Natchez Adventure: Footsteps on the Trace

It's ready! My third book is done. Drum roll, please...


Here's the back cover summary:

Kat Rogers sees ghosts. What began as a year of homeschooling and touring the country with her family has become an adventure she will never forget. A Confederate ghost in Gettysburg and pirate ghosts in Savannah are just the beginning. Now Kat and her brother Brian are exploring the Natchez Trace with their parents. The simple dirt path winding into the woods doesn't look very exciting at all until a young woman from the Natchez tribe gives Kat her next ghostly assignment: remember those who walked this trail long ago. In order to remember them, Kat and Brian must first find out who they were and why their footsteps linger forever on the Trace.

Neat, huh?

The paved Trace is a lovely road that winds through pretty areas with lots of pull-offs and things to read. If you do nothing other than drive a stretch of the road you will come away appreciating a nice spot. But you will be missing something very important. And what's that, you might ask? History, ready and waiting for you to get out of your car and step into the woods. Pause. Think about the quiet beauty of the tree-lined path. About how this was the Western Frontier in 1800. That's right. Mississippi was the Western Frontier.

If you look down at your feet you will be looking at the same place buffalo walked. And migratory Paleo Indians. And the Native tribes who lived and worked there before the Europeans arrived to claim the spot as their own. You'll be looking at the place where brave settlers built rustic inns to house the traders who had to walk back up the Trace after boating down the Mississippi River. Why couldn't they go back up the way they came? Steamboats weren't invented then. They had to go on foot.

Settlers and traders and travelers and preachers and explorers and the Natchez and Choctaw and Chickasaw all walked that path. And if you go and walk there as well, your footsteps will mingle with some of the richest history our country has to offer.

The Natchez Trace. Definitely not just a trail in the woods.

Michael Phelps and a mother's pride

I like watching the Olympics. As an advertisement says, maybe we cheer the athletes on because they are human and we are human and when we watch them we realize that all things are possible. Sitting there on the couch with Charlie Dog and a scattering of cats nearby, I know very well it is not possible for me to dive with such grace or run with such swiftness or swim with such determination. But they are doing it, these young and not-so-young men and women from around the world. And so I sit and watch and cheer.

Some athletes capture our hearts. It might be their story or their extra effort. Maybe they have overcome a challenge. Maybe they have a mother in the stands whose love and support and enthusiasm speak to all of us even though her attention is focused solely on her own child. Somebody like...and this should come as no surprise...Debbie Phelps.

The camera focused on her nearly as often as it centered on Michael. Every race found her in the stands, hair and makeup and clothing and jewelry beautifully coordinated, hands clutching something (often somebody) as the tension mounted. She cheered. Okay, she bellowed. She applauded. She cried. And I cheered and applauded and, yes, cried, right along with her. Michael isn't my son, but in a way he is America's son and he was doing us all proud.

What I found most poignant about Debbie Phelps was the expression of sheer joy on her face. A mother's pride in her child's triumphs far surpasses anything she feels about her own accomplishments. It doesn't take eight gold medals in one Olympics to inspire this pride, either. When someone she has loved and nurtured and cheered on every step of their lives reaches a goal, fulfills a dream, wins whatever it is they were striving to win, the rush of emotion felt by the parent on the sidelines is hard to put into words.

And maybe it doesn't have to be described. If you've felt it, you know. And if you haven't, Debbie Phelps' face said it all. Her boy, succeeding beyond anything that anyone has ever done before. She cheered for the boy she had raised. We all cheered for the Olympic athlete he had become. And I cheered for the mother whose unabashed ecstatic pride warmed my heart.

Go, Michael! You've made history.

Go, Debbie! You showed us the definition of joy.

Thoreau thoughts

We can never have enough of nature. We must be refreshed by the sight of inexhaustible vigor....
~Henry David Thoreau

Exactly. What he said.

