Stories vs Reality, April 10

These are a few of the news stories that leave me shaking my head in disbelief that the U.S. could be a rogue nation that hurts itself, its people and the world. A sample only.

Automatic registration for US military draft to begin in December (The Hill).

Were I a mother, wife, sister, daughter, girlfriend during Vietnam or Iraq wars, and my son, husband, brother, father or boyfriend wanted to go serve their country in the American military, I would kidnap them and take them to Canada. They would not be protecting their country, but being trained to kill innocent civilians in faraway lands, putting money in the upper echelon of arms dealers for fake reasons sold as patriotism.

By contrast I like that in my new country, Switzerland, military (or civilian service) is required of every male. It brings citizens together from four disparate regions with four languages. It is truly for defense and not to attack other countries

The difference is the leadership.

The full story isn't in on this. CBS News is one of several sources.

An employee of a third-party distributor of the Kimberly-Clark paper goods warehouse in Ontario, California was arrested on multiple felony arson charges in connection with a massive 6-alarm fire that engulfed the 1.2 million square-foot building on Tuesday morning.

On Wednesday, a video posted by a person who appears to be the firebug says, "All you had to do was pay us enough to live ... There goes your inventory."

There was a point in France when the people were fed up with the aristocracy taking too much and decided to take matters in their own hands by removing heads from aristocratic bodies. The serfs when upset by the Czar killed his entire family.

I don't recommend decapitating the billionaires and the CEOs who take too great a portion of the effort made by the rest of the country nor do I recommend burning down property, but there is a major strike scheduled for May 1 telling people to buy nothing, not go to work, stop all activities. They demand a nation that puts workers over billionaires. No school! No work! No shopping! More info can be found at https://maydaystrong.org. Non violent.

People need to show enough is enough. 

The US “has the military power to do whatever it wants in the world,” a top official told the Vatican’s US representative. “The Catholic Church had better take its side.” Free Press

I'm not a religious person, but threatening a religion that has existed for over 2000 years is wrong. At the same time other members of the same administration asking for God's blessings in their illegal wars. A good god, a good religion, does not support killing people, What's next, bombing the Vatican while chanting God is Good????

ICE is paying 'eye-popping' prices for warehouse detention centers. Experts in federal property acquisition said DHS may be paying high prices to compel developers and commercial landowners to sell.

How many ways can one spell CO R R UP T I O N? Why does the U.S. need detention centers? Should we name them Buchenwald Redux? Auschwitz America? Do you want to be a part of a country that has concentration camps?

So who was rescued? Multiple stories and a news conference.

So allegedly two American pilots ejected out of an American aircraft behind enemy lines. One was rescued immediately. Another hid until Americans at a cost between half and two billion dollars (but there's no money for things for the American people). Never mind that the two pilots were committing a war crime and were there to kill innocent people. This is by an administration that went nuts talking about cost savings. 

If there were service people rescued that would be good for them and for their families, but why aren't their names released? Shouldn't they be used to exploit how clever the military is? I don't want to push conspiracy theories, but I find it just weird this entire story. What else might the American military have been doing with all those planes behind enemy lines? 

WASHINGTON – Senate Select Committee on Intelligence Vice Chairman Mark R. Warner (D-VA) today released a statement after voting in favor of Senator Tim Kaine (D-VA)’s war powers resolution.  

What Happened?

The Senate went home rather than deal with a resolution that points out the unconstitutional acts of the deranged President Trump.

It is hard to believe that Congress is refusing to act. Words that come to mind are immoral, scumbags, lily-livered, scaredy cats, traitors who should be thrown out of office for not fulfilling the responsibilities they were elected to uphold. I know that throwing words like that around is not journalistic professional. 

I have only been this frightened for my birth country once before at this level and that was during the Cuban Missile Crisis. I'd just married and my Army husband was on his way to his next assignment in Stuttgart, Germany. If there were a war, would I ever see him again? My senior year of high school in history class when every student was assigned one major country to follow closely, from it's history to all aspects of its politics, I felt sympathy for Cuba. After being one of those children who hid under their desks to practice in case Russia dropped a nuke, I was afraid. Fortunately we had a sane president at the time.

I'm not alone in my fear. My Catalan physiotherapist told us the same thing as did other neighbors, locals and internationals. Their opinion of the American president is he is out of control and the people are unaware of how disturbed he is and how dangerous for every living creature on the planet.

The Sounds of Tea

 

The Cuckoo awakens at 8. Some mornings it goes off at 7, other mornings 9 or ten. So much for Swiss precision.

