Eleanor's Creek

By Michael Frost

Sinister roots run deep in the sleepy town of Cordale, nestled in the rural farmlands of Central Illinois. They ran so deep journalist and newcomer Kenneth Holden could not see the depths they descended.

When he investigates the events of the May Day Revival in 1968, he opens old wounds that have been festering for over fifty years. It was

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belen Books, LLC
• Release date: Jan 16, 2024
• ISBN: 9781959715351

Michael Frost

Michael Frost is an American author, engineer, math and science nut, who lives with his wife and a growing collection of green things thriving in his house (apparently, their acquired tomato plant is asking for food now; however, do not turn your back on it).A published author with over 32 years of writing experience under his keyboard spanning a multitude of genres, Mr. Frost has landed with Belen Books Publishing to release his horror novel, Sowing Seeds. Having published his first short story at the age of 17, Mr. Frost has gone on to write more than 200 short stories, 40 novellas and 12 completed novels, and now he shares them with you.To quote Mr. Frost: "I wouldn't look under the bed if I were you."

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Copyright © 2023 by Michael Frost

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

For permission, contact Belen Books, LLC.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, especially the haunting ones around creeks and waterways, or actual events or places is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-959715-33-7

Published by Belen Books, LLC

St. Petersburg, FL | Winter Park, FL | Chicago, IL USA

Belenbookspublishing.com

Edited by Lisa Khelawan and Beverly R. Waalewyn

Cover by Belen Media Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Created and Compiled in the United States of America

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For Lisa

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"So I run to the river,

It was bleedin’, I run to the sea.

It was bleedin,’ I run to the sea,

It was bleedin’… all on that day.

"So I run to the river,

It was boilin,’ I run to the sea,

It was boilin,’ I run to the sea,

It was boilin’ … all on that day…

"…So I run to the Devil,

He was waitin’, I ran to the Devil,

He was waitin’, I ran to the Devil,

He was waitin’… all on that day."

—Sinnerman

Nina Simone

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This Story began April 3rd, 2010, and ended November 4th, 2023

You have my heart.

CHAPTER ONE

-1-

Louis Graham was as about as old as they came in the neighborhood, nearing seventy-two and as energetic as a teen boy who had gotten his first feel of a woman’s tit. His skin and hair showed his age even at a far-off distance.

Whether it was the crag-like deep edges of his brown wrinkled skin, or the cottontail brilliance of his round ‘natural’ hair style which gave the facts straight off, you knew he was an old man, but his eyes told of something completely different. They were not the eyes of an elderly man as one might expect—clouded gray from years of hard work and pushing beyond Life’s struggles—and although they were aged eyes, they were bright and clear with a sparkle one can see early on summer mornings when looking out on a placid lake: reflective, wide, and deep, and when he spoke, you couldn’t help but get lost in them.

Often when I was stuck in the mud of my own thoughts, I would take a trip up the hill to pay him a visit, usually toting a brown paper bag with something my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Ruby Carmichael, would send along with me. She had a thing for him she did, lighting up in the face the moment she found out that I was paying him a visit. Ruby was getting up in the years too at a ripe seventy-seven, and the only thing that hampered her from making her own personal visits was a bad ankle, which never seemed to heal right after a fall some years ago.

You know I want to, she would apologize to me as she tied a small red ribbon around the twine strings handles of the paper bag which held the gift. He’s a fine, fine man, and he could talk the feathers off of a blue jay, but this ankle and that hill of his are not good friends.

No, I understand, it’s no trouble, I would smile and nod as she fussed around with the ribbon to make it look just right.

Times like those I often wanted to giggle because she was cute in her actions and affection which I knew was returned by Louis in his own way. Whether it was rhubarb jam, stewed tomatoes with okra, jellied zucchini, or his favorite, pickled garlic and onions, these gifts said clearly ‘You are being thought of’ and ‘come sit for a spell’ all at the same time.

In many ways I envied both of them.

As I neared his home in the center of the steep hill on Garnett Street, I took the diagonal stone path which cut through the front yard and was met by his waving hand from the porch. I returned it with a smile as I shifted the string-handled bag to the other hand. Mrs. Carmichael had out done herself that day, having placed two heavy Ball jars full of pleasantries into the double paper bag and the twine had found the perfect place in my palms to take roost and give discomfort.

