This book was a combination of ideas. I'd watched a robot some years ago on the Today show that was going to be used to do house work. This robot didn't have human features like Hover Hill, but it gave me the idea for a story. Next was a Cinderella coach at an Amish carriage sale. I took a picture of the coach and was trying to think of a way to incorporate it in the story so I could use it on the cover of a book. First I entered the Hover Hill short story in a contest. I showed a friend the story. She loved Hover Hill's attitude and said this would make a good book, but I needed to add romance. Romance was what sold books. Of course, she was prejudice. Romantic stories were what she read. I decided if I were to use the Cinderella Coach on the cover to which I added bows, I had to have a romantic story to go along with the woman and robot. So what came of all that was the book Christmas With Hover Hill. Since I had become very familiar with the small southern Iowa town of Wickenburg, Iowa where Nurse Hal and her Amish family live, I used that as the town that Elizabeth Winston chose to hide in with her obnoxious robot. That's where she meets a friend of Nurse Hal's husband John Lapp named Bud Carter. Try this romantic story written with the holidays and love in mind and enjoy it. Synopsis for book Elizabeth Winston grew up not caring about Christmas. This Christmas is going to be much worse than the holidays she and her brother, Scott, shared with her divorced parents. Her former boyfriend, Steven Mitchell, showed up to pester her about renewing their relationship now that his marriage has ended and Elizabeth vows that is not going to happen. Elizabeth always looks forward to sharing Christmas with her brother, Scott, but he says he won't be able to spend Christmas with her this year. He has a business trip. His present for her is an expensive and obnoxious robot house man by the name of Hover Hill that he says will make life easier for his sister. Just her luck to be stuck with a mechanical man to share the holidays with. To make matters worse, Elizabeth is fit to be tied when she figures out the robot was planted by ex-boyfriend Steven Mitchell to brainwash her into taking him back. Her brother, Scott, betrayed her when he helped Steven by saying the robot was his gift. She's so mad at both men she slips out of town, taking Steven's expensive robot with her and leaving her old life behind only to walk into a new set of problems. She just wanted to hide out for six months, but that isn't easy in small Wickenburg, Iowa. Gossip about her flies faster than the rumors that come out of the Silver Dollar Tavern. Susie, at the Maidrite Diner, bragged to her customers she got a good look at the handsome man that Elizabeth is shacking up with. The minster's wife complained local farmer, Bud Carter, hasn't been to church for a month of Sundays. She wondered what his problem was. Holly, from the Antique Store, said the reason why is Bud's spending more time at the pretty newcomer's house than he is his place. The grocery store checker said Elizabeth acts nervous like she's hiding out from someone. If Steven Mitchell or her brother comes to town looking for her, with all the attention Elizabeth is getting now, she fears all they have to do is ask, and they can get directions from anyone in town to the old Carter house before she makes it through Christmas With Hover Hill. First Chapter Elizabeth Winston drummed her perfectly manicured fingernails on the varnished walnut strip that ran along the top of the couch arm. Why was she so keyed up? Right after dinner, she'd curled up with a book and a glass of wine with the intention to relax. This wasn't working. She didn’t seem to be able to concentrate. She dropped the book in her lap after she reread page forty over and over and still didn't comprehend what she read. That left her nothing to do but finish her glass of wine and think. Surely her job wasn't bothering her. She was always eager to start her day as a literary professor at the university. Although, she should be thankful for her fulfilling profession since her personal life was in a deep rut. That was the extent of her life right now, good job and rotten personal life. She'd faced the blunt facts about that a long time ago. The simple truth was she wanted to spend her evenings alone. Didn't she? Absolutely, she did. A safe and dull life was better than getting hurt by another man again. In what seemed like eons ago, she'd led a much different lifestyle from the sedentary, predictable, daily routine she had now. Her quiet, nonexistent social life formed after Steven Mitchell, a college law professor and computer whiz, left town and her. About then Elizabeth decided if she didn’t want to worry about getting close to another man, she’d be better off not dating. Repeatedly, she turned down offers of a night out until the offers quit coming. On weekdays, she conducted her classes, trying to indoctrinate into the youth of the Midwest the need to appreciate the written word. Evenings, after a quick simple dinner if she could call it that, she planned the next day’s lessons and went over assignment papers. Soon after that, it was her bedtime. Most Saturdays, Elizabeth shopped for necessities and the groceries for the next week in the morning. After lunch, she did the housework. Walking to church on Sunday morning year around was her only exercise. She dined out after services so she’d consume one decent meal a week. She knew her diet of snacks weren’t good for her health, but she didn’t like to waste her time cooking for one. Weekend evenings, Elizabeth usually indulged herself if she didn't have papers to grade. She spent the time curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine. That's when she tried to keep abreast of new novels as well as reading the classics. Once in a while when she shopped at Target, she couldn’t resist the temptation to smuggle home a Danielle Steele or a Nora Roberts romance. She excused her choice of reading material with the idea she needed to be versatile with her reading. Not that this tiny transgression made up for the lack of companionship in her life. It would be nice to have a man around once in a while. Actually, she repeatedly argued with herself that she enjoyed the change of pace reading. Besides, with Christmas closing in on her, she excused, she just didn’t want to concentrate on heavy material. At holiday time, Elizabeth felt depressed by the crowds in the stores. She deemed it a good thing she didn’t have to get out to do any last minute shopping. Early on when she did her shopping, people shoving and cutting other shoppers off with their shopping carts to get to the bargains was the norm. Aggressive behavior like that made her wish for Christmas to be over and done with. That's how much she hated confrontations of any kind. Christmas! Christmas was coming. That thought kept scrolling through her mind. Maybe that’s what had her so antsy. The eager anticipation of spending time with her brother, Scott. He always showed up like Santa Claus reincarnated right down to the ho, ho, ho. She couldn't fathom how he managed all that cheerfulness and good will during the holidays. It wasn't inherited from their parents, but his holiday enthusiasm did rub off on her when he was around. There certainly hadn't been any such holiday cheer when Scott and her were children. All she remembered was the Christmas swaps done by her divorced parents. Not of gifts. Just their children. One year, Elizabeth spent the holiday with her father while Scott stayed with their mother. The next year, the two of them swapped parents. They were always stuck with grownups during the Christmas break and back in their mother's house in time for school. For Scott and her it was a lonely experience. Their overachieving parents were more interested in entertaining friends and business associates than spending time with their children. When they were teenagers, Scott and she vowed when they grew up they would always spend Christmas together without their parents. The door bell buzzed at the same time the grandfather clock chimed eight times, interrupting her concentration. Elizabeth called, “Who’s there?” “UPS delivery man,” came the muffled male voice. Elizabeth peeked out the window. The street light bathed an UPS truck. Didn't those delivery men ever get to go home? She looked through the peek hole. Sure enough a man in a brown suit was staring at the door. Beside him was a six feet by four feet cardboard box. Elizabeth opened the door and pointed at the box. “I didn't order anything that large. What is it?” “No idea, lady. I just deliver. Your address is on the box so it's yours. Sign here,” he said briskly, shoving a clipboard at her. “It looks heavy.” Elizabeth sized up the box. “Could you carry it in for me?” “Sure thing.” The man tipped the carrier up and tugged the box inside. He stopped and slid the box off just far enough in the room that the door would close. “There you go, lady. Have a good night and Merry Christmas.” “Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too.” Elizabeth shut the door and turned back to the box that stood a foot taller than she was. An envelope was taped next to her address. She ripped it out of the clear packing tape and tore it open. Dear Beth, It would seem my protests for you not to work so hard and have more fun have fallen on your very deaf ears so I have a Christmas present for you that you can’t possibly resist. Please open the box for further instructions. I’ll be seeing you soon. Merry Christmas, Love, Scott Elizabeth brought a sharp knife from the kitchen and sliced down one corner on the front of the box. She finished cutting the other corner and across the top, stuck a finger in the slit and pulled out. The cardboard slab fell to the floor. Her mouth gaped open. She stood transfixed for a moment, staring in the box cavity. Once her initial surprise was over, she backed up. “Who ---who are you?” Her gift, from her brother, was a blond haired man in black slacks and a long sleeve, blue dress shirt. His eyes were closed as if he was asleep. He didn't move. In fact, he didn't appear to be breathing. Elizabeth stepped back in front of him. “Hey, wake up,” she snapped, shaking his right shoulder. His shoulder was very cold and hard to the touch. She jerked her shaky hand away and patted her thumping chest. Her gaze fixated on the man as she took a deep breath. How awful is this? Why would Scott think it was a good idea to send me a dead man in a cardboard coffin? He felt as if he was in full rigor mortis already. This wasn't a Christmas gift. It was an awful hoax. “My brother has a very sick, weird sense of humor,” she mumbled in a trembling voice. “Wait until I get my hands on him.” Taped to the chest of the inanimate stranger was another envelope. Elizabeth reached out and snatched it. She backed across the room and leaned against her bedroom door facing. That was as far as she could get from the box and still keep an eye on the body. Scott better have an explanation in this letter that makes sense, she thought as she ripped open the letter. Merry Christmas Beth, By now you have met Hover Hill, the robot. I promise once you liven him up he's great company. He’s the perfect Christmas gift from me to help you take care of yourself while you work. No end to his house boy talents; cooking, laundry and housekeeping. Perhaps, you might find more time to socialize with friends while Hover Hill holds down the fort at your apartment. I found Hover Hill at an experimental electronic show in Las Vegas last week. By the way, HILL stands for helper on lower levels. That's because he doesn't climb stairs without help. I don’t want to hear about the expensive price tag on Hover Hill. If he works out for you, it will be worth every penny he cost me to know that I don’t have to worry about you. Now just find the switch in the middle of his back and turn the robot on. No more explanation needed from me. He will take care of that. Enjoy my Christmas gift. Love ya, Scott Elizabeth eased behind the couch to study the robot from a safe distance. He looked so real and so lifeless. Scott’s letter slipped from her fingers to the carpet as she edged around the couch toward the box. She probably should feel foolish for thinking her brother would send her a dead man for a gift. Wait a minute! Jumping to that conclusion wasn't all her fault. She had a right to be angry. Scott should have given her a heads up that the body was a robot. It would have saved her from being scared out of her wits. Of course, he knew if he explained ahead of time she wouldn't accept his gift. The idea raced through her mind, What am I going to do with this robot? This apartment is barely large enough for me. I really don't need him. I don't even want him in my way. Elizabeth poked his cold arm, hanging limply by his side. Quickly, she drew her hand back. He still seemed all too real and too much like a dead man. Finally, Elizabeth raised the right arm toward her and gently tugged on it. Hover Hill leaned slightly forward. That wasn't a good idea. He'd fall out of the box if she pulled on him again. She reasoned, he stood a head taller than her. He probably weighed too much for her to stand back on his feet by herself. No way did she want to put in a call to the apartment manager for help. She'd have to try to explain what she was doing with this handsome, lifelike man in her apartment. Anything she said would probably sound like fabricated excuses to that perverted man. He reminded her of the dirty old man on Laugh In. She didn't have any more to do with him than she could help. She glanced behind the robot's shoulder. Taped to the back of the box was a garment bag. She eased down the zipper and noted the hanger held three shirts in various colors and slacks to match. Great! Scott had given her a man size Ken doll complete with wardrobe. She didn't have any intention of undressing and redressing this all too real looking robot. She'd add that to the growing list of news flashes for Scott when she demanded he take back his Christmas gift. Making a quick search for the switch, Elizabeth edged her hand along the back of the robot's shirt. She discovered the small lump protruding in the middle of his flat back. She flicked the switch. The whine of the robot's motor revved up instantly. His eyelids fluttered then opened wide. Elizabeth was struck by the fact he had very pretty blue eyes. As the robot took a step out of the box, Elizabeth gasped and staggered backward. With a slight drone to his voice, the robot said, “Thank you for turning me on. I am at your service, Beth.” Elizabeth jumped back. Her legs connected with the couch. She felt herself going down as she flopped backward. She squeaked, “You talk!” Hover folded his hands together in front of him. “I do, Beth. That is just one of my many talents. You are going to find I can be very useful. How may I help you?” “For starters, don’t call me Beth. My name is Elizabeth,” she corrected tersely. Instantly, she felt foolish. She had just admonished a mechanical object. Hover took another step toward her as he explained in stilted words, “To call you Beth was programmed into me. Until I have been reprogrammed differently, Beth is all I can call you. Anything else?” “Yes, you can stay right where you are. Until I figure out what you are, I want you to stay away from me,” she commanded, jumping up. Elizabeth scrambled to put the couch between herself and him. He sounded so lifelike. It made her feel creepy to be alone with this handsome manlike thing. She clarified, “At least until I get used to you.” He stopped and repeated, “I am here to obey you. I will not move until you tell me what to do. How may I help you at the moment?” Elizabeth gave him a good once over. The robot looked strong, but he must be harmless. Scott would never do anything to get her hurt. “What do you want to do?” “Anything you tell me. According to my internal clock it is eight o'clock. That is past your dinner time.” “I've had my dinner already. How do you know what time I eat?” “It has been programmed into me. Are you hungry now? I can fix you a snack.” Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I don't want to eat anything.” “Perhaps just a sandwich so you can see how I work. You need to head me in the direction of the kitchen,” Hover suggested. “All right. Yes, you do that. Go through that door and fix me a sandwich.” She pointed behind him. Hover Hill turned and walked out of sight. He didn't exactly have a zombie gait, but he didn't walk as smoothly as a human being. More like someone who had knee replacement surgery. A good reason why he wouldn't be able to climb stairs. Quickly, she grabbed the telephone and dialed her brother’s home phone number. He had to come get this creature out of her house right away. This too real looking robot was freaking her out. Scott’s phone rang and rang. Quietly, Hover appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. “No answer at your brother’s house?” That thing has good hearing! Elizabeth slammed the receiver down on the base. “How – how did you know I was calling my brother?” “I am made of transmitters and a memory computer. The telephone transmits the numbers to me that you just dialed.” “Oh,” Elizabeth uttered. “Perhaps your brother will be home later. You can thank him then.” She gave him a puzzled frown. “Thank him?” “That's right. For giving me to you as a Christmas gift, of course. Now sit down, Beth, and eat this sandwich. It is just peanut butter and jelly I’m sorry to say. You really need to shop for more nutritious food if you expect me to cook better meals and snacks. I can tell by looking in your cupboards that you have not been fixing healthy dinners. That's a good sign you really need my help.” He looked down his nose at her as he set the plate on the coffee table. “What gives you the idea I expect you to cook?” Elizabeth snapped at him, suddenly disliking his condescending attitude. Matter of factly, Hover said, “I’ve been programmed to do healthy cooking for you.” She stared at the ceiling as she gritted out softly, “I’ll wring Scott’s neck for this.” Hover Hill looked at her intently. “That is interesting. Has he a place on his neck to dial phone numbers?” “Ooh, never mind! I’m going to bed now.” Elizabeth hissed in momentary defeat. She edged closer to the robot and started to circle around him. The robot turned slowly to stay facing her. “It is much too early for you to go to bed. Your bedtime is hours away.” He kept turning as she moved. “What are you trying to do?” “Shut you off.” “No need for that. I will power down in the corner of the room until you wake up in the morning. That way if you need help in the night I will be ready.” “I won't need anything from you in the middle of the night,” Elizabeth snipped softly as she reached out toward his back. Gently, Hover pushed her hand away. “I said that I don’t need to be turned off.” He walked over to the corner of the room and turned around with his back tight against the wall. “See. I power down just like this.” He made a soft, whining noise that dimmed to silence as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. Elizabeth kept her eyes on him as she grabbed her sandwich. She whirled around and hurried toward her bedroom. This book was a combination of ideas. I'd watched a robot some years ago on the Today show that was going to be used to do house work. This robot didn't have human features like Hover Hill, but it gave me the idea for a story. Next was a Cinderella coach at an Amish carriage sale. I took a picture of the coach and was trying to think of a way to incorporate it in the story so I could use it on the cover of a book. First I entered the Hover Hill short story in a contest. I showed a friend the story. She loved Hover Hill's attitude and said this would make a good book, but I needed to add romance. Romance was what sold books. Of course, she was prejudice. Romantic stories were what she read. I decided if I were to use the Cinderella Coach on the cover to which I added bows, I had to have a romantic story to go along with the woman and robot. So what came of all that was the book Christmas With Hover Hill. Since I had become very familiar with the small southern Iowa town of Wickenburg, Iowa where Nurse Hal and her Amish family live, I used that as the town that Elizabeth Winston chose to hide in with her obnoxious robot. That's where she meets a friend of Nurse Hal's husband John Lapp named Bud Carter. Try this romantic story written with the holidays and love in mind and enjoy it. Synopsis for book Elizabeth Winston grew