Salt Lick, Vol. I: Celebrate Life

By Dr. Robert A. Brock

SALT LICK, Vol. I, Celebrate Life, by Dr. Robert A. (Sunny) Brock, was written to four teenage grandsons, teaching moral chastity and ethical respect and responsibility toward the opposite sex. Also, written to teach Christian virtues in a Mark Twain style, life-situation novel. Volume One of this 1835 Historical Christian Romantic Comedy involves eight ORILEY cousins on a whimsical-lark. The cousin clan help protagonists ALI ORILEY and THOMAS ORILEY celebrate life as the cousins accompany Ali in her quest to visit all five of her paternal uncles families. All these first-cousins have never met each other nor their O'Riley kin.

The misadventure begins with Alis mothers conniving plan to marry Ali off to the mothers nephew, who will soon graduate West Point, looking for wedding bells on Christmas visit. Ali, a blithe, headstrong, Irish princess, balks at the proposition of being married at age twenty. With the aid of her wanderlust father, Ali covertly plans visiting each of his brothers families prior to nuptials.

The object of using many personalities among the Irish cousin-clan is to present every personality, and combination-personality, on the DISC Personality Scale. This Pandora's box of kinfolk shows how each reacts differently in every situation. Each must interact with his peers, both positively and negatively and learn to tolerate and accept one another at face value. Each must contribute both leadership and servant qualities to the solution of life problems in his own unique way.

First on Alis list, is the family of UNCLE WES ORILEY, married to the cosmopolitan daughterof a French ambassador. TRUDY ORILEY, raised among highbrow European culture, had brought unique order to the pastoral community of Glasgow, Kentucky. This family is both a little-bit country-bumpkin and a little-bit cultured, making for a comical balance of magical homelife. Since her own childhood had been puritanical and stoic law and order, Ali falls in love with Uncle Wes laid-back family. Prior to leaving on the next leg of her journey, showing off her French cooking skills, learned the prior summer at Columbia University cooking school, Ali feeds the family breakfast. A twisted accident causes her to feed them the famous Flathead Biscuits from Hades, which sets the pace for strange-enough-to-be-true comedy the rest of the book. For protection and assistance, Wess oldest son, THOMAS ORILEY, is appointed to accompany Ali on the rest of her adventure. These two opposite personalities are least likely to strike up a lasting relationship. However, they must learn to compliment each other in order to make the adventure a rewarding experience. On the trail to Louisiana, Davy Crockett crosses their path. Prospects of the 1835 massacre at the Alamo are presented.

Uncle RUFUS ORILEYs family habitat in the Gulf Coast swamps of Low Down, Louisiana, introduces snakes, alligators and the plight of the American Indian during Andrew Jacksons presidency. Rufus second oldest son, ELIJAH, and Thomas go through the rites-of-passage together, slaying the swamp-dragon. Rufus older daughter, MAID MARION, and Ali pass through the rites-of-passage, performing one of the oldest female rites known to mankind. Serious life-situations and decisions are presented and dealt with as Rufus oldest son, ZAK, saves Thomas and Elijah from the Caddo Indians. Several sequences clearly illustrate the Christian message as clan members make decisions to rescue each other. Uncle Rufus, preacher, trapper, intellectual, is invited to preach about Satan at snake-handler cult rituals, presenting swamp dwellers culture. A cruel practical joke and comical mix-up sets the stage for Thomas and Elijah to get deserved vengence against WINSTON CHANLIN.

A strange turn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 29, 2001
• ISBN: 9781465320001

Dr. Robert A. Brock

Dr. Robert A. (Sunny) Brock, born to a cripple-child-bride on the tail end of the Great Depression, at Woodville, Texas. Born eight months before the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, Sunny’s family followed construction-worker-father, changing schools fifteen times in twelve years. Then, nine years US Air Force; graduated Sam Houston State University, Huntsville, Texas - received Master of Education, taught public school, eighth grade and women prisoners. Five years, attended Texas Baptist Institute-Seminary at Henderson, Texas - received Doctorate of Theology in Bible Languages. He has taught at TBI over twenty-five years and pastors Tyler Road Baptist Church, Henderson, Texas. Proctored in Creative Writing at SHSU by author, Jewel Gibson (Joshua Bean and God, Black Gold). Robert has authored several Seminary text books, published by Criterion Press, Henderson, Texas and articles in religious periodicals.

Book preview

Salt Lick, Vol. I

CELEBRATE LIFE

Dr. Robert A. Brock

Copyright © 2000 by Dr. Robert A. Brock.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

Contents

Chapter One

BISCUITS FROM HADES

Chapter Two

DOWN LOW IN LOW DOWN

Chapter Three

UP HIGH IN LOW DOWN

Chapter Four

RITES OF PASSAGE

Chapter Five

MY BROTHER’S KEEPER

Chapter Six

BREAK A LEG

Chapter Seven

BIG HOWDY TEXAS

Chapter Eight

HOLY COW, KEMO SABIE

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

THE PRESIDENTIAL PEAR

Chapter Eleven

A GRAVE SITUATION

Chapter Twelve

BUFFALO WINGS

Chapter Thirteen

HOMEWARD BOUND

Chapter Fourteen

HEARTLAND

Table of Illustrations

Illustrated by the four Brock grandsons, our pride and joy.

