FAR TOWN Critique by Robert L. Bacon

This is the second opening-chapter critique that I've posted on this new blog format of mine, which I plan to devote exclusively to opening-chapter evaluations.

This blog is offered as a real-time learning tool, and I encourage active participation.  And since writers like to also hear what others think of their work, please feel free to express your opinions.  To do so, click the word "comments" that appears at the end of each respective chapter's material, and a comment box will appear.  Also, feel free to ask any questions about my revision suggestions.  And if anyone would like to submit material for a free opening-chapter critique (up to 5000 words), please paste the narrative to the body of an e-mail (sorry, no attachments will be opened) and send it to theperfectwrite@aol.com.

Lead time varies, and I'll let you know after I receive your material when I think I'll be able to get to it.  And with each opening chapter I post, I'll only list the author's first name and first initial of the last name, or the phrase "Author's Name Withheld by Request."  I currently have a nice backlog of material with permission to post, and I plan to add a new chapter to the blog every Monday.  This way, each author's material will be the lead piece for an entire week.  Of course prior chapters and critiques can be viewed by clicking the archival links.  And any author can have his or her work removed at any time.

In the area of line editing, I try to do a good job of providing ideas that will improve a narrative.  The suggestions range from necessary to highly subjective.  But it must be noted that what I'm offering should not be assumed to deliver a draft in final form, and this is why I refer to my line editing that accompanies these first-chapter critiques as cursory.  My primary goal is to advance ideas to strengthen the story and point out situations that an author might've overlooked, whereas an in-depth line-edit may indeed be more expansive.

What follows is the next opening chapter for this blog, with my critique and line edit.
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FAR TOWN 1^st Chapter Critique

By Robert L. Bacon

November 9, 2010

Hello Ellyn,

Because I was so enamored with your writing, I read your material twice.  You're making a difficult subject (or, to be more appropriate, several) enjoyable to read, and this is generally not the case when I look at commercial fiction and a lead character who's conflicted.  In many instances the writing can be quite good, but I too often find I'm turning pages that seem to weigh ten pounds each.

If the remainder of your narrative follows the opening, my position is that you've conquered the single most important criterion for a literary novel to be successful, and this is creating a redemptive character.  With Marnie, I think of Ginny in A THOUSAND ACRES.  (And your work indeed could be viewed as literary fiction as well as commercial fiction.  These distinctions are often quite blurred, but it's a nice problem to have.) 

I immediately liked Marnie, and my reason is because I can identify with her in many ways.  And I think most people will too.  Life isn't fair, but Marnie isn't going to give up or compromise her principles or ideals because she's been hit with several low blows, even though it's obvious she'd like to throw a few punches even lower.  All of us get this way at times (or at least everyone I've ever met), and the way you're setting up her character is terrific.

Your writing is crisp and the prose flows smoothly.  I have some issues with word repetition (which I'll address shortly), and the use of certain words with respect to the context in which they were placed.  And I want to make a few punctuation suggestions.  My contentions will be illustrated when you look at my cursory line edit of your first 3 pages, but overall I found your opening to be one of the best pieces of unpublished work I've read in a long time.  I'd very much like to read the entire story when it's completed.

Now I want to make a comment about repeating words, such as "butt."  Since "butt" of course sounds the same as "but," this makes the word even that much more problematic to get away with.  And I've found that repeating a word for effect is iffy at best.  It can work, but more often than not the cuteness of the technique wears off in a hurry and tends to grate on the reader.  

Additionally, please look at how I reconciled some of the verb tenses so everything is consistent.  And you may want to consider shortening some of your paragraphs as I have done.  You might not approve of the particular location for the breaks I chose, but I strongly suggest always using shorter rather than longer paragraphs when possible.  You'll have a much easier time selling your book.  I also want to mention the use of the phrase I had the clout to take it.  It didn't work for me in its original context, so I offered a substitute phrase and a revision of the overall "spoils" syntax. 

Every editor I know who is worth anything tells his or her clients that editing is often highly subjective, and I'm stating this loud and clear.  So with the aforementioned disclaimer out of the way, ha ha, here is my cursory line-edit of the first 3 pages of your text after I double spaced it, and with a non-annotated draft following it for easy comparison.  Certainly, a lot of what I provided is indeed most subjective, but I hope you will find that some of my suggestions might enhance your narrative.
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FAR TOWN, By Ellyn Z

Chapter One                                                                                       

            There are times in the life of a social worker where when your very butt is on the line.  Butt saving And while saving one's behind is an art form, and part of the landscape in my line of work, but there is a balance to it.  You can save watch someone else’s butt back a million times, and they can save yours, but if it was not your turn, your butt's you're going down and you will get royally reamed drilled in a most uncharitable way of ways, deserved or not.  Take it from me, Marnie McArdle, the queen of reamed.
            I was glad to take the fall, let some of and let my subordinates eat up the glory keep the spoils of what would've been my glory.  There was plenty of glory to go around, and I had the clout to take it. resolve to absorb the hit.  I was skilled.  My personnel file was thick, mostly letters of commendation.  The reaming , and the rebukes never landed in the official record because my statistics were good.   The front office brass loved my stats.  They The data measured everything from the budget to the number of placements I made, along with the drop-out rates of foster children, kids in special education,  hospitalizations, and of course deaths--but that’s another story.  Just look at my county evaluations over the past twenty or so years.  They always stated:  Exceeds Expectations!
             But sometimes, my job at The Department of Children and Families (DCF) was the home of a good cop - bad cop mentality.  I’d get screamed at by my boss for not telling the executive director some useless piece of information, like where a child had spent the night or how money got into the hands of a homeless parent, information knowledge that I’d supposedly withheld, again butt saving, and then the boss man main man would waltz in and make nice so I wouldn’t quit.  Then the next day I’d be spewing the same shit to some underling as she gulped an apology.

