Three Feet Under - Christee Gabour Atwood

Three Feet Under: Journal of a Midlife Crisis

By Christee Gabour Atwood

Prologue
Into every life some rain must fall. And that rainy season runs from mid-thirties to a mid-thirty inch waistline. It's midlife. That period that runs from the point of realization that attractive younger men now call us ma'am to the time when we realize that we're being nice to people just to be sure that there's a crowd at our funeral.

Midlife - It's a four -letter word … if you're a really bad speller. But it's also extremely funny it you look at it right … or if you ignore it … or if you sleep through as much of it as possible.

This journal chronicles my experiences from a year of midlife. Bad days, good days, bad days (yes, I meant to say that twice), and a couple of really special lessons learned along the way. Perhaps you have experienced similar moments. If so, we can suffer together. Or, if you haven't … I made the whole thing up…

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The Evolution of an Identity Indian American Immigrants from the Early 20th Century to the Present: A Fictional Family History

The Evolution of an Identity
Indian American Immigrants from the
Early 20th Century to the Present:
A Fictional Family History

by Diya Das



The First Wave:

Clash of Cultures, San Francisco, 1917-1918

“Some push us around, some curse us. Where is your splendor and prestige today?” - Ghadr protest song

“It was here the sentiment was born that this favored land must be maintained as a white man’s country, and we are resolved that this principle shall be established as fundamental and vital.” - San Francisco Chronicle, 1907

“...the white man has two standards, one for his own use and the other for the man with the brown skin.” - Sikh, 1908

The first Indian in the United States is believed to have been a sailor who entered the country in 1790, but the first sizeable migration of Indians to the United States did not occur for more than a decade, in 1907. The “first wave” of Indian immigrants consisted of mostly poor, uneducated Punjabi farmworkers, younger sons with no land in India. They initially immigrated to California, Washington, and Oregon in the hopes of making a quick profit and then returning home with some extra money in their pockets.

Following these Punjabis, who were mostly Sikhs, came a smaller group of young intellectuals who hoped to study in the United States. While well educated in India, some of these students were not wealthy enough to pay for their education at American institutions, and they often worked alongside the Punjabi Sikhs during the summers to pay their tuition. My Californian ancestor became one of these student-farmer types on a more permanent basis when he was expelled from Stanford University for his participation in the Ghadr movement, which university officials viewed as anarchist.

The most famous of these Indian students were Lala Har Dayal and Taraknath Das, both Hindus who studied at Stanford University. In 1912, Lala Har Dayal and Taraknath Das founded the Ghadr Party, whose aim was to gain Indian independence from Great Britain. Drawing on the ideals of the American revolution and the social difficulties experienced by Sikhs in the United States, Har Dayal, the primary leader of the movement, managed to create a significantly large organization to worry British officials, who infiltrated the movement and persuaded American officials to prosecute Ghadr members on conspiracy charges. The result was the infamous San Francisco Hindu German Conspiracy Trial which lasted from 1917 to 1918 and temporarily destroyed the Ghadr movement in the United States.

[Compiled from several entries all made in January 1917]

The day of the “Hindu” laborers begins before dawn, as we leave the bare cabins to work in the fields. The white employer is amazed at our industriousness, but for us, it is nothing. In the summer, we work especially long and hard by American standards. We normally wake up at 4 am and work with their teams until 10 am, use their hoes until 4 pm, and then their teams until 9 pm. Occasionally, workers wake up at 1 am if there is a great deal of work to be done. Our eagerness for difficult labor may seem odd to an American, but the work is nothing for an Indian who needs to make a living. The words of Professor E.E. Chandler at Occidental College are typical of the white employers’ attitude toward Indians: “I do not believe the Imperial Valley is a white man’s country and I am willing to hand it over to the Hindus and Japanese.”

The first Indian immigrants came to northern California in 1907, but the majority did not come for several years afterward. Many came to escape persecution and the British rule of India. They began working in the fields, orchards, lumber mills, and railroads around Marysville in Northern California. They were especially attracted to California’s narrow farming belt, which runs the length of the entire state. The climate is similar to Punjab, and the threats of typhoid and malaria are nothing to Indians and other East Asians. Many of the original immigrants became migrant workers, passing southward as the growing season progressed.5 By 1909, Indians were farming sugar beets in Monterey Bay, Visalia, and Oxnard; celery, potato, bean fields near Holt (a town near Stockton); and the orange groves of Southern California.

Indians have been working in America for nearly ten years, but we are still stereotyped by the white community. I am a true Hindu, while the rest of my comrades are Sikhs. This model is representative of the rest of the Indian population in California; there are Muslims, Hindus, and Christians, but mostly Sikhs. Still, the small minority populations have confused many Americans, who think all of us wear turbans, but call us Hindus. We are the “turbaned tide” of “ragheads” to the newspapers. While many of us fit the white stereotype of the uneducated savage, individuals like myself are largely ignored.

I was educated in India under the influence of British civilization, and I came to America to study at Stanford University. It was here that I made my connections with the Ghadr Party of the United States [party for Indian independence from England, founded in the United States]. However, I soon found out that revolutionary activities are not looked upon kindly in the country of the first modern revolution. I was warned to disassociate myself from the Ghadr Party or I would be expelled. But how do you give up your ideals and call yourself a human being? Now I have no money to return home, even if I desired to, so I remain as one of the few educated agricultural workers in the fields and orchards of California. Over the past few years, I have become a close observer of the largely Sikh Indian community and of the Ghadr movement in the United States.

The Sikhs are unusual in that they are isolated from every other community in the United States. There is no friendship between migrant workers of different races, especially because they are often competing for the same jobs. Only race, not a similarity of economic situation, can forge a bond between low-paid agricultural laborers.

One such example is the situation of 1907, the first year of a considerable Sikh influx. In that year, the Japanese keiyaku-nin (labor contractors) were on the verge of forcing better wages in 1907. White farm owners would have been forced to hire the Japanese at rates close to $3 per day. Employers were in a corner until the Sikhs migrated to America. Working at first for $0.75 per day, the Sikhs formed a migrant labor force along with Mexicans and a few Greeks.9 Although many were unskilled in the fields, they worked their way up in the labor force. Now, some of them work for $4 per day, most of which they send to their struggling families on the other side of the world in Punjab. The Japanese, embittered by the loss of their near-win in the struggle for dominance, often call Sikhs “English slaves” and “poles” because of their height.

Still, despite Sikh successes, the early years of low wages have ruined the image of the Indian laborer, not to mention the 1909 U.S. Immigration Commission report’s admission that it is “practically universal to discriminate against the East Indian in wages.” In their dealings with employers, Sikh bosses often recall how surprised employers are that they and their men are competitive farmers. The white men consistently underestimate the Indian, even as they praise him. The same Professor Chandler from Occidental College once made a remark that was complimentary and racist at the same time: “The Hindu resembles us except that he is a black ‐ and we are shocked to see a black white man.” Still, many Sikhs regard such remarks as compliments. On the social ladder, they say, they are much below African Americans and Mexicans. Sometimes the darker skinned ones have even attempted to pass themselves off as African Americans to obtain higher wages, while the lighter-skinned pretend to be Mexican laborers.

Banks may praise the Sikh, but almost no one else does. Angry whites, afraid that they might lose their jobs to a race willing to work longer hours for less pay, have called them names and beat them. In one incident in early 1908, many Sikhs who had worked for a man named George Pierce were driven out of Davisville. It was one of the most publicized attacks on Sikhs. The Sikh laborers had started work as orchard pruners, but the whites were afraid of the small, but growing, number of Sikhs in their little town. The white residents beat and terrorized the Sikhs, burning their camp, robbing them of $2500, and finally driving them out of town. At the end of its account, the Sacramento Bee happily declared, “All is quiet today and there will be no more trouble if the Hindus keep away.”

Another of my gang told me of another smaller, but not uncommon, incident. “I used to go to Marysville every Saturday,” he said, “[and] buy children ice cream and talk. One day a drunk ghora (white man) came out of a bar and motioned to me saying, ‘Come here, slave!’ I said I was no slave man. He told me that his (i.e. white man’s race) ruled India and America, too. All we were were slaves. He came close to me and I hit him and got away fast.”

The Sikhs, isolated from American society, have built their own organizations. They have formed labor gangs of pindi (village-men), even if their geographic proximity in India was questionable. They have “discovered” tenuous family links so they could truly call themselves family. An extended family in India is very important, so often the gangs consist of twelve to twenty men. They are fluid organizations, with members often coming and going, and during harvest time, there are sometimes sixty men in one gang. Some “gangs” have adopted American institutions. In Vacaville, Sotham Singh is known as a Sikh labor contractor, negotiating labor contracts for large groups of workers.

Sotham Singh has taken the place of the boss man in the traditional Sikh labor gang. The bosses negotiate labor contracts for the whole group. Sometimes, Hindus even join the groups because the work requires an extra laborer. Sharing living expenses and wages, the workers form gangs for a mutual support system, creating almost a collective organization. Each group of workers also takes care of an older man useless for field labor, and they pay him equal wages to serve as their cook. Gangs pay for weekly groceries, and when necessary, a funeral for their pindu (village-mate). They are often the only link to a past life in India, and it is for this that I stay with my gang, even though they are of a lower class and a different religion.

[Compiled from entries of February 1917]

There was another Ghadr meeting tonight. Increasingly, the leadership of the Party has struggled to stay in control of the meetings. The Sikh farm laborers have begun complaining more often about discrimination in the fields and the orchards. As soon as one man mentions how he is paid less than another worker of say, the African race, the others join in with a chorus of righteous exclamations.

The fools cannot keep their mouths shut about their difficulties in America. Ghadr Party members are forced to spend precious time listening to their complaints at a meeting of a political party designed to change the political, social, and economic balance in India.20 Their social complaints about life in America would be better addressed at one of their gurdwaras, those Sikh temples that house religious social service organizations.

Despite their social concerns, the quality of life in America is not as important as whether the laborers are able to earn a living. Most plan to return to India after they have earned a sufficient sum of money to support their families. The men here are mostly younger sons who have come to seek their fortune and return home. The Ghadr Party is merely a political organization founded in the United States for the benefit of the sojourners, who are supposedly able to do more to win Indian independence in America.

Rather than formulating plans to achieve Indian independence, the peasants spend the meetings telling stories. A select group of Hindu intellectuals founded this movement five years ago with the name “Revolution.” Some translate it “mutiny.” The name itself is Punjabi, and strangely enough, the farmers seem to have forgotten their native tongue.

It is most likely with the dissent in mind that Ram Chandra officially began the meeting with the singing of a particular Ghadr song, to remind the Sikhs of our purpose:

The time for prayer is gone.

It is the time to take up the sword.

Empty talk does not serve any purpose.

It is time to engage in a fierce battle.

Only the names of those who long

for martyrdom will shine.

The next textual items on the agenda were quotes from the works of Thomas Jefferson and others of his generation, who have long been regarded as the founders of the first modern democracy. They are one of the reasons why we dare to foment rebellion half a world away from our families and all things familiar: this is America, the land of freedom and opportunity, where, more than a century ago, another group of men declared their freedom from the British Empire. They fought a war and won the right to form their own nation; what better place to start a revolution than here?

If there is any doubt about the purpose of the Ghadr movement, the American Declaration of Independence justifies our actions:

But when a long train of abuses & usurpations pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce [the people] under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty to throw off such government, & to provide new guards for their future security...The history of the present king of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries & usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states.

In contrast to the American situation, the British have been abusing Indians for nearly three centuries. The first armed rebellion to our resistance movement caused the formal transfer of power from the British East India Company to the British crown, and there have been no other rebellions of note since. Only a collision of unbearable circumstances has forced us to rebel. In the early part of this century, many of us fled India for America because of famine and disease. Epidemics ‐ cholera, smallpox, the plague ‐ swept across the country. In the midst of the deaths, the British seized our land, annexed the state of Punjab, and forced us into poverty. Granted, subdivisions of land below profitable levels has increased the number of landless farmers because of foreclosures, but the loss of Indian land is not the first instance of British tyranny. The British have been physically torturing and tormenting our people in various ways since the day they entered our country. There is no justice: if a native Indian does have an opportunity to testify at a trial, he cannot afford to leave his home. In “The Rights of British America,” Thomas Jefferson describes the American situation under British rule, which is similar to the subjugation of Indians:

Single acts of tyranny may be ascribed to the accidental opinion of a day; but a series of oppressions, begun at a distinguished period, and pursued unalterably through every change of ministers, too plainly prove a deliberate and systematical plan of reducing us to slavery.

Just as the Japanese field workers call us “English slaves,” Indians are verbally insulted everywhere we go. As one Ghadr song states,

The whole world calls us black thieves, The whole world calls us “coolie.”

This abuse from those outside of our community ought to unite us in purpose, since the first step toward improving social conditions everywhere is respect from the rest of the world; that is, we must fight and win a war against the British in India. However, Sikhs have filled every Ghadr meeting for the past two years with complaints about the movement’s failure to improve their lives. There was a time, at the founding of our blessed organization in this country, that this tension between Hindus and Sikhs was not as apparent. However difficult relations between Hindus and Sikhs may be in India, in California in 1912, we all were able to ignore religion for a greater and nobler purpose: the freedom of India from the British Raj.

Our first newspaper, printed in San Francisco on November 1, 1913, proudly displayed an editorial written by Lala Har Dayal to describe our purpose:

Today there begins in foreign lands, but in our country’s tongue, a war against the British Raj...What is our name? Mutiny. What is our work? Mutiny. Where will mutiny break out? In India. The time will soon come when rifles and blood will take the place of pens and ink.

The patriotism of the movement, partly due to America’s own revolutionary history, led us for a year or so. Then, Lala Har Dayal, the Punjabi Hindu who founded the organization, was forced to flee to Germany, after he was arrested by American officials for preaching anarchism.

The movement nearly collapsed after Lala Har Dayal left the United States. He placed Ram Chandra, another Hindu, in charge of the movement. Ram Chandra is not a Punjabi like Har Dayal, and even more prejudiced against the Sikh farmers than I could ever possibly be. In only three years of his leadership, Ram Chandra has managed to alienate almost every Sikh member of the Party. He has reorganized the Party to exclude all Sikhs from administrative or organizing positions. Ram Chandra has also openly disparaged the Sikhs, calling them all sorts of filthy names, while at the same time using their money for Party activities. Many have broken away and under Bhagwan Singh, have formed a new Ghadr Party with the same name and newspaper. Now there are two organizations claiming to be the real Ghadr Party.

The same year that Har Dayal left, four hundred of our revolutionaries returned to India to start the freedom fight. The meeting before they left was a celebratory one, in anticipation of the coming victory. We passed around old copies of the Ghadr, reading aloud the messages that had led to this final send-off, such as one editorial proclaiming:

Enough: Wake, O Hindus and rub your eyes. Open your minds. Store your wealth in the Ghadr office and register your name in the army of the Ghadr. Cleanse your blood. How long will you remain seated in lethargy? Be ready to spring like tigers.

The initial call for mutiny in India was painted on one wall of our meetinghouse, just as it had been printed in the newspaper several months before:

WANTED

Fearless, courageous soldiers for spreading mutiny in India

Salary: Death

Reward: Martyrdom and Freedom

Place: The Field of India

Although many Ghadarites did succeed in rousing the peasantry, a large number failed and were arrested by British spies. The rebellions were quickly put down, and the initial failure caused morale to drop sharply in America. Since then, we have worked to rebuild the Party in America, but the arrests have cost us support.

March 3, 1917

It seems that the Ghadr movement has attracted more attention than anyone had anticipated. In the middle of the Great War, a combination of envy and distrust has served to make us the subject of an investigation. For a few brief months in 1914, we had begun communications with German intelligence through the agent C.K. Chakraverty. We broke off relations as soon as the war began, but still the relationship with the Indian National Committee in Berlin has been exaggerated in the press. Some have accused us of disloyalty and treason because we sought to better the economic and social status of our people.

March 18, 1917

The Party has suffered a significant loss. Several members have been arrested on conspiracy charges. The newspapers describe it as “the Hindu German Conspiracy,” but there is little truth in that statement. There have been no communications with the Berlin Indian National Committee since the official declaration of war, when the United States entered the war against Germany, but anything deemed “un-American” has been under suspicion since that time. The American newspapers have changed the German names of streets, foods, and everyday household objects, and anything remotely connected with Germany is under suspicion. The bad reputation of the arrival of the Sikh laborers as the “invasion” of the “turbaned tide” has not attracted much sympathy for the Ghadr cause. British spies have infiltrated our movement, and the agent Hopkinson has supplied false information about Ghadr activities to the American government. The newspapers are only too happy to supply fictional accounts of our monstrous doings to satisfy the appetite of the American public.

The first people arrested have been only those directly involved in the dropped India-Germany link, not active members of the main Ghadr movement. The agent Chandra Kanta Chakraverty has been arrested, along with the Germans Franz Bopp, Ernst Sekuna, E. H. von Schack, and William von Brincken.36 So far, none of the main body of the Ghadr Party has been affected by these arrests, but I can only assume that many of us will be dragged into this mess before it disappears, through the association of the arrested men with the Ghadr Party.

November 4, 1917

I have spent this long summer and most of autumn in hiding, disguising myself as a Mexican migrant worker. The Mexicans looked at me strangely when I first joined their group, but they have been surprisingly sympathetic, allowing me to hide my Indian identity.

American officials have arrested Ram Chandra and one hundred and five of our fellow Party members since March, the time of the first arrests. Their trial begins in a week or two, and I have elected to remain in San Francisco to hear the fates of my comrades. Unquestionably, the Ghadr movement has been shattered in the United States. Most of the leadership either has fled the country, or is lying in God-knows-what condition in a filthy jail cell. I cannot visit the jail myself, but a few of my more adventurous Mexican comrades have taken their chances to peer inside the high-barred windows of the jail. They do not return with the same smile on their faces as when they had left, but they will not tell me anything.

Despite the dangers, I occasionally manage my own foray into town, although I am careful to stay several hundred feet away from the jail. It is not difficult to hide in San Francisco at this moment. Larger than usual crowds wander in the streets to catch sight of the new imprisoned attractions. Journalists from all over the United States are crowding around the courthouse and the jail, trying to catch a glimpse of those inside. They shout questions day and night at my miserable comrades cramped inside their prison cells.

May 1, 1918

It seems that it has been ages since my comrades first went on trial in the San Francisco courthouse, but it has only been a little over one year since the arrests began. On November 20, the first day of the trial, I finally dared approach the building to stare in through the windows, along with so many others who could not get a seat inside. The authorities had cracked open a few windows, so that the voices of the lawyers carried outside, and nearly all was silent in the streets as many people pressed up against the courthouse windows.

Inside, the dark, filthy, disheartened faces of the arrested Hindus and Sikhs on one side of the courtroom contrasted with the best clothes of the town officials and the handsome suits of the Washington diplomats. The prosecution was mostly calm and collected, confident of their ability to win, while my comrades were calm as well, but out of resignation rather than assurance of winning their case.

The trial began surprisingly with a reference to the esteemed Har Dayal. The U.S. Attorney said in his opening statement:

This conspiracy had its inception surrounding this one individual. This man, Har Dayal…was a rank, out-and-out Anarchist; he believed in a combination and consolidation of all Anarchistic forces in the entire world for the purpose of social, industrial and all other kinds of revolutions of the rankest character.

After this dramatic proclamation, the trial dragged on for weeks, which then turned into months. I cannot remember now when anything happened, but only what did happen. The highlights of the trial proved to be short bursts of drama, as the case took unexpected turns.

Sometime, days or weeks from the start of the trial, one of the former members of the Ghadr Party came forth to testify for the prosecution. His betrayal provoked the first reaction from the defendants, as they all stared in surprise and then glared at his reappearance. Jodh Singh was one of the four hundred Ghadarites who had left to stir up protest in India in 1914. The last the Ghadarites had heard of him, he had been arrested by British officials in Bangkok.40 It was obvious, now, that British agents had shipped him from Asia to betray the Party. Then, surprisingly, he refused to testify when he took the witness stand, shouting, “I will die with my own countrymen!” Officers removed him from the witness stand. I left the window to find something to eat, and to mull over Jodh Singh’s sudden changes of allegiance. I decided to return to work, and it was several weeks before I came to the courthouse again.

At the time of my arrival, there seemed to be an even larger drama than that of Jodh Singh’s reappearance unfolding inside. When I asked the watchers what was happening, they all told me in not-so-complimentary terms to be quiet. Phrase by phrase, I managed to hear the controversy through the courtroom windows. Apparently, one of the defendants was complaining of inadequate legal representation. The other Indian defendants shouted, “Give us justice--this is a farce!” It was at this point that I realized how long this trial could potentially last without any useful arguments being made.

The trial proceeded in a strangely comic manner over the following months. Each bizarre occurrence received the generally expected response, but for a few surprises. For example, one day, the agent Chakraverty decided to confess to his participation in a German-Indian alliance. The revelation caused a furor on the side of the defense, as all defendants vehemently denied any connection.

Sometime after Chakraverty gave his confession, another Ghadarite accused Ram Chandra of selling him and five others into slavery to the Germans for $10,000 and alleged that Ghadr rules stated that he ought to be killed for exposing secrets to the public. The prosecution also made further ridiculous comments on the Ghadr agenda, suggesting that party members plotted to bring Rabindranath Tagore, the famous Indian poet and philosopher, to the United States as part of a conspiracy. They brought forth evidence of a letter which they had “decoded” to read that Chakraverty had played a role in Tagore’s visit to the U.S.45 The prosecution also brought forth other decoded messages that supposedly indicated that Ghadr agents stationed in countries such as England, Germany, France, Japan, and China, as well as those on Pacific islands, were agitating for Indian independence as per orders originating from the United States. While it is true that the Ghadr movement does have sister movements outside of the United States and India, any communication between these groups has been strictly between leaders, with no involvement of the large body of Party members. Still, the newspaper reporters scribbled furiously, attempting to record every one of these ludicrous statements.

In the midst of all these accusations, however, the defendants managed to cause a small furor in the courthouse. One of the defendants subpoenaed an American, William Jennings Bryan, who has written a book about India. The newspapers speculated that the defense lawyers might attempt to use Bryan’s book to show that the German link was not the cause of revolutionary activities, but rather the conditions in India. Regardless of the controversy excited by calling upon an American man in defense of a foreigner, the situation soon resolved itself and the trial continued its slow march to a verdict.

The trial finally appeared to be coming to a close early this year, when the most unexpected event happened. The court had just announced a recess, when out of nowhere, Ram Singh, one of the defendants, shot Ram Chandra, who was also on trial. It appeared that the trial had succeeded in killing the American Ghadr movement. Newspapers based as far away as the Washington Post reported the incident:

Ram Chandra arose and started across the room. Ram Singh also arose. He raised his revolver and began firing. Ram Chandra staggered forward and fell dead before the witness chair, with a bullet in his heart and two others in his body.

At the same moment Ram Singh fell. Holohan [a U.S. Marshal] had shot once with his arm high over his head, so that the bullet should clear nearby counsel. The shot broke Ram Singh’s neck.

Everyone had scrambled for safety after the first shot was fired. There was great disorder in the courtroom, and it took the judge some time to restore order. The judge ordered everyone out of the courtroom, except for the law officials. The crowd returned home in a subdued manner, and all of us watching through the windows followed.

One week later, Judge Van Fleet has handed down the final verdict. Twenty-one of the 101 defendants left have been convicted of conspiracy in a fabricated court case. Their sentences are light, from one to eighteen months of jail time, but the loss still hurts the Ghadr Party. No one speaks of achieving equal status with whites in the United States, and there is little talk of revolution. The media has dispersed, but there is no talk of a Ghadr meeting or even a Ghadr newspaper. I suspect that after their jail time is over, many will return to India, or at least leave California. I myself have decided to return to India, taking whatever savings I have and finding a job there to support my family. America is no longer the land of opportunity for the Indian immigrant.

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With God There Is Hope: Hope For Humanity - Ellen Chaksil

With God There Is Hope: Hope For Humanity

Chapter 1

Hunger for God

In the fall of 1977, I had reached a time of crisis in my life. After twenty-eight years of marriage one would suspect my restlessness to be rooted in boredom, or even a state of midlife doldrums. Yet such was not the case; I was a healthy, very active housewife and mother who found enjoyment in being with her husband and family. I delighted in cooking, golfing and dancing with my handsome husband, and all this activity had also been interspersed with much involvement in my church.

On the surface my life appeared to be full, but inside I was troubled, or perhaps “restless” is a better word to describe my state. In spite of what I thought of as my very deep faith, I even began questioning the very purpose of existence, wondering if there was more to life than I was experiencing. The deep longing within me convinced me that something was missing in my life.

From time to time, I searched for the source or sources that were causing my uneasiness. I concluded that the unrest could not be caused by any problems in my marriage. Though I had been only nineteen when Bruce and I got married, we still shared a deep love for one another even after all these years. I also knew that the void within me was not due to our financial status; we were certainly not wealthy, but we were comfortable. Bruce had built up his own accounting business, and provided well enough for our family. Yes, in that area I was satisfied, but then again even in my earliest years I was never driven to desire things beyond my family’s means. Certainly when I was growing up, our family didn’t have a lot, but there was always love. Perhaps that was how I came to learn that material things were less important.

Today Enon, Pennsylvania, the town where I was born, bears almost no resemblance to what it was like at the time of my birth. The Appalachian mountains are unchanged, but nearly everything else in the surrounding area is totally transformed. In the past there were streams and fields where my siblings and friends and I ran and played, and we delighted in our carefree existence. We would use rocks to mark out the rooms of make-believe houses in the fields and furnish them with empty boxes and wooden crates.

In those days, coal mining was the principal industry, but the air was not congested with smoke and fumes as one would expect. Instead it was crisp and clear, because the mines were located a safe distance from the town. Our father had built our two-story family house on Adler Street himself. The dirt road remained unpaved for many years, and echoed with laughter every winter as our sleds raced through the snow.

Our paternal grandparents lived on the lower end of the street, and each morning the crow of their rooster awakened the entire neighborhood. I cherish a treasury of tender memories of them to this day. Bobba, as we of Slavonic descent called our grandmother, always wore a long dress and apron, with a babushka or scarf tied around her head. Each Christmas Eve, her entire family gathered to celebrate the birth of Christ. The three rooms on the first floor of her home were filled with tables and chairs to accommodate her children and grandchildren. Growing up, I liked to sit in the kitchen near the coal stove, which served not only to cook the delicious traditional foods but also lent a sense of coziness and well being which I am still able to draw forth from the recesses of my mind.

As we gathered around the tables every year to pray and then to eat, Bobba never failed to remind us of the reason for our coming together. She would point to the crib in the center of each table, where Baby Jesus lay resting upon a bed of straw. We children, assailed by those wonderful aromas, could barely wait to dig in, and yet we listened as she spoke. Those marvelous memories, filled with love and warmth, are imprinted upon my consciousness forever.

The town of Enon also had its dangers. We children often ventured into the nearby hills where there were some abandoned strip mines. The gaping holes which were left behind, filled with sulfurous water, were a great hazard. One balmy summer day when I was eight, my four-year-old brother Aaron tagged along with me and some of my friends as we trekked through the area near the abandoned mines. I must have lost sight of him for only a minute, but it was enough time for him to wander off toward one of those hazardous pits. By the time I caught up with him, he was nearing the edge of the deep sulfurous water. With my heart in my mouth I hurried down the treacherous slope until I reached him, took hold of his hand in the nick of time, and then began the climb upward again, reaching out to those waiting to help us. It’s strange how some memories are imprinted upon our consciousness.

Aaron and I were the two youngest in a family of seven, but two of our siblings were unknown to us, except for the following sad stories, so indicative of the time. The firstborn, a boy named Cyril, died at the age of two in the arms of our gentle father after the doctor performed an emergency tracheotomy on him as he lay on our kitchen table.

