Blogging as I read

Belle Blackburn is one sweet soul. She is also a swell scribe.

I wrote about Belle and her book "The Doctor's Daughter: Journey to Justice" in my newspaper column two weeks ago. It can be found here by scrolling to page A-3.

And, as you will read, I had intended to post my full review of her book on this blog one week ago. I am recovering from surgery more slowly than expected. Temporary fallout: I can only read for short stretches.

So, I thought I'd try something. As my way of making it up to Belle for missing a deadline, I am going to blog as I read, updates, here and there, as I can. I owe it to her. It's worth it. It will be fun.

As I said in the column, Belle grabs you from the beginning with a perfect prologue: a (fictionalized) snippet of a newspaper story from what was then called The Nashville Republican Banner. "Suicide on Summer Street" is the headline. May 16, 1860.

Seems the main character's father commits suicide in front of two witnesses, a business partner and his wife, before dying in his daughter's arms. Or did he?

Kate Seaver thinks otherwise. She's seeking the truth.

And I have been thinking this through, eager to learn more. Move it, migraine, so I can get to it! Did Brian Seaver commit suicide? Was he murdered? Is he even dead?

Kate's mother is a doctor of a sort, practitioner of the old ways, mountain medicine, you might say. An early chapter features a hilarious scene at a quilting bee in which the women get the men to tell the "true" way to be rid of a wart. You will see more of this -- medicine of the period (a central topic/theme) and humor -- later.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention here: one character wakes up at, yes, his own wake.

Another scene involves a character who could be found in "real life" today. Goad is her name, holier-than-thou, certain she's sitting at the left hand of the Lord. Perfect name, too, 'cause people like to goad her.

Kate's mother suggests a colic cure. Follow your own beliefs, she says, but try a toddy.

Goad growls:

"You'll burn in hell for that."

Discussion follows. God gave us the ingredients. Nowhere in The Bible does it say "Thou shalt not drink alcohol."

"Jesus drank wine. The Bible says so."

Goad: "That was just grape juice..."

"All I am doing is telling you what it says in the scriptures. You better quit using God in all your arguments or you will ruin His reputation."

Funny. Food for thought.

The review will continue...

"The Doctor's Daughter: Journey to Justice" by Belle Blackburn is available for download ($2.99) or paperback ($19.99) at Amazon.com. As of today, it has a five-star average review. 

She

A moment, real or imagined...

He watched her walk down the stairs and away from him forever.

She had given him a new lease on life. But it was like the rose that bloomed before dying.

He first saw her years ago in a faded photograph. He had been taken by her beauty, by the gentle goodness of her face, by the warmth in her eyes. And he finally saw her, and spoke to her, one fall afternoon just before Thanksgiving. He's lost the words, time has taken them from him, but he remembers her smile.

"You can come to my house for the holidays," she had said, and part of him thought she meant it. It wasn't until later that he found out that everything he'd dreamed about her was true.

Yet it didn't come close to reality.

And so she went on this crisp night in early autumn, and as she descended the stairs, his heart sank into the dark place, drowning into the abyss with which he was all too familiar.

"Goodbye," she had said.

Funny how the simple words hurt the most.

A scant few minutes

A little stab at a sketch of fiction...

She doesn't know how beautiful she is. I really don't think she does.

She catches up with me in the oddest places -- standing in line at the grocery store, walking on a rainy night downtown, looking out the window as the first light of the morning streaks across my room. I think about her awhile, lose myself in the memory of her smile, and dream.

She touched my heart in ways she'll never know. But, isn't that always the way? Sometimes I don't think we appreciate the most special gifts in life until they are gone.

I'll never forget the first time I saw her. It was winter. Her voice, and her smile, warmed my heart. I tried to tell her a few times how much she's meant to me. But, to quote the song, the right words never come; you just get numb.

I think about her often. I hope she's happy now because she deserves it. I think life has finally turned her way.

You know, I owe her a debt I can never repay. She has no idea what she did for me once. That's the way it should be.

LIfe is good now, calm, comfortable. And yet, from time to time on a cold winter's night, I think of her, and wish with all my heart I could hold her tight, if only for a scant few minutes.

Well, if there's an answer, it's just that it's just that way.

Thoughts at twilight

Fiction, perhaps...

Thought about her last night as the sun dipped over the horizon.

I remembered how beautiful she looks during this hour, felt the familiar longing, not trying for once to push it away.

I want to hold her until the sun returns from its slumber; I want to see her face at first light.

I took another sip of the sugar water, felt the pleasant burn, wondered for the millionth time how something so sweet could hurt this much.