Evening walk-time in summer is often a hazy, steamy event where Charlie Dog and I and whatever brave family members want to sweat it out with us march up hill and down in dogged (groan) determination. It's not exactly unpleasant, but it doesn't rank up there with Great Walks I Have Experienced. Once in awhile, though, little surprises grace the night. Bunnies nibbling on tender clover. An owl's haunting call as he searches for companionship. A full moon made even more spectacular by the very haze that we protest. Last night's treat? A gathering of clouds.

There is a spot we reach by chug-chugging up a hill from one of two directions. Either way it's an effort, which is of course the point. Last night Charlie and I had looped around, meandered through a neighborhood playground, and approached The Hill from what I consider the back way...up a flight of steps from a lower neighborhood. The fun thing about this route is that it's a less-than-gradual approach when it comes to appreciating the view. You are not on the hill and then you are on top of the hill. You don't have the commanding view...and then you do. Occasionally this is actually accompanied by drum rolls of thunder, but generally the theme music is contained in my head.

So: top of the hill, destination (center island for dog sniffing purposes) reached. Canine happily engaged in find-a-message-leave-a-message activities. Human gazing off into...cloud wonderland.

In the eastern sky, enormous white puffies piled into improbable mountains. The peaks disappeared up into Forever Land. Will we get to climb such mountains in Heaven? I would think so, because surely such joy and wonderment is part of the heavenly experience. Imagine seeing them from the other side of life's horizon. Cloud dreamers, gazing up at whimsical formations, will finally have their question answered. Duck or bunny?

In the western sky, a gauzy cloud veil rested on the mountains. Some celestial painter dipped a wet brush into the red and blue of his water color set and splashed the results on those wispy clouds. Fingers of color gently, gently pressed down on the setting sun.

Charlie gave up on sending messages and sat beside me, sturdy sweet body pressed against my legs. Together we climbed cloud mountains and said goodnight to the sun, both of us in agreement. We can never have enough of nature.

Trying out the brand new legs

Saturday evening was sultry with thunderstorms threatening. Still, it seemed a good night for an outdoor concert, especially since Caribbean tunes played on steel drums was the featured music. Ever heard of the Pan Masters? Good stuff.

We walked up to the general courthouse area where the streets were blocked off and people in lawn chairs or on blankets spread over the grass swayed to the music. Children, free from the inhibitions that keep us from jumping up and dancing in front of everyone, practiced shake and shimmy moves in front of the band. People watching opportunities abounded.

One peewee walked cautiously through the crowd. She clutched her daddy's fingers and gazed seriously at all the faces smiling in her direction. How could anyone keep from smiling at soft brown curls, wide innocent eyes and a rosebud mouth closed around a pacifier? She wore a dainty flowered sundress with a matching bottom that covered but couldn't quite disguise the bulky oomph of the necessary diaper. Nothing wrong with extra padding down there when the legs give out and the rump meets the ground. Wee socks sporting more ruffles and tiny pink shoes completed her ensemble. She was absolutely darling.

Each step was part of a thoughtful process that, while not speedy, did get her going in the right direction. She lifted her legs up much higher than the flat pavement required and seemed almost startled when her foot came down on solid ground and the process could be repeated on the other side. Did she expect the footing to change, the ground to move, the pavement to dip suddenly?

Like all those around me, I smiled at her slow progress. Trying out the brand new legs, I thought...and soon she'll be scampering around on the very legs that were so hesitant a moment before. We all started out that way, but of course we don't remember. After all, cautious first steps are a thing of the distant past for the grownups of the world.

Or are they? Thinking about it, I realized that our lives are filled with first-step moments. A new job, a move, a change that brings both wonder and trepidation...most of us step into the challenge just fine, but initially our steps are careful and our feet perhaps seek firm ground with less-than-complete assurance that things will be smooth and steady.

And sometimes a sudden shift will still land us on our rumps, wondering what happened and if anybody noticed.

Little Miss Cutie-Pie was taking her first big steps into a wonderful wide world of exploration. There will be many more first steps for her, I hope, and many more for all of us...because those are the steps that take us from our comfort zone and send us into the Land of Possibility. We might have a hand to hold during the journey, someone to help us up when the inevitable fall occurs. Or we might struggle to our feet and head off once again, maybe having learned something. You can stand still and watch the world roll on by, or you can join the adventure.