The dog raises his head. He's in no mood to start the day. 

My husband is checking his mobile. I'm reading. My husband goes into the kitchen. 

I'm a lucky woman because every morning he brings me tea in bed. The flavor is a surprize: Earl Gray, caramel, Ceylon, vanilla, mint, Yorkshire, spice, etc.

I hear water being run into the kettle and boiling followed by the click of the kettle shutting off. I don't hear the water being poured into my bowl. 

My morning tea comes French style in a bowl. I was happy to read in Louise Penny's Three Pine series, they drink tea from bowls too.

My husband puts the bowl on a small plate along with a spoon. As he walks to the bedroom, his feet make a small padding noise and the spoon clicks against the glass. 

The tea is put on my nightstand by the next book I plan to read.

It's spice tea, and the aroma filters through our bedroom.

A peaceful way to start the day in a chaotic world, a privilege denied to so many.

The dog still isn't ready to start.

Free Write -- Little People

 

A friend, who stayed in my Nest (studio), left these little people on the 400-year-old-plus stone wall. Rick thought it would make a great prompt.

Rick's Free Write

“Now what are we going to do, Stephen?” wailed Priscilla, spitting out his name in clear indication she held him responsible for their dilemma.

It wasn’t even a first date. Just a casual encounter in a café, that led to a stroll, that led to the nearby grotto.

As they ventured deeper into the dank, dark cave, Priscilla became more nervous.

“I prefer the road less travelled,” he bragged.

“I need a toilet,” she insisted.

He finally acquiesced, but as they tried to circle back it was evident they were lost.

“Help! Anyone there?” Priscilla shouted.

They could no longer hear other voices. Was it after closing time?

Then, trying to cross a small chasm from one stone to another, Stephen slipped. He started to slide into a crevasse. And, as he was holding her hand, she slid with him.

They ended up on separate narrow ledges. No way to go up. Too dark to try to go down.

Priscilla thought she heard a noise. An animal noise.

No, it was Stephen, whimpering.

Julia's Free Write

Perception

Here she was in the middle of one of the weirdest dreams that she had ever experienced.

Now in real life “a long time ago” as all good stories start, she had found herself almost to the top of a cliff with no way down and no knowledge of what lay over the edge.

She had been to various cave dweller settlements: more sophisticated than she would have believed.

This, however, was nothing like those. And what was a man in a suit doing casually posed behind her?

Her dress and his shirt were pink and baby blue: a subliminal message?

Take in the details visitor: it looks real until one realizes that these are figurines on a brick wall: baby announcement (she’s holding her stomach)?

Or her internal message telling her to wake up, she needs to pee?

Worse than Artificial Intelligence.

Perception: one needs the bigger picture to understand.

D-L's Free Write

When Sharon saw the box of 100 rubber doll-house dolls at the flea market,she had to buy them. They were something her granddaughter Laila could play with.

Sharon had had a dollhouse when she was Laila's age. It had stairs between the ground and first floors, something most doll houses did not. 

Laila was not impressed with the dolls. "I want to play with my Barbies," she said. 

Laila didn't like anything that wasn't corporate crap and advertised on television," Sharon thought.

The child had rejected the button box with buttons from four generations of buttons snipped from clothing that could not be saved. All the designs and games that could have been made were ignored.

Laila had not wanted to design mosaics from the decorative envelope linings also saved from generations.

And she rejected the rubber doll-house people: the mothers, fathers, boys, girls, babies, butcher, men in suits, basketball players, etc. What adventures they could have had.

What to do with the dolls?

Sharon cut pieces of wood and wrote a few sentences on each one, a saying or a tiny story. She painted a backdrop and glued the appropriate dolls to illustrate the story or content of the sentence before varnishing it all in place.

In her centuries-old village, each street had large rocks at the ends, to keep wagon wheels from hitting and damaging the houses.

One moonless night she glued one of the pieces of wood to each stone.

People noticed. Then France3 did a news segment.

Sharon's daughter called. "Mother, was that you?"

Rick Adams is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices.com, a weekly newsletter reporting the airline industry  top stories . He is the author of The Robot in the Simulator. AI in Aviation Training.  

Visit D-L.'s website  https://dlnelsonwriter.com, She is the author of 15 fiction and three non fiction books. Her 300 Unsung Women, bios of women who battled gender limitations, can be purchased  at https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/300-unsung-women-d-l-nelson/1147305797?ean=9798990385504 

Visit Julia's blog. She has written and taken photos and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

Mink(s)

 

mink

The first mink I ever saw was a gift to my former housemate. Her cousin had brought it back from Korea.

