The Color of the Moon: A Historical Novel - and Love Story for the Ages

By Ron Neff, Ph.D

Frank Brinton, the ingenious inventor and great showman, that dashing figure on all the posters, finds himself upstaged by an equally ingenious schoolmarm. Enter the schoolmarm, Indiana Putman, beautiful, refined and classically educated. Soon Frank starts half-scolding himself that he is acting like a “crazed stallion” who, try as he might, can’t get that amazing “filly” off his mind. Just one problem: On their first brief date, Frank had made a presumptuous move, provoking the fiery Indiana’s scorn. The next day he had to be on the road again - heading to the next town on the tour’s schedule.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483474526

Ron Neff, Ph.D

Ron Neff (Ph.D University of Iowa) is a semi-retired professor and psychotherapist. In recent years he has published several self-help books: Goodbye, My Love: How To Mend A Broken Heart (2016), Loving Well: Keys to Lasting and Rewarding Relationships (2016), Your Inner Mammal: How To Meet Your Real Emotional Needs And Become Stronger - For Self And Others (2017), and Surviving Divorce & Winning in Family Court (2021). He has often been told he should write novels, probably love stories, since he has studied and worked with issues of the heart most of his life. Hence, The Color of the Moon (2017), Daisies in Hell (2019), One Heart Over the Line (2019), Heroes, Hellions and Hot Rods (2019), and now Sometimes They Came Back (2022). At other times, his novels have been more in the “action adventure” or “science fiction” genres, including Enough With Those Humans: Was It Time for a Higher Intelligence? (2020), The Trouble With Eve: Forbidden Fruit in a Big Sky Paradise (2020), Sidewinders & Sassy Skirts: Blame It on Texas (2020), Up to Alaska: The Rush Of 2032 (2021), and Post-Earth: Searching the Stars for New Life (2021).

Book preview

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CHAPTER 1

Forewarnings in the Wind

CHAPTER 1

Forewarnings in the Wind

It was cold. Even the sky was cast in cold grey, like it had frozen there, sullen and hardened by summer’s abrupt departure.

Then it was warmer, much warmer.

Late October in Nebraska. And it was always surprising that some of the sunflowers still stood, yet majestic. Towering in their timeless glory.

But Indiana had other things on her mind. They were coming. Everywhere the dazzling posters, fliers and banners proclaimed the promise of their wondrous shows. They were coming to little old Dawson, a tiny burg that could scarcely be found on the map. And normally no one cared to find it anyway. Why should they? Dull and dismal Dawson. Indiana was convinced it was a hideous affront to the natural order of things that she should be born in that backwater post of predictable sameness. In her mind, that miscarriage of justice would be rectified. She was bound for fame and splendid, nay lavish – lavish adornments and breathtaking exploits.

The Brintons were coming. And they had all of that.

What everyone talked about the most was Frank, Frank Brinton. That dashingly handsome star of the posters, with his perfect mustache and devil may care eyes. Dashing? Frank even built and flew, flew like a giant bird in Air Ships. No one had seen him fly just yet, they said. But the ships were built and ready to go, perched atop the tallest building in Washington, Iowa. Gleaming in their magnificence.

Washington, Iowa. Now that was a proper and enviable city. It had to be. It was the home of Frank Brinton himself. And Indiana had no doubt, it was where she belonged. It would soon be home to them both.

That was her belief. And she had a plan.

Of course, as the poet Robert Burns warned us, The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. And Indiana had seen that aplenty in her own life, with both her parents passing so young. Then her only remaining family member, her sister, becoming widowed at just 22.

Indiana landing Frank was perhaps only a pipe dream. For one thing, she had no material assets to speak of and Frank came from old money.

But her dream was strong.

No, she couldn’t go chasing after him. Frank had to think it was all his idea; he had to set that brilliant mind of his to work, hatching a plan to somehow win her heart.

She would barely notice him at first. He would need to show off, like the dominant peacock in the flock. He would strut and do it so well that anyone would take notice and recognize his grandeur.

He would have to sweep her off her feet.

The sunflowers really were something to see, in their lofty eminence. Iowa was said to have the tallest corn, but Nebraskans were skeptical on that score. Corn grows tall and proud in Nebraska, and it is they who are called The Cornhuskers after all! What’s a Hawkeye anyway? A buckeye; that’s something real. But a hawkeye? That’s just something they made up, she thought. Indiana was nobody’s fool. And Nebraska could lay claim to the tallest sunflowers in any event.

