Why buy a book?

Why would anyone purchase one of my books when many of my stories are free to read online? Begging your patience and indulgence, I'll answer that. Many of my stories are more meaningful when read in context after becoming familiar with the book's characters. My stories are written for the purpose of establishing a storyline creating amiable characters with whom the reader can relate and sympathize. The whole purpose of the stories is to evoke an emotional response. Beyond that, some people just love books. They respond to the tactile and tangible, nature of the pages, the cover, and the romance and gratification of holding their very own copy of something endearing, thought provoking, and personal. And finally, first editions frequently become valuable, especially when part of a set of collectable volumes. Plus, they make people smile, and they make great gifts. Thanks for asking. SC

If that was convincing, click the link below, please. SC

Clara's Best

PEACE ON EARTH, & A MORE PERFECT UNION

 

CLARA'S BEST

Episode Forty-nine

SEE THERE; I TOLD YOU

PEACE ON EARTH, & A MORE PERFECT UNION

Those of us who are blessed to achieve a hoary, old age, almost without exception, have one thing in common. Eventually, we enjoy a nagging cough, a hitch in our get along, or an unidentifiable ailment of some kind, which leads us to lament, although we can’t quite put our finger on it, something is not right. Of course, we old hypochondriacs are all proven right in the end. Eventually, we all die, and we’re able to say, with a good deal of self-satisfaction, see there, I told you!

Assuming I’ve learned anything of interest while achieving this remarkable benchmark, I’ll share a few thoughts on living a satisfying life. As a person of faith, I’m not accountable for each action’s ultimate consequences. My conscience is clear when I’ve done what’s just and merciful. Justice can be illusive, but the path of mercy is almost always clear. Follow your heart; be compassionate and forgiving. We’re not responsible for each day’s ultimate outcome. We’re simply encouraged to do what's right, regardless of the consequences. I’ve been following Christ, with varying degrees of success, for a long time. During that time, I’ve sent up all variety of prayers. In my experience, if you pray to receive a blessing, the results may be discouraging, but if you pray for opportunities to be a blessing, you’re rarely disappointed.

The first step in curing hatred and ignorance is unconditional compassion for those they infect. Loving my enemies is a formidable challenge, but one I can accept. Loving the enemies of Truth and Justice is well beyond my means.

The American Dream is a vision and a goal which began to materialize when our forefathers first set foot on the shores of this remarkable country. It’s alive and well today in the hearts of many. Today as always, its ideals are a challenge. It’s a belief that people of every conceivable faith, origin, and ethnicity can join together and find peace, acceptance, common purpose, and strength through that diversity, and in so doing form a government of, by, and for a people, unified by their diverse faiths and their mutual pursuit of liberty and justice for all.

It’s dedicated to the proposition that all people are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, and that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. Many have dedicated their lives to this proposition. It’s a proposition that a person could proudly die for. It’s the dream of a society where each and every individual has the right and the responsibility to pursue and participate in policies and practices which assure fair and equitable treatment of all their fellow citizens; a vision of an entire country where devoted citizens appreciate their own liberty, uphold and defend the liberty of others, and dedicate themselves to the great and noble task before us, that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom, and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Due to all variety of fears, discontent, and disenfranchisement, our country today is a tinderbox just waiting for a spark. Don’t be that spark. Don’t be one more tear in our nation’s fraying fabric. Be one more stitch. Be the thread that binds a tattered seam. Be the hope, faith, and charity that down through the ages have bolstered freedom and advanced American ideals. Honor our veterans. Be worthy of their sacrifice. Cherish your liberty and keep America strong.

Copyright ©

Shannon T. Casebeer

Clara's Best

Cordial, happy, rosy cheeked, and brimming with genuine joy!

