Our ancestors lived truly amazing lives. And now we are fortunate that their descendents are sharing their stories with us. The Persian Nightingale is one such story.
“So she was still under anesthesia? And you just checked her vitals and left. Where did you go after that? You said she is claiming to remember the event, ’scuse me, alleged event.”
“Listen, I can’t have this—out there. I mean, these women, they blow things out of proportion and because they know you have money, they’ll try anything, you know?”
“I’m just not getting the feeling you’re telling me everything, Doctor—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name—would you mind telling me, again, what you remember of that day?”
“I told you, I did her breast augmentation, then her lipo and sent her to recovery. Normal day, normal procedures, nothing out of the ordinary. When I went in to check on her, she was beginning to come up out of it and—”
“Hold on, you said that she was under anesthesia still. This is where I need you to be really specific. I can’t help you unless you are 100 percent honest and tell me everything that happened. I mean everything.”
“Look, Cranston. This is a stupid woman and she’s trying to frame me. I will not be ruined by a bitch who cares more about her breast size than her kids, career, and husband, all of whom will suffer if this becomes a thing.”
“So has she pressed charges? Police involvement? Have you gotten anything in the mail?”
“No! I told you, I just wanted a consultation. I don’t know if she is going forward with anything. She just called screaming and threatening me. I just need her to shut up. And I need you to be sure she does.”
When Clinch county was surveyed off into lots, this section was considered worthless, and hence nothing but district lines have been run, and the land is the property of the state, in common with the Okefinokee swamp. Still there are some good lands in spots, and there are settlers on it. For a distance of five miles we traveled on a narrow ridge of land lying between the Okefinokee and what is known as Indian Swamp. The indication of game is so plain here that Uncle Ben and myself resolved to go in advance of the wagon and “drive” along the swamp for deer. We walked several miles, but having no dogs, we failed to “jump” anything. As we were about to give up and resume our seats in the wagon, we saw a drove of hogs flying for their lives.
“Are those wild hogs, Uncle Ben?” said I.
“No – guess not – they “wind” a bear.”
“Don’t you suppose it is on their trail?”
“No telling; a hog can smell one a mile, and no sooner smelt than Mr. Hog is off in the other direction. They will sometimes run five miles before they stop.”
We walked on some distance and kept one “eye skinned,” but saw no bear. We halted for the approach of the wagon and resumed our seats, which felt very comfortable.
We had scarcely gone three hundred yards before Uncle Ben commanded a halt, and exclaimed in an excited but under tone, “yonder’s a bear, see ‘im – see ‘im?” I gathered my gun and made in the direction he pointed though I did not see him. Uncle Ben was soon up with me and said that he had disappeared behind a large cluster of gallberry bushes just on the edge of the swamp, that perhaps he had lain down there if he did not smell our scent. We approached the spot cautiously, but to our disappointment, bear had gone. We saw where he had been engaged in pulling up palmetto buds, and after pulling off the tender buds had thrown them down. At this season of the year they subsist mainly on this, and a species of wild grape which grows in great abundance in the Okefinokee swamp. Of the habits, etc., of this species of bear, I will speak more at length in a future letter.
