Regularly, he sent her gifts of wine or ham or fruit in season, as tokens of his neighbourly regard. She appreciated the way he could show marks of particular notice, without making her feel the burden of obligation.”
When Patrice talked about having a daughter by me when I come to see my sixteen year old daughter, is reminiscent of the Biblical mothers who took the Vow of the Nazarite in order to conceive for they were old in years. How old was Patrice Hanson – fifty five?
What is clear she wants into my family as my aged bride – who took my daughter and put her in the arms of a imposter. In a letter to Oprah Winfrey, she says she knew it was my child the moment Heather was born, and kept the truth from Randall Delpiano lest he kill Heather.
This has all the earmarks of a Fairy Tale, and the Grail Legends. Morgana comes to mind and her son Mordred, who is destined to kill his father, King Arthur. The Grail Kingdom goes into decline because of the dark machinations of Morgana – the usurper of God’s Light and the Holy Bloodline.
I knew Bill Cornwell hated me when we were on our way to the Grand Canyon. We had stopped at a cave where I bought Tyler Hunt an arrowhead. Sitting in the back seat together, I told my grandson about the Native Americans who made this arrowhead, and there were many more lying outside on the ground. I made pictures for him of the hunt, the campsites, how they struck the obsidian with a rock to shape it. I talked about how they tied the arrow to a wooden shaft.
I took my grandson on an inner journey, back in time. Tyler loved these journeys we took together since he was born. This is a curious child, not a do macho stuff look at me kind of child, like Bill, who was seething because Tyler was not focused on the Speed Demon show-off bully boy! We were ruining his trip to the Grand Canyon.
What I had shown my offspring, was how to pull a weapon from a rock. Consider Excalibur and the fact obsidian was once molten lava from Fire Mountain. When we got out of the car Tyler rushed to the first bare ground to look for an arrowhead and a stick so I could show him how it was tied to it.
“Get out of there. You’re not supposed to be in there!” spoke the selfish giant.
Bill in a huff, marched to the rim of the Canyon, walking as fast as he could. He had seen me tire in the cave, and, he wanted to arrive at the rim without me, because he wanted a big stuff Hallmark moment, with just him and his new family.
“Hey everyone. Look at me! Aren’t I grand?”
Sixty feet ahead, Tyler turned, made eye contact with me, and said;
“Wait for Papa!”
Bill walked that much faster. So did my daughter, my Mordred, who was furious i would not allow her to be in Tom Snyder’s biography of Rosamond, that did not sell, and ranks as one of the worst biographies ever written.
I authored the following several years ago, for my daughter and grandson. Heather has no clue that magical people author magical stories that are often inspired by their magical family.
I see Royal Rosamond in my grandson.
Obsidian is a naturally occurring volcanic glass formed as an extrusive igneous rock. It is produced when felsic lava extruded from a volcano cools rapidly with minimum crystal growth. Obsidian is commonly found within the margins of rhyolitic lava flows known as obsidian flows, where the chemical composition (high silica content) induces a high viscosity and polymerization degree of the lava
The Grandfathers Come Home to the Shire For Thanksgiving Message List
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The Grandfathers Come Home to the Shire For Thanksgiving
(Images: Gandalf comes home to the Shire. The town of Rougemont
Switzerland, the home of my ancestors. The Ozarks. The Shire of the
Hobbits. The Mill in Eminence.)
“So for me, Hobbits, as best I can relate to them in the real world,
are Appalachian southerners. I think the southerners that I knew had
much in common with the people of Tolkien’s English countryside. I
don’t know whether you can still find such folk in England, but I
believe there are, at least a few, such folk to be found upon the
ridges, and in the hollows of Appalachia.”
Two days ago I awoke and wondered how best to tell my readers how
the Rougemonts became the Orangemen and Ulstermen, and how their
Dream that was forced flee the ancient lands of their ancestors,
came to dwell in America. Then it struck me, the very ground that
lay at my feet rose up and gave me a good bump, for we go to where
we have been, and back again, and it was time to bring the
Grandfather’s home. And we go there with the words Tolkien’s
Rosamunda, and we return with the words of my grandfather, Royal
Rosamond, for they are very much the same.
I jumped out of bed and rushed to my computer. Had any other writer
taken note of how similar the Hillbillies are to the Hobbits? In no
time I found the observations of the author, Karlton Douglas. I then
went to my book shelf and pulled out ‘Ravola of Thunder Mountain’
published in 1947 the years my late sister was born. Inside the
cover is this dedication;
“To BERTHA MAY ROSAMOND (now Mrs. Bigalow), my second daughter, who
has steadfastly clung to the belief that her Father would leave
Literary Footprints on the SANDS OF TIME.
Here is a chapter from my Grandfather’s story, whom I never met. I
will soon be leaving to see my Grandson, Tyler, Royal’s Great
Grandson. I will be bringing The Grandfather’s with me so they may
adore Heather’s beautiful son through my eyes.
