Catch Me the Wind

By CLARA GEHRON WILLIS

This
story is fiction for the authors convenience to weave an important lesson in
our time. Based upon a real lake crafted in a swamp many years ago, the
authors great great grandfather could have been one
of the horse-drawn scraper drivers. This lake provided water for a canal system
in the area before the railroads took over.

The
lake became a valuable source of clean water for the towns growing around it.
It also became important for recreation. But as the population grew,
vacationing at the lake brought about development of landings and vacation
homes, and the pressure on the ecology of the lake began to esculate.

The
public noticed the increased restrictions on the use of the lake. Finally, the
safety of the lake was threatened and our story is related.

Joshua
MacDonell, a recent graduate of style='font-size:12.0pt'>Ohio Statestyle='font-size:12.0pt'>, arrived to take on the job of Conservation Officer. class=SpellE>Laticia Welton, a single mom,
came home from St.
Louis to see her
Dad who had lived alone in Southacre since her Mom
died of cancer. Saving The Blue joins Josh and Laticia
in this special love story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 16, 2004
• ISBN: 9781418464646

CLARA GEHRON WILLIS

College Experiences English Major, BA, proofreading in Print Shop, Radio Script Writing, tutoring students who needed help in English. Employment Experiences Proofreading and radio script writing in Chicago. Linotype operator: Weekly newspaper in Michigan. Professional Writing Experiences Founder of Siloam Spring Writers, 1973.  20 years writing poetry, articles, and short stories.  Editor of village newspapers 2 years. Teacher at writing workshops. Publishing to Date Poetry Books: SIX MONTH SUMMER, STEPPING STONES (Co-authored) Short Story: WHITEST WASH Articles: The Show Off, The Patrol Boat Launch, The Venture for Life

Book preview

Chapter 1

On the elbow of a channel that embraced the small town of Southacre on the east, lay Ben’s Landing. Here the channel turned north and joined Blue Heron Lake. With pride, homefolk called their lake, The Blue.

South of the elbow, Laticia Welton sat cross-legged on a floating boat dock and rocked with the gently moving water. All the long drive home to Ohio, she had yearned for this quietness, the lulling movement of the dock, pure, renewing air, and peace.

I did right, I know I did. She tried to reassure herself, but the memory of her son, Timmy, waving goodbye taunted her. Standing by his Grandma and Grandpa Welton, Timmy’s seven-year-old bravery at keeping back tears made Ticia hurt with a lonesome ache.

She asked herself again the question that had nagged her then and continued to nag her now. How could I come home and leave Timmy in St. Louis? When her dad asked why Timmy hadn’t come, she temporized. Yet her real reason for leaving him with his grandparents remained the same.

Still, she felt miserable.

Tell her dad her personal problem—-that scene with Alex Freeman! Never! Tell him that just a week ago, Alex, her boss, and the man she had expected to marry, had so disappointed her that she never wanted to see him again?

That humiliating scene in his office had resulted in this sick feeling, this low opinion of her ability to judge character, and she needed time alone to deal with what he did to her. She was supposed to tell her dad this?

After we’re married, what a team we’ll make for Freeman’s. You with your style and organizational ability, me with my business background, we’ll make this city take notice. She still heard him, saw him now, reaching out to put his arms around her, and she, stepping back, wondering: What was this? A proposal for marriage, or a business proposition? Her words came again, clear.

Alex, I hoped, after being a working mom for so long, that I could stay home. Be a… housewife, and mother.

You want to stay home! He’d yelled as to a wrong-doer. I need your help at the store. And you? Don’t you care about your career?

Why? Why here? Why had his harsh, bitter words come back to scrape the open wound? She swiped at a mosquito as to eject that office scene, regain this place and this moment its peace, its precedence, only….

Career? she’d gasped. Alex, I enjoy my work here. Because of Freemans I’ve had a career. She’d stood tall then and told him what she wanted most.

Now, I’d just like to stay home and have babies. For years she’d nourished that dream, kept it warm in her heart. No, she hadn’t put it in words before, but it had felt good to lay it out before him, as if on display. If he loved her, that was his moment for him to take her in his arms.

Enjoyment of that thought let her mind float with the locust’s pure white tufts like blessings on the water.

As a fierce thunderclap to sun and gladness came Alex’s That’s archaic, Ticia!

She covered her ears. Go away, she muttered, wanting to scream. This is my place. My place of peace.

You’re living in another time. It drummed in her. Another world. Today, the smart woman can have it all. Again she saw color blanch from his face, ending that tirade.

Pressing fingers against her ears failed. With you PG all the time, I’d be the latest joke on the Greens. Arms over her chest for protection, she rasped through grated teeth, Go. Leave me alone, and don’t come back. Ever. This place is mine, my place of peace. Yet, how to shut off memory: that day in the office, when Alex Freeman grabbed her dream, crushed it, and threw it away as he would a scrap of paper?

