Family Histories: Multi-generational Inspiration with Judith Barrow

Welcome to Family Histories, a series of guest posts by some of my favorite bloggers in which they explore family . . . and history. The families and the histories are sometimes the writers’ own and sometimes not.

Today we get a glimpse into JUDITH BARROW‘S inspiration for writing her family trilogy:

Thank you for hosting me here, Adrienne. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to talk about how places and occasions in my life affected the way I wrote my trilogy and then the prequel.

Pattern of Shadows

I think that a strong setting in a novel; one that sets the atmosphere and tone of the narrative, is imperative in creating a convincing story. Ultimately the goal is to persuade the reader to become immersed in the setting to the point of complete familiarity.

The background setting I use in my trilogy, beginning with Pattern of Shadows, is a German Prisoner of War camp during the Second World War.

I was researching for another novel when I came across records of a disused cotton mill, Glen Mill, in Oldham, a town in Lancashire in the North of England, and its history of being one of the first German POW camps in the country. This brought back a personal memory of my childhood and I was side-tracked.

My mother was a winder in a cotton mill (working on a machine that transferred the cotton off large cones onto small reels (bobbins), for the weavers). Well before the days of Health and Safety I would go to wait for her to finish work on my way home from school. I remember the muffled boom of noise as I walked across the yard and the sudden clatter of so many different machines as I stepped through a small door cut into great wooden gates. I remember the rumble of the wheels as I watched men pushing great skips filled with cones alongside the winding frames, or manoeuvring trolleys carrying rolls of material. I remember the women singing and shouting above the noise, of them whistling for more bobbins: the colours of the cotton and cloth – so bright and intricate. But above all I remember the smell: of oil, grease – and in the storage area – the lovely smell of the new material stored in bales and the feel of the cloth against my legs when I sat on them, reading until the siren sounded, announcing the end of the shift.

When I thought of Glen Mill as a German POW camp I wondered what kind of signal would have been used to separate parts of the day for all those men imprisoned there. I realised how different their days must have been from my memories of a mill. There would be no machinery as such, only vehicles coming and going; the sounds would be of men, only men, with a language and dialect so different from the mixture of voices I remembered. I imagined the subdued anger and resignation. The whole situation would be so different, no riot of colour, just an overall drabness. And I realised how different the smells would be – no tang of oil, grease, cotton fibres; all gone – replaced by the reek of ‘living’ smells.

And I knew I wanted to write about that. But I also wanted there to be hope somewhere. I wanted to imagine that something good could have come out of the situation the men were in.

And so the background of the trilogy was set against the camp, the fictional Lancashire town of Ashford, and a small village in Wales, Llamroth.

Living in the Shadows

I was never really part of the Sixties scene but I remember how much everything appeared to be changing during that decade. The old world sat alongside the new emerging world. A supermarket, the first in Lancashire to open was called Payless and was near the well-established Woolworths, with its uneven wooden floors, glass divided counters of anything and everything that was needed for the home, pick and mix sweets and stationery. And always, that certain dusty smell.

Hairstyles went from great backcombed and lacquered bouffants to simpler Mary Quant bobs. Much to my mother’s dismay (and to mine when I wasn’t allowed to play out for a week afterwards) I cut off my plaits in a fit of temper when I wasn’t allowed a fringe.
Music was for teenagers; the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Cliff… and my all-time ‘to swoon over’ Elvis Presley; even though the records (the new 45s) belonged to my sister.
Clothes changed as well. The older girls no longer wore those voluminous layers of nets of underskirts that puffed out the dresses (I remember my sister dipping her underskirts in sugared water and drying them over an open umbrella to retain that shape– I never did find out what happened to them when she went out in the rain but I can guess!) Drainpipe trousers and suits for the boys disappeared and were replaced by flares and flowered shirts; the proper ‘gear’ for open-air concerts. Needless to say, I never went to even one of these. But one of my young characters did …

When Victoria jumped off the platform of the bus she could already hear the music. A group was playing A Groovy Kind of Love and she hummed along with it, studying the long queue at the entrance. Looking around she saw a gap in the fence further along the road and sauntered towards it. She stood, waiting for a couple to pass her, then quickly ducked through.
‘Got you.’ A strong hand held her shoulder. She looked up at whoever had caught her. He didn’t look official; he had a flowered full-sleeved shirt on and feathers stuck in a cotton band around his head.

She took a chance. ‘Get off me.’ Twisting away from him.

‘Whoa.’ He held up his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘I surrender myself to the hip Welsh chick in the red dress.’

Victoria couldn’t help giggling. ‘You’re not a steward or whatever, are you? You’re not anybody in charge.’

‘Only of myself.’ He grinned. He gestured towards the hedge. ‘Actually that’s the way we got in.’

‘We?’

‘Some friends and me.’ He looked around in a vague manner. ‘They’re here somewhere. Some of them wanted to see Hermann’s Hermits. Not my thing but one of them insisted. You like that group?’

Without wavering, Victoria said, ‘Oh no.’ She thought quickly. ‘Joan Baez is more my thing.’

He beamed. ‘And mine too. I knew we were fated to meet.’ He held out his hand, wiggled his fingers. ‘Want to look for my friends with me?’

Victoria took hold of his hand. This was going to be even more exciting than she thought.

A Hundred Tiny Threads

My grandfather was gassed in WW1. I only remember him vaguely as I was a small child when he died but my mother says I always made him laugh however ill he was. I only have one tiny photo of him; he’s standing in the back yard of the terraced house he and my grandmother lived in all their married life, in Lancashire.

I had a strange experience last year at a craft and book fair where, for some reason, there was also a medium. As I passed her she called me over and told me someone was trying to get in touch with me. She said not to tell her anything only to answer yes or no to what she revealed. I’m not a gullible person but I do believe there is more to this life than we know. What followed was an extraordinary ten minutes; she told me things only my mother had mentioned to me about my grandad; things I’d never discussed with anyone. Some details were especially private and important; some were mere trivialities; gestures and habits of his that I’d learned from family chats. At the end of the session (she wouldn’t take any money) she told me she had a feeling of great relief coming from him as though he’d been trying for years to ‘come through’ to me for years and this had been his chance to say how proud he was of me.

At the time of that event I’d been going through a bad patch; my mother, who had Alzheimer’s, had been on end of life care for some months. She lived over two hundred miles away and we’d been travelling to see her every weekend. The session with the medium took place the day before we were due to go to see her again. The last thing the medium told me was that she was getting a strong scent of daffodils even though it was not the season for them. Daffodils were my mother’s favourite flower. When I went home after the fair I was told my mother had passed.

I wrote this poem some years ago.

My Grandad
I look at the photograph.
He smiles and silently
he tells me
his story…

In my backyard I stand,
Hands wrapped around a mug of tea.
Shirt sleeves, rolled back,
Reveal tattoos – slack muscles.

I grin.
All teeth.
Who cares that they’re more black
Than white.
Underneath
That’s my life;
That’s the grin I learned
When burned
By poison
Spreading
Like wild garlic.
That’s the grin I wear
When I look
But don’t see
The dark oil glistening,
Blistering, inside me.
When I hear, but don’t listen
To my lungs closing.

I posture,
Braces fastened for the photo,
Chest puffed out.
Nothing touches me –
Now.
Later I cough my guts up –
Chuck up.

I trod on corpses: dead horses,
Blown up in a field
Where grass had yielded
To strong yellow nashers.
And in the pastures
I shat myself.
But smelled no worse
Than my mate, Henry, next to me
Whose head grinned down from the parapet –

Ten yards away.

He has perfect, white teeth.
Much good they’ve done him,
Except for that last night at home
When the girl smiled back.