All it takes is that first step.

It all depends on your point of view

So there I was, minding my own business, sniffing around the shed, scurrying here and there. You know, same old same old. Mouse stuff, okay? Picture whatever the mice in your shed do (and don't think they aren't there, because I know better) and you'll get a good idea of my daily routine. It's a good spot, this big green shed. Got some of the manly tools on one side, which is fine. Kind of makes me feel like tough stuff to be strolling over a table saw. But the other side is where I actually live. Flower pots, bags of soil, some delish grass seed, bunch of soft gardening gloves and a whole mess of this and that.

And you know that redheaded broad who wanders in every day or so? She's pretty understanding of the whole situation. Once she knew I was living here, she started announcing her presence. I'd hear a rattle rattle at the door and then a voice calling out. "I'm here," she says, every time...like I can't figure that one out already since the door doesn't usually open by itself. Still, I appreciate the advance warning. Gives me a chance to get out of sight in case that great big dog comes in with her.

I've done the whole wife and family bit, but right now I'm a lone wolf kind of guy. Just me and the wide open spaces, you know, floor to rafters and nobody to tell me where to go or what to do. Maybe the lack of family has made me a bit lax in the security department...that and the obvious acceptance of Red. She respects me, I respect her and so why bother about going back into the dark corners when she walks in...you know what I'm saying? I figure if I'm not snoozing in plain sight we're good.

And we were, until a couple days ago. Man, what a day. It started out innocently enough, at least for me. Get up, sniff out some food, chew a hole in the big bag of dirt. Not because I wanted the dirt. I'm an insulation kind of guy myself. But a whole in the bottom of a full bag makes it all spill out like some kind of dirt waterfall. Know what I mean? It's entertaining. Too bad I didn't avoid that particular entertainment, though, because wouldn't you know that the one thing that pushed Red's buttons was dirt all over the shed floor. She did her little greeting thing and came on in and saw the mess. "Who put dirt all over the floor?" Yeah, that was pretty darn obvious to us both, but I appreciate her attempt at not placing the blame too quickly.

I was up on the high shelf, kind of a loft place. I think of it as my bachelor pad, and since Red wasn't climbing up any ladder I figured I was safe enough. I did want to see her sweep up the dirt, though, because the next best thing after making a mess is making someone else clean up. I eased out and peeked over the shelf, cautious-like, so as not to startle her. I like the dame, you know. For a human she's okay.

What happened next is kind of a blur. Red reached for the broom, I remember that. It was wedged behind some other things and instead of moving the other things she decided it made more sense to tug harder on the broom handle. At some point it must have occurred to her that she needed to lift the thing out of its tight spot. Yeah, she lifted it all right. She lifted it so high that it hit the edge of the shelf where I was hiding. Wasn't expecting that. I'm a guy, right? I'm tough, I'm able to run around in the dark by myself and forage for food and do all the guy mouse things. But let me tell you, even a guy will jump when a broom comes *this* close to hitting him in the whiskers.

The problem with jumping when you're on the edge of a shelf is that you can go two ways. Back, to safety...and that's the preferred way...or down. Way down. Right over the edge and onto what is below you. Guess which one I did?

Falling like that kind of happens in slow motion. I tumbled through the air, hoping for a soft landing, hoping that I wouldn't find myself part of the cement floor. I braced myself, whispered a goodbye to that cute little lady mouse in the other shed and waited for the end.

Instead of the end, I landed on something soft. I wasn't there for long, just a brief moment of sensation, but from there I slid down more of something soft. And then I found myself sprawled on my back on the top of the bag of dirt. Thank goodness I hadn't chewed a bigger hole. There was still plenty of dirt in the bag.