            All I ever hoped for was to mold some of them into decent social workers like me.  I could step in and sooth a worried four-year-old and or put a wayward teen in his place.  The next day Right afterwards I would be chairing a fundraiser, or getting an award for righting a social ill, fixing some problem or another.  I’d be and  rubbing elbows with the mayor and the friggin’ governor. with our   My picture would be with theirs on the front page of The Eastfield Observer, and I'd be feeling like some kind of hero.  Suffice it to  However, it's suffice to say that the last time I made the paper it wasn’t good.   

                        .                                    .                                     .

I dressed carefully.  I took out my gray suit, pale pink blouse, black pumps and a single strand of pearls.  It was fall and the suit was a little too springy, but it was the only outfit that fit me.  The skirt was a little loose, my diet consisting mostly of liquid this past month, so I pinned it at the waist and with the jacket on, it wasn’t all that noticeable.  This interview needed to work, and though I tend to be much more comfortable in cottons, I went for professional.  I was down to my last unemployment check, my bank account was a wreck, and if I didn’t get work soon I’ll be homeless.  Well Okay, maybe not homeless, but it is much harder to find a job when after you’ve been fired.  I knew that well.

My Ford still started most mornings and had miraculously survived the summer.  Not too much rust, even although the side was a bit crumpled where in the section where I grazed a guard rail rounding a corner on the highway, dodging the dreaded D.U.I.   I made a mental note not to ever never to drive while intoxicated again.  Scratch that.  I strengthened my resolve not to imbibe at all.  I nursed the old girl along with gallons of water and coolant to keep her from overheating, but I finally had to replace the water pump, another hit to my dwindling savings.  She delivered me to nineteen 19 fruitless interviews.  I called her Shannon.  She was a Kerry-green station wagon, a strange choice for a woman without kids, but like most everything I owned at the time, a bargain.
            I scratched at my waistline where the pin was starting to chafe me and laid the jacket neatly on the back seat, covering the indentations where the car seats had been.  I had to be ready to transport children on at a moment’s notice when I was working at DCF, so the car seats were a must.  I since have turned them back in to the county.  That part I was glad about.  Me  Driving around in a station wagon with baby car seats for babies in it hardly helped my single image.  I swore I will would invest in a new vehicle as soon as I was working, maybe a sports car.
             My pink blouse was made of silk.  I got it from the Goodwill store downtown.  No one would ever know.  It looked brand new.  Goodwill took had taken over the W. T. Grant building where I worked part-time in my teens.  The blouse was a DKNY and I was sure certain someone had paid good money for  the piece garment before it landed on the five-dollar rack.  The top was probably the nicest thing I owned, clothes-wise.  It felt However, it was soft and slippery against my skin but the sheerness and threatened to expose more than I want desired to show.  I didn’t want to appear too racy in for an interview.  Well, maybe I did want to show off a little bit. Still, I decided to keep the carry the jacket, whether I wore it or not.,
           I wind had wound my wet hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck, wear worn my glasses instead of contacts, and I had to admit, I looked pretty sharp yet business-like.  I know I am I'm hot, but this time I'll I decided to start out professional, and if that’s not working didn't work, I will I could  definitely use my formidable assets to turn it around.  I hoped prayed the interviewer is would be a male.
             “Good news.  I'd received good news before I left for the interview.  The unemployment office let me know that they My unemployment benefits would be extended my check for another month, which meant they will the agency would continue to post job opportunities in on my on-line to my folder.  Now This meant I’ve been I'd be gifted with more chances to get kicked in the teeth by big wigs some jerk with nothing better to do than say no.  I threw had thrown the “no” rejection letters that were collecting on my kitchen counter into the fireplace, but with the Indian summer upon us, it was too hot to start a fire to burn them.

Chapter One with 1^st Three Pages Revised

            There are times in the life of a social worker when your very butt is on the line.  And while saving one's behind is an art form, and part of the landscape in my line of work, there is a balance to it.  You can watch someone else’s back a million times, and they can yours, but if it was not your turn, you're going down and you will get royally drilled in a most uncharitable of ways, deserved or not.  Take it from me, Marnie McArdle, the queen of reamed.
             I was glad to take the fall and let my subordinates keep the spoils of what would've been my glory.  There was plenty to go around, and I had the resolve to absorb the hit.  I was skilled.  My personnel file was thick, mostly letters of commendation, and any rebukes never landed in the official record because my statistics were good.  The front-office brass loved my stats.  The data measured everything from the budget to the number of placements I made, along with the drop-out rates of foster children, kids in special education, hospitalizations, and of course deaths--but that’s another story.  Just look at my County Evaluations over the past twenty or so years.  They always stated this:  Exceeds Expectations!
             But sometimes my job at The Department of Children and Families (DCF) was the home of  a good cop/bad cop mentality.  I’d get screamed at by my boss for not telling the executive director some useless information, like where a child had spent the night or how money got into the hands of a homeless parent, knowledge that I’d supposedly withheld, and then the main man would waltz in and make nice so I wouldn’t quit.  But the next day I’d be spewing the same shit to some underling as she gulped an apology.
              All I ever hoped for was to mold some of them into decent social workers like me.  I could step in and sooth a worried four-year-old or put a wayward teen in his place.  Or I would be chairing a fundraiser, getting an award for righting a social ill, or rubbing elbows with the mayor and the friggin’ governor, with my picture alongside theirs on the front page of The Eastfield Observer, and I'd be feeling like some kind of hero.  However, it's suffice to say that the last time I made the paper it wasn’t good.   

