Searching for the Silver Lining

I suppose that you can find silver linings anywhere if you look hard enough. I've been writing more in the last week than I have in a year. Actually, I've been doing more organizing with bits and pieces of writing amid the shuffling of scenes. At least, until this past week. The past week has been a kind of hell that I thought ... I hoped never to see again.

Some of my readers may know that in 2009 my husband Jerry died suddenly of a heart attack. I won't go into it now as there are plenty of posts on Life on the Ledge where you can get the visceral experience. This summer, my granddaughter Sarah left because she had to go live with her Dad. Her mother decided she wanted to move away and take Sarah with her. When Sarah didn't want to leave with her, it forced Sarah to choose between her mother or her Dad. She's been with me for virtually all her life, and for the last 7 years she's lived with me full time. Her dad is my son, and he adores Sarah, so I know she's in a good place. But this has been a new grief on top of an old grief. And it is Christmas.

I've lived in dark places where the darkness seemed physical and felt as if it would never be light again. For weeks it has grown darker in my head and the real world appears in league with it. The single light in the dark place is that my pain levels have improved a lot in the last six months. The gym trips have produced a positive physical change by improving my strength. So, while the holidays are my private hell, at least they are less painful.

Mama said the road to hell was paved with good intentions. I keep trying to write, but there are days when I actively avoid it. I think about it and I can feel the aversion at the thought of sitting down and fighting my fatigue and mental stagnation to get words on the screen. 

And then there is the diet. I started it a few months ago and coupled with my gym work, I've lost 16 pounds. But I've hit a stalemate, and it is very frustrating. Honestly, if I could workout every day, I'd probably lose it with no problem but I can't. I'm still bound by RA and fibro. They rule with an iron fist. The ever present fatigue overwhelms me and leaving the house becomes this enormous effort of will. I'm doing well to make it two to three times a week. Some of those days I can't do the full routine. The beasts don't stop me completely me but they hobble me.

Mama also told me that hindsight is 20/20. If you are young, start now to get in shape and don't stop. I did some kind of workout most of my life and was slim and normal weight. Once I went to work, I did less and then I got sick and stopped. Only now, 20 years and 100 pounds later have I started back and although it is helping, I know if I'd kept it up life would be easier. 

I still see the silver lining, that bit of writing, but I crave to dive into the flow. I miss that most of all. The sense of falling into a rapidly flowing river that drags you out of the real world and into your creation. Everything falls away. I think it is why I used to love writing late at night with the lights off. Time seemed to stop, and the world shrank to a small pool of light. Everything disappeared: sounds, sights, and smells of reality faded away. The craving for that sensation never goes away once you have been in it. That's my drug of choice.

Until then, I just look for that silver lining. 

The Killing of Tom Browder

I am about to tell you a story I think is true. It's based on one fact that I discovered during my genealogy of research into the Browder line of my family. I’m a writer and a history major doing genealogy work on my family tree and things like this suck me in.

On December 10, 1911 Will Boswell fatally injured John Thomas Browder. That is the fact. It becomes a little sketchy after that. According to my grandfather, Willie Browder, his father Thomas was murdered (sic) in a fight over another woman. He was hit with a fence post. He never told me the name of the man who killed Thomas.

That's the bare bones of the story.

During my research, I discovered an obituary notice posted on Find A Grave that gave the name of the man who killed Tom. According to the obituary, Tom died when Will Bozell (sic) struck him in the head with a pole. This confirms the story my grandfather told me. The obit mentions no reason for the fight but they would not have mentioned a woman in this kind of story, at least not a decent woman. The obituary does not tell what happened to Will Boswell. More on that later.

To gather more information, I searched genealogy records for Will Boswell. In 1910 he lived in Crenshaw County in the same Precinct as Tom Browder, basically the same neighborhood. Pigeon Creek appears on a map in Butler County, next to Crenshaw County. The area they lived may have crossed county lines. I can’t be sure at this point. Remember, these were farms, so they were spread out a bit. Sometimes states also restructured counties.