A couple of decades later my daughter inherited it, and when I visited her in Malden during a cold December, its warmth was a joy.

My husband, deciding we needed one, researched the web and found a company that imported them to France.

He ordered one and we waited, and waited, and waited and... Months and then seasons went by without either the mink or a response to our emails. No phone was found.

We cancelled the credit card and settled for living through winters minkless. 

Almost another year went by and we forgot about it. We decided to go to Scotland. Friends dog-sat our pup. About halfway through our stay along with pictures of our dog, we had a picture of our dog sitter and dog along with the mink. "It's heavy," he said. 

The company we ordered it from no longer exists and where the mink came from or why it arrived so late we don't know, so we had no way to send another payment. That was at least 10 years ago and winter nights we have happily snuggled under its warmth and weight. 

The Cost of Dying: Susannah Lattin

This is the first in a series of abortion stories before Roe v. Wade which were published in Coat Hangers and Knitting Needles which took me over a year to research from articles, interviews and statistics. It showed me that abortion will never be stopped any more that prohibition stopped people drinking alcohol.. Over the next few weeks, I'll publish some of their stories.

Unmarried women, falling in love with a man, sleeping with him and expecting marriage, has happened through the ages. Having a man disappear once a pregnancy is known is not new either.

The daughter of Henry K. Lattin (1806-1904) and (Julia Wood (1813-1873), Susannah, was born on Long Island. She was one of 18 surviving children. Two siblings had died.

She moved in with Andrew Wood, her cousin, who lived in Brooklyn in 1867.

George C. Houghton, a clerk at a store called Whitehouse's, impregnated Susannah Lattin. He did not want to be a father. He paid Dr. J.C. Harrison $50 (US$832 in 2018) to abort the baby. When Susannah did not go through with the abortion, Houghton escaped his responsibility by running away to Philadelphia.

Lattin turned to an older cousin, George Powell, a butcher at the Washington market. Pretending to be her husband and using the name Smith, Powell rented a room for her and arranged an appointment with Dr. Henry Grindell, operator of an illegal abortion clinic.

Grindell wanted to charge $150 ($2,817 in 2018). Other research shows that the clinic charged $300 per week normally with more for board, medical and adoption fees. Perhaps the fee was based on what he could get.

Lattin gave birth on 5 August 1868. Thirteen days afterwards, she developed an infection. A medical student caring for her did not realize the seriousness until it was too late. The baby was adopted, but there are no adoption records.

When Lattin revealed her true name at the urging of Dr. Edward Dame, Lattin's parent were notified by letter but could not arrived before Lattin died.

The resulting inquest under a Coroner Rollins censured Dr. Grindell. It made the suggestion that such clinics be under the supervision of the Board of Health.

Lattin's cousin, George Powell, was arrested as an accomplice. Houghton was brought back from Philadelphia. 

They were never found guilty of her death.

The next story is about Clara Bell Duvall (1895-1925) told by her daughter Linn. We may forget living children of women who die from abortions suffer too no matter in what year the tragedy occurs.

Disgusting

 

 

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad the American pilot is safe. I'm happy for his family. I'm happy no other American was killed.

But there were other deaths. Sadly part of the operation, according to the news, America bombed a hospital, killing nine. Are their lives worth less to their families? Will it make them not hate America even more?

The pilot, although following orders, was engaged in an illegal war both nationally and internationally, that is wreaking havoc on not just Iran but on the world. Let's not count all the other deaths that the U.S. has wrought at the will of a demented U.S. president. 

Let's not think of balance. After all the 1000 to 75000+ ratio of dead Israels to Palestinians is considered more than okay by many. Israel, it is said has a right to defend itself, but, of course, not Iran or any other country that doesn't fall in lockstep with the U.S. In fact, supporting Palestine is a reason for punishment. 

But that's not why I'm writing.

Globally Iran is 17th in size with 92 million people. The U.S. has interfered regularly in its government by coups, yes plural coups, and financially with sanctions. Iran has good reason to have been and to be pissed off with the United States, which is a victim of its own bad behavior to it. 

Saying that, I'm not a big fan of Iran as a feminist and a supporter of democracy, but that does not give my birth country a right to kill and bomb.

And let's not think about the cost of the illegal war, when U.S. citizens should not have their tax money spent on weapons that maim and kill, but are great for the arms manufacturers and especially their CEOs.

Once more the U.S. population is lied into a war under false threats. At my age, I'm not only tired of it, I'm disgusted.