             .                                               .                                               .

I dressed carefully.  I took out my gray suit, pale pink blouse, black pumps, and a single strand of pearls.  It was fall and the suit was a little too spring-like, but it was the only outfit that fit me.  The skirt was somewhat loose, my diet consisting mostly of liquid this past month, so I pinned it at the waist, and with the jacket on it wasn’t all that noticeable.  This interview needed to work, and though   I tend to be much more comfortable in cottons, I went for professional.  I was down to my last unemployment check, my bank account was a wreck, and if I didn’t get work soon I’ll be homeless.  Okay, maybe not homeless, but it's much harder to find a job after you’ve been fired.  I knew that well.
             My Ford still started most mornings and had miraculously survived the summer.  Not too much rust, although a side panel was a bit crumpled where I'd grazed a guard rail rounding a corner on the highway, dodging the dreaded D.U.I.  I made a mental note never to drive while intoxicated again.  Scratch that.  I strengthened my resolve not to imbibe at all.  I nursed the old girl along with gallons of water and coolant to keep her from overheating, but I finally had to replace the water pump, another hit to my dwindling savings.  She delivered me to 19 fruitless interviews.  I called her Shannon.  She was a Kerry-green station wagon, a strange choice for a woman without kids, but like most everything I owned at the time, a bargain.
             I scratched at my waistline where the pin was starting to chafe me and laid the jacket neatly on the back seat, covering the indentations where the child seats had been.  I had needed to be ready to transport children at a moment’s notice when I was working at DCF, so the special seats were a must.  I since have turned them back in to the County.  That part I was glad about.  Driving around in a station wagon with car seats for babies hardly helped my single image.  I swore I  would invest in a new vehicle as soon as I was working, maybe a sports car.
            My pink blouse was made of silk.  I got it from the Goodwill store downtown.  No one would ever know.  It looked brand new.  Goodwill had taken over the W. T. Grant building where I worked part-time in my teens.  The blouse was a DKNY, and someone had paid good money for the garment before it landed on the five-dollar rack.  The top was probably the nicest thing I owned, clothes-wise.  However, it was soft and slippery against my skin and threatened to expose more than I desired to show.
              I know I'm hot, but this time I had decided to start out professional, and if that didn't work, I could use my formidable assets to turn it around.  I prayed the interviewer would be a “he."  Yet even if it was, I didn’t want to appear too racy for the interview.  Well, maybe I did want to show off a little bit.  I had wound my wet hair into a tight bun at the nape of my neck, worn my glasses instead of contacts, and I had to admit I looked sharp yet business-like.  I decided to carry the jacket whether I wore it or not.
             I'd received good news before I left for the interview.  My unemployment benefits would be extended for another month, which meant the agency would continue to post job opportunities on-line to my folder.  This meant I'd be gifted with more chances to get kicked in the teeth by some jerk with nothing better to do than say no.  I had thrown the rejection letters that were collecting on my kitchen counter into the fireplace, but with Indian summer upon us, it was too hot to start a blaze and burn them.  This week alone, three more of those despicable missives had arrived.  I hadn't bothered to open them.  If some agency wanted me, I would have to be called.

         

MY NAME IS ELIZABETH Critique by Robert L. Bacon

This is the very first of the opening-chapter critiques that I'll be posting to this new blog format.  It's going to take a little time to get the kinks out of everything, especially since I receive drafts in a wide variety of configurations, and everything doesn't always set up as I would like.

While I'm on aesthetics, the most obvious thing about this blog is that it's as spartan as one can get.  I'm interested in providing the easiest to read environment I can come up with, hence there is no exotic shading or anything else to influence what's on the page.  And when I revise text on a draft, I'll use a strikethrough, a simple yellow highlight to draw attention to my modification, or both.

This blog is offered as a real-time learning tool, and I want to encourage active participation.  Please add your comments (currently to do this you'll have to click the word "comments" that appears at the end of each respective chapter's material), and also feel free to ask any questions about my revision suggestions.  And if anyone would like to submit material for a free opening-chapter critique (up to 5000 words), please paste the narrative to the body of an e-mail (sorry, no attachments will be opened) and send it to theperfectwrite@aol.com.

Lead time varies, and I'll let you know after I receive your material when I think I'll be able to get to it.  And with each opening chapter that I post, I'll only list the author's first name and first initial of the last name, or the phrase "Author's Name Withheld by Request."

Here is my critique of an opening chapter that was requested last week by a wonderful lady who participated in one my creative writing workshop series a couple of years ago which was sponsored by the Palm Beach County Library System.  The narrative, which includes my cursory line edit of the first ten pages, follows the critique.
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MY NAME IS ELIZABETH, by Elizabeth S.

