Is the America you have come to know a selfish nation filled with individuals seeking personal gain, as opposed to looking to give?

America, at it’s core is a nation struggling to identify itself as a true democracy. A country of the people, for the people. It is striving to be a nation representative of freedom and one of equality. These were and still are monumental goals to achieve. Especially, when we look to our past and see that for every attempt we try to secure these goals, there is an example of the opposite effect. We strive for freedom but at the almost annihilation of a race. We strive for equality but on the backs of slavery. Alexis De Tocqueville states, “ Egotism blights the germ of all virtue; individualism, at first, only saps the virtues of public life; but, in the long run, it attacks and destroys all others and at length is absorbed in downright egotism.” When we reach for a national goal we have to recognize that we do not step over others to achieve that goal. But, also as individuals, we must learn that that selfishness begets selfishness. And how can we recognize the sameness of equal rights for other races such as Native Americans and African Americans with the rights of the GLBT? Are we not all for want of the same wants and needs? we are more alike than separate.

We have read in The Narrative and Captivity of the Restoration Of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson, “ …I have seen the extreme vanity of this world.; One hour I have been in health, and wealthy wanting nothing. But the next hour, in sickness and wounds and death, having nothing but sorrow and affliction…” We only need to look, to our own faults on review of the Native Americans. While consumed with the our own interests we introduced the “Noble Savages” to alcohol, without any concern for a people who we now know are biologically incapable of metabolizing it. What are we to expect of a people than the behavior cited in Mrs. Mary Rowlandson descriptions, “…He was the first Indian I saw drunk all the while that I was amongst them…” She later likens her own treatment and afflictions to that of the drops of alcohol to the Indians, by quoting Hebrews 12.6 and stating “…But now I see the Lord had His time to scourge and chasten me. The portion of some of some is to have their afflictions by drops, now one drop and then another; but the dregs of the cup, the wine of astonishment, like a sweeping rain that leaveth no food, did the Lord prepare to be my portion. Affliction I wanted, and affliction I had full measure ( I thought), pressed down and running over. Essentially, we all are our brother’s keepers. To say we were not aware of this effect alcohol played on Native Americans is purposefully ignorant. Thomas Morton discussed it in his piece Manners and Customs of the Indians, 1637,fully admitting that farmers are aware of the consequences’ and effects on Native American because he was aware of the drastic consequences, in his case a drunken Indian killing himself.
We have read of the concerns of Elias Boudinot, an accomplished and educated Cherokee, in An Address to Whites(1488-1497) “…She will become not a great but a faithful ally of the United States. In times of Peace she will plead the common liberties of America. In times of war, her intrepid sons will sacrifice their lives in your defence…” We learned from our reading Elias, at first supported the idea of assimilation and improvement for Cherokees. Then being concerned with his own individualistic needs turned to full removal of Cherokees from their homelands. His own ego led him to sign the Treaty of New Echota in 1835, thereby resulting in the mass removal of the Trail of Tears. He was merely a minor voice for the Native Americans but allowed his mind to be changed, which ultimately led to his own murder.
Andrew Jackson wrote, On Indian Removal: The President’s letter to Congress, “…enable them to pursue happiness in their own way and in their own rude institutions; will retard the progress of decay, which is lessening their numbers, and perhaps cause them gradually, under the protection of the government and through the influence of good councils, to cast off their savage habits and become an interesting, civilized, and Christian Community…” Jackson, working on behalf of the famers, again concerned for himself and his political careers, allowed for the Trail of Tears to occur even making Native Americans give up their belongs and livestock, not just their land. This whole address to Congress reads more like a brochure for a vacation than for what it really was.
Our country is one of great democracy. We will continue to move forward and be strong while being concerned with individual freedoms. But, in doing so, we need to constantly be concerned that we don’t fall into the trap of individualism. We need to recognize that Thomas jefferson was right, "What is true of every member of the society, individually, is true of them all collectively; since the rights of the whole can be no more than the sum of the rights of the individuals." The GLBT should be allowed to marry freely, equally.

Songs of the Aztecs

Songs that Sing to Me
Songs of the Aztecs is the account of the European invasion that I found to be really the most enlightening. When you meet with friends or talk with associates how often do you speak of sorrow or defeat or loss? These are quiet moments we keep to ourselves, rarely sharing these truest and most honest of emotions. These poems do just that. They strip bare any covering of pride or shielded emotion. Reading them allows me to see just how desolate the nation has become,
“Nothing but flowers and songs of sorrow
Are left in Mexico and Tlatelolco,
where once we saw warriors and wise men.”
For a mighty nation to go from mighty warriors to flowers and respectively from wise men to songs of sorrow, one can only imagine their loss. Throughout the rest of the poem it describes how beauty and valor have now been turned into bloodshed and pain. Perhaps, misery loves company but, when I read this poem, and recognize the pain and suffering that was written it makes my life seem pretty comfortable and relaxed. I often discuss with my suburban friends the ideas of their suburbanitis, “I really am mad that I can’t find time to get to Lifetime this week. I just don’t feel good about myself if I don’t go. Well, maybe tomorrow.” By comparison it all just seems so inventive. Are you so bored with how mundane your life is that you need to create some false sense of drama?
Nothing hits me like a ton of bricks more than reading poetry like this. It is true and eloquent drama stripped of its dignity. Especially, if you take it in context of whom the Aztecs were. In our readings we know what a proud, brave and strong people they were. For them to get to the point of being able to write from the heart, Flowers and Songs of Sorrow speaks volumes. They have become a broken nation, and sadly, one that can never ever be repaired. It is for this that I like Songs of the Aztecs the most.

My Own Little Prince with Beauty and the Beast by Stevie Nicks

Beauty and the Beast-Stevie Nicks-.
Here is my suggestion play the music

http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=6434 (you will have to literally wait for the site to pop up then press the play button)
Then read my creative non-fiction story titled My Own Little Prince
as you are listening to the music.

let me know what you think. Also after my story i have added the the lyrics to the stevie nicks song.