Will was married to his second wife, Ellen Golden who was the same age as Tom Browder. Will and Ellen had been married about 13 years and had a bunch of children (some by Will's first wife).

Based on my family oral history Tom Browder was a womanizer. This from his own son and he never ever talked about his father but one time—that was the time I asked him directly what happened to his father. Based on the genetics of the Browder men I've known all my life, Tom probably was a very good looking man.

Now, here's what I think occurred. And remember, I write fiction.

Tom Browder was married with six children and his wife Alice was pregnant with a little girl who would be born in May, after his death.

At some point in time, Tom Browder became involved with Will Boswell's wife. Whether she was a participant, or he was just sniffing around the henhouse, we’ll never know. Either way, Boswell wasn’t having it. I suspect he went to Tom Browder’s home. It was a Thursday so Tom would probably have been working his farm. I can see Boswell demanding that Tom stop messing with his wife.

“If you don’t stop coming by and accosting her on the street, there’s going to be trouble. I know your reputation but that’s my wife and you are to leave her alone.”

Maybe Tom blew Will off. Or maybe he laughed at him and said “I’ll do what I please, Will Boswell. Get back to your farm before you get hurt.”

Let me just say here that Tom Browder was 33 years old. Will Boswell was 43, an old man by the standards of the day. I’m sure Tom thought he could handle him. He miscalculated. Tom Browder died of his wounds on Friday leaving his wife with 7 children.

There is no evidence or family history to any of that. But something happened that escalated into a fatal fight. At some point, Will Boswell picked up a post and struck Tom Browder in the back of the head. This suggest Tom was not facing him or he was moving away from Will. Maybe Boswell was on the ground and Tom figured it was over.

Perhaps Tom was working when Boswell arrived and Will saw his chance to kill the man he believed was messing with his wife. He picks up the post and strikes him. Was there actually a fight? My feeling is there was a fight. I think Browder was probably cocky and walked away and in a rage, Boswell picked up the nearest thing to hand and hit Browder.

But that’s just my writer’s imagination.

Will Boswell was alive and well in 1920, still with his wife and children. He died July 3rd, 1925 and is buried in Pleasant Home Baptist Church Cemetary in Butler County. I could not find any record of a trial or investigation. He obviously didn’t get a long stretch in prison. Was Tom Browder’s reputation so well known that they brought no charges? Perhaps.

We’ll never know what happened without more documentation. I’d have to research the newspapers in Crenshaw and Covington County and the court records to find out. Maybe I’ll have time on a trip future trip.

But in the meantime, it sure is an interesting story.

*Please note. I ascribe no blame to either Browder or Boswell. I don't know the circumstances or facts of the case other than those told by Tom Browder's son who was 2 at the time of the murder, and the obituary in the paper at that time. Browder may have deserved what he got. Boswell may have imagined the flirtation or it may have been true. I don't have enough data to make an assessment. But I can speculate. And I bet I'm close to the truth.

Twiddling My Thumbs

This is one writer who is just all messed up. I tell myself I should just throw in my keyboard and give up. I write a bit here and a bit there. The little voice in my head says time is running out and I'm just twiddling my thumbs. I don't know if that's true. But the nagging isn't helping me.

👈  I woke up at noon to this kind of day. The temperature is rather nice but the lack of sun is ominous. Winters in S. Indiana are quite gloomy, and someone with problems retaining vitamin D doesn't need gloomy skies. We need sun.

I'm exhausted. Possibly I've been sitting up too late watching funny videos. Because I live alone, have no place to go or am too ill to go, and I have no visitors, I've become more depressed. There is nothing I can do about it. I already take a pill for fibromyalgia that is an antidepressant. They told me I can't take anything else. So, medication is out.

Sitting up late watching Poldark is also not helpful. The story is so intense and the villain so insanely persistent that I have to watch until I reach a resolution to the current problem they're facing. So far, that's each season finale! A few nights ago I stopped at the end of the show just before it shows one of my favorite characters dying! I couldn't handle it. Depression and sad stories don't mix.

