With the first anniversary of the Highway 530 Mudslide looming ever closer, emotions are intense.
Words are powerful and can help us deal with emotions. This is why keeping a journal can be a healing process. By writing down the feelings we are experiencing, we can begin to deal with them rather than allowing them to eat away at us on the inside.
This can be especially true of grief. In your journal:
Write a story about the person you lost
Describe a happy memory with that person
Write a conversation you wish you could have with that person. Try to include what you think they would tell you
Describe your feelings
List two ways you can honor the memory of your loved one
Another way journaling can help us heal is to reduce negative self-talk, increase positive self-talk and help us recognize achievements.
Write down the negative self-talk. (ie: I’m not pretty enough, I’m not smart enough, and so on)
Now write down five positive things about yourself ( ie: I’m a good person, I help others, I do my job well, Yesterday I phoned my parents because they like hearing from me, I like my hair (or whatever physical attribute you think is positive) and so on.
Write down two ways you will use to improve yourself. Make these very specific and have a deadline for implementing or achieving. Do not use such things as I will lose ten pounds this month. Instead list it like this: I will make three healthy dinners this week. I will not eat bread for five days. I will read one book every month.
On a clean page, at the end of the deadline, write down what you achieved, why you didn’t achieve the entire goal and how you intend to approach it now. BE SURE to INCLUDE ANY progress toward your goal, such as: I fixed two healthy dinners this week. I failed to schedule in enough time to fix the third dinner. This week I will write up my menu for three healthy dinners, go shopping for the ingredients at least the day before the dinner, and I will put the dinners on my daily schedule.
Memories capture moments in our hearts. By briefly recalling a memory, we can help heal ourselves. When you journal, you can capture your impression of the moment. The way your heart lifted when you watched the sunset; the way the brownie your sister made melted on your tongue; the sweet chocolate taste that flooded your mouth; or the warmth you felt when your spouse embraced you. Life can be rough at times and being able to return to a journal, leaf through it and recall these moments in poignant detail has the ability to pull our souls up from the darkest times, if only for a moment. Just remember:
Journaling helps in the healing process.
We can capture a moment in time; how we saw and felt at that moment
We can release negative emotions in a healthy manner and brainstorm better ways to handle situations
We can increase positive emotions on a daily basis or whenever we need to
We can accept our grief, validate our feeling of grief, and begin the process of healing.
One last word: I am NOT a psychiatrist, psychologist, therapist, medical doctor or other professional helper. This article is NOT medical advice or even professional advice. I am an author and have found ways to use writing to deal with emotion.
If you are feeling angry, depressed, unable to motivate, suicidal, or any strong negative emotion that lingers, PLEASE contact a professional. Depression is a common illness. It appears in many disguises such as a shortness of temper, a feeling of not wanting to get out of bed, a feeling that life isn’t worth it, not having an appetite, wanting to sleep a lot. It comes to all of us, just like the flu, at various times in our lives. It is a normal feeling, just like when a cold attacks you. However if it won’t go away, just like if that cold or flu lingers, you need professional help to rid yourself of the illness. DO NOT hesitate.
One of my favorite actors was Robyn Williams. But, Robyn Williams was unable to seek help to get through a particularly rough spot in his life, and a bright light left our world with his suicide. Do not remove your bright light. Believe me, you DESERVE help, even if you don’t think so right now.
Are you depressed?
If you identify with several of the following signs and symptoms, and they just won’t go away, you may be suffering from clinical depression.
you can’t sleep or you sleep too much
you can’t concentrate or find that previously easy tasks are now difficult
you feel hopeless and helpless
you can’t control your negative thoughts, no matter how much you try
you have lost your appetite or you can’t stop eating
you are much more irritable, short-tempered, or aggressive than usual
you’re consuming more alcohol than normal or engaging in other reckless behavior
you have thoughts that life is not worth living (seek help immediately if this is the case)
To read more about depression: http://www.theguardian.com/science/brain-flapping/2014/aug/12/robin-williams-suicide-and-depression-are-not-selfish
Every story that I tell is rooted deep in my soul. I pull them from the years of growing up with the cramps of hunger and the queasy feeling of never knowing when the next meal or the next blow will come. I rip the scent of blood and the fingernails-on-chalkboard screams of pain from memories that no number of years can ever smother.
But story roots grow deeper than the darkness; deeper and wider than the despair. The smile of being able to share food scavenged from the railroad yards with neighbors who are hungry, too; the heart-wrenching sweetness of a guitar played late at night; the wonder of a wild flower pushing up through concrete and blooming in the shadows of crumbling brick buildings–these, too, are the roots of my stories.
These are not my stories, but the stories of many. I have the obligation to give voice to the voiceless; to hear and tell the stories not yet told.
And so it is with Hard Road Home. Though my coming of age novel is fiction, what Cas Redner goes through is real. It is that reality that nurtured this novel. It is a novel of loss, pain, betrayal of the worst kind; yet it is triumph and love of the highest degree.
