying after hearing
about the ghost in the dorm, I had to learn more.
When you work at Yellowstone, you need to own an RV and live in the RV park,
or you need to live in the dorms. At the Lake General Store, where I’m working,
there is a dorm behind the store for those who don’t own an RV (I own an RV, so I
don’t live there). It’s also the place to go if you are enrolled in the meal program.
The dorm, which was once the Lake General store, was made into the dorm in the
early 1900s. In 1906, a man named Dave Edwards had a heart attack while boating.
His company, EC Waters, buried his body in the Lake area, with the expectation
that they’d exhume his body at the spring thaw. That never happened. As the years
passed, development and road upgrades came along and Superintendent Norris at
the time decided he’d have the tombstone moved, but not the body, to save time
and expense. Asphalt covered up poor Dave Edwards in his real grave.
Perhaps Dave Edwards wants a peaceful final resting place, or is searching for his
tombstone? In any event, apparently, he likes to live his afterlife in the dorm. It is
reported that Dave Edwards loves to make noise in the middle of the night.
Residents wake up in the morning accusing each other of moving furniture and
making a racket. Some claim they have even heard his footsteps.
Some of the residents accept Dave Edwards and call him a friendly ghost. Some,
especially those who come from other countries, are frightened. I have yet to meet
Dave Edwards. But then again, I always walk rapidly to my car after the late shift.
Because it’s dark….and well, just in case Dave Edwards wants to make friends.
No, thank you, Dave!
Left Side Of The Road
Toni Kief
Twenty years ago, I wanted to take my love on a surprise trip for his fiftieth
birthday. He has a passion for south and central America, and I wanted to give him
a different part of the world. I decided on Spain. Before I spent much money, he
made it clear he wouldn’t go. (Note: David is well known for thrift, and even
though he doesn’t have his first dollar he knows where it is.) We spent six more
years together before it ended.
We went our separate ways but came back four years later. So, as David’s sixtieth
birthday approached, I decided I would revisit the best birthday idea ever. I put
even more energy in finding someplace he could love, and would never visit on his
own. I decided on the birthplace of Guinness beer, Ireland. Additionally, I grew up
with a family story that my clan was driven away with the snakes, and the island
called to me.
David acknowledged there was no dodging this gift as I had stuck with the original
plan. All he knew was to bring a passport and pack a jacket. At the Seattle Airport,
he learned of the destination at the gate. I planned with a travel agent, and the
tickets, a booklet of prepaid B & B’s, and a rental car reservation were all in hand.
The only firm plan was the date and location of the flight home.
Hello Dublin, for a two-day pub crawl which nourished his social nature and
ongoing love of music and Irish brew. The morning of our third day, we picked up
the rental car, and I made him drive. We agreed my task was designated screamer
and to remind him of which side of the road to drive on. I was also to search for
turn off possibilities. We would travel with the wind and brochures we picked up
along the way. We headed to county Cork (according to Google, the origination of
the O’Keefe family name.) The landscape was breathtaking, and the ocean often
visible in the distance. David has a passion for nature, and Ireland provided a new
landscape to take his breath away.
Daily, I could call ahead to a Bed and Breakfast, which allowed us to stay in lovely
homes, and share mornings with families and other travelers. It was a trip of
possibilities, no itinerary, and a pocket of Euros.
There were days of castles, and after kissing a well-kissed rock, the weather started
to turn to rain. I thought it was only slightly overcast, but he decided I needed an
umbrella. We are from the state of Washington, and I argued it was cowardly to
hide from the rain. No matter how I objected, I finally picked an obnoxious pink
and zebra number that collapsed to a manageable size I could fit under the car seat.
I still don’t understand why I needed it, but it was his birthday.
The next morning, we were driving southwest watching for the next adventure. It
was mid-afternoon when I noticed the Drombeg Stone Circle on a map. We made a
left and followed the road, to a tidy parking lot. The weather was overcast and a
teasing light rain. Still trying to rebuild a relationship, I gave him a victory as I
unfurled the umbrella.
