Ordering information for The Wayfaring Stranger

The Wayfaring Stranger recently won second place at the North Texas Christian Writers' Conference in Dallas.

How to order your copys(s) of The Wayfaring Stranger.

Readers everywhere are enjoying our new novel. Here is how you can get your own personally autographed copies. (Great for Christmas gifts.)

1. email us at curtiles@aol.com. Tell us how many copies you want, how you'd like them signed, and your address. We'll send them your way with an invoice. (Books are $16.20 per copy including tax. Shipping is an additional $3.00 per order.)

2. Call us toll free at 1 866 520 1947 with your order. Same procedure as in # 1.

3. Visit our shopping page at http://www.creekbank.net/ Pay pal is our accepted payment.

4. Visit http://www.amazon.com/ to order all of the Creekbank books by Curt Iles.

Scroll down to read sample chapters

See the Covers of "The Wayfaring Stranger"

The front cover of The Wayfaring Stranger. The sketch at right is an early depiction of my ideas. The actual cover is taken at the Dry Creek Camp prayer garden trail.

The picture shows Joe Moore walking down a woods trail upon entering No Man's Land.

3 Sample chapters are listed in the following blog entries.

This back cover for The Wayfaring Stranger.

The back cover features Eliza Clark and her first glimpse of Joseph.

Click on the pictures to see larger images.

The front cover model is Terry Iles and the beautiful girl on the back is Kendal Campbell. Both are sixth generation grandchildren of Joseph and Eliza.

Kendal's picture was taken by Kayla Gray

All other cover photography and set up are from Chad Smith at The Touch Studios.

Visit his excellent website at http://www.thetouchstudios.com/ to see more of Chad's work.

Introduction: The Wayfaring Stranger

This is the introduction for The Wayfaring Stranger. It is followed by the opening chapters.


Prologue

"It is Difficulties that show what men are. "

-Epictetus

A journey is defined as traveling from one place to another over a long period; sometimes it is called a passage, which can mean progress from one stage to another.
Normally we consider a journey a trek of physical miles and distance. However, the greatest journeys seem to be those of the heart—not just of the feet. This is a journey on the inside of a man or woman—in his/her soul and heart.
Come join Joseph Moore on this journey. . .



Introduction: “Just One Day”

I’ve now lived for over half a century among the piney woods of Southwestern Louisiana. Over these years, I’ve heard countless friends passionately say, “If I could go back in time for one day—just one day—I would walk under the virgin longleaf pine forests of Louisiana in the 1800’s .”
I remember my own great-grandmother describing the open forests of that time: “Baby, except in the creek bottoms where the hardwoods grew, all of the upland areas were covered in large majestic ‘yellow pines,’ which is what we called the longleafs. My, my—there weren’t any limbs until way up high, and the tops of the pines seemed to reach to heaven. Their tall canopies kept out the sunlight as well as undergrowth.
The ground was so clear under the trees that many times I watched my poppa ride his horse at a full gallop through the open forest.
Grandma Iles would continue, “The carpet of pine straw was so thick under the trees that wagons would roll quietly along on the cushion of needles. The quietness was only broken by the pines ‘singing’ as the wind blew in their tall tops.”
A far-off look in her eyes would seem to be re-capturing a vision of the woods from her youth. Then she would quietly sing a line of the old song, “In the Pines”:
In the pines, in the pines
Where the sun never shines,
And you shiver when the cold wind blows
I’ve never fully recovered from her descriptions. Even though I will never walk under those huge trees, The Wayfaring Stranger is my attempt to recreate on paper what my mind and heart have visualized since childhood.
So come join me as we travel to an area called “Ten Mile”—deep in the piney woods of Central Louisiana.


My great grandmother, Theodosia Iles by The Old House in Dry Creek. Painting by my uncle, Bill Iles.

An abstract painting of my great grandmother, Theodosia Wagnon Iles, by her grandson, Bill Iles.

Curt in his

"Piney Woods Office"

near his house.

This is where much of

The Wayfaring Stranger

was written.

How "The Wayfaring Stranger" was arranged

This is my poster that I arranged the chapter sequence on. This allowed me a large view of the order of the book. With the story switching between Joseph (coming from Ireland) and Eliza (in Louisiana) my chapter poster was extremely important.

On my new book, A Good Place, I am using a clothesline hung in my office to attach the cards.

Chapter Three

Chapter 3: The Dead of Night

It was more than ironic that Joseph Moore, a young man trying to stay alive, was silently slipping into a graveyard after midnight. This was the first of two places he must go before daylight.
Even in the darkness, he easily found the grave. He had been here plenty of times. His prior nighttime visits had occurred when sleep would not come and raw sorrow filled his heart. On nights like that, he would walk the three miles to this cemetery.
The stone marker he knelt in front of tonight was crude, but was the common type of marker in the cemeteries of the Irish poor. He could barely read the etched inscription: Winnie Malloy Moore 1810–1846.
Putting his head against the stone, Joseph said, “Mother, I’ve come to see ye and tell ye that I may not be back. I love t’is land, but I have to leave. However, you’ll go with me in me heart.”
Standing up, seemingly with the weight of the world on his shoulders, he reached down and picked up a pebble beside the headstone. Then he stopped—he heard something on the wind—the words of an old Irish tune.
Its words made Joseph smile and grimace at the same time. The words were soft and gentle on his heart: I am just going over Jordan.
I am just going over home.
His mother had spoken those last words just before she died. In that darkened room of their cabin that sorrowful day two years ago, he had watched life seep out of his mother. Her words were so faint that he had to lean down to make out her words.
I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
traveling through this world of woe.
There is no sickness, toil, or danger,
in that bright land to which I go.

The words were spoken so weakly he was not sure anyone else heard them. Looking around, he could tell his sisters had also heard—the words of one of their mother’s favorite songs, “The Wayfaring Stranger.”
She had stopped then— Then finally, she quietly sang, seemingly as if she saw something the others in the room didn’t see:
I am just—just going over Jordan.
I am just going over home.

Then—she was gone!
Joseph, now at his mother’s grave in the darkness, knew the wind was playing tricks on his mind, but he seemed to hear the words of that song again:
I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
wandering through this world of woe.
Then all was quiet . . . and he knew he must be gone.
Joseph Moore, now a wayfaring stranger himself, put the small pebble in his pocket, and hurried off into the darkness toward the village of Westport. He must hurry if he was to reach his second destination before daylight.