Sauntering down Main Street past the courthouse, I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was missing. The celebrated, old bell tower was all lit up, just as expected. Streetlamps were bright and festive. The big, old evergreen near the courthouse was decorated in its usual Christmas finery, just as I remembered long ago. All the storefronts were decked out in their traditional sales-stimulating regalia, with Sacramento Hill silhouetted against a lavender dusk and the snowcapped Sierra’s glistening to the north. The temperature was sufficiently brisk to render my breath clearly visible on the invigorating evening air and a recent shower had bedight the streets with shimmering lights and radiant Christmas colors. There was even an occasional snowflake in the air. Still, something wasn’t right. Then, just as I started to question cherished memories, the sound of oncoming traffic caught my ear. Moments later, several cars came cruising into view, windows steaming, wipers slapping, and windshields lightly frosted and finger smudged. Everyone waving, noses to the windows, cordial, happy, rosy cheeked, and brimming with genuine joy! This indeed was Placerville, Just as I’d remembered, the irrepressible little city in the ravine.

An ache that leaves us somehow wanting more.

 

Christmas is a feeling in our chest,

A sense of being sheltered and caressed,

A memory that makes our spirit soar,

An ache that leaves us somehow wanting more;

Bitter sweet recollections of a day,

Of innocence and faith and youthful play;

Scenes of family outings in the snow,

Cherished mornings ‘round a Christmas tree aglow,

Priceless memories of innocence we’ve known,

Before we ventured out in life alone;

When each day found us carefree, safe and glad,

And evening found us home with home with Mom and Dad.

We strive today to recreate a time,

When hope was strong and zest for life sublime,

When childlike faith assured tomorrows joys,

And needs were met with simple gifts and toys.

Perhaps tomorrow’s hopes can best be met,

By casting off our feelings of regret,

And reaching out to others who still care,

And comprehend the passion that we share.

Those who recognize that we’ve been blessed,

And embrace that hopeful longing in our chest.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Clara's Best

AMERICA DEFINED

 AMERICA 

it's a belief that people of every conceivable faith, origin, and ethnicity can join together and find peace, acceptance, common purpose and strength through that diversity, and in so doing, form a government of, by, and for a people, BOUND FOR GLORY, impervious to despotism, and unified by their diverse faiths and their mutual pursuit of liberty and justice for all.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Over the months ahead it's my intention to self-published four historical novels dedicated to the pursuit of AMERICA and a more perfect union. I'd appreciate your support in the form of book sales.

The Author

             Thanks for your interest. Tell a friend.

SHANNON THOMAS CASEBEER

Books available at Lulu Books

Clara's Best

BOUND FOR GLORY

 BOUND FOR GLORY

The Plan

A collection of four historical novels, in a set consisting of Clara's Best, OBIE books one & two, and Miah, and entitled, BOUND FOR GLORY.

(To be self-published and sold separately.)

Preface: it's a belief that people of every conceivable faith, origin, and ethnicity can join together and find peace, acceptance, common purpose and strength through that diversity, and in so doing, form a government of, by, and for a people, BOUND FOR GLORY, impervious to despotism, and unified by their diverse faiths and their mutual pursuit of liberty and justice for all. 

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

There's a long, cold winter ahead. I'm working on several diversions to help pass the time.

There's a long, cold winter ahead. I'm working on several diversions to help pass the time. I'm planning to release a series of four novels. The first is already available at Lulu Books. Don't miss out. Join us.

TRAVEL & ADVENTURE

SHANNON THOMAS CASEBEER

Clara's Best

CLARA'S BEST, the adventure begins. Paperback book available at Lulu books. Join us!

 CLARA’S BEST

Copyright ©

Shannon T. Casebeer

INTRODUCTION

The following novel, while historical fiction, is, for the most part, historically accurate. It chronicles the trials and tribulations of my Irish ancestors as told in the words of my great-grandmother, Clara Kinnie Stancil. It encompasses the years from 1850 until the early years of the 1940s. While told with deep sincerity and an eye for humor, it shares, in occasionally painful detail, Clara’s most personal account of her own experiences and our country’s many successes and frequent failures. As such it is, on occasion, deadly serious. I relate it here as faithfully as I’m able and just as it was told to me by my grandmother, Clara’s daughter, Ivy.

PROLOGUE

Ireland was all stony pastures and craggy bluffs and smelled of sea breeze and heather. So said Mither. Then came the famine. Volumes galore have been previously penned chronicling the devastating potato famine that scattered the clans of Ireland. I’ll not prolong the misery with my words.