Kevin Robert Brock

Tyler Jonathan Brock,

Travis Jordan Brock

and Robert Lansden Brock

Chapters One-Eight . . . Robert Lansden Brock

Chapters Nine-Twelve . . . Travis Jordan Brock

Chapters Thirteen-Fourteen . . . Tyler Jonathan Brock

Written in memory of the author’s mother, E. Aileen Riley (Brock, Weeks, Harris). This unique, green-eyed, Irish princess, example of The Overcomer, fought the ravages of Infantile Polio her entire life while rearing five children and nursing for thirty years in East Texas hospitals. Aileen’s philosophy of life: Well, just use what you’ve got ‘til you get something better! Having lived her motto and told her story, she presently enjoys the pleasures of heaven.

This one’s for you, Mom! Give her a big hug for us, Jesus.

Chapter One

BISCUITS FROM HADES

Mother, you and Aunt Emma Jean have been plotting this for years. There’s no way I am going to marry Philip, without even knowing what he looks like. How’s he going to support us on army pay? This whole thing is ludicrous. Who’s the sacrificial lamb in this entire matter? Me! And it doesn’t set right. Do you think I’m blind? You two are trying to keep grandpa’s land together by marrying us off. I’ve never done anything or been anywhere but Sumter. This is 1834, for heaven’s sake! Girls are no longer just pawns, used for doing business. I’m against this whole thing.

Girl, you hush your mouth, talking back like a street woman! You’re just about that far from washing your mouth out with lye. You were raised to be a proper lady, suited for public life. Philip will be a statesman for sure. Looking to heaven for sanction, God, what have I done to deserve this prodigal child?

I’ve already talked to Daddy about it. I’m going to visit all my uncles’ families before I get tied down to a dusty old fort out in the middle of the desert, spending the rest of my life with a baby hanging on my dress tail, one on my hip and another in the making. There’s got to be more to life than that!

Motherhood is God’s greatest gift to woman. You’re getting mighty near blasphemy, girl!

Mother, since we’ve been born, you’ve done nothing but moan and complain about what you could have been if you’d just not gotten encumbered so young. I’m barely twenty, and I’m going to travel if I have to walk.

That’s enough! You are entirely too sassy, child. Just for that outburst, you’ll not be accompanying Margie and me to Columbia to shop.

Just help yourselves! My mind is set, and I don’t feel I’m being sassy. It’s just that I should have some say in whom I spend the rest of my life with and not be traded off like a milk cow. Even Rebecca in the Bible was given a choice before they hauled her off to marry some cousin she had never seen.

Just hush! You say another word, and you’ll get this corset across your mouth.

I’ve had my say! If anyone wants to talk about this matter, with reason, and consider my feelings, then I’ll talk. Otherwise, I’m packing my trunks to leave!

‘You ‘re not going anywhere, young lady, until this is all settled."

Leaving her agitated mother flushing, Ali turned abruptly and retreated to her room, without being properly excused. Mother’s chubby cheeks went red as the blood pressure headache lifted off the top of her proper head.

Ali quickly dressed for walking.

Passing her father’s tool shed, she tartly announced, Daddy, I’m going down the hill to the apothecary. If I’m needed, send Margie.

OK, Baby. What’s all the racket about in there? You know better than to talk back to your mother.

There’s just no other way to get through to her. We’ve had this discussion since I was eight years old. I’m not chattel Daddy. You didn’t raise me to be auctioned off like a servant.

Be that as it may, Ali. You can not talk sassy to your mother. If you can’t reason with her, just keep your mouth shut. Do you understand me, Hon?

‘Yes sir." She sheepishly wisped past the door, headed for the well-worn path toward town.

Sam walked through the holding-pen to catch his oldest daughter before she left pouting. Wait just a minute, Baby, and you can help me throw some corn to the cows, while I put out a new salt lick.

Daddy, she whined, in this dress?

Yes ma’am, in that dress. Just climb the fence.

The heavy-springing, mother cows stood around the smooth feed trough with their yearlings. The oldest cow in the little herd, nuzzling and lowing, licked her healthy calf.

Did you hear what she said to her calf?

You’re teasing me, Daddy. I’m twenty years old. I used to believe your nonsense about animals talking. I’m not a little girl anymore. I know cows can’t talk.

Sure they do! All animals communicate some way or other. See her licking her baby?

Yes, she replied, aggravated at his detention. I’m sure glad people don’t do that.

She just told her calf, ‘The corn’s pretty good this year.’

Daddy, you’re just trying to delay me with silly talk.

See the other cows coming up. Now, watch her hover over the salt lick and refuse to share it until they let her tell them one of her stories. She’s a real herd gossip, knows everything, tells everything. Reminds me of somebody’s bridge club.

Whatever you say, Daddy. I haven’t ever caught you in a lie. But, you’re getting mighty close. . . . animals talking, psst.

Well Miss Priss, you just watch them for yourself and see if I’m not right.

The mother cow licked the dirty salt block, and horned the rest of the herd back, protecting the rare mineral.

Looking over the cliff at the edge of the barnyard, Ali surveyed the famous Sumter springs below, buzzing with mothers and servant women in work dresses, hauling water for drinking and cooking. She was confident those springs, reputed to be left over from Noah’s flood, had to be the sole reason most of the settlers had come to Sumter, South Carolina, and stayed. What other reason would tempt one to make a home in this little pioneer town, hanging off the edge of the planet. No sweeter water could be found in the world, so the town folks claimed.