My Own Little Prince
Once upon a time, as these stories usually begin, I had a little Prince. His name was Patrick and he was from France. He was my best friend in the whole world and looking back, I loved him so. I was 21, and we met in Heaven. Well, when I say we met in Heaven, I should clarify a bit as Heaven is a nightclub in London, where I was working. Not too many people can say they worked in Heaven, but I can. It is located under Charing Cross station. To get to it you have to climb many different sets of stairs, otherwise known as the Stairway to Heaven. The frosted glass counters were all lit from underneath so to give a celestial glow to all who went there. I was eating at the bar and drinking a pint and I looked across the oval shaped bar and there he was, this little prince. His hair was dark and curly like a little cherub and the lighting made his tanned olive skin come alive. He was really quite short perhaps 5’6” at most. But boy could he fill a room with his presence…We spoke and well we became fast friends.Weeks went by and every day we would go to a museum or an art gallery. Patrick began waiting tables at a restaurant down the street from Heaven, Le Jardin de Gourmet. Every night after work we would go down to the local pub and drink a few pints and discuss philosophy or important works of art in a museum we had just been to. Sometimes if we had the next day off we would crash at my place or his and we’d get up early and go to a flea market such as Portobello. Life was good, then. But Patrick was also kind of too perfect. I put him on a pedestal so to speak. Everything he did he did with such grace and ease. Girls swooned around him, in fact everyone did. If he made dinner even the table was neatly arranged and the soufflé was served hot and never fell. He was taught to excel in all that was French. Ahh, my little Prince.More weeks went by and as Xmas came upon us I wondered what on Earth to buy him for Xmas. What could I possibly give him that could equal or show the amount of appreciation I felt for him? He had taught me French and how to cook and so much about art and great books to read. I felt bewildered by it all. One night after a few pints he told me he was going home to France for Xmas and oddly, I felt like the life had been sucked away from me. I never imagined he would go away for a week, but of course he would be spending it with his family. I couldn’t afford to go home to the States so I stayed in the bedsit and nursed an exceedingly bad cold.Late Xmas night as I was finished taking a hot bath and drinking a Lemsip, there was a knock at the door. I opened the door to find Patrick his curly brown hair wet from the rainy cold night. My Little Prince had decided to come back early. He had brought all these homemade Xmas treats like fois gras and meringues his mom had made for their holiday. And a Xmas gift for me. I had been brought up with really good manners but I never have known anyone who knew how to treat people better than Patrick. It tore him apart to think of me alone in a foreign country on Xmas. Slowly he unpacked bottles of this and boxes of that. I tried to imagine how he could have carried all this from the airport!After our late night dinner he handed me a wrapped box that he had cut out little pictures of the Little Prince and pasted it to. I was, kind of, well, embarrassed by how much effort he had put into it. I opened the oblong box and inside was a plane ticket to Toulouse, France from London. I was entirely overwhelmed by the gift. I felt as though surely I couldn’t accept such a gift. And this is what he said in his heavy French accent, "Tim, if you do not accept this gift then you will offend me. Little Princes do not like to be offended. If you do offend them then they will surely leave.” And with that it was settled. Embarrassingly, He opened my gift of a razor made from Lucite that he had said he liked on one of our many art gallery trips.April came and our weekend trip to Toulouse was only days away. Patrick came over to my bedsit and said he had something to show me. He took off his shirt and his tanned shoulders revealed something new. It was a tattoo of The Little Prince, exactly as you see on the cover of the book. He had had it done because he loved the book so. I had never read it before though I was familiar with the artwork. I told him it suited him perfectly, which it really did. If Patrick had blond hair you would say it was him exactly.That weekend we flew to Toulouse, passports in hand, and looking back it was all such a whirlwind . We stayed at a couple’s home that Patrick had grown up with. In the morning, they delivered bowls of lattes to each of us. We walked around the beautiful town and dined in little known bistros known for their great cassoulet or having an unusual wine list. The entire weekend was devoted to tables of food and endless conversation. After the meal we would drink dessert wine known as Muscat. Then, barrels of espresso.Eventually, Monday morning came and we flew back to London. First, Patrick went through Customs and then Immigration. The officer looked at my passport and told me he could not let me enter the country as my visa was about to expire. I couldn’t believe it! I had never thought to get my visa renewed. I pleaded with him and after hours of discussion, it was decided that they would keep my passport and I had 24 hours to collect my belongings.During this time, Patrick had been held on the other side of the immigration line and was resisting and struggling trying to get back through. He became quite upset that they would not let him back through to get to me. Almost to the point of violence with the immigration officer. As I looked over to him his eyes were full of tears like a Little Prince who had had his beloved rose taken away. I was again truly astonished by his sense of Loyalty and brotherhood to me. As bad as the whole mess was it somehow made me feel good deep inside to know someone cared so much for me. I begged the officers to let me have a few minutes with my little prince to explain what was happening. They agreed and I told Patrick to go home and as soon as I was finished I would take a cab straight over.Several hours later I arrived at Patrick’s home in Canary Wharf in the Docklands of London. I tried to console him, but his sadness had built into an inconsolable fear. Unfortunately, he would barely speak to me so upset he was that I had to fly home the next morning. I promised to find a job right away and fly back as soon as I could.Once I was back in the States, I lived with my parents and began saving up to get back to London and my little Prince. By the summer’s end and several letters and pictures of the Little Prince back and forth, I was ready to fly back over the great pond to England.Late one night my sister Heather had gotten a call. The call was from the family of Patrick’s and he was very ill. They were desperately trying to get a hold of me as Patrick was begging for me from his hospital bed. Bewildered, My sister simply hung up the phone. I wish I could understand more or why she would do that but this she won’t elaborate on. I wasn’t even made aware of this phone call until months later. I tried to phone Patrick unbeknownst to what was happening and I couldn’t ever get a hold of him. Ever. I thought as soon as I flew over I would find him in the local pub or at his home. But this was not too be.Days turned into weeks and weeks to months. I was walking down the street towards the tube station and I ran into someone Patrick had worked with at Le Jardin de Gourmet…And the news came. There on the street, with the rain falling down on us both, she told me that Patrick had committed suicide. She told me in the same way you tell someone they just missed the bus. With no real care, only an annoying and trivial half- interest…

beauty and the beast by stevie Nicks

You're not a stranger to me

And you are something to see

You don't even know how to please

You say a lot...but you're unaware how to leave

My darling lives in a world that is not mine

An old child misunderstood...out of time

Timeless is the creature who is wise

And timeless is the prisoner in disguise

Oh who is the beauty...who the beast

Would you die of grieving when I leave

Two children too blind to see

I would fall in your shadow...I believe

My love is a man who's not been tamed

Oh...my love lives in a world of false pleasure and pain

We come from difference worlds...we are the same (my love)

I never doubted your beauty...I've changed

I never doubted your beauty...I've changed

Changed...who is the beauty

Where is my beast (my love)

There is no beauty

Without my beast (my love)

Who is the beauty

Who... (my love)

Ahhh...Oh...la bete...la bete

Where is my beast

My beauty...my beauty

My beautiful...beautiful...beautiful

Beautiful beast

The Soundtrack to The Wood

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dlodwccxsrc

Ghost, Jes-Writing or focusing on anything has been a continual battle for me because of my ADD. Strangely, and Ihave no idea why, listening to trance music really helps me stay focused.