As he stole into the village, he went by the imposing dark walls of the workhouse at the top of Quay Hill. This was the last resort of refuge for many of the famine victims. When all else had failed, many had come into its prison-like conditions to live, work, and usually die. Joseph had spent two weeks inside those workhouse walls and had vowed to die before returning there.
As he passed the nearby potter’s field called “The Rocky,” his pace quickened as well as his resolve. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I will escape from this place. I must escape County Mayo if I am to live. I will not be buried in The Rocky!”
Hurrying past the workhouse under the cover of darkness, he moved along the cobblestone streets of Westport toward the harbor. The port, located where the mouth of the Carrowbeg River flowed into the Atlantic Ocean, was a busy one receiving and dispatching ships across to America, as well as to English and European ports.
There were four or five smaller freighters docked at the port. In the darkness, still limping from his dog bite and aching where the pellets had peppered him, Joseph shuffled quietly along the streets. In his confused yet focused mind, he had developed a plan to escape Smith. However, it was not a plan just for tonight or tomorrow. He had made up his mind to get as far away from Westport as possible.
He eased down to the pier alongside a freighter and quietly called out, “Snyder. Are you there? Hey, it’s Moore—Joe Moore. I need your help.”
The coastal freighter was named the Murphy. Because the river depth was only twelve feet at Westport Harbor, the huge transatlantic clippers could not come in this far. They docked at the nearby deep water harbor on the island of Inishlyre.
Smaller ships like the Murphy were called “hooker ships” and did the important job of ferrying supplies between the harbor and the big boats. To escape the trouble awaiting him in Westport, he needed to get to the island where the larger ocean-going ships were.
He heard his friend Snyder sleepily call out. Joseph stepped onto the gangplank and then onto the boat. Telling Snyder of his plight, his friend agreed to hide him and get him to the island.
With daylight, the Murphy sailed out of the harbor going to pick up another load of Indian corn that had arrived from America for the famine. Hiding below deck was Joseph Moore.
He hid on the ship throughout the day as the loading of the corn progressed. When the Murphy turned back toward Westport, Joseph climbed down a ladder into the cold water of Clew Bay. He silently swam to the dock and found a quiet spot, awaiting darkness.
Joseph’s plan was both simple and desperate: He planned to climb aboard one of the large ships as a stowaway. If the ship stopped in another Irish port such as Clifden—or even Liverpool, the nearest English port, he could climb off the ship and then figure out what to do next.
However, he was terrified with one thought: What if the ship he boarded was headed across the ocean? If he boarded an outbound ship, it could be going across the Atlantic to any of dozens of American ports; that journey would be a point of no return. He would be at the mercy of fate as to his destination as well as his destiny. The idea of crossing the ocean on one of these ships gave him a chill and a real fear of the unknown gripped him strongly: The thought of leaving Ireland, the home of his ancestors for seven hundred years, sobered him. But to stay was not an option.
At the same time, this great unknown lying before him offered brightness and hope that he had not felt in a long time living with the desperation and distress that depicted western Ireland. He was reminded that what he saw behind him did not offer much in the way of hope. Four years of famine, death, and emigration had sucked the life out of his beloved County Mayo. The silhouette of the ships, creaking as they rocked on the water of the harbor, seemed to beckon and say that his real future lay on one of them.
But which of these ships should he board? As dusk fell, he watched a line of three darkened ships moored together along the dock. For some reason, which he would wonder about for the rest of his life, he passed up these three ships and saw a fourth anchored off the dock.

The coffin ship memorial along Clew Bay near Westport, Ireland. (The coffin ships were the unseaworthy ships that many Irish immigrants left their homeland on. If you click on the picture, you'll see that skeletons/ghosts are swirling around the deck.)

It was about two hundred feet from the dock. Its three masts were fitted with sails and there was activity on the ship, evidenced by a number of glowing lanterns and the echoing of voices aboard ship. Joseph carefully watched the shadowy forms moving about on this vessel.
Growing up in a harbor town he knew that a ship anchored away from the dock with the sails set was ready to pull out soon. This was exactly what he needed for his escape.
It was quiet except for the gentle rocking of the ships against the dock and the clanging of a metal bracket hitting the wooden side of the farthest boat. He quietly dropped into the cold waters of Inishlyre Harbor and stealthily swam toward a rope ladder hanging down from the main deck.
A small canvas-covered rowboat was tied alongside the ship. Joseph quietly swam to the boat with his head low in the water.
Approaching the small boat, he grabbed hold of the side making sure not to rock it. A rope ladder hung down from the ship to rowboat.
A sailor above him on deck stood near the ladder. Joseph waited until he heard the silhouette’s steps walk away toward the stern of the ship. With cat-like quickness and quietness, he straddled the boat’s side with his arm and leg. He rolled into the bottom of the boat and lay for what seemed like minutes waiting for the opportune time to climb the ladder. Several times, he heard the sound of a man’s footfall as the sentry walked by.
Finally, having listened enough to the passing of the sentry to be able to time his rounds, he climbed the ladder after the sailor passed. Reaching the top, a climb of about fifteen feet, he cautiously peered over the ship’s edge to see a deck filled with barrels of all sizes. He hoisted himself over the ship’s railing, plopping down onto the main deck. He rolled over, found his feet, and quickly scrambled to the space between two rows of barrels.
Kneeling among the barrels, his heart pounded within his chest. The previous day and night had been full of terrible stress and anxiety. His head pounded and his stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since the day before, but none of that mattered now. He was locked into a survival mode and the adrenaline of being pursued had given him a determination to both survive and live beyond this crisis.
Looking back to ensure he hadn’t been seen, he crawled further in among the rows of wooden barrels lashed to the deck. Soon voices came toward him as two men conversed in a language he did not understand. Joseph had never taken time to glance at the ship’s flag or name. He only knew this was the ship that was going to take him away from trouble.
Settling in among the barrels for the long night ahead, he peered at the dark outline of nearby Westport, where a few remaining lights flickered. One by one the lights went out as the small village settled down for the night. Sitting hidden among the barrels, exhaustion soon overtook Joseph and he fell asleep.

