Prologue: Dust and Roses Part 2 conclusion

This is the conclusion of the Prologue as it pretty much appeared in the Kansas Writers Association PDF anthology published earlier this year. I am seriously thinking about changing at least this part. Here, I did some "head hopping" which is a no-no in novel crafting. The rule is pretty much one point of view character per scene. Head hopping breaks contact with your POV character and can make things confusing for the reader.

That being said, my heart tells me to leave it as is, though my head is telling me to stick to the rules. This is, after all the first chapter of the story. I might leave it up my critique group to guide me on this one. Since I'm going "indie" publishing I figure I can break a rule or two, as long as it does not hurt the reading experience. Tell me what you think. I LIKE COMMENTS, even if its a criticism. I can learn from those. So here it is -- still a work in progress -- the conclusion to the prologue.

     They brought her inside and carefully moved her from the stretcher to an empty bed. The bed had leather straps and leg ties for the insane. After Patrick brought the towels. Gloria sent him off for the hot water. Gloria closed the door. Bee stood quietly watching. The girl still appeared dazed. From her bag, Gloria produced the scissors. She cut a slit up the front of the dress and parted it. Such a shame. It was store-bought, silky, and no doubt expensive, but she needed to examine her ribs. “Bruised up. Could still be cracked. Just not sure. We’ll have to get Doctor Zwiefel out here to check on her. Bee, get me a dipper of water. Oh, and bring a nightgown.”

     There was a knock at the door. Gloria pulled a sheet to cover the girl. Bee left. Gloria took the pan of steaming water from Patrick, closed the door, then set about cleaning up the battered girl.

     “Dear, this is going to sting. I’m wiping the blood and dirt from your face.”

     Not waiting for a reply, she began to clean the cuts.

     “Oww! Stop!” The girl opened her eyes and batted the towel away. She scowled at Gloria.

     “Ahh, good. You’re awake. How’s your head? Do you know your name?”

     “Sara.” She touched her lip. “I got a headache." The girl tried sitting up, then fell back, groaning with pain. “My side hurts. I’ve never hurt like this before.”

     “I’ve seen worse. We’ll fix you up. Your ribs are sore. It looks like you’ve been kicked by a horse.”

     “My boyfriend.”

     “I’ll want to hear more about that later. What I’m more concerned about now is the baby. How far along are you?”

     The girl eyes widened, “Oh that’s right. I told you. I just went to the doctor – when was that? Yesterday? He said I was six or eight weeks along. I’m due in mid-August.

     There was a soft knock at the door. Bee returned with the water. Gloria fished around in her bag, found a bottle of aspirin, and gave it and the dipper to Sara. “This is Beatrice. Bee saw you out on the road. Bee, this is Sara.”

     Bee took the board out of her apron and wrote, SARA IS A PRETTY NAME.

     “Uh, thank you.” Sara raised her brows to Gloria.

     “Bee can’t talk, but she hears well. She doesn’t miss much. As I was saying, we need to get you checked. You’ve taken a beating. That can’t be good for the baby. We have an attending physician, Doctor Barry Zwiefel. He does routine checkups for us, as well as emergencies. I think we can call this an emergency.”

     “It hurts to move. It's a sharp pain just to breathe. Can I just rest for a while before leaving?”

     Doctor Zwiefel makes house calls. We can have him here later today. Let’s finish cleaning you

up. Bee brought some bedclothes for you.

     “Thank you.” Sara looked around. “What is your name? Are you a nurse? Is this a hospital?”

     Gloria laughed. “I’m Gloria Eisner. The people here call me Miss Gloria. I do a bit of nursing whenever the need arises. And, no, we’re not really a hospital. I manage the tenant house and supervise the inmates. My husband oversees the work farm.”

     “Inmates.” Sara noticed the handcuffs and straps attached to the iron bedrails. Oh, no. She tried to get out of the bed. I can’t be tied up. She drew in a breath. Get out. Sara threw back the covers. Get out now. Her feet hit the floor ready for flight.

     Stabbing pain lanced her gut. Shallow breaths hurt less. Her breathing became more rapid. She couldn’t get enough air. She tried to breathe yet faster. Panting turned to wheezing. Still not enough air. Panic gripped her. She couldn’t even scream. Vision blurred. Dark walls closed in. The room looked small and far away. She felt herself pulled into a tunnel.

