The Least Likely Places

by Cheri Chesley

My daughter--this beautiful creature here--and I were out for a drive Friday and, of course, talking. Really, because getting my kids to stop talking is quite the feat. :) My big van doesn't have a working radio, so we had to (gasp) communicate.

One of her favorite movies right now is How to Train Your Dragon. I tell you this because one of her favorite lines is one Gobber says: "Trolls exist; they steal your socks. But only the left ones. What's up with that?" The first few times I heard that line, I laughed. But now, I'm pretty over it. It got us thinking, though.

Why just left socks? And, if it's trolls stealing your socks, why haven't we seen them?

So we started brain storming. And now, it looks like we're going to write a book together. I'm excited. It's not going to be a long book--maybe it will just be a picture book--but we've solved the mystery of the missing socks.

Her best friend right now is the daughter of my friend who has cancer. My daughter has chosen to name the main character in the book after her friend. How cute is that?

Peek in the Past - The Old Prison Site

Another place from childhood memories of Knutsford, Cheshire, was the old Prison Site. This place conjured up the strangest imaginings in my young mind. I wasn’t old enough to understand the full extent of man’s suffering when freedom had gone, and all that was left was the monotony of four walls and memories of better times, but still, the old place had a feel to it that was creepy, yet compelling.

I often cycled over there on my black bike (a second-hand but repainted birthday gift from my parents), riding up and down the bumpy hills worn into uneven paths by years of feet taking a short cut to town.

The ground, which was about the size of two soccer fields, had been known locally as the “Prison Site” for so long that the words were more a title than a phrase, and the meaning forgotten—similar to the way Brits call a vacuum cleaner a Hoover, with no thought to the real meaning.

This aerial photograph of the prison dates from about 1930 before it was demolished. The four-storey prison was built in 1853 to hold a hundred women. It was known as the 'House of Correction' in 1860, when it held 273 prisoners, with a capacity for 700, according to Joan Leach in her book Behind Prison Walls. And David Woodley, in his book, Knutsford Prison: The Inside Story, says, “Over the years, as well as local criminals, debtors and offenders against the Game and Bastardy Laws, Knutsford Prison housed disaffected Chartists and those awaiting transportation. From 1886, until it was taken over by the Home Office as an Army detention barrack in 1915, nine executions took place on its scaffold.”

When we lived nearby, the old prison had long been knocked to the ground, leaving heaps of brick and rubble over which grass and weeds grew in wild abundance. No one ever questioned why the debris wasn’t removed. It stayed there until after we moved home when I was twelve, and provided secret caverns big enough for my hand to insert small treasures, buttons, and a bright-but-broken Christmas ornaments. I always closed the hole containing my secret booty with a brick marked with chalk.

Sometimes, the contents would disappear by the time I next visited my hole, and that’s when I invented stories about prisoners still in dungeons below the ground, who took my gifts to perk up their days. Of course, they were always innocent prisoners, wrongly captured for crimes uncommitted, and there was always a fair maiden (me) waiting for the right moment to rescue the rugged hero. Actually, my heroes all looked like Cornel Wilde, an actor in a movie I saw with my mother. He was a trapeze artist in the 1952 version of The Greatest Show on Earth.

That was the first movie I ever watched, and it marked the beginning of an enchantment with the silver screen and all things connected. In England, trips to the cinema were called “going to the pictures.” As I grew older, I added stage musicals, concerts, and pantomimes, and invariably became so absorbed in the tale that the end always came too soon and it was a shock to find the world around me hadn’t changed.

By the way, in more recent years, the old Prison Site became the home of Booths Supermarket, and I understand there are reports of paranormal activity by local residents. Oh, for the time to write more. There has to be a good story in there, somewhere.

Back in two weeks. Oh, and if you'd like to read the latest review of Famous Family Nights, hop on over to author Sherry Ann Miller's blog by clicking HERE. Her first sentence says, "Famous Family Nights . . . is one of the best books I've ever read on Family Home Evenings." Thank you, Sherry Ann, you made my day. And I have to add, all credit for it being that good goes to the 91 participants who sent in their fascinating stories. Hats off to them all.

Peek in the Past - The Bottomless Pond

There were many places in and around our home in Knutsford, Cheshire, for a child to wander. And wander I did. In those days, it never entered my head there might be danger lurking. Besides, I had my super-charged horse, right? On days when I felt like exploring beyond our street, my old bike became Snowball (see previous post) and together we were either invincible, or invisible. Sometimes both.

I tied rope to the handlebars and pretended it was reins - hanging onto the rope instead of the handles. Until one day, the front wheel hit a rock and I flew off, landing on bare knees. Oh, the agony for weeks. It didn’t stop me from doing it again, though. It’s not funny how some children have to learn the hard way. Now, when I see someone riding a bike no-hands, I cringe for them.

