A View of the Town, Episode 7: Thanksgiving 1921

Welcome to A View of the Town, the adventures of Dr. Willis Fletcher in a small coastal town in Maine. Offering tidbits of local color and the lay of the land, we now return to Dr. Fletcher and the Thanksgiving of 1921.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by dust.  You clean. You sweep. You make a fuss, but it's never going to leave you.  Dust.

And now on with A View of the Town.

Back in 1921, Thanksgiving was coming and the whole town was rounding up their turkeys and all the fixings to go with it.  You know mashed potatoes, green beans, stuffing, dressings, gravy. You name it and someone in town had it.

Now most people got their turkeys from a farmer named Durham Q. Byrd who about two miles south of town.  Yes, you read that right.  Durham Q. Byrd.  And to look at him, you knew it.  His waddle was droopy and red from scraping with a straight razor.  His eyes slightly bulged.  And his stomach jutted out making him look like a stuffed turkey himself.  Every year, he would have enough turkeys for the whole county and then some.  This particular Thanksgiving almost went turkey-less, due to a loose wooden peg about a half-inch long.

Richie Williams worked for Mr. Byrd for the month of November.  His job was simple.  Keep the turkeys safe and watch for foxes.  Richie was now seventeen years old, but not that bright.  He lacked in good old fashioned common sense.  Some say his ma had dropped him on his head when he was a baby. Others say his pa had given too much brandy when Richie was teething. Doesn't really matter which.  All we know is that night, poor Richie Williams would almost ruin Thanksgiving.

Six days before Thanksgiving and folks would be arriving to place their orders.  Often they could pick out their tom and Richie would tag it with Byrd taking the notes, carefully assigning a number to match bird with future owner.  On the day before folks would drop by to pick up their main course for their thankful meal, Richie got his first, and I might add, only bright idea.  His plan was simple: sharpen the ax (which he did), have a hot lunch down at Pearl's Diner (which he did), and then organize the turkeys in numerical order, making it easier the next morning to find (which he attempted).

Have you ever tried to arrange a rafter of turkeys?  Richie tried, but what he didn't realize was that turkeys don't care about the numbers.  Or the order of the numbers.  Nor did they take to kindly to Richie try to organize them in numerical order.  Richie found himself turkey pecked.  All over.  If you've never had a hundred turkeys surround you with all the same intention, well lucky you as Richie would say as he recalled the tale in the barber shop the next day.

"They came at me from ever direction," said Richie.  "There was this one ornery cuss. I called him Old Tom, you know like a tom should be called.  But by my recollections he didn't like that name.  He charged at me the moment I got half way to the center of the lot.  You see they was all in this large fenced in yard on the Byrd farm."  Richie tiptoed, like he was making his way through them.

"At first, I thought old Tom as going to just push back towards the gate and out.  But he got a few others riled up and they started pecking at my legs.  Before I knew what it was all about, they was all over me.  I thought turkeys couldn't fly, but they did.  Right at me."  Richie flailed his arms like he was battling them right then.

"So ran back to the gate as best I could, fighting off them turkeys.  I finally made it out, slamming that gate right on Old Tom and his buddies. And got out there.  Just as I got a few steps away, I heard something.  When I looked back, Old Tom had pushed that pin out and he and his boys, all one hundred, came flocking after me."

As you can imagine, the boys in the barber shop that day knew what really had happened.  Richie hadn't pushed the pin in.  Mr. Byrd confirmed that.  He had seen the whole thing from his kitchen window.  Richie simply opened the gate and ran, leaving the gate wide open.  As Byrd described it, it looked like a dark feather cloud just flying away.  He was so dumbfounded he didn't know what to do.

We do know this, he got most of the turkeys back and his business dropped a little next Thanksgiving, especially when the hunters found out that some of those turkeys had nested in the woods west of town.  Many were thankful that hunting season.  All thanks to Richie Williams.

Join us again next time, when Dr. Fletcher tells us about  Otis Major in the Witch's Woods.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by dust.   It's true that we come from dust and we return to dust.  So are they coming or going under that bed?  Dust.

