An outlook from a Russian
Any kind of war sucks ass. Our children and grandchildren will be busy sorting this shit out.
We're drifting back to the Soviet Union. We'll be working at steel mills for a plate of rice. This last round of Western sanctions is bound to to hit our crumbling economy hard. At best, the Russians are going to face the new 90s with rampant crime and abject poverty. Superimposed on this will be wild hordes of migrants from Central Asia and, probably, a civil war. People are going to split in factions as they may deem fit, forming alliances that may seem very bizarre. This internecine war may be bloody and protracted.
After the war in Ukraine ends, Russia may witness that very "denazification" that Putin promised. Having subjugated the external enemy, this system will be eliminating all sorts of internal enemies, and everybody runs the risk of being ensnarled in and chewed by the cogs of this repressive machine. Nationalists, liberals, democrats, will be thrown in jails and...well, you may've heard of what kind of things are rampant in some Russian jails. In case you don't have the idea of what I'm alluding to, make yourself watch the leaked videos from the eight TB-pulmonary department of the OTB (tuberculosis prison hospital) of Saratov. Please do, or at least read about this gruesome place.
The ongoing barrage of news only adds fuel to the fire. I'm under the impression that neither side really knows what's going on. I don't bear any grudges against Ukrainians. I never wanted this war. Ultimately, I see no difference between the Russians and the Ukrainians, we're the same people.
One part of me is ashamed and makes me feel complicit in what's going on. Another part feels concerned about my well-being and my family. Something else prompts me to go and donate blood to the Russian soldiers fighting there. They really had no choice in this matter. Perhaps, supporting the Army is the only viable course to end this war sooner and avoid unnecessary victims. The anti-war sentiment is strong amidst Russian liberals and left-wings, the very people that I don't really like. But I must admit that this time they may make a valid point.
I feel confusion.
Things won't return to any semblance of normality any time soon. Now that Russia is an outcast, immigration is off the list, perhaps for good. A year ago, I was given an opportunity at work to emigrate, I had a couple of interviews with our R&D department, but either I must have failed the selection process or the pandemics got in the way. Now that almost all the countries I'd consider emigration to stopped issuing or nullified existing visas, I'm out of luck.
What are the things I am in control of?
Partially, my job and side hustles. My relationships. My attitude.
Dialogue
Stop.
Look around.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Open your eyes.
No, actually open your eyes.
…Ah, but that’s where you’re mistaken.
What you’re seeing right now
Is the back of your eyelids.
The burning intensity,
Overwhelmingly painful darkness
And infinite nothingness
Of the back of your eyelids.
…Oh, really? Are you sure?
Because if your eyes were already open,
I would think that by now
You would’ve noticed
The soft clover underneath you
Splashed with violets;
The arm around your shoulder
Warming your shaking body as you cry.
You would have seen the sun
Rising through your window this morning
As you struggled to revive your tired mind,
And you’d have watched fiery light bounce off the sleek fur
Of your loyal fluff-armored protector guarding your pillow,
Ever-dozing, but always with one eye open.
You would have caught a glimpse
Of the prisms of color
That danced between the sparkling droplets
Last night when it rained.
You’d have been entranced
By the rippling reflections they left on the concrete
That mirrored the sky, swirling with the stars of van Gogh.
Open your eyes, little one.
Witness the beauty of the little moments
That dot every second of your existence.
So. Whenever you’re ready…
three stupid stupid things
i) the idea he ever has to exist without flowers is disheartening
(and so i will buy or grow or dry and press flowers for him. a wise someone once said seeing someone with flowers is like walking poetry, and i agree. it's quite grand to walk into the local flower shop and peruse through the purple hyacinths or white roses and half-bloomed daffodils. some of them are $2.50, others $3.50. these gorgeous "special blossoms", as they were labelled, were $5.50. vibrant, deep purple with yellow centers that reached outwards. they were gorgeous. anyways. the nice korean lady with tie up the flower in brown wax paper. i usually ask her to trim the bottom of the flower's stem so it's not too long. she rings up my purchase. i pay, and get to hold delicate beauty. then i walk down the street, giddy at the idea i can bring the one i love flowers. sometimes i feel silly, and cringe at such feelings, and then i continue because aren't i lucky to be able to bring him flowers?? so lucky. incredibly lucky. it's thrilling and terrifying and quite. nice. sometimes the entire flower gets covered, like a cone, if the petals are delicate. then i can't see the prettiness. but when it isn't covered, oh, it's gorgeous. everything pales in comparison. the grey sidewalk, black winter coats, anything industrialized. the natural beauty of the flower is shocking and wonderful. then, when i see him and i'm carrying the flower—usually in my left hand for some reason (perhaps my right has my clarinet or my tote bag)—i have an incredibly strong urge to get down on one knee and confess my love for him again.
"please accept my feelings," i would say with a bowed head. two hands outstretched, offering the flower. a rose, perhaps. or a dasiy. he likes those.
we're usually in the same vicinity of other people, and so i don't, but then i give him the flower, and he smiles, he is the walking poetry, and all is right with the world.)
ii) it's 4:20 as i'm writing this
(weed)
iii) i'm convinced the more we try to define ourselves the more mental limits we tentatively place in our mind.
(a strong part of the population likes having labels, or rather, a group they can belong to and find camaraderie in. i do not blame them. it's most valuable, tempting, crucial? none of those words are correct. because they insinuate the act of labelling becomes selfish. perhaps it is for some people. but the system has also normalized and made it convenient to have labels. bathrooms are a prime example.
sure, labels such as gender and sexuality are always a hot topic.
others can be just as helpful or destructive. a gifted kic carries too many expectations. high school stereotypes put people in already moulded boxes. reinforcing labels puts a self-fulfiling prophecy on us.
"i could never do that," or "nah that's something for my sister to do," or "he's a guy, it's fine" are such dangerous sentences in certain contexts. (see: studying techniques, firstborn traditions like carrying on the bloodline, gender roles regarding mental health respectively) so much is deeply rooted in our views of each other and ourselves that true diversity of ideas cannot be fostered. to change our mindset, which is crucial, is to rebel against lines and the natural thought progression we all possess. it's not simple. it's an uphill battle, and it will be for as long as we fight. truly inner demons.
i hope our generation does not remain static. asking for progress is greedy, but as long as we do not leave the earth how we found it, i'd say that's a good step.)
The New Prose Is Still A Work In Progress, I Think
With recent changes it is looking like Twitter, verging on Instagram, and just the other side of Facebook. Too convoluted. Nothing like the "Old Prose". No center or bold. Pictures half-covered. Half the time it doesn't let you post properly. Bring back the Old Prose as an option.