Another story I am always proud to share involves our sister Gertrude. During the Spanish flu epidemic following the First World War, my mother contracted the flu late in her seventh month of pregnancy. She was told her death was imminent unless she allowed the doctors to abort her baby. Her response was adamant.

“Well then, I’ll die, because I will not let you take my baby.”

Gertrude was born and lived long enough to be baptized and taken home from the hospital, where she was kept alive for a very short time in a box surrounded by heated bricks.

I think now you have a small idea of the character and goodness of our parents.

I have no at-home memories of our sister Maryann, as she married at an early age, even before Aaron was born. Shortly after her marriage she and her husband moved to New Jersey. Maryann had a gift of hospitality, and when anyone entered her home they were welcomed by her beautiful smile.

Our sister Mary Lucille took advantage of Maryann’s hospitality when she finished high school. Though she graduated with honors and greatly desired to attend college, she was unable to do so, as our parents could not afford it. This was during the Second World War, and so Mary Lucille decided to seek employment in the city, where good job opportunities were available. And of course Maryann and her husband Joe graciously opened their door to her.

There are many at-home memories of my brother Mark, who was four years older than me. He loved to fish and hunt with our dad. Often he and I were assigned the chore of washing the kitchen floor. He would scrub, then rinse out the rag and hand it to me to dry and shine the floor with it. More often than not, this ended in a free-for-all. Rather than simply wringing the cloth dry and then handing it to me, Mark would call out and then toss it, sopping wet, in my face. Today, instead of bursting into tears and lunging at him, I cherish the memory, because Mark is no longer with us.

Mark had a brilliant mind and, when he was old enough, he enlisted in the U.S. Navy and joined the Seabees, where he became a member of a construction battalion. Upon his discharge from the Service, he entered college and became a successful engineer.

Then there were just two of us at home on Adler Street, Aaron and me.

* * *

When I reflect upon the year that I was born, 1929, the start of the Great Depression, and recall hearing so may stories from others about those difficult times, I realize I was graced even then in that I didn’t know enough to be negatively affected by our everyday hardships.

For example, we had no indoor plumbing, and yet thought nothing of going to the outhouse in any and all types of weather or, for that matter, of taking a bath in the tin tub after heating the water on the stove. It never occurred to me to be unhappy when my mother made some of my dresses from another relative’s hand-me-down clothes; instead I was pleased and proud that she had made them for me.

Whenever we sat down to dinner, even though our dad came home exhausted from working in the mines, he always waited until everyone else was served before he took his portion. In spite of our poverty, there was always enough food, as Mom was a good and resourceful cook. Every Wednesday the house smelled wonderful; that was the day she baked bread, and sometime even fried some of the dough, covering it with sugar for a special treat. Even now, just thinking about the taste makes my mouth water.

Growing up in Enon, we children had the opportunity to earn some extra money in the summertime by picking blueberries. It was necessary to get up at five in the morning and walk up into the mountains with pails attached to our belts. In later years Mom would make us laugh by telling stories of how each of her children reacted to this chore.

“Mary Lucille,” she would say, “Made every excuse, even feigned illness, so she wouldn’t have to go out and pick berries.”

Mark, on the other hand, was a good worker, and he always came home with his pail filled. As for me, I was filled with pride to hear Bobba say, “Look what a good girl Elenka is! She not only comes home with her pails filled, but then she starts cleaning the house for her mother.”

Even at an early age I made every effort to do my part so as to please those around me.

Aaron and I, as the youngest and only four years apart in age, were very close. However, as with all siblings, we had our differences, especially when it came to our choice of radio programs. In those days there was no television in our house, and only one radio. Every Saturday afternoon, the rest of us grew annoyed with Aaron as we were literally forced to listen to the opera being broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. Until today, I wonder how he found these broadcasts, and where he developed this passion for opera. Living in a small mining town, he had never been exposed to that beauty; it simply was not a part of our culture.

Yet Aaron loved that music so much that when he was in the eighth grade he walked all the way to the next town‐a good ten-mile hike‐to hear Patrice Munsel, a noted opera star, perform. Today, in these quite different times, we realize he converted many of us. My husband and I appreciate and love the music; time and again we have attended the opera with him.

Aaron also had a brilliant mind; he excelled in high school and became a member of the National Honor Society. As for picking blueberries? He did not do much of that, perhaps because once he was old enough our mother began working in the sewing factory and money was a bit more available. In fact our parents were able to pay Aaron’s tuition at a nearby high school which was considered to be academically superior to the one in our borough.

Our high school years were quite different from those of teenagers today. Our parents were quite strict, and we had a 9:00 p.m. curfew. In my junior year of high school in 1946, I was finally allowed to attend the dances which were held in a hall about six blocks from our house. Consequently, the course of my life was set in April of that year when I caught sight of a young man entering the hall. I could not help staring at him because I thought he was the best looking man I had ever seen.

Shortly thereafter, even though I thought I looked very young in my bobby sox and broomstick skirt‐the fashion of the day‐I was thrilled when this handsome man asked me to dance. As we slowly circled the hall, I learned that his name was Bruce and he had just been discharged from the Army. I was awestruck when he told me he had fought in the Battle of the Bulge.

When the dance was over he asked to take me home, but at first I politely refused, knowing my mother would not approve of my getting into his car. Once I explained my dilemma, Bruce offered to walk me home. That was the beginning of a romance that has lasted until today.

We often share a laugh with our children when we tell them about the first time I was finally allowed to ride home with him following the dance. We sat together, parked in front of my house, steam gathering on the car windows as we kissed. My mother must have spotted us as soon as she looked out the front window, because in an instant the door flew open and she came storming down the walk in her flannel nightgown. Just as quickly she yanked the car door open, reached inside and, holding me by the ear, pulled me out of the car.

Despite that bad beginning, however, as the weeks passed my mother apparently became persuaded that Bruce was an honorable young man and I really liked him, and so I was able to invite him into the house. Of course, once my parents met him they allowed me to date. Later that summer both sets of parents met as well, and the meeting resulted in a fine and lasting friendship.

In the Fall of that year, Bruce entered college and I began my senior year of high school. I was thrilled to bring him to my prom, and even more excited to attend a dance with him at the University of Scranton. We were engaged in 1948, and were so eager to be together all the time that we were married in 1949, just a year before he graduated from the university to begin his career in accounting.

Our first apartment was near Bru’s parents’ house, and I loved visiting with his mom and learning how to prepare his favorite foods. Bru was an only child, and so early on he and I planned to have a child. In the following year we were heartbroken when I miscarried, and then learned that because of a problem with my female organs it was unlikely I could ever become pregnant again. When faced with that possibility, I was told that perhaps surgery could alleviate the condition. In consequence, in the hope of conceiving a child, we decided to go forward with the operation.

Following surgery, as the months passed, I prayed in the fashion I always had, just as I believed all Catholics did‐I made novenas to St. Ann and the Blessed Mother. Because in those times before Vatican Council II, we as Catholics did not read the Bible, our knowledge of Jesus, except for His birth and His death on the Cross, was limited. As a result, instead of seeing St. Ann and Blessed Mary as intercessors, we prayed directly to them.

This is a very important point that I wish to make. In fear of mortal sin, no one in our family was ever allowed to miss Mass, but beyond that all of our prayers were directed to the Mother of Jesus. In fact, during the month of May, which was dedicated to her, we erected altars in our homes, prayed the rosary and said special Novena prayers before them. Little did I realize at that time how much my understanding would change years later.

* * *

Bruce and I were filled with joy when our son David was born in October of 1951. He was followed two years later by our second son, Jonathan and, five years afterwards, by our daughter Ria.

In that span of time conditions in Enon and the surrounding towns and cities changed tremendously. Numerous industries set up factories in the area, offering employment opportunities to many. Even on Adler Street, much to everyone’s glee, outhouses became obsolete. I recall how pleased and special I felt when our dad built a small powder room in our basement and there was no longer any need to venture

outdoors. The former dirt road was paved, and soon cars raced up and down its length. I often wonder what Bobba would have thought if she had lived to see that transformation.

Bru worked hard setting up his own accounting practice, and we were able to build a beautiful, two-story colonial house right on the border between Enon and the next town. We were a happy family, and whenever we were able we took wonderful trips with the children. One of our first was to bring the three of them to the place in Canada where Bru and I had spent our honeymoon. At the time, David was ten, Jonathan eight and Ria was three. Each evening at dinner, the boys looked so proper in their Eton suits and bow ties while Ria looked beautiful in her starched organdy dress.

Another time we took a trip to Radio City in New York, followed by dinner at the then famous Mama Leone’s restaurant. One memory never fails to make me smile. We had just finished eating a sumptuous meal and the boys, who were unfamiliar with finger bowls, watched as the waiter set the finger bowls on the table. Simultaneously they bellowed out loudly enough to be heard throughout the entire restaurant, “No, no, we don’t want any! We just can’t eat any more soup.”

Even at that age, though, Jonathan always attempted to be prim and proper. Yet another time when we were out to dinner and it was his turn to give the waiter his order, he very seriously said, “I would like some breastless bone of chicken, thank you.”

The waiter managed to conceal his laughter, but Bruce and I had a hard time meeting each other’s eyes.

Growing up, the boys were very different from each other in many respects, but both were musically talented; David played the piano and Jonathan the violin. Often at socials and family gatherings they were called upon to entertain, and we were quite proud of them.

