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First settling at the Provin- cial capital of Fredericton on the St. Stekel in time pushed up-stream to Woodstock and be- yond, coming to roost finally in the log-cabin settlement of Bloom- field Comer, ten miles from the river and seven from what is now the Maine border, deep in the Canadian outback. At any rate, sailing into Fredericton in April , George Stekel the stalwart young tar, inquires for his family and is directed north-west to Bloomfield. The spring log-drives are on the stream, and after reaching Woodstock he strikes out on foot along the logging roads. Arriving there in the midst of the church service, the family is greeted by Harrison Stekel, and a like welcome is extended to the handsome young stranger, exotic as a macaw in his dress uniform.

In a scene straight out of the novels of Mrs. Humphrey Ward, the stranger re- veals himself as the long-lost son, and the services proceed to the accompaniment of happy unabashed Mid-Victorian tears. Now, in the family of John Nickelson was a daughter Mary Jane, and it takes not even the talents of a Mrs. Ward to tell us that soon she drew the lonely young sailor to her like a magnet. In the other corner he built her a loom which lasted eighty years.

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Raspberries red as blood came thick and large on the new soil. Stekel, wife of Charles H. Franey, died June 28, , aged 35 years 9 mons. From then on I began to talk to God about these things, and I was grown up. A studio portrait of her with her man shows us a small woman with a pointed, determined chin and a patient mouth. The large ears and dark, deep-set eyes give the impression of some furred, nocturnal creature, beautiful and shy, who was much beloved by her husband, as well as by her daughter Nora who never forgot nor forgave?

And did Nora, one wonders, ever get the white dress? We know little then, except that she bore Charles Franey three children who lived to make old bones: Nora Atwood, who became my mother, bom July 31, ; Dee St.

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Hill H. Fra- ney. We note here also the frenzied industry in the very teeth of disaster, and perhaps some Freudian accident-proneness on a birthday so brutally lacking in either party, cake or candles. True, TV antennas now sprout from the roofs of cottages which have taken the place of the old log cabins, and there is some black-topping on the two-lane road to Woodstock. The country store, the blacksmith shop and the rum shanty are long gone; but the little white church is still there, and the little white schoolhouse stands just down the road from it, with a privy and the ruins of a rail fence at the rear.

Even now you can pick high-bush cranberries and trap beaver in the swamps; potatoes are still the money crop, although sugar beets are coming in, and the golden fields of oats and barley still ripple in the autunan sun. Here Nora Franey spent eighteen years, from the time she was three until the family moved to the States in Charles and Lucy Franey married in , had moved here from Weston, not too many miles away so that Lucy could be near to her own kin, and from a three-room place into one of six rooms, Charles Franey, now age twenty-four, the staving man, the thruster as the fox-hunters say, was plainly coming up in the world.

The household was a snug little busy-bee operation, financed by house-building and maintained by domestic labor; the orchard, the 8 small cheese factory and the chicken-house, the cow for milk and the pigs for bacon; the kitchen cozy and warm and clean, with yel- low painted floor and turkey-red tablecloth, and the Rebecca-at-the- Well teapot on the back of the stove. For all that, it was a land where in winter they blew out the lamps around eight in the morning and lit them again around four; when zero was a warm day, and where you broke the ice in the pitcher so as to wash your face in the morning.

Here, nobody much took a vacation, and nobody much left, beyond the men who went to the woods in the winter or who worked in the zinc mines so as to come back and buy a farm near The Old Home Place later on. Night is the winter of the tropics, just as Sunday is the vacation of the pious. Then the fire in the kitchen stove would roar all day up the chimney and the air be heavy with the aroma of cooking — Boston baked beans and brown bread, mince and apple pies, oatmeal cookies and gingersnaps.

With all this, there were the picnics and blackberry ing in the sum- mer, and the skating and sliding in the winter, hitching a ride on the double-sled to The Comer for a five-cent treat of peanuts and candy, and once, even going across the Line and up to Presque Isle to see the fireworks and electric lights and to view a man going up in a balloon.

At the church, where she was con- verted to Methodism at twelve and which she joined at fourteen, she was an ardent worker. We can see the earnest little soul with the prim mouth and appealing brown eyes, bustling up and down the dusty road, collecting ten cents here and fifteen there for the Mis- sion Band.

At the school, where all the pupils sat at double-desks, the girls on one side, the boys on the other, and where the teacher if certified had been through at least three months at the Normal School, Nora learned to figure and to write a fair hand, and of course studied the Royal Readers. Charles Franey mar- ried again, in , a decent year after the death of Lucy, this time also to a woman older than himself. Lizzie Meamey brought to the marriage, like a Breton country girl trudging to her wedding with her feather-mattress dowry on her back, two big black milk cows and, from all accounts, a bundle of loving care for her new step- children.

The new Mrs. Franey however, was not long in becoming af- flicted with fainting spells and fits, of which Nora has left a meticu- lous and clinical account, and was dead of them by , as we have seen from her tombstone at Bloomfield. During these times Nora not only cared for her patient but slept with her, waiting trem- 10 bling in the night for the next fit to strike; it is during this time also that the entries began to crop up in the diary, which were not to be absent from it until her death.

Read some, cried some, played some. Oh dearie me, what shall I do? Monticello, Maine had been founded about eighty years before by a Col. Aroostook County, at the northern tip of Maine, is as big as Mas- sachusetts but still a lot wilder and more heavily timbered. Its clear- ings show the beautiful tan Caribou loam which raises the famous Aroostook potatoes.

Here in Monticello, Charles carried on his building trade, but soon gave it up for a spell, to try his hand at grocery-store keeping. To his home here, he brought his third wife, May Witchel. The cou- ple had been married the day before, February 12, , at Mars Hill some twenty miles to the North, and Nora came down to breakfast the next morning to find the forty-three year old bride- room, not a man to waste time on trifles, already up and bustling, with the fire going and the porridge almost ready.

Just a few months after that, in September , comes The De- parture, the inevitable scene in every domestic melodrama of the period. There, she will board an over-night steamer. The City of Rockland, for Boston, to enroll in the New England Bible Training School, and there we will leave her for a spell, while we turn our gaze upon my father.

Like my mother Nora, my grandmother Harriet was a five-footer, but with a broad, handsome masculine face which boasted a long straight nose, well-spaced hazel eyes and a wide full-lipped mouth. Like its owners, the house was a quiet one; no musical instru- ments, beyond perhaps an occasional mouth-organ or jewsharp, made the air lively, and the magazines were such tangy fare as The New England Homestead and The Ladies Home Journal The library shelf was a short one, containing mostly schoolbooks and standard English authors, with a heavy emphasis on the Victorian poets.

Unlike the Franey home, which with its bustle and visitors must have sometimes taken on the aspect of a bus station at Christmas Eve, that of the Tays saw few visitors and still fewer parties. The children grew up to attend picnics and kitchen dances, but these were at the homes of others and never at their own. So they got on then, wrenching a livelihood from the stubborn soil and living simple lives, probably a cut or two in the social scale below the Franey s but with neither side particularly aware of it. Two more new scholars, Howard and Nellie Tay. Yes, Fate — for the love of Nora Franey and Howard Tay was to be a redwood growth, slow and steady, with some sort of built-in preservative against dry-rot and termites.

For Howard had his way to make, he whose father had died when Howard was eighteen, with most of his brothers Gone Out West and a fourteen year old brother and an eleven year old sister, not to mention a dreamy, poetic mother, to support. The hand was sure and deliberate, and one can see the lonesome homesick young man, out in the world for the first time, taking all Sunday afternoon for the effort, making, after the leisurely habit of the times first a rough, and then a fair, copy. What do you think of that?

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Shocked, no doubt and no wonder. They have coaxed me to play but it was no go, excuse the slang. Yours lovingly, Howard. When I went out to milk next morning, thinking of you, dear, I broke down com- pletely and cried like a school-girl, and again last night watching the silvery moon and thinking of you on the steamer Yes, dear, I believe there will be kisses in Heaven. There is a big fellow named Sharp from York State. He tried it on me one day, good naturedly of course, but someway it did not come out as he expected, which pleased the other boys greatly.

They seem to regard 14 me as a Hercules for my apparent size. Her course included such subjects as the lives of the saints, the Bible as the Word of God, world history, hygiene, vocal music and nursing. Nora set about her studies with good Methodist zip and zingo, and by the end of March , she had got through her book learning and was taken into the hospital as a student nurse. During that time, the New England Deaconess, which has since grown into a great metropolitan hospital, was located at Belle- vue Street in the Longwood District, where it occupied a three-story red-brick row-house with eight beds.

It possessed but one fever ther- mometer, which was passed up and down the stair-well on a cord, as first this and then the other patient required a gauging of his temp- erature. The work quickly separated the girls from the women; twelve hours a day, some of it spent scrubbing floors on hands and knees, for six and oftentimes seven days a week, wdth an occasional Sunday afternoon off to stroll in the Fenway or through Mrs. There was however, one slight hitch.