Beatrice pointed to the handcuffs. She wrote, BED IS SCARING HER.

Gloria gripped Sara’s shoulders. “Listen, Sara. Relax. Do not panic. Breathe slowly. The cuffs and straps are not for you. We can change beds later. You are not a prisoner. You can leave anytime. Slow your breathing. You are getting too much air.” Gloria hugged her, stroking her back. “Relax … relax.”

     Dimly, Sara heard the words. Slowly, her panting subsided. The lightheadedness eased. She felt spent. She wanted to sleep, but she had to know. “Where am I?”

     Gloria shook her head. “Child, you need to sleep. We can talk later.”

     “No. I need to know now. I have no idea where I am. He abandoned me. I’ve got nowhere to go."

     Gloria considered for a long moment, “Very well. Keep an open mind. In spite of our

name, we’re rather proud of what we have here. You are at the Joshua County Poor Farm.”

     Beatrice wrote something, then turned the slate to Sara, AND ASYLUM.

 

Prologue, Dust and Roses, Part I

I'm still revising Dust and Roses. Part of it, though, has seen the light of day already. Late last fall, on a whim, I submitted the first chapter to the Kansas Writer's Association contest. It got second place with a score of 98 out of a 100. I was happy. First time out of the gate and I found I could compete with other writers. My weakest area was mechanics. So I'll probably need to hire a proof reader/editor before it is time to send my baby out into the world.

Currently I'm revising my last third of the story. This is where Sara is hit with a double whammy and she must make that critical decision that will bring on the climax. That "we-will-stay-and-face-the-Deathstar"decision-making moment. I'm still reading those "craft of writing" books, but there is going to be a time when I'll have to say enough is enough and send this out to Kindle and Create Space. There is another story stirring that I'm antsy to get into. Anyway, here is a taste. Enjoy.

Dust and Roses, a Kansas History novel

By Wes Brummer

“Affluence, unless stimulated by a keen sense of imagination forms but the vaguest notion of the practical strain of poverty.”

     --Edith Wharton, The House of Mirth, 1905

 

As we come marching, marching in the beauty of the day,

A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill lofts gray,

Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,

For the people hear us singing: "Bread and roses! Bread and roses!"

 

As we come marching, marching, we battle too for men,

For they are women's children, and we mother them again.

Our lives shall not be sweated from birth until life closes;

Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread, but give us roses!

 

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead

Go crying through our singing their ancient cry for bread.

Small art and love and beauty their drudging spirits knew.

Yes, it is bread we fight for -- but we fight for roses, too!

As we come marching, marching, we bring the greater days.

The rising of the women means the rising of the race.

No more the drudge and idler -- ten that toil where one reposes,

But a sharing of life's glories: Bread and roses! Bread and roses!

     --protest poem originating from the Lawrence, Maryland, Textile Strike of 1912,

     Wikipedia article “Bread and Roses.”

 

PRELUDE  Joshua County Farm, April 7, 1935

     Beatrice Mullens sat on her perch outside the loft window listening to the voice in her head. It was Sally. Today, Sally was being annoyingly persistent. Come on Bee. You can do this. Put your arms down by your side and push off. It’s easy. It will be like flying. A rush of wind, and then we can be together. Push off when I say.

     Sally promised it would be fun. Bee had to agree. Climbing up to the attic was a delicious idea. No one knew she was here. The view was enormous. She could see everything from up here, but no one could see her. It was a thrill to open the heavy window, throw back the shutters, then climb out onto the ledge. There was danger here. She could fall. That was the point. Eternity was seconds away.

     Except now she was freezing. The thrill was gone. She just wanted to finish it.

     Bee placed her hands on the wind battered, unpainted wood. She was ready. The thin muscles of her arms tensed. She was about to push off.

     Wait! Not yet. You’re spoiling it! Sally scolded her. You stupid creature. I give the word. Not you. Now pick the last thing you want to see.

     Bee hung her head. She hated to be “talked to” by Sally. A slight wind brushed her thin blonde hair and ruffled her flour sack dress. Her bare feet dangled in space high over the front porch roof far below. She would have to push hard to clear it. She wondered if it mattered.