A favorite haunt was several narrow lanes away, past the field, past my little country school, out through the village and down the never-ending hill to neatly hedged farmland. That hill was a dream to ride down, and a nightmare to ride up. Near the hill’s end was a field with a bottomless pond. Adults warned that children drowned in its creepy depths. Maybe that's why I was always alone there.

That pond was dark mystery; home to weird water creatures; a place where fish talked, horses drank, and I never dared paddle.

I still recall the sweet smell, though. Today, if I walk past a field of wheat stubble with its earthy grass scent, memories of that English field and the scary pond come flooding back. In those days, when more farming was done by hand, even the stooks (swathes of cut grain stalks) were fuel for the imagination. They looked like wigwams to me, and made good homes for pretend Indian mice. And the haunting shrill of plump-bellied Skylarks added a tuneful backdrop to my fantasies.

One time, I lay on my stomach and reached out with an empty jam jar from my saddlebag for a dollop of floating frogspawn, rescuing it from the jaws of the Loch Ness Monster’s daughter.

Thinking about it now, ominous shapes beneath the murky water were probably shadows of passing clouds. But to me, Miss Nessy was down there and she had an alarming appetite.

So I scooped as much slippery frogspawn as I could reach, into the jar, covered it with a once-white handkerchief and secured this with a rubber band, then set it upright in my saddlebag—which wouldn’t buckle up. Precarious, really.

I wobbled back up that hill with my slimy treasure, being extra careful to avoid bumps in the road, and sneaked my booty down cold stone steps into the cellar below our house. Growing tadpoles was great fun, especially when they turned into frogs. But more about that another day. I must return to 2009 and do some writing.

PS
Feel free to join a Facebook group for Famous Family Nights by clicking HERE.

Where Mom is, There the Fun is Also!

By Rachel Rager

The morning dawned bright and cool but promised to warm up toward the afternoon. I unbuckled Layla and Seryn from their car seats and proceeded to herd the children into the house. Having just dropped off Lylli at school, the younger two quickly darted toward her desk to rummage around for treasure.
“Girls, stay out of Lylli’s desk! Why don’t you come in the kitchen and color,” I suggested, hoping that would keep them out of the way while I did last night’s dishes. Crusted food clung to the tower of plates and pans piled precariously in the sink and on the neighboring counter. Before I endeavored to attack that task, I placed coloring books and crayons on the table. The girls raced into the kitchen in a whirl of noise and giggles and climbed up to the table. I prayed they would stay occupied for a good half hour and that I wouldn’t have to clean crayon off the walls later.
To my relief, the girls were engaged in the activity longer than I’d hoped. Not only was I able to get the dishes loaded into the dishwasher and the counter cleared off, I was able to make it into the bathroom unnoticed and start to work on that germ and dirt infested room. However, before I was able to do much, Layla, my three-year-old, hollered from the kitchen.
“Mom! Seryn needs her britches changed! She’s stinky!”
“Ugh,” I groaned. But, rather than see another diaper rash break out on my one-year-old’s bottom, I called, “Come here, Seryn, and Mommy will change your diaper,” in as pleasant of voice as I could muster.
Seryn came running through the house to me, as fast as her little legs would carry her. I changed her diaper and after seeing her back to the kitchen to color, I returned to my chore of cleaning the bathroom. One of the dirtiest rooms of the house, the bathroom seemed to need cleaning at least twice a week. I grumbled as I worked. With five people in the family, the bathroom never stayed clean, and I didn't seem to get to it nearly as often as I wanted.
One reason the bathroom was so dirty was that the girls had learned to scale the drawers in order to reach the counter, thoroughly frightening their mother. From there, they loved to stand on the counter and search for things within the vanity – preferably my make-up or the toothpaste – or play in the water, claiming to wash their hands and leaving puddles of water all over the bathroom.
“Mommy, I want to help. Can I help clean?” Layla asked, with Seryn trailing right behind her.
“Honey, Mommy just wants to get this done. Why don’t you girls go find some books to read?”
“I don’t want to read. Can we play outside?”
“Not right now. I want to be able to watch you. Maybe you could play when I go out to weed later.”
“Can we play with the play dough? We’ll stay in the kitchen.”
“Mommy’s cleaning today. Could you go straighten your room? That would be a big help. Do you want to help Mommy by cleaning your room?”
“Sure!” she squealed and darted off to clean her room.
If they actually managed to get their room clean, that would be a huge help and one less thing for me to worry about. If not, perhaps they would at least stay busy for a while. I would much rather be out enjoying the sun at the park instead of working inside. Cleaning is invigorating, but I wished I could go outside and enjoy the warmth of the day. Oh well, I sighed and quickly set about finishing the bathroom.
When I was done, I trudged down the stairs, already weary from a busy morning. Undoubtedly the sheets would be dry and ready to be put on the beds. I opened the dryer and retrieved the sheets. They were so warm! The smell of fabric softener permeated the air as I buried my face in them. I loved the smell of freshly laundered sheets, so warm and inviting, I wanted nothing more than to wrap them around myself and cuddle up with a good book. But I still had bills to pay and weeds to pull on this fine spring morning. So, ignoring my impulses, I quickly headed up the stairs to make the beds.
The girls had become distracted in their cleaning adventure and now raced little Tonka trucks across the hardwood floors in the living room. I tried to walk around them without stepping on one of the toys as I made my way to their room. All three girls shared a room and I quickly put sheets on the crib first. I then began with the mattress of the bottom bunk bed and finished it off with the quilt.
As I moved to the top bunk, my little sweethearts came barreling into the room. Trying to finish quickly in an effort to get the bills paid before the mailman arrived, I vaguely registered that Layla and Seryn had climbed onto the freshly made bed and were playing around – undoubtedly rumpling the neatly tucked-in sheets.
After a brief moment, Layla said, “Mom, can you please leave so we can jump on the bed?”
What a day it had been. I’d been so busy doing my chores I don’t think I’d smiled all day long. Now, of course, I wanted to laugh! Why on earth would a child ask her mother to leave the room and then admit the crime she was about to commit? Knowing if I laughed, the teaching moment would be for naught, I swallowed my amusement. Sitting down on the bed of the bottom bunk by my daughter’s side, there was enough room for me to sit up straight. There would probably be ample room for her little body to jump, if she hunched over. Still, I could not allow it.
“Honey, you can’t be jumping on the bed. You might fall and get hurt and that would make Mommy very sad.”
“Could I break my leg?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be careful,” she said with a confident look in her eye.
“Layla, we don’t jump on the bed.”
“But it's just pretend. See? Watch!” She bent her little legs for maximum power and leaped across the bed as Seryn giggled and started to bounce with her. “That's not a real jump, Mom.”
A giggle burst from deep within me as I began to laugh. Of course it was a jump! But in her mind, since it wasn’t high, the jump hardly constituted breaking the rules. Rather than scold further, I gathered my giggling girls in my arms with a big hug and laughed, enjoying the togetherness of mother and daughters. For a brief moment, my heart swelled and I remembered – amidst the demands of my day – the reason I am so grateful to be a mother. Nothing matches the tender, precious moments of enjoying my children.

