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I submitted my short story “Canebrake” to the Indie Author Project and just learned it is now available in Indie Florida. This is a collection of ebooks (mine is a short story) from independent authors, available exclusively on the BiblioBoard Library mobile and web platform. This collection is available to patrons of participating libraries in Florida. Here’s the link.  Unfortunately, my local library is not a member of BiblioBoard, so I haven’t been able to check this out yet. I’ve requested my library be added. If you have a library card for a Florida library, see if they they have BiblioBoard. If not, ask them to become part of the platform. You can also read the story here on my website. 

In January 2020, the Writers Alliance of Gainesville, of which I am a part, presented their First Annual Sunshine State Book Festival, featuring some 75 authors, several speakers, and reenactors of famous writers of the past. It was a resounding success.

January 2020 Sunshine State Book Festival

Once the excitement settled down, we began planning the second annual SSBF. Then COVID. Talk about deflating your balloon! It was not long before we realized there were to be no traditional festivals for quite some time. Time to regroup and get creative.

Why not a virtual festival? The advantage of a virtual event is that presenters and participants are not limited by geography. They can be from anywhere in the world. And they are. Most of our nearly 100 authors are from Florida, but some are from other states, and a few international writers are included.

Rather than sitting in a booth with their books displayed in front of them, authors videotaped short talks on their books. Instead of standing in front of a podium in an auditorium, guest speakers appear in videotaped presentations. In addition, we were not limited to a single weekend. Once launched, the festival could be live for months. And it is. Don’t miss it.

Please visit: https://www.sunshinestatebookfestival.com/

The planning stages for the 2022 Sunshine State Book Festival are underway. Hopefully, this will be a traditional festival, but we’re prepared for any eventuality.

Don’t forget to visit my booth:

https://www.sunshinestatebookfestival.com/au_pg1.html#Rogers

Happy reading!

I Was There

Sometime in our lives, we have an experience that words are inadequate to describe. I had one on 8/21/17, the day of the Total Eclipse. It was my first. I’d missed every other solar eclipse in my life by being in the wrong place or because of cloudy weather. I wasn’t going to miss this one. But summers are so busy. I traveled through eight states in three weeks. Serendipitously, a library in West Virginia had free eclipse glasses. I picked up a pair.

On my way home, I checked for available campsites at my favorite state park in South Carolina. They were booked. I returned to Florida a week before the eclipse, having made no plans, and my van needed TLC before it could make another trip. Despair was not an option.

 

Not my van, but definitely my sentiment.

 

Fate began to smile. My mechanic made the critical repairs in a timely fashion. When I told him where I was going, he said, “You must really like to drive.”

“No. I just like to go places.”

South Carolina campgrounds were full, but what about Georgia? Only about 100 miles from Orangeburg, Magnolia Springs State Park still had vacancies! Instead of a grueling six hour drive to Orangeburg, I faced a four hour trip to Magnolia Springs, followed by only two hours the next day. I made reservations.

Sunday afternoon, I headed north. With no rangers on duty when I arrived, I chose a campsite and enjoyed my evening at the park. Bright and early Monday morning, I reported to the park office, but the staff wasn’t ready to do business yet. I told them I was going to South Carolina to watch the eclipse. “You registered online?” they said. “Then just go! You can do the paperwork when you come back.”

I drove through fog, optimistic the sky would clear. There was little traffic on US 301 although the interstates were jammed. I arrived in Orangeburg at 9:45 and found a shady parking spot at Edisto Memorial Gardens. With hours to spare, I walked around the Rose Garden and decided this was where I wanted to watch the eclipse. Workers were busy mowing and weeding. I thought, what a great job they had—being paid to experience the eclipse!

When I returned to the parking lot, it was full. I’d been wise to get an early start. Half the cars, it seemed, had Florida tags. I strolled through the Sensory Garden and rang the farm bell. Then I went down to the Azalea Garden, where other folks awaited the big event. From time to time, I heard the farm bell ring. Despite growing numbers, the atmosphere was peaceful, friendly, upbeat.

I asked those I encountered, “Where are you from?” Many were from Florida. A mother and daughter from Orlando had driven all night and slept at a rest stop in their Mini Cooper. A couple of ladies came up from Georgia. One couple was from Denver but had been vacationing at Hilton Head. Family members wore matching eclipse shirts. Some had brought their dogs. All races were represented, and many nationalities. I heard accents I could only dimly place, and one group spoke German.

Every so often, I put on my eclipse glasses and looked at the sun. It looked like an orange cookie. The sky cleared and clouded again. Some expressed concern that we wouldn’t be able to see anything (Oh you of little faith!) but others were, like me, optimistic that the weather would be kind.

I walked through a sunny area where families had set up canopies. As I approached a scattering of trees, someone called my name! Who here would know me? It was fellow writer Jessica Elkins and her husband. They’d stayed in a motel in Statesboro, Georgia and were enjoying a little picnic of fruit and cheese and crackers. I joined them.

About 1:30, people wearing eclipse glasses stood pointing at the sky. The sun looked like someone had taken a bite out of the orange cookie. Over the next several minutes, the bite grew larger. Then a cloud occluded the sun and we couldn’t see anything. The cloud gave us some relief from the heat, but many were anxious we’d miss the eclipse. I kept saying, “The cloud will move on and then the sky will clear.”

Eventually, that cloud moved, but another took its place! Blue sky lay all around, but that cloud seemed happy to stay put.

The weather was kind. After a very long 20 minutes, the cloud went away and the crowd went, “Ahhh!” The sun now looked like a crescent moon. The light around us was subdued, as though clouds still shaded the Earth. The crescent grew slimmer. Around 2:20, I took leave of my friends.

On the way to the Rose Garden, I passed a group of Seminole Indians who were drumming and chanting. The light continued to dim. I sat down on the ground in the middle of the Rose Garden.

Dusk is falling.

By 2:35, the sun was only a thin sliver and the air was noticeably cooler. Dusk had fallen. Then it grew dark. The crowd cheered. We clapped with excitement. We laughed with delight. The drummers increased the volume of their chant. I took off my eclipse glasses.

In the sky was a silver white ring—the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!

Streetlights came on. At 2:45, a band of sunlight appeared on the north side of the garden. The crowd went, “Ohhh!” I glanced up to see a tiny jewel of sunlight on the edge of the silver ring. It was time to put the eclipse glasses back on.

Pictures don’t do it justice. (Photo by Jake McElveen.)

Daylight returned. People stirred, their eyes lit with wonder, exclaiming, “Wow.” “Cool.” “Incredible.” As I made my way back to my friends, I encountered a phenomenon that wasn’t visible on the lawn of the Rose Garden. The asphalt was covered with little crescents of sunlight filtering through the leaves of trees, as though the image of the crescent sun had been shattered into a thousand pieces and  projected onto the ground. A stander-by said they’d been present before the totality, facing in a different direction.

A Thousand Crescent Suns

There were no strangers. Everyone was overcome with awe. One said, “There are no words to describe it.” Another, “Words are inadequate.” A lady said she now understood why people get addicted to solar eclipses and will go anywhere in the world to see them. I’d heard that the experience was a life-changing event. It’s true.

Jessica began to talk about the next one, in 2024, and said she intended to watch it. Yes, I thought, me, too. The wonderment buoyed me all the way back to my campsite. That night, all I could think about was that beautiful silver ring that was the sun. It still remains in my mind’s eye.

The next total eclipse in Florida is August 12, 2045. I’ll be…how old by then? In the meantime, there are others in parts of the world I have yet to visit. On April 8, 2024, less than seven years from now, a total eclipse will begin in Mexico, cross Texas and Arkansas (where I have family), the Midwest, and into western New York and New England.

