The Wayfaring Stranger

2009-04-03T12:29:00.003-06:00

From The Wayfaring Stranger

This passage tells of the Irishman Joe Moore trying to tell his girlfriend Eliza's father about what peat is.

Eliza's dad, Willard Clark, has only seen firewood, and cannot grasp about peat.

Willard Clark stopped to wipe his face with his bandana and finally spoke, “Y’all got lots of firewood over in Ireland?”

Joe felt his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. All of a sudden he was self-conscious about his brogue and the odd way he said lots of American words. “Uh, well, uh, we don’t have hardly any trees in our part of Ireland.”

This seemed to interest Mr. Clark. ”Well, if you don’t have trees what do you burn for heat and cooking?”

Now Joe Moore had a subject he felt comfortable with. ”We burn peat for our fires.”

“What is peat?”

“It’s strips of turf cut out of the bogs. We cut it with a shovel, dry it and burn it. It has a sweet smell and burns with a blue smoke.”

Mr. Clark leaned on his ax and spat, “Burning dirt. Now that’s a new one on me. Never heard of such a thing!”

Then Clark added, “You mean to tell me you come from a place with no trees? I can’t imagine a place with no trees.”

Joe felt more at ease and decided to extend the conversation a little: “Mr. Clark, I . . .” He stopped himself. He was embarrassed that he’d called him by name. They’d never even really been introduced, and it was somewhat presumptuous to call him “Mr. Clark,” especially when he knew the man would be very happy if he just disappeared off the face of the earth—at least the Ten Mile part of it.

“Uh, Mr. Clark, we don’t have trees but we got something I bet you’d like—we got mountains. You’ve never seen anything until you stand atop a mountain and look in every direction for miles. I won’t say it’s better than tall trees, but it does give you the same sense of awe.”

Willard Clark looked at him thoughtfully. Joe wasn’t sure if calling him by his name had helped or hurt. ”You know I never been very far out of these woods. Never had no reason to go. But I have always had dreams of standing on a mountain and seeing the clouds at eye level. I bet it’s something.”

Chapter One

2008-09-19T22:23:00.001-05:00

Chapter 1 – The Journey Begins

I am a poor wayfaring stranger,
Traveling through this world of woe.
There is no sickness, toil, or danger
In that world to which I go.

“The Wayfaring Stranger”
Traditional Ballad

I knew my life would finally end this way.
That was the burning thought in Joseph Moore’s mind as he lay hidden behind the stone wall. With his heart pounding, he tried to calm himself to hear the barking of the tracking dogs. He felt the aching from the dog bite below his knee and withdrew his hand to see blood.
The dirt felt cool against his face as he lay on the ground. The sweat from fear and exertion ran down his cheek in a trickle onto the dirt. Wiping his face, Joseph watched through a hole in the wall, scanning carefully for any sign of the men and dogs.

Lying there, he breathed in the smell of the soil he knew so well. Normally, he loved the unique smell of the dirt of western Ireland; but today was not a normal day. It was a day full of events that would change his life forever—if he survived.

On this day, in the year 1849, Joseph Moore from the village of Westport, Ireland, was a young man of seventeen. A tall, lanky teenager with sandy hair and a pleasant, freckled, ruddy face.
His deep green eyes peering from the stone wall were intense, fiery, and passionate. In the last four years, these eyes had seen plenty of pain and death up close. The blight-caused failure of the potato crop had brought widespread famine and cost the lives of thousands throughout Ireland. Coupled with the desperate mass emigration of even more who’d left by boat, it seemed Ireland was becoming barren of people.

The smell of the dirt beneath his face was also a reminder of the many graves he had helped dig. He thought, I just wonder if someone will be digging me own grave before this mess is over.
Joseph reflected on the day’s events that had brought him to this terrifying moment: This spring morning had begun innocently enough. There were always plenty of chores to do on the small Moore farm. What had earlier been a family of seven now consisted of him and an older widowed sister. Everyone else was gone: his dad’s exile to Australia by the authorities; other family members who had emigrated to England or America; plus the rest who were dead from starvation or the famine fever that had swept through during the worst days of the past four years.

When the trouble started on this particular spring morning, Joseph was digging with a shovel in the potato rows. He had planted this spring’s crop early on the treeless hills, so maybe the crop would make before the potato rot hit.