I love the lyrics. They fit into my story of The Wood that I've been working on

I was a ghost before you came
I was a slave but then I changed
I will take the good and bad from many
When i am a slave to this again

So leave me alone
Before the strain of listening to me
Becomes more than you can bear

Or maybe this time we will be fine
Or else tomorrow will be lost

I feel you calling me when i am alone
I feel you calling me it's keeping me up
I wanna be with you now


There was a force I swear, I thought it'd take me out
And there was a chance that we could go so far
As I look in your eyes & now that you say
No War, no war, no more
No more battles to fight in this life

I feel you calling me when i'm alone
I feel you calling me, it's keeping me up
I wanna be with you now

I feel you calling me when i'm alone
Hot nights and moonlight it's keeping me up
I gotta be with you now

Tell me you'll wait till then to find
What races and grates before we explode
And maybe this time we will be fine
And our tomorrow, it won't be lost within this life

-------------------------------------------------------
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X937zaOIBog&feature=related
The Beast Within-Madonna- This remix rocks. and again the lyrics get me into thinking about dark mysterious sinful worlds.

Prophecy
Blessed is he who reads aloud the words of the prophecyAnd blessed are those who hear,And who keep what is written thereinFor the time is nearHe is coming with the cloudsAnd everyone I will see him,Everyone who pierced himAnd all the tribes of the earth could wail on account of himBut I had this against toThe coward banding, the love you hadAnd I saw a beast rising out of the sea with 10 horns and 7 headsAnd a blasphemous name upon its headAnd to it the dragon gave his powerAnd the whole earth followed the beast with wonder,And they worshipped the beast saying,Who is like the beast and who can fight against the beast?It opened its mouth to utter blasphemouswordsagainstGodThen, I saw a new heaven,And a new earth,And I heard a great voice from the throne saying:Behold, the dwelling of God is with menHe will dwell with themAnd they should be his peopleAnd God himself will be with themHe will wipe away every tear from their eyesAnd death shall be no moreNeither shall there be mourningNor crying, nor pain, anymoreFor these things well have passed awayTo the thirsty I will give water without priceFrom the fountain of the water of lifeBut as for the cowardly,The faithless, the pollutedAs for the murderers, fornicators, sorcerers, idolaters,And all liarsThere lot shall be in the lake that burns with fireAnd he said to me (prophecy) Do not seal up the words of the prophecy for the time is nearBehold, I am coming soon

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=6434

Beauty and the Beast-Stevie Nicks-This song written by The High Priestess, Stevie Nicks, and it works both for my story The Wood but I originally chose it for my story, My Own Little Prince.

You're not a stranger to me
And you are something to see
You don't even know how to please
You say a lot...but you're unaware how to leave

My darling lives in a world that is not mine
An old child misunderstood...out of time
Timeless is the creature who is wise
And timeless is the prisoner in disguise

Oh who is the beauty...who the beast
Would you die of grieving when I leave
Two children too blind to see
I would fall in your shadow...I believe

My love is a man who's not been tamed
Oh...my love lives in a world of false pleasure and pain
We come from difference worlds...we are the same (my love)
I never doubted your beauty...I've changed
I never doubted your beauty...I've changed

Changed...who is the beauty
Where is my beast (my love)
There is no beauty
Without my beast (my love)

Who is the beauty
Who... (my love)
Ahhh...Oh...la bete...la bete
Where is my beast

My beauty...my beauty
My beautiful...beautiful...beautiful
Beautiful beast

The Wood

Then suddenly, it happened. The large yellow teeth clenched around my calf. The warmth of my blood trickled slowly, in thick little rivers, forming pools as it dripped from my ankle. It had come, as I knew it would. As I lay helpless, too terrorized with fear to move, I watch, waiting praying for a miracle, a release from the pain. I thought back to how it all started. The darkness of The Wood, how mysteriously it had come…
I’d heard the story. Momma always said it was only a legend. But it was the fear, utter paranoia in her voice and movements, which made me, believe otherwise. She would hum nervously, a quiet chant, one I knew by heart. It was instilled in me. Her lullaby of lost love always put me to sleep, so soft her silky voice. She would pull out the cestino del cucito [sewing basket], darning the latest hole I had in my knit cardigan, or creweling a bed linen for my trousseau. And begin to hum or sing to me a chant, a lullaby from long ago. Her eyes so black like sloe berries lost deep in the night. They would catch the light and illuminate her whole being. Her face framed by long dark hair that curled around her neck, usually held back tightly in a chignon. Then Momma would sing, telling me a dark truth of worry and internal pain deep in her heart for a child she knew would be taken from a lost love. It was prophesied through generations of songs passed on from mother to daughter. As, I listened I looked up to see white barn pigeons against the grey cloudy sky. They flew overhead cooing, like angels crying. For her, to continue, to hold faith, it meant the sun would continue to rise. And she would begin her song,

Step into the light so I can see you
Let me know that you could care for me
Why should I give you all my love
When I’m not really sure that you’d be there for me
Out of the shadows, asking me how could love be wrong
Out of the darkness, you told me that you’d be strong
That you could really care
And we could really share
Something sacred, indeed.

You told me that as Romani, you should forever roam
But before you swore we’d make a home
Now you wander striking all in your path
All for lost love you always had.

Listening to her chant, I was lost in her basket, holding pins and needles, shears, or a few leftover intricate fabrics. The woven basket was made of fine detailed reed, lined with white muslin she had also used to sew aprons and bedlinens. The more I would search in the basket the more I would find. Pockets holding a few spools of thread or vials of dried scented leaves. Deeper in, there were the swatches, and then a rip in the fabric. Dog eared, an old photograph revealed itself. Sepia toned with age, it was buried within the tear. It was a photograph of bare-chested man. He had curly dark hair and his eyes mesmerized me. Behind him was a caravan. Our caravan.
“What is that you have Tsura?”
I could not hide it nor could I answer. I expected the worst.
“I found a photograph. Who is that Momma?”
I learned long ago if caught the best thing to do was avoid it and dodge the question by asking another question. Momma’s eyes slanted at me and a wry smile came over her, recognizing my plan. She took the photo, looked at it, then me, and by my surprise, gave it back to me.
“It’s time to clean up your mess little star. Look at the photo a few more minutes but then for Goodness Sake tuck it back in the basket. And put all those bottles of herbs and seeds back where you found them. ”
Momma made me a slice of bread with goat butter and sprinkled crystallized honey on it for me to eat. She then returned to the basket, opened it again and tugged at the lining of the lid. Hidden behind the lining, she removed a short black cord knotted to a small brass acorn forming a necklace. She put it on me and then gave me a stern lecture.
“You really shouldn’t go into other peoples things little one.”
Still, as she stood up she brushed the hair from my eyes and gave me a pinch on the nose.