In the summer of 1850, while the earthly remains of her mom and dad were still leaching into the rocky ground of their beloved Emerald Isle, my mither, Mariah, 15 years of age at the time, along with dozens of other bereft and grieving orphans were loaded onto sailing ships, much like unwanted cargo, and shoved off for the storied shores of America. Most sailed with little more than the tattered garments of their youth which eventually served for many as their shrouds. Fortunately for Mariah, arrangements had been made.

Mother’s lamentable circumstance would become the responsibility of her aunt. Auntie Meg had already precariously established herself in America. Her humble laundry business was blessed with the regular patronage of numerous well-to-do members of a society who had arrived in America years previously and now considered themselves entitled natives. They greeted these penniless newcomers and their baffling brogue with what we will charitably call a dubious enthusiasm.

Where, in particular, Mariah came ashore is of little importance to our tale. The east coast cities of the 1850s were, for the most part, all alike: bustling centers of commerce, crowded with all variety of displaced citizens of foreign shores, and each soul was desperate to scratch out a meager living under difficult conditions. If your visions of those long-ago days have come from perusing the romanticized pages of dime novels and penny dreadfuls, think again. If you believe the society of the times was genteel and cultured, think again. If you believe mercy and compassion came naturally to people struggling desperately to survive, or that polite society occurs naturally from chaos, think again. If you believe there is honor among thieves, you’re not acquainted with many thieves.

Cultured, Christian, hardworking folks of means don’t generally become thieves. The vast majority of ruthless theft and lawlessness is performed by the wealthy elites who consider themselves above the law, or it is performed by the poor, destitute folks who are sufficiently desperate to risk the consequences. The homeless may become thieves. The hungry may become thieves. The downtrodden, outcast, and demoralized may become thieves. People who can’t otherwise feed their families may become thieves. Crime becomes a way of life for those without options. When folk’s families are starving, rules get bent.

This was the society in which Mariah now found herself. Her Auntie Meg was a kindhearted and generous soul to the extent to which mercy and benevolence were within her meager means. She was amenable to the prospect of providing food and lodging to her dispossessed kith and kin under the condition that Mither was amenable to working diligently, sunup to sundown, to complete whatever menial task Auntie Meg placed before her. For the most part, Mariah spent the next several months entirely friendless and bent over a wash tub, elbow deep in soggy laundry. Each night found her considering it a blessing to be clothed, fed, and sheltered from the cold.

On an unseasonably warm evening in October of 1850, just as crickets began chirping and the night air smacked of dusk, Mariah, who was returning from the market, laid eyes unexpectedly on a familiar face. This was remarkable! Mariah knew practically no one. She stopped in her tracks and stared awestruck at a young man pushing a wheelbarrow through the crowded street.

Simultaneously, the young man paused and returned an equally startled gaze. After a moment, he hesitantly approached, wiped his brow with a tattered sleeve, and lowered his jitney to the ground. Noting Mariah’s concern, he smiled sheepishly and announced, with a comforting Irish brogue, “I’m Lidge Kinnie. You may remember me from the ship.” Mariah and Lidge had not previously spoken, but she did remember Lidge from the ship. “Oh yeah!” Mariah answered blushing. “I do remember you!” The two visited very briefly about the lamentable circumstances they had in common, and then Mariah excused herself and continued dutifully on her way.

Some moments later, rounding a corner in the alley which led back to the laundry, several forms lurched from the shadows; two men grabbed Mariah’s arms, and a third man stood facing her with a terrifying mix of disgust and lust glaring from his bloodshot eyes. Mariah immediately screamed and began squirming and pleading to be released. Noting her brogue, the third man began viciously poking his filthy, boney finger into her ribs, and making crude, racist remarks about her ethnicity.

Just as Mariah’s fate looked ominous, a fourth man approached at a dead run from the direction from which Mariah had previously come. Grabbing a cant hook from a construction site, he began hollering at the three men who were abusing Mariah while he waved the cant hook threateningly over his head. A terrible scuffle ensued during which shots were fired, and one man pulled a knife and began thrusting it threateningly at Mariah’s mysterious benefactor.

Mariah suddenly recognized this fourth man as Lidge. Lidge eventually rendered one attacker unconscious with a blow to the head with the cant hook. Another deft whack injured the arm of another assailant before the two limped off. The third man was left sprawled bloodied and motionless in the cold, dank alley.