 

Chapter 66

Lexington, Massachusetts

April 20, 1775

 EVERYTHING SEEMED VEILED when James opened his eyes. He couldn’t keep them open. His stomach ached as it had never ached before. He smelled bread baking and meat roasting. James heard voices as he lay in a bed.

Man:       You’re crazy to help him.

Woman:  He’s not going to live. He’s lost too much blood.

Man:       He’s a bloody lobsterback.

Woman:  He’s still Christ’s child, someone’s son, maybe brother, maybe husband, maybe father.

Man:       We’ll never know. There’s no identification.

Woman:  We could try and send him back to the British, when he dies.

Man:       You are …

The voices faded and it sounded as if they were going down a flight of stairs.

James thought of Bess. It hurt to breathe. Then he couldn’t breathe at all. 

 

Chapter 67

Argelès-sur-mer

I MOURN JAMES. For over a year, he has been with me almost every day in two different countries and many cities and villages. He has lived with me through a pandemic and quarantine.

I’ve tried to feel his pleasures, hopes, fears knowing all the time how he would die, where he would be buried in a grave marked on a battlefield of the American Revolution.

My other characters, who have become real to me, can go on with their lives.

Not James.

There are real unknown soldiers buried in Lexington, not just in that one grave. Would they have been mourned by fathers, mothers, wives, sons, brothers in faraway countries? Would not knowing what happened to their family members haunt them or would they not care?

May they all rest in peace throughout the ages.

Socks don't have to be boring

 

I decorate my laptop and also my former ever-so-boring beige car, which was 1% less boring than the thousands of black, gray or white cars making the highways depressing especially on cloudy days. What do European car manufacturers have against color?

Socks were the same. Boooooooring.  No more. There are many choices to reflect mood and interests.

I wanted different socks. I've found them. Here are some of my favorite non-boring socks.They change the ho hum of getting dressed into a memory or idea generator for the day. At the very least they make me smile. Some of my choices:

• The Kiss by Gustave Klimt. I was lucky enough to see the painting in Vienna. The model Adèle Bloch Bauer sat for Klimt twice. As a wealthy Jewish socialist who was unhappy, she was childless after a miscarriage. What were the discussions between the painter and the model on the gold dress he painted rather than the white dresses she preferred? Fun to imagine. She died, age 43, of meningitis. Those socks evoke memories of the Vienna trip, not just of the museum, but little sandwiches, conversations with my Viennese writer friend and her family, summer nights sitting in their garden and more. Not bad for simply slipping pieces of cloth onto my feet.
• People who know how I love to read send me socks with books on them. There's something about a rainy day, a good book(s) and tea while wearing those socks.
• My favorite pair of all time was a birthday gift. What makes it so special? There's an avatar of me along with my name. The giver is someone with whom I've shared so much bad, good and middling.
• Ruth Bader Ginsburg (1933-2020) Something about having a woman I admire on my feet reminds me of how far women have come in my lifetime. She was a civil rights activist and a Supreme Court Judge. As a woman, she had trouble being considered for posts that she was more than qualified for. Her courage and intelligence is an inspiration.
• Kitten socks...Even if I'm more a dog person, I melt for cute cats and cute socks. I can do cute. Cute makes me smile.

Not shown but in my sock drawer:

• My truly favorite woman of all time is Eleanor of Aquitaine (1137-1304) wife of French King Louis VII, Plantagenet King Henry II, mother of English kings Richard the Lionhearted and John who signed the Magna Carta. She gave birth to the queens of Castile and Sicily. For my 75th birthday, rather than have a party, I went to visit her tomb at the Fontevraud Abbey, which she had built. She was buried next to Henry and Richard. I never put on the socks that I don't remember being in her presence as well as the wonderful meal and exploring the abbey with its rich history.
• Not the least historical, literary or arty are my socks with pictures of movie house popcorn boxes and popcorn. They are fun.

I would love some Eleanor Roosevelt socks for my birthday but I'm torn between not buying anything American (they are sold at the Smithsonian and her loved home Val-kill) and pleasure knowing I'd be wearing something Trump hated. Even more important was her work for everything I believe in.

It may seem silly to some, but things like socks help me survive the disaster the U.S and world has become. 

T3 Truth, Trump, Television

T3 truth, Trump and Television

Our alarm went off at 3 a.m. My husband and I struggled out of bed to watch  Trump's speech on the insane war of choice. 

One of the joys of living in Europe, is being able to switch from news programs to news programs from many countries.¨We don't have to believe the propaganda from any one government, group of media media mogols or billionaires. And of course there's a long list of news sources from many places most who have reporters there.. 