Often, after arguing with her mother, the childhood memory of Mother, poking her head out the mosquito door, would haunt her. There in Ali’s head, Mamma screaming, Aileeeeenno ZeeederOo Riley! Get yourself in this house, immediately child! She knew when her mother said Aileen O ‘Zeda O ‘Riley at that decibel, she had better comply swiftly, or the stars would fall on Alabama. She remembered father insisting, Mrs. O’Riley! Stop screaming like a saloon woman! Why could her mother not understand her feelings? Was her father right? Girl, you’re as hard headed as your mamma. Was she really like her mom? She loathed the thought.

The apothecary was busy for a Tuesday. Mrs. Bernstein whispered, Ali, your lip rouge came in. But, don’t you dare let your mother know I suggested you use it. Just barely touch it to your cheeks and smear it around. As pale as you are, it would show if you use too much.

She could hardly wait.

Looking in the large hand mirror, she observed, It’s so hard to avoid using too much. There! Isn’t that pretty?

It makes a difference all right. What are you going to do with yourself, since you’ve finished boarding school?

Mamma has me married off to Philip by Christmas. Think I’ll take a trip before I’m tied down to house-keeping and brooding babies for the rest of my life. Pray for me Mrs. Bernstein. Mother doesn’t listen to reason.

Your mother does have a strong will. But, I’m sure she has your welfare at heart. Nevertheless Ali, I will pray for you. And, motherhood’s not so bad. It’s really fulfilling. When you get old and weary like me, they bring lots of joy to your life, especially those grandbabies.

I’m hoping to find a little joy now, so don’t forget to pray for me. Promise?

I promise.

Walking the oak-plank boardwalk, her heels tapped gingerly along the hard wood. Concentrating, she could see in her peripheral vision, without turning her head, town people stopping for a moment, taking pleasure in gazing at her. It was a delicious emotion, knowing God had created her a work of art for His glory. She always had one more smile to compliment her shiny, raven black hair and laughing, Irish green eyes. Being beautiful, and pretending not to know it, was a social grace a girl like Ali had to master, lest she be touted as a snob. That O’Riley bunch is the laugh ingest bunch of folks I ever saw, and that Ali is just one big O’Riley smile. She’ll melt the heart of some feller one of these days.

Holding the mosquito door spring, she quietly entered the house.

Mother startled her, Ali, where have you been? Have you got fever, child? You’re red as a beet root.

****

Ali and her father, avoiding conflict with Mrs. O’Riley, planned in secret until all preparations were finished. For this favor, she had to listen once again to her father, Sam O’Riley, re-tell her favorite uncle-stories, especially those involving Uncle Wes. The five talented brothers, each unique in his own right, had scattered around the country seeking their fortunes. Sam, had been a field officer in the militia, and had settled in Sumter, South Carolina. Ali had heard these stories all her life, all their antics and irresponsible times, conquering the southeastern wilderness before the clan broke up and married; or, loving a good scrap, some had joined military enterprises. All, that is, except Uncle Stanley, who being on the puny side, had stayed behind and made a fortune in the lumber business during the great building boom.

This Southern butterfly, Ali, was a free spirit, full of her father’s wanderlust, O’Riley to the bone. It was settled, she was to visit each of her five uncles’ families, the first of which had to be Uncle Wes’ family in Glasgow, Kentucky. If everything her father had told her about Wes was really true, all the other visits would be anticlimactic.

****

Ali could hear her mother’s elite society friends gathering downstairs. Sister Margie opened the door for guests until she was dismissed.

Margie bounded up the stairs into Ali’s room, flopped on the bed to watch her older sister administer her latest purchase.

Where’d you get that lip rouge? Mom will pop a corset string if she finds out.

Well Miss Priss, you’re not going to tell her. If you’d heard what Mrs. Bernstein said to me, you’d understand.

What could she possibly say to make you disobey Mother?

Ali wrinkled her face to mimic the store crone with melodrama.’Why Ali, you’re so pale. You look like you’ve got worms, Baby. Tell your mamma to give you a though of hickory nut tea for about a week and then some Epsom salts to clean you out, Hon.’ I could have died! There were women all over the store staring at me! She swears lip rouge will cover up my wormy look.

Well, I guess so. But, Mamma will still pop if she finds it.

I’ll just keep it in my purse, and you can use a dab if you won’t tell.

I don’t need it. I’m not the one with worms.

Mrs. O’Riley was pleased that her parlor was especially comfortable this balmy morning, since it was her turn to entertain the bridge club. She opened the gossip, seeking sympathizers for her side in her and Ali’s latest argument. Helen, don’t you think a West Point graduate husband with aspirations for the statehouse would be a fine upstanding future any girl ought to covet?

If I were thirty years younger, I’d sure covet something like that. That is, if I didn’t have to keep house, and all I had to do, would be to sit around and look beautiful.

Ha, well I guess that leaves you out, Helen. If you had to sit around and look beautiful, you and your husband both would starve to death, Molly Gentry rudely interrupted.

Well, look who’s talking! Pot callin’ the kettle black! Turning back to Mrs. O’Riley, Really girl, bein’ serious and all, you ought to send her away and let her get her mind off things for a while.

She and her father have been behind my back, planning a trip for her. Some tomfoolery, going to see all his brothers. Entirely too dangerous, a young girl traipsing around the country unescorted. It’s shameful!

Isn’t there some kind of summer finishing school somewhere?

She had all that in boarding school. Hmmm, but, Margie and I saw in Columbia that the university is importing an entire French cooking school for the summer. That’s what these girls around here need, something that will make them more suitable for marriage. I understand some of the Sumter girls are even wearing lip rouge. Can you imagine that? Just like street women. What will they be doing next? Once they start flouncing themselves in public, there’s just no end to it. We’ve just got to make a stand and put a stop to this nonsense around here. How many girls from Sumter can we send to this cooking school?