All three of our children attended the parochial school in a nearby town. It was there that we met a priest who is still one of our best friends today. Father Vinnie, as we continue to call him even though he is now a monsignor, is an important part of our lives. When the children were in the lower grades, he administered the Sacraments to them. He also married David and his wife Jan, as well as Ria and her husband Bobby. He would prove to be my guide and mentor through what was about to become the new focus of my life.

Years later, during that time of crisis in my life in 1977, as I reflected upon the lives of our three children and what wonderful young adults they had grown into, I decided they could not be at the heart of my unrest. Our daughter Ria was attending college and our twenty-six- and twenty-four-year-old sons were already making their way in the world.

Having gone through my mental checklist and found nothing outside myself that was causing my unrest, I determined that the restlessness was necessarily rooted in my very core. I began to wonder‐could this sense of deprivation have something to do with my relationship with God?

But how could that be? I wondered. How could such a thought even enter my mind? In my smugness, I attempted to point out to myself that this just could not be the cause of my restlessness. Why, I went to church every Sunday and even on Holy Days. I said the rosary and, before receiving Holy Communion, I did go to confession. In addition, I always participated in all of the activities at our church, serving at the dinners held as fundraisers, sometimes working at bingo. In fact, I could not, would not allow myself to believe that my relationship with God could be the cause of my unrest. Yet as the months passed, in some of my quiet moments, it seemed I heard my inner self accusing me.

But Ellen, I heard myself say, Do you have a close relationship with God? Do you really know Him?

I was taken aback by that question and, in seeking an answer, I realized that, yes, I was a good Roman Catholic, I did obey the laws of the Church, but as for knowing God in a close personal way, I had never given that any thought. I could truthfully say I did not have that type of personal relationship with God, and it seemed that just going to church was not the solution. Maybe, I decided, that was the reason I had begun church hopping.

Then again, maybe Vatican II had had something to do with that skipping around. Twelve years had passed since the Council had ended, and changes ordained in its deliberations were being implemented in the Church, changes which I had welcomed and was excited about, and I had wanted to attend Mass where those changes were in place.

For example, the Mass had become our prime form of worship and we the people, the Church, were allowed to participate, as the words were no longer spoken in Latin but in our own language, the vernacular of the people. It was also incredibly exciting the first time I took the Body and Blood of Christ into my own hands at the Eucharist. Then, too, at Mass I experienced a sense of community in exchanging the sign of peace with the people around me.

My reflection pointed out to me that the Mass was not what I had been searching for, because I already had it. Instead, I came to realize that the “something more” I was looking for in my life must be the Someone who is my God. I wanted to get to know Him in a personal way.

That stream of thought brought to mind our very good friend Father Vinnie, who was also my spiritual advisor. If he were here, I mused, instead of in Rome where he was pursuing his doctorate in theology, I knew he could have helped me; he would have pointed me in the right direction. It was he, after all, who had first introduced Bruce and me to the ways opened to all at the Vatican Council. I reminisced about how proud I had been when Father selected Bruce to be one of the first lectors in our parish. He was among the first lay persons able to stand in our sanctuary and read the scripture passages designated for that Sunday’s Mass. What an exciting time to live in!

Over the years we had developed a close relationship with Father Vinnie; it was he who had administered the Sacrament of the Eucharist to Ria at her first Holy Communion, and he was also present when the bishop confirmed our sons Jonathan and David. Yes, I was sure if he had been there at this time of my soul-searching, he could have helped me to understand and quiet my inner restlessness.

My thoughts about the return of our priest friend to Rome evoked a flood of memories, one of which was when Father Vinnie helped coordinate a wonderful trip to Italy for our family in 1967. Through his efforts and those of an acquaintance he had made during his seminary days at the North American College in the Vatican, we had been afforded a very special time in the audience hall in Castel Gandolfo, the summer residence of the Pope.

* * *

1967: Italy

Arrangements were made for us to hire a driver, Remo Velli, who knew the region well and who had been of service to many in the Vatican. Remo proved to be compassionate as well as competent. When our daughter Ria, then nine years old, complained of an upset stomach, my husband, who speaks fluent Italian, mentioned the problem to Remo, who stopped on our way to purchase some medicine to ease her

tummy troubles.

Needless to say, we were quite pleased, as then we were able to enjoy the beautiful scenery unperturbed as we drove up into the mountains. We soaked in more beauty as we walked into the center of the charming little town in Lazio where the Pope’s summer residence is located. We saw the townspeople sitting at tables in the square, enjoying each other’s company as they sipped their beverages and the men smoked their pipes.

When we finally entered the audience hall, we were surprised to see our driver up on the stage conferring with a group of cardinals. Apparently he was well known to them. We were further amazed when he came forward and invited us to take seats closer to the stage. However, we decided to remain where we were; we thought our seats on the aisle would afford us a better view of Pope Paul VI as he passed by.

At that point all eyes were riveted on the back of the hall where the Pope would enter; the excitement was almost palpable. After some time, amid shouts of welcome, we caught sight of the Holy Father. Though he looked frail, he smiled and reached out to the people from the chair in which he was being carried on the shoulders of some men. For Catholics like me, it was a thrilling and awe-filled moment!

We were quite pleased with our decision to remain in our original seats, for we were close enough to almost touch him. Then, wonder of wonders, as he passed by he did grasp and hold onto our son David’s hand. Moments later, when the Holy Father moved on, there was a look of awe on everyone’s face, especially that of our sixteen-year-old son David, who appeared dazed.

“Mom,” he said. “I can’t believe I was holding the Pope’s hand! He held on so tight my ring almost slipped off!”

After the audience, bubbling with excitement, we left the hall and made our way to the car. We marveled at our good fortune‐to think that we had had seats in an area where we could literally touch the Pope’s hand! In a short time we caught sight of our driver, who was carrying a very large box in his arms. Immediately Bruce told him of our good fortune. Instead of putting the box into the trunk, he turned to us and asked if we would like to take a picture with him and Ria holding on to the box. He went on to explain that the box contained some of the Holy Father’s clothing. Needless to say, Bruce immediately took the picture. Later, on our way back to Rome, our driver told us it was part of his duty to deliver the garments to an order of nuns inside the city who laundered them.

Today, as I reflect on those awesome events‐the Pope clasping David’s hand, and then being in the car bringing the Holy Father’s clothing to be laundered‐I could see that the Lord was preparing me for even greater happenings in my life.

Remembering that wonderful visit to Castel Gandolfo, I recalled yet other memories of that 1967 trip. Some days after our encounter with His Holiness, Bruce was filled with anticipation as we approached and entered the small town of Perticano, the birthplace of his mother. The town, nestled between some towering mountains, appeared to be unchanged from the earliest of times. We immediately caught sight of the communal oven located in the very center of town, made of stone and brick, that had been constructed at least a hundred years before. Bruce’s mother shared a memory with us once. She recalled seeing her own mother and grandmother baking bread and roasting meats in that very same oven. Certainly that shared activity fostered community in this lovely little town.

At the time we visited, there was no hotel in the town, and we stayed with Bruce’s relatives. Each morning our daughter Ria would run outdoors to catch sight of some of the women in kerchiefs and aprons as they led their geese through the streets; she also delighted in seeing the chickens, goats and other animals as they freely roamed about. Even though the language barrier was a problem for the children and me, we were made to feel most welcome.

On one of those days, though we hated to leave, we took an excursion to the nearby ancient city of Gubbio, parts of which, we knew, had literally been built into the hills and at the base of Monte Ingino, a towering mountain. The city not only looked like a page out of the past but was, in fact, unchanged for centuries, and it remained that way because of a law which prohibited the residents from altering the exteriors of their buildings.

A car could barely pass through the narrow cobble-stoned streets. The passages, constructed hundreds of years before, did accommodate a horse and carriage, the mode of transportation at that time.

In 1967, there was yet another way to ascend Monte Ingino, the site of the Basilica of Santo Ubaldo, a famed tourist attraction, and that was by cable car. When I caught sight of it, a shiver of fear ran through me. I had imagined it would be similar to the kind of car Bruce and I had ridden in to ascend some mountains in the Alps, but I noticed there was a distinct difference. The cars used to ascend the mountain in Switzerland had been enclosed, whereas those in Gubbio were open to the elements.

There was, however, no fear in the children; they could hardly wait to get into the cars, especially sixteen-year-old David and Jonathan who, at fourteen, had that same taste for excitement.

As for me, I knew I wanted to visit the Basilica, and I had no choice except to hop into the car with Bruce. When we finally began ascending the mountain, I closed my eyes, but the children’s escapades began. The two brothers loved their sister and, like playful bear cubs, they incessantly, lovingly teased her. Consequently her squeals of delight resounded in the open spaces between the mountains as they scrambled about, causing the car to rock. As we climbed higher and higher, Bruce held onto my hand and also kept a close eye on the children.

When the cable car at last came to a stop, I did breathe a sigh of relief as I hurriedly stepped out. The scene which confronted us was breathtaking; from that height the buildings below looked like the miniature ones we place around our Christmas tree.

After a short climb, we entered the Basilica of Santo Ubaldo. Amid the seemingly hundreds of burning candles, we could see the prominently situated reason for the tourists’ visits. There in the center of the church, high atop the altar, rested a glass enclosure which contained the uncorrupted body of Saint Ubaldo. He was attired in his miter and the full regalia of a bishop of his time. Certainly, it was a sight to behold.