I come here sometimes to sit and think awhile. You can clear your head here, relax, figure out what it is you need to do. I made a mental note to bring the wood up from the side of the cabin. I would need it in the morning for breakfast.

It's peaceful here. But, it's lonely, too.

Life is full of mystery. People come, people go. Sometimes they return. Sometimes they don't.

The phone rang in the other room. I didn't answer it. Didn't want to talk.

Instead, I thought of twilight, of how beautiful she looks in the dark.

But it was time to push such thoughts away. I rose, snuffed out the flickering flame, shut the door.

Sleep refused to become a companion.

The smile

Fiction...

She liked to eat off-brand cereal in the mornings and looked at the ground a lot when she smiled.

He first saw her one Saturday morning when he ducked into the grocery store after jogging. She looked unpretentious in her faded blue jeans and white t-shirt, advertising some joint at some beach somewhere. He shouldn't have stopped, but you know how it is on a lazy weekend.

"You can't taste the difference."

"Excuse me?"

"Between the box you're holding and the one that costs a dollar and a half more."

"Really?"

"Yep. Might as well save a buck, right?"

She grinned and looked at the floor. A piece of gum was stuck to a fallen receipt.

The smile. They break his heart every time.

"You new here?"

"Yep. How'd you know?"

"Small town."

She fumbled with her keys. Message received.

"Well, have a good day."

"You too."

He had forgotten it until he remembered the peanut butter. Aisle six.

He was trying to decide. This and that. He should have seen it coming.

"You can't taste the difference."

He saw the smile before he looked up.

"Really?"

"Yep. Might as well save a buck, right?

She continued shopping, but when she reached the end of the aisle, she turned and smiled. He waved, grinned back.

A light drizzle was falling when he put the paper bags in the trunk. He glanced at his watch. Fifteen minutes until kickoff.

Turn on the wipers.

He looked both ways, then turned right out of the parking lot, toward the marina.

Colquitt kicked off about half past twelve. Darned if Riggins didn't run the damn thing 74 yards to the end zone.

Didn't matter.

He was back at the grocery, standing in the breakfast aisle, drowning in her smile.

Ghosts

A little fiction...

He took the book and sat near the fire in the fading twilight. He liked to read Hemingway up here, the way his words flowed, tearing into your consciousness with the force of the Ocoee waters. It was soothing and it was religious and it cleared away the cobwebs of his soul.

Paris in the twenties, Pamplona during the fiesta, it all was so foreign and yet so familiar, as if he were returning to something he'd lost somewhere along the way. Papa's words about Hadley put him in mind of something else, though. Something close, and very real.

After awhile, he put the book down, and took a drink. He sat there awhile, smoking, and watched the light from the big moon ripple across the water.

He remembered how her face looked at twilight, how the disappearing red hues contrasted with the brown oceans of her eyes, and that way she had of looking at you that replaced the memory of a thousand sunsets. The image engulfed him, the waves crashing into the sands of his soul. He tried to make it stop but it wouldn't let him be.

He thought about disappointments, how sometimes the very thing he feared came true, when he was weak and couldn't fight it away. Vulnerable. Tired.

It was part of life, they told him. She isn't worth it. Grace under pressure, and all that stuff Papa wrote about.

And he wanted to believe them, said they were right, but knew he'd carry the memory of that awful night with him for a hundred other full moons and beyond.

He worked at it until the pain eased. Sleep came easily, but he was up before first light, frying bacon, gathering the bait, cleaning his knife.

Her ghost sat there with him, watching, waiting, refusing to leave until the sun found its way into the morning sky.

Remembering the moment

Fiction, perhaps...

It does me no good now to think of her. But think of her I do.

Funny, isn't it, the things you remember? What I remember is the time we sat to ourselves in the other room, away from the party, and talked.

I've forgotten the words. I only remember the moment. I think that's what we are left with, in the end, moments.

I shouldn't have fallen in love with her. But fall in love I did.

It was subtle at first. One last childhood crush on a kindred spirit. But as the days went by, and the words were exchanged, I looked down and noticed my heart was missing.

Knowing what I know now, I don't think I ever got to know her. I thought I did. But it was superficial, somehow, as if I only got to see what she wanted me to see. She is, I think, a seven-layer salad; get down so far and you discover something unique, something you didn't know was there. Something you're puzzled by; something you hate.

She was beautiful and she was kind. But she was horrible and she was cruel.

I blew my mind over her once. Just sat down and flipped the switch to off on the whole damn world.

After that, distance made it easier. In time, I began to think that the entire 24 month stretch was but a dream.

The memories return from time to time. They appear with a song on the radio, or a movie on television. Or a thought. A rhyme.