Lidge breathlessly confessed to Mariah that he’d been following her for some distance in the hope of determining where she lived. Had he not, Mariah’s fate would have undoubtedly been unthinkable. Examining the fallen assailant, they were horrified to find that the blow to the head had lacerated the man’s skull. Within a few moments, he breathed his last and lay stone cold dead. Lidge’s blow had killed him.

Mariah’s immediate reaction was that of appreciation and relief, but Lidge was clearly mortified! He collapsed to the ground, rocking and moaning inconsolably. Mariah brushed the wet hair from his bloodied face and gazed into his panic-stricken eyes. “What is it, Lidge?” she enquired. “That was clearly self-defense. You probably saved my life!”

Lidge’s very soul had been irreparably transformed by this incident. He’d remember its horror all the days of his life. He’d remember the guilt and searing burn of conscience, tinged with a terrible satisfaction, and the copper smack of adrenalin that thrilled his heart and swelled his throbbing veins. He’d remember the horrible rush of vengeance and the anguished invigoration of surrendering entirely to rage and unbridled passion.

“I’ve already been hauled into the precinct twice” Lidge grimaced, “once for vagrancy, and once for pinching biscuits. If I’m taken in for this” he said, “they’ll almost certainly lock me up for good.”

Just then, a lantern light cast its dim glow at the end of the alley. The security guard was working his way toward them, shaking and checking doors as he approached. Mariah helped Lidge to his feet, and the two staggered for a cargo container some thirty feet away. They cowered in the shadows and waited, panting and praying silently to themselves. Moments later, the lantern cast its flickering light on the bloody corpse of Mariah’s assailant, and the night air was violently pierced as the guard began blowing his whistle. “This way.” whispered Mariah, and the two sprinted to the far end of the dark alley and into the moonlit stillness of the foggy harbor and its docks of anchored ships.

Just as the two stopped, bent over and gasping for breath, another whistle blew to the left followed quickly by another fast approaching from the right. Some thirty paces ahead, a streetlight revealed a gangway which climbed quickly to the quiet deck of a dark and silent vessel. Panicked by the whistles of the approaching officers, and seeing no better alternative, Lidge led Mariah up the gangway and into the inviting doorway of an open supply room, closed the door, and bolted it behind them.

Moments later, voices approached their refuge, and the muffled conversation continued as several men took up vigil outside their door. After about thirty minutes, unwilling to reveal themselves to those who inadvertently held them hostage and exhausted by their ordeal, Lidge found a scrap of canvas and prepared a makeshift bed on the cargo strewn floor. There, he and Mariah collapsed and were slowly soothed by the rolling ship into a fitful sleep.

Several hours later, Lidge groaned and struggled to his feet. Cautiously making his way through the darkness to the doorway Lidge unbolted the door, peered outside, and then returned aghast for Mariah. The two walked speechlessly to the railing and stared in disbelief! There before them, awash in the blinding sunlight of midday and ringing with the raucous cries of gulls, lay the vast, uninterrupted ocean in every direction as far as the eye could see.

They stood for a moment, wide-eyed and dumbstruck, and then, before either could muster voice, a firm hand came down on both their shoulders. Turning cautiously, they grimaced up into the stern, gray bearded countenance of the ship’s first mate. Without a word, he shook his wooly face in disapproval and led them

unceremoniously to the captain’s quarters.

The captain’s reception was equally disconcerting. He had absolutely no interest in their tale of woe. “You two have two options”, he grunted, as though he himself had no particular preference, and was entirely unmoved by their whining protestations. While it would be an unwarranted expense for the ship and a dangerous roll of the dice for the stowaways, he was prepared to put them adrift in one of the ships rowboats to fend for themselves on the merciless Atlantic, or, if willing, they could sign on as galley help and peel potatoes from here to San Francisco. They thought it over briefly, swallowed hard, and chose what appeared to them the lesser of several unimaginable evils. Next stop, Recife, Brazil, with good sailing, one month away.

