Persian Apples

By Sarah Rebecca Kelly

One of the main points we enjoy in the humorous writings of Sarah Rebecca Kelly is how tolerant the characters in PERSIAN APPLES and all of her books behave toward each others' religious beliefs. They not only teach charity but they live by the unlikely law, to give is better than to receive: As was taught by one of the greatest leaders of America...

"The test of progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much--it is whether we provide enough for those who have too little."
Franklin Delano Roosevelt
(10-5-37)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Rebecca Kelly
• Release date: Jun 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466114531

Sarah Rebecca Kelly

Award winning author, Sarah Rebecca Kelly, was born between old fashioned Kansas and the toughest part of Texas, in the Panhandle of Oklahoma. Her specialty is ‘no tears’ animal stories. She now lives in Arizona with her adorable husband, Jake, along with a loveable bunch of “mutts” and the smartest cats ever collected in one place. Sarah is known for her close relationship with Jesus and her children and many grandchildren revel in her special love.

Book preview

PERSIAN APPLES

Published by Sarah Rebecca Kelly on Smashwords

Copyright © 2011 by Sarah Rebecca Kelly

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PERSIAN APPLES

Chapter 1

Doris Daisy hadn’t seen the Rodehouse Inn yet. She did know the whole mountain and the cliff dwellings were haunted. Many years ago, the early settlers had perished when their water source was poisoned by the seepage of deadly mercury from the silver mine above them. She was simply following Harland’s instructions given from jail. The present owner of the cursed property desperately needed to unload it. Douglas Hansel had been informed he was being sent up for life. Their appointment in the dusty underground basement office of Sloveig Masach was a relief to the lady and her brother-in-law, Ole Williamson. While they were waiting for her son, Johnny, to conquer law school; the big eater who had inspired Harland and Doris Daisy to encourage their clever son to greater heights, was retained for all serious business. They trusted him. Although, Doris Daisy, often mistaken for one of the Hungarian Gabor sisters, was somewhat of a maniac with a dishrag, herself, she loathed the stiff-rich polished atmosphere of what she called highfalutin attorneys-at-law. She much preferred the comfort of Sloveig’s unswept quarters.

Their family had recently suffered a terrific financial breakdown. The Persian Apples Pavilion market place, that had attracted its many shoppers from the seasonal harvesters, had been destroyed. The grocery store, Post Office, carefully stocked secondhand center and not to ever forget Harland’s Big Barn Dance Hall, featuring popular on stage stars such as Joleen James, Evaline Molloy; and once in a blue moon just for old time’s sake, Doris Daisy, lay wasted in ashes. One of the neighbors told Uncle Ole that to him it smelled like stolen aviation fuel had been used as starter fluid. That was his educated guess.

There was no such thing as a backroom illegal gambling club, which, was accused, had been destroyed in the ruins. Harland Williamson was better known than John Nance Garner. That man was the cock-othe-walk, strutting like a colonel, along the boardwalk that covered a city block. It was also said that Harland could make a million dollars and lose it in one day. But you couldn’t keep him down. His main vice stood in defense of organized labor unions. He was a registered Democrat and supported the working man with all of his might and that brought down the wrath of the Republican business world upon his head. He had raised almost as many enemies as he had friends. His favorite spiritual advisor, Reverend Gabriel Everett, had often reminded him that only one third of Heaven fell.

Harland drove a pearl white Buick, and Doris Daisy laughed as she repeated his daily adventures in the vehicle. She told it all— his prankish disregard to the harassment of the local scoundrels of authority. He came to expect and would have been vaguely disappointed had he actually completed a trip to a fixed destination without being pulled over. Those badgers always ordered him, she would say, to pop the trunk… but he never did… did he?

For Doris Daisy, the daughter of a sea captain and a Paris convent graduate: (John) pronounced, Captain Jan and Melissa Balair, life with Harland equaled sailing on a crescent moon. Together they had shared the Roaring ‘20s, skipping through ancient villages of old Europe, from off the cruise ship Victoria Star. He claimed he never failed to get her back on board before daylight, because he couldn’t bare to watch the captain make his own daughter walk the plank.