CSM

A View of the Town, Episode 6: Louisville Sam

Welcome to A View of the Town, the adventures of Dr. Willis Fletcher in a small coastal town in Maine. Offering tidbits of local color and the lay of the land, we now return to Dr. Fletcher as he recollects about Louisville Sam.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by pins.  They stick and prick you, but they're still you're friends when they hold up that hem.  Pins.

And now on with A View of the Town...

I know I told you the last time you all read that I would tell you about Otis Major and his trip into the Witch's Woods north of town, but if you've noticed I sometimes stray away on some other story first. In this case, Louisville Sam plays a part in Otis Major's visit in the Witch's Woods. So, I have to fill you in on him.

Tall, slender, and fit the name, Louisville Sam told us of his travels in his younger days on the riverboats along the Ohio River. Being an Ohioan myself, I knew some of the river ports he spoke of between Wheeling and over to where it flowed into the Mississippi. His stories were so fascinating we never quite knew what to believe, but could only sit back and revel in the tales he would spin.

I remember the first time I met Louisville Sam at the barber shop. The boys all sat back while I simply asked Louisville Sam "You been here all your life?"  I soon learned that the true history of Louisville Sam would always remain a mystery even down to the basics like when or where he was born.  If you asked, he would answer "Two days short of a million and between two rivers rolling south like piss into a stream."  So, with snipping of barber clippers in my ear, I heard the longest answer to my simple question.

Louisville Sam fiddled with the silver buttons on his worn denim vest. He kicked the leg of his chair with his right boot as if he was trying to shake a memory loose from his big toe and get it to travel up to his brain, then he said --  "I've been here long enough to remember the original cabin that founded this town. I was a little younger then. But I remember meeting old Jedediah Cork East. That must of been about 50 years ago or more. I honestly don't remember. I helped him hew those logs for that cabin."  He stopped for just a moment and then proceeded to tell me about the time he caught a glimpse of the whale that Moby Dick had been based on.

The others in the barber shop just grinned as I sat there  wondering why this guy hadn't been locked up in an asylum somewhere and I probably had the facial expression to go along with that thought. But, Louisville Sam never blinked an eye as he spun out his tall tale about meeting the long dead founder of Misty Cove.  I did know that I had learned my lesson.  At least until that day the Otis Major walked into the Witch's Woods at the edge of town. If I hadn't been there to see it, I would never have believed it.  And on top of it, I'll have to tell you about the time he met the Queen of England herself.  Now that's another story.

Join us again next time, when Dr. Fletcher tells us about Otis Major in the Witch's Woods.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by pins.  Both sharp and pointy, but never witty.  Pins.

CSM

The Three Ws: Writing, Working, and Worrying

Wow!  It's been a couple of months since I last wrote a post.  I hope nobody thought I died.  Is it because I'm over it?  No.  Is it because I've run out of ideas?  Nope.  Is it because the elastic is shot in my underwear?  Nah.

It's because I'm working on a new book, working on finding an agent, and taking time to breathe.  Let the creative juices rest a while.

So, it's time to get back to work.  I'm moving some stuff off the plate and reorganize what's left.  This includes the two new books --  a love story and a ghost story.  I've found lots of encouragement in the past couple of months.

First, the love story.  I'm going to admit right here.  It's a little autobiographical.  A long-line of making choices, reeling in obsessions, and rolling with the punches.  I'll just have to sit back and see what happens.

Second, I recently saw the new film Crimson Peak.  What a wonderfully delicious Gothic ghost story. Loved it.  It's not quite what my ghost story is about, but the atmosphere reminded me of what I want to kind-of do with mine.

Both are hard to write.  Both have been moving rather slowly.

Then there's the agent search.  It's slow moving.  In fact, it's almost at a complete stand-still.  I have lots of leads.   I need to write a query letter and read over each agent's requirements.  Following the rules is a major part of the search.

CSM

A View of the Town: Episode 5: The Tale of the Witch's Woods

Welcome to A View of the Town, the adventures of Dr. Willis Fletcher in a small coastal town in Maine.  Offering tidbits of local color and the lay of the land, we now return to Dr. Fletcher and The Tale of the Witch's Woods.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by... Trees.  The taller they are, the harder they fall. So be careful and watch for their falling. Trees.

And now on with A View of the Town, Episode 5...