Arkansas, 4-8-24, here I come!

CANEBRAKE

This story appeared in the 2015 Bacopa Literary Review.  For more information on Bacopa, visit: http://writersalliance.org/bacopa-literary-review. You can order a copy of the 2015 issue through Amazon. It has more short stories as well as poetry and creative non-fiction. Happy reading!

Cattle Gap

Cattle Gap

Mario stepped off the school bus into the late August heat. “Remember, no TV till I get home,” Aunt Ginny, the driver, told him. “Make a sandwich and do your homework. I’ll be home in forty-five minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Aunt Ginny was his foster mother, not his aunt, but he didn’t want to call her “Mama.” He had a mother. He’d just finished the first week of sixth grade, but he felt so lost. Changing classes was a new experience, and there were so many new faces. He wore nicer clothes than he used to, but old classmates still treated him with contempt.

He should have gone to middle school last year, but he had flunked fourth grade. Not because he was stupid. He’d missed too many days. Last year, he did better. He learned to get himself up in the morning, even if his mother overslept or wasn’t home. He missed his mother.

Mario checked the mail and found a letter from his father in California. “Dear Mario,” it began. “I hope this finds you well. I am quite good, as is Cissy, and the kids. The social worker was here today to do the house check. She said she saw no problem with you coming here. It will take awhile for the paperwork to get to Florida, so we have to be patient. I’m saving money for a plane ticket to come get you.”

A joyful bark interrupted him. Aunt Ginny’s dog Skeeter bounded down the driveway and knocked the letter from his hands. Skeeter always came to greet him. Mario wondered what Skeeter would do after he left. By then, there might be new foster children to greet.

“Hey, Skeeter,” Mario stuck the letter into his backpack to read later. He paused at the cattle gap. This was a relic from the days when the old place had been a farm. The cattle gap was a grate made from railroad rails laid horizontally across a small ditch. Cows would not venture to cross, but it was no barrier for vehicles and most boys.

The ditch held a little water from yesterday’s thunderstorm. It looked like a good place for snakes to hide. Aunt Ginny had warned him to beware of snakes. What he feared even more than snakes was slipping and falling between the rails. He gripped his backpack, inhaled deeply, and balanced on the first rail.  Safely across, he let his breath out. He had never lived in the country before, and there were so many things to worry about.

Aunt Ginny’s farm now grew pine trees. Halfway up the driveway, Skeeter started barking again and dove into the palmettos that grew among the trees. Mario heard a great thrashing noise. Something big was in there. What could it be? A bobcat? A coyote? What if it was a bear?

“Skeeter! Come back!” But Skeeter was too busy to obey.  Mario set his books down and followed. A fine net settled over his face and he cringed. He brushed and sputtered to get the cobweb off. He wiped his mouth with his shirttail and brushed frantically over his head and shoulders. Could the spider be on him? It would be one of those enormous yellow ones that spun great webs between the trees. Aunt Ginny hated them and killed any she found in her yard. So they hid in the woods to ensnare unsuspecting boys.

He stepped forward. Skeeter stopped barking. Mario eyes darted around and looked down. Skeeter sniffed at a large gopher tortoise which tried to run from him. Its short legs flailed against a palmetto frond, which rattled against its neighbors, creating a noise way out of proportion to the size of the creature.

Mario let out a nervous laugh. “All this fuss over a little ole turtle!” He poked it with a stick and watched the gopher’s head and limbs draw into its shell. Maybe this would make a good pet. He carried it to the house, found an old washtub, and filled a dish with water. He’d ask Aunt Ginny what they ate. He never had a pet before.

Mario went back for his backpack and let himself into the house. He fixed a sandwich and poured a glass of iced tea before settling down at the kitchen table with his homework. Then he remembered his father’s letter. “I’m so looking forward to seeing you again. It’s been so long. You must be nearly a man by now.” His mother had called him her “little man.” He had taken care of her when she couldn’t take care of herself. After they put him in foster care, everyone treated him like a child. His first foster parents even made him go to day care. Aunt Ginny wasn’t so bad. She fussed over him, but she also gave him independence.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been more of a father to you,” the letter went on. “I didn’t know how things were with your mother.” Mario winced. He didn’t like people saying things about his mother. “You see, after we split up, every time I went to see you, we’d fight so bad, I thought it was best to just stay away. I thought sending money every month was enough.” Mario had not been aware of any money. His mother said his father was dead. He had a vague memory of a man arguing with his mother, but he was not sure if that had been his father or a stepfather.

His musings were interrupted by Skeeter’s frantic barking. Mario rushed out. There was a new noise, an intense buzzing, like that of a windup toy out of control. And there, on the ground, not two yards from Skeeter’s nose, was a coiled rattlesnake.

He dared not panic. He called Skeeter, who only kept barking and circling the snake, keeping a distance of four or five feet between them. What should he do? Call for help? But Skeeter could be dead before it arrived. His pounding heart drowned out the sounds of both snake and dog. Mario crept up behind Skeeter and grabbed his collar. He dragged him up the steps and through the front door. Skeeter was an outside dog and Aunt Ginny didn’t let him into the house, but this was an exception.

After the rattling noise ceased, Mario looked out and saw the snake crawling across the yard toward the back of the house. What if it got in the house? He ran to the shed and found a hoe. He tried to sneak up on the snake, but it turned back toward him and started to coil. Mario raised the hoe as high as he could and brought it down onto the snake’s neck with enough force to drive it into the ground. The body twisted every which way, but its neck was broken. Mario chopped with the hoe until he severed the head from the body. He trembled back to the porch and collapsed on the steps.

Then he remembered Skeeter and let him out. Skeeter immediately returned to the snake, but when it didn’t react to his barking, he began to sniff. Mario jumped to his feet. Maybe it couldn’t bite, but it still had venom on its fangs. He scooped up the head with the hoe and buried it in the garden. Only now did he examine the body. He’d never seen a real rattlesnake before and didn’t know they were so pretty. This one had diamond-shaped markings on reddish skin. He had seen belts and hat bands made from snake skins. The body was thicker than his arm and might be enough for more than one belt.

Warily, he picked it up. The skin was not slimy, but smooth and cool, like glass. Mario carried it to the back porch and got a knife from the kitchen. Although he had never skinned anything before, he’d seen it done. He cut off the rattle and put it in his pocket. Then he carefully separated the skin from the carcass, which he buried in the garden. He stretched the skin on an old board and nailed it down.

Only then did he truly appreciate his feat. The snake had been as long as he was tall. He shook the rattle in his pocket. Now he knew what a rattlesnake sounds like. The deadly creature could have killed him, but he had killed it. He marveled at how easy it was to kill. He stood up straight. Perhaps he was a man after all.

Suddenly, he heard the school bus out on the road. He put the skin and the tools in the shed and hosed off the back porch. The bus turned into the driveway. He washed the knife and put it away. He slipped into a chair and opened a book as the bus came to a stop in the yard.

A few minutes later, he heard Aunt Ginny say, “What’s this?” He had forgotten all about the turtle.

“I found him in the woods. Can I keep him for a pet? Do you know what they eat?”

She shook her head. “No, you can’t keep him. They’re an endangered species. The game warden’d throw us both in jail. You need to let him go. He’ll find food in the woods.”

Disappointed, Mario hopped off the porch. The motion jiggled the rattle in his pocket. Aunt Ginny perked up as though listening, but when she heard nothing more, she went inside. Mario carried the turtle with one arm and held his other hand over the pocket to keep the rattle quiet. After he released the gopher, he returned to the house and found Aunt Ginny brushing paw prints off the living room couch.