Harland and his younger brother, Ole, at ages 12 and 10, had managed to escape the drunken ravishes of a bucket of bolts, during a murderous storm that wrecked the cargo barge, which left the boys, clinging to a board, to be rescued by the Victoria Star. Even as youngsters they were good at what they had been taught by the sharp edge of a carriage whip.

After the death of Doris Daisy‘s father, she and Harland were married. Her mother went back to England where she was born. Harland actually founded Pacific Finance Company with his last $13. He sold stocks and they prospered until his own board of directors voted him out of business. He learned a bitter lesson that day—so bitter that he tried to forget it. But he long remembered the hardship of his early years and the refined behavior he learned on the Victoria Star. Captain Balair did not abuse his lofty position by shouting frustration at the crew. Harland remembered him best at the wheel, beneath white clouds of a restless sea. The bearded man cried out in a teasing voice, scolding the ship, Act your age, woman! (Which was a common expression of his times.)

After the paperwork was signed, and the sale of the Rodehouse property was complete, Doris Daisy and Ole drove the 32 miles up hill to look the property over. November’s lavender clouds hung over the castle cliffs above smooth stone walls and reddish tile roofs of all the surrounding buildings, which appeared to have grown up out of an autumn earth. Pinion pines and blue spruce registered a shady blend of green with breathtaking shades of red, yellow and orange splashed against the scene. Neglected fruit trees stood patiently for somebody to take an interest before it was too late: apples, pears, plums and mostly peaches (otherwise called Persian apples). The orchards and other yard work ahead of them looked absolutely insurmountable. Even with the support of three grown sons: Johnny, one year older than the twins, Jacky Wayne and Jerry Ray. Since diaper days, the boys had been called the Swedish triplets; and teenage Debby, their only girl.

Uncle Ole and the twins were forever up to something. Anyway, activity was the name of their game and they were diligent. Such thoughts caused Doris Daisy to flash a smile at Ole, (Popeye the Sailorman) her constant companion. He turned the key and pushed the double doors open. The Rodehouse was as expected, somewhat dusty but not necessarily draped in the long neglect of cobwebs. Subjected to a hardy scrubbing, the main entrance and the registration cubical would be serviceable. I like this circular staircase, she told him, as they made their way to check out the dozen or so second floor furnished guest rooms.

They found a fairly large utility room with plenty of shelves full of quality linens, bath towels and such, plus two prepared cleaning carts. There was a huge spooky looking third floor unfinished attic, which only deserved a nervous glance around and a quick promise for a better future. She was especially interested in the three bedroom, two bath, managers upstairs apartment, with it’s own balcony outside entrance way. That’ll do fine, she approved. So far… so good. We haven’t run into any ghosts yet….

Oh, yeah, he agreed, guess we’re just lucky, or they're scared of us, too, on his way down stairs toward the dining area, where the wood tables were surrounded by comfortable curved couches, upholstered in brown and red patchwork plastic, washable materials. Some of them needed minor repairs, a stitch here and there, nothing difficult. The hard wood floor was still in fairly good condition, with rubber backed mats along the traffic areas. There was no real surprise to find the kitchen fully stocked with cooking utensils and restaurant dinnerware. The drawers were full, and scrambled carelessly. At least the dishwashing sinks were cleared out. A massive stove appeared to be in working order and the walk-in freezer looked clean.

From the back door, they went outside wandering about aimlessly, trying to take it all in. Then they noticed a smaller shed type building that served as a laundry. Inside there were two ringer washers connected to double rinse tubs, a large sink below the cabinets with a long folding table and an electric ironing mangle attached to its own chair, for pressing bed sheets and pillow cases. On the other side of the laundry next to an endless string of clotheslines was an old fashioned community bathhouse, complete with a half dozen showers and toilet stalls. At one time, such outside facilities had been provided for servants. Near the back door, a crooked path led to the cabins, each one different and set at a scattered angle upon the rugged slopes as quaint as the Ozarks. She considered the possibilities to modernize these rustic little structures were as widespread as the imagination. Especially, for a lady with her vast experience at acquiring gently used household wares and nice pieces of furniture at Theba City Auctions. Oh, how