She ran her hand in the water along the side of the dock to wet her cheeks that were hot from the flashback of that vivid scene. Her dream. Yes, of this one thing she was proud. She didn’t give up her dream.

She had tried persuasion.

Alex, because I had to go out to work, I missed being the first one to hear Timmy say ‘Mama.’ Didn’t see him take his first step. Sure, the Weltons, bless them, care for Timmy as their own, but I miss those coveted firsts. There’s a blank place in my memories. She hadn’t stopped for breath. Try to understand how I feel. Surely, we could afford it.

Even shutting her eyes didn’t keep it out—-the twisted, accusing face, a different Alex than she’d known.

His finger jabbed toward her. What about my goal for Freeman’s expansion? No, you want my money to finance your selfish dreams.

That did it. Except for business matters, they had no further discussion.

Laticia recalled the ease in departing from Freeman’s. With the planned leave of absence she had already requested so she could go help her dad recover from a stroke, and immediate leave arrangements made by installing her second-in-command as interim Head of Second Floor, she’d left St. Louis within a week for her hometown, Southacre.

This very spot along the channel had encouraged her before. Oh, how she wanted to heal, and forget.

I can find help here. I can, she determined. From the dock to the bend, skim of cottonwood blooms stretched bank to bank. The muted flip of a small fish sent ripples widening, reaching out in welcome, easing some her loneliness for Timmy. She breathed the soft, moist fish smell and wrapped serenity around her. Peace. Beginning to feel it, she started to pray for her son and….

I never knowed it. Swear I didn’t.

Ticia stiffened and turned her head. Clanging metal and a high, twangy voice shattered her reverie.

Another voice, deep and commanding followed.

First day on the job I told you, and I’m telling you again: Never, never dump trash in the lake, especially old oil cans. Do you know how much trouble a gallon of spilled oil can cause?

Little bit o’ oil. No harm. No harm.

"It’s pollution! You mess up, then how can you expect farmers and landing owners to help out? Remember how close The Blue’s beaches came to a state ban? While I’m steering this boat, this crew’s part of the solution. It’s sure not going to be the cause.

Help Officer DeWitt clean up the mess, then go. You’re fired.

Gimme a chance. One chance. I do better. The miscreant’s shrill whines cycled to pitiful keening.

You’re reeking of liquor! Ticia heard the man in charge continue. We told you, no drinking, and I said that’d be the only warning. Collect your wages in the morning.

Shocked by the harsh altercation that crashed like thunder on the tranquil setting, Ticia twisted toward the sounds. Who were these men? The high bank formed by the lake dredge blocked her vision. Maybe part of a work crew assigned duty near Uncle Ben’s cabin? Ben Dill. For as long as she could remember he was Uncle Ben to her.

She started to scramble up the bank for a look, then hesitated. That unseen iron hand holding mastery over the poor serf disallowed interruption. Actually, she felt rather sorry for the guy who was in disfavor.

Yet, in his lordship’s favor, his stand: no liquor around a lake must be enforced. About pollution too! Both were intolerable.

Ticia looked at her watch. She’d planned another call on the way home. Body bent, she slow-stepped up the slope to crouch behind a leafy shrub and checked on their progress. This side of Ben’s Landing, two uniformed men were emptying a trash can into a container in the back of a van.

A tall, hefty man with a swagger was a stranger to her, but she recognized muscular, sandy-haired Mark DeWitt from high school. Behind the wheel a third man, though not in clear view, looked short of stature. Was he the boss with the big voice? If so, he was new to her. How could you forget a voice like that?

Reluctance to spy on them made her scoot back a few yards and question her interest. I do get touchy over my dear old lake, she scolded. Her responsibility was at home. She’d leave The Blue to Mr. Authority.

When she stood up, she gave a swipe with her hand, sending fish scales flying from her jeans, and as she ventured the rest of the climb, a wisp of the June breeze tossed her hair. She smiled. Her mom had called her hair the color of the Ohio buckeye. Tousled hair, jeans with a fishy smell restored that wonderful at-home feeling.

All looked normal: no scrap of trash, no sign of cleanup crew or van. A few yards north, seven Canada geese topped the bank and waddled down to the channel. Delightful. The approach and entry into the water, dip and rise of graceful neck, sway of regal carriage with the majestic glide inborn to the Canada goose, made it good to be back.

A brief mental image outlined one goose standing statuesque on ice. She shook the illusion away. Winter meant St. Louis again for her. Doing what?

Beyond and adjacent to the bend in the road, lay the landing run by Uncle Ben, from whose life-learned wisdom she had received many practical tips. Since he’d been sick from the flu, she’d taken him some chicken soup before going down to the dock. She hoped the oil can wrangle hadn’t disturbed him.