Just like Iowa, the soil was very rich in Nebraska, right where the Ice-Age glaciers had bestowed it when they melted. From spring thru mid-fall, the landscape was resplendent in a menagerie of wildly assorted greenery, flowers, fruits, and golden reeds of grass winnowing in the winds. Indeed, one could live off the land without planting a thing, just like the Indians once did, if one were so inclined. Wild strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, gooseberries; walnuts, hickory nuts, chestnuts; green onions and herbs; and a wide array of tasty roots -- all there just for the taking.

It wasn’t Nebraska that Indiana held in contempt. She loved the land and its lush yields, whether planted or just naturally provided. Not to mention its deliciously blue and inviting streams, ponds, and miniature waterfalls. As a girl, she had strolled along them and, at times, ran and frolicked like a silly tomboy in those crisp blue waters.

No, Nebraska was not the problem. The problem was her hum drum, oh so predictable, oh so ordinary life. It didn’t ask enough of her. It was too easy. She had more to offer than Dawson had dreamt of.

She was not a little girl anymore. She needed a larger venue now. She needed to star in a larger than life drama.

And she needed a supporting cast.

Only a month earlier, Frank had been listening to his father William, William Brinton, likely the most respected man in the area. He had practically built Washington, Iowa from the ground up. William was saying – not for the first time, Frank, you need to settle down. Stop gallivanting all over the country doing those carnival shows like a circus clown, and find a nice girl. You need to settle down and raise a family. I want some grandchildren, Frank.

Frank was okay with the idea of settling down and starting a family. But he could do that in his own good time. Right now he was introducing people -- all across the midsection of the U.S., from Minnesota to Texas – to their first viewings of moving pictures. And they were loving it. He was also building Air Ships, for crying out loud!

Any Tom, Dick or Harry could get married and have kids.

What was really on Frank’s mind escaped his father. William’s son was toying with – and stewing over – better ways to promote and expand his already thriving Brinton Entertaining Company.

Frank knew two things. One: You can’t make too much money. Two: If you’re making people happy, you’re doing something right.

The local papers, The Washington Evening Journal, The Democrat, and The Gazette, were all just fine with what Frank was doing. It was their favorite topic, in fact. And their staff often patted him on the back, and told him to keep it up. Hey, their readers were eager to learn of his exploits, and local newspaper sales, subscriptions and advertisement revenue had never been better.

Damn. The warm weather had forsaken them, it seemed. It was now mid November and it was chilly, especially in the mornings – before the sun could do its thing.

Frank was out on the road again, on one of those crazy tours as he called them; showing off, like a cocky schoolboy. That’s how William saw it. For his part, the elder Brinton was up early to clean the grates, and shovel in some new coal. And he knew he was lucky. Many of his neighbors were still stoking wood stoves or just throwing logs in the fireplace, and hanging close to the fire as much as they could. Where did they sleep on the colder nights? Right in front of the fireplace. Right on the floor, bundled up and blanketed as best they could manage.

Coal. That was the ticket now. It lasted all night, and you needn’t get up and roll or tamp it. Both William and Frank were investing in that coal. They were buying shares, not just in local coal companies, but in the railroads, too.

Eastern Iowa was rapidly becoming a spider web of new rail lines, often with several serving just one small county. And how many counties are there in Iowa? Ninety-nine. Yes, there are larger states, but no state has as many counties – each with its own county seat, complete with an impressive several-story, brick or stone courthouse. These structures are imposing, ornate, and built to stand the test of time.

Iowa’s economy was booming because of the coal. Coal was the reason for all the new rail lines. And more. William had read that there was a new kind of coal recently discovered, hard coal, that would soon make Iowa’s soft coal obsolete. Maybe. But right now Iowa coal was doing just fine, thank you.

Indiana had finally saved enough money to buy a button-back, not a true corset or a cincher, but a button-back. She knew she didn’t need a corset, anyway. The button-back was just a little present to herself. It looked good on her in the mirror.

Did it make her look good? Well, maybe she made it look good. She knew she had the small waist it was made to emphasize.

No, she didn’t need a corset. She knew quite well that all the young bucks were attracted to her. She just didn’t let on. None of them was the one.