Nora Franey proved to be a loner. In any event, it must have been a cruel blow, a hit between wind and water, to the dedicated, bustling twenty-three year old soul-saver, she who had Gone to the Big City to Make Good.

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She found herself quickly enough, however, in private-duty nurs- ing, including a hitch or two with the family of a Dr. George A. Niles whom she had met at the hospital. The long morning hours of toil, the afternoon hours of reading or entertainment, the evening hours of quiet and dozing and languor and impati- ence, the long long hours of slow pulse, thunderstorms and sleepiness.

Imagine just getting nicely tucked in bed and the call comes, too cold, too hot, too wakeful or something equally as interesting. She traveled with her father, who bore an angel-food wedding cake baked by the faithful Nellie, and on the 29th day of the month, was married, at the Second Presbyterian Church, to Howard Hermann Tay. Certainly we may imagine a deal of fuss and fumbling, some em- barrassed panting and a mutual ignoring of the matter of blood.

Be all that as it may, Howard had already located an apartment for his family at Russell Court in Covington, across the Ohio River, in Kentucky and here the young marrieds settled down. And of course there was church. It was an idyllic life, for the young bridegroom especially, with a beautiful albeit determined young wife, good clothes, and a steady job that was bringing in eighty dollars a month with, in those times, no irritating deductions. The author was Frank H.

I can only hazard a dark guess: Nora may well have resented The Other Woman, even in the disguise of a gray-eyed Muse, but this is airy speculation at best. Anyway, the purchase of the book was a prelude to his only pub- lication, a feature story in the old Westminster Magazine, an article on John Eliot. As proof that there was more afoot however, than Wednesday night prayer meetings, oyster suppers in the church basement, trolley rides to Eden Park and doubtless visits to the public library, their first daughter, Manon Lucy Tay, was born September 16, Not too long after that, Howard got the offer of a job with the Illinois Central in Chicago, and thither the young couple, with their baby daughter, went some time in It was an exciting age to be born into, especially if you were being born white, male, middle-class and American.

The Spanish- American War was ten years over, and T. Big Stick-rattling, T. My birth certificate names me after my father, Howard Herman, but all my life I have been known as Loki. I know not how this came about, only that my father was the one responsible for it.

O,, I suspect that Mother wanted me to be a Junior, and that Dad opted for the more distinc- tive name of the Norse god of mischief; and so each got his way, and I was left with the fate of being designated one thing and called another. In later years, the city of my birth would become for me a place of infinite glamor and excitement. When I was a boy, our family used to stop off there for a day changing trains, on our way to or from Maine in the summertime, pulling into the cavernous train — shed early in the morning, and then stepping across the street for a breakfast of oatmeal and toast.

The clang and bustle of The Big City, the smell of cooking and coal smoke, the rattle of horse-drawn delivery wagons and the Parmalee buses over the cobblestones, the exotic Yellow cabs, built like a brick Roils Royce, with motometers on the radiator, the whistles of the traffic cops and the yells of the newsboys, all stirred my pulse, seeming to bear me into a magic realm of danger and mystery. Some of this excitement I may have inherited from Dad, who dur- ing his short stay there, must have gulped down the heady draught 20 of life in fhe metropolis. In spite of all this, his days in Chicago were numbered.

He had been with The Big Four in Cincinnati for over three years, from June through October and had reported for work in Chi- cago on the first of November, However it proved to be a bad time for a new employee with little or no seniority. Business depressions seem to love October; by the 16th of that month, the Money Panic of had got under way. By the middle of , in spite of the titanic efforts of J. Morgan and his cronies to stop it, it was really roaring down the track, and by the first of June, the Illinois Central in Chicago began dropping its new men from the payroll: Howard Tay was among them.

The father of two babies, one of whom was still in diapers and the other just barely out of them, began walking the streets for a job and filling out application forms. But he could find nothing in Chi- cago; true, the Santa Fe had a vacancy at eighty-five dollars a month in Topeka, Kansas — but Topeka!

What a come-down after the prestige of Chicago, Boston, and even Cincin- nati! So then, finding nothing suitable, they did the sensible if lordly thing and merely moved the family back to Monticello. Probably Charles Franey and his third wife May were glad to see the new family, and doubtless Howard bore a hand in the store, with the milking and other chores.

The job, or one similar to it, still beckoned from Topeka, and after all, Nora had always wanted to minister to the heathen in foreign lands, and here was her chance. The Mississippi Ice Cap and various glaciers have been there too, leaving behind them mines of sand and gravel and a rich alluvial topsoil like that of Maine and New Brunswick. The fearless explorer with the restless, greedy eyes never found his fabled treasure-land of Quivera, and never dreamed that it was beneath his boot-soles all the time, deposits of lead, zinc, oil and coal, and, in the area of Salina and Hutchinson, an entire buried mountain-range of salt.

