On Genesee Hill, QUESTIONS AND COMMENTS

[dgriffin]

www.windsweptpress.com/images/mary death.jpg[/img]


Mary lie quiet and still now. She felt she was floating. The storm was over, if it had been a storm. Her mind confused, she sensed she had been through something terrible, but couldn't bring it back. Terror, loss, Momma! Momma! She let it all go.

Blinded, burned and broken. It had hurt so much to breath, so she stopped trying. Now she remembered, and the terror returned. Running, running, trying to breath through her coat sleeve, then ripping off her hat to use as a mask, entangling her wrists in the bright Easter ribbons that had adorned it. Pounding on doors, on walls, on the floor. Trying to rip clothing off as it caught fire. Down on her knees, cowering in a corner, she suddenly knew her young life was over. She would never return to Mrs. Piatt's, never wear her new Easter dress, never kiss a boy, have a husband, be a mother, live a life. The fear was now overtaken by a deep sadness. As the burning pain became unbearable, Mary knew she was at the end. Mary would be no more. She was disappearing before her own blinded eyes.

Down and down she fell, into the pit. A cacophony of noise ... sharp cracks, booming thuds and thunderous rumbles of a mighty weight collapsing all around her. Later, a silence of despair and sorrow crept over her as water seeped in all around and quietly edged up around her body. So cold.

Now, a noise sounds above her. A shaft of light cuts down through the darkness to light her face and shoulders. A wonderful light she can feel, more than see. Above, a workman curses and warns his coworker away from the hole in the debris over the second cellar.

But Mary hears a gentle voice, beckoning her upward to join her mother and the others who are waiting for her. Mary rises and leaves her wasted body as she crosses to another place.

[fiona]

Dave: These are beautiful. Thank you. This project is developing Jungian overtones, archtypical ideas, images that are universal that reach deep into the psyche,- and then I sense something darker and more esoteric - of life death and redemption. I am also thinking of the four elements, fire, water, air and earth, all present in the story, but that idea is not fleshed out yet. Any thoughts on that? And, yes, I keep seeing Mrs. Latcher in my minds eye. I see her in the water with her hair all flowing out behind her. The sun is coming up and she's face down, just bumping, bumping up against the dock. This is what I am working on today: part of the John bio and the letter from Aunt Blandina to Mary B. What we could to do, if possible, is bring over the photo of Mary B. at her desk, to compliment her letter and then bring over the picture of Blandina from the front sheet of her book. It shows her reading a letter, which may be (is) the letter from Mary. There is also a hand written signature which can be cut and pasted onto the bottom of the Aunts letter, No? This will give credence and authenticity to the correspondence, don't you think?

[fiona]

What a powerful, beautiful piece of work. Please let me catch my breath while I wipe away my tears.

[fiona]

March the 2nd, 1896. 9 PM. From the pen of Mary B. Wood to her loving mother, Sarah:

Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight
Make me a child again just for tonite!

[fiona]

BACKWARDS, TURN BACKWARDS.




Backward, turn backward, O time in your flight;
Make- me a child again just for to-nite!
Mother come back from the echoeless shore,
Take me again to your heart as of yore.
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care;
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair.
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep -
Rock me to sleep mother, rock me to sleep.

Over my heart in the days that are flown,
No love like mother love ever has shown.
No other worship abides and endures -
Faithful, unselfish and patient like yours.
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world weary brain.
Slumbers soft calms oer my heavy lids creep.
Rock me to sleep mother- rock me to sleep!

Elizabeth Akers Allen

[fiona]

January the 10, 1893, cold, snow.

The postman brought the mail late that afternoon, struggling up the walk, his breath a warm vapor, but his beard coated with tiny crystals of ice. He stuffed the fat bundle through the brass mail slot in the heavy oak door. Another job done. And he had no time to waste- already late on his route- he was down the steps and gone in a flash.

Lizzie, the parlour maid, scooped the mail from the carpet. Scanning the names and adresses quickly to memory - after all it was no business of hers - no business at all - she put them in the silver tray on the sideboard. But one caught her eye and she lingered for just a moment. The neat writing, the heavy creme colored envelope, the sealing wax - a letter to old Miss Miller from her grandaughter in New Jersey.

"Oh, that silly girl", Lizzie mumbled to herself. " Always puttin on airs. Nothing but new money there..." She tipped the letter and held it to the light of the mullioned window, but the envelope was too heavy. " Better bring it right off." she said to herself, and putting the letter on a silver tray, bustled off down the hall. Lizzie placed the tray on the center table, next to Miss Blandina's favorite chair where it was sure to be found, then went off into the kitchen to share that bit of news with the Cook. She was sure the letter brought bad tidings and wanted to be in on the thick of it.

