The Ojai: Pink Moment Promises

By Patricia A Hartmann

The simplicity of Ojai farm girl Meggie Baxter's life is shattered when she must choose between loyalty to her rough-hewn friend, Rusty, and the dashing Charles. As the decades of her life unfold, she faces the elemental dangers of floods and fire as well as the colorful high-jinks radiating from Pop Soper's Fight Camp, the steam baths at Matilija Hot Springs, a leaning post office tower, a corrupt councilman and Libbey's plans to modernize the town.

Amid tragedy and loss, Meggie clings to the one constant in her life, the promise of God's love. It is the "pink moment", the evening sunset casting a rosy hue like a prayer across the Topa Topa Mountains, that points her again and again to faith and courage. Midst the idyllic beauty of the Ojai Valley and the crushing forces of change, will Meggie and her beloved Ojai stay true to their rural roots of faith and family? Will the ultimate sacrifice that spares Rusty's life be enough? Or will the winds of destiny destroy both the people and the indomitable spirit of the Ojai?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 28, 2007
• ISBN: 9780595916191

Patricia A Hartmann

Patricia Hartmann has made Ojai, California her home for 37 years. She loves Ojai?s colorful history and lives with her husband in a 145-year-old farmhouse on a nine-acre farm where they grow Pixie Tangerines. They have a his/mine/and ours family of eight children and fourteen grandchildren.

Book preview

THE OJAI

Pink Moment Promises

A Novel

Patricia Hartmann

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THE OJAI

PINK MOMENT PROMISES

Copyright © 2008 Patricia A. Hartmann.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-0-5954-7340-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-0-5959-1619-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 11/03/2015

Contents

Dedication

Readers

Special Thanks

Chapter 1 Pink Moment

Chapter 2 San Antonio School

Chapter 3 Beauty

Chapter 4 Fair Enough

Chapter 5 Boots And Whiskey

Chapter 6 Game Of Marbles

Chapter 7 Church Social

Chapter 8 Thacher Toads

Chapter 9 View From The Hill

Chapter 10 No Guts…No Glory

Chapter 11 All That Glitters

Chapter 12 Christmas Star

Chapter 13 Building The Arcade

Chapter 14 Ojai Day

Chapter 15 Aflame

Chapter 16 Storm Shadow

Chapter 17 Contagion

Chapter 18 Nightmare

Chapter 19 Pebble In A Shoe

Chapter 20 Something In The Air

Chapter 21 The Circuit Ride

Chapter 22 Orange Blossom Wedding

Chapter 23 The Cereal Wars

Chapter 24 Lizzy And The Locket

Chapter 25 Redemption

Chapter 26 Goodbye…Hello

Chapter 27 Shaken

Chapter 28 Lesson From A Lizard

Chapter 29 Survival Song

Chapter 30 Fight Camp

Chapter 31 Tournament

Chapter 32 Alphabetical

Chapter 33 At War

Chapter 34 Matilija Dam

Chapter 35 Exhale

Chapter 36 Painted Ladies

Chapter 37 The Last Chumash

Chapter 38 Burning

Chapter 39 Leaning

Chapter 40 Still Water Rising

Chapter 41 Mending Walls

Chapter 42 Explosive

Chapter 43 Star-Crossed

Chapter 44 Angry Rain

Chapter 45 Letting Go

Chapter 46 Candles On A Cake

Chapter 47 Midnight

Chapter 48 Night Music

Chapter 49 Coming Home

Bibliography

Dedication

To my beloved husband, Larry:

What I know of love—I learned from you.

Readers

My intent in writing this novel is to take the reader on a journey of personal discovery about the rich and colorful history of the Ojai Valley and to engender an appreciation for the pioneer families who tamed the valley while cherishing and preserving its many distinctive qualities.

I have tried to stay as true as possible to the spirit and the history of the Ojai Valley while telling a good story.

This novel is a work of fiction. While actual historical figures from Ojai make an appearance in this book, the main characters in the Baxter, Morgan, Stowe, Burnwell and Stubbs families as well as Lucinda, Sherriff Crowder and Councilman Potter are entirely fictional and are not intended to represent any actual persons living or dead.

From pink moment to pink moment, those blessed to live in the Ojai Valley, or those merely visiting, might—after reading this novel—more fully appreciate its unique charms and the remarkable legacy of those courageous and visionary souls who came before.

Patricia Hartmann

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

* All poetry attributed to Meggie Baxter Morgan in this novel was written by the author, Patricia Hartmann. The cover art of the Pink Moment and the pen-and-ink drawings of familiar Ojai landmarks are also the work of the author. She retains all rights to their use and reproduction.

Special Thanks

Special thanks to the members of my Ojai Valley Writers Group who not only read all forty-nine of my novel chapters, one at a time, but also gave me their invaluable insights, feedback, criticisms and encouragement. Anne Boydston, LaNette Donoghue, Cindy Mullins, Patric Peake, and Ron Phillips—you are God’s gifts to me.

Special thanks also to my husband, Larry, without whose help and steadfast love and encouragement this project would have been impossible. You helped make it a labor of love.

CHAPTER 1

PINK MOMENT

1914

Megan Elizabeth Baxter had a limited number of days to watch the sun set over the Ojai. And the Meggie in her intended to make the most of every one of them. Even at the young age of fourteen, she knew that life held no guarantees. The Nordhoff Cemetery held the graves of many young children, her infant sister Lilly among them. Life could be as short as it was sweet. You had to find the good in each moment, even the ordinary ones.

Still, Meggie wanted more from life than feeding chickens. As she threw out grain to the hungry hens, her mind played with possibilities. She loved words and books and adventure. Where would this trio take her? Much as she loved the Ojai—a valley named after the native Chumash Indian word for The Nest—her imagination soared far beyond it.

She stood barefoot in the soft warm dirt of the chicken yard, the empty feed bucket suspended, forgotten in her hand as the sun dropped below the western mountains. She turned toward the sunset, her eyes and brain trying to absorb the raging orange and purple of the sky. It was a fine thing—this sunset. The Creator’s handiwork was lavished every evening on whoever stopped to look. Whoever had a heart to fill, a soul to lift.