     She looked for something worthwhile to see. In front of the porch was a semi-circle path that led to the main road. This was Miller Road. It looked so small from up here. It made Bee dizzy. She could just slip off now, but Sally would be angry. Bee did not want to disappoint Sally. And she absolutely did not want to anger Sally. Sally could be scary-mean when she was mad.

     Bee shifted her gaze to the bleak horizon ahead. A solid blanket of clouds turned the flat landscape into dreary tones of gray. Little stirred. There was some blowing dust on the road reaching south. This was South Farm Road. She saw the name on a sign once. It joined Miller Road just to the east of the tenant house. The dust streaked toward her. A dot resolved itself into an automobile. It was long and silver with a sloping box-like roof. The rattling engine screeched in protest as the driver slammed on the brakes. The car swerved to the side of the dirt road, clattering to a halt amid a cloud of dust. As the dust cleared, Bee could hear a man and woman shouting, but it was hard to make out the words. Then she heard a piercing scream.

     A man jumped out of the car. He was young and well dressed, wearing a wide-brimmed Panama hat. He was very handsome and very, very angry. He slammed his door, walked around and yanked open the passenger door. A young woman fell on to the dead grass, landing on her side. She screamed again in an agonized burst of rage and hurt. The young man stood over her, one fist raised, as if he would pummel her again. Then he must have thought better of it. He reached into the back seat, pulled out a suitcase, and threw it down beside her. Slowly, the man turned to look at the fortress-like house. He looked up at Beatrice.

     Bee sat, unmoving. What will he do? Am I next? What is Sally thinking? The man stood, watching her, waiting. Bee stared back. Each examined the other. Slowly, the man began to smile. Then he did the oddest thing. He made a grand gesture of tipping his hat, sweeping his arm, and bowing as if greeting her at a ball. He held the bow for a long moment. He swept his arm back up, tipping his hat in a jaunty angle. He then got in his car, turned around,  and roared off.

     Silence returned. Bee watched for movement from the woman. She lay tightly curled up. She raised her head, looking to the house. Beatrice noted her condition: red rimmed eyes, blood seeping from nose and lip, hair askew, her once nice dress torn and covered dead grass and dust.. Sally, what do I do? But Sally wasn’t answering. She was gone.

     Bee shifted her position, conscious of her danger. With clumsy effort, she climbed back into the window. She tried to closed the shutters, but the hook would not reach the eye bolt. She did manage to close the window, then she made her way down from the attic.

     Bee peeked out of the hatch and looked down into the infirmary. No one was there. She lowered herself from the hatch in the ceiling onto a massive linen closet. She then carefully replaced the square attic board. She climbed down from the stout cabinet, reaching into a drawer. Bee pulled out her apron, putting it on. She then retrieved a slate, chalk, and a homemade rag doll. Sally was a stuffed burlap sack with a tied off lump for a head, red yarn for hair, stitches for eyes and mouth, and knots for limbs. Bee placed the items in her apron pocket. With Sally tucked away, she was ready to find the matron. Miss Gloria would know what to do.

     Gloria Eisner sat in the common room, trying to teach Patrick how to sew on a button. “But first, you need to know how to thread a needle.” Gloria held up a sewing needle in one hand and a spool of heavy black thread in the other.

     Patrick Arnesdorff rolled his eyes. He was a thickset youth with short arms and a mop of unruly brown hair. He squinted at the needle. Dr. Zwiefel said he needed glasses. “But I don’t have to know this, Miss Gloria. Can’t you do it?”

     “I can, Patrick, but you need to learn this for yourself.” Gloria was adamant. “You’ve got two buttons missing from this shirt. Watch and I’ll sew the first button. You do the second.” With practiced ease, Gloria threaded the needle and sewed a on large white button.

     “It’s a little bigger than the rest, but at least all the buttons are white. Now it’s your turn.”

     Patrick was lost. “You went way too fast, Miss Gloria. I don’t think I can do that. If you could do the second one for me, you can double my chores. I don’t mind.”

     “Patrick, you’re hopeless. People won't always be around. You can't keep making excuses.”

     Gloria started on the second button. Patrick turned his head and carefully breathed a sigh of relief. Beatrice approached them with her chalkboard out-stretched. Patrick tried to make out the letters.

     “Um … Miss Gloria? Beatrice has something.”

     Gloria glanced up. Beatrice looked even more somber than usual, then she saw the words, GIRL ON SOUTH FARM ROAD – HURT.

