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http://www.amazon.com/The-House-Hill-ebook/dp/B003VS0IOQ/ref=sr_1_2?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1342281063&sr=1-2&keywords=The+House+On+The+Hill#_
Enjoy learning how romantic backgrounds can combine with history. After a visit with an old childhood haunt - the house on the hill - things would never be the same. Follow Jenna on her quest to save the old house and bring two lost loves together.
Contents
by Linda M Bartash-Dawley
Chapter# / Title
Dedication
Note From The Author
1: The Bright Womens Dictionary of Thought
To my parents, Richard and Joanne, who inspired my love of history through many visits to historic sites during my childhood;
— To Carol Anne, who is both my sister and best friend, and to her husband Bill and their son Matthew;
— To my brother, Paul, whose happy smile and laughter reminds me to enjoy the humor of life. And, that there is no such thing as disabilities —they are abilities in disguise;
— And to all my online computer buddies, friends, and relatives, who encouraged me throughout this process.
— To all those who support historic preservation, and with special mention to the Genesee Lighthouse and its dedicated volunteers in Rochester, N.Y., and for which I have volunteered as a tower guide for 10 years.
This book is in memory of Lily, who was the rabbit version of Jenna's cat, Lucy. In their own way, pets provide support to us, just as people do.
And Lily was my first.
Note from the Author
I feel fortunate to be able to say it was my dad who taught me to read. However, I believe God inspired me with the talent and imagination to be able to write.
As children, my sister and I were forever making up stories, living through mysteries and adventures in our own special world. Our imaginations were bright and focused on fun. As adults, we unfortunately lose much of that spontaneity. Still, sometimes it seems to come alive through fiction. I just needed inspiration, and as fate would have it, my sister was the one who got me going again— unintentionally, actually.
One day a few months ago I began thinking about those things that single people—particularly young women—face in today's fast-paced world. Soon I began to create characters in my mind who lived through similar circumstances. A few days later, in a flurry of inspiration, I wrote forty pages, mostly about a character named Jenna, and her best friend, Colleen.
As once advised by a writing mentor, I simply allowed my character do her own thing. And that she did—very nicely. Suddenly, before I knew it, I found her working to save an old house —one of my own passions, but something I have yet to accomplish. And I began to admire her for it, almost as if she were a real person in my life.
It seems that more and more historic buildings are lost every day. Either they burn, they are torn down, or they otherwise succumb to some cruel act of fate. Six years ago, one phone call led me to visit an old historic house. When I arrived, I discovered a demolition crew already hard at work. They didn't seem to mind the extra attention as I watched two men taking apart a beautiful entranceway, which otherwise would have been destroyed. Afterwards, they went to work trying to save some fancy molding around the doors, perhaps with the idea of re-using it in their own homes. I began to wonder, Can someone demolish — yet still save — a house? So it seemed—at least, that day.
As sunlight glimmered throughout the old house, making even some of its now-dingy features seem still impressive, I noticed that the molding around the doors imitated columns. The knotty wood floor took on a warm, reddish glow, and the swirls etched into the wood along the staircase seemed most impressive in a shadowy picture where the sun's glow failed to wash out the many details of this soon-to-be-gone home.
For days afterwards, this haunted me —like a scar that wouldn't heal. I just could not put that last image of this old house out of my memory. And I felt guilty, primarily for not knowing what I could do about it. I could think of no way to save this piece of history. Fate had again been cruel.
As a child, I remember seeing many homes like this one—pieces of history that would eventually be lost. The place where my parents held their wedding reception has long since been demolished. And the last stop on the long-remembered trolley line would soon disappear too, as would the town hall in which I attended meetings for years.
Naturally, every reader will not be able to relate to a single, 20-something young woman, such as my main character, Jenna. But I trust that everyone will be able to empathize with some facets of Jenna's life and dreams. And most of all, I hope readers will be inspired the next time they see some historic site, at least to appreciate it more.
Although I have not yet saved anything historic, perhaps someday I will be able to do so, much as Jenna sets about to accomplish in the following pages. May you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.
~ 1 ~
The Bright Women's Dictionary of Thought
Sometimes I think perhaps life would be a lot easier for us all if we were born with instruction manuals. These manuals would not include tips on accomplishing the routine and mundane tasks, such as changing diapers and giving baths, but would instead lend us some assistance with understanding how we think. What exactly goes through our minds? And why? Why don't we all think alike? Why do we become angry at situations that are seemingly invisible to others? What are the real definitions of the words we utter? Of course, it's not always what we say that is so important, but how we say it.
Members of the other gender will never understand. It seems to be tradition: men cannot understand women, and women cannot understand men. In our own funny way, we try so hard to understand them, and then, in frustration, we simply give up and call them crazy. Or, as ladies, we tell the men they are from the planet Mars, which is a long way to travel without asking for directions.
But those instruction manuals were just not included. Naturally, there would be a mad rush to the bookstore if there were such a thing. And that would mean less stopping for advice—although I must admit I do enjoy stepping in occasionally to listen to people who need some. It makes me feel good to remember that no one is perfect and I feel less lonely in my quest for answers.