1^st Chapter Critique by Robert L. Bacon

November 7, 2010

Hello Elizabeth,

I was very pleased to hear from you again, and I was delighted to review your first chapter of MY NAME IS ELIZABETH.  When you submitted a draft of an opening to this story a while back in the writing contest that Scott Eyman, the literary critic for the Palm Beach Post, was so gracious to judge for me, I felt the 1^st Runner-up Award you received was most justified.  And the way this book has shaped up confirms both our regards for your skill at writing beautiful prose.  Your hand is a joy to read.

You'll notice I made a few suggestions (via strikethroughs and text highlighted in yellow) related to repeated words too close to one another, phrases I felt were superfluous, a verb tense here or there I thought needed to be reconciled, and a few other minor syntax issues, but overall I found the piece to be solidly written.  Since you were an ex-workshop participant of mine, you'll also see that I went ahead and provided a cursory line edit of the first ten pages and not my usual modus operandi of three. 

From a purely developmental perspective, here are some issues I think you might wish to consider:  In writing literature, there are many advantages with respect to the leeway the genre enables, but a family history in itself, while interesting, is generally not enough to sell a story.  You will still have to create a hook by establishing powerful conflict as early as possible in the narrative.  Sadie being rude and standoffish at the reception sets the scene, but I think in the eyes of the reader nothing really occurs to rattle Elizabeth to the point of her demanding to leave the reception.  For this chapter to have bite, and a hook for the story, in my opinion the following section of interior monologue should also be shown and not told:  My presence was causing a stir on the part of both of my aunts, one hostile--and the other seeming to be friendly, but was she? 

Elizabeth also needs to feel more of Sadie's venom directly.  Just rushing through the room carrying a tray of sandwiches is not scary to most people.  She needs to drop the tray (a heavy one) on someone or hit a person with it with obvious malicious intent.  And if Elizabeth thinks Annette has an ulterior opinion, this needs grounding, because thus far she has been nothing but conciliatory. 

The idea of writing your narrative in backstory will be effective as long as you transition what has happened or ultimately occurs at the wedding reception.  Since I'm assuming your story continues to relate the deep fabric of the family's history, this of course is the perfect vehicle from which to work.

However, the reasons behind the actions of the characters at the wedding reception will have to be well understood by the reader, and this will of course be based on the developmental arcs you create.  And, as I related in the preceding paragraph, the way you transition them.  You've still got some work ahead of you, but I feel you're very much on the right track.

On another topic, I want to ask if you'd be amenable to breaking this opening chapter into several.  My suggestion is to do this at the "year" breaks and the section that begins "Grandfather and Grandmother."  As written, at almost 5000 words, this single chapter is a lot to handle in one gulp.

And from the perspective of cosmetics, when you're ready to submit to an agent or publisher, you're going to want to format your manuscript with double-spaced lines (and not single spacing and leaving an extra space after each paragraph as with what you sent me) and indent your paragraphs a few more spaces.  I went ahead and set this up in the first ten pages.  And in addition to this, you will want to provide a header at the top of each page (after the title page) that looks something like this:

Steele-1

My Name is Elizabeth

As an addendum to what you'll see in the line edit, here are a couple of additional ideas I noticed from your opening that you might want to consider:  On page 4, to maintain your style, and since you're writing this story in past tense, I only changed the verbs, as follows:

         Everything now appeared to be the same as before.  The large walnut ornate furniture is was the same.  The hooked and cotton braided rugs on the wide wood plank floors is were the same.  The books in Granny’s library in the front hallway are were the same.  However, here's another way to write this that still retains your style, but you might want to consider because it eliminates repeating the word "same":  Everything appeared to be the same as before.  The large walnut ornate furniture, the hooked and cotton braided rugs on the wide wood plank floors, the books in Granny’s library in the front hallway, nothing had changed.

On page 9, I believe your introduce Emily and Martha for the first time.  I'm assuming they were sisters, but I suggest you identify their relationship to Elizabeth for the reader so there is no question.

Again, thank you for providing the opening to MY NAME IS ELIZABETH, and here is your draft with my suggested revisions to the text:

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 THE WEDDING RECEPTION

          The invitation came with news that Cousin’s wedding was to be in Winchester, with a reception at Sunnyside Farm.  I took the invitation from Mother’s hand and turned to face Father.  “Sunnyside Farm will always be Granny’s place,” I said.

         Granny had promised Father the red brick house and 500 acre Kentucky farm would be his, but that wasn’t what happened.  He believed his sisters, Sadie and Annette, had forced his mother, when she was in their care, to change her will.

        “If they want it that bad, they can have it!” he had said.  He left Sunnyside Farm that day and never went back.  Father said Sadie was evil.  When they were children, she hit him in the head with a brick and knocked him unconscious.  He said she killed her husband.  The story was told that Father had caught her in a compromising position with her soon-to-be husband, made her marry, and she hated him for it.  It wasn’t what Sadie wanted.

        After Granny’s will was read and before Father left, he said to her, “If anything happens to Annette, I’ll be back!”

                                   

         Granny’s father, Roger Jones, built the Greek Revival home in the early 1800s.  I hadn’t been to the big house, as we sometimes called it, since Granny died in 1949.