I mounted my position in the wagon and Uncle Ben walked ahead for the purpose of selecting a suitable ground for camping as night was near closing in, and it was apparent that we would not reach the Suwanee. In this immediate vicinity there had evidently fallen heavy rains within a few days past, as the ground was getting very wet and the ponds full of water – very unlike the section we had traveled through. Just as we were in the act of halting, two fine deer bounced up near the wagon and brought a shrill sniff of the nostril and then vanished in the darkness to westward. Our old boss said that they would not go far, and that as soon as the moon began to rise that they would be feeding, and that he and I must go fire hunting for them. We soon had a blazing fire on an old pine log, and Frank busy getting supper. While this was being done, Uncle Ben was busy arranging for the hunt. He cut a fat lightwood pole about six feet long and four inches thick, and split one end into splinters, and put it into the fire. Just before the moon began to rise we started out. Uncle Ben, after taking good notice of the stars led the way with the pole bounced on his shoulder – the burning end behind. I followed close behind with Boone’s gun, well loaded on my shoulder. My own was left behind because it had been damp during the day and I was afraid it would fail to fire – and the axe was in my left hand. He walked slowly and cautionary, turning from one side to the other, swinging the fire in a half circle in order to keep it always behind his head. We had gone about a quarter of a mile when he stopped suddenly and gazed into the darkness ahead. I at once concluded that he “saw eyes” and so he did, for he motioned for me to step ahead, and as I did he showed me a pair that looked like two coals of fire. He whispered that we were not near enough and that I should temporarily resume my position behind. A few yards further and he beckoned me ahead. I obeyed his summons and I saw much more plainly the glaring eye-balls ahead. I leveled my gun and was in the act of fire when they disappeared. My hopes fell, but my comrade assured me that he would not go far. We went on about two hundred yards and Uncle Ben found the eyes again. This time we were afraid to venture as near as we did before, and I had to content myself with a shot at fifty yards. At the crack of the gun I staggered back against my friend and could hear nothing but a continued roaring in my ears. I thought that Tamp Fender’s mule had kicked me, or also that one of Jupiter’s thunderbolts had struck me on the shoulder. Uncle Ben caught me, but without stopping to see what was the matter was, ran on to yank, so he calls it, the wounded deer. I had loaded both barrels of the gun rather heavily, and being unaccustomed to its tricks, I cocked both hammers in order to get a second shot in case the deer did not get off too rapidly, and when I pulled one trigger both hammers fell simultaneously, and the result was a severe “kick,” skinned lip, two teeth knocked loose, and a headache for twenty-four hours. Uncle Ben failed to get to the scene of the action in time. Though I had shot the deer down, and blood was seen on the grass, it recovered enough to escape in the surrounding darkness.
We returned to our camp and found the boys anxiously awaiting our return. They had heard the terrible explosion, and Boone amused at the prank his gun had played on me. He said it was an old trick. After this I used my own shooting iron exclusively, and was more fortunate, as I will subsequently show.
Sally Skull
If ever there was a tough, rough Western character, Sally Skull would certainly fit the bill. Sally Skull was a horse trader, rancher, and "champion cusser." She was also dangerous.
Sally was known for her colorful language. She wore men's clothing and went heavily armed, carrying a rifle and a pair of pistols in a cartridge belt as well as a whip. She was so skilled with the whip it was said that for amusement she could snap the heads off of flowers. Though for the most part she talked and acted like a man, Sally loved to dance, which perhaps proves she had a "feminine side."
There is no record of Sally Skull's birth. The first known record of her life is a divorcee decree. She divorced her husband in the 1850's, at a time when divorce was uncommon and even cause for scandal. Sally had two children, but did not appear to take much interest in their upbringing. She sent them off to boarding school and to live with relatives when they were still very young. In their adult years, both children were estranged from their mother and rarely visited the ranch where she lived.
Sally had learned the horse trade from her first husband, Jesse Robinson. After the divorce, she entered the horse trade profession herself. On the Texas-Mexican border, she made a living by buying and stealing horses which she then sold for a profit. She also rounded up wild horses and stray cattle to sell.
Sally was reputed to have been "a merciless killer when aroused." She had a reputation for killing without remorse, and was believed to have killed "well in excess of three score" men. The horse trade along the border was very competitive. The men Sally killed were no doubt her rivals. The horse traders often fought over the territory in which they rounded up the wild horses. Though there is no doubt that she did kill, her victims are unknown, and there is no mention of her going to prison for any of the murders. Perhaps in the horse trade, killing competitors was fair game.
Sally's second husband's last name was Skull and she kept this name even after his death, and after she married her third husband, Bill Hornsdorf. Maybe the name Skull suited her better. Sally definitely would have been better off if she had not married again, for she and her new husband did not get along.After one of their many violent quarrels, Sally fired several shots at Bill….