     Gloria stood up, all fifty-nine inches of her/ Piercing grey eyes focused on the two young inmates. “Patrick, I want you to run out to South Road. Pretend like your eyes are cameras. Look for a young lady.. Then get back here as fast as you can. Tell me what you saw. Beatrice, I want you to ring the dinner bell three times. Stop. Take a breath. Then ring three times again. Keep doing that until Mr. Eisner comes. Show him what you wrote. I’m getting my medical bag.” Patrick and Beatrice stood staring at Gloria, wide-eyed.

     “Get moving. Now.”

     Both took off. Patrick ran out the front door and down the porch steps. Beatrice made her way through the big tenant house to the back porch where the cast iron dinner bell hung. Gloria went to the pantry between kitchen and dining room. She found her first aid kit, and took it into the common room. She opened the satchel, taking careful note of the most useful item: bandages, cotton balls, alcohol, gauze, scissors, tape, aspirin ….

     Bong. Bong. Bong. The resonant old bell peeled away. The front door burst open. Patrick raced in, breathless from running. “There’s a girl by the road. She looks like a movie star. She’s bleeding and all curled up.”

     Gloria finished her inventory. “Now, Patrick, go to the kitchen and have Mr. Wheatley put on some water to boil. Then go upstairs and get some clean towels. They’re in the hallway linen closet. Go now.” Patrick took off again, this time towards the back of the house.

     The bell quit ringing. Gloria heard James’ loud voice questioning Beatrice. That was a waste of time. “Gloria? Gloria! What’s going on?”

     James Eisner was a big man who could make himself be heard from one end of the farm to the other. He thundered into the common room. Other inmates showed up as well. Gloria closed her bag. Time was wasting.

     “A girl is lying out on South Road. She’s injured. We need to bring her in. I believe there’s a litter upstairs in the infirmary.”

     “It’s in the storeroom. I’ll get it. Anything else?”

     Gloria considered, “No. I’m going out now. Beatrice, you’re barefoot. Stay inside. Patrick, bring a wet towel.” Without another word, Gloria took her bag and headed for the front door, grabbing a coat from the entry way.

     She cut across the empty field, not bothering to follow the road. She reached the huddled shape, knelt down and cradled the girl’s head in her lap. She was surprisingly beautiful with dark brown hair. It was full, curly, and excessively long. Probably spends a lot of time on it. With practiced fingers, Gloria looked for a pulse. The girl was shaking with cold and possible shock, but her pulse was strong. Gloria checked for broken bones. A loud groan escaped from the girl’s cracked lips when Gloria ran her hands over her left side. Could be cracked or bruised ribs. There was something else. Gloria bent down to the girl’s ear.

     “Help is coming, child. We will get you in where it’s warm.” The girl opened her eyes. She had striking brown eyes thanks to those dark brows. Gloria wiped tangled hair from her pale face. She was trying to say something. Gloria placed her ear to her lips. “Say it again, honey.” Gloria listened, holding her breath.

     Her single word was almost a sigh. “Baby.”

 

Aero Knights, a fictional pulp

Back in the day, in the twilight world where MS-DOS was still the king of operating systems. I think it was in the early 1990's. A good friend of mine, Jay Watson, and I came up with a kid's show called "Aero Knights." It was sort of like Major Astro only retro. Way retro. The story was about a fictional zeppelin airline service in the Midwest c1938, when the world was gearing up for war. Only in this world, both Hitler and Japan are knocked out as superpowers and a new villain steps in. His name is--prepare yourself--The Hooded Condor. I know, awful.

The idea got batted around over a lot of beer and pretty soon died a merciful death. RIP, right?

I thought about writing a pulp style story using the Aero Knight, but never complete the story. I didn't have the staying power to write a story back then.. Years passed. The story of "Dust and Roses" slowly took shape over a period of time.

During the first draft I was writing a scene when my two boys, Jason and Michael were waiting for a midnight meeting with a cab driver. Michael was dozing. I needed Jason to be doing something. So, in a "panster" moment I had him reading a copy of Wonder Stories Magazine In 1935, the word "Air" was taken off the magazine title. The cover has an airship burning, and Jason is reading a story called, TA DAH "Aero Knights."

What follows is the "scene" in the novel. At this point I want to keep it in, but if my word count goes overboard, I will need to start cutting. Hope not. Anyway, here is the scene.

