Spooky ol' Ghosts!

“Once upon a time there was a spooky ol’ ghost dressed all in black.”  That’s as far as she got!  The littlest Kinney had a question.  “If ghosts are just spirit.” She asked musingly, “Why do they need clothes at all?”  “Good question.” Admitted Laura contemplatively.  This line of thought peeked the children’s curiosity, resulting in several additional questions.  “If ghosts wear clothes,” asked another, “do they have to warsh ‘em?   Do ghosts get ring around the collar?” This resulted in an outburst of exuberant laughter, exacerbated by youthful enthusiasm.  Lidge perked up and his face shone with recognition of his opportunity to participate.  “I wonder,” he said, grinning with anticipation,  “If ghosts get lint in their belly-buttons.”   “Ghosts don’t have bellybuttons silly!” chimed the twins in unison, and the entire hollow rang with squeals of laughter.

    In the middle of this jocularity, the briars rustled and in stepped two more youngsters.  Mick and Sid O’Meara had overheard the ruckus from across the hollow and come to investigate the cause of all the merriment.  Mick seemed to sense the jovial mood of the assembly almost immediately.  He sprawled on the ground, rested his chin on his hands, and offered a yarn of his own. “You should have seen what happened at our house!  There’s a big ol’ alligator turtle in our pond. The McCauley’s cow was standin’ belly deep, coolin’ off the other day, when that ol’ snapper swum up and bit the end right out o’ one o’ her spickets!” The kids all groaned and grabbed their chests.  The response was spontaneous and only served to encourage the storyteller.  “‘Fore we could get a tourniquet on her,” he continued, “that ol’ cow leaked out three buckets o’ buttermilk!”

    “Oh, go on!” said Laura.  “That’s nothin’!” announced Lidge. “We had a big ol’ wolf trap set at our pond, tryin’ to catch a darned ol’ coon.  One o’ them big snappers got caught by the neck.  ‘Fore we could drag him out and give ‘im what fore, that rascal chewed his head off and got clean away!  A couple o’ days later he come draggin’ up the hill, fit as a fiddle and carryin’ his head in his mouth!” "Obie's Quest"

A Heartfelt Apology

A Heartfelt Apology

Poor Little Obie!

 I’ve taken the hopes & dreams, and doubts & fears, and triumphs & failures that we all have in common with those hearty souls who’ve preceded us, and created an affable, unpretentious character that young and old alike are likely to relate to on some level.  And then I’ve inflicted him with much of my own childhood, debilitating vulnerability, incomprehensible faith, some of our country’s most colorful and gut wrenching history, and a plethora of the ubiquitous maladies that plague us all! And I’ve cast him, nearly naked, into the world. God, consider my motives and forgive me.

 The Author

DEDICATION

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

TO MY BELOVED ANCESTORS,

AND THE FAITH AND FORTITUDE THAT DROVE THEM TO PURSUE THEIR DREAMS, THIS INNOCUOUS LITTLE PARABLE IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

THE AUTHOR 

PLEASE ENJOY THE FOLLOWING EXCERPTS OF

"OBIE'S QUEST"

Obie's Quest

Cover by S. T. Casebeer

I painstakingly pecked out "Obie's Quest" during the early years of the current Millennium.  My historical novel  is comprised of over 110,000 words.  When one lacks proficiency as a typist, that's a lot of words! I am not an English major. I'm just a poverty-stricken, old hillbilly with a story.  I concentrated my efforts on telling that story, fully expecting that, at some point in time, the many facets of my innocuous little missive would be cut and polished by a professional editor who was equal to the task.  Suffice it to say, that didn't happen. Excuse the rough edges and I think you'll enjoy Obie's Quest.  STC

PROLOGUE

October 1844 would mark the end of a youthful journey and the beginning of a lifelong quest. We’d been at sea for three long months.  It was an hour or two before dawn and not a soul was stirring.  Have you ever had that feeling that you’re being watched? Right at that moment, I had that feeling in a powerful way.  I turned my head cautiously and glanced down the starboard side of the ship.  All at once something aft caught my attention.  I turned suddenly and had to squint and shield my eyes.  There, low on the eastern horizon, just below the sail, was the biggest, most extravagant moon I’d ever seen.  It was the same moon that had lit the skies over the Rhine valley during my youth, but it had always seemed distant and detached.  Now, thousands of miles from the only home I’d ever known, it was suddenly a comfort to see something so familiar.  It was the first time that a cold, lonely night had forced me to seek comfort and companionship in that ol’ moon.  It wouldn’t be the last.  My name is Obadiah Jeremiah Hezekiah Camp.  I know that’s a mighty big mouthful, but my folks were bound and determined to name me after all four of my great granddads.  You can call me Obie.  I was nine years old when my family and I left our ancestral home in Germany to sail for America. I didn’t realize it then, but the innocent, carefree days of my youth were rapidly drawing to a close.  Ahead lay inconceivable obstacles, incredible exploits, high adventure on the western frontier, and eventually contentment and an inner peace that many never find.

As I lay there on that hard wooden deck, staring into that starry stillness, the only sound was the groaning and squeaking of that old ships rigging, and the flapping of her canvas sails in response to an intermittent breeze.  I pulled the tarp up around my shoulders as a sudden gust of wind garnished the deck with a blanket of fog that stung my chapped face and glistened on the coil of rope that served as my pillow.  My brother Christoph lay on the deck at my side.  Christoph was thirteen.  He had serious doubts about this pilgrimage to America.  His apprenticeship to the Count’s brewmeister had been lucrative, and he’d been very hesitant to accompany his family on this risky and unnerving excursion.  He missed his home and friends, and had joined us reluctantly at the insistence of our father and the heartfelt pleadings of our mother.  

   

There would be no more sleep for me this night.  As the velvet black skies lightened to lavender in the east, a thin layer of scarlet became barely visible in the west.  It was land.  It was America.  Soon the melancholy stillness was replaced with hustle, bustle, and the excitement of preparation. The crewmen were busily pursuing their assigned tasks, and the passengers were crowding the decks in a frenzy of anticipation.  Yesterday, freedom, opportunity, and America had been only a well-worn, but very illusive dream.  This morning that impossible dream was palpable.  It lay on the horizon ahead of us, visible to the naked eye.  It was no longer just an incredible dream.  America was real.

Gettin' Excited!

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

The Ground Hog is with us; the geese are headed north, the Dewdrops and Crocus are blooming!  I’m not setting out tomato plants yet, but I’m gettin’ excited!

Autumn

Photo by C. M. Binkley, My Daughter :)

October passes quietly in a flourish of pastels.

Its brightest days are as special as they are brief.

Its touch is deep and long-lasting,

And its passing leaves us, as it does all of nature,

Grey, exposed and vulnerable.

When November comes the trees have dropped their leaves;

The sun is sluggish with the cold, and rides atop a sullen mist,

Just above the oak tops, to the south.

The breezes, like rowdy children, 

Toss the leaves in each other’s faces.

The rustling and the rattling is their laughter,

And the memory of their laughter is our joy.

STC

The Escarpment

Photo by S. T. Casebeer

Winter at the escarpment