As the colors began to fade, Meggie flung her blond braids back over her shoulders and turned a full 180 degrees to face the towering Topa Topa bluffs to the east. Right on cue, the mountains blushed pink, their striated layers awash in the final red fire of the setting sun. The pink tinge lasted only a few minutes and then the Topa Topas darkened to gray.

In later years, other souls would call it the Pink Moment. But for Meggie, it was her special time to reflect at the end of another day. She was but a small figure standing alone—on the circle of the earth, in the circle of the Ojai Valley, in the circle of her family, in the circle of her own heart, in the circle of God’s love.

Meggie never tired of the vivid sunset or the rosy glow of the bluffs. As the sun colored the skies, she thanked God for her day. The good and the bad of it.

The treasures were easy to recall. In a few stolen moments after lunch, she’d sat cross-legged, safely hidden behind the big oak tree, writing in her tablet. Glorious words had poured out on the page. Words about the Pink Moment.

Pink Moment

Gentle guardian of the east,

the great Topa Topas

spread ribbed angel wings

against the sky

soaring high

above

the Ojai.

At days end

in silent tribute

to the sinking sun

for just a moment

these towering cliffs

blush pink.

The Topa Topas

all aglow

seem reluctant

to let go

of sun and sky

and dreaming.

And so seeming

to tarry the sunset

written pink

on her stone face,

the mountain

pauses to embrace

the last lingering lift of light

before letting go

and giving flight

to darkest night

and the full moon

rising.

Meggie ran the words over in her mind—strong words—words struggling to capture the feelings in her heart. She felt a fierce kinship with these mountains and joy as she scribbled words on the page. Writing, in itself, was an act of thanksgiving.

As the glow of the Topa Topas faded, Meggie rethought the rest of her day. She stretched her back, stiff from a morning spent picking green beans. Well, she guessed she could thank God for green beans. Late morning, after chores, she’d taken her eight-year-old brother Taddy to the stream to catch pollywogs. His blond hair, cropped straight above his eyes, caught sunlight. An infectious grin lit his face as the muddy water of his Mason jar filled with wiggling black tadpoles. It was easy to thank God for tadpoles and Taddy and the enraptured look on his sweet face.

As for rest of the afternoon…Meggie couldn’t quite bring herself to thank God for the hours spent canning those darned string beans. Neither could she work up any real thankfulness for Aunt Rose. Her shoulders sagged, remembering…

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Megan Elizabeth Baxter! Aunt Rose called in her strident voice. Did you forget we’re canning today?

Life would be so much better if only Papa’s old maid sister, Rose, hadn’t moved in with them. Reluctantly, Meggie closed her tablet and made her way back to the house. She walked slowly up the front steps like a condemned man facing the gallows.

Aunt Rose sat in the shade of the porch with Mama, snapping string beans. Lost in dreaming again, I see, Aunt Rose complained to Meggie, waggling a freshly-picked bean in her agitated hand. There’s work to be done. String beans don’t can themselves, you know. We’ve just about got these beans ready for the water bath and…

She’s here now, Rose, Mama interrupted. Mama stood up, spilling a pile of green beans from her lap onto the wooden porch. Come help me in the kitchen, Meggie.

Meggie picked up the spilled beans, then ducked behind Mama’s slim form, before following her mother inside.

The kitchen was already stifling with the steam from kettles of water boiling on the cook stove. Mama poured a bowl of cut string beans into the roiling water.

Fetch those jars, Meggie. Mama smiled as she tucked a strand of curling blond hair back behind her ear.

Blond and blue eyed, Meggie was a miniature of her mother and glad for it. The two worked in a quiet rhythm, using special tongs to put the jars and glass lids in another kettle of water to sterilize them, stirring the beans until they softened.

I didn’t mean to sneak out of the canning, Mama, said Meggie.

I know.

I was writing a poem and…I just had to get the words down before I lost them. Grappling with the tongs, Meggie lifted a steaming jar out of the boiling water. Would you like to see it?

Why, yes. I would.

Meggie slipped her notebook out of her pocket.

Mama took a break from the demanding work to sit in the chair and read. Her eyes glistened.

It’s lovely, Meggie. Words are your gift. Mama gave Meggie a quick hug. Someday you’ll use them to bless others.

You really think so, Mama?

You spoil that girl, Elizabeth, Aunt Rose interrupted, as she bustled importantly into the kitchen, carrying the rest of the string beans. How will she ever become a proper homemaker with her head in the clouds and her nose in a book?

Meggie tucked her notebook safely back in her pocket.

Now Rose, Mama’s soothing voice rose slightly. Meggie helped us put up 50 quarts of cling peaches yesterday. She’ll be a grown woman soon enough. There’s time for dreaming.

Work before pleasure, I always say. Rose clucked her tongue in the irritating manner she had before turning to inspect the row of jars. Words won’t fill an empty stomach come winter.

Women feed hearts as well as stomachs. Mama placed her hands on her hips, daring Rose to comment.

Meggie’s mouth ran dry.

Aunt Rose pursed her lips as if to speak, then thought better of it. An uneasy silence filled the humid kitchen.

With the back of her hand, Meggie mopped the beads of sweat clinging to her forehead. Why did they have to can in September—the hottest month of all?

Aunt Rose busied herself, running her fingertip across the top of each jar. This jar has a chip, she said. It’ll never seal. Are you trying to poison us?

That’s why we always check them before the filling. Mama ignored the insult. Set the damaged jar aside. We won’t use it.

Huumph. Rose grunted her disapproval. Watch out for those beans now. Don’t let them get too soft.

I know how to can string beans, Rose. Mama banged the large stirring spoon on the kettle.

Aunt Rose muttered something under her breath.

Meggie checked each jar rim once again, running her finger around the flat rim of glass. If a jar didn’t seal, Aunt Rose would surely place the blame on Meggie with her head lost in her books. Meggie tried extra hard to keep her mind on the task at hand. Spooning string beans into a jar, she arranged them to fit. Meggie added the juice from the bean kettle until it ran over the lip of the jars. She wiped the rims, then added the rubber seal and glass top. Pushing down, she fastened the lid in place with the wire handle.

Be sure to get them on nice and tight, advised Aunt Rose. She hefted the filled jars into a hot water bath in the canning kettle, fogging her wire rimmed glasses.

Meggie nudged the door open, hoping for a hint of a cooling breeze. Between the boiling kettles and the growing tension in the room, a girl had to be careful not to get burned.

Some of my sweat is likely canned right along with these green beans, she said in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

Meggie! What a rude remark, groused Aunt Rose. Always remember, ladies do not sweat. They glow.

Yes, Aunt Rose. The three of them were glowing plenty.

Meggie studied her aunt through the clouds of steam. A certain bitterness of spirit lingered in the pale gray eyes squinting behind her spectacles. Meggie watched the stern mouth puckered with concentration. A few beads of perspiration formed on the tight line of her top lip. Straggling brown strands of hair streaked with gray escaped the severe bun at the back of her neck. Aunt Rose wore her ever-present blue cameo pin fastened at the neck of her crisply ironed blouse. Her shirtsleeves were rolled up in deference to the cumbersome task at hand, revealing beefy white arms prone to freckles. A starched embroidered apron covered her ample bosom and the roll of her abdomen. Stocky legs ended in sensible black shoes planted firmly on the wood floor.

Aunt Rose never married. Maybe that’s why she focused her frustrations on Meggie and Mama. Meggie tried to please her, really she did. She tried to avoid her as well. A little of Aunt Rose’s special brand of criticism went a long way.

The finished jars of string bean bounty glistened green on the counter.

Very nice, said Mama, giving them a final wipe with the dishtowel.

Waste not—want not, I always say. Though a creature of little strength, the ant wisely stores up his food in the summer. Rose took off her glasses, cleaning them on her apron. The ant, Missy, doesn’t waste time scribbling down foolishness behind the old oak tree.

Meggie’s cheeks burned. Her spine straightened. Her stories and poems might be unpolished, but they were not foolish. She had to write. It ranked right up there with breathing. Until she put pencil to paper, her thoughts would not let her be. Once the words were written down, then she could concentrate on chores.

She could never explain that to Aunt Rose. Her stern aunt thought in narrow terms. She was an industrious ant, putting away the summer bounty of apricots and peaches, beans and tomatoes, pickles and jams, against the barren winter months. The shelves in the root cellar were nearly filled with tidy rows of brightly-colored Mason jars.

In contrast, Meggie’s mind and heart were crowded with row upon row of thoughts... growing, just waiting to be harvested in words and canned into prose. Jars of word pictures, poems and stories. Whole shelves of green and red and purple thoughts, glistening with inspiration. Meggie sighed. Right there in the hot, steam-ladened kitchen, for better or worse, Meggie knew herself to be a writer.

Let her be, Rose. Mama’s voice had an edge to it—one seldom used. You don’t need to be stifling a gift. Let it be.

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Standing in the chicken yard as the Topa Topas faded to gray, Meggie shook her head and turned back to prayer. In a nod to good will, Meggie allowed that she could at least thank God that Aunt Rose had dropped the subject.

Her thoughts raced ahead. Tomorrow was the first day of school. She thanked God in advance for all the glorious new books in the classroom, and the lessons that lay ahead. School. The word alone was an answered prayer.

Her Pink Moment prayer was done. As the sunlight faded, Meggie closed her eyes and inhaled the heady sweetness of sage. Already the air was cooling. She could feel the soft earth beneath her toes releasing the heat of the summer day.

Something damp and warm nuzzled her hand. Wags. The dog looked up, waved his plume of a tail, then glanced toward the barn, reminding her of her evening chores still not done.

Meggie gave him a quick rub behind the ears. Good dog, Wags. Such a good dog. Then she sprang into belated action on the rest of her chores.

Shoo, girls. Shoo. She waved the edges of her cotton dress, herding the chickens into the coop, safe from coyotes.

She made fast work of throwing flakes of hay over the fence to Molly the mare, and her stable mate, old Cooper, a mule. She scooped a can of feed for Tilly, the brown and white pigmy goat who let out a bleat and head-butted the feed trough.

The moon was already rising when Meggie headed back toward the house.

The old wood framed screen door creaked as she came into the farmhouse kitchen. Mama had the oil lamps lit and carried a heavy pot of stew to the table for supper. Meggie hurried to wash up and sat in her seat next to Taddy. He flashed his trademark smile.

Meggie’s older brothers Dalton and Chase were already seated across from her, with Aunt Rose in the middle. Pa sat at one end of the table and Ma at the other.

Meggie glanced across the table. Aunt Rose wore her usual scowl. You’re late, she pronounced. Daydreaming again are we, Missy?

Well, I…

Enough. Pa gave Aunt Rose a quelling look and her acid tongue fell silent.

Meggie felt feet bump hers under the table. Chase pulled back his long legs. At fifteen, he’d yet to grow into his size 13 feet. His boots were a full size larger than Papa’s.

Sorry, Meggie. He smiled across the table at her, taking the sting out of Aunt Rose’s words.

She nodded. Chase didn’t have a mean bone in his body. He was just a mite awkward. Another growth spurt had caused his pant legs to ride up on his ankles. With school starting, he’d need new britches. One more thing to squeeze out of the tight family budget. Even though Meggie had a shiny new pair of shoes circled in the Sears Roebuck catalogue, she supposed her old high-topped shoes could last another year. They didn’t rub her toes too much. Of course, after a barefoot summer, any shoes would bind. She didn’t mind the sacrifice.

Meggie swallowed hard. When had she started thinking like a parent? Perhaps too much canning in the stifling heat of the kitchen had addled her brain.

She looked across at Chase. In coloring, he too, favored his mother, blond with even lighter blue eyes. He had the prominent Baxter nose and his father’s thoughtful way about him. And charm…why, Chase could charm the worm out of an apple.

What’s for dinner, Ma? asked Chase. I could eat a mule…Well maybe not Cooper. Way too old.

Beef stew, replied Mama. With plenty of buttermilk biscuits.

Papa bowed his head as they joined hands round the table. In his deep, resonant voice he thanked God for the bountiful orange crop, the health of the livestock, their little family, their home, their neighbors, and the food that Mama had lovingly prepared. Meggie stole a look at her father’s profile. It was a strong face, gently lined about the eyes. Papa’s dark hair shone in the lamplight. It was cut short on the sides, longish at the back. A little gray streaked the temples and peppered his beard and mustache. His hands were calloused and strong, even when clasped in prayer. Meggie felt safe in his care.

At the Amen, Mama began to dish up the stew.