The next morning, the jolt of the ship moving awakened Joseph with a start. He would later call it “His defining mark of coming to America.” Peering from his hiding place, he watched the ship moving slowly to sea. He had never actually been on the sea before, but in spite of the fear in the pit of his stomach, he breathed in the bay’s fresh air and watched as the island receded in size. On his left he watched Croagh Patrick, Ireland’s most beloved mountain, began to shrink steadily in size.
Croagh Patrick meant “Patrick’s Mountain” and was a landmark known by all. Joseph knew its story well: The mountain had played an historic role in the lore of Ireland. St. Patrick, sometime in the fifth century had spent forty days of Lent on the mountain. It was then that God had given him his mission to the Irish and the Saint had supposedly banished all snakes from the island.
He had climbed it alone on many occasions as well as been part of the yearly pilgrimages when barefooted pilgrims scaled and scrambled their way to the rocky summit.
Watching Croagh Patrick disappearing, this young stowaway, now on a pilgrimage of his own, wondered if he would ever see this mountain again. At that moment, he realized that he had literally never been out of the shadow of this mountain in his life. Looking one last time through the mist to see the mountain, Joseph Moore felt the most alone he’d ever felt in his seventeen years of life.
As if in a dream, he seemed to hear a song on the wind—it spoke to him as a reminder of what he now was:
A poor wayfaring stranger,
traveling through this world of woe.

Croagh Patrick (right) with a statue of St. Patrick in the foreground. I climbed the mountain in a sleet storm.

The Wayfaring Stranger Chapter 4 "At Sea"

Chapter 4 At Sea

Clew Bay, Ireland
I took this picture of Clew Bay from atop Croagh Patrick during my visit in March 2007.

Sample chapters (however excerpts are) are not printed for the rest of the novel. If you're hooked, (and we hope you are) visit http://www.creekbank.net/ to order your autographed copy.

The rest of the blog features pictures, stories, and links concerning The Wayfaring Stranger.

Clare Island, just off the mainland coast of western Ireland. Ships sailing along the coast went through the water shown. Ocean-bound ships veered to the right.

"Ginger" the retired Irish undefeated fighting rooster taking a drink in an Irish pub.

I patterned the ship's rooster after this photo.

In The Pines Chapter 5

Chapter 5: In the Pines

















Photo Kisatchie National Forest Longleaf Pines .
This stand is along the Wild Azalea Trail near the Valentine Lake/Gardner area

Photo One of my prize possessions, a t-shirt from Freedom Baptist Church in Ten Mile, LA. This area, and church, is truly God's country and where many of my best friends live.










This bumper sticker was given to me by my friend, Terry Jackson. Terry is a proud Bearhead Redbone and represents how I feel people should feel about their heritage. (The Wayfaring Stranger covers the Ten Mile Redbone area -Pitkin-Plainview, LA- which is about fifty miles northeast of the Bearhead clan (Singer-DeQuincy-Starks.)

Visit Terry's blog at http://bearheadstories.blogspot.com/ to read more as well as view pictures. (Be sure to read his Dec. 16 entry on "Maw and the Ax." It is a classic!

Telling about the Redbone heritage was one of the most sensitive parts of writing this book. Friends like Terry (through our blog) helped with corrections and gave me good insight. Below I've included the first two passages in the book that deal with Redbones:

Chapter 2 excerpt on Redbones

Eli, who never met a silence he was comfortable with, then asked, “Eliza, would you rather be called a ‘Ten Miler’ or a ‘Redbone?’”
She looked annoyed at him, “Talk quieter. Now why’d you ask a question like that for?”
“Oh, I just heard Poppa and Momma laughing about it the other day.”
“Well, Eli I don’t mind if you call me either. I figure I’m both. A ‘Ten Miler’ is someone living in our area—along Ten Mile Creek or Cherry Winche Creek, or even along this side of the Calcasieu.
“Everyone I know in the Ten Mile area, also are called ‘Redbones.’ That’s just a name for our people. It’s what the outsiders often call us—Redbones. That ain’t never bothered me, does it bother you?”
“Not a bit. Don’t it have to do with our Indian blood?”
“I’ve always thought so. ‘ Red’ for our ‘Red Man’s blood.’”

