Why do we live in the woods?

Because dogwood blooms surround us in April.

All of these photos were taken from my yard. No matter which direction I turn there is God-given beauty.

What happened to Spring?

We had a few lovely days.

My crocus bloomed. The tulips, jonquils, and lillies were all up and looking fine.

Richard and I took long walks, listening to the spring birds singing.

I made an invitation to my

"Let's Celebrate Spring" party. I ordered goodies for the Easter egg hunt.

Then, on Monday, March 14, we woke up to THIS!

I took pictures as we left the house and on our slow and careful drive to the library. Eight inches on the ground at 8 a.m. and it kept snowing all day long with great big wet flakes that looked like snowballs coming down.

Now - to add insult to injury - the Farmer's Almanac editor was on the news saying the big snow is next

week!

Why do I try to write a novel every November??

National Novel Writing Month is just a few days away. Every year at midnight on Halloween night thousands of writers sit down at their computers and start typing furiously as we try to complete a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. Every year I swear I'm not going to do it this year. And every year, sometime during this last week, I succumb to the excitement and anticipation in the air and on the net. I signed up again this year.

Why did I do that? I already have five unfinished novels from previous Novembers! It would make more sense to finish one of those, or get started on another non-fiction book (the kind I actually finish and publish.)

But nanowrimo.org isn't about making sense. It's about having fun, letting loose, turning on the creative juices and pumping it out as fast as you can! It's exhilarating!

I can hardly wait!

Last year the Fulton group had a kick off party at Pizza Hut. That's me in the middle of the back row.

Why do we wait for a holiday to visit family?

We spent July 4th with my husband's sister's family. It was a lovely long day of visiting, barbecue, and fireworks. What more could you ask? I took a few pictures.

What does the Brainstormer do?

Check out The Brainstormer by Andrew Bosley. Is it art? Is it a tool for writers who need to brainstorm ideas or plot points? Is it both? It doesn't matter, frankly... I just think it's cool and will keep you all busy all weekend!

Why don't I write?

Here's a poem by Gregory K. over at GottaBook that explains it all.

REASONS WHY I DON’T WRITE
by
Gregory K.

Errands
Cooking
Cleaning up

Nothing
In my
Coffee cup

Snail mail
E-mail
Blogging, too

Crosswords
Comics
Sudoku

Phone calls
Lunches
Fear of debt

Daydreams
Nap times
Internet

Laundry
Sunsets
Batting cage

“Research”
iTunes
Empty page

Why don't we read poetry out loud to our kids any more?

Jacqueline Woodson, Walter Dean Myers, and Kathi Appelt are just some of the writers who’ll take part in 30 Poets/30 Days, a celebration of children's poetry during National Poetry Month.

Every day in April, author Gregory K. Pincus’s GottaBook blog and Twitter site will feature a previously unpublished poem by a different poet—and it’s completely free and open 24/7.

Pincus says last year’s inaugural 30 Poets/30 Days was such a huge success, with thousands of people reading poems and schools and education sites participating in the event. “I received wonderful e-mails from teachers and librarians who used the poems as a launching pad to teach poetry or feature different poets,” he says.

Other participants include Alan Katz, whose humorous rhyming books such as Oops (S & S 2008) are hugely entertaining for kids, and Charles R. Smith Jr, the photographer behind My People (Atheneum, 2009), the 2010 winner of the Coretta Scott King Award for Illustrations.

“Poetry to me is life, because words are life. The Tao Te Ching says that if we want to be pure of spirit, we must be pure of speech,” Smith says. “When I write poetry, I am looking to get to the truth through words. My mantra is ‘waste no words’ so I can honestly say that my career has been built one word at a time.”

All poems from last yea are available online, including “I Dreamt I Saw a Dinosaur,” submitted by Mary Ann Hoberman, the Poetry Foundation's current Children's Poet Laureate and a recipient of the NCTE Award for Excellence in Poetry for Children. )

National Poetry Month sponsored by the Academy of American Poets, which began the event in 1996. More activities can be found at www.Kidlitosphere.com

Why do yellow flowers make me feel so good?

After a very sad day on Monday, I woke up Tuesday morning to find these lovely daffodils in my front yard. Today, I walked around my yard and found Spring everywhere.

How much longer?

Dreary winter road, originally uploaded by Carolyn Branch.

I'm really tired of Winter. Okay?

Why is Candlemas now called Groundhog's Day?

It's no accident that Groundhog Day and Candlemas are celebrated together, for both signify the triumph of light over darkness, spring over winter.