=====================================================================



Papa would tell us on hot steamy nights about The Wood, as we ate around the campfire.. On occasion, other Romani would come over looking for food or shelter for a night around the campfire. Romani were outcasts from the village of Soros. Romani are considered a blight on the lands of Soros and not allowed to become citizens. Rarely, did we go to town. Instead, Poppa would capture our attentions over campfire coffee about how the trees held a dark secret of sin. About the Woodsman, with his axe, would strike down anyone who set foot inside The Wood after sunset. And the cries of the children so late into the night. The babies! That’s what Papa used to say. But, Momma just more became agitated, and worked at fixin sup’ with even greater speed and more carelessness. She was worried. I could tell. The deep lines from her worry seemed to darken, sadden. As if she knew a truth! But, she dared not express it.
Papa would sit me on his lap, picking me up and holding me, effortlessly. “Tsura, my girl, you are the light of my dawn. How can your eyes be so like the violets that grow in The Wood? Your hair like the blackest night? Surely, I have been blessed.” I would look up to him and he would smile so broad. His hair the color of campfire coffee and a scruffy face, with his kind eyes of bluest ice. For me Pa was pure love. Then he would begin. He would sing the song his father sang to him when he was a child. The music of my father soothed all who heard it around the fire. The chant would always end with the death of the Woodsman.
-----The Woodsman was the one held responsible when children disappeared. Especially, when seven children went missing over by Willow Brook Pond over by The Wood. Villagers and farmers searched all day until near sunset. They wouldn’t go into the vast Wood past sunset. Most were afraid to go in during daylight, but those that did found only a child’s ball and a doll. The doll belonged to my baby sister, Emilia. She was one of the seven that went missing[s1] . Now, Papa doesn’t tell the story, nor does he talk much. He only cries and drinks his whiskey. When the Wood begins.

The shadow ran across the small beam of light far off into the distance. The darkness was not as much dark as much as it was a pure black void. Floating in what seemed to be this abyss, it worried him as soon as he awoke. But it also was enticing. He thought about how odd how wide and dilated his eyes must be but still not able to see. He focused himself and tried to realize his body, coming to terms with the state of his body which was floating in this black void. He tried to move. He could feel, smell and hear and presume to taste but seeing was impossible. Except, that far off beam of light. As he came out of his unconscious, He tried to move each leg and remarkably they worked. He worked quietly and easy then following with his arms and head and neck, he tried sitting up. Was he dead? Or was he dreaming? Why did he have this sense of danger ? He sat up and the first powerful realization came to him. He was not floating. There was earth beneath him. He realized his own gravity. The earth was wet and foul smelling not unlike manure but still it meant that this was an actual place and that he hadn’t died. Then there was the blessing of sound. Drip. Drip. Drip. and then it would echo farther in the black void over by the light. It became slightly musical listening to the monotone drip drip drip followed a few seconds later of a lower sounding echo of drop drop drop….
It feels like sleep but it is not sleep. Like dreaming but not dreaming. He presses his hands into the earth and as bad smelling as it is he finds comfort in it. Before he gets up he tries to recall. But there is no recall. And this is when the fear sets in. The confusion of not knowing was breeding fear which in turn gave him a tragic sense of hopeless anxiety. A haunting feeling came across him knowing there was nothing he knew. Drip. Drip. Drip. In desperation, he gripped the ground which brought still more comfort. Drop. Drop. Drop.
“Where is my dog?” he whispered to himself.
This random observation was all he could remember. He tried to remember what kind of dog he had and what his dog’s name was. Unbeknownst to him, this was all the more tragic because he didn’t own a dog. He had one when he was a young child but no longer. As he sat in the muck he thought perhaps he should head towards the light being careful not to create havoc with the shadow he had seen down by the light which he knew not was friend or foe. Something kept ringing to him that it was foe. If only he could remember. He lifted the earthy texture beneath him and found he could hold some in his hands quite readily. The wet texture and the drip drip drip….drop drop drop added to slowly resolve his anxiety and heavy breathing. He felt at this point it might be best for him to simply lie back down and rock himself to sleep, hoping things would be more clearer when he woke back up. He layed back down in a fetal position and began rocking himself, his thumb working its way into his mouth to suckle. He rocked back and forth suckling and he began to fall into unconscious, with each rhythmic rock he began to hum. The first humming was more from the beginning traipses into light sleep. The more he fell into the squared darkness of sleep the more his humming began a tune he knew but did not recognize. The notes of the tune would come to him, the more he suckled the more easily they came, and the deeper into sleep he fell, fell, fell into his own unconscious.
\====================================================================

----When The Wood begins, letting sounds of the children out into the moist, night cooled air, Papa puts his own worn hands over his ears. And cries. Poor Emilia[s2] . My little blonde Emilia. In her pink and ivory-colored party dress. My poor Emilia. She is only six! I miss how things were. She must come back to me! Others try to forget but I won’t, Emilia…
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
“If you hurry we can go to town little ones. There has been a summons for all of us to sing and in the town square. There will be food and dancing.” Momma was happy then. She lifted Emilia up and gave her a little hug before handing her to me. “Emilia, let your sis get you dressed with no fuss this time.” Emilia always was a fuss. It was a struggle being the oldest sister to her. To her she was a big girl and didn’t want help with her hair or getting washed or dressed. “If you’re good you can wear your fine dress. And with that Emilia resolved herself to being dressed. When Poppa called we came out of the small cabin ready to go.
My ladies all look so pretty” and Poppa swung little Emilia high into the air. As we walked, poppa carried Emilia with one arm and his viola in the other while I carried his oboe. We were never invited to town unless there was a dance. It made me feel proud that the politicians and shopkeepers knew of my father and his viola playing. Romani were known for their music and Papa knew how to play better than most. At the square, poppa and momma set up tables. Soon the dance for the village was in full swing. The Romani children were told to make it once through smorgasbord as Old Marm called it, then take a seat at the far end of the square and use the grain bails as chairs away from the rest of the children who took part freely in the night’s activities.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++



