CANDLELIT CHRONICLES: HISTORIC HAUNTS

March 26_Announcement & free read_2769 word count

March 26_free read _ 2769  word





Announcement, Gentle Readers:


I've been keeping this Blog going fairly regularly-on a daily basis-since mid-December 2009 or so. I've continued even this month-March-to post 500+ words a day, in keeping with “The Joy of Blogging”- and that has not been easy as all this month I've been penning 2500 words a day, often more, every day, for MarNoWriMo. A scant couple of weeks ago I determined that this is the Writing schedule I intend to keep-for life-2500+ daily on one or more novels. That could include editing, of course.


However, in April I am introducing what is to me a completely new concept: April Script Frenzy. I've never written a script of any sort before, nor tried. Beginning April 1 I will be writing a stage play, based on a precis  I wrote in 2007, intending to expand it into a novel. It may still be a novel-it may become a novel net month; but in the event, it will be incorporated into a stage play next month, this IN ADDITION TO the daily 2500 words on one or more novels!


So as you can understand, Gentle Reader, there will not be time for breathing or sleeping or anything not directly related to either Script Frenzy nor daily 2500+ word count Novelling.


Blogging will occur as and when I can.


Everything else will be on hold as well, including my own Standwood's In-Depth Reviews.


I honestly do not expect to have additional spare time.





Today's free read:





from The Phantom Logging Operation

Chapter 22

         I was a survivor. I had suffered the loss of my father when I was scarcely eleven, the loss of my mother to a particularly virulent disease, bone cancer, and now the loss of my wife to rejection, betrayal, and divorce-as she wished. I would not allow this next news-or any other of these startling and horrifying events-to break my spirit, sap my will, or take my life.





         I looked Attorney Squires full in the eye, and told him, “Just tell me it all.” He looked rather startled, but got up to get himself a second shot of brandy, not offering me one nor even considering it. Reseating himself, he quaffed the shot in one gulp and continued finally.

“Mr. Lewes, your grandparents died simultaneously on the night of May 29, a Sunday- consequent to  a house fire of unexplained ignition, excessive temperatures, and long duration. The home was already blazing merrily and nearly destroyed by the time the fire was noticed, due to the isolated location of the Calhoun homestead-some


12 miles eastward of Knox. Indeed, the fire was not fully put out until mid-morning on the Monday, and volunteer fire fighters-neighbors from Knox, Rennald, and the surrounding countryside-spotted sparks and occasional smoulders as late as into Tuesday morning, May 31. The bodies were not recovered until  the following weekend, because the ashes were simply too hot for the fire fighters to brave. Finally, on Saturday June 4 (I then remembered this was three days past the date of the “rediscovery” of Rosa Luxemburg's corpse in 1919) the undertaker from Rennald was called out to The Big Forest, and he and two assistants were able to sort through the rubble and locate the remains, which were immediately placed in walnut caskets and carried immediately to the Calhoun Family cemetery, located to the east of the old homestead.

                   During the ensuing pause, he stared down at his desk, but I knew his eyes were far away and his mind accompanying. I felt exactly the same way. My poor grandparents! And my poor mother, to have suffered so from grief-yet never to tell me so! I looked up at the Attorney, and realized he had aged two decades in the telling. Nearly I thought to feel sorry for him, then realized he had volunteered to tell, and surely this was information my right to possess!





         I said nothing-again-and continued to wait for him to compose himself, which this time he managed without the brandy.





         

“I am very sorry for your loss, Mr. Lewes, and dreadfully sorry you have had to hear this from me. Now-shall we continue?” (as if I had suddenly interjected an interruption)





“The property containing  the Calhoun Family Cemetery  and  immediately to the rear of it,  the land of 13,000 acres beyond the Cemetery-to its East, Northeast, and Southeast-is the plot known to you now, by virtue of your tax records, as Lot 1313-91a, b, and c. THAT is the property so essential to the continuance of Testament Logging Corporation. For this plot, and for the plot at Lot 1317-01 (formerly your parents' homestead in the vicinity of the Village of Knox) you receive annual lease payments (here he named an amount I deemed excessive, but much welcomed) and remittance of the annual tax liens on these two plats: that is, the taxes are billed to you, but paid in full, before your birthday each year, by Testament Logging Corporation's duly-authorized Attorney-of-Record-myself.