Candlemas was originally a Celtic festival marking the "cross-quarter day," or midpoint of the season. The Sun is halfway on its advance from the winter solstice to the spring equinox. Candlelit processions accompanied the feast day.

Since the traditional Candlemas celebration anticipated the planting of crops, a central focus of the festivities was the forecasting of either an early spring or a lingering winter. Sunshine on Candlemas was said to indicate the return of winter. Similarly, "When the wind’s in the east on Candlemas Day / There it will stick till the second of May."

A bear brought the forecast to the people of France and England, while those in Germany looked to a badger for a sign. In the 1800s, German immigrants to Pennsylvania brought their Candlemas legends with them. Finding no badgers but lots of groundhogs, or woodchucks, there, they adapted the New World species to fit the lore.

Passing in Silence

Passing in Silence, originally uploaded by Carolyn Branch.

What wonders will our future hold?

From the Fulton Telegraph, April 24, 1874

A marvelous century. A hundred years ago there were no railroads, steamboats, telegraph lines, gas-burners, furnaces, sewing machines, photographs, friction matches, revolvers, percussion caps, india-rubber shoes, and above all, no free schools.

I found this "marvelous century" quote while doing research for my book on the history of Fulton. It was basically a "filler", used by Editor John Williams to fill leftover space at the end of a column. Imagine what Mr. Williams would think of all the wonders of this marvelous century! He would not believe how much the world has changed since he wrote those lines 135 years ago. What do we take for granted today that was undreamed of in 1874? I tried to make a list, but soon realized it would be much too long to be used as a filler.

It's almost easier to turn the idea around and ask what has not changed. What would Mr. Williams recognize as familiar and relatively unchanged? I picture him walking through the streets of Fulton, looking around at our town. Perhaps only the natural world would reassure him. Grass is still green and growing, trees still shade the streets, an occasional squirrel still chatters from an overhead limb. People on the street would still be basically the same human creatures, although he might be startled by our clothing and speech.

But if he looked overhead at the wide blue sky he would see long vapor trails of jets passing through the heavens.

Do you have insurance? No? Go ahead and kill yourself.

A friend of mine has been struggling with depression for months. Last week she wrote a suicide note and tried to kill herself. Pulled back from the edge, she agreed to get some help. Her mother started making telephone calls to try to get that help for her. Everywhere she called, the first questions were the same: "Does she have insurance? What policy? Can you pay the deductible today?"

After three days of calls and trips to hospitals, she was accepted into a program more than 150 miles away. Her mother borrowed $1500 to pay the deductible required by the mental illness clause in her insurance policy. The program administrator made it clear she would not have been accepted without the insurance policy and the $1500.

What happens to mentally unbalanced people who don't have insurance? The attitude of our health care system seems to be: "Just go ahead and kill yourself." Or kill your kids, or your neighbors, or strangers on the street.

Health Insurance Profits Buy Your Elected Officials

Health Insurance Profits Buy Your Elected Officials, originally uploaded by ^Berd.

Why do I support health care reform?

The short answer: because I strongly believe health care reform is urgently needed.

I have been reading about and experiencing health care problems for many years. I could tell you what I have seen among my friends and family: a two year old who died in his mothers arms on the 25 mile trip to a hospital that would accept an uninsured patient; the midddle aged woman who walks with a permanant limp because she broke her foot and decided to tough it out because she had no insurance; the well insured middle-class family whose child was born with a devastating illness and reached her "lifetime" cap before she reached 12....

I could tell you about my own battles with insurance company bureaucrats who make the real decisions about what kind of health care we get, when, and how often.

But those are just stories. Take a look at some facts. How does our present system treat the weakest and most vulnerable among us: the very young and the old?

INFANT MORTALITY RATE - This rate is often used as an indicator of the level of health in a country. It tracks the number of deaths of infants under one year old in a given year per 1,000 live births in the same year. The United States rank is 46. We're right there between Cuba and Croatia. Who else is ahead of the United States, besides Croatia? Almost everybody, including Canada, the United Kingdom, and Germany, Japan, etc. Why is it, if we have the best health care system in the world - that we can't keep our babies alive?

LIFE EXPECTANCY - The United States ranks 49. That means there are 48 other countries where a native born citizen can xpect to live longer than we do! What does that say for our health care system?

Oh - there is one statistic where we get a high number: percentage of LIFE LIVED IN ILL HEALTH. We are right up there with that one - number 9. We don't live as long, and more of the time we do live, we are too sick to enjoy life. Look around you. You know that one is true.