© Judith Barrow

judithMy Links:
Blog: https://judithbarrowblog.com/
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COMING SOON from ADRIENNE MORRIS:

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Fiction: Bad Reputation

William almost escapes Thankful’s notice . . .

001-2The officers strode out from officers’ row and every woman, child and mongrel milled about on the parade ground. Guns were presented, cannons were fired and order was pronounced with a clarity and confidence heard nowhere else in William’s life. He marched off, trying to ignore the lines of men with gleaming buttons and bayonets, feeling the leper.

“Willy!” Thankful called, running from the Markhams’ porch on officers’ row.

The men turned to admire her, distracted from their manual of arms.

“William, wait! Where are you going? Mrs. Markham saved you some breakfast.”

The idea of food turned William green. “Thankful, no. I’ve made a right fool of myself coming here last night. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Not much, I’d say. You were awful drunk.”

“Yes. I realize that.”

“Don’t be that way, William Weldon. You’ve made a big mess for yourself, and I don’t understand it a bit. Mr. Fahy tells me you were to go along with the Bourke fellow to study Indians, but you made excuses! The way you collected bits of the past in Englewood, I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance to really study.”

“I’m no good at study—I have brain problems, remember?”

“Oh, I’m bloody tired of hearing about that!” Thankful burst.

“Bloody? You’re two days with Fahy, and you start talking like a Brit? That’s tragic.”

“The lieutenant is IRISH, I remind you, and you’re the tragic one,” Thankful said. “What I wouldn’t do to have your chances. The only problem you have with your brain is that you so rarely exercise it!”

“That’s not fair!”

“Oh, land sakes, Willy, you’re such a child!” Thankful said, with her trademark pout. “You draw ugly things mostly. Why? Life isn’t so bad.”

“You only skim the surface of things, Thankful. I used to like that about you. But now I see that beneath your helpful cheer is a shallow, judgmental girl, who only cares for herself.” William clutched the watch in his pocket. “You didn’t come to visit me. You came to get your parents in a fit for not paying you enough attention and then you set me up for a complete humiliation just so you can gain the sympathies of the people here who were supposed to welcome me!”

“Supposed to? You earned your place in their hearts and minds long before I arrived! I feel sorry that you think I wouldn’t find you worth a visit. Back in Englewood I admired you, Willy. You always seemed to take such good care of your father and even little Lucy, who would try a saint’s patience.  But now you’re worse than even Buck and Fred—at least they don’t just sit around and complain.”

“What on Earth could they complain about?” William asked. “They’ve never had a single trial that your parents didn’t snatch them out of. Now they’re at college having a grand time, I bet!”

“And so what if they are?” Thankful replied. “You’re on a grand adventure and with more heart and talent than the two of them put together, but you ruin it for yourself! Did it ever occur to you how your parents scrimped to get you here?”

“It’s none of your concern, Thankful.”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “While you’re off wasting their money, your mother worries night and day for you and for your father—she thinks your father will up and die—so Mama says.”

“Is he that ill?”

“Well, no. I don’t think so, but your mother worries just the same.”

“I can’t worry about them anymore. I’ve spent years at it, and where’s it gotten me?” William asked.

“What an awful state of mind! Loving people is reward enough!” Thankful scolded.

“No, I want to do what feels good for me, for once.”

“And what do you think that is?” Thankful asked.

William scratched his head. “I don’t know for certain.”

“I hope it’s not just drinking and being with bad girls,” Thankful said. “You can get . . .”

“I won’t get sick. Anyway, I don’t want to do just that.” William looked at her. Thankful’s freckles seemed to have multiplied overnight. “I’d like to have a proper girl sometime, Thankful . . .”

“Then become a proper man,” she replied turning her nose up at him. “It’s a sin to Moses how you carry on.”

William rolled his eyes and scratched his head. He hoped there were no lice in Fahy’s blankets. “Thankful, will your folks send you money, do you think?”

“They might do, if I ask. My father is very generous with me. But the officers have done up a collection for me and even some of the privates and such threw in what they could. I could leave tomorrow if I liked.”

“Well, bully for you, then.”

“But I won’t go,” Thankful said.

“What?”

“I won’t take advantage of my new friends and spend their money. It’s not right. Mrs. Markham has kindly offered to keep me on for the season.”

“The season?”

“Yes, Willy. You never told me the posts are such social places. Who’d ever want to leave?” Thankful said, enjoying the fact that she’d succeeded where he failed.

William glared at her. “So you’ll stay on and be an extra mouth to feed?”

“As you know, BILL Weldon, Mrs. Markham recently popped out a new baby, and she’s all tuckered out since the last girl ran off with the married major.”

William laughed. “So you’ll be the hired help?”

“Yes, and I suppose that’s where the shoe pinches,” Thankful said. “I don’t know the first thing about cooking and cleaning.”

“You must know something about babies though,” William said. “Your mother has enough of them.”

“Yes. It will be a lark anyhow. I did mention to her that I am just above useless, but didn’t mind some training. Mr. Fahy says he’ll take me out shooting if I’d like.”

“But I thought you were terrified of guns?”

Thankful swished her fan open. “Modern weapons in the right hands are fine. My brothers used to tell me how reckless you were with guns in Englewood.”

“Englewood? The last time I shot in Englewood I was nine or ten years old! I’m a very good shot!”

“William, there is no need to make a scene over a silly old gun,” Thankful lectured. She waved to Fahy as he marched his men by, and he waved back.

William wanted to shoot them both. “I do hope you’ve sent word to your parents. The doctor deserves at least that.”

“I’ve sent a telegram,” Thankful said, “and I intend to write them today to explain my plans. Maybe you should worry about your own relations instead of ordering me.”

“Oh, hell, Thankful, I have to go.”

“Say good day to your town friends, Bill,” Thankful said and marched back inside the Markham’s.

PREVIOUS EPISODE FROM WEARY OF RUNNING

Excerpted from WEARY OF RUNNING. Read more about Buck Crenshaw, his sister Thankful and William Weldon’s  misadventures when you buy the book today!

“The second installment in The Tenafly Road Series definitely did not disappoint. With the introduction of new characters and the return of familiar ones, Weary of Running made for an exciting read. The protagonist, Thankful, is the real highlight of the novel. She consistently makes very poor decisions but in the end, you can understand why she has made every last one of them. The story ranges from love and romance to questions of faith and morality. It does all this without being preachy and explores many angles of different aspects of life. This is one of the best books I have read in a long time.” Amazon Review

“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”

Fiction: The Watch

William travels to Camp Grant to return Thankful’s watch (pawned to a worker at the stables by Haviland).

the watch“He’s intoxicated, the thief, and should be left to wander the desert,” Baker, the preacher’s son said when William arrived at Fort Grant that night.

“I’m not drunk—now let me see Thankful.”

The other sentry with Baker laughed. “She won’t be pleased to see you. No one will.”

“Shit-ass, just let me in,” William said with a slur.

The men relented, William being protected property of Captain Bourke’s.

William heard the tinkling of laughter and music at the end of the wind swept parade grounds. What day was it? Saturday? An officers’ dance was on. He limped towards the music, remembering his timid attempt at dance with his mother in the kitchen. His grandmother’s laughter had put a stop to it. “He’s no Simon, is all I have to say!”

No one could ever be like his Uncle Simon. William remembered him as always so at ease and generous—nothing like his father. He sighed, edging closer to the chapel dance hall and shivering in his light jacket. A visiting party of officers and their wives amplified the merriment and noise. A small window offered him a secret glimpse.

old-camp-grant-280Along the larger windows at the far end stood the regular company men and the laundresses envying the lace and cut of the gowns worn by the officers’ wives. Flags and bunting hung everywhere bursting with national colors. William studied the unfinished paintings of swords and chivalrous sayings on the rough walls. No one had attempted completing William’s work. The music from a few members of the regimental band made something ache inside of William.Why couldn’t he ever remember those times in the army with Mother and Papa—and Eliza? He missed things, but couldn’t figure what.