up not caring about Christmas. This Christmas is going to be much worse than the holidays she and her brother, Scott, shared with her divorced parents. Her former boyfriend, Steven Mitchell, showed up to pester her about renewing their relationship now that his marriage has ended and Elizabeth vows that is not going to happen. Elizabeth always looks forward to sharing Christmas with her brother, Scott, but he says he won't be able to spend Christmas with her this year. He has a business trip. His present for her is an expensive and obnoxious robot house man by the name of Hover Hill that he says will make life easier for his sister. Just her luck to be stuck with a mechanical man to share the holidays with. To make matters worse, Elizabeth is fit to be tied when she figures out the robot was planted by ex-boyfriend Steven Mitchell to brainwash her into taking him back. Her brother, Scott, betrayed her when he helped Steven by saying the robot was his gift. She's so mad at both men she slips out of town, taking Steven's expensive robot with her and leaving her old life behind only to walk into a new set of problems. She just wanted to hide out for six months, but that isn't easy in small Wickenburg, Iowa. Gossip about her flies faster than the rumors that come out of the Silver Dollar Tavern. Susie, at the Maidrite Diner, bragged to her customers she got a good look at the handsome man that Elizabeth is shacking up with. The minster's wife complained local farmer, Bud Carter, hasn't been to church for a month of Sundays. She wondered what his problem was. Holly, from the Antique Store, said the reason why is Bud's spending more time at the pretty newcomer's house than he is his place. The grocery store checker said Elizabeth acts nervous like she's hiding out from someone. If Steven Mitchell or her brother comes to town looking for her, with all the attention Elizabeth is getting now, she fears all they have to do is ask, and they can get directions from anyone in town to the old Carter house before she makes it through Christmas With Hover Hill. First Chapter Elizabeth Winston drummed her perfectly manicured fingernails on the varnished walnut strip that ran along the top of the couch arm. Why was she so keyed up? Right after dinner, she'd curled up with a book and a glass of wine with the intention to relax. This wasn't working. She didn’t seem to be able to concentrate. She dropped the book in her lap after she reread page forty over and over and still didn't comprehend what she read. That left her nothing to do but finish her glass of wine and think. Surely her job wasn't bothering her. She was always eager to start her day as a literary professor at the university. Although, she should be thankful for her fulfilling profession since her personal life was in a deep rut. That was the extent of her life right now, good job and rotten personal life. She'd faced the blunt facts about that a long time ago. The simple truth was she wanted to spend her evenings alone. Didn't she? Absolutely, she did. A safe and dull life was better than getting hurt by another man again. In what seemed like eons ago, she'd led a much different lifestyle from the sedentary, predictable, daily routine she had now. Her quiet, nonexistent social life formed after Steven Mitchell, a college law professor and computer whiz, left town and her. About then Elizabeth decided if she didn’t want to worry about getting close to another man, she’d be better off not dating. Repeatedly, she turned down offers of a night out until the offers quit coming. On weekdays, she conducted her classes, trying to indoctrinate into the youth of the Midwest the need to appreciate the written word. Evenings, after a quick simple dinner if she could call it that, she planned the next day’s lessons and went over assignment papers. Soon after that, it was her bedtime. Most Saturdays, Elizabeth shopped for necessities and the groceries for the next week in the morning. After lunch, she did the housework. Walking to church on Sunday morning year around was her only exercise. She dined out after services so she’d consume one decent meal a week. She knew her diet of snacks weren’t good for her health, but she didn’t like to waste her time cooking for one. Weekend evenings, Elizabeth usually indulged herself if she didn't have papers to grade. She spent the time curled up on the couch with a book and a glass of wine. That's when she tried to keep abreast of new novels as well as reading the classics. Once in a while when she shopped at Target, she couldn’t resist the temptation to smuggle home a Danielle Steele or a Nora Roberts romance. She excused her choice of reading material with the idea she needed to be versatile with her reading. Not that this tiny transgression made up for the lack of companionship in her life. It would be nice to have a man around once in a while. Actually, she repeatedly argued with herself that she enjoyed the change of pace reading. Besides, with Christmas closing in on her, she excused, she just didn’t want to concentrate on heavy material. At holiday time, Elizabeth felt depressed by the crowds in the stores. She deemed it a good thing she didn’t have to get out to do any last minute shopping. Early on when she did her shopping, people shoving and cutting other shoppers off with their shopping carts to get to the bargains was the norm. Aggressive behavior like that made her wish for Christmas to be over and done with. That's how much she hated confrontations of any kind. Christmas! Christmas was coming. That thought kept scrolling through her mind. Maybe that’s what had her so antsy. The eager anticipation of spending time with her brother, Scott. He always showed up like Santa Claus reincarnated right down to the ho, ho, ho. She couldn't fathom how he managed all that cheerfulness and good will during the holidays. It wasn't inherited from their parents, but his holiday enthusiasm did rub off on her when he was around. There certainly hadn't been any such holiday cheer when Scott and her were children. All she remembered was the Christmas swaps done by her divorced parents. Not of gifts. Just their children. One year, Elizabeth spent the holiday with her father while Scott stayed with their mother. The next year, the two of them swapped parents. They were always stuck with grownups during the Christmas break and back in their mother's house in time for school. For Scott and her it was a lonely experience. Their overachieving parents were more interested in entertaining friends and business associates than spending time with their children. When they were teenagers, Scott and she vowed when they grew up they would always spend Christmas together without their parents. The door bell buzzed at the same time the grandfather clock chimed eight times, interrupting her concentration. Elizabeth called, “Who’s there?” “UPS delivery man,” came the muffled male voice. Elizabeth peeked out the window. The street light bathed an UPS truck. Didn't those delivery men ever get to go home? She looked through the peek hole. Sure enough a man in a brown suit was staring at the door. Beside him was a six feet by four feet cardboard box. Elizabeth opened the door and pointed at the box. “I didn't order anything that large. What is it?” “No idea, lady. I just deliver. Your address is on the box so it's yours. Sign here,” he said briskly, shoving a clipboard at her. “It looks heavy.” Elizabeth sized up the box. “Could you carry it in for me?” “Sure thing.” The man tipped the carrier up and tugged the box inside. He stopped and slid the box off just far enough in the room that the door would close. “There you go, lady. Have a good night and Merry Christmas.” “Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too.” Elizabeth shut the door and turned back to the box that stood a foot taller than she was. An envelope was taped next to her address. She ripped it out of the clear packing tape and tore it open. Dear Beth, It would seem my protests for you not to work so hard and have more fun have fallen on your very deaf ears so I have a Christmas present for you that you can’t possibly resist. Please open the box for further instructions. I’ll be seeing you soon. Merry Christmas, Love, Scott Elizabeth brought a sharp knife from the kitchen and sliced down one corner on the front of the box. She finished cutting the other corner and across the top, stuck a finger in the slit and pulled out. The cardboard slab fell to the floor. Her mouth gaped open. She stood transfixed for a moment, staring in the box cavity. Once her initial surprise was over, she backed up. “Who ---who are you?” Her gift, from her brother, was a blond haired man in black slacks and a long sleeve, blue dress shirt. His eyes were closed as if he was asleep. He didn't move. In fact, he didn't appear to be breathing. Elizabeth stepped back in front of him. “Hey, wake up,” she snapped, shaking his right shoulder. His shoulder was very cold and hard to the touch. She jerked her shaky hand away and patted her thumping chest. Her gaze fixated on the man as she took a deep breath. How awful is this? Why would Scott think it was a good idea to send me a dead man in a cardboard coffin? He felt as if he was in full rigor mortis already. This wasn't a Christmas gift. It was an awful hoax. “My brother has a very sick, weird sense of humor,” she mumbled in a trembling voice. “Wait until I get my hands on him.” Taped to the chest of the inanimate stranger was another envelope. Elizabeth reached out and snatched it. She backed across the room and leaned against her bedroom door facing. That was as far as she could get from the box and still keep an eye on the body. Scott better have an explanation in this letter that makes sense, she thought as she ripped open the letter. Merry Christmas Beth, By now you have met Hover Hill, the robot. I promise once you liven him up he's great company. He’s the perfect Christmas gift from me to help you take care of yourself while you work. No end to his house boy talents; cooking, laundry and housekeeping. Perhaps, you might find more time to socialize with friends while Hover Hill holds down the fort at your apartment. I found Hover Hill at an experimental electronic show in Las Vegas last week. By the way, HILL stands for helper on lower levels. That's because he doesn't climb stairs without help. I don’t want to hear about the expensive price tag on Hover Hill. If he works out for you, it will be worth every penny he cost me to know that I don’t have to worry about you. Now just find the switch in the middle of his back and turn the robot on. No more explanation needed from me. He will take care of that. Enjoy my Christmas gift. Love ya, Scott Elizabeth eased behind the couch to study the robot from a safe distance. He looked so real and so lifeless. Scott’s letter slipped from her fingers to the carpet as she edged around the couch toward the box. She probably should feel foolish for thinking her brother would send her a dead man for a gift. Wait a minute! Jumping to that conclusion wasn't all her fault. She had a right to be angry. Scott should have given her a heads up that the body was a robot. It would have saved her from being scared out of her wits. Of course, he knew if he explained ahead of time she wouldn't accept his gift. The idea raced through her mind, What am I going to do with this robot? This apartment is barely large enough for me. I really don't need him. I don't even want him in my way. Elizabeth poked his cold arm, hanging limply by his side. Quickly, she drew her hand back. He still seemed all too real and too much like a dead man. Finally, Elizabeth raised the right arm toward her and gently tugged on it. Hover Hill leaned slightly forward. That wasn't a good idea. He'd fall out of the box if she pulled on him again. She reasoned, he stood a head taller than her. He probably weighed too much for her to stand back on his feet by herself. No way did she want to put in a call to the apartment manager for help. She'd have to try to explain what she was doing with this handsome, lifelike man in her apartment. Anything she said would probably sound like fabricated excuses to that perverted man. He reminded her of the dirty old man on Laugh In. She didn't have any more to do with him than she could help. She glanced behind the robot's shoulder. Taped to the back of the box was a garment bag. She eased down the zipper and noted the hanger held three shirts in various colors and slacks to match. Great! Scott had given her a man size Ken doll complete with wardrobe. She didn't have any intention of undressing and redressing this all too real looking robot. She'd add that to the growing list of news flashes for Scott when she demanded he take back his Christmas gift. Making a quick search for the switch, Elizabeth edged her hand along the back of the robot's shirt. She discovered the small lump protruding in the middle of his flat back. She flicked the switch. The whine of the robot's motor revved up instantly. His eyelids fluttered then opened wide. Elizabeth was struck by the fact he had very pretty blue eyes. As the robot took a step out of the box, Elizabeth gasped and staggered backward. With a slight drone to his voice, the robot said, “Thank you for turning me on. I am at your service, Beth.” Elizabeth jumped back. Her legs connected with the couch. She felt herself going down as she flopped backward. She squeaked, “You talk!” Hover folded his hands together in front of him. “I do, Beth. That is just one of my many talents. You are going to find I can be very useful. How may I help you?” “For starters, don’t call me Beth. My name is Elizabeth,” she corrected tersely. Instantly, she felt foolish. She had just admonished a mechanical object. Hover took another step toward her as he explained in stilted words, “To call you Beth was programmed into me. Until I have been reprogrammed differently, Beth is all I can call you. Anything else?” “Yes, you can stay right where you are. Until I figure out what you are, I want you to stay away from me,” she commanded, jumping up. Elizabeth scrambled to put the couch between herself and him. He sounded so lifelike. It made her feel creepy to be alone with this handsome manlike thing. She clarified, “At least until I get used to you.” He stopped and repeated, “I am here to obey you. I will not move until you tell me what to do. How may I help you at the moment?” Elizabeth gave him a good once over. The robot looked strong, but he must be harmless. Scott would never do anything to get her hurt. “What do you want to do?” “Anything you tell me. According to my internal clock it is eight o'clock. That is past your dinner time.” “I've had my dinner already. How do you know what time I eat?” “It has been programmed into me. Are you hungry now? I can fix you a snack.” Elizabeth shook her head. “No, I don't want to eat anything.” “Perhaps just a sandwich so you can see how I work. You need to head me in the direction of the kitchen,” Hover suggested. “All right. Yes, you do that. Go through that door and fix me a sandwich.” She pointed behind him. Hover Hill turned and walked out of sight. He didn't exactly have a zombie gait, but he didn't walk as smoothly as a human being. More like someone who had knee replacement surgery. A good reason why he wouldn't be able to climb stairs. Quickly, she grabbed the telephone and dialed her brother’s home phone number. He had to come get this creature out of her house right away. This too real looking robot was freaking her out. Scott’s phone rang and rang. Quietly, Hover appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray. “No answer at your brother’s house?” That thing has good hearing! Elizabeth slammed the receiver down on the base. “How – how did you know I was calling my brother?” “I am made of transmitters and a memory computer. The telephone transmits the numbers to me that you just dialed.” “Oh,” Elizabeth uttered. “Perhaps your brother will be home later. You can thank him then.” She gave him a puzzled frown. “Thank him?” “That's right. For giving me to you as a Christmas gift, of course. Now sit down, Beth, and eat this sandwich. It is just peanut butter and jelly I’m sorry to say. You really need to shop for more nutritious food if you expect me to cook better meals and snacks. I can tell by looking in your cupboards that you have not been fixing healthy dinners. That's a good sign you really need my help.” He looked down his nose at her as he set the plate on the coffee table. “What gives you the idea I expect you to cook?” Elizabeth snapped at him, suddenly disliking his condescending attitude. Matter of factly, Hover said, “I’ve been programmed to do healthy cooking for you.” She stared at the ceiling as she gritted out softly, “I’ll wring Scott’s neck for this.” Hover Hill looked at her intently. “That is interesting. Has he a place on his neck to dial phone numbers?” “Ooh, never mind! I’m going to bed now.” Elizabeth hissed in momentary defeat. She edged closer to the robot and started to circle around him. The robot turned slowly to stay facing her. “It is much too early for you to go to bed. Your bedtime is hours away.” He kept turning as she moved. “What are you trying to do?” “Shut you off.” “No need for that. I will power down in the corner of the room until you wake up in the morning. That way if you need help in the night I will be ready.” “I won't need anything from you in the middle of the night,” Elizabeth snipped softly as she reached out toward his back. Gently, Hover pushed her hand away. “I said that I don’t need to be turned off.” He walked over to the corner of the room and turned around with his back tight against the wall. “See. I power down just like this.” He made a soft, whining noise that dimmed to silence as he closed his eyes and bowed his head. Elizabeth kept her eyes on him as she grabbed her sandwich. She whirled around and hurried toward her bedroom. The thought for writing a bucket list into the story came from an incident at WalMart. I was in the women's bathroom, trying to use the new fangled soap dispenser after the store remodeled. I pushed all over that dispenser, trying to find a button to get soap. A shopper walks up to the sink beside me. I looked over as her hand filled with soap. I asked, “How did you get the dispenser to work? I can't figure this one out.” She's grinning at me, and I'm feeling foolish for not knowing while she explained that the dispenser is automatic just like the stools and towel dispensers are now. Put your hand under and the soap comes out. I did it and was tickled to see my hand fill with white foamy suds. The helpful and cheerful woman said, “There now you can mark that one off your bucket list. We both laughed as I dried my hands. Suddenly I thought about her remark. I knew what a bucket list was from watching a movie about two old men with a bucket list. Why did that woman think I had a bucket list or that I should need one? Just for the record that was the only time I got that soap dispenser to work. Others must have had the same problem and complained. Anyway I like to think that is what happened. Since then the dispensers have been exchanged for the ones with a lever to push which I understand how to use. Also, for the record, I haven't needed to make out my bucket list yet, but I had a story I was itching to write and using the bucket list for my main character who was ill went well in the story and the title. The year I published the book, a nephew who is quite a poet sent out a poem for Christmas titled A Winter's Pace. I liked it very much so I asked him if I could include it in my book. The title sounds like the book would be sad, but I promise Leona's journey is a celebration of life that will make you have more smiles than tears as you read this holiday book. I'm adding the first chapter to this post. Read it and enjoy with my wish for Happy Holidays. http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Leona%27s+Christmas+Bucket+List https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/296517 http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Leona's+Christmas+Bucket+List?