We switched to Franc 24, Al Jazeera and BBC after the spech. They did not believe what the U.S. President claimed. These stations are NOT financed by the same mega companies financing much of what is fed to the U.S. public.

It wasn't the first time that all have questioned the veracity of the American president. That is a regular occurrence. None have said outright he is a liar. None used the taunt, "Liar, liar, pants on fire," but it was phrased every other way possible.

Other countries have no faith in the U.S. unlike what Trump has said about other countries respecting America, another lie.

Phrases used by them all were the same  not just for this latest speech, but when quoting much of what Trump says.

• Stretching the facts
• Factlesss
• Avoiding reality
• Misleading
• Misrepresented
• Made up numbers
• Likely false
• Exaggerated

That Trump is upset that allies have not come to U.S. aid is no surprise. You don't insult your allies and then expect them to help you in an illegal war both under U.S. national law and under international law.

The world has been thrown in chaos by one man of dubious mental capacity and even less morals. It will take years for the U.S. and others to dig out of his mess he has created if we/they will ever be able to.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch.64-64

 

 

Chapter 64

Boston to Lexington

April 18, 1775

JAMES HOLLOWAY fell asleep early. During the last two days he’d put in long hours. The General had sent him hither and yon to find leaders of different regiments to put together a force of about 700 men to go to Lexington and Concord to seize the weapons that had so long evaded him.

James had no idea when it would happen, but it would be soon, he knew that. He also knew he would march to Lexington and Concord with his regiment.

Dealing with the General had been exhausting, so it had been a relief when the General ordered him to go to his barracks and get as much sleep as he could.

He had been told by the General at least five times to not say a word to anyone, including his fellow soldiers. James certainly wouldn’t confide in Mollie Clark, with whom he had taken two walks. They had pretended to meet by accident and only went a short distance together to not upset her father.

Nor would he tell Sally Brewster. She didn’t seem to care one way or another who was ruling Boston. People need fire buckets no matter what government was in control, she claimed. She was totally involved in her painting and not just on the buckets. Last week she had brought out her drawings with the caveat, “They aren’t very good.”

“They’re very good, including the drawing of me in uniform,” he had told her only to watch her blush as she did whenever he complimented her. If he were to look for a wife, she would make an excellent one, but it was a big if. Not just because he had so little money to support a wife, the world around him was becoming more unsettled with talk of insurrection.

He knew the General was determined to round up cannons, powder, cartridges, ammunitions, tents, shovels, food, whatever might be used against the troops.

He also knew the General was under pressure from London to solve the uprisings. He didn’t need the General to tell him London did not understand the reality of Massachusetts.

James wasn’t sure if the General understood either. Both from what he read and in his talks with Mrs. Gage, James understood the point of view of the patriots as well as the army.

His parents had had an attitude based on tales handed down from the time of Oliver Cromwell that the ordinary man lived at the whim of whoever was in power, be it the mayor, landlord or king. That people had the right to establish their own rules for their own lives seemed unrealistic, but at the same time very appealing.

James always had had the ability to fall asleep anywhere. Not recently.

Different thoughts ran through his mind, but they disappeared almost as quickly as they came. On April 18, 1774, his thoughts were of how the General had said to Lieutenant Colonel Francis Smith and Major John Pitcairn, who were among the leaders of the planned march and search mission, to not steal from the locals. When James turned on his left side, he thought of the General saying, “I don’t want to hurt anyone or destroy any property.”

How that would be possible with some 700 well-trained, armed men against the stubborn rebels, he wasn’t sure. James often had feelings about things that came true. He had chalked up his worry that something would happen to his wife when she was pregnant as just stupid worry. It had come true. More than once, he had thought a thunder or hailstorm would come. The times were not so numerous that James considered he had any special gift. “I’m just observant,” he told himself.

Having a bad feeling about the mission was natural considering all the tensions. If only the rebels didn’t fight about paying taxes. If only the rebels would give up their damned weapons, things would quiet down.

The men had many names: rebels, patriots, colonists, loyalists … but loyal to whom? Not everyone was angry at the King.

“Wake up, wake up.” James swatted at his ear. He opened his eyes and tried to keep them open. Corporal Tilley came into focus. He was holding a candle. “Get dressed. Full uniform. Cartridge pouch, cartridges, everything. Be quiet as ghosts.”

James knew it was wrong to ask why. An order was an order. When he sat up, he saw three of his fellow privates struggling into their uniforms. Corporal Tilley was moving the room whispering into the ear of each private.

There were whispers of “what is this for?”

Corporal Tilley hearing the whispers rushed over and took the speaker by the shoulders and whispered the order, “Shut up.”