“What was Skeeter doin’ in the house?”

“Uh, there was a rattlesnake in the yard. I didn’t want him to get bit.”

“You left it alone, I hope.”

Mario couldn’t lie to her. His hesitation told on him.

“Empty your pockets,” she directed.

He had no choice but to show her the rattle. Her eyes bulged.

“Where’s the rest of it?”

“In the shed.” He told her the whole story.

“I don’t think it’d come into the house. It was just trying to get under the house where it’s cool.” When Aunt Ginny saw the size of the skin, she clutched her chest and hollered, “Holy Jesus! Snake that big could kill you!”

“Yes ma’am.”

“It’s a canebrake rattler. That’s why it’s so red. They don’t usually bother anybody. They usually just run away.”

“But it was trying to bite Skeeter.”

“Only because he was harassing it.  If you see another one, you and Skeeter stay in the house till I come home. Promise?”

“Yes ma’am.” He felt like a child again. He looked down at his feet.

Aunt Ginny put an arm around his shoulders. “Was you scared?”

“No ma’am. Well, maybe. I guess. I was afraid for Skeeter.”

“You were very brave to protect Skeeter. I’m proud of you for that.” Then she turned him to face her and put a hand on each shoulder. “But from now on, leave snakes alone. I can’t have a foster child bit by a poisonous snake.”

“Yes ma’am.” When he looked into her eyes, they were twinkling.

“What do you plan to do with that?” She meant the canebrake skin.

“Can I take it to California with me?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“What do you think my dad will say?”

Aunt Ginny smiled. “I think he will be very proud of you.”

Have you heard of Kindle Vella? It’s a new thing, where stories are published by episode, much like in the old days when books were serialized in newspapers and magazines. For some reason, you can’t read these stories on your Kindle but on your phone or computer.

I was putting the finishing touches on my novel Season of the Dove when I heard about Vella. After exploring a few books on the platform, I decided my novel lends itself well to being serialized.

For you, the reader, here’s how it works. You go to Vella and choose what you want to read. Here’s a shortcut: https://www.amazon.com/kindle-vella/story/B09GLLRR87. You can read the first three episodes for free. That should be enough to let you decide if you’re interested. If you are a first time Vella user, you are then given 200 free tokens. Each episode costs a certain number of tokens depending on the word count. After you’ve spent your 200, you can buy more. For $1.99 you can buy 200 , but if you’re a serious reader, you can buy in larger quantities at a discount, up to 1700 tokens for $14.99, which could pay for several novels. The total cost of a book is about equal to what you would pay for an eBook or a print book, depending on how it’s priced.

If you like an episode, give it a thumbs up. That helps the writer. Once a week, you can give your favorite book a Fave, which lets other readers know it’s worth reading.

Season of the Dove takes place in the year 2123. Serious damage has been done to the environment, resulting in social and political unrest. Florida is hit by a Category 6 hurricane, which makes matters worse. The main characters, Rob Hardman and Rosa Ortiz, are caught up in the turmoil. Yes, this is a dystopian future, but it is not a tale of gloom and doom. I won’t tell you how it turns out. You’ll have to read it. You’ve probably guessed a love story is involved. In addition, there is a murder (or two or three) to solve, a good bit of adventure, and human interest.

Unfortunately, while a book is on Vella, it can’t be published in another form, so Season of the Dove won’t be available in eBook or hard copy until such time as I take it down and republish it.

I invite you to check out Season of the Dove. (Yes, that’s the link above.) If you wish, you can give me feedback in the comment section below. Happy reading!

No one can argue that this past year has been stressful. We all needed escape mechanisms to help us cope. I’ve tried several. After the shut-down last March, when COVID was still fairly new, I came across a list of streaming movies about pandemics to watch while quarantined. With ghoulish curiosity, I watched a few. Because those fictional accounts bore little resemblance to the existing situation, they provided a sort of comfort.

Netflix has a series, ominously released in January, 2020 before coronavirus became popular, called Pandemic: How to Prevent an Outbreak. This documentary introduces the viewer to “heroes on the front lines of the battle against influenza” and showcases “their efforts to stop the next global outbreak.” Well, they didn’t stop this one, maybe because they focused on influenza and we were hit with a coronavirus. I watched a few episodes, but they were too close to reality, and I needed escape.

I seldom binge watch, but in the evening I’ll sit down to a movie or a couple episodes of a good TV show. Half the world found diversion from reality in Tiger King, but it was short lived. Science fiction is usually a good escapist genre. Even issues pertinent to our real world are disguised well enough to take us out of ourselves. I watched several seasons of Star Trek before I found Stargate SG-1.

If you are unfamiliar with the show, the Stargate is an ancient alien artifact that connects to other stargates throughout the galaxy by way of wormholes. SG-1 is a team of four adventurers. Each episode takes the heroes to a different planet where they encounter and surmount new perils. Each season, they save the Earth from impending doom. Good entertainment. Nothing, other than the occasional politics, to remind me of current problems.

The Stargate

Until I came to Season 9. A two part episode was titled “The Fourth Horseman.” Only after I watched the first part did it dawn on me that they were referring to the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. In the Old Testament, the Fourth Horseman is Plague.

In the last century, when we were sending people to the Moon, NASA would quarantine returning astronauts just in case they picked up some microorganism that could wreak havoc on Earth. The SG1 team bopped from planet to planet without a care. Only occasionally did they bring something undesirable home, and then it was usually an alien life form other than a disease.

Main characters are not allowed to die, of course, unless they can be restored to life, but lesser actors are fair game. In Episode 10 of Season 9, a team of lesser characters brought back a virus. I should have stopped watching, but I was addicted to the show.

One man developed a fever and respiratory distress and died. Others began to fall ill and were quarantined. Unfortunately, a lieutenant with no symptoms had already left the base, and he was a carrier. By the time they reined him in, the public had been exposed. The CDC was called in.

Back at the base, even individuals who had no contact with the infected team began to test positive or fall ill. The virus was described as “airborne and persistent.” Efforts to contain it to Colorado (where the story takes place) failed and cases began to pop up in other states. Public transportation was halted. Citizens panicked as the contagion continued to spread.  Hospitals were struggling and waiting rooms crowded. Cases emerged in major cities. The US borders were closed. Contact tracing was put into place.

It was like watching a recap of the past year’s news. How was this supposed to take my mind off my worries?

The script writers seemed to have done their homework. They must have consulted with the CDC on how a pandemic would play out. That, or they had a crystal ball. If that was the case, why didn’t they warn us?

There was one difference—no one wore masks. The general ignored the advice of the physician and went to visit his suffering airmen. I yelled at the screen, “Put on a mask!” He didn’t listen. Next scene, the general was in sick bay. I should have skipped the second episode, but I wanted to see how our heroes managed to save the world this time. They were furiously working on a vaccine.

Remember the cigarette-smoking man in The X Files? The actor William B. Davis? He is the arch villain in this story. In an attempt to conquer the Earth, he had purposely infected the doomed SG team. However, I don’t think he was responsible for our recent situation.

The Archvillain

By part two, there were cases in Mexico and Canada. Other countries grounded air travel and closed ports. The Stock Market crashed. Work on the vaccine continued, day and night, as the contagion continued to spread. Finally, the vaccine was ready and being distributed. (No mention of testing for safety and efficacy.) This team of fictional crack scientists developed a vaccine in two episodes in 1995, but it took us months in 2020.

At the end of the episode, a news reporter said, “The final death toll of the pandemic has been estimated at a little over 3000 worldwide.” Only 3000? The reporter seemed to think that was a lot. Do you remember when ours was only 3000? As I write this, our death toll has surpassed 3 million.

