Inn-By-The-Bye Stories - 9

By William Flewelling

In an endeavor to find a fresh way into the scriptural text upon which I would be preaching, I began to develop an imaginary world populated primarily by wee folk. I found theythe characters I developed and the way that they evolved in my mind and on the pageserved me well as a consideration of how I sensed things happening in the scriptural text at hand. I want to make these stories and the world they represent newly available and so I bring them to book form fifty at a time.

The cover drawing was done by Anne Sullivan, the author's daughter.

The drawing is the artist's conception of Wilbur's view of the bend in the Great River.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524671440

William Flewelling

I am a retired minister from the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) living in central Illinois. Led by a request from Mildred Corwin of Manua OH when I arrived there in 1976, I long developed and led a series of bible studies there and in LaPorte IN and New Martinsville WV. These studies proved to be very feeding to me in my pastoral work and won a certain degree of following in my congregations. My first study was on 1 Peter, chosen because I knew almost nothing about the book. I now live quietly in retirement with my wife of 54 years, a pair of dogs and several cats.

Book preview

© 2017 William Flewelling. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/08/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7145-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-7144-0 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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.

Contents

Foreword

CDI

CDII

CDIII

CDIV

CDV

CDVI

CDVII

CDVIII

CDIX

CDX

CDXI

CDXII

CDXIII

CDXIV

CDXV

CDXVI

CDXVII

CDXVIII

CDXIX

CDXX

CDXXI

CDXXII

CDXXIII

CDXXIV

CDXXV

CDXXVI

CDXXVII

CDXXVIII

CDXXIX

CDXXX

CDXXXI

CDXXXII

CDXXXIII

CDXXXIV

CDXXXV

CDXXXVI

CDXXXVII

CDXXXVIII

CDXXXIX

CDXL

CDXLI

CDXLII

CDXLIII

CDXLIV

CDXLV

CDXLVI

CDXLVII

CDXLVIII

CDXLIX

CDL

Appendix: Texts For The Stories

About the Author

Also By This Author

Poetry

Time Grown Lively

From My Corner Seat

Enticing My Delight

The Arthur Poems

From Recurrent Yesterdays

In Silhouette

To Silent Disappearance

Teasing The Soul

Allowing The Heart To Contemplate

As Lace Along The Wood

To Trace Familiarity

The Matt Poems

Elaborating Life

The Buoyancy Of Unsuspected Joy

To Haunt The Clever Sheer Of Grace

The Christmas Poems

Life Is Employed

Devotional

Some Reflective Prayers

Reflective Prayers: A Second Collection

A Third Collection Of Reflective Prayers

For Your Quiet Meditation

A Fourth Collection Of Reflective Prayers

Cantica Sacra

Directions Of A Pastoral Lifetime

Part I: Pastoral Notes, Letters To Anna, Occasional Pamphlets

Part II: Psalm Meditations, Regula Vitae

Part III: Elders’ Studies

Part IV: Studies

Part V: The Song Of Songs: An Attraction

Inn-by-the-Bye Stories

vols. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

Exegetical Works

From The Catholic Epistles: Bible Studies

Paul’s Letter To The Romans: A Bible Study

The Book Of Hebrews: A Bible Study

all published by AuthorHouse.com

Foreword

In the course of these fifty stories, I moved from LaPorte, IN to Ottumwa, IA. 18 March 1990 was my last Sunday in LaPorte; 1 April 1990, I preached for the first time at Davis Street Christian Church in Ottumwa. I had come to recognize by that time that the weather on the day I sat down to write my story – that was always on a Monday morning, aiming toward the next Sunday – influenced the setting of the story. I had begun the writing of the stories in my tenure in LaPorte and now, for the first time, transferred that involvement to another place and another set of people. Overall, I believe the continuity surpasses the discontinuity; nonetheless, I have to recognize that the stories always had involved me, and so did my setting in life involve me.

I don’t want to overstate that translation in place, for there are always a variety of things going on in the life of a pastor – story teller that also impinge on the setting from which the story arises. I had consciously seen the stories as arising from my encounter with the text behind the impending sermon. I came to realize more and more that the rising of the stories came not only out of the text but through me, my existential place in life and my engagement with the text.

