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500-words-a-day Group #1214629 |
| A 500 a day challenge journal/blog |
| Chapter Three Oh, Lord, Mother was not going to like this. Momma and Daddy usually disagree on anything that reflects on the family’s name. Mother was old South. She disliked slavery. However, Mother believed in a state’s right to govern itself on the loathsome subject. I had a twelve-year-old child’s opinion, and believed owning a man, working him into the ground, and trading his children like cattle is wrong no matter what side of the Mason-Dixon Line we lived. Mother and I did not agree on many subjects, and charity was one subject we often quarreled. Mother believed that charity began at home with the family. As I thought about our differences, I rushed up the stairs to the vast attic with stubbornness and determination blinding me to Mother’s words. I knew exactly what I wanted and where to find it; a huge corner of the attic filled with old trunks and dusty cases. Three generations of Egglefields had lived in the home near Harrietstown, New York and Saranac Lake. Three generations of used clothing was stored in the attic. I knew where extra coats, boots and shoes were stored. “I remember,” said Martha rearranging herself and the blankets covering her frail shoulders, “that I piled the clothing and coats on an old tarp used to cover that old armoire. I cannot for the life of me figure how the men folk moved it up those stairs. Anyway, I dragged that tarp piled high down the stairs, and all the way to the barn.” I offered those used and dusty clothes to Eli’s family. Then, I began handing out coats, hats, shoes, mittens and sweaters. Mother would not be happy, but I felt like I saved the world. When I entered the barn, I started handing a jacket to Micah. Eli’s oldest son started to refuse. I understood his pride. However, he then he stiffly accepted the gift, a heavy gray coat stained with grease on the sleeve. The coat was well worn, but to Micah, the gift was glory. He smiled with unease and thanked me. The other children gathered around me with the excitement of Christmas past and present. I felt a stir of humility watching Eli’s family accept such clothing items with deep and sincere gratitude. I cannot say that I ever felt another’s personal grace and thankfulness like theirs for gifts that many discard as trash. ************************************************************************ Martha Jane watched Harry stoke the fire in the old wood stove. The warmth never reached the corner where she lay, and Martha shuddered as she said, “Mother told me to stay out of the barn. However, my demon, as a child, was curiosity, and Mother never approved of my flippant disregard for her direct instruction. Harry, I walked away from that old weathered barn, and I knew I would hear Mother’s harsh words later in the evening.” Another lifetime’s beginnings flowed from Martha as she told Harry about the day her Father came home from the War Between the States. I remember that day. April skies busted through with warmer winds and a persistent drizzle. The long Adirondack winter became a memory when Father came home with a limp, a crutch, and Eli and his family. *********************************************************************** I remember my Father, John Egglefield, as a straightforward English man, a working man from Cornish, I believe. What I remember most about him is his hands, dried and cracked, from his skill as a shoemaker. The dyes and tanning fluids stripped the softness from his fingers but with the strength needed to tie off moist, waxy sinew into a fancy gentleman’s boot sole. I remember my Father’s eyes, too. I have my father’s eyes, blue-gray with widely spaced black bushy eyebrows. As a child, I played with those eyebrows. First, I smoothed them down, and then I would spike them upwards like two horns protruding from his forehead. I did not recognize his eyes on that day in April 1864. Father’s eyes clouded with pain, stared into a distant place and seemed enveloped with fear. I learned later that his eyes would never lose that fear. He learned to conceal, and seldom revealed his mixture of reality and memories. Father came home with dull gray, thin hair that no longer grew to his collar. I did not recognize my Father’s hair. Father left for the war with soft, wavy hair, a dark oak’s color. I loved when he placed his forehead next to mine. As a young child, I grabbed his ears, but the softness of his hair drew my young fingers through the waves. I would never feel his hair through my fingers, again. Mary, my baby sister never knew Father. Mother was pregnant when Father volunteered in the Army’s New York 1st Infantry. He was a shoemaker, and a farmer who could shoot. The Union Army badly needed both skills in the war effort. Mary shied away from Father the way any young thing shies away from someone new. She clung to Mother’s freshly ironed skirt. Mother would not tolerate Mary’s behavior. Mother’s English manners demanded that Mary stand straight and tall, and that she hold out her hand for a proper handshake. Mary stood bravely, not comprehending fully the nature of the moment, nor the nature of this man called Father. Father took her small hand in his chapped and weathered and calloused hands. His hand trembled slightly, but he would have nothing to do with proper English manners at a time like this. He reached for Mary as a thirsting man reaches for a cup of water. He held her as he dreamed of holding her every day of the soulless and pitiless war. Mother then