The "real" Road to Testament (Day 3)

I went to the Mount Herman Christian Writers Conference years ago as a faculty member and, having a break in my schedule, decided to meander over to Karen Ball's class on fiction writing. I don't necessarily remember a lot that she taught, but I do remember her saying that all of her books have animals, such as a pet dog, cat, etc.

Gold fish? I don't remember ...

Since that time, I've noticed when I read books with "pets" that I get a little warm fuzzy, so--whenever I can--I incorporate the pup or kitty or ... gold fish.

After all, didn't Rocky become more lovable after we met Cuff and Link?

How delightful that, years ago during my first trip to Decker Ranch, I met "Buddy" and "Sis" as Sharon calls them (because this is not their real names). During my trip to the ranch and to that little paradise area of God's country called Rutherford County, North Carolina, Buddy and Sis came to see me every morning while I took a walk or when I sat in the Adirondack chairs reading my devotions.

One afternoon, Sharon called me. "I can't find Buddy," she said. I smiled and said, "Hold on." I took the photo you see here and sent it to her. Buddy had taken over "guarding" the writer within.

Here's what happened, exactly as it happened, one morning during devotional time ... and then I wrote it into The Road to Testament as happening to Ashlynne (with some obvious modification).

 ~~~~

I sat in what had become my favorite place to sit and read. Behind me, the sun made its slow ascent, casting shades of gold and ash across the lawn and the river rocks. A sliver of glitter in my flip flops caught one of the rays and shot back a brilliant reflection. Overhead, birds had already begun their morning song. The notion that we were becoming friends fluttered across my mind, and I smiled.

            As I crossed my legs and took a leisurely sip of tea, I caught a glimpse of my two furry friends from between the red-tipped bushes. They sauntered up the path. Over the past few days we’d formed a morning ritual whereby I drank tea and read; they sat and watched. Our actions, when done together, worked out beautifully.

            I’d also learned their names.

            “Good morning Buddy,” I said as the black dog reached me. I placed the mug between my thighs, extended my hand; he eased his head under it. His tail swished back and forth before looking back to see how close his constant companion had come to stealing my attention. “Come on, Sis,” I said, using the nickname Bobbie gave Kelsey. “Come on, old girl.”

            Kelsey easily pushed Buddy out of the way for her love pat. Buddy’s dark eyes stared at me for a moment. Unfazed by my shift in attention, he walked over to sniff a decorative garden stone with “DREAM” carved into it.

            I continued to rub Kelsey’s head, scratching behind her ears. I laid my head back against the glossy slats of the chair and closed my eyes. “Ah, Sis,” I said. “Do you know what I’d be doing right now if I were back in Winter Park?” I opened my eyes. Sis now sat, her long tail wrapped around one hip and leg. Her pink tongue dropped between sharp teeth, and her mouth formed a smile. “I’d be rushing off to work, that’s what.” Buddy rejoined us and I shifted my hand to his head. “You see,” I continued, “back home, when I get up—I get up very early—and I do my reading inside my apartment. I have a settee that once belonged to my grandmother—ah, you probably don’t want to hear about that. But I don’t get to go outside and sit under the trees and feel the breeze on my skin when I do my reading.”

            Both dogs stared at me, looking at me as intently as Gram and Mom when I bare my soul to them. “What I’m trying to say,” I continued, “is how special this is becoming and how much I will miss it when I leave.”

The dogs blinked in unison.

“Well, then.” I raised the book with my free hand. “I guess I’d better get to reading so I can shower and go get my nails done.” Kelsey panted deeply as though, being a girl, she understood.

            I propped my mug on the armrest farthest from the dogs and opened the book to: SING AND DANCE. The artwork on the corresponding mirror tile was of a woman with her mouth open and of a ballet shoe with wide pink ribbons.

            “Sing to him,” I read to Buddy and Kelsey. “Sing praise to him; tell of his wonderful acts.” I looked at the dogs, both curled near my feet. “That’s from First Chronicles, chapter sixteen, verse nine.”

            Buddy groaned as he rested his head on his front paws.

            “I take it you’ve heard me sing,” I said.

            Kelsey followed her companion’s motions. Her eyes rose to meet mine as though to say, “Uh … yeah.”

~~~

Don't just read bits and pieces of The Road to Testament! For heaven's sake, call your favorite bookstore and go to your favorite online bookstore right now and purchase it so you can read the whole thing and ... my dog can get a new collar. (insert big cheesy grin here)

Monday Musings on All Things Southern

I'm in North Carolina this week. Not sure when this is going to post; nonetheless, I am in North Carolina this week. It's where I hope to retire one day, even if only part time. Whether part time retired or part time residency, I do not know. I just know I love it here.

Yesterday my friend Sharon Decker, who gets to live here, made a funny statement. She said, "I was sittin' in the catbird seat."

I told her I'd never heard that before. Being the inquisitive person that I am, I looked it up. Turns out, she thought the idiom had something to do with a cat and a bird. But, there is actually a catbird. A bird. Called a catbird. Pictured here is the gray catbird.

What it means doesn't change with this new found knowledge. It means "sitting pretty."

Sharon was "sitting pretty."

Okay, I have to admit, hearing that Sharon was sitting in the catbird seat sounds ... prettier. Don't you think?

Monday Musings on All Things Southern

I. Am. Back!

Can you believe it? After two weeks on the road and one week recuperating from travels, I. Am. Back!

And, boy, do I have the perfect story to share with you...concerning Southern places and people.

During my travels earlier this month, I spent several days in the most charming place on earth (as far as I'm concerned), Rutherfordton, North Carolina. Now, if you find that to be a mouthful, let me tell you that most people from around there just say "Ruff-ton." At least, I think that's what they are saying.

I love Ruff-ton. I want to live in Ruff-ton. My husband says he won't move...and I fear a long-distance marriage coming up (just kidding). Maybe, one day, I'll write that great American novel and we'll have enough money to be bi-lingual. We'll speak both Floridian and North Carolinian!

Back to Ruff-ton.

While there, my hostess, Sharon Decker -- who I love like the sister I wish I'd had and who (we believe) is my cousin as my father and her mother had the same surname -- happened to mention that she preached at a church for some time that had quite the history. Not only was Brittain Church established in the 1700s, its behind-the-church cemetery holds the graves of Revolutionary War soldiers, Civil War soldiers...and...slaves.

I had to see this for myself! A planned interview on Monday didn't pan out, so I asked Sharon to take me to this graveyard treasure trove. She said she would.

First thing I noted, he way the steeple of this church rose to the sky. Even though the church had been rebuilt over the years, it was if it stood in defiance of time, the seasons (a horrible storm had just blown through a few nights earlier), or any religious enemy. Yes, I still stand. We are a small congregation but we are what Christian faith is made of. As long as we are here, Christianity continues.

The second thing I noted was the sloping hillside where old stones, cracked and gray, dotted the landscape, much like the wildflowers growing among them. I couldn't wait to get back there, to turn on my camera and snap away!

Before I could do that, however, Sharon needed to introduce me to a woman who stood at the top of the church-front steps, accompanied by an old but formidable-looking dog. Sharon knew the woman (she'd preached her husband's funeral) and wanted to introduce me to her.

And so I met the woman who not only cleaned the church, she was also the choir director. She was being assisted by another woman who was also the organist.

You cannot make this kind of stuff up.

After formalities, I was led to the graveyard...more on that next week...'cause there were some very interesting graves out there...one in particular...