Chapter 5 excerpt on Redbones

Eliza jumped up from the steps and said, “Uncle Arch, Aunt Mollie . . . Eli here’s been asking a lot about how our folks of the Ten Mile area got here and how we got to be known as ‘Redbones.’ Could y’all fill him in on where our people came from?”
She quickly jerked Eli away from slapping the back of their coughing dad and pulled him over to listen. But Aunt Mollie was already scolding her dad, “Willard Clark, what were you fixing to say about telling ‘an Aunt Mollie’?”
Then she stopped abruptly—she could not resist getting the first word in ahead of her husband, so she turned away from red-faced Willard Clark and quickly took over answering the question: “Eli, now my daddy always said that our branch of Ten Milers came as a group from up in the Carolinas in the late 1700’s. For some reason, these Louisian’er piney woods reminded them of home and there weren’t no law and lots of open spaces, so they just stopped here and settled.”
Aunt Mollie drew a breath and that was all Uncle Arch needed, “I tell you Babe , I know exactly why Mollie’s people come down from there—well, they wuz probably a bunch of hog thieves and no counts and got run—”
Mollie’s raised eyebrows and loud huff stopped Arch in mid-sentence. In mock seriousness he corrected himself, “No, Mollie, I want to apologize. That weren’t the real reason your people came down here.”
Uncle Arch continued in a conciliatory voice, “No, no, no—I take that back about your people.” He turned to Eliza, “Here’s the real truth, Eliza, Mollie’s people were the stubbornest people in the Carolinas. One day the English, or somebody in charge up there, told the settlers that nobody could leave—they all had to stay put. That night, the whole clan loaded up, skedaddled, and eventually got down here. Whaale, I tell you, Babe—that’s still a trait of her people: they are some kind of gosh awful stubborn. You can’t tell them nothing—not even the time of day or the day of the week—Well, like the fact that today is Wednesday.”
It was the needle he meant to stick in his wife and she yelled, “Thursday.”
“Nope, it’s Wednesday.“
Eli chimed in, “Y’all are both wrong, today is Friday.”
Both Willard Clark and Eliza spoke in unison, “Eli, hush!”
Aunt Mollie was now prepared to go on the offense again. “Arch Weeks, at least I know where my people came from and who they are. Your bunch ain’t got quite the same pedigree, that’s for sure.”
The old man sat up straight and proud in his cowhide chair. “Suunnnn, I’ll tell you about my people—My peoples didn’t come from nowhere. We didn’t have to get run out of the Carolinas. We’ve always been right here among the pines and the creeks.” He held his head up and his entire long face took on a smile, “My family line of Redbones always been here. We’re descendants of the Injuns that lived in these woods. Well now, you can look at me and see that real easy.”
Looking at the profile of Uncle Arch’s face as he sat there, Eliza could definitely see that Indian heritage: the dark skin and eyes, hawkish nose—each told of Indian blood in Uncle Arch. It was also easy to see how proud he was of this.
He continued, “Yep, that’s why we’re all called ‘Redbones.’ We got Indian blood in us.”
Eli asked, “What kind of Indian are you?”
“Whaale, a little bit of them all, Son. Our blood comes from the early Attakapa who lived here, and maybe a dash of Choctaw. Then there were them escaped Injun slaves from Texas—them Apache and Comanche.
“My Injun ancestors mixed in with some of the Frenchmen and probably some of Lafitte’s pirates, and we Redbones are the result of that. That’s why we’re wild, free, and impossible to tame.” His voice went up an octave as he stated, “That’s also why ain’t no timber company’s gonna take our land. They’ll find out about that Injun blood if they try! Well, that’s where we got our independent ornery streak from here in No Man’s Land!”
Uncle Arch, whom Eliza liked to call “Chief” when he gave his Indian heritage talk, sat smiling as he shook his head proudly.
Eli asked, “Where ‘xactly is this here ‘No Man’s Land’?”
Uncle Arch said, “Let me put it this way: Ten year’ago, two gov’ment surveyors came through these parts. They stayed with Mollie and me for a couple of nights. One of them knew a lot ‘bout history and filled me in about our area. He said that ‘fore Louisiana became a state, this area was fought over by the Spanish and Frenchmen. They couldn’t agree on a border between and war nearly broke out over it.
“Finally, cooler heads got together. They agreed Spanish Texas would have their border at the Sabine River and the French would stick with the Calcasieu River. This made a fifty-mile wide area between the rivers into a ‘Neutral Strip.’
“That surveyor said that because both countries agreed to keep their soldiers out of the strip, it became a haven for every outlaw, escaped slave, and renegade Indian who wanted to escape the long arm of the law. The area between the two rivers, stretching from the Gulf of Mexico to ‘bout Natchitoches became known by three names: ‘The Neutral Strip,’ ‘No Man’s Land,’ and ‘The Outlaw Strip.’”
Uncle Arch ended his history lesson with a personal note, “I ain’t never liked that ‘Outlaw Strip’ name. Most folks around here, like our peoples, aren’t outlaws. They jes’ came here ‘cause they wanted to live where no gov’ment would bother them. We just want nobody tellin’ us what to do. That’s what I call freedom—jes’ being left alone!”
On Uncle Arch’s last sentence, Eli whispered in his sister’s ear, “Twelve.” She looked at him quizzically and he said, “That’s how many times he’s said ‘Whhaaale’ already.” Eli pronounced it just as he’d heard, and they both tried to suppress the giggles.
At this moment is when Eliza changed the direction of the conversation, “Uncle Arch and Aunt Mollie, I got something been bothering me a long time that I want to ask about. When I was ‘bout Eli’s age, I made one of my few trips out of the Ten Mile area and went with Poppa to Sugartown. While we were in the general store, a curious girl ‘bout my age came up. She had gold hair and wore a dress that looked store-bought. She looked me up and down before asking, “Who are you?’” I told her, “Eliza Jane Clark.” The girl shook her head as if to inform me that was not what she really wanted to know and then asked, ”No, what are you?”
“I laughed as I told her, ‘“Well, last time I checked I was a girl.’”
“The girl’s puzzled look let me know what she meant: What are you? Are you Indian? Spanish? Something else?
“I didn’t have a ready answer for her. I finally told her I lived at Ten Mile. Then I asked the her, “’And what are you, Sugartown girl?’”
“She said with a smile, ‘Why I’m ‘merican! Aren’t you?’
“Until that day the idea had never entered my skull that I might be an American, too.”
Eliza continued her story, “Then a woman marched over and grabbed the girl, scolding her, ‘You git away from that girl. She ain’t our kind.’
“The golden-haired girl tried to argue, but her mother said, ’We don’t have nothing to do with them kind. She’s got colored and injun in her. You remember that. She’s not our kind!’ That little girl was crying as her mother dragged her away—and so was I.”
As Eliza finished her story, a tear coursed down her cheek. Even her dad had never heard Eliza’s story. No one knew what to say—even the old couple sat there wordlessly.
Willard Clark, who hated to see his daughter cry, finally said, “But Liza, you never told me about—“
Aunt Mollie broke in, “Baby, you be proud of who you are. You are as beautiful and wonderful as any of them there girls in Sugartown—or anywhere else. Hold your head up high and don’t never apologize for who you are!”
Arch Weeks, who always found humor in every situation, broke the tension by pointing at his dark arms, ”Well Babe, I can’t tell y’all exactly what we’re made of, but somebody definitely left the biscuits in the oven too long on me.”
Eliza burst out laughing at his words. She loved the unique way that the old-timers could coin a phrase. The wise words and humorous words of this old couple were just what she needed.
Her laughter made Uncle Arch turn on her in mock anger, “What you laughing at, girl? You look like your biscuits done got browned a little too much yerself!”


"Babe, I would appreciate comments from readers on their favorite Redbone sayings and words." Use the comment button at the bottom of the blog to give me input.

"Aunt Mollie" Weeks is a character (as all of the story characters are) based on a composite of folks I've known. Aunt Mary Jane Lindsey, (left) one of Dry Creek's most memorable and beloved citizens of my childhood, would be a good example of Aunt Mollie.

Q and A on the novel, The Wayfaring Stranger

Q and A on The Wayfaring Stranger by Curt Iles

Q. What is The Wayfaring Stranger (TWFS) about?
The Wayfaring Stranger is a historical fiction novel detailing the intertwining of the lives of two teenagers, Joseph Moore and Eliza Clark. Set in the mid-nineteenth century, the story begins with sixteen-year-old Joseph escaping from Ireland as a stowaway on a ship. At this same time, a pioneer teenager named Eliza Clark lives in the piney woods of western Louisiana in an area called “No Man’s Land.”
Q. What is the significance of the green eyes on the sheet?
A distinguishing fact of both Joseph (blazing green Irish eyes) and Eliza (deep brown Indian eyes) were their eyes. Everyone noticed this on meeting either him or her, and it continues as a theme of the entire novel.