I did not realize it at the time, but that trip to Gubbio played an important role in preparing me for future participation in God’s plan. Once again, though, looking back, I can see God’s leading.

* * *

As we left the basilica, I did not look forward to the cable car ride down the mountain, but I was more than pleased with our visit. I thought to myself that in time it would be interesting to learn about the life of Santo Ubaldo and also that of the City of Gubbio.

I may not have been looking forward to the cable car ride but, on the other hand, the children were eagerly awaiting its departure so that they could continue with what seemed to them to be a great adventure. And have it they did; Bruce and I were not too pleased when the boys proceeded to shake the car from side to side as we descended, but their sister was delighted. I could barely wait to reach the bottom, not only to set my feet on firm ground, but to get to one of the city’s numerous restaurants; we had been told that the food was delicious.

Having stored away those treasured memories from more than a decade earlier, I realized that I was still plagued with an unexplained restlessness. There was, however, one major difference in my thoughts since I had begun to experience this restlessness‐I now knew what was causing it. I knew I desired something more in my life and had come to understand that the something I was longing for had to do with the Someone who is God. I wondered how this could be resolved satisfactorily, and what course would be necessary to facilitate the solution. Shortly thereafter, a clue surfaced:

I recalled when Father Vinnie had been in our parish he had most likely helped stir up that longing when he conducted some adult education classes. My thirst to seek more knowledge about God had definitely been triggered; there was so much I didn’t know. A subsequent bible course I had taken made me more aware of the same void and thirst within me. That void seemed to be deepening, and left me with the question: Was learning more about God the answer for me?

I remembered also that, prior to our friend’s return to Rome, I had briefly touched upon my growing unrest with him. At the time he suggested I join a Charismatic prayer group which was gathering at a renewal center in Oakdale, not far from my home. However, at that time the bit of advice had slipped my mind. I did not go to Oakdale. Now, almost a year later, my unrest had become a spiritual crisis.

In retrospect, it is clear that I was not in tune with God’s plan at that time. However, perhaps back then it was not yet time for me to become involved in that renewal movement.

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Secrets and Sacriffices by Diane Wylie

Secrets and Sacrifices

by Diane M. Wylie

Chapter One

Late Fall 1861

Allegheny Mountains

Charlotte “Charlie” Garrett, crouching uncomfortably behind a boulder, swallowed the lump of fear in her throat, adjusted the position of her beloved army-issued Springfield, and waited. All snipers had been ordered to come before the main body of the regiment and pick off any Yankees they could. The moment of truth had arrived. Since disguising herself as a young man to join the Twenty-Fifth Virginia Infantry, following her husband Joshua into war, Charlotte had never shot a man. She was now a sharpshooter for the regiment, having been ordered into this maligned group of men due to her ability with the weapon she clutched tightly in her hands.
From where she was hidden she could see Clarence, the older man who had taken her under his wing, and a few of the other soldiers selected for this job. He was lying on the ground behind a huge log, and two of the younger snipers were up in the gnarled oak trees that overlooked the ground below. The others were invisible through the falling snow.
The weather had gotten progressively worse up in the mountains, and the soldiers had been growing more and more discontent. The Confederates held this part of the Allegheny Mountains and were to defend Staunton-Reidsburg Pike from Union forces who hoped to take the summit from them.
The idea that the officers were counting on her and the rest of the sharpshooters to draw the enemy out from behind their artillery made her stomach feel as though it were full of nervous butterflies.
Taking off her spectacles, she looked down at the valley while she polished the smudged glass ovals on her shirt. No Bluecoats were visible at the moment. Charlie's stomach twitched. Where are the damn Yankees? Smoke belched out of the slightly raised tree line, and a loud boom echoed across the ground.
All of the time spent drilling and marching had not prepared her for the mind-numbing terror beginning to claw its way up her spine. Today something was going to change…her life was going to change…history was going to change. Two armies were going to clash, and people were going to die just like they had already died in the time since Fort Sumter and Bull Run.
Oh, God! She was starting to tremble at the very idea that she was here doing this! She wished she had not joined the snipers. It came as a surprise when she found out most of the other foot soldiers didn't like them. Jeers of “sneak” and “murderer” were sometimes directed toward her group. The soldiers who fought out in plain sight didn't appreciate the skill of those who perched in trees or behind rocks to pick off their unsuspecting targets. Many considered the sharpshooters to be coddled or even cowardly when they were allowed to shoot behind cover while the others marched headlong into battle.
It would have been so much easier to stay with her husband. If she were beside him, with his comforting presence to draw strength from, she was sure her heart would not be pounding as hard as it was. Joshua seemed to have gotten over the rage she had seen him display on the practice field when he recognized her, despite the baggy uniform, dirty slouch hat, short hair, and glasses.

* * *

All during training camp in Virginia, Charlie had managed to avoid direct contact with Josh. They were in the same company and, with Josh's natural ability to cultivate new friends, she knew it would only be a matter of time before he made the rounds of the entire regiment and knew each one of them by name.
She had carefully studied the actions and habits of the men around her and had gotten very adept at burping, spitting, and scratching when the time seemed right. By acting like a man, dressing like a man, and keeping her hat pulled low, Charlie had managed to avoid detection. Even Clarence, who kept a close eye on his “adopted” son, had not picked up on her gender. Fortunately, he respected her need for privacy whenever she could get it.
Then one day it happened. Charlie lined up with the rest of the troops on the practice field as usual. Standing beside Clarence at attention, she waited for the officers to give orders. She remembered looking around and searching for Josh, as usual. Her husband was the whole reason she was here after all. She just couldn't bear to be so far away from him. All she needed to get through the day was to see his handsome face, but she had to make sure he didn't see her. He was somewhere in the ranks of soldiers that had gathered on the muddy field.
“At ease, men,” Captain Weaver had yelled. Then he'd moved closer to the rank and file. “Tomorrow we march to our destiny, gentlemen. We must rise above the oppression of the Federal government and, with your help, we will persevere against the Northern aggressors.”
A chorus of whoops and catcalls had erupted all around and swelled to a thunderous noise.
“Hear that, lad?" Clarence had clapped her on the back hard, almost knocking her over. "We're gonna whip them Yankees. We are gonna whip 'em and send them running with their tails 'tween their legs.” He had grinned at her from under his grizzled, scraggly beard.
“We sure are, Clarence, we sure are!”
Suddenly, the trumpet had blown, and they had all settled down and stiffened to attention again.
Captain Weaver had been trying to speak once more. “Everyone has done a bang-up job these past weeks. Some of you have never handled a rifle before, while others have obviously been hunting many times and know exactly how to handle a gun. One such young man has proven himself to be a very good shot. He will be part of the sharpshooters in our regiment. Charlie Garrett, please step forward!”
With no choice, Charlie had come forward then turned and, with a start of surprise, she had found herself locking eyes with Josh in the crowd. That was the heart-stopping moment when she knew her husband had seen her, really looked closely at her.
The thunderous cloud appearing on Josh's face the moment he realized the real identity of “Charlie” Garrett had been obvious to her, even yards away from him. She
had watched him reach for his powder charges and prepare to load his rifle. Terror had swept through her. He'd glared angrily at the soldiers all around him The other Augusta County boys had seen Josh's strange reaction, encircled him immediately, and Billy Kaufman, the largest man in the regiment, had taken Josh's gun away with one massive hand, then pinned Josh's arms to his sides. As soon as she had the opportunity, Charlie had escaped the practice field. She just hadn't been able to face him.
Joshua had not come anywhere near Charlie when the regiment marched into the Allegheny Mountains, which was fine with her. She had really needed the time to think.
Then, just this very morning, Josh had just walked up to the cook fire, introduced himself as her cousin, and they walked off to talk.
“You need to go tell Captain Weaver you're my wife and that you joined up without my permission or knowledge. I'll give you my wages, and you can buy passage home,” Josh had said as soon as they were out of the other soldiers' earshot.
Startled by his blunt command, she'd nearly tripped over an exposed root. He had not considered for a moment what she wanted or even why she was here. Fighting tears she had quickened the pace, leading him down a ravine to a spot where they might have a little privacy.
“Stop, Charlie.” Josh's hand had landed on her shoulder gently but firmly. “You heard what I said, but I will not be the one telling the Captain anything. You will.”
“Oh, no, I won't.” Facing him squarely, she had raised her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. Clenching her jaw, she'd given him her best stubborn glare. Only he hadn't blustered and blown as usual. He hadn't even huffed. Not once. The sad expression on his face had been thoroughly confusing to Charlie. It was so unlike her husband to react this way. His hand had come up toward her face, and she had flinched involuntarily. Josh's woeful expression had deepened. “Charlie, oh my darling, is this what you think of me now?” He'd dropped his hand. “Do you think I would raise my hand in anger to the woman I love? Though it seems plain you no longer love me.”
“What? Why do you say that, Josh? I joined this army because I love you. It is the only reason I am here.”
“If you love me, why are you sleeping with all of these men?”
“Josh! No one has touched me! They think I am a man, like they are!”
“If it weren't for big Billy, I would have shot them all! What about your parents? Where do they think you are?”
He had moved closer then. Slowly his big hand had come up and gently removed her hat and glasses. “There now, you look more like yourself.” His fingers played with the short, dark curls. “I miss your long hair.”
“It will grow back,” she had informed him tersely. “I told my family I was going to visit Aunt Betty in South Carolina. I told them I couldn't bear to stay at the farm without you…and it was true. I couldn't, Josh.” She had needed to pray for control and the right words. “You have to understand…I like it here…where I know you are close. I like the army. It's like camping out. I always enjoyed the hunting trips we went on with my brothers.”
He had frowned even more sternly, if that was possible. “You liked hunting? Why did you refuse to kill the doe on the last trip we made?”
Fiddling nervously with a button on her uniform, she had watched Josh lower his long-limbed body to a moss-covered log. “That was different--uhh!” Josh had yanked her down onto his lap. “--That was different. It was a beautiful animal with two young ones. They were so darling. I just couldn't kill their mother.”
Josh hadn't looked at her face. He had kept his eyes down in the vicinity of her chest. “Honey…those Yankees may not be beautiful, but chances are good that some of them will be daddies to young ones, too.” He'd raised his face then, so handsome and so familiar, and had looked at her somberly. “Are you prepared to shoot somebody's daddy, somebody's husband, or somebody's child?”