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Laura “Luna” DeLuca lives at the beautiful Jersey shore with her husband and four children. She loves writing in the young adult genre because it keeps her young at heart. In addition to writing fiction, Laura is also the editor of a popular review blog called New Age Mama. She is an active member of her local pagan community, and has been studying Wicca for close to eight years. Her current works include Destiny, Destiny Unveiled, Phantom, Morrigan, Player, and Demon.
We were at Angie's, a local eatery specializing in fried shrimp and lemon ice-box pie. Despite the jukebox, a concession to those under eighteen, Angie’s was more upscale than the Blue Bird Diner or the local drive-in. The restaurant was populated with round tables covered in satin tablecloths. The walls were painted a light-colored mauve, and small decorative lamps were placed on each table. Oil paintings and watercolors by local artists adorned the center wall of the restaurant, an innovation ahead of its time but very popular. After we were seated, I began talking about the President, something I did a lot of in those days. Little Richard was blaring on the jukebox, and I was shouting to be heard over the music.
“With John Kennedy in the White House, anything’s possible,” I screamed.
“You idolize him, don’t you?”
“Yes, I guess I do,” I answered, dipping my shrimp in the remoulade sauce. “He’s so handsome. It’s nice to have a cute President,” I giggled,” Not like bald-headed Ike!”
David rolled his eyes.
“But seriously,” I continued. “President Kennedy makes me believe everyone can make a difference. You know, change things, real peace and people living together without hating each other.”
“Katie, is that realistic?”
“I don’t know, it...” I stopped midsentence. I felt cold; a shudder ran through me.
David looked puzzled and asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I feel like someone’s walking over my grave.”
Patriot Priest tells one man's personal experience over several epochs and areas of history. It is also, in part the story of one unique individual, author Patricia Daly-Lipe's great uncle, Msgr. William A Hemmick. Born in Pittsburgh, PA, and raised in Europe, he became fluent in five languages. When the First World War broke out, he felt committed to help the troops. After the war, he was proclaimed the Patriot Priest of Picardy by the Army and Navy. After years spent in Paris, William Hemmick was asked by the Vatican to come to Rome. Ultimately he became the only American Canon of St. Peter's representing the Knights of Malta to the Holy See.
It was he who performed the nuptials of American film star Tyrone Power and Linda Christian. He also converted the future Queen Astrid of Belgium.
In 1944, when the bombers of the 8th Air Force were attacking synthetic fuel plants, another German wrote, as a boy, that despite the raids by American bombers,We Germans never feared the Americans. When the Americans arrived, "the soldiers were friendly and approachable. Their generosity toward children was constant." But all too soon, the Americans pulled out. It was now the Russian troops taking over occupation of East Germany. "We feared the Russians," he wrote. And, although the officers were European, in the beginning, the troops were Asian. Soon, however, the Asians left and just the Europeans remained. "The Russian soldiers (and the Asians when they were there) … were especially dangerous if they had been drinking. Since they were nearly always armed, alcohol made all of the Russians very dangerous.This was what the children in Germany were subjected to after the war ended: irrational and often brutal behavior. Daily, the children lived under agonizing situations including hunger, cold, and fright. Yet they had resilience. Reading their stories in Wolfgang W. E. Samuel's book, The War of Our Childhood, Memories of World War II, it is awe-inspiring how that generation of German children was able to emerge from such debilitating conditions and become sane and productive human beings as adults.
Twenty-five years after the end of World War II, Adam B. Ulam wrote: "A study of the history of the past twenty-five years …can suggest which of our hopes and fears are realistic and which are not …" (Ulam's preface to The Rivals, America & Russia Since World War II) Although today (2013) the Cold War (the theme of his book) is over, the fear of a global conflict still exists. My point is that the past, and our understanding of it, enhances our ability to understand the present. Today's events take on a new interpretation in light of what came before This is what is known as historical process. This is not a search for answers; it is a search for perspective and questions. Your perspective is formed according to your source of reference: the scholar, the statesman, the politician, the military, the businessman, or, in this case, the life and time of William A. Hemmick [or my interpretation resulting from extensive research.]