Jason picked up the pulp magazine. The title read Wonder Stories. He found himself caught up in a story about an amour-plated zeppelin fending off an air pirates. How ridiculous. Yet, the story’s action kept him hooked.

     The zeppelin’s enormous envelope burned like a bonfire in the sky. The only thing keeping the hydrogen sacks from exploding was the light-weight metallic beruvian coating of the buoyant vessel. The amour could sustain bullets but was small protection against flames. Clive Knight, Commander of the Aero Knights need a miracle. Or the zeppelin Monarch would blow across the sky.

     He could wait for that miracle. Or he could make it happen. In either case, time was running out.

     A car honked outside, twice.

     He grasped the voice tube in his calloused hand, “Up ship!” he yelled. “As high as she’ll go!” Maybe the atmosphere itself will smother the deadly flames. The mighty ship floated in the air. Slowly, ever so slowly, she began to gain altitude.

     “Commander! The pirates are making another run!” The feminine voice of his first officer came over the horn. Kristan Knight was his only daughter, but she was as valiant a fighter as any of his male crew. In trying to prove herself able, she made terrible risks. Sometimes with her own life. Sometimes with the ship. Her mother would have been proud, if only she was still alive.

     “Man the rockets!” Clive Knight yelled as he scanned the skies, looking for the biplanes from the air pirate’s dirigible.

     “I’m on it. I have two in my sights! Firing!” Kristan screamed. Two long flares burst from the airship as the magnet-tipped explosives flew outward, then fixed on their targets.

     The car honked twice again.

     Jason put down the pulp. Looking out of the window he saw a car parked in front of the house. It was the taxi.

 

I may yet finish that story.

    

 

Questions of Character, Part 2

I know, I should have wrote this weeks ago. I got caught up in the editing of Dust and Roses and the story is shifting around. sequence of events are fluid. My main antagonist is a bit more ... antagonistic, and Sara is putting her feet down on what her goal is. I thought Bee's character would be a journey into darkness, but Sara's is as well. Maybe even more so. I had to get out and walk around today for a couple of hours. I had to get out of the zone. Debbie was at the farmer's market with a friend. I hope nobody heard me yelling at the ceiling.

Anyway, I finished with Sara's "date night" revision, wrote a fun little bit I will have to share with an old friend, fill a small gap, then it's on the second big disaster of the book; Black Sunday.

So, this is the second part of a list of question an author can use to develop their characters or a genealogist can adopt as a way to look into the life and times of their own ancestors.

20. What were the social and headline events that most affected this person? What local, state, or national events made the biggest impression on his life?
21. What were his manners like. Who did he most admire? Who were his heroes? Who did he hate/can't stand?
22. Who were his friends? What type of people did he like?
23. What did he like most about his partner? What did he like the least?
24. What social groups and activities did he attend? What role does he play in these groups? Leadeer, follower, clown, detached observer?
25. Any hobbies or areas of interest?
26. What are his tastes? What types of clothes does he wear, how does he wear them? The state of his home, the make and condition of his vehicle?

27. How did he meet his spouse? How does he relate to her?
28. What are his weaknesses? Self destructive habits? Things he deliberately did different or wrong.
29. Is he holding onto something in the past? Does he hold grudges? Can he forgive?
30. Is he a parent? What is his parental style? How does he treat his children? Does he pick favorites? On what basis? Why? How do the children react to his parenting style?
31. How does he react to stressful situations? Angry, aggressively, passively, evasively?
32. Does he drink, smoke, take drugs?
33. What is the state of his health? How well does he take care of himself?
34. Does he feel self-righteous, revengeful, contemptuous?
35. Does he realize his own errors and short comings? How well does he take direction or criticism?
36. How does he take pain and suffering? How does he react when he sees it in others?
37. What is his imagination like? Does he day dream, worry, talk about the past?
38. Is he negative or positive when facing new challenges? Hostile, suspicious, scared?
39. Does he ridicule? What does he find stupid?
40. Describe his sense of humor? Favorite jokes?
41. Is he aware of his own weaknesses? Is he self-aware? How does he feel about himself?
42. What does he want the most out of life? What would he sacrifice to get it?
43. What is his deepest secret? What would happen if it came out?
44. What is his biggest wish? What would he do to get it?
45. Is he responsible, pragmatic, all action, can he think on his feet?
46. How does he feel about his height and weight? How does he walk, stand, eat?
47. Describe his mannerisms and gestures, controlled or impulsive?
48. Energetic or sluggish?
49. Describe his voice, tempo, dialect, way of speech?
50. Type of facial expression; sour, happy, cheerful?
51. What gadgets, things, possessions does he always have with him?