Kansas, set down dead-center in the very belly-button of the United States, is four hundred miles long by two hundred wide, and is tilted like a cellar door, going from an elevation of 4, feet in the West, to a mere in the East. When the Tay menage, iron-bound steamer trunks, straw suitcases and all, dis-embarked at the red-brick Santa Fe station in September , the town was already prim and staid enough, but like an aging call-girl who has given away her trick-suits to the Salvation Army and joined the church, it still had its memories.

Before , Kansas had been in the very eye of the storm that finally broke in the Civil War. After the Douglas Bill of , the Territory of Kansas had become a battleground. The proslavery groups fought back, but they never had a chance against the small farmers and shop-keepers of New England, who were led on, like the ancient Israelites, by Divine Providence by day 23 and the prospect of free land by night. Their strife with the pro-slav- ery night-riders and bushwhackers gave the state its name of Bleed- ing Kansas, and no political speech of the period was complete without a stand, one way or the other, on the subject.

Sumter was fired upon, and Topeka, established a short seven years before, had been, along with Law- rence twenty-five miles to the East, a red-hot Free-Soil Town. One senses the masked ironic smile of History a century later, when it is the case of Brown vs. Board of Education of Topeka that shows that someone has been unhappy about the plight of the Negro in the old Free-Soil stronghold, itself, and has brought the case that finally broke the back of public — school segregation in America.

By , in fifty -four years of life, Topeka had grown from a clus- ter of log huts on the treeless prairie to a place of elm-shaded, paved streets, a college town which boasted the state capitol building and the general offices and shops of the Santa Fe Railway. The publish- ing business flourished here, sparked by the anti-slavery papers of an earlier day, when both the editor and his presses stood in immi- nent danger of being thrown into the Kaw River, and a mercantile and agricultural supply trade boosted along by the Pikes Peak Gold Rush of and the buffalo-hide-and-bone trade of the Seventies, One would pay handsomely for an original sound movie in Techni- color of the feast of which the Kansas Legislature laid on for some visiting buffalo-hunters, Grand Duke Alexis of Russia and his party of officers from the Imperial Navy, which saw among the at- tending guests, Civil War Generals Custer and Sheridan of the United States Army.

Stephen Sewall Estey at Eighth and Harrison. Grammie and Gram- pie Dorson, as we called them, were colorful folk, old country peo- ple from Oklahoma where they had been in one of the land rushes and about which they could talk for hours. Early in Howard found a house for rent at Fillmore Street, and a lot for sale at to the south of it. To this lot, that very summer, came Charles Franey from Maine, doubtless glad of the chance to see his daughter again, and bringing with him his son 24 Hill, now twenty-two and a very proper young med.

It boasted seven rooms, with a basement and a floored attic, and a back yard suitable for a vegetable garden underneath the big cottonwood tree. Here they settled down on the nest, and here was bom, on Febru- ary 3, , just two years, after me, Rick Lafcadio Tay. He came into the world early on a star-filled chilly morning, with young Dr. Sloo in attendance, and Dad scurrying downtown through the snow for Grammie Dorson, and the both of them arriving back home too late, to find the baby already born and squalling.

Rick he was named, after his thatch of red hair, and Lafcadio after the gentle enigmatic Lafcadio Hearn, the novelist who had wandered from New Orleans to Japan to find his Toulouse-Lautrec soul amongst people who were no taller than he. Here also, three years later, on March 23, , the fourth child was born; and once more we find some vast, half-sinister shape, some Loch Ness Monster of the psyche, stirring beneath the surface. Jane Ca- rabelle, then; but it would be more than half a century later that Jane, examining for some inexplicable reason her birth certificate for the first time, saw herself as Jane Allegra, and not Jane Cara- belle, Tay.

An English nanny then, for the first year of her life, and it must have been during this period when, with a salary of ninety-five dollars a month, a ten-dollar raise had come roaring in during May , with a wife, nurse, three stair-step children and a babe in arms, Howard must have felt the crunch, and decided to alter his way of life. The view was magnificent and the price was right.

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It is now College Avenue, near Sieben Street, but then it was that old gray house on top of the hill, in Berlin Heights. The sub-division was probably named by old Sieben himself, in the pro-German days be- fore World War I, when he baked his own bread and made his own beer and wine in the basement. It was a two-story frame with a broad veranda across the front, and a tiny porch set in up above it like a shingled howdah on the back of an elephant. Across the little valley to the East lay the manicured greens and fairways of the Topeka Country Club, the best club in town, and for us a place of unspeakable remoteness and elegance.