_requestid=257759 synopsis When Leona Krebsbach found out just before Thanksgiving she didn't have long to live, she took charge of her life like she had always done since the doctor thought she might die in a month. She bought a small spiral notepad and titled it Christmas Bucket List. On each page of the notepad, Leona listed something she needed to get done while she still had time. Details like her funeral headed the list. She didn't want to leave anything for her daughters to have to worry about after she was gone. She kept her illness a secret until after Thanksgiving when she had all but one thing completed on her bucket list. Finally, she was as ready to die as she was ever going to get. She called her daughters and invited them to a tea party. Nowwas the time to tell them. At her age with a long life behind her, Leona Krebsbach wished she felt better prepared mentally for the end. She should have been ready to go, because she would be with her beloved Clarence. If only she had managed to atone for that one regretful time that happened so many years ago. If that didn't weigh on her, she knew her mind set would be different, but she couldn't change the past. Even if she wanted to, she didn't have enough time. She reasoned her bucket list wasn't designed to take care of that one regret unless a miracle happened to change Leona's Christmas Bucket List. A Winter's Pace By Shane D. Herman The summer air and springtime flowers have quickly been replaced By that time of year more cold and frigid A kind of arctic place The ice nips at your fingers and bites at your toes As falling snowflakes kiss at your face So light up the tree and hang all the stockings And drape all the holiday lace As Christmas approaches with unbridled cheer And the people shopping make haste It is when friends and family come together as one That makes this a season to embrace So from me and mine to you and yours And everyone else in the holiday race I invite you all to take in the moment As we all move at a Winter's Pace. Leona's Christmas Bucket List Chapter 1 Goose feather size snowflakes glittered in the street lamp's golden glow, floating lazily like crystalline down. The ground outside the basement window of Limestone City, Minnesota's United Methodist Church turned white in a hurry. The scene made Leona Krebsbach imagine angels in Heaven with a wing shedding problem. Suddenly, the elderly woman felt light headed. She leaned her thin frame against the window sill for support and frowned. Please not now. The sinking feeling brought annoyance with it. Here in church of all places. Why couldn't this wait to happen until she was home? Why did she have to be bothered while she wanted to enjoy the winter view? Leona knew full well the weak spell made her face head on, that after years of watching similar scenes, this would be the last time she'd see a first snowfall. She wouldn't stand at this basement window ever again, gazing out at the dead grass between the church and the parsonage as the ground turned white. Out of all the snowfalls in a winter, she aways favored this first quiet, slow snowfall of the season. Quiet except for the banging of the lanyard against the flagpole in the post office yard across the street. Heavy nostalgia built as agonizingly as any pain might in her chest. At least, she hoped that was the cause of the unwanted pressure. With all the twinges she'd had lately, she couldn't be sure these days if she needed to brace herself for the end right away or not. So far the twinges had been false alarms. When the feeling passed, Leona sighed deeply and straightened back up. She took a deep breath and tried to bolster herself to face the fact she had to get ready for far worse moments yet to come. She had already decided she didn't have any intention of immediately taking to her sick bed and going quietly from this world. Not as long as she had the energy left to keep up her winter's pace. No telling how long she would have stood at the window, mesmerized by the gently falling snow, if Pastor Jim Lockwood hadn’t cleared his throat softly. Slowly, Leona turned to face him. The minister gave her a warm smile. He probably wondered why she hadn't left yet so he could lock the church basement exit door and go back home. The rest of the bible study group had cleared out some time ago. Leona admired the dark haired, dark eyed young minister. He was just like the son she'd wanted to give her husband, Clarence, and couldn't. She wished Jim Lockwood could grow old as pastor of this church while her grandchildren needed guidance, but she knew that didn’t usually happen. After a few years, ministers always got the call to go far away to another church. They moved out of the lives of the parishioners that had grown fond of them, leaving the congregation to have to get used to another minister. At her age, Leona knew she was a fine one to talk about getting used to changes. She figured out a long time ago she shouldn't mind changes in everyone else's life if the changes were for the better. In fact, she always looked forward with excitement to the new changes she made in her own life over the years. Like the time when she went back to school at the community college to learn to use a computer so she'd be able to carry a conversation with her grandchildren. She had to learn about the digital age after her grandchildren said her typewriter was as extinct as dinosaurs. These days when she made herself think about the changes ahead of her she wished time could stand still. She knew that was an impossible thing to ask the Lord to do for her, but she still wished just for a short time she didn’t have to face the inevitable. Putting off telling everyone that needed to know wasn't going to make a difference. She was pretty sure if she kept her illness a secret that wouldn't stop her death from happening. That would be a cruel thing to do to her family. She had to suck in how she felt and get up the courage to tell everyone that mattered in her life her days on earth were numbered. The twinges she'd felt lately were just a warning signal to prepare her. Her disclosure better be soon. At her age with a long life behind her, she admonished herself that she should feel better prepared for the end than she did. If only she had managed to atone for that one time she regretted so many years ago. If not for that moment in time, she knew her mind set would be different, but she couldn't change the past no matter how much she would like to do it. No bucket list was designed to take care of a tall order like that one, especially on such short notice like the one she'd been given. Leona gave the minister a wan smile. “You been standing there long?” “Didn’t want to sneak up on you and startle you while you were deep in thought,” he said as he crossed the room to look out the window with her. “You looked very pensive. Are you thinking about anything in particular?” “Several things. Life for one,” Leona said. “I was thinking how the seasons are like my life. I remember with fondness the spring time of my youth with loving parents and siblings. In the summer of my life, I married a wonderful man and raised two great daughters. Sharing the years of fall with a loving husband, that left me too soon, gave me many memories to keep me warm in the winter of my life. I've lived a long time and have been truly blessed thanks to God.” Pastor Jim put a hand on Leona's back as he stared at the snow. “You always manage to have a parable or story to fit the moment. Beautiful outside, isn’t it? God designed nature to paint everything white in time for the holidays. If only the snow covered landscape could stay pristine all winter instead of turning a dirty brown.” Leona chuckled. “I know exactly what you mean, but no way can we criticize the dust that blows in from the fields. That dirty farm land is what makes the income for farmers and businesses around here. Not unless you’re willing to make due with smaller collection plates.” “Smaller collections are a given this time of year anyway. Especially with the way the economy is now. The whole community has had to learn to make do, but we must keep praying that times will get better soon.” Pastor Jim gave Leona a sincere look. “I'm sure you know how to make do better than my generation. You had experiences in your life with tougher times then the rest of us will ever know. Times when you had to make do.” Leona sighed. “I expect that’s right. Make do and do without sometimes, too. That's something younger people today have no idea how it was. If the same thing happened to them, I fear they wouldn't know how to cope with the struggle. During the depression in the thirties, I saved everything, even broken items just in case I had a use for them or needed parts off the junk for later on. Clarence and I were savers just like the Krebsbachs before him and my family before me, the Palmers. My daughters would tell you I still save too many useless things even now when I shouldn't worry about finances. That's why my house has so many cluttered closets, and the outbuildings still hold things that Clarence couldn't bear to throw away. When I was first married, Clarence and I didn’t have money to buy writing paper so I could keep in touch with my parents. They were just two counties over, but we didn't have time to go see them as much as I would have liked. Sometimes, it was a matter of not having enough money in the budget to buy gas for the car. I wrote my mother as often as I could. I made do by tearing pages out of old Sears and Roebuck catalogs. I’d write my letters on the margin. Even then, I still had to sell enough eggs to pay for the envelopes and stamps.” “I’m sure your parents were happy to hear how Clarence and you were getting along no matter what your message was written on,” Pastor Jim assured her. “In those days, faith in the Lord, a good husband, loving family and friends put our struggles into perspective. I always felt rich in ways that counted. That rosy outlook is what kept Clarence and me going and looking forward hopefully to a promising future. That outlook paid off as you can see,” Leona told him. “Well put. I'm working on a Thanksgiving sermon to emphasize that very thing, wise lady. We should all learn to count our blessings just like you had to do in hard times, and I'm sure you still do now. When days are difficult, we have to learn to look forward to better days. Once a lesson is learned, we don't soon forget it, do we? My parents saved many things just like you did. No one knows how to save these days, and we do need to learn to recycle more than we do. I hear all the time that this nation is a country of wasteful people.” “Clarence always said you can look in the review mirror and lament the past. Or, learn from hardships faced by others, meaning our parents, and do a better job in your life time,” Leona said sagely. Pastor Jim nodded agreement. “A wise man, your Clarence. If you don’t mind, I'd like to quote you.” “I don't mind.” “Have a good attendance at bible study today?” He asked. “Yes.” Leona fiddled with the straps on her black purse. Assuming she was nervous about the drive home, Pastor Jim cautioned, “Drive carefully going back to the farm. Doesn’t take long for a wet snow like this one to make the roads slick. With night coming on, black ice is hard to see when it forms on the salt brined pavements.” Leona glanced out the window. The snow hadn't let up. If anything the flakes were coming down faster. “I’m a safe driver. I've had long years of winter driving practice to prove it.” She clutched her purse to her waist and turned to face the minister. “Pastor, I’m not ready to leave yet. I've been waiting for you to show up, because I have something I need to talk to you about.” “You sound serious. Now we must be going to get to the real reason you were so pensive when I came in. Let’s sit down.” Pastor Jim took her elbow and led her over to the black folding chairs lined up around one of the long white tables. He pulled out two chairs and held onto one until Leona eased into it. Leona plopped her purse and bible onto the table. As Pastor Jim sat down, she shifted the chair to face him. She had to look him in the eyes so she could use his strength to get her words out. “I need to tell you this will be my last time leading bible studies.” “What? Th -- this is so sudden. I hate to hear you want to stop. What will we do without you?” He blurted out, flustered. “Don’t worry.” Leona patted his hand reassuringly. “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I took the liberty of asking Becky Smallwood to take my place. I thought I would make my leaving easier on you if I help you find someone else.” “Thank you for thinking about me. Becky’s okay, but just the same no one can take your place. You've been the best teacher for the job for so many years,” Pastor Jim said adamantly. “Besides, I’ll miss talking to you on Wednesday nights.” “I appreciate that. I know I’ve been as predictable as this snow, showing up here for years. Don't worry. Becky will be a fine teacher. She is very knowledgeable about the bible and a fast learner.” Leona licked her lips, mustering up the courage to continue. “Things have to change from time to time. That’s just the way life is. Sometimes, we aren’t given a choice so we have to make the best of it.” “Did someone say you can’t lead bible study anymore? Tell me who it is. I’ll have a talk with that person right away. I don't want you to stop teaching,” demanded Pastor Jim. “Actually, I was talking about you in regard to your accepting this change. You're right though. Someone did let me know I had to stop teaching bible study classes.” Leona paused, giving the minister an amused look. “I wager you talk to that someone every day, Pastor. Just the same, no amount of your pleading or praying will change the fact that I have to quit. What I need to tell you now is the hardest part, the reason why I'm quitting.” Looking into her sad, brown eyes, Pastor Jim's brow furled. “I’m not going to like this, am I?” “Probably not. Don't feel bad though. I’ve had trouble facing this myself so I know how you will feel when you hear my news. It's time to start talking about this problem out loud so I picked you to be the first. I want to practice on you. I hope you don't mind. I need to face this dilemma I have head on, but it has been hard taking the first steps. So in order to help me stay motivated, I've made a bucket list.” “A bucket list,” Pastor Jim echoed. “Yes, I have many details I have to take care of right away. Actually, I don't have much time to do get them done you see. One of the first details on the list is now taken care of, finding my replacement for bible studies.” “Making a list to remind you to get things done for the holidays is fine, but calling this list a bucket list might be a poor choice of words,” Pastor Jim reproached. Leona gave him a doleful look. “No, I used the right words.” “What’s wrong?” Pastor Jim croaked. “I’m going to die soon. I have liver cancer,” Leone said bluntly. The young man combed his hand through his hair and fixated on the floor. “I've felt something was wrong for a while now. You’ve lost weight, and your complexion is pale. I hated to bring it up. Knowing how efficient you are, I prayed you were on top of the situation and going to the doctor.” “Your prayers must have worked. I did get checked out. The doctor said there wasn't anything that could be done for me. You see I didn’t have much warning. Apparently, I'd had the cancer for some time and didn't know it. The doctor said I have only a short time left to live.” Leona rifled through her purse and brought out a small spiral notepad with Christmas decorations scrawled over the cover. “So just to show you I'm not joking, this is my bucket list, and I have to get the list completed as quickly as I can. Actually, I'm calling this a Christmas Bucket List, because that might be my deadline,” she said with dry humor. Pastor Jim combed his shaky fingers through his dark hair again. “I want to do anything I can to help you. Is there some of that list I can take care of to help you complete it?” Leona flipped through the notepad pages. “On page two of my bucket list is get details out of the way for my funeral to take the burden of details off my two daughters. Of course, I want to ask you if you will conduct the funeral service here.” The minister took her hand. “That’s a given, dear friend.” “Good. Now for scriptures, since I've lived in the country my whole life I've always been partial to the twenty-third psalm. You can pick the rest of the scriptures you want to fit into the service. The two songs I want the choir to sing are Amazing Grace and How Great Thou Art. If my girls have a hymn they like, they can add their favorites to make them feel better if they want to do that.” “All right. Done,” Pastor Jim said briskly as if they were planning details for a soup supper. While she read the items aloud, Leona was busy checking off the details in her notepad. “I was going to ask Becky Smallwood to sing a solo, but I didn’t have the heart to heap bible study duties on her and burden her with my demise and performing at my funeral all at the same time. So maybe she could lead the choir.” “What did you have in mind for her to sing just in case?” “Becky nails any song she sings. How about The Wind Beneath My Wings?” Leona asked. “I think everyone likes that one.” “That would be a super choice and fitting for you. Please allow me to work on these details in this bucket list of yours,” Pastor Jim insisted. “All right. I still have to contact the pallbearers I decided on to make sure they are prepared when Arlene calls them. I’ve already been to the funeral home, made arrangements there for the visitation and settled the bill. The casket I picked out is very pretty. It's dark pink with roses on both sides the handles.” Leona stopped to catch her breath. “You have been very thorough, I see. Not that I'm surprised. This is just the way you tackle everything you have always set out to do. Head on,” Pastor Jim said softly. “Yes, I’ve managed my life the way I wanted until now. I don’t see any reason to leave the details of my funeral for my family to have to do,” Leona assured him. “Besides, there’s some comfort in knowing how my life will end, and what will happen at my funeral.” “Not many people have your courage to face the end, planning like this, dear lady,” Pastor Jim said admiringly. “Well, it took some doing to get to this point. I’ve reasoned with myself about dying. You see, I've done my best to live a decent life. At least for the most part, I think my family will be proud of the way I lived. I think I know where I’m headed, and that's a comfort,” Leona said, pointing a finger toward the ceiling. “Carrying out my final details for my daughters so they won't have to gives me peace of mind.” “I can vouch for the honorable way you have lived your life. I'm as sure as you are that you will go to Heaven. I've always admired your self control that allows you to take charge of any task. Even at such a difficult time in your life as this one. You have the presence of mind to make your final plans by yourself, and do whatever else needs to be done. You always handle adversity head on, because you're a very strong woman,” Pastor Jim complimented. She cocked her head to the side. “I think the modern term the grandchildren and my daughters use for me is control freak. I've always put myself in charge, and I figure on doing that until the end so I know everything is done right to my satisfaction and goes smoothly.” “When it concerns the end of your life, no matter what anyone would say I will stand with you on this. I think you’re entitled to run the show the way you want it,” he joked with a weak smile. “Thank you,” Leona said as she reached over and patted his arm. “Somehow I just knew you would be on my side.” Pastor Jim looked worried. “Always, dear lady. This is upsetting to me to say the least. How is your family taking the news?” With averted eyes, Leona said, “They don't know yet.” “What! Your daughters need to be told. You should do that soon, before they hear the news from someone else,” Pastor Jim cautioned. “I will. So far the people that know, I told to keep this to themselves until I've had time to tell my family. I'm dreading that so much, but I plan to tell them right after Thanksgiving is over. Arlene will want to smother me with kindness or boss me around. Diane will be a basket case that we'll all have to take care of. So why spoil the last holiday we'll have together for the rest of the family,” Leona explained. Pastor Jim nodded. “I understand that, but you've been their rock for all these years. This will seem like a sudden blow to your daughters and hard for the whole family to absorb for a while. I guess you will not be able to come to church soon. Where will I find you for visits? The farm?” “No, my health will decline fast. I’ll need medical care very soon, and I don't want to burden my daughters and their families. Right after Thanksgiving, I’m moving into The Willows, a hospice house on the outskirts of town. Come there to see me whenever