We walked the short distance to the circle, and my world changed. I had never
heard of the Drombeg Circle, sometimes called the Druid’s Altar, but I knew what
to do. I guided him to the cooking area and pointed out where “we slept.” The
feeling of lying on the ground with a warm hide, and the breath of clan on my neck
embraced me. I led him to the proper way to enter and directed to pause in the
center. We stopped to stand in silence. I could feel untold years slip away and
watched the vista to the ocean. I was alone, and yet with many.
There are seventeen sandstone rocks, all nearly my height, and I filled with
gratitude that this place of spirit still stood. The primary altar still faced the sunset
and sat opposite of entrance stones all warm to touch. It felt of home, though I had
never been to Ireland. The rain was gentle, and I kept the umbrella of the night
before in hand.
After a prolonged walk, David started to go
back to the car. He turned to call after me, and
he watched as I started to leave the sacred site.
The wind caught my umbrella and pulled me
back into the circle. My companion laughed as I
broke free and ran to catch up with him. He
said, “I supposed that was some kind of a big
deal.”
My answer filled with more enthusiasm than even I expected. “Yes! Yes, it really
was!”
We left in silence and didn’t speak of it again, but he began to search for ancient
sites for the remainder of the trip. We saw ocean cliffs, megaliths, the Burren,
Neolithic portal gravesites. We arrived in Shannon in time to drive directly to the
airport. I’m convinced that his birthday present was a gift for us both.
It was after we returned when I researched the circle. I learned of the cremated
remains of a pre-historic boy had been discovered in the center of the circle in
1953. We had stood in silence where he had lain.
David and I are no longer together, but I thank him for the many adventures we
shared. The very best of us was impromptu and cherished in memory, nature,
bawdy stories, and joy.
The Breakers
Eva Pasco
(Newport, Rhode Island) – “The Breakers”: The Grandest of Summer Cottages
The Breakers is one of several mansions of the Gilded Age on Ochre Point Avenue
in Newport, Rhode Island. The grandest of summer “cottages,” it symbolizes the
Vanderbilt family’s social and financial prominence at the turn of America’s
twentieth century.
Newport, Rhode Island’s Bellevue Avenue is studded with opulent jewels—“in a
manor of speaking”:
Signs point to the mansions’ secluded whereabouts along the main fare and side
streets to the sparkle of: The Breakers, Chateau-sur-Mer, The Elms, Green
Animals Topiary Garden, Hunter House, Isaac Bell House, Kingscote, Marble
House, and Rosecliff.
A native Rhode Islander who has made her grand entrance in all of them, The
Breakers remains my favorite. It happens to be the most-visited attraction in Rhode
Island, with approximately 300,000 visitors annually.
An edifice of such magnitude needs an introduction for one to better appreciate the
grandeur from which it sprang—the Gilded Age. This term referenced the process
of “gilding,” intent on ridiculing ostentation adopted by filthy rich industrialists
and financiers such as Cornelius Vanderbilt, lumped with other wealthy
entrepreneurs accused of cheating commoners to make their money.
Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt (1794-1877) established the family fortune in
steamships and the New York Central Railroad, pivotal to the industrial growth of
the nation during the late 19th century.
Grandson, Cornelius Vanderbilt II, became Chairman and President of the New
York Central Railroad system in 1885, and purchased a wooden house called The
Breakers in Newport during that same year. In 1893, he commissioned architect
Richard Morris Hunt to design a villa to replace the earlier wood-framed house
destroyed by fire the previous year. Hunt directed an international team of
craftsmen and artisans to create a 70- room Italian Renaissance style palazzo
inspired by the 16th century palaces of Genoa and Turin.
The Vanderbilts had seven children. Their youngest daughter, Gladys, who married
Count Laszlo Szechenyi of Hungary, inherited the house after her mother's death in
1934. In 1948, she leased the high-maintenance property to the non-profit
Preservation Society of Newport County for $1 a year. The Society bought the
Breakers outright in 1972 for $365,000. The agreement with the Society allows
family descendants to continue to live on the third floor, not open to the public, and
hidden from tourists who explore the rooms below.
A preliminary breakdown of The Breakers:
Costing more than $7 million to build during its construction from 1893-1895, this
cottage/mansion has approximately 65,000 feet of living space. The edge of the 13-
acre estate affords one a breathtaking view of the Atlantic whose waves break
against sea cliffs. One enters the property through sculpted wrought iron gates, part
of a 12-foot high limestone-and-iron fence which borders the property on all but
the ocean side.
