Blogging and Reality... As well as something exiciting

As you may have noticed, I have not been blogging that much.  There is so much going on.  Teaching, working, house-work (both cleaning and redoing), laying around watching Disney+, Netflix, blah blah excuse here, blah blah excuse there...

So, after much thought and wasted time, it is time to do something about that.  Here's what I have decided to do.

Since my books never really took off and I just can't get myself out there and they have been somewhat revised, I have decided it is time to go back to the original plan.

And that is to post one chapter a week until the entire trilogy is here.

And it's starting tomorrow with the Author's Note.  That part that usually comes before chapter one.  Yeah, I've got an author's note.  Eh, what ya gonna do.

I'll tell you what to do....  Stay tuned.

CSM

The Trouble with a Witch, Part Three

The words on the paper she had handed me made no sense. I stumbled and stuttered my way through them. "Terguuuum occctoooo annnnis."

She bent down, looked me in the eyes. "It's tergum octo annis. It's Latin."

I managed to stutter out. "I don'tttt know Laaatin."

She whirled around as she moved across the room. "Try it again," she ordered then repeated it again and again after each time I read it out loud. Until finally, she shouted "That's perfect. Now again. Now again. Now again!"

Without thinking, I did. "Tergum octo annis."

I had no idea what I was saying other than a bunch of mumbo jumbo in Latin. I thought for sure that I was about to turn into a a frog.

The old house began rumbling on its foundation. I felt the floor boards shake under me. Dust showered down from the ceiling. I could hear glass breaking somewhere. I thought for sure it was going to cave in us.

"Tergum octo annis." I started shouting over the rattling of the house.

The witch continued to twirl around and around the room like a gypsy doing a dance, paying no attention to the impending doom of the house collapsing. Her hands as high as they could go. Her skirt flaring out.

"Keep reading it over and over and over...," she shouted.

"Tergum octo..."

Scared out of my mind, I finally tossed the paper into the air and watched it float around the room. I leapt from the chair and raced to the door. The house stopped shaking and went silent and still. I couldn't hear the witch.

I yanked on the door knob, twisting and turning it will all my strength. It didn't budge. Looking over my shoulder, I couldn't see her. Then with one hard tug, the knob turned and the door flew open. I ran out onto the porch and stopped. The yard was immaculate and clean. Roses bushes overflowed with white and red flowers. Daisies, petunias, black-eyed Susans. Butterflies and bees.  The house looked like it had been returned back to when it was first built.  The paint fresh. The shutters neatly hung.  The windows clean and clear.

Before I could move, I felt hands on my shoulders and could feel her moving close to me. Her lips near my left ear.

She whispered.  "You did it. You brought the garden back to life."

I was amazed at what I saw. My mind could hardly wrap itself around the fact that everything had bloomed and looked fresh and new.

Turning around to look at her, she had changed. Her hair was thin and white. Her hands bony and blotched. Her face shrunken and wrinkled. Now, she looked like a witch. She lunged forward, grabbed me back the arm, and dragged me towards the front door and back into the house.

"Come along! I need you to read more." Her hand was like ice, making my forearm ache. I thought for sure it would give me frost-bite.  I started kicking and pushing her, trying to release it from my arm.

Just then, by some divine intervention, there was a rumble of thunder.  Above, dark clouds flowed quickly over us. It began to rain.  The witch screamed as the drops fell and landed on her.  Where they hit on her skin began to burn.  She wailed louder and fled inside.  The door slammed behind her.

I fell backwards down the steps and blacked out.

The next thing I remember was water splashing on my face and going up my nose. Mr. Pruitt stood over me with a bucket.

"Well now," said Mr. Pruitt. "Looks like he just passed out. Probably overcome with fear."

"You alright, Tommy?" asked Grandma Alfred. "What happened?" She helped me up.

I looked around and the yard was barren and bleak just like when I first saw it. The derelict house looked as it did when I first went the stairs. "I... I thought that... The witch. Where is she?" I felt my head and chest. "She didn't cut me up and throw me in her pot."

For a brief moment, I would have swore on the family bible that I saw a bony hand pull the curtain back and look out. I would have sworn it.

That wasn't the last time I saw her.  I was much older when she appeared again in my life.  But that is the trouble with a witch.  They never leave you alone, at least not me, until they've won.

The Trouble with a Witch: Part Two

My curiosity did get the best of me. So later that day, I walked down the dirt road to get a look at the old house. I could see desolate patches where flowers once grew. Overgrown bushes and old fallen tree branches had taken over the yard. The wooden gate had rotted and fallen from its hinges and laid on its side, still showing signs of white paint.