It was determined then and there; Ali and three other marryable debutante friends would attend the French cooking school in Columbia.

Ali tried showing indifference to, of all things, a cooking school. All the while she was actually elated at the thought of spending the summer on a university campus, away from home, parents, a nerve racking sibling and mundane summer chores.

****

The cooking school was extravagantly appointed. Most of the university buildings were new with French influence everywhere, architecture, furniture, even the food. The cooks spoke a syrupy, drawn-out French. She had to have them repeat instructions often. Her text book French had not prepared her for this much deviation.

She was required daily to wear a clean, lacy little apron. She bought three and tried keeping them stiff starched, ironed and ready for class. At first she lumbered along until she was familiar with the cooks’ dialect. One morning after she had set a perfect table for class, nothing out of place, everyone applauded and laughed approval. Instinctively she sensed that she was accepted, and from that moment forward, she excelled.

Arturo tapped his little, Come together girls tune on the bottom of a pot and musically announced, Today is Duck Pough Paughn day. The seventeen high-bred, southern girls giddily gathered around the prissy, little chef to receive instructions for the magical sounding delicacy. Handlebar mustache drooping slightly to the right, he coached, "Take your duck egg and verrrry carefully crack it. This will not be the same sensation as opening a chicken egg. The secret inside must not be disturbed. Both ends of the egg must be removed at the same time so the precious delicacy will spread in your melted butter into a perfect circular mound. Nothing more disgusting than a lopsided Duck Pough Paughn. Today Miz Ali, our star pupil, will demonstrate my instructions. Pay close attention, and when you get your egg, do everything she does."

Ali bounced to the front, trying hard to appear indifferent to the special attention.

Now Aileen, hold the duck egg, and tell us how it differs from a chicken egg.

" Weelll, it feels larger, less oval, heavier. Rolling the egg around in her hand, It’s like it’s . . . Well, it’s warm like it’s alive."

Now Ali, tap the sharp side of the paring knife all the way around the egg, moving the crack around as you go. That’s nicely done. Now, open the egg with tenderest care not to crush the shell.

She separated the two halves perfectly. Out fell a half-formed baby duck into the platter.

Magnifeeeek! yelled the little French cook, dancing around, clapping.

All eyes were glued to the baby duck. One leg, jerking uncontrollably, spread its little webbed toes then flexed back to fetal position.

Ali was petrified! Without thinking, she picked up the little fowl by the moving foot and held it up to eye level for closer observation. The half-absorbed yolk sac, covered with a web of red blood veins, was sagging. Its reddish-purple, pounding heart, could be easily seen below the thin-as-pins ribs.

"Pump.. . Pump... Pump. "Each time the heart pumped, its veins swelled twice normal size. Gravity exerted too much force for the little premature duck. The yolk sac split at the bottom exploding yellow-orange yolk onto Ali’s face and perky white lace apron. She fainted.

Aware of light and girls faces staring down at her, for a moment she guessed what a baby must experience with adults’ faces gawking. Wonder, fear, compassion . . . every face expressed something different.

Well Missy, you ready to do Duck Pough Paughn? Help her up girls. She’s gonna get her apron soiled.

The dainty little man happily danced around, took another egg, split it perfectly, and gracefully the small live fetal animal slid into the frying butter. The duckling squirmed, convulsing on the hot griddle, yet, not quite so lively as Ali’s duck. The small heart throbbed rapidly making waves in the entire mound of albumen, yolk and baby animal. Horrified girls peered at the concoction. Butter bubbled around the perfect little creature. Slowly it stopped quivering as a white film formed over the delicacy.

Arturo greased a soup bowl and placed it over the little duck to contain the dish in a circular pattern. It finished cooking in the steam formed inside the crockery bowl. He proudly instructed, The object, my girls, is to keep your heat at a very low, steady temperature so that you are in complete control.

Ali watched the sickening spectacle as she tried wiping the bland egg smell from her hair and neck.

The little duck had almost disappeared under the steamed opaque egg white.

Arturo sprinkled dried mustard, parsley, and paprika powder evenly over the mound, scooped it into a silver trimmed plate with deep sides, decorated it with curly cabbage and a slice of orange, cut and pulled into a corkscrew shape. Really well done, if I say so myself. Now who is going to try it and let the class know how tasty it is? Who hasn’t had breakfast yet?

Ali quietly stepped backward, bumping into her best friend. Both hands over her mouth, she mumbled, Bnooo! Bnot Meee!The rest of the class followed suit, with one exception, the horse-girl from Georgia.

Beatrice sat at the empty table. An uncoordinated girl from North Carolina was ordered to set a perfect setting for breakfast. After two tries, the forks, knives and water glass were arranged correctly.

Arturo gave the go sign and Beatrice chowed-down.

What do you do with the head? she asked matter-of-factly.

Arturo took the tiny head from the girl’s greasy fingers. Raised on a horse ranch in southeast Georgia, she did not flinch as the cook demonstrated to all how to hold the little duck head on the tips of the fingers, crack the skull all around, lift off the cap and expose, the most exquisite bite of the whole dish. He handed the head to Beatrice who vacuumed out the cavity in short order. Ali and several other classmates grimaced, not believing what their eyes were seeing.

Picking the pinfeathers from between her teeth, Bea pulled a little webbed foot from between her greasy, pursed lips, sucking all the morsels off the little bone as she pulled.

Ali’s world went black again, as the hungry girl stuck out her cluttered tongue and licked the salty butter off her full lips.