Since Cornelius Vanderbilt II stipulated his home be as fireproof as possible, the
structure of the building consists of steel trusses and no wooden parts. The furnace
is situated away from the house. The interior is accented with marble imported
from Italy and Africa, plus rare woods and mosaics from countries around the
world.
The library mantel was purchased from a chateau in France. The Gold Room was
originally constructed in France, disassembled, shipped in airtight cases, and re-
assembled in place in Newport. The baths have faucets for hot and cold fresh and
salt water. This always impressed me!
Open for tourists year round, this architectural marvel enables one to step into the
opulence of high society at the turn of the twentieth century. Slip on the
headphones and tour this magnificent mansion from a bygone era at your own
leisurely pace.
*For your convenience and pleasure, I’ve included a virtual tour of The Breakers
for you to enjoy, surrounded by the comforts of home (4:56 minutes).
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dDiKRA6YAKo
The Huron Suite
By Elicia Raprager
“Where on the island are you guys staying?” My boyfriend and I were buying tickets to ride the
ferry to Mackinac Island.
He looked at me. “Can you go to the car for a moment? I want it to be a surprise.”
I smiled and walked out of earshot. He had to have booked the Grand Hotel. Why else would he
keep the hotel a secret?
My boyfriend quietly told the ticket master. He smiled widely and told us to have a great stay. It
was July 17th, 2010. We were celebrating our first anniversary in one of my favorite places from
childhood. My boyfriend, Christopher and I had crossed the Mackinac Bridge several times to
travel home to visit his family. Our trip was the first time he stepped foot on the island.
It was warm but overcast. When we arrived on the island, a horse-drawn carriage took us to the
Grand Hotel. That sly guy. We’re going to stay at the Grand Hotel! We passed it during the ferry
ride. It stood out as a massive, regal, white building against the surrounding greenery.
When we checked in, we were told we were upgraded to a suite. Christopher and I looked at each
other with satisfying smirks. We walked down a dimly lit, green hallway. At the end, was a
pristine, green door with ornate molding at the top. As we entered, I was astonished. There was a
marble side table, a four post bed, and glass french doors that revealed a balcony. I was taken in
by all the sights and I was oblivious to the long, thin box set on the coffee table.
Christopher guided my attention toward it. There was a small envelope on the box that read “Ms.
Chris Raprager”. I nervously giggled and actually thought it was a gift for his mother for a
moment.
“It’s for you. Open it.” I lifted the lid and was in awe of the beautiful roses. Having only been
given flowers by one boy before him and my father, I was uncomfortable for a few moments.
The roses were pink on the inside with white petals on the outside. His loving mother helped
pick them out. She helped with most of the trip planning too. I was and still am very fortunate.
“They’re Esperance roses.” He told me.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you.” I gave him a soft kiss on the lips.
I set down the flowers and checked out the view with my boyfriend. We walked through the
french doors onto the balcony. Over the railing, we could see one of the Great Lakes was a short
distance away. I spotted a quaint outdoor dining area. Each table had red and white umbrellas.
“The umbrellas are targets for the seagulls.”
“How romantic.” Christopher sarcastically replied.
“Sorry.” I giggled.
After an adventurous day of exploring the sights and shops of Mackinac Island, we returned to
the hotel. We swapped our casual clothes for our formalwear. I wore a pink floor length dress.
He wore a sharp black suit with a lavender dress shirt. As we headed to dinner, the hotel
photographer offered a complimentary photo session. We accepted. Those photos were one of
our most cherished souvenirs.
We had a splendid five-course meal in the formal dining hall. The hall was divided by white,
mirrored columns. Joyous laughter and celebratory applause broke out behind those columns. A
newlywed couple was surrounded by happy guests at their wedding reception. Christopher and I
looked at the couple and looked back at each other once more. Our eyes locked and we shared
expressions of mutual happiness.
I gave my boyfriend his anniversary card. He read it and smiled the widest, anyone had
witnessed. I knew the evening would be special.