I've even tried reading, which usually helps me. I'm reading a book called Cold Water by Debbie Herbert. This is a very good book, and the story is intense. The antagonist is maddening but so is the protagonist. My problem is that the one is so wicked while the other is too passive and doing stupid things. In theory, I know this will workout and the crime solved but I've felt so under stress reading it. NO! I don't know why. It's just a book and I've read books far more disturbing that this one. It has taken weeks and I'm only halfway through. For me, that's insane. When I take this long to read a book, it's usually because it's terrible but I stick it out as a challenge. This one, I can't handle the way the action plays out. I know who did it so reading the ending won't help. 

As for writing. Pfft. I know I've written some but I've stopped paying attention to how much. Right now, I want to go to sleep and I didn't get out of bed till noon! 

Tomorrow I take my sister to have eye surgery. I must sleep tonight, no sitting up. She'll be staying with me for several days until she's able to see how to drive. That'll give me some company for a few days. My sisters are good company.

Now that I've bored even myself to tears, I'll stop here. I need to do a couple of things before sis gets here. I hope you have a productive writing day.

Saturday Project Line Up

Saturday often comes with its own projects, aside from those in the middle of the week. I have had little housework to do other than laundry and dishes, my most hated jobs. I piled the laundry in a chair in the living room, all bed linen, bath towels, and bath clothes. I’ll get to it during a t. v. binge. I have to do that today because I’ve stripped my bed.

I don’t have a lot of pain today. Just some aches and pains that come with specific motions. I’ve been barefoot all day, too, putting on my shoes only when I went to get Mike.

Mike is doing his laundry and helping me with those Saturday projects. He likes to take short cuts so there is a constant heated discussion going on but I don’t bother getting mad at him. That's who he is. The severe ADHD wrecked his life and I’ve decided there is no point in expecting it to magically disappear. I’m tired of people who do. I’m not discussing that now.

He’s got the new security light put up, after months. It was always raining or deadly hot. The job isn’t hard or time consuming. It is a solar light that stopped working and they replaced it free. Today is a beautiful day with neither rain nor much heat. So, now the light is up.

We began work on the next project: working on the pass-thru window between the kitchen and den. It is anyone’s guess when we will finish it. I began 2017 but a ruptured disc derailed it.  I did the counter portion, but the rest remains incomplete.

Today, I got the top board inserted. This is just a nice piece of wood to cover the ugly brown painted board that was there. I could have ripped that board out but I don’t ask for trouble. Who knows what is on the other side? My experience in home improvement: you don't mess with some things.

Once, years ago, I inserted a sheet of foam between that board and the top of the window because there was a space where wind, debris, and bugs filtered in. That sealed off that problem. We'll do a similar treatment on the side sections because the space between the house and limestone facing may allow critters and wind in. I can put insulation in there. Attaching the side panels to the limestone is the real challenge.

I can see the end of this project nearing and I feel such relief. I will stain the wood when I’m done and put a coat of poly on it to protect it. That’s the easy part. I love doing woodwork and staining wood is so soothing. Watching the grain come out and the variation of the tones is marvelous. I don’t brush on stains. I hand rub them because it seems to give me a nicer finish. Brushed on stain looks heavy to me. I rub on a coat, let it set a bit, then rub it off. I'll apply more as needed until I get the depth I want. Some areas will absorb a lot, others, very little. To me, that is where the beauty of the wood comes out. Each piece I’ve ever done differs. It has been years since I worked with stain but I’m looking forward to it.

Once I finish this project, I can move to the next thing. The walls of the two bathrooms need attention, and if I can have several good days like today, I can do it. We have most of the supplies so expense isn’t an issue. Well, except for the bathroom that needs new wall board. That'll be a minute.

Time to stop. Braves baseball begins at 4 and I'll lose my helper, so I need to have this stuff finished soon.

I like to think I'll be writing later. Maybe I will.