Louis was sitting on his high-back rocker swing in the porch’s corner facing out towards the street, tossing eggshells over the banister to nourish his petunias which grew healthy and beautifully in front of his cottage-style house. He was waiting patiently where he said he would be since a quiet day a week before when he agreed to talk to me about the creek—Eleanor’s Creek—which snaked the edge of town like a silent monster in hidden lairs most deep.

That was not the first time that I had asked him about it, no. This was a subject I seemed to bring up every time I visited, and eventually, last week, he agreed.

You know, Kenneth, you have to be the most persistent fella I have ever met, he said that late afternoon with a chuckle which sounded genuine, but his eyes held an edge of caution, even a little fear. Louis was an early-to-bed, early-to-riser sort, and it was getting late for him. No matter how I dodge it, you always find another angle to attack. My old Gunny would have loved you.

Well, I don’t think you’d respect me if I wasn’t, I smiled to him with a nod.

He had told me often how his old Gunny would have loved me because we apparently had the same ability to say something simple that explained a world of details. The only difference was now the word ‘nigger’ didn’t flow from people’s lips as readily in open conversations as it did back then. Also, I had never served a day in the military; the fractured leg I had gotten in my senior year of high school took care of that.

No, I don’t think I would respect you the same way as I do, he nodded, and as I watched his face darken before me as the shadow of the past fell over him, he calmly licked his lips and fell silent.

We sat on his porch in silence for several minutes; listening to the breezes move through the trees and watching the occasional car take great care as it rolled down the steep hill in front of his house. It wasn’t quite one of those ‘calms before the storm’, but there was something brewing on the horizon just as ominous.

You know, there’s a reason no one fishes that stream anymore, or picnic by it, and the little children don’t even swim it no more. Of course, you know. You’ve heard the rumors plenty I am guessing, or you wouldn’t be asking about it so much.

Well, I have heard the rumors, I attempted to smile but he wasn’t looking at me to see it; his eyes were off in the distance where you could see the big ‘S’ bend of Eleanor’s Creek shimmering in the setting April sun. And rumors of more rumors, but I am just looking for the facts. Now that I took up homestead here, I guess I want to know the things my realtor should have told me before I bought. Something to help me sleep better at night is all.

Louis slowly turned to look at me with such a dire, stern look that I almost cowered.

I give you the answers to what you keep asking, Kenneth, a better sleep is the last thing you are ever gonna get.

That was one week before I traversed the distance and scaled up that steep hill, carrying the heavy brown paper bag from Mrs. Carmichael with the twine-looped handles and the little ribbon connecting them. I was heading for the answers to my questions of which I only knew I would get genuine ones from him.

*

I see Ruby has sent along something with ya for me? Louis nodded towards the bag as he added a dash of salt to the dome of a boiled egg and then bit the thing in two.

Oh, every time, Louis, I chuckled as I placed the bag on the small table which had two Ball jars full of ice water with a slice of lemon in each, a clean ashtray, and a bowl with a baker’s dozen of boiled eggs with steam still rising off of them. I took my usual seat in the wooden rocker chair which had a comfortable pillow placed in the center and I stretched my legs out a bit so the blood could cool in them.

Oh, well let’s see what Ruby has sent up the hill today, he smiled, brushing his hands off and carefully leaned forward and took up the parcel. Whoa! Heavier than the usual.

She said there was something extra special this time, I remembered, digging out my pack of cigarettes from my jacket pocket and sat them down next to the ashtray. I didn’t peek this time to figure out what I was hauling.

Such a dear woman, he beamed as he meticulously undid the ribbon, his brilliant set of teeth glowing as brightly as his eyes. Have yourself a boiled egg while I get this situated.

Not today, Louis, I smiled and took a long sip from the frosty jar and let out an uncontrolled sigh when it hit my stomach.

Although only early May, the mornings as of late have been rather warm and that hill was no joke. As I lit up a smoke and exhaled, it did cross my mind that if I gave those sticks up maybe the hill wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Doc’s been on my butt about reducing my cholesterol.

Aren’t you a bit young for all that? Louis asked, narrowing his eyes at me with an expression as if I was hiding something from him.

Maybe, but his concern is about those headaches I have been having, so I suppose he’s checking all the angles.