Every so often, my brother decides he needs to understand the opposite sex a little better. Of course, these moments are rare. Sometimes he seems to be fairly good at this skill of understanding us ladies, but at other times, he simply overlooks the obvious. This morning, he stopped by the insurance agency where I work, which is not a usual thing for him to do. I saw his face by the doorway before he noticed me, and his expression reminded me of a little puppy pouting. Something was wrong, and I imagined I could guess what it was.
"Wife problems?" I asked, smiling warmly. Being his sister, I always believed I was an authority on him, having grown up with this handsome, fun-loving, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy, who is now at least five inches taller than I am. This should be a piece of cake, I thought, as I said, "Take a seat."
My chair is nothing exceptional. It is a straight-backed, stationary, black plastic body holder — nothing more. There are only two extra chairs in the entire office. One is usually pushed securely against the wall, partly because the back part of the chair is ready to fall off. Of course, as my boss so often reminds me, there just aren't lots of funds for nice amenities such as new chairs. The insurance company where I work is staffed by just the agent and me—and from what I have been able gather during the nearly twelve months I have worked here, it doesn't seem do a lot of business—just enough to get by. Still, all in all, the place has a somewhat cheery feel to it, and the customers who come here seem very loyal. Apparently they think of their agent as a friend. And I feel privileged to be part of a business where we get to see pictures of our customers’ babies and hear of their family trips to Orlando, Florida and to the Adirondacks. This almost makes up for the awful chairs—well, almost.
Our second stand-by chair has wheels, which is the best part about it. It usually sits behind a vacant desk—the third one in the office, used mainly for storage and for customers to sign paperwork. When no one is looking, I sometimes sit in it, and cheerfully roll along, stopping at the copier, the bulk rate postage meter machine, and the microwave, which is perched haphazardly on top of a short file cabinet. The worst part about this chair is that it's made of hard, fake leather, which has several rips in it that electrical tape cannot seem to tame. Consequently, the thing pokes at my pantyhose and seems to scratch most everything with which it comes in contact.
My evaluation was that both chairs needed to be put to sleep, permanently. Where do sick chairs go, anyway? Must they wait curbside for their ride to destruction? Surely they must have been good chairs at one time. I often rationalize that perhaps my boss keeps them for sentimental reasons—certainly he doesn't keep them for their looks.
My brother, Ben, picked the chair with wheels. After rolling over to my desk, he began, "I don't know why she's mad—but she is!"
It saddened me to admit this, but Ben seldom visits me unless he wants a favor. And today it is obviously a little marriage counseling, which of course I should be great at, since I am nowhere near being married.
Putting his feet up on my desk, he knocked over a messy stack of mail that needed to have been sent yesterday. I laughed, and put my feet up, too. No one was around to mind my casualness. It occurred to me that I had spent more time staring blankly at the row of sunflowers growing in front of the cornfield across the street, than with customers. Of course, the fact there are cornfields right across from us says it all anyway: cheap rent, lots of parking, and no people in town. I often laugh to myself, thinking this must be the easiest job in the world.
"I was going to go out with the guys —got Buffalo Bills tickets and everything," Ben continued. "Then she got mad because it was on our anniversary. I thought our anniversary was the day after," he confessed.
I have to laugh at men. They seem to keep no recollection of birthdays or anniversaries, or people in general. My father asked my mother once why she was buying a big sheet cake. She responded, "It's for Jenna's birthday."
To that, he replied, "Jenna? Ohhhhhhh—Jenna. Is her birthday coming up?"
"Don't you remember me pushing you aside to drive to the hospital, because I thought you weren't going fast enough," asked my mother, who was beginning to get annoyed.
The mention of the drive finally brought back his memory. "Oh, that eighty-five-mile ride! Yes, I remember that!"
Car stuff; of course, men will remember that. Talk about anything else, they act as if they've just met you.
"So, I asked her what she wanted me to do about it," my brother continued, "and she says, 'Oh, nothing'. So that means I'm off the hook, right? — maybe? Please say that's right."
I realized that this was what Ben wanted to believe — that she had let him off the hook. He just looked at me, waiting for some affirmation that what he hoped was true.
"Ummmm, let me see. What is the definition of nothing? Should I look it up in the dictionary of Bright Women's Thoughts?" I replied. This is my little-sister attitude. I suppose it's not my best feature. I am just annoyed that my brother, being five years older than me, still needs explanations for some things that he should have figured out by now. I brought my face a little closer to his. I couldn't believe I had to explain this to him. "Nothing means that she would like to turn you upside-down and shake you. Maybe at least a few twenty dollar bills would fall out—or maybe your wallet, which would be even better. Nothing means that when you come home, your pillow and blanket will be in the garage."
I reached across, shaking him a little for effect, but more just to tease him. After all, isn't that what little sisters are for?
"So, what do I do?" he asked, obviously ready for any advice.
This was finally my cue, where I could step in and help. I didn't hesitate. "You have to skip the game, of course. Sorry. I know how much you like football, but this is more important. Go shopping. Yeah, I know you hate it. Most guys do. You have to do the typical stuff—some flowers, candy. Take her out to dinner. Spoil her," I said, feeling a little like an advice columnist. But I couldn't resist adding, "Then she'll move the pillow and blanket out of the garage. Well, probably..."