We returned to the balcony and gazed at the lavender sky. It was close to the same color as
Christopher’s shirt. I gave Christopher his gift. He carefully unwrapped the tissue paper and
pulled out a sterling silver necklace.
“This is very nice. Thank you, sweetie. Are you ready for your gift?"
I nodded yes.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black box. As he opened it, the question left
his mouth, “Will you marry me?”
I nervously laughed. “Yes”. Air moved from my chest to my stomach and back to my chest. I
gasped and giggled. “Yes!”
To this day, Christopher likes to tell people I laughed in his face. Each time, I say I was in shock
and awe. It was nervous laughter.
The engagement ring sparkled beautifully and had a timeless look. As a set, the center stone was
flanked by two diamonds on the wedding band.
“It might be a little big. The standard size is seven and a half.”
Christopher attempted to place it on my ring finger. My finger was much too slender for it. He
tried my thumb and the ring slid off that too.
We embraced and headed inside to share our exciting news with immediate family and close
friends. My parents had already known. Before our trip, he took them to dinner and asked for
their permission. It was hard to believe Christopher just proposed to me. I felt like we were going
to wake up from a beautiful dream.
There was a knock at the door. "Room Service."
Christopher opened the door. A woman with a drink cart and bottle of champagne greeted us.
"Thank you, but we didn't order anything."
Room Service apologized and left. Hearty laughs rang from the room next door. Maybe the
neighbors overheard Christopher’s proposal and sent room service to celebrate. That was nice of
them. Neither of us was 21 or had alcohol. My fiancé and I laughed together as euphoria washed
over us.
We’ve been happily married for seven years. In July, we will have been in love for ten. One of
our biggest milestones happened at the Huron Suite in the Grand Hotel.
Share a smile. Stay inspired.
THE STONES
by Jane Jago Dermot and his brothers had been diggers all their lives. They earned their living digging, but they also dug for fun. Thus it was that the summer solstice saw them underground on The Plain setting to rights some tunnelling that was in more than the usual disrepair. They were making good time so they stopped for a supper of doorstep sandwiches and ochre coloured tea with condensed milk from Erkie’s thermos. When they finished, Dermot, who was a being of few words, belched and cocked a thumb at the workings. It was a goodish while later when their pickaxes hit rock. Or, to be more accurate, they hit one rock that stood smack in their way. It was a big one and seemed to have been driven right through the workings. Erkie give it an experimental shove and it rocked slightly. “It’s as loose as a rotten tooth,” he grunted. “Do us take ‘n out?” They looked to Dermot who licked the rock and sniffed carefully around the soil at its base. For a minute he frowned, as if trying to call something to mind, then he shrugged his meaty shoulders and gave Erkie and the lads an upward pointing thumb. They set to work, scrabbling and scrooging in the dirt. To the uninitiated their approach would have looked shambolic, but there must have been some science involved, as the stone slowly began to list to one side. “Aisy do it boys,” Erkie recommended, “us don’t want ‘n down here in the tunnel with we.” The wisdom of this was generally acknowledged and the work slowed to a snail’s pace.
Above ground in the predawn darkness the men in white robes danced around the stones. The Henge had been there since before the ancestors of their ancestors, but the Druids still came there on certain nights to enact their rituals and pray for the souls of those who had already gone to the God. As the sun began to rise the dancers felt movement beneath their feet. This was not something they had ever known before and one by one they grew still and a little afraid. As the light reached the standing stones they watched, with a sense of horror that reached deep into their souls as the giant that was the king stone rocked on his foundations and began to tilt drunkenly. The High Druid would have rushed forward but his acolytes held him back by main force. It was as well they did, because there came a sort of a sucking sound from the bowels of the earth and the stone that had stood proud for millennia fell to one side with an earth-shattering crash. As it hit one of the sarcen stones it cracked along its mighty length and dropped to the greensward in two sharp-edged pieces. In the absolute silence that followed this disaster a brown face poked its way out of the earth beside where the stone had stood and a pair of bright, brown eyes blinked in the dawn light. Dermot took in the scene of devastation, the broken stone, the weeping druids, and the rising sun that no longer lit the king stone in glory. He was so moved that he used up two days’ worth of words in one go. “Oh bugger,” he said, before disappearing into the tunnel and signalling his crew to get back to work.