Well, makes sense, he nodded leaning back with the bag to his side. Those cigarettes don’t help much, though. You tell him I told you that a good, boiled egg doesn’t hurt anybody. They’re good for ya.

I will, I nodded without any real intent on relaying the message and had to turn to smile off the porch as his advice came at a moment when I was looking at that pile of boiled eggs.

A pile which he had every intention of eating that morning (like he did every morning).

Oh! Would you look at what she sent up! he said with an air to his excited tone as he drew forth a jar full of pickled garlic cloves, big ones, and sliced red onions.

Louis made an ‘Mm-hmm’ sound and gave his head a quick confirming nod of approval.

Now isn’t she a light?

She is wonderful, I agreed, having a half-eaten jaw of the same concoction in my own fridge down the hill.

What else did she pack in here? he added after setting the one jar down and returned his attention to the contents of the bag and then suddenly released a sound of surprise. She didn’t!

Slowly Louis drew out a much taller jar of maroon preserves with chunks of things inside. Around the waxed sealed metal top was a pretty ribbon attached to a handwritten note of what was jellied inside. Laughing with an added gentle stamp of a foot, Louis beamed with glistening eyes where I thought tears of happiness just might flow. He was, after all, a very passionate man.

Oh, my Missus Carmichael! he sighed loudly with a hand over his heart and the other holding the jar before him as his head shook slowly back and forth with disbelief. You have surely outdone yourself this time.

She sent you some preserves? I inquired and almost felt guilty intruding on his bliss.

Oh, this is no ordinary jam or preserves, Kenneth, he beamed at me and carefully leaned forward handing it to me. This is strawberry-orange and lemon peel-rhubarb jam with horseradish; just like my mother used to make!

I took it and examined the note, and just what he had told me was stated as such on the off-white card. Inside, I could see the bits of rhubarb and strawberry with seeds speckling the jellied cure, and there it was, cut into thin little slivers, horseradish.

At first, my mind attempted to put all the flavors together with their own individual taste sensations, mentally nodding an acceptance to each flavor and all things went well until the horseradish entered the mix.

Oh, this is going to be lovely, he chuckled, standing. Sweet and sour with a sharp little bite, you’ll see! I have got a loaf of French bread inside which will go wonderful with this.

The thing I always admired about Louis was his ability to move like the wind despite his age when something exciting found him. He was up and into the house before I had the chance to look up from my observations of the jar. Behind me, inside, I could hear him moving about, gathering things so that we could enjoy this concoction which he undoubtedly had mentioned to Mrs. Carmichael during one of their lazy afternoon walks together. They were the cutest couple who wasn’t really a couple I had ever seen.

I placed the jar on the table and adjusted things so that there would be space for his return.

Need a hand, Louis? I called over my shoulder towards the door politely, although I knew he would decline any assistance.

No, no, I have everything under control–

CRASH! came the sounds of two pots hitting the floor, cutting off his words to me and redirecting them to scolding words of the inanimate objects.

Damn pots! Always getting in the way!

I chuckled softly, drawing on my cigarette as my eyes trailed off in the distance towards the ‘S’ bend of the creek.

The sun was still chugging up towards its apex and the breezes were too gentle to disturb the slow-moving surface and the combination created a slick yellow glare. It was a calming sight to behold, but I knew if the rumors were true, then that was nothing but a façade to the ugliness which ran beneath the covalence of the water molecules there.

It didn’t take long to find out that the rumors were not only true—most of them—but there had certainly been something uglier running through the town of Cordale where I now lived, and worse, that it was still there, flowing.

-2-

Here we go! Louis sounded, dragging me from my view of the creek as he exited the house back first.

He was carrying a small serving platter with half a loaf of uncut bread on one end and its severed sections fanned out in delicate neat slices towards the other. There was a thick glob of something brown and wet in the corner of the platter which I double glanced wondering had an animal snuck into his house and deposited a turd there. I was a bit worried.

This is how my mother used to serve it up! What do you think of that?

I shoved my cigarette into the ashtray and made it disappear from table view to the porch floor and I leaned forward to examine the glob. It did indeed look like excrement from something, and I gave a wry smile to Louis.

Critter problems? I asked coyly, which got Louis laughing heartedly. He took a seat with a shaking head, slapping his thighs twice for effect.