Some might assume that her Daddy or a well-heeled admirer would buy her that button-back. But she had her own money. Not a lot, to be sure. But enough for her needs just now. After all, she was the new schoolmarm, and had been for almost a year.

She was master of the local institution of formal learning and mannerly edification. Yes, she liked fancy words like that.

And she knew all the subjects. She had always been a star student, and then she earned her Pullman’s Teacher Certificate. She had passed that set of exams with ease, surprising even herself with her nearly perfect scores.

She liked teaching. She liked molding young minds, and shaping up the derelict boys! Her students all loved her. And it was said that she was the youngest – and prettiest – schoolmarm anyone had ever seen. At least in Dawson, Nebraska.

The chatter around town had risen to another level. The Brintons would be here in only two days. There was even talk that Frank might bring one of his Air Ships – and ride it fly it, stoke it, or whatever it was called when you took off in one of those flying machines, right there in Dawson. Others were a might skeptical about that. In the first place, there was no building in town tall enough for that.

Everyone knew, they said, that there is different air when you get up high, and that special higher air is needed for an Air Ship to take flight. It had said that right there in the Washington Gazette. And they knew what they were talking about. Banker Roy T. Barnes himself had brought that newspaper back from Washington, and posted it inside the biggest window in town, the front window of the bank, with the article about the Air Ships facing out for all to see. If you couldn’t read, that was your problem. The times were changing fast; you’d better catch up; or be left standing at the depot, pal.

And what about those so-called moving pictures? All the Brinton posters and flyers said they were bringing those. The question was: Wasn’t that just a bunch of horse droppings? Just a carnival barker’s hype to slither into your coin purse? Oh, they move, alright, said Pretty Boy Clarence; he’d seen one at the State Fair, or so he claimed. Better than that, he said, It looks like real people walking down the street. I hope they show a fancy lady walking down the street, looking good enough to eat, said 14-year old Tommy V. with a smirk on his face. Tommy, Tommy, came the reply, Where’s the soap? You need that dirty mouth washed out.

Normally, Tommy would only have smirked more broadly in response to such a scolding, proud of his daring verbal misdeeds. But this time he frowned and looked deflated. It seemed clear, if anyone had troubled to notice, that Tommy really did want to see a fancy lady walking down the street. He really did.

Tommy was not the only one feeling strangely downcast. These were not ordinary times. These were times for: the quick - and the left out.

Take your choice.

And no one knew that better than Frank Brinton.

The horses seemed restless this morning. Time to get them harnessed and ready to go; on down the road to Dawson, that was the next stop for the Brinton Entertaining Company.

Where were they, anyway, his drivers and the rest of the crew? They should be up and at ‘em.

Frank felt strangely restless himself. And it wasn’t stage fright. He could always amaze and win over the crowds.

No concern there. Maybe his father was right. Maybe he needed to find a filly. And not just to look at, or for a roll in the hay. Maybe he would like to be sharing this dream? With someone who really understood; who really grasped what he was doing and why.

Nah. That was nonsense. There was no woman like that. And he didn’t need one in any case.

The crowds were never disappointed at the shows of Brinton Entertaining Company. While he also provided other entrees of entertainment for his hungry audiences -- including magic lantern slides, exotic fineries for viewing and sale, and accounts of his own latest adventures, told with his stunning showman’s appeal, the major stars on Frank’s entertainment menu were the films.

There were indeed scenes of people walking down the street. And not just a street in some little podunk town – but in Cairo, Egypt, for mercy’s sake! Yes, complete with camels in view, and even with Arabs astride them, turbans and all.

Other films showed animals at the London Zoo; or newsreels of Teddy Roosevelt at a rally pumping up the valor of his soldiers, the Rough Riders just before heading, yes, to famously storm San Juan Hill in the Spanish-American War.

These early films were short, only a few minutes in length. Most of them did not try to tell a story; it was left to the viewing audience to imagine a storyline – and, just as often, to debate storylines with other viewers after the showing, for weeks on end.

But some of the films did tell a story. One depicted, in breathtakingly dramatic suspense, a wild balloon ride. In it a motley crew of smiling souls, well-dressed but distinctly American, at once intrepid and soon to be imperilled, take to the air in their giant balloon, dangling in its frail wicker style basket. The basket swings to and fro at angles that