 Page 2

        The day of Cousin’s wedding came.  It was the summer of 1951, and my husband, Gordon, and I drove to Winchester from Lexington.  We made it just in time to be seated before the wedding procession began.  At the end of the ceremony, we made our way out through the crowd and headed for Granny’s home in the country.
         It was nearly dark when we arrived at the stone gate entrance that Father had so lovingly built.  We drove slow on the gravel driveway toward the house.  For me, it was the past I no longer was a part of and it seemed unreal.

         In the dim light, I could see the big square hole in the ground on my right, just inside the gate, from where dirt was taken to make bricks to build the house so many years before.  The bottom and sides of the hole were covered with bluegrass.  I remembered a wood-covered pit at the bottom.  My brother and I, as curious children, lifted the wood cover and saw what looked like hundreds of snakes at the bottom.  I ran away and never went near it again.

        The parking attendant motioned with his flashlight beam to the spot where he wanted our car parked.  As I stepped onto the grass, I was greeted by a warm and familiar voice.  “Lau-se mercy!  Miss Betty!  Is tha you?  You done come home!  Lau-se mercy!”  “Miss Betty done come home!” 

        It was John Bosley.  I could barely see his face, but I knew his voice.  When he spoke, I could see his white hair as he waved his flashlight from side to side.  He was slender still and of medium height, but now an old man.

Page 3

       “Yes, John.  It’s Miss Betty.”

        John Bosley had worked around the farm probably most of his life.  He and Father grew together there.  He had his own home property near Granny’s, probably the same home and acreage given to his family at the end of The War Between The States.
         Gordon and I walked on the long moss-covered brick walk pathway leading from the driveway to the front of the house.  There, at the open door, was the other John, dressed in tails, with white gloves.  He was tall and straight, the more polished of the farm help.  I don’t remember him being around much.  I think he drove Granny to church, where she taught a class on Sunday mornings.
         Gordon and I stepped into the hallway, and instantly, my aunt Sadie was there to greet us.  “I’m so glad you came,” she said.
         I introduced Gordon to her.  He said, "I'm glad to meet you," but she must have realized who we were.

         I introduced Gordon to her, even though I was certain she knew his name. 

        "I'm glad to meet you," he said, smiling at her.
        “I’m sure you are!”  If there had been a gun in her hand, it would not have been more menacing than the tone of her voice.  Gordon and I were stunned.  I could see Gordon was stunned.  I froze. 
        Sadie brushed by us, went into the parlor, and was soon back in the hall where she motioned for the wedding party to follow her.  She locked the parlor door behind her and then led the way through the back hallway to the dining room.
        She was soon back and making quite a scene as she flew in and out of the room much like a witch, I thought, on a broomstick.  I was still standing ill at ease in the hallway at the front door when Annette

Page 4

walked over, placed her hand on my arm and asked me if I’d like to go upstairs.  Gordon saw his second-grade teacher and assured me he would be fine.  As I started up the long flight of stairs, I felt like a child again, climbing the stairs them as I had done so many times before.

         As I stood in that room, now nearly a decade later, it seemed like an eternity since I was a scared child in that big bed, listening to the wind blowing through the trees, and the shutters rattling on the outside wall.  The night seemed to never pass at such times, with daylight always far in the distance. 

        Everything now appeared to be the same as before.  The large walnut ornate furniture is was the same.  The hooked and cotton braided rugs on the wide wood plank floors is were the same.  The books in Granny’s library in the front hallway are were the same.
        I started down the stairs and saw Annette waiting for me.  “Do you feel you are home now, Betty?” she asked as I stepped down to the hall I made my way to where she was standing, and she took my hand and led me to the dining room where Sadie had taken the receiving line.
       On our way to the back hall and on to the dining room, we  We walked through the room where Granny had spent most of her time.  I knew all eyes were on me. as I made my way. through the room.  It seemed eerie.  I could see there were country neighbors and some members from The Hunt Club, but I didn’t stop to speak to anyone.  I glanced at Gordon, was encouraged by his smile, and relieved to see he had found a friend and seemed to be enjoying himself.

Page 5

      Sadie’s mean spirited and deranged manner was worsening.  She was in and out of the room as though she was greatly agitated with my being there.  As I made my way through the receiving line, I felt a chill from Cousin.  I imagined she would rather I had not been there.  My presence was causing a stir on the part of both of my aunts, one hostile--and the other seeming to be friendly, but was she?
       Annette pulled a chair out and set it in the middle of the dining room and told me to sit down.  She then proceeded to serve cake and punch to me.  As she did, Sadie again rushed through the room carrying a tray of sandwiches.  It was embarrassing and scary.  The concept of danger was very much on my mind and I suddenly wanted to leave.  Panic-stricken, I got up and said, “We have to go!” 

       “Don’t go, Betty!”  Annette insisted, but I pressed on.
       “We have to go!”  I left the dining room and found Gordon in Granny’s room.  “Let’s go!”  I said, as I hurried past him and on through the room.  I got my coat from the upstairs room, where I had left it, ran down the long stairway, and we left.

Rural America in 1938

      When I was a youngster, Father asked, “Child, do you see the difference in people?”  He was driving past a dozen cottages set on a hillside.  There was a bridge at the bottom of the hill and a creek that ran alongside the road.  A gravel path led up the hill from the road or “the pike,” as it was more often called.