The farmers near Willow Brook village fenced the whole wood in. And posted signs all around it. To protect the children we still have. Now with the perimeters fenced, we hope we won’t lose anymore. Except now, I’m in The Wood. After dark. I look up and see him. The Woodsman[s3] . Then, I remember…
----The search for Emilia, in The Wood. I went without telling Momma or Papa. I needed to know. A search for truth, as well, as Emilia. But I did not expect the darkness to come so quickly. I began in midday, climbing over the fence, into the Wicked Wood. It is[s4] so frightening and vast. I almost turn back.
As I entered, past Anchor Oak, A creeping feeling came over my heart, reaching from the pit of my stomach. The same creeping you get when you get caught stealing an apple from a neighbor’s tree. Or when you take a test in Old Marm’s schoolhouse[s5] . Or listen to Papa, late into the night, tell about the Wood.
The trees so tall, you begin to lose sight of the sky and the sense of the world being round. The leaves so deep green in color, like a shroud over The Wood. Little by little, the further in I go, the sky disappears behind the branches and leaves of The Wood.
Flowers, like Bloodroot, grow amongst the Wicked Trees, moss deep and rich in color, growing, thriving on the rocks. Butterflies alive and mingle with each other I notice the white blossoms of the bloodroot slowly begin to close, a sign that darkness, sunset has also entered The Wood[s6] . Sunset brings out the fireflies. Little I turn to leave with Achilles speed. I had lost track of the time. But which way? The Wood is quite large. If I take the wrong route I will only end up deeper, in the Land of the Woodsman. Fear grabs[s7] me by the hand. He always does when I least need him.
I begin[s8] to run. I begin to panic. Urgency and fear each pull me by the hand, dragging me at times, ever onward. The trees become darker, the leaves more and more like a blanket of morbid fear. Terror. The bloodroots I no longer see nor can I even see the ground. Sunset has fallen. It is dark. Empty and frightening. Soon I will be dead. Only my cries will linger on, out of The Wood[s9] .
But Wait!
I see a clearing, through the darkness, in the distance. And a campfire! The villagers! They’ve made a campfire for me to find the edge of The Wood. Oh Blessed Mary! I run towards the light, the heat, and the warmth of family, only seconds away!
But this is not to be. It is not the edge of The Wood I come upon but, merely a hollow in The Wood. But hollow it is not. What a sight I see. A bonfire, great and huge. And cats! Cats, I say! Dancing on their hinders, paw in paw, around the great fire, forming a circle! Oh! Blessed Be! It cannot be! As they dance, they cry and whine out a tune of pure wonderment[s10] . Not quite a tune, but more like…
Cries in the night.
The howling of cats.
They danced and screeched back and forth, first clockwise then counter. Like little elves! Their clothes, almost human like. Blue jumpers, silk shirts, and a…
Pink and ivory party dress… No! This cannot be. My little Emilia. Sorrow of Sorrows. Horror of Horrors! Not my poor little Emilia! I can only collapse to the ground. My heart grieves.
Coincidentally, all the cats cry out with fits of laughter and fall to the ground, over one another, breaking the circle, laughing still more. Jugs are passed around and they all take long gulps of purple-red liquid. “Wine! Whine[s11] !”they chant.
When a jug is emptied, it is tossed over the shoulder, usually breaking as it hits the ground, or another cat. When this happens, they all fall over in fits of laughter. They are all obviously drunk.
I fall back, against a nearby tree, mesmerized. Tears flow freely, as I see Emilia, a child drinking, in the form of a cat.
The cats pass large platters of fruits and layers and layers of meats and cheeses. Even at nine, I am shocked by the whole scene, the decadence of it all! If a platter falls, the cats rage again with laughter.
I see a very large tent over to one side of the clearing, and occasionally, a pair sometimes even a threesome, goes inside. Each time, The curtains are drawn and great howling screeches begin.
Then I notice, from out of the tent comes a large wolf! Very solemn. Very stern looking. He is a guard[s12] . He takes wood from a pile and throws it upon the fire. The fire hisses and burns ever brighter, sending burning cinders up into the air. They remind me of fairies dancing ever higher above the fire.
Instead of returning inside, he stands, still on his hind legs, with a large axe[s13] near his side. He scans the clearing, and I crunch down still further down out of sight, by the tree. Casually, he lifts his nose to the light breeze that has come up, and blows past him. The leaves whisper to him, ever so softly. They whisper, lightly, delicately a secret. The secret of my hidden scent. Without hesitation, his head turns and his eyes look directly to me, through me. His eyes pierce mine and I cannot move. I am frozen, in fear of being seen.
I whisper my own little secret beneath my held breath. “Please, Oh Heavenly Father[s14] , do not let him see me. Protect me so I can save my little Emilia. Protect me so I can get home safe.”
The guard removes his armored belt and bronzed helmet. Ever so gracefully, he drops to all fours, jumps the woodpile, and continues running to me. After me!
In terror I run! Away from Emilia. Away from the campfire. Tears still burning down my face. If only I had a weapon. After what seems like true and utter anguish from running, I look back. The wolf no longer follows me. I no longer see him.
Exhausted, I hide behind one of the many, many oaks. I hold on to the basket tight as if I am holding onto Momma.
Then suddenly without expectation it happened. The large yellow teeth clenched around my calf. The warmth of my blood trickled slowly, in thick little rivers, forming pools as it dripped from my ankle. It had come as I knew it would. As I lay helpless, too terrorized with fear to move, I watch, waiting praying for a miracle, a release from the pain. The large beast, fur matted with burrs, with caked on blood from previous killings, looks into my eyes. His large paw swings high into the air, his claws extended now, reaching outward. Like lightning, he will bring his claws to come down through me, my neck…

But this is not to be. For in all songs that are sung, for all invocations there is truth. Momma sang me stories of how pain can be brought down. I pull from Momma’s basket, the scissors I have used to cut the bloodroots. They are stained with the juice of bloodroot. I hold them tight in defense, in feigned defiance, a thinly veiled attempt at strength. He looks at me in amazement. Our thoughts become one. How can such a small child even bring him down or even bring him the smallest of pain? How could such a pair of shears even penetrate his thick burly fur? In his own arrogance, his own decadent behavior he releases me from the pain. He cocks his head back and laughs, HOWLS. A long winded guttural laugh and I smell his disgusting earthy scent of hot breath, musk, and decay. With a last look of ridicule, he brings down his whole body his teeth and jaws open wide to end my struggle. But my poor wolf, I have my own secret of sin for you. Your force and thrusts will never penetrate my fear. Not anymore. Embolden, I tighten, thrusting down the shears with my whole body and closing my eyes feeling them burn with tears as I feel the scissors hit…

I open my eyes, and my shears have struck him through his hind paw. He lifts up again, towering over me. He howls a wounded shriek of pain and suffering. The sound echoes through The Wood, a haunting and horrific sound of sorrow. He looks down at me in disbelief. In anger and destruction he lifts me up high over his head. I scream. Out of panic and fear I begin singing incessantly, one of Momma’s chant’s,
“You will bother me no longer for I am the stronger.
Your burly brawn is no match for Momma’s chant.
A pair of shears dipped in Bloodroot will cure the evilest of Oboroten!”
I end my chant, my invocation of my Romani people. My secret of sin has been revealed to him.
“End your suffering, and return to your natural form, I command you.”
His shock and disbelief turns to wounded defeat. He collapses bringing me down and I hit the back of my head on the oak that was my protector. I fall fall fall into the darkness of the night, into the darkness of my own unconscious…