An Honest Assessment

Sometimes you write a scene that just guts you. Not because it's gory or steamy but because you just know you got it right. You read over it once, twice, three times, even run it through all the checks but you can't find a darn thing wrong with it. It doesn't happen often to me but it happens enough to keep me going to the well hoping the next one will taste as sweet.

Here's a scene I was working on and went back to finish. After a run through ProWritingAid to look for problems, and there are some but not what I expected, I want to put it here for your critique. I want to know what you find wrong with it. No matter how trivial, tell me what you think it wrong.

As I said, I've run it through ProWritingAid and overall, I pleasantly surprised by some things and confused by others. With checkers of any kind you have to be aware it is doing everything without a real awareness of usage. It's all algorithms. Something may be technically wrong but correct for the document.

An example would be "I ain't gonna do it." Terrible writing grammatically but perfectly correct for the country boy being told he has to replow a row.

My purpose here is to see what readers might pick up on and not if you're right or wrong. I know when it blows and when it flows. I really like this scene because I know the characters and they're just real in this scene. I love the King because he's so unkingly.

So, here ya go.

The summons came just after breakfast. The young boy who brought it couldn’t have been more than ten. Daykar took the paper and stared at the seal. He looked at the boy. “Who gave you this?”

“Why, the King, milord.”

Daykar again stared at the seal. 

“I’m to wait for a reply, milord.”

The voice dragged him from his thoughts. “Certainly. Give me a few moments.” He pointed to a chair in the hallway and as the boy sat down, Daykar returned to his office, locking the door behind him, and sat down at his desk.

He frowned at the missive lying on his desk. What could the King want with him? Why did he not send for the Patriarch? After all, he oversaw all aspects of the Order. Daykar poked the corner of the paper. He didn’t like this. It was no accident that he had avoided palace connections. The Order tended to steer clear of rulers and politicians as much as possible. Something might necessitate interaction but it was rare, and the Patriarch was the point of contact. Not the Counselor. He sighed, picked up the paper, and slid a small knife beneath the seal, neatly removing it.

“His Royal Highness, King William Gaenus, Sovereign of the Realm of the Sacred Territories requests your presence today at noon, in his royal chambers at Weskestein Palace. His Highness insists that you keep this meeting private and that you burn this invitation immediately. You may send a verbal acceptance by the court page.”

Request? Daykar shook his head, went to the door, and opened it. A wave brought the boy running, and he skidded to a stop before Daykar. 

“Milord?”

“Tell your. . . em . . . I shall arrive promptly at noon.”

The boy nodded and darted away. Daykar watch a moment before turning back to his office muttering. “Very unroyal, that boy.”

Holding the royal summons by one corner,  he held the flame of a candle to the other and watched as it slowly crept up the thick paper. Eventually, he dropped it on the silver tray used to bring him his mail. Finally, when it was a crisp black sheet, he broke it apart with one finger. 

He worked at his desk until just before noon. He'd intended to order a carriage but considering the note, he decided it would be best to take a horse. He could take the fields and follow the woodland route where prying eyes were unlikely to follow. If anyone saw him, the Counselor was out for a ride.
Now, he stood in the palace foyer waiting the King’s pleasure. Daykar smothered a chuckle. The terminology they used for all this ostentatiousness really was silly. 

A footman approached him, bowed, and motioned for him to follow. Moments later, he stood in a small dining room. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a shock of gray hair got up and approached him, one hand extended.

“Brother Grantham. Welcome to Weskestein Palace.”

Daykar raised an eyebrow as he bowed. “Your highness, the pleasure is mine.”

“Come. I’ve arranged a lunch for the two of us.” He moved to stand next to his chair and indicated a chair opposite. “Bertie, close the doors and windows and post the guard, please.”

“Please have a seat, Brother Grantham.” Daykar and the King both sat down and the footman set about his duties.

No one said a word until the door closed behind the footman. Daykar waited, taking time to study the King as he did so. King Gaenus was a large man, broad at the shoulders with muscular arms that ended in large, strong hands. If he remembered correctly, King William fought beside his brothers in the wars, but it was the King who was renowned for his strength. 