The notes of a waltz came up, and the honor of leading the dance went to a young officer and his new friend. The captain’s wife had been ingenious in getting up, with a few minor alterations, a dress suitable for Thankful, mix and match always the way at the frontier posts where clothes must last. Though more old-fashioned than Thankful usually wore, the lavender bodice and black full skirt set her streets ahead of the other ladies.

William heard a few of the bachelor officers arguing over promised dances, and he wanted to pummel them. Thankful’s laughter annoyed him, too, as she swung along with Fahy, her dark curls bobbing and shining in the candlelight.

Would the musicians ever stop? William cringed when things grew quiet and Thankful pinned her fan beside the corps badge on Fahy’s jacket. Why couldn’t she just stab him? But everything about the Crenshaws went smooth as silk.

William finished the rough whiskey in his bottle and made his way around to the front where a makeshift punch and refreshment table stood with favors and unusual edibles made with army rations and lit by polished lanterns. William grabbed a snack and waited for his chance to speak with Thankful. He upset a small platter with the carbine dangling off his shoulder. The noise caught Mrs. Markham’s attention. She handed her punch to a young pet officer and hustled over to the uninvited guest.

“Mr. Weldon, how are you here tonight? You know how much I care for you—and the captain, too. We’re both still upset you moved away, but this dance is for officers only, I’m afraid.”

William spotted some civilians, but what did it matter if she lied? “Mrs. Markham, I’m here to return something to Miss Crenshaw.”

“So you did take the money then?” Mrs. Markham asked. “I don’t know how it’s all gone so wrong for you. Well, Thankful was certain it was only some sort of mistake. And I suppose it was—to leave money in town the way she did, she’s very foolish, but so darn lovable—practically family already. You know how the army is, William.”

William squirmed.

Mrs. Markham gave him a hard look after spotting the old boots he wore. “Where are the boots the captain and his men got for you?”

“Lost.”

“You exasperate me, young man, truly, you do. But you realize even our lost sheep are welcomed back into the fold if only they’d come,” Mrs. Markham said with marked emphasis.

“Mrs. Markham, I like town,” William replied. “I only came to see Thankful.”

“My, she’s the belle of the barracks, isn’t she?” the captain’s wife said, admiring Thankful.

“She’s lovely,” William said as he caught sight of her, flying by on Fahy’s arm.

“Are you very distant cousins, Mr. Weldon?” Mrs. Markham asked with a confused look.

“No, just up the hill.”

The captain’s wife guided William out of the light. “Sweetie, your cousin is a fine young lady, who I’m sure doesn’t want her chance for a little society to be ruined and cut short by her pickled cousin. Now be fair. I know that it’s far too late for you to go back to your suite in town, but you can’t hang about here looking all dour. I’ll have you set up for bed tonight and you may speak to Miss Thankful first thing.”

Fahy and Thankful dashed up to the table in high spirits and took drinks.

“Those darned buttons and medals and such are pretty to look at and certainly keep my attention, but they scratch awfully much in a dance,” Thankful giggled, rubbing her cheek.

“If you weren’t so energetic in your steps, Miss Crenshaw, maybe a fellow would have a chance to mind his buttons,” Fahy laughed, his dark eyes full of merriment.

“Well, Mr. Fahy, I learned to dance from my father and he’s gracefuller than most,” Thankful said with her nose in the air.

William hated when she spoke childishly for attention.

“I guess your father had less buttons to get in the way,” Fahy quipped.

“Oh, Father has his big belly to watch out for. . .” Thankful burst into tears.

“Miss Crenshaw, did I offend you in some way?”

“Oh, it’s just you’re such a gentleman—like my father and you’ve all been so kind—what with taking up a collection for me—almost thirty dollars even! I’m so horrible and partly homesick—but I’ve made some very special . . . friends here, I think. I’m so mixed up!” A familiar figure stepped out of the shadows. “Willy?!”

Mrs. Markham could not hold him back.

He tucked his shirt as he walked up. “Thankful, I’ve retrieved something of yours.”

“Oh, William! I knew you couldn’t have taken the money. You wouldn’t! It’s not in you!” Thankful cried, deserting Fahy.

“No, Thankful . . . it’s not the money.”

“Well, whatever is it then?” Thankful asked with pained expression.

“It’s this; your watch.” He handed it over.

Fahy came up behind Thankful, protectively. “What has he done?”

Thankful flipped the elegant watch in her hand. “He’s given me my watch back,” she replied, expressionless.

“What’s the matter, Weldon? You couldn’t pawn it?” Fahy asked.

“Mr. Fahy, I think it’s best if you stay out of family business,” Mrs. Markham warned.

Thankful wiped her teary eyes. “I’m so ashamed of myself! I’m no better than poor William who has some excuse! He’s no cousin of mine—just a friend from home, and we lied to you. I put William up to it so I wouldn’t have to stay in that awful town! And I never should have taken the money from my father without permission! I’m a terrible girl who has brought shame to my family. I hope you can see it in your hearts to forgive me!”

Mrs. Markham took Thankful’s hand. “Oh, child, sometimes we learn from failure—I hope you will. Of course, I forgive you.”

“I just feel a little offended, Miss Crenshaw,” Fahy added. “That you would think that the men of the army would ever allow you to stay in town!”

“I realize that now and feel so mortified and foolish to leave my money—and now I will have to leave before I can regain your trust and friendship, Mr. Fahy.”

“You already have my friendship, Miss Crenshaw, and maybe it is you who must learn to trust others who will like you even more for being honest.”

“I will remember it as a lesson learned, Mr. Fahy,” Thankful said, flashing her long wet lashes up at him.

The color rose on Fahy’s face, and he took her hand in his and kissed it.

William froze. The way they gazed at each other was like his mother and father once did. It was like looking at his own lost dream.

Thankful turned to William, her voice icy. “Thank you for the watch back, but . . . well, it’s broken and all. Maybe you should pawn it.”

“Thankful, I just know that I would never take your money—I know it,” William said.

“Then where is it, Willy?” Thankful demanded.

“I think that maybe my friends . . .”

“Your friends? Who are these friends?” Thankful pulled William aside. “Are they the other drunks from town? I’m ashamed to know you. You’ve turned into what your friends are and your father would be very upset.”

“My father? What do you know about him, Thankful?”

“All I know is that he’s a sweet old man, and he’d be as heartbroken as I am seeing you like this!”

“Who do you think you are? After two days you’re sparking with the officers! Lieutenant Fahy even! Getting their hopes up only to go off and take up with someone else. I thought maybe you were better than the other Crenshaws, but you play tricks with people like nothing!” William said.  Unsteady on his feet, he took a step back.

Fahy and Mrs. Markham inched closer again.

“I’ve never played a single trick on you!” Thankful cried. “Why are you so cruel?”

“Because all of you Crenshaws are a pack of liars and cheats!”

Thankful threw the watch at him, “You are so eaten up with hate and jealousy. There’s no helping it! I don’t want a friend like you when there are men like Mr. Fahy. I’ll be a true and loyal friend to him—in letters even—if he’ll allow it.” Thankful turned to the lieutenant.

Fahy lingered in her adoration a moment.  He turned to William then. “Bill, you need to go to bed. I’ll set something up in my quarters,” he proposed with a magnanimous smile sent Thankful’s way.

William was in no shape to decline his offer.

PREVIOUS EPISODE FROM WEARY OF RUNNING

Excerpted from WEARY OF RUNNING. Read more about Buck Crenshaw, his sister Thankful and William Weldon’s  misadventures when you buy the book today!