“Poetry on Leaves
The spring sun was warm now, brightening as with happiness in the
open fields, the broad land resembling a crazy quilt because of the
wooded patches everywhere. Already the wild grapes were in bloom,
and if the sun continued smiling there would be, in every Hillman’s
cellar, many, many jars of grape juice for making jelly, and wine
for those who knew the trick of making it. Those pink-white blossoms
on the pale yellow bushes hard against warm hillside rocks were
huckleberries in bloom. The wild grapes and the huckleberries once
ripe, tangier here in Shannon County, Missouri, than most any other
place in the Ozarks.
I walked on, for I had yet a long way to go before nightfall. Now it
was but a mite after mid-day. After leaving the train at Winona, I
could have perhaps caught a ride to Eminence had I stayed with the
wagon road instead of footing it up the spur-track leading northward
to cross Jack’s Fork at the Hodge place where I left to journey up
Possum Trot toward Little Wonder Schoolhouse and Tucked Away Church
House, above which in the ride to the north, I lived – the place
where I was born and which I called home, where my parents had
settled in their youth and planned some day to die. The way was
long, the trail lonesome and ofttimes steep. As wild a region as
ever grew outdoors. No matter. I wanted to stretch my legs and let
the April breeze take the orders of a Saint Louis foundry away from
I went home on a visit once a year – had already worked five years
up there, long enough to forget how to talk (or write) hillbilly
talk, it seemed like. Still, I didn’t mind being called a hillbilly.
Life in the Ozarks had a tang. I liked everything about them, from
the blooming of the redbud and dogwood in springtime to pumpkin pies
and possum and coon hunting and listening to fox hounds in the fall.
I was born and bred here. This wilderness was in my blood. I felt as
much a part of it as does a back log to a fireplace. I was twenty
six years old now, and when I become fifty, I intend to retire, and
go sit on pappy’s rocker there on the front porch and rock and smoke
and think until I die.
Here on the side of Grapevine Mountain, high above the glistening of
Jack’s Fork below, for days and weeks and years back into the dim
past she had lived in splendid isolation, the silence, save for the
passing Hillman on the road below her cabin, as vast as the greenery
of the heaving land-billows rising higher and ever higher toward the
summit of the far ridge leaning against the blue heaven on the west,
below which was the great spring from which the stream Jack’s Fork
nursed and found perpetual substance. A skinny, faded creature in
her late forties, seemingly as antiquated as the furniture in the
two small rooms in her rustic cabin, yet she possessed the amazing
gift of cheerfulness. Even though her income was very meager, yet
she contrived to spread a spirit of near-opulence and comforting
friendliness about herself which was as convincing as was Mr.
Russell’s plush appearing abundance. In summer she mothered her
pansy beds, naming the little faces, as she called them, after the
little girls she taught in winter, the boys unslighted by living as
vegetables in her garden, the more refractory being a gooseberry
busy or wild plum tree.”
“From first sight, even the site of the new cottage had enchanted
her, dug as it was into the southeast side of a grassy hill in the
midst of Boffin lands, populated with Boffin sheep. There was a
little copse below it, just to the side, and a spring-fed well, all
of which reminded her of her childhood home. The place had come down
to Odovacar through his mother’s side, a Boffin. He had used it as
asort of base, when he and his friends had gone out hunting.
Theywould stock the little hole with gear and rations. Then, with
their bows, and a pony for their gear, they would make forays west
ornorth, towards the Downs or up to the Moors, or, closer still,
intoBindbale Wood. But that was years ago, when the game had not
yetmoved so far off. When Rosamunda had viewed it more carefully,
she saw the hole was inconsiderable disrepair. Also, it was a bit
too small. She had new rooms dug, so that there was a parlour and a
kitchen, a bedroom for each (and one to spare), along with extra
chambers further back fo rstore. When it was finished, it suited
Rosamunda very well. Especially, she loved the light. Situated
facing south-east, the light poured through the windows in the
mornings, her favourite time of the day. And, when she stood
outside, she could see the land stretching east and south far into
the distance. Illuminated by the late afternoonsun, the prospect was
especially fine. From the top of the little knoll that made the
cottage’s roof, she could see far to the northand west, where sheep
dotted the rolling hills. The sky at nighttook her breath away. And,
all day, the birds sang, the wind blew,and the Water, which ran
nearby, just to the west, mostly narrow andquick as it came down out
of Long Cleeve and Needlehole, could justbe heard when the wind
dropped and everything was still. She loved its peace and quiet, so
tucked away and so private. Yet,it was just an hour’s walk over the
hills to Bag End or to Hobbiton. Overhill, to the east, was even
closer. Every fine day Rosamunda walked the hills, seldom seeing
another living creature other than sheep, or, very rarely, a doe or
faun. She did not walk south to Hobbiton, however, except on errands
orfor an appointed visit. She had not forgotten
her “understanding”with Bilbo. And Bilbo did not forget her, either.
Regularly, he sent her gifts of wine or ham or fruit in season, as
tokens of his neighbourly regard. She appreciated the way he could
show marks ofparticular notice, without making her feel the burden