The class was so enwrapped by the demonstration, no one thought of assisting Ali. She lay there crumpled in her sunny, butterscotch plaid dress while Beatrice finished the hard yolk-stomach and rounded egg white. Attention returned to Ali, feeling foolish and embarrassed as she jerked spasmodically trying to awaken herself. Her lace-up corset never felt so tight and uncomfortable as she struggled to sit up amidst the host of corn starched petticoats. She stood with the help of her cooking partner, while Arturo commanded Beatrice politely to explain the myriads of flavors to the other girls.

Ali could only see the little, black, greasy pinfeather stuck between Bea’s front teeth. Nausea waved across her whole being, as Arturo dismissed the class until one o’clock.

Next on the agenda will be eggs Benedict, the only breakfast for the cultured person . . . all the rage at the new Tiffanys in New York.

When would she ever get to New York, she wondered, as her three Sumter friends escorted her into the fresh air. Taking in the sunshine, cool summer air and the elaborately ornate, new campus, she slowly regained her composure. The four girls chattered over the repulsive class they had just witnessed. It was easy to discuss anything in this paradise setting. And what about that Beatrice! Can you believe it?

"I saw it, and I don’t believe it! A real horse woman, she is."

Summer at Columbia raced on like the new steam driven passenger train which rattled the apothecary and lip rouge on her white and gold French dresser. The dorms were comfortable enough, but she anxiously looked forward to the return trip home. Having her own things all around was her haven, a secure little nest in the middle of an ever-expanding world.

Sitting at her father’s side, the ride home was cluttered with mixed emotions as she listened to her friends chatter in the wagon bed. She knew Philip would be the only topic of conversation when she arrived home. The Christmas wedding was only a year and few months away, and her mother wanted acceptance of the proposal soon. On second thought, Philip didn’t graduate for two more Christmases. Perhaps she would have time to visit all her uncle’s families for a nice long stay. The future looked exciting as well as confusing.

****

Well, Hon, what all did you learn? Mom quizzed her excitedly. Not many girls could say they understood French cuisine. Her daughter was adding to her repertoire as a soon-to-be officer’s wife in the know. Who knows, someday she may be a statesman’s wife, or for that matter, even a president’s wife. And she would surely need to entertain properly.

Well Mom, we learned how to cook snails and unborn baby animals, boil roots and many other needful things such as that, how to set the perfect table to entertain dignitaries. I’ll show you all of it after a bath and a good nap.

Mrs. O’Riley was satisfied; perhaps her daughter was ready for marriage. The summer without her was worth the sacrifice, after all.

****

Sam O’Riley and Ali prevailed in the family tug-of-war, and her maiden voyage into the real world began while weather was still tolerable.

The train ride from Sumter, South Carolina to Greensburg, Kentucky was one of the most exciting events of Ali’s life. How could it be that mankind could transfer from one location to another at forty-five and fifty miles per hour? It was just too much for the mind to take in. The motion was exhilarating as farms and wilderness passed so quickly. The eye could hardly register one thing before the mind had to think on another. This rapid speed left her dizzy, but she knew she was greatly privileged to have such an opportunity to ride so great a machine. God had allowed man to progress at such an amazing pace.

Would she recognize Uncle Wes’ family? The old daguerreotype of all five O’Riley brothers, made just before splitting up, imaged Wes as an austere young man, stern, with a bushy, blonde mustache. She imagined his wife just as rough looking. Ali guessed they were hard workers, no-nonsense people who lived by a thousand rules and had them all memorized. No changing the rules. No mercy for infractors. Not at all like the people she had imagined as her father told hilarious stories of Uncle Wes’ boyhood.

Settlements seemed closer together as the rails wound through the uncluttered jungle. A coachman in a military looking uniform announced they were approaching Greensburg. He loudly noted the two brass spittoons at each exit, the Rail Road Council had authorized a fine for spitting cuds on the floor and the water closet would be closed in five minutes to prevent stowaways.

Ali’s mother had sent a lock of hair and a lengthy description of her to Wes’ wife, including intimate details such as the reddish-brown, strawberry mole on Ali’s neck. The entire Wes O’Riley clan gawked at every young, lady passenger with raven black hair, trying to see a mole on her neck. Daddy Wes saw her first. She’s the spittin’ image of her mamma! Wes yelled. Grabbing the young lady, he kissed her on the neck trying to see her mole. Splat! She slapped his face soundly, moving his mustache sideways. Wes’ face turned red, Aileen?

My name’s Laura!

Sorry, Ma’am! He continued searching through the young ladies, looking for the next likely candidate. As he reached out his arms to embrace the apprehensive girl, the engineer dropped the lever to release pressure from the boiler. Hot steam covered her with a cloud. Wes could not even see her feet. He reached his large, bronze hand into the pillar of hot steam and quickly wrenched the girl from receiving skin damage.

She stood soaked, slinging her hands. Her surprised face twisted to cry as Uncle Wes kissed her square on her wet lips. The smell of fresh tobacco juice in his thick mustache restored her presence of mind enough to jump back. As she twisted her wet neck, Wes yelled, It’s her all right, here’s her mole! He put his leathery finger to her neck for the whole family to see. Grabbing her by both arms, he could feel how wet she really was.

All Ali could think of was how much trouble she had gone through, dressing for this special occasion. Now she was a mess, drenched from her French roll down to her button topped shoes. The switch of curls, she had draped so carefully over her left shoulder to hide her mole, was being tousled by this family of country-bumpkins, discovering the embarrassing birthmark.