Q. What is historical fiction?
Historical Fiction is the blending of fictional characters within the historical context of a time and place.
Some characters in the book were real people: Father James Mullon had a rich and memorable life as priest of New Orleans’ St. Patrick’s Church. Reverend Joseph Willis, likewise, left a great legacy in the piney woods of Louisiana by starting many churches that still meet today. Hundreds of his descendants continue to live in our area.
Finally, Joseph and Eliza are based on the lives of my great-great-great grandparents, Joseph Moore and Eliza Cavanaugh. Joseph did immigrate to America in the mid-nineteenth century where he met his future wife Eliza in the La. piney woods. Their descendants, literally in the thousands, live throughout this part of my home state of Louisiana.
All other characters are fictional and are composites of people.

Q. What were your goals with this book?
As I started the novel, I set the following goals:
1. The Message: To weave a captivating and entertaining story that reveals God’s guidance and love.
2. The Story: To share the inspiring love story between Joseph Moore and Eliza Clark.
3. The Background: Share the wonders of the woods and nature, and their bond with the inhabitants of No Man’s Land.
4. The Journey: Transport readers on a journey of faith, freedom, growth, and overcoming,
5. The Details: Well-written, well-researched, and historically correct.

Q. Where did the idea for TWFS come from?
As a boy, I heard the story of Joseph Moore’s journey from Ireland from his grandson (my great-grandfather). Additionally, I’ve always been fascinated with the Redbone culture and the stories of so many of my wonderful friends among these great people.

Q. What was Louisiana’s “No Man’s Land”?
It is the historical name given to our part of western Louisiana. During Spanish and French ownership of the adjoining territories, the land between the Sabine and Calcasieu Rivers was designated as a “No Man’s Land” or “Neutral Strip” where no settlers, governments, or armies would occupy. Later the U.S. and Spain continued this treaty. Of course, pioneers of all backgrounds and cultures still filtered in and settled.

Q. Is there really a place called “Ten Mile”?
The Ten Mile community is west of the Calcasieu River between Glenmora and Pitkin, Louisiana. “Ten Mile” is bisected by two main streams, Ten Mile Creek and Cherry Winche Creek.

Q. What is unique about the No Man’s Land culture?
Even though western Louisiana was a true “No Man’s Land” for only a short period during the early 19th century, there is still an attitude prevalent best shown by: self-reliance, distrust of authority, love of the woods, stubborn independence, personal faith, and rural hospitality.

Chapter 6

Chapter 6 "Discovered!"

The beginning of Chapter 6

If the two sailors dragging him had stopped, Joseph would gladly have walked wherever they were pulling him, but they had no intention of allowing him any latitude on this. They finally stopped, roughly releasing Joseph, who fell hard to the deck.
Rolling over, he saw five sailors gathered above him. A rough looking man, with scarred face and a half-closed eye, came forward from the knot of onlookers. He grabbed Joseph by the throat and sneered, speaking in a unknown language. He then dragged Joseph to the edge of the deck.
Standing on the edge of this rocking ship, being throttled from behind by a sailor, only inches from being pushed into the Atlantic, Joseph felt a burning anger, and didn’t really care if they did toss him overboard, he just wanted to get loose, but that was impossible. The burly sailor was much stronger and had him in a grip that was impossible to break.

Chapter 7 Below Deck

Chapter 7 Below Deck
An excerpt from Chapter 7 on the story of John Newton. (Gill, an English sailor, tells the Irish stowaway Joseph Moore, about his encounter with Newton years earlier.)

He stopped in mid-sentence. A look into Gill’s eyes revealed that this older man had been through his own struggles and personal hell.
Seizing the silence, Gill said, “Well, I been saving this man’s story for you. Let me tell you about him. I met him—oh, about fifty years ago in London. He was in his eighties and I was still a young man of twenty-five years old or so.
“Like me, this old man named Newton, had been a sailor for much of his earlier life. I’d heard about his story and made up my mind to meet him if I had a chance.
“That opportunity did arise in March of 1802. I saw in the papers where Newton was going to talk about the fifty-fourth anniversary of a seagoing experience that had changed his life.
“Newton was the son of an English sea captain. From his earliest years, he’d been aboard ships. From what I’d read, he’d been a pretty vile character in his younger days—most of it spent as a British Navy sailor and crew member aboard slave ships.
“So on this particular anniversary day, I traveled to London’s St. Mary’s Church to meet this old English sailor, John Newton.
“The church wasn’t huge, but on this particular Sunday, it was packed. Others had evidently come to hear his story just as I had.
“Newton, who was the pastor of this church, was very old and moved slowly as he ascended to the pulpit.
“I don’t remember everything he said that day, but I believe I recall every word of his story of going from a rough sailor to standing in the pulpit of this church. Do you mind if I tell you his story, best as I remember it?”
“Sure, I’d love to hear more. Go on.”
“Newton told how his dad was always gone on voyages for months, even years. When his mother, who was evidently a good and godly woman, died, young Newton, now age six, began accompanying his father on the ocean, mostly on slave-trading ships. He took to the seafaring life and learned all of the skills and knowledge required of sailors and captains. He also took to the evil living that often accompanies our profession. He described himself as a ‘terrible blasphemer and drunkard.
“According to Newton, when he was age twenty on a voyage, the crew threw him off near the western coast of Africa. That’s how bad he was—they just put him off on a seemingly deserted island to fend for himself and sailed away.
“He was taken in by a slave trader and treated as one of the slaves. He commented on how ironic that it was how that he had traded in slaves and now was like one of them himself.
“Newton spent about two years in terrible conditions on this coastal island. One day as he sat beside a fire on the beach, a passing ship sent a dinghy ashore to investigate the source of the smoke. The ship was an English one, and amazingly, the captain was a friend of John Newton’s father. So he was rescued from the island.
“About a year later on that same trip, the ship was swept up in a great Atlantic storm. Newton told how he awoke in his cabin to find water all around him. He quickly manned a pump, saying, ‘If this will not do it, the Lord have mercy upon us.’ He then spent the next nine hours frantically pumping water out of the hold.
“Then the Captain put him behind the wheel and for the next half day, Newton was alone in the storm fighting with all of his might to keep the ship afloat.
“He said that during those long hours at the wheel was when God touched his life. At the ship’s wheel, he had time to examine the bitter and hate-filled life he’d lived—plenty of time to realize that this storm was probably going end that same life.
“He realized that his earlier statement when manning the pumps was really the beginning of his turning to God. Finally, he cried out to God for mercy and grace and after more hours of peril, the storm ended. But what had happened in his life didn’t end… he was a changed man. He recorded the date in his logbook: March 21, 1748.”
Gill, who had Joseph’s complete attention, continued, “Son, the day I heard him preach and tell his story at the London church was March 21, 1802, fifty-four years to the day since his conversion in the storm.
“Joseph, do you know what John Newton is most famous for?”
“I guess, maybe, that story?”
“Well, that’s part of it. He’s famous because of the song he wrote after that story. It’s one of the best-loved hymns of our English churches and I’ll bet you’re familiar with it too. It’s called ‘Amazing Grace.’ Do you know it?”
Joseph said, “Amazing grace—how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me?”
“That’s it. Don’t it sound like a song written by a guy that had been to the bottom?”
To learn more about the amazing story of John Newton, click here.