I came to the metaphor of a train crash as the genesis of sermonic activity. The text steamed ahead full speed; but it came to meet the life of the congregation as it set in the community and in its own odd nuance of situations. The collision is ever modulated by its occurrence in the life and person of the preacher, in this case also the story teller. I have no idea how that could be sifted out in these stories; I am not even sure that it would help to do so. Nonetheless, it seems to me that knowing those odd and undercurrent features provides a bit of looseness in the reading, in the discovery of the characters of the land of Hyperbia.

I hope you enjoy your reading.

William Flewelling

CDI

Eliza pried herself from her chair; she clung to everything for everything was hot and damp this day. Eliza dripped as the puddled sweat ran freely down her body. And she frowned in utter disdain over such an oppressive day. Even breathing – she sighed and choked it off mid-sigh – was labored in the stifling air. She did not want to move around very much. Nor did she want to sit, nor lie, nor sleep, nor be awake. Not one idea attracted her mind; she felt saturated with heat, like some steamy, water-logged lump. She felt as if she sloshed as she waddled, trying not let her body come into contact with itself.

Looking at her windows, she found them open. Her door hung wide open. Her whole house, as much as it could, gaped open to any movement in the air. But all the trees hung limp leaves, still and silent as mid-day approached. Once more, Eliza half-sighed upon the impossible air. Each movement made her drip the more. The only sort of compensation lay in the feeling of air moving as she moved through it. She’d move, and sweat; but nothing evaporated easily, and she felt merely more miserable. Worse yet, she had become hotter and closer as the day had progressed.

A tapping at her door diverted her heavy feeling slightly. She lumbered toward the door until she came into sight, then shifted into a more graceful mode – as if this hot, sweltering weather did not affect her at all! At the door stood John, a drip of sweat dangling from his nose, poised over the smile on his face. ‘Some of us wanted to go for a picnic. Would you like to come along?’ ‘Where?’ Maybe on the Commons, or out by the Sea Road, along the Beach. Someone mentioned going clear out by the Great River at the end of the Plain’. Eliza momentarily forgot the heat: ‘Any of those sounds good to me! Sure: count me in’. ‘Can you be ready in five minutes?’ Her eyes grew big; she gulped: ‘What do I need?’ ‘Yourself! We’ll stop at the Inn-by-the-Bye for some food to take’. ‘Then I’m ready, I guess!’

The pair left, Eliza pulling her door closed behind her. They moved swiftly down the Way Down, Eliza almost jogging to keep up with John. The rushing air rumpled her hair, making it bounce and flow. Warm, moist air moved around her. She sweat, but so did John – and he did not seem to be complaining too much. She began to pant in the thick air; her breathing found the medium not very cooperative. And so she coughed a bit, and felt like she might be wheezing slightly. But none of that would get in her way now. John’s long strides made her hurry. By the time they reached the Rock at the end of the Way Down, and the path at the edge of the Fields, she was drenched, and panting for breath, her head swimming and her stomach unsettled.

John did not pause, but turned to go toward the Commons. Eliza skipped after him, too out of breath to call for him to slow down. She stayed close to the Hills-side of the path, for there she was still in the last remnant of shade. The other side of the path was already being baked by an insolent Sun. But she was not one to keep in a straight line; she wavered into the Sun and found her enthusiasm dulled. She wavered back into the shade and found it all a slight relief. John seemed to pull ahead. He was at the ‘Y’ already. She stumbled onward, hating the heat and the dizziness in her head. At the Big Rock, he stopped with others. Eliza came onward to join them, taking a rest in the shade of that big rock.

Sighing, or half-sighing, she panted freely, leaning against the hard surface; it felt a little cooler to her body. The slightest smile whimpered over her face at that refreshment. But she was soaked in sweat. Her hair clung in strings to her face and head. Her dress clung to her body, wet and sticky. Her face was pale and beaded with sweat where rivers had not yet run. Her eyes took on a glassy look. Her arms hung limply at her side. Locked knees and the Big Rock alone kept her from sliding to the ground.