The Devouring

The bell chimed once above the water fountain with the subtlest of dings. On occasion, a soft breeze blows tickling our feet as we dip them in the cool water of the fountain. Some of us sit and wade at the well and watering hole in the town square of Soros. Today is a good day. Momma and Papa have been asked to come to town, perhaps father will be able to play at a musical festival that is coming up. All of the Romani have been offered a chance to perform, and all of children wait around the fountain which is fed by the underground river of Hope. We decide to call it the Well of Hope. In recognition, the bell teases us by chiming twice in approval. We each make toasts then take drinks and laugh making wishes on dreams that will never come true. But of all the dreams and of all the children, my favorite is my David, with the dimpled smile. He is kind and generous to me. Momma has already told me that I am betrothed to him. I rarely get to see him but on occasion when the Romani come to town, he sees me and tells me when we are married he will read to me every day. His dark brown eyes are not intense or fierce. They are soft and tender and his straight wiry hair is not unusual. But his kindness is. Around the well we sit and wait talking about the wind of Hope that seems to want to drink from the well. I reach for the silver cup and pour the water out slowly so that the wind if hope can have a drink. I look down across the street to the edge of The Wood that does not end. Ding-Ding.
“Tsura do you know what your name means in Rom?”
I do but choose to see if my future husband does. Plus, I imagined momma giving me a sidewerds glance for not allowing my future husband to share with me. She would tell me I was being impolite.
“No. What does it mean?”
“It means light of the dawn. Perhaps someday we will watch the sun come up together.”
David is fourteen. Sometimes he speaks of our future but most times he is quiet. On rare occasions he says things that make me blush. Ding. Dong.
As the wind in town picks up, shopkeepers come out to close the shutters to their front windows to protect the glass. DING! DONG! They close their doors to keep the gust of winds from coming in. We wait for Momma who is going from shop to shop collecting anything the shopkeepers do not want. It is only sometimes a fruitful task. It is surprising how many things people do not want. Yet, even more surprising it is surprising how many things people do not want but do not want Momma to have either. She makes a silent list in her memory and returns to shops in the wee morning hours and usually the items, like a three-legged chair or a broken wheel of cheese that cannot be sold, are waiting for her in the trash like little gifts from the gnomes we read about in the schoolhouse of old Marm. Momma was of all things resourceful. Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong.!
I hold Emilia, who is fidgeting, either wanting up on me or down from me. and the other kids ten of us or so, are becoming impatient waiting for our parents, when I look past David. Then the curious eyes happen from The Wood. First, one pair, look upon us wild and wicked and wanting and hungry. Then there is another added to the pair of eyes. The dust and gravel of the roads are picked up by the winds and the foursquare of the streets show their signs of gold dusted winds. I look down each of the streets. It becomes too windy as the grains of gravel pelt us pricking us on our faces and getting in our eyes. I look again covering my eyes down to the Wood and at least a dozen pairs of eyes stare from The World of the Wood, dark and green. DING! DONG! DING! DONG! As the bell begins to clamor on, David takes Emilia as she begins to cry and I cover her face with my cardigan to protect her from the small grains of gravel. I recognize Momma is at the far end of the street the opposite of The Wood. The Wind continues to blow ever more, ever more, and then a sight of sickening scheme. From out of the Wood come Wolves large and grey, running towards us. They do not howl but run low to the ground down hiding the hazard they will soon be upon us. I call to David but his eyes are unaware he has begun to lower his head in the direction of the wolves and I am dumb stuck between running to Momma for protection or running to David and the wolves to protect my Emilia. Down another street Poppa has exited a shop holding his viola case and shaking a man’s hand. David covers Emilia’s head, I watch him begins to use his hand to rub his eyes and he begins to run for cover. The wind blows and the wolves get closer readying their attack. DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++=
CLANG CLANGCLANGCLANG Screams of the children from the wind that is scratching their faces and uncovered skin totally unaware the wolves are seconds from attacking.. I try to see and run to David and watch as the wolves attack in a flurry of dust and gravel. The bell on top of the well clangs beyond beat it has become one long brass percussion of sound. I am only a few yards from David but the wind holds me back as I trudge forward. He looks up dropping precious Emilia as a wolf jumps at him. My head swims with decisions, and all I can muster out is
POPPA! POPPA!
Momma is screaming going from shop door to shop door begging for help she has seen the wind storm that we have been caught in but it is blinding and hides the wolves Poppa hears Momma’s screams over the clambering of the bell. He begins to run against the wind running to Momma with his strength to understand why she is screaming for help. Unaware of the blatant attack of the wolves. As Poppa runs across the street he bypasses the townsquare unaware of the trouble we are in, he can not see us or hear my screams. The children are unable to leave the town square the wind is so strong we are all corralled in for the wolves to enter and do what they will. In the dust and the gravel and loud clambering of the never-ending sound of the bell I cannot see David any longer and there I decide I have to do something I look back to Momma and scream for help with all my heart and soul. The wind has reached its own percussion of sound, with gravel playing backbeat by way of hitting the roofs. And the incessant knocks of gravel against the bell. DING! DONG! ClingCLANGCLING. dingdong DANG DINGDONG………………The bell rips off the tower and takes flight high into the air. Poppa has almost made it to Momma. And I scream with all my might hoping they both might hear me. The wolves have their full assault of the children and I stand still hoping they will ignore me. Crying, I am screaming at Momma and Poppa I look thru the haze once to find either David or Emilia while the other kids are running away from the wolves. I look back at Momma and Poppa one last time when the bell comes back down hitting him hard in the head resonating with a off chord BONG. Poppa the strongest man I know is brought down by a musical instrument. Watching my father drop to the ground, my own eyes begin to roll to the back of my eyes as I fall back in full grand mal epileptic seizure. as I fall down I feel my weight hit what I believe to be a wolf., breaking my fall. In no time as I go into my seizure I can gather enough that he is planning on biting my neck.
===================================================================