I've been promising to tell you about the Witch's Woods just north of Misty Cove.  If you follow East street all the way north, it eventually tees and you will run right into the edge of the woods. If you turn left, you will head out of town to Wasterman's farm.  And turning right will take you the Atlantic and the docks.  Of course, you also have the option of traveling into the woods on the dirt road.  Not many choose that option, but I can tell you at Halloween, you'll always spot a cluster of kids standing there.  "I dare you" one will say. "I double-dare you" is often the reply.  This banter will go back and forth among the crowd, until one young lad will take the dare to venture off into the woods.

Now we're not really sure what the truth is to the Witch's Woods other than back in 1882, a woman by the name of Amaryllis Stemm wondered into the woods and never came back out.  The legend goes that Stem had come in on a steamboat from somewhere down the coast.  Some say Salem, others say Savannah, but regardless, the locals believed her to be a witch.  She checked into Easterly's Hotel for one night where she created a ruckus of chanting and "voodoo" as Mr. Easterly had refereed to it.  It was said that the townsfolk had seen blue balls of light coming from her second-floor room.  Some imagined them to balls of blue fire.  Others said they looked like thick bubbles floating out the window.  Regardless, she spooked the whole town with her hocus pocus.

The next morning, under the suspicious eyes of the everyone, Amaryllis Stemm packed up, walked right down the center of town and into the woods.  She was never seen nor heard from again.  At least not in the flesh.  I have tried to winnow out the rumors from the facts.  One of those facts being that over the course of several years, blue balls of light could be seen floating around in those woods. Many believe that Stemm is still in there, practicing and waiting for the moment to... well... cause trouble.  I guess.  No one ever really said what she might do.  But they do fear that she might make off with one of their children.

I can related this story, part fact, part rumor.  A few years ago, one local youngster, Otis Major, took up Hubert Stinct and his gang's double-dare and ventured off into the woods on Halloween. It was dusk so they could see him and he could easily wonder back.  As the boys watched poor Otis traipse along, a band of blue lights spun up out of the underbrush and started to follow him.  Now the boys say that Otis fell down and never came back up again.  His mother tells a different story.  Otis showed up three days later as if he were in a trance.  He told her about meeting a young woman who matched Stemm's description.  When she asked where he had been, he simply muttered the most fantastic story and never spoke again... which by the way isn't true.  Otis Major later became a writer and moved to some place in Washington State.  His mother told me, but I don't remember exactly.

Join us again next time, when Dr. Fletcher tells us the story that Otis Major related about his time in the Witch's Woods.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by... Trees.  They'll leaf every fall, but return every spring.  Trees.

CSM

Come and sit with me in the confessional. I have something to say.

In recent years, I've had some bad experiences involving alcohol.  I'm not going to name names or identify any specific incidents.  That's not the purpose of this entry.  The purpose of this entry to expose a part of my personality. I've decided it's time to put it out there.  It's the part that others don't want to bare or even face, let alone put it out there for the whole world to read.  

I want to state two points before I get to what I really want to say.

First, I don't care if someone drinks alcohol.  That's their choice and they have to carry the responsibility of their actions while under its influence.  Second, I do not drink alcohol. Only the occasional drink, but at my discretion. I find it upsetting when I've mentioned this numerous times, yet the message doesn't seem to be heard.  At some point, I begin to question the respect people have for me.

Now on with the confession. So here it is.

I am vindictive.  And I am well versed in it.  Not physically, but verbally. 

I could take someone down without touching them.  I don't need to throw physical punches; I'm not strong enough. But I know how not to mince words. In my past, I have been called to carpets numerous times over my comments, statements, and harsh words.  I have gotten in trouble to the point of the fear of losing a job.  All because I got to the point in the most hurtful and harmful way. I've lost friends due to extreme honesty.  

One time, my vindictiveness was fueled by several bottles of wine.  And from that downfall, I swore never ever again.  I was painfully, hurtfully and brutally honest.  And I've never spoke of it again and never will, but I have lived with the memory.  I learned my lesson and never forgot that lesson.

I have spent a lot of time focusing on this aspect of my personality.  Taming it.  Tempering it. Controlling it.  I am afraid to drink again for fear of it unleashing itself.  I have learned to live with that part of personality and the pain it can bring.  I've tried to unsuccessfully eradicate it.  When that failed, I decided to studied it and learned to live with it like some disease.