embraced this man with caring and gentleness. She had waited for his return to the small cozy log home hewn from those rough hands, and the rich Adirondack soul that reminded her everyday. Mother stood ramrod straight while reaching for her husband. Father limped to her with a tiredness only the ancient combatants of old wars understand. Father laid his cheek on her shoulder and cried the tears of a man sensing his own death’s shadow slipping from his heart. George, my older brother, now a man at ten years, walked into the scene with the muzzle loader, powder and shot ready, raised to his shoulder. He didn’t know this man. This man was not the father he remembered. This man was not strong. His father was stern with a mild humor, and a fair but leather wielding disciplinarian. George’s approach did not resemble the English manners he grew to respect. George was a man protecting the women in his life until Mother stepped towards him with her hands raised to him, “George, your father is home.” Feeling confused and betrayed George stared at Mother. At her silent direction, he placed the rifle on the ground, and walked to his father with his hand outstretched as a proper Englishman. George held his chin up, face composed as any gentleman. Shaking the hand of this man who was telling him, “The place looks fine, George, just fine.” Father’s simple words lifted the burdens from the shaking shoulders of a boy bent by a man’s work. AndieK--don't forget "Life is an adventure . . . So write it down & treasure the memory forever." |
I have a lot to write to finish this piece. I am quite surprised at the amount of honesty and soul searching into my writing habits that I took to come up with the following work. I am also surprised how hard it is to keep within the word limits for this particular contest. Once I get to writing, the words seem to stream. Then, comes the editing, and the process starts all over. I see lots of progress in my writing ability, but find that I am never satisfied with my own work. I often write from personal experiences but the words never seem adequate to describe the actual event. I needed to take a break from my actual book, so this was a nice diversion for the day. I believe that may be a process I need to use more often because it seems I am more excited about the book I am writing: “The Goat Lady and Dirty Shirt Harry”. WDC Contest entry—not edited Dear Me: Goal setting contest for those of us who do not periodically set goals. As you know, me, I tend to take one day at a time. The idea of setting goals is a new concept, and the idea of sharing these goals with others is even more of a foreign concept. The idea that I might fail to achieve the aforementioned goals makes me shrink from the task. However, after speaking quite openly to my inner muse, I decided to risk and take courage that writers are the best of reviewers and most understanding of an author’s sensitive ego. With all that said, my first resolution, or goal relates to time management. Calendars, day planners, sticky notes, white boards, corkboard, and personal message devices make me wonder how to organize the time management organizational tools. Which brings me to my next goal, which is office organization. Oh boy! I share an office with my best friend and partner. The contrast between our office organization styles is plainly and painfully obvious. Her office space is neat and tidy. A clean desk, organized files, simple wall décor and no clutter. Me, on the other hand have an Area 51 zone for my office space. I have book shelves brimming over, file cabinets without a file system. My desk is cluttered with pens, pencils, and miscellaneous office gadgets. I have one pile of journals, old Christmas cards and past due contest announcements. Another pile consists of several chapters of my book and other short stories and poems. Actually, they aren’t piled, the chapters, stories and poems are scattered where no man dares to go. And, of course, the obligatory stack of bills rises high from my desktop without any hope of finding the end. Finding self-discipline in my writing career is one goal that I need to define within myself. I need to know what I believe self-discipline represents as a goal in my life. First, I need to keep my buns in my chair. I am easily distracted by the home/office environment with three cats, two Pomeranians, a thirteen year old boy, home and garden responsibilities, and museum board member duties. I have identified three areas for my goal setting: 1. Learn to set goals 2. Organize my time management 3. Optimize my office space (reduce clutter) 4. Use self-discipline tactics in home/office enviro. Now, that I have identified the basics, what is the plan for achievement? AndieK--don't forget "Life is an adventure . . . So write it down & treasure the memory forever." |