So far, the short and busy time home had allowed little time for visiting, so she headed for a second stop, to see another family friend, Clyberne Martin.

Laticia had come by the high, channel side. She crossed the street and on the lower level turned south toward the center of town. Just ahead, the Martins’ home exuded a warm, grateful feeling to her, exemplifying Southacre people. Because their screened-in porch sat right in the pedestrian’s way, the Martins always chose to leave the porch doors unlocked, so the children ran up the steps, right through the porch and out the door on the other side, saving sneakers by not trekking the wet ditch around the house. She hadn’t seen Cly since his wife Edith died.

Up the steps and through the unlocked door she went by habit before shock stopped her. Nothing looked familiar. The large wood-paneled room was foreign to her. A huge fireplace filled most of the wall on the other end. Corner windows gave the west light gracing entrance with woven blinds pulled high on the windows. Huge furniture, shelves and shelves of books, a kitchen nook and pictures of all outdoors completed the decor. A faint mix of coffee and woods smell greeted her.

The room resembled a hunting lodge, definitely a man’s room. And suddenly, from an easy chair to a height of well over six feet… rose the man, a complete stranger with green eyes. Or were they blue? Light from the setting sun intensified his red, unruly hair and picked up a sheen of sweat on bare arms and chest.

In tan corduroy pants tucked into heavy work socks, he stood and kicked aside a pair of sturdy woodsman boots. Severe facial lines plus narrowed lips enforced a barely audible, Yes?

Well, I… the Martins were my friends. We—all the kids went through the porch. The Martins wanted us to, you see, so we wouldn’t get our sneakers wet. Cly didn’t care. Where is Mr. Cly? She finished, breathless and highly annoyed with herself. Why did she ramble on and let this giant disconcert her? She’d shown more confidence at sixteen.

Surely the situation was obvious. Yet he said nothing to help her, hadn’t even told her where Cly was, and hadn’t offered any information about him. Instead, the man stood, straight and silent, staring at her.

She swept back her hair to control errant strands, then tried to set other things right; but before she could explain, an elegant ebony and marble antique clock chimed eight.

The unusual instrument held her admiration. I didn’t know the Martins had remodeled. When did they open the house onto the porch? Or did they put the porch into the house? I’ve been gone, wasn’t here, just got back. Words tumbled out, amazingly lacking order and coherence. At last, she looked away from the clock and back to the woodsman, to catch a smile that almost brightened the unwilling host’s face. It retreated, giving deference to low, curt words.

Would you please knock before entering someone else’s house?

She gave him full attention. Enough and too much! In her mind, she had walked up the steps into an old friend’s home. Her dad, of course, had written about Edith’s death, but that was all. If Cly had taken in a renter, this was new to her. Even if she presumed to barge in, this wasn’t St. Louis where people gave you the icy glare. Her hometown boasted a welcome sign that meant what it said. Or had this changed too?

From her childhood, Uncle Ben Dill’s admonition came back: Ticia, watch your anger. It shows like fire in those black eyes of yours.

A movement of the man’s arm diverted her thoughts. Was he straightening his hair? No, she recognized a gesture of weariness and remembered more of Uncle Ben lifeology. If you’re wrong, say so. Lift your chin and say it, calm and humble. If you’re not in the wrong, don’t fret. Truth will right itself.

She lifted her chin and said it: I’ve made a mistake and I apologize. I’ll see Mr. Martin another time. Then she turned to leave by the opposite door. Though as she turned, something besides weariness in the giant stranger’s expression hit her. What was it? That, she could not identify, but the reception she’d received pinpointed itself. Rude! Why was he so rude?

She gave herself cool, steady directions: Straighten your shoulders. Go down the steps and walk. Fast. What a way to treat a hometown person! Even if he hasn’t lived here long, one of the first things you learned about Southacre was friendliness. Don’t think about it. Anger sped her feet over the flagstone walk.

When she looked up, normality returned: the stoplight in the center of town. Across the street on the far corner, her home. Strange, she never before considered it unusual to live in the middle of town.

With the wide, green lawn approach, the tall house, large and roomy, resembled the beauty of a newly-set jewel. However, her great-great grandfather had built it over a hundred years ago. The old home, shining white, windows gold from the setting sun, held for her or someone, someone with children, a future of glowing promise.

She snapped her fingers. Blue eyes, not green! Sure knowledge about the crusty stranger at the Martins thrust itself into her thinking, spurred quick questions and answers. How tall?

Six-feet-six. Scotsman? Yes. Head of the clan. In his favor a different perspective demanded acknowledgement. He’d remained standing the whole time. How courteous of him. And, what kind of workday tired so strong a man? Pro-and-con thinking left her perplexed about the surprise encounter.

Yet, at picturing again the shirtless, bootless giant in his stocking feet entertaining an uninvited female, exhilarating laughter shook her. With a different look on that bumbling entrance, her shoulders let down,