Kahlil Gibran once wrote: Your joy is your sorrow unmasked. And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
In every story I write this is an underlying theme: the very things that cause great sorrow, also prepare us to face horrendous obstacles with courage. It is those obstacles that allow us to grow into our deepest selves.
It is through the fires of hell that we find our way to heaven.
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Sixty-eight-year old Marybelle Brown pushed the rattling grocery cart filled with plastic bags of aluminum cans through the square next to the #Seattle Aquarium. That summer vendors had hawked sparkling necklaces and handmade toys and flamboyant scarves. Now it lay beneath the full moon, deserted except for a few pigeons huddled on a low wall near the water. Moving slowly so she wouldn’t disturb their rest, she made her way over and leaned against the cold concrete. She’d always loved Puget Sound. The gentle lap of the waves soothed her.
After a few minutes, she turned her cart and headed across the empty space. In the center stood a twelve-foot tall #Christmas tree. Red and green lights twinkled amid the plastic ornaments and glittering tinsel. Marybelle gazed up at it, at the star blazing white on the top. At last, she sighed in contentment and moved on.
Today had been a wonderful Christmas Eve. She’d found three partially eaten cheeseburgers in one of McDonald’s trashcans. They were stashed in the ragged canvas shoulder bag along with French fries from a dumpster and two, whole pieces of cod from Ivar’s trash. A smile sat lightly on her cracked and chapped lips. Tonight she would feast! She patted the side of the shoulder bag and felt the bottle of Starbucks mocha and the bottle of Arrowhead water that a kind man had given to her with a smile and a Merry Christmas. Yes, tonight she would feast.
She bent her head back and gazed upward. Stars flung across the black heavens. Some people likened the stars to diamonds on black velvet, but she knew better. The stars were all the souls who had gone ahead, smiling down on those they’d left behind. Someday when it was time for her to leave this bent and painful body, she’d fly up there and be with them. Her momma and granny would be waiting. She wondered if the critters she had nursed would be there. Of course, they would! Her granny had told her that the souls of animals always went to the Bright Place because they lived as God intended.
She shuffled along. Time to get to her spot under the viaduct. Thick blackberry bushes hid the hole she’d dug out up against where the concrete met the earth. It had taken her a long time to make a roomy depression in that hard ground with a broken shovel. Hidden at the far back of the hole were all of her most precious belongings, safe from discovery by others, safe from the rain.
She crossed the quiet street and the cart jarred over the trolley tracks. Where cars parked during the day was mostly deserted now and filled with deeper shadows. The fat round concrete pillars that held up the overhead roadway too often hid bad things. She veered away, cornering her eye so she could keep watch while she passed.
As Marybelle came abreast of one spot of darkness a darker shadow moved within it. Her heart leaped into her throat. Her chest constricted with panic and squeezed the breath from her lungs. There! Who’s there? Her feet froze as her mind shouted, “Run!”
Just as her feet started to move, a whimper floated out of that darkness. The loneliness in that small sound dragged at her heart. “Leave, Marybelle. You can’t help whoever it is.”
In spite of herself, her hands left the cart and her feet shuffled toward the darkness. Her heart galloped like a crazed horse. “ Oh, Lord, I feel like my heart’s gonna bust.”
As she drew closer, a stray beam of moonlight shone against the pillar. Crumpled at the base of that cylinder of concrete lay a black dog. It lifted forlorn eyes to her face. The very tip of its tail tapped the ground twice then stopped like that was all the energy the poor thing had.
In her mind the years fell away and she once again saw her momma open the door of their tiny apartment. “Oh, Marybelle, you can’t help every critter you see,” her momma’s gentle hands tending to Marybelle’s latest rescue belied her words. Momma and granny had always tried to save the animals she dragged home–starved and beaten and broken.
She edged closer and the dog cringed, trying to melt into the ground. She knew the feeling. Carefully, she lowered herself to her achy knees. Never looking directly at the dog, she held out a hand. “It’s alright. I know just how you feel.” The dog’s body relaxed and it stretched its black nose toward her hand. “That’s it, little one. Come on over to Marybelle.”
She slid her shoulder bag to the ground then dug around until her hand touched the wrapping of one of the half-eaten burgers. Eyes still averted, she held a small bite on the palm of her outstretched hand. The dog sniffed the air and gave an anxious whine. “I know. It’s scary, but honestly, this is for you.”
The cold seeped through the three pairs of thin pants and chilled her arthritic knees. Still, she knelt there, hand out in offering. The dog stretched its neck toward the food. It crept one step, two steps. Now Marybelle could see the ribs jutting out under the patchy hide.
“Poor thing,” she crooned.
The dog trembled as it came close enough to snatch the food. It took the rest of the burger for the poor thing to creep close enough for Marybelle to put her arms around it. The dog was big, bigger than her German Shepherd had been. She felt the resistance of its stiff body, but kept humming and stroking one hand down its thin side. At last, the tension drained from it and it nestled against her chest.