Dalton breathed in the heady aroma of supper. Smells great, Ma! At seventeen, the eldest brother, Dalton, was already done with school and nearly a man. He was a farmer through and through and was happiest working in their orange groves. His long day’s work in the fields had brought on a powerful appetite.

The beef stew quickly vanished as did the basket of baking powder biscuits heaped with fresh butter and tangy blackberry jam.

School starts tomorrow. Papa looked over at Chase, Meggie and Taddy. You younguns fixin’ to go? A hint of humor lit Papa’s dark brown eyes.

I’m planning on playing hooky myself, Chase said with an exaggerated yawn and a stretch of his lanky arms.

Great, said Dalton. You can help Pa and me tackle pruning off the suckers on those trees by Chinaman’s wall.

Well, on second thought, sitting behind a desk can’t be all that bad. Chase took a last bite of biscuit.

You’ll be the first class to be in those lovely new bungalow style buildings, said Mama. Shows just how much pride Ojai takes in education.

Aunt Rose sniffed. Too much pride, I’d say. Fancy bushes lined up on the front steps in terra-cotta pots. You’d think Nordhoff High was Harvard or something.

Principal Bristol must think so, said Dalton. He wanted me to go to college. Got me mixed up with those stuffy, rich, Thacher School boys. Dalton picked at a spot of dirt under his thumbnail. Farmers don’t need college.

You’re so right, Dalton. Aunt Rose agreed. And… I’m thinking Meggie might be better off here at home learning home-making skills than lollygagging at school, filling her mind with a bunch of fool notions.

Icy fear invaded Meggie’s veins. She cast a panicked look at Papa.

Meggie loves school, spoke out Mama.

Aunt Rose folded her arms across her ample bosom. A woman’s place is in the home.

Papa placed his hands flat on the table, and faced Aunt Rose. Meggie will go to school tomorrow and the next day and the next. An educated mind is an asset in a daughter as well as a son. I’ve never been a supporter of ignorance.

Meggie remembered how to breathe.

Papa ran a hand through his thick hair. Dalton, you’ve finished high school. You don’t have any hankering for college. Raising crops suits you, I guess.

Yes it does, Pa. Dalton braced his hands against the straps of his overalls.

Looking around the table, Papa studied his children. Each of you is as unique as an ear of Indian corn. Different colors and patterns. Different dreams…

Mama spoke up. Schooling is the first step in making those dreams come true.

You can see that your mama aims to raise a fine crop of educated Baxters. Papa exchanged a warm glance across the table with Mama, who colored slightly and moved a slender hand to touch the gold-spun hair at the base of her neck.

Aunt Rose busied herself mopping a spill of blackberry jam on the side of the jar.

Mama wiped at her eyes. My, how you’re all growing up…right in front of me.

I’m growing up too, aren’t I, Papa? Taddy got into the conversation. He sat straighter in his chair in case anyone was measuring.

You certainly are. Aunt Rose patted him affectionately on the top of his golden hair. Meggie noted the gesture. Aunt Rose displayed none of her usual antagonism toward Taddy. He was her favorite.

Big enough to start helping with the haying, I reckon, said Pa.

Really? asked Taddy, his eyes alight.

Yep. I’ll add you to my weekend crew of your older brothers soon as the cut alfalfa’s dry.

That reminds me, said Mama. Got a phone message passed on from Doc Saeger at the drugstore. Your new blade for the hay mow can’t be delivered til Wednesday.

I guess that takes fixing the hay mow off tomorrow’s schedule. Papa took a bite of stew.

I hear Thacher School just got a phone installed. said Chase.

Really… Mama passed what was left of the biscuits. I thought the telephone at Doc. Saeger’s was the only one in town. It’s still the most reliable way to get a message from Ventura.

And the latest gossip, added Aunt Rose.

Pa nodded. Times are changing. Telephones are turning up everywhere now. Besides the Doc’s, there’s a phone at the Suess Cash Store, one at the Galley Cottages and in most of the hotels.

I guess now we have three sure-fire ways to get the latest news, remarked Chase with a grin. The telegraph, the telephone, and the tell-a-woman. Meggie kicked his leg under the table.

Can I take Cooper tomorrow? asked Meggie. Taddy and I could ride together to school.

Sure, said Papa. We don’t need the mule for plowing tomorrow.

It wasn’t any picnic balancing herself and Taddy on old Cooper the nearly two miles to school, but it sure beat walking. She was glad their little school wasn’t meeting anymore in the old granary way out in what the newspaper called the howling wilderness at the foot of Dennison grade. The newer schoolhouse, several years old, even had a bell tower to call latecomers to class. Meggie could almost smell the wonder of chalk and glue. Even better, Mama had made her a new checkered dress with a real lace collar to wear for her first day back. It looked right smart when she’d tried it on and examined her reflection in the vanity mirror.

I guess I’m ready for school, said Taddy. But I already miss summer. He wiggled his bare toes under the table.

San Antonio School, here we come, breathed Meggie holding back a whoop. Her excitement was growing. All those lovely books. Despite the objections of Aunt Rose, they’d have to hog-tie her to a fence post to keep her away.

The Friend family sold those three acres for the school to the district for only twenty-five dollars, said Pa. A very generous thing to do.

Very generous, echoed Mama. I heard that the school is up to 28 students this year. Imagine that. Mama beamed. Ojai is growing.

Yeah, growing way too civilized. Dalton excused himself. Selling good farmland for a school. He headed out the door to take solace in his beloved trees.

Mama started clearing the table.

Reckon Rusty still has a crush on you, Meggie? mused Chase.

I sincerely hope not. Meggie hid her blush behind her napkin. I’d best get to those dirty dishes.

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Meggie stood on an old starch box to wash dishes in the big enameled sink. She ran a rag over a dirty plate and daydreamed that she was at a podium speaking to a large crowd of admirers about her latest book. Thank you…Thank you, one and all. Taking a bow, she left the starch-box podium and threw the old dishwater on the rosebush by the back door.

She pulled in a deep breath of cooling air. Crickets chirped and a coyote yipped off in the distance. She barely noticed the dark clouds roll in, covering the moon. School was starting tomorrow. Meggie couldn’t wait.

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In the rising wind the loose shingles flapped on the sagging roof of the shack hidden in the shadows of Horne Canyon. Russell Rusty Stowe picked at a rough spot in the scarred wood tabletop as Ma dished up supper. Bread and warm milk again.

