Historical Fiction That Grabs Your Heart and Feeds Your Soul
It was a simple excerpt from my family’s genealogy book that grabbed my attention: “Mr. Prince at fifteen years of age entered the Armory at Springfield, Mass., as an apprentice, and worked his way up to the position of inspector.”
The Armory at Springfield? What is that?
Thus began my journey to uncover part of my family’s history that eventually unfolded to become my novel, The Legacy of Deer Run. [Read more…] about The Legacy of Family
As the bell rings yet again for another school year, ‘tis time to consider the beginnings of education in America. These roots run deeply into the very foundations of the settling of this country, for the tradition of going to school began twenty-seven years after the Mayflower arrived with the Pilgrims.
It was 1647 when the colony of Massachusetts passed the Old Deluder Satan Act, requiring any town with 50 or more households to hire a teacher for reading and writing. If there were 100 households, that upped the requirement to operating a grammar school for older students. This law was passed because parents became lax in teaching the basics of reading and writing, and the concern was that the colonists be able to read their Bibles. Hence the name of the law, so “that old deluder, Satan,” could not “keep men from the knowledge of the Scriptures.”
While schools today fight to keep Christianity out of the curriculum, the education of young colonials was filled with prayers and the Bible. The usual tablet for teaching was called a hornbook, a wooden paddle with a parchment inscribed with upper and lower case letters as well as the Lord’s Prayer. The written document was affixed to the wood with a thin layer of processed cow’s horn—the colonial version of lamination.
Some youngsters began their schooling in a “Dame School” which was held in someone’s home where the children learned the basics of reading by the woman of the household. These dame schools were often the sole education for young girls.
If there was a schoolhouse in the community, it was one room and the schoolmaster that was hired was usually a young, unmarried man, who took the job before settling on a trade. Boys went to school in the winter for several weeks when there were no crops to tend. Girls (if they were lucky) went to school in the summer.
New England schools were numerous and paid for by local taxes. Farther west and south, these one-room places of learning became more scarce. The two colonies with the greatest numbers of formal schools were Virginia and Massachusetts—the first two colonies founded on American soil.
One of the more famous schoolmasters in colonial Connecticut started out teaching in the small community of East Haddam in the winter of 1773-74. The eighteen-year-old Yale grad was described as handsome, athletic and kind. Author Eric Sloan wrote that this teacher was so well liked that his students gave him a send-off party when he took a position in the larger town of New London.
“I’ll miss you,” the departing teacher said. “And I wish that part of me could stay back in East Haddam with you. I do regret there is only one of me.”
As this schoolmaster headed for his new teaching position, the rumbles of the Revolution were being felt. He joined the Continental Army while still a teacher in New London. But his other profession was as an American spy. When the British discovered secret military plans written in Latin and Greek and hidden in his shoe, Nathan Hale was arrested and then hung.
His famous last words embodied the spirit of the Patriot cause: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.” Nathan Hale, beloved schoolmaster, was hung on September 22, 1776.
His schoolhouse in East Haddam is now a museum overlooking the Connecticut River.
(Photos from Storrowton Village Museum, West Springfield, MA)
My love of gardening began early in life when a sweet neighbor lady cultivated my passion for plants. She lived a bicycle-distance away and my nine-year-old self would visit the tiers of plant beds behind her house on Winchester Road. [Read more…] about Life is a Garden—Weeds and All
“I think your plant is finally growing.” My husband grinned with the declaration since he knew I’d been watching this spot in my garden for weeks now.
Although my perennial garden was filled with flowers of numerous varieties, this particular one was special to me: A transplanted cutting from a historian friend in Massachusetts, near the home of my ancestors.
After a long winter, I feared the small vine had not survived. But in late spring my patience was rewarded with small green leaves that looked unlike any other in my garden. I took a photo and sent it to my historian friend. “Is this the trumpet vine?” I asked. He assured me that it certainly looked like it was.
Daily, I watched its progress. I removed a nearby plant that I thought might hinder the vine’s growth. But the most amazing thing occurred when the vine began to lean toward the arbor, which is exactly where I wanted it to grow.
How does it know which direction to grow, I mused? It was a mere eight inches from a picket fence yet a full foot away from the arbor. Yet it pointed in a straight—seemingly determined—path toward the trellis that would allow it to grow upward and reach its full potential.
So what drew it toward the arbor? It was reaching toward the southern sunlight—the sustenance it needed to thrive.
As so often happens in my garden, God spoke spiritual lessons to me as I recalled finally leaning toward His light when I first confessed my need for Him. Leaning towards His word and wisdom, He has helped me grow, his Light ever guiding me to the arbor of His strength.
When Jesus spoke again to the people He said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” (John 8:12 NIV)
Excitement coursed through me as I buttoned my thick sweater and wrapped my crocheted scarf around my neck. I practically raced for our rental car sitting in the dirt parking lot at the bed and breakfast where we were staying. My husband was amused at my school-girl anticipation, but he understood.
It was the day to visit the site where my great, great, great, great-grandfather had built a family cabin—a long-awaited treasure in a series of precious discoveries as I learned more about my ancestor, Daniel Prince, who had come to America in 1776. His intent upon joining the 21st regiment of the British Army was to conquer the Colonials; instead his heart was conquered by a young American farmwoman. He stayed in this country after escaping from a line of prisoners of war and the rest, as they say, is history.
But it was my family history—and I was chomping at the bit to meet up with the historian at the Williamsburg, Massachusetts historical building.