After a while, she gave its sharp nose a kiss. “Gotta git up, little girl. My knees don’t like this kneeling.” She pulled a ragged wool scarf from around her neck and made the dog a soft collar and leash.
At her hideaway, Marybelle laid out the sleeping bag that a young, white girl had given her that past fall. She never carried this precious gift for fear of it being taken from her. But every night since early fall she’d blessed that child, and wished her well as she fell asleep. The dog immediately curled up on one side, the shivers wracking its body subsiding.
She sat next to the dog and lit the stub of a candle she’d found and saved for a special occasion. This surely was a most special occasion. “We’re safe here, Dog. With all the blackberry bushes around us and being way up under here, no one wants to crawl this far back.” She draped the two blankets she had scrounged from a Goodwill donation box around her shoulders and over Dog’s back.
From her handbag, she took the food and set it on the sleeping bag in front of them. She filled her dented quart pot with the bottled water and set it in front of Dog. She raised her head and drank deeply as Marybelle opened the bottle of Starbucks Mocha Coffee drink. She tapped the bottle against the pot rim. “Here’s to our friendship, Dog.”
Carefully, she divided the hamburgers, the fries, the fish: half for her, half for dog. Dog quickly ate her half, but sat politely, not begging for Marybelle’s food. She took all but one piece of the fish and laid it in front of the gray muzzle. “Merry Christmas, Dog.”
Dog cocked her head and fixed her clouded eyes on the old woman. “Go on, Dog. An old woman like me don’t need so much food. Probably would make me sick to eat all of that. This piece of fish’ll do me just fine.”
Feast over she stuffed the trash in the paper bag and set it to one side. She lay down and Dog cuddled against her chest. With the blankets spread over the two of them and the sleeping bag zipped she draped a sleep heavy arm over the old dog’s side. “This has been a lovely Christmas Eve, Dog. Thank you.”
Singing woke Marybelle. Beautiful singing that called to her. She opened her eyes and got to her feet. Dog leaned her head against Marybelle’s leg. A bridge lay before them. Dog looked up with cataract whitened eyes and whined. She took a step toward the bridge and twisted her gray muzzle over her shoulder as if to say, “Come on.”
The bridge shone like a golden light lit it from within. Marybelle shivered. Fear rose up and wrapped chains around her legs. Dog padded back to her side. She pushed her cold black nose against the palm of Marybelle’s hand and gazed up at her. “Oh, Dog, I know you wanna go that way, but I…I can’t.”
Dog sat next to Marybelle’s leg and sighed. She rubbed the old dog’s grizzled fur and knelt in front of her. Staring into the dog’s dimmed eyes, she cradled the gray muzzle between her knarled and arthritis twisted hands. “I know you want to go that way. And…and it’s probably a good place, Dog. But, I…” she inhaled a deep breath and let it ease from her. “I know it’s a good place, Dog. I can feel it; like I know you can, too. But, I don’t deserve to go there.”
Dog flicked out a warm wet tongue and licked the tears that traced the lines of Marybelle’s weathered face. She pressed her face against Dog’s then kissed her muzzle and stood up. She took a half step away from Dog.
Courage gathered like a tattered garment, she looked into Dog’s eyes. “I can’t go there, Dog. I haven’t been a good person. There’s things…” she glanced away and swallowed the lump in her throat. When she looked back, she blinked away the tears. “There’s things I’ve done; things I’ve said that were wrong. I’ve…I’ve hurt people. Over there,” she raised a thin arm and waved toward the shining bridge. “Over there is for good people, people like you, Dog. Go on. You deserve to be there.” She turned and moved away from the dog.
She’d only gone a few steps before she felt the cold nose against her dangling hand. She squatted next to the dog. “Oh, Dog.” She buried her face in the brittle black fur. When she lifted her face, she hugged the dog and stood. “Looks like you aren’t going to go, if I don’t.” Heart pounding, she gave a slight nod as if confirming her own decision. “I’ll go with you, Dog, because you deserve to be over there.”
Dog pressed tight against her leg as they walked onto the glowing bridge. The golden light enveloped them, warmed them.
Halfway across the bridge Marybelle stopped and gazed over the railing. Below, a broad, placid river flowed. As they drew nearer to the far side, a beautiful meadow ablaze with blue and yellow and orange flowers rolled out as far as she could see. Her eyes rounded.
When they reached the end of the bridge, a melodic voice spoke. “I see you’ve helped her to Cross, Dog. I knew you could. Well done.”
Marybelle raised her eyes and gazed into the milk chocolate face and dark chocolate eyes. “Momma?”
The woman spread her arms and Marybelle ran into them.
The End
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PHOTO CREDITS: Old dog–Anne Lowe Christmas tree–Anna Langova (all-free-download.com)
Gangs and criminals are no longer the biggest worry for innocent travelers. It’s the #cops.