CLARA'S BEST

Episode One

A VAST EXPANSE OF UNRELENTING SEA

The voyage to Recife would be a bittersweet blend of excruciating drudgery in the ship’s galley, the captivating allure of life at sea, and crippling indecision over a number of life changing choices. Early on, they set their sights on surviving one hour at a time until they reached the port, with the expectation that once there, circumstances would somehow reveal some currently incomprehensible opportunity for returning home.

Of course, above all else, this leg of the voyage afforded endless opportunity to become intimately acquainted with the inconceivable vastness and ever-changing moods of the ocean, the never before fully appreciated depth and detail of the night sky, and the unparalleled intrigue of the workings of a sailing ship. The constant undulation of the rolling sea beneath them, in conjunction with the incessant symphony achieved by the creaking and groaning of the wooden hull and the contrary wind as it tested the riggings and swelled the canvas sails, combined to achieve an alluring environment that has captured the imagination of man since the day when Noah was raised by the floods and tested the patience of God.

Life at sea gradually became routine. Occasionally, on a stifling hot day without a breath of breeze, all at once there’d be the unmistakable fragrance of flowers, and they’d peel their eyes and scan the horizon for some heavenly tropical shore. All they’d find was that vast expanse of unrelenting sea. Sometimes, while enjoying a break from the tedium of the galley, they’d lie on their backs on the sunny decks and point out the shapes they believed they could see in the endless columns of constantly changing clouds.

On many nights, when weather permitted, they slept out under the stars. According to Mither, there’s something about sprawling on your back on a cool, clear night and staring up into myriad twinkling lights that tends to open your heart and clear your mind. Some nights, they’d lie there in the stillness, with ethereal fathoms rolling beneath the decks, and the only sound they’d hear was the rhythmic beating of their own heart. It seemed as though they could almost hear the throbbing of their blood as it pulsed within the channels of their veins. It was as though they sensed the waning of their own lives, as the minutes and the seconds of existence ran their course and ticked away. On cloudless nights the stars were bright as campfires in the snow and thick as sparks when you stir a fire at night. Sometimes the moon had a golden ring, and, if the moon were full, the sea glowed with a green translucence as its teaming fathoms rolled beneath their bow.

On more than one occasion, while drifting in a calm, they’d float along in the midst of resting whales. They could hear the whale’s steady breathing, and once in a while they’d blow, or a whale would roll and a giant leviathan arm would reach into the moonlight just as though it were in prayer, as if to touch the very face of God.

The ship itself was an endless source of wonder. This ship’s primary purpose, beyond the astounding feat of defiantly staying afloat, was twofold. Most importantly, it was charged with providing profit. To this end, it carried paying passengers and cargo. Among the passengers were merchants intent on merchandising, and argonauts bound for California’s gold.

Gold had been discovered at Sutter’s Mill in Coloma, California in 1848. From that time forward the possibility of fame and fortune had drawn folks to the West coast of America in numbers of biblical proportions. There was no denying the appeal of the prospect of gold. Folks on board talked of little else. For Lidge and Mariah, their determination to return east was further undermined by the nagging reality of what awaited them.

For Mariah, the prospect was one of continued destitution with only her affection for Auntie Meg as enticement. For Lidge, the prospects were far worse. His return would be plagued by the constant foreboding that Mariah’s surviving assailants awaited him along with the very real possibility of arrest. By the time the shores of the Brazilian seaport showed as a purple haze on the far horizon, Lidge and Mariah were both rethinking their plans.

Once the ship had dropped anchor off the coast of Recife, Lidge and Mariah were approached by the first mate. The captain was satisfied with their efforts thus far and had indicated his willingness to continue their arrangement if Lidge and Mariah were willing. The first mate suggested they not dally as once the longboats had returned from the shore with supplies they’d hoist anchor, and the ship would be underway. If they were going ashore, there was no time to waste.

Lidge looked inquiringly at Mariah, and she hesitantly nodded in compliance. Lidge offered his callused hand into the gnarled and ironlike grip of the first mate, and said, “We’ll stay.” The first mate smiled his satisfaction, slapped Lidge on the back, choked on the resulting cloud of dust, and returned to his rounds with a jaunty gait while whistling a seaman’s chanty. Lidge and Mariah briefly inhaled the fresh sea air, resolved themselves to their fate below, and dutifully returned to the raunchy bowels of the boat. Next stop, Rio De Janeiro.