Joseph was just out of sight from the last possessions of the family farm: their small sheep herd that consisted of an old ram, two ewes, and two young lambs. They grazed in the next field—hidden from view by the stone wall.

Along with the garden, these sheep were the livelihood of his sister and himself. They were so precious that he brought them nightly into the dirt-floored cottage.

That was exactly why the sounds Joseph heard filled him with fear: Dreadful bleating mixed with loud yelping came from the adjacent field. Shovel in hand, Joseph ran toward the noise. What he saw as he reached the stone wall sickened him: A pack of four dogs was attacking the sheep.

As is their nature, the sheep were huddled helplessly in the corner of the stone wall. Blood poured from the neck of one of the ewes as a young lamb lay twitching in convulsions of death beside her.

Joseph sprinted toward the dogs filled with sudden rage, shouting as he waved his shovel. All but one of the dogs loped off. That dog, a big yellow hound, did not run but rather bit down on the neck of the other lamb. Angrily, he struck the dog across the back with his shovel. The snarling dog turned on him and with lightning quick speed latched onto his right leg.
Joseph let out a painful yell and felt a blind rage. He began to strike the dog repeatedly on the head. It quickly released its grip on his leg and fell yelping in pain.

The dog lay with blood pouring out of its mouth and one ear. Even after he had hit the dog enough to kill it, he continued a steady rain of blows. It was as if all the anger—from the heavy-handed abuse of the landlords, the potato failure, the constant hunger and poverty, the unending death of family and friends—seemed to pour forth from him and be directed at the body of the prone dog.

Joseph’s green eyes were filled with a burning passion and rage. Breathing heavily, he knelt down beside the three dead sheep and the dying dog. His leg throbbed from the dog bite. He looked at the dead sheep, tears filled his eyes as he realized what this meant for him and his sister. He hung his head as tears poured down his cheeks, seemingly finally beaten down by the hard life of this difficult time.

As Joseph knelt over this tragedy, he had no idea an observer had watched the entire episode. This witness to the attack also knew to whom the dogs belonged. They were the property of the English land agent, Smith, who oversaw the rental land near Westport. The dead dog, lying by Joseph, was the man’s prize hunting hound. The observer also knew the land Joseph lived on was part of Smith’s land holdings.

The silent observer didn’t wait long to send word to the Englishman Smith’s estate about the Irish peasant who had killed his best dog. As in any rural town anywhere, most of the village knew about the encounter by noon that day. Not only did the news of the incident spread, but also Smith’s echoing threat to kill the boy who had dared to kill his best hunting dog.
When a neighbor ran to tell Joseph’s sister, Bridget, of this threat, terror filled her heart.

Everyone knew this wealthy English land agent meant what he said and was used to getting his way. She was not surprised that the nobleman would place a hunting dog above the life of a mere Irish peasant boy. Bridget remembered last year how Smith had allowed the public flogging of a salmon poacher caught trespassing on his private river. The resultant beating was so severe that the man nearly died. When townspeople complained of the flogging’s brutality, Smith’s icy comment was, “I bet the next man who thinks about trespassing will be reminded to stay out of my river!”

Recalling this, Bridget took her younger brother by the shoulders, “Brother, ye must go. Run for yer life! Only death awaits ye here. Aye, Go—Go now!” She tenderly kissed him as she pushed him on his way, “God bless ye, Joseph. May God lead ye away from this horrible place.”
Her push was not one moment too soon. As he went out the back door, four men approached about two hundred yards away. Joseph, easing along the side of the house, recognized Smith first. On each side of him were British soldiers. One of the soldiers had two tracking dogs on leashes. A fourth man dressed in civilian clothing cradled what appeared to be a shotgun. He also carried something in his other hand that Joseph could not quite make out.

He ran for the safety of the nearby three-foot high stone wall. As he reached it, he leaped over and hid. Joseph crouched and crawled along—out of sight of his pursuers. He soon reached the end of the wall, which had no cover past it. Crouched there, he thought of how a fox on the run must feel.