Why can't I sleep?

That's a question lots of other people are asking themselves right now.  

According to http://www.emedicinehealth.com 

30 - 50% of the general population has insomnia. The percentage is even higher among alcoholics, the aged, and mental patients.  I used to pride myself on being just another sad statistic among the general population, but lately I think I'm beginning to slip into one or both of the last two categories. I'm not an alcoholic, but I might consider it if I thought it would help.  

That same article says insomnia is a sympton, not a standalone disorder.  Great. Now  I have something else to worry about: a symptom of WHAT?  Sounds like it could be just about anything.  The site lists at least a hundred possible causes, ranging from jet lag to brain tumor.  Wait...there's a section on food, too. What you eat can keep you awake.  Well, I knew that. Chili keeps me awake, for instance. But I didn't eat chili tonight.

The medical articles don't mention email, facebook, twitter, or blogging as possible causes.  Are they causes? Or does insomnia itself result in excessive online involvement?

Am I excessively involved? Or just trying to keep up....

Never mind. I'm going back to bed. Right now.

Why does my Writer's Critique Group session leave me feeling SO Great?

I just got back from a three hour critique session with four other female writers. We all emailed the group a new chapter of our novels last week. Today we went over everybody's chapter practically line-by-line, giving advice and impressions on general themes and even nit-picking over specific word choices.

I had so much fun! Even better, I came home fired up to write. Not content to just relax and enjoy the inspiration, I keep wondering WHY our sessions always affect me this way.

One of the women had to babysit her granddaughter today, so we met in the playspace at McDonalds. Nobody complained, we all know we might be the one  who can't get away from the kids next time. Besides it doesn't seem to matter where we meet. When we're together we block out all the noise and distractions and just concentrate on each other and on the writing.

When we started meeting over a year ago, I knew some of the advantages for being in a critique group, but I didn't know how much help the group would provide. First, it provides me a writing deadline. Every two weeks the group meets and that means constantly producing new material. This deadline pushes me to schedule time for writing and polishing my work.

I knew having other writers examine my work would give me fresh insight, marketing ideas and help on the manuscript before sending it out to an editor.  But I didn't realize how much this extra polish would improve my writing.

The critique group is an excellent atmosphere to exchange ideas with other writers. I get the benefit of receiving their input, experience and encouragement. Showing your manuscript to another person involves risk. What if they don't like it? Better to hear that from a fellow writer and polish it some more, than send the article all over the country, receive rejections slips, and never know why. 

But all that still doesn't quite explain my critique group "high".  I think that may be explained on a more elemental level: the value of female friendship. 

I believe friendships, our social connections are vital to emotional health. Friends provide a unique support that we cannot receive from families or children. Friends care about us as individuals and they care about our opinions and our feelings. They also enhance how we feel about ourselves.

Sometimes, women get so caught up in caring for families, spouses, children, jobs and a million other responsibilities that girlfriends may be the only people who can reach out to us and let us slow down. They share our experiences. They tell us jokes. They listen to our stories. We need girlfriends. 

Why do I always read my horoscope?

Today it says I should quit chasing my impossible dream and take care of my current responsibilities. At least, I think that's what it said. let me go back and copy the exact wording...

You may not be easily satisfied and stabilizing your life would be simpler if you weren't attracted to something that's out of reach. Don't waste any time or effort trying to fulfill your desires today. Instead, just apply yourself toward meeting your current obligations. It might not seem as much fun as chasing a dream, but the rewards at the end of the day will justify your concentration and determination.

Okay - not "impossible dream" just something that's out of reach.  The thing is,  I was typing furiously on my novel and I took a break to check my email. There it was on my iGoogle page - the horoscope widget - telling me my dream of publishing a novel is "out of reach."

I used to see my horoscope just once in a while when I happened to look at the local paper.  But now, thanks to Google, it's right there every day. Sometimes it's an affirmation that makes me smile - but more often lately it seems to be quietly scolding me - reminding me to be nice to my co-workers, take care of my family, appreciate the little things, grow up and face my responsibilities.

I know, logically, horoscopes are for entertainment only. I know I'm pulling meaning out of my own subconscious fears and anxieties. I know this. I'm not superstitious. I'm not stupid.

Even though I know all that..... I'm going to delete that blasted horoscope widget from my iGoogle page.

When did we stop making our own stuff?

Boone Hospital Center – Room 3029

3:00 a.m. Sunday, January 18, 2009

This is my tenth night in the hospital.  Six nights since the triple bypass. It must be time to go home, because here I am journaling/blogging in the middle of the night.