CLARA'S BEST

Episode Two

ROUNDING THE HORN

There was no more unspoiled spot on the planet than Rio De Janeiro in the 1850s. The captain anchored offshore for an entire day in order to give the cabin weary passengers an opportunity to wet their whistles and get a feel for the natives. We’ll say no more on the subject. Where there’s something to ruin, there’s someone to ruin it. Then the Captain called a halt to the carnage, and they set sail for the dreaded Cape Horn. This leg of the voyage would test their faith. Faith burns most brightly when all other hopes are spent.

Rounding the Horn would prove to be the most heart wrenching, soul searching, white knuckled misadventure of their lives. But the Captain’s experience and the expertise of the crew would prove more than a match for the treacherous storms and cross currents that impeded progress and introduced many gallant ships to the depths and Davy Jones. Eventually they rounded the tip of South America and headed north along Patagonia’s rugged coast.

For several days, the chilling winds off the Andes reduced most everyone to shivering for warmth in their quarters. A quick stop at Valparaiso proved uneventful. The equatorial regions blistered the decks and left the ship adrift for days in stifling calms. Then, at last, the much-anticipated trade winds filled their ample sails, and they headed northeast for the California coast. Point Conception was a welcome sight, and after 169 trying days at sea, they sailed at last into San Francisco Bay.

Well, here they were, but where the heck were they? Neither had ever dreamed of anything like this let alone made plans or preparations. Once they’d said their goodbyes to the first mate and everyone with whom they’d become acquainted while on board, they had absolutely no inkling how to proceed. Once ashore, they sat quietly in stunned silence, marveling at the sea of ships and the squirming masses of miscellaneous humanity, until eventually it occurred to Lidge he was starving, and they didn’t have a dime! They had absolutely nothing but the wet and raunchy clothing on their backs.

Copyright ©

Shannon T. Casebeer

To be continued at Lulu Books

Click link below

Clara's Best

A poem is like an early rose,

 

A poem is like an early rose,

Before the bloom has come,

Or the lowly caterpillar

The butterfly springs from.

A poem is like fine sherry,

Before aging makes it sweet,

Or the passion of two lovers

Yet to meet.

And even though the verse is penned,

The page may be its tomb,

For though the poet plants the seed,

Only you can make it bloom. SC

CLARA'S BEST is now available at Lulu Books.

The trick now is to inspire someone to read it.

CLARA'S BEST

As some of you know, this series of stories shares the adventures of my great grandma, Clara and her husband, Henry. 

Wee Willie Wallace

Most little dogs exceed their shelf life by the time they've reached fourteen. Henry and I went through several beloved pets. One afternoon Mrs. Jacquier phoned. They'd been unexpectedly blessed with pups, again. The puppies were terriers, mostly. The mother was a terrier. The father preferred to remain anonymous. Having once again found ourselves between dogs, we dropped by to take a look. The puppies were seven weeks old. There were six of them in a variety of eclectic patterns and imaginative color schemes. As we approached the gaggle, five darted under the workbench and observed our approach with obvious skepticism. The sixth of the litter appeared to be the runt. He was a jet-black, bowlegged little rascal, and he instantly made a beeline for Henry. Henry immediately snatched him up and hugged him to his neck. Without a moment's hesitation the pup jammed his cold snoot into Henry's ear, right up to his beady, brown eyes, and proceeded to give Henry's ear an industrious cleaning. No longer confronted by a decision over which, if any, pup to choose, we contributed ten bucks for our pick of the litter and headed home to Smith flat.

   We don't normally consider taking a pup from its mother until it reaches eight weeks old. It's just too early. This time an exception seemed in order. Henry was incapable of setting this puppy down. By the time we arrived home, Henry had named him Wee Willie Wallace, in a nod to the pup's Scottish ancestry, assuming of course, that he had any. Once home we prepared a bed for Wallace, and Henry peeled off a dirty sock to provide the pup with company and an aromatic companion. By the next morning, Wallace had bonded thoroughly with Henry's odiferous offering and with the callused, old foot from whom it achieved its endearing aroma. From that day forward, Henry and Wallace were inseparable.   