you have time.” Pastor Jim took a deep breath before he spoke. “Can I borrow your bible? I didn’t realize there would be a need to bring mine with me from the parsonage just to lock the church door.” Leona handed her worn thin bible to him. “Let’s pray,” he said, already bowing his head. She glanced out the window. The wind moaned a wailing cry as it whipped around the building, churning the snow into a furious haze. She needed to head for home right away. All she left home with was her handbag, and a prayer that this winter day would go well. She wasn't sure that would be enough to guarantee her a safe return home the way the storm had intensified. Other winters, she had always put an emergency supply kit in the car, but she hadn't gone to the bother this time. “I appreciate the prayer, but you know you don’t have to pray for me right this minute. I’ve accepted what is coming, and I certainly do expect you to be by my side to bolster me later on when I weaken,” Leona insisted. Gripping her bible in his hands, Pastor Jim said, “And I will be very glad to be there anytime you need me, dear lady. Just bear with me this once. I'm not only praying for you. I have to pray for strength for me so that I will be able to help you. I'm not going to be able to take your news too well until I get used to it,” he said, his eyes a misty blur. Leona laid a frail, blue veined hand on the pastor’s strong one. She said with a touch of humor, “Can you make it a short one, Pastor? I need to head for home soon. Like you said the roads will be slick. You see I can’t die in a car wreck today. I haven’t finished all the arrangements for my funeral yet, and I still have to complete the rest of my bucket list.” A few minutes later, Leona turned off the tree lined street and drove down Main Street. She noticed the last minute shopper hustle that always went on the day before Thanksgiving. Almost every parking place had a vehicle in it. That wouldn't change now until after Christmas shopping was over. Loretta Abbas hustled along the sidewalk, her arms loaded with bags. She stopped by her car and looked up as Leona drove by. Loretta fumbled with her car door, got it opened, set the bags on the back seat and managed to wave at Leona all in a heartbeat. Loretta was probably in a hurry to get home before dark, too. Seeing the woman was a reminder that Leona needed to call her. She wanted Loretta to head up a coat and clothes drive from one year to the next for the Indian Settlement. If Loretta turned her down, maybe the woman would be kind enough to find someone that did have time to volunteer. Suddenly, Leona felt maudlin about not being able enjoy the Christmas holiday. She had always looked forward to Arlene and Diane's yearly visit right after Thanksgiving. They spent a day with her, putting up the tree and decorating the house just like they did when they were children. Leona relished buying just the right gift for each member of the family and baking Christmas cut out cookies with the grandchildren. She made a large amount of fudge and divinity so the girls could take a box home. After a few failed attempts over the years, Arlene and Diane gave up trying to make candy. They told her they would rather enjoy the candy she made. The effort Leona put forth to make the holiday special for her girls and their families when they came home had always been a labor of love. After this, the girls and their families would have to make due with special memories from this Thanksgiving. She wouldn't be doing anything about Christmas except taking care of her bucket list if it wasn't done by then. Suddenly, Leona realized she was coming up to the grocery store parking lot. If she was going to make pumpkin pies, she needed more milk and eggs. Leona stepped on the brakes and fishtailed. She negotiated the turn into the parking lot and realized the lot was full of cars. Near the entry door, Leona spotted an empty handicap parking spot. She shouldn't park there. She wasn't legally able to, but she considered this an exception. She had to be careful. Falling on the slick concrete and breaking a hip wouldn't enhance her Thanksgiving plans. Luckily, Leona found one shopping cart left in the corral. She grabbed it and took off for the milk and egg section. By staying in the middle of the aisles, she dodged past the other shoppers, lingering along the sides. There weren't too many jugs of milk left. Leona put one in her cart. She thought better of that and picked up another. Her grandchildren drank milk. She was reaching for an egg carton when someone tapped her shoulder. Leona turned and found her son-in-law, Steve, grinning at her. “Fancy meeting you here, Leona.” “I guess. Looks like most of the town is in here right now. I was lucky to find one shopping cart not in use.” Steve nodded agreement. “Me, too. So about ready for the big day tomorrow?” “You bet and looking forward to every minute of it,” Leona assured him. “I thought you might be.” Steve turned serious. “Leona, how you feeling these days?” Leona questioned sharply, “Where did that come from?” “My secretary said she saw you coming out of Dr. Crane's office last week.” Steve shrugged. “Arlene hasn't mention you not feeling well so I thought I should ask.” Leona fumbled around with the egg carton, trying to find just the right place for it in the cart. “Leona, are you stalling?” “I might be,” Leona said stiffly. Steve came along side her cart so he could see her face. “There is something wrong, isn't there?” “Steve, you're a dear to worry about me. I plan on talking to Arlene and Diane right after Thanksgiving about my doctor visit. Can you keep what your gossiping secretary saw to yourself until then?” Steve grinned. “Sure.” “Promise me. I know how hard it is to keep from telling Arlene something like this, but this is important to me,” Leona implored. “All right, I promise, but only until after Thanksgiving. I might break my promise if Arlene doesn't get an explanation from you soon,” Steve said earnestly. “Now aren't you the hard taskmaster,” Leona teased. Steve shrugged. “I'm just concerned about you. Is there anything I can do for you until you talk to Arlene?” “Just enjoy tomorrow with me,” Leona said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I'll handle the rest in my own good time.” “Fine, but like I said make it soon. You're right. I don't like keeping secrets from Arlene. You know, driving isn't great tonight. Out in the country it has to be hard to see where you're going. You want me to take you home? We could leave your car in the parking lot, and Jason could drive it out tomorrow as we come,” Steve suggested. “Certainly not. If it's hard driving now, then you would have to come back to town by yourself. It will probably be even worse after dark. I don't want to have to worry about you making it home. I'll be careful. This isn't my first experience at driving on slick roads you know,” Leona chided. “Now I best get to the checkout lines. Might be a long wait for my turn. See you in the morning.” Welcome to a look at book two in my Stringbean Hooper Western series. Small Feet's Many Moon Journey is now in large print. I've supplied the excerpt from the back of the book and the first chapter. Back of book Fay Risner has brought Stringbean Hooper to life again with this second story in the Stringbean Hooper series about his adventures in the West. Looking forward to a journey across country to San Jose, California, Stringbean and his wife, Theo, have no idea just how much trouble they would get into. Mishaps like upset Indians, a flood, a mad bear, a crazy woman with prairie fever and more happen to the Hoopers. Through it all, Stringbean meets the challenges with his usual sense of humor, but he notices as the journey drags out Theo is getting crankier by the minute. He sure hopes she lightens up by the time they get to her brother's wedding in San Jose. It didn't help to have warning advice freely handed out to Theo, known as Small Feet, by Indian shaman Matilda Vinci about being careful around Stringbean, Sioux name Walking Dead, so he doesn't get her killed. Next is Chapter One of Small Feet's Many Moon Journey. Enjoy and to continue reading buy the paperback book at Amazon and Barnes and Noble and ebooks at kindle and nook along with all my books. Also found on http:www.smashwords.com ONE Stringbean Hooper cupped his hands around his mouth. “Look right smart, men,” he shouted at the four cowboys across from him on the opposite rim of the coulée. “Cows in the brush below. I'll run them out into the open.” The cowboys kicked their mounts in the ribs and raced parallel along the top of the coulée. They had to be in position when the excited cattle burst out of the brush. The idea was to surround the cattle before they scattered off across the flats and escaped. At the brink of the coulée, Stringbean, a long legged, lanky cowboy in his thirties, held onto the saddle horn with one hand as he gave his black and white speckled appaloosa gelding his head. Good old reliable Freckles braced his feet and slid down the steep, clay bank, sending rocks and clods avalanching to the bottom. Stringbean ducked and held his free arm over his head to keep from being beaten by the cottonwood saplings Freckles took him under. The horse zigzagged around the underbrush. With his eyes on the cattle, Stringbean didn't pay any attention to the stickers on wild rose and gooseberry bushes that dug in and tugged at his leather chaps. Four Hereford cows popped their heads up from behind a clump of newly leafed rose bushes and stretched their necks to stare at the rider coming at them. Four newborn, white faced calves peeked from behind their mothers back legs. When the cattle realized their hiding spot had been discovered, they wheeled around and sprinted away. Kicking up a cloud of dust, they hightailed it toward the end of the coulée The calves gave squeaky cries, frightened by the invasion into their peaceful world. Ever so often the concerned mothers craned their long necks to the side and bawled crankily to the offsprings to keep up. The minute the cows reached open pasture, they cocked their tails high in the air and trotted across the open space, expecting to make a run for freedom. Lifting their back ends off the ground, they kicked both back feet high, flaunting their escape. When they caught up, the Rocking T cowhands surrounded the cattle, bunched them up and headed them across the grasslands toward the rest of the herd. Stringbean tapped the top of his black hat to set it tighter on his head and raced after them. He closed the distance, slowed down and followed at the flank until the men pushed the cattle into the box canyon corral. Extending his lean frame in the creaking saddle to take a few kinks out of his spine, he felt every inch of his tired, achy six feet four inch body. His joints and muscles told him this had been a long day. As soon as the lodgepole pine gate was dropped back in place, Stringbean yelled to the nearest cowboy, “Smiley, let's call it a day. We've done a right smart amount of work for today. Be about dark afore we get back to the ranch.” The cowhand drew his roan horse along side Freckles. He brought his leg up and cocked it over the saddle so he could lean his elbow on it. Taking off his hat with the other hand, he wiped his sweaty brow with his shirt sleeve. Before he spoke he took the time to turn his head to the side and spit tobacco amber as far as he could fling it. With his mouth empty he managed a slight grin that creased his dark, leathery cheeks as he drawled slowly, “Aw, I'm ready anytime you are, Boss.” Stringbean turned away from the spent sun that rested on the snow capped mountain tops. He lifted his arm high in the air and waved a circling signal to the other cowhands. The riders headed his way and followed him toward home. Twisting to take a look back at the mountains, Stringbean watched the sun's fiery glow turn the white peaks a bloody red. Take your pick. Any time of day, Montana had to be the prettiest place he ever did see. Just above the peaks, the color of the sky had changed as well. He loved to watch the western sky aflame from the setting sun. At dusk, the blue horizon streaked with long fingers of pink and purple. He never tired of the changes in nature as the seasons moved from one to the other on his ranch. Though if asked, he reckoned spring was his favorite. After a long, hard winter, he saw the promise of warmer days just around the corner. Although the chilly breeze did send a chill through him as he rode near Raspberry Creek. He shuttered and felt Freckles flinch under him. The snow fed creek, once covered with a layer of thick ice, now was bank full with ice chunks bobbing in the cold, bubbly water that flowed down from the mountains. On the mountain sides, stately pine trees had taken on a brighter green in the last week, trying to out do the once naked cottonwood and birch trees now dressed in full bud along the creek. Everywhere lush, emerald grass sprouted and grew fast. The bright pastures made a rich contrast, growing through dead thatches left from last year. The renewal of life after the long winter gave him hope that spring was really here, alive and pulsating with ever changing, expectant beats. The season announced to all who cared, humans and animals, this was a great time to be alive. In the last few days while looking for cattle, Stringbean flushed out several does and elks hiding in the gullies. Their gangly babies raced along side the mothers, keeping up on stick like legs as they disappeared from sight over a knoll or into another brush filled gully. It was always a thrill to see new birth whether it be his cattle or wildlife. When the crew neared the ranch buildings, Stringbean separated from the hands. While they made their way to the bunk house, he headed for the grand two story house he called home. The four white column porch that ran the length of the house always reminded him of the plantation houses he saw down south during the four years he fought in the Civil War. Stringbean was born in a log cabin in the Ozark hills of southern Missouri in Vernon County to be exact. When he was a kid, he didn't know houses so grand existed until he battled the blue uniformed soldiers in cotton fields that surrounded the buildings. After he moved to Montana, he heard tell Theo's first husband, David Sheffield, built the house to resemble his childhood home in Kentucky. No wonder Theo thought a lot of her first husband. For one thing, he thought enough of her to give his bride a beautiful home. Stringbean had looked real close at a picture of the man on Theo's dresser. Sheffield was a handsome man and from all accounts a go getter. He had intended to be the first governor some day when Montana became a state. Probably would have made that goal if he hadn't been caught in a cattle stampede during a lightning storm. He was knocked off his panicked horse, and the cattle trampled him. Stringbean shook his head slowly in wonderment. That man sure was the opposite of Theo's new husband, namely himself, Stringbean Hooper. He still wasn't sure what Theo saw in him that made her want to take him for her second husband. For a long spell, he ran from her advances like the devil was after him. Now all he knew was he was glad she consented to marry him. Life had changed for the better for him from the moment they married. No more wandering over the west, ducking trouble. He had a home. No more working in Sully Town as the sheriff and being under the strong arm of cattle baron, Mac Sullivan. That man told everyone within his reach to jump when he commanded and expected them to ask how high. Stringbean wasn't that kind of man. He couldn't knuckle under to the old man. That made his job as sheriff mighty touch when things wasn't going Mac Sullivan's way. Eventually, Stringbean's principles cost him the sheriff's job. Yip, I'm a lucky feller. I'm a rancher now. My life is takin' on an old married man routine since I settled down with Theo on her ranch. I pretty much know what's around the corner, and I like it that way. At my age that's a good thing even if I still get itchy feet once in a while. I've learned to ignore the yearnin' to travel, Stringbean thought as he rubbed his achy lower back. That subtle pain was some times hard to put up with when the night chill sank into his bones. Right then, he longed for home looming in the distance dusk ahead of him. He was getting closer by the minute. It sure would feel good to get out of his saddle until morning. After a few long hard days on the range, he knew how his horse felt by the end of the day. Stringbean felt like he too had been ridden hard and put away wet. He could use a hot bath, and a belly full of his wife’s ornery Mexican cook’s good grub. After supper, he'd go to bed early. Nights seemed awful short during roundup and branding when the next day started before daylight. Being a rancher was a lot more tiresome work than being sheriff of Sully Town, Montana, but the security was better. Besides, being part owner of a successful ranch was a sight better for his health. He actually liked herding cattle for a living. He didn't make as many enemies when he was stuck out in the sticks with his cowhands. That meant he didn't have to watch his back. Now that he thought about it, he didn't think he had any enemies if he didn't count Maria, Theo's cook. He couldn't figure out why she didn't like him. Was she jealous of Theo's attention toward him? Perhaps, Maria thought she might lose her job because of him. It was a fact, her wicked feelings toward him started the moment she met him. Maybe she had a low opinion of him. She probably thought he was no account and not a good husband for Theo. Whatever her problem, the mean looks she gave him made him think she'd just as soon kill him as put up with him. He had to admit he didn't help matters any by irritating her in return. When her hackles were up, that woman sure made a believer out of him that she was the wickedest cook in the West. Stringbean halted at the hitch rack, dismounted and tied Freckles. After hours in the saddle, he stood for a minute, trying to get his stiff knees to bend and hip joints to swivel so he could walk. Theo’s black thoroughbred, Midnight, stuck his head out the barn’s half door. The stud whinnied at Freckles. The appaloosa nickered a hello back. Good. His wife had made it home before him. It didn't always happen that she got home first. For days, they had been riding out in opposite directions, splitting the hands between them to do the spring head count. Looked like most of the new calves were on the ground now. Once they had the herds rounded up and the calves branded, they could drive the cattle to the high country pasture for the summer. Bowlegged Smiley Wenndt trudged toward the barn, leading his horse. He took a cigarette out of his mouth and said through the smoke, “See you in the mornin', Boss.” “Bright and early, Smiley Hey, want to take my horse to the barn as long as you’re goin’ that direction?” Stringbean led the horse over to him. “Sure thing, Boss,” the rangy cowhand said in his twangy voice as he accepted Freckle's reins. Stringbean bounded up the porch steps with a renewed burst of energy. He was after all a changed man. Never did he think he'd be the type to live under a roof for very long or within fences. It surprised him as much as everyone else in this country when he married. After years of being shiftless, he settled down to become a respectable rancher. At that moment, he pictured in his mind the way his beautiful wife looked as she waited for him to come home. He stopped at the front door and removed his black stepson to beat his jeans. Puffs of dust floated off in the gentle evening breeze, but not nearly enough dirt turned loose to keep his jeans from standing alone. When his plaid shirt was clean, the material was a bright red and white, but the day's cover of dirt dulled the red blocks to the color of clay soil and the rest to a dingy white. In the entry hall, Stringbean tossed his hat on to a coat hook. He stalked down the hall. As he ran his fingers through his dark thatch of hair to flatten it in place, he bellowed above the clunking his boots made on the hardwood floor. “Theo, I’m home. Where ya at?” Faintly, he heard her say, “In the parlor, Stringbean.” That she was. Already bathed, smelling of verbena and dressed in a fancy, blue house dress that brought out the brightness in her aqua eyes. Her silky, golden hair, fluffy and clean, hung loose in curls that framed her face. When in the house, Theo always dressed like she was about to have company. At first, it bothered him to see her spruced up so fancy for no seemly good reason, because he figured ever little whip stitch she'd expect him to get dressed that fancy, too. Being gentry just didn't fit his personality. It wasn't his style. Thank goodness he didn't have that worry anymore. Theo never complained about the way he looked or dressed. Finally, he'd gotten used to the way things were done in Theo's house. He could relax and appreciated that he had the prettiest wife in Montana. He respected her for the strong woman she was. After all, she owned a large ranch and was highly thought of by all the men ranchers there abouts. They knew Theo wasn't just a ball of cottonwood fluff. She could ride and handle ranching chores as good as the hands. When the moment came for her to make a tough decision, she did it. Sometimes, she faced down men that stood in her way with a grit that Stringbean had to admire though her use of a gun scared the daylight out of him. She had a quick temper, a fast draw and a good aim. For her own safety, her guts and skill worried him. Now that he had her in his life, he didn't like the nagging feeling that he might lose her someday to a bullet. With pride, Stringbean stood in the parlor doorway and considered his wife, all freshly scrubbed and soft looking. Nestled down in a blue stuffed chair, Theo glanced at him as he approached her. Stringbean bent down and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek. He sniffed at her neck. “Howdy, Ma'am. Well, you sure smell fine.” When Theo didn't answer, he braced his back with his hand and slowly straighten up. Frowning, she dropped a paper into her lap with some other sheets and a couple of envelopes. She focused over his shoulder. Stringbean had the impression that his wife's thoughts were worrisome. He asked, “What's wrong, Honey?” Sadness crossed Theo's face. She sighed and paused to licked her lips. “Maria brought the mail from Sully Town when she went in after supplies. I received a couple of letters. When it rains it pours, and these couldn't have come at a worse time while we're busy with spring roundup.