A Little Piece of Heaven
Trisha J. Kelly
This is Skiddaw in the Lake District England
I wanted to share my favourite place with you. The Lake District in
England. There is something very special about the whole area, not to
mention how stunning the whole place is; if I could live anywhere, it
would be here.
When I first visited Derwent Water in the lake District, I was just
nineteen years old. In those days, I was in good physical shape and would
think nothing of walking a ten-mile hike. And this was after dancing the
night away in the small hours most nights.
The beautiful mountain in the background of Derwent Water here is
called, Skiddaw. At 931 meters (3,054 ft) Skiddaw is the fourth highest
mountain in the lake district. In addition to its high altitude, the Skiddaw
range has a somewhat grand and majestic appearance, emphasized by
the surrounding flat valleys which isolate it from other Lakeland fells. I’ve
always loved the dip in the centre. For me it is the trademark of this
mountain.
In fact, the Lake District is home to the top ten highest mountains in
England – including Scafell Pike - England's highest mountain, standing at
978m (3209 ft). So, it was going to be no mean feat dressed in footwear
as flimsy as pumps, to even think about walking up Skiddaw. Not to
mention the fact it was a fair walk from the caravan site to even get to it,
you can see how far it is and I was situated somewhere behind those
trees!
I can’t recall how many hours it took to reach the top, probably all
morning. It is deceiving, because when you’re up close, there are many
routes, hills, sheep, cycle tracks. Cyclists can take three hours. All uphill,
but back then I found it an adventure. I wasn’t wrong. I will never forget
reaching the top and just sitting, drinking in the views. When I sent a
postcard home, featuring Skiddaw, I told my parents it was like sitting in
heaven. I haven’t changed my opinion on that.
All around on various mountains and walkways were never-ending
tracks disappearing into clouds whichever way you looked. The town of
Keswick below looked tiny. The lake was magnificent. It’s not often I’ve
sat somewhere over three thousand feet up, looking down. Safely of
course, on a grassy plain! As a rule, I hate heights, it wasn’t like that.
My love for the Lake District stemmed from there and a few years later
I returned. For me, travelling along and waiting in anticipation for the
scenery to change from the flatness of the South-East of England to the
sudden dips in the road of the Lake District, marks the start of adventure.
The landscape has similarities to the Peak District or Yorkshire - excepting
they don’t have the vast stretches of water, which complete the picture.
The stone walls in the fields, stone bridges and houses are all part of
the ambience. Nothing compares to showering under this water, which is
so, so soft. There is only one place in the world I would like to visit which
seems to share this beauty and that is the Italian Lakes. This was on the
agenda this year, but as one of our dogs hasn’t been too great, we won’t
leave them behind now.
I managed to be fortunate enough a few years back to take my
children to the Lake District on holiday in 2003. As they were ten and
thirteen at the time we managed to find enough to do for their
entertainment as well as our own. It isn’t all sheep and walks!
Last year I wanted to return. We spent a week on the shores of Lake
Windermere which is equally beautiful. The stay was lovely in a log cabin
with a hot tub and a far more tranquil setting to the one I fell in love with
forty years previously. We had visits from woodpeckers, squirrels and tiny
unusual birds. I’m not sure what they were. I was on a mission though, to
spend one day back at Derwent Water, Keswick. I had to see Skiddaw
again. Alas, my knees had different ideas, long walks are off the radar
now, so I was unable to get as close as I’d have liked. As I toddled around,
I found myself in a mixture of shops, including charity shops.
I couldn’t believe my luck when I found a print of Skiddaw and the
fields in front of it. Not only that, I found the perfect frame. With a
friendly smile and a few kind words, the shop volunteer agreed to take
the print out of the frame it was in, and put it into one I knew would fit it
so well.
Among my holiday souvenirs, I was bringing home a reminder of my
favourite place in the world. Now it sits on our caravan wall and I have a
constant reminder of my little piece of heaven. I doubt I will go back
again. True to form, the picture has grey clouds, which is a common
feature in the Lake District. The temperatures never peak like they do in
our South-Eastern corner. But they don’t have to, it’s all part of the
charm.