James was sure this was what the General had been planning. 

Chapter 65

Boston to Lexington, Massachusetts

April 18-19, 1775

HAVING 700 MEN, more or less, in boots march through Boston streets without making any noise was impossible. They went in formation, four to a row by regiment. James knew from the planning meetings there would be 21 companies of Grenadiers and Light Infantry, the elite soldiers of the army. Grenadiers were chosen for their height and courage.

Grenadiers without their bear-fur hats were taller than many. The hats made them more frightening.

The highly trained Light Infantry had a reputation for courage and speed.

He caught a glimpse of Danny carrying his drum. The batons were stuck between his chest and the leather belt from which the drum was suspended. No drumming. They were under an order of silence.

Winter had left. Spring had not taken its place. The air was cold with a light wind.

James was sure that everyone marching was curious about where they were going. He wasn’t going to tell them.

The Cambridge salt marsh stank of sea, not the clean smell of waves breaking on a beach but of decaying leaves and fish. The water was knee-high. The troops waded across leaving their feet and legs wet.

On the other side of the marsh, they waited and waited for boats to bring provisions. James had no idea what those provisions were. He had no memory of the General discussing this aspect of the exercise. Perhaps, he thought, it was when he was running errands.

Some of the officers were on horseback but he couldn’t make out who was who. Clouds hid what moonlight there was.

James wasn’t sure of the time that everything was organized to move but he guessed it was about two in the morning.

******

The troops had been marching for a good two hours. James was tired. His work as an orderly reduced his physical training. He held his Brown Bess in the correct position, but his fingers were stiff. His gun was loaded. His pouch was stuffed with more powder and cartridges.

Over the tramping he heard owls calling.

The troops marched down roads with stone walls on each side. Woods or farms were behind those walls and behind those were farmhouses, although only when the moon escaped the clouds could he see them. No candles burned in the windows in the middle of the night.

In the distance, James heard bells. A signal? Someone could have spotted them. This was the same he’d taken in March on the General’s mission.

Mostly, he wanted to be back in his bed surrounded by the snores of his fellow soldiers.

His boots and stockings were still wet from wading through the salt marsh. The stocking on his left foot had bunched, causing discomfort every time he put his foot down. He imagined breaking formation, fixing it, then rushing to reclaim his space. Soldiers didn’t do that, but he knew although he wore the uniform and although he would keep his word, he was not meant to be a soldier.

As he marched, he knew finally, the minute his contract was up, he would definitely find another life.

Regret?

If he regretted anything it was that his wife and daughter had died and that he had not had control over the family bakery. At the same time, had his life unfolded that way, the experiences he would have missed.

James was aware he could always see more than one side on any issue, leaving him confused. Knowing how farmers felt about their land at home, he understood how the rebels felt here, but he also had trouble imagining not having a king. Oliver Cromwell had pretty much proven that was a bad idea. The stories of Cromwell’s fanaticism had been handed down through the generations in his family about the same way the bakery had.

Danny’s drum was still quiet. He could hear the hooves of the officers’ horses. He imagined he saw a man duck down behind a stone wall, but in the moonlight. He credited it with just that — his imagination.

At least he hoped it was his imagination. Between Dr. Church and his own spying, he knew the farmers were gaining strength, not just in stolen weapons, but they were training, using the same manual as the British.

The sun began its climb bringing light to the troops.

Danny began drumming to direct their movements.

Even if the troops had been told the goal in detail, James knew from listening to his last conversation between the General and Lt. Colonel Smith they were to secure the North and South bridges and then find the missing cannons.

Sunrise.

My God, James thought as his regiment arrived at the North Bridge. The militia was waiting for them. Unlike the British, they had no uniforms. Their clothes were the ones they wore to work the fields and milk the cows. Their ages were from teenagers to grandfathers. Are they as nervous as I am, he wondered? Or are they more so being less well trained? How well trained are they? Had they sent for reinforcements from other villages?

He chided himself for having sympathy for his opponents.

Although they were not supposed to fire, he heard a gunshot. He didn’t know if it came from the British or the rebels. Pandemonium followed. Despite all the practice of orderly formations with the front row firing and then marching to the back to reload, the soldiers spread out and seemed to be firing at will.

The smell of gunfire was overwhelming.

Danny? He didn’t have a gun. He had promised to take care of him. Where was he? Then he heard the drum. In the confusion, he wasn’t sure of the message.