Trudy O’Riley brushed her clamoring family aside. Can’t you all see how tired she is?

Daddy O’Riley chuckled, Yeah, she’s all steamed up.

Now, Daddy, squawked Trudy. This is no time for tacky levity.

Levity, thought Ali, these people are a bunch of goats.

The boys gathered her many bags and trunks to the wagon, and for the first time, she had a good look at each individual O’Riley of her uncle’s family. They were all beautiful people. The bright, clear sky and sunshine danced in their glassy, icy green eyes. The three boys were as handsome as their father had obviously been. All had well trimmed, clean sun-streaked brown hair. The two girls were dressed in finery only worn to church, thick golden locks on their shoulders, well kept hair, well kept children. Her first impression was melting already. These were true O’Rileys, strongest of the Irish stock to cross the ocean, seeking fortune in the New World. This clan really showed the Viking marauders’ blood introduced into the O’Rileys during the dark ages and the famous abbey invasions.

The older son, Thomas, probably two to three years her senior, was especially attentive to her, and she liked it very much. He had a mysterious handsomeness about his large, rugged, youthful features, as Uncle Wes would have said, . . . the spittin’ image of his daddy.

By the time the two wagons rolled onto the O’Riley spread, after the fourteen-hour, all night, and half a day trip, Ali was talking freely to her cousins, all remarkably mature and well disciplined. Practically paralyzed, with Thomas’ help she stumbled from the wagon, turned around and stared open-mouthed at the unconventional mansion. It was not exactly a castle, though it had parapets and towers; not exactly Victorian, with its bay windows and sun balconies; not particularly Spanish with stucco walls, and red tile roof. It was everything and nothing in particular, all at once. Her summer French teacher would have flipped his wig to see such a breach of architectural discipline. Whoever had designed this house was a world traveler. It was a celebration, ten totally different houses blended together. Everything about this family seemed fanciful.

Trudy’s father was the first ambassador to France. She was born in Nice and traveled all over Europe, buying art with her mother. When France joined in the War of 1812, Grandpa joined General Jackson’s Raiders near the end of the war and was wounded in the last stand for New Orleans. He carried a muzzle-loader-lead Minie ball in his neck the rest of his life. Grandpa died couple a years ago. Ali could see Trudy’s face wince from some deep, secret pain at the reminder of the loss of her affectionate father. Wes continued, They were afraid to operate because of where it was lodged, so near the jugular vein, so he just opted to carry it around in there. You could even feel it with your finger. He called it a Minie ball, but Minie ball shot didn’t come on until later. Think it was just a chunk of lead.

How uncouth, Ali thought to herself, I imagine you felt of it. Why does he always give so much information about everything, sort of takes the mystery out of the moment.

Everybody quit talkin’ so much. This girl has got to get some rest. Mrs. O’Riley led Ali by her soiled sleeve into the magnificent house, the interior just as full of marvels as the exterior. Life-sized statuary from every continent on the planet lined the walls. Italian realism prevailed in the paintings and tapestry. Practically every Caesar and Greek god was represented. It was a Mecca in this drab wilderness land. She could now see, first hand, the cultures she had studied last year in finishing school, so many opposing cultures, blended so tastefully. Only a genius, a wealthy genius, could have accomplished all this.

Mom O’Riley saw Wes’ niece’s wonder and excused the whole mood of magnificence, His brawn, my brains, and laughed a well controlled laugh.

Up the stairs Ali was escorted to a personal bedroom, prepared especially for Wes’ only family member ever to visit this far from South Carolina. This was to be a special visit. She would have to carry the family’s goodwill back east. Perhaps others may visit while Wes still enjoyed good health.

July, hotter and dryer than usual, quickly passed. When he wasn’t working cattle, firstborn, Thomas was constantly at Ali’s side, begging to do anything that would please her. He had already secretly discussed with his mother the prospect of marrying a first cousin. Mom had looked it up in Genesis and Leviticus and assured him of God’s blessings upon such a close family nuptial. However, his mother warned, this rugged country would kill a fragile girl like her. And besides, her Mom’s practically got her married off to a West Pointer.

Dog days of summer never seemed so long. Kentucky had precious little breeze that year, and the air turned stale, making breathing laborious. The hot days pressed forward, full of hard work, leaving only the late hay for harvesting.

Thomas, two brothers and Ali unloaded the last of the hay crop into the barn. Ali mostly watched and gave moral support. Thomas cherished every word she uttered, hiding them in his heart to warm his soul, knowing that next month she would vanish from his life. Civilized manners were laid aside as the two younger brothers began jumping from the loft onto the dusty summer hay already piled below.

Finish pitchin’ hay, then you can play, Thomas commanded, and the boys obeyed without complaint.

The last wagon load was pitched and stacked, then as Thomas promised, the boys began jumping from the fourteen-foot loft, shimmied up the ladder and jumped again and again, yelling for Thomas and Ali to join them. The older brother maintained his dignity in front of Ali as long as his young heart would allow. These kid brothers were having too much fun. Climbing the support poll with the grace of a cat, Thomas reached up and pulled his brother’s foot, forcing him to fall sideways from the loft. He grabbed Thomas with both hands on the way down. The third brother jumped beside them, bumping heads, laughing and wrestling, rolling off the hay onto the hard dirt floor.

Ali, caught up in the childish abandonment of the moment, knew she had to jump. After her marriage to a gentleman officer, she may never again have another opportunity. Married ladies don’t jump out of barns.