What’s this slop? Pa bellowed. His florid face folded into a scowl.

Ma shrunk back as if struck. It’s…it’s all I had to cook… I…

You call this garbage cookin’? The stench of whiskey was strong on Pa’s breath. I feed the hogs better. He hurled the plate across the room. The cream colored mess clung to the wall for a brief moment then sagged in a lump to the dirty floor.

Pa pulled on his ragged coat and banged out the door. Another bender. Old Cyclone Clyde Stowe had been at it for a week already. He held his liquor a lot closer than he did his family.

The horse galloped away. Rusty and his ma held their breaths until the sound faded into the night. Rusty risked a glance at his mother. She was crying.

Elva Stowe looked older than her thirty-five years. Dark circles smudged her eyes. Her once rich chestnut hair had faded, like her soul, to a dingy gray. She mostly wore the same washed out flowered dress these days. That and a dull pink apron edged in lace. It was the lace that got to Rusty. His ma deserved better. She had once fit the lace. Pretty and feminine.

Rusty could barely remember that woman. He kept an old photo in the box under his bed. In the photo, she was young... smiling... happy. Rusty couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his ma smile.

I’ll clean it up, said Rusty, avoiding the pain in his mother’s eyes.

She nodded and closed herself away behind the door to her room.

Rusty mopped the wall and the board floor with an old rag. He rinsed it out in the sink. Then the slender fourteen-year-old boy sat down at the table and ate cold bread and milk. It was tough to force it past the lump that clogged his throat. His hair glinted copper in the lamplight. Red hair, like his pa’s. Rusty hoped that was all he’d inherited from a man as mean as Cyclone Clyde.

After his meager meal, he went out to feed the hogs. The wind had picked up and dark clouds edged the mountains. Rusty welcomed the cool after the long hot summer. He poured feed into the troughs and refilled the water. Pa was right about one thing. The hogs ate better than they did.

Clyde Stowe was proud of his hogs. He fed them good grain and corn. The animals fetched a premium price at market. But Rusty and Ma never saw the profits in their larder. They seldom had a ham or a side of bacon. The hogs were well fed and in turn fed Pa’s great and mighty thirst.

Rusty rubbed a fat sow’s back with a stick. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d swipe a piglet for Ma’s cook pot. But Pa knew his hogs better than he did his boy. He’d notice a missing pink snout or curly tail, sooner than he would the guarded sadness in Rusty’s eyes. Rusty felt older than his fourteen years. He shrugged. It was no use wishing for what couldn’t be. He snuck a little of the corn into the cow’s feed. With the hay running low, it wouldn’t do for her to go dry.

Rusty shivered. The canyon fell into shadow well before the sun set. The moon was rising when Rusty came back in. Ma’s plate sat on the table untouched. Rusty placed it in the icebox, next to the half basket of eggs and moldy sliver of cheese that would be breakfast. He washed up the chipped plates and glasses. Put the mismatched forks away in the drawer.

School started tomorrow. It wasn’t the books that drew him. The words floated on the page, making little sense. It was the quiet. At school, no one yelled and hollered. No one was likely to throw things or hit him. At school the world was the way it was supposed to be.

Rusty sighed and looked down at his worn twill pants. He ran a hand over the patches on his flannel shirt. They’d have to do. He stripped the pants and shirt off and washed them out in the sink. Then he hung them near the wood stove to dry. After, he washed up as best he could. He plunged his copper head of hair into the soapy water, shuddering with cold. He might be the son of an alcoholic pig farmer, but he sure as heck didn’t want to smell like one. Rusty found himself humming as he scrubbed himself clean.

School started tomorrow. There was a particular smile he’d longed for all through the long, hot summer. Meggie’s smile. He couldn’t wait to see her.

CHAPTER 2

SAN ANTONIO SCHOOL

1914

Rain’s better than frost, thought Meggie, like any good citrus farmer. A December cold front had blown in from the north, and thick clouds loomed overhead— heavy with unshed rain. Meggie pulled her heavy wool coat tighter around her as she moved Cooper out of his stall in the barn and put the bridle and tie rope on. A mule wasn’t her favorite transportation, but the horses were needed for farm work. On a good day, the mile and a half to school was not too far to walk, but given the threatening weather, she and Taddy could make better time on old Coop. Now in their fourth month of school, she and Taddy and even the mule were used to the routine.

Taddy emerged from the house just as she brought Cooper up from the barn. Her youngest brother was bundled in a hand-me-down sheepskin slicker two sizes too big. Their metal lunch buckets clanged in one chubby hand, while in the other, Taddy toted a backpack filled with books and assorted treasures including a long stick, which protruded from the top. Meggie wondered if the stick was intended for chasing girls or marking a circle on the ground for a game of marbles. Either way, Taddy’s innate charm would give him an edge over the other boys. He gave her one of his winning smiles and handed up the supplies.

Pulling Taddy up in front of her, Meggie clucked at Cooper and set off at a fast trot on the hard backed mule. They bumped down the long drive and onto Grand Avenue. She observed the road ahead framed by Cooper’s long black ears and the blond cap of Taddy’s hair where it fringed out from under his red knit cap. They moved down the oak lined road past the neat square plots of orange orchards and beside a few big patches of tuna cactus. The dying bloom of a huge century plant shot 20 feet into the air. It marked the last block before Carne Road and the San Antonio Schoolhouse.

The school bell was tolling when they trotted up. She handed Taddy down and moved to tie Cooper at the hitching rail. The temperature was dropping. Her brother dashed to the one-room schoolhouse and disappeared inside.

As she followed him inside, Meggie welcomed the heat from the pot-bellied stove at the front of the classroom. She moved to the stove and spread her hands out, warming her cold fingers in the heat just above the sooty black cast iron lid. Meggie exchanged a greeting and a smile with her teacher, Miss Sophie Bradley. Dressed neatly in a black skirt and pressed white blouse, the teacher heated milk on the stove for a special treat of hot chocolate. Miss Bradley had a way of warming her students up for the task at hand.

Hey Meggie, playin’ a mule skinner today? The teasing voice grated on Meggie’s nerves as she turned to face Rusty Stowe’s trademark red hair and freckles. His eyes fixed on Meggie in a way that made her reluctant to remove her heavy coat.