Then his stomach was torn apart.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel Ch 62-63

 

 

Chapter 62

Boston, Massachusetts

February

“I DON’T BELIEVE it,” Florence DuBois said to Daphne Andrews. They were talking on Facebook Messenger. Daphne sat at her dressing table/desk. Her bed was covered with completed artwork for the comic book. It had been printed double size for easier final editing.

Florence had left the pages yesterday. “It may be useless, and we’ll have to publish them ourselves. I thought Jason might be interested, but we haven’t heard a peep from him, and he hasn’t answered my e-mails or taken my phone calls. And the marketing meeting he talked about has never happened.” She sighed, “I thought we were better friends than that. At least he could have had the guts to tell me our work sucks.”

Daphne couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s combination of American slang mixed with her slight French accent. “From everything I’ve heard,” she’d said, “getting published is harder than creating the book.”

Although she tried to imagine Gareth coughing up the money for self-publishing, she couldn’t. He absolutely refused to even discuss the project.

In one fight that they had had, he had forbidden her to work on it and to even see Florence unless it was an official diplomatic event. Gareth and Yves DuBois had played squash twice and both times he’d come home furious. Yves had bragged about his wife’s work and how lucky she was to find a partner like Daphne.

Gareth had taken her laptop and locked it in the storeroom closet. Daphne found it necessary to finally tell Florence about Gareth’s attitude.

“Con, prick,” Florence had said. She had told Yves, who after hearing the problems Daphne was having, had other commitments when Gareth tried to make a squash date. Since Gareth had little free time, he wasn’t all that upset.

What Gareth didn’t know, there were duplicate keys to the storeroom. Each day when Daphne was sure he was safely from the house, she would retrieve her laptop. Her alternative was to use Boston Public Library computers which needed a reservation and there was a 90-minute limit. However, she had made friends with two of the staff, who let her extend the period if no one else needed the computer.

“I’m trying to be a 1950s wife and have everything perfect when my husband comes home,” she’d said to Gareth’s secretary one day when she’d gone to the embassy to have lunch with him. He’d gone to the men’s room. “Maybe you might tell me when he leaves?”

“I usually leave first, but I will when I can.” She flashed a conspiratorial smile.

“Thanks, it’s a newlywed thing, too,” Daphne had winked.

Daphne didn’t feel like a romantic newlywed. She felt like a woman who made a huge mistake in marrying.

When he had locked up her laptop, she had suggested counselling. He said that if she were more obedient, there wouldn’t be a problem.

The word “obedient” had been the proverbial broken-backed camel from the one straw too many. Instead of continuing the fight, Daphne had said, “I’ll try harder.” What she didn’t say was, “I’ll try harder, until I find my way out of this mess.”

One of the mistakes that Daphne realized that she had made, was that she really hadn’t known that much about his childhood other than he was unhappy at boarding school. When she’d met his mother, she felt the need to put on a coat, hat and gloves to survive the cold.

Her childhood overall had been happy. Her parents were contentedly married, if not happily. They supported whatever she wanted to do or didn’t want. They were in the habit of giving the pros and cons of any of her ideas, then let her decide. She suspected sometimes their tongues might have been shortened rather than say, “I told you so.” She still had not indicated to them that anything was wrong.

Where she had rejected showing up on their doorstep earlier, she now thought that would be the best way. Gareth had canceled her credit cards. At the time, it bothered her, but she hadn’t said anything. She’d had three. She gave him the two he knew about. She wasn’t about to comply and leave herself stranded financially.

The bank account was in his name only. He had upped her allowance to $100 a week. It had made her feel like a child. Still, much to her annoyance at herself, she said nothing. It was a good thing that local merchants still accepted cash.

Over the last few months, she had managed to save close to $1,500. The idea of arriving at her parents without any money bothered her. Already she’d begun looking for jobs in Edinburgh.

Academia, such as the Universities of Edinburgh, Glasgow or St. Andrews had openings, but she wasn’t sure if her experience would qualify her to look up crime statistics in different countries or women’s laws in China. Perhaps she could combine it with more study. Dr. Daphne … she liked the sound of that.

She had started to mail her CV to anything and everything with a cover letter using her parents’ address. At some point, she had better warn her parents.

She had quickly discovered when she checked flight schedules and prices, when she went back a second time to book, the prices had gone up. Shit!

“Are you still there?” Florence’s voice brought Daphne back to her bedroom on Comm Ave. in Boston.

“I’m here. What can’t you believe?”

“Jason FINALLY got back to me. And it’s good.”

“What did he say.”

“It took him a while to convince senior management, but they will publish us.”

“You’re joking.”

“I am not. They want it to be the beginning of a series, all with twins who participate in different historic events. You will write it. I will do the graphics.”