Watching over the wall, he saw the men pass the house, ignoring Bridget who stood in the doorway. He could now see what the shotgun-toting man had in his other hand—it was a long crowbar. When a landlord wanted to evict a tenant, a crowbar was used to knock down the entire stone cottage. This was called “tumbling down” and meant nearly certain starvation for the evicted family.

Fearfully, Joseph watched the approaching men. He had several minutes to watch the dogs trying to pick up his scent. The dogs led the men in circles—sometimes moving nearer his hiding place and then over the fields where he had worked earlier.

This gave Joseph time to think. For some reason, the words of his beloved mother echoed in his heart. He recalled the statement she had always repeated, “Joseph, every step of your life will be led by God. In times and days where ye don’t quite know where to turn, he will guide you. He has put a compass in your heart to send ye along the right path.”

These oft-repeated words came to him now behind the stone wall. He was not sure he completely believed them but was desperate at the moment. So he prayed, “Lord, I’m definitely in a bind here. I do need ye to guide me steps. If ye don’t—I probably won’t get out of this mess.”
As he continued watching the hunters, again his mother’s words came back to him, “Son, ye have a good name. I named ye after Joseph of the Old Testament. He was a young man who God guided every step of his way. His path was not an easy one, but God’s plan was to guide his every step. It will be the same for ye, my son.”

Joseph spoke aloud as if his mother was right beside him behind the wall, “Well, Ma—your Joseph is in a real bind right now. He’s gonna need some step-by-step guidance, for sure.”
As he said this, he watched the hounds, noses to the ground, moving closer toward his hiding place. He took a deep breath and steadied himself: Well, they may shoot me, but they’ll have to hit a running target.

Watching their approach, he selected a small shrub beside the road, and then looked behind him at the next stone wall, about fifty yards away. He thought, when the dogs reach that shrub, I’m going to jump up and run for me life. If I can make it to that wall, I’ll be safe.

He had selected the roadside shrub because he felt the pursuers were still out of shotgun range at that distance. He just hoped the soldiers with their side arms were slow and had poor aim.
Then he prayed again, “Lord, if ye could, please turn those dogs. I sure need a little help to get out of this one.” However, as he ended this heartfelt prayer, he was betrayed by a bird. In the bushes along the wall, a corncrake had built a nest. This common bird, with its scratchy metallic call, was a common resident of the fields of Ireland.

Because Joseph had disturbed the corncrake , it began calling with its loud grating call. He said, “Lord, I asked ye to turn the dogs, and instead ye sent a loud corncrake to give me away Thanks a lot!”
The dogs—and the men—turned toward the bird’s call. As if the corncrake had just announced his name, the men started trotting toward the stone wall.

Standing to run, Joseph thought, Well, it’s now or never! With a yell that seemed to be a curious mixture of pent-up rage and extreme fear, he began sprinting. He never knew if he heard one or two shots. Everything happened fast, and he definitely wasn’t looking back. He heard the pellets whistle past him and felt a sting in his arm, leg, and butt. He hollered, but in spite of these wounds, was making tracks for the wall’s cover, hurdling the potato rows.

Joseph, reaching the wall, never even considered slowing down. He ran a long time before the baying of the hounds faded behind him. Finally, stopping to stoop over, he placed his hands on his knees and tried to get air into his lungs. Looking back over the treeless fields, he saw his pursuers, now holding the dogs, watching from a distance of about a quarter mile.

Joseph heard Smith yell with cupped hands in a distinctly English accent, “You can run young Irish but you can’t hide! We’ll get you tomorrow—or the next day. It’s only a matter of time; jest a matter of time. You know for sure how this will all end; we’ll get ye!”

As Smith’s voice faded away, Joseph heard another voice, unspoken but clear. He was not sure if it was his mother’s voice, sister’s, or maybe even the Lord answering his prayer: “You cannot stay here. You must go.”