For some reason, I’ve been noticing ‘made in’ tags here at the hospital. Like they’ve been telling us, it’s a world economy. This composition book I’m scribbling in was made in India. The white woven blanket on my bed was made in Pakistan.  Although the front of the tag proclaims it to be from the Phoenix Textile Corporation. In the bathroom I found baby wipes from the Allegiance Company, made in Israel.  I picture hundreds of huge shipping containers each tightly packed with thousands of wet baby wipes. Israel always looks like a dry country when I see it on the news. A place where water is a precious commodity. And yet, all over America people are wiping their bottoms with water from Israel.  What’s wrong with this picture?  How can it be more profitable to make and ship baby wipes from Israel instead of putting them together in the Cheeseborough-Pond’s factory over in Jeff City?  The one that laid everybody off and closed down years ago.

I can’t criticize the hospital or anybody else. The nightgown I have on is soft and warm, well-made, and made in China. I bought it last week at Wal-Mart for $5.00.

I just had to switch pens. The one I was using, made in China, was getting scratchy. This one, also made in China, is much smoother. The telephone on my little rolling bedside table was also made in China. But I found the facial tissues sitting here were made in the USA. Hurray! Nice to know if we can’t make the fancy wet wipes, we still have at least one plant producing the dry kind. I could go on and on. Maybe I already did… This room is full of stuff: complicated electronic medical equipment, sheets, towels, chairs, TV, etc. – stuff brought here from all over the world.

When did it happen? When did we quit making our own stuff? When I was young, back in the early sixties, owning something foreign made meant that it was either cheap and junky OR very expensive and well-made. But not ordinary. The ordinary stuff came from a plant in the next town over, or maybe from New Jersey or Michigan.

‘Made in Japan’ was the tip-off for cheap. The stuff you picked up at the dime store, like little ceramic figurines to sit on an end table or plastic toys the kids would tear up the first week.

‘Made in Germany’, Switzerland, or England meant you were buying the best hand crafted items: knives, watches, clocks, fine china. Do the best, most expensive luxury goods still come from Europe? I don’t know. I was never in the market for luxury goods, and Lord knows, that has not changed.

Today, Obama rolled through Philadelphia, Delaware, Baltimore, and into Washington making speeches and promises about a new beginning for America. If he is successful in all he hopes to accomplish – maybe more of our ordinary stuff will be made by ordinary Americans.

