Coming in June

 Every Hearts Desire

The Anthology

By

S. T. Casebeer

Available soon at Lulu Books, SHADES OF TAHOE, by S. T. Casebeer

 

LAKE TAHOE

BE HAPPY

Have you ever wondered why some people seem consistently happy? Most people have short term goals, long term goals, dreams, and fantasies; happy people know the difference. Happiness is attained by avoiding the dissatisfaction and disappointment which result from unrealistic expectations. It's okay to entertain fantasies; it's essential that you manage your expectations. Set achievable goals. Be gratified by your achievements, however humble, and never pursue the unattainable. SC

LISTEN UP.

 

I've written four historical novels.

Three are currently available at Lulu Books. Each is based on true stories that are intended to share our remarkable history, our common humanity, our common ground, and our common desires to be accepted and appreciated for who we are. SC

Now Available at Lulu Books, see links below!

 

Buy OBIE'S TRUTH book two here

 Obie's Truth Book Two

Buy OBIE'S TRUTH Book one here.

 Obie's Truth Book One

Buy CLARA'S BEST here.

Clara's Best

For Miah's upcoming release

My grandchildren had a nickname for me. It was partly a term of endearment and affection, but on deeper introspection it betrayed a sense of ridicule and disrespect for someone considered to be of a distant day, no longer relevant, no longer admirable, germane, unworthy, decrepit, and relegated to the dustbin of time. They loved me as only a grandchild can love a grandparent, but they saw me as a stoic and superfluous remnant of a bygone era. In a nod to the noble creature which was once ubiquitous on the plains and seemingly impervious to the advancement of civilization, and with whom I appeared to share this dubious distinction, they called me Grandpa Buffy, short, of course, for Grandpa Buffalo.  

By the close of the 1880s, there were estimated to be slightly over 500 buffalo left alive in North America. Inconceivable. A noble creature which had sustained generations of Native Americans through the centuries and had numbered in the tens of millions only a century earlier had been driven to the point of extinction by greed and a despicable desire by some to expedite what they considered the inevitable annihilation of everything and everyone which had come before. Native Americans were the intended target. The wanton and wholesale slaughter of the American buffalo was merely a means to an end. They were considered collateral damage. The lamentable state of the bison was the abhorrent result of deliberate commercial and political efforts designed to hasten the encroachment of what many considered civilization and progress. As their complete extinction seemed certain, unpreventable and imminent, some believed the buffalo could be saved by crossbreeding them with cows. Others considered the very idea sacrilegious.   

Through the dedicated efforts of President Theodore Rosevelt, William Hornaday of The American Bison Society, the iconic rancher, Charles Goodnight, Comanche leader, Quanah Parker, and numerous others who's timely and compassionate intervention combined to build scattered remnants of what were essentially pet buffalo preserved in private collections into eventually viable herds, the noble creatures would one day roam free and unmolested in numbers reminiscent of the vast herds which once carpeted the plains. Mankind, who had deliberately brought the buffalo to the verge of extinction, would repent, rally, and make reparations. Mankind was once more somewhat redeemed. The Indians paid a terrible price for what some considered progress, but the buffalo would be back, and not as cows.     

(Insert as paragraph four of episode 50 of MIAH.)  

MY NEW BOOK NOW AVAILABLE!

 I currently have three books available at Lulu Book Shop online.

CLARA'S BEST, OBIE book One, and OBIE book Two. 

I strongly suggest buying all three books, post haste! ;) 

FAITH

 FAITH

I need you when the storms of life

Come crashing on my shore.

And when my doubts wash over me

I need you even more.

I need you when my hopes and dreams

Are dashed upon the rock,

and when convictions held for years

Prove little more than talk.

I need you when my empathy

Is tearing me apart,

And when the sins of this cold world

Weigh heavy on my heart.

I need you when life's long held truths

Prove veiled and elusive,

And when the lies that claim the lost

Prove endlessly sedusive.

And I always need you most in the evenings,

When sun goes down and nightfall's shadows grow,

When darkness turns to silhouette, becoming one with shadows,

And faith becomes the only light I know. 

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

HARBINGERS OF LIBERTY

 HARBINGERS OF LIBERTY

The time has come to play your part.

All those who care, stand tall; take heart.

America can wait no more.

Let freedom ring from shore to shore.

Our flag is raised.

The bells have peeled.

Come, join as brothers.

Take the field.

Lend a hand now, one and all.

Respond as one to duty's call.

Denounce the calls of bigotry.

Be harbingers of liberty.

Defend the goals we've sought since youth.