Refusing to debate with her better judgment, she abandoned herself to gravity, aiming at the center of the huge pile of hay two stories below.

Craaack! The boys heard her ligaments pull lose from the bone when her left foot hit the stacking pole, around which the hay was piled, keeping the stacks straight.

Her painful scream was deafening as she crawled off the hay pile crying, praying, Oh God! Oh God! Help me! I’ve broken my foot!

Thomas’ adrenaline surge, for the moment, made him super human as he whisked her from the dirt barn floor and carried her as easily as a baby.

Mom and his older sister met him in the barnyard. They had heard the scream which routed the whole family. Take her to the back porch and take off her shoe. Hurry before that foot swells.

Thomas had never noticed her dainty feet and ankles before. Her face had so captivated him, all he could think of day and night was one more look at her. He was addicted to her presence.

Mom O’Riley arrived. Yep, it’s a really bad sprain. Take you at least two months to get over it, just about Green County Fair time. I’ll send word to your mother tomorrow. See that goose egg comin’ up. It’ll be as big as a mush melon by supper. Yes sir, that’s a two-month sprain if it’s a day.

That night at supper, under Trudy’s coaching and leading questions, the children voted that Ali would stay until after the Green County Fair the first weekend in October. Also they agreed that Thomas would accompany her on her next venture, all the way to Lowdown, Louisiana to visit Uncle Rufus O’Riley’s family.

The entire family had pampered Ali through her convalescence from bed, to chair, to homemade walkers. When his chores were finished, Thomas rarely left her side. He had read to her almost all the books in the small library. Growing in his worldly wisdom and increasing his reading skills, he was growing fond of the time spent reading to this angelic creature that had become so much a part of his life. Ali and Thomas were becoming as natural as breathing.

Finally, the week before the fair, she had begun limping on the recovering sprain, without assistance. How could she ever repay their kindness?

After much musing over the question, she decided the day before they were to leave for the fair, she would rise long before dawn and cook the family and servants one of the grandest French style southern breakfasts they had ever laid their mouths to.

Her mind-clock awoke her at 3:30 am. After dressing quickly in the dark, she shuffled along the little brick path to the kitchen. It had been built eighty feet from the house, since most house fires in those days were kitchen related.

The oversized fireplace had three rods for hanging Dutch ovens over the fire. The giant stove next to the fireplace was the centerpiece of the room. It had a flu built into the fireplace for safety.

Imported from a Venice foundry, the green porcelain doors and brass wire handles reflected the European taste of the mistress of the house. The chopping board table of red oak, matching pots and pans, a rarity in primitive America, were coordinated with wall hangings and bright paintings of fruit which made this kitchen as hospitable as any living room she had ever socialized in.

Ali had spent most of the last two months helping Jude in this grand kitchen while the family worked cattle and kept up with the chores. She could sit in a chair, with her injured foot elevated on a stool, and dry the pots, crack eggs, or stir cakes while Jude, the family servant, told and retold her life story.

Jude’s grandfather had sailed to America with the O’Rileys. Gramps O’Riley had bought a young, American-born, servant-girl wife for him. They had many children including seven bucks, who were sold to Southern cotton farmers for a small fortune, which paid for the O ‘Riley family spread in Wilmington, where Jude had been born. To help carry on their ventures, seeking their fortunes in the south, each of the five O’Riley boys were given a pair of servants, from among Jude’s cousins. Shortly after Jude’s birth her mamma had been kidnapped by the Hopi Indians and was never seen again. For a wedding gift Grandpa O’Riley had given Jude, still only a child, to Wes’ wife, who raised Jude as her own daughter. Jude wasn’t, in the least, bitter over her lot in life. Actually, she was proud of her station, and talked to Wes’ wife and children as though Jude was the mother, giving instructions and advice freely. Without question, Jude was queen of this kitchen, and one dared not enter without her permission.

"I shore ‘precíate your cookin’ breakfast this mornin’. Now, I can git my bunch ready. Mr. Wes is takin’ us all to the fair. My youngon’s are so excited, they can’t sleep."

If you don’t mind Jude, could you peel and cut up the potatoes, and I think I can handle the rest. And send Buddy over to fetch your biscuits in about an hour.

That’ll be a big boost to me. Child, you sho’ you ain’t no angel?

Jude’s psychology worked. Ali worked even faster and with more purpose in her demeanor. Jude pared and chopped the potatoes and covered them with water to prevent the corners from turning black in the hot kitchen air.

What else can I do, Hon?

I believe that’s it. I’m sure glad you’re going to the fair.

Mr. Wes knows better than havin’ a party without Jude. He said he’s afraid I’d poison him, she sniggered. She did not hide her love for her master and his family. She had personally cared for Thomas in her cabin during the scarlet fever epidemic when they almost lost Miz Trudy. Jude called Thomas her chocolate baby and hugged him often. This family had loved and spoiled Jude, pampering her from childhood. The rearing of the O’Riley children had been partly given over to her. They obeyed her with gravest respect and had all been indoctrinated in family law by her peach tree tea on several occasions.

Having hung her wet apron on the peg beside the door, she pulled the latchstring and vanished into the darkness.

Ali could tell there wasn’t enough biscuit flour for both the O’Riley’s and Jude’s family.

Pulling back the curtain to the pantry, she saw the ornate flour canister. Something else from Europe I guess, she thought out loud. The red rubber seal had melted to the can, making it difficult to unscrew the lid. After wrestling the lid from the can, she poured the dark millet flour into the half-full mixing bowl. From the cupboard, she tapped the side of the tin flour bin until she retrieved almost another quart. Surely this will have to do! Didn’t know we were almost out of biscuit flour.