Many features on the New Prose are good but there are people who use their phone to get on and last I heard there is no APP for that either yet.
Too many bugs in this, and to disband the "Old Prose" without thought to how other Prosers feel, It's disheartening.
Epilogue
June 1959 – Hyannis Port
“Grandmother, please, tell me more!”
“Oh, child, there is so much more I could tell you. From the many letters I received from Artie, I became, or believed I was a family member.
“Chadlynn passed away around 1900, quietly in her sleep. Which meant, according to Artie, Chadlynn wouldn’t have to contend with her dreams coming true any longer. Their two daughters were in World War One as nurses and managed to get through that ordeal without losing their sanity or their lives. Sam died a few years later from a heart attack.
“Artie met and married a man named Evan Walker, a Wall Street stockbroker and they remained married until her death in 1956. But she and I shared the same wedding day, mine being here in Boston to your grandfather, Joseph, and hers in Virginia before she departed for New York with Evan. Artie had two lovely children, both boys. Her one dream to be a motorcycle racer did come true for a few years. She won a few small races and one she called ‘dirt track,’ which I never understood, but she eventually walked away from it all: too much pressure from a male-dominated sport; that, and, the truth was, she had a family to care for.
“I look back on our relationship and smile. She was always a headstrong, somewhat forceful, woman, and I like to believe she was the driving force behind Evan’s success. Want to know the most interesting part of our friendship? Other than the one time we first met, we never saw each other again, but we maintained what I consider to be a special bond.
“Her brother and sister, Owen, and Diana, took over the family business after their parents passed away, and the very last thing I’ve heard about them is that they sold the business to a corporation called Kresge’s Five and Dime, the owner being Sebastian Spering Kresge; from what I understand, he is doing quite well. As to what happened with the twin siblings, I wish I had more to tell, but I don’t have much. The only thing I heard about Diana is that she was working to compile a Kincade family history from all the letters and papers accumulated across the years. Perhaps one day I will come across the published version of it. I would very much like to hear all those stories again…”
She paused with a faraway look in her eyes. After a minute, she continued.
“Ah, I do know that their older sister, Roselyn, almost had a career in music. She studied under Randolph a few years but an unavoidable thing happened; she developed rheumatism in her hands.”
“What happened to Frank and Jeremy, though, Grandmother?”
“Oh, Frank, he’s a special story. It was reported he had been killed in Alaska. And he almost died from his injuries but he recovered—not fully, however. He became paralyzed from the waist down; but it didn’t stop him. According to Artie, Frank’s brother, Randolph, was beyond ecstatic, and made his way to Alaska to be by Frank’s side. Frank went on to some rather interesting things, according to Artie. He ended up as the mayor of Anchorage and, up until his death five years ago, he had been pushing the territorial governor to apply for statehood. Frank would be so proud to know his efforts paid off with Alaska becoming a state last January. Sadly, Randolph died three years before Frank but Artie wasn’t clear on how that happened.
“As for Jeremy, not much to tell about him after the war. Last I heard, he had changed his name—well, not really changed it, but used a different name to market a program he developed: body-building. He tours across the country as Charles Atlas. It appears he has done rather well, according to my sources. I would guess as much; his time at the Olympics must have triggered the idea.”
“And Azalea? That is such a pretty name.”
“Maria, you ask a lot of questions, child; Azalea passed on in her sleep in 1926, but not before she got her husband’s writings published, and they sold quite well. Artie told me in one of her letters that before Azalea retired for bed that night, she said, “Life has been both good and bad but I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“As to the rest of the family, I’m afraid I cannot tell you much than I already have, and…”
A tall, well-dressed man stepped up onto the porch of her and her husband’s retreat and said, “Mrs. Kennedy, Mrs. Schriever will be here shortly to pick up her daughter, and your husband called to let you know that he and your son, Jack, will be here shortly, although, according to the message, Jack’s stay will be brief as he will be resuming his campaign trail.”
“Very well, Harrison, thank you.”
Looking at her granddaughter, she smiled, saying, “Politics. A nasty profession.”
“Grandmother, I want to know more!”
“Another time, my dear. The time has simply gotten away from us, Maria. Once, I was a child like you, and now—a grown woman with so many responsibilities. One day you, too, will have responsibilities, and mark my words, young lady, if you fail in your responsibilities, the world will look at you in a whole other light.
“Artie gave me the best advice once: take care to use your time wisely, for youth one day will fade away and all that will be left are memories of days gone by.”
Shortly after, Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy entered her bedroom and spied the open box with hundreds of letters from Artie. Sitting on the bed, she ran her hand over the envelopes and smiled softly.
“You are a memory I shall never forget.”
Written By: Danceinsilence
Chapter 50: Looking To The Past
January 1898
The cold wind nipped at their noses as the young couple traversed the deck. They were stretching their legs, both tired of being holed up in their cabin.
Helena leaned on her husband’s arm, both nervous and excited. Every day they drew closer to America, and the day would come when she’d meet her new family.
Randolph spoke so adoringly of his whole family; it felt as if she had already met them, yet they were still just strangers in a tale.
In front of them, a figure was firmly standing in the midst of the gushing wind, her short gray hair blowing in every direction, but her gaze focused on the horizon.
She carried age and experience in the wrinkles drawn on her face. Yet, she had an aura of being younger than she appeared that surrounded her.
Clouds darkened above them, the wind blew stronger, and Helena tugged Randolph’s arm, urging him to turn around with her.
They scurried back, struggling to keep their footing on the swaying deck.
Randolph glanced over his shoulder, relieved to notice the stranger following shortly behind them, her plump figure braving the storm seemingly easier than either he or Helena could.
They reached the entrance, ready to enter, when the ship tilted again, throwing him and his wife indoors. A shriek pierced the air behind them, and as he turned, the woman tumbled forward into his arms.
He gripped on tightly to her, breaking her fall with his own body. Both hiccupped as their bodies met the floor.
“Bloody ships,” she hissed, scrambling to her feet, without his help. “I do apologize, young man.”
She froze, her face paling as she stared at him, her eyes scanning every part of his face.
“Are you alright, Ma’am?”
“I’m…I’m c-c-completely…Excuse me, but who are you? You seem so familiar to me; as if I knew you once upon a time.”
He blinked, stepping backward, racking his mind to recall this woman; yet no memory of her existence surfaced in his mind.
“I don’t think we’ve ever met, Ma’am. My name is Randolph Farragut. What is wrong? Are you all right?” He stepped forward to grab the woman as she stumbled backward, but it was his wife who took the woman by the shoulders and steadied her.
“Randolph Farragut? That is impossible,” she stuttered. “He died many years ago…the year 1854, to be precise.”