Marvin's Money - a short story


When the dogs started raising Cain out front Bess went straight to the front door and peeked through the lace curtains. Time was she would have just thrown the door wide open without looking. The dogs carrying on like that meant company, and used to be company was always welcome at River View. But times had changed, and now she always looked first. The young man standing on the front porch looked harmless enough. He was dressed in ragged jeans and a tee shirt, his thin face showing his fear as he glanced back over his shoulder at the hounds. He was about 16, barely driving age, Bess thought. She figured he most likely turned off on the wrong road and got lost.
She opened the door and ordered the dogs into silence. The young man stepped inside quickly, slipping past Bess without so much as an ‘excuse me’. Then he pulled the screen door closed, leaving the dogs outside whining in frustration.
“They don’t bite,” Bess assured him, “they’re all bark”
“I wasn’t scared! Did you think I was scared of the dogs? I wasn’t scared.”
Bess smiled. “Well, some folks are. They do make a lot of noise.”
The young man thrust his hand into the pockets of his worn jeans, jingling change with his fingers as he stepped further into the room, craning his neck around to look all around the room.
“Are you here by yourself, Ma'am?” Bess didn’t like that question, the hairs on the back of her neck started to prickle with unease.
“No, I’m not by myself. My husband’s at home. Did you want to see him?” Bess leaned out the screen door. Harley had come out of the barn and was looking up toward the house. She motioned for him to come.
Harley threw her a look when he came in. He wasn’t happy with her. He was always reminding her not to open the door to a stranger when she was alone in the house. She was sure she would hear all about it later. For now, though, he kept most of his attention focused on the kid.
“What brings you way out here?”
“Oh, I was just kind of looking for a place to hunt. I hear there’s a whole bunch of deer hiding out up here on these bluffs.”
“You heard that, huh?”
“Yeah, I heard there was some bucks with really big horns.”
“Horns?”
“Yeah, you know, like a whole tree branch on their head?”
“I know. We most generally call them antlers, though.” Harley’s voice was mild.
“Yeah…antlers.” The kid didn’t even know enough to be embarrassed. He had moved away from the foyer and was wandering through the living room, looking over the framed family photos on the walls. Bess watched in horror as he picked up her favorite glass bluebird, turned it over in his hands, and carelessly put it back down too close to the edge of the end table. All the time his eyes kept moving, roving over everything from her knitting basket beside her chair to Grandma's mantel clock above the fireplace. He’s acting like this is a gift shop, Bess thought indignantly, like he can’t find what he’s looking for…
Without invitation, the young man unceremoniously seated himself in Harley's favorite chair. “You have a real nice place here,” he announced.
“Thank you.” Bess responded automatically. She stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, torn between the habit of good manners and her growing sense of unease. She would usually offer refreshments to any guest, however uninvited. But she really wanted this insolent young man out of her house, and offering him a cup of coffee might prolong his stay. When she saw Harley sit down on the sofa across from the boy, she followed his lead and perched uneasily on the edge of a rocker near the kitchen door.
The boy had picked up the bluebird again and was tossing it casually back and forth between his hands as his eyes continued to roam over the room.
“I don’t believe I caught your name?” Her husband waited for a response, but the boy sat there with a little smile on his face and didn’t say a word. After a minute, Harley tried again, “my name is Johnson and…..”
“I know who you are," the boy interrupted. "And I know your wife’s name, too. Bess? Isn’t that right? And your son is Jim Johnson, the sheriff of the whole damm county, right?"
“You know my son?”
“Sure. I know him.”
“I guess Jim must be the one who told you about the hunting out here?”
“Yeah! Jim told me to come on out and hunt. But I thought it’d be, you know, polite, to stop and talk with you folks first.”
“That was real..polite..of you.”
Bess watched the stilted conversation in silence. Every word out of the kid’s mouth made it more obvious that he didn’t know her son at all. Jim was very protective of River Bluffs' 400 acres. No one hunted out here anymore. Not even Jim.
Harley didn’t challenge the kid on his lies, though, so she held her tongue, waiting and watching.
“Let’s go for a walk.” Harley’s voice was still quiet and genial. “I’ll show you the best hunting spots.”
“Naah..I think I’d like to just stay in here a while, where it’s nice and cool, you know?” The boy stood up and stretched, making the tattoos on his forearm jump as he flexed his muscles.
She saw now he wasn’t as young as she had first thought. Although his face was smooth and thin, his shoulders were broad under the loose tee shirt. He walked to the front window. Now he was between Harley and the door. “Sure seems strange to look out and not see nobody,” he commented as he pulled the lace curtain aside. “The last house I passed must be a couple miles back. That’s a long ways to your nearest neighbors, huh? Don’t it make you nervous, living way out here all by yourself?”
“No, why should we be nervous? We have company all the time. We have a lot of friends. But we haven’t heard from Jim for quite a while, have we, Bess?” Harley looked across the room, straight into Bess’s eyes for a moment as he spoke, then casually turned back to the boy. “I guess that’s why he didn’t tell us you were coming out.”
To Bess, the message was just as clear as it always was when Harley said those same words. He would never tell her directly to call Jim. But if he hadn’t heard from him in a while, or if there was a chore he needed Jim’s help with, he always let her know with just those words. “We haven’t heard from Jim in a while” meant “Call Jim!”
There was a phone in the kitchen. Bess stood up. Somehow her voice came out calm and steady. “Would either of you fellows like a cup of coffee, or a Coke, or anything?”
“I’ll take a cup of coffee, if it’s fresh,” Harley answered quickly. “Why don’t you make a new pot? How about you, son? Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Don’t suppose you have any beer?”
“Maybe. I’ll go look.” Bess hurried across the hall into the kitchen. The phone was hanging by the backdoor. She thought about going on through the door and down the road to Hendersons. But it would take a good while to get there, and they might not even be home. And she couldn’t just leave Harley. She grabbed the phone and dialed Jim’s number.
She was trying to explain the situation when she heard the kitchen door open. She knew he was there. Right behind her. She hung up the phone and turned to face him. He wasn’t playing with the pretty little blue bird any longer. Now he had a big ugly knife.