Daphne was unable to respond for a full minute before gasping out, “How many? For what events? How much will they pay?

“At first he wanted to bring us on staff. The problem is visas, but they are willing to try. If that does not work, we will be freelancers.”

Daphne took a deep breath. “I’m going back to Scotland.”

“Merde!” There was silence. “We can still do it. You can research and write from Scotland. I can work from here. Maybe we can get them to give you a travel budget if we have to visit the places, but with the internet …”

Daphne wasn’t sure that the money would be equivalent to a full-time post, but it would be something. Florence was gushing about the libraries and schools that already were customers of the publisher, that would guarantee certain sales. “We need to negotiate a lot of things. Yves already has spoken to a lawyer for us. Or maybe we need an agent. The thing is they could be used for years to come.”

Maybe they could make it work, Daphne thought.

“I’m sorry. You said you were going to go back to Scotland?”

“Yes, I’m leaving Gareth.”

“Good. If you need to stay here temporarily, you are welcome to.”

Her first impulse was to say, “That would be too much of an imposition,” but what she said was, “If you’re sure, when?”

“Anytime.”

“You may want to check with Yves.”

“I’ll message you back.”

Daphne sat, not sure what to do. She got up and went to the toilet. Her period had started. Well at least she didn’t have to worry about being pregnant. When she returned to her laptop there was a message, “Yves says welcome as long as you need to. He also said congratulations on writing the comic book. Now when?”

“If you really mean it, Gareth has to go to D.C. Tuesday next.”

“As soon as he’s gone, I’ll come over, help you pack.” 

Chapter 63

Geneva, Switzerland

Whew! I’ve wound up Daphne and Florence. Their success in finding a publisher was much easier than reality, although it does happen as it did for Robert B. Parker and Ian Rankin whose first novels were snapped up. Mary Higgins Clark’s daughter probably didn’t have any problems getting published. Florence had an industry contact which made it possible.

Just because they have a publisher doesn’t mean instant success. Both women would have visa problems if they went to work for the publisher full time. Educational publishing is not a lucrative field for the writers. The credential of the comic book, maybe, would help Daphne to find a job back in Scotland, but I won’t follow her that far. I just want to leave the possibility that things might work out for her.

My husband has started reading the manuscript. He is in Dallas visiting his daughter and family. I hadn’t told him about the Anatomy part of the novel, he just knew about the historic and current plots. At first he was confused, but then decided he liked it.

I also heard back from Ranger Jim with dates of arrival in Boston for James’ ship. The name of the ship is still missing. I think I’ve enough information about the type of ship he would have been on and combined with the dates of arrival, it will ring true.

I am coming to the final part of the novel, the actual battle.

My husband is worried that to write about it will leave me too sad. We already know what will happen to James. He would prefer I wait for his return in eight days. He knows how real my characters become to me.

 

Collette, French Bank and Marseille

The drive to Marseille showed us a part of France that was new to us with its cliffs and coast. The city itself looked like a French movie with its port and boats.

My husband Rick had an appointment with the American Consulate, the soonest we could get one. Bern, Reykjavik, Warsaw, even Malta had months to years to wait.

Our hotel was ordinary and nice. Rick usually found extraordinary hotels, but this was not a pleasure trip or even an interesting business or research trip. Ordinary was more than fine. 

• Past hotels included the Dublin converted schoolhouse (see above) with each room named for an Irish writer. 
• I loved the clear plastic bubble on a rooftop in the Austrian countryside. That was a BnB with the host family inviting us to join them for a home cooked Thai meal, even though they were Swiss. After the meal we zipped ourselves into the bubble fell asleep looking at stars.

In Marseilles we did a recognisance walk to the consulate. We admired its gates. On the way back to the hotel we saw a café named Collette with four sidewalk tables. One was free.

The chocolate cake with the melted chocolate center was to be savoured. A couple in love was next to us and their happiness overflowed. Eventually, we were the only couple there.

"I like a café named after a writer. I admired her for breaking free of her husband, her outrageous lifestyle but mostly for her writing. I have a stone from her Paris tomb in my nest as inspiration. I love the story of her mother who postponed spending Christmas with her because she does not want to miss the flowering of her Christmas Cactus.

Sirens approached us and several police cars roared through the intersection near the café. They pulled into the Bank of France gates, which were opened for it. 

"A robbery?"

We waited.

In about 20 minutes the police emerged but were surrounding an armoured car. ¨We felt we were in another French movie as we finished our tea.

An overnight trip, a lifetime of memories.