Chapters 8 and 9 The Murder and the Ant Colony

Chapter 8 Unk and Eliza
From chapter 8 on Unk Dial

Even though he was her uncle, he called Eliza, “Sister” which also described how he felt about her. Eliza loved the constant smile on Unk’s face. It was a grin that seemed to say much more than words could express. Her poppa called it “The smile of the cat that just ate the canary.” Brother Willis, the local pastor at Occupy Church, once

Greg Johnson (Center) is whom Unk Dial is built on. Greg, of the Union Hill/Ten Mile area, is one of my favorite people in the world. Like Unk, he is wise beyond words and loves God deeply. Shown with him are bodyguards Todd Burnaman (L) and Jake Givens at Dry Creek Camp.

said from the pulpit, “Unk, I believe you know some secret that you ain’t never let the rest of us in on. That’s why you got that grin!” That only made him grin more.
However, Eliza saw no semblance of a smile as he stood before her this morning. He stopped by the barn and looked behind him as if he feared he was being followed. His greeting was whispered, “Sister, come here. I need to talk to you real bad.”
“Unk, what’s wrong?”
She’d never seen her uncle this upset. Normally, he was a jovial laid-back man, not easily upset by the things that bothered normal people. Eliza had always thought that Unk’s “being touched in the head” had made him a much better and calmer person than most folks she knew.
She sat the milk pail down and walked over to him. He looked around before speaking, “Sister, somethin’ bad’s happened! Unk needs you to come wit’ me.”
“Now wait a minute, Unk. I ain’t goin off with you until you tell me more. Now settle down some and get a grip on yerself.”



Chap 9 The Ant Colony

an excerpt from Eliza and Unk's visit to the leaf ant colony

Eliza came over to see what he’d found. Remembering the gold coin she’d found yesterday at the murder site, she already had a good idea. She leaned in and saw a small metal can. Unk opened the can and poured out a pile of gold coins. Looking at the shiny pieces, among the red dirt and the scurrying ants, Eliza knew she’d never seen this much money in her entire life. Looking around carefully, Unk scooped up a handful of the coins and said, “Lookee there, Sister!”
Eliza didn’t quite know what to say. Her thoughts were scattered and came quickly: How had Unk gotten hold of this money? Why had he buried it here? Did he have any part in the stranger’s murder? She definitely had a bunch of questions and wanted answers from her uncle. So, she looked her uncle square in the eye and said, “Now you tell me right now the story on all of this money!”
Unk acted as if he hadn’t even heard her. “Sister, I’ve got them buried in three other piles over the—” Eliza interrupted, “Unk, you’re gonna get in bad trouble being mixed up in this!

click here to learn more about leaf-cutting ants http://www.blueboard.com/leafcutters/

Chapter 10 Upriver

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 The Feud and Cherry Winche

Chapter 11:
The Feud
and Cherry Winche

Chapter 12 New Orleans!

Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Easter Cold Snap

Chapter 13 Easter Cold Snap

Many old timers believed in an "Easter Cold Snap." They always predicted how, no matter the date of Easter (It varies with a combination between the spring equinox and first full moon after it) that it would turn cold right around Easter.

Chapter 13 examines this belief and an unforgettable Easter much like our Easter of 2007. Do you remember what happened weather-wise this past Easter?

In the comments section, tell us about old weather sayings you've heard.
They might show up in the next book!

Chapters 14-20

Chapter 14 Land Trouble begins



Chapter 15 The Irish Channel


Chapter 16 Crevasse!

There really was a levee break near New Orleans on May 4, 1849. It happened on the east bank of the Mississippi River at a place called Sauve's Plantation. (The area is today called River Ridge.) This levee break flooded much of the city within days and was considered one of New Orleans' "worst floods" until Hurricane Katrina. I learned much about this 1849 flood from reading microfilmed newspapers at the main branch of the New Orleans Public Library.

Chapter 17 "Spring of the Year"

Chapter 18 The Breaking Point
An excerpt from Chapter 18 when Joseph, now alone, sadly leaves the crevasse work site:

The land on both sides of the Shell Road was underwater and in some places, it flowed over the road. Joseph followed the road toward Lake Ponchartrain. He didn’t have a definite destination in mind—he just wanted to get away from the river and the flooded city.

After five miles of walking, he reached the end of the road at a spot on the Lake called West End. It was now nearing dark and the lakefront seemed empty. Fishing boats bobbed up and down at the pier. Overhead sea gulls called as they dove for fish. The Ponchartrain, a brackish lake, still had enough salt water in it to emit that ocean-like smell Joseph knew so well. All of this, coupled with the shock of Mayo’s death, combined to create an acute sense of homesickness in Joseph’s soul.

He temporarily forgot the hardships he’d left behind in Ireland. He chose not to remember how all of his family, save a sister, was gone from his home island. He just knew he wished to get on a boat and get as far from here as possible, to just go back home to Ireland seemed a plausible wish.

For hours, he sat on the rock seawall at the pier and looked out over the lake. Darkness came and a full moon rose on the east shore of Lake Ponchartrain. It was beautiful as well as majestic, but it only saddened him. The stars shone in the clear sky, but Joseph, absorbed deep in thought, didn’t seem to even notice. Out on the lake, lanterns twinkled from nighttime fisherman.

He sat there all night in one spot watching that full moon, reflected in the lake, make its arc across the sky. Joseph’s mind was a fog of sorrow, confusion, anger, and hurt. He tried to pray, but the words seem to fall out of his mouth and roll down the rocks into Lake Ponchartrain.

Much of the imagery for this passage comes from the fine song, "Heart of the Night" by the group Poco. It is a song about New Orleans with the following lyrics:

"In the heart of the night, in the cool Southern rain,
There's a full moon tonight, shining down on the Ponchartrain.
The river she rises just like she used to do
She's so full of surprises, she reminds me of you."

