What’s the Matter Here?
September 10, 2009
The title of this blog is the name of a song that was a hit for the band 10,000 Maniacs on their “In My Tribe” album from 1990. It’s a song about child abuse, and how people turn away from it, and make excuses like “he’s their kid,” and “it’s not my business.” I have always believed that if I saw a child being harmed in any way, I’d step in and stop it. Apparently I was wrong.
I stopped at my bank at a small and old strip mall near my home, then walked down to the grocery store. This isn’t a supermarket, mind you; it’s a small store that’s been there since I was a child, and I used to go there with my mother. Most of the clerks and carry-out “boys” (many are retired men) know most of the shoppers, and have for years. As I was checking out, a mother and her young son, maybe four or five years old, were in the next lane. The boy wasn’t acting up; he was playing a little game with one of the younger carry-outs, where he’d take a few steps away from his mother, quietly, and the carry-out would pretend he was going to “get” him, and then the child would run back to his mother and giggle.
They left the store ahead of me, and he was lagging a little, like most children that age do. As we neared the end of the strip mall, where I was parked in front of the bank, we passed a dry-cleaners. Their front door was open, as it often is on warm days. The boy stopped to look in. He was fascinated. He bent over a little and just stared, wide-eyed. His mother was opening the car door and called to him, and I walked past him and said, “You’d better go to your mom now, they might clean you if you go in there!” He grinned at me and turned to his mother.
Not fast enough for her. She yelled, and I quote, “Get your butt over here, now!” in a very angry voice, and as she did she trotted up to her child and grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him towards her. I was unlocking my car at that point, and turned to see. She carried him to the car, swatting him on his bottom at least three times, then violently shoved him into the back seat. I heard another smack — but this one was skin on skin, so not on his bottom. I took a step towards them.
She said, loudly and in an exceptionally angry tone, “You are totally on a time-out, just you wait until we get home!” I took another step towards them, thinking the mother was the one who needed the time-out, and she looked up and glared at me. I stopped in my tracks. If I said or did anything, would it just make it worse for this little boy? If I did nothing, would he get a real beating when he got home? The morning had been chilly, so he was in long pants and long sleeves, and I hadn’t seen bruises, but still… She got in her car, slammed her door, revved the engine and took off before I even thought to try to write her license plate number down.
The little boy’s face, his soft blond hair and wide blue eyes and the little grin he gave me, haunted me all the way home, and long after. Maybe I didn’t have a right to intervene, but I think I had an obligation. I failed this child. At the very least, I should have written down that license number and called the police, so that a social worker could check out the situation. Maybe she’d had a bad day; maybe he’d been impossible to deal with earlier in the day, a “wild thing” like Max in the book, and she was at the end of her rope. Or maybe she was always that way. I didn’t know. I didn’t want to make her angrier, with only that child for her to take her anger out on — but I should have done something.
I know — all my “shoulds” can wear me down and take my focus away from now, and what is. I learned one lesson, though. I’ll keep my notepad easily accessible, and if I see something like that again, if I don’t feel I can intervene, I’ll write down the license number, and call someone who does have the right to intervene. No child deserves to be treated like that, and perhaps the mother needs help just as much as her son.
A Monkey Trap
September 1, 2009
As I’m trying to finish my first draft of “Spooky North Dakota” (belatedly), I find myself feeling like I’m caught in a bear trap. Reconsidering, I think it’s more like a monkey trap.
I’m not sure where I first heard about monkey traps; I suspect it may have been in a Rudyard Kipling story. But if you don’t know about them, let me explain. Monkeys are both greedy and curious. So, take a jar with a mouth just large enough for a monkey’s paw to get in, and fill it halfway or so with peanuts. Then tie the jar to a tree. A monkey will come along, and being curious, stick his paw in. He’ll feel the peanuts, and grab a handful. With his hand full like that, he can’t get it out of the jar. So, he has a dilemma. Give up the windfall of delicious peanuts, and leave, or sit there with his hand stuck? Usually he sits there with he greedy paw full of peanuts until whoever set the trap comes along and takes him.