I crept along the old stone path and up the rickety steps onto the porch. Its rotting boards were dirty from old leaves that never blew away. The clapboards were weathered and grey. I could barely see my reflection in glass pane of the front door.  The crud and grime too thick to even see in. The lace curtains on the other side were  tattered. I reached for the brass door knob. It shined bright and clean. It didn't look like the rest of the house.

The knob turned easily and I pushed open the door.  It was dark inside.  I couldn't really see anything, but I crept in and wondered if the floor would give way as it creaked under my weight.

Inside, I noticed a lit candle sitting on a perfectly clean table in the corner. I stepped slowly towards it. The front door slammed shut and I raced back to it.  While struggled with the knob, I heard it.  A lower airy laugh that grew into a cackle.

A dark figure emerged through the door way at the far end of the hallway. I knew at once it had to be the witch. I saw her bony hands, a pointy warted nose, and drawn mouth.  At least that's what I thought I saw at first, but as she approached me, she changed into a blond-haired young woman wearing a red silk dress. No bony hands. No warts. Just a smooth and milky complexion.

"Well well well..." Her voice was warm and lush. She twirled her hand in the air and the room turned from decrepit and barren to clean and furnished.  It reminded me of a sultan's chamber I had seen in a story book about Ali Baba. "What's your name?"

Frozen in place, I managed to stutter out.  "Ttttommy."

She smiled. "I'm Marigold. Marigold Stemm. Do you drink tea, Ttttommy?"  She mocked me.  She fluttered over to a side table and poured two cups of tea.

I shook my head and slowly reached around for the door knob.

"Don't worry.  I'm not going to eat you.  I simply want to talk."  She pointed to a chair near me and said, "sit for a moment. No harm will come to you  And besides, the door is locked."  I heard the lock click behind me.

With the most caution I could muster, I perched on the edge of the chair, at ready to run.  "You're not going to turn me into anything, are you?  You know... like a toad?  Use some spell on me?"

She laughed.  "Heavens no. I'm not a witch at all.  I do know how to use incantations though. They are kind of like spells."

"What do theeey dooo?"  I stuttered.

"They do a lot of things. Like turn rocks into gold. Or zap a person from one place to another.  Perhaps travel through time."  She picked up the cup of tea and held it out to me.

"You're not going to zap me, are you?"  I refused the tea.

"Oh Heaven's, no. Like I said, I just want to chat for a bit."  She gently put the cup and saucer back on the table.

At that point, I remember thinking that she wasn't a witch.  She was just crazy. A crazy lady living alone. She didn't look old at all.  She wasn't really a witch.

I kept staring at her.  It was her eyes that caught my gaze.  Her eyes were an unusual blue. Very bright and a bit sparkly.  As she spoke, I found myself drawn to her.

"Tommy, do you know how to read?"

I nodded, finding that I couldn't stop staring at her.

"Wonderful. Here." She held out a piece of paper which seemed to appear from no where and handed it me. "Read this out loud. I want to hear how well you can read."

I took the piece of paper from her and looked at the words.  I mispronounced my way through them.

The Trouble with a Witch: Part One

When I look back, I think "was it a dream or did it really happen?"  To this day, I can still hear her talking to me.  I can smell the foul mixture in the brass kettle over the fire.  I can see the jars and bottles of brews and potions. The coarse upholstery of worn furniture. And of course, her. I don't think anyone would ever forget a witch.

*****

It was summer of 1938 and I had gone to stay with Grandma Alfred and her sister Aunt Lela.  Mama was ill with fever and Dad wanted me to stay away for a week so Mama would get better.  "She'll be fine," the doctor told us. "She just needs rest." It was only about an hour's ride to Grandma's house and I usually didn't get to see her that often.  

They lived in a little house on a farm out in the country. Mr. Pruitt lived across the packed-dirt road. He was kind of keen on Aunt Lela.  And next door stood a ram-shackled house, overgrown by brush and weeds.

"Tommy, now don't you be a goin' any wheres near that place," yelled Aunt Lela as strolled along the fence separating the two houses. "If you get eaten by that witch, I ain't gonna feel sorry for ya."

"Ah get out," I said. "There's no such thing as witches."

Aunt Lela laughed and lazily pointed towards that house. "Well, ya'll so smart, why don't you run on down there and see for yurself?"  I was never afraid of Aunt Lela. She was always nice and read me stories.  