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she picked up one of the sheets of paper again. “This is from a lawyer in New York. Uncle Jackson Claymore, Father's brother, died. He left his estate to my brother, Brock, and me. Since he never married, we're his only living relatives. The lawyer enclosed a document for Brock and me to sign so we can collect the estate.” “I'm right sorry to hear about your uncle. Was you close to him?” Stringbean asked, sinking down on the brown settee across from her. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs as he waited for her answer. With a weak smile, she remembered her uncle. “I haven't seen Uncle Jackson in years since I moved to Montana. Brock and I lived close to him as kids. He always treated us as if we were his children. Uncle Jackson spoiled us rotten, giving us anything we wanted that our parents refused to buy for us.” She bowed her head and picked up the other letter from her lap. She glanced at it before she continued disbelievingly, “The other letter is from my brother, Brock. He lives in San Jose, California. He says he's met a girl he in love with. They're going to get married. He wants me to be at the wedding. Since we need to sign this paper for the lawyer at the same time, looks like I going to have to go ----.” Her voice trailed off at the sight of the cook glaring at Stringbean's back. Theo finished faintly, “to California.” Her voice took on renewed strength as she addressed the cook. “What is it, Maria?” Stringbean looked over his shoulder. When he saw the bedeviled look in the cook's eyes directed at him, he moved faster than he really wanted to and darted behind the settee out of Maria's way. He felt safer with that large piece of furniture between him and her. The heavy set Mexican woman, in her mid fifties, glided into the parlor and stopped in front of her boss. As an added measure of insult, she made sure to position herself with her back to Stringbean. She clasped her hands in front of her and said formally, “The evening meal is about ready, Senora Sheffield.” Hearing his wife addressed as Senora Sheffield caused Stringbean to stiffen indignantly. His dark eyes blazed hotly as he glared at Maria's broad back. With all his might, he wished the cook would turn around and see his irritation. “Thank you. I’ll be ready soon,” Theo assured her. Maria nodded approval and hustled out of the room, keeping her eyes averted from Stringbean. As far as she was concerned, he wasn't in the room. Tarnation! The way she acted, he was on an extended stay in this house, just visiting. “Theo, when is that woman gonna realize I ain’t leavin' any time soon. In her book, it’s as if I don’t live here permanent,” complained Stringbean. “David hired Maria. She was very attached to my late husband. I suppose she's trying very hard not to be disloyal to his name,” replied Theo absentmindedly, sighing deeply as she stared at the letters in her hands. “That's all fine and good, but cain’t she at least make an effort to call you Senora Hooper. After all, she knows your name changed when you married me. You really should have a talk with her about her place in this house. She's just the cook,” Stringbean groused. With a wry smile, Theo waved her hand at him. “Me talk to her? Oh no, String. Unless you want to have a talk with Maria you might be better off to let this ride for awhile until she gets used to you. You know how Maria can be when she gets mad. Frankly, I'd hate to lose such a great cook, and she is devoted to me, too. It means a lot to me to know that I can count on her. Isn’t it enough that I know you’re here to stay?” She got up, walked over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She stretched up on tiptoes and gave him a kiss. As nice as the gesture was, that kiss didn’t take Stringbean’s mind off the hurtful stings he felt every time that Queen Bee cook flew by him. “Maybe it should be enough,” he relented slightly. “But how much longer is Maria's gettin' used to me gonna take? I’ve already been here almost a year now. That seems like a right smart spell to me.” Hands on her hips, Theo stepped back and arched one eyebrow. She slanted her head over her shoulder and asked dryly, “Does it now? To you it seems like you've already spent a long time living with me?” “Hold yer horses! You know what I mean. Don't twist my words to put me in a hot camp fire. None of this problem with Maria is my fault. I've tried hard to get on that woman's good side. I'm talkin' about your mean tempered cook makin' me edgy every time I'm near her. Don't have nothin' to do with how long I've been livin' here with you. You know that,” he said, feeling put upon with both women against him at the same time. Pushing a lock of golden hair off her shoulder, Theo started for the door. “Perhaps, but obviously you haven't been here long enough to suit Maria so be patient. You don’t want to make her mad enough to quit do you?” She turned to give him a knowing look and grunted. “Not the way you like to eat. Shall we go to supper?” “Give me time to wash up and change clothes. I got to get rid of some of this trail dust before I sit down to food,” Stringbean said, following behind her down the hall. Theo twisted around. “All right, but don’t take too long. You know Maria doesn’t like her food to get cold,” she warned, tracing his cheekbone with the tip of a finger. “How well I know,” he snorted. “Think she has hot water on the stove for a bath, or do I have to get up my nerve to ask her to put some on?” “I put a couple buckets on the cookstove for you myself after my bath. I thought you might want to clean up. I’ll go get them and bring them upstairs to you,” Theo said as she walked away. “Much obliged. Better you go in her kitchen than me. She might not let me back out alive. From the way you talk sometimes if there was to be a tussle between me and the cook, I don't think I could even depend on you to come in her kitchen to save me,” Stringbean said sarcastically to his wife's back. Theo laughed uncontrollably all the way down the hall like his problem with her cook was some kind of hilarious joke. She always seemed to find it funny that he had no control over the cook in what he considered his home now. Worse yet, he felt that Mexican woman had the notion that she was boss around there. It didn't help that Theo let her get away with it. He wasn’t sure it was safe to turn his back on Maria. She kept a kitchen drawer full of sharp knives. Who knows what other weapons she stored in the cupboards just in case she needed to defend her kitchen from him. Sitting in the tub full of extra warm water eased his aches some. The bath felt so good Stringbean could have soaked long enough for the water to grow cold if he'd had his way about it. Not that he had any say around there between those two women. Theo would be waiting for him to get to the table. Maria was probably chomping at the bit to feed them. When he thought about the cook, he scrubbed faster. He best make it a hurry up bath. Otherwise, Maria would be coming after him, swinging her butcher knife, because he let her supper get cold. That crazy woman sure had a real viperous temper. For the life of him, Stringbean couldn't figure out why Theo seemed to think it great fun to let the cook threaten to torture him. Maybe Theo just hadn't thought through what could happen if Maria tried to attack him. He feared his wife would be no help to him if the cook really did decide he wasn’t worth keeping around. Who knows how Theo would react if he got in a fracas with Maria and wound up dead. His wife thought so highly of that cook, she'd probably help Maria bury him out back. They might just tell everyone he took off for parts unknown. The ranchers would believe his wife since he'd been known to have a wanderlust nature. Besides, no one would question such an honest woman as Theo. Maria and her could get away with his murder, because that's just how women were. They stuck together. Suddenly, a picture of how Theo looked when he entered the parlor ran through his mind, all soft and pretty in her fancy dress. His feelings of distrust faded away. Theo loved him as much as he loved her. He had to remember that when he got these crazy ideas in his head. He could trust her with his life. She'd already proven that last year when she stood up against Mac Sullivan's bunch to protect him. He scowled when another thought scrolled through his head about what happened right after he walked into the parlor tonight. What was it about the letters that Theo dropped in her lap? He had been so distracted by Maria he forgot about the hang dog look on Theo's face until now. Hold yer horses! What had she tried to tell him about those letters when Maria showed up? Did Theo say she was going to California all by herself? That meant she'd be leaving him home alone to run this big ranch during spring roundup. On top of that, he'd be stuck alone with Maria every night. No way was he going to let that happen. In the Ozarks near Schell City, Missouri during the 1950's reading books was an activity on evenings in the fall and winter when night came early. I remember the bare bulb suspended at the end of wires that disappeared into the ceiling and the string beside it that was used to turn it on and off. The heating stove dividing the dining room and living room broke the silence with its crackling and hissing as the wood Dad chopped heated the room. First, we listened to the radio programs my parents liked. John and I turned our chairs around at the table and stared up at the small shelf the radio perched on. A shelf too high for us to reach without standing on a chair. The radio was one in a list of do not touch items. During the day while Mom worked she listened to soap operas. If we were home my brother and I played outside. At night after Dad and Mom came in from milking, we listened to westerns such as The Lone Ranger and Cisco Kid. Fiber McGee and Amos and Andy were all right, but more for laughs then cowboy and Indian stuff. As soon as those programs were over Dad shut the radio off, and Mom declared it was our bedtime. There were times Mom had the quilting frame spread across the living room floor, and we all had to quilt. Other times, we put together a puzzle on a card table. If we'd acquired any books new to us, we read only western paperbacks. Usually written by Zane Gray and Louis L'Amour. John and I had comic books about super heroes, too. In the parking lot next to the A&P Grocery Store in Nevada, Missouri was a one room shack filled with used books and comic books. The man traded two for one or you buy the books. We traded our comics back in and then bought a few. So everyone picked up a book and settled in on those cold winter evenings to read. In the late fifties, my Uncle Sam gave us a black and white television. Wouldn't you know Dad found all the western programs that were so popular like Zane Gray Theater and Rifleman. Not that we minded. One genre I wanted to write when I started publishing my books was westerns just because I knew my parents would have liked that. My first western was The Dark Wind Howls Over Mary, a Stringbean Hooper Western. I gave a copy to my Aunt Bonnie and Uncle Harold at Cabool, Missouri. Aunt Bonnie gave Uncle Harold the book to read without telling him where she got it. He opened it up and read a portion, looked at her and said, “Hey, this is a pretty good book.” She grinned as she said, “Now look on the front and see who wrote it.” My paperback books are sold in Amazon and Barnes and noble and the ebooks in kindle store and nook store. Next is the excerpt from the back of the book The Dark Wind Howls Over Mary. Now for an excerpt from The Dark Wind Howls Over Mary. Chapter One Sheriff Stringbean Hooper figured there couldn’t be any other place much prettier in the middle of summer than this portion of the state of Montana. That’s what he would say if anyone bothered to ask his opinion which he didn’t expect to happen. No one else much cared what he thought. The sky, a vast, robin egg blue, was dotted with a few, wispy, cotton mounds, lazily drifting from one horizon to the other. Circling high in a graceful arc over the sheriff’s head, an eagle screeched, breaking the silence. The waist high, prairie grass, as bright a green as it was going to get all summer, stretched out as far as the eye could see, waving gracefully back and forth in the breeze. Velvety, purple smudged foothills rose in the distance. The elusive, jagged, snow capped Rocky Mountain range towered behind them. The countryside looked peaceful, but looks could be and were often deceiving. If he ever let his guard down in this wild country, he might wind up dead. The events of this morning made Stringbean more sure of that than he had ever been before. He felt trouble brewing way down deep in his gut. Stringbean let his black and white, appaloosa horse, Freckles, pick his careful, skillful way through the grass. The horse tromped through a field of pink, bitterroot blossoms cupped skyward. The sheriff thought those flowers was extremely pretty. Ever so far along the trail, tall spikes, bursting all the way to the top with yellow blooms, shot up from the middle of large, wide, fuzzy, dull green leaves. He couldn’t put a name to that plant, but he liked the looks of it just the same. A village of prairie dogs perked up and scolded with sharp chatter, warning him not to ride any closer. He did just for orneriness to watch the dogs dived into their dens. Happy to be alive, meadow larks trilled from the leafy cover of the aspen trees. Mourning doves cooed softly to their partners and were answered in the shimmering, hazy distance. A flock of chortling prairie chickens ignored the rider passing by, preoccupied with strutting their mating dances. By mid morning, Stringbean breathed deep, inhaling the crisp, clean air filtering down from the mountain tops off the thawing snow. White patches still glistened on the highest peaks just above the purple haze that hung over the mountain’s cover of yellow pine. The ever present wind funneled through the valley, battering Stringbean’s black hat brim as he rode directly into it. He tipped his brim down to keep the wind from whipping his hat off. That helped keep the bright sun out of his keen eyes too so he could see where he was headed. Still in all, he figured he didn’t see a reason to complain. The snow cooled gusts, moaning over the prairie, made for a brief relief from the summer sun that beat down on him with an increased intensity. Nearly forty years old, Stringbean earned his nickname back home in Missouri because of his tall, rawboned features. Brown hair and dark brown eyes ran in the Hooper family, and according to what most women told him he was easy on the eyes. He took their word for it. Listening to the rhythmic clip clop of his horse’s hooves on the hard packed trail relaxed him as he cantered along with one hand resting on his hip. It didn’t matter to him if he wasn’t going but a few miles. The ride relieved a little of the wanderlust in him that he had been born with. Trouble was, he knew down deep in his gut that this would have been a better day to be out for a ride if it hadn’t been for where he was headed. Very few places he dreaded going as Sheriff of Sully Town, but this sure was one of them. Swiping the sweat beads that popped up on his suntanned forehead with his shirt sleeve, he hoped by the time the afternoon grew unbearably hot he’d be headed back down the trail toward the office. He cleared his throat and spit. It would have been nice to have a cool drink of water now and then to settle the dust, but he wasn’t about to ask for one where he had to stop. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking to fill a canteen for the ride. It was his own fault that he got in such a big hurry and forgot that little detail. Just never know each morning when a fellow got out of bed how the day was going to turn out. Stringbean’s plan had been to laze around with his feet up on the desk, drinking as much coffee as he could before the pot cooled off. In the summer, it heated up the office way too much to stoke the stove just to keep the coffee warm. He had figured to take it easy most of the day, watching the comings and goings on Sully Town’s Main Street from the sheriff office’s large, front window. On Mondays, town stayed pretty quiet. He didn’t figure he received enough wages to walk up and down the street, showing himself all day long when no trouble was brewing. Early in the week, ranch folks tended to stay home to work, having just been in town for church on Sunday. Toward the end of the week, women showed up in wagons or buggies to do their trading. On Saturday, farmers crowded Main Street, walking along side dust covered drifters and cowhands, headed straight to the Silver Dollar saloon. That was when he had to be on the alert for trouble way into the night. Once the cowhands got liquored up, no telling what kind of a ruckus he would have to break up. So on Monday morning, he generally figured he would stay put in the office and take it easy. Since his routine hadn’t changed in two years if anyone needed him, they knew where to find him. Sure enough, that was what happened. After tossing the stack of newly arrived wanted posters he just went through out of his way, he relaxed back in his chair with his feet, propped on his desk, crossed at the ankles. He had just taken a sip out of a full cup of coffee when the town doctor, Doctor Clarence Strummer, burst through the door with such force it slammed against the wall. He looked as wild eyed as a spooked bronc. Startled by the sudden interruption to his quiet time, Stringbean dropped his feet off the desk and sat up fast, slopping coffee all over his clean, gray, cotton shirt. He groaned, but not from the coffee being hot. Since that was his third cup, the thick, black brew had cooled down considerably which was a good thing. Problem was, Stringbean only had two shirts. They happened to be just alike, but the other one was at the laundress, Ginny Holstead, getting washed. “Tarnation, what’s got yer pants on fire?” Stringbean snapped. Jerking his red handkerchief out of his back pocket, he rubbed the numerous, dark stains spreading across his chest. The doctor stalked across the room. “Sorry about that, Stringbean. I got a problem. I can’t find my wife anywhere. She’s missing,” he cried, wringing his hands together. At the distressed sound in his voice, the sheriff stopped rubbing the stains to give Doc a good once over. Usually, he was neatly dressed with his thick, black hair combed back from his high forehead and slicked down to his ear lobes. Not this time. His hair spiked out every which way like he had just crawled out of bed. Without his suit jacket on, he looked a fright in a wrinkled, not so white shirt. Looked as though he had slept in it. No sir, Doc didn’t look his dudie self at all. “Just settle down yer horses. Tell me what happened,” Stringbean ordered, pointing to a ladder back chair in front of the desk. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. Looks to me like you could use one.” The tall man plopped down and rubbed his forehead like he had a headache. “Last evening, Mary Alice said she was walking over to the Sullivan ranch to visit her folks before dark. She intended to spend the night. I had to go out on a call at the Bar M to check Slim Stevens’s broken leg I set last week.” “I’ll be dern. Slim Stevens broke his leg?” That was the first time Stringbean had heard that news. He handed Doc the coffee. “Yes, but he’s getting along fine.” Doc’s dark brown eyes narrow as he gave the sheriff an irritated glance for interrupting him. “Anyway when I came back home last night, my wife had already left. This morning, I rode over to the Sullivan ranch in the buggy to pick her up like I told her I would. Her father says she never showed up. So I don’t know where she is.” Doc combed his fingers through his hair, frazzling it even worse in every direction. He took a drink out of the cup and made a face.” “All right. Take it easy. What’s your problem now?” “You call this brew coffee. Why, it’s worse than any medicine I give out,” complained Doc as he set the unfinished coffee on the desk. “What you going to do about my wife?” “Never claimed it was good coffee. Don’t hurt me, and I drink it all the time,” Stringbean said, defensively. “Now about your wife, I’ll start checkin’ with the neighbors out yer way and see if she stopped at one of their places to visit. Chances are that’s just what she did. Which of the neighbors would she be most likely to visit?” Doc growled, “The old Indian witch that lives behind me. Never have seen what Mary Alice finds about that old woman to like. She visits Maggie Dawson on a regular basis, too.” “Kind of agree with you where Matilda Vinci is concerned. I’m not lookin’ forward to visitin’ her. She’s just a little bit too spooky for me, but I’ll go see both them women. You best head back home. If she just decided to visit somewhere besides her folks, she might already be home by now,” Stringbean reasoned to calm Doc down. “Sure thing, Stringbean. I hope you’re right. Mac’s having a fit, because I don’t know where Mary Alice is. He’s not one to have mad at you, if you know what I mean.” With that Doc left out the door, leaving a trail of dried, clay chunks from his shoes. Stringbean frowned when he saw the mess. He had already used floor sweep that morning. He considered once a day his quota for cleaning the office. While he swept the mess out the door, he wondered where the doctor tracked in clay. Then it came back to him, Doc said he had been to the Bar M ranch. That red dirt must have come from there. The neighbor back of Doc Strummer’s place was Matilda Vinci, a middle aged, medicine woman. That’s where Stringbean headed when he left the office. Captured by the Sioux when she was a youngun, Matilda became a member of the tribe. After her brave was killed in the Little Big Horn fracas, Matilda showed up in Sully Town, sprouting amber braids and dressed in a beaded, rawhide gown. Folks distrusted her for the first while. It didn’t take long for Matilda to get herself some store bought clothes so she looked like other white folks. A loner, she settled down on the prairie to homestead forty acres. One thing led to another, and soon folks learned that gruff, old woman, using her Indian shaman ways, was better than no doctor at all. That reasoning didn’t make being around Matilda Vinci any easier as far as Stringbean was concerned. Depending on her mood, some days she acted like a medicine woman. Other days, he would swear she seemed to be instilled with witch’s powers. Only way to get to her place on horseback was down a cow path near Doc’s house that wound back into the timber that joined Doc and Matilda’s place. If he didn’t count her wolf dog, Matilda lived alone. She liked it that way. Her log cabin was right in the middle of a large clearing. With that sassy dog to warn her when someone rode in, not much chance that anyone would ever be able to sneak up on the old woman. Her mutt heard Stringbean’s horse a quarter a mile away. The dog yapped to tell Matilda that Stringbean was riding in long before he reached the clearing. The sharp barks echoed against the bluffs along Mulberry Creek on the far side the timber and right back at Stringbean, unnerving him even more. The sheriff moseyed across the clearing, pretending a confidence he didn’t feel. Growing increasingly jittery, he neared the front of the cabin, not knowing if a rifle was pointed at him or not. The door stood wide open. The interior of the cabin was pitch black. No way to see, but he suspected Matilda was probably leaned against a back wall with a rifle aimed at him. The mangy, gray-black dog, his neck hairs standing on end, pranced back and forth on the lean-to porch, barking roughly. No one would make it through that cabin door if Matilda didn’t call the dog off unless they shot that mean mutt first. Stringbean considered doing just that for the pleasure of putting that yapping hound out of his misery, but a gut feeling warned him, he would be the next one shot if he tried a fool trick like that. As he studied the watch dog, he came to the conclusion that Matilda and that wolf dog made a good pair. He had the same kind of glittering, black eyes and snaggle tooth sneer as her, but at least, a fellow knew where you stood with the hound. Beat never knowing what the lady of the house’s mood would be from one moment to the next. Her best mood was cranky, and her worse was down right dangerous. “Hello, the house,” the sheriff called. Dark gray smoke chugged fast and thick out the cabin’s rock chimney. He got a whiff of something bitter stinky on the breeze. It made him wrinkled up his nose. The medicine woman was brewing up potions for her putrid smelling poultices. Some folks swore by what she handed out for cures. They thought she had better healing skills than an educated doctor. Just the smell was enough to make Stringbean glad he stayed healthy around her. For sure, he wasn’t curious what Matilda's medicine tasted like. He didn’t even want to find out what ailment a potion that rotten smelling would be used for. Looked like he guessed right. The wrinkled, leather skinned woman edged slowly out onto the porch, carrying an infantry carbine aimed right at Stringbean’s gut. It passed through his mind that she might have picked that old carbine up at the Little Big Horn when she went to find her brave’s body. Not that he considered asking her. He figured getting nosy about her past with the Indians held a certain, death wish. With restless eyes, Matilda checked around the clearing to see if the sheriff came alone. She lowered the weapon slightly. “Hush, dog!” She yelled. Pointing to the end of the porch, she ordered, “Get away.” With his scruffy tail between his legs, the dog cowered. He slinked to the end of the porch and leaped down into the grass. He sniffed the ground and turned in a circle three times. When he had found the best place, he slowly laid down and curled up in a ball with his chin on his front legs. One eye shut, but the other stayed open, aimed right at the sheriff. Stringbean vowed silently that just the harsh sound of that old healer’s threatening command would have been enough to make him turn tail. She wouldn’t have to shoot at him. The scowl on her face was added incentive. Sweat beads from the edge of her braided, amber streaked, gray hair dripped down Matilda’s cheeks. The top of her faded, calico dress darkened with a spreading, sweaty wetness across her chest. Evidence that she had been standing over the cookstove for some time, stirring a kettle of boiling who knows what. The foul, steamy smell floating out the door grew stronger by the minute. His stomach turned over. Being up right close made Stringbean positive, he didn’t want to ever use the old woman’s medicinal services. Matilda reached into a pocket on her skirt. Stringbean tensed. He didn’t know what would be in her hand when it came back out. Turned out to be a large, red handkerchief. She made a swipe across her glistening face. If he had been in the presence of anyone else, he might have felt a little sheepish -- no a lot foolish -- at acting so skittish all the while that old woman gave him the evil eye. The sheriff tried to take a deep breath, slow and easy like, so the cross, old healer wouldn’t notice how uneasy he felt. He wanted to put up a good bluff. “Howdy, Miss Matildie. You know me, I reckon?” “Sure, I know you, Sheriff Stringbean Hooper,” snorted Matilda, propping herself against her porch wall. She glared down her beak shaped nose at him like a hawk sizing up her prey. Leaning forward in the saddle, he rested his right arm across the pommel. Putting forth as good a front as he could muster, he looked her right in the eye. He was determined not to act as though this cranky, old woman scared the bejeezus out of him even though she did. “You expectin’ someone in particular?” Stringbean asked, nodding toward her rifle. Seemed to him she was being a might over cautious for a woman who should be used to having folks stop all the time for her potions. Matilda lowered the rifle even more. “Reckon not. What you want here? Look plenty healthy to me.” She leaned her head to one side and studied Stringbean like she could see right through him. “I wondered if you had seen anything of your neighbor, Mary Alice Strummer, in the past couple days?” He asked, trying keep his voice easy going. Matilda paused to think back. “Not since a couple weeks ago. I came across her in the timber while I was gathering woody nightshade leaves to make an extract. Mary Alice was picking raspberries.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why you ask?” Stringbean scratched an itchy bump on the side of his head where a mosquito nailed him in the timber. “Seems Mrs. Strummer has been missin’ since last night. The good doctor is worried about his wife so I’m out asking around.” “The good doctor is worried, is he?” She squawked sarcastically in her harsh voice and snorted. She sounded full of sour grapes to the sheriff. The way he heard tell when he first came to town, that old woman had a good business as a healer until Doctor Clarence Strummer showed up in Sully Town a few years back. Since then Matilda had been reduced to mostly midwife duties which cut her income considerably. Stringbean didn’t have all day or the patience to listen to her complain about Doc Strummer. Besides something about the way she sized him up had him feeling mighty skittish. She looked like she was ready to put a curse on him for talking favorable about Doc. With the way Matilda looked at him, Stringbean wanted to get down to business and get the heck out of there. “You didn’t see Doc’s wife yesterday?” “I just told you I haven’t seen her for days,” Matilda bristled. Then she changed her mind and added, “You might ride over east of Doc’s place to the Dawson ranch. Talk to Maggie Dawson. Mary Alice visits with her on a regular basis I hear.” “Much oblige, ma’am.” Stringbean touched his hat brim, clicked to Freckles and turned to leave. “Oh, Sheriff Hooper,” Matilda called, walking to the edge of her porch. Stringbean pulled up on the reins. He twisted at the waist to look back at her rather than turn his horse around in case Matilda had that carbine pointed at him again. At least if he had to leave in a hurry, he figured he ought to be headed in the right direction. “If I were you I’d find Mary Alice real soon,” she said, giving an uneasy glimpse toward the timber between her cabin and Doc’s house. “Yesterday I knew something was wrong. I felt the dark wind howl over Mary Alice.” With that said, she whirled and disappeared through the open door which signaled the hound the sheriff’s visit was for sure over. He rose up and came back to his post on the edge of the porch. The mangy, gray hair on the back of his neck stood up. He started a growl that rumbled deep in his throat, slipped through his bared, snaggled teeth and out his snarling lips. As far as the sheriff was concerned, the mutt shouldn’t have bothered to get that worked up. Stringbean couldn’t have been more ready to leave on his own. That dog didn’t need to tell him twice. Still watching the cabin, the creeps soaked through Stringbean when the old woman faded into the darkness beyond her door just like she disappeared in thin air. Stringbean consider himself a fair to middling smart man. He knew it was the darkness of the room that made her hard to see. At least, he wanted to think that was it. He supposed Matilda counted on the fact that most folks weren’t smart enough to figure that out. She liked keeping everyone off guard about her spooky powers, whatever they be. To help with Alzheimer's disease awareness I have reprinted my Caregiver Handbook Open A Window in large print. Below is the list of caregivers that would benefit from reading my book and the first two chapters of the book. This book is designed to help all caregivers understand what Alzheimer's disease or dementia does to people. From reading my book, I hope to give you some idea about how to help people with this dreadful disease. The list is as follows To use for education al training sessions and inservices for caregivers taking care of residents in long term care or on an individual basis in Home Health Care. For family members who need education about Alzheimer's so they understand why a person acts the way they do. Once they understand, they will be better caregivers. For use at Alzheimer's support groups to help educate caregivers. This book works as a wonderful ice breaker which gets caregivers to share their experiences. As training in high school health classes so they are able to be more comfortable in a Nursing Home setting when they're doing their clinical. Useful in hospice situations while the caregiver is taking care of someone in the home. Educational for hospice personal that visits the homes. Chapter 1. The Key Is Understanding Because I chose to be a certified nurse aide (CNA) that makes her living in a care center, I’ve always thought of myself as a caring person. I believed I was good at my job. It took helping my mother care for my father, who had Alzheimer’s disease, to make me realize I had much more to learn. After my father’s death, I returned to work at the care center and began to see the residents in a new way. I felt the need to dig deeper into my grab bag full of skills and emotions I carried inside me to put the emphasis on care in caregiving. Times have changed. We care for and treat the physical ailments of frail, elderly people as we always have, but now we’re caring for people with Alzheimer’s disease and other dementia from ailments like strokes or Parkinson Disease. With the increase of Alzheimer's, we've had to learn new skills and terminology. It takes practice to perfect skills CNAs learn for the most part through on the job experience. Just when we think we have it down pat, the procedure that worked once on a person won’t work anymore, because of the changes in that person’s brain. Since Alzheimer’s disease affects each person differently as the disease damages the brain the procedure the caregiver practiced on someone else might not work at all on the next person. We need to be fast thinking and flexible enough to switch to another approach. Above all, we need to be patient, calm, soft spoken and act like we really care. A variety of tried examples that have worked for other caregivers doesn’t hurt either. That’s why it’s important for the caregiver at home or in long term care to research all the approaches to find the reason why something works for someone with Alzheimer’s disease. An important part of taking care of someone is knowing that person’s likes, dislikes, hobbies and life stories. A relative taking care of that person has it made in that regard. Long term caregivers have to play a guessing game which may lead the person to frustration, anger, and a bad day. Find out from relatives what you need to know to keep the person from going home or trying to find their children. Help that person enjoy a conversation about a subject she or he likes. Memories may have faded, but you bring up something that was a pleasant memory for her or him. See how fast she or he begins to take interest and add their thoughts to the conversation. Contact your local Alzheimer’s office and ask for educational materials, books and videos from their lending library that are loaned out free for a month and get the free pamphlets to give family and friends to educate them. The Association mails the material to caregivers that aren’t able to come to the office. Caregivers feel the need to be clinical as we rush to make it through each day whether it be at home or working an eight hour shift in a facility. There’s no time to spare when we have a schedule to keep. Let something slow us down and it has a snowball effect to screw up our schedule for the rest of the day. So we watch the clock, try to keep on schedule, and at the same time do a good job of caring for the loved one at home, or the residents in a nursing home. That rush - rush attitude only creates a frustrating atmosphere for the person with AD. Their brain doesn’t process fast anymore. They need much more time to digest what's going on around them or what is said to them. They need time to think about their response to us. We need to slow down for the person with AD. That fast moving caregiver was me until I helped Mom take care of my father in his home. Now I see images of Dad as he was through the long, ten years he suffered with Alzheimer’s from an open window in my healthy brain’s memory room. Comparing my experience with my father to the people I have cared for since has changed how I view my job. Five million people have Alzheimer’s disease. In the next few years that number will triple as the baby boomers become retirement age. That means health care workers may very soon have the experience of caring for someone in their family who has Alzheimer’s disease as well as being flooded with a rising number of residents with dementia in long term care. We need to get our caregiving techniques down pat. Time for that is running out. However, caregivers don’t have to have someone close to them afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease for them to develop an empathy for people who have the disease. As professional caregivers, take the time to get to know the people you’re caring for. Think about the dreadful, terminal road ahead of them. As the saying goes, “Walk a mile in their shoes. See how it feels”. The key to caring is getting to know and understand what a person with Alzheimer’s is all about. Not just what you see on the surface, but the person behind the curtain of Alzheimer’s disease. -- Fay Risner Chapter 2. Windows In The Brain This is my description of what happens to a person’s brain when they have Alzheimer’s disease. When we are born, our brain is full of well lit, airy, vacant rooms with an open window in each one. Knowledge and experiences flow through the open windows to fill the rooms as we grow, and flow back out as we mentally call on them to create the type of human being we become. Imagine if by the time you are in your sixties, you were to find yourself searching for a thought in the memory room. You find that the room had become dark, the drapes are drawn. You strain to see the familiar object you are searching for in your mind, trying to remember what it looked like the last time you saw it, but you can’t find that object in the dark. That’s what happens to a person who is afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease. One such person was a large framed, boisterous farmer who spoke with a loud voiced, salty vocabulary. First, the memory room in his brain became dark, then other rooms darkened as they were covered with a black shroud called plaque that continued slowly to spread from room to room. As it entered the open windows, the plaque closed them, and the drapes drew shut to put out the light. As this happened to the farmer, he became a shell of the man his family and friends once knew and was admitted to a care center. In time, he forgot how to feed himself, had trouble swallowing, couldn’t do his activities of daily living skills, and could barely stand long enough to transfer from the bed to the wheelchair. The only vocabulary he had left was loud, frustrated profanity unless he chose to parrot short sentences he heard from the aides such as “It’s time to eat.”, or “It’s bedtime.”