The stories my dad told and retold me years ago about his parents kept creeping into my consciousness. Basically, they wouldn’t leave me alone and I finally had to admit these tales were simply too compelling not to share. I will also acknowledge that I love to write historical fiction.

Edits completed, Harry and Grace: A Dakota Love Story is presently undergoing its final prep before release. At times it seemed I’d never arrive at this place, though if there’s one thing I’ve learned from writing my first two books, it is that the editing and rewriting process take time. The wait for edits offers the opportunity for the book to “rest” in my mind. The finished copy can’t be rushed, but needs time to simmer and brew, adding or subtracting words or scenes to clarify, elaborate or expand. Bottom line: It takes both time and patience to birth a book.

A sneak preview: This novel begins when my grandpa joins a traveling carnival in the Midwest in 1909, eventually leading him to a tiny town in North Dakota, where he meets my grandmother. The book, set primarily on the Dakota prairie, is a blend of my father’s stories, peppered with enough fiction to fill in the blanks and topped off with a wee bit of magic.

A woman approached us as we walked along the sidewalk in the hospital corridor near my home.
“May I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Sure.”
“Is it okay if I approach your dog?”
“Of course.” She walked up to Jaxon and kneeled down to pet him.
“Oh, I so needed a mini Schnauzer ‘fix’ this morning. We don’t live here and our dog is back home. I miss her so.” She looked up at me. “My husband is in the Intensive Care Unit.”

“Oh, dear. Covid?” I asked.
“No, he had a heart attack. And, last night they had to take him back into surgery where he then suffered a second heart attack.”
“Oh, I am so sorry.” I put myself in her place, thinking of being in a city far from home with a husband in the ICU. Tears spontaneously streaked down my face. “I cry easily,” I apologized.

She nodded as if she understood. All the while, she is petting Jaxon, who acted perfectly content to soak up as many pets as possible. After standing up, she went on to say, “We have had four mini Schnauzers over the years. Our current dog is fifteen years old. It was hard to leave her behind with someone.”

“Jaxon is older too. He’s twelve.”

“They are such a playful breed, aren’t they? Up until the very end, always wanting to run and play,” she said.

“This is our first Schnauzer, but I’m not surprised. He generally has boundless energy.”

“All four of ours lived to around fourteen and a half to fifteen years. Two of them had dementia.”

“Really?”

“Yes, one of them would tilt sideways now and then. The other one ran in circles over and over and over, and became so thin we had to put her down. They were memorable pets.” She paused. “You have no idea how you and Jaxon have lifted my spirits this morning. I so needed this.”

I offered her a hug and she also began to cry. “Whenever someone hugs me, I cry. Hugs are such an unexpected kindness. My name is Kathleen, by the way.”
“I’m Vicki.”
We talked about mini Schnauzers a few minutes longer.
“Well, I best get on to the hospital. Thank you again for giving me this gift. It will sustain me as I face the day.”

We parted ways. What are the chances my dog and I would be walking down that particular sidewalk at the same moment Kathleen intersected our path from the parking lot?

Her words about kindness caught me off guard. For me, hugging her seemed the natural response. I thought about it and realized we all left with a gift. My dog enjoyed the unexpected petting which, in turn, offered this stranger comfort and her perception of kindness allowed me to enjoy a warm and satisfied feeling in my heart. Serendipity at its finest. What better way to start the day?

Kindness. It is always the right choice.

May, 1896. I drove down the lane towards our farmhouse with trepidation. As I approached, the barn doors hung open, an ominous sign. I almost hoped it was a thief, as I would rather face a thief than my husband.

It was no thief. Sam must have heard our approach, as he stormed out of the barn and rounded the side of the house as I drove on by. His eyes ablaze with rage, he attempted to grab the horse’s harness. I considered turning around and heading back the way I’d come, but knew the strategy would prove futile and possibly dangerous. I envisioned him jumping upon Absalom to chase us down. I pulled the buggy to a halt in front of the barn, said a prayer, and relied on the children’s presence to save me.

They awakened, rubbing their eyes, and asked to get down. Sam spoke not a word, so I untied the shawl holding my babies safe to their seats. One at a time, I handed my precious cargo down to him, hoping their touch might calm him.

The three of them stood in silence, peering up at me as I sat frozen to my seat. Seconds passed before Sam seemed to reach a decision. Unexpectedly, he scooped them up, one under each arm, and marched toward our house.

“Mama, Mama!” They clawed at his arms and wriggled desperately, kicking their little legs.

Oscar and Helen’s cries startled me out of my stupor and I slid over the side of the wagon to follow. Several steps ahead of me, they disappeared inside and the bar fell into place, locking me out of my own house. Enraged, I kicked and beat at the door, screaming, “Let me in! You devil! Let me in!”

Moments later, the door flew open and he stood ominously before me, the children hidden from view.

“Where were you today?” he asked in a hollow, toneless voice.

“At the church bazaar with Ella. For my birthday,” I said, to point out to him what he had forgotten.

“I’ll just bet you were at the bazaar. I took note of the way you ogled that bootlicker at the farrier’s the other day.”

“What? What do you mean? Don’t be absurd!”

“Don’t deceive me! It takes little effort to imagine where you were.” He then stepped forward, shut the door behind him, and shoved me backwards. I fell sideways, grabbing for the porch post, missing it and rolling down the steps. Landing on my shoulder in the dirt, I cried out in pain. He followed me and took hold of my other arm to hoist me upwards onto my feet. I twisted away from his foul, whiskey-laden breath.

“Leave me alone,” I seethed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. We spent the day with Ella at the church bazaar.” I repeated this slowly, carefully enunciating each syllable of each word.

“You’re no more than a tramp,” he snarled. “I could kill you for taking my children into some filthy honky-tonk.”

“Poppycock! I presume you’re not in your right mind to even suggest such rubbish. They are my children too!” I stomped my foot. “You…you son of a bitch! How dare you call me names? You’re nothing but a vile whoremonger…as well as a drunk!” This I added for good measure, and then I slapped him. Hard.

Stunned, he took a step backwards, reaching up to touch the bright red finger marks stamped across his cheek. He pushed me against the porch rail with his other hand. Most certainly drunk, he still had the advantage of simple brute strength.

Mindful that I could not physically win this battle, I determined it better to withdraw. I regained my balance and made to move away from him when he lurched forward, snatched me by the collar of my bodice, swung me around and punched me in the face.

“If you conducted yourself properly, I wouldn’t have to do this!” He then seized my neck with both hands, choking me. He strangled me tighter and tighter, and I realized I was fighting for not only my breath, but my very life. My vision clouded near the edges, while his putrid breath scorched my face.

I couldn’t die. My children needed me.

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