By it was the settlement of Quinton Heights, through which the stubby little street cars swayed and bounced, on their way to a turn-around near the Country Club gates. From there it was about three blocks westward on the Burlingame Road, surfaced then with crushed rock, but now neatly paved and more fashionably entitled Washburn Avenue, to our mailbox, and from there a long block on up the hill, a long block of rutted yellow dusty clay in dry weather and of rutted yel- low muddy clay in wet. From here Dad could com- mute downtown to work for John Santa Fe, and in his off-hours, be the gentlemen farmer, with thirteen acres of pasture and woodland behind him, with livestock and a vegetable garden, and in those days all of Topeka spread out at our feet.

The Capitol dome was visible to us then, as we lolled on the front porch with our bare feet propped up on the railing and a glass of warm lemonade in our fists, and half a mile to the North, and across the Shunganunga, the green tile roofs of Washburn College. Here was a family of six to be cared for, a family which included in 26 its ranks a one-year old baby; here was a house that knew neither gas, water, nor electric, utilities and that was set off on muddy roads nearly half a mile from the car-line.

And here, to run the whole shebang, was practically no money. The sweets would have been from H. Transportation was soon arranged, and we had, beside a black Shetland pony, a succession of sorrel mares to pull the old family surrey with its black leather top or the topless two — passenger buggy. Behold Howard Tay, circa , in brown herringbone and homburg, whip in hand, with Nora in a long-skirted suit-dress which she has run up herself on the old foot-powered Singer, bowling along Topeka Avenue in the red- wheeled buggy, past the mansions of the Cappers and the Mulvanes, on his way to work, with Rick or me, along for the ride, curled up in the little box-like compartment at the rear.

The streets of Topeka in those days were redolent more of horse manure than of gasoline; the few cars that one saw were majestic, lumbering ships of state, with here and there an electric, in particu- lar one very chi-chi affair of black enamel and plate glass which tooled around town at ten miles an hour under the hand of Mrs. Stephen Sewall Estey. All told, then, we got around pretty well, what with horse and pony, and later on, bicycles, and always nickel fares on the street car. Clothes were no problem, either. Mother, like a queen gathering her tirewomen about her, would get Mrs.

Ben Naylor or some other neighbor to come sit, sew and gossip. The male contingent fared better. Dad al- ways well-tailored, and Rick and I in suits, sweaters and mackinaws from Fred Voiland or Pelletiers. Our high-topped shoes and later on, our lumbeijack boots usually came from David J. Food, too, was about us in great plenty.

Old Nig, the black Jersey with an udder as large as a bag of oats, gave down gallons of milk every day, milk which Dad extracted at dawn and dusk into a heavy w'hite enameled bucket and then strained through a cloth which hung for the rest of the time above the sink as a roosting place for flies. There was no vaccination, no pasteurization, and for that mat- ter, no refrigeration, beyond that furnished by two giant up-ended sewer pipes let down into the ground just outside the kitchen door.

Beautiful black-walnut trees grew along the Shunganunga, and in the Fall we gathered the fragrant green-shelled nuts and trampled the hulls off like peasants treading out grapes, staining our hands a caramel-brown as we shucked them and then, when the fruit inside was cured, cracking the nuts on a piece of ninety-pound rail sal- vaged from some right-of-way. As a chef, Mother was what you might call cordon blanc rather than cordon bleu, being of the bland, scalloped, Boston- Cook-Book, marshmallows-in-the-fruit-salad school; we had mashed potatoes, sweet pickles, scalloped corn, fruit pies in season and jelly glasses brimming with tepid and potentially lethal milk.

True, at Christmastime in , five of us came down with the Spanish influenza and were heroically nursed back to health by Mother, who was in her ele- ment, in complete charge of five helpless people who looked to her 28 for salvation, rinsing her mouth with alcohol against the germs and bullying Mickey Holmes into delivering our groceries. We all pulled through; however, William Tay, born a few weeks earlier, on No- vember 1st and nicknamed Billy Boy, was not so lucky. He was a small, weak thing, brown and wrinkled like a walnut, and after two days, was gone from our midst.

This was late in the Fall of course, and as Dad went downtown for the burial permit, one of us gathered some oak leaves stained ochre, scarlet and brown by the frost and put them in a cut-glass vase above the corpse. After digging the grave and lowering the coffin into it, he read a chapter from the Bible, said a prayer and then drove us all home to Mother.