Rise up as one and stand for truth.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

WHEN BREEZES SIGHED, "MISSOURI."

Willow Springs, Missouri 1920s

If I could turn the clock back

And live my life once more,

I believe I’d take a slower pace,

Not hurry like before.

I’d live my life in Willow Springs

When faith dispelled all worry,

When fireflies lit summer skies,

And breezes sighed, "Missouri."

When school was taught with chalk on slate,

Each hour marked by a bell,

Luncheon served from paper bags,

And a pint of milk was swell.

When horse and buggy still raised dust

And little Fords were few,

When little girls weren’t exempt from lust,

But little boys had no clue.

When belts were worn with shirts tucked in,

And Pomade clogged our comb,

When we took our best girl to the dance, and

Palms caressed while walking sweetheart's home.

I know it’s just a silly dream.

I know it can’t come true.

I know it just sounds foolish now

To share it here with you.

But my wish for every one of us

Is that we’ll live each minute,

Treasure every hour of life

And every loved one in it.

Cling tightly to those days gone by

When faith dispelled all worry,

When fireflies lit summer skies,

And breezes sighed, "Missouri."

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

The Ozark Plateau

The Ozark Plateau

Beneath the ever-changing sky,
The Ozark Mountains stand.
They tug at fierce clouds passing by,
To quench the thirsty land,
While sharp rains whittle craggy bluffs,
And wash away the sand.

The rugged hills of greens and blues
Are beautiful and vast;
Each season’s ever-changing hues,
Here but brief, then past.
Their colors are inconstant,
But the Ozarks last and last.

As spring exiles the winter’s chill
Till next year’s early freeze,
The first faint call of Whippoorwill
Floats soft on evening breeze,
And echoes through the redbuds
And the Ozark’s flowering trees.

Deep in the Ozark bluffs and rocks
With old growth for a nest,
The Pileated Woodpecker taps and knocks
In rhythm with the rest,
And the passion of this ageless song,
Could never be expressed.

Beneath the ever-changing sky,
The old plateau insists,
That any pilgrim passer-by
Is drawn by Ozark mists.
And Whippoorwill will echo still,
As long as life exists.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

250 YEARS OF FREEDOM

We the people, free and blessed,
Pledge today to stand the test.
It's not by accident we're free.
Our heritage is liberty.
Still today our task remains.
To gird up and secure those gains,
Make fast the freedoms we've received.
Raise up the truth that we've believed.
Hold tight the torch and raise it high.
Defend our flag and let it fly.
Prepare to stand for truth again.
Defend the rights of fellowmen.
Our brotherhood has kept us free.
Our greatest strength is unity.
Our cause, robust as tempered steel.
Our flags fly on; our bells still peal.
Together, truth shall keep us free.
Together, we are liberty.

Horton House

 

HORTON HOUSE

Sometimes in the evening

By the light of fireflies,

As the sun sinks in the Ozarks

And bright embers paint the skies,

I picture good old Willow Springs

When every day was good,

Before her rutted streets were paved

And the Horton House still stood.

When the mill smelled of molasses,

The Frisco ran on steam,

And those who reached our depot

Likely satisfied a dream.

I can almost see old Main Street

With storefronts of weathered wood

And I hear the smithy banging steel

As briskly as he could.

Horse drawn buggies still raised dust

While little Fords were few,

With business brisk and trade robust

And skies a vibrant blue.

Evenings found each storefront lamplit

With streets serene and still.

The only sound was cordial chat

Midst calls of whippoorwill.

The smell of beans and cornbread

Wafted warmly down the street.

Utensils clanked and horses neighed

While folks' broke bread to eat.

Today I've got a few old bricks

That graced that grand facade

And they hint at long spent sunsets

That my heart may yet applaud.

But oh, to be a child once more

When every day was good,

When the mill smelled of molasses,

And the Horton House still stood.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Heritage

Asa Camp was long and lean.

He knew ambitions’ burn.

My granddad said he wasn’t mean,

But his countenance was severe, his manner stern.

He headed west in ’49,

His goal, the mother lode,

And though great fortune wouldn’t shine,

He bowed his neck and held fast to his road.

The trail to Hangtown took a toll,

Leaving many numb,

But Asa’s shoulders let it roll.

Old Asa would prevail and not succumb.

He panned along the south fork,

On the American’s rugged banks,

Till his bones grew stiff from overwork,

But he finished each day with thanks.

Despite long hours and frugal means,

He sought success in vain.

Surviving on sourdough and beans,

And whistling as he smiled through the pain.