Some of these things questions would be of little interest to a genealogist, probably. But most of these questions can be observational or asked in an interview to get a subject's life story. These questions have meaning to me because part of the theme to "Dust and Roses" is remembrance. Remembering the people of the past, not as names on a ledger or census form, but as living, breathing people with hopes, fears, passions, and desires.

When it comes to being human, we are very much the same as those who came before us. Time after time we are re-learning the same things over and over again. Each age thinks it is the enlightened age.

We are not there yet.

Geneology and Historical Fiction: Questions of Character

     As a baby boomer I remember growing up with parents, grand parents and assorted aunts and uncles, each trying to out do the others with stories of the Great Depression. It stuck. In many respects I felt like I  already had a handle on "Dust and Roses" before I even started writing. Both sides of my family lived on small farms and so, was spared the worst that the Depression could meter out. Mom's side lived in Oklahoma that did not even get dust storms. Dad's side lived southwest of Wichita and did get numerous dust storms. So, the first books of research I started were histories of the 1930s and childhood memoirs of growing up during the Depression, especially on farms and in the Midwest. I also read a few "craft of fiction writing" books, so it was a learn-as-you-go endeavor on several fronts.

Coming up with a cast of characters was easy. Mom is still doing genealogy and I even did a family history paper in high school. That is a story in itself. I've also worked with different disabled populations over the years so life gave me a broad slate in terms of brainstorming characters.

     Uncovering the lives of ancestors and developing characters for a historical novel brings up the same questions: occupation, economic situation, religion, nearby towns, "the country" around, what to do for fun. All these things and more  affect character, both real and fictional. The world in which they live also becomes a process  of discovery. Both are full of surprises. 

To me, it is the people's stories and their changing world--not the headlines--that define history.

My writing group talked about character building yesterday. I got a handout on character building, which consisted of a series of questions. As I read the handout I realized these are good question life questions when interviewing for family story info. The more journalistic family tree detectives can use this as a tool. Or not. But think of the answers you might uncover!! So read the questions and adapt however you wish.

CHARACTER PROFILE QUESTIONS:
1. Relationship with parents. What does he/she hate/like most about their father/mother? What influence/opinion does the family have about him?
2. His brothers and sisters. Who were they? What was the relationship like with each? Who did he like and who did he despise? Why?
3. What type of discipline was he subjected to at home?
4. Was he overprotected or sheltered?
5. Did he feel affection or rejection as a child?
6. What were the economic conditions of the family?
7. What were the economic conditions like in the area around? Any difference?
8. What was the religious nature of the family? Does it change for the character over time?
9. What are his political beliefs?
10. Is he street smart, book smart, intelligent, savvy?
11. How does he seem himself? Smart, dumb, uneducated, slow?
12. What is his speech like? Vocabulary? Pronunciation?
13. How did he do in school? Best friends from school?
14. What sports, clubs, activities, was he involved with in school?
15. How far did he get in school? Any specialties?
16. What did he do for a living? What does he like/dislike about it? Is he a people person or good with numbers, tools, animals, computers?
17. Did her travel? Where, when, why?
18. Any military service? Where and when. Any stories?
19. What was his deepest disillusion in the past? What is it now?
20. What was his greatest life changing experience? What event affected him the most personally?

I will finish this tomorrow. Ten more questions to go. The source for these questions is from the National Novel Writing Month website.

Marion County Kansas, The County Farm: My model

Status of Dust and Roses: 46.000 words into my 2nd revision of Dust and Roses. The 1st revision was a read through with note taking. Still smoothing out big wrinkles. Suspect I'm only halfway through. This thing is growing bigger all the time. May have to cut it  back -- hope not.

RAY BRADBURY books are out!! For far too long the vintage Rad Bradbury has not been available. Sure, some of the later stuff, which, lets face it, is lame compared to the Good Stuff. I'm here to tell you, kiddies. Many of those wonderful and scary stories we read as kids are available again.
    