She had stayed in bed, those being the days when confine- ment meant just what it said. This was a tendency towards self-pity, and she had it in turn from her own father. On our frequent trips to Monticello in the Summer, Grampie would take me aside at the Bangor and Aroostook station for a leave-taking. Self-pity, then not being forbidden by the Ten Commandments, washed over us like a surf, and especially over Mother. While all this was going on, I was in school, starting out at the three-story red-brick building in Quinton Heights, and a year or two later, through some quirk in the zoning, being transferred to the ru- ral Avondale school half mile or so to the south.

Of the school in Quinton Heights I remember little, beyond the nostril-twitching odor of floor sweep and the myopic magisterial overall-clad figure of Mr. McAlhster, a man in those days still called a janitor and not yet known as a custodian or maintenance engi- neer. I remember little then, except for three incidents that put scars on my puny psyche which are visible to this day.

In the play-yard there at Lincoln and Twenty-Sixth Street I soon enough began to throw girls down on the cinder-strewn ground, for which I earned the derisive nick-name of Jack the Hugger, doubtless in honor of the better-known but no less disturbed Jack the Ripper; but my school-mates were better at invective than they were at ob- servation.

I was not hugging anyone: I was being hostile as hell, throwing to the ground in effigy who — and for what reason — we may discover later on. The third incident happened on my first day of school. I was passing the little Mom-and — Pop store near Twenty-Seventh Street, when the proprietor, standing on his porch invited me inside for some candy. I followed him into the store and was given as an in- troductory offer, a present of a small striped sack of goodies. The following day found me back at the old stand, with the general air of the Scotchman who came home a winner from his first day at the races, wondering how long all this had been going on.

Those were the times before such tiresome academic require- ments as birth certificates, and Mother seemed to stoop easily to the deceit, and Dad must have winked at it, too. Avondale School, near the comer of Topeka Avenue and 29th Street, a site now occupied by a swank shopping center, was then out in the open fields not too far from the little settlement of Pau- line, and close to the southeast corner of the Topeka Country' Club.

Books, prescribed but not paid for by the State, and in the most revolting shades of buckram obtainable, were kept in the open drawer beneath the desk top, where everybody had his own ink bot- tle and steel pen. Columbus returning to Spain with the glories of the New World was not greeted with more astonishment than was Vera Hutchinson who showed up one day with something she called a fountain pen.

You mean it holds its own ink? We had a succession of teachers, notable among them a Mrs. Boyleston, a brooding, dark- haired female possessed of a short-fused temper. She kept a flexible rubber hose, of about the caliber commonly seen on douche bags, coiled about her waist like a pet viper, and when taunted beyond endurance would uncoil the hose and thrash the unlucky felon be- fore our eyes.

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There was no P. Yes, my dear, but do not cry. How many carriages will there be? We sharpened the skates ourselves, putting them into the anvil-vise in the cellar and going at them with a steel file. Dad was a great skater, and the rest of us wobbled around as best we could. Summers then, we went swimming in the amber, sluggish, green- scummed water, shallow for the most part, but with swimming holes, each with its own name spaced along the length of the creek. There was the Ford, with its rope swing dangling from the big cottonwood, and the Basin with its slipperyslide, and Mud-Bottom, into whose blue-black gunk you would sink to your knees.

We swam dog-pad- dle style, and bare-assed naked except when the girls went along, which was seldom. Nobody taught you to swim, you sort of fooled around in the shallow water until it came to you; and once when I went under for the third time, the fatal third time during which your whole life flashed before you, somebody, it may have been Warren Leonard casually twined his fingers in my long hair and yanked me out. Warren, about my age, lived with his family a block or so east of our house. He and his kid brother Reyburn, Rick and I, made up a neat foursome.

But there was more to life than fishing and swimming; there was also the Life of Culture, of The Higher Things. She was the pianist, banging away at the old Marshall and Wendell golden-oak upright which was five feet tall and heavy as a full-grown ox, and which was probably tuned once every three or four years whether it needed it or not. I was fated to be the gypsy violinist, and to Mon- key Wards we sent for a fiddle, enclosing a check for eleven dollars and a half; soon the instrument came to us, full-rigged with bow, 32 rosin, instruction book and extra set of strings.

The exotic smell of rosin and fresh varnish came up all around us as we lifted the yel- low-red violin, probably made by forest-gnomes in Czechoslovakia, out of the cardboard case. Miss Gulden was a gentle creature, young and fairhaired, with pendant guileless breasts which were visi- ble beneath her camisole as I stood over her, she seated at the piano and marking the bowings.