. There came a time when the farmer quit repeating what he heard. His face became expressionless, and his eyes stared vacantly. I was sure that most of the windows in his brain had shut, became locked, and would never reopen again. I was wrong! Since the farmer was in his room most of the day, I had taken to sitting him in the living room with the other residents after the evening meal. I hoped people talking, and Vanna White flashing across the television screen would stimulate his mind. As time went by, I gave up hope that what I was doing would trigger anything in the farmer that I would see outwardly, but I consoled myself with the idea that I didn’t know what was happening inside those dark rooms in his brain. You know how the window frames in an old house doesn’t fit quite tight, and a small amount of air seeps between the sills and the frames? I thought maybe that might be how the windows in the farmer’s mind were working so I felt I shouldn’t give up trying to stimulate him even if I couldn’t see I was helping him. One evening at bedtime, I pushed the farmer’s wheelchair across the living room. As we neared a visitor, sitting by his wife, the visitor reached out his hand and patted the farmer’s knee. “Hello,” the visitor greeted. “Hello,” the farmer returned in his booming voice, and he called the man by name. The blank expression on the farmer’s face changed to one of joy at seeing an old friend. “He knows you!” I exclaimed in surprise as I realized the farmer recognized the visitor, and he actually spoke without repeating another person’s sentence. The farmer’s eyes remained focused on the visitor. “He should,” the visitor replied. “We’ve been friends for years, and we were both on the board of a business in town for a long time, weren’t we?” “Yes,” the farmer answered with gusto. I could see a calm look of contentment on his face as the memory room’s window crept open to let out the memories I had been so sure were trapped forever in darkness. “We went to a lot of those board meetings together,” the visitor continued. He patted the farmer’s knee again as he said, “This is the man who made a lot of the important decision at the meetings, didn’t you?” Tears welled up in the farmer’s eyes as he struggled to grasp memories long forgotten. I hated to see him so sad, and I didn’t want this to be an uncomfortable situation for him or the visitor so I tried to add a little humor to the conversation. “Oh, sure! Were those important decisions what time to go get the beer after the meetings were over?” Both men laughed at my teasing as the farmer slowly boomed out, “Yes!” Then I explained to the visitor that it was the farmer’s bedtime so he had to leave. By the time I had wheeled the farmer the short distance down the hall into his room and closed the door, his face was expressionless again. His eyes stared vacantly, focused on the drapes behind his bed which were closed across the window just like the pair that darkened the window that had shut again in his mind. For all my trying, I hadn’t been the one to open a window for the farmer, but that’s all right because I was there to see it happen, and that was enough incentive to make me keep trying. One inspiring source to read for caregivers is Jolene Brackey’s book titled Creating Moments Of Joy. Her website is another place to check out for helpful information which is http://www.enhancedmoments.com. She always has helpful articles designed to make pleasant days for people with Alzheimer’s. I was thrilled when Jolene used my Open A Window story in the third edition of her Creating Moments Of Joy. She even autographed her book for me. That for me was a moment of joy I hope I never forget. When one door closes, another opens -- Alexander Graham Bell How do I know this book works. The examples I've provided for helping someone with dementia are ones I used many times. I was a CNA for over fifteen years at the Keystone Nursing Care Center and facilitated an Alzheimer's support group. I helped my mother take care of my father. He suffered for ten years with Alzheimer's disease, and we took care of him at home except for the last month of his life. I wrote a book about my family's experiences during that ten years if you want to read Hello Alzheimer's Good Bye Dad – A Daughter's Journal. Both books can be found on Amazon and Barnes and Noble in paper back and ebooks and on https://www.smashwords.com/ I've been be recognized over the years for my efforts to help people with Alzheimer's disease. I was awarded the 2004 Nurse Aide award from the Iowa Health Care Association and the 2006 Professional Caregiver Award from the North Central Iowa Alzheimer’s Association. I've was a volunteer speaker for the Alzheimer’s Association for many years. Just in time for Halloween, my Amazing Gracie Mystery book 5 is in Large Print. It will be on the market in three days in Amazon and Barnes and Noble paperback and kindle and nook as well as on Smashwords.com Synopsis for back of book. Moser Mansion Rest Home For Women in Locked Rock, Iowa has become a spooky place. One of the residents, Libby Hook, sees ghosts in the middle of the night, roaming around the house with her after the Mansion's Halloween party. She has everyone living in the mansion awake and on edge with her screaming. Always practical, Gracie Evans is sure the hauntings is a plot of a crooked contractor who wants to buy the mansion and turn it into a hotel. He would like to see the residents move out so Miss Molly has a reason to sell the mansion and make all of them homeless. Seems the only one who really has the answers to what's going on is Moxie's pet, talking parrot Turkeyneck. He lives in the library where he hears all. Will he tell? Not as long as he's mad at Gracie for not liking him. He calls her a dog, because she barks. So are all the residents getting senile or are the residents surrounded by The Moser Mansion Ghosts? Chapter One Gracie Evans woke up that October morning in 1904 with a down right awful feeling of despair coursing through her veins. She often had premonitions of some eminent disaster about to happen, but not to the degree she just woke up with. The imaginary, black thunder cloud hanging over her head didn’t leave as quickly as it usually arrived, either. That made her mood as dark as that invisible life’s storm she felt coming toward her. She braided her thin, dark gray hair and crowned her head with the braids. This premonition gave her the impression she should grab hold and hang on for dear life to a solid object. A heck of an ill wind was about to blow over Locked Rock, Iowa’s Rest Home For Women. Her premonitions were never wrong. After breakfast, Gracie, still in a bad mood, limped down the Moser mansion entry hall, grumbling to herself. If that hall got any longer, she would have to forget about walking any farther than the parlor because of her bum knee. Although now that fall had arrived, it wouldn’t be long before she would be stuck indoors anyway, sitting as close to the parlor fireplace as she could get. So what would it matter how long the entry hall was then? The outside temperature was still tolerable for a little while if a body dressed warm enough. She had on a long sleeve, tan blouse and brown skirt with a heavy, cotton slip under it. With the tops rolled over garters just above her knees, her thick, tan stockings kept her legs warm. She hoped her dark brown shawl warded off the chill that would try to creep into her shoulders. Her nine patch, lap quilt was already on the porch, folded and ready for her in her rocker. Given that she felt prepared for the cool of autumn, Gracie was determined to rock away the morning in the frosty air. Actually, she felt she had no choice. She best keep out of everyone’s way for her own sake. At breakfast, Pearlbee, the grumpy cook, batted the air with her cane in a threatening manner as often as she used it to walk around with. Gracie couldn’t figure out what had gotten into that cranky, old woman. She didn’t bother to ask. She wasn’t dumb enough to aggravate Pearlbee into a greater frenzy than she already was. The rambunctious youngun Orie and Molly Lang adopted, Shana Shanasey, got on Gracie’s nerves more all the time since the child had warmed up to the place. She raced around the house non stop, giving Gracie the feeling at any time the little girl would run over her if she wasn’t fast enough to dodge out of the way. That was a real worry, because the older Gracie became the slower her pace. She figured one of these days, she wouldn’t be quick enough to avoid colliding with that child. When Shana did stand still for a brief moment, the youngun asked more questions than any other human being Gracie ever knew. One of the residents, Libby Hook, always irritating and uppity in Gracie’s book, had been acting more unusual of late. Her actions were even stranger then the time she was scared by a former neighbor, Mavis Jordan. Mavis stalked the residents of Moser mansion, Gracie, Melinda and Libby, because they knew she killed Rachel Simpson, the prostitute, who lived across the street. After all that, Libby’s actions being stranger now was saying some in Gracie estimation. If she noticed something wrong with Libby surely Melinda Applegate, another resident and Gracie’s friend, had seen Libby acting peculiar. As soon as she had a chance, Gracie intended to bring the subject of Libby up to Melinda. The front porch, where Gracie headed, was as far away as she could get in the over populated mansion. She hadn’t seen Melinda since breakfast. More than likely she had the same notion and beat Gracie to the Amish, handcrafted, porch rockers. As different as the two of them were, Gracie figured Melinda and her thought were alike more times than not. How they handled a problem was as different as night and day, but since they became friends, Gracie usually talked Melinda into seeing the solution her way. A wild, piercing squawk echoed down the quiet hall. Gracie jumped. Flattening her hand over her fast beating heart, she froze in her tracks and stared at the naked man, plant statue. The noise sounded like it came from that ugly statue. Glaring at the pint sized pygmy, she silently vowed she had never liked that nasty, little African man, and she never would. Every time she walked by him, he leered obscenely at her through the large Boston fern’s fronds that dangled down around his face. Another sharp squawk rent the air. Now Gracie’s hearing was more tuned in. That didn’t come from the naked man statue. She edged toward the library door. Repeated session of loud hisses reminded her of an startled snake. The sounds ushered her back to an autumn on the farm. One cool evening, a king snake, looking for a warm place, slithered under the screen door at her farm house. The varmint wound up under the kitchen table. Didn’t take her long to back out the door and run for her garden hoe. She make short work of that snake. Up until now she hadn’t seen many snakes around the mansion. Except for those grass snakes that lived in the back yard like the one who managed to get stuck in Mavis Jordan’s shoe at the garden party that time. That one ended up dead for his trouble. Certainly a snake had never made it under the mansion’s tight doors. Gracie peeked cautiously around the library door frame, surveying the hardwood floor. She didn’t see a snake. At the next long hiss and shrill squawk, Gracie focused her attention over in the corner by the wall of book shelves. Irish lass, Moxie McEntire, the Langs permanent house guest, had a finger placed to her lips. She leaned her short frame over a large, wicker birdcage on stilted legs. Her bushy, red hair hid her face as she hissed another drawn out shush. Inside the cage, a cobalt blue parrot flapped his wings in a speedy fashion, hurling himself from one side of the cage to the other. Obviously, he wanted to escape before Moxie struck at him like he expected any food hunting snake from his native country would do. Gracie slipped across the room to stand behind Moxie. In her brassy voice, she snapped, “What’s going on in here?” Moxie straightened fast and whirled around to face Gracie. “Saint preserve us, what are ye doin’ scaring me out of a week’s worth of growth like that by sneakin’ up on me?” “You would have heard me come in if you hadn’t been hissing like a locomotive letting off steam at that – that…,” Gracie hesitated to inspect the parrot. “Sure and it tis a parrot, Miss Gracie.” Moxie’s Irish, blue eyes took on excited brightness. “I know that,” scoffed Gracie, glaring into the cage. “I also see plain as day, you’re scaring the noisy thing.” “I was just trying to quiet him down. He’s a wee bit nervous from the move to a strange place,” Moxie defended. Eying the two women distrustfully from the far side of his perch, the parrot shook himself. He puffed his feathers up to twice his size. Giving one last shutter, he settled down his fluffed up feathers. Now that Moxie quit hissing at him, the parrot calmed down. Picking up his foot, the bird busied himself, scratching the side of his bright, yellow beak. “What’s it doing in here?” Gracie demanded. Pointing at the cage, she gave Moxie her full attention. “Tis me new pet. Jeffrey, me love, heard the poor thing was goin’ to be put to death.” At the mention of Jeffrey, Moxie’s face took on a dreamy look. “I might have known that man would have been involved in this scheme somehow,” Gracie sighed. “No offense since he’s Melinda’s nephew, but he don’t have a lick of sense.” ‘Now hear me out, Miss Gracie. The man who owned this lovely bird died. No one else wanted him. He would have been killed if I hadn’t said yes. Isn’t he the prettiest bird ye ever saw? Smart besides,” Moxie boasted, trying to win Gracie over to her way of thinking. As if on cue, the parrot screamed at Gracie, “Awk! I’m Turkeyneck. Who are you?” Startled, Gracie flinched. “See isn’t that smart of him?” Moxie bragged proudly. “Tell him your name, Miss Gracie.” “I’m not talking to that critter like he’s human. For one thing, I rarely speak to strangers. I don’t know this bird well enough to talk to him. For another, I have no intention of getting acquainted with him. Besides you’re wrong. That bird don’t seem one bit smart to me. He just said he thinks he’s a turkey,” barked Gracie, eying the bird disdainfully. “Oh no! Sure and he doesn’t. Turkeyneck really is his name,” Moxie defended, blinking her eyes lids furiously. Gracie’s head jerked back. “Why?” Moxie shrugged her shoulders. “Sure and I don’t have the slightest notion. That’s what his owner named him.” Gracie stepped up beside Moxie and gave the bird a good once over. The parrot craned his neck as far up as he could and tilted his head, inspecting the elderly woman right back. She twisted her head to the side just like the parrot and speculated, “Might be cause his neck is twice as long when he stretches.” Pointing an arthritic finger at the cage again, she got her thoughts back on track. She centered her attention on Moxie. “Does Miss Molly know this thing is in the library?” “No, but me thinks she won’t mind,” Moxie said casually. “I see, but you don’t know that for sure,” persisted Grace. Moxie clasped her fingers and laid her hands on her waist. She said calmly, “Not yet. I just got him. I’ll tell Molly soon as I see her.” Gracie narrowed her eyes and warned, “Best yet, does Libby know this bird’s in the library? You know how snippy Libby is about being around any kind of critter. I’ll bet she’s going to have a hissy fit.” “Oh, maybe not.” Moxie tried to sound sure of herself, but her forehead suddenly furrowed in worry wrinkles at the thought. Sidestepping across the wooden perch to get closer to the women, the parrot flapped his wings and let out a squawk as loud as he could. “What on earth is that poultry doing in here?” snapped Libby, peevishly from the doorway. She had her hands clamped over her ears. “The bird ain’t poultry.” said Gracie in disdain. “Top of the morning to ye, Miss Libby. Come see me new pet.” Moxie motioned to her to come over. “No thank you,” Libby said, staying in the doorway. “Awk! Awk! I’m Turkeyneck. How do Snippy Libby.” Then the parrot ducked his head low and squalled, “Look out for Snippy Libby. She’s has hissy fits.” Moxie’s complexion reddened to match her flighty hair. She looked helplessly from the parrot to Gracie. When she saw Libby’s face contort, Moxie looked at her with a mortified expression. In the doorway, the woman’s long, thin face twisted and flushed with anger. Putting a hand over her mouth, Gracie turned her back to Libby, trying her best to contain the laughter welling up inside her. To begin with, Libby had abhorrence of the parrot written all over her face. That bird sure didn’t help his cause when he tried name calling on Libby. Now she was down right mad. Insulted at being spoken to like that, Libby grew huffy. “Well, I never.” It crossed through Gracie’s mind Libby puffed up just like the parrot. The insulted woman accused Moxie in a caustic tone, “Why would you teach that creature to say such a thing about me?” Wringing her hands, Moxie crossed the room to stand by Libby. “Horse feathers, Miss Libby, I didn’t teach him anything. I don’t know what has possessed me parrot. I am so sorry,” She apologized. Libby screeched, “That talking chicken is the devil in disguise. Get it out of this house before it insults me again.” “The bird isn’t a chicken,” explained Moxie quietly. “Well, I know a turkey when I see one. She’s certainly not a turkey. You’re not going to convince me she is,” Libby’s voice kept rising up as she spoke. Her breath came short and fast. “Awk. Look out! Libby’s having a hissy fit,” the parrot declared. “If you don’t get rid of her, I shall never use the library again,” huffed Libby, her head high in the air. She moved her hands in a rolling grip. “Miss Moxie, I shall never speak to you again if that bird stays here. On top of that, I shall tell Miss Molly about this awful chicken.” Her nose aimed at the ceiling when she backed away from the door. “Well, maybe that bird’s good for amusing us after all. Look on the bright side. Libby not talking to you might be a good thing.” Gracie whispered to Moxie behind her hand. Distraught, Moxie peeked out the door after Libby to make sure she was out of earshot. She came back to the cage and spoke softly to keep Libby from hearing. “Sure and that’s not funny. This predicament all be your fault. Me parrot picks up words real easy. I told ye he’s a smart one, he tis. All he had to do was hear ye call Miss Libby ----.” The parrot cocked his head to one side. His beady, black eyes, set in circles of white feathers, eyed Moxie. He listened to her every word. “Sure and ye know. Now he thinks that tis Miss Libby’s name. I told ye he’s a smart one. Ye have to be more careful what ye say.” “Tell you right now, I’m not waiting to hear the next words out of that bird’s mouth. He’s nothing but pure trouble.” Gracie snatched the Locked Rock Weekly Newspaper off the writing table. “I’m going out on the porch where it’s quiet. You best be talking to Miss Molly right quick before Libby gets to her. You shouldn’t disrupt the household any more than you already have. Miss Molly sure don’t need any excitement or worries these days feeling like she does.” Enjoy this light hearted ghost story, Fay Risner I don't mean children. I'm going back to school. This spring I took an eight week beginner's writing course for fun at an online college called Future Learn. My younger brother alerted me to the course and said he had signed up for it. The course is free. What costs is the diploma when the course is over if I'd wanted it. I didn't. It was enough to be able to say I took the course and challenged myself. After having written 48 books, some of which are in foreign languages and large print, I really don't think I'm a beginner anymore. I did enjoy the classes and the interaction of the other students from other countries. Where I could I added excerpts from some of my books as examples of the way I write. We students had to critique each other's works. I was very surprised at the response my writing a portion from of one of my Amazing Gracie Mystery books got from others. Actually, they had insight about my background just from reading my writing. The questions and answers are as followed. Which method of character creation was being used? The description seems to be autobiographical or biographical, perhaps either from the writer's own experience with older family members, or from observation of people around her or characters she's read about. Were you able to see the character clearly? Did you want to know more about the character? The character of Gracie is vividly built up from the first sentence, when we suspect, from the two rocking chairs, that she is an old lady who doesn't live alone. The details which follow then allow us to imagine her as she dozes and drifts between the present and the past, between reality and her memories. I wanted to know what her story was - what her life was like before she went to live in the retirement home, and of course the tantalizing final sentence holds lots of possibilities! What approaches to portrayal, such as depicting appearance, occupation, voice, and so forth, did the writer successfully use? Gracie's character is developed through small details which give a lot of information. I loved the way the narrative of the rocking, the heat and Gracie's thoughts lull the reader into a similar state, even though she tries to wake herself out of her stupor. The end is particularly effective at creating that contradiction which adds an unexpected dimension to the character and to the rest of the story. I was surprised and please that both ladies assumed that I had taken care of or observed family members or older people. They are very right. I was a CNA for many years in a nursing home, taking care of residents and took care of my parents in their home until they died. [caption id="attachment_592" align="alignnone" width="200"] Book one in Amazing Gracie Mystery series titled Neighbor Watchers. Found at Amazon, B & N and Smashwords.