Yes sirree. Many, not all, of his best books are in Kindle, and I presume in print as well. Books include: The Illustrated Man, Something Wicked This Way Come, Fahrenheit 451, and The Martian Chronicles, I truly hope there will be another batch of Bradbury releases down the road. I've downloaded Dandelion Wine, October Country and Medicine for Melancholy so far.

Main Topic: The Marion County (KS) Farm.

The story Dust and Roses would not have been written without that trip to see the "county asylum" on Old Mill Road in Marion County. I need to get back there. The history of this poor farm is interesting. In 1888 Marion county voted to build a "poor asylum'' at equal distance from Marion, Peabody, and Hillsboro Kansas. It would be a three story limestone structure that would hold 6 men and 6 women.  Its doors were open in 1890 as a shelter for the poor, and the disabled. The farm had 160 acres, a quarter section, and the land was considered all tillable.

As a rule the verdict of history has fallen hard on poor farms, or county farms, as they were later called. Poor management, poor funding, dirty and ill kept; all these things did occur at many county farm, including some gigantic ones back east. They were called poorhouses or almshouses. Unruly children were threatened to be taken to the poorhouse if they did not behave. A poor reputation suited the county's purposes as well. After all, we don't want them to become a popular destination for people to go to, do we?


In the case of the Marion County Farm I would say cost of upkeep was one big factor in its demise. In the late 1940s it was closed for 2 years for renovating, probably electrification as well. It reopened in 1950 as "Cedar Rest," a name change to take away the stigma of "poor asylum." Much of the land was sold to pay for the renovations which included a new cement floor in the bottom floor. This floor would be an open area for all residents to be during the day. The two upper floors were where the rooms would be.

     My own take is that even though they existed from around 1820 to 1945 give or take, they eventually became obsolete. In 1935 Social Security became law and later expanded. This meant an old age pension for many of the older residents. And that's what many poor farms and poorhouses were becoming anyway, old folks homes. An old age pension meant they could get out and live in town where other services were available.

For the next 14 the county continued to manage Cedar Rest in much the same way when it was a poor farm. Cedar Rest would close in late 1964. More accountability, stiffer rules, more upkeep that would cost more in taxes meant the end. This date is a relatively late one for a rest home set out in the country to close. An auction was held in November 1964 to sell off the furnishings and remaining farm equipment.

After that the place was owned by different people and tried as different things including, a restaurant, VFW post, youth hostel, and rental property. Today, it is derelict. Although someone stills lives in the back.   For more info on Marion County Poor Farm as well as a treasure trove of other poor farms around the country see poorhousestory.com

Kansas Writers books I've read so far.

     I learned from the Wordfest conference in MacPherson that pictures in blogs are essential. So I will do that.

     In the past I mention Bonnie Eaton's historical novel, Nelly of No Man's Land. Great story of the 1890s. Ironically, this area would be in the heart of the dust bowl in the 1930s. In Bonnie's setting the prairie is still fairly pristine. It is about a pioneer family making the best of rough living. There is drama. Nelly's husband likes the saloon girls and he drinks. Nelly's youngest daughter, Evie, is the daughter of a lover Nelly had taken in the past. Secrets kept will become exposed. Nelly and her husband must make a choice to stay together or go their seperate ways. The story has a great cast of characters and a fine resolutuon. Psst, there may be a sequel in the future.

Swan Song by H. B. Berlow is a crime novel set in comtemporary Wichita, Kansas. Our tough guy hero goes all over town, meeting people, looking for leads, and doing what sleuths do; he gets into all sorts of trouble.  Many of the classic PI's of the past and present are closely linked with their city: Marlowe with Los Angeles, Spencer with Boston, Mike Hammer with New York. I see a possibility for a series here. I like the idea of fictional crime lords lurking behind closed door in our cozy little town. They are much more interesting then politicians.

     Next time a bit of history about the building I used as a model for the novel Dust and Roses. Yes, the building is an actual building. And, yes, it still exists, but not like in the picture. And it is in central Kansas.

    I am still editing Dust and Roses. It is interesting that as I get furthur into the story, history takes a back seat to character, conflict, and the motives that drive them both. The focus changes. At first I wondered if this was a problem, but my feeling is that in hist novels, setting is as much a character as the people, It's a set of rules to go by, but it's not necessary to dwell on the rules.