How did I remember so many details? A writer must sacrifice for her art. After I thought about writing this post, I watched the episodes again and took notes. Besides, plunging into it gave me a morbid sense of comfort.

The rest of the series thankfully offered more escape from reality. Now I’ve resumed Star Trek. Captain Picard’s world, while beset with conflict and danger, gives an optimistic view of the future where self-interest and greed have largely been replaced by ideals of cooperation and benevolence. What better way to get your mind off your troubles?   

If you haven’t already, check out my video at the Sunshine State Book Festival and my novel Trials by Fire on Amazon.

The Long Haul

Recently, a phone conversation turned to—what else?—the pandemic. My friend told me that when she was a child, there were old ladies in her community whose hands shook. These women had been victims of the Spanish Flu in the early 20th century. They were in good health, living into their 90’s, but they had what was called a Parkinson’s disease, which was an after-effect of the flu.

Influenza virus

That set the wheels in my head spinning. Grandma Rogers’ hands shook. So did Aunt Hazel’s, her younger sister. At the height of the 1918 pandemic, they were 17 and 15. Neither they, nor other relatives, ever talked about the Spanish Flu or its aftermath. The only family member I knew of who had been affected was a great-great aunt in West Virginia who died of “pneumonia.” Family tradition was that she died of the Spanish Flu, which is very likely. In those days they didn’t have flu tests, and West Virginia was hard hit after infected soldiers returned from World War I.

Grandma Rogers and me

Could my grandmother and aunt have been victims of the Spanish Flu? Grandma once told one of my sisters that their mother, Hattie Brown, also had shaky hands. Three women in one family whose hands shook! When I was a child, I wondered if it was genetic, if I could have inherited it. I didn’t know about the Spanish Flu. Any time my hands were unsteady, I would worry. Needlessly. My hands don’t shake. Nor do any of Grandma’s descendants have this problem.

Hattie Brown, left, with sisters Sadie Smith and Fannie Houghtalen

Shaky hands didn’t hinder Grandma or Aunt Hazel from performing household and farming tasks. They even crocheted, did embroidery, and tatted. I have a beautiful table cloth Grandma embroidered and lace she tatted, as well as an afghan Aunt Hazel crocheted.

Aunt Hazel with Mutt, 1964

The Spanish Flu was misnamed. It was caused by the H1N1 virus, now known as the Swine Flu. It didn’t originate in Spain. It is thought to have crossed into humans at a pig farm in Kansas, but Spain got blamed for it. Due to censorship during the war, outbreaks in Europe and the US were not reported, but Spain was not spared, especially when King Alfonso XIII fell seriously ill with the disease. He survived, but due to the general perception that Spain was an epicenter of the infection, it was so labeled.

For more information, I turned to the internet. It took some digging and asking the right question. Finally, I found discussions about Post-encephalitic Parkinsonism, also called Encephalitis Lethargica, or von Economo’s Encephalitis, after the doctor who studied it. This syndrome had a variety of symptoms, including movement disorders (shaky hands). It appeared in epidemic proportions between 1916 and 1929, with over a million known cases, but has not been seen since. It coincided with the 1918 pandemic, but some victims didn’t develop it until years after they had the flu.

Parkinson’s Disease can be genetic, but not always. Virus infections have been known to cause Parkinson’s. In mice, H5N1 (related to H1N1) can enter the brain through the vagus nerve, causing inflammation and Parkinson’s-like symptoms. The mice seem to be more susceptible to later flu exposures, but vaccines and anti-viral medications can protect them. In humans, H1N1 doesn’t enter the brain, but can activate the immune system, causing inflammation, which can result in Parkinson-like symptoms.

Some victims didn’t develop Post-encephalitic Parkinsonism until years after they had the Spanish Flu. There is no hard proof to link the two, but there sure is a strong correlation. This Parkinsonism is thought to be a post-infectious autoimmune disorder.

Grandma was in good health, except for arthritis, and she lived to 96. Aunt Hazel suffered seizures as a child and diabetes in her later years, but otherwise her health, too, was good. What about their father? George Brown was a wallpaper hanger. Grandma once told me that when his eyesight got bad, he had to give up his vocation because he could no longer see the seams well enough to hang paper straight. So he went into farming. Now I wonder, did he also have the flu? If it left him with shaky hands, that too would have made it difficult to hang wallpaper.

George Brown with grandsons Russell and Donald Rogers, 1927

We cherish the stories our grandparents told us, but from time to time, questions arise that we wish we had asked. We didn’t think to ask about the 1918 pandemic, or whether Grandpa Brown’s hands shook.

We keep hearing about “long haulers,” COVID victims whose symptoms persist after they’ve “recovered,” and warnings that there may be long-term medical effects of the virus. My grandmother, her sister, and her mother were long-haulers. Their shaky hands were a cosmetic symptom that didn’t shorten their lives, but we don’t know what COVID-19 will leave sufferers with, and teenagers are not immune. The “Parkinsonism” didn’t appear in many early 20th century victims for years after the pandemic, so it may be a long time before we know what today’s victims will face. And what about a-symptomatic victims? Can they become long-haulers?

Another thing to consider is that subsequent virus infections can trigger Parkinson-like symptoms. Studies in mice found that immunizations and anti-viral medications could protect them. Does that mean we should get our flu shots every year?

Personally, I’m suspicious of flu shots because of the nasty ingredients in them, such as heavy metals. I got the COVID vaccine because I was more scared of the disease than of the nasty ingredients. My personal plan is to keep wearing my mask until the end of the pandemic (just in case), continue to socially distance, and keep drinking my pine tea. After we get through this, each flu season, I’ll rely on the anti-viral compounds in pine tea to keep me healthy. I don’t want COVID, and I don’t want to be a long-hauler.

Check out my award-winning novel Trials by Fire. Available on Amazon. You can read a selection from the book here for free.

Now that the holidays are behind us and life may settle down, it’s high time for me to toot my horn. Here’s the press release:

MARIE Q ROGERS WINS PRESTIGIOUS AWARD, ANNOUNCED AT
2020 FLORIDA WRITERS ASSOCIATION CONFERENCE

The Florida Writers Association, Inc., (FWA) has announced that Marie Q Rogers won a prestigious Royal Palm Literary Award (RPLA). Her winning entry, Trials by Fire, won the Bronze award for Published Young Adult Novel.

The award was announced at FWA’s recent remote four-day annual conference. This annual competition was RPLA’s nineteenth. “This is the most competitive RPLA we’ve ever had,” said Chris Coward, RPLA chairperson. “The RPLA administrative team, judges, and entrants did an amazing job.” In all, the competition covered 28 adult genres and 5 Youth genres, with published and unpublished entries considered separately. “A win at any level can help a writer market their manuscript or published book, and the detailed feedback from the judges is invaluable for all entrants,” Ms. Coward said.

The Florida Writers Association, 1,800 members strong and growing, is a nonprofit 501(c)(6) organization that supports the state’s established and emerging writers. Membership is open to the public. The Royal Palm Literary Awards competition is a service of the Florida Writers Association, established to recognize excellence in its members’ published and unpublished works while providing objective and constructive written assessments for all entrants. For additional information, visit the FWA website: floridawriters.net, where you’ll also find more about RPLA and the complete list of 2020 winners.

And now, my friends, if you haven’t read Trials by Fire yet, this is a good time to order the hard copy or download the ebook and curl up with a cup of hot cocoa. My readers have ranged in age from 10 to 89, and so far everyone says they like it. You can purchase the book here or ask your public library to order it. After you read Trials by Fire, please take time to write a short review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

Most important of all, enjoy.