Then I stopped talking and grinned. Being a sister was way too much fun.
"Okay," he replied, acting as if a chore had been handed to him. Of course, I really think he knew in his heart what he should have done, even before he came to me.
I tried to add a nice gem of conversation I had heard —I thought from him —to soften him up. "Didn't you tell me once that you loved Rachel so much that you hoped you would never make her unhappy?"
"Well..." he said, thoughtfully.
I thought a little myself, and then realized it wasn't Ben who had said that. It was one of my male buddies from high school, whom I had seen when I stopped in at the supermarket around midnight the other night—the one night I didn't want to see anyone. I had gone to the store looking as if I had just gotten out of bed—probably because I had just gotten out of bed. I was looking for some over-the-counter pills that might knock out a hard-hitting headache that refused to go away. Imagine my surprise at running into someone I knew at that odd hour. And, of course, it was in a moment where I was totally deprived of makeup. Oh, well. He didn't scream or anything, or run for cover, so maybe my face had some saving features.
The conversation seemed to make my brother feel some better. At least now he had a mission. Was it really that impossible a task? I knew deep down that he and his wife were inseparable—or as they say in the movies: MFEO (made for each other).
I also hoped he had thought of talking to me because he missed his little sister. As we both rose, he hugged me and said, "Thanks, sis. You're the best! What can I ever do to repay you?"
"Well, if I ever get married, you know I'm coming to you for man advice, and you better be able to give good advice," I said, with a laugh.
Affectionately, he rubbed his big hands on my head, in an effort to mess up my long blonde hair.
"Well, get back to work!" he said, saluting before closing the door behind him.
I returned the salute, finally remembering that I was still at work.
~2~
Neighbors
Work almost always goes well. The question is, will it be as good when I get home?
I live in a 1940's apartment complex that was recently permanent-sided in a dull gray color. There are twenty identical buildings in a circle, and rarely ever enough parking. The newest resident is a commercial trucker, who tends to bring his big 18-wheeler in and park across a whole line of spaces, apparently just to say "hi" to his family and get a nice send-off and some food before he goes on his way to and from work.
Ten people live in my building. They are a mix of retired and early 20-somethings. Even though, at 25, I am a mid-twenty-something, I don't feel as if I fit into any particular category.
I like the older people better. The twenty-somethings, at least the ones in my building, seem to be very much into drinking and loud music, and whatever else they feel is dangerous. So, of course that often means seeing the flashing red lights of police cars outside the building. Sometimes I secretly wish to myself that the police would do what I've always hoped for—take them away. At this point I really don't care where they go. But the bars where they belong should be vertical and not horizontal, like the places where drinks can be purchased.
Three nights ago —early morning actually, at 3:15 a.m. — one of my twenty-something neighbors rang my doorbell. Eleven times. I'm not joking. It woke me from a good, solid, dreamless sleep. My first thought was, "The building is on fire!" as I pulled on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, grabbed my cat, which was the only one of us truly awake at that time, and ran to the front door.
"Hi there," greeted the young neighbor, with such a slurred voice that I was surprised he could even stand. But his stance was crooked, anyway. "I bet I can break your heart," he stated matter-of-factly.
In spite of being tired and barely conscious myself, I quickly replied, "Well, I bet I can break your legs —both of them! Want me to?"
My cat looked at me a little strange, squinting her eyes as if in disbelief. And then I realized what I had said. Do others ever have that problem? We say things, and then think to ourselves, well, I surely would never do that. And, then we wonder: where do these words come from? Mostly it's just my strange sense of humor (which I inherited from my father) that gets released from its cage once in a while and is aimed at unsuspecting people.
Anyway, for that moment, I was faced with a very drunk man whom I did not trust. Seeing that my apartment door and the main entrance were both open and vulnerable, I knew I was not going to let this man in, even though he did live in the same building. So I narrowed my eyes and said, "Did you hear what I said?"
He looked at me just as strangely as did my cat. And he sauntered off, apparently forgetting that he lived there.
Two days later I saw the guy limping back on crutches and with a black eye. I heard from another neighbor that our sweet 80-something neighbor, Betty, in the building next door, heard about a dozen rings on her doorbell. Then seeing him at her door, trying to flirt with her, she and her roommate, another 80-something lady named Viola, attacked him with canes and purses. I guess instead of threatening him, I should have warned him against the neighbors next door.
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2: Neighbors
3: Cordless Phones and Dumpsters
4: Three Times a Bridesmaid
5: Houses
6: The Haunted House on the Hill
7: Invisible
8: Caffeine Withdrawal
9: Adoption Days
10: Plain Jane
11: The Single Girls Guide to Kitchen Duties
12: Dating
13: High School Dares
14: Shoes
15: Pen Pals
16: The Right Reason to be Star Struck
17: Talking to Strangers
18: The Wrecking Ball
19: The Tool Belt
20: The Little Things
21: Doorbells
22: Rooftops
23: The Ring
24: That Look
25: Love
26: Boyfriends
27: The House
28: The Ring
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