During research for Backlash, Book 4, Special Crimes Team series I needed to find out under what conditions police could confiscate money from people. I discovered a series of investigative articles published September 2014 by The #WashingtonPost. Scary stuff!
In an effort to kept the integrity of the articles I will only quote small sections from them and provide links to the full articles.
After the terror attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, the government called on police to become the eyes and ears of homeland security on America’s highways.
Local officers, county deputies and state troopers were encouraged to act more aggressively in searching for suspicious people, drugs and other contraband. The departments of Homeland Security and Justice spent millions on police training.
The effort succeeded, but it had an impact that has been largely hidden from public view: the spread of an aggressive brand of policing that has spurred the seizure of hundreds of millions of dollars in cash from motorists and others not charged with crimes, a Washington Post investigation found. Thousands of people have been forced to fight legal battles that can last more than a year to get their money back.
Behind the rise in seizures is a little-known cottage industry of private police-training firms that teach the techniques of “highway interdiction” to departments across the country.”
(Aya) According to the investigation by the Washington Post, a private firm is currently running an intelligence network known as Black Asphalt Electronic Networking and Notification System. They are gathering data on Americans even though state and federal authorities have warned them that their actions could constitute violation of privacy and constitutional protections.
Stealing from motorists is such a good gig that some police are using it to raise funds. There are also chat rooms where police compare how much money they have stolen from motorists.
Two unfortunate motorists are Mandrel Stuart, a restaurant owner, who had $17,550 confiscated without ever being charged with a crime; and, Matt Lee, a 31-year-old college graduate in Michigan who had $2400 his father gave him to help him travel to California for a job interview confiscated by police.
You can read Mandrel Stuart’s and Matt Lee’s stories printed by The Washington Post on September 8, 2014 and written by Robert O’Harrow Jr. and Michael Sallah at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/sf/investigative/2014/09/08/they-fought-the-law-who-won/
You can read how this literal highway robbery got started in an article written by Michael Sallah, Robert O’Harrow Sr. and Steven Rich on September 6, 2014 and printed in The Washington Post at: http://www.washingtonpost.com/sf/investigative/2014/09/06/stop-and-seize/
This is an overview of the subjects of this series of articles published by The Washington Post:
Stop and Seize: In recent years, thousands of people have had cash confiscated by police without being charged with crimes. The Post looks at the police culture behind the seizures and the people who were forced to fight the government to get their money back. Part 1: After Sept. 11, 2001, a cottage industry of private police trainers emerged to teach aggressive techniques of highway interdiction to thousands of local and state police. Part 2: One training firm started a private intelligence-sharing network and helped shape law enforcement nationwide. Part 4: Police agencies nationwide routinely buy vehicles and weapons with money and property seized under federal civil forfeiture law from people who were not charged with a crime. Part 5: Highway seizure in Iowa fuels debate about asset-forfeiture laws. Part 6: D.C. police plan for future seizure proceeds years in advance in city budget documents. Chat transcript: The reporters behind “Stop and Seize” answered readers’ questions about the investigative series.
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The Rest of the Journey: Jaz Wheeler’s Places to Remember
For several more days, I awakened surrounded by redwoods, listening to the occasional bird call. Each day brought some new adventure, some place to eat that fixed delicious food, photo ops to freeze the moment and time to heal.
I’d never heard of Petrolia, California, the Lost Coast nor the Mattole Valley, so I got directions and took off. The topography reminded me of Hawk Hill and Hopewell Farm. For a moment, guilt stabbed me because I hadn’t called Aretha since I left home. I pushed that feeling aside knowing how she’d laugh at such foolishness. I’d call when it was time to call.
Steep hills, rough road, sharp curves, and solitude. One car passed me, heading for the Lost Coast and a truck rumbled by coming from Mattole Valley.
At the top of the hill,
a lone steer wandered away from the few head of cattle bedded down, hard chill winds blew up from the ocean that was merely a smudge of darker blue on the far horizon and one house squatted alone, on a far hilltop. Cattle and green grasslands fading to brown beneath the summer sun, and quiet.
The further down the hill, the rougher the road, but the ocean lapping the shores below me gave reward to the determined traveler.
Cool winds blew off the water and the rugged shoreline of the Lost Coast gave testimony to the hardy people whose ranch boundaries ran along the cracked roadway.
Smaller than the small town below Hopewell Farm, there wasn’t much to Petrolia. It boasted a general store/post office/gas station–all-in-one and scattered houses. What people I encountered were friendly, but the little store was mostly surrounded by uninhabited land.
By the time I left the valley, the patterns of bright late afternoon sun and early evening shadows greeted me along the same road that I’d ridden down.
This time I stopped to gaze at what one resident of the valley said were the largest Madrone trees I had ever seen. Lines of them marched along both sides of the road.
