Friday, March 31, 2023

Bluefield, Bramwell, Boston

 My brother's birth halted my parents divorce.

We rented my grandmother's house and headed to Bluefield, West Virginia where my father had just bought an Underwood Typewriter franchise.

My mother took one look at the school system, declared she would not be party to adding an ignoramus to the citizen pool and found a private school for the second half of first grade.

Thanks to my grandmother's drilling, I knew the 12 tables backwards and forwards, my spelling was the best it would ever be again, thanks to my grandmother playing anagrams. I was thrilled with the reading matter about other countries, learned about silk worms and Roman cultures all before Easter of first grade. It was far superior to the "See Dick run, run Dick run." 

The school was three hours day and was supplemented with a ruler for wrong answers.

Despite a beautiful house and country club membership, my parents marriage did not improve. My mother was always that damned yankee and she didn't want to be anything else.

My mother came home one day and announced the house would be sold and we were moving back to Reading, Massachusetts. Seems a man had come up to her and said, "I know who you are. You're Jimmy Boudreau's girl friend and that's Jimmy's car." My mother replied. "I'm Jimmy Boudreau's wife and this is my car."

In Massachusetts we had lived with my grandmother and had only rented the house. My mother evicted the tenants the following month, sold the West Virginia House and rented a house in Bramwell until we could drive north.


I didn't realize it at the time but what she rented was an old plantation. There was a brick courtyard with a statue/horse reins black jockey (certainly not acceptable today), a huge house with columns, a lawn sloping down to to the Bluestone River.

We were in the former slave quarters, a vine-covered brick building. The only furniture were beds, tables and wooden chairs. "It's temporary," my grandmother said. "Less than a month."

It turned out to be less than a week. The fire department showed up to put out yet another fire in the main house. As the chief told my mother the owners often set fire to the place when drinking. Although the daughter of the house who was three years older than I was tried to keep me out on that lawn, my mother sussed out what was happening.

I have no idea how my father managed to get our Massachusetts tenants to move so fast.

The next morning we were on the road. My baby brother and I were installed in the back seat. As we were loading the car, my mother noticed my face was swollen as a basketball. The leaves on the wall of the slave quarters were poison ivy.

 

I think the trip took three days. I remember stopping in New Jersey at a motel/restaurant. There was television with Gene Autry. At that point the TV signals were not able to broadcast into the South so it was almost three years since I had seen TV.

We breezed through Boston to Reading. I thought I'd like to look at the city, but I was not going to get a chance to do that until I was an adult.

Our house was like I remembered it. My father had seen to it the furniture was not only back, but back where it had been. 

Two weeks later I started third grade. I had tested for fifth grade, but since I was the smallest in third grade, my mother felt size-wise and socially I should stay with my proper grade.

I was so bored. I no longer could write in script and had to print covering two lines. Reading matter was far less interesting.

After Valentine's Day I had measles, mumps and then a low grade temperature for six weeks. The school work I had completed down south. I did not want to go back.

Solution?

Rub poison ivy on my face? I had blisters that were up to an inch long and a quarter inch high.

Stupid move. My punishment was karma. Instruction on the lotion had not been given. Instead to diluting it 10x my mother applied it full length. 

Agony.

When my mother asked for a renewal of the prescription, the doctor realized what happened he was at the house within 15 mins. He gave us all the lotions recommended by a leading Boston dermatologist. It was two years before the marks totally disappeared. I've never tanned properly.

I never confessed to my mother that I had given myself poison ivy. I suspect if there is a life after death and she and I meet again I still wouldn't.



Thursday, March 30, 2023

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel

 

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. 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.

Chapter 64

Boston to Lexington

April 18, 17

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 needed in battle premagainst 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 premonitions 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. 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 around the room whispering into the ear of each private.

There were whispers of “What is this for?”

Hearing the whispers, Tilley 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.

Sunday, March 26, 2023

2 lizzards and a snail

 


Two  lizards and a snail sounds like movie title.

Snails have been part of our couple's family lore for at least nine years.

It started when I bought 50 snail shells to use as decorations. What I didn't realize, the snails were still in them until we saw them crawling up the front door.

We could have had them for lunch, we were in France, but instead we captured them and took them to the river to give them a second chance at life.

At least we thought we'd captured them all, but over the years one would make its appearance. on the patio, under a piece of furniture even in the kitchen as if it were volunteering to be the entré.

We began to point out snail art when we were out.

Friends took up the game and soon we were the recipients of some very nice snail-themed gifts.

We did not expect snails to follow us to our new home Geneva, but one has taken up its home under our patio table.

At the same time, two baby lizards have decided to parade across our patio. Sherlock found them barely worth a sniff.

Lexington: Anatomy of a Novel. Chapters 61 and 62

 

Chapter 61

Boston to Lexington, Massachusetts

March 5, 1775

 

 

“THIS IS THE best horse we have.” The stablemaster stopped at the stall of a brown stallion who was moving about as much as the space allowed. “He needs some exercise.”

Not with me, James thought. The horse was a beautiful specimen, but he could think of many reasons not to choose him and not just because he would be too much for him to handle. With his lack of horsemanship skills, he would never have qualified for the cavalry.

Thomas could have brought this animal under control. The thought of his lost friend made him forget for a moment why he was choosing a horse. He shoved the tide of grief aside to concentrate on his mission. General Gage has ordered him to go to Lexington and Concord to find out if the cannons were there. He was to dress in farmer’s clothes.