She chopped the new green onions and dumped them onto the pan-grill to fry with the hash browns. She saved a double hand full to fry with the eggs Benedict, substituting for several herbs not available this far west. Cups full of sowbelly cracklings were mixed into the biscuit batter. Instead of molding each biscuit as Jude did, she made a thick batter and poured them like pancakes into the heavily greased baking pans. Uncle Wes did not like fluffy, thick biscuits. These biscuits must be perfect catfish head, flat biscuits with a hot greasy, crunchy crust.

Thomas charged in from his chores, carrying two buckets of fresh milk, compliments of Bossie and Buttercup. Time was flying as she swore him to secrecy. He gladly helped her fire up the stove and put the biscuits in. The ashes from supper had kept the cast-iron stove hot, a three-oven stove, with a large wood-belly for heating the ovens and several lesser compartments designed for cooking a whole meal at one time. In no time at all, the baking cracklings in the biscuit dough filled the kitchen with a heavenly ham odor.

Thomas drained the hash browns and threw them into the popping hot, hog lard on the oversized griddle. Exotic food aromas made his stomach growl hardily as Ali smiled, pretending not to hear.

Morning noises of the large family rising to start daily chores gave her an anxious twitch under her left arm. They must not discover her surprise.

The perfect golden brown hash browns smothered in green onion tops were scooped into the draining basket and set near the fireplace to hold in heat. The star of the elaborate breakfast was dipped onto the freshly greased griddle. Thomas had never heard of eggs Benedict. He had never considered there was more than one way to prepare an egg. The green onion and dried cabbage flakes flavored the concoction with unfamiliar aromas. With nervousness in her voice Ali snapped, You check the biscuits. Once I start the Benedict, I can’t stop ‘til they are finished.

Six eggs at a time were broken and slid into the heavily salted and peppered, steaming butter. She carefully guided them around the griddle to pick up the secret recipe of herbs and spices, which complimented the wilted green onions and dried cabbage. Not one egg yolk was broken as they were scooped into individual circles and fried without becoming brown. Six more, then six more, then six more until they were all finished. Now pour three tablespoons of melted cheese over each while they’re hot. Thomas covered each course as she instructed, keeping them hot until served. She checked the biscuits, perfect, lightly browned. Having set the four pans of flat head biscuits on the work-table, she dipped a few tablespoons of hot honey, from the cradle near the fireplace, into a bowl of hard cow butter. The hot honey quickly melted the butter. The spread was painted onto the biscuits forming a golden glaze.

Where did you learn to do all this? Thomas marveled.

French school of culinary arts at Columbia University.

Dawn was beginning to bathe the magical farm, when Jude’s oldest son knocked for the promised biscuits. The honey roasted wheat smell overwhelmed him, as he left carrying the large covered pan of hot bread. He began eating his portion as he walked toward his mother’s cottage.

Ali and Thomas transferred the covered dishes and hot pans to the house quickly. She set a formal table while Thomas brought over the last two pans of hot biscuits.

Trudy, thinking Jude was puttering around in the dining room, came down to help, while the family finished dressing for their usual early breakfast. She was pleasantly surprised to find Ali finishing the table setting. Where’s Jude? She sick?

No ma’am, I told her I’d cook breakfast this morning. Since everyone has been so nice to me, it’s the only way I could think of to pay you all back.

She finished just in time, for the children filed in and took their places. Finally, Daddy Wes sat and asked grace. It was time for the feasting to begin.

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Ali and Thomas carried the biscuits around the table. Each took his customary two. The eggs Benedict were served off their platter, and bowls of crisp, browned potatoes, striped gravy, honey coated ham chunks, honey and butter were passed back and forth. Wes daubed and spread fresh cow butter on top of his hot, glazed biscuits, smothered them in cane syrup, cut them pancake style and began gorging himself. Never had he eaten such delicious fare. Who would have ever thought of cooking eggs with onions, cabbage, cheese and heaven knows what else? Exotic flavors were overwhelming! Eating, while mumbling appreciation, went all around the table.

Wes had already eaten three biscuits, four eggs Benedict and too many hash browns. Only two biscuits were left! Could he handle just one more? Thomas saw his father eyeing the biscuit pan and silently passed him one. Wes knew he was overdoing it, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was intoxicating.

He cleaned his plate with half the biscuit and spread butter on the other half. It was still warm enough to melt the fresh Jersey butter. He intended finishing this grand feed with two bites. Clamping his strong, yellowing teeth into the remaining biscuit half, pain shot through his brain like a bullet. He reached into his mouth and pulled out something almost black and wiped it with his unused napkin. It looks like . . . I know that’s what it is, a Minie ball for a flintlock rifle. Where could that have come from?

Trudy inquired of Ali, Hon, where did you get the flour for these wonderful biscuits? I thought Jude said we were nearly out of flour.

"Wellll, some was in the mixing bowl, some was in the flour bin, and I got some dark millet flour from the pantry in the little Italian flour jar, the one with the rubber seal that keeps the weevils out."

Oh dear God, help us! We have eaten Daddy!

All around the table children resounded in surprise, Grandpa’s Minie ball! Grandpa’s Minie ball!

Wes remembered the many times his father-in-law had forced him to feel of the Minie ball lodged in his neck, so that the old man could re-tell his 1812 war wound story. How many times he had listened to the old man’s tale, every minute detail of how he had received the prized wound while digging in with General Jackson’s Raiders, mowing down English troops