Back home on my little farm, one tall slender Madrone struggled to thrive. My place wasn’t unique. In the Seattle area, Madrones simply did not get as large as these. I wondered about the age of these majestic trees, what changes they’d seen, whether they mourned their fallen and dreamed of days gone by when groves of them stood shoulder-to-shoulder. A bittersweet moment.
Much later, I was told by Laura Cooskey of the Mattole Valley Historical Society that these are not Madrones, but Eucalyptus trees. She said, “Those trees are Eucalyptus trees. The huge one right next to the Petrolia Table Cemetery is in fact the world champion (largest) Bluegum Eucalyptus. The trees were imported from Australia and planted around 1900 as windbreaks for the cattle. As it turns out, they’re very brittle and snap and throw branches readily in windstorms; furthermore, they are extremely flammable. However, they make excellent firewood.”
I left the windy road behind and headed to Ferndale, California. As evening drew close, an old and beautiful building caught my eye: The Victorian Inn.
Dinner was real chicken pot pie, nearly as tasty as Folami Winters had served at Mother Earth’s Bounty before she helped Aretha and I; before the attack that burned her restaurant to the ground. I shoved those thoughts aside, told myself it no longer matter, that was years ago. After dinner, I met the owners of the Victorian Inn, Lowell Daniels and Jenny Oaks. They told me the Inn had been built in 1890 of Humboldt County redwoods, that the walls were so thick no insulation was necessary.
Full and tired, I headed to the campground. Tomorrow I would be leaving, beginning the return trip home.
If you enjoyed Jaz’s travelogue, be sure to CLICK and FOLLOW so you won’t miss the ending!
To discover more about the magical Mattole Valley, go to the Mattole Valley Historical Society, founded in 1999 by Laura Cooskey at: http://www.mattolehistory.org
You can learn more about the beautiful and historic Victorian Inn and the “slice of the past” town of Ferndale, California by going to http://www.victorianvillageinn.com
“Take a little time out of your busy day/To give encouragement/To someone who’s lost the way
(Just try)/Or would I be talking to a stone/If I asked you/To share a problem that’s not your own
We can change things if we start giving/Why don’t you
Reach out and touch/Somebody’s hand
Make this world a better place/If you can…” Diane Ross 1970
The wrinkled, smudged envelope lay stuffed among my junk mail. I studied the faded words. Neither the handwriting nor the no-name return address rang a bell. The barely legible postmark read: Ukiah, CA, but the zip code had faded out. The date stamp read: Aug 21 20… The rest of the year had smeared into blue oblivion.
As I trudged back up the potholed drive, I wiped the liquid August heat from my brow with the tail of my dirty t-shirt. The mystery letter provided a good excuse to take an iced tea break. Inside the old two-story, clapboard farmhouse, I reached toward the sink sideboard to flip on some music. My hand groped empty air then I recalled that the DVD/CD player had been one of last night’s casualties.
No-last-name-revealed Susie, a girl who couldn’t have been more than fourteen that I’d brought home from the Seattle streets the week before ran off sometime during the night. Three hundred dollars in cash and the compact disc player ran off with her. It’d been a long time since that had happened. The missing material items didn’t hurt as much as the feeling of failure.
Maybe Tim had been right. His shouted accusations from six months earlier still gnawed at me. “Just because you can’t have kids, doesn’t mean my life should be embroiled in chaos created by other people’s juvenile delinquents.” His lip had turned up in that hateful way he had as he’d shouted, “Do you really believe you’ve changed a single one of those brats’ lives? All you’ve accomplished is to wreck our marriage!”
Life would certainly be simpler, and quieter, without rebellious teen girls and angry parents who stormed up to my door in the middle of the night. They refused to take their child home, yet demanded I turn her out. Facing aggressive abusers at fifty is a lot scarier than at forty.
The month before Tim stormed out of my life, I’d had to call the police on a stepfather waving a handgun outside my back door. After the police hauled the man off, Tim issued his ultimatum. “Sandra, it’s either me or those damn girls. One of us isn’t staying here.”
How could I close my door against #girls whose only other choice was often sex for food?
I carried the letter into the living room and folded onto the faded sofa. One foot tucked up under me, I took a sip of lemony tea then set the glass on the scarred cherry wood end table. Carefully, I slit open the envelope. A sheet of yellow tablet paper with scrawled lines fell out.
“Dear Sandy,
It’s been ten years since I split in the middle of the night with all the cash I could find as well as the clothes you bought for me. I hitched a ride with a trucker from your place in Bellingham to Mom’s house in Ukiah. Two weeks later I caught a bus back to the streets of #Seattle. I’d picked a fight with Mom. Mays, of course, grounded me. The truth: my running had nothing to do with Mom or with my stepfather, Mays. I just couldn’t seem to get comfortable anywhere.
