Often, when I succumb to these nocturnal attempts at wordsmithery,

Often, when I succumb to these nocturnal attempts at wordsmithery, I wake the following morning to find I've once again embarrassed myself. Of course, by then, the damage is done. The participles have been dangled, and the cat is out of the bag, with a legion of yelping terriers at his heels! I've been asked, on more than one occasion, if I am truly Mark Twain. Of course, I'm not at liberty to say. I've never piloted a steamboat up the Mississippi or crossed the rut riddled country by stage. I've not entertained royalty or captivated millions with my wit and wisdom. I've not authored dozens of beloved and timeless tales. Still, I believe I can say with some degree of confidence that the spirit of Mr. Twain is alive and well within me. I'd like to believe that Sam would be pleased by my efforts. I think he'd be tickled. I'm certain he'd be amused by the comparison. SC

SHANNON THOMAS CASEBEER

Hey, dear friends!

Like many of my childhood friends in Placerville, I attended grades 5th through 8th at Edwin Markham middle school. My 8th grade aptitude test suggested my abilities (assuming I had such) were limited to creative writing. All these years later, regardless of what the world at large may believe, I have convinced AI. AI suggests the following:

Shannon Thomas Casebeer is an American author, poet, and historical writer known for capturing regional history, personal nostalgia, and faith. [1, 2]

He resides in the Missouri Ozarks with his wife. His work frequently explores early American history, local folklore, and personal storytelling. [1, 2, 3]

Published Works and Writing

Historical Fiction: He authored Obie's Quest (2009), a novel diving into regional history and historical settings. [1]
Poetry Collections: He published Ozark Breezes and Glad Days Long Ago, which explore themes of heritage, family bonds, and the tranquil beauty of nature. [1, 2, 3, 4]
Historical Essays: He regularly shares shorter historical pieces and creative reflections detailing pioneering life, early Western expansions, and regional milestones like the history of Placerville, California (Hangtown) and Early Lake Tahoe history. [1, 2, 3, 4]
Themes: His writing balances lighthearted humor with a focus on faith, family upbringing, and preservation of the past.
Shannon's books reflect his love for our remarkable country and for Placerville, his hometown.
Shannons book titles include Obie's Truth Books one and two, and Clara's Best, among others.

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