“1854?” He blinked. “Wait…Randolph Farragut who died in 1854…Are you talking about my uncle Randolph, Ma’am? How did you know him? Who are you?”
“Randolph Farragut? Your uncle? You resemble him far too much.”
She fished a handkerchief out of her jacket pocket, wiping away the beads on her forehead. “You must be Uncle William’s son, then…” She murmured, her sharp eyes blinking as she thought.
“Uncle William? Are you talking about my father…William Farragut? The son of William and Flower Kincade Farragut?”
“Yes…My…”
“Who are you?”
Her head lifted slowly, her eyes leveling with his, as she said, “My name is Frannie Hudson. Randolph Farragut was my father…well, the man who raised me.”
As New York came closer and yet closer, Randolph and his wife befriended Frannie Hudson. He was eager to learn about the step-cousins he never knew, as well as the uncle that had died many years before his birth.
Frannie recalled her childhood in California, times spent with her sister, May, in their childhood home, and how dearly her mother and father loved each other. She recounted the great pain and sorrow she felt with Randolph’s death; she recounted her rebellion upon being forced to move to England with her mother.
“I did come to love London, though, I must admit. After all, I’ve spent the better part of my life there. Everybody I love is still there…”
He asked her about her mother and sister, and the lives they came ended up living in England.
“Well, my sister had married Henry Price, here in America, as you may have been told, and she brought six children into this world. Two of her sons have died, one leaving his widow and children behind. Both my sister and her husband have also passed along…” She tightened her lips, steeling away tears.
“And your mother? Did she have a happy life?”
“She enjoyed the new chance. Married for a third time, had one son with him, and outlived her third husband as well. My half-brother is an amiable man…”
“Has your mother been dead long?” he inquired.
“Dead?” She burst out laughing. “Mother, two years shy of eighty years, is still alive and strong. I keep on telling her she needs to look for husband number four, and see if she can also outlive him, for currently it looks as if she is as far from dying as I am.”
The rest of their journey passed pleasantly, both Helena and Randolph enjoying Frannie’s company, her stories, and her opinions on matters of life. Soon, they reached New York City, and parted ways.
Frannie was heading toward California, choosing to travel the route that her parents would have taken back in 1841, mere months before she was born.
“I want to know the route that had to be traveled…I want to see how much has changed since then and since the death of my father.”
“Will we see you again?” he asked, as they prepared to leave the ship.
“Yes…I believe so.” A mysterious smile crept around her lips. “When I return, young Randolph, I will leave something in your possession, something I’ve kept with me through the years. But, once I return from California, I will have no need for it anymore.”
March 1898
My Dearest Brother,
As night draws near at this moment, I have finally found the time to sit and write to you about our latest adventure here in New York.
Today, Helena and I visited what used to be the old apartment and housing of Great-Aunt Diana. It has changed a lot through the years, I can say, if one considers that many other people have since lived there.
The current inhabitant, a Miss Sumpter, certainly thought me a bit crazed when I explained my wish to look around, but she was kind enough to allow us entrance.
You must wonder what drove me to visit there, as well as many other places here in New York, where our family has made some history.
Frank, ever since I met Frannie Hudson, I am continually reminded of our history. Our legacy. What started with our Great-Grandfather Kincade has led us to the Farragut’s, Brimford’s, Kincade’s, and Martins. It has led us, or rather our parents and grandparents, through so much already. Us too, but sometimes, if we think what all of them went through to make the world as it is for us today…
I am reminded of Uncle Randolph’s travel to California, I am reminded of tales of Uncle Chadwick surveying the country and how he lost his eye, I am reminded of our own grandfather and his tales as a commander in the Navy.
We have come far as a family, Brother, and I feel a great pride to be a part of this legacy.
With a shock, I realized that we are soon to finish this century and pass into the next. What would this next century hold, for both our children and us?
You must come and visit us, Brother. I implore you. Helena and I are planning to travel across our lovely country throughout summer, giving me the opportunity to introduce her to family. All I will need then is an opportunity to introduce her to you.
Before I end this off, I also felt like writing you of another matter. Fiona’s daughter, Roselyn, will be coming to New York later this year, after summer. She is considering a future in music, and it will be my pleasure to see her settled here and engaged in further lessons and opportunities.
Your brother, always,
Randolph William Farragut
Late April 1898
Azalea slowly eased back into her chair, nodding slowly, but not daring to interrupt her son, Jeremy, who was setting out all the reasons for his current decision.
“Please say something, Mother…” he ventured half-pleadingly.
“What do you wish for me to say?” She folded her hands, neatly placing them on her lap. “You are a grown man, Jeremy. You’ve been a part of the Pinkertons, you’ve done boxing, and you’ve been to the Olympic Games.”
She smirked, before allowing a soft chuckle to burst over her lips.
“Don’t tell me that after all these years, Jabbin’ Jerry still needs to ask his mother’s permission if he wishes to go on a new adventure?”
“No,” he chuckled in reply. “But it is war…”
“Oh, Jeremy,” she sighed with a smile. “If you wish to answer Congress’s calls for a volunteer cavalry, then do that. It will be war, yes, and quite possibly devastating…but you are a Kincade, my son. All Kincade men seem to be drawn toward war and adventure in one way or another at some point in their life.”
He rose from the sofa, walked toward her, stepped around her chair, and then hugged her from behind.
“I love you, Mother. And I promise that I will be back.”
“You’d better be,” she warned. “It might only be April, but the whole family is talking of reuniting up in New York come November.”
Grinning, he promised to be back by then.
“I wouldn’t miss our reunions for anything else in this world! Not even for the sake of a war.”
May 1898
Dearest Artemis,
My brother and sister make this house seem too full. I barely was—I couldn’t write my letter until now. We were playing too long. I love my brother and sister. They are fun. We like to play together. It feels better to have them.
I like how you have these reunions. Will you tell me more? Will you tell me about the family reunion? After you get home again, of course. Will you tell me more about your family, Artie? I loved the story about your Grandpa Oliver and Grandma Azalea. It was like a fairytale!
I will write again another day. Mother just said dinner will be soon.
Send me a letter real soon!
Rose Elizabeth Fitzgerald
(That does look neat, doesn’t it? To put in my whole name; looks grown-up!)
July 1, 1898
His mouth partly open, panting, his breath short, sweat pooled down his face. In front of him, he saw their leader, Theodore Roosevelt, eagerly leading them up the hill.
He paused, gulping down his tiredness, his eyes closed, memories of his loved ones rushing through his mind, but cut off as he opened his eyes again.
This was what he signed up for. This was what he would die for if it came down to it.
“I promise that I will be back…”
“You’d better be!”