The King leaned forward, clasping his those large hands in front of him. “Thank you for coming. I thought you might send the Patriarch in your stead.”

“I admit I was tempted.” Daykar smiled as he shook out his napkin and reached for the glass of water. “It is unusual for the Counselor to receive a summons from the Palace.”

The king laughed. “It is unusual for the king to summon anyone from the Order of the Holy One.”

Daykar nodded in understanding. Religion was not a royal pursuit, but this particular King had been far more benevolent to the Order than nearly any in their history. 

“Please, help yourself to the food.” The king began to prepare his plate. “I would have had a servant handle this for us but I’d rather this meeting remain as secret as possible.”

“May I ask why, Your Highness?”

Breaking off a piece of bread, the king sighed. “I wish it was acceptable for people just to say Will.”

Daykar choked on his water. When he regained his composure, he suppressed a smile. “Yes, I imagine it would be much more convenient for everyone.”

The king pointed a finger at him. “My feelings exactly.” He chewed and took a sip of wine. “Now, Daykar . . . that is acceptable, is it not?”

He nodded and cut a bite of the roast. He put it into his mouth and almost closed his eyes. Food in the order was good, plentiful, and well prepared but pig swill compared to this. If he had time, he’d try to visit the cook before he left.

“Good. Well then, Daykar, I didn’t contact the Patriarch because as I understand from my review of the records, you’re the person I need to contact about this matter.”

Daykar stopped chewing and stared at the king.

“It seems we are drawn into a mutual quandary. I had an unusual message overnight for which I need clarification.”

His curiosity nearly overcame him but Daykar continued focusing on his plate and eating. 

“A courier named Sam arrived late last night. He’s a member of the Order in Rendel. Sent to me by one of my own men, Captain Alington.”

For a moment, he considered the names but then shook his head. “I don't know either man, sire.”

The king cut another piece of roast and popped it into his mouth. He chewed it, staring across the room at a portrait hanging on the wall. 

Daykar waited.

“No, it is doubtful you would. King’s captains are not something the order would bother with and the Order itself is quiet large so you likely wouldn’t have run into young Sam. He came with a message about the compound at Rendel.”

His spine stiffened and his fork poised halfway to his mouth. He looked at the king. “Sire?”

The king lay his utensils on the edge of his plate and sat back. “How many of the compounds have come under attack, Daykar?”

The fork dropped to the plate. Daykar stared at him. “What do you mean, Sire?”

The King smiled and glanced down at his plate, ran a piece of bread through the gravy, and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm, delicious, don’t you think?”

Daykar nodded and waited. 

The King gave a gentle laugh and picked up his wineglass and swirled the contents gently. “I love the way people think something is a secret when it isn’t. It's one of my few joys to see their faces as they try to reorganize them into something akin to ignorance when confronted by a secret. Impossible, of course, but entertaining.”

Daykar tried to imagine something calming. 

After a sip, the king sat down the wineglass down and propped his elbows on the table. “All right. It appears someone attacked the Rendel compound about five days ago. As far as I know, there are at least ten dead, one missing, and several injured. They’ve abandoned the compound and, with the guidance of my captain, headed our way.”

Stunned, Daykar looked away and stared at the far wall several minutes before turning back to the King. “By the One! Is this true?”

The King sat back in his chair. “Yes.”

Daykar looked at the king and considered how to proceed. The King was perceptive and would not be fooled. Any attempt to deceive him could prove far more disastrous to the Order than revealing too much. He took a deep breath and let it out.

“I received a message also, just a day or so ago. The Eastern Sanctuary is under attack. They’ve had to move into the mountains. Rendel is less than three days ride from them, in fact, so perhaps the same band of brigands attacked both.” He didn’t relate the rest of the message nor details on that particular Sanctuary. 

“So how many others?”

Daykar shook his head. “I don’t know, Sire.” 

The King tilted his head and gave him a blue glare. 

“Truly, Sire. I’ve not received any other reports although,” he paused, wishing he were better prepared for this. “I . . . I will admit we’ve heard rumors.”