“The second installment in The Tenafly Road Series definitely did not disappoint. With the introduction of new characters and the return of familiar ones, Weary of Running made for an exciting read. The protagonist, Thankful, is the real highlight of the novel. She consistently makes very poor decisions but in the end, you can understand why she has made every last one of them. The story ranges from love and romance to questions of faith and morality. It does all this without being preachy and explores many angles of different aspects of life. This is one of the best books I have read in a long time.” Amazon Review

“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”

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Family Saga Friday (LINKS)

What is a family saga? I found this definition on Goodreads:

The family saga chronicles the lives and doings of a family or a number of related or interconnected families. The typical novel follows the generations of a family through a period of time to portray particular historical events, changes of social circumstances, or the ebb and flow of fortunes from a multiple of perspectives.

Each Friday I’ll share a little on this genre & family history  (also, if anyone would like to share a piece of their own family saga, memoir or just plain old family memories let me know and we can work on posting it here).

And remember weekends are the perfect time to read family saga fiction!

Happy Friday,

A

 Haunting Line Inspired New Historical Fiction Novel

 

Reading Up On Some Osawatomie history

 

Eternal: A Poem

FICTION: Glass Houses

The holiday visit unravels after Fred Crenshaw throws Captain Simon McCullough’s West Point scrapbook into the fire.

“That Weldon was just lording it over you that you might not graduate from the academy,” Fred said as he watched the flames eat away at the cloth edges of the old West Point scrapbook. “There’s too much clutter here anyway. I did them a favor.”

Fred shoved Buck out of the family library into the narrow and dimly lit hallway. Margaret called from the dining room. “Come boys, supper—I mean–pies are ready.”

Buck shuffled in with his head down and Fred’s fist at his back. They sat and Margaret passed them plates. Buck felt his head.

Lucy sat opposite him. “Buck’s bleeding!”

Graham upset the china to be at Buck’s side.

Buck shoved him back. “Father, I’m fine. Stop humiliating me with this act of concern. Everyone leave me be.”

“Buck, please . . .” Graham said, moving back to his seat.

“Father, Fred said that you paid money to get me in at West Point—is it true?”

Graham went red. “No, I’ve always contributed funds to our congressmen and senators.”

“Did you think I couldn’t get appointed on my own?” Blood dripped over Buck’s eyebrow and down his cheek.

“No, it’s not that. It’s only that you wanted it so badly and then Fred went first. That year you spent at home, I sort of came to like you a bit. I wanted you happy.”

“Buck, dear,” Margaret said, “you see now I was the honest one here. I told you that you weren’t right for that awful school and look at you now. Oh, it breaks my heart! How can I bear it? Tell me!”

Sarah spoke. “Why don’t we sing some carols?”

Everyone went back to eating pie, but Sarah sang:

The holly bears a berry

As red as any blood

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ

To do poor sinners good

Oh the rising of the sun . . .

“Here, here, old Sarah!” Fred interrupted her delicate voice and a look of sorrow and forgetfulness appeared on her face.

Buck kicked Fred and did his best to sing in his raspy voice:

And the running of the deer

The playing of the merry organ

Sweet singing of the choir.

Weldon and the others joined in now:

The holly bears a prickle

As sharp as any thorn;

And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ

On Christmas Day in the morn.

“That was lovely, Sarah. Thank you,” Graham said.

“That was my Scott’s favorite carol. Leave it to him to like the one song about thorns and gall,” Sarah laughed and then cried. “Willy should be here not out west. It will all end in tears—I just know it. That boy hasn’t the least sense to be off on his own. Oh, the best ones are gone and here we sit. Let’s sing one for my dead son Simon.”

“Blast it! This is damned morbid,” Fred complained. “Father, I’ll ready the horses.”

“Wait a minute, son. We haven’t even opened the wine.”

“You’d have to be drunk to get through this train wreck of a Christmas,” Fred replied.

“Fred, that’s enough.”

“Father, is that all you know how to say? Well, what about you? I think that’s enough pie for you. And I think we’ve all had enough of your work and writing and women.”

Graham’s head collapsed into his hands in despair.

Weldon slammed his fists against the table. “Now you’ve gone too far, Fred! I don’t care what your father may or may not have done, but he is still your father and you’re lucky to have him. I’ve watched you torture him for years, embarrass him and you dare judge him? Even that damned spelling bee and how you humiliated William and your father.”

“God, you still go on about that bee. So what if we taught Willy the wrong spellings? It was just a lark. We were kids for Christ’s sake. Don’t live in the past, Mr. Weldon. I’ve heard that yours wasn’t so great.”

“Fred!” Thankful grabbed him by the arm and spoke in a low tone. “You’re embarrassing us!”

“What could be more embarrassing than spending Christmas with a morphine-eater, a crazy old bat and a syphilitic child—not to mention one of the women our father had affection for. Why must we make this yearly journey into the pits of hell? Mama hates it, too. Only Father and Thankful enjoy it here—that’s because they’re fools and in love. Someone has to have the guts to finally end this charade of friendship!”

“Guts? You mean heartless disregard for human feelings!” Katherine cried.

Lucy asked, “What’s syphilitic?”

Graham stood. “Fred, leave this house at once!”

“That’s fine. I only came as a favor to Mama—she says it can be so dull here.”

Margaret went white.

“Buck, come on. Let’s go,” Fred said.

“No.” Buck replied, staring at his plate.

“Right, Buck. I know where you stand now. Mr. Weldon, I didn’t want to tell you, but Buck threw that West Point thing into the fire—said it was rubbish. I tried to stop him and maybe it’s his head. He hasn’t been right for months—like Willy, I guess. Probably why Buck almost killed that cadet.”

“Simon’s memory book?” Katherine cried. “John, how could you let them near it?”

“I don’t know. I just thought . . .” Weldon shoved his chair out and ran to retrieve what was left of the family’s precious book.

“Buck Crenshaw, you’re worse than your brother because you’re devious and vicious out of sight. You even fooled me in there,” Graham lamented.

“But I didn’t throw the book—I liked it very much. I wouldn’t . . .”

“Damn you, Buck, will you ever own up to anything?” Fred asked.

“I believe Buck,” Lucy said.

“You stupid, little tart! Stay out of it! What do you know?” Fred asked.

“Leave Lucy alone!” cried Buck.

“I want both of you out of my sight!” Graham shouted nearly turning over the table in his rush to drag them to the door. Fred smirked at him and walked just out of reach into the night, dusting his jacket. “Get up, Buck! NOW!” Graham ordered.

Buck stood up shakily. Nathan cried. Thankful’s eyes were full of judgment. Margaret waved her fist as if to throttle him.

Graham said, “Buck, give me the watch back.”

“What?”

“The watch. I know you have it with you. I saw you rudely check the time earlier. Now give it over. It’s a special thing to me. I thought you’d appreciate it, but it’s too good for you.”

“The watch? The WATCH? You can have it! It’s always amused me that you have so little time for us—always too busy to know us, but you give us watches! I thought that maybe you liked me more than just a little bit. Here’s your damned watch!” Buck threw it on the table and ran out after pushing a few chairs out of his way. The front door slammed, and the room went silent.

Weldon carried in the charred book and handed it to Katherine. “Lucky the fire was so small.”

“Katherine, I am so terribly, terribly ashamed of my boys tonight,” the doctor said.

“What does it matter, Graham?” Katherine replied, pulling a half- burned letter from the book. “I’m sorry, but your apologies are empty to me right now. I think it’s time you all went home.”

“Oh, Katie, don’t end Christmas this way,” Margaret pleaded.

“Margaret, if you want the truth, I’m tired of your company as much as you’re tired of mine. Take all of your children and your horrible manners and leave our boring home.” Katherine stood.