[/caption] In fact the characters in the Amazing Gracie Mystery series were real people in the nursing home that I enjoyed being with. I used their characteristics to embellish my Gracie Evans, Melinda Applegate, Libby Hook and even the neighbors across the street, the Bullocks. They were patterned after my parents. I responded with this information so the students could see how right they were. Now I'm getting ready to do a two weeks course on How to Read a Character's mind. From my writing, the critiquers could tell as much about me as they could my characters. So let's see if I can do as well starting Monday October 3rd. The two series I write Nurse Hal Among The Amish and Amazing Gracie Mysteries are continuations of life for the same characters with a few new ones added in. These characters are so familiar to me I know what each will say at any given moment and how they will react. I didn't think about that as being able to read my characters minds, but it is. Now let's see if I can do as well at reading others works. Wish me luck. I'll let you know how I came out. The following email letter is from the instructor of the course if anyone else wants to join tomorrow. Hello Fay, Our short course How to Read a Mind: an Introduction to Understanding Literary Characters begins in a few weeks’ time. I’m looking forward to welcoming you on Monday 3 October. As you know, the course will take place online and will run for two weeks. There are short units of explanation, consisting of text, images, and several short video sequences. Each unit ends by inviting you to share your own thinking and experience with other learners. We expect this course will take you about three hours each week. However, we have also included further reading and suggestions that you can follow if you are particularly interested in certain ideas. The level of engagement is entirely up to you. The area of study that we will be following is quite new, and many of even the key ideas are not yet fully settled. It is an exciting time to be involved, and – as you will see – the journey from new student to advanced study is really very short. Over two weeks, you will become fairly expert in cognitive poetics. You will understand in quite a profound way what it is to read and model the minds of other people, both real and fictional. You don’t need any preparation other than your curiosity and your own experience of reading literary fiction or viewing film and television drama. How to Read a Mind is proving to be very popular, and we already have many thousands of people from all over the world ready to study with us. There is still time to invite friends and colleagues to enrol on the course and take part alongside you. The course page where they can enrol can be found at https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/how-to-read-a-mind Feel free to pass this on through your own emails, tweets, Facebook pages, and so on: you can use the tag #FLread if you like. Or link to my Twitter account: @PeterJStockwell I will contact you again a week or so before the course begins, and of course I’ll also send a welcome note as soon as we have got started. If you have any queries or feedback, I won’t personally be able to respond to them, but please take a look at FutureLearn’s extensive FAQs: https://about.futurelearn.com/faq/ I’m looking forward to it! With all best wishes, Peter Stockwell Prof Peter Stockwell University of Nottingham Now I live 800 miles away from my school years in Schell City, Missouri. That's in Vernon County in the southwestern part of the state. My parents sold our eighty acre farm in the summer of 1961 and moved the family to Iowa. I was subjected to a whole different kind of life after that. No more running with my brother like wild Indians around our farm. I missed that freedom. [caption id="attachment_608" align="alignnone" width="91"] Remembering a special school bus driver in Vernon Co. Mo.[/caption] Once in a while my memory is jogged by something I read, and a moment from the past comes back to me. That's what happened when I saw Mr. Corbin's story on Facebook about a dedicated bus driver at Schell City that had a real fondness for children. Mr. Corbin remembered the bus driver, Roy Vogt so well he wrote a song about him that has become popular by all who hears it. The story he tells that prompted the song surely can be echoed by many of the students that rode Roy's bus between the 1950's and the 1980's. My older brother, Bill, graduated from Schell City in 1954. I was eleven years younger, and when my brother started riding the bus to go to high school four years earlier, I'd follow him out in the yard to wait for the bus. We'd play catch with a softball. My brother, Bill, saw the bus coming. He'd throw the ball high in the air in the opposite direction from the road. I'd run after the ball and by the time I found it, Bill boarded the bus and headed for school. I'm guessing now that my brother's plan was to keep me away from the road until the bus left. I finished fourth grade at the one room school house in seeing distance of our farm. My younger brother, John, finished second before the school closed. After that we rode Roy Vogt's bus to the elementary school in Schell City. [caption id="attachment_609" align="alignnone" width="300"] East side of Main Street in Schell City. Blue and white building was Dickbreder's grocery store and cafe.[/caption] Mr. Corbin was right about Roy taking us downtown to Dickbreder's cafe for candy or an ice cream cone. What a treat, and I expect for a while we did stay quiet while we concentrated on eating. It was the spring of my freshman year of 1961 that I remember most about the man at the helm of that bus. One morning, we'd just picked up a student not too far from the end of the route and were on our way to school. Roy stopped the bus and looked at the students in his rear view mirror. “There's a possum in the road, acting funny.” We all rushed up front to look out the windshield to see what Roy saw. Sure enough the possum was moving slowly around in a circle. I thought our kind, soft hearted bus driver just didn't want to hit the opossum and kill it. Later it occurred to me, he might not want the children to see him run over an animal. It might upset some or all of them. As I watched the possum out the windshield, I thought about my missing Science project. The assignment was for each student to bring some sort of animal to school to be dissected. Not all of us would be able to find and catch a specimen for this purpose. At least that is what I told myself until I watched that slow moving possum. A light blub went off in my head. I said out loud, “I sure wish I could catch that possum for my Science class today.” The bus driver said, “I have a box under the seat if you want to go get that possum.” Maybe he didn't expect a fourteen year old girl to have the guts to mess with a weird possum. He probably thought I'd say no way am I going to touch that animal. If that was what he thought, Roy was wrong. I didn't stop to think the possum was probably sick. Maybe he had distemper or rabies? What ever was wrong with the possum, he didn't make any of the students sick for which I'm thankful. The bus driver was probably thinking he couldn't waste much time, or we'd be late getting to school. Which would have probably been the one and only time that bus driver was ever late which would have been hard to explain. No matter what Roy thought, he kept it to himself. I looked where he pointed under the front seat opposite him. Sure enough there was the cardboard box. Just what I needed. I grabbed the box. Roy opened the bus doors. He followed me to the middle of the road. As I remember we'd had a shower the night before. The tree lined slightly graveled road was tacky. I opened the box and turned it on its side. Roy helped me scoot that possum into the box and sit it upright. We bent the lids under each other to keep the box shut, and Roy carried the box back to the bus. He placed the box next to the front of the bus where he could watch it. I sat in the front seat and kept my eyes on that box, too, until Roy stopped the bus at school. I kept worry about what if that possum livened up. That box wouldn't hold him, and he'd get loose in the bus. Not once did the top of the box move as if the possum was trying to get out. Stuck in that dark box that animal lived up to his name. He played possum. I suppose Roy thought this was sort of a show and tell project I needed the possum for. It was later that I decided I was glad I hadn't told the soft hearted bus driver what was going to happen to that possum. He might not have helped me. That cardboard box was heavy and awkward, but I managed to carry it down the sidewalk and across the street to the house where we had Science and Biology. No way did I want to drop that box and let that possum get away from me after I went to all that trouble. [caption id="attachment_610" align="alignnone" width="300"] Science and Biology classes held in a house south across the street from the school.[/caption] The Science teacher was delighted to see my specimen for that day's class. I can't remember what the others in the class brought. That possum was the center of attention. Mrs. Edmondson produced a bottle of ether and warned us not to breath deep while we were around the bottle. She even had us open up all the windows to let fresh air in. Students took turns holding the possum still and shoving cotton under the possum's nose to put him under for surgery. We took turns cutting that possum into parts and identified each piece of him. It sounds gross now to think about what we did, but like I said, I had lived on a farm all my fourteen years. Like many of the students, my father was a hunter, and we ate the game he brought home. I'd held squirrel legs and rabbit legs while Dad skinned them. I'd helped Mom butcher chickens and watched while a steer was strung up to be butchered. Animals dying was just a part of my farm life. [caption id="attachment_611" align="alignnone" width="300"] My Award Card to prove my story was true. I've kept it all these years.[/caption] That project got me an award for special honors in General Science Achievement in the class and an A+ on May 11, 1961. I've kept that index card all these years just to prove this story is true for non believers. Science and Biology were never subjects that I enjoyed. Heck, I just barely passed the classes except for that one year thanks to my bus driver Roy Vogt. er the last few years, I have been friended on Facebook by people that buy my books. They comment on my posts and seem to enjoy what I write. Some of the posts are experiences that wind up in my Nurse Hal Among The Amish series like the problems with my front porch. https://www.amazon.com/Amish-Country-Arson-Nurse-Among/dp/0982459580/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1474041376&sr=1-1&keywords=Amish+Country+Arson Nothing happened when we had the old porch that was as old as the house. I liked the ornate carved porch posts and didn't mind that the porch floor sloped down slightly. Building a new floor became a necessity when the black Lab we had decided the best route to getting a rabbit he saw run under the porch was by tearing up the floor. Harold changed his mind when he realized what the noise was, but too late we had to sidestep the hole or fall through to the ground. [caption id="attachment_602" align="alignnone" width="300"] My front porch[/caption] We like the heavy board floor. I'm not so crazy about the large square posts that hold the roof up. The carved originals were much nicer. Harold must have liked them, too. He saved them in the barn loft. First winter, a flock of doves roosted on the porch. I like doves, but not so much sweeping away the droppings. Most of the time that was impossible to do in the frigid temperatures. Each morning I'd open the door and yell at the doves. That not only woke them up but startled them into flying away. Finally, the birds decided they should go back to roosting in the three Colorado Blue Spruces down by the garden. The neighbors weren't so noisy down there. After that, it was cats that wanted to hide from the rest in the barn. They were welcome. Lately, the visitor over night had been an old beat up Tom Cat that needed to get away from the younger competitive Toms. When that old white cat started using one of the porch posts to sharpen his claws, I wasn't too happy about seeing the splinters sticking out. I sandpapered the spot down and tied a plastic sack around the post. The wind blew it off or the cat took it off. I'm not sure which so I mixed up a bottle of red pepper spray and sprayed the post. The cat must have sniffed the post and got a nose full of hot peppers. He stopped scratching. Lately, I find a few of the half grown kittens have joined him on the porch. They all scattered when I go out early to greet the day except the last few days they haven't been on the porch. I noticed, but first thing I do is patrol the porch foundation to see if my barricade is in place. It has been all summer. You see the last two years skunks came and went, digging holes and tearing up my flower bed. I kept posting my problem on Facebook. In 2014, the visitors were a mother skunk and two young ones. I wouldn't have known they were around except one of us goes out at dusk to shut the chicken house door. Just my luck it was my turn. I was walking back from that task and noticed three skunks racing toward the house. I wasn't sure where they were headed. All I knew was I wanted in the back door before they beat me to it. I raced across the yard and succeeded. Curious about what happened to the stinky trio, I looked around the house. The skunks turned along the side of the house and ended up under the front porch. I realized that the next morning when I found the hole and dirt covering my flowers. Those skunks lived there all summer with only one incident. I guess one of the cats tried to join them and got turned down. Four in the morning, we woke to the most choking horrible smell. That aroma lasted for days. In 2015, I found my flower bed a mess that spring. Again dug up and a hole under the porch. Turned out the two young skunks came back again. I worked at barricading the bottom of the porch and had no hope of ever having flowers. One of the friends on Facebook said moth balls work in the south. They keep skunks from denning in the wood piles. So I got a box and threw both sacks under the porch. By the next morning, the skunks had pushed the sacks back out. My mistake. I had to make the moth balls more work for them. I opened the sacks and scattered the balls. Some of them came back out but not all. When the wind is from the south, our basement smells like moth balls. I'm pretty sure there aren't any moths down there. I even set a live trap in front of the hole. The skunks dug a new hole to by pass it. Finally, fall came and the skunks moved on. Yesterday morning, I stepped out to see what the day was like, but I didn't check the foundation. After all, nothing had happened all summer. By mid afternoon, I changed my mind. I looked out to find a ground hog grazing in the lawn. I whispered to Harold to come see. He opened the squeaky screen door. The ground hog raced for the porch and disappeared. Harold found a hole dug under the porch in my flower bed. Here we go again, and I'm think this critter is almost worse than the skunks. Now I understand why the cats haven't been sleeping on the porch. I take a careful look around before I step out on the porch now to greet the day or any other time. That ground hog looks mean. I signed up a two months writing course at Future Learn early this year. It was on how to get started writing. It was good to have a refresher lesson. I enjoyed the course and appreciated the feed back from the other students in the course. Now I've been alerted of the upcoming classes on how to read the mind of characters. I've never stopped to be analytical where characters are concerned when I'm writing a story. Nurse Hal in my Amish series and Gracie Evans in my Amazing Gracie Mystery series have time from one book to the next to evolve. From the readers feedback, I think those two ladies and the supporting cast in each series come over quite clear. If their personalities are written well in the course of the story the reader gets a feel for each character. Then again, I feel it never hurts to take time to listen to an expert's approach on the subject and perhaps learn what it might take to make my characters stand out better than they do now. The online college is in England, and these courses are free. A grade and certificate can be purchased, but I didn't do it last time. Just taking the course to see how I could do was enough satisfaction for me. This is the email reminder I received since I already signed up for this two week course. Our short course How to Read a Mind: an Introduction to Understanding Literary Characters begins in a few weeks’ time. I’m looking forward to welcoming you on Monday 3 October. As you know, the course will take place online and will run for two weeks. There are short units of explanation, consisting of text, images, and several short video sequences. Each unit ends by inviting you to share your own thinking and experience with other learners. We expect this course will take you about three hours each week. However, we have also included further reading and suggestions that you can follow if you are particularly interested in certain ideas. The level of engagement is entirely up to you. The area of study that we will be following is quite new, and many of even the key ideas are not yet fully settled. It is an exciting time to be involved, and – as you will see – the journey from new student to advanced study is really very short. Over two weeks, you will become fairly expert in cognitive poetics. You will understand in quite a profound way what it is to read and model the minds of other people, both real and fictional. You don’t need any preparation other than your curiosity and your own experience of reading literary fiction or viewing film and television drama. How to Read a Mind is proving to be very popular, and we already have many thousands of people from all over the world ready to study with us. There is still time to invite friends and colleagues to enroll on the course and take part alongside you. The course page where they can enroll can be found at https://www.futurelearn.com/courses/how-to-read-a-mind Feel free to pass this on through your own emails, tweets, Facebook pages, and so on: you can use the tag #FLread if you like. Or link to my Twitter account: @PeterJStockwell |
A woman that has worn many hats in my life time. Join me here and find out about those hats.
Archives
March 2019
Categories
All
|