Chapter Two The Swamp

2008-09-18T22:15:00.000-05:00

Chapter 2 the Swamp

Eliza Jane Clark came awake in the night. She glanced out the window and could sense dawn was approaching. As her bare feet hit the dirt floor of her family’s cabin in Louisiana’s No Man’s Land, she moved quickly. Slipping out of her bedclothes into a blouse and dress, she tiptoed over and took the clock off the mantel above the fireplace. The fire’s light gave enough light for her to see that the time was just after five o’clock. Sunrise that morning would be just before six, and she needed to be at the creek long before then. Kendal Campbell (above) our model for Eliza
Slipping to the door, she put on a jacket, unlatched the door, and went outside. That morning’s date was Thursday, April 6, 1849. Eliza was sure of the date because it was her sixteenth birthday. .
As Eliza tiptoed outside on this cool morning, her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and the awesome canopy of stars became clear in the sky above. As always, their brightness and clarity astounded her. She had observed the night sky all her life and never ceased to be amazed about their beauty. It seemed as if she could just reach up into the sky and touch them. With a shiver, she whispered, “Lord, lookin’ at that nighttime sky, I always know you’re up there.”
The morning was cold enough for her breath to vaporize as she spoke. In spite of the cool morning being barefooted, Eliza didn’t feel chilled. Normally, outside in the dark, she would have put on some shoes, but because the weather was still too cold for snakes, she could walk the trail barefooted.
Eliza Clark, on this birthday morning, began walking the descending trail to Cherry Winche Creek. This beautiful, flowing stream, a quarter mile from her home, was the source of life for the families that lived along it. The creek supplied water for washing, swimming, and bathing.
The morning was completely quiet as she hurried toward the creek. A nearby noise startled her. She stopped completely still as she heard steps approaching from behind. In the darkness, she couldn’t make out what, or who, was coming.
Then she heard the voice of her younger brother, Elijah, “Sister, where you think you’re going?”
She breathed a sigh of relief as he ambled up and joined her. In his squeaky ten-year-old’s voice he added, “I heard you leave the house. Where are you headin’?”
Eliza didn’t answer, but that didn’t faze her brother, “Now, you know Poppa and Momma told you not to be sneakin’ off in the dark no more. ‘member what happened last time—“
Eliza cut him off, “If you’re goin’ with me to the creek, you’ll have to be quiet and keep your mouth shut.” She tried to act annoyed at her brother’s intrusion, but was actually glad to have him come along.
The land they were now crossing belonged to their family. Like most settlers in this part of the young state of Louisiana, the Clark family lived on a homestead—their tract was about two hundred acres. Most of this land was set among the tall longleaf pines that dominated the area. Her family’s home was built on the higher ground where these pines thrived. Towering and magnificent, these trees, also called long-straw pines, blocked out the sun and kept the ground beneath them clear of other trees and vegetation.
In daylight, Eliza loved how you could see for long distances under these pines. She had never traveled far from their shadow in her entire life.
Entering the edge of the swamp, the dirt beneath her feet turned to oozing mud. It felt good between her toes and made her glad to be alive.
Her dad had carefully chosen their home site on the higher pine grasslands that were always free from flooding. However, it was also essential to be near this ‘bottomland’ for year-round access to water and firewood, as well as to a steady supply of acorns and beech mast for their woods hogs.
Coming to the creek, she could hear the sound she loved dearly: the creek gurgling over the flattened log they used for washing clothes. Eliza called the sound of the water “swamp music” and its song always brought a peace to her heart.
They eased down the creek bank and sat on the edge of the log. Elijah nestled up close to his big sister and started to say something, but she put her hand on his shoulder and whispered, “Shh, it’s nearly time. Jes’ listen real close.”
Using a stick, she scraped the mud and creek sand off their feet. Eli said, “That mud and sand reminds me of momma’s sugar cookies.”
Finishing her scraping, Eliza said, “Well, I don’t hardly believe it’d taste the same!” Pointing to their muddy feet, she spoke quietly, “Now, this here mud on our feet is Clark mud. It’s from land owned by Poppa and Momma that one day’ll belong to you and me. Let me put it the way Poppa says, ’This here land really belongs to God and he’s just loanin’ it to us for a while.’
“Eli, I once asked Poppa, ‘Do we have any papers proving we own this land?’ and he answered, ‘Honey, if you mean could I go to the courthouse in Alexandria and show you a piece of paper proving I own this land? The answer to that would be no—but this is our land. Our ancestors settled here generations ago. The Spanish, the French, and now the Americans, have all claimed to own the land, but the truth is, it belongs to us.’
“Then Poppa said something else: ‘Liza girl, I don’t know so much if we own this land or it’s more of this land owning us.’”
Elijah leaned his head on his big sister’s shoulder and said, “Eliza, in Ten Mile is where I plan to live out my whole life. How ‘bout you?”