“Katie, please.”

“Margaret, leave before I scream,” Katherine warned, her raised voice so unusual and unsettling.

Graham turned to John. “Weldon, I. . .” but there was nothing to say. And so they left, Margaret driving one sled and Graham the other.

Katherine, after sending Sarah to bed and Weldon into the parlor to read with Lucy, stacked plates in the dining room. There on the table lay Buck’s watch. She read the inscription and slipped the timepiece into her pocket before going to the porch for air. In the distance sleigh bells rang and a lonesome evening church bell sounded the time. Underneath Simon’s snow-covered willow someone coughed. Katherine grabbed one of her husband’s tattered coats and slipped on a pair of boots. Buck jumped when she spoke his name.

“Put this on,” Katherine said.

Buck had been crying and holding his throat in the piercing air.

Katherine sat beside him on the stone bench Simon had bought for Sarah years ago. “Buck, why do you hate my family?”

Buck shook his head and wiped his eyes. “I didn’t throw that book into the fire.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“You have no reason. I’ve been a cruel bastard to Willy.”

“Yes, and I don’t understand it. You have everything; William has so very little.”

“Mrs. Weldon, I didn’t throw the book,” Buck said again.

“Buck, your father left this here by accident. It’s a beautiful inscription,” Katherine said, pressing it into Buck’s hand.

“He must have meant it for someone else.” Buck took the watch and threw it. It crashed through a pane of glass in Sarah’s conservatory. “For God’s sake! What have I done now?” He put his face in his hands.

Katherine laughed. “This is some Jonah day for us all. Come with me to the glass house.”

“No. I better go now. I’ll pay to have it repaired.”

Katherine took his cold hand and pulled him to the hothouse. “We’ll find that watch. One day you’ll be glad to have it.” She turned on a little lantern.

“So many flowers,” Buck said.

“Yes, the hard thing is some get neglected and get all out of shape and undisciplined,” she said in the soft confidential way the Weldons had.

Buck hated his weakness for wanting to swim in the sound of it.

“Look, here’s the watch,” Katherine said. “Your father sees something in you. Trust him.”

“I try, but I don’t think I can.”

“There’s not much Lucy and I agree on—she’s so like her father Simon with her opinions–and maybe you’re just fooling me, but I’d like to believe that you told the truth about the book,” Katherine said and tucked the watch in Buck’s shirt pocket. She made to embrace him, but Buck turned to go.

“I’ll bring you the money for the glass tomorrow, Mrs. Weldon.” He stepped into the icy night and waved goodbye.

Katherine waved back and then turned her attention to the flowers.

**Featured image: Young Lady With Flowers, Jane Maria Bowkett

Excerpted from WEARY OF RUNNING. Read more about Buck Crenshaw and his misadventures when you buy the book today!

“The second installment in The Tenafly Road Series definitely did not disappoint. With the introduction of new characters and the return of familiar ones, Weary of Running made for an exciting read. The protagonist, Thankful, is the real highlight of the novel. She consistently makes very poor decisions but in the end, you can understand why she has made every last one of them. The story ranges from love and romance to questions of faith and morality. It does all this without being preachy and explores many angles of different aspects of life. This is one of the best books I have read in a long time.” Amazon Review

“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”

PART ONE HERE

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

PART FOUR HERE

PART FIVE HERE

PART SIX HERE

PART SEVEN HERE

PART EIGHT HERE

PART NINE HERE

PART TEN HERE

PART ELEVEN HERE

PART TWELVE HERE

PART THIRTEEN HERE

PART FOURTEEN HERE

PART FIFTEEN HERE

PART SIXTEEN HERE

PART SEVENTEEN HERE

PART EIGHTEEN HERE

PART NINETEEN HERE

FICTION: Burning Memories

Nothing Gilded, Nothing Gained-Period Drama on Paper at Middlemay Farm

Paintings, conversation and memories stoke the flames of jealousy and resentment.

The parlor seemed closer than ever as the men entered. The fire roared and everything smelled of the kitchen disaster. Katherine laughed with Nathan and Thankful as the three popped corn and watched a kettle boil. Margaret and Meg complained in whispered tones about their bent hoops and smudged overskirts before turning their attention to a newly hung portrait of Katherine.

“My word, Katie,” Margaret said in amazement, “you didn’t tell me you had commissioned a painting to be done. I wouldn’t think you’d like to spend that much money on yourself. Graham—Graham, come take a look at this. I’d like one for our family. Who’s the artist?”

Weldon, with a mix of pride and embarrassment, said, “Willy did it—on memory.”

“You’re not serious!” Margaret cried. “I knew Willy sketched now and again—but this! You should have sent him…

View original post 1,265 more words

FICTION: Burning Memories

Paintings, conversation and memories stoke the flames of jealousy and resentment.

The parlor seemed closer than ever as the men entered. The fire roared and everything smelled of the kitchen disaster. Katherine laughed with Nathan and Thankful as the three popped corn and watched a kettle boil. Margaret and Meg complained in whispered tones about their bent hoops and smudged overskirts before turning their attention to a newly hung portrait of Katherine.

“My word, Katie,” Margaret said in amazement, “you didn’t tell me you had commissioned a painting to be done. I wouldn’t think you’d like to spend that much money on yourself. Graham—Graham, come take a look at this. I’d like one for our family. Who’s the artist?”

Weldon, with a mix of pride and embarrassment, said, “Willy did it—on memory.”

“You’re not serious!” Margaret cried. “I knew Willy sketched now and again—but this! You should have sent him to art school!”

“Margaret, please stop,” Graham complained. “Weldon’s sent him west for a different sort of education, and he seems to be thriving.”

“Willy was so disappointed not getting into West Point,” Katherine said, glancing at the two cadets at the door. “But Captain Bourke invited him out to Arizona with the troops.”

“Bourke always had a soft spot for Katherine and the children,” Weldon added.

“Seems everybody did, right Father?” Fred commented under his breath.

“I guess Willy’s fine,” Weldon continued.  “We hear from him only rarely, I’m afraid, but then it’s some distance and there’s bound to be distractions.”

“What sort of distractions?” Thankful asked, blushing.

Katherine glanced over with a knowing smile.

“Garrison life can be dull at times,” Weldon said, “but with the Apaches still on the loose there very well could be some action.”

“But Willy’s no soldier,” Thankful worried.

“You’re right, but we often had sketch artists come along from the newspapers. William is the responsible quiet sort military men don’t mind having along,” John said with an air of pride.

Fred with folded arms leaned against Buck. “That ass suck William is going to kill Indians before we ever get the chance!”

Margaret didn’t want to hear a thing about a successful William Weldon. “Well, there’s no room in here for a man of your size, Graham,” Margaret said. “Take the boys to the library. I won’t give up my seat now that I’ve cleared a space for baby and me. Now isn’t this just a special holiday? Could we be any closer?”

“Land sakes, Mama’s complaining will make me mad. Weldon—that is, Mr. Weldon, may I smoke in the library?” Fred asked, already halfway across the hall with cigar in his mouth.

“W-well . . . Sarah likes that room kept just so,” Weldon said. He lingered until Katherine motioned him to go.

Fred lit up, making himself at home. He hung his thumb in his embroidered vest, surveying the room filled with old mementos, small medical sculptures and books. “Old man McCullough never once let us in here. What was the fuss about, I wonder?”

Buck skirted the room, his fingers running along the finely crafted bookcases until he came upon a scrapbook labeled in a sloppy masculine hand “West Point Memories.” He touched it and Weldon saw.

“Oh, Buck, you might enjoy that,” Weldon said, feeling sorry for Buck. “It was Simon’s—Mrs. Weldon’s brother.”