It's a beautiful song that tells of lost love, memories and for me, fits the mood of Joseph on the saddest night of loss for him. To read the entire lyrics and learn more about the song, click on
http://www.lyricsdownload.com/poco-heart-of-the-night-lyrics.html


Chapter 19 The Cardinal
the beginning of Chapter 19

The cardinal just would not shut up! Each morning it woke Eliza up with its singing in the maple tree by her window. She called it her “personal alarm clock.” Its shrill whistling “what cheer-what cheer” song was beautiful to hear. Her dad laughingly said he was going to pepper it with birdshot and shut it up.

Long before the other birds of the woods began their day, this redbird was already into its third verse. Some of the Ten Milers said the cardinal’s “what cheer” song was really saying, “Wake up boys—wake up.” Either way, the sound usually began Eliza’s day. She had never had the many things a city person might have: fancy clocks, jewelry, or photographs of herself and her family. She’d never even held a compass in her hand. She would have scoffed at the need for one. She knew the woods and swamps she lived in as well as anyone. Like the cardinal outside her window, her world was not very large, but it was her home and she knew it intimately.

Like the cardinal, Eliza was settled. Unlike many of the birds of the Louisiana woods, the cardinal never left or migrated. It chose to spend its life year-round in the temperate climate of the south, living close to the land and trees where it had been born. When one is settled and happy in the land you inhabit, you do not feel the urge to wander.

Author's Notes
I've a lifetime in the Louisiana Piney Woods with the Northern Cardinal, or "Redbird" as my year-round neighbor and friend. Recently, my South Dakota friend and fellow birder, Stan Bricker, visited Dry Creek. He was amazed at the beauty of our Cardinal, having never seen one. I was reminded of how we take for granted anything we have that is common. A beautiful blazing red bird with a fiesty personality and great song is a blessing!

The Cardinal in Chapter 19 signifies the rootedness of this non-migratory bird and its relation to Eliza Clark, who has never traveled far from her Ten Mile home.



Chapter 20 Upriver!

Chapter 21-25 Into No Man's Land!

Chapter 21 Alex and Hineston

The beginning of Chapter 21

Joe had a funny feeling about trouble when he stepped off the Caddo that day. Alexandria, a city of about seven hundred citizens, sure didn’t look like trouble, but he still had an uneasy feeling.
Calling Alexandria a “city” was probably an exaggeration. It was more like a town or a village. This small-town quality was brought out by the fact that not much went on in ‘Alex’ as it was called, without being noted.
Even the arrival of a young, poor Irish immigrant did not go unnoticed. Joseph Moore had no idea he was walking into a situation where great prejudice combined with fear would change his plans.
As he carefully descended the levee, he cheerfully spoke to several workers at street level. They stared at him and turned aside.
Before he’d gone a hundred steps, a deputy approached him. The uniformed officer, followed by two other civilians, blocked his path. Joseph stopped in the middle of the street waiting for whatever greeting or warning that awaited him. He could easily tell from the set of the deputy’s jaw that it was more likely to be the latter of the two.
“Where you headed, boy?”
Joseph had quickly learned in the South that being called “boy” in that manner was not a compliment.
“Sir, I’ve just arrived by the steamboat and I’m kinda hunting for a place to stay.”
“Where you from?”
Trying to break the ice, Joseph smiled, “Well I’m sure you can tell from my accent I’m not from around here.”
His attempt at humor brought only a cold stare from the officer. The other two men, each armed, eased menacingly closer. Joseph waited for another question, but quickly realized it wasn’t coming.

The photograph shown features the present day Red River at Alexandria, Louisiana. This is near the spot where Joe Moore came ashore on his arrival.

Chapter 22 Crossing the Calcasieu

Joe Moore had his first encounter with the most beautiful of all birds, wood ducks.





Chapter 23 Miz Girlie

Joe's encounter with a Louisiana dog (from Chapter 23)

Joe Moore was so focused on this close inspection that he never saw or heard the dog coming until it was too late.
He never figured out where it came from, so the dog achieved a total ambush. It was undoubtedly the fiercest looking dog he’d ever seen.
As it bounded at him in what seemed like slow motion, Joe stood frozen in shock. He would always remember the dog’s eyes as it made the last ten yards: they were a glassy, weird white that seemed to emit intense hate. The large dog drove its head into his chest. It didn’t bite him . . . at least not yet. It simply had bull-rushed him and knocked him down. He tumbled to the ground, trying to cover his neck and face, while feeling for his knife.
The dog stood over him with teeth bared, a loud guttural growl emitting from its curled lips. It probably weighed about fifty pounds, and every muscle was shaking with rage. He hurriedly tried to back away on his hands and knees, but the dog stayed over him letting him know it was in charge. Joe couldn’t find his knife, and no stick was near.
As the growling dog snarled in his face, he took a desperate look at his at his attacker: The dog was a dark-brownish blue with black spots on its side and back. It had a white-striped chest and its legs, shaking with rage as it growled in Joes’ face, were strong and white-sock footed.
But most of all, those eyes had Joe’s attention. The eyes looked like glass eyes, the kind you saw in mounted animals and they gave the dog an evil look.
The dog, still emitting a low growl in its chest, finally backed off a step or two, allowing Joe to get to his feet.
It was then he heard the shrill whistle. It was repeated again and a harsh female voice boomed out, “Jezebel—you come here! What you done caught there?” The growling dog still held its ground, but was evidently distracted by the woman’s voice. The voice repeated louder, “Jezebel. Come here right now!”
Suddenly, the dog turned and trotted obediently toward the porch. This allowed Joe the opportunity to turn and observe his rescuer.

Chapter 24 The Lightning Storm
An excerpt from Chapter 24

Eliza called it her “song and light show.” The sound she loved was how the pines carried the wind. Their song in the wind was so different from the way oaks sounded in a strong wind. She had never been to the ocean, but the roaring of the wind in the pines was the way her mind imagined the ocean would sound.
The lightning continued getting closer. She’d always been warned to stay away from pines during a thunderstorm. Her mom called them “lightning magnets.” Eliza had seen ample evidence of what lightning did to a longleaf pine. It was common to see these tall pines featuring a long fresh scar down its entire trunk from a lightning strike. Soon the tree would drop its straw and die.
However her mom had warned her against being in the pines during a storm. Not before one—at least that is the way she interpreted the warnings. So as the wind picked up she told Eli, “We’ll need to get out from under the pines before the storm hits—but don’t that wind feel good right now.” As the wind blew, they stood joyfully stood under the pines taking in their song. Eliza spread her arms and felt the wind blowing her hair and blouse. To Eliza, it was not just a sound show—it was also a light show. The long leaf pines of the Ten Mile country seemed to be a prism.
Whatever the level of light was—whether the sunshine was brightly shining on a clear day, or the clouds sent rolling shimmering shafts of light that were further segregated by the pines, the pines gave this light show. Even on short winter afternoons when the low angle of the sun sent yellow shafts through the pine trunks, or dark rainy days when under the pines it seemed sinister, gloomy, and nearly scary. Eliza liked each mood of this light show under the pines.