And now through my writing, I've found a venue for it.  Through my characters, my stories, and my blog.  I have used my writing to let it fly, but still controlled.

I don't drink alcoholic beverages.  And never will again.

Thanks for reading.

CSM

A View of the Town, Episode 4: July 15th, 1920

Welcome to A View of the Town, the adventures of Dr. Willis Fletcher in a small coastal town in Maine.  Offering tidbits of local color and the lay of the land, we now return to Dr. Fletcher and July 15th, 1920.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by...  Winter.  It's after the fall, but before the spring.   Winter.  It's somewhere in between.

And now on with A View of the Town, Episode 4...

As you might recall from the last time, I told you that I would tell you about the story about the Witch's Wood, but I've decided I've first got to another story off my chest.  I told you about how Slumberman's Sawmill almost burnt down. Ignited by a forgotten firework which no one ever admitted to lighting.  And of course, who would. So, it remained a mystery, until now.  For you see, I know who lite that firework and how.  It was a few days later, July 15th, when it came clear to me what I had missed. A pair of hooligans running for their lives down the back hill behind the mill.

As the new doctor in town, I had the privilege of meeting Mr. Amos Flathorn, local carpenter.  He was small framed, but stocky, and I'd guess about 50.  One the morning, a few days after the incident, Mr. Flathorn came into the office, limping in pain.  When I asked what the problem was, he dropped his pants and pointed to a hefty two-inch splinter in the left part of his rump. After extracting the festering sliver of pine, I jokingly asked "And how did you get such an injury?"  From that moment on, I felt like a priest hearing confession.

Mr. Flathorn lowered his head in shame.  "It was really the wife's fault. I told her to hold it 'til we got home."  He had caught my attention and asked him to continue.  I was puzzled by what he meant 'hold it.'  Mr. Flathorn began to tell me more. "She gets urges, you see... If you know what I mean." He grinned and winked.  I remained silent, trying to not burst out laughing. Now I got what he meant by 'hold it.'

"So, we was on our way up to the mill to pick up some oak boards when she grabs me and drags me into the shed.  I'm saying 'no, not now', but she hiking up her skirt and saying 'oh yes, right now. I can't hold it 'til we get home.'" He paused and shook his head. "When the misses takes a notion, there's not stopping her.  She's a powerful woman."

Now being a good listener and a polite person, I wasn't sure I wanted to hear any details and had prepared myself to stop him, but I think he got the hint and got to the point.  The splinter point.  "You see, I laid on the bench while she... well... You know.  She's a large woman and strong headed.  After it was said and done, she light up a cigar, but accidentally dropped it and it rolled away under the bench.  Next thing I knew, sparks were a flyin'.  When I jumped up, that's when I got the splinter."

It wasn't until a few days later that I met Mrs. Flathorn.  She was definitely a large woman, towered over Mr. Flathorn, and obviously wore the pants in that household.  This wasn't exactly the kind of story I had expected.  A couple setting of a firework while... well... you get the hint.  Oh, I forgot to mention...  Mr. Flathorn told me he was 65 and Mrs. Flathorn a very young 67; although they don't look it.  With that, you can see why I found this story incredible.

Join us again next time, when Dr. Fletcher tells us about the Witch's Woods and how it came to be known as the scariest place not in town.

This episode of A View of the Town is brought to you by... Winter. It's cold. It's bold. It's a winter.  It will come back at the same time next year.

CSM

The Caretaker: A Short Story

The Caretaker

The weathered caretaker tapped his worn spade on the oblong mound of pebbled damp dirt, then stepped back, admiring his work.

This part of his profession he hated the most; much preferring the pruning of the trees and the gardening of the flower beds. It was easier than digging down six feet, which he never did.  Under his watch, most graves only went four feet. Tipping his woolen cap from his bushy graying-haired head, he said a silent prayer for the now laid-to-rest. All alone. No mourners shedding tears. No mourners speaking of better times. No mourners bidding farewell to the recently departed Frederick Crown.

A November wind rustled the fallen decaying leaves. It fluttered and tickled those still clinging to the last; harassing them into letting go, only to learn that they fought back until they were ready. Darkness crept over the clear sky like a black canopy, soon sliced by a Cheshire grinned moon and a thousand pinpoints of starlight.