I go on about my solitary way, lost in the beautiful eyes of another, or in the promise of the morning dove's sweet sad song.

Somewhere in that lyric I know the love I felt was something I needed at the time, the mechanism from which I gathered my strength to complete this journey.

For her? I don't know. You'd have to ask her what, if anything, I gave to her.

But sometimes, when the night is still young, I think of her. I feel the longing, see the imaginary blinking of a long-diminished green light, and yearn for those days.

Yes. I yearn.

The gift

Fiction...

Can't sleep.

Every time I shut my eyes, I see her face. That smiling, beautiful face, with the dark hair and the gentle eyes.

She'll never know it, but she touched me with her words. They penetrated that enclosed portion of my soul, the side no one sees anymore. I won't let them see it.

She got through. I think it started somewhere after "Hello."

On restless nights I'll lie in the dark remembering her words, feeling the longing that comes with loneliness, wishing with all my soul I could just touch her. But I don't know how to love anymore. I gave that up years ago, somewhere between the heartache and insanity.

I'm against anything that eradicates passion. People who laugh at the emotional side of the soul are worse than worthless. They sit in their pious positions on high and do nothing but make me want to vomit, to violently throw up everything that is evil and rotten and vile.

I used to worry about such dregs; now I just don't give a damn. All I can hear is the music. Just the music.

There was music that night. I saw her across the room. I felt the long dormant feeling start somewhere between my blue eyes and jeans. It was me. It was her. It was those pretty eyes.

Here tonight I remember the warmth of the moment and it feeds my wounded mind. I believe for a moment that life is still out there somewhere, something to be latched onto, something to be experienced as fast as the train can rumble down the track.

I dread the morning and the routine and the pettiness. I wish forever it's that night, the music, her words, that voice and those eyes.

She's given me a gift I can never repay. If that isn't enough, at least it's something.

A ghost in the night

Fiction...

She came to him in his nighttime slumber, beautiful, silent, her dark hair falling ever so gently off her shoulders.

He was awed, as always, by her quiet beauty, by the way her eyes took the form of every hope and dream that had ever passed through his soul. She stood there, smiling, gesturing for him to come toward her.

He reached out to touch her, to feel the electricity, and she was gone.

He awoke in a sweat, disoriented, unable to move. He lay there in the darkness, finally caught his breath.

Sleep was a million miles away, so he rose and turned on the light.

The last time he saw her, she was in from the city. It had been five years, but time had done nothing but make him want her.

She hugged him and asked about his health. He tried a poker face, knew it wouldn't work. He wanted to hold her for the rest of her life.

As it was, he held her hand, gazed into those dark eyes for a brief, shining moment, and walked into the cool afternoon air.

He sat in his truck awhile, unable or unwilling to start the engine. The tears were brief, but they originated somewhere deep in his being.

And now, on this sultry summer night, the rain pelting his tin roof, she was with him again.

He fell asleep as the first streaks of dawn snaked across the morning sky.

This time, he didn't dream.

Into the night...

Fiction...

Funny thing, loneliness.

They teach you how to drive a car. They teach you how to act. They show you how to dress.

They never teach you how to live with the pain.

He pulled his car up into the driveway, the moonlight casting a pale shadow across the yard. Far off in the distance a house alarm disturbed the silence. Lightning peppered the sky. Must have been the heat.

He took a long draw, threw the butt into the grass and walked inside. God, he couldn't wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow meant freedom. Freedom meant the water, and the solitude, and a couple of days to forget.

It was fine until he turned off the light. Then he saw her. Her dark hair. Her shining eyes. He wanted with all his being to hold her, just for a while, just for a moment.

But, no. She was gone. Gone forever, to the place such visions go, never to return.

He saw a woman a couple of Sundays ago that made his heart beat. She was sitting way across the auditorium. She had the same dark hair, the same dark eyes. He felt the old familiar feeling rise up into his chest. And he fought it off, but lost the fight. .

That night he did all he could to make the pain stop. It wasn't enough.

It's funny. He hadn't seen her in years --- what is it now? Four, five years? More?
But he knew all she'd have to do was walk in the door. That would be it. He'd be as a crazy now as he was that winter night long ago.

He remembered that Texas movie, and Sam the Lion. What was it Sam said? That a man should always be crazy about a woman like that?

He knew it was true. She'd stirred his soul once. He'd held her in his arms and kissed her lips and pulled her close to him, trying to make the pain go away, knowing it would return the minute she left the room.

She wasn't the one. He knew that. But it didn't matter. He'd given everything just to hold her again, just for a moment, just for awhile.

As it was, he pulled the sheet tight around him, tossed over on his right side and shut out the light.

Sleep was some sweet dream, far off into the night.