“Eli, it ain’t never even entered my mind to live anywhere else. Why would a person want to live anywhere but in the freedom of the piney woods? This is our home and where God put us.”
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.’”
Eli was ready to ask more, but Eliza said, “Eli, we gotta get quiet to listen. I tell you what, on our next trip to the Weeks home, you ask them. They are the experts on all things ‘Ten Mile.’”
He had one final question, “Why’d you come to the swamp this mornin’?”
“‘Cause it’s ‘whip-poor-will day.’ You probably don’t remember how ‘Ma’ always said this date, April 6, was ‘Whip-poor-will Day.’ She’d add, ‘If a girl hears the first one before mornin’ light and that call is answered by another nearby whip-poor-will, it means her future man will think of her today.’”
Elijah smirked, “You don’t believe that, do you?”
She replied, “Course not, but I still like to be in the woods on this morning to remember Ma.”
Eli said, “But Eliza, I thought there was a saying about the whip-poor-will’s call and death? When Ma died, didn’t a whip-poor-will call her soul away?”
Eliza answered angrily, “Eli, I don’t want to hear you say that agin!”
“But I was just asking—Isn’t it true?”
Sharply she replied, “Shh, get quiet. I’ll tell you ‘bout it some other time.”
He sat quietly, knowing his question had somehow touched a nerve. Even in the darkness, he could see a tear rolling down his sister’s cheek.
Eliza preferred to think about the romantic adage of the whip-poor-will’s call. As a child, she frowned at the thought of boys. Now, at age sixteen, that had long ago changed. Not only did she closely notice the boys—the boys had definitely taken a liking to her. There was no doubt she was a beautiful young woman and, although the attention somewhat embarrassed her, she liked the boy’s attention. In fact, in its own way, it filled her with joy.
“Filled with joy”—now that was a term that best described Eliza Jane Clark! She was a woods girl who found joy and laughter in the entire world around her in both nature and people. She had a natural curiosity that seemed unquenchable, always wanting to know about things, people, and nature. Sometimes her curiosity caused trouble—like her sneaking out of the house this morning—but this inquisitiveness was also an appealing quality that made folks naturally like her.
Breaking the silence again, Elijah asked her, “Why do you like whip-poor-wills?”
“Oh, they’re mysterious. I’ve only seen one in my whole life. They have big dark eyes that help them see how to fly at night.”
Eli said, “Robert Ray Thompson told me you have the darkest and prettiest eyes of any girl in Ten Mile.”
Eliza scowled, “I don’t really care nothing ‘bout what Robert Ray Thompson said.”
“Everybody says you’re gonna marry him one day.”
Eliza, threw her stick in the creek and said, “What everybody says don’t mean it’s goin’ to be so.”
“I heard Aunt Bertie say what a fine pair you’d make. She said that his family has the most livestock in the whole woods, and then momma said that he’d be a fine catch for you.”
“Well, I’m not trying to catch him—and he ain’t going to catch me either.”
Eli, not knowing to be quiet, continued, “So you’re here this morning to hear that whip-poor-will and know he’ll be thinking of you?”
“Eli, I don’t plan on marrying Robert Ray Thompson.”
Eli studied his sister, then said in admiration, “Your eyes are what folks say set you apart. Robert Ray told me that your long black hair and deep dark eyes are what he made him fall in love with you.”
“Eli, why don’t you just hush up and listen,” then she quickly added, “Did he really say that?”
But Eli took her first statement and hushed up. After he’d been quiet a few minutes, he drifted off to sleep and began snoring softly.
Eliza decided she would wake him when the first whip-poor-will sang. Several minutes later, she heard the call she’d come for. It came from the woods to the east. The sound was loud, clear, and urgently repeated a dozen times. It was a whip-poor-will! Each syllable was accented in a unique way: “Whip-poooor-will.” The sound was beautiful, lonesome, and haunting—all at the same time.
The accents were on the first and last syllables: WHIP poor WILL, WHIP poor WILL.
Eliza sat quietly as the bird called over and over. She’d always thought what a lonely call this bird had. It seemed to live in a solitary world. This bird was spread throughout the swamps, just like the Ten Milers—a people who were kin, yet each family living separate and isolated—never willing to be part of a village or town.
As Eliza listened to the lone whip-poor-will’s repeated calls for several minutes with no answer, she finally heard a reply—a long, long distance away. The returning call was faint, and at first, she wasn’t sure if she’d only imagined it. Then she heard the call for sure—another whip-poor-will was answering. Because of the great distance through the swamp, this returning call was much fainter, but it was all the nearby bird needed. The two whip-poor-wills—one close and the other far, far off—began calling back and forth in the quiet woods of Cherry Winche Swamp as the eastern light began to build through the silhouettes of the oak, beech, and hickory trees.
Eliza Clark, age sixteen on this day, leaned over and whispered to her sleeping brother, “Well, Eli, do you think my future husband’s thinking about me?” She sighed, “And jes’ where do you think he might be right now?”