“May I look at it?” Buck asked.

“Yes, of course.” Weldon took the museum piece off the shelf, as if letting Buck in on a great and happy secret. “Buck, let’s find you a nice comfortable spot and some good light. There’s a blanket in here somewhere,” Weldon continued and limped for the tattered throw hanging over a well-worn Scotch-plaid chair.

Buck’s face flushed at the gracious attention. He sat where Weldon put him.

Graham watched with jealous eye. “Buck, we really should have made you comfortable at home.”

“This place stinks,” Fred said. “Must be a leak somewhere. I’d get that fixed if I were you, Weldon, or these medical books and other treasure will all go to ruin.”

Weldon turned from him to Graham. “Crenshaw, get rid of that awful cigarette. I’ve something nice to share with you.” Weldon found in a cluttered drawer two fine cigars.

“Thanks old fellow, you have a way of cheering me up,” Graham said, taking a cigar and glancing Buck’s way again.

Weldon lit his cigar. “Buck, you all right over there?”

Buck nodded and whispered. “Seems the captain had an awful good time at West Point.”

“Simon had a good time everywhere,” Weldon replied with a note of sadness.

“Sounds like my kind of bloke,” Fred said.

“No, I doubt it,” Weldon said. “Simon had a heart of gold; spent most of his time thinking of others.”

“I guess you’re accusing me of something Mr. Weldon.”

“No, it’s just that Simon never went in much for intimidation and trickery.”

“Weldon, that’s enough,” Graham warned.

“You’re right, Crenshaw,” Weldon said. “It is Christmas after all.”

Buck turned the pages in the memory book with care. “Captain McCullough was very impressive looking when he was young,” he said.

“What are you, a Nancy boy now?” Fred asked. “First it was coloreds and now this.”

Buck jumped up and went for Fred’s throat. “You bastard! You’re a piece of shit!”

Graham and Weldon dragged them apart and Margaret called from across the hallway. “Come now, boys. No rough housing—the dining room is fine so come eat now.”

“Get yourselves in order and don’t give me yet another reason to be ashamed,” Graham ordered and walked out.

Weldon hesitated, but then followed Graham.

“Look at you, Buck. Any reason for your ass sucking Mr. Weldon?”

“What?”

Fred grabbed the memory book from the chair Buck had deserted. “Suddenly you take an interest in a dead and buried relative of theirs? Then you compliment Weldon over selling his horses? Whose side are you on? Seems it’s always the wrong one and I’m sick of bailing you out.”

“Then don’t. I wouldn’t be up on charges if it wasn’t for your help.”

“You wanted Streeter gone, and he’s gone, you little coward. You sicken me—and Father and Mama, too.”

“Shut your mouth, Fred.”

Fred grabbed him by the collar. “I warn you, if you tell anyone what happened that night . . .”

Buck shoved him. “What! What will you do?”

“I’ll kill you,” Fred stated.

Buck laughed.

“You will not destroy my good name over Streeter, Buck.”

Buck laughed again. “Good name?”

“Buck, you have always acted morally superior, but why? When have you ever gone against me? You know as well as I do that on your own you’re nothing. You will and have always been just my brother. That and Father’s bribes got you in at the Point.”

“Enough of your damned lies!”

“Sure, your grades were good, but truth be known, they didn’t like your personality—or lack of it. You’re colorless, a bore even. Every friend you had I engineered for you. If only I hadn’t left you to your own devices last summer . . .”

Buck stood shaking.

“What’s this?” Fred asked. “You’re crying! STOP NOW.” Fred waited a moment and then slapped him hard. “Get a hold of yourself.”

Buck ripped the West Point book from Fred’s hand, but Fred tugged it back and flung it into the fire.

Excerpted from WEARY OF RUNNING. Read more about Buck Crenshaw and his misadventures when you buy the book today!

“The second installment in The Tenafly Road Series definitely did not disappoint. With the introduction of new characters and the return of familiar ones, Weary of Running made for an exciting read. The protagonist, Thankful, is the real highlight of the novel. She consistently makes very poor decisions but in the end, you can understand why she has made every last one of them. The story ranges from love and romance to questions of faith and morality. It does all this without being preachy and explores many angles of different aspects of life. This is one of the best books I have read in a long time.” Amazon Review

“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”

PART ONE HERE

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

PART FOUR HERE

PART FIVE HERE

PART SIX HERE

PART SEVEN HERE

PART EIGHT HERE

PART NINE HERE

PART TEN HERE

PART ELEVEN HERE

PART TWELVE HERE

PART THIRTEEN HERE

PART FOURTEEN HERE

PART FIFTEEN HERE

PART SIXTEEN HERE

PART SEVENTEEN HERE

PART EIGHTEEN HERE

FICTION: The Holidays Are Awkward

Margaret Crenshaw and her obnoxious son Fred do their best to keep things uncomfortable when they visit with old friends. For Buck, still in shock over his brutal treatment of a West Point cadet, the visit goes from bad to worse.

To the great relief of Graham’s mother and Margaret, Graham gathered up his children and left for home the next morning. They were expected for the traditional holiday dinner at the Weldon home. The Crenshaws in their enormous garnet sleds pulled up the drive at Tenafly Road to be met by a few chairs–badly burnt and smoldering–and a sooty John Weldon limping up to greet them.

“Holy Jerusalem, Weldon! What’s happened? Is everyone all right?” Graham asked, climbing down from his seat.

“A fire. S-Sarah s-set the place in flames,” John laughed in his defeated way.

“Graham, dear. . .” Margaret said with her hand held out, waiting to be helped from the sled.

Graham took Margaret’s hand and set her beside him.

“Mr. Weldon, it seems hardly the time for laughter. When will you get some hired help to mind Sarah? Oh, I know Katherine wouldn’t like to spend your small income, but truly,” Margaret said, “Sarah will have you all dead and buried by summer. What a shame she’s so gone off in the head.”

“It wasn’t really—well, it was an honest mistake,” John replied.

“Mr. Weldon, I’m sure that Sarah’s as honest as an acorn when her mind is working, but please,” Margaret huffed.

Nathaniel, the Crenshaw ten-year-old, jumped down to survey the damage.

“Nathan,” Margaret scolded, “get back in your seat this instant. We’re leaving.”

“Oh balls! But Mama . . .”

“No, for goodness sake!” Margaret cried. “Graham do you hear his language? And what will we eat here with the kitchen charred to bits?” Margaret asked Nathan, but her son hardly listened.

Lucy, the Weldon’s adopted niece, wearing thick spectacles and a grin, waved and called to Nathan. “We’ve got gallons of cider and pies like you’ve never seen.” She grabbed the boy and ran to the porch.

Fred stayed perched at the helm of the second sleigh. “Well, if this ain’t rotten luck, Weldon.”

“Mr. Weldon to you, young man,” Graham said. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Fraid not,” Weldon replied, wiping his hands on his trousers.

Margaret huffed again as Katherine strode up with a smudge on her nose. “Come along, Graham. I’m sure the Weldons are in no mood for company now. It’s grum here, right, Katie?”

Katherine looked to John.

“Well, my wife would feel more cheerful if you stayed. Why let a little kitchen fire ruin supper?”

“Supper usually includes cooked foods, dishes, that sort of thing,” Margaret said. “Besides my children suffer in the smoke.”

“Since when, Margaret?” Graham asked and turned to John and Katherine. “We’ve brought nice wine from my mother, and Lucy says your pies are in eating shape. You know that’s why I came. Of course we’ll stay. The boys will help get things in order for you.”

Fred moaned. “But Father, I’m on holiday and we’ve been from Hell to breakfast this morning.”

“And our poor, poor Buck is an invalid this year. Do you still keep Willy’s wheelie-chair thing around?” Margaret asked.