| Sergeant of the Patrol Gabriel Horton Broad shoulders with a rolling walk that ate up the miles during a pushed march. He wasn’t afraid to push his men to the point of thirst and hunger to achieve his orders. His men didn’t see him as cruel and uncaring because he carried the same lice and dysentery they did. His mustached face hardened by sun, dirt and gunpowder rarely smiled. The death and tragedy of this war did not escape him. As a volunteer in the Union Army of New York State, 1st Infantry battalion, Gabriel Horton new why he volunteered. As a schoolteacher and private historian, he new the sacrifices being made by the states of the blue lline. He knew the dangers of separation in the north and south. The world waited behind the scenes secretly contributing to the efforts to split a new nation and leave the young south open for invasion and pillaging. The south would be nothing more than a deserted swamp with mosquitoes and malaria when the world was finished with the War Between the States. Sergeant Horton talked and taught his men as they marched keeping pace by the rhythm of his baritone voice. Horton was a natural leader knowing his men needed nourishment for their brains and hearts more than their bodies. He taught them of Aristotle, Copernicus and Leonardo Da Vinci. He taught them to triangulate and read the topography of his maps. He endeavored to educate his men so that he would not lose them because of ignorance. The “schoolteacher” as he was sometimes known recited Shakespeare, Thomas Paine and the Declaration of Independence as a way to free their minds from the toils and tragedies of war. Sergeant carried the souls of every man in his patrol as he carried the souls of his family. The family he held close to his heart survived without him for the last four years. The New York homestead in ____________ consisted of his small farmhouse, hay barn, hay fields and orchards. His wife, blonde and buxom, kept his mind from the war when he allowed himself a few moments. The children she raised on her own for now were his pride and joy. He waited impatiently for the time he would walk through the front door of his home and breathe. Three red headed boys blessed with hair of his ancestors worked beside their mother until the day of his return. The boys practiced many of the old Ireland sports such as jousting from their stick ponies, sword playing with swords built by their father before his leave, and reading. Whether his father was present or not the boys were expected to understand the rudiments of arithmetic, English grammar, German and Latin. The practiced also the art of handwriting. Sergeant Horton believed that a farmer had no need of ignorance. Learning the basics civilized education was always a guarantee against money shortages and crop failures. Plus, a man was never lonely when he read a book during the darkest solitude. The man known as Gabriel Horton’s union cap barely harnessed the curls and frizzes of his knotted red hair. Rarely cutting his hair as his ancestors, Gabriel appeared as a combatant from the fields of Erin. His battle cries heard above the fighting were known throughout the New York infantry. It was said that if Gabe’s war cries didn’t scare the Rebs, the fiery bush of hair did. One thing that always brought the Sarge to his knees was the sight of a young Johnny Reb lieing dead on the battlefield. How many of these children must he kill before the armies withdrew and counted the losses of such young minds. Gabe heard through the grapevine that at least 750,000 casualties were counted and expected more when all was done. Most of the enlisted and conscripted were not privy to such information. The desertion rate was high enough already. But Gabe knew it was a matter of time before the dead children haunted all but that bastard Sherman AndieK--don't forget "Life is an adventure . . . So write it down & treasure the memory forever." |
| Mother and I did not agree on many subjects, and charity was one subject we often quarreled. Mother believed that charity began at home with the family. As I thought about our differences, I rushed up the stairs to the vast attic with my stubbornness and determination blinding me to my Mother’s words. I knew exactly what I wanted and where to find it; a huge corner of the attic filled with old trunks and dusty cases. Three generations of Egglefields had lived in the home near Harrietstown, New York and Saranac Lake, New York. Three generations of used clothing was stored in the attic. I knew where extra coats, boots and shoes were stored. “I remember,” said Martha rearranging herself and the blankets covering her frail shoulders, “that I piled the clothing and coats on an old tarp used to cover that old armoire. I can not for the life of me figure how the menfolk moved it up those stairs. Anyway, I dragged that tarp pile high all the way to the barn.” I offered those used and dusty clothes to Eli’s family. Then, I began handing out coats, hats, shoes, mittens and sweaters. Mother would not be happy, but I felt like I saved the world. When I started handing out the jacket to Micah, the oldest son started to refuse. I understood his pride. Then he stiffly accepted the gift, a heavy gray coat stained with grease on the sleeve. The coat was well worn, but to Micah, the gift was glory. He smiled with unease and thanked me. The other children gathered around me with the excitement of Christmas past. I felt a stir of humility watching Eli’s family accept such clothing items with gratitude. I cannot say that I ever felt another’s personal grace and thankfulness, again. ___________________________________________________________________ Addendum: Chapter One The Goat Lady The Martha Jane Allison-Reinke, the“Goat Lady” was an embarrassment to the agricultural community. The small town eccentric lived front and center in downtown Victor, Montana known as the Queen City of the Bitterroot Valley in western Montana. Martha became the “Goat Lady” as the result of her menagerie of animals, particularly the goats. Now, the reader must understand that stories evolve and shift to meet the storyteller’s needs. The stories of Mrs. Reinke’s goats survived almost a century of telling. Mrs. Reinke’s property lay on the main road through the valley, and across the street from the fire