(To learn more about the whip poor will and hear its wonderful call, click here.)

My great grandmother's first cousin, Mary Thompson Johnson. She was born in Dry Creek and taught school for many years in our community.

Aunt Mary is one of the composite characters I used to imagine Eliza.

Cherry Winche Creek

2008-03-30T15:48:00.002-06:00

This is Cherry Winche Creek not far from its junction with the Calcasieu River (in present day Allen Parish.)

This location would be near the fictional Arch and Mollie Weeks home. Here is Uncle Arch's explanation of the name of this stream:

Mollie waved her hand in mock disgust at Willard, and turned to Eliza, “Baby, have I ever told you how Cherry Winche Creek got its name?” Eliza had heard the same story by Aunt Mollie about a dozen times, but before she could reply, the old woman started, “Well, it was told to me that once on this creek, about five miles north of here, there lived a man who had a full-blooded Cherokee Indian wife. Some say he was a Negro. Others weren’t so sure, but his wife was definitely Indian. The man died suddenly and was buried along the creek. The Cherokee woman had nowhere to go and no family, so she stayed in their little cabin.
“Other arriving settlers began calling the creek that ‘Cherokee Woman’s Creek. ’Soon that got changed to Cherokee Wench’s Creek.”

Eli, who was leaning on Aunt Mollie’s knee, asked, “What’s a wench?”

“Well, baby, it’s a word for a woman that kind of lives alone. It can mean several things—some of them not good. Pretty soon, the creek became known as Cherokee Winche’s Creek. That just naturally got shortened down to ‘Cherry Winche Creek. ’”
Uncle Arch, was ready to take on his wife’s Cherry Winche story: “No, no, no. That ain’t how it happened. My mom, who’d been told it by her mom, told me many times how the creek got its name. Here’s how it goes—”
“Archie Weeks, I ain’t through with my part.”
“Woman, you wouldn’t be through with it by dark . It’s my turn now.”
He turned to the helpless Eli, who glanced from one to the other, “Boy, this here’s the real story.”

Aunt Mollie sadly shook her head as she yielded the floor. Eliza wondered if they argued like this even when no one else was present.

Arch said, “Son, it was named because of the cherry bark oaks that grow along its banks. They are the finest and straightest of the red oak family and are still common along here. The Indians, in their language, called it Cherry Bark Creek, and somehow got it scrambled up in English where it ended up being ‘Cherry Winche.’”
Mollie scoffed and commented as if her husband couldn’t hear her, “Last time he told the story he claimed it was wild cherry trees—Now it’s cherry bark oaks. The old feller can’t remember his own name half the time.”

Their sparring continued with each other. Neither of them noticed what Eliza saw: Her dad and Eli were leaning on each other, both snoring softly.

2008-03-08T19:30:00.000-06:00

Press Release for The Wayfaring Stranger

Curt Iles
Creekbank Stories
PO Box 332
Dry Creek, La 70637

http://www.creekbank.net/ toll free 1 866 520 1947 curtiles@aol.com

*******************For Immediate Release***************

Media outlets: If you would like a review copy, please contact us.