Among Other Things

Among Other Things

This story appeared in the 2019 Bacopa Literary Review.

Portia tiptoed to the bedside of the elderly woman. Was she was approaching a corpse? No, the ancient chest swelled ever so slightly, then fell. “Mrs. Lindsey? I’m Portia McNeer.” A leg moved beneath the cover, an arm stretched, and one eye half-opened, revealing a dark iris.

“Portia.” The aged voice somehow made the name sound like a birdsong. “What a lovely name. I knew a Portia once. Long, long ago.”

Portia felt a phantom cross the room and creep up her spine. She shrugged her shoulders and thought no more of it. Mrs. Lindsey drifted again to sleep. She smelled of baby oil. Portia’s gaze wandered. The rose pattern on the curtains and throw rug made the nursing home room look cozy. Family snapshots on the dresser and crayon sketches tacked to the walls suggested someone cared.

Portia’s retirement and the death of her second husband had left her adrift, and her seventy-fifth birthday brought issues of age and death uncomfortably close. Her daughter urged her to take a class or do some volunteer work. Portia had led a selfish life. Was it too late to learn to be giving? She sat in the bedside chair, waiting. She’d come here to learn patience, among other things, so patient she was determined to be.

She didn’t have long to wait. Mrs. Lindsey stirred again and opened her eyes, wider this time, more focused. “You are…?”

“I’m a new volunteer. I’ll come every Wednesday afternoon. If you like, I’ll read to you, or take you for a walk.”

Mrs. Lindsey gave no response. Portia had been warned she showed signs of dementia. Portia sighed. After lacking the time and patience for her own mother when she’d languished in a nursing home, Portia had come here to do penance, among other things.

Suddenly, the old lady’s eyes brightened and gazed deeply into Portia’s. She sat up in bed and spread her arms. “You are Portia! After all these years.”

Portia hesitated. She’d never met Mrs. Lindsey before. But why not humor an old woman? When Portia leaned over to embrace her, Mrs. Lindsey’s voice rose an octave. “After all these years, you’ve finally come back to me!”

Arms like crepe paper draped over balsa wood enveloped Portia with unexpected strength. Portia suppressed a shudder. She lacked the heart to tell Mrs. Lindsey she was mistaken. Gently, she extricated herself and held the old woman’s hands. Her initial revulsion softened to a feeling approaching compassion.

Mrs. Lindsey squeezed her hands. “You are still beautiful. The last time I saw you, you were three years old. You were wearing the blue dress your mother made for your birthday. Your golden curls were tied back with blue ribbons. Your eyes are still as blue as they were then.”

Portia said nothing. Could this woman have guessed her hair had once been blonde? But her mother never made dresses for her. Hand-me-downs from cousins were the best she’d ever had.

“And how is your mother?”

“My mother is dead.”

Mrs. Lindsey’s face fell. “I’m so sorry. She was such a dear woman. And your father?”

Portia shook her head. “Do you feel up to a walk?” The lesson in patience would not be easy.

The brightness faded from the old woman. Almost mechanically, she shifted her legs over the side of the bed and slid her feet into the waiting slippers, then held her arms out for the sleeves of the robe Portia slipped around her. When Mrs. Lindsay fumbled with the buttons, Portia took a deep breath, then said, “Here, let me help you.”

Mrs. Lindsey said little the rest of the afternoon. She struggled with her walker and Portia struggled with impatience. She escorted Mrs. Lindsay outdoors, read her some articles from a magazine, and sat with her through her favorite soap opera. On the way home she prayed for patience. Only determination, of which Portia had plenty, got her back to the nursing home the following Wednesday.

Mrs. Lindsey was dressed, sitting up, and waiting. “I knew you’d come back,” she said. They walked out into the afternoon. The sun warmed the jasmine, releasing its perfume. “It was on a day like today that I last saw you.”

All week Portia had fretted about this. Should she remain silent and let an old woman enjoy a fantasy in her last days? But being deceptive was not Portia’s style. They sat together on a patio bench. “Mrs. Lindsey, I am not the Portia you think I am. I never saw you before last week. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I can’t lie to you.”

The old woman appeared undaunted. “You’d have been too young to remember. I’m surprised your mother never talked about me.”

“My mother only talked about where our next meal was coming from and why my father couldn’t keep a job.” She looked down at her hands. “You see, he got injured when I was small. He was pretty much laid up for the rest of his days. When he could work, he’d buy liquor to ease the pain.” Portia set her mouth into a tight line. “My mother was a hard and bitter woman, but she managed to raise five children in tough times.”

“Only five? She never had another daughter? After four sons, she was so delighted to have a little girl. She was expecting when I last saw her. She thought that one would be another girl.”

“You see? I’m not your Portia. My mother never had another child.” Coincidentally, she did have four older brothers, but she didn’t want to feed Mrs. Lindsey’s delusion. “Tell me about the Portia you once knew.”

The old woman settled back in her chair and stretched her limbs to the warm sun. As she went back in time, her voice regained a youthful timbre.

“I was seventeen years old. I’d just graduated from high school. Your mother was expecting a baby. She already had four little boys and the oldest wasn’t yet ten, so she needed some help around the house. Your father hired me and I stayed on until you were five months old.” Mrs. Lindsey smiled. “It was a big white house, full of noise and laughter. I stayed in an upstairs bedroom. After you were born, I helped your mother paint it and make curtains so it would be your room. Such a lovely room. The window looked out onto the rose garden. Your mother grew such lovely roses.”

Mrs. Lindsey drifted into sleep. Portia sat beside her in silence. Her oldest brother was ten years older, but her mother didn’t care about flowers. Such a lovely childhood the scene portended. If only she’d been Mrs. Lindsey’s Portia.

Portia’s childhood had been spent in a two bedroom flat in a dingy apartment house in a coal town. Her parents shared one bedroom and her brothers the other. Her bed was a cot in the living room. Once, as a hard-headed teenager, she threw a fit because she couldn’t have her own room. She didn’t get a room, only a slap in the face. The next day, while her mother was at work, her father dragged himself out of bed and hung two old sheets, curtaining off her corner of the living room. She had never thanked him.

The sun settled behind the trees and Portia shivered. She woke Mrs. Lindsey, who remained in a daze on the way back to her room.

The following week, a staff member waylaid Portia on her way to Mrs. Lindsey’s room. “Whatever have you done to our Mrs. Lindsey? She’s looking so chipper. She even knows what day it is and that you’re coming.”

This time Mrs. Lindsey was not only up and dressed but already leaning on her walker. “I knew you’d come,” she said.

On their way out to the patio, they passed a visiting family party which included a young woman with a very new baby. Mrs. Lindsey stopped to admire the infant, who was dressed in blue.

“Is that a little girl?” she asked.

“No, it’s a boy.”

“She’s so beautiful. She reminds me of this one…,” pointing at Portia, “when she was a baby. She may be bald now, but her hair will come in blonde and curly, just like Portia’s did.”

Portia’s face burned. She steered the old woman away.

As they walked down the hall, Mrs. Lindsey prattled on, “You were so beautiful, from the moment you were born. I was there, you know. I was staying with your mother to help out. The doctor came to the house in the middle of the night. I’d never seen a birthing before, but he asked me to help him.” Her voice rose as she worked herself into an ecstasy. “When you came out, he put you into my hands, all warm and wet and wailing. What a miracle! And your mother said, ‘Is it another boy?’ And I said, ‘No, it’s a little girl’. And she began to cry. She was so happy.” Tears streaked down Mrs. Lindsey’s face.