Through the oaks and maples, I could see the roof line, but most of it was hiding behind the overgrown bushes.  If I was the loft of the barn, I could see the side and back of the old house. Trees hadn't been trimmed in years. Some of the battered shutters clung for dear life. A few had given up and fell off. I always thought it was odd that none of the windows had been broken. Those would have been perfect targets for rock throwing.

It looked like a sad and lonely house.

*****

One lazy day, I was hanging onto Mr. Pruitt's picket fence across the road, watching him sweat from turning up potatoes and turnips in his garden.  He grabbed weeds up by the roots and tossed them into a compost heap in the corner. He sure did have a nice garden.

"Looks like you've got a good crop, sir."

"I do. Very good crop this year. Lots of manure. That's what ya need to make a garden grow well, Thomas. How are you enjoyin' your visit?"  He always called me Thomas.  I didn't mind it one bit.

"It's good, sir. I'm glad it's cooled down."

Mr. Pruitt nodded.  "Cooler than any August I remember.  But we don't always remember the weather much past yesterday.  Unless it's something really out of the ordinary."  He knocked dirt off the carrots he'd just yanked up. "Glad for the rain. It's helps with the root vegetables when you're tryin' to pull them up."

"So I heard you're Aunt tellin' ya to stay away from the Stemm place. I'm not sure that there's a witch, but I would advise stayin' away. I figure one or two more good storms and that old place is going to fall down."

That was the first time I ever heard it called the Stemm place. Grandma or Aunt Lela never talked about it that much.

"Mr. Pruitt, whose house was that?"

"The story my Grand-dad told me was back about hunderd years or so, a man named Stemm built it and moved in with his three daughters.  Two of the daughters later moved away and one stayed behind. Her name was Marigold. The old man died, although some say disappeared. The youngest, Marigold, lived there until she died."
Mr. Pruitt struggled to uprooted another batch of stubborn potatoes. "But there are some who say she didn't die either and she still lives in there."

"Ah, that sounds like hog wash."

Mr. Pruitt grinned.  "It does, does it? Well, be warned. That house ain't safe. Wouldn't want to be in it if a stiff breeze came along."

All I could think was "I know I shouldn't..."  But curiosity always gets the better of ya and always leads to trouble.

Marmaduke Scott of Pasquotank County, North Carolina, Part 5

Marmaduke Scott has been a fascination with me for almost 40 years.  How did this man become so fascinating to me?  Well, it started in middle school.

My mom and Grandma Alford took me to visit one of the Scotts.  I remember visiting Lloyd Scott, nicknamed the "Mayor of Ovid," at his home on Highway 36, just outside of Ovid/New Columbus, Indiana.  I was awed by this tall, slender gentleman who wove a tale about the Scott family, their travel from North Carolina, and their settling in Fall Creek Township of southern Madison County, Indiana. Most of which he had heard from the older generation when he was younger.

Most of all, I remember the over-sized ledger in which he had written so much of the family history.  I still have some of my middle-school handwritten notes that I copied from it.   All these years later, I look back and think about the work that Lloyd did and, sorry to say this Lloyd, but some of it was wrong. But I overlook that.

At that time, Lloyd had written letters, one at a time, back and forth to Pasquotank County, requesting tidbits of information. I couldn't imagine doing that now.   With North Carolina's digital efforts, they have really brought the research to the home front.  And being in the digitization game myself, I understand the massive effort it took to do this.  It has been through those that I have learned even more about Marmaduke Scott, his life, his work, and his family.

One of my life's goal is to visit his homeland of Pasquotank County and see it for myself.  Google maps allows you to travel along the roads and highways, viewing the countryside in a monitor, but it's not the same.  I think it would add so much to the "feel" of his imagined life.  Living in Indianapolis makes it easy to jaunt up to the old haunts that I visited when I was on bicycle.  The cemeteries, the family farms, the back roads, but I am being drawn to the place of origin.

After years of research, having original family materials, and being lucky enough to have grown up in the area where the family settled, I'm excited that I finally put big chunks of this mysterious jig-saw puzzle together. I have so much more that I want to write about him.  His parent's, sibling's, and children's stories add so much more to Marmaduke's life's story.  But alas, this is where the blog posts about him end and it is by my choice.  I've realized that I materials that no one else has and it's my secret to hold.  I've decided that secret is mine and mine alone to know.