Included: Cover shot at end of blog

Headline: Louisiana author pens historical fiction, “The Wayfaring Stranger”

The Wayfaring Stranger, a historical novel, is the sixth book by Louisiana author Curt Iles.
This love story details the intertwining of the lives of two teenagers, Joseph Moore and Eliza Clark. Set in the mid-nineteenth century, the story begins with Joseph escaping from Ireland as a stowaway on a ship. At this same time, Eliza lives in the piney woods of western Louisiana in an area called “No Man’s Land.”
In alternating chapters, we learn about Eliza’s life among her mysterious and isolated clan called “Redbones” as well as follow Joseph’s winding journey through New Orleans and eventually into pioneer Louisiana. This contrasting and comparison of Ireland and the piney woods is woven throughout this page-turning book.
Joseph is drawn toward this area because of the opportunities for freedom and land ownership—things unavailable to him in Ireland. The Wayfaring Stranger chronicles Joseph’s journey from “being bitter to becoming better.” This recurring theme is the source of the book’s theme: “Because a journey can be much more than just miles.”
Reviewer Ben Corda comments on Eliza’s journey: “Eliza Clark, already a resident of Louisiana, is on more of an emotional journey. She is faced with struggles of her own and tries to make the best of them. These two separate journeys become one as she and Joseph meet under the long leaf pines that Eliza loves so much.”
Joseph and Eliza’s lives bisect at a crucial time in the history of this area as a timber company seeks to drive out the isolated settlers. Joseph’s status as an outsider tests their developing relationship and hard choices must be made. The culmination of this story features the final conflict testing this relationship.

The author answered these questions on The Wayfaring Stranger:
Q. What are readers enjoying most about your novel?
This book is about a journey, and everyone loves hearing about other people’s journeys. In addition, the best journeys are those of the heart, not just of the feet. That is why the story of Joseph’s journey from Ireland to Louisiana is gripping readers.
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 fascinating 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. What types of readers are enjoying your newest book?
Every age from teenagers on are reading this family-themed book which has sold over 1200 copies since its November release.
I’m especially pleased with the reception the book is getting among schools, libraries, churches, and among book clubs.

About the author
Curt Iles lives in his hometown of Dry Creek, Louisiana. He and his wife, DeDe, are the parents of three sons and two grandsons. Before entering his present career as an author/speaker, he served as a teacher, principal, and youth camp manager. He can be reached at curtiles@aol.com.

To read sample chapters, order autographed copies, and learn more, visit http://www.creekbank.net/ or call toll free 1 866 520 -1947
Book specifics: 210 pages Historical Fiction Trade Paperback
Publisher: Creekbank Stories Cost: $15.00 plus $3.00 shipping

2008-02-13T13:09:00.003-06:00

This is Debra Tyler's excellent map of the Ten Mile Country. It is featured in the second edition of The Wayfaring Stranger, soon to be released. To see more on an additional map, click here.

To see a larger view of Debra's map, or for printing purposes, click on the map.

2008-01-26T14:25:00.001-06:00

Press release for The Wayfaring Stranger by Curt Iles

*******************For Immediate Release***************
January 30, 2008

Attachment: Cover shot of novel/Text of press release

Headline: Louisiana author pens historical fiction, The Wayfaring Stranger

The Wayfaring Stranger, a historical novel, is the sixth book by Louisiana author Curt Iles.

This love story details the intertwining of the lives of two teenagers, Joseph Moore and Eliza Clark. Set in the mid-nineteenth century, the story begins with Joseph escaping from Ireland as a stowaway on a ship. At this same time, Eliza lives in the piney woods of western Louisiana in an area called “No Man’s Land.”

In alternating chapters, we learn about Eliza’s life among her mysterious and isolated clan called “Redbones” as well as follow Joseph’s winding journey through New Orleans and eventually into pioneer Louisiana. This contrasting and comparison of Ireland and the piney woods is woven throughout this page-turning book.

Joseph is drawn toward this area because of the opportunities for freedom and land ownership—things unavailable to him in Ireland. The Wayfaring Stranger chronicles Joseph’s journey from “being bitter to becoming better.” This recurring theme is the source of the book’s theme: “Because a journey can be much more than just miles.”

Reviewer Ben Corda comments on Eliza’s journey: “Eliza Clark, already a resident of Louisiana, is on more of an emotional journey. She is faced with struggles of her own and tries to make the best of them. These two separate journeys become one as she and Joseph meet under the long leaf pines that Eliza loves so much.”