Later that evening, the aunt would pen a reply. It had been of no use to try and read the letter to her mother, as indeed, the old woman's memory had faded; and she spent most of her time wandering off to a place in the far distant past: the old Seymour homestead in Utica on Whitesboro street where she and her husband exchanged wedding vows under an arbor of roses.


From: Miss Blandina Dudley Miller, Whitestown, New York
To: Miss Mary B. Wood, Morristown, New Jersey


My Dear Niece:

How nice of you to send an epistle to Mother after such along hiatus. I trust the holidays were pleasent for you. Did you ever recieve the book I sent you, " Mother, Home and Heaven" by Dr. Culyer? You never indicated to me that you had. Well, what's done is done. Perhaps it was not to your liking. There are other more suitable books, I am sure, for a young lady of your caliber. Little Women? Meg, Jo and Amy are light as froth and make lovley companions of a summers evening.

Regarding your Grandmother. I will read this to her in the morning when she is fresh. Currently, she is past understanding and wanders far in her dreams with your Grandfather. She is old, old and I am not one to judge her as we will all be judged on that Great Day of Reckoning.

Upon reading of your fears, I cannot ease them or answer all your questions. However, about the trains; my Dear, do not be silly! There are always accidents and the trains today are safe as any. Put yourself in God's hands. Absit omen. As you know, I have traveled much in my youth and seen much and O, I had my trepidations, but I overcame, my Dear. I Overcame! I went by barge on the Nile in Egypt, by pachaderm in India, rode a dromedary in the Holy land- thus, regarding your upcoming trip to California: be not troubled. It will be a grand adventure.

As for red Indians- I think they are much pacified, these noble pagan savages, and, ah, my belle, they have much hair of their own and have scant need of yours. My advice to you from an old lady past 50: read, read, read and travel! Let the world be your oyster. We are too soon old and too soon gone to tarry in the pleasures life has to offer.

Your faithful and loving Aunt and greetings to all.

Blandina Dudley Miller.


She sealed the letter and placed it back on the silver tray. Now, she had to deal with Lizzie. She had seen her raise the letter to the light. Mercy of God, she hated dealing with the Irish. She felt them clannish and ignorant; the girl had her nose in every pie and othen lied about it too boot. She was going to dismiss her tonite and she could leave in the morning. She rang the bell for the downstairs maid.

"Send Elizabeth Carney to me in the library and be quick about it" The sooner the deed was done the better.

"Yes, maam. Right away!" and the girl ran shaking into the kitchen." Bad news on the doorstep" she told Cook, who looked up from setting a large pot on the stove. "The Misses is in a snit again and nothing good can ever come of it. Our Lizzie has been summoned to the library!"

[Clipper]

Beautiful work by both Dave AND Fiona. It is starting to take on life of it's own and it is becoming a story that draws one back to those times.

I can picture Lizzy delivering the mail to Blandina on the silver tray and the parlor. I can visualize the old lady, staring out the window, rocking away her days, lost in thoughts of the past, with a coverlet over her legs, and Blandina sitting on a settee, crocheting and sipping a cup of tea from a delicate little cup.

This is going to be a wonderful project to follow as it gains momentum and takes shape. Thanks for making it part of our forum, so that we all can track and enjoy it. I am not a writer, but I AM and avid reader, and this is the kind of novel based on actual events that I truly enjoy.

I love a story that can draw me away from where I am sitting, and take me to the time and place of the story. I love to read the writings of an author who can allow me to feel the heat radiating from a crackling fire in a fireplace, or let me smell dinner cooking on a stove and bread baking in an oven.

You have captured my interest and I am really impressed with what you have put out so far. I have visited a house on the hill, and gotten a feel for Blandina, and Lizzy Carney. I have also experienced death in the cellar ruins of a collapsed building, as the cellar filled with water. Dave, that is truly a wonderful piece of writing. We were allowed to feel her pain, imagine her terror, and hear the workmen curse. We then felt her relief as Mary's soul and spirit rose out of her burned and broken body and joined her mother in that peaceful place on the other side.

Thanks again for allowing us to be part of it all.

[dgriffin]

Fiona, very nice picture of Blandina and her relations ship with Mary, and a hint of Grandma. Well written, too. I like the "red Indian" touch!

Lizzie has possibilities! A great character to gad about between the classes. Through her eyes we'll see what the we cannot through the other characters. Lizzie can be "of us," allowing the other characters full range of their insensibility as seen through the mind of a rational observer.

And Blandina on a pachyderm! What a thought! Here's a cartoon I've used before, but it seems appropriate here, except it's a dromedary and not an elephant.

[dgriffin]

Furniture in the 1890 period. An admittedly well appointed room, a library, the Whitehouse.