The group involved was there: Carymba, Effie, John, Jasper, Mary, Guerric and Mahara, Eliza. The chatter swarmed in twisted forms, concerned with the choice of Beach or Commons or River. Eliza was quiet. At last, her foot slid slowly and she slumped to the ground, crumpled. Then they all noticed her. John said: ‘The heat must have gotten to her; I didn’t realize it’. ‘Let’s take her to the Inn; inside always seems a little cooler, in the dimness’. ‘Not likely today! But they do have some cool water. We can lie her down more comfortably there’. ‘Much better than my Flower Shop: the humidity inside is worse than here!’ ‘We can talk all day! But who will carry her?’ ‘I can’ said John. And he did; he lifted her into his arms and led the parade across the Commons to the Inn-by-the-Bye.

Inside the door of the Inn-by-the-Bye, John found Clyde’s table. That was the longer one, set in front of the hearth. It was long enough to lay Eliza out flat. Missus Carney looked to her with tender eyes. ‘That Sun is so hot! Go! Get a cloth and bowl of warmish water … not too cool’. She stood, tottering slightly, and slowly patted Eliza’s head, feeling the heat and the uncooling sweat on her palm. John had bolted to the swinging door at her soft command, knowing in the voice a certain uncompromising quality

Inside the swinging door, John felt very much out of place. He had never been in a kitchen like this one before. His oven was in the Foundry, and melted iron instead of baking meals. He stuttered; Marthuida looked up at him. ‘Can I help you?’ ‘Uh … she said … warmish water, a bowl, a cloth … uh, please. …’. ‘She?’ ‘The lady … uh …’. ‘Missus Carney?’ ‘… yeah …’ ‘Here: I’ll get you a bowl of water, and a cloth. … There: will that do?’ ‘Yes. … Thank you’. And John backed his way respectfully out of the kitchen.

Eliza was pale and damp. The other would-be picnickers sat around the room at other tables, giving Missus Carney plenty of room. Her old hands moved so softly, so gently. She seemed to know what she was doing, looking at Eliza’s still face and measuring her pulse and shallow but regular breathing. John came up, solemnly, holding the bowl cupped in both hands, the cloth over one arm. Geoffrey, sitting in his corner attentively, noticed the almost proper style for a gentleman’s gentleman out of ‘uniform’. But what was lacking in form or technique, John made up, and more, in care and concern. Missus Carney called him near, took the cloth, stuck it all in the water, holding it in her hands. She nodded: ‘good temperature’ was the only comment. And then she began to wipe the cloth across Eliza’s face, giving a cooling freshness. She wrung it out, re-dipped it and lay it on her forehead, cooling her.

As Eliza refreshed and awoke, weak and trembly, Missus Carney sent Geoffrey for some cool water, for Eliza to drink.

Thyruid offered an indoor picnic. Nodding heads showed around the room. Even Eliza agreed.

16 July 1989

CDII

Yves squirmed about his bed. He was just waking up and wanted to stretch himself, but couldn’t quite reach as far as his body wanted to go. So he pedaled himself around, twisting himself, contorting his frame and yawning voraciously. In the process, he wrapped himself in the sheets, pulling them entirely free of his bed in order to ensnare himself. In the end, he stopped, and pondered how to unfold himself from his predicament; the answer was, as always, hardly self-evident.

Becoming impatient, Yves found the urge to call for help. ‘Betsy could come, if she would’, thought Yves while confused by the odd patternings of the cover about his body. ‘I’ll bet she could find the corner easily and spin me free from all this baggage’. Yves, stopped now and feeling rather trapped, began to picture in his mind Betsy coming into his room and seeing him so entwined. A good sister, he was sure, would hasten to his aid, full of concern for her poor brother. With that image in his mind’s eye, he almost called – but first there came to him another image. There came Betsy, responding curiously to his impassioned call. Standing in the doorway, she looked at him and began to chuckle. Chuckles escalated to laughter and thence to wild, uncontained guffaws. Tears streamed down her face as laughter overwhelmed her. She held her sides, she laughed so hard. Yves’ eyes grew sullen at this image. He ground his teeth together and tried to counter-squirm his way out of the sheets; the net result amounted to being more snugly enwrapped than before.

Panting, aggravated and frustrated, Yves lay on his disheveled bed. He was not sure what to do. He could count on Betsy being unkind; at the very best she would laugh and then tease him until he clobbered her. Even that was, in his mind, intolerable. But he was not having much luck figuring his own way out of this mess. For now, he decided, he would wait and try to reason some procedure through and free himself at last. The first step, he felt, would be to calm his frustration and relax his aggravation so as to free his creative thinking. With a smirk and a nod, Yves settled himself to relax … albeit a little uncomfortably and restrained.

