Lights Out in the Valley

By Norma Krieger Kueppers

About the Book
Norma Krieger Kueppers’ paternal grandmother Laura was thirty years old and married with a family when the Spanish flu swept through the valley, creating losses of families and friends in the Marked Tree, Arkansas, area. It was later exposed as a worldwide pandemic, reaching every continent. Laura perished from the outbreak in 1919.
James Weeks, Kueppers’ father, was the historian of the Weeks family. Laura was his mother. He was eight years old when she passed. He was too young to remember much regarding his mother. However, the family kept her memory alive by sharing stories about her.
Intrigued by this family history, Kueppers has brought Laura to life, and created a place for her if she had lived. A collection of her father’s memories regarding Laura sparked the spirit within and allows the readers to take this journey with her.
In the book, Angela is portrayed as Laura. Enjoy the awakening as you read each chapter.

About the Author
Norma Krieger Kueppers was born Norma Dean Weeks in Marked Tree, Arkansas, in 1941. Her family then moved to Michigan in 1942. At every opportunity growing up, Kueppers found herself taking writing classes wherever they were offered. She attended Lansing Community College, enrolling in Creating Writing and Watercolor courses. Her poem “My Backyard” was published in Lansing Community College’s twenty-fifth anniversary publication.
Kueppers recently became a widow after forty-two years of marriage. She has three grown children and is a grandmother and great-grandmother. In her spare time, she enjoys attending her writing class at the local library.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RoseDog Books
• Release date: Mar 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887297972

Book preview

Chapter One

My life felt like a fairytale as I was growing up, until I turned 16. I am Angela Cromwell. I am 15 and a half years old, and this is where my story begins.

This year feels like the coldest winter ever that I can remember. The dark shadows are lingering far too long as if something is about to go wrong.

The worst cold snap. I love it when the townspeople of Maplewood Missouri say things like this. Maplewood is my home.

During the winter months when darkness fills the spaces in my room, I cozy up in a quilt, write in my journal about friends and our secrets. This is my last year in high school and some of us will go on to college and others are undecided.

I could join the family downstairs by the fire in the parlor, but we would end up in a discussion about the domestication of the Cromwell daughters as mama hen hovers over her chicks. She would no doubt begin:

Angela Dean, what do you write in your journal that is so important? she would say to me with a hint of her French accent.

I just say that I write about whatever is in my head.

With a smile I twirl around like a fancy dancer and change the subject to whatever might interest mama; like what projects the Ladies Circles are involved in. She perks up with interest and explains all the goings on. I love to listen as her excitement grows, and because she’s from France, she spices her words up in a French sort of way.

We live in a three-story pale-yellow house just above the Grand River, that flows through Maplewood, Missouri. The yard is filled with places to explore for me and my two sisters in the spring and summer. We love to climb the tall maple trees that call to us. We climb up and sit on the branches, dangle our legs and make dandelion chains. Lilacs bloom just outside the kitchen window while the lilies of the valley cover the slopes. Breezes carry the floral sweetness of musty woods through our open windows in the twilight.

My daddy is the President of the Bank of Missouri. I love to visit him at his office. I can tell he enjoys talking with townsfolk. He makes wide gestures with his hands as he stands eye to eye with whoever has his attention and is well into the conversation. Because he was born and raised in Maplewood, he knows most everyone and knows a lot about their family history.

Mr. Cromwell, its wonderful how you’ve turned the banking business into a trustworthy venture. It’s not at all like it used to be. We feel safe again with our hard-earned savings being secure and appreciate your honesty.

Why, thank you, Mrs. Perkins. That’s down- right thoughtful of you to say. If there is anything you need, don’t you hesitate to come right in, and we’ll see what we can do.

Daddy’s warm smile broadens as he speaks. His hair, the color of black licorice, glistens in sun drenched windows. A gold watch and chain tucked in a small pocket matches his gold rimmed spectacles.

Mama shops wisely for the business suits he wears each day.   She has commented on how tall he stands as he towers over other gentlemen. Each day as he leaves the office, he tips his hat and bids a good afternoon to all.

One day when daddy was at work and I was there close to him, he began to tease me about my freckles. He said it looked like mud splattered across my nose. He even named a few. He said why there is Dottie, Celesta and Frieda. I could feel my face grow warm.

Phoebe, my mama, is the entertainer of the family. She was born in Paris France and prefers Persian silk dresses. In warmer months, she prefers soft pastel cotton frocks with ruffles hugging the bottom, they sway back and forth as she strolls through the garden. I think she is beautiful, small and graceful. She is a spitfire underneath all that fluff. Her cinnamon-red curls are wrapped in a hair rat to hold her hair in a roll, adorned with a rhinestone comb. I’m sure it’s her smile and charm that lends her whatever it is she wants.