Undeterred, he took up freighting,

And hauled among the camps,

Through summers’ devastating heat,

And winters’ dews and damps.

Freighting through the choking dust,

And through the deepest mud,

Till Asa won the mountain’s trust,

And the High Sierras coursed within his blood.

The mountains were his challenge.

The mountains were his prize.

The mountains were his confidant,

And the wild Sierras shone from Asa’s eyes.

At last old Asa took a wife,

And settled on Reservoir Hill,

Where he raised a family free from strife,

And ruled by an iron will.

His daughters wed, and birthed a brood,

To populate the West,

But Asa cherished solitude,

And spent his days in the mountains he loved best.

Asa was Granddad’s granddad,

And my hope, as you may surmise,

Is to live my life as Asa lived,

And die with the wild Sierras in my eyes.

January 28, 2013

STC

AN OZARK MELODY

Through the firefly-lit evenings

And the call of whippoorwill,

To the bobwhites' song at dawning

And the meadows, cool and still,

My memories paint a picture

Of serenity and peace.

May its brushstrokes stand the test of time,

And blessings never cease.

It's a matchless watercolor

With its contours softly blurred,

A priceless mirror image

Faded now but undeterred,

A faithful testimony

To the Lord's unchanging Word.

Grown dim with time

But priceless, nonetheless.

A masterpiece I pray the Lord will bless.

It's a spring bedight with redbuds

And the dogwoods' nail-pierced flower,

Where each second catches sunlight

Morphing into tranquil hours,

Where the suns' sweet benediction

Is cooled by welcome showers.

May each memory warm your heart

And linger long.

And the Lord preserve each memory

Like a song.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

250 YEARS OF FREEDOM

 250 YEARS OF FREEDOM

We the people, free and blessed,

Pledge today to stand the test.

It's not by accident we're free.

Our heritage is liberty.

Still today our task remains.

To gird up and secure those gains,

Make fast the freedoms we've received.

Raise up the truth that we've believed.

Hold tight the torch and raise it high.

Defend our flag and let it fly.

Prepare to stand for truth again.

Defend the rights of fellowmen.

Our brotherhood has kept us free.

Our greatest strength is unity.

Our cause, robust as tempered steel.

Our flags fly on; our bells still peal.

Together, the truth shall keep us free.

Together, we are liberty.

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

I need about 30K to buy this little Ford. Who'd like to help? SC

 

Shannon T. Casebeer, Author & Historian

Shannon Thomas Casebeer is an author and historian whose work frequently explores themes of patriotism, heritage, and military sacrifice. He is best known for his book Glad Days Long Ago, a collection of short stories that serves as a "fictional parable about youth, innocence, faith, heritage, nostalgia, patriotism, and growing old" based on his life in Placerville, California.

His expressions of patriotism often take the following forms:

Poetic Tributes to "Old Glory": Casebeer is the author of "Tattered Stars" (part of his Glad Days Long Ago collection), a poem that personifies the American flag. It describes a worn and faded flag that still "hung with dignity" and eventually "caught the wind, unfurled, as if to march," inspiring a sense of hope and renewed allegiance in those who saw it.
Emphasis on Unity: He frequently posits that America's "greatest strength is unity" and that by forgetting "petty grievances," there is no goal the nation cannot achieve.
Reverence for Military Sacrifice: His writings often honor those who "bled to give us the opportunity to live in a free society". He shares historical accounts of veterans trying to make a difference in [their] moment of time".
Civil War Reflection: Casebeer has shared poignant family stories related to the Civil War, including accounts of the hardships faced by civilians in Howell County and the importance of national healing, often quoting Abraham Lincoln's second Inaugural Address: "With malice toward none; with charity for all".

Would you like to explore more specific stories from Glad Days Long Ago or see more of his genealogical research into Civil War veterans? AI

Casebeer's work

Shannon Casebeer is a writer and poet whose work often centers on faith, family heritage, and American history. While not heading a formal ecclesiastical organization, Casebeer’s "ministry" is widely recognized through evocative storytelling and poetry shared within faith-based and historical communities.