We had never known a divorced per- son before, although without doubt there were plenty of tight-lipped marriages scattered around here and there; and we had never seen such a car, with its rumble seat, and glistening with hand-rubbed varnish the color of a Montmorency cherry. Rick soon learned that you could pick out a melody with the fin- gers of the right hand and make a few simple chords with the fin- gers of the left, and after a few years became a facile, happy-go- lucky player-by-ear.

Even Dad got into the act, purchasing from God knows where an old six-keyed ebony flute on which he learned to tootle a few airs for his own amazement. In later years Art Carney was to observe that introverts end up in show biz, and we shall speculate more about that later on. In grade-school years my favorite out of our ten-volume set of The Children's Hour was Legendary Heroes, and here I soon identi- fied with, among others, Siegfried, Beowulf and Roland.

The stories were illustrated in half-tone, one of which showed Roland winding his horn in the pass at Roncesvalles, mounted on Valiant, in chain mail and with his hair blowing down the wind, with the heaps of slain paynims like dead leaves at his feet. Along with all this, I became a literary hyena, who would read anything that was in print. And then, around the middle of December, when the leaves were long gone from the big elms along Burlingame Road, Rick and I, coming down the long slope from Twenty-Ninth Street, would see It. There It would be. The Package, and one or two others like it, propped up amongst the mailboxes on the rack, too big to go into any of them.

The minute we glimpsed it, we knew what it was, broke into a run and soon had it in our hands. Once, in an unusually introspective mood, Pryor asked his daughter, "Why do you love me, Rainy, when I can be so mean? It is an unprecedented look at the life of a legend of comedy, told by a daughter who both understood the genius and knew the tortured man within. In this collection of autobiographical essays, Winstead vividly recounts how she fought to find her own voice, both as a comedian and as a woman, and how humor became her most powerful weapon in confronting life's challenges.

Growing up in the Midwest, the youngest child of conservative Catholic parents, Winstead learned early in her life that the straightforward questions she posed to various authority figures around her-her parents, her parish priest, even an anti-abortion counselor -prompted many startled looks and uncomfortable silences, but few answers. Her questions rattled people because they exposed the inconsistencies and hypocrisies in the people and institutions she confronted.

Yet she didn't let that stop her from pursuing her dreams. Funny and biting, honest and poignant, this no-holds-barred collection gives an in-depth look into the life of one of today's most influential comic voices. In writing about her childhood longing to be a priest, her role in developing The Daily Show, and of her often problematic habit of diving into everything head first, asking questions later resulting in multiple rescue-dog adoptions and travel disasters , Lizz Winstead has tapped an outrageous and heartfelt vein of the all-too-human comedy.

Account Options Sign in. Top Charts. New Arrivals. The book provides a rare glimpse into the man behind the legend. George Carlin wrote to Sally daily—notes, postcard, letters…he even started fights on paper; the title is taken from his very last note, which Sally found propped up on her computer upon returning from the hospital the day he died.

One of the greatest love stories ever told…hilariously, until the release of this book, no one but Sally has ever seen this side of George Carlin. And everyone is guaranteed to fall in love with both of them. Reviews Review Policy. Published on. Original pages. Best For. Android 3. Content Protection. Learn More. Flag as inappropriate. It syncs automatically with your account and allows you to read online or offline wherever you are. Please follow the detailed Help center instructions to transfer the files to supported eReaders.

More in autobiography. See more. Bob Newhart. The first book ever from an icon of American comedy--a hilarious combination of stories from his career and observations about life That stammer. Those basset-hound eyes. That bone-dry wit. There has never been another comedian like Bob Newhart. His comedy albums, movies, and two hit television series have made him a national treasure and placed him firmly in the pantheon of comedy legends. Who else has a drinking game named after him And now, at last, Newhart puts his brilliant and hysterical world view on paper.

Never a punch-line comic, always more of a storyteller, he tells anecdotes from throughout his life and career, including his beginnings as an accountant and the groundbreaking success of his comedy albums and The Bob Newhart Show and Newhart, which gave him fifteen years on primetime television. And he also gives his wry, comedic twist to a multitude of topics, including golf, drinking, and family holidays.

Today, Newhart appears on Desperate Housewives, in hit movies such as Elf, and in theaters around the country. With a push from friends new and old - including the massive, and massively fabulous, Tiny Cooper, offensive lineman and musical theater auteur extraordinaire - Will and Will begin building toward respective romantic turns-of-heart and the epic production of history's most awesome high school musical.