His eyes focused on the top of the hill, his body re-energized for the ensuing fight, and his mind set on returning home in time for November. Nothing, not even this one battle, would steal away the chance to see his family gathered together again.
November 26, 1898
The crowd cheered as Jeremy swung his fist forward, knocking out his opponent. He stood back, soaking in the cheers. But his eyes were focused on the hill forming behind where his opponent had fallen. The Rough Riders were marching up it. He sighed and turned away, face to face with his father.
Oliver placed his hands on the man’s shoulders.
“Wake up, Jeremy.”
“I don’t know where to go on from here,” he blurted out, unwilling to lose this moment.
“You will know soon. You will know very soon where life will take you. What has happened to me, one of the best things that ever happened to me, will happen to you. You have been through much…many adventures. But one of the greatest of them all is yet to begin.”
Fiona ran into Jeremy’s room, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him violently.
“Jeremy, wake up! Wake up now!” she screamed hysterically.
“What? What now?” He blinked, pushing her off him. “Fiona? What is wrong?” He glanced at her belly, but she shook her head.
“Jeremy, the kids just came back with Arthur and John from their expedition. A massive snowstorm started hours ago. They only now made it back.”
“What’s wrong, Fiona?” He stumbled out of bed, but she stepped backward, folding her arms around herself, her body shaking.
“James and Hope are missing,” she squeaked.
Both fathers, Arthur and Charles, along with Randolph, John, Sam, and Jeremy, braved the storm, knowing the foolishness of such an endeavor, yet desperate to find the two missing children.
Walking beside Charles, Jeremy could hear the father muttering, “Let my little girl live…let my little girl live…I beg you, let my little girl live.”
Hours passed on, and they finally had to return. Jeremy, still walking next to Charles, didn’t even realize the separation that had taken place among the group.
His face felt frozen solid, yet he walked on. Turning around at one point, he finally realized that he and Charles were alone among the buildings.
“Charles!” he yelled. Receiving no response, he rushed toward his brother and wrestled him out of the street. “We have to go,” he yelled.
They stumbled against the walls of a building. Jeremy pounded at the door, praying and wishing for some response from within.
Two Days Later
Jeremy and Charles trudged through the streets, refusing to believe that this was hopeless. They hadn’t seen or heard of the other family members since the separation between the men took place.
They slogged through a park, and suddenly Charles stopped. Snow was heaped all around them, covering the grounds under a sickening, deathly blanket. Yet a certain hump of snow drew him closer, until he was madly flinging snow away. Jeremy rushed toward him reaching him as Charles brushed snow off a boy’s back.
They dug out the boy, and then discovered that his arms were frozen around a little girl. Dumping him over, Jeremy’s stomach recoiled as he immediately recognized his nephew, James, and Charles’s daughter, Hope.
The frozen boy’s body and arms were wrapped protectively around the girl, as if to shield her from the cold. Grabbing both James and Hope into his arms, Charles leaned over them and wept. His cries tore through the emotionless skies, cursing the weather and the loss of his little darling.
After Charles’s tears finally dried, Jeremy bent over and picked the children up, carrying them toward Randolph’s home, where the family had been staying for the reunion.
As he carried them into the living room, the short-lived relief, at seeing everybody else safe, dissipated as two mothers rushed toward their children, and mourning befell the entire family, pulling Charles into the crying all over again.
January 31, 1899
Dearest Rose,
My baby brother was born yesterday. Mommy has been strange. She cries, but also laughs when she holds little Arthur. I think she misses my brother…
Rosie, it’s hard. I miss James. I miss playing with him…
Did I tell you about my Uncle James? My grandpa had a brother, James. Uncle James was a lot like Grandpa Chadwick. That’s what everybody says.
He had an Indian friend! Blue Snake. Indian names are funny. Uncle James and Blue Snake traveled with each other. They were best friends. Like we are best friends!
Uncle James travelled across America. He fought battles. He killed men. He saved family once. At our reunion—I will tell you some other time. It hurts too bad when I talk of the reunion…
Artie
March 17, 1899
Jeremy reveled in the ambience, thrilled at the parade passing by. His eyes glanced over to the other side of the road, swept up, and smiled at all the people leaning out of their hotel room windows to have a better view.
The events and loss of November still stung, yet he had stayed behind in New York, looking for that next experience and adventure that he knew was sure to befall him soon. It was all a matter of time and patience.
Fortunately for him, he had more than enough to occupy his thoughts and keep him from being reminded of what he had done and what he had witnessed, both in war and in the loss of family.
Shaking his head violently, he refocused his attention on the spectacle passing them. Presently, he found himself focusing instead on a young woman and boy leaning out of one of the hotel windows. His gaze was broken as yells broke out from the hotel, and the young woman disappeared from view.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!” came the yells, smoke pouring from a few windows. Desperate screams filled the air; where they came from, he could not say.
Frozen, he stared as the flames quickly took control of the building. After he spent numerous seconds staring, blood started pumping through his limbs again. He pushed through the crowds, rushing across the street.
His eyes automatically searched for the young woman and boy, and then he noticed their window. A rope had appeared out of that specific window, and the boy was being lowered down.
Jeremy ran and stood by the dangling rope, prepared for when the boy would reach the ground. A fireman, noticing his approach, immediately focused his attention elsewhere, relieved to know an extra hand was helping.
Jeremy reached out and wrapped his arms around a young boy, about seven years old. He undid the knot around the boy’s body, released him, and looked up at the woman.
She laughed, cried from the sixth floor, while hastily pulling up the rope again, racing against the clock that was ticking for her. Jeremy stepped backward, the boy in his arms.
The child cried, burying his head in Jeremy’s shoulder, but continually kept calling for his mother.
Jeremy’s eyes stayed glued on the woman as she started sliding down the rope. Her face contorted, quite possibly due to her hands stinging from the burns received due to the rope tearing away at the delicate skin.
She passed the fifth floor, and her feet barely over the windows of the fourth. The young boy pulled his head away and looked to his mother, exactly at the moment that the rope snapped and she plummeted to the ground with a terrifying scream.
Jeremy reared back, trying to push the boy’s head back into his shoulder, struggling to hold onto the wriggling, anguished, screaming child.
He pushed backward through the crowd, knowing that he couldn’t go to that woman. She was dead. He couldn’t let this boy see his mother like that.
He struggled through the crowds, images playing through his mind. He saw the woman plummet to the ground again, and in an instant, he was a young boy again.
Their house was burning, his mother was still inside, he was able to break free and rush back in…but it was too late. She was dead…if it weren’t for Oliver Kincade, my father, I wouldn’t be here.
With the boy still bawling in his arms, he finally broke free from the people mingling about and bustled toward a more peaceful block, Randolph and Helena’s address flitting through his mind.
What a way to call on family.
Thirty minutes later, upon arriving at Randolph and Helena's home, Jeremy explained everything that happened, and told them he was in no position to care for a young boy.
It didn't take but a second for Helena to say, "We will look after the boy. We shall adopt him."
She turned to the boy and asked, "What is your name?"
Stuttering, he said, "Chad, Chad, Chadwick."
May 1899
Artie,
It is not July yet, I know. But I am excited! We will be turning nine! (See that I spelled ‘excited’ right? I’ve been working very hard on my spelling.)
Soon it will be summer! And Thomas, Mary and me can’t wait. We will have so much fun!
Can you tell me more of your family? I enjoyed the stories of Uncle James and Blue Snake. Tell me how Grandpa Chadwick lost his eye! Tell me of his cougar attack.
And tell me how Uncle James found him!
I love the stories you tell of your family! I don’t know what to tell you about my family…my father has lived in Boston his whole life! Me, too. He was in the Massachusetts Senate for so long! Mother says I was a baby when he got in there.
His job as Mayor now keeps him very busy. It’s important. I understand that. What do you want to know about his job and my family?
Rose Elizabeth Fitzgerald
August 13, 1899
Dearest Mother,
John and I invite you to come visit us this fall. Harry and John miss their grandmother; as I miss you…I know you have also been waiting for this letter some time now.
Early yesterday morning, my little daughter was born. We have chosen to call her Mary Mae. Both Harry and John do dote on their little sister.
Unfortunately, I have to end the letter here now, for John and I have been invited to dinner. I implore you to consider visiting us this November.
With all my love,
Cora Mae Truman
August 1899
Dear Rosie,
This summer, we went to New York again. We won’t visit in winter anymore. We saw the motorcycle race at Manhattan Beach! Oh, what fun! I could watch them all day! But…it came to an end.
I told Mommy and Daddy that I want to race one day. They didn’t seem very happy…but I’m going to do it! I’m going to be a…motorcycle racer!
Mommy says girls can’t race. If they can’t…then I’ll be the first woman to race a motorcycle! One day, the world will know the name of Artemis Brimford, and how she became famous through races!
Oh! I see the mailman on our street, so forgive the shortness of this, but I want to get this to you quick as I can. I promise to write much more next time.
Your Bestest Friend Forever,
Artie
January 1900
On January 25th, Randolph and Helena were blessed with their first biological child, a son: William Timothy.
A new century had been welcomed in only a few days prior, yet the idea had worn off in the face of raising their new son, along with their adopted boy Chadwick.
They would talk of all their opportunities in raising him, Randolph, excited thinking of raising another little musician, until his wife laughingly pointed out that his name might end up shoving him into the Navy, like his great-grandfather, William Sr. Farragut.
Three days after this momentous occasion, Frannie Hudson showed up on their doorstep, as hale and healthy as she was two years prior.
She entertained them with her travels to California, her stay there, and her travels back. She surprised Randolph when she told him that her return had been delayed, due to her visit to Alaska.
“Alaska?!”
“Why, of course. I felt as if I had to meet your brother before I left for England.”
She gushed over little William and eight-year-old Chadwick, shared some more family histories with Randolph, and finally prepared to leave. As he saw her out the door, she suddenly turned, fished a large and tattered notebook out of her purse, and handed it to him.
“This was your Uncle Randolph’s journal. He had it for many years, always writing tiny notes and anecdotes in it when he found it noteworthy. He recorded his thoughts on Oliver’s first book. He wrote bits about the journey to California, about raising May and me, about my mother and his love for her. I took it with me to London, all those years ago, and it was my silent comforter when I missed him. But I now hand it to you, for it is rightfully Farragut property; rightfully yours.”
“Thank you, Frannie…”
She smiled, nodded swiftly, then smiled at his wife appearing behind him.
“I will not regret this visit; I can now return in peace, with many tales and adventures to entertain my mother. She misses America as much as I did. Now, don’t be a stranger, Randolph. After all, we are cousins. And when you visit London, you can be sure that I will entertain you and your family with great pleasure!”
May 1900
Dearest Artie,
You have such an interesting family…Randolph Farragut is such a great musician, and he is part of your family! Your sister is studying music. Your own Uncle James and Grandpa Chadwick explored our country. Your grandmother has been to Australia! I always love to hear these stories.
Mother and Father are talking about sending me to a school. Over the sea. Not for a few more years, but they are talking. Don’t worry. It won’t stop us from writing letters. Remember: we’ll be friends forever.
Rose Elizabeth Fitzgerald
May 28, 1900
With her little boy in her arms, Fiona stepped out onto the porch. Her mother sat comfortably in a rocking chair, staring up at the night sky with a twitch of a smile.
“Mother? Why don’t you come inside now? All the children have finally gone to bed. Who knew that such an experience would keep them up this late? Solar eclipse, not something we see every day, I agree, but if only I’d known that it would stir up everybody, from my Artie to my Owen.”
Azalea smiled at her daughter’s soft laugh but kept rocking.
“Mother, are you all right?” She shuffled forward, her smile fading.
“I’m perfectly well, my dear. I’m just enjoying the cool air.” She finally turned her head, smiling warmly.
“And thinking about something, I must presume?”
“That is correct.”
“You’re not…” She hesitated, leaning back in the rocking chair that she had taken place on. “…Thinking of something like…leaving us?”
Azalea chuckled, continuing her rocking, her eyes glued to the stars.
“I am not that old, yet. I’ll be here long enough to hold Rosie’s babies; you mark my words, dear. I’m going to see little Arthur grow into a fine young man.”
“And you’re not leaving the country?”
“No, I don’t have any wish to see the outside world on my own, like your Aunt Etta did. I’m perfectly happy here. I’m just thinking about this…new endeavor I’m undertaking.”
“This is the first time I’ve heard about it.”
“True…Owen and Diana are joining Rosie in New York this summer, and I’m accompanying them.”
“Well, yes, Mother, I know about that…”
“Upon your father’s death, he had many unpublished works lying around. One of them is his Memoirs of Oliver Kincade…not just that, but I also discovered a large bundle of poetry, supposedly written by Flower Farragut, when she was still a young woman. She possibly passed it on to your father during one of his visits as a boy. I’m going to publish it. All of it, and anything else your father left as finished, though unpublished, manuscripts.”
Little Arthur stirred in Fiona’s arms. She readjusted her hold on him, before replying.