I awake and the roots of the oak have me cradled between them like Momma’s arms around me. I look up and the night continues. In front of me, poking out from the ferns is the limb of elongated figure, motionless. Afraid to move, I stare out waiting, drained of my courage. In trepidation, I crawl from my cradle, the oak releasing me from her arms. I reach and feel through the ferns searching for life from the animal so desperate to give me death. My hand feels and finds the leg. Out of my own delicate nervousness I pull back my hand. In my haze I question myself. Perhaps, it is a fallen limb from the oak or a log long forgotten. I crawl closer again and in the darkness what do I see but a man naked, the deep midnight of green ferns outlines the white of his porcelain body. I push aside a fern and look upon his face covered in unkempt beard. I look down and his hairy chest trails down to his manhood. In my own appalled shyness I look away and my face begins to burn with embarrassment. I look up to his face again searching for any sign that he is still alive or that I am still in danger. But he does not move. Eyes closed his head is tilted down.
Then I remember my basket and the point of my journey. I remember my poor Emilia. I creep in the still of the night and soon the basket is back in my arm. In silence, I move back to the figure searching for my shears. Is he alive? Should I take the shears from his foot and pierce his heart?
I bend down at his foot and I begin to cry. I look down at this naked man dead at my expense. My tears fall easily upon his body and I bless him a soft prayer. In hopes his soul will go to Heaven. I grasp the shears and use my strength to pull them out. The wolf man does not move.
Before I can get up, this great figure of a man no longer a beast jumps up in shock ready to attack. He sees me and covers his naked body in shame. He pulls a few ferns and straps them into a makeshift covering for his loins.
“You have saved me for the moment I thank you. But what are you doing here? You have no idea the trouble you are causing yourself and all of Yourkind. You must leave immediately. Oh little one did you pray over me? Who do you worship?”
Well, God, of course, and my Lord Jesus Christ. I’m Tsura. You aren’t going to hurt me are you?
My name is Aduhm. And no, my child, I am not going to hurt you. But you are in grave danger. You must listen carefully, there is not much time. At any point that you were in The Wood did you cry out for the help of your…” and then he whispered “god?”
I don’t think so. Wait, I think I did when you were in your other shape and you looked at me back at the campfire. Wait! I have to go. I have to save my sister. She was in the pink and ivory party dress!”
“Child, listen to me.” He pulled Tsura close and held her by the shoulders. Once Tsura stopped moving Aduhm reached down and using his great strength pulled the shears from his foot. Tsura looked away again this time with feigned embarrassment. She was proud of taking down the beast.
“Yes you are a strong child. But you must listen, Tsura. You must leave this place. There is none of your religion here. There is only unreligion. Now run back to your home. I will continue on and try to find your sister, you mean the cats around the fire? One of them is your sister? No, that cannot be. Those are all Originals from the Land of Originals. If you are Yourkind then your sister must be Yourkind. It is impossible for her to be an Original. She can only be a descendent of an Original. Besides she is a cat? Have I missed so much? Aduhm catches himself. No child you must run out of The Wood. I am not the answer you seek. Nor was that campsite of animals. Sin has entered here and with your prayers said out loud Sin knows you are here now as well! She will send her minions to get rid of you. Aduhm reached up and grabbed in the air as many fireflies as he could. Do you have a container? Immediately, Tsura reached into her basket and retrieved some of the glass container that held strange herbs and seeds. “You came prepared, Little Star.” As Aduhm emptied the jars he refilled them with the fireflies. “My friends, will you help this little star shine brighter?” and the fireflies began to burn harder brighter. Tsura’s eyes were wide and now for the first time she could see more than outlines. In an instant she knew who this man was, his eyes still mesmerizing Tsura. His eyes now cast his upon Tsura’s face and then down to her necklace. “Oh child. Things might not be as bad as we think, huh? He pulled at the top of the acorn where the chord attached and unscrewed it from the body of the acorn. They separated and inside was of all things a compass. “You can use this to guide your way. Do not trust the moss growing on the north sides of the trees. They are not always right.
I need my belt, little one. And together they searched, eventually finding a wolf pelt fur belt that had a tail attached. Your bloodroot was my anecdote little one but you probably already knew that. My guess is you listen to your mother’s lullabies. Now run little girl there is much to be done. You have saved me from my own sin and now we can do what we can. It’s probably too late anyways so we might as well, leading Tsura he knelt down among the ferns. He grasped Tsura’s hands in his and he began,
Oh Father who art in Heaven hallowed be thy name thy kingdom come thy will be done On earth as it is in Heaven give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us…
With end of the prayer came the sound of shrieks from far off.
Now Tsura run to your home tell your Mother it is time and that I have sent you. She won’t be upset with you, Little Star. She recognizes I have been enslaved by my own sin. You must run quickly, and here take this tail that is attached to the belt little one. It will prove that you have taken down the Woodsman. But those are just folktales. I have so much to share with you, Tsura, but we don’t have the time. And with the –“
Before Aduhm could finish a large murder of shrieks came again and flew upon them faster than he anticipated. He jumped at Tsura and they landed on the ground underneath the tall ferns. Tsura’s body was pressed under Aduhm and she could feel the weight of his muscular chest and his entire body against hers. She felt trapped but safe as well. And she was pretty sure there were parts of Aduhm that she could feel that she should not be feeling. It was all too much for her to handle. He covered her head and held her tight, as the raven-like shrieks flew over. Eventually, they passed. “You are not my Father!” I could have handled that myself. Aduhm’s entire being changed. “I am so very sorry Little Star. Tsura, I would give my life to protect you.” Surely you have recognized what is happening and who I am?” Before Tsura could respond, Aduhm pushed Tsura in the chest forcing her back into the large hidden arms of Mother Oak. Aduhm lifted his arms spreading them out as far as he could. He began crying out “go home tell your mother it is the Seven who have allowed the Devouring. Remember to release the fireflies before they go completely dark in the vials. It is not for you or I to imprison creatures let alone bring them death. And do not pray aloud in the Wood. Sin can hear it and will send her minions. Then we are surely lost. And with that, two black shrieks feathers like crows came down upon him and picked Aduhm up carrying him off the white muslin of the apron covering his naked form. As he was lifted he dropped the jars of fireflies, dropping them upon his his fur belt which he inadvertently had left behind.

Once again Tsura was stunned. It all seemed so overwhelming. She picked up the long vial fireflies using it to guide herself in the dark. She picked up the belt, which she put in her basket.
Tsura could not decide what to do next. Run fast out of The Wood or try to run back to the campfire to attempt to save Emilia. What are the originals and what are Yourkind? She thought.