station. Martha loved animals and collected them as another collects stones. Goats create foul odors and putrous ground which creates an odor that wafts through an entire countryside. As the story goes, one of her goats escaped his pen and was seen wandering through the streets of downtown Victor. Victor, considered quite prosperous at the time, bragged of a bank, mercantile, opera house and many more establishments. Of course, in a small agricultural community, Victor Hardware was the place for fellows to gather for a chew or nip of whatever was passed around. On this particular day, that old goat walked right up to the gentlemen in front of the store, took an instant dislike to one feller. The goat reared back on his hind legs and head butted the unsuspecting feller right through Mr. Mittower’s new plate glass window. The goat squared off with the rest of the gentlemen, found no takers, and wandered up the street to sample the newly introduced knapweed. The next day that same goat took into its head to visit the same street at the same time. Mr. Mittower reportedly took a shotgun and ended the goat’s life right on the Main Street of Victor. Martha Jane was furious. She demanded payment for the loss of her goat which was with her from the time she moved to Victor. Mittower claimed he wasn’t the culprit that shot her goat. Martha Jane scurried away with indignation in every step. Mr. Mittower did well not to laugh as Mrs. Reinke left his store. As he glanced out the window, her bull of questionable parentage followed right behind. The sight of the tiny woman and the monstrous bull following her set tongues to talking. After the incident with the goat, Mrs. Reinke was referred to as the goat lady when her name was mentioned. AndieK--don't forget "Life is an adventure . . . So write it down & treasure the memory forever." |
| Chapter One—insert Martha Jane Egglefield, eighty-year-old matriarch of Bitterroot Valley pioneer women, reminisced about the milestones and stepping stones of her life. She felt old and tired as she lay on the filthy divan carried over from her once proud mansion on Adirondack Street. Hamilton, Montana, a town that owed the New York flavor of street names to her followed the usual pattern of granting men the honor as founding fathers. “What about us founding mothers?” “I planted Hamilton as much as that robber baron, Marcus Daly.” “Here I am dieing in this god forsaken town of Victor with a nickname like the “Goatlady” when I could be dieing in the comfort of my bedroom in Hamilton. Where in the hell did those people come up with the name “Goatlady”? “Dirty Shirt” Clark listened as he added coal to the stove. He knew all of Martha’s stories and loved her rascally reminisces as much as she thrived on the retelling. George, a gentle hearted, but slow speaking odd job laborer, gave Martha all the time she needed to tell her life story. He is a patient man, and he loved Martha Jane Egglefield. Chapter One—insert Father’s trusted friend and comrade, Eli, widower and father of six, recounted the horror that fixed his blue gray eyes on the shaft of his muzzle loader. He told of the men and the brave efforts to save Martha’s father. He told of the young boy’s dieing eyes filled with a child’s fear and desperation. As a young undisciplined child, I listened to every word. I was enthralled with the idea that a boy my age tried to kill my father. I was twelve and could not climb the rope to the barn much less fire a muzzle loader intent on killing. Jeb’s life, filled with responsibility at a young age placed a burden on my heart that I never released. Malachi Baker was beside his friend when he went down. The grief shook in his hands as he gathered Jeb in his arms. All he said as he carried him from the battlefield was that he needed to get him home before dark. That was his mamma’s rule, children need to be home before dark. While Malachi walked through scorched fields, he remembered his boyhood friend, and the lessons learned together. Another Chapter One—insert Many of the names used in this book are authentic. Some were pioneers ahead of their time. Many were truly folks out to make a dollar in whatever fashion it took. However, most of the plot is fictional, some written with literary liberties gained from word of mouth, and other information from the author’s love of history and storytelling. My intent is to entertain without harming or insulting the good people of any state, county or city. My true love is Montana and the continuing growing pains that started well before the names and places mentioned in this novel. Best regards, Andrea Chapter Two Jeb and Malachi Jeb and Malachi grew together as friends through the hard work of farms and fields. Jeb, blonde and freckle faced, turned ten years old when the war began. Malachi, was tall, strong and fourteen. He worked for Jeb’s daddy as a field manager. He felt privileged to have gained so much trust from a white man at his age. When Jeb first saw Malachi, he thought that Malachi was a grown up man. Malachi swung a sickle with smooth, wide swathes. Malachi never missed a beat as he swung the sickle over his head while humming. Malachi loved music and believed the rhythm of the Father’s earth was in the rhythm of a song. Instead of walking up to the young man and shaking his hand, Jeb picked up the roundest, smoothest rock the he could find. Jeb leaned back on his right foot and threw the rock at the feet of this big man. Before Jeb could run five paces, Malachi swung his sickle like a cricket bat and sent the stone back to Jeb. The