“Greetings!” Came a woman’s voice from behind them.
The two friends turned about startled. Before them stood a deer; yet, its neck and head were replaced with the upper half of a naked female-elf. Her long hair covered both of her petite breast.
“To you as well.” Said the male stranger, who added, “I am Fayendar’Kyon, and this is my companion, Saleeth.” He was amazed by the sight of the creature before him.
“I am Lyreah, an elodreen from the yellow woods of --” Her words were interrupted.
“Kinderval!” Exclaimed Saleeth. She added, “I have met some of your kind before.” Sounding insightful.
“Elodreen!?” Breathed Fayendar with wide eyes. “I had always heard and been taught they were fictitious -- I mean no offence, but horrid creatures from children’s bedtime stories.”
“You have lived a sheltered life indeed, Fayendar’Kyon.” The elven-deer smiled angelically back at him as if at a child, “For we are neither horrid nor fictitious.” Then adding in a lower tone and cutting eyes to Saleeth, “Yet, I assure you our spell-charms are quiet real.”
“You are a good distance from your own woods --” This time Saleeth’s defensive words fell short.
“Just as you are from the Grey Havens, Saleeth of no House name.” The Elodreen’s manner was poignant.
Saleeth caught the intent and asked, “Are we familiar? Do you know me, eldren?”
“What brings The Fallen to our woods?” Dismissing her Lyreah looked to Fayendar.
Breathing courage he answered, “We fled the Western Sea Port and sought an alliance with those of the northern hills…”
Her expression raised, “Dwarves? How fascinating indeed!”
The wonderer continued his brief-story, “After a season of years a force from Mithar lay siege upon Mount Ipstha as few escaped.”
Reading between the lines as if she herself new more detail than were being given, Lyreah asked, “I see, and you must be ‘a remnant’ of that few.” Sharpening her words again up Saleeth, “The others, where are they?”
“A half mile back, we were hunting when --.” She answered, trying to avoid the intense stare.
Politely demanding the greater truth, “You were talking, not hunting, and in your discussion you came upon something?”
Fayendar injected, feeling subdued, “Yes. Yes, we -- saw an island just off the southern cliffs of this mainland’s coast.”
Cocking her head slightly to the side with a wicked grin cautioned him with, “Wary now, what else did you spy?”
Saleeth’s words came out on their own, “A light. There was a tree that gave off its own light. Did you not see it Fayendar?”
Yet being totally honest Fayendar admitted, “No. No, I did not, but we --”
He walked a little behind her and had not seen what she had.
Nevertheless, Lyreah injected upon them, “You must return to your people and turn their hearts to this island, for it shall prove to be that which you have so long sought after.”
. . . . . . .
=You spoke of other matters as well, before your discovery of the tree, did you not? Come now, and let us sit together and speak of such things. For I am eager to enlighten you both upon our shared history, and from it you shall learn the truth that has eluded you both for far to long. The Truth that even Murelen’Fay himself rightly uncovered.
+I was raised in The Truth, and obtained the fourth degree of Accurate Knowledge; for the Founder’s Book was the foundation of all our
=Then all the more reason for you to hear my tale, Saleeth. For, Seraphim, the author of that work was gravely biased by his own agenda, and those who adhere to its premise are just as flawed. Seraphim later regretted his version of hope, and sought the eastern homeland of our people, long before Fay’Valen’s brave declaration. After Seraphim’s departure he was never heard from again, except for the one time he and I met in Kinderval.
-Lyreah, how do the Elodreen know of Murelen?
=lol=Surely I am not alone in the world, and the House of Fay is older than Murelen?
Rubbing her hands clean, Lyreah knelt the front portion of her deer body down into the grass, as her powerful hind legs followed into a seated, then laying posture. With that Fayendar was prompted to sit down on a nearby fallen tree trunk as well. Saleeth remained standing off to the side, a few paces to the left of the scribe. They watched the Elodreen vigorously rub some twigs together, and gently blow on them. In no time a tongue of fire leapt up into a blaze.
The quickly lit fireside soon dispelled the oncoming of night with a warm glow. Its orange radiance gave Lyreah's lightly furred facial features an even more exotic look. She smiled with pride, from the fire up into the watching eyes of the scribe and said, “All these lands are our home, and like you, I too am on an errand of my own business, Fayendar.” Then to his companion she replied, “But come, let me share a tale with you of our mutual beginnings.” Gesturing, with an outstretched hand, she added, “Saleeth, may your heart not be troubled and your mind set at ease, please -- sit.” With that she crossed over the fallen trunk and sat down on the ground, making the three of them into a circle.