Road to Somewhere

The freezing rain had come down, one night after a previous snow fall that day. It left me with a sense of vacant loneliness. On the porch steps of my log cabin, I stared out across the fields hoping to see some sense of light or life, in this, a frightfully cold February night. Then I looked up to see the sky open up and the clouds of freezing rain pass over across the woods. The immediacy of the change was yet another example of nature in its awe-inspiring yet subtle form. It seemed so random but still somehow purposeful. As I watched, the sky revealed her white fabric of stars against the black velvet of the night. The Milky Way to me seemed so overwhelmingly vast. I wondered just how temporary am I in this universe? Winter had come full throttle as it usually did up here on the southern beaches of Lake Superior.
“Tim, come inside. I have soup ready and I thought we could watch Miss Marple. Do you want cheese on your soup?”
Mom, already knew that, yes, I would want cheese on anything. I had been up at the cabins with my mom for the weekend and already by Saturday night I was getting restless. It dawned on me that I must have cabin fever.
“Mom, I think I’m going to go into town for a drink.”
“Oh, Tim. It’s almost ten o’clock. It’s too late to do anything now. And the roads are terrible. What if you drive off the road? You’d be stuck in…”
Her reasons were sound, but I also knew my mom also had a tendency to be an alarmist. She usually chose the contrary route for me simply to have a sense of being needed. It was a complex loving mother son relationship yet not unlike any other one. Sometimes I gave in to her, most times I did not.
“I’ll be fine Mom. I just need some air.”
“Well, dress warm and please don’t speed.”
She was right. I had a very good track record of speeding tickets with the local authorities. I sped off leaving my mom alone for a few hours in this the middle of back country. Looking at my temperature gauge, I see that it is minus fifteen. A perfect night for a warm ride. Golden lit windows and black billowing smoke were behind me as I left. Soon I realized just how random I felt in this big country of north WI. I needed to feel some sense of belonging or any kind of interaction. At least there was bar in town that I could get a drink at, maybe meet some people and well who know what might happen on Saturday night. All this boondocks country can do major damage on your psyche when you are already questioning who you are and what your place is in the world.
Down High way Two I drove into the black void of the night. Only my headlights could evaporate the night, shedding its light twenty feet or so in front of me. I turned at the gas station, which was closed, as was the rest of town, and it felt so desolate and sad to me. Like a town barely trying to hold on to the concept of being called a town. I imagine a courtroom with a jury trying to depose Iron River as no longer being able to call itself a town. It would have to be called the “townette” of Iron River. Or maybe Iron Pyrite River for all the fools in this town.
I chuckle as I sped up to get to Duluth faster, surely there won’t be any police out this time of night in this cold, I thought. And after a few minutes, I have the car in its cozy warm little den on wheels. When it’s like this I can drive for hours. Heated seats are working, the heater is blowing out down by my feet fast and furious. And I’m swimming in my own relaxed state of warmth. There may be no moon tonight but I have grown accustom to driving this road I have driven so many times over the years. But it is always when things mundane occur that you should come to terms with your own mortality. In the quiet and alone, is when you can remove yourself from the judgment of others, idealized vanity of yourself and recognize who you actually are and who you want to be with the time you have left. Yes, assuredly, there is no better time to do this than when you are driving alone in the night.
Driving down the incessantly black winding road that led to eternity, I see something approaching. It is a long figure dressed in a black oil slick coat. He is carrying a box that is close to half his size. As I passed, I thought I saw a dark thin man carrying a dollhouse. I thought, this is something to tell Mom when I get home. I began fighting with myself deciding whether or not I should report this because it was so cold. Instead I turn around and take my chances at being a Good Samaritan. As I passed again I still cannot get a good visual on the dark and mysterious figure. I turn around once more and drive up to where I thought he would be. But in the blackest of nights, it is hard to find. As I slowly come to a halt, I honk and slowly I see the figure running towards the lights of a possible ride. I open the door and in jumps this little blonde girl straight from Heidi. Her hair is in braids and she cannot be any older than eight. Clearly, I am dumbfounded, but also overcome with fear for her safety. I ask her where she lives, and she tell me she has run away. I was correct that she was carrying a dollhouse. She had packed all her clothes in it and left.
“My dollhouse was getting so heavy. I just couldn’t carry it anymore.”
At this shocking statement of innocence, I moved too abruptly towards the heaters to make sure they were blowing on her hands which she had failed to cover. No gloves no mittens. She coward under fear of what I might do.
“What’s your name?” “My name is Tim. I swear I am not going to hurt you, I just want to get you home as fast as possible.”
She wouldn’t tell me her name which I decided was probably for the best. The sleeting rain came down again and I tried to asked where she lived, There in the car, was a frozen scared little girl and there in the car was a scared man, trying hard to be a hero to her but not really knowing how.
Eventually after twenty more miles down the line she told me to turn onto After Hours RD. Another ten or so miles and I knew where she lived. There were lights flashing from three police cars, an ambulance and a news media van. I was either going to be part of the problem or the solution. As soon as I stopped the car, this little hitchhiker tore out of the car up the front steps and into the arms of her mother. I got out and walked up hoping that nothing else had happened that I wasn’t aware of. Anders, the father saw me climbing the steps as I opened the door. The Sherriff was right there on my left and Anders came over almost running from the small living room, he tackled me and thanked me so much for finding his daughter. Then his wife came and hugged me. Both of them looked visibly shaken and pretty much ready to collapse. It will probably be the only time I would ever actually be able to read volumes in a man’s eyes. The way he looked at me I will never forget. The Sherriff took me outside and told me it was a simple matter of a runaway girl who really picked the wrong time to do it with the weather as bad as it was. He wondered really how much longer she would have been able to survive. He took some details of what happened and then told me I could leave. He also thanked me for being in the right place at the right time. He shook my hand and I gave him my business card in case he had any more questions from me.
I pulled into the driveway of my log cabin and this time when I got out and looked up to that beautiful random lit sky, it all came full circle. If I never become a success in my life or do anything more with it, I recognized it was my place, my moment, in this whole universe of time and space to cross paths with that little girl.

A Darkies Vanity

Thomas, dressed in his coachmans uniform, felt uncomfortable and strange that Aunt Jane would ask him to be included in this photograph. Aunt Jane told him she would be back from town and he was not to go with her as he usually did. It made him feel out of place as he waited in the drawing room with Beth. Thomas thought perhaps there was going to be guests arriving but began shaking when Beth came from the kitchen and served him tea. He watched as he then watched her serve the photographer tea. Thomas, bewildered, could not even contemplate why he would be served tea at all, let alone served before a guest. Thomas loved Beth with all his might. He longed to tell her how he felt, but a sense of propriety forbid him from any confessions. He remained quiet, which to him whenever he had questions seemed always the best choice to take.


Aunt Jane felt she was a woman of independant thought and means. Arriving back from town she worked with diligence to bring her boxes from town into the drawing room. Aunt Jane could not wait to tell Thomas her news. His news. Thomas had been in service as a houseboy for the Stewarts since he had been a small boy. He made a good keeper to her children as they grew and Aunt Jane had grown accustomed to his sense of dignity deciding to have him be her coachman when he became of age. So many years ago, but now he had grown into a fine young man. Aunt Jane had a gift of determined endearment. She was compelling to even the coldest stranger and this was not wasted on poor Thomas.
"Thomas, Do you know what today is? Today is your emmancipation. It is the day the Constitution has been ammended freeing you and all your kind."
Thomas dressed in his coachmans uniform looked to Aunt Jane perplexed not really understanding.
"Thomas! It means you no longer have to be in service to me or this household. You can go and find your way, or if you like you may stay on and continue to serve as my coachman. I have set up wages for you to earn and will be paid including room and board."
Thomas, felt his head spinning with excitemnet and emotion could not hold his eyes to Aunt Jane any longer. His comprehension came upon him fully of what this meant. Dressed in his coachman's uniform he had to turn away for fear of spilling over with pure zeal. He looked up and a beam of sunlight from yonder window caught his eyes and a sense of self and freedom set upon his being. With pride, he straightened his tie, looking to the future for himself.