You are something, Kenneth! he proclaimed and wiped at one eye where a joyful tear had risen.

Normally I insisted on people calling me Ken, sometimes Kenny, but Louis was the type who called you by the method one’s parents had blessed them with. If my name had been Bartholomew, he would have sounded it out every time.

"‘Critter problems!’ Too rich!"

So, is that liverwurst then? I was enjoying his laughter which got me chuckling again. He was the kind that could make a weeping willow weep no more.

Oh no, that’s duck-liver pate, he smiled, taking up the jar of preserves and carefully removed the note and its ribbon with delicate care.

He carefully placed them on the table in a nice, neat fashion and I surmised that he kept and cherished every single one in a special resting place amongst his belongings.

"And not that mish-mashed stuff you can get down at Kroger’s or the Piggly. This here is the real deal.

You know Cutter Bowman who runs that little electronics store don’t you?

I nodded because of course I did, although I had only lived there then for a little over a year. In a town of thirty-one hundred it doesn’t take long to know everyone in the phonebook.

His wife makes it fresh and seasons it with a dash of salt, pepper and celery seeds… you’ll see!

I nodded unconsciously because I have always given things a chance when it came to new foods while Louis followed through with his set-in drive by giving the attempt to open the mason jar his best effort, only to hand it over to me.

He tried at least.

With a sharp twist the lid twisted away having been sealed there tightly from Ruby Carmichael’s pressure cooker. I handed it back and received a genuine thank you for my assistance as Louis fished his pocketknife from his pocket. Although I always did the loosening, it was Louis’ job to be the first to pop the steel lid and be the first to catch the sudden explosion of delicious aromas.

This was his way, as well.

Oh my! he whispered with an awing tone as the lid made an audible pop as the vacuum seal gave way, neutralizing the pressure.

Slowly he closed his eyes and inhaled and as that smile widened across his face, I knew he was happy.

Missus Carmichael has outdone herself indeed! This is going to be good, Kenneth!

Carefully, he tilted the jar towards me so I could enjoy it too, and well before I leaned in to take a good whiff, I could already smell the concoction. He was right, it smelled divine.

See this is what you do, Kenneth, he spoke as his hands did the work; using a small spoon from the tray to scoop out a good-sized mound of the jellied cure onto the edge of the platter and then quickly he retrieved the table knife, gathering some. "You first coat the whole slice with the preserves, nice and thick. You don’t worry about putting too much on because the bread is just there so you don’t get your fingers messy.

Then, you take a little of this here pate and put yourself just a nice dollop on the edge like so.

I watched like a child would his father explaining how one would rethread a weed-whacker as he spoke; my eyes absorbing every detail which corresponded to each directive word. His old hands moved with grace without the slightest tremor one might expect for someone his age, and with each wave of the knife, it was like watching a master painter at his canvas.

He extended it towards me using the tips of his fingers as support on the underside which I took just as carefully. In no time he had his own done up, and he raised it in the air to me in a saluting fashion.

Good eats, he announced, and I followed suit in both gesture and comment, and I bit into mine following how he bit into his, pate dollop first.

The taste was explosive, to say the very least, and I held it as my taste buds danced alive with each and every individual flavor simultaneously. The raw smoky flavor of the pate was set off immediately by the citrus, overwhelmed quickly by the sweetness of the strawberry, tugged away by the tartness of the rhubarb, and then bitten sharply by the horseradish. It was truly a wonderful flavor.

Amazing! I ushered quietly and found myself leaning back slowly into the rocker as the flavor enwrapped me. This is truly amazing, Louis.

Don’t I know it, he sighed with closed eyes and shook his head twice as if he couldn’t believe it himself. Missus Carmichael, I owe you more than just a walk ‘round town for this one.

We sat and we ate the flavorful jellied concoction with the duck-liver pate, occasionally taking gulps from our Ball jars and allowing the day to grow into afternoon without speaking on much of anything.

Those were good times, and we were enjoying them and as I swallowed my fifth piece while readying another, I had figured that the creek could wait just a little while longer.

CHAPTER TWO

-1-

That’s where they drowned her, Louis spoke unexpectedly as I was greedily tidying up the last smear of goose-liver pate with an end piece of bread.