Peek in the Past - Watling Street and Old Aggie's Wisdom Tooth

In my last post, I mentioned a scary incident where one of my stories diverted family attention from disaster. More about this adventure today.

In 1950s England there were no motorways (freeways), and little old English roads wandered here and there through villages and towns in whimsical fashion. And still do, by the way. However, ancient Roman Roads connected larger cities with straight/ish lines. Most Roman Roads now have new roads built over them, such as the A5.

The A5 is a major road in the UK. It was also the first Roman built road in England hence the name Roman Road. It runs for about 260 miles from London to Holyhead, Wales, following in part a section of the Roman route which the Anglo-Saxons name Watling Street.

Although the A5 was an improvement on minor roads, in the 1950s it had many bends, bridges, and narrow places. It was on one of these winding, tight roads that our family drama took place. I still remember details to this day.

My Mum and Dad were in the front seats, with Dad driving. I was in the back, sandwiched between my twin siblings (no seat belts in UK then), telling them a story. I was about 8 and they were 5½. We were returning home from a visit to our aunt and uncle who lived in Watford, Hertfordshire.

My story had reached a gripping moment (Minny the Tooth Fairy, who lived in old Aggie’s wisdom tooth, was about to be slaughtered by the dentist), when both my parents gasped and my Dad let out a scary yell. And nope, they weren’t engrossed by my zany tale. The horror was on the road ahead.

We had crossed a narrow bridge and were about to round a blind bend. I looked up and saw a massive lorry (truck) coming at us, using most of the road. By some miracle, Dad managed to flip the wheel and take us up the embankment, teetering along the edge before lurching back onto the road the other side of the fiercely hooting lorry.

Fortunately, because they were still living in my fairy tale, the twins didn’t panic. They were low enough in the seat to miss the drama, and simply poked me to carry on with the story. I’m sure my voice must have trembled. I can’t remember how Minny escaped from Aggie's tooth because my brain still clings to reruns of the near crash.