Key Aspects of the Work

Ozark Heritage: Much of Casebeer's writing reflects on the life of ancestor Calvin Casebeer, a circuit rider in the Ozarks around 1900. This focus preserves the legacy of early American frontier ministry.
Poetry and Faith: Casebeer authors reflective poems such as "Glad Days Long Ago" and "When Fellowship is Strained," which use personal and historical narratives to explore themes of unity, divine love, and spiritual resilience.
Community Engagement: The work is frequently featured in social history groups and faith-centered forums, where it serves to encourage others through a "message of God is love". AI

It's actually quite simple

I've written volumes about this country's ever widening abyss, its causes, and its solutions. The cause is pretty basic, and its solution is actually quite simple. I'll try and put it in a nutshell. 250 years ago, our founding fathers faced much the same dilemma we face today. Then as now, our electorate was incomprehensibly diverse. Our country's citizens were of radically varied faiths and ethnicities from all over the world. Their needs were different. Their expectations were different. Their values were different. They were seemingly irreconcilable.  They spoke a wide range of languages. Some were wealthy landowners and some were poor as church mice. Some were loyal to the established system of a government headed by a single all-powerful individual, and some were excited by rumors of a new and radical experiment intended to allow the common people the power to rule themselves. Then as now, there were well meaning and passionate people on all sides of the issues. After 250 years of pursuing a more perfect union, a government of, by, and for the people continues to be challenging. So, what contributed to our initial success? In hindsight, it is evident, the difference between pursuing a more perfect union, or alternatively the total collapse of our democratic republic, is electing responsible leadership, and a willingness by the citizens to seek the common good and achieve individual liberty by ensuring liberty and justice for all. Our early success was due largely to the efforts of men like George Washington. It seems the essential ingredient to a successful government of, by, and for the people is an electorate dedicated to responding to the voices if their better angels and thus choosing leaders who demonstrate a determination to seek truth, justice and the common good, as opposed to their own wealth, notoriety and ruthless self-aggrandizement. When we elect individuals who act in the best interests of America, America prospers. When we elect people who fail to do so, America fails. President John F. Kennedy said, "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country." It turns out, all that is necessary in order to achieve a more perfect union, is to elect capable leaders who are truly willing to dedicate themselves to the great task remaining 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.

 

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

JOIN THE ADVENTURE IN PROGRESS

 

OBIE'S TRUTH-Book One

AMERICA WAS REAL

(Joining the adventure in progress)

Hangtown Bound

Arrival in Philadelphia

Episode One

Jarrin’ Bones & Rattlin’ Teeth

As the sun climbed gradually into the brilliant autumn sky, a purple horizon rose from a dreamlike mist and took on recognizable forms. First the forests in their breathtaking fall foliage, then the houses and buildings, and eventually the dock and crowds of people became distinguishable on the shore. Our hearts pounded and filled with myriad emotions: joy, excitement, uncertainty, and apprehension. Those people on the dock were Americans. Soon we would be Americans too.

To our west was the eastern boundary of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and as the vast forests of oak and hickory gave way to farmland and fields of ripening grain, the port city of Philadelphia came into view. The port itself was clearly distinguishable by a forest of towering masts. Countless tall ships were at anchor along the expansive docks, now crowded with swarming masses of people of all nationalities. Beyond lay the historic city itself; basking in the brilliant rays of a gorgeous fall day I’d not soon forget.

Our longboats were lowered and manned, our decks filled with cheering pilgrims, and our gallant ship, in full canvas and flags flying, sailed proudly into the harbor. From the docks the crowd waved and cheered, a group of kilt clad gentleman promenaded across the wharf with bagpipes blaring, and all at once our normally reserved crew, in cadence with their rowing and in a wide variety of colorful accents, burst into a rousing chorus of “Blow the Man Down”. My pulse raced, my spirit soared, and my heart, fit to bust, pounded like never before. Well, there was the time I discovered the Counts teenage daughter skinny-dippin’ in the castle cistern, but that was different.

Many of our fellow passengers were encumbered by steamer trunks, crates of family heirlooms, and paraphernalia of every conceivable shape, size, and description. Several families had brought along farm implements, and one couple had shipped a huge cast iron cooking range, complete with water reservoir, eight lids and a dandy warming oven. Their disembarkation would require time and arrangements, not to mention intestinal fortitude and huge quantities of elbow grease.

My family was traveling light. As per pre-arrangement, we gathered on the port side of the ship and lined up near the gangway. Christoph and I each carried one end of an old camelback trunk in one hand and an additional piece of luggage in the other. My shoulder satchel contained the journal, which I’d begun onboard the ship. Mother carried a small leather satchel containing family papers, the manumission granting us the Count’s permission to sail from Germany, and assorted valuables. Father, still weak from his illness but in high spirits, led the way.

It’s difficult to describe my feelings as we left the ship and first set foot in an unfamiliar new country. Germany had been my family’s homeland for generations. Throughout our long and often miserable voyage, I’d harbored deep within myself a dull ache and an ever-present anxiety. I’d often awakened during the long nights at sea to a dry mouth and a churning stomach. Even on the good days there’d been a discomforting sense of leaving something irretrievable behind.