* * *

His words came back to her now as she looked down on the scene below and waited for a glimpse of blue. She put on her glasses and wiped her perspiring hands on her gray woolen pants. Was she prepared? Could she shoot somebody's husband?
“Clarence,” she called softly.
He didn't turn around. He too was busy scanning the ground below. The spyglass glinted in the sunlight. Would the Yankees see the reflection off the glass? Her
heart jumped into her throat, choking her and increasing the trembling of her hands. How could she shoot now?
“C-Clarence?”
The grizzled face swung around to face her. “Charlie? You okay, boy?”
She motioned with her hand and, after a quick look around, Clarence came in a crouching run to join her.
“Whatsa matter? You got a case of the jitters?” he asked amiably. Then he glanced down at her hands and up again at her face. “Yah sure are jumpy, Charlie. Yah gotsta calm down and keep your mind on one thing at a time. Jus' remember what I taught you. Tear open the cartridge, git the powder down the barrel, put the bullet in--don't forget that part,” he gave a short chuckle, “then ramrod it down, put the cap on the nib under the hammer, and ya'll is ready to go again.”
“Sure, I remember it all,” Charlie retorted indignantly. “I'm not stupid, you know, just scared.”
Clarence chuckled again. Reaching down at his side with steady hands, he offered his canteen. She looked at it, puzzled. “I have my own water, Clarence, I don't need to drink yours.”
“Mine is special. Have a drink, boy,” he insisted, thrusting it at her.
“Okay.” She took the canteen and tilted it up for a large mouthful. “Gak!” She choked and finally swallowed the stuff that burned all the way down. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she pulled out a blue bandana to wipe under her glasses.
Clarence laughed softly again. “Ain't you never had no strong drink befo'? A little shot of courage, that's all.
My grandma set a great store by her own shots of courage. Said they were the reason she lived so long…my grandma was ninety-seven when she passed on.”
A shot rang out. They threw themselves into position. The other snipers were taking shots at a group of Bluecoats picking their way through between the rocks and scattered trees. A cry echoed up the mountain, and Charlie saw one man fall, holding his hands up to his neck as a stream of red appeared, visible even from this distance.
Clarence sighted down the high-powered scope of his special-issue Whitworth rifle and easily picked off another soldier from a distance of almost four hundred yards. He turned away to reload with a precious .45 caliber bullet then took down another man before Charlie could squeeze the trigger of her ordinary rifle once. The Yankees were running back in the direction they had come. One man was lagging behind the rest, having a more difficult time maneuvering the natural landscape. He would be so easy to shoot. The snipers continued to fire all around her. She took a bead on the clumsy soldier.
“Shoot, Charlie! Every man you take could save the life of one of ours.”
Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. Opening her eyes again, she saw the man fall to the ground. She'd killed a man! No…wait…the man sprang up and began running again. He had only tripped and fallen.
“Come on, boys!” Clarence called to the sharpshooters. “Stay sharp now. The real fighting is about to start. The snow is lettin' up!”
Sure enough, no sooner had the words left his mouth than the now-familiar Rebel yell sent goosebumps skittering along Charlie's arms. With an explosion of noise, the army in gray erupted from somewhere below them. Hoards of men came screaming out into the open--some falling over their own feet in their haste and others nimbly leaping over the obstacles in their path. The Confederate flag, like a beacon of light, drew them toward their enemy in a stream of humanity.
“Here they come!” Clarence shouted. “Pick off as many Yankees as you can before they reach our men!”
As if they were magically summoned, the tide of blue flowed out of the trees heading directly for a clash with their boys. Spurts of gunfire now accompanied the war cries of the Rebels and the screams of men being hit.
Charlie hurried to reload, tasting the powder as she ripped open the cartridge to put it down the barrel. No time to waste. Josh is down there! Don't think. Just aim and fire. She listened to the voice in her head directing her to pick out a Bluecoat through the pall of smoke, pull the trigger, reload, pick another one, fire, and load again. There was no time to watch them fall, no time to see how she had put a bloody hole in a living, breathing human being. A strange kind of trance fell over her, and her actions became mechanical, repetitious, and unthinking. Over and over she hit her mark.
But gradually, confusion began to mount, and her anxiety grew. It was getting harder and harder to sight her targets. She could no longer see the Bluecoats clearly! Pulling off her glasses, she flung them aside and continued to peer down the gun barrel. Nothing! A quick rub of her eyes…still nothing. What was the problem?
“Charlie! Charlie!” Clarence was tugging at her arm. “We have to go down! The smoke is too thick to see from here anymore!” Grabbing up her wire rims again, she followed the angular figure of her mentor as they made their way down to join the fighting below.
Sliding down the steep incline with rocks rolling under her brogans, Charlie strained to see what was happening. The noise was horrendous. The high-pitched whine of bullets, the lower booming of the cannon fire, and the screams of injured and dying men filled her ears, blocking out sensible thought. Everywhere, soldiers were running, stumbling, and crawling in the opposite direction.
A bugle's faltering tones rang out, sounding the retreat. “Back! Go back!” An officer on horseback gestured to their group. “Retreat! No use, boys. There are too many of them!” The captain had lost his hat, and blood ran from a rent in his sleeve. The distinctive whine of a cannon ball grew louder, and Charlie dove for the ground. It hit behind the horseman. He was gone in a shower of dirt and debris that exploded up then came down on her head.
Quickly scrambling to her feet again, fear gripped her with a horrible force, and she forgot to follow Clarence. She had to find Josh! Where was he? Charlie began to run.
“Charlie, come back! We have to retreat!”
Clarence was calling after her but she paid him no mind. The smoke lay in a thick blanket over the valley. Soldiers appeared out of the fog, stumbling and
staggering past her. Searching and searching, she ran, tripping and jumping over obstacles. Some of them appeared to be human. Bile rose in her throat as she peered with dread at each torn and bloody man who lay on the battleground or crawled past. Some plucked at her sleeve and pleaded for help, while others were beyond helping. There was no time to spare for any man, no matter their rank or need.
“Joshua Garrett! Have you seen Josh Garrett?” she pleaded with the soldiers who ran, hobbled, and crawled past her. But they ignored her frantic words in their quest for safety. Bullets whined past Charlie's head and plucked at her clothing as she made her way deeper onto the smoky battlefield, but she cared little.


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The Blue Lotus by Marisa Chenery

Title: The Blue Lotus

Author Name: Marisa Chenery

Chapter One

Wiping the sweat-dampened hair from her eyes Kendra Miller cursed the rush hour traffic on busy Beale Street. Being stuck in traffic, in a car with no air conditioning during a hot Memphis summer day, was far from being pleasurable. Having just left the art gallery on Beale where she worked as a receptionist, Kendra now headed for home after a long day.

Finally breaking free of the heavy traffic, she felt some of the tension leave her body. Though she did this drive day after day, she still hated having to drive at a snail's pace in the busy downtown.

Pulling into the drive of her modest two-story house, Kendra parked her car then made her way to the front door. Before she unlocked the door she flipped open the lid of her mailbox. Grabbing the collection of envelopes, with a mix of junk mail, she let herself into the house.

With a shove on the door, Kendra closed it behind her, kicked off her high-heeled shoes and began going through her mail. There were the usual bills, but one heavier envelope stood out from among the rest. Throwing the others on the small side table in the entrance hallway, Kendra wondered who had sent her this one. Spying the return address, a smile spread across her lips. What could her brother be sending her this time?

Markus was two years her senior, twenty-six to her twenty-four, and was the world traveler of the family. Somehow, he managed to make a career out of it. At each of his destinations, he would search out items of interest and buy them. When he returned home to Memphis, he would sell them to shops that dealt in such things. Sometimes Markus would send her a present if he were going to be away for an extended period, which was the case this time. He was away on his annual trip to Egypt.

Deciding to change into more comfortable clothes before she opened what Markus had sent her, Kendra went up to her bedroom. She shared this house with her brother when he was home between trips. Since she would be the one primarily staying in the house, she had claimed the master bedroom as her own.

Once free of her restricting dress clothes, Kendra slipped into a more comfortable tank top and shorts. Moving to the bathroom attached to her bedroom, she released her long, light brown hair from the tight bun she had confined it to. Pulling out the pins one by one, she let her hair fall to its full length, reaching the middle of her back.

Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror, Kendra stuck out her tongue. She was not the type of woman to stare at herself for any great length in a mirror. She knew her looks were far from spectacular. The best way she could describe herself was average. Her most distinctive feature was her eyes. They were a startling light green in colour. At the sound of the phone ringing in the background, she quickly gathered her hair up and into a ponytail.