After living with you for those eighteen months, I viewed street life differently, somehow. Maybe it was those late night gab sessions that you, Stoney, Jaimie and me used to have. Slowly I realized that none of us street kids were the glamorous outlaws whose personas we tried to don. Those outlaw clothes hung on us like baggy rags. Just scared, hungry, stoned kids running from one thing or another, but not running to anything, except a dead end life.
Eight months after I hit the streets again, my best friend, Lydia, died from an overdose. She lay dead, there on the filthy mattress in the back room of a crack house next to me. I woke up from my own drug run and felt her cold arm against mine.
As tears rolled down my face, I could hear you telling me the first time we met on First Avenue in Seattle, “It’s up to you, Michelle. You can stay here on the streets where there isn’t any future, except death of one kind or another, or you can walk away now and with work become anything you want to become. It’s your choice.”
When I dragged home, neither Mom nor Mays ever said a word. Back at school, whenever I felt like quitting, I’d recall how you took me in and told me I could make my life count for something good. You peered through the caked on makeup, the green hair, all those piercings and saw me. I promised myself that I’d write when I became someone you’d be proud to know.
So, I’m writing.
When I received my degree in psychology, Mom and Mays helped finance the opening of a halfway house for street girls. We call it Phoenix Rising. It’s not much. Five acres and a rambling old farmhouse that Mays and the girls are helping me remodel. In the pasture are two horses, Lost and Found, both from auction, both headed for slaughter. They keep company with a goat named Bad Manners. Our orange housecat was a feral kitten a friend of mine live trapped, injured and flea ridden. Her name’s Welcome and that’s what she does to every girl who walks through the front door. Our lab mix came from the local shelter. We named her Friend, and she’s been one to every living thing on this place. Every day those animals keep teaching me the lessons I first learned from you, lessons about having an open heart, believing in others, and giving.
Currently, ten girls live here. Kathy and Melody have been here since a week after the house opened. Kathy’s a computer genius who has already been scouted by a couple of colleges. Melody plans to attend a nearby vocational tech school to learn carpentry.
Sandy, do you remember that night about two weeks after I arrived when you and I were standing, leaning on the top rail of your pasture fence? I told you that a person needed a nice car, good clothes, a fine house and money if they wanted to be happy.
You studied me for a few minutes then turned back to stare out at your Arabian, Angel, prancing across the field. Then in that quiet voice of yours, you told me that after your baby had been born dead and the doctor said you could never have children, you swallowed a handful of pills. The nice house, the fancy clothes and the big car couldn’t give you a reason to live.
Your friend, Rachelle, found you and rushed you to the emergency room. She stayed with you for days. The day you were discharged, Rachelle drove you down to First Avenue then on up and around the university district. She pointed out the street kids as she drove then she pulled over to the side of the road and turned toward you. In a furious voice, she said, “Of course, you can have kids! There they are!” She’d swept her arm to include a young girl probably no more than thirteen huddled in a doorway and another young girl panhandling on a corner.
“There are your kids. If you don’t claim them, if you don’t reach out and touch their lives, who will? And if someone doesn’t give a damn, they’re going to die. Same as your baby died, but for a whole lot less reason.”
You looked at me then. Tears glistened in your eyes as you told me, “The important things can’t be purchased. They can only be handed on, from one person to another, a priceless inheritance.”
Sandy, thank you for my inheritance.
Love, Michelle Dryer.”
Double-checking the phone number on the letter, I smiled as I punched it in.
“Hello?” An older woman’s voice answered.
“I’d like to speak with Michelle Dryer. This is Sandy Harmer.”
“The Sandy from Bellingham, the one Michelle stayed with for a while?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“I’m Eleanor. Eleanor Dryer. Michelle’s mother.”
“Oh, I thought the number on the letter was Michelle’s. You’re not going to believe this, but I just received a letter from Michelle that apparently got lost before it wound up here. In it she told me about her halfway house for girls, Phoenix Rising.”
“That letter must be almost two years old!” Eleanor gasped. “Michelle…” I heard a catch in the woman’s voice, a hiccup much like a strangled sob. “Michelle was killed a bit over a year ago.”
“Killed?” I sank back against the couch.
“Andrea, a little thirteen-year-old, was sent to Michelle by a street worker. The mother and her drunk boyfriend found out where Andrea was and showed up one night. They tried to force her to go with them, but Michelle got Andrea loose then the boyfriend pulled a gun. Michelle jumped him and yelled for Andrea to run.
“Poor child, she ran to the house and called the police and before she even hung up she heard a gunshot. She ran back outside. Her mother and her mother’s boyfriend were gone, but Michelle had been shot. She…she died before the ambulance arrived.”
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” I whispered as tears trickled down my cheeks.
Eleanor sniffed, cleared her throat. “It’s a great loss to all of us. Mays was devastated. He and Michelle had grown very close.”
Tim’s angry words echoed in my heart, “If you keep playing around in other people’s business, you’re going to get yourself or someone else hurt!” Now, Michelle was dead.
