Founder

Jenna’s lamp lit her face with an antique parchment glow as her fingers drifted on the keyboard, tracing a line through her past. I was content to witness her patient search from the doorway of the room I built last year. Still in her genealogy trance, she said, “Mason, I’m black.” Her angelic lisp reshaped my name.

The house was quiet. I said, “You have black ancestors?”

“Uh huh.” She avoided saying, “Yesth,” except to rouse my adoration.

“You like that, don’t you.”

She smiled. “I’m thrilled. I have never been interesting. I found Ezzie on my matriarchal line; she was from the Turner plantation in Georgia--she was property. But now I have to find her parents.”

“Maybe the plantation has records?”



I worked until 9:00 at night on Friday. Jenna met me at the door, clenching me, saying, “They wrote. After three months. Ezzie was born in Haiti. To Erzulie and Petro. The Turner heirs have the dates. Ezzie was illegally taken after the Haitian Revolution.”

I lifted her off her feet. “Jenna peels another layer of the onion,” I said, as always.
When she kissed me I saw she was crying. I asked, “You feel close to her?”

“I’m elated that I found her, but then it came home to me; she must have lived such pain. Without the Latham Bible, she would still be lost to me--do any others love her?”

“I know you’ll find them all.” She let me wipe a tear.

“I put it all online--can’t face responses, yet. Such pain.”


On Sunday we played chess, the force that brought us together in college, watching water stream down the window and rain fill the street. Jenna played black, we laughed about that. We did not expect the knock at the door.

He was small and bald and black as any man I’d seen. His smile was joyous; his eyes, glittering stars. “Mason and Jenna Owen?” he asked.

“How can we help you?” I said; Jenna stood behind.

“I am Lucien Boucher,” he said. “I am Jenna’s cousin.”

The reality of ancestry dazed me. It had all been so abstract. Jenna stepped beside me, arms wavered toward embrace, then back. Lucien Boucher enfolded her; “So beautiful,” she said. My stomach turned with unease, as my wife hugged this stranger.

Desperate Attempts

I previously mentioned that I am reading Empires of the Sea. I just found something that interested me greatly.

In 1565 the Ottoman Empire decided to push into the western Mediterranean. In order to do this, they had to take Malta from the knights of the Order of St. John. Jean Parisot de La Valette led the Order of St. John.

The knights faced long odds. On the heights, the Turks took Fort St. Elmo over a period of weeks amid scenes of thousands of men burned alive by oil and pitch, killed by musket (arquebus) and cannon, and mutilated by the sword. Both sides tortured prisoners to death and massacred the helpless in combat.

After St. Elmo, the Turks laid seige to the other two fortresses on the island, replaying the carnage.

Here is the quote about La Valette that fascinated me (p. 163).

The grand master was seen everywhere, accompanied by two pages carrying his helmet and pike, and by a jester, whose duties included informing him of what was happening at various posts and "trying to amuse him with his quips--although there was little enough to laugh about."

Amazing.

Bam!

Sarah Palin.
Wow.

Old And New

At the writer's workshop I attended, we learned about the novel, Tom Jones, by Henry Fielding. I had heard of the book, but luckily had not read it. I use the term "luckily" because the instructor said that Fielding opens with twenty pages about the English countryside.

I have tried to read Melville, but he takes three pages to say something like, "The first mate was self-conscious because everybody knew he was poor." He used so many words! I try to write without using words.

By the time you get to Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese Falcon, many of those words are gone. Hammett leaves in enough detail to paint the picture, but does not try to dazzle the reader with prose.

Hemingway.

My own experience and training with writing is heavy on showing, not telling, the reader the story, paring down the prose to keep the story moving. I have found readers, though, who are accustomed to, "West Varth was in the low lands of Hamfarth, where the Juberries bloom. The Juberries were the sweetest berries in the world, except for the JuJuberries."

I have not found many of those readers, but they are invariably lost in my writing. They're looking for Tom Jones, but they won't find him in the Snows of Kilimanjaro.

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P. S.: Remember the part about writing without using words? That part was a joke.

Just Love

Some people in my Church think they knew each other before this life and were meant to be together in this life. My wife and I think so.

That hit me hard again today. Julia drove me to the train at around 4:15, then turned the van around and headed home. We saw how heavy traffic was going in the other direction and we worried about her driving back. Heavy traffic scares her.

As she pulled out of the train station, I said a prayer for her. I thought, "What would I do without her? We were meant to be together."

She got home safely.

Frogs

I do not know why, but new cadets on my university's campus are called "frogs." "Frog week" is like boot camp for new cadets.

I witnessed a little of frog week. Senior cadets in the face of new cadets with, "You were supposed to stand behind the line! No, you just say 'yes sir,' or 'no sir.'" I am glad it's not me, but if someone signs up for military training they have to learn to follow orders quickly, without debate, so I understand.

During frog week, all those kids, just out of high school line up outside the barber shop and come out with their hair "high and tight." I made a mistake. I got my hair cut during frog week.

My hair is not exactly "high and tight," but it is shorter than it has ever been.

I get a haircut every five or six months. I am too cheap to worry about how my hair looks. I sorta' like having hair up there, but other than having it present, I am not particular. In fact, my short hair does not even need to be combed after a shower, since it is not long enough to be tangled, so I may get it cut short next time.

My short haircut was not intended, but upon further consideration, maybe it was not a mistake. Maybe I can make it to next year's frog week for my next haircut.

It's Dead, Jim

The truck would not go into reverse. I drove it to the mechanic. The next day the mechanic reported that (1) the transmission was shot--$3,000 repair and (2) the rear breaks were shot.

I do not think that you can actually do $3,000 worth of work on a transmission. So we told them, "Thanks, we will come pick the truck up--don't lay a hand on it."

I do not doubt that the transmission is shot. Who knows?

But these guys "fixed" the brakes about three months ago. They put rotors, calipers, and hoses on. After they "fixed" the brakes, we drove home, barely able to use the brakes. They were not fixed.

We took the truck back to them the next day. They worked on it more. The brakes worked, but they seemed a bit weak and the brake light was on. I decided to ignore it.

Now, three months later, they say the rear brakes have not been working and they say that I refused to have all the repairs done at the time, according to their records. That is a lie.

I guess they're lying because they think I might be able to sue. Or, if nothing else, I could again demand that they fix the brakes.

The combination of not fixing the brakes and lying is too much. And their lying makes me wonder if I have a transmission problem or not--there are two other (cheaper) possible causes of that vehicle not being able to go into reverse.

I miss my dad for so many reasons. His ability to fix cars is the least of the reasons I miss him. But, yeah, I miss that, too.