It’s not peanuts for me. It’s the mystery and clues around one of the stories I’m including in my book. It’s not a huge haunting. In fact, it’s not a haunting at all. It’s a “spooky.” (Since I’m stuck with the title I might as well make the most of it.)
The story is that of a Lutheran minister, Heio Janssen, who in 1938 poisoned his pregnant 16-year-old maid, Alma Kruckenberg, while his wife was out of town, then burned the parsonage down to hide his crime. (This happened in Krem, ND, which is no longer there, but the church is — and the lawn next to it where, they’ll tell you, the parsonage was before it burned down. Church members don’t volunteer why it burned.) Such things don’t stay hidden, of course, and the firemen found the body almost as soon as the flames were out, and the coroner found the pregnancy. Janssen denied quite stoutly that he had anything to do with it, even when the parents of the girl confronted him, begging him to tell the truth, since they’d entrusted him with their youngest daughter, who was “a good girl.”
He didn’t break down until he was shown her body, which was just a torso, and the jar that contained their child. Then he confessed, saying the devil got into him and made him do it. (Really. He said that.) He actually made so many conflicting statements that when he was taken to Mandan’s then-notorious “midnight court” (mostly to prevent a lynching) he was convicted of perjury along with all the other charges (rape, murder, arson, etc.).
The people of Marsh, MT, read about this. He had been their pastor from late 1915 until 1933, when he’d left abruptly. They recalled how he’d seemed close to Rosa Opp, the teenaged daughter of one of the church deacons. She disappeared in September of 1930, and her body was found a few days later in the Yellowstone River. The coroner said she’d died from drowning, and called it a suicide. No autopsy was done. Now the folks in Marsh began to wonder. Rosa was a happy girl. Just before she disappeared, she was preparing to be a sponsor to one of her sister’s children at his baptism, and was very excited about that, and making herself a new dress. No one knew of any reason why she would kill herself.
When questioned about Rosa, Janssen said he had nothing to do with her death. But then, he wasn’t facing her body or her father…
Then the people from his very first parish, Lincoln Valley, started to wonder as well. Lincoln Valley no longer exists as a town, but it’s near Harvey, ND. In 1915, just before he went to Marsh, his teen-aged sister-in-law, Margaret Monseur, disappeared. She was never seen again, and no body was ever found. They went to the judge who’d convicted Janssen of Alma’s murder, and he ordered that Janssen be questioned about that, too. Under intense questioning, he confessed to having “relations” with his sister-in-law, and with at least one member of his congregation in Marsh, but still denied killing them.
These are the peanuts. I have a story — I have everything I need to put it in the book. But I can’t seem to let those peanuts go. I’m searching for information about Margaret. Did she reappear somewhere? I didn’t find her with a Google search or in newspapers, or on www.findagrave.com — although a friend of my sister, who is helping me search, found Alma’s grave in a cemetery near the Krem church. But I already knew that. The friend also found the grave of a man who is more than likely one of Janssen’s sons, in Colorado. I want to try to find his children, if he has any, and find out what they know. I’ve been in contact with a man whose roots are in Marsh, and he’s sent me photos of Janssen with the church there, and stories from his late father and his 93-year-old aunt, who remember Janssen with dislike (their stories of finding Rosa’s body are much gorier than the actual death certificate tells — but make a great story). I want to know more from the people of Marsh. I want a seance, so I can talk to Rosa and Margaret, who by now is undoubtedly dead, even if Janssen didn’t kill her.
But, if I don’t let the peanuts go, I’ll never finish the book. I have all the story I need. I’m promising myself that when I’ve finished my commitments, I’ll return to the murderous minister, and search for more clues. Maybe there’s enough for a book, or at least a longer story. Or perhaps fictionalize it. Not so much a whodunnit, since the answer is clear, but a why. What makes a man of the cloth, top of his class in seminary school, become a rapist and murderer? What demons lived in his soul? Did something happen to him when he was growing up, or while he was crossing the Atlantic on a great ship? What makes a murderer — or was he born bad? I’m about 60 years too late. He died in 1946 in the State Penitentiary, of natural causes. But I want to know more…
Disaster and Missed Deadline
August 3, 2009
Well, my worst fear happened: I missed the deadline for Spooky North Dakota. It’s OK with my editor; she said to just have it in by December 1st. It will cut into initial sales, though, since the State Museum Stores and most of the other places that will carry it, other than Barnes and Noble across the state, and maybe in Minnesota and South Dakota, do their buying in the spring. So they won’t be buying until spring of 2011. (My, that sounds like it ought to be so very far away!)