Joseph and Eliza’s lives bisect at a crucial time in the history of this area as a timber company seeks to drive out the isolated settlers. Joseph’s status as an outsider tests their developing relationship and hard choices must be made. The culmination of this story features the final conflict testing this relationship.

The author answered these questions on The Wayfaring Stranger:

Q. What are readers enjoying most about your novel?
This book is about a journey, and everyone loves hearing about other people’s journeys. In addition, the best journeys are those of the heart, not just of the feet. That is why the story of Joseph’s journey from Ireland to Louisiana is gripping readers.

Q. Where did the idea for this book 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 fascinating 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. What types of readers are enjoying your newest book?
Every age from teenagers on are reading this family-themed book which has sold over 1200 copies since its November release. I’m especially pleased with the reception the book is getting among schools, libraries, churches, and among book clubs.

About the author
Curt Iles lives in his hometown of Dry Creek, Louisiana. He and his wife, DeDe, are the parents of three sons and two grandsons. Before entering his present career as an author/speaker, he served as a teacher, principal, and youth camp manager. He can be reached at curtiles@aol.com

To read sample chapters, order autographed copies, and learn more, visit http://www.creekbank.net/ or call toll free 1 866 520 -1947

Book specifics:
210 pages Historical Fiction Trade Paperback
Publisher: Creekbank Stories Cost: $15.00 plus $3.00 shipping

This is an ad appearing in The Baptist Message next week. It was designed by Chad Smith with The Touch Studios.

Ordering information for The Wayfaring Stranger

2007-11-19T15:47:00.000-06:00

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"

2007-09-13T22:39:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-31T08:22:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-24T16:14:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-23T22:10:00.001-05:00

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"

2007-04-23T20:13:00.001-05:00

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

2007-04-22T22:00:00.002-05:00

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

2007-04-22T17:48:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-21T19:07:00.001-05:00

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

2007-04-15T17:41:00.001-05:00

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

2007-04-13T18:30:00.002-05:00

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

2007-04-12T17:00:00.000-05:00

Chapter 10

Chapter 11 The Feud and Cherry Winche

2007-04-11T07:54:00.000-05:00

Chapter 11:
The Feud
and Cherry Winche

Chapter 12 New Orleans!

2007-04-10T09:25:00.000-05:00

Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Easter Cold Snap

2007-04-09T10:19:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-08T15:32:00.000-05:00

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!

2007-04-02T16:30:00.003-05:00

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

2007-04-01T23:38:00.001-05:00

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

2007-04-01T23:30:00.000-05:00

Chapter 26

Chapters 27 A Strange Bird

2007-04-01T22:30:00.000-05:00

Chapter 28 A Strange Bird
Date: Spring 1850

Chapters 28-42

2007-04-01T21:30:00.003-05:00

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

The Wayfaring Stranger is dedicated to my dad

2007-01-28T15:25:00.000-06:00

The Wayfaring Stranger is dedicated to the memory of my dad, Clayton Iles (1934-2003)

This picture is taken of two photos on the mantel at The Old House.

The picture on the left is my dad's HS graduation picture. The photo in the heart is of his younger brother, my Uncle Clint, who was killed soon after this first grade school picture was taken.

My dad was, and is, the best man I've known and will always be my hero.

He would have liked this book.

Goals for "The Wayfaring Stranger: La. Journey"

2007-01-02T22:25:00.000-06:00

5 Goals for The Wayfaring Stranger.

As you read the chapters, compare these goals. Am I fulfilling them? What are your suggestions to meet the goals better? I'm serious about reader input! -CI
1. The Message: To weave a captivating and entertaining story that reveals God’s guidance and love. Natural, positive but not preachy.

2. The Plot: To tell the inspiring love story between Joseph Moore and Eliza Clark.Likable characters who struggle to grow into better people.

3. Sub-Plot: The wonders of the woods and its bond with the people. A love and connection with the land of mid-19th century Louisiana and Ireland.

4. The Journey: Transport readers on a journey of faith and freedom. Compare and contrast these themes: forgiveness or bitterness/faith or cynicism/ roots vs. wandering/opposition vs. challenge.

5. The Details: Well-written, well-researched, and historically correct.