Buck slammed his hand against the side of the sleigh to make his mother stop—uselessly.

Katherine stepped over to him. “Buck looks very unwell.”

“Oh, don’t worry—those cuts will heal and he’ll be as good looking as his brother again. I know he’s gruesome,” Margaret said. “It wouldn’t be right to send him home on his own though.”

Katherine went red. “Of course you wouldn’t, Margaret! I wasn’t speaking of his wounds, only that the poor thing looks green. I don’t discriminate based on looks.”

“Obviously not—look what you married, Katie, and there’s no hope of improvement there, ha-ha,” Margaret quipped.

Thankful, with the youngest child in her arms, jumped from the sleigh.

“Watch the child! Watch the child!” Margaret screamed.

Thankful laughed, handed the happy baby to Margaret and gave Katherine a hug. “Any word from Willy yet, ma’am?”

“Yes, my son sent us lovely gifts.”

Lucy joined them. “Oh, but Willy forgot all about Uncle John.”

“But Lucy, there must have been a mistake,” Thankful said, turning to Katherine.

Katherine said nothing as Weldon walked over and kissed her.

Thankful pulled her bag from the sleigh. “Oh, dash, I almost forgot. I’ve something for Mr. Weldon. It’s from England—a book of flowers, garden things and such. I thought you might like it, sir.”

John glanced at Katherine with a charmed grin. “Miss Thankful, that was thoughtful.”

“Why are you giving Grandmother Martha’s book away when you just got it, Thankful? How rude. She’d be hurt,” Margaret said.

“Grandmother was getting rid of it. . .” Thankful replied, pushing it into Weldon’s hands.

“It’s the thought, Thankful,” Weldon said. “Here you go. I won’t take it, but it’s the thought. I appreciate it.”

Meg, Thankful’s twin yawned and stood beside her mother. Finally Buck made his way to the ground, pulling his hat lower.

“Well, I do hope we can be kept warm. The baby is just over being sick,” Margaret said. “Katherine, I’m so happy that all of you are safe, though. We love you very much.”

Katherine collected herself. “The parlor is fine. I haven’t the heart to look for damage in the dining room—we had it nicely done up.”

The men took the horses to the barn.

“My gosh, I remember this place when old man McCullough used to keep it fine with the best horses in the county—aside from ours. Look at that poor wretch you have now,” Fred said. “Whatever happened to your last Morgan?”

“As you know already, Fred, I sold the horse for my son’s trip west and I’d do it again. Seems Willy’s doing really well with his paints and all.”

“So he’s painting fences out west?” Fred asked.

“F-for m-magazines,” Weldon replied.

“That’s nice about the horse,” Buck whispered.

“What are you saying, Buck?” Graham asked.

“It’s nice that Mr. Weldon did that for his son.”

They stared at him.

Buck took up a grooming brush and ran it a few times over the horse, but soon tired and sat on a hay bale, close to napping.

Weldon said to Graham, “I’m surprised you let him out.”

“Oh, Buck was adamant. Wanted to come. I don’t know why, but well, I’m inclined to give him what he wants after coming so close to losing him. He’s still in for some big trouble yet at school.”

Weldon was just putting out the final lantern when Lucy arrived.

“Uncle John,” she whispered as she came up beside him with big eyes.

Weldon gave the willowy girl his undivided and adoring attention.

Lucy pulled a tiny kitten from her coat.

Weldon laughed.

“Please, uncle, please let me keep it. It’s forlorn.”

“Lulu, but how many orphans can we keep?” Weldon caught himself and kissed Lucy’s pale forehead. “Go on, then, but what will you name it?”

“Willy,” she replied. “He’s handsome like Willy.”

Fred guffawed. Lucy walked out whistling but not before showing Doctor Crenshaw her new little pet.

Fred laughed and whispered to his father, “She’ll be something to look at in a few years, won’t she?”

Graham glared at Fred. “Wake your brother. Come along now.”

Excerpted from WEARY OF RUNNING. Read more about Buck Crenshaw and his misadventures when you buy the book today!

“The second installment in The Tenafly Road Series definitely did not disappoint. With the introduction of new characters and the return of familiar ones, Weary of Running made for an exciting read. The protagonist, Thankful, is the real highlight of the novel. She consistently makes very poor decisions but in the end, you can understand why she has made every last one of them. The story ranges from love and romance to questions of faith and morality. It does all this without being preachy and explores many angles of different aspects of life. This is one of the best books I have read in a long time.” Amazon Review

“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”

PART ONE HERE

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

PART FOUR HERE

PART FIVE HERE

PART SIX HERE

PART SEVEN HERE

PART EIGHT HERE

PART NINE HERE

PART TEN HERE

PART ELEVEN HERE

PART TWELVE HERE

PART THIRTEEN HERE

PART FOURTEEN HERE

PART FIFTEEN HERE

PART SIXTEEN HERE

PART SEVENTEEN HERE

FICTION: A Haunted Holiday

After abducting Cadet Streeter and leaving him for dead in the cold woods at West Point, Buck and Fred Crenshaw go home to celebrate Christmas.

Buck sat by the frosty upstairs  window at Grandmother Martha’s house in dread. The gash over his eye pulsed red and swollen. He fingered the soft scarf wrapped around the stitched-up mess of an incision on his neck, shivering as the snow changed to a mix of rain and sleet.

Tired horses slid the bright sleds carrying his frozen parents and siblings up the drive of the estate in Peetzburg, a small farming town a few miles away from his family home in Englewood. Buck listened, wrapped in a rough wool blanket, as his parents trudged up the path bickering. Graham’s voice rose and fell one last time before knocking at the door of his boyhood home.

“Doctor Crenshaw! So good to see you!” Betty, Martha Crenshaw’s housemaid, gushed.

“Betty, how very nice to see you.” Graham held out his hand.

Betty, pushing his hand away, gave the doctor a hug. “Oh, it’s been a lifetime—since the deaths of your brothers– that we’ve celebrated Christmas together!” she said, laughing and crying.

Seward Crenshaw, Graham’s stepfather, had freed his family’s slaves long ago, but they’d stayed on as hired help.

Betty pulled the doctor. “Come in out of the weather. What a nice surprise for us with poor Buck and Fred already here.”

Margaret ignored Betty and pushed past. Thankful lowered her head and followed her mother.

“Where are my two big boys? I want to see them!” Margaret called in her booming voice.

The door to the wood-paneled sitting room with its large, stone fireplace opened and the hall reflected the blaze from the flames in the hearth. Martha Crenshaw dressed, as usual, in a slate gray gown with her hair braided in a severe bun. She stepped out of Margaret’s way with an imperious glance toward her son Graham as he hung his wet things in the entrance way.

“Merry Christmas,” Graham mumbled to himself. “Same shit as ever.”

Margaret, with her massive skirts, sent loose things tumbling as she brushed against delicate tables in her race to find her two wronged sons. “Oh, dear boys, come to Mama and let me touch you to know you’re real and not a dream!”

Buck, who’d come down the back staircase stood thin and pale. The Crenshaw children carried themselves with dignity, and beauty ran in the blood. Buck’s present condition was an affront to how the family saw itself.

Margaret and Thankful embraced Buck with quick stiffness.

“Oh, my darling, Fred!” Margaret sobbed turning to the more robust of the twins.

Fred threw his cigar into the fire with a rakish grin and strode up to his mother, shoving Buck aside. He kissed Margaret. “Mama, you look like an angel.”

Martha’s eyes betrayed her lack of patience for Fred’s fawning. Graham shook his head in annoyed silence.

“I want to announce here and now to my loving family that neither Buck nor I had any role to play in the horrible trouble that has come upon the Negro cadet,” Fred said. “We are made scapegoats for the newspapers. It’s a disgrace how we’ve been treated, and I intend to fight all charges!”