I slowly looked at him and saw that his eyes had traveled off to the distant ‘S’ bend of the creek, and as he spoke, I knew that not only had his eyes moved on, but his mind had gone with it; back to a time when it all happened.

So that rumor is true then? I insisted on my question without giving it much thought; he had just told me, and I trust Louis’ word over any others who I had ever met in my life.

You could not not believe him; honesty exuded from him with a paladin’s elan vitale pulsing at its core, and it was unbreakable.

He was a rock.

Oh, it’s true enough depending on the teller of the rumor, he nodded, taking a sip of his water where tiny specks of ice remained, and then returned the jar to the table without taking his eyes off the distant creek. "If you had heard it from some of the other old-timers who remember it like I do, then our stories would just be a repeat of the last one with some pieces different here and there.

"Sadly, most of them have passed on now or are silenced by dementia.

"Young Winn Rooney over at the hardware store knows them pretty well, but that’s only because he had learned the stories from his father who would have been close to your age when it all started. Since the Rooney’s are a good family who actually talks often amongst themselves as a family instead of strangers living under the same roof, yeah, he knows it pretty well.

Either way, the story is true…

Louis swallowed back against the last words, choking them off in his throat which crawled out on a whisper, and his lip quivered just a bit as he took in air.

"They drowned her that Friday morning like she was a rat in an old grain sack. Poor thing: she had her whole life ahead of her and she died for what? Salvation? The purging of the sins which no young girl her age could have ever done? A terrible waste… that’s what it was… and the sad thing is, it didn’t stop with her."

Louis? I whispered, feeling my skin crawl as I watched a sole tear run slowly from the edge of his eye and zigzagged along the wrinkles of his face like the first rains after decades of drought in some dusty badlands.

Slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes were sharper and more alert than I had ever seen them. He was terrified.

They’ve drowned a whole lot more down there in that creek, Milton, he spoke with a waver to his voice, and I swallowed hard not knowing what was to follow. All I know is he called me by a name that was not my own and I shuddered. And now the waters are doing the killing.

Louis? I licked my lips which were numb with shock, and I had to focus to find the words. Who is Milton, and what do you mean, ‘the waters are doing the killing’?

Louis held me for a long time with those eyes which were wide awake but somewhere else right then. He wasn’t seeing me no more as a blind man was. I had become this Milton person for several long minutes, I could see it by his expression; that kind of look one gives when they are wondering what in God’s Earth were you talking about.

I whispered his name once more which seemed to do it, for then, and he blinked his eyes so rapidly that I thought momentarily that he was fainting.

Oh, I am so sorry, Kenneth, he adjusted his seating and chuckled offhandedly.

He took a long drink from his jar and almost emptied it.

I guess my mind wandered just a little bit too far. No, you’re not Milton, Kenneth, forgive me.

You know, we don’t have to do this, I presented to him as a way out only to have a wave of waving hands and a shaking head.

No, no, I said I would tell you about it and that’s what you are going to get! He laughed, but I knew he was firm in his devotion on telling me. I’m gonna go fill up my jar and we will get back to this. Need a refill?

I smiled and nodded, handing him my mason jar which he scurried off inside to fill them.

I sat there alone, listening to the breezes jostle the old wind chime on the other end of his porch just enough to sound like someone was plinking metal somewhere far off in the distance.

My mind refused to cease the echoing of those words he used, ‘those waters are doing the killing now’ and as I closed my eyes to concentrate on something else, I could pick up the faint trickling of the creek from the distance I sat.

-2-

You see that plot right over there? Louis pointed off the porch and I followed his finger down across the road to the bottom of the hill at the intersection of Garnett and Cedar Lane, my street, to the wide-open grassy area near the corner. Do you know what used to stand there?

I shrugged, not knowing.

I guess there was a house there at some time I would imagine.

One would, he nodded as he placed his palms on his thighs and leaned back to relax for a while. I knew I was going to hear what I had come for then. "Looks like enough space for a good-sized house too, but what you see is what you get; just a quarter acre of land never used.

Wanna know why no one ever used it?

I thought about producing a plausible reason, but I found nothing logical, so I simply nodded.

Because that land is both hallowed and tainted, if you can believe that.

I sat quietly for some time staring out across and down towards the area attempting to see what I was being told, but all I found was a thousand questions. I knew, knowing Louis, if I just kept my mouth shut, I would discover what he meant.