How did this happen? A number of reasons. First, procrastination and writer’s block; I couldn’t really get going on it until I decided to start writing first drafts the way I write fiction: on a notepad with a pen. That broke the dam and words began to flow. Another reason was illness. Every time I took a day trip to get photos, I’d lose not only that day but at least one more, if not two or three. I also managed to have bouts of everything I have bouts of to put me “down” for days at a stretch. But just as I thought it was going to happen, catastrophe struck.
I sat at my computer on July 8, typing in a section with several stories (true or not, depending on your beliefs!), when suddenly I caught a whiff of a vile odor. I looked under the table (always suspect the dog…) but realized that innocent Kimiko was outside. The odor grew in strength and horrendousness (and if that’s not a word, it should be), and I got up and walked towards the back door. Right inside my back door is the landing of the stairs to the basement, and the odor was emanating from the depths. I turned on the light, and walked down a few stairs, trying not to inhale, and saw that one of my worst fears had come true. The sewer had backed up into my basement. Oh dear lord, the stench. The area that was flooded, about 6 inches deep, happens to be my laundry area, and three or four plastic laundry baskets of clothes, sheets and towels were gleefully soaking up the sewage (I know, I’m anthropomorphizing — but that’s what it looked like!).
This has never happened to me before, so I didn’t know who to call. I called the plumber I have usually used. He came over promptly, walked down part of the stairs, and said, “The sewer line has backed up into your basement.” (well, duh. That’s what I’d said when I called!). “What can you do?” I asked. “Nothing until it gets cleaned up,” he replied. “Then I can look for the clog.”
Now, because my mother had the same thing happen in her house shortly before she died, and didn’t have insurance to cover it, I decided, since my house has a basement, that I should get the rider my mother didn’t have to cover sewer back-up — meaning that the clean-up would only cost the $1000 deductible. My insurance company has a preferred (premier? some fancy word) service that does that, so they came out and looked, and suggested that it would save me time and money if I hauled the laundry, etc., out of the basement. Me? with no immune system and no protective gear? I think not. That’s why I’ve been paying that little extra premium all these years! So he said they’d come back the next day. My dog went to the kennel, and I came to my sister’s house, with a few things because I didn’t think it would take long.
Of course, I couldn’t see what was past the laundry area, so I didn’t know about the damage to the basement bathroom or to the finished bedroom in the basement that I don’t use because in the massive storm of 2002 there was water seepage there, and I had to pull out the carpet and pad, as well as everything stored in the closet (if it’s not one thing…). But I digress. No, not really. The cleaners put all the stuff in my garage (which leaks like a sieve, and it’s been raining far above average since then), and finally finished their work, including replacing and repainting some drywall, just this last Friday, the 31st of July. The plumber charged $85 to say “The sewer backed up,” then about $700 to come back after the sewage was removed run cable and a camera 100 feet and find nothing (which the insurance won’t cover) , then another $400 to come again and run cable and camera 130 feet and push “tree roots, probably” into the main line, which the insurance agreed to cover since “determining the cause” is mentioned in the rider. So, $1700 later, I can theoretically return to the basement. Uh-huh.
Then the planned remodeling of my upstairs bathroom and new kitchen flooring began on the 20th (actually they gutted the bathroom the Friday before that, right down to the 1920’s era lathe and plaster, to remove all the mold and mildew and start over). They said they’d be done by the 25th. It’s now August 2 and there is no floor in the bathroom, the tile isn’t done, and nothing but the tub is in place. In the kitchen, the floor remains, although painting has started. It’s been one thing after another. And one of the crew wants to live with me when they’re done (I’m like flypaper for strange folk…). I really, really hope they’re done by the 5th, but I’m not holding my breath. More than I miss my home, I miss my dog; I am grateful that she actually enjoys the kennel.