“Of course you’ll fight any injustice heaped upon you, Freddie. And that’s what makes Mama proud.” Margaret pulled both of her boys close. “Aren’t we proud of our sons, Graham?”

“I’ll reserve judgment until I hear the full account. You say it will all come out in the papers?” Graham asked.

“Is that all you care about?” Margaret cried. “The papers? Look at poor Buck! His wound is an awful mess all because of some darkie. As a doctor you should be appalled at the sight of him—I am!”

“Maybe Buck looks so unwell because his conscience pricks him,” Graham replied.

“Just like you to believe the worst about us and on Christmas, too,” Fred said, tossing his head.

“Fred is right, Graham. Be fair,” Margaret urged.

Buck said nothing, but edged nearer to Thankful.

She pouted, but after one look into Buck’s violet eyes Thankful relented. “Were you cruel to that cadet?” she whispered.

“No more than to any other,” Buck croaked, his voice still recovering. “It’s just he’s a stupid nig–”

“What did you say?” Graham asked, turning around with his head cocked in anger.

Buck went paler still.

“Are you some ignorant piece of trash to bring that language home to your sister?” Graham ranted.

“I’m sorry, Father, but that’s what they call him,” Buck replied.

“Fred, is this true?”

“A spade’s a spade,” Fred said with a smirk.

“You think you’re very clever, Fred, but someday you’ll get yours,” Graham warned.

“How dare you wish ill fortune on our son!” Margaret cried, pulling Fred closer to smooth a stray curl at his temple.

“I don’t wish it. I dread it, but it will surely come,” Graham replied.

“At West Point, Father, there’s no room for sentimentality towards the colored race,” Fred said, with his usual smugness. “If they’re to make it, they must prove themselves equal and so far, in my opinion, they haven’t.”

“And why, Fred, is it your mission to interfere and set obstacles? Don’t you have studies?” Graham asked.

“Father, you must remember—even with all of your outside interests—that I rank second in my year.”

“Well, why not first?” Graham asked.

“Don’t be a humbug. First, second, it’s all the same really,” Fred said as he helped his mother to a seat near the fire.

“Yes, and we are off the subject. I’m disgusted by the brief report I’ve read about the two of you. I was under the impression that West Point was training you to be gentlemen,” Graham said. He grabbed a crystal decanter filled with scotch and poured a large tumbler.

“Yes. We’re taught to be white,” Fred said.

“Excuse me?” Graham held his drink mid-air.

“It’s cant, Father, slang,” Buck said. “To be a gentleman . . .”

“Graham, the military is turning our good boys into I don’t know what!” Margaret complained, smoothing her skirt.

“All of my sons served in the military,” Grandmother Martha said, “and if nothing else, they were gentlemen and humanitarians. They fought for equality even though the rest of Jersey were against it during the war!”

“Oh, come now, Grammy. Even the Massachusetts boys want nothing to do with the colored cadets—and their families were abolitionists of the worst sort!” Fred said.

“I was an abolitionist!” Martha reminded her grandson.

“And why do you still keep Betty? And why do we have Lucretia?” Fred asked.

“Lucretia and Betty are paid handsomely for their services and are free to leave and seek work elsewhere,” Graham replied.

“Handsomely? I know what they make—at least Lucretia—less than a private in the army and with no chance of promotion,” Fred said with a sneer.

“We pay above the going rate!” Graham said. “And I won’t allow you to compare Betty or Lucretia to slaves—are privates in the army slaves?”

“In the end, Father, I’d rather not turn the holidays into a trial. We’ll win our case in the new year if it comes to that. Not a single witness would dare come forward against me.”

“What are you saying?” Graham asked.

“I just mean to say that . . . that no one would dare present false testimony. Cadets pride themselves on honesty. As an upperclassman, I have done what’s best for the institution and Cadet Streeter,” Fred said. “He should have gone home long before getting drunk and almost killing himself walking the Palisades alone at night.”

“Must we only talk about ugly things when it’s Christmas? Let’s not ruin things for Martha. She must have plans of her own and looks worn out. Are you tired, dear?” Margaret asked.

“No, I’m not tired, Margaret. It’s more that I am disgusted by my grandchildren and their clear lack of remorse.”

“Everyone at the Point is against us because we’re not rich,” Fred contended.

“See, Graham, I told you they need more money!” Margaret scolded.

“Stop this nonsense—we give them all the money they’re permitted to have in their accounts!” Graham replied. “I don’t know why you boys came here and got your grandmother involved.”

“Fred figured you’d never come here for us since you’re huffed at Grammy,” Buck said.

Fred shot him a menacing look.

“I’d be happy enough if you all stayed away,” Martha said. “I hate to be reminded of my failures, but I suppose I have to put you all up for the night.”

“Oh, no-no-no, WE are leaving at once,” Margaret said.

“Don’t be a fool, Margaret. I’m not driving in this weather at night,” Graham said.

Fred rolled his eyes. “You’d never do as a soldier, Father.”

“Fred, you ignorant, obnoxious fool,” his grandmother said. “As smart as you think you are you should know that your mother will come down with an obscure ailment if she sits in the weather too long. Your father is using good judgment for a change.” Martha sent the grown children to bed upstairs in the rooms that once belonged to her sons.

“Land sakes, this room is a tundra!” Thankful whispered.

“Befitting the old ice witch, herself,” Buck grumbled with a weak laugh and cough.

Fred snored, peaceful as a kitten on the little cot next to the bed Buck lay upon. Thankful jumped from her cot and got in beside Buck for warmth. “Shove over, Buck and shh! Grammy will hear us laughing and give us the lash!”

Thankful teased him the way she used to, but Buck was grim. “Thankful, this time I really think I’m done in with Fred. I feel sort of bad about it.”

“Well, that’s new—you feeling bad,” Thankful laughed. “But not to worry—Fred never catches it.”

“That’s what I’m thinking about. Fred’s on a mission and now I’m tangled in it and I don’t think it’s good.”

Thankful giggled. “You look eight years old in that cap. Does it hurt? Your head I mean?”

“No. Well, yes it does. But don’t tell. It’s embarrassing. I wish I were eight again. I could just do things different.”

Thankful pat his shoulder dreamily. “The past is done. Good night.”

Buck sighed. “Thanks for those words of wisdom.” He closed his eyes, knowing he would not sleep. He hadn’t for months. Buck slid from bed and pulled out the chair tucked beneath his father’s childhood desk covered with rocks and bones. He shivered before the window and stared out at the frozen countryside.

Excerpted from WEARY OF RUNNING. Read more about Buck Crenshaw and his misadventures when you buy the book today!

“The second installment in The Tenafly Road Series definitely did not disappoint. With the introduction of new characters and the return of familiar ones, Weary of Running made for an exciting read. The protagonist, Thankful, is the real highlight of the novel. She consistently makes very poor decisions but in the end, you can understand why she has made every last one of them. The story ranges from love and romance to questions of faith and morality. It does all this without being preachy and explores many angles of different aspects of life. This is one of the best books I have read in a long time.” Amazon Review

“Buck Crenshaw is my favorite dysfunctional lovable character.”

PART ONE HERE

PART TWO HERE

PART THREE HERE

PART FOUR HERE

PART FIVE HERE

PART SIX HERE

PART SEVEN HERE

PART EIGHT HERE

PART NINE HERE

PART TEN HERE

PART ELEVEN HERE

PART TWELVE HERE

PART THIRTEEN HERE

PART FOURTEEN HERE

PART FIFTEEN HERE

PART SIXTEEN HERE

**Featured Image: Giuseppe De Nittis – Winter Landscape [c.1880] Flickr.com