He had given me my time to ponder and then he continued.

"That there land was bought and owned by the Free Brethren Ministries back in nineteen-sixty-two by a fella-preacher by the name of Reverend Ingram James. He consecrated it one morning after a much to do, rolling up in a big old sky-blue Cadillac as big as this here porch, with his long red hair blowing behind him like flames.

"There was a whole mess of them then that day but none of them lived here. They came in on a big ole tour bus for the consecration ceremony, screamed, hollered, and danced the Lord’s name here and there, and then all but three packed themselves right on back on that bus and headed out of town. The three that remained were direct assistants of Ingram who stayed to get things in motion.

Now, none of that really has any bearing on the creek, but what it does have bearing on is that Ingram James was a young and upcoming minister, who had the will and the power to wield one powerful message of the Lord with every breath he spoke. That’s where they held their revivals.

Interesting, I didn’t know about that, I spoke quietly, and it was an honest answer.

Before I had moved into Cordale, I had done a bit of research, and although the town was inundated with small churches much akin to what one might find in the Bible Belt further south, I had never read a word about the Free Brethren Ministries or their revivals.

None of the stories I had heard mentioned him or the revivals.

Well, most of them don’t really know, he half smiled to me as his eyes trailed off again. Or they don’t like bringing it up. One girl’s death is heavy enough on the conscious of a town, even if decades have passed, but bringing that up would mean bringing up all the others and well… this here town doesn’t have shoulders broad enough to carry that cross.

The creek… Eleanor… that was the girl’s name, wasn’t it? I jumped ahead, but I got my answer with a slow bouncing nod from Louis.

Yes sir, Kenneth; Eleanor Anne Pratchett to be exact. That creek’s real name is Dolton Creek, named after Dolton Lake, up over near Thornton County. After her death, the townsfolk started to refer to the creek regardless of the name on that placard down there at the bridge. To the state and the county, that’s Dolton Creek, but it will always be known as Eleanor’s Creek by us.

Louis quieted for a moment while I mulled over what he had said so far, and I believe now, as I did then, that he was doing so in order to prepare me for whatever dark things he had to tell me. Looking back, I should have simply paid my visit, smoked my usual half a pack of cigarettes, and talked away the day about who was going to make the NFL draft in the fall or the changing of the weather. It would have been easier I think for both of us and as my eyes moved back and forth between the plot of land and the creek snaking its way along its edge, I began to wonder if the pause was more so for him.

I remember when Eleanor came to town, he reminisced, and then grunted out a single chuckling sound. "You couldn’t miss her: young, pretty and dressed like a hippie with a hippie swagger and hippie talk, and her ‘free love’ spirit flowing from her with every step.

"She had the most stunning hazel eyes you had ever seen, which just accented her light brown hair which rolled in long curls, that, or the other way around, and it was the hair that complimented her eyes. Just as pretty as they come, she was destined to be a heartbreaker when she grew up.

"That was in the early spring of sixty-eight and Vietnam had become as real as anyone wanted it to be and the anti-war movement was beginning to boil in every major city across the nation.

People were generally afraid back then, especially since the nation was shaken to frailty a few years before with the killing of Kennedy and the Cuban thing, and King was just assassinated in April of that year.

I nodded, understanding while imagining the overall feel people must have had back then having done well in all my history courses throughout my life.

She came down from Chicago where she had been staying with her aunt for the last eight years since her mother had a nervous breakdown after her father walked out on both of them.

How old was she? I threw in as I attempted to make the mental picture become real enough for my mind.

Then she was just fifteen, he shook his head. "You couldn’t tell sometimes by the way she carried herself. She was more grown than fifteen in both mind and body, but hell I was a grown man then, thirty-one and working, and any grown man with a decent upbringing back then could tell she was just a kid.

"You see, no matter how adult someone may look or act you can always tell it in the eyes because age doesn’t quite show up in them as wisdom, Kenneth. It appears in the form of burden from the hard times life gives you.

"No, although young Miss Eleanor looked like she could pass for one closer to seventeen or eighteen—nineteen if you dressed her up right—all you had to do was look into those sparkling eyes of hers and see that they were still full of a child’s imagination sitting behind them.

"I do remember it like yesterday. I suppose that’s why I find it so hard to talk about now; almost as if I could walk