      Some of the houses were freshly painted while others were dirty with things strewn around the yard – the kind of mess most people wouldn’t want to live near.  I could see that class may have something to do with tender loving care and hard work.

Page 6

       The community store had offered paint for the owners in the hope they would take an interest in the preservation and beautification of their homes, but not all had taken advantage of the offer.  It was easy to see people are different.

      During those early years in my life, I lived in the country with my parents, two sisters and two brothers – one the oldest and one the youngest of the five children.  Our cottage was a short distance from Granny’s home, where Father was born and raised.      

       His father, along with an uncle, was killed when a train hit his carriage during a snowstorm in 1903.   Father spoke of that night, and how he stood at the window watching the snow falling, when he heard the horses and the men coming with news of his father’s death.   He was only seven years old, but he was to become the man in the family with his mother and three sisters to eventually be responsible for.
       Father’s Uncle Will, in Honolulu, made arrangements for he and Granny to go to Honolulu there for a visit.   Uncle Will managed a ranch on the big island, Monakia, in Hawaii.   He and Granny’s sister, Aunt Lizzie, lived on the ranch part of the time and in Honolulu part of the time. 

       Using some of the money she received from the railroad, Granny put the girls in boarding school, closed the family home, and she and my father took passage to Honolulu to be with Granny’s sisters, Lizzie and Mattie. 

       Mattie had met and married the Hawaiian Royal Family’s veterinarian when he came to Kentucky to buy horses.  And, that was how the family happened to be in Honolulu.  Father stayed on the ranch at Monakia, and Granny stayed in Honolulu with his Aunt Mattie and Uncle Roger.

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       After two years, Two years later, she and Father returned to Kentucky.  Fortunately, the 1906 San Francisco earthquake occurred after their return.  After school at When he finished Baker Mell College in Knoxville, Tennessee, and Maryville College, in Maryville, Tennessee, Father returned home to take responsibility of the farming business and of his mother and sisters. 

       He played polo, trained horses and raced them in harness racing at Keeneland Race Track in Lexington.  He and his sister, Sadie, had a reputation for playing a serious game of tennis. He supported the country church, as was superintendent of Sunday School, and arranged social outings for church members and others in the community.             

       At the age of 35 years, much to his mother and sisters’ consternation, Father married my mother.   He had seen Mother on the a train as she was going to school at the University in Lexington. and He determined he would marry her, which he did in August of 1924.   

       He built a cottage down the pike, near Granny’s home, on land given to him by his Uncle Tom.  He gave up the life he had before, turned to full time farming, and he and Mother settled down to raise a family. 
       Mother heard Granny say, “They are having babies like rabbits!” 

       Mother had studied Home Economics at the University.  Fortunately for both of them, and for us, she was a good manager.  They didn’t have money, but they had a lot of love and they worked hard to keep us all fed and warm.  Mother and  Father may have hoped they would be invited to move their family into the big house, but it didn’t happen.

       They met early each morning in the kitchen and Father gave Mother instructions on how he wanted the house to be run.  She carried out his wishes.  He didn’t believe in spanking, but Mother kept a switch on the

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mantel all the same.  I don’t remember that it was ever used; our life was too structured for anyone to have an opportunity to need it.

       Father taught us proper riding skills.  He read to us when we were children, and later, he rolled the rugs up in the living room and taught us to dance, even before dancing school.  It was Father we had fun with, but it was Mother who made it all work.  

        Whenever one of us would mention something other children had, Mother would say, “But you have things they don’t have.” 

        We had our ponies, our swings, our see-saw, sand box, and we had each other.  We believed her and felt blessed.  It was the depression years Depression and people didn’t have money for spending.  In fact, most people didn’t have money for many years.  Mother raised and canned all kinds of vegetables and fruit.  She raised chickens to have eggs and chicken to eat.   

        Father raised beef, sheep, and hogs.  We were well fed, but my parents worked hard, year after year, to make it happen.  There wasn’t any time off.  The animals had to be tended to and the crops had to be sown and harvested.

       Mother’s uncle had left a farm for her use, but in the name of us children.  As guardian, she had to appear in court each year to prove income from the land was used for her children.  It was set up to keep my father and Granny from making any claim to it for farm expenses and to ensure she had what she needed for her children. 

       There was income from the tobacco crop on the children’s land which Mother used for our clothes, school lunches, and miscellaneous expenses.  She sold eggs to pay for our piano lessons.  Twice a year, she took each of us, individually, to Lexington to shop for a new wardrobe.  We didn’t shop between

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seasons and we didn’t wear hand-me-downs.  We girls were not allowed to wear pants, other than our riding jodhpurs.  For special events, Mother made use of her foot-pedal sewing machine.  She was an energetic and talented woman with a lot of love.             

       Granny’s home had a furnace in the cellar that heated part of the house.  There was a fireplace in every room and a cistern that provided running water for the kitchen and bathrooms.  Father closed the house for her each fall, and her brother, Dr. Tom, arranged and paid her expenses to spend the winter months in Miami. 

       In our little home, we had a fireplace in the living room, where Emily slept, and a heater in the dining room where Martha and I slept on a pullout sofa.  There was a coal stove in the kitchen, no heat in my two brothers’ room, or in my parents’ room, and the plumbing in the bathroom froze during every deep freeze
      Even so, Mother and Father somehow managed to keep us warm and well. 