The caretaker buttoned up his patched linen waistcoat, careful of the sore calluses earned from not wearing work gloves.  He slipped on his dusty jacket and pulled a stained handkerchief from its pocket and patted his sweaty brow. Calling it a day, he started for his snug hearth at home, where his wife would ask if it was a scarce or full service. If it was scarce, she would cross herself, asking for forgiveness for the deceased sins, then serve the caretaker his meager stew of mutton, carrots, and potatoes.

At the churchyard gate, the caretaker felt its cold wrought metal on his bare hand, he paused, and lent his ear to the wind. Asking "Hmmm... What was that?"  Was it a mouse in the brush?  A dangling tree limb, scratching the top of a headstone, the one with the embossed skull?  Or the one with the weeping willow?  Were Heaven’s angels discussing their day’s work of showing wandering souls the way towards the light?

But he heard nothing.  He saw nothing, only the fresh grave of Frederick Crown among the sea of others.  Nothing moved except for the leaves at the mercy of the blustery wind.  The caretaker shrugged his shoulders, and with focused strength, pulled the iron gate closed. Its hinges squeaking under its own weight.  He made a mental note to bring the oil can tomorrow.

The graveyard stood alone, silent like the night before. With its new resident, Frederick Crown, now four feet underground. Soon the wooden cross would give way to a slate with his full name and birth and death dates.

However, had the caretaker stopped to listen, that on the air, almost barely there, but there none the less, echoed a lone repeated word. So faint. So low. A solitary word. Over and over. “Alive.”

And if the caretaker had strayed back or even lingered, he might have heard the scraping and clawing of the bloody fingertips of Frederick Crown, digging into the pine board of his casket lid, flailing and skidding from side to side. Begging and pleading. “Alive.”

CSM

Reflections

It has been over a month since last I wrote a blog entry.  I haven't been slacking, just pouring my energy into finishing the third book of my trilogy and starting a new book with no relation to The Time Savers Club.   I admit that I miss them already and am looking to the future.
My new book is rough for me to write.  It's a ghost story.  Nothing like the first three books, this book digs into my depths and pulls up forgotten memories, angers, and annoyances.  I am laying them out on the paper and hacking them to death.   As my friend, Beth, says "It's an exorcism."  Yes, it is.  Not the pea-soup-head-spinning-devilish kind of exorcism, but the internal house cleaning that needs to be done.
It's the release of my anger I feel over my parent's deaths.  The annoyance that I have towards my failed relationships, partially my fault for hiding behind a fake cardboard stand with a printing of myself on it.  And the busting of that fake facade into a smithereens.  It's the booting of the false friends.  It's the creation and cultivation of new friendships.  The new paths.  The new journeys.  The right decisions.
I recently read a quote on Facebook about kicking out the wrong people in order to allow the right ones to come in.
That's what my book is about.  Kicking out the old and letting in the new.  Maybe someday college students will study in the English lit classes and wonder how much of it is a reflection of my life.  I will state for the record now, it is, but not in the way you think.
Goodbye to my first failed attempt at love; it was a ring in my tree of life that I learned from.  Goodbye to failed friendships; you may or may not know who you are.  Goodbye to my parents for now. Goodbye to my former life.  I bust you down and pick up only the pieces that are precious to hold close.  It's hard to pick and choose, but to grow, I have to prune.

CSM  

Whew!

It's been while since I posted.  Too many other things have drawn my attention.  Politicians, news laws, downsizing, springtime, warmer weather... And of course, my third book.  It's the final volume of my trilogy.

It took me longer to write book three.  I wasn't sure exactly how to end it.  I had several thoughts and tried to incorporate as many as possible, but ultimately I had to make a decision.  And I did.  And handed off to my volunteer editor.  And I've finished making corrections, adding where needed, and am now giving it a rest before formatting and the last clean-up.  The cover is done and I've got to get a check in the mail for my designer.

But to be honest, I don't feel a sense of accomplishment.  What I really feel is a sense of beginning. Like I've started something that I can build on.   I've already started another book that will be a single volume.  And then there's that other book that just keeps coming and going in my head.  Wandering around in my head is a new trilogy for The Time Savers Club.  And of course, my new short story series on here...  So much writing and imagination, too little time...