Chapter 25 Father Willis

The grave of Reverend Joseph Willis, Occupy Cemetery, Hwy 113 Ten Mile, LA

Chapter 25 Girlie and Unk

Chapter 25
Joe Moore (from Westport, Ireland, picks out his home place in the Ten Mile country.)

.Black-eyed Susans are one of the prettiest parts of early fall in SW Louisiana. Growing in the open, these weeds bloom during late September through November. Joe picks his homestead spot in a field of these flowers. [Photo]From the end of Chapter 25: They (Joe and Unk) walked through the waist high flowers. “These purty flowers are called ““black-eyed susanslazy susans” and they bloom every October. They’re really a weed and only grow out in the open. Unk finally stopped among the flowers and splintered tree trunks. He was searching for something. “There it is.” He trotted over about fifty feet to an area where the grass was thicker and greener. “Here’s the spring.”Joe followed him and saw the small spring bubbling out of the ground. It wasn’t large but the water was clear and looked deep. Around it grew strange single-stalked red flowers. Unk called them “spider lilies” and said they bloomed at the same time as the black-eyed lazy susans.Unk grinned, “Don’t nobody know ‘bout it but me. I use it to water the sheep when I’m in the area. Don’t you see how this would make you a good homestead—water, open land, your wood for building is already on the ground drying out. What do you think?”Joe said, “I think it is where I’m going to build me a homestead. I think I’ll call it Westport.”F

all spider lillies near the porch of the Iles Old House in Dry Creek.

Black-eyed Susans are one of the prettiest parts of early fall in SW Louisiana. Growing in the open, these weeds bloom during late September through November. Joe picks his homestead spot in a field of these flowers.

From the end of Chapter 25: They (Joe and Unk) walked through the waist high flowers. “These purty flowers are called ““black-eyed susanslazy susans” and they bloom every October. They’re really a weed and only grow out in the open.


Unk finally stopped among the flowers and splintered tree trunks. He was searching for something. “There it is.” He trotted over about fifty feet to an area where the grass was thicker and greener. “Here’s the spring.”
Joe followed him and saw the small spring bubbling out of the ground. It wasn’t large but the water was clear and looked deep. Around it grew strange single-stalked red flowers. Unk called them “spider lilies” and said they bloomed at the same time as the black-eyed lazy susans.
Unk grinned, “Don’t nobody know ‘bout it but me. I use it to water the sheep when I’m in the area. Don’t you see how this would make you a good homestead—water, open land, your wood for building is already on the ground drying out. What do you think?”
Joe said, “I think it is where I’m going to build me a homestead. I think I’ll call it Westport.”

Fall spider lillies near the porch of the Iles Old House in Dry Creek.

Chapter 26 Father Willis

Chapter 26

Chapters 27 A Strange Bird

Chapter 28 A Strange Bird
Date: Spring 1850

Chapters 28-42

Chapter 28 More Land Trouble











Chapter 29 The House Dance

An Irish band plays as Matt Molloy's Pub in Westport, Ireland. Just like Louisianaians, Irish folk love good music and fellowship.

"Craic" (pronounced "crack") is the Irish word denoting music, fun, and fellowship. In the Ten Mile house dance featured in Chapter 29, Joe attends and "officially" meets Eliza for the first time. He is an outsider but quickly makes himself at home with the music of the pioneers.

"Mose" was an actual 19th century fiddler in western Louisiana. I first read about him in the historical account of the later Westport Fight.

Chapter 30 Burnout and a horse

An Irish horse in Doolin, Ireland. click on the picture to see that road signs are in both English and Gaelic.

Chapter 31 The First Kiss







Chapter 32 Peat and Pine knots



A peat pile in County Mayo, Ireland. The Irish use a type of shovel to cut the "bricks" out of the turf. They pile it and dry it for months, before moving it to their homes.

Burning peat gives off a blue smoke and has a sweet smell.

A peat brick. Curt brought back two bricks in his luggage and has enjoyed showing them to groups.

Peat is a partially-decomposed fossil fuel. The wet peat bogs of western Ireland are spongy when you walk on them.

I loved the idea of Joe explaining to Louisiana pioneers what peat was.

Chapter 33 Next Visit







Chapter 34 Dogwoods







Chapter 35 Snakebite!

Canebrake Rattlesnake rattles held by Curt.


This large rattler once was common in all parts of Louisiana, but now is found in SW La. primarily only along the Calcasieu River and Sabine River areas.















Chapter 36 Occupy Church

Church sign at Occupy #1

Hwy 113 between Pitkin and Union Hill, LA

Does anyone know what year Occupy Church split into Occupy 1 and Occupy 2?

Legend has it that they split over trouble, but the historical record shows that because flooding of Ten Mile Creek separated the members, and caused the ones west of Ten Mile to start Occupy 2.

The grave of Rev. Joseph Willis at Occupy 1 Cemetery

Chapter 37 Leave!











Chapter 38 The Fight at Davis Crossing


Davis Crossing at the Calcasieu River La. Hwy 113





Chapter 39 Davis Crossing



Davis Crossing Baptist Church near the Calcasieu River.

Chapter 40 Trouble at the Creek

Chapter 41 Uncle Arch and the Wood Duck Slough

This is my favorite chapter of the book. It is predicated on two real life stories. One similar story was told by my uncle, Lawrence Edwards of Larto, LA.

The second story concerns the death of one of my heroes and friends, Mr. Jay Miller. Mr. Jay was the last of the eight Miller Brothers of Dry Creek. In 2000 on a cold November morning he took his daughter and preacher to their deer stands at daylight. As he walked down a firelane in Miller Pasture to his own stand, he fell dead.

Men in our community said, "If I could pick how to go, I'd go like Mr. Jay did."

Wood Duck mount. The male drake is the prettiest bird God created.

Chapter 42 The Burn Out

Epilogue