A farmer would never have such a high-quality animal. “I need a regular horse, maybe one a little bit, but not too much, past its prime.” He wanted to add, who is gentle and won’t mind that I’m not a very good rider, but he didn’t.

The stable smelled of horse shit. It needed a good mucking out, James thought. The snow had melted, but there were no buds on the trees or grass sprouting. The horses had been mostly kept inside their stalls since November with only an occasional outing.

The stablemaster led James up and down the rows of stalls, citing the merits of each beast. When he came to a stall with a mare, he said, “This is Cranberry. She’s gentle. We’ve used her to give children rides. We were trying to convince them lobsterbacks aren’t terrible.”

The stablemaster spat. For the first time James noticed he’d been chewing tobacco. Must have been a very small chunk. It was a habit he’d never taken up. He’d tried once and found the taste not only disgusting, but it lingered the way taking a bite of a raw onion would stay in his mouth.

“I need a non-army saddle, bit and rein.”

“You aren’t thinking of deserting, are you boy?” The stablemaster, James guessed, was probably in his late fifties, if his gray hair and wrinkles were any indicator. The man limped, which meant he wasn’t fit for active duty, although he wore the regimental uniform, which bore the 10th Regiment of Foot buttons and insignia. Probably his role as stablemaster kept him in the regiment.

He had no written orders to show the stablemaster. Gage had said that would compromise his safety if the rebels captured him. Outside Boston was almost all rebel territory. “Absolutely not.”

“Then you must be on a spy mission.”

“Shh.”

******

As James rode Cranberry through the countryside. He could hear birds singing. Perhaps they were beginning to build their nests.

Cranberry’s preferred speed was an amble, which James appreciated. If the General was angry with the amount of time James took to complete this mission, James would claim he’d taken time to talk to people although he was halfway to Lexington before he saw anyone to talk to. Mostly he was riding through unsettled land. Farms were outside the villages. Despite it being almost April, the ground was still too frozen to be tilled.

He passed a farmer fixing the stones on his wall. “Hello there.”

“I don’t know your face,” the man said.

“Nor I yours.”

“Not from around here.”

“Beyond Worcester. Heard that the militia might need some recruits.” James hoped the man wasn’t pro-English.

“Stupid idiots. You can’t fight the Crown.”

James didn’t know how to answer. He had guessed wrong about which side the man was on. He looked to the man’s house. A woman was hanging sheets on a line. Two small children ran in circles. He would have to report the people who were loyal to the Crown.

“Do you know of anywhere to eat around here?”

“There’s Howe’s Tavern, up the road in Sudbury. Big red building. If you keep on this road for about a half hour, you can’t miss it.”

The man was right. The two-story building had a double chimney.

James was relieved to get off his horse. His rear and inner thighs ached.

There were several horses tied to a hitching post. After letting Cranberry drink at the trough, he fastened her at one end of the post.

Inside, the inn was dark and smokey. Almost every table was filled with men deep in conversation. He could tell by the way they were hunched toward each other.

There was the smell of roasting chicken and beer. As James walked toward the bar at one end, he saw Dr. Benjamin Church at the same time Church saw him. The doctor stood. “William! Over here!”

Had Church forgotten his name or was he talking to someone else?

The doctor walked over to him, put his arm around James’ shoulder and led him back to the long oak table where he’d been sitting. “Go along with what I say,” he whispered. At the table where Church had been sitting, he said with a voice that could be heard throughout the room. “Friends, meet William Smith. Has a farm beyond Worcester. Used to live in Boston. I operated on his mother. How is she?”

“As good as new,” James said. He had no idea where the conversation was going, but if Church wasn’t going to reveal his real identity, he wouldn’t reveal Church’s.

“There were six men, all dressed as farmers, sitting at the table.

“What are you doing way out here?” the man who looked the oldest asked.

“I want to find a wife. There are almost no unmarried women near me or if they are I haven’t found one for me.”

“I know someone you might find appealing. I’ll introduce you after we eat. Join us?” Church looked at the men. “We’ve talked about everything we need to, haven’t we?”

Four heads nodded and two voices said, “Yes.”

“Three men crammed together to make room for James. He swung his leg over the bench without kicking anyone.

*****

Unlike Cranberry, Dr. Church’s horse was a young, brown gelding. Its coat had been brushed to almost a polish. “Follow me,” he said.

As soon as they were out of sight of the inn, Church signaled that James should dismount. “This is fortuitous. I need to send a letter to the General. Carry the letter as fast as your horse can travel.” He patted Cranberry on her right flank.

Chapter 62

Boston, Massachusetts

February

  "I DON’T BELIEVE it,” Florence DuBois said to Daphne Andrews. They were texting 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 the others thought 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.

 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 after their meeting with Jason.

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 required a reservation and there was a ninety-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 counseling. 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 letting 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, in retrospect, that that would have been the best thing to do. 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.

It was a good thing that Gareth didn’t ask how she spent her allowance, which was as little as possible. 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 searching and applying for jobs in Edinburgh.

Academia, such as the Universities of Edinburgh, Glasgow or St. Andrews had openings for the spring and fall semesters, 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 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 books could be in print for years with royalties for years.”

Maybe they could make it work, Daphne thought.

“I’m sorry. You just 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.”