Portia found her some tissues and dabbed moisture from her own eyes. She wished her mother had felt such joy at her birth, but she’d never spoken of it, except to complain of the pain and the burden of yet another child.

“Your mother always wanted a little girl. She told me every time she had a baby, she picked out a girl’s name, and every time it was a boy. She was so sure you’d be another boy, she didn’t even have a name for you. We called you ‘Little Princess’ until she could think of a good name.

“You see, nothing ordinary would do. We thought of all the names of queens and princesses, like Elizabeth and Mary and Anne, but they were too common. You were so special, you needed a special name. Portia was the name of a noble woman in a story I read in school.”

“Yes, Julius Caesar. Portia was the wife of Brutus.”

“So we named you Portia. Such a lovely name.”

Portia didn’t mention the grief she’d suffered because of her name. Cruel children found so many ways to tease her, “Portly” being the least unkind corruption. She once asked her mother why she had been so named.

“I don’t know,” her mother snapped. “I should have called you Jane.”

Jane. Plain Jane. Threadbare dresses and stringy yellow hair that an overburdened, unhappy woman never had time to brush or braid.

Portia returned to the present to find the older woman gazing at her.

“You look like a queen even now. After all those years, you’re still beautiful.”

Portia nodded. The ugly duckling had grown into an attractive woman who took care of her health, went to the hairdresser, wore only enough makeup to enhance her natural beauty, and dressed with care.

Mrs. Lindsey went on. “You were such a pretty child. Your mother and I talked about what your future would be. We knew you’d grow up to catch a fine husband.”

A cynical laugh escaped. “Well, I caught a dandy, all right.”

“Did he give you children?”

“Yes. A son and a daughter.”

“How wonderful.”

Portia didn’t add that, before she turned twenty, he also gave her an infection which rendered her incapable of having more children. “Mrs. Lindsey, I am not the Portia you knew. I got married at sixteen to get away from my mother.” But Mrs. Lindsey had nodded off to sleep.

What would it have been like to grow up in the family the old woman described? Staying at her mother’s bedside would have been easier if their shared memories had been other than bitterness and disappointment. Perhaps her motivation for coming here was to change all that in some way.

When she looked at Mrs. Lindsey, Portia saw herself in twenty years. After lacking patience and compassion for her own mother’s infirmity, perhaps, among other things, she was here to pay a debt.

When Portia returned the following Wednesday, Mrs. Lindsey sat in her room with an old black photo album on her lap. “I have something to show you.” She opened it to a picture of a small girl in an old fashioned dress with puffy sleeves and a lace collar. Bright ringlets were tied up with large ribbons.

Portia studied the features of the face. The girl looked almost like her own daughter at that age. But small children all look alike. “Where did you get this?”

“My husband was a photographer. He took it before we got married and moved away. This was your third birthday. Your mother made the dress for you. It was blue and matched your eyes.”

“Mrs. Lindsey, what was my mother’s name?”

“Martha.”

Portia caught her breath. “Martha what?”

The old lady sighed. “My mind isn’t as clear as it used to be.”

“Do you remember my father’s name?”

Mrs. Lindsey hesitated. “I think it was David?”

“No. John. What about my brothers’?”

Mrs. Lindsey lowered her eyes. “That was a long, long time ago. You, I could never forget.”

“Where did we live then?”

“Montrose, Pennsylvania.”

Close, but not enough. Portia almost felt disappointed. “I lived in Scranton. Why don’t you show me your other pictures.”

With the passing weeks, Mrs. Lindsey seemed to grow stronger and more alert without losing the conviction she knew Portia in infancy. Portia grew tired of telling her otherwise. Their conversations began to run as though they were indeed old friends bringing each other up to date.

Mrs. Lindsey related her travels with her husband, talked about her sole surviving son, and told of grief for children who died. “Years later, a doctor told me what was wrong. It was something in my blood. Minus something.”

“You must be RH negative.”

“Yes, that’s it. I never had a daughter who lived. I wanted one so much. That’s why I’d think about you. I’m so glad I found you again.”

Portia related the sorrows and disappointments of her own childhood. Mrs. Lindsey, maintaining the fiction that she knew Portia’s mother, made excuses for her. “It must have been so hard, a husband who was an invalid and five children to provide for, after losing her house and her baby.”

“My mother seemed to resent me. She never told me she loved me.”

“Poor thing. She wasn’t able to give you the nice things you deserved. She didn’t resent you. She was disappointed in herself.”

Portia’s memory of her mother began to soften. She saw her as a work-worn woman struggling to keep body and soul together for a family of seven, never able to rise above poverty. Portia also began to see her adult life differently. She realized what attracted her to her first husband. He was older. He made good money and bought her nice things. He liked pretty women. When she was almost thirty, with two half grown children and a tired body, he left her for a girl of nineteen.

This was the low point, and the turning point, of her life. Somehow, she survived her thirtieth year without succumbing to suicide or starvation. She managed to get a job in a clothing store. She learned to feed herself and the children on her humble income. She lost weight. She learned to dress well and groom herself to advantage. Occasionally, she modeled for the store. Native intelligence, as well as good looks, served to advance her career. She earned the respect of her employers. Eventually she became a purchaser. On one buying trip, she met her second husband, Lee.

By then her children were grown. For the first time in her life, Portia was not obligated to sacrifice for others. While her first husband had been indulgent and manipulative, Lee was gentle and giving. He gave her the encouragement and financial backing to start her own clothing boutique. She became a hard-nosed business woman.

Looking back on those years, she knew she hadn’t been the wife Lee deserved. After a lifetime of having to be tough, she struggled to yield to his kindness. But Lee had remained patient and uncomplaining. His death had devastated her.

Shortly afterward, her mother became ill and required constant care. Her sisters-in-law did what they could, but the men of their generation were not caregivers, so the heaviest burden fell on Portia. The loss of the one person who made her feel truly loved left her incapable of nurturing. Wrestling with responsibility and guilt, she put her mother in a nursing home. Although she visited often, those meetings were devoid of the warmth she now found with Mrs. Lindsey. Portia regretted that most of all.

Her mother’s passing was both a relief and a further burden of guilt. Her brothers, aware of the lifelong antagonism between their mother and sister, expressed surprise at the depth of her grief. In her visits with Mrs. Lindsey, Portia’s heart began to heal.

***

One weekend, Portia’s eldest brother, John, came to visit. “I’ve been sorting through some of Mother’s things,” he said. “I found a box of old photographs, but I don’t remember who all the people are.” They went through them together, trying to identify who, what occasion, and when, and wrote this information on the backs.

To her surprise, Portia found a snapshot of her parents when they were very young, standing before a white house with a rose trellis. “Where was this taken?”

“That must be our house in Montrose. Where you were born.”

The bottom dropped out of Portia’s world.

“I—I thought I was born in Scranton.”

“No, we moved to Scranton when you were little. After Dad got hurt. Mother had relatives there and they helped her find work.”

Growing up, Montrose had been only a nebulous location where their father’s relatives resided. Their family never talked about having lived there and never visited. Portia’s birth certificate showed the state, but not the city of her birth. “John, did Mother lose a baby about then?”

“Why, yes. You didn’t know? It was a girl. Born premature, I guess. Mother was never the same after that.”

Portia struggled not to cry. She told him about Mrs. Lindsey.

“Yes, I seem to remember we had a hired girl for a while in Montrose.”

Portia studied the picture. These were not the faces Portia remembered, drawn tight in bitterness and pain. This couple looked happy. From the depths of time, her mother smiled at Portia. Behind her, above the roses, was an upstairs window. “Was this my room?”

“I think so.”