The King sat back, nodding. “The Sanctuaries are spread out across the kingdom. There aren’t many facilities as large as the one here in Whitehaven. If anyone survives, it could take weeks for information to reach us here. Rumor travels much faster.”

“Indeed.” Daykar felt the tension lessen.

“My sources tell there was an attack locally.”

Again Daykar stiffened, but he kept his face interested rather than panicked. “Sire?”

“Seems a group of militia, not our militia, attacked and killed a young man named Ian Alington.”

Daykar didn’t have to pretend shock, but he felt his stomach twist. This was getting close to home. “That’s horrible, Sire.” He frowned. “Alington?”

“Brother to my Captain.”

Daykar studied his plate. Why had Alyana been in the stable yard? Did she know the Alington brothers? Could the attack have something to do with them? He looked up to find King studying him.

The King took a bite of potatoes. After he swallowed, he laid his fork down, sat back in his chair and tossed his napkin on the table. 

“Let’s understand something here, Brother Grantham. I’m very aware of the relationship of the crown with the order in the past. After the War things improved, but we both know the old wounds left deep scars. However, I’m a far more amenable to the Order than the last King. So, you don’t have to fear me in that way. You do need to know that I’m not a fool and I detest liars. It would be a shame if I discovered that the Order was no more trustworthy than it was in my great-grandfather’s day.”
Daykar swallowed, found he couldn’t, and grabbed his glass of wine, which he’d not touched until that moment. He drank deeply. After the wine settled in his stomach, he took a deep breath. 

“I understand, Sire.”

“Good. Start talking.”

“As I said, we’ve received reports of attacks but have nothing that can confirm this. The report of the Eastern Sanctuary was via a sealed letter. I know the sender. The attack whereof you speak… on Mr. Alington, happened as you say and they assaulted one of our order.”

“I heard they kidnapped the girl.”

He nodded. “Yes. They forced her to help one of the group’s wounded.” Daykar swallowed and fell silent. 

“Where is she now?” 

Daykar stared at the centerpiece of fruit. 

The King stood up, pulled an apple from the centerpiece and plopped it in front of Daykar. 

He felt his face pale. “She is in our compound recovering from her injuries.”

The king leaned forward, concern etching his brow. “How badly was she hurt?”

He felt his heart as it moved into his gut. He swallowed. “Sire, I trust in your discretion.”

“Of course.”

“They raped her and nearly beat her to death. She suffered a broken finger, severe cuts and bruises, a wound to her head, and we suspected broken ribs.”

“By the One, man! Did you not report this to the local constabulary?”

He shook his head. “Sire, they were militia. We didn’t know at the time if the attackers were ours or the Duke’s. And we didn’t want to cause any further humiliation to the young lady. She has suffered much. Is still suffering.”

“She is recovering?”

He nodded. “She is, but she is a healer and she suffers from more than her wounds. Under the circumstances, she can no longer perform that duty.”

The King’s stare bored into him and he wanted to slide under the table. After several moments, the king shook his head and sat back in his chair. 

“It seems we’re dealing with the same enemy. Your people have not requested military intervention.”

“They would not do that.”

“No,” he gave a harsh laugh, "Of course not. You have healers so you’ll just patch one another up and live to be killed another day.”

Daykar jumped as the king slammed his fist onto the table, causing the china and crystal to clatter. 

“Blast it, man! We need more accurate intelligence on this matter. The Duke is after my head. Or my throne. I need to know if your people are a target or if they’re just collateral damage.” 

“I had not considered that, Sire.”

He stood up. Daykar followed suit. 

“No, I don’t expect you did.” He walked toward the door. “I do have one more question, Daykar.”
“Sire?”

He turned, with his hand on the doorknob, looked directly at Daykar. “Did they call for the Guardians?”

Daykar bowed. “Good day, your Highness.”

The King laughed and strode from the room. Daykar’s eyes widened as he stared at the hem of the King’s robes. The king was barefoot.

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