Hi Rusty. Think it’s going to rain? Meggie moved to the coat rack.

Well sure…Rain’s in them clouds fer sure. Rusty tagged after Meggie. In spite of her cool politeness, he was not one to easily give up on winning her affections. He helped her hang up her coat. Meggie tried to be gracious. Rusty wasn’t really a bad kid. He just had a few problems, starting with his family.

Everyone knew Rusty’s pa was a regular at Sid Houk’s Billiard Parlor. He’d fallen off his horse a number of times on the way home—a living illustration of the evils of drink. More than once, Rusty’d been sent by his mama to fetch ole Cyclone Clyde out of a ditch along Ojai Avenue. Rusty’s mama wore a sad face and hunched posture as she sort of pulled into herself. She often had bruises on her face or arms. If anyone noticed, she was quick to say that she’d been just plain clumsy, running into a cupboard door or a post out in the barn. Nobody believed her. Mrs. Stowe rarely showed up at community events or even at church. Meggie felt sorry for Rusty having a pa like that and a shadow of a mama.

Guess you’re right Rusty, it looks to be a gully-washer for sure. She hurried back to the stove and a warm cup of chocolate.

Meggie’s eyes strayed to Charles Burnwell III’s desk. Why couldn’t Charles show some of the same interest in her? Just looking at his lanky form and the careless dark tousle of hair lying across his forehead quickened Meggie’s pulse. Charles had a maddening way of smiling and then looking away. Maybe he was just preoccupied. His mind always seemed to be on recess or the ballgame after school. He barely knows I exist, lamented Meggie.

The schoolhouse door opened with a bang as the three Horne children entered. The faint odor of pig manure wafted in with them. They were dressed in worn clothing, far too thin for the cold. Molly, Dan and Clyde Horne hung up their meager wraps and headed for their seats at the back of the little one- room schoolhouse. The siblings stuck together, partly because no one else was eager to sit near them or even swap lunches with these particular schoolmates. Besides the off-putting smell of pig, their lunch fare was far too paltry to make a good trade. Who wanted a moldy apple or a dried-out wedge of cheese? A wave of pity for the Horne children washed over Meggie. The family had lost their pa only a week ago. Drink had gotten the better of him, like with Rusty’s pa. The awful details of his death were bound to affect them.

The Ojai newspaper had tactfully reported that he’d died in a tragic farm accident. But the Ojai rumor mill carried the more lurid tale of a man who staggered home drunk and passed out cold in the pig pen. Everyone knew that hogs were carnivorous. Meggie shivered at the thought.

Outside, the melodic whir of surrey wheels announced the fashionably late arrival of the lovely Lucinda. Meggie and her best friend, Eva Bullard, had christened their arch rival with this moniker on the first day of her arrival in town. The name surely suited Lucinda with her put on airs—and better yet, it suited the girls’ opinion of her. Meggie usually set her heart to be kind—so thinking of Lucinda in terms of this sarcastic nickname did cause her a small pang of guilt. It was, however, nicely offset by the sweet satisfaction of the insider put-down. Meggie exchanged a glance with Eva who most likely entertained similar unkind thoughts.

No spiny mule for the lovely Lucinda. She arrived each day on the cushy leather seat of her father’s best surrey, usually driven by an underling. Her family was among the wealthy easterners from places like Pittsburg, or New York. They wintered in Ojai, escaping the cold weather and contagion of the big city. Lucinda’s family rented a small house at the Pierpont Cottages, and mostly hobnobbed with other wealthy families from back east, like Charles’. Meggie gave the object of her desires another longing look, but he was busy sharpening a pencil with his pocketknife.

Lucinda strolled up the steps, announcing her arrival with a rustle of skirts. A trace of lilac misted the air. While Lucinda was Meggie’s age, they had little in common. Lucinda was big city, from her upswept hairdo, to her tailored suit, down to her soft leather boots. She carried herself with a sophisticated air. Perhaps lured by the cloying scent of lilac, Charles turned and directed one of his lazy smiles at Lucinda. He didn’t look away for quite a spell. Meggie sighed and slumped into her seat.

At age 14, Meggie had less than a year left at San Antonio. Then she would be joining Chase at Nordhoff High downtown. She was more than ready for the challenge. As one of the older students, she spent much of the school day helping the younger students, including her little brother. As much as Meggie liked playing the teacher, she had a hunger to learn more herself. In her satchel lay several worn notebooks where she scribbled down scraps of thought and snatches of poetry.

Class began. Miss Bradley got the younger students reading in their McGuffey readers. The older students were to write a winter poem in their school journals.

Meggie pulled out the worn notebook and opened it to a fresh page. For inspiration, she scanned the sky outside the schoolhouse windows. The clouds had darkened to a gun-metal gray. A sharp wind was piling the heavy mass along the Topa Topas where they huddled like sooty sheep in a pen. They looked… Ominous. A newly learned word from the dictionary came to mind. Meggie scribbled in her notebook. Dark, ominous clouds shrouded the sun as if getting ready for a funeral. Her mind, like the landscape outside, was full of deliciously dark images.

No other words came. Her thoughts drifted.

Lately, she’d been toying with the idea of becoming a journalist. The local newspaper, The Ojai, could sure enough use some help. Pa set the whole family to laughing the night before when he read a notation from the editor:

Remember that when the local news is scarce, you might have committed suicide, gotten married, quarreled with your neighbor, stolen chickens, let your team run away or a hundred other things we could print as local items.

The extent of the editor, Mr. J.L. McCutchen’s desperation was apparent in a small filler item:

The kittens that died last week are still dead.

Ojai was a pretty dull place all right. Editor McCutchen seemed to use up all his fancy words on obituaries: Another old timer joins the silent majority of pioneers.

Meggie caught a glimpse of greener journalistic pastures when Chase retrieved a two-month-old New York Tribune from the trash can of the Ojai Valley House, a local hotel catering to tubercular and asthmatic visitors.

Noting that Miss Bradley was busy with the young readers, Meggie reached into her satchel and pulled out the clipping. As described, she hardly recognized her town.

Nordhoff is already a famous resort of the pleasure-seeker and invalid, and even without the attraction of its unequalled climate, would charm by its beauty, freshness, and repose.