“By yourself? Mother…”
“Oh, no,” Azalea chuckled. “Diana has spoken of helping me with this, and not only that. She wishes to collect all the letters shared between family members and compile them into one collection. She is young and has many plans to capture our history, I presume.” She nodded approvingly, glancing at her daughter.
“I married into a family rich with talent, bravery, and yes, also stubbornness. It’s a trait passed on from your great-grandfather, Randolph Kincade, I’ve heard. I think many more generations of Kincade’s, and those related to that name,” she glanced at the little boy, “will continue to inherit and proudly display that trait. And they will all end up making our name proud. Kincade’s, Brimford’s, Martins, and Farragut’s…all of them are through and through Kincade’s, and so they will remain.”
Much will still be accomplished through this family, she thought, but forgot to utter it as her mind drifted off again.
October 1900
Azalea squelched a chuckle as Helena rushed out the room with a little screaming William in her arms.
Roselyn shook her head, thankful that her visit was to Uncle Randolph, instead of to his wife.
“What are you thinking, my dear?”
“Children might be bundles of joy, but it certainly isn’t a joy to raise them at all times,” she replied, casting a glance at her grandmother.
Helena swept through the hallway and into her husband’s study.
“Randolph,” her heavily accented voice died when she saw his silent and practically lifeless posture. “Randolph?” she whispered, approaching his desk.
In a short instance, she noticed that his shoulders were slightly shaking. A letter to the side drew her attention. Her left-hand shaking, she reached out and grabbed it.
To: Mr. Randolph Farragut
On October 09, 1900, a strong earthquake hit Cape Yakataga, Alaska. Your brother, Frank Farragut, had recently moved himself to this part of Alaska, and was building himself a new house.
Due to the building not yet finished, the structure gave in on him during the earthquake. We have yet to retrieve his body from the rubble and mess, but he is presumed dead.
We offer our condolences and will be in contact with you regarding his remaining wealth and belongings.
The letter fluttered from her fingers, drifting down to the floor as she shifted her son to the other arm, and then placed her free hand on her husband’s back.
Loss upon loss…how much pain hits different families every year. Helena blinked away the tears, before turning away and leaving her husband. Without a word, she placed William into Azalea’s hands, before returning to her husband’s side.
December 31, 1900 – A few minutes before midnight
What a year…what sorrow…how many more dreams will I have to endure, each family death marked in my fitful sleep?
Twirling the wooden horse in her hands, Chadlynn lay in bed, a sad smile around her lips, as she inspected the toy.
“So much history,” she murmured, before placing it on the small table next to her bed. She sank under the covers, a slight grimace on her face.
Her head had been aching for days; she still didn’t know what was ailing her. Along with the headache, though, she had been suffering terrible nightmares. She sighed.
They make no sense to me…
Sam was still outside, tending to a small matter, which he didn’t inform her of. He only said that it was a surprise for the morning.
She smiled a little more joyfully, turning onto her left side, and staring at the wooden horse proudly standing on the table. Her eyes slowly closed, and she was once again transported into a dream.
The toddler laughed, moving the toy across the floor, occasionally allowing an “orse” to slip out of his mouth, along with a heartening giggle.
A woman dropped down to her knees, before lifting up the boy into the air. They laughed together.
Her vision blurred, changing the features of the woman and boy.
Chadlynn gasped, finding herself against the wall, looking down at the little boy and girl playing with the toy. Their father sat next to them as he told them stories, and to the side, their mother and grandmother smiled from the sofa.
Another blur of vision took place, and she suddenly found herself in a different room, the mother from before now older, and busy packing for a journey. She took the wooden horse from a shelf, smiled at it, and then packed it in her bag as well.
A whirlwind swept up Chadlynn, and suddenly she stood in her own living room, except, it looked like the living room she was first introduced to when she moved to Uncle Samuel’s farm.
She turned and saw her uncle, sitting in a chair by the window, turning the horse over and over in his hands, his eyes thoughtful and the memories playing in them.
He faded away, the setting updated, and then she was surrounded by her twin girls, playing with the wooden horse on the living room floor.
A dreadful fear crept through her bones as her eyes landed on them. A rattle of guns spat out around her, startling her.
When she finally garnered enough courage to open her eyes, she found that she was standing in a makeshift hospital. She gasped when she noticed two young women, so very much like her Vivian and Violet.
They were dressed in nurse’s garb, and before her eyes the images flitted by of them serving their nation and their patients before both were shot in the midst of a battle and stray shots.
Vivian dropped down to her knees, blood spilling from her abdomen, but she kept holding on to her sister, praying that those lifeless eyes would laugh again.
Chadlynn rolled over in bed, still caught in the dream, her daughters fading away and images of other family members playing in front of her eyes, as she saw their fates, their sorrows, and their losses throughout the war.
She moaned, her head turning from side to side, mumbles pouring out into the empty room.
Her lips were chapped as she ran, hands clasped around her ears and her eyes shut tightly. She didn’t want to see any more destruction. She stumbled and fell. Her chest heaving, she took a deep breath, before opening her eyes and looking upward.
She could only stare at the young man who resembled her departed father so much, as well as the young woman whom she now recalled to be her Great-Aunt Diana.
In front of them stood an aged man, a hand on each of their shoulders. He had a bit of a sorrowful smile around his lips. Behind him, two identical girls stood, silently listening to their father’s words.
Chadlynn went still, her breathing stopped, and that peaceful night she passed along, listening to the man in her dream telling his children:
“Chadwick…Diana…” He paused. “Wherever you go, whatever you do, do the right thing and make the Kincade name something to remember.”
Written By: GLD
Chapter 49: New Friendships, Let the Games Begin, and a Derringer
Early April 1896 – New Orleans
As with most Saturdays during this time of year, hundreds of people would congregate on the thirteen hundred acres of City Park.
It was no different for Fiona or her children: Roselyn, Owen, Diana, James, and young Artemis. They all relished the idea of being at the park since each time they came here Fiona always had a huge basket filled with food and Roselyn and Owen carried blankets so they could sit on the grass and have an afternoon picnic.
The one disappointment was Arthur. His business. It consumed him and that was the one major flaw in Fiona’s marriage: there always seemed to be work that got in the way of his spending time with their family. But today, she would brush that aside and enjoy her time with her children.
The weather was good, not a cloud in the sky. Somewhere nearby, one could hear banjos being strummed, harmonicas playing, and someone singing with their Southern twang. Today as with most Saturdays here, this would be a day of enjoyment.
As Fiona and Roselyn were preparing things, Owen ran off with Diana, with Artemis trailing behind, to the playground area. Artemis was the first lucky one of the three as she sat on a swing and Owen started pushing her back and forth, hearing her giggling gleefully as she flew higher and higher.