Almost as if she could read my mind, Eleanor said, “Sandy, we want you to know how grateful we are that you were part of Michelle’s life. We could’ve lost her on the streets, but we got to share our beautiful daughter’s life. We’ve been blessed to see all the good that she’s done.”
“I…I feel like I somehow got her…her killed.” My throat ached with tears and sorrow.
“Why, Sandy, you should see the girls who came when they heard. Some of them were just girls Michelle talked to on the streets, and others she helped in some way. And, the girls who lived here when it happened, they all stayed on with Mays and me. Said this was home. I don’t think we could’ve gotten through this year without them.” I heard her sigh then she said, “The life Michelle lived because of you was so much better than the life she would’ve lived without you. Thank you.”
After I said good-bye to Eleanor, I laid the phone softly back on its’ cradle and wandered outside. I headed up to the barn. Across the miles and years, Michelle had reached out and touched someone. Had renewed yet another person’s faith and given hope where hope seemed gone.
This time that someone was me.
The End.
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What do the bodies of two young children have in common with the murders of two adult men? Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. How can she convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team? Someone is abducting street children and their bodies are showing up sexually abused and manually strangled. Psychic and member of Missing Children’s Rescue, Jaimie Wolfwalker, is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned. Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team. Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more missing children, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before another child disappears?
Book Release Daily, a site that features new releases, refuses to feature a book that exposes the plight of #missing #children! In Street Harvest, Book 2, Special #Crimes Team series, I wrote about street kids kidnapped by human traffickers. Book Release Daily feels that my book exploits children.
Here are some examples of what is objectionable:
Chapter 4
“Floater down on the waterfront at Ivar’s.” He rubbed a hand back and forth across his short-cropped, kinky hair, a habitual gesture whenever he was frustrated or worried.
As she waited to hear the rest of what brought him to her office door, she wondered if he was even aware of the gesture.
“A boy. Dr. Hutchinson thinks he’s around eleven, maybe twelve.” His lips thinned to a slash.
She knew it was more than a dead kid. The Special Crimes Team might feel bad about a dead kid, but they wouldn’t be involved in the investigation unless it was like little Jane Doe, an obvious victim of a sicker-than-usual pervert. Whatever it was had to be nasty. That was the only type of crimes with which they dealt. The crimes that made veteran cops question their choice of career. Hell, being in SCaT even had her sometimes questioning her career choice, though she didn’t know what she would be if she wasn’t a cop.
A bone-deep sadness shadowed Mike’s black-brown eyes. “He was naked. There were several rings of bruises around the boy’s neck. Bite marks on the backs of his shoulders.”
Her insides twisted into knots. Another one. She shut down her laptop, stuffed it in the middle desk drawer, and locked it. With her cane in hand, she pushed to her feet, grabbed her jacket, and headed for the door. “Damn it! I was hoping little Jane Doe was just the random victim of some perv gone too far.”
Without replying, Mike stepped into the hallway and waited for her to lock up. As they headed to the elevator at the end of the corridor she noticed how heavily he moved, like an old man.
God, he’s not that old, probably around my dad’s age. Quickly she shut down that line of thought. She refused to give a moment’s consideration to the man who had deserted her when she was just eleven, and right after Chelsea’s death. There had been a time when she wondered if her father had left because of Chelsea’s death, if he blamed her as much as she blamed herself.
Forcefully, she returned her mind to the present.
No, Mike wasn’t that old, but the day little Jane Doe’s body had shown up, the years had gathered on his face. Focused on the autopsy, he hadn’t noticed her watching as his body had clenched, and his shoulders had hunched up around his ears as if he expected a sudden blow from somewhere. A suspicious sheen had gathered in his eyes. He had glanced around, but she’d pretended to be intent on the small body on the stainless steel table. From the corner of her eye, she’d seen him swipe at his eyes then settle his face into an impassive mask.
Chapter 5
“Are we assuming that all of the children, both missing and dead, are ultimately victims of a #sexual #predator?” Frederick crossed his forearms on the table and leaned on them. His eyes swept around the group until they finally settled on Mike.
Detective O’Hara squirmed in her seat. Her lips twisted like she’d taken a big drink of soured milk. “We know the dead kids are. Jane Doe was raped, sodomized, and tortured. There’s evidence that the rapist used a condom. Prelim report says the boy’s injuries were similar, if not identical. This time the rapist used dropping the body in Puget Sound to get rid of the evidence.” She bit her lip and frowned like she just couldn’t understand the monster they were hunting. “According to Dr. Hutchinson’s report, both children died from asphyxiation after being manually strangled multiple times. There was so much bruising he couldn’t even get a clear size on the handprints. Why would anyone strangle a child one time, much less multiple times?”
“Sexual arousal.” Nita grimaced. “Choke your partner until he, or she, blacks out. Supposedly enhances the sexual high for both parties.”