Thank you for reading about my favourite landmark. If you have ever
thought of visiting the English Lakes, don’t wait. Google them today and
see how gorgeous they are. When you see the dip of Skiddaw, think of
me sitting at the top! I’ve been very fortunate to visit the Lake District
four times. I’d love to get to the top of Skiddaw again, the mind is willing
at least.
The Grand Canyon Adventure Lisa Post
Some call it a vacation some say an adventure, a once in a lifetime experience to some. For me
it was another day in my life of traveling around the country. I didn't understand until years later
that it was an amazing journey.
At a year old my parents, myself and my brother all took off on the road. My father was never one
to sit still for long. So my mother being 40 at the time and my father 36 they packed up what was
necessary and headed out to the open road. I of course had no clue at the time I was on the trip
of all trips. My father being an entrepreneur decided that joining the carnival was the perfect way
to travel and make money and we would get to see what the country had to offer are little family.
So my life as a carnie began.
Growing up on the carnival grounds was for sure a treat for a child. Cotton candy, candy apples
and free rides. But also included in this were chances to see the whole country and the many
wonders it held. Luckily, I had a mother who loved to write in a journal and my childhood was
kept track of in notebook after notebook. So at the age of 4 one of our spots we set up at was in
Arizona near the Grand Canyon. I was pretty lucky at that age to get an up close look at the
Grand Canyon in all its splendor and beauty. There was no Grand Canyon skywalk or any real
fancy places back then. In my mom’s words it was a big hole in the ground.
To my dad it was an amazing sight. So being so amazing in his eyes he decided that to enjoy it
at its best that he and my brother and I needed to ride 3 or 4 miles to the bottom on mules. Mom
decided on not riding a mule and I would believe that dad had not even suggested it. It just wasn't
her thing. Dad did not back down from an adventure and riding a mule was I'm sure a big
adventure. Now back then a mule ride was definitely not over 100 dollars as it is today. But
whatever the cost my father was for sure going to pay it for this amazing adventure.
I don't recall the ride but I can read my mother’s thoughts which were that it was a crazy idea and
it was going to cost them time on the road getting to our next stop. She was all about the going
and getting there and not the stopping and enjoying the sights so much. Now don't get me wrong
she enjoyed the traveling but in her journals my dad was that guy who wanted to see everything.
The biggest ball of twine, Mount Rushmore. Any type of available sightseeing he was taking is.
Now as carnies we did not make a lot of money I think that worried mom a lot also but dad made
sure we had what we needed food and a campsite to park our trailer in.
I'm sure we made a lot of other stops at the Grand Canyon but this first one documented in my
mother’s journal told the tale of a father wanting to show his kids something that they probably
would have never known was real until then.
We had a lot of trips and seen a lot of sights over the 8 years we were traveling with the carnival.
Taking a boat to the Alcatraz island or seeing Mount Rushmore many trips that were written in
those old tattered journals but when I first read these when my mother died the first trip that caught
my attention was this Grand Canyon trip. How my mother wrote her thoughts but also wrote how
proud my father was to be able to bring his family there. To let his kids enjoy nature at its best.
He was for sure a man that 40 years into his life was not going to let a minute pass by that he
didn't total enjoy what he was doing.
Now also I believe this area was a place my dad held close to his heart. I believe that because
when we finally settled down when I was 8, we moved to Phoenix Arizona, a mere 3 1\2 hour
drive to the canyon. I didn't realize what this lifestyle was until I was older. The fact that I was not
rich in the sense of money or material things but I was rich and blessed with my parents who
wanted to show me the great wonders out there in the world.
Granted, I didn't go to a real school until I was 8 but I was taught the basics reading, writing and
arithmetic on the road and I was able to see what it was like to see nature up close and all the
wonders our country held. Back then in 1976 it was a different time. No cell phones, no computers
just a small family traveling from place to place stopping when we wanted seeing what we wanted.
Mom with her notebooks and Polaroid camera and dad with his sideburns and turned up collar. It
was for sure now that I look back a true adventure of a lifetime for a child my age.