Oh, and how could I forget...  I re-edited book one, The Fingerprint of Jack...  What a horribly written book!   Wow!   I can see how much I've changed/grew since that first book.  Now, I wonder if there's an agent out there that would like to take on a self-published book that had some sales but was re-edited with new chapters, better grammar and sentence structures and actually take it to the publishers.

CSM

Making Change! or I Don't Give a Dime!

Cher recorded a song not too long ago that I really liked.  Unfortunately, I can only remember the following line "You're standing on the edge of nowhere..."   I guess I could look it up, but really don't care.  That one line is such a poignant line for me right now.

I am not really standing on the edge of nowhere, but it's actually the crossroads of life.  You know that place if you've been there.  It's that place you've seen on the horizon and you know it's out there and someday it will come and then...  Well... it's there.  My friend Lois refers to it as "the corner."  The corner of New and Old.  You may have stood there.  I'm standing there.   And, thank heavens that I was dressed for it.  I always worried I'd be in the shower or something when it arrived.

How many of you have felt this?   That moment of massive change has hit you?  You know what I'm talking about.  Let's see those hands in the air.  Mine is right up there cause it's time.  Time for the change.  Sorry, ladies, you're not the only ones going through it.  And now is the time for courage.  To race up that hill.  To find out what's on the other side.  To pray that you don't get up there and find that there is truly an edge and you fall to your death!

All I have to say is I am willing to take that chance.  I need the change.  I'm tired of crying over the loss of my parents.  Over the loss of the home that I knew for so many years.  The pain of not being able to drive there and walk right in and feel at home.  I'm tired of an over-abundance of stuff and am ready to shove it all out the door, making it simpler to pack up and move.  I'm tired of fighting battles that just aren't worth fighting for anymore.  Being in charge, but not really feeling like I'm making a difference. Or even worse...  Pouring creativity into a bottomless pit.

I need change. And I don't mean nickels and dimes.  I'm talking about heading over the state line to a whole new scenery.  A whole new view from my window.  Maybe one with a water view... Waves washing on a sandy warm beach or maybe a sea wall...  The gentle sounds of the surf...  The waves moving ebbing and flowing...  The smell of salty air... Quaint little villages here and there... Like in Florida... Anybody up there hearing this?  Yoohoo!  Anybody?  A nice beach front... Hint hint to God/Allah/Buddha/my guardian angel/whoever.

One of these days I suspect I may get a busy signal...  More than likely what I'll hear is "Meet us halfway..."

I think I dropped enough hints for now.  Now my turn...  I will send those resumes out as many times as I can to as many places.  And then cast a little to the wind.  Say a little prayer.  Sweat. Cry. Laugh. Do a little dance.  And most of all prepare to hang on.  It's gonna be a bumpy ride.

CSM

An Author's Ship A-sail

It's been four years since I voyaged out into the writer's open sea.   Riding the waves of creativity. Sometimes feeling the serenity of the gently rocking.  Enduring the torrents of plot.  Steering along the pelagic coast with the safety of dry land on the starboard side and a dark fathomless body of water on the port side.

This seafarer is gliding calmly towards a weathered dock.  Bringing the multi-volume tale to a climatic end. Feeling the wind in the jibs, squares, and spanker moves me. A return for only a brief shore leave before adventuring out again.  Loading the hull with grammatical supplies. A cargo of bottled Merriam-Webster's, Roget's, and Strunk and White's.  The finest nectar for the senses for a wordsmith to get drunk on.

From here, I will let the timbers rest.  The lines to rest.  As well as the bow, the stern, and the mast to be scrubbed and polished before pulling up anchor and return to the journey.   The next great adventure.  Short or longer it doesn't matter.  Just as long as it takes me away.  To find that pool to fill with restless creativity.  With fresh prose.  Steering into the heart of a whirlpool of self-doubt, blocks, and breaks. To experience the might uproars of gusts in the sails.  The angry ocean waves batter the keel, blast against the hull.

Ah, the life of this writer.  I want to breath in deeply the life.  With a completed trilogy, my first goal has been met.  I feel accomplished, but still the restless calling of the seas pulls me.  What will be next?  Will it ever stop?  The suspense is terrible.  I hope it will linger...

CSM