NO--I didn't misspell the title. You see, for the past several months I've been using a CANE. I don't always have to use it in the house, but I do use it while out and about in public. After a few crazy falls, I'd rather walk with a cane than fall on the street. I am very aware of crowds, uneven walkways, steps, etc.. I am also getting old (not quite there yet, just turned 79). And, my back hurts a great deal of the time. The cane gives me the support I need to walk standing straight up and also helps alleviate some of the pain. But today, I cried because of that silly walking stick. Only I'm not at all sure it was the cane that brought the tears. Will you keep reading if I have a small meltdown? I went to our local nursery to purchase a couple of ferns and a few other potting plants. They didn't have the ferns I wanted so I picked up three sweet potato plants, some purple petunias, a white flowering something that trails, and a six-pack of red wave petunias. A sweet little girl rang them up and put everything in one of those black plastic thingys they use to keep plants organized. Only the six-pack of petunias wouldn't fit, so she tried to hang them on the side. Then she smiled sweetly. "Can you get this?" I should have said no. Really, I should have swallowed my pride and said no. However, I thought the fact that I had one hand full of a cane and had tried to fit my wallet under that arm so I could pick up the plants, should have been obvious. I guess it wasn't. I picked them up, but the six-pack slid off. A kind gentleman suggested the sweet girl help me. SOO--she took the six-pack of petunias and followed behind me while I tried to balance the black plastic thingy which now had enough empty space that the other plants were sliding around. THEN, I had to fumble to open the trunk, still holding the wobbly plastic carrier, my cane and my wallet tucked under my arm. I did it. She called out a sweet, "have a good day", and I got in the car and cried. For the first time, I realized that the silly stick of wood was invisible, thus rendering me unable to handle myself alone in public. It was such a silly thing to cry over. Yet, even as I write this, I'm teary. And the first opportunity I have to sit all my grands down at the same time, I will remind them just how far and for how long a little bit of courtesy will go. Oh, Lord. Give me eyes to see, hands and feet that are swift to help, and a heart of compassion for others around me.
This is an excerpt from chapter fifteen of Storm's Promise. Just so you know--I will not post these excerpts in any given order. And I ask you to remember that this book is still being written, thus could change in an editor's heartbeat!
grabbed the hands of her siblings. “You’re giving us away?”
knelt in front of the children and gripped their hands. “I will never give you away. Miss Merry is a
kind lady who cares for children who have no Ma or Pa to care for them. You’ll
be safe there, and I promise I’ll come
back for you.”
promise ain’t nothing more than a handful of water. All that’s left in the end
is a wet hand.” Opal’s face contorted with anger. “Sam rode away. Pa rode away.
Ma died because we had to run away. And now you’re gonna dump us with somebody
we don’t know cause we’re a bunch of mealy-mouth young’uns. I know 'cause
that’s what Pa called us that right before he went stompin’ outta the house. Ma
cried. Livvy and Owen cried. But not me.” Opal pulled her hands from his and
stood. “You leave us, I’ll run and I’ll take Owen and Livvy with me. But I won’t
cry. I won’t never let nobody see me cry.” She crossed her arms tight across her skinny chest. “Promise
is a dirty word used by dirty men right b'fore they leave and never come back.”
I'm in the midst of writing Storm's Promise, the third book of my Another Spring series. This book continues the story of Promise Harding, who was introduced in book two, Rayne's Faith. Keep in mind, this has not yet been edited, and much can change, but I thought it might be fun to give you a peek now and then of what's coming.
down in a cemetery with a bullet in his chest didn’t give a man a whole lot of
hope for the future. Storm Dawson grunted as he loosened his shirt from his britches
and tried to look at the wound. The bandana stuffed in the hole was sticky with
blood, some fresh, some dried and it hurt something fierce when he pulled it
loose, bringing black chest hair and a fresh gush of blood with it.An annoying sound, like a thousand
cicadas, undulated in his ears in rhythm with the beat of his heart, and he
fought to stay conscious. He clenched his teeth and jammed the kerchief back
into the wound as best he could.
sea of grass stretched as far as he could see beyond the picket fence that
surrounded the well-kept burial ground. Where was he and how did he get here?
His horse was gone along with everything he owned that he’d stuffed into the
saddlebags, and his holster was empty. Surely the kid he’d encountered two days
ago hadn’t followed him. One thing certain, he’d been ambushed and left to die.
At least they’d made it convenient for someone to dig the hole.
March is roaring through our cove this morning, as if it's scolding the trees for their nakedness.
It's sending white caps crashing against our sea wall, and geese bobbing across the surface like corks. One blue eye peeks through an otherwise ominous gray sky. But our lake is full. All the snow is gone. Temperatures are well above freezing.