Ann Steele pinned post 27 Jan at am. Ines Marcella Jan 1, at pm. The rich aristocracy, like the Gerlings, tax the poor to the hilt, extending their own lives by centuries. No one resents the Gerlings more than Jules Ember. When Jules discovers that her father is dying, she knows that she must return to Everless to earn more time for him before she loses him forever. But going back to Everless brings more danger—and temptation—than Jules could have ever imagined. Her decisions have the power to change her fate—and the fate of time itself.

Evermore - Sara Holland. Best audiobooks in English Jan 15, at pm. Sara Holland. Everless 1 of 5. Everless 2 of 5. Everless 3 of 5. Everless 4 of 5. Everless 5 of 5. Best audiobooks in English Apr 18, at pm. Expand text… Gliding over the treacherous Green in a shaky aircraft that she has no idea how to land, Violet Bates is still in shock. The harrowing events of the previous night play over in her mind as she asks herself question after question. Why did Lee Desmond Bertrand behave the way he did? What is the truth about the mysterious silver egg stowed beneath her seat?

What happened to Viggo and where is her brother? Is either of them still alive? When Violet manages to reach the toxic ground alive, she has landed in a world of unimaginable danger. She has barely time to catch her breath before she is sucked into a perilous journey at breakneck speed - to uncover secrets guarded for centuries and find the only two people that matter. Bella Forrest. The Gender Secret 1 of 5. The Gender Secret 2 of 5. The Gender Secret 3 of 5. The Gender Secret 4 of 5. The Gender Secret 5 of 5. Book Love Aug 2, at am. Women rule the East. Men rule the West.

Welcome to the lands of Matrus and Patrus. Ever since the disappearance of her beloved younger brother, Violet's life has been consumed by an anger she struggles to control. Already a prisoner to her own nation, now she has been sentenced to death for her crimes. But one decision could save her life. To enter the kingdom of Patrus, where men rule and women submit. Everything about the patriarchy is dangerous for a rebellious girl like Violet. She cannot break the rules if she wishes to stay alive. But abiding by rules has never been Violet's strong suit.

When she's thrust into more danger than she could have ever predicted, Violet is forced to sacrifice many things in the forbidden kingdom In a world divided by gender, only the strongest survive The Gender Game 1 - Bella Forrest. The Gender Secret 2 - Bella Forrest. The Gender Lie 3 - Bella Forrest. The Gender War 4 - Bella Forrest.

The Gender Fall 5 - Bella Forrest. The Gender Plan 6 - Bella Forrest. The Gender End 7 - Bella Forrest. Ann Steele pinned post 18 Jan at am. Brandi Brown Jan 11, at am. Thirteen reasons why by Jay Asher. Piper - Jay Asher. Jay Asher - The Future of Us. The Future of Us - Jay Asher. Ann Steele pinned post 16 Jan at pm. But Elyse's backstage has life is beginning to take on a distinctly Shakespearean flavor.

When she fell in love with Lord John Waldegrave, Elyse was prepared to keep their affair secret. But she wasn't ready for her new love to rock her relationship with her dearest friend, Doctor Kai Murray. Expand text… Everything Elyse thought she knew about her feelings for her old friend is flipped upside down when an enchanting ship captain turns her attention to Kai. If Elyse hopes to escape the Thames with her heart intact, she must discover the truth about the captain, Kai, John, and her own feelings--before it's too late.

Journey to gaslamp London during the 19th century to see how Melanie puts a steampunk spin on this reimagined fairytale. When Isabelle Hawking and her papa set out from London on a sea voyage, Isabelle is thrilled.

  • Volume 1 February 19, 1887.
  • Internet Newspapers: The Making of a Mainstream Medium (Routledge Communication Series).
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Visiting foreign courts, learning from master tinkerers, and studying mechanicals is her dream. And it doesn't hurt that the trip also offers Isabelle an escape from her overbearing and unwanted suitor, Gerard LeBoeuf. Expand text… But Isabelle never arrives. Swept up in a tempest, her ship is lost. Isabelle survives the storm only to be shipwrecked on a seemingly deserted island. The magical place, dotted with standing stones, faerie mounds, and a crumbling castle, hints of an ancient past.

Isabelle may be an unwilling guest, but her arrival marks a new beginning for the beastly residents of this forgotten land. Alice thought she'd turned over a new leaf. No more working for Jabberwocky. No more making deals with the ruthless Queen of Hearts. No more hanging around The Mushroom with tinkers, tarts, scoundrels, and thieves in London's criminal underbelly. But she'd been bonkers to dream. Expand text… Hatter's reckless behavior leads Alice back to the one person she never wanted to see again, Caterpillar.