This morning, as we faced the challenges of a new day filled with opportunity, all those feelings of loss and disenfranchisement were replaced by an overwhelming sense of excitement and adventure. This was a new start in a new world, and everything about it seemed fresh and inviting. I realized that a chapter in my life was ending, and intuition told me that life as I knew it was changing forever. Right now though, my family and I were sharing the adventure of a lifetime, together.

Barring complications and miscommunications, Father’s elder brother Gus was to meet us at the port. Uncle Gus had arrived in America seven years previously and had kept in touch as well as possible considering the lamentable state of overseas mail service at the time. His crossing had been plagued by misfortune, and his wife Margaret had succumbed to disease and been buried at sea long before reaching America. His life here in Pennsylvania had been marvelously blessed. Both of his sons had married well, and their unions had produced nine Grandchildren. He’d arrived in this country as an apprentice cobbler and now owned his own thriving shoe shop. In seven years, he had established himself well in this country and was now a prosperous and respected member of his community.

I wouldn’t know Uncle Gus from Adam. I was only two when my uncle and his family received the Counts permission to sail for Philadelphia. Nevertheless, I joined my family in searching every person in the crowd for a familiar face. I’d occasionally had the pleasure and privilege of meeting people of different nationalities as a child, but I’d never experienced anything like this. Created in 1682 as ol’ Bill Penn’s “holy experiment” Philadelphia was a major port and received ships from throughout the world. Subsequently it was peopled with travelers from the four corners of the earth, each one contributing the customs, dress, tastes, and traditions of their mother country. This port city was a melting pot, and the result was a unique blend of the best and the worst.

The dock with its open-air shops and adjacent market, along with the inns, eating establishments, and taverns, all reflected this amazing diversity. The cool fall air was brisk and invigorating, and saturated with the violently competitive fragrances of hickory smoke, tobacco, wet poultry and boiling seafood. Down toward the northern end of the pier, the open-air shops endeavored to cater to every conceivable appetite, and what little they couldn’t provide was usually available in vast quantities, infinite variety, and discrete anonymity at the inns and taverns just across the street.

By the time a twenty-minute search had proven fruitless, that ol’ trunk weighed a ton and Christoph, and I were exhausted. We dropped our cargo and collapsed, sitting on the luggage and staring at the ground in despair. After a moment, I realized that I was looking at the feet of either a small mountain or a very portly gentleman. I craned my neck and gazed up into the kind and beaming countenance of an elderly gentleman with a huge white beard and a belly to match. He grinned at me, eyes twinkling for a moment, and then in a markedly German accent announced, “You must be Obadiah.”

Mother spun around instantly with a big smile. Father, who’d been anxiously scanning faces in the opposite direction, paused momentarily, and then, turning slowly, gazed into his brother’s face with rapidly moistening eyes. Father had been a little teary eyed as we bid farewell to my grandparents in Germany, but I’d never seen him actually break down and cry. Father took Uncle Gus by the hand, and gazed straight into his soul, his eyes reflecting a range and depth of emotions incapable of conveyance in mere words. Then, as they wrapped their arms around each other, Father drew a long faltering breath, and convulsing with emotions, sobbed quietly right out loud. I held my mother’s hand while fighting back the lump in my own throat, and my mother searched desperately for her handkerchief. After a moment, Christoph, unable to deal with all this unbridled emotion, cleared his throat and began collecting our luggage. Uncle Gus embraced Dad for a moment longer, kissed my mother ever so gently on the cheek, and then grabbed that camelback trunk by one handle and hoisted it up on his shoulder. “Shake a leg,” he encouraged, “or we’ll all miss dinner.”

It took several minutes to maneuver through the crowds and reach my uncle’s wagon. By then the emotions of the reunion were beginning to subside and tongues began to loosen. Mother had begun to fill my uncle in on the events of our long voyage. The luggage loaded, my brother and I climbed into the back of the buckboard and found a seat next to our trunk on a blanket that our uncle had provided. The three adults squeezed into the driver’s bench, Uncle Gus spoke to the team of mules, and Christoph and I got our very first taste of riding a springless buckboard down a cobblestone street. As we proceeded, Gus pointed out Independence Hall and related what I’m certain was a wealth of interesting local history, but I missed it all. Other than the sounds of the buckboard, all I heard were jarrin’ bones and rattlin’ teeth!

To be continued, pending any interest.

OJHC/SC