Mike was glad no one cracked any jokes about the asphyxiation angle. Even cop humor couldn’t dull the anger over what had happened to those two kids. Damn! I’m going to have to get past this or I’m not going to be able to do anyone any good.
Chapter 13
“How did you know it was a police van?” Dr. Nelson asked gently.
“It was black, like they are sometimes, and on the side it had the logo for the Seattle police, and when they threw me inside, there was…there was a heavy wire mesh between the back and the front, like the cages in cop cars.”
“Were there seats?”
He shook his head, and blinked rapidly several times. A tear leaked from one eye and his chin quivered. He pulled in a shaky breath. “They…they took me way out in the woods, to this house. I was…locked…in a room and…” Arms tight around his bent legs, he rocked back and forth.
Grease recounted a string of sexual attacks by men who hid behind Halloween masks. At the end, he sniffed and rubbed his red nose on his jean-clad knee. Forehead dropped to his knees, he sat stiffly, as if he might shatter into jagged shards if he breathed too hard.
“Grease,” Irene waited until the boy raised his red-rimmed eyes to her. “I realize your ordeal has been very painful, but there are a few things we need you to do.”
“Yeah, I know. You wanna poke at me and take pictures and do one of them rape kits, doncha?” Belligerence born of hurt and helplessness and anger ripped the bitter words from the thirteen-year-old’s mouth.
In a soft voice, Irene said, “I would like to examine you to be sure you don’t have unmet medical needs. And, yes, it would be good to have photos, if you can tolerate the invasion of your privacy. If you can’t, we can forgo the photos. A rape kit wouldn’t do us any good. It’s been too long since the last attack on you.”
Well, what do you, the reader, think? Do these examples titillate or in other ways exploit the plight of children? Or do these examples simply make the plight of children real? Leave a comment. I would love to hear!
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Today I have the pleasure of #interviewing Jaimie Wolfwalker, #psychic, member of #Missing #Children’s Rescue, Pacific NW Chapter, who recently worked with the Special Crimes Team in cracking a ring of #human #traffickers and saving the lives of a number of children.
Interviewer: Jaimie, I’ve always been curious about people with special gifts. When did your abilities first manifest?
Jaimie Wolfwalker: I was six weeks away from high school graduation when my mother’s car was hit head-on by a drunk driver. My mother was killed immediately. Apparently, that triggered my ability to See children who are lost.
Interviewer: I’m very sorry to hear about your mother. When your ability manifested, did you have anyone to guide you in dealing with it?
Jaimie: My grandmother on my mother’s side was Native American. She helped me understand that I hadn’t suddenly gone insane and begun having hallucinations.
Interviewer: How did you get involved with the Missing Children’s Rescue?
Jaimie: After I graduated, I moved to Bow, Washington to live on Gran’s alpaca ranch. Gran was best friend’s with Eleanor Hasting who was the head of the Pacific Northwest Chapter of MCR. Gran introduced us.
Interviewer: What type of job do you have that will allow you to leave at a moment’s notice to search for a missing child?
Jaimie: Gran died the summer after I moved to Bow. She deeded me the ranch and left a small legacy for me, as well. I sold the ranch. And, when I’m not searching for children, I’m pretty handy with carpentry so I pick up odd jobs like building kitchen cabinets or cute doghouses. That kind of thing.
Interviewer: What can you tell us about the case you worked with the #SpecialCrimesTeam?
Jaimie: It was a heart-breaking case. Especially the little girl, Becca. I don’t know what we would have done without the medicine man, Traveler. All the case details can be found in Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team. You can find the case study at http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar
Interviewer: Where do you see yourself in five years?
Jaimie: Wherever Creator would have me go.
Interviewer: If you could tell people one thing, what would it be?
Jaimie: Cherish the children, all the #children. They are the future.
(Some children walk down a lonely road, or leave school smiling at their besties……
And some of them never make it home)
Interviewer: Thank you for being here today.
You can read all about the Special Crimes Team and the case of the missing children (Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team) at: http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar
What do the bodies of two young #children have in common with the #murders of two adult men?
Eleanor Hasting, a black bookstore owner and child advocate, knows these killings are linked. How can she convince Lieutenant Michael Williams, head of the Special Crimes Team? Someone is abducting street children and their bodies are showing up sexually abused and manually strangled.
#Psychic and member of Missing Children’s Rescue, Jaimie Wolfwalker, is prepared to do whatever it takes to locate and rescue the missing street children. The law be damned. Jaimie’s attitude and methods place her on a collision course with Sergeant Nita Slowater, second-in-command of the Special Crimes Team.
Four dedicated people struggle to come to terms with each other in their desperate search for clues. Every day brings more #missingchildren, more young bodies. Can they stop the monsters before another child disappears?
AVAILABLE FEBRUARY 22 ON AMAZON! http://www.amazon.com/author/ayawalksfar
GET YOUR E-COPY NOW! AVAILABLE ON SMASHWORDS! http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/AWalksfar