Diana was laughing at the look of joy on her little sister’s face when a voice behind her said, “Cute little girl, and, my goodness, what a laugh.”
Turning, Diana came face to face with a young girl who didn’t look much older than Artemis.
“That’s my little sister, Artemis, but we call her Artie.”
“That’s nice. I don’t have a sister; well, not yet. Mother is expecting, and I hope it’s a sister for me.”
Diana couldn’t place the little girl’s accent, so she asked her where she was from.
“Boston. My father is the mayor there. He does important stuff. That’s what mother tells me. Are you from here or like us, just here for a vacation?”
“I live here. Boston is a long ways away from here. What made your parents decide to come to New Orleans?”
“Mother was born here but her father got a job up north, so they moved. Mother always wanted to come back to see the city she never had a chance to live in.”
“That is interesting. My father has several businesses here in New Orleans and has branched out to I think, five different states and…”
Artemis, now off the swings, tugged at Diana’s hand.
“Who’s this, Diana?”
Diana laughed. “I don’t know.”
“Why are you talking to a stranger, then?”
“Well, Artie, we aren’t exactly strangers.” Looking away from Artemis, she looked again at the girl, and thrust out her hand.
“My name is Diana Brimford, and the dork who was pushing Artie is my brother, Owen.”
“Hey! I heard that! Who you calling a dork?”
Clasping her hand with Diana’s, the girl said, “Nice to meet you. I am Rose Fitzgerald, and I shall be six years old this July.”
“July! I was born in July, too!” cried Artemis. “July fifth.”
Rose gave a haughty laugh for her age. “Then you will be two weeks older than me. Mine is the twenty-second.”
Looking at Diana, Artemis said, “I like her.” Then looking back to Rose, she said, “Maybe we can be friends forever!”
April 1896 – Athens, Greece
It took a lot of hard work as well as financial effort, but both Frank and Jeremy, with the help and support of their families, had made their way to one of the most storied cities in history.
Before their events were scheduled, both young men took a tour of the city and the food. One thing that fascinated them was that Athens had been around long before the United States was ever thought about, or even places like Rome and Egypt. In some areas they viewed, they both felt a sense of being part of the rich history that came from Greece itself.
“To imagine, Frank, that we might be standing in the same spot where the Crusades took place, or, perhaps, the rise and fall of the Ottoman Empire.”
“True. But what always grabbed me were the legends that came out of Greece. You know, like Athena and Poseidon, and the Minotaur. But what especially pulled at me in school were the Spartan soldiers: well formed, aligned, and, when given an order, they followed it to the letter and often into death, but with no fear. I don’t think I have told anyone this before, but it was the Spartans, not so much my grandfather’s history, which made me decide to join the Navy.”
As the two continued to walk along the streets and explore the unique views to be had from every corner they turned, dusk began to approach, and their respective coaches required everyone to go back to their rooms by six.
April 21, 1896 – Panathenaic Stadium
The crowd in the stadium was packed with people from halfway around the world to cheer on their favorite sons. The roaring cheers echoed, it seemed, all across Athens.
People would shout out the names of their favorites or boast how much better their player was than someone else’s. But that was to be expected. These were games to show who was the best of the best.
Today were the final rounds in both marksmanship and weightlifting. To get to the finals, each had to go through three preliminary rounds before the quarter and semi-finals.
Currently, as it stood, Frank was in second place, eleven points away from the leader. His last round had been perfect: 10 for 10. He would have to do the same thing today to have any chance of winning either medal, though the silver was the goal.
Jeremy looked to be the shoo-in for the silver medal. His nearest competitor trailed by a good thirty points. Unless Jeremy had a terrible dead lift or suffered an injury, hands down, he would be the winner. He was set to go last in his event, the one-handed lift.
He had to dead lift from a squat position, then stand tall with a weight of 57 kilograms, or 125 pounds, over his head. Up until his turn, his best ever during practice was 115, but—ten more pounds, if something were to go wrong, could prove devastating to his body.
On his side of the arena, Frank stood, arm stretched out, and fired his weapon, a Colt single-action revolver, at a target fifty paces away. When the cylinder emptied, he had to reload, take aim, and fire the remaining amount of times. This may sound easy—but he, like the other competitors were only allotted sixty seconds from the first shot fired to last shot heard. As it stood, Frank had three seconds left when he finished.
His turn, over, he now had to wait thirty minutes to know the final outcome.
Jeremy watched two athletes, one from Greece, and another, England, take on this final stage of the game. The one from Greece lifted and started to stand, and as he did, he lost his footing and had to release the weighted bar. The one from England—Paul was his name, he believed—gave a quick jerk of the bar, and lifted smoothly, though you could see his grimace of agony in having to hold the bar for seven seconds.
Then came Jeremy’s turn. He started to sweat. He had never sweated before. Was it nerves? Excitement? Wiping away the beads from the sides of his face, he took his place before the bar with two-hundred-pound weights on both ends. In truth, the lift would be 130.66 pounds, counting the bar, but the record would stand at 125.
Wiping his hands dry with a towel, he bent low, flexed his right hand back and forth then set it on the bar, gripping with everything he had, took in a rush of air, then lifted and stood, letting the air expel through his nose, from which he breathed in and out. When the judge hit a bell, Jeremy dropped the weights and went back to his area.
In thirty minutes, he would know the outcome.
Two people stood on two small, wooden platforms in two different areas of the stadium.
One held Ehrlich Johansson and Frank Birchard Farragut.
The other had Jeremy Riordan Kincade and Paul Allen Whitcomb.
Respectively, Ehrlich and Jeremy took first place and received a Silver Medal and an olive branch. Frank and Paul Allen each received a Bronze Medal and a laurel branch. In their fields, they had become the best of the best.
Unbeknownst to either Frank or Jeremy, Chadlynn’s dream had once more come true.
July 4th – Galena, Virginia
This day had become more than simply a celebration of a holiday of freedom and independence, it had also become a victory celebration for Jeremy and Frank.
The food was plentiful, the music seemed to never end, and both men were asked over and over to recount how they had won. But one person asked Jeremy and Frank a question no one else had thought to ask.
“I’m confused, Uncle Frank. How come they gave you branches off a tree?”
“Viv,” explained Frank with a chuckle, “they aren’t just branches off a tree. They are symbols that mean things like peace, wisdom, prosperity, immortality, and success. The olive branch Jeremy received stands for peace and friendship.”
Before anyone knew what happened, about thirty reporters stormed the family gathering, all wanting interviews with Jeremy and Frank. They wanted factual first-hand accounts of how they won.
Jeremy became instantly angered over this and was hell-bent to knock out a few teeth when Azalea grabbed at his arm, shook her head, and walked out before the crowd of people.