She kept the photograph.

On Wednesday, Portia couldn’t wait to get back to the nursing home, but at arrival a staff member halted her.

“I guess we should have called you.”

Portia froze.

“They took Mrs. Lindsey to the hospital yesterday. We think she had a stroke. She isn’t expected to make it.”

Portia could have hit the woman. “What hospital?” Once she had the answer, she spun on her heel and left.

At the hospital, when Portia inquired as to Mrs. Lindsey’s room, the receptionist asked if she were a relative.

Portia straightened her back and replied, “Mrs. Lindsey is my godmother.”

In the waiting room she met Mrs. Lindsey’s granddaughter, Amy.

“So you’re Portia! Grandmother has told me so much about you.”

“How is she?”

Amy fished in her purse for a hanky. “It’s only a matter of time. I feel so bad. I didn’t want to put her in the nursing home. She lived with us so long, you know. But I have to work and it got so I didn’t dare leave her alone. I went to see her every weekend, and took the kids, but I know she was lonely.” She smiled despite her tears. “She was so much happier after you started visiting her. You can’t imagine how grateful I am to you.”

As Portia comforted the younger woman, she wished in her heart her own mother had had someone like herself in those final days.

Finally, she was allowed to go in. Mrs. Lindsey could barely speak. Mindful of the tubes and wires, Portia put her arms around her old friend and said, “I talked with my brother yesterday and he told me. I am your Portia. I was born in a big white house with a rose garden. Thank you for telling me about myself.”

Mrs. Lindsey tried to say something but all Portia could understand was, “Your mother.”

Portia couldn’t hold back tears. “When you see my mother, please tell her…that I love her.”

Portia stayed with the family until late that night. The following day, she assisted with funeral arrangements. A week later, she received a thank you card from Amy. Enclosed was a picture of a small girl in an old fashioned dress and bright ringlets tied back with ribbons.

Portia decided not to volunteer at the nursing home anymore. She thought she’d try working with children. She never had much patience with kids, including, unfortunately, her own. Perhaps it was time to learn.

First, though, it would be nice to take a trip, to a little town in the mountains of Pennsylvania, to see if a certain house still stood, and, among other things, whether anyone still tended the roses.

“During the Spanish Flu, those who ate pine needles didn’t get sick.” I came across this in one of my notebooks recently. I had jotted it down several months ago when I watched a webinar on herbal remedies. Unfortunately, I’d failed to record my source, but the webinar had touted the benefits of various parts of the pine tree. As I recall, the 1918 patients were being treated with pine needles for scurvy.

I already knew pine trees are edible, if rather hard to chew. Years earlier, I had read one of Euell Gibbons’ books in which he queried, “Did you ever eat a pine tree?” Then he proceeded to tell how to prepare and dine on the various parts.

More recently, I bought a book at a Garden Club event, I Eat Weeds by Priscilla G. Bowers. She devotes 68 pages to wild edible plants and the rest of the book to recipes. I’ve tied many of them and one of my favorites is Pine Needle Tea. I have pine trees on my property and occasionally a storm will blow down a few branches. I’ll salvage a generous handful and make tea. You can drink it hot or iced. It’s delicious, but I didn’t know it could protect you from the Spanish flu. I needed more information.

Iced Pine Tea with Mint

I Googled “pine needles/Spanish flu” hoping to find my source. I couldn’t, nor could I find any evidence of pine being used as a treatment during the 1918 pandemic. However, I did find information on pine in regards to modern influenzas.

Pine is rich in vitamins C and A, but it is also rich in shikimic acid, which is an ingredient in Tamiflu (Oseltamivir)! This ingredient is imported from China where it’s extracted from the star anise tree, but we grow our own source of shikimic acid right here in the US. You may have it growing in your backyard.

I found two newspaper articles on the subject, from the Bangor Daily News in Maine and the Pocono Record in Pennsylvania. Both discussed how timber companies could gather pine needles from harvested trees and extract shikimic acid to supply pharmaceutical companies.

In 2006, CNN.com published an article about a Canadian company, Biolyse, that collects discarded Christmas trees to extract shikimic acid. Chemist Brigitte Kiecken, CEO of Biolyse, expressed concern about the inevitability of a viral pandemic. “It’s an urgent matter, and we should be starting production—not once the pandemic hits, but before that. On a personal level, I’m scared, and on a professional level, I’m terribly frustrated,” she said. “Government and industry have to work together now. We’ve been warned for ample time, and it [a pandemic] is bound to happen.”

This was 14 years ago! Yikes!

I wondered, if pine can protect you from the flu, what about Covid 19? I kept digging and was surprised by the research that’s been done on the medical uses of pine.

There are 80 to 90 species of pine around the world, and most are edible. In fact, other conifers are also edible. That includes trees such as fir, spruce, larch, cedar, and hemlock. This is not the hemlock that killed Socrates. Poison hemlock is a member of the carrot family. Beware of wild carrots. Also beware of these poisonous trees: ponderosa pine, yew, and Norfolk or Australian pine. And remember, not all evergreens are conifers.

Another caution: pregnant women and those who could become pregnant should not drink pine needle tea as it could cause abortion.

Besides Vitamins A and C and shikimic acid, pine contains protein, fat, phosphorus, iron, and a long list of other compounds. The composition of nutrients varies with the species and season, which is why you won’t see a Nutrition Facts chart attached to your pine tree. Oils from pine needles could potentially treat heart disease, diabetes, senile dementia, and hypertension. And the list goes on: obesity, depression, and anxiety. Pine is anti-microbial and boosts your immune system, so it’s good for colds, sore throat, sinus and chest congestion. To relieve upper respiratory illness, you can inhale the vapor.

But what about our current scourge? Doctors are scrambling to find treatments for Covid. Maybe all they need to do is look out the window. If pine indeed worked during the pandemic 100 years ago and contains an ingredient used today to treat influenza, would it be effective for coronavirus?

To my knowledge, no studies have been done yet on pine and Covid 19, but there have been studies involving other coronaviruses, including SARS, which reared its ugly head in 2003, so it makes sense it would be good for Covid 19, too.

Priscilla Bowers’ recipe for Pine Needle Tea is simple:

Green pine needles, cut into 3” or 4” lengths

Water to cover

Sugar to taste

Bring to a boil in a sauce pan and hold 5 minutes, then let steep for 10. Strain and sweeten. Including some of the stems gives it more flavor.

I like to make it by the half-gallon and serve it iced. I take a generous handful of pine needles and twigs, cover them with water, bring it to a boil, simmer five minutes, then let it cool before I sweeten and dilute it.  You may not need to sweeten the tea, depending on your taste. Honey will make it more healthful. Warning: pine rosin will stick to the pan. Use an old pan or one that’s easy to clean.

A windstorm last week blew down several pine branches. I gathered twigs, cut them into useable lengths, and put portion amounts into freezer bags. Now I have a supply to last me until the next windstorm.

Of course, I’m no doctor and can’t guarantee that Pine Tea will protect you from or cure Covid 19, but when you have something that won’t hurt you, is pleasant to drink, and might help, why not try it?

Here’s a handy article with additional information: https://www.arborpronw.com/pine-needle-tea/

If you haven’t already, check out my YA novel, Trials by Fire, which is a semi-finalist for the 2020 Royal Palm Literary Award. Available on Amazon in paperback and Kindle.

 

In November, my sister Sue and I went on a genealogical expedition to New London, Connecticut, where our great-great-great-great grandparents, David and Mary Rogers, had lived. We’d tried for years to trace the Rogers line beyond David and Mary but were unsuccessful. We hoped an on-site search of local records would be productive.