Going to the cordless phone sitting on the nightstand beside her bed, Kendra picked up the handset. “Hello?”

“About time you got home,” said the woman on the other end of the line.

Kendra smiled at the sound of her best friend's voice. “What do you mean, Tory? You know this is the time I come home from work.”

“Never mind. Now get dressed for a night on the town. I am taking you out.”

“Not tonight. All I want to do is sip on some wine and watch a bit of television.”

Tory groaned. “It's a Friday night. I refuse to let you sit at home alone feeling sorry for yourself.”

“I will not be doing anything of the sort like that. I just do not feel like going out, is all.”

“He is not worth it, Kendra. It has been a month. Time to move on.”

Kendra knew Tory meant well, but moving on for her was easier said than done. Being dumped by her fiancé two days before they were to get married had wounded her deeply.

“It has nothing to do with Greg, Tory. Just let it be.”

“All right, all right. You win. I won't push you anymore. I worry about you is all. That jerk needs a butt kicking for what he did to you.”

“And you are just the woman to do it, Tory.”

Her friend laughingly replied, “Damn right I am.” She let her laughter end and Tory then grew serious. “Promise me you won't let him win. Don't close yourself away because of what he did to you.”

“I promise. Now go and have your fun and I will call you later.” Having said that, Kendra bade Tory good-bye and then hung up the phone.

Reclaiming the thick envelope from the bed, Kendra returned to the lower level. Her stomach rumbled, giving her a good reminder that food should be the first order of business. The mysterious gift would have to wait the few minutes it took her to heat up a frozen dinner in the microwave.

Listlessly picking at her food, she shook her head. How low she had sunk. She used to be a good cook. One who enjoyed cooking a good meal, even if she was the only one who would be eating the food, but that was no longer the case. She only cooked when her brother was home now.

Gathering up the remnants of her dinner, Kendra poured herself a glass of white wine and with the envelope in hand, went to the living room. She switched on the television, then ripped open the padded envelope. Tipping it, she let the contents spill out into her hand.

At first glance, it didn't look like much, but once she spread it out Kendra could see why Markus had chosen this piece. She just didn't understand why he had decided to give it to her rather than sell it to one of his buyers. Hooking her finger through the chain, she let the pendant hang from its length. Though a bit on the grimy side, the necklace and pendant had the potential to be a beautiful piece of jewelry after a little cleaning.

Peering closely at the palm-sized pendant, she could vaguely make out Egyptian hieroglyphs etched across the whole surface of it. Some kind of black gunk seemed to have adhered itself to the finish of both the necklace and the pendant. With not much else planned for the evening, Kendra decided there was no time like the present to give the whole thing a polish.

Heading up the stairs once more, Kendra returned to her room where she kept her jewelry cleaner. Knowing this piece was more than likely an antiquity, she would have to be careful not to damage it.

Surprisingly, the black stuff came off more easily than she had thought. And what was revealed beneath the grime took her breath away. This was not some cheap piece of costume jewelry. What was slowly being revealed was pure gold. Not the gold plated junk either, but the real thing.

The thick rope styled chain would in itself be worth a fortune, but the pendant was that and much more. Kendra lightly traced the hieroglyphs with her finger. Any Egyptologist would die to get their hands on it, to decipher the glyphs and learn what they had to say, which sparked an idea inside her head. She could try to decipher them herself. Libraries were a wealth of information and there was always the Internet.

The more Kendra thought about it, the better the idea seemed. For the first time since the Greg incident she felt some of the lethargy, which had claimed her, dissipate. Tomorrow she would make a start. It would give her a reason to get up in the morning.

* * * *

Waking from a refreshed sleep, Kendra felt more like herself. She had a purpose now. After eating a quick breakfast of toast, she decided to try the library first, and the Memphis-Shelby County Public Library and Information Centre on Poplar Avenue was where she needed to go.

The library was just about deserted on this Saturday morning, so she had the pick of the tables. Pulling out a pad of paper and a pen from her bag, Kendra set them on a table. One of the library's computers was conveniently located on the counter directly across from her. Pulling the library catalogue up on the screen, Kendra did a search for books on Egyptian hieroglyphs. Making a mental note of where the books were to be found, she quickly grabbed three likely prospects and returned to her table.

She had thought it would be a no great feat to decipher the hieroglyphs, but she had been mistaken. There was a standard alphabet that translated each picture, giving it a corresponding letter, but some could be used as a phrase not just as a single letter.

After an hour of going through the books, Kendra decided to sign them out and work at home with them. She had not brought the pendant with her and she needed to compare the hieroglyphs directly if she was going to work out what they meant.

It was close to noon by the time she arrived home. Much to her surprise, she had a visitor waiting for her return. Stepping out of her car, Kendra went to greet the woman standing by her front door.

“What are you doing here, Tory? I thought after a night on the town you would still be sleeping.”

Tory Connor rolled her eyes at Kendra's comment. “It was hardly a night out on the town once you bailed on me. Thanks to you I had to stay in.”

“Well come inside and we can have some lunch.” Opening the door, Kendra motioned for Tory to go ahead of her.

Meeting Tory had been one of the best things to ever happen to her. At the time, Kendra had been a very introverted teen starting mid-year at the high school. After losing both their parents in a car crash, both Markus and she had gone to live with their maternal grandparents. Kendra had been sixteen. Losing her parents, and then facing a new school, had taken its toll on her. But there had been one bright light in her darkest time, and it went by the name of Tory Connor. A girl who refused to let Kendra lose herself to her grief. And for that, Kendra would love Tory always.

Following her friend inside, Kendra sighed with envy. Tory had a killer body that attracted men by the droves. Curves in all the right places, long golden hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a face a super model would die to have, summed Tory up. Unlike herself, Kendra had more of an athletic build and not much in the curve department. The only thing she had the same as Tory, was height. They both stood equally at five feet eight inches.

Today Tory had decided to go with a cutesy look that not many women their age could pull off. But Tory could and did. Wearing a soft pale pink baby-t and matching coloured short shorts, she could lure any man within fifty feet of her to her side with a glance. If Kendra donned that same outfit, she would look just plain ridiculous.

Noticing the stack of books Kendra was carrying, Tory asked, “What are those for?”

Plunking the said books down onto the coffee table, Kendra moved to the kitchen and opened the fridge. She began to pull out the makings for a salad. “Markus sent me a little something from Egypt.” She could hear Tory shuffling through the stack of books.

“You know, instead of getting these you should have called me. I know something a whole lot better than these books for translating hieroglyphs. This could take you all day using these.”

“And what is better than the books I got from the library?”

Giving Kendra a knowing look, Tory smiled. “It just so happens I know someone who works at the museum. He specializes in ancient Egypt. I could give him a call and see if he would be willing to help you out.”

Kendra hesitated in answering. She really didn't want an expert to see the pendant. She wanted to keep it for herself. “I don't know if that is such a great idea. Thanks anyway.”

“Okay, out with it. This something your brother sent you must be really special.” Tory had left the living room and now started to help Kendra make their lunch.

“You are right. It is something special. If Markus actually knew what he sent me, he would have thought twice before putting it in the mail.”

“Now you have me intrigued. Let me see it already, why don't you.”

Kendra laughed and then went to her room to get the pendant. When she returned, Tory had finished making their salads. With a flourish, she spread the pendant and necklace out on the kitchen table.

Tory let out a low whistle of appreciation. Picking up the pendant, she examined it closely. “Old Markus must be losing it. This must be worth a fortune.”

“Well it didn't look like this when it arrived. It was covered in some kind of black stuff. I had no idea what it was. When I cleaned it, this is what I found beneath the dirt.”

“I can see why you are leery about someone at a museum getting a hold of this.” Turning the pendant over, Tory admired the blue enameled lotus flower on the back. “This is magnificent.”

“The flower is beautiful, but what the hieroglyphs have to say draws me more.”

Returning the pendant to the table, Tory picked up her fork. “I still think Scott can help you. He knows just about all there is to know about ancient Egypt.” When Kendra opened her mouth to refuse again, Tory interrupted her. “I know, I know you don't want him to see it. But I think we can get around that. After we finish eating, I will call him and get him to translate this over the phone. I will tell him it is something I found in a magazine.”

“Won't he wonder at your sudden interest in hieroglyphs?”

Tory shook her head and chuckled. “No. He will think I am using it as an excuse to call him. I will have to go out with him on a date in return.”

Kendra raised one of her brows and gave Tory a questioning look. “Knowing you, he is already wrapped around your little finger. And he must be tall, dark, and handsome. Just how you like your men.”

“You got that right.” Tory laughed. “Scott is delicious. It will be no hardship for me to spend some time with him. So once we are done eating I will give him a call.”

True to her word, Tory called Scott a short while later. He was more than happy to translate the hieroglyphs for her. In no time at all he had completed the task and was dictating to Tory what the hieroglyphs meant. After writing it all down, she set up a dinner date with him for that evening.

Tory handed Kendra the piece of paper. “Scott said the first part is from the Book of the Dead. A spell for resurrection, the Lotus Spell. The rest, he had no idea what it was for.”

“It would have taken me days to figure this out on my own.”

“Think nothing of it. Now I had better go home and start getting ready for my hot date tonight.”

Shaking her head, Kendra walked Tory to the door. Scott was going to be well reimbursed for his time. With one last wave as her friend backed out of her drive, she shut the door. All she had to look forward to was a long boring evening plunked down on her couch watching television.

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