I found, and continue to find, that it’s nearly impossible to work here. This computer is old and so is the software; I can’t get my email here; there is no place to spread my research material and notes, and my sister, or her “presence,” is here always, hovering.
But, there is a blessing in the midst of this. Thanks to a fellow writer, I am in contact with someone who has more info — almost firsthand, stories from his father and aunt – about one of the incidents in my book. At least two, and hopefully three, of the haunted places I’m including will be investigated by Dakota Paranormal Investigators in August, and they’re willing to share their reports and photos with me at no cost (they’ll be credited, of course, in the acknowledgments and bibliography, and the caption of any photo I use — and probably any text, too). So I now have, and continue to get, information that will make the book better. I guess that’s something to be grateful for, right?
This weekend my sister from the Twin Cities is visiting, so I haven’t much time. I do intend to do a family and birthday related post soon, along with another sneak peek of Spooky North Dakota. I hope someone looks at this, once in a while!
A Book Review Of Charley’s Choice
June 19, 2009
Fern Hill, a fellow member of Women Writing the West, was kind enough to send me an ARC copy of her latest work, Charley’s Choice: The Life and Times of Charley Parkhurst. I loved the book. I’m sharing my review with anyone who cares to read my blog! (OK, don’t know what’s up with the underlines, but can’t seem to get rid of them — sorry!)
Charley’s Choice is not the typical type or genre of book that I pick up and read — but I’m really glad that I did choose it. Ms. Hill hooked me on the first page, which is actually the end of Charley’s story. There was a mystery there, and I needed, not just wanted, but NEEDED, to follow the clues through the rest of the book.
The first chapter, after “The End,” took me to the beginning of Charley’s story, as a child in an early 19th century orphanage. A girl, Charley abandoned her dresses for boys clothing, to more easily run, climb trees, and sneak into the stable for time with the horse. Horses were what she loved, and all that she wanted to do with her life revolved around them.
After a tragedy, Charley makes her first choices. She runs away from the orphanage, disguises herself and calls herself a boy, and eventually finds a job working with horses in a livery stable.
In Hill’s deft hands, Charley comes vividly to life in that first paragraph of her story — a living child. Although quite young, Charley realizes the limited choices for women in her time and world. She decieds to live as a man and be responsible for her own life. The story describes the increasing difficulties of that decision as she matures both physically and emotionally, but through the joys and tragedies of her live, she sticks to her guns and continues to make her own choices right up to the way she dies.
In the hands of a lesser writer, this story could have rung false or dropped to a maudlin level at points. Fern Hill obviously came to “know” Charley Parkhurst through her research and as she wrote the book. She loves Charley, but portrays her honestly, warts and all. Charley isn’t idolized, though her many quite amazing accomplishments shine through her down-to-earth “auto-biography.” Her mistakes, and how she copes — or sometimes fails to cope — with personal tragedies, help make Charley a believable person. Not a character, not a heroine, but a flesh and blood person I wish I could have met. Although through Fern Hill’s writing, I feel as if I have.
Buy this book, read it, and pass it on to anyone and everyone you know who loves a good story. You won’t regret it, and your friends will thank you for introducing them to Charley Parkhurst and Fern Hill.
New Website Alert!
May 23, 2009
My new website is www.lorisbooks.com . It’s up and running, so come and visit! And my first book will see the light of day as “Spooky North Dakota” (I argued for “Haunted” but lost) in 2010, although I’ll submit the manuscript in 2009. Also “Spooky South Dakota.” Unless that becomes “Spooky Creepy South Dakota.” (Scooby Doo, where are you?!)
In one particularly stormy month, our hard-working crew was camped on Bureau of Reclamation land, pretty much in the middle of nowhere. As usual, we had two tents: One belonged to our fearless leader, Arlen. It was modern, fairly easy to set up, and could hold three people if they were washed and good friends. The other, well, that’s almost a story in itself.