For her part, Betsy had slept in. Only now, while her brother sought to rest himself free from his frustration before figuring some way to wrest himself free from his tangled sheets, was she awake. The air smelled fresh and crisp at her window. She sniffed it, inhaled it deeply, smiled and sighed. Morning seemed so delightful to her that she simply laid in her bed, enjoying the diffuse light, the delicacy of the muted shades on this side of the Big Dome … and the cool fresh quiet of it all. The whole world was hushed for her pleasure. Only after spending a while in this pleasant reverie of the morning did Betsy begin to wonder why the Dome was so quiet; usually Yves would be up, and he was hardly ever quiet. ‘By now he should be clamoring to go to breakfast, threatening to go by himself, leaving me to eat later, alone’. Curiosity began to stir her. She frowned in thought, puzzling over her unpredictable brother. At last, she slid from bed and dressed, for the questions in her head turned her away from the leisured pleasure of the morning.

Yves, quiet now, thought he heard Betsy stirring at last. As he was getting to be hungry, he felt she should be stirring, wondering about him. ‘Now;, he thought, ‘how do I handle this? … I know: I’ll be quiet. She’ll think I left already. Then she’ll go to the Inn-by-the-Bye, and I can wrestle myself free without worrying about her’.

Betsy, dressed and out, looked through the center hall. She went to the door and looked outside. Nowhere was Yves to be seen, nor heart. ‘If this were Winter … but no, I’d see his tracks in the snow. Hmm. … Could he still be asleep? I’ll listen at his door’. There, she heard nothing. She tapped on his door. The rattle echoed, then died away into silence. Yves did not respond, as he had planned. Betsy listened and tapped again. Yves again did not respond, even holding his breath to be particularly quiet just then. Betsy shrugged and mumbled under her breath that she might as well go to breakfast; Yves apparently had gone on before her.

The door opened, closed. The footsteps went down the stairs and then were hushed upon the beaten earth path up the hills. Yves was alone in the Big Dome. He sighed and began to squirm and counter-squirm again, seeking some way to escape the entanglements of this morning’s foolishness. ‘I’ll never do this again!’ he sputtered out loud. He struggled more; and the more the struggled, the worse he felt, for the snugger it all became about him. Yves felt anxious before, but was more anxious now, for his well-plotted plan to free himself without Betsy discovering his plight was turning into an utter failure. Worse yet, he was trapped and growing ever hungrier in his loneliness. Of all the people, only Betsy was big enough to help him; the wee fold could only cheer him on, or tell him what to pull where he could not reach!

Betsy had gone to the Inn-by-the-Bye, to the big door in the back. Kneeling down, with no sign of Yves, she called at the door and wondered if Yves had been to breakfast already. Marthuida answered: ‘No. I’ve wondered what slowed you this morning’. ‘I slept in. But when I awoke, I heard nothing of Yves. … Maybe I had better go check his room … even if he always gets mad at me when I look into his room’. ‘Maybe you should. Would you like someone to go with you? … Clyde, perhaps?’ ‘That would be nice’. ‘I’ll get him; wait a minute’. ‘Ok’.

Shortly, Clyde strode through the kitchen and out the big back door. ‘Yves is missing?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know. I was going to check his room. Would you come, too?’ ‘Sure: let’s go’. ‘How about a ride?’ offered Betsy. ‘In the pocket?’ ‘Good enough for me’. ‘And for me: I’ll go’. Picking him up, Betsy slid him feet first into her shirt pocket. Clyde held onto the edge and kept his head and shoulders over the top while Betsy ambled pensively down from the Inn-by-the-Bye to the Big Dome again.

Yves, mildly desperate by now, heard the footsteps on the stairs. He knew they belonged to Betsy. She must have found he had not been up for breakfast yet, gotten even more curious, and returned. He felt resigned to being found all bound up in his sheet. Would she laugh, or what? He did not know. By now, he barely cared. He’d worry about her laughter later, after he was free. Footsteps down the hall came to his door, just as he expected. She tapped; he sighed. ‘Yes’. ‘May I come in?’ ‘I suppose you will have to do that’. The door opened. Yves looked up