For three days, David continued to elude us, but we found many colorful stories about a religious sect called the Rogerenes. (See Part I.) At one point, Sue said, “Wouldn’t it be cool if we found out we’re descended from them?”

Reverend John Rogers started his church in 1674. Among the Rogerenes’ unconventional beliefs was faith healing. They believed it was a sin to use medicine or doctors because the New Testament taught, “The Almighty had the willingness and power to cure diseases in a less bungling and dangerous way than physicians.” Prayer and the laying on of hands were the only righteous remedies for illness. Considering the level of medical knowledge in those days, they were probably right. At least prayer and laying of hands usually did no harm.

Usually. The Rogerenes had a crisis of faith when a skin malady called the Itch plagued the congregation. Laying on of hands not only failed to cure the condition, but actually spread it. After months of suffering, they held a meeting to decide what to do. The conclusion was that the Itch was not a sickness, but a species of vermin which they might destroy as they would rats or other noxious animals. Thus, they were able to use the customary remedies, “brimstone and lard,” with a clear conscience, and everyone was cured.

John Rogers wrote several books, but most of them were burned. This survives

John Rogers wrote several books, but most of them were burned. This survives in the Connecticut College Library. Photo by Jennifer Geoghan

In another case, their methods didn’t do so well. Ebenezer Bolles was cutting brush and vines (poison ivy?) and developed a painful condition that, since he refused medical treatment, led to his death.

Inside the book

Despite their objection to conventional medicine, the Rogerenes willingly took care of the sick and were said to be skillful nurses. In fact, when John Rogers wasn’t being a thorn in the side of the Congregationalists, he spent his life ministering to the sick. He believed his faith would save him from any contagion. It did, for over forty years, until the smallpox epidemic of 1721.

You don’t see these on younger people, but if you look at the upper arm of a person of a certain generation, you might see a circular scar less than ½ inch in diameter. These are from smallpox inoculations. When I was a child, everyone was vaccinated against smallpox. Although I was inoculated three or four times, I don’t have one of these scars because it never “took.” It turned out I inherited a natural immunity to smallpox from my father, who also had no scar.

 

Smallpox is caused by a virus and had been a dreaded disease for thousands of years. It had a 30% mortality rate and those who survived were seriously scarred for life. A worldwide campaign of immunization eradicated the disease in the late 20th century, the last cases occurring in the 1970’s. When my children were vaccinated, smallpox was no longer part of the protocol. These days, no one is likely to contract the disease, unless some evil mad scientist has squirreled away a sample of the virus with intentions to unleash it on an unsuspecting world. If that happens, I hope my children inherited my natural immunity.

But smallpox was a big problem in 18th century New England. There was no cure, only prevention and palliative treatment. Physicians could do little, but nurses could keep patients comfortable, prevent their sores from becoming infected, and keep them hydrated. There were experiments with vaccinations, which involved taking pus from an infected person and applying it to a scratch on the skin of a healthy one, but this was controversial. In fact, someone threatened the life of the famous Reverend Cotton Mather because he promoted smallpox inoculation.

In 1721, smallpox came to Boston and afflicted the city for over a year. Out of a population of 11,000, over 6000 cases were reported and 850 people died.

Smallpox ward, Boston, 1721

John Rogers, believing himself to be under God’s protection, went to Boston to care for the sick. His critics claimed he went out of arrogance. His apologists argued he had tended to smallpox victims before and seemed to be naturally immune. It turns out he wasn’t. After he returned home, he succumbed to the disease. Two of his family members caught it from him and also died. Thus ended a chapter in the history of the Rogerenes.

Resting place of John Rogers

Even without their leader, the sect continued to practice their unusual style of Christianity for another 300 years. Their good deeds were often overlooked and they failed to earn the respect of established religion. In fact, stubborn adherence to their beliefs brought them ridicule from the larger community. After World War I, they faded into history. It was inevitable. The Rogerenes were ahead of their time. The Hippie movement of the 1960’s shared many of their concepts: pacifism, social and political reform, and free thinking.

On our last day in Connecticut, Sue and I visited the Otis Library in Norwich. The genealogy librarian was very helpful and provided enough material to keep us busy for a week, but we had only a few hours. Sue and I divided the stack of documents. I sifted through A Genealogy of the Descendants of Joseph Bolles, which listed several Rogers in the index.

There I found him: David Rogers, born August 31, 1776. He married Mary Stone circa 1800. Could this be my ancestor? His parents were Elizabeth Bolles and John Rogers, great-grandson of the infamous founder of the Rogerenes. Could we actually be descended from that notorious group?

Sue and I had planes to catch. We couldn’t dig any further. After I got home, I tried to find more information on the internet, but David continued to elude me.

Then my little brother, a recent convert to genealogy, somehow traced a possible great-great-great-great grandmother, Polly Story Wheeler, who was listed in the History of Montville, Connecticut. This good woman was married to a David Rogers, born circa 1774, son of John and Elizabeth Bolles Rogers!

When you look at old records, you find all sorts of inaccuracies. In the days before computers, indeed before typewriters, everything was written by hand, and not everyone’s handwriting was legible. A David born in 1776 can be the same David as one whose birthdate is recorded elsewhere as 1774. Polly is a nickname for Mary. Middle names were often family names. Stone and Story could be different interpretations of someone’s penmanship, especially if the writer used flourishes, which they often did in those days.

We have finally tracked down our ancestor David, and Reverend John Rogers was his ancestor. Considering the personalities of my modern Rogers relatives, it makes sense—we inherited our quirky genes from the founder of the Rogerenes. However, my immunity to smallpox must have come from someone else.

An interesting side note: among John’s thousands of descendants are Mormons who had him baptized and his marriages sealed. Considering his beliefs about baptism and marriage, I’d love to be a butterfly on the wall when St. Peter gives him the news!

Another thing, if that insane evil scientist unleashes smallpox on our already suffering world, I will not refuse a vaccination, just in case.

 

 

A Perspective

A few years ago, before I replaced my 1996 Ford Ranger with a newer model, I stopped by my bank one evening to get some cash from the ATM. The bank was closed and the only ATM is a walk-up. Before I got out of my truck, I looked around. There was only one other vehicle in the parking lot, a compact car that could have been a Nissan or a Mazda. It was the sort of car that people of modest means drive, and it was much shinier than my old truck.

A young black man stood at the ATM. Regardless of race, I would have taken a minute to assess whether he seemed to be a safe person. He looked clean and respectable, dressed in slacks and a button up shirt, no tie. He might have been a teacher.

When he glanced my way, I read alarm in his face. Through my tinted windows, he probably couldn’t see who was driving, and his first thought might have been “red neck.” So I stepped out of my truck. He visibly relaxed when he saw I was just a little ole lady.

I kept a respectful distance to let him finish his banking before I approached the ATM. We nodded at each other and said, “Good evening,” and he was on his way.

Sometimes when I go to the grocery store at night, there are knots of young people crossing the parking lot. All kinds of young people: students, athletes, country boys, goths, and groups of kids, both white and black, loudly flaunting their individuality in the face of conformity. I’ve learned to see them for who they are. Most are quite harmless, and many are courteous.

How miserable would I be if I reacted in fear based on their appearance? Instead, I smile, remembering my youth and how the older generation was affronted by how we dressed and wore our hair.

If the young man at the bank had worn a tee shirt and dreadlocks, I might have taken two minutes, instead of one, to assess him for safety. But what if I’d been a white man with a beer belly, how safe would he have felt when I got out of my truck, even with a friendly smile on my face?

That he would have been afraid of me, based on prior experience, without getting to know me, is a sad thought.

 

 

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