Add to these, for the pleasure-seeker, a refined neighborhood and the presence here, for many months yearly, of the most agreeable society…

A hint of pig manure drifted across the room. The lovely Lucinda’s lilac powder struggled to conquer it.

Meggie knew that many folks from back east fled to the warmer climate of the Ojai valley in winter. Still, it was curious to see her robust town described as a haven for the sick.

… and for the invalid suffering from nervous and pulmonary complaints, heart disease, or asthma, the mild, balmy, and soothing properties of the climate will be explained. The sea breeze, by its journey across the mountains is so tempered that it is mild and stimulating; soothing without enervation… and in the winter, warm without being too hot.

Meggie looked out the window at the looming dark clouds. The wood stove in the middle of the classroom struggled to keep the chill at bay. Had the writer ever visited the town of Nordhoff in winter? It could be sunny. But during many a winter, crops froze. Pity the poor asthmatic tourist who arrived with a parasol instead of an umbrella.

She stifled a giggle as she read the description of the sagging old Nordhoff Hotel, now called The Ojai Inn.

For those who would find a true fountain of health, a grand inducement is The Ojai Inn, situated in the delightful hamlet of Nordhoff. The proprietor aims to make his guests fully at home. Characterized by quiet ease, each of the twenty-five rooms is arranged to have the largest amount of sunshine. The adjoining town is not large enough to interfere materially with one’s comfort.

Did her presence here somehow interfere with the comfort of the tourists? She cast a sidelong glance over a Lucinda. Perhaps it was the other way around.

Meggie turned her attention back to the article to re-read her favorite part:

The Ojai is the natural home of the poet. Where so much poetry exists in every environing object, and countless forms of beauty, the incense-laden zephyr, poesy becomes a second nature.

Meggie turned the lovely words over in her mind. Poetry in every object. The writer got that part right.

At lunch recess, a cold wind nudged the students to tug on jackets and caps before venturing outside. If anything, the sky had darkened even more. The clouds hovered expectantly and a few errant drops of rain fell. Meggie ate her cold chicken, cheese, and orange in the company of Eva Bullard.

Across the yard, Meggie noticed Taddy had made use of his stick to trace a hopscotch in the dirt for the younger girls, including little Molly Horne.

A part of Meggie wished she was still young enough to play a game of hopscotch. It just might warm her up some. She pulled her coat tighter.

You’ll never guess what happened last night. Eva took a bite of a crisp Macintosh apple.

What?

Eva chewed for a few minutes and then swallowed. You know how I hitch our mare Sadie to the buggy each afternoon and then go pick up Pa at the 5:00 train?

Yeah. Meggie knew Mr. Bullard worked at the Wharf in Ventura and was a regular at the train station.

Well, Pa came home in the buggy at 5:00 as usual. Eva took another bite of apple.

So?

I forgot to go meet him.

Then how…? Meggie leaned forward.

Well, I’d hitched Sadie up to the buggy earlier. Then I went inside for a few minutes. Started looking at the new Sears catalogue…

"You have the new catalogue? When did it come out?

Yesterday.

Oh, wow. Meggie had just about worn out the family’s old Sears catalogue with the page turning of wishful thinking."

Getting back to my story… said Eva with an insistent tone.

Oh…sorry. Meggie gave Eva her full attention. Go on.

Eva cleared her throat. "Anyway, when our mare, Sadie, heard the train whistle, she pulled loose and headed to the station. Met Pa there right on time.

Was your pa angry?

Not really. He thought Sadie was one clever mare. Told me I’d best make the trip with her though from now on.

I would think so, Eva.

The girls laughed together.

At a table of boys a few feet away, Dan Horne opened his lunch bucket and proudly pulled out a tightly wrapped parcel. Gesturing to the packet, he spoke quietly to the guys around him. In one accord, the startled boys shrieked and jumped up. Even a garter snake didn’t usually stir up so much of a fuss.

Land’s sakes, Dan! cried Charles, dropping his lunch bucket with a loud clatter. Miss Bradley scurried over to check out the ruckus.

Dan shrugged his shoulders. I ain’t causin’ no trouble, honest Miss Bradley. I jest offered to trade the fellas a nice pork sandwich from the pig that et Pa.

When the ruckus died down, the Horne children were given an even wider berth than usual. As if they had cooties or something. While they huddled at a far table, the lunch conversations slowly got back to normal.

Meggie, when are you coming over to see the Sears catalogue? You won’t believe latest fashions! Bustles and skirts flounced out to here. Eva gestured her arms in an improbably wide circle before tugging at a dark strand of hair going curly in the damp air.

Doesn’t sound too practical for cooking or farm work, grinned Meggie in her best imitation of Aunt Rose. Still I’m dying to have a look.

Eva leaned in to whisper in Meggie’s ear. Why should the lovely Lucinda be the only one to turn the boys’ heads?

Meggie took a bite of orange. Maybe because she actually has some of those fancy dresses we can only dream about.

Yeah, I guess you’re right. Eva glanced over to where Lucinda stood talking to Charles, her hand lightly touching his arm.

Meggie’s eyes followed. Lucinda wore a lavender dress edged with dainty lace. Around her shoulders draped a richly-textured purple wool shawl, carefully tailored to show off the expensive black trim tapering to tassels at each corner. Meggie fingered the serviceable wool of her gray coat, the rough spun cotton of her practical dress. She felt plain and ugly.

Lucinda’s laughter floated on the cool breeze.

Meggie thought of the wall between her and Lucinda. The walls between simple farming families and the likes of the Horne kids. Walls between the Nordhoff wealthy and the Ojai poor, between the visiting invalids and the robust farmers. The valley embraced them all. It was people, like herself, who drew the lines between them. Taddy drew lines to help others. What kinds of lines did she draw? Meggie looked over and caught Rusty’s eyes, soulful, on hers.

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After lunch, the sky darkened perceptibly and, in the schoolhouse, the oil lamps struggled to illuminate the slates and books at the children’s desks. Rain tarried in the clouds. By one o’clock Miss Bradley decided to dismiss school early. If it rains over four inches, no school tomorrow. Miss Bradley knew all too well what rain could do to the river crossings in the east end.

Cooper stepped out at a fast pace, happy to be heading home as the first drops of rain fell.

