Hello everyone, it has been quite a while since I have posted anything on the blog. Health and winter problems, health getting much better, winter in Wisconsin is up and down. No snow, but extreme cold. Wisconsin with ice, snow, rain, cold also comes the flu season, the common cold and a host of other viruses.
Even my four-legged son Mason came down with an ear infection. That may not sound serious; however, he will not let anyone touch his ears. Therefore, he has to be put to sleep to clean them out and put in medicine. Mason will be six years old on January 31. I know that is still young but this breed can have many problems. Time goes quickly and there are times I think about my life without him. He has been an Angel sent to me from “above”.
I have been laughing about the complex that I live in; it is filled to the brim with “old” people. My laughter is obliged as I am the same age of many, but… We have a central community room, which I never go too. The main lobby is another gathering place during “mail time”. I have discussed with some about the decorations; Thanksgiving décor was up the day after Halloween. Christmas décor was up before I had eaten all the Thanksgiving left over’s. Christmas night all of those decorations came down and Valentines went up! Trust me, Easter décor will appear before the Valentine chocolates are eaten.
How do I know all this…I go to the mailbox about midnight when everyone else is in bed, because of winter I walk Mason in the hallways.
I think the focus here or the main words are independent living. It is not a nursing home, but it is a facility that caters to the elderly. It makes my children happy that I am where there are many things that can make my daily life easier and they do not have to worry about me. I have a sign on my main door that reads, “Do not disturb”. I have a reputation I have been told that of a hermit. I do not want to listen to stories about age, aches and pains…I have my own.
They have “Happy Hour” on Fridays, 4 to 5 PM, you have to be there at four O’clock and you are ushered out the door at 5 O’clock. I went once, then took my bottle and went home. A one-hour Happy Hour just does not do it for me. Nevertheless, such is my life, I am happy.
I am currently working on my new book with no titles at this time; it is all printed out waiting for me to do proofing. This is not an easy job, as most of you know. Either, I hope to devote some of the winter months when I cannot get out to my painting. This book will be a work of fiction based on fact, which I have decided to do. There are a few family members living and I want to respect their privacy.
Therefore, the winter months are here. I will wane away the time on self-made projects. Sharing these moments with my readers, my followers is another great joy of mine.
Dedicated to my Grandmothers, Grandfathers and My Daddy…
In the Darkness of Night
I hear the cries of my grandmothers and grandfathers, I feel their fear; I walk with them in my dreams on the Trail of Tears. Their feet bloody as they walked the rutted trail, every scar on their backs another story to tell.
The Grandfathers and their families stood tall, their backs they refused to bend, and the pale strangers herded them like cattle to a far off land, to die in hot barren sand. My people believed the land belonged to no one, given to all by the “Great Mystery”; still they died with broken souls never knowing that their story in time would cover the blood-splattered pages of history.
My people watched as women gave birth and warriors carried the dead, the children went to sleep hungry with the ground as their bed. The day came when these great people were corralled, given musty water and bug-infested cornmeal to eat, in a place with no hope, to the pale man they were bound; a killing field where the blood of my family spilled upon the ground
I hear you my grandmothers and grandfathers, your cries, do not go unheard in the darkness of night; for in my dreams I walk with you, I feel your fear; I wake each morning with the taste of your tears.
The Chickasaw – Part 5
Hawk found a way to cross the Mississippi River into Northern Alabama. They made their home on the Eastern side of Alabama. They lived among a few Indians that were not forced to leave. Hawk knew that if they did not live like the “white man” they would be forced to leave or killed. Sipsee learned the language and would walk to the nearest settlement to work; they wanted to build a cabin. Sipsee knew that they must change with the times, Hawk kept to himself and his own dreams.
In 1848, Sipsee gave birth to a baby girl, the only child she and Hawk would ever have; she call her Jane and never gave her an Indian name. It was Sipsee’s way of trying to go with the coming change in their lives. This change did not mean that she would not teach her daughter to old customs just learn to survive. Both Sipsee and Hawk learn to survive in their own ways. He in the way of the land and playing the white man’s game to his advantage.
Once when Sipsee ventured into town and the general store’s proprietor ask her what was her name, she told him Sipsee. He asks for her last name, she said “Over-Town”; they had tribe names, but no last name. He misunderstood and called her Sipsee Overton. Sipsee decided when dealing with the white man she would use the name Overton; it stayed that and continues in the descendants today.
To be continued…
Resource – Storyteller – Jane Over-Town “Overton” 1848-1954 at the age of 106 her mind was Like a steel trap, she never forgot anything, It was her body that was ready for death; she lay down for an afternoon nap and woke only to say goodbye to the grandson she raised, my father.
Granddaughter – Vina Evans-Quinn
Resource and Post Writer – Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree Great – granddaughter
BOOKS AT AMAZON.COM BY ELIZABETH ANN JOHNSON-MURPHREE
HAPPY MEMORIAL DAY TO EVERYONE THAT CELEBRATES THIS DAY….
This image is what “a picture is worth a thousand words” means.
I have been very busy trying to meet a deadline so I will be away for a short period of time. I promise to visit all of you soon.
Down by the Creek…
We walked down by the creek where your ashes nurtured the strokes of nature spreading across the land. The children skipped and danced in the tall grass, paper and paints in hand. Their fingers soon became the shades of a fresh rainbow, one screamed “Look”. Those colors were “Her” favorites. Then, flowers were drawn in pinks and purples ever so bright. She had died one year ago that day. A bench inscribed with her name. We knew that our lives would never be the same but she found such joy in walking among the wildflowers. We came celebrating her life.
Text Copyright © 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree
Publishing Rights AsterialThoughts.100WordShortStories 2016 by Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree
Down by the Creek, is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All is quiet accept the music in my head, remembered from something that was once so beautiful, now dead. In the end, you were easily broken like glass, you touched my heart, and how was I to know that our time would so quickly pass? My heart, blessed by your hands and your eyes, oh so dramatic, yet wise. When you left, my heart became rigid with each beat, painful when I would see lovers kiss on a hushed city street
These memories are like arrows in my heart; nothing but death could have torn us apart. Now I am old, and I dream of a time when my heart was not filled with such sorrow. When the sunlight falls upon my pallid face, I close my eyes asking God to take me away from this mourning place.
All is barren accept the music in my head, remembered from something that was once so beautiful and sweet. Soon I will feel your breath upon my cheek, as we stand side-by-side, on a far away shore walking Heaven’s golden streets forever more.
FREE KINDLE: ECHOING IMAGES FROM THE SOUL FEBRUARY 10 – FEBRUARY 14
CLICK ON COVER TO READ OR GO TO AMAZON TO OBTAIN A FREE DOWNLOAD.
Thinking of Charlotte…
This coming summer I will walk by the creek where we scattered your ashes seven years ago to nurture the strokes of nature, the wind spreading them across the rippling water. The children will skip and dance in the tall grasses in the meadow, paper and paints in hand ready to create “we love you” notes to tie to balloons. Their fingers will become the shades of a fresh rainbow, flowers drawn in pinks and purple her favorite colors. The wild flowers will surround our much-loved place, hallowed ground where a bench sits inscribed with her name. We will all laughed, tell stories, paint and dance among the flowers. In reality, our daughter, sister and aunt would never be seen again. The underlying truth was that our lives have never been the same, in life, she taught us patience and love; in death, she taught us to appreciate every moment of every day
Authors Books on Line: