Less Than Humble Beginnings: Growing Roots, #1

By Chelsea Falin

Willie learns she isn't the only one who suffers from less than humble beginnings...


Willie and Babette have long long been shielded from their own culture and heritage by their mother. When circumstances change, the girls are thrown into what they were once shielded from - only to find it is nothing like they once believed.


While Babette adjusts easily, Willie finds herself much more hesitant. While she struggles to find her true self, Willie is forced to learn she is not the only one suffering from "Less Than Humble Beginnings."


"Try to remember everyone here has their demons, but we put those demons to good use. Make ourselves better, stronger, wiser." - Jack

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chelsea Falin
• Release date: Oct 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201766726

Book preview

Foreword

Halito. Ant chukoa.

This book is dedicated to the loving memory of my dearly departed mother, who nurtured me and allowed me to grow up knowing my ancestral roots. Unlike many of those in the United States, my own Native American roots run strong in me. I can give my mother all the credit for this, and I am more than happy to do so.

I would also like to thank my sister-in-law, Cory, for reading over my rough drafts and giving me her opinion, and my sister, Brandi, for doing a 'book and series naming session.'

In addition, I would like to thank my husband, Bobby, for always supporting me in my writing efforts and for watching our daughter when I have a writing spurt. Last but not least, I would like to thank my daughter, Vikki Beth, because she is so very often my ultimate inspiration, as everything I do, I do for her.

On a last note, I would like to thank all of my readers. A huge thank you goes out to all of you who have continually supported me- or who are newly supporting me- in my writing endeavors. Without you, nothing is possible.

A very great vision is needed and the man who has it must follow it as the eagle seeks the deepest blue of the sky.

-Crazy Horse

Chapter One

Until I was fifteen years old, I lived in a little rundown cottage in small-town, east-central Florida with my mother and my younger sister. I didn't know my real father, and I'm not even sure if my mother knew who he was. If she did, she never talked about him or told me anything about him. Nor had I ever kept a 'stepfather' for very long. Sure, my mother brought home random men, and would tell us that we had a new 'father.' But the longest anyone had ever stayed was one year. That man had been abusive, anyway. I was thankful only that, though he had beaten us, he had never tried to touch my sister or myself.

I'd like to say to myself that my mother would have done something about the last, but when she was drinking it was very hard to tell what she would or would not do or care about. Then there was the little fact of her not caring that that particular stepfather had routinely beaten me. She had just kind of overlooked the fact, no matter how often I told her about it.

Despite the men in and out of my mother’s life, it had really always been just us three females for the most part. Since I didn't know who my real father was, we obviously didn't have any contact with his family; we didn't even really have much contact with my mother's family either. In fact, they became less and less a part of our lives as the years wore on, until it was almost as though my distant memories of them had always just been dreams.

You see, my mother's father had died before I was born and her mother had died when I was four. She had a brother, who I was told would always be a perpetual bachelor, and a sister. The last time I had seen either of them was when I was about ten years old. My mother had decided she didn't want anything else to do with them.

See, my mother's father was a full blooded Choctaw. Her mother's mother had been a full blooded Cherokee, and her mother's father from typical European ancestry-Irish in particular. My mother had never liked that she was Native American, and despite being three-quarters, she would deny the fact whenever she found it possible. I'm not sure why, since from what I had learned in school I knew it was an interesting ancestry to have. My uncle and aunt, however, fully embraced their heritage. It's an odd thing to drive a family apart. After all, it isn't something that can be helped. You are either born into a specific heritage or race or you are not. It's as simple as that. But that was my mother for you. No one ever proclaimed her to be a 'reasonable' sort of person.

When I was fifteen, however, things changed drastically. My mother died. That was the point in time when my life got turned upside down and inside out. She had a little too much to drink one night before getting behind the wheel and was hit by an oncoming truck. She was the one in the wrong- barreling down the road in the wrong lane at a speed that was much more than the actual speed limit. The doctors said that she died on impact, and for her sake, I hope that it's true. That's a horrible death for a person to have. In a small way, the whole 'tragedy' was downgraded by the fact that she was being the irresponsible one.

That wasn't all, though. No, an even bigger twist to this turn of events emerged shortly after her death. What did my mother leave in her will? Who did she leave me and my little sister to? None other than her pretty much estranged sister, who I had not seen in a good five years. I never knew why she did that, and at first, I was furious. But at that time, I was furious at the world and everything in it.

Upon my mother's death, I took it upon myself to make sure that my little sister was taken care of. Babette was a good deal younger than I was; at the time of our mother's death she was only nine. The only emotion she felt was sadness, which was completely understandable. Much more understandable, in fact, than my relentless fury. I had always taken care of Babette. It would turn out, however, that I was much more dependent on my little sister than she was on me. In fact, she didn't really need me as much as I needed to feel as though I was needed. It gave me a purpose in life- a drive.

It took one week for all of the initial paperwork to go through. During that one week, Babette and I worked at packing up what we wanted. Everything my mother had owned was left to us- myself, in particular. While it wasn't much, it was still a good bit for two underage girls. We took our personal belongings, a few extras, and I asked the lady temporarily in charge of us to sell everything else. The lady promised that she would do as I had asked, and that she would send the money to me when all of the sales were final. I supposed that included the house, which my mother had also owned, surprisingly. I didn't really trust her and I didn't think that she would actually send me any money. But I didn't really care, either. Then, exactly seven days after everything was pushed into play, they arrived.

Who were they? Well, two men that looked entirely like strangers to me. They basically were strangers. Turns out they were my uncles. The shorter of the two was my mother's brother, my Uncle James. The taller of the two, complete with shoulders so broad I feared they'd block out the sun, was my aunt's second husband. Apparently, five years ago she had remarried after divorcing her first husband, and so I had a new uncle: Uncle John.

Although I knew their intentions were good, I was, of course, intentionally rude. I did not hug my blood uncle, and I did not introduce myself to my new uncle. I huffed, I puffed, and I loaded all of our items up into the vehicles with over-enthusiasm. Boxes banged and crashed when I heaved them into the truck. Well, as I helped to load them up anyways. We were bringing our beds and dressers, and a few other small pieces of furniture. I thought one of the two men were going to complain about it at first, but low and behold, they had come prepared with two small U-haul like storage bins attached to the backs of two decent sized pick-up trucks- one white and one red, both equally beat up in appearance.

When it was time to get in, I learned that Babette and I would each have to ride in one truck. That's all there was room for. At first, I protested, but Babette didn't seem to mind. Her acceptance of the situation was one of the first things that alerted me to the fact that my need of her was greater. She rode with our Uncle James enthusiastically and I was forced to hesitantly climb in next