“Additionally, Mr. Lewes” (here he reached into a desk drawer to his right and pulled out a manila envelope whose center portion quite bulged) “Testament pays you annual lease on these two plats, at your birthday, and those payments have accrued through February of this year. Here are those check stubs; the originals have all been deposited by me in the savings account for which you will find the bank book, the signature card, and all other pertinent contract records right inside this envelope.”





“But-I never signed for a bank account!”





“Of course not-but I did-and I am not only Attorney-of-Record, I am YOUR attorney, under the designs of your grandfather's expressed will and its codicil. Your grandfather signed the account in being originally, your father took over as designee-when he prepared to leave for the European Theater, he signed the power of attorney over to myself. And so here it stands.”

Chapter 23-

         What was there to say to that? I stood, reached for the thick envelope, mumbled a “thank you, sir,” and left, closing the office door behind me. Loping down the stairs I deliberately kept my thoughts and emotions at bay. When I came through the downstairs doorway and crossed the Antique Shop, the shopkeeper did not appear, for which I was grateful. I climbed into the Merc, tossing the packet onto the seat atop the morning's mail collection and the envelope of Mamma's papers, where it seemed to rest content.





         Straightening up, I saw that both the Attorney and his downstairs companion, Mr. BookSeller, were peering out their front windows at me, frowning. I simply nodded an acknowledgement, and backed carefully out of the parking angle, after checking for potential oncoming deceased drivers, and headed back toward the Knox Highway. All the way to my driveway I managed to keep my thoughts in check, until I forgot about the rough ruts the old Chevy truck had dug yesterday afternoon and started bouncing along them on my way to the drive's end. A few “oofs” and gentle murmured curses and I decided 'twould be best to pull up behind the cabin, onto the lawn, so I parked the Merc and climbed out, leaving all the paperwork and mail for now on the front seat. I wanted nothing more than to throw myself on the bed and sleep for twelve hours without thinking, but that driveway cried out for attention, and I knew operating the hand grader would sufficiently occupy my attention to still my mind for a while. Repetitive work always had that effect on me, and maybe while repairing the drive my subconscious would toss up some useful solutions or advice.





         The work went more smoothly than I had expected, right up until the last twenty feet of the driveway, back behind the rear cabin wall. This, where the Chevy had seemed to dig in deeper and attempt a spin, was much worse. The grader stuck a time or two and I had to pull up hard on it. The second time that occurred, I inexplicably heard a piercing train whistle so loud and so clear a feeling of melancholy lonesomeness washed over me, the emotion I always felt when listening to ol' Hank Williams' “I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry.” I straightened up, dropped my hands off the grader handle, and with one hand covered my eyes, squinting into the distance, north across my land and then west, toward The Big Forest, whose eastern verge lay on my horizon of sight. No further sound occurred, other than the occasional hawk screech overhead and a few crows in the trees on the far side of the cabin, so I settled back down to finish the work. I would remember that long, lonesome, whistle, though, for that very night, that same sound-of longer duration and sounding much closer-would begin to haunt my sleep.

Chapter 24

                    “I see, I spy, I see, I spy, I poke a needle in YOUR eye!” Gleeful child's laughter, skipping footsteps. “Hip, hop, skippity drop, hop, hip, slice your lip. Skip, stop, dice till you drop. Stop, skip, I cut your lip! Tee hee hee. I see, I spy, I stab your eye. I'm good, I'm great, I can't wait! You're dead, you die, I see, I spy, you burn, I churn, you turn, you spin on a spit. I see, I spy, I stab your eye.” Persistent skip-skip-stop of footsteps-crack my eyes open, blond ringlets bounce, black patent-leather shoes, dark blue dress, white sash belt, small child, what??


More taunting rhyme: “I see, I saw, I laugh, you cry, here's  a needle in your eye-RORY!” I slammed up out of the nightmare just as her head began to turn, mind battling against the memory of a child of no more than perhaps 4? 7? playing at hopscotch, chanting a horrid series of nursery rhymes, and at the last moment, turning-turning toward me, and under the long fall of blond ringlets, an eye-my mind simply crashed on that, and I fell back on to the bed and into an abyss of sleep from which I did not awaken until approximately 10 o'clock the next morning, when an engine's choking off in the drive near the back door made me remember I had agreed to meet with Mr. Oakes' nephews this morning. I jumped out of bed and hurried to the back door, where I found the two boys in a junky old pickup. I waved them in, set on a pot of coffee, and waved them to the table, before I returned to the bedroom to dress.