My parents are both gone now but every now and then I pull out those old tattered and torn
journals to read another adventure from my childhood. I close my eyes sometimes and see my
mother and father standing there, dad smiling, mom shaking her head and them both laughing as
we pulled up to another campground or as we found another place to explore for a couple days.
I am always and forever grateful to my parents for the chance to do the things I did and see the
things I seen as a child. I pass these stories on to my children in hopes someday they will take
their families on adventures like these.
Beacon Hill Park - Truly My Favorite Place
Joseph Willson
When my daughter was a young thing, there was nothing she enjoyed more than a good
romp in the park. As with all children, the swings and the see-saw and the many other
contraptions people come up with, geez nowadays there are even miniature rock walls to climb.
No more though are these things made from metal and chains and what not, Lord knows we
could not let a child play with anything that has even a remote potential to harm. Just not
politically correct?
They’re children for Christ’s sake, let them play, scrape a knee, explore and just plain
have fun. There will be more than enough time to worry about the idiocy of other people’s
actions later in life, trust me.
Having said that, not believing anyone has ever referred to this as a landmark before, but
I would consider it such, this is a place that when thought of, for me creates loving memories of
a time past spent with my child when she was young. Interestingly though, from time to time we
still hang out in this park, which in essence- is my reasoning for considering it more of a
landmark than some others may.
Is it a landmark though? Considering James Douglas landed here at Clover Point in 1842
just on the eastern end of what is now ‘Beacon Hill Park’, I guess one could refer to this as a
landmark. Mile ‘0’ of the Trans Canada Highway is also located in the park and was to be the
end of Terry Fox’s cross Canada run that was unfortunately cut short, yet his statue does still
grace this site. I would call this park a landmark for sure. Historically it is former land of the
Songhees First Nations, but that’s another story altogether.
Sure, nobody has spent 14 years carving the faces of president’s into solid rock like that
of Mt. Rushmore yet there is a totem pole so tall it had to be cut in half so planes wouldn’t fly
into it. That’s almost as neat… It’s not a National park either but it does have Heritage
designation from the City of Victoria. For us though it’s the memories it holds. That’s what
makes it a landmark in our minds.
It does remind me of another park I frequented as a child that would also beg the
question, is it a landmark? That being Pinafore Park in Southwestern Ontario. Just on the
outskirts of this park is where that famous elephant ‘Jumbo” unfortunately met her demise
trying to save her baby from being hit by a train. Although the outcome of this incident was not
the best, it stands to say this park would also be deemed a landmark because of this. I remember
it for the lovely yearly family reunions shared by my clan and do hold it fondly within my early
memories much the same as my daughter does of our time in Beacon Hill.
For the two of us it is our own very special ‘landmark.’ As such I had penned the
following ditty to her some years back that brings to mind many happy memories for the both of
us each time we peruse this…
Enjoy.
My favorite place in the sun, My child’s too, she does need a run,
Don’t get me wrong, it always was fun, If not for the throng, it was next to none.
For the love of those baby goats, And of course, an Alpaca or two,
Some days so cold, indeed there were coats, Seems this never got old, for just me and you.
The horses, pot-belly pigs, the turtles and donkey, So many times, the wish of a monkey,
Once stood a swan, unsure on the lawn, Never knew why he commenced to fly. Way up above the majestic Garry Oak,
The nests, at rest, the Great Blue Herons, Some passing by, just running errands,
Everyone just being everyday folks. What I would give for just one more day,
Though my child now, a grown-up young lady, The times so dear, we had in our park, The times we had will never grow dark.
Sounds of the children can still be heard, Though for some others, mine is now grown,
Forever my memories will be shown, Though silently and without a word.
A landmark, a park or simply a shot in the dark of a story for the latest issue of the RAC
magazine? Who knows? What I do know is the memories we have are monumental in our minds
and shall remain close to both of our hearts for the rest of our days. A place where memories are
made.
If that doesn’t count as some kind of a ‘Landmark’, I don’t know what does. Really
though, what’s in a name anyway?
P R O M O T I N G T H E R E A D E R / A U T H O R C O N N E C T I O N
RAC J U L Y / A U G U S T 2 0 1 9
L A N D M A R K I S S U E # 6
S U B M I T F O R S E P T E M B E R
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