In 1953, in predominance was the Soviet-U.S conflict. Some said it was not an isolated moment in history, but a natural evolution of a struggle that began in the past as we saw with Germany. Nations seeking power fall in competition for prestige and security, sea lanes and natural resources, markets and even empires. And so, some asserted in the fifties, it was precisely in this context that the Soviet Union justified its position. George F. Kennan, Secretary of the American Embassy in Moscow in the middle thirties, wrote in an article for Foreign Affairs (The Source of Soviet Conduct, 1947):
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Todd Coopee is a writer, award-winning business owner, toy historian, and pop-culture enthusiast. His affinity for nostalgia, vintage toys, and baking fed his passion for the Easy-Bake Oven, which led to his 2013 retrospective, Light Bulb Baking: A History of the Easy-Bake® Oven.
My tenacity. I don’t know the meaning of the word “quit.”
My tenacity. This late in life, I ought to know the meaning of the word “quit.”
I would have to say earning my doctorate from one of the toughest graduate schools in the world. There were so many obstacles thrown in my path by the people in my life that it was a miracle that I got into the program at all. Then, I was even more surprised to find out that I had the intellectual talent to graduate with honors. I guess you never know what you can do until you try.
That depends on the day, the season, and my mood. I’m partial to fire engine red, electric blue, and fuschia (though not at the same time).
Any ethnic cuisine. Indian and Middle Eastern in particular. I’m a vegan.
Any place near a large body of moving water.
My book is the continuing story of Catesby – a real colored blacksmith who lived originally in Charlestown, VA as a slave to Colonel Lewis Washington, a descendant of George Washington. In the first book Catesby struggles to find his freedom. He runs away from the operation of a blacksmith shop under a cruel owner who permanently cripples him. He flees on the Underground Railroad to Pennsylvania.Where can we find out more about you and buy your book?
This book follows Catesby’s new adventures leading up to his teaching position at Storer College, a new school to teach newly freed blacks to become teachers. Ironically, the students’ first day in the classroom was Catesby’s first day too, because he had been taught at home by his mother. Catesby’s vast experience is helpful in encouraging his students and helping them believe that if Catesby, a man with a bad leg who had been a slave could accomplish greatness, they could too.
On my website.Where did you get the idea for the story?
It is a continuation of a previous book “Catesby: Eyewitness to the Civil War”What do you find most rewarding in writing a book?
The feedback I get from my readers is what keeps me going. I have many who read every one of my books. I get notes from them wanting to know when the next one is coming out.Tell us about your previous work.
I have published 9 books to date – 8 on the Civil War. Five are fiction. Four are non-fiction.What other projects do you have coming up?
My next book is about a soldier who I consider the most significant man today from the Civil War – James E. Hanger. He is an unlikely candidate, as he only served his unit one say and was wounded. He has however, contributed greatly as he invented the modern prosthetic. There are 670 hospitals in the U.S. today with his name on them with 700,000 patients – Hanger Orthopedics.Do you write full time? If so, tell us how you manage it.
Yes I write full time. I am retired from over thirty years in the tourism industry. Writing, research and promotion of my books comes easily to me.What is your writing process like--do you outline first or just start writing, etc.?
My books all follow the chronology of what really happened. In that sense, the chronological outline is already provided by the actual history of the events themselves. But I am also confined by those actual events.What have you done to develop your writing craft?
I have written all my life. Along the way I have had editors make suggestions and corrections. They have all helped my writing develop and improve.What was the hardest part: writing the book, getting it published, or marketing it? Why?
Publishing is the easiest today – though I am sure in the past it was probably the hardest. I find the writing part and the marketing part challenging, but due to my background, I do not find either of them difficult for me personally.Thank you for your time!
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