      We didn’t go to the doctor when we got sick.  Mother knew what to do for us.   She had Vicks VapoRub, Castoria, and Castor Oil.  I didn’t mind the Vicks, but after one time with Castor Oil, I decided if I ever got sick again, no one would know about it, certainly not my mother.   In those days, most people knew how to take care of themselves, and they must have done a good job of it for most of the ones because many of the people I knew lived to be 90 plus years.  

       It was 1939.  The spring showers and spring flowers were a welcome sight at our house.  The crocuses and daffodils were coming through the ground.  The forsythia and the fruit trees were all in full bloom.  The iris and peonies – everything was beautiful!

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       Mother had ordered seeds to sow in the garden and she couldn’t wait to get started.  Father brought the tractor to turn the soil and prepare the rows.  Our garden would soon have fresh vegetables for our table and for canning.     

       One day in early summer, as Mother was leaving to take my two sisters to their piano lessons, I cried, “I want to go too!”  

       She picked up the basket of eggs she had gathered that morning, to take as payment for the lessons.  She didn’t want to be late and was not happy with me for crying. , and the tone of her voice told me that my behavior was out of line.  “You don’t know how lucky you are to be here!” She said.
        I had heard the story that Father’s sister, Sadie, had pleaded with her to go to town and get “it” taken care of.   I was sure, at that moment, she wished she had, but I continued to cry anyway.  “I want to go too!” 

        It wasn’t too late for her to change her mind, even though I knew Mother knew exactly what she was doing and I didn’t actually have any reason to believe she would change her mind.  She added, as she was preparing to leave, “I had all my babies!”

        I knew my mother loved me and I felt sorry for her.  I could see her life was not easy, even though she managed to make it seem so.  I settled down at the kitchen table with my coloring book and Black Lilly began washing dishes at the sink. 
       “There are sandwiches and milk for your and Miss Betty’s lunch,” Mother said.

        Emily and Martha each took a handle on the big basket of laundry, to be left at the laundry in town, and put it in the car.   They were ready to go.   

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    As Mother left, she turned to remind Lilly to lock the door.  Whether Lilly forgot about the door or not, it was not locked and soon after mother and my sisters left in the car, a Black man I hadn’t seen before, opened the porch door and walked into the kitchen.  By the look on Lilly’s face, I knew she was badly frightened.

    “What are you doing here!”  she screamed.
     I don’t remember anything about what happened there that day, but there was quite a stir when mother returned home.  Lilly was let go and there was a line of applicants in the backyard the next morning to replace her. 

Grandmother and Grandfather

    I was five years old at the time.  I was taken to Grandmother and Grandfather’s home, where I stayed for the rest of the summer.  Mother’s parents lived quietly and simply, much like Quakers, growing most of their own food and not wanting to be bothered with the affairs of the world.  It was peaceful and safe there.  Their small cottage had a gable and front porch that set high on a hill overlooking the road below.

    I loved visiting Grandmother and Grandfather.  I loved their flower gardens, the long rows of vegetables in the vegetable garden, the fruit trees – my favorite being the apple tree in the lower front yard.  We children all liked to climb the apple tree and sit at the top or as far up as we could get, and sit there with our own thoughts and eat an apple. 

    When Martha or my cousin was there, Grandmother would make a picnic lunch and Grandfather would take us all fishing at a lake near their home.  Grandfather had a

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wooden rowboat that he kept there.  We children laughed at Grandfather because he was afraid we would fall out of the boat.    He kept saying, “You children sit still!”  And, “Be quiet or you’ll scare the fish away!”  

    I don’t know that it occurred to us, as children, that we couldn’t swim.  This visit to the little house high on the hill, though, was special.  It was just for me alone.  At the end of each day, after the evening meal, I sat in a big white rocking chair on the front porch.  Grandfather, in his rocking chair sat on one side of me, and Grandmother, in her rocking chair, sat on the other side.

    I counted the cars as we watched them go by on the road below, watched the lightning bugs, and listened to the night sounds.  We each sat quietly with our own thoughts until Grandfather would say, “It’s time to go in now.” 

    But one night, he spoke as though he was speaking to the night.  As he began, I stopped rocking and listened.  “Father went into town one day,” he said, “and the slaves were there on the
block.  There weren’t any buyers.  The slaves looked so pitiful and Father knew, without a buyer, the Traders would consider them to not be worth keeping.  Father was only in his teens, but he bought the slaves and took them home

.       “Your great-grandmother,” Grandfather said, “never forgave my father for bringing those slaves to their home.”

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    “Neighbor families were having great difficulty trying to keep slaves and grandmother did not want that kind of trouble or to be responsible for having to house and feed them,” Grandfather said. 

    “They were from the bush; their culture and religion was different from our own.  It was hard.
Grandmother said if people would stop buying slaves, the Traders
would stop bringing them there.  She was adamant about it and angry with people for thinking they were doing a good deed buying them from the Traders.   It was a burden for everyone, tearing families apart then as it had done all along.  They felt bad if they didn’t help and bad if they did.”

    In generations before, cousins Henry and Cassius Clay, the emancipators, hoped to maintain the law and the constitution while ridding the country of slavery by peaceful means.  The high hopes of Henry and Cassius, of course, proved to be futile.             
     Grandfather continued, “Father said it made life awfully hard for them that winter.  It was bitter cold in Kentucky and would have been difficult under normal circumstances.  We had to be careful all the time.  We had to all work together to survive and it was a long time before the slaves could be trusted enough to be at the yard or near the house.
     “It was a slave’s worst nightmare that there would be no buyer, but Grandmother’s worst nightmare” he said,  “was that they would end up on her doorstep

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and she hated her son – my father - for bringing them there.   Things were never right between the two of them again.”