As a kid, I was completely enamored with the book and movie, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Koningsburg.  In he story, Mrs. Frankweiler shared a secret with Claudia, the main character, regarding a statue that was sold to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Mrs. Frankweiler put a caveat on the secret -- Claudia could tell no one and had to let that secret grow inside her and allow it to make a difference in her life.  Now that I think about it -- I too have a secret and perhaps someday I will share it with someone as fascinated by this man as I am.

But until that time, Marmaduke's secrets remain safe with me.  Hmmm... Maybe it might be fun to write a fictional tale of this man.  Make him some kind of early 19th century detective, or put him into some perilous situations.... Could be fun to give him life.  I'll ponder it.

CSM

At Winning a Losing Battle: Me: 0, Hardwood floor 29

Mr. Blanding's Builds His Dream House! Need I say more. I am living a Cary Grant and Myra Loy 1948 film, based on the book of the same name.

I have bought a small house, built in 1925.  I have named it "The Little House on 11th." It's lovely. It's cozy. It's charming. It's a bitch!  And as usual, I find myself say "What was I thinking?"

Well, the house isn't really a bitch, but the stuff that's been done to it over the years is and displays great disapproval over my attempts to remove it.  I have begun my "taking this house and making it my own" journey into the far reaches of The Twilight Zone. And the stories are now starting to back up and I have got to take time to write my adventures.... or better misadventures into the great unknown.  As one friend said "Let the money pit begin."

One Saturday not so long ago, I found myself stuck inside on a dreary day. I got a bee in my bonnet and decided to take up some of the 1990s-looking parquet floor or tiles or wooden bricks (not really sure what to call them.) that cover the dining room and hallway floor.  My hope was to find nice bright and shiny hardwood just waiting to glow in the sunshine again.  I prayed to the remodeling gods to please let me take a few of the tiles up and peer down and see my smiling face in beautifully-polished red oak.

After easily popping up a few of the tiles, I knew what I would see was not my face.  My hope floated away out the window into the sky and sucked through the turbine of a 747 flying over.

Instead a lovely polished oak floor, glaring back at me was a sad dingy floor. Coated in what surely would end up being the death of me. A pale-lifeless layer of someone's idea of modern decorating. A coat of beige paint.  I almost feel into despair, but I did not lose my faith.  I snapped a photo, sent them to friends saying that I should not be left alone on a dreary day, and hoped for encouragement, which of course I didn't really get.  More like "that's gonna cost a lot to redo."  And "just take it all up and start over." Sigh.  But there was one who promised me it would be alright.  "Plow forward and put some elbow grease in it.  You'll get there."  And so I did.

I plowed forward, seeking solace in This Old House YouTube videos, some quality on-line websites, and eventually a pitcher of sangria.  The sangria didn't really help in prying up the bricks, but I will admit that I truly enjoyed their song and dance routine that they did after I got them up. It reminded me of the broom sequence in Fantasia as they marched across the floor into the disposal bin.  As a general note, sangria and home-remodeling really don't mix well.

What came next only felt like a knife being pushed further...  The brick tiles had not only been nailed down, but also glued.  Oh joy!  Oh happiness!  I'm sure you've seen those scenes in movie and on television where someone lets out a string of swear words and flocks of birds fly away. It was one of those moments.  If mathematicians had studied that string of tightly-woven words, they may have possibly been able to compare it to the Fibonacci Sequence, noticing a distinct similarity.

Enough for now.  Check back to see who actually won this match.  Me or the glue!

CSM

When the Time Comes

Everyday I wonder if this is the day I die.  The last day of my life.  A one-way ticket out of here.

Okay before anyone jumps to any conclusions, I want to say that I am not suicidal nor am I wanting to die, but I know that some day I will.  This one thought everyday reminds me that every day is important and needs to be more that just a day at work, doing chores, and paying bills.

Losing my mother at the age of thirty-eight had a very profound effect on me.  More than I may ever realize. Since that day, I have tried to make everyday count.  Count for something more than the daily grind.  Not just working. Not just worrying about my car that could croak at any minute. Not just praying that I can retire with a decent income.

Life is so short. Life is too short.  Life is way too short.   I look in the mirror on occasion and think to myself "Where did that young man go?"  The mirror is the same, but the reflection is different.  These moments also serve as a reminder that time is flying by.

Here's a piece of advice...  Always start the day with "Is this my last day?"  I find that it makes me reflect on my life, about where I've been and where I'm going and what new adventures lay ahead.

So when the time comes, I want to be ready.  To be able to say that I lived my life to the fullest and if that means leaving behind everything I've worked for so be it.  You can't take it with you.

CSM