Ralmon Black is a sturdy, bearded fellow who had provided me with several interesting tidbits about Daniel (my Redcoat ancestor). The most amazing photo Ralmon had sent me in my research showed the Prince Monument. A three-foot-tall piece of granite, this perfectly shaped rock was painstakingly chiseled by a now-deceased Prince ancestor. The small edifice proclaims the following: “Site of log cabin built by Daniel Prince, a Burgoyne vet, 1782.” At the very top, an image of the British Union Jack is carved into the stone.
No one in my immediate family had ever heard of this monument! I was determined to visit it, so my husband and I made arrangements that Fall of 2009 to climb the wooded hill to the site of my grandfather and grandmother’s cabin. They raised eight children there, including my 3rd great grandfather, Daniel Prince Jr. Another rock nearby was chiseled with the words: “Birthplace of Prince twins 1784.” Daniel, Jr was a twin of James Prince and the two became famous as the oldest living twins in the 1800’s. Both reached their 90’s.
Our small party of seven began our journey up the hill. Now the site of a maple business, foliage covered the land that had once been cleared for homesteading. Our group included four Prince descendants—my nephew who lived in the area, two descendants of the twin James, and myself—the historian, Ralmon Black, his elderly aunt who put us all to shame with her stamina, and my husband, Steve. We began our pilgrimage on a chilly, sunny morning.
The closer we got to the site of the old homestead, the more excited I grew.
This was where my ancestors worked, played, lived and loved. I could feel my blood stirring.
We nearly walked by it. Trees camouflaged the remnants of the past. But there it was, standing tall amidst the ferns, looking like both monument and tombstone.
I tenderly touched the chiseled words that declared its place of remembrance for lives now long gone. Lives that shared the same blood with me. Lives that have lived through myself and all the many hundreds of descendants that have birthed since 1780 when Daniel and Mary’s first child was born.
It was a reverent moment.
My nephew and I, following the historian’s instructions, filled in the words on the stone with chalk. It made the etching more legible in the photo shown here. We caressed the stone with our fingers as photos were taken, grins wide enough to span the generations.
After what seemed too short a visit, we began the descent back down the hill. Unexpectedly, tears brimmed. I sniffed them back and then felt a gentle, persuasive urge to turn back—to fill my being with the mysterious connection of family that overwhelmed me. It was almost a physical presence of belonging. It wooed my senses to revel in my ancestors. They were so much a part of me, I could almost feel their love.
As I turned back again to descend the hill—turning back to the present—I carried their love with me.
It was the 4th Anniversary of my daughter’s death and I would have preferred to stay in bed. Keep the curtains closed. Pretend I wasn’t alive.
Instead, God spoke to my heart in a tender, inaudible voice that was both persistent and undeniable: I was to write a book.
Although I’d been a freelance writer off and on for years, writing a book had not been on my itinerary. In fact, since Bethany died from a brain tumor, I had pretty much retired my “pen,” submersing myself in my fulltime job as an RN working with special needs children. Tending their needs was a balm to my soul as I was able to bring comfort and joy to their handicapped lives. I wanted to make them live as fulfilling a life as possible—something I hadn’t been able to accomplish with my own child. She was gone and nothing could bring her back.
There was irony in me writing a book. It had always been my daughter’s dream to be a writer. Why should I be the one left behind to create words? It didn’t seem fair. But life is definitely not about fairness.
And though I was too busy to write, I began my research. The idea implanted in my heart on that dreaded anniversary was to write a historical novel based on my great, great, great, great-grandparents. I had always been fascinated with my family history dating back to the American Revolution: A British prisoner of war, falling out of the line of prisoners, wandering to the hometown of a young colonial farm woman. They met, married, the Redcoat became an American citizen, the woman birthed eight children—it was the stuff of fairytales—but it was my family’s heritage.
The amazing thing is my editor/husband never questioned my “assignment.” He went with me to the used bookstore to find books about the Revolution. He picked up library books for me. He helped me edit my first draft (it was horrible!). He coached me in ways to improve my story. He watched me act like a woman on a mission, and he never said, “You can’t do this.” I am blessed.
When my book was submission ready, reality struck. It was 2009 and the publishing industry was sinking fast. One friend in the industry told me that this was the worst time for new writers to try to submit. Unless you were a proven moneymaker, you were wasting your time.
Instead of discouraging me, I became more determined than ever. I had not spent countless hours researching, writing and editing to see my project flushed down the drain of defeat. Although it was still considered unprofessional in the literary world, I opted for self-publishing.
That decision took courage and I took some flack from those with their traditional-publishing-noses in the air. Fortunately, I was ignorant enough of the elite culture at the time to crawl into the closet of embarrassment. I plodded on. I entered contests and my book won a few awards, including Finalist in Romance at the Los Angeles Book Festival. Accolades encouraged my heart. I wrote a sequel and then another—all award winners. My third book was contracted with Sword of the Spirit Publishing and the first two will be added to that same publishing house in 2013.
My journey has not been easy. But as I anticipate my 4th book releasing with Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas in Fall, 2013, I shake my head in amazement. I’m not in awe of my capabilities for I know that anything I write is through the blessing of God’s gifts. But I am in awe of the One Who placed a call on my grieving heart and transported me on an unexpected path—a journey to fulfill my daughter’s dream. I hope to honor her memory with my work.
(Photo of hearth courtesy of Thomas Deitner)