         Remnants of strange dreams held me captive: dolls toting tools, curly blond ringlets flying merrily,  eyes I must avoid-and keening, low-pitched, train whistles where no trains ever ran. What a night of dream-scapes I must have had. The edgings of a migraine worked a track around my temples, and I knew I must down several cups of coffee soon, as that always seemed to ease the headaches if I drank them early enough at the onset. I rushed through my bathing and dressing, and hurried out to the kitchen to pull the whistling percolator off the burner (oh, how that whistle reminded me-but of what? I only knew hearing it sent shivers down my spine, and my speed in moving it off the heat source was as much or more to stop the sound than it was because I needed that caffeine-in a hurry).





         The two boys waiting in the drive next to an old Ford pickup-Mr. Oakes' nephews, I guessed-stood patiently, talking quietly, breath misting in the early morning chill. I noticed their truck bed was loaded with tools, lumber, and hardware-oddly, because although I had discussed construction of my Plant Nursery with Mr. Oakes at the hardware more than once, and had told him to send his nephews up to help, I had not expected them the day after, nor loaded down with tools and lumber, ready to commence.





         Well, no matter-what's done is done, and as they were here and ready to work-and clearly my mind needed the distraction of rough and demanding physical labor-I would put them to good use and let the boys earn some money for laboring right along with me. I certainly would not send them away empty-handed, not after they had effectively brought the job to me. I opened the back door and called them in, suggesting a good hot breakfast would start the day off right. Being adolescent boys, I guessed they had run out of the house without waiting for the morning meal—probably the truck had been loaded after store hours the evening before, under Uncle Oakes' most capable supervision-so a good breakfast would set them aright, as my Mamma always said.





         Sure enough, each of the boys-turned out they were twins, Jackie and Saul, sons of Uncle Oakes' sister Sabreenah-was starving, so they said, as all adolescent boys are wont to be, a few hours after a meal. Their father had been killed in a logging accident on the Canadian side, and their mother supported the family as bookkeeper for her brother's hardware store, as well as for several other small businesses in Rennald and in Collins Junction. As I was later to learn, she kept the books for that odd Antique Store in Collins Junction, on the ground floor of the building housing Attorney Benton Squires; odd ducks both of them, BookSeller Deneasson, he of seven generations, and the Attorney.





          The twins were about to turn 17 in August, and were looking for steady summer work before their Senior year at high school began just before Labor Day. From their breakfast conversation, I had the impression that they hoped their work helping me construct the Plant Nursery would lead to both steady summer employment now, and also for the summer of next year, as they prepared for their adult lives. I wasn't planning for the Summer of 1958 just yet, but I already had set my intentions to remaining where I had “planted” myself (I chuckled to myself at this unintentional pun) and I surely intended to make a go of my nursery, a dream I had found growing in my soul for a couple of years now-ever since Mamma passed. I would plant my roots in the soil I now homesteaded, raise up a business, and continue on here until I too was planted-in the ground-eventually, I hoped, not soon.





         One good result of the mindless labor yesterday afternoon of grading the drive, and of the perilous sleep into which I had fallen close to dusk, meant I had had no time nor energy to consider either Mamma's packet of papers, the tax assessor's notice, nor the information and strange attitude of Attorney Benton Spears. Nor would I during the day today, as I planned to wear myself out again working steadily and diligently right alongside the boys. Their showing up to work, so early, and with a load of lumber and tools, I took to be a sign from the Universe that I needed to get on with the job at hand and start the construction of the Plant Nursery today-not a minute later than now. So I waved the boys back outside, sped through the breakfast dishes, downed one final cup of coffee, banked the wood stove, and headed on outside.





         I was pleased that I had managed to finish the driveway grading yesterday afternoon, and I informed the boys that they could return the hand grader to their uncle's when they left this evening. We unloaded their pickup and stacked all the lumber at the end of the drive, where I intended to build my garage; I wished now that I had already constructed that building, but beggars are never choosers, or we'd all ride horses, as Mamma used to exclaim. Instead I rooted around behind the wood pile, which sat beyond where the garage would go, and found an extra tarp I had purchased in Collins Junction when I first moved up this way, and laid it over the new lumber. Then I gave the boys each a roll of twine, and directed them to pound in stakes to hold the twine while I walked out the dimensions of the Nursery's perimeter, all without using surveying tools. At the time, I did not understand-but the process went so smoothly it seemed as if my hands and eyes were guided by something beyond my ken.