The University of North Dakota, for whom we were working, had been bequeathed the tents used by the all-too-brief archaeological survey of the area that would be flooded by Garrison Dam. In the early 1950s. After seeing these tents, we didn’t believe that story. No, we were quite sure they’d been left behind by the Seventh Cavalry when Custer took his last trip to Montana Territory. They were moldy, mildewy, gargantuan canvas tents, floorless and cheerless. And leaky. They were for the crew. Of course.
The skies were clouding up, but we had some beer, and three of us gals decided to leave the menfolk to their silly tales of conquests, past and future, and take a 6-pack to Arlen’s tent. We were sitting inside talking about archaeology, and archaeologists we’d like to work with, when we heard the first rumbles of thunder and the first raindrops on the tent.
Arlen looked out the flap, and said, “It looks nasty. Let’s head to the other tent!”
She and Jeani managed to get out and run for the Custer tent, but my legs were tangled in a sleeping bag, and by the time I got to the tent’s exit, it was pouring rain and starting to hail. I decided I’d ride it out in where I was. I’d just finished my beer, after all, and there were three left in the six pack.
It continued to rain and hail, and I continued to sip on a beer. Or beers. Suddenly I heard a noise like a freight train. Having grown up at the north end of Tornado Alley, I knew what that meant, but I had to look out the flap anyway. Sure enough, about a quarter mile away a funnel cloud had dropped from the ceiling (cloud ceiling — I wasn’t that drunk) and was headed straight for us.
I zipped up the flaps and thought. Let’s see. Take shelter in the basement. No basement. Take shelter in a sturdy interior room. No buildings, no rooms. Don’t get into your vehicle. OK, I could manage that. Hide in a culvert. Well, unpaved two-track road: no culverts. No shelter at all. I decided that where I was wasn’t any worse than anywhere I could get to, so I cracked open another beer.
The noise got louder, the tent began to rock, and I heard a “ping” as a tent stake pulled loose from the ground. I took a long drink. The tent continued rocking, and the pingings continued, from time to time. I continued drinking, and tried to remember songs from “The Wizard of Oz.”
Finally the roar and the thunder stopped, and the rain slowed to a scatter, then stopped as well. A few minutes later, Arlen unzipped the tent flap. Jeani was looking over her shoulder.
“She looks OK,” Arlen said.
“She looks drunk,” Jeani said.
“Are we in Kansas?” I asked.
Arlen shook her head. “You look like some kind of strange bird that lines its nest with bottles. A giant magpie, maybe.”
“A Kill-Beer,” Jeani corrected.
This struck me as incredibly clever and hysterically funny. As I was rolling in the sleeping bag, laughing, it occurred to me that I’d had more than twice my usual amount of beer. They could be right. Hmm.
“Why didn’t you come over to the big tent with us?” Arlen asked.
“Well, I got tangled up, and by the time I got untangled, it was hailing. And I did have the beer…”
It turned out that I had chosen the best shelter, even if it was only secured by two stakes at that point. The ancient canvas of the Custer tent (which, honestly, should have been on exhibit in a museum) couldn’t withstand the hail, or even the hard rain. It was now full of holes, as well as soaking wet inside and out. I was the only dry one in the group — on the outside, at least.
There was another 6-pack in the cooler in the Custer tent, but I’d had my share, and sat on the cooler while the others drank a bit. That was the closest to a tornado that any of us has ever come — or ever want to. But we’d been lucky. Aside from the holes in the tent, and wet clothes, we’d received no damage at all.
There was a great gouge running across the road and through the open area between the tents. Mother Nature can be violent, but apparently she shows mercy to beery archaeologists. And I don’t drink anymore.
Surviving the Unexpected
May 23, 2009
I’ve already published this at Associated Content, just for fun. You can read it here: http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/1775824/surviving_the_completely_unanticipated.html?cat=60
Cannibal families? Zombies? Werewolves? They’re out there! So be prepared!