The story of mama coming to America from France when she was 12 years old.

Mama. tells the story of how she came to America across the ocean on a large ship. Upon arrival, she disembarked in New York City and was whisked off in a rather smart carriage to live at the Boatwright estate.

The Boatwright’s were close friends of my grandparents, the Figueroa’s. Both grandma and grandpa Figueroa were born and raised in France. Gerald and Maudlin Boatwright were on a holiday in Paris from New York. They leased a flat in Paris above one of the town squares. It was springtime and joyful.

The story goes, the best that mama can remember. Mama said she was staying at the family estate with her nanny. Her parents the Figueroa’s were invited to join the Boatwrights at a small dinner party with friends. A fight broke out on the street below the balcony. Mrs. Boatwright carefully slid the lace curtains aside looking through the window to see what was happening.

Later mama was told that it was a dark rainy night. It was difficult to see through the rain drenched streets because of the glare of the gas lights. The rebels’ protests were getting louder and louder as they moved to the square. Amidst the noise shots were heard. Mrs. Boatwright and her husband told their guests to quickly lie on the floor and stay quiet. When it was safe to go outside and investigate, they found out that local by-standers had been killed in the rage; my grandparents, as they approached the Boatwright’s building, tried to run across the street and was caught in the crossfire, as told by the constable. The Figueroa’s (mama’s parents) were found huddled together and pronounced dead from gunshot wounds in a cradle of blood below the flat.

When the Boatwright’s found out my grandparents had been killed, and as soon as it was safe, they got in their buggy and rushed to my mama and her nanny. Mama was only 12, at the time. Her nanny held her tight when she was told of her parents’ fate. Mama says she was numb and didn’t know what to say. She said it took years to talk about it or even express her how she felt to anyone.

After my grandparents were laid to rest, the solicitor collected and reviewed papers from the estate. Mama was the only survivor of the Figueroa Family; The Boatwrights were named in the custody part of the documents and applied to the courts to become her administrator as mama knew them well. They were awarded guardianship until she turned 18. Mama was granted passage to America as ward of the Boatwright’s.

I like it when mama tells how she and daddy met. Daddy just happened to be a visitor in New York and at the same restaurant where mama was celebrating her 18th birthday. The Boatwright’s were having a special dinner for her when daddy walked past their table and no doubt in a playful mood, tapped her right shoulder and then stood over the left shoulder trying to get a giggle. Mama looked one way and then the other spilling her drink in the process. Daddy helped clean up the spill and their eyes met. Mama says she had found her destiny.

They became an item and managed a courtship between Missouri and New York. Daddy traveled by train back and forth, plus finished his college studies.

Mama continued to live in New York and work for a decorating company. Their long-awaited marriage took place in Missouri the summer mama turned, 22. They settled in Maplewood where daddy was the bank manager after receiving his degree from the university. They built our home in the hopes of raising a family.

Mama says that her three girls can be a pain in the head. She means a headache. On occasion her translation from French to English is a little off. She’s strict when it comes to our studies. She encourages us to enjoy good music and learn domestic skills. I am the oldest, Emma in the middle and Lilli, the baby of the family. Mamma is determined to teach us to be polite young ladies with a good head on our shoulders.

Mama and I don’t see eye to eye very often. I’m not sure why. It seems unfair when my sisters act one way, and she thinks they’re cute, but if I do something awkward, she has that look of disapproval. She expects me to set the example for my sisters. I have fallen from her grace too often. Or that’s what she tells me. I just sigh and tell her I’ll try harder.

One afternoon my two sisters were chasing me through the woods.

Hide-and-go-seek is one of our favorite games, my skirt snagged a sharp branch. I kept on moving but my skirt stayed steadfast on the branch, I was left in my petticoat and a laugh came out as my two sisters were in fast pursuit. It was a great time.

Wait Angela, come back here. Emma called out of breath as she carried my skirt and tripped along the way. Her large bow flew out of her hair like a kite.

Little did we know that mama had observed our shenanigans from the stoop on the side porch? I glanced over and saw her dainty hands on her hips as she ordered the three of us to the house. Of course, we heard the words:

Now, girls, what would people think of such a scene as this?

Mama’s cinnamon-red curls seemed to grow brighter the more intense her words. She went on about how young ladies don’t carry on in such a way.

Then she said, Piano is a good activity. Practice is good, no? There is needle point. If you need help, I’m here for you.

I blurted out about what a beautiful day it is, and the sun is good for you. I turned and motioned with my arms that there was no one around.

I don’t see anyone. Do you? I said.

I was sent to my room to think about what just happened.

Emma the middle sister takes after the Cromwell side of the family in looks only. Her chocolate brown hair is smoothed back with a ribbon. There’s a look of mystery on her soft white face as she explains her way through some new discovery. She can organize better than an ant colony; she’s right up there with mama. Emma embroiders, knits and crochets. A proud moment was when she presented her needle work to the Women’s Circle last year. She won the junior award.

I have seen her sidestep when it comes to mama’s demands. She thinks deep about situations. She has more patience than I do.

Lilli, the baby of the family, is pure joy. I think she is powered by sunshine. Lilli’s strawberry blonde ringlets bounce as she walks; her grey blue eyes sparkle with delight, she can tell a good story, filling in all the details.

One day as I leaned against the open door of the music room, I saw Lilli at the piano practicing what sounded like Beethoven’s Sonata. She was distracted as she looked out of the curved window. She continued to play every note. Lilli leaned way over on the slippery bench, rose to get a closer look, still perfect pitch. When she finished the piece, she rushed to the window with me right behind her and there in a blue spruce was a robin chirping his own song. We giggled as I tagged Lilli to play our game gotcha last. I tried to run out of her reach before she returned the tag gotcha last.

If I played ‘Hot Cross Buns’ on the piano, it would demand all of my attention let alone a chance to peer out of the window.

Lilli is least affected by mama’s ways and is more interested in what’s going on right outside our door than to figure out what’s next.

Her explanation at the end of most conversations is, she does not want to miss a single moment of what’s around her. At supper late one afternoon she told the story of the robin’s song; how beautiful it blended with the piano as if the robin himself had written the sonata.

With all the ingredients that make up a family, I feel the closeness we share is one in its own.

And as far as friends, I have incredible ones. We attend the same school; they are just like family.

And, oh yes, so is my kitty, Oliver. During an ice storm this year, I was cozied up in my room writing in my journal about friend stuff. There was a crusty frost on the windowpane forming ice prisms. Using the edge of a wooden ruler, I scrapped the window causing the ice slivers of frozen curls to fall to the floor. Oliver touched the cold morsels with his paw and a tiny pink tongue licked at them. He shook his head but still could not resist the temptation of touch. The white ball of fluff began to knead at my skirt, the next thing you know he’s in my arms.

Oliver, look outside our breath clouded the cold window.

Can you imagine sledding down the hill with diamonds of sleet stinging your little furry face? I nestle him close; he squirms and meows. We stare at frigid twisted icicles that dripped from the high roof. He paws at the sun glazed window.

Seriously, do you really think you might capture those droplets? Oliver and I cuddle on the bed.

I open my journal and write about friends.

Best friends Hazel and Agnes shared with me that they share a certain interest in Tucker Baser. We’ve all been good friends forever it seems. Mr. Tucker tall- and- lanky sits in the back of the classroom. He fits his desk like a horse on a stump. Not all that cute, but I think there’s hope. Tucker’s wit contributes to his attitude, a temperament wild as citron. This triangle, Hazel, Agnes and Tucker could turn like sticky molasses on a hot day. I did hear black strap molasses cures most ailments. We’ll have to see what it does for this situation.

Now my preference would be a boy a bit more mature. Must have a good sense of humor. Tall is good. He must prove he is worthy of me. I need to feel secure in his strong arms as he hoists me up on his horse. We would ride off together and explore the hillsides. And in time I might tell him what is in my heart.

I Slip my journal under the bed, place another log in the fireplace to revive the golden/red embers. The sudden drop of the log creates sparks of gold rain to warm the room.

A knock at the door startles me back to the moment. I look and mama is already in the door.

What happened to waiting for me to say entrée? I said as I wipe the smudges from my fingers on a soiled cloth.

She smiles and joins me on my bed at the opposite end. We get comfortable as I place my foot up against hers and tease about her little French feet. Oliver perks up like he may enter the game at any moment.

Why are you up here all by yourself? Wouldn’t you like someone to talk to? You know, it’s been a while since we’ve had a heart-to-heart talk. Mama speaks.

My foot still cuddled to her foot as I tap each toe.

Privacy is nice. I am a little older now, you know. I replied.

Mama gazes around, shrugs her shoulders, and says, I will knock next time, if you promise to let us know you are still here. We smile at mama trying to make a joke.

She starts talking about proper