[dgriffin]

Copying more images from the Internet ... for which I will no doubt one day be arrested and carted off to the slammer ... I came across this photo-poster of Central Park in the snow. Taken only two years before I arrived there, the scene reminded me of the night long ago when myself and a three other college kids (including the future Mrs. Dave) decided life would be incomplete without a visit to the Tavern On The Green, a world renowned restaurant sitting in an area of the Park in the West Sixties. All of us being younger than the few bills we carried in our wallets, we added up our money ... about ten dollars and a few subway tokens among us. We figured that would buy us each at least one beer at the bar. Skipping a taxi that in any case we couldn't afford, I persuaded our small group to walk up Central Park East and then into the park during a beautiful and heavy snowfall. What a wonderful night for a walk in the snow, I seem to remember saying. It is impossible to describe the beauty of a snowfall in New York City, but no doubt the charm begins with a pure white mantel covering the many visual sins of the cityscape, as well as hushing the incessant noise from a million automobiles.

By the time we started down the park's crossroad, six inches had fallen and we realized we should have strolled around the park on cleared sidewalks, instead of risking the "Scenic Route" through to west side. There was barely room to walk in the road, except in the tire ruts. Cabbies tooted at us, swore at us and seemingly aimed at us as we jumped out of the way each time a taxi came swishing our way.

Arriving at the restaurant, we were informed there was a $5 dollar cover per person. But seeing the look of disappointment on our faces, and probably the lack of any other patrons behind us, the Maître d' allowed us to sit at a back table in the bar area, where we ordered our beers and later sneaked out, leaving our ten dollars for the drinks, but no tip for the waiter.

I suppose Mrs. Dave might have learned something that night. But evidently not, for a year or two later we were married.

[dgriffin]

Nov 23, 2009 23:16:21 GMT -5 fiona said:

That's because Dave went to Catholic School and was blessed by Monsegniour Gallagher!

You betcha! And I have the pictures to prove it, which you will be happy to hear I don't plan to publish here.

Jolly Father G. was quite a guy. Red-faced and quite jolly, or did I mention that. Always ready with a smile for any parishioner or student at Cornhill's Blessed Sacrament Church and school.

I was assigned to Cornhill from birth to age 9. We left for Whitesboro then, but I was shortly re-assigned to duty in West Utica until age 13, at which time my detachment (family) returned to Cornhill, where I reached puberty (What luck!) and squandered my romantic notions on Catholic school girls.

I met a Jewish girl in Old Forge the summer after my sophomore year of high school. We spent the evening near the lake in a gazebo, staring at the moon. When I tried to kiss her, she refused.
"I'm Jewish," she offered as a reason.
"So what?"
"You're not," she said
"My grandfather's Aunt Harriet was Jewish," I lied.
Eventually, she let me kiss her after I promised to NOT call her home after we both returned to Utica the following week, which was the real reason for her concern.

An so that fall I was back secretly staring at Irish girls in Latin or History class, but wishing I could be with a girl I didn't see all day, because she was year behind me and not in my classes. She never became Mrs. Dave. Fate saved her, if not her guardian angel, and the honor went to a woman who has been able to put up with my b.s. for almost 45 years.

This by way of plugging "Irish Catholic Sex; The Long Way to Heaven," at:
www.windsweptpress.com/cathsex.htm

Hope it brings back memories as good as mine.

[fiona]

Dave: I recievied a phone call from a freind of mine who lives in Rhode Island. I had sent her the link to OGH. She LOVES it and we talked about it for a long time. She is originally from Utica and has joined the forum. She is especially pleased with the characterizations of Sarah , Mary and Annie. She noted that they are strong women and have a lot to teach us. I concurr. Any feedback, positive or negative from your readers?

[dgriffin]

Only positive, of course. People are too nice to say I bore them. But I get very pleasant emails from folks who come across my website and stories. Most have similar memories and experiences, and it is that, more than the writing per se, I suppose, that entertains them.

I'm behind on my third book of stories and now hope to have it out by Spring. Self published, of course. Lulu is a great self-publishing house. At least, that's been my experience so far. I have to pay only for individual copies, with no up front fees at all.

The books are now carried by Amazon. And not trying to sell any, but to show how well they display, here are they are. You can enlarge, view the back cover, etc.

www.amazon.com/Storyteller-David-Griffin/dp/B002AD1XTW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245515454&sr=8-1

www.amazon.com/Real-Writer-David-Griffin/dp/B002ADC210/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1245515526&sr=1-1

[concerned]

this is fantastic

[dgriffin]

Concerned, feel free to join in. I think there are a number of people watching the thread and viewing the web page, but for some reason feel reticent to put forward ideas, thoughts, writing (their own or others), etc.

Fiona's idea, I think this is a terrific vehicle for a creative effort. We're trying to produce a story ... probably, but not necessarily a novel ... in a cooperative manner that will wend its way where it will.