It was a folding knife with a long thin blade. A skinning knife, some portion of Bess's mind noted remotely. She couldn't take her eyes away from the bright gleam of the blade as it flicked back and forth in his nervous hand.
"Who are you calling, Grandma? I thought you come in here to get me a beer?"
"I...I was just getting it....it's in the refrigerator." She forced herself to look away from the knife. She didn't want him to see how frightened she was. But it was too late. He knew. She could see it in his mocking smile and in the coldness of his dark eyes.
He moved closer. She couldn't help flinching, but he only reached over her shoulder to grab the receiver of the wall phone. The acrid stench of his sweat surrounded her as he stretched the coiled plastic line out between their bodies. His eyes never left hers as he slowly brought the knife and the telephone receiver up in front of her face and sliced through the cord, silencing the insistent buzz of the dial tone.
"Leave my wife alone!" Harley's voice was rough in the sudden silence.
The boy spun around and threw the phone receiver against the wall. "I haven't touched your wife, old man! Not yet!" He grabbed Bess, pulling her in close against his left side, the knife in his right hand hovering near her face. "But I could. Anytime I want to, I could. So you both better just quit messing with me."
Harley had stopped just inside the kitchen door. Like Bess, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off the bright blade. "Messing with you?..."
"Do you think I'm stupid? Old Miss Sunday School Teacher Johnson jumps up and says she "might" have a beer in HER refrigerator? You think I'm so stupid I can't figure out she could have some other reason for running off to the kitchen in such a great big hurry?"
"Okay, Okay....just let go of my wife and tell me what you want. Whatever it is, you can have it! Just let my wife go!"
"Now you're the one who's stupid. You know what I want. And as for your wife, she's gonna stay right here beside me while the three of us look over this fine big house of yours. I don't have to see the whole thing. You can just go straight to the safe."
"Safe? I don't have a safe!"
"Safe, strong box, cedar chest, hatbox...hell, I don't care what you keep your money in! Just show me where it is!"
Harley unsnapped the chest pocket of his overalls and pulled out his wallet. "Here, take it, I think there's about two hundred in there."
"I didn't come out here for your wallet! I came for your money - your real money.
"But this is my money. I don't -
"Harley, stop! Please don't lie! Give him the money. He's going to hurt me if you don't."
Bess looked past the knife, staring straight into her husband's eyes, willing him to understand. "Please! He knows you don't like banks. Somebody must have told him about all the money you've saved, about how you like to look at it and count it sometimes...show him where it is Harley! Just show him!"
Harley stood for a long moment, his eyes never leaving his wife's face. "It took me a long time to save that money."
"You better listen to Miz Johnson, old man, she's making sense."
"Yeah. I reckon she is." Harley turned and pointed back through the door. "The money's right down the hall in the closet."
The boy smiled. "Show me." He grabbed Bess by the upper arm and forced her along with him as he followed Harley. As they passed through the kitchen door, Bess tripped and fell heavily into the wall. The boy had to let go to keep from being pulled down with her. He jumped back, cursing as she hit the floor with a thump.
"Oh, dear Lord, I think I broke my hip! Oh, it hurts so bad! Ohh!" The thin, quavering wail was the frightened cry of an old woman.
Harley tried to get to her, but the boy stepped over her body and gave him a push. "First the money! She's not going anywhere."
"Okay, okay.......it's right here, under the stairs" The closet was about eight feet down the hall from the kitchen door. Harley opened the door and stepped back, revealing a dark narrow doorway.
"It's in there?"
"Yes. Everything I've saved is right back there in the back of the closet. You want me to go in and get it and bring it out to you?"
Harley started into the closet, but the boy grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "Wait just a minute. You seem awful eager all of a sudden. I bet you got a big old shotgun in there with that money."
" I just want you to get the money and go, so I can take care of my wife! There's nothing in there except money, I promise you."
"Well, I think I'll just see for myself, just the same. Where's the light?"
"It's a chain in the ceiling. Right up over your head."
The boy took a step into the closet and reached up to find the chain. The weak light of the 40 watt bulb was enough to show the surprise on his face when he looked toward the back of the long narrow closet. He was so intent he didn't notice when Harley stepped back and gently closed the heavy closet door.
Bess was on her feet coming down the hall when Harley turned around. “I thought you broke your hip!”
"No dear, I just didn’t want to go into the closet with him.”

A few hours later, Sheriff Jim Johnson had his deputy stand to the side with his gun ready while he opened the closet door. But it was obvious right away that the boy in the closet wasn’t going to be giving them any trouble. He was sitting on the floor. His face was wet with tears and when he looked up at Jim, blinking and squinting against the light, his red-rimmed eyes held more relief than threat. The wide planks of the floor glittered with silver and copper coins. The kid had one jar in his lap, another lay on its side spilled out.
The shelves behind the boy held rank after rank of those gallon glass jars. Jim knew another just like it sat on the bedroom dresser, ready to receive his Dads pocket change every night.