As children, we read of “happy endings” and “happily ever after”, and our youthful hearts are full of joy and faith. As adults, we’ve suffered loss, and that leaves us cynical. Eventually little Wallace was fourteen, old for a Scotty. Early one morning during the week of Thanksgiving, Henry set out to do his chores. The familiar rattle of the dry dog food hitting their bowls immediately brought the rest of our menagerie on the run, ravenous as usual. There was no sign of Wallace. Henry called and searched, expecting to find him napping in the sunshine. He is after all getting pretty old. Still no Wallace!

Growing concerned, Henry called more loudly and began searching with a sense of urgency. Eventually He found him behind the chicken house. His head was cocked strangely to one side, his pale eyes glazed over, and he was struggling to stay on his feet. He was partially paralyzed on the right side, evidently by a stroke. Henry gently picked Wallace up and carried him back in the house. The next day he was slightly improved. He still walked with some difficulty, but his eyes were bright, and he was able to get around. But we knew in our hearts Wally's time was growing short.

Suffice it to say, over the next several days, old Wallace was mighty pampered! Following dinner, I frequently go for a walk and generally several of the pets accompany me. Wallace rarely passes our back pond without wading out belly deep and taking a long, refreshing drink. He’s our only dog who enjoys getting wet. Following his stroke, I remarked to Henry it was sad to think of taking a walk without our faithful shadow.

Happily, Wallace continued to improve until he was once again able to attend our evening constitutional. Several days later, I returned hurriedly from another stroll with the dogs and announced it was raining like the dickens, and Wallace had fallen behind. We were hopeful he'd arrive momentarily, and I was to bring him in before I fed the others. Soon after, the sun set, the wind came up; it began pouring rain, and we suddenly realized Wallace was still not home. Over the next several hours, it rained harder and harder, the temperature dropped below freezing, and Henry and I searched frantically for our dog. Eventually all our flashlight batteries were dead, and we came home drenched and gave up for the night. We spent a long, sleepless, guilt-filled night, imagining poor old Wallace, lost, confused, and freezing to death in the rain. It was a long, difficult night. The next day was Sunday. Henry searched briefly before leaving for church, and once home, we continued the search, slowly reconciling ourselves to the inevitable. It was highly unlikely that Wallace had survived the night. That evening one of our sons came for a visit, and following dinner, we took advantage of the last thirty minutes of daylight to stretch our legs. As we walked, although nothing was said, we watched for the rain-soaked remains of wee Willie.

Eventually crossing the pond bank, we passed the spot where Wallace always enjoyed his dip. Scanning the pastures below, I spotted a crumpled, black form, some distance away across the meadow. I pointed this out to Henry, and we walked very hesitantly in that direction, prepared for the worst, and already fighting back tears. Approaching the scene, two ears perked up, a tail began wagging frantically, and old Wee Willie struggled to his feet. He’d been disoriented and waiting patiently for over twenty-four hours, and he was clearly mighty tickled to see us. We carried him home and warmed him up and combed out all his stickers. “Happily, ever after” is a tall order, and little dogs don’t live forever, but hold tight to your faith, life’s full of happy endings.

CLARA'S BEST is now available at Lulu Books

Wee Willie Wallace aka Buster Bud

I've published an historical novel. You'll love it! Don't take my word for it. Buy a book. Buy several. They make great gifts.

 

Just click the link below. Then, what larks! SC

Clara's Best

As promised, Clara's Best, now available at Lulu Books.

Just in time for the holidays, the perfect gift for all ages at an affordable price. 

Won't chip, leak or spill, and one size fits all. 

Click link below 

Clara's Best

Mysterious goings on, indeed!

 Sugar heist

Several years ago, we had the good fortune to spend a week in Ireland. Ever since our return, we've experienced a series of curious events; sugar bowls overturned, the cookie jar ransacked, missing chocolates, and similar inexplicable misadventures. Last night a bag of powdered sugar was inadvertently left on the table. This was the scene this morning. In addition to this curious mess, there was spent tobacco next to my overturned coffee cup, which had evidently been used as a stool during the caper. Mysterious goings on, indeed. SC

What do you suppose Anne Frank would think of America's current ICE Raids and the administration promoting them?