Taddy was in high spirits. It’s raining…it’s pouring…the old man is snoring. he sang in his little boy voice.

Meggie breathed in the fresh damp smell of his hair and laughed as she sang along. It’s raining…It’s pouring…Life in Ojai’s never boring. The sky opened up in a downpour just as they reached the drive. Cooper slipped and slid the last ten yards to the barn.

Mama met them at the door with dry towels. Pennies from heaven, she smiled, shaking droplets of water from their coats.

Farmers loved rain. It saved the time, expense and labor of an irrigation. By the look of it sluicing down in the yard, their bank account would soon be full of liquid money.

Meggie looked out the window through falling ribbons of water at the shiny wet leaves of the huge old English oak that stretched its limbs protectively over the porch. The rain pounded on the roof and muddy rivulets flowed through the corrals and across the front of the barn. A warm fire burned in the wood stove. Meggie could smell a hearty vegetable soup simmering on top. Wags slept on his braided rag rug against the wainscoted back wall. His legs twitched in some doggie dream. The tabby cat stretched and circled in the corner chair. Home was a good place to be in a storm.

It rained all that night without letup. The rain poured in sheets from the eaves and pounded on the shingles. Rain, rain go away…Little Taddy wants to play… Meggie’s mind played with the song and with the solid sound of the word rain. It was a soft, life-giving word.

Meggie tried to sleep, but her senses were alive to the thunderous downpour of rain. She couldn’t remember when it had rained this hard for this long. The rain grew to an insistent drumbeat on the roof. What had been a comforting sound became an angry onslaught. The wood shingles guarding the roof seemed a flimsy protection from nature’s anger. Slowly, through the long night, a new more menacing word began to form in her mind—FLOOD.

Just past midnight she heard it. It was unmistakable, yet a sound that defied description. The creek began to thunder. A loud groaning, crashing and grinding sound filled the darkness as boulders were pushed against each other by the invisible flood of water coursing down San Antonio Creek. In the dark, the water couldn’t be seen but it was a living malevolent force, having its way with the land.

At first light, the Baxter family donned slickers and boots and waded through the river of water in yard to survey the creek. Papa and Dalton, the dyed-in-the-wool farmers, took the lead. Mama held tightly to little Taddy’s hand. Softhearted Chase helped Meggie leap over the biggest of the puddles. Wags ranged ahead, wagging his namesake tail in sheer delight at having the whole family in tow. He stopped occasionally to shake the heavy rain from his soft brown coat. Only Aunt Rose elected to stay in the warm, dry farmhouse.

Meggie could hardly believe this wide brown torrent of water was the same dry creek bed that formed the western border of their land. Today, it was a wild beast ripping and tearing at the banks. Shrouded by rain, the creek roared with a loud insistent voice of its own. The thunder of the creek, close in, was a threatening, violent sound.

Papa yelled to be heard over the combined noise. Stay well away from the bank.

Huge, seemingly unmovable boulders rolled into each other with a resounding crack, only to be pitched forward once again by the powerful brown rage of water. The river weeds were gone, flattened, or torn out and washed far downstream clear to the ocean. A large old oak tree at the bend had been uprooted and plunged headlong into the river, where it collected debris and waved its wet branches in a final gesture of agony.

Meggie stood mute as the raging current tore at the bank, undercutting it, like a liquid knife slicing bread. One minute she saw a bank of firm familiar ground. The next, it fell away twenty feet straight down into the torrent and disappeared. As Meggie watched, an entire row of orange trees near the bank began to lose their grip and tumble into the violent flow. Each tree shuddered and then cracked as its roots tore loose. The sound of the brutal splash into the churning water was swallowed in the roar of the relentless current. This coffee-colored water would go where it willed. There was no stopping it. Trees, boulders, and people were helpless against its onslaught.

It’s Tilly! It’s Tilly! Taddy’s shout drew Meggie’s attention upstream. He ran toward the raging river, having somehow broken free of Mama’s hand. He dashed to the edge of an undercut section of bank and pointed. The little brown and white goat churned his legs frantically, as he swirled rapidly downstream. The goat’s mouth opened in panic, but its bleat was drowned out by the water’s roar. In just a few seconds, the goat had disappeared beyond the bend downstream.

Meggie froze in fear as a tree directly beside Taddy plunged into the torrent. A brown blur raced toward him. Wags grabbed the edge of Taddy’s coat in his mouth and strained backwards, tugging to move him away from the edge. Papa reached the young boy and lifted him to safety just as the ground gave way under Wags. The dog yelped and vanished with a splash into the water below.

Meggie’s hand came to her mouth. Through the pouring rain she looked downstream. In the muddy water, a sodden brown head appeared. Wags swam frantically with the current, dodging debris. He was moving fast toward the bend where Tilly had disappeared. Fighting the current, the dog angled toward the downed oak.

Chase, No! Mama called out.

Chase was already downstream, sliding down the bank. He caught his footing and worked his way out on the slippery wet trunk of the fallen oak. Chase braced his legs on a large branch and leaned over the slashing current. Wags dog-paddled faster, seeing Chase. But it was no use. The current was pulling the dog out—away from his rescuer. He was going to miss the tree by several feet.

A sudden splash marked Chase’s jump into the river. His left hand gripped a quivering branch as the frigid current slammed him into the fallen oak. Meggie held her breath.

Leaning out, dangerously so, Chase stretched out his right hand toward the struggling dog. With fingers stiff from the cold, he grabbed Wags by the collar. The weight of the dog pulled Chase parallel with the current. He hooked a leg over an underwater branch and grappled for leverage with his free arm. Slowly he inched his way along the fallen tree, towing Wags behind. At last, the dog found purchase with his legs and the two slipped and slid, making their way toward the bank. Pa stood at the bottom of the muddy bank and reached out to pull Chase toward safety. When his feet touched solid ground, Chase pulled the dog to his breast in a fond embrace.

Meggie’s tears salted the rain as Pa and Dalton pulled Chase and Wags back up the sodden bank. The dog shook water from his coat before lying down in an exhausted heap at Chase’s feet. Dalton picked him up and carried the dog away from the riverbank. Pa supported an exhausted Chase, moving him away from the roar of the creek to join the rest of the family running to meet them.

It was a muddy huddle of Baxters that formed a safe distance from the thundering creek to touch and reassure