    Grandfather finished speaking and the crickets once again could be heard
chirping in the quiet of the night.  A cow in the pasture below the yard mooed loudly.  The fireflies were still lighting their lamps. 

    Grandfather stopped rocking and said, “It’s time to go in now.”

    The next morning at breakfast, Grandmother asked if I would like to ride into town with Grandfather and of course, I was delighted.  It was always a treat to ride in Grandfather’s model A Ford.  He pushed it out of the garage and cranked the motor up.  When sister Martha was there, the two of us were allowed to ride in the rumble seat, but that morning, I rode in the front seat with Grandfather.

    Grandmother turned the crank on the wall phone in the dining room and asked the operator to ring the grocery store in town.  She read her list to the grocer, saying Grandfather would be in town within the next hour to pick up the groceries.

    Going to town with Grandfather was always a fun thing.  After going to the drugstore, the grocery store, dropping off laundry to be washed and picking up the clean laundry, we stopped at the ice cream parlor on our way out of town. 

    We headed out of town and I sat with my double-decker vanilla cone, trying to eat it fast before it melted and ran down onto my arm.  Grandmother had lunch for us when we arrived home.  She and my mother were the best cooks in the country and her meals were always enjoyable.  The noon meal was our main meal of the day and Grandmother often fried chicken.  It was the best!  Like my mother, she raised her own chickens.   

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    The rest of the day, I made a long rope with clover I had picked and plaited.
Grandmother gave me a bread wrapper that I blew up, tied a string on, and ran around the
front yard with it trailing behind me.  Then I caught a June bug and wrapped a string around its leg and watched it fly, but let it go and climbed up to the top of the apple tree, sat there, and ate an apple. 

    The sun was making its way down and it was soon time to eat and sit on
the porch in the big rocking chairs again before bedtime.  Water was pumped from the cistern on the back porch for washing up before going to bed.  Grandmother put the chamber pot in my room for the night.

    The next day, I ran to the front door, where I could see Mother’s Chevrolet as it approached the gate at the bottom of the hill.  I watched her as she reached through her
car window, pulled the rope that opened the gate, drove through, pulled the rope to close it, and started up the hill.  I loved my mother and seeing her was special for me.

    She sat with Grandmother and me in the living room and we visited
for a. while before starting home.  Grandmother told Mother that she and Grandfather had talked about it and they wanted to give her money for a home in Lexington.  They felt she should have a suitable home for her family, where it would be safe and the schools would be good for her children.  It was decided Mother would start looking at homes the following spring and prepare to move in the summer.  She would tell Father he was free to stay or go with her.  It would be his choice and it was decided that day. 

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    At home, the grapes on the vine were ready to be picked to make juice and preserves to have for the winter months.  Martha, Emily, and I helped.  We hulled bushels of grapes, and canned bushels of all kinds of fruit and vegetables from our garden and orchard.  We had food ready for the winter.

“Winter In Rural Kentucky In 1939”

    Winter was hard that year.  The wind blew against our house and the snow and ice packed hard against the windows.  The heater in the dining room, where Martha and I slept, put out lots of heat.  That stove was crimson red most of the time, a fire and safety hazard by anyone’s standards.
     For some strange reason, we had sense enough to not touch it or get too close to it.  Between that stove and our feather beds, made with feathers from the farm geese, we stayed warm through the winter nights.
 Our blankets were made with wool from the farm sheep and our pajamas were made of heavy flannel.  Mother put a hot water bottle at our feet and tucked us in each night.  In the morning, the aroma of bacon from the kitchen made jumping out of the warm bed easier. 

    The year before, a snowstorm had come on suddenly.  The children were all at school, and it was late in the morning when the snow started coming down.  Soon after lunch, it was evident the school bus could not be driven through the snow to get the children home. 

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       My father and two other fathers hitched their mules to their sleighs, loaded with hay and blankets, and went to school to get the children.  It was late when they were all finally home.  Ears and feet were frost bitten in the bitter cold.  Father’s ears, fingers, and  feet were frost bitten.  A teacher from another school, who tried to get home, was found the next morning frozen to death in her car. 

      That was the year before, but this was 1939.  The bus stopped in front of our house and took us the two miles down the road to the four-room schoolhouse.   The teachers were there earlier to build fires in the pot belly stoves in each of their rooms.  My older brother, Richard, and two sisters, Emily and  Martha, and I got off the bus and headed for the door.  Once inside, I went to the first grade room, Martha went to the third grade room down the hall and Richard and Emily went to the seventh and eighth grade room.

    I took off my coat, snow pants, hat, gloves, and boots, and hung them on a hook in the cloakroom and hurried to my seat just in time for the roll call.   The roll was called, and Mrs. White, my teacher, read from the Bible.  Next, we all stood and prayed The Lord’s Prayer, pledged allegiance to the flag, and sat down.
     I took my reader out of my book satchel, seated myself in the circle at the front of the room and was the first to read.   “See Jane run!”  “See Dick run!”  “Run Jane, run!”