Looking back, and knowing what I now know about angels, I think one must have been helping us that day. Come to think of it, I've had more than a few narrow escapes on British roads. Another incident much later in life was equally frightening. But more about that another day. And yes, it was writing related :-)

PS
Feel free to join a Facebook group for Famous Family Nights by clicking HERE.

Peek in the Past - Igloos, Tigers, and Friendly Giants

Today, I’d like to delve into childhood some more—when time seemed to last forever, and responsibilities consisted of remembering to feed my rabbit in the hutch I built from boxes; take Gyp the dog for walks; and collect runner beans from the garden for mum to cook for dinner. And the sun always shone. Well, maybe not. England isn’t known for sunny days. But in my memory, there was plenty of sunshine. Imagination can work a magic of its own no matter what.

Snowball (see last post) often left the attic and followed wherever I went - on foot, bike, or roller skates - my invisible friend was all the protection I needed back then. These days, I’d be worried sick if my granddaughters wandered alone.
A favorite place for make-believe was across the road from our Victorian semi in Knutsford. There was a large field occupied by an ancient carthorse, and beyond the field, down an embankment was the railway line. When I walked the length of the field and climbed a fence at the far end, I could jump onto the embankment and edge my way along the top until I came to a gap in the shrubs. Once through, I slithered halfway down the steep slope to the next ledge. There, Snowball and I stretched out on the grass and watched for trains.

It was a quiet place until a steam train clattered past. The occasional bumblebee droned and drooled over pollen in scattered wild flowers, and spectacular clouds formed igloos, tigers, and friendly giants overhead. It was the perfect spot for my fairy people who lived among the matted roots. Their adventures occupied space in my mind for many years.

One story eventually popped out at a traumatic family moment. More about that in my next post. I have to gather photographs for Famous Family Nights right now.

PS
Feel free to join a Facebook group for Famous Family Nights by clicking HERE.

Introducing...Rachel Rager

I’ve been thinking a lot over the last week an a half about what I would say on my first post. Unfortunately, when I sit down to the computer to talk about myself, I freeze. Not to mention, I am the last new blogger to put in my intro. Perhaps everyone is tired of reading about the authors here. But, I want you to know me as a writer and as a person.
I love to write! And what better way to pass the time? It’s therapeutic in so many ways. Yet when I sit down to my computer and read all the introductions of these great authors I blog with, I get intimidated because I’m so new. Yes, I am a very new author! My first book, By Love or By Sea, was published in April 2009. And what a great adventure it’s been!
You might say, “Well, Rachel, you published a book. That counts for something.”
And it does! I have loved the journey I took to get published! It is a great accomplishment. Especially for someone like me, who couldn’t spell well as a child and didn’t like to read and didn’t do it well either. So, it’s amazing that I ever desired to write a book and see it to fruition. (Therefore, please forgive me for my spelling and grammatical errors. I like them!)
You may ask what my passions were before I began to write. Well, I majored in Vocal Performance. That’s right, I sing. Opera, specifically. I’m a coloratura soprano (that means I sing REALLY high.) When I was young, my mom would play the piano for the musicals at the college and I would often go with her to rehearsals. I LOVE musical theater! It helped make me the hopeless romantic that I am. And I always dreamed of starring in a play someday.
Unfortunately, this was a dream I never saw to fruition, for I got married and had three beautiful daughters. Do I regret that I never fulfilled that dream? No. I star in all my stories!
You may ask, “Rachel, if you hated reading and loved to sing, how did you start writing?”
Honestly, I owe my choice in this matter to one person. Marcia Lynn McClure. Shortly after my first daughter was born, my mother-in-law gave me A Heavenly Surrender to read. I loved it and eagerly searched out more of Marcia’s books. At the time, she only had three in print, but I devoured them!
Then one night I had a dream and when I woke up, I decided to try and write it down. Did I imagine anything might come of it? Of course not. I didn’t even know if I’d have the patience to sit and write all those words! Still, I eagerly wrote down an outline and then timidly told my husband. I will always remember the doubtful look on his face as he said, “Well…I guess if you really want to.”
I told no one else! Instead I wrote. After a month of typing during my daughter’s naps and while my husband was in classes, I finished. And it was terrible! But I had done what I set out to do. So I edited and submitted it. (Only then did I tell my mother, who was floored by my revelation.)
Needless to say, my first attempt was rejected, but I persisted. I kept rewriting, editing, and even began writing another book. I also broadened my horizons and read tons of books. With each rewrite or book I read, I learned more and more. Finally, after five years, I had written five stories. I submitted my third story and finally got a contract with CFI. Six years (almost to the month) after I started writing, I accomplished another goal and held a copy of my book in my hands. What a journey and what an incredible accomplishment!
So to anyone just starting out, I would say learn all you can, never give up, and enjoy it!