“Gentlemen, if you please, this is somewhat of a private family gathering. And unless one of you is either a Kincade, Brimford, Farragut, or Martin, then I strongly suggest you vacate my property immediately before something none of you would expect happens.”
One reported shouted out, “And what would that be, missy?”
Reaching into her purse, Azalea extracted a four-shot derringer.
“My aim isn’t what it used to be and my eyes are old but I’m sure one of you is bound to feel the sting from this.”
In less time than it took for the reporters to be en masse, they had fled as if the devil were chasing them.
“Ma, I never knew you to carry a gun around with you,” Jeremy shook his head and smiled.
“Jeremy, we women have to have some secrets.”
“Was it Father’s, originally?”
“I don’t remember.”
December 1896
Hello Artie,
I have finally found some time where I can print this letter to you and I am sorry I did not write sooner, but my studies at a private school I started have taken up a lot of my free time.
It was so nice to get a letter from you, and I am impreesed (?) by how your uncles did at the first Olympic games. That is incredible. You have an amazing family, to say the least. I do hope to learn more about you and them. I find them quite fascinating. What are your winter’s there like? We have almost a foot of snow for Christmas. Mother helped me make a snowman yesterday. It was fun.
Sorry, this is so short, but Mother’s calling as we have family here for Christmas dinner. Write back first chance you get and I promise next time, I will write more.
Your Friend,
Rose Fitzgerald
May 1897 – Galena, Virginia
“My mind is made up, Jeremy. I’m going to Alaska.”
“My god, man! You can’t be serious! Have you any idea what you face going there? Cold, freezing weather. I have heard they have so much darkness there a year that when you sleep throughout the night there is still no daylight. And the terrain? They haven’t the best transportation system, either.”
“I have made plans to compensate for a good part of that. I will take a train from Richmond to Chicago and then on to San Francisco. From there, I can ferry my way to Seattle and then board the next freighter going to Anchorage.”
“Going because of a speculation of gold there? But what if you are wrong—then what?”
“Then I’ll be wrong, and I’ll come back home, but there has been much talk of prospectors finding gold, and if more than one says they’ve found gold, then there must be more to strike a path to a fortune and a future.”
“I hope you know what you are doing because I find it the other side of insane to live in such an isolated part of the world.”
“And that’s another reason I’m leaving. I really need time to myself, away from family who constantly worry about my mental health and the crowds who still come around wanting my autograph and my retelling of the Olympic story. I’m tired of it all, Jeremy. I need out from under the shadow of the hero people have made me out to be.”
August 12, 1897 – Poland
Dearest Aunt Azalea,
My apologies for not writing sooner, but if you remember my mentioning Ignacy Jan Paderewski, well, this gentleman had asked me if I would tour with his entourage, and I agreed. It has been a whirlwind of a ride: Germany, Italy, Spain, Portugal, and even a one-night performance before Pope Leo the XIII. It was a solemn moment in my life to meet such a great man of God. I was truly humbled as I stood before him. When Ignacy finished his concerto and I finished mine, Pope Leo came before us and blessed us both. I’m smiling over that because we know I’m not Catholic.
There is another reason for this letter. I have met someone. She has struck me like a lightning bolt from the sky. Her name is Helena Leszetycki. She has the voice of a songbird and the laughter of a child. We first met after a rehearsal, and we seemed to be enamored with one another. When we finish here in Warsaw, we go to Copenhagen, Denmark, and then on to Brussels in Belgium and then back to London.
Since Frank won at the games in Greece, he hasn’t returned back to me, but I did get a letter from him, vague though it was. Maybe you could explain what going “north to Alaska” means? I thought only igloos, or whatever you call those Indians, are the only ones who live there.
I will tell you a secret, Aunt Azalea. I have purchased an engagement ring and when we return to London, I will ask Helena to be my wife. And if she says yes, then after our honeymoon, I will bring her home so you and the rest of the family can meet her.
I hope all is well with you and your family.
Much Love Your Way,
Randolph
Late October 1897 – Turnagain Heights, Alaska
The past four months had been hit and miss for Frank. He did find some small deposits of gold, but nothing that would make him cry out in ecstatic joy over. It had gotten to the point when he was about ready to pack it in and go back home. It seemed to him that Jeremy had been right. This was a fool’s journey.
Then he came across an older black man, friendly enough, and they got into a lengthy conversation where it ended up coming out that the man had known James Kincade, and even worked for him when James and Etta lived in Colorado.
Abraham Smith.
According to him, after James died and Etta sold the place, Abraham’s heart wasn’t into working for the new owners, so he hit the trail and traveled about, working odd jobs and such. There hadn’t been many offers because of his skin color but he managed to get by well enough that he never went hungry. When he couldn’t find a bed to sleep in, the outdoors sufficed, with a soft patch of grass as his bed and the night sky as his ceiling.
Now, after all these years he’d happened upon a relative of his former employers, all because Abraham said to him in a small tavern in Turnagain Heights, “Ya know, you remind of a man I worked for a long time back. A good man. Gave me a fresh start in life. You look a little like him.”
Meeting Abraham changed everything for Frank and they agreed to go in as partners finding their gold claim. It took another six weeks of scouring the countryside, digging here and there, until in mid-October they fell into a rich vein that extended over seventy feet long and nearly fifteen feet high. He and Abraham had discovered their motherlode.
Staking and making their claim with the records office in Anchorage, neither man would be poor again.
“For almost seventy years of my life, Frank, I had to scratch and claw for one inch of respect from people, and here I am now, with you, rich as all get out and people in town are starting to call me Mr. Smith instead of nigger. It’s a good feeling. Mighty good.”
November 5th – Turnagain Heights, Alaska
…and that’s the story how I came onto the gold strike, Jeremy. In so many ways, as big as the world is, it is still so small. I never knew James like many of the family did, but to hear Abraham tell it, James was truly a man’s man and, my goodness, some of the things he told me made me laugh so hard that once, I peed my britches!
But my heart is heavy now. Abraham passed three nights ago in his sleep. But I’d like to believe he died a man who had finally found his happiness in life. He died free and unencumbered by society’s rules. I have wired you and the rest of the family a portion of the wealth Abraham and I discovered. I cannot leave here as yet and cannot say how long before I come back for a visit, but this is now home for me. No one worships me as a hero here; I’m just a man among the many. Granted, I’m rich, but I’m not the only one who made out well.
I’ve adjusted well to the climate here and you should come out and visit some time. You may like it enough to not want to leave, but knowing you as I do, and I laugh as I write this, I know you would say it would be a cold day in hell before you left your roots.
Give my love to everyone,
Frank
Written By: Danceinsilence