Everything stopped for a moment while I caught my breath. Once I realized I was just fine, thank you very much, I wondered what had happened to Red. She had been there with her broom, you know, but maybe she somehow missed my little clumsy moment. I opened my eyes and looked for her. Didn't take long to spot the horrified face staring down at me. You know that soft thing I landed on? Yeah. That was Red's hair. And then the rest of the soft ride was right down her shoulder and arm. I had just human surfed. I was okay, already thinking about the great story this would make. But I wasn't so sure about Red. She looked frozen in place. What was she thinking?

"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKK!"

Oh. That was what she was thinking. And along with the scream that pretty much rattled my eardrums, she threw the broom out the door like it was on fire. I'm not sure why she did that, but I have heard that human women are pretty darn complex. My sympathies to their mates.

Red jumped back, closed her eyes and let loose another eardrum bender. She startled me so much that I might have screamed, too, but there's no proof now and I'll deny it if questioned. Mine wasn't as long or as loud as hers and I recovered quicker, which gave me time to get out of Dodge before she opened her eyes. I didn't think she was going to hurt me, especially since she had thrown the broom into the yard, but I wasn't taking any chances. Time to find one of those dark corners and skedaddle.

Once I was gone, Red opened her eyes and looked around. Then she backed out of the shed, picked up the broom and propped it against her potting table. She was practically tip-toeing, which made me feel like a Big Bad Mouse. Ego boost, you know? I've been thinking about ways I could exploit the situation...get some mouse treats as payment for leaving her alone, maybe...but I guess I'll just think about relocating. After you've had a Close Encounter of the Human Kind you start considering a more peaceful home. I can't guarantee that another mouse family won't move in. After all, these are plush accommodations. But maybe I'd better leave them a note suggesting that they watch out for the broom and that Red is particularly sensitive to having a mouse land on her head.

Or maybe that's something they can just learn for themselves.

Garden growth

The beauty of my garden fulfills me.

Bee balm, complete with bee.


Cheerful daisies.


My gardening buddy.



Balloon flower.



Favorite places to sit.

Todd Ashton Bakewell

October 16, 1948-June 14, 2008. His dash...the time between those two dates...was too brief. A life cut short. A husband, a brother, a son, my brother-in-law, lost and mourned.

I met the Bakewell family when I was a wide-eyed nineteen-year-old. Their boisterous habit of multiple discussions held simultaneously and marked by voices raised louder and even louder still in order to be heard above the others was a bit overwhelming to the relatively quiet me. I never did get the hang of competing for air time. Now, many years later, I simply raise my hand if I want to be heard and eventually someone notices and they all pay attention. But back then I wondered just what I would have in common with this group of Loud Talkers.

Todd had perhaps the loudest voice of all, but he also had a kind and gentle heart. He recognized the shy young girl (truly, I was shy back then...no, really) and searched for a way to bond with me. What on earth could we have in common? A bit of conversation quickly brought the answer: books. He loved to read just as much as I did and his shelves wherever he lived were filled with books. Once he discovered our mutual interest he disappeared and then returned with his arms full of books. They were some of his favorites and he wanted to share them with me.

Now keep in mind that I was a romantic girl and I tended to read romantic fiction. I found myself with a stack of spy thrillers. I looked up into his beaming face, accepted the books and took them home. And I read them. I did, every last one of them, because it meant so much to him.

When someone leaves us, when we are left with only memories, there is comfort in collecting the best and the brightest of those memories and creating a slide show for our hearts to play. The slide show I have of Todd includes that pile of books and his pleasure in sharing them. It includes his joy at having the entire family present for the Bakewell tradition of potato pancakes. Todd had assumed the role of Pancake Chef and he could hardly keep up with the demand as the family clamored for more of the tasty treats. The noisy, joyful chaos was exactly the kind of celebration he loved best.

There are more memories, of course. The nice thing about such a slide show is that you can remove any sorrow, any pain, any grief and concentrate on what mattered most...the heart and soul of the person remembered. I won't forget Todd's face as he picked out the books he thought I might enjoy most. And I think I'll go to the library and find one of them and read it again. I might not like it any better this time, but I'll like the memories it brings.

Todd Ashton Bakewell. Gone too soon, but not forgotten.