stone made contact with the center of Jeb’s forehead, which instantly began to bleed. The blood was dripping from his forehead into the field like the giant raindrops of an early spring rainstorm. Malachi, feeling miserable and responsible, scooped young Jeb into his arms and carried him to his father’s house across the field. As soon as Jeb’s mother saw all the blood, she asked Malachi to take Jeb up to his room. She said it in a voice so calming that Malachi could not believe he heard it from a southern woman. Following that day, Jeb and Malachi shook hands in the old southern tradition, and then went fishin’. Malachi thought about the catfish they caught, and the big fish stories Jeb could tell. Jeb’s storytelling was legend in his family. Sitting around in the evening listening to Jeb tell about some critter that wrestled for his lunchbox in the back forty was all the entertainment necessary in a world of war. When Jeb and Malachi worked alone in the fields or lounged on the riverbank, Jeb talked about the war. In Jeb’s young mind, all he comprehended was the glory and honor of war. Fighting for the South seemed the worthiest cause he could imagine. Slavery and state’s rights were ambiguous smokescreens lit by politicians disguising the war in terms for the uneducated and ignorant. The only good reason to fight as far as Jeb was concerned was to protect his family and the farm. That was honor. AndieK--don't forget "Life is an adventure . . . So write it down & treasure the memory forever." |
| The Goat Lady and Dirty Shirt Harry Chapter One I remember the day I met Eli’s family, six children shivering in the barn, dirty jeans and torn shirts. Eli, exhaustion exuded from his blue-gray intelligent eyes, was the man who saved my father’s life in the War. The Lincoln-esqe black man fought beside my father at the end, in ravaged fields of Sherman’s destruction. He witnessed terrible physical mutilations, and inhumane humiliations of a proud southern aristocracy. The tearing of my father’s leg, however, from a stray musket ball dealt by a twelve-year-old boy who wore a blood stained Confederate cap, was the carnage Eli remembered most. The Sergeant of the patrol’s reflexes dictated the death of an unknown freckle faced boy’s life. The Sergeant moved forward and crouched beside the fallen young man. The big boned, husky man dropped to one knee, and closed his eyes for the briefest moment. He touched the young man’s hand, and then searched through his pockets for information he could pass on to a family that would grieve for their lost son. The boy’s life was unnoticed by everyone but the Sergeant and Eli on that day. In his short life, the boy was Jeb Stuart Higgins. Jeb was a farmer’s son, who learned to hunt game for the dinner table, fish for fun, and plow fields for the cotton he would help plant and pick for his family’s meager survival. He was not aristocracy, or a political adversary. He was the son of a farmer who tilled his fields along with his hired hand, Malachi. Eli attended to my father. The ball, lodged in the big muscle of his thigh, ripped and exploded a hole the size of Eli’s fist. Blood, dark and ominous, flowed freely through Eli’s fingers as he pressed his dirty shirt into the wound. Eli screamed for help. He knew the officers watched from a distance. A black man in a white patrol was unusual. A black man who attended to a white man was also a rarity. Eli continued to scream for help as he tied a rough field dressing to his friend’s leg. His friend laid in muck from yesterday’s rain.. Blood was everywhere, but it continued to stream. The medic (?) skilled in tourniquets and the use of morphine dammed the bleeding, and eased the pain. Then, he was off to the next of the dismembered or dead without a word of hope to Eli or my father. The medic survived in a constant state of anesthetized fear. Hope died the first year of his conscription. Now, Eli’s friend began to shake as if the New York wind followed them south. With a wise man’s common sense, Eli covered my father with his blanket while he yelled for help from his patrol, and more blankets. Father was a well-liked man. Several men in his patrol offered blankets including the war weary Sergeant. The Sergeant felt responsible for all his men. He felt the loss on his broad shoulders. If he saved one man with a scratchy wool blanket, then it was one less condolence letter he would write to a family. Finally, after the officers watched the scene for long enough, the major ordered a physician to my father’s side. The man thinning hair, and pale face looked at my father’s leg. Recently conscripted, the doctor wasn’t accustomed to such destruction of a man’s body. He quickly ordered Eli to remove my father to the hospital tent. Eli and his patrol cradled him to the hospital in their blankets while wading through knee-deep mud. When I think about the war toughened men who carried my father to safety, my heart swells with pride for my father and the men. I can only imagine how my father’s bravery and kindness helped men through the mask of Hell called war. Father left blood, friends and part of his soul on the battlefields of the American Civil War. During those scarce moments when he could write home, he wrote of his chains. Reading between the lines, I knew he felt the way of a slave, too. He walked the blue Union line, obeyed orders from officers and submitted to another man’s morality. AndieK--don't forget "Life is an adventure . . . So write it down & treasure the memory forever." |
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