“Listen well, my fallen children.” She withdrew a small handful of fine power from the pouch that hung across her shoulder, and suddenly scattered it over their campfire that soon became the center of their attention. Its flames roared twice as high and shimmered with a multiple of various colors as sparkling lights danced deep within the blaze, causing it to leap higher. As she spoke to the them their minds wandered and their heads felt light and airy as if they had drank too much wine. Then, without being told they somehow knew that they had been transported back to the days of their founding fathers.
The port city of Mithar was virtually empty. Its vast fleet of swan-shaped sailing ships had already departed for the journey of no return, past the great bookend like, mountain-cliffs of Isil-riena and Anar-alca; the harbor's gateway to the sea. Their 'Great Departure' would soon see the last of Elvendom fade from the world of men; crossing over, beyond the rim of the endless sea to the divine paradise of the nether-world. They would go unto that happy fair-land where crystal towers spiraled into the heavens, and where endless days of joy were to be spent in unimaginable bliss and song. A realm where dew and mist fell, but never a harsh rain. A place where dead loved ones still lived and waited eagerly to greet those yet to arrive. For such was their hope, and our remembrances of their now faded dreams.
Yet, there remained a single ship. Docked to the old world, like a great bird withheld from flight, tethered to the ground, still bound to the illusionary world of our mundane concerns of the here and now, with all its bitter sorrows.
Off - in the distance - a bell in the highest tower of that ancient city had begun to ring out the wind's solemn tune. It was a slow and sad mournful sound indeed. Just then a handful of richly-clad figures stood arguing at the end of the pier, as storm clouds rolled in over the bay's horizon.
The white ship belonged to the Lord of those Grey Havens, and it was he who went briskly down the boardwalk, as his silent boots turned left onto the weathered planks to go aboard. He stopped, half way in-between both worlds it seemed; one foot on the pier and the other on the gangway. From the corner of his eye he noticed that the others had not followed him. They gathered, mid-way on the faded deck, and waited -- some with hands staunchly placed on their hips, but all with grim expressions.
Shelda’Mar's blue-grey eyes were almost tearful as they gazed into those of his twin brother, Vendu’Mar. It was he who lead their dissent.
"Our time has passed." Shelda’Mar said, as the winds increased the breaks the waves multiplied. He was tall, and very pale complicated. Beautifully attired in his formally embroidered robes, and green-velveteen over-sized cap slanted on his head. "You know we must leave; the others have gone already," he added with an extended hand that accented the desperation in his usually calm voice.
Vendu’Mar's mirrored image refused the gesture, and with a slight tilt of his head, called back to his twin brother, not so loudly, "Nay, Brother! We have need to stay. To guide the councils of these weaker men." He said the last phrase with contempt in his voice, as his slanted eyes narrowed on his slim face.
Shelda’Mar was calm, but firm, "There is no need for that; for their time has arrived, and ours finished. The Elder days have ended, and the Lesser children's already begun." The hem of his cloak rippled in the growing breeze, as its shimmering fabric lifted behind him. "The Lords of the Elder lands have returned home, and we are the next among their great houses to follow; come brother, I implore thee to be wise." His words held no malice, as his blonde hair swept across his somber expression.
Almost with a rage just beneath the surface, Vendu’Mar's squinting eyes flared back at the copy of his own, "They fight constantly among themselves, are easily led astray from their destinies, and are wayward! No - no, we must stay. We must stay and guide them to Illuvathian’s Light." Vendu’Mar took a step backward, into the chest of the white robed figure that stood behind him.
It was Sal’Gilvan's cue, and it was not lost on him to speak up next, "Our losses in the War for their freedoms was high, and I for one shall not be moved!" His left hand toyed with the pommel of the sword resting at his side, while the other stroked the length of the scar along his right cheek. Gilvan had lost his wife and seven children, and both sets of parents in a single night. Those deaths had embolden him to speak his mind without fear.
Yet, Shelda’Mar, motioning with his hand, missing its own thumb, had great losses in his family as well -- as they all did. He pointed to the ship beside him, "Our reward for that cost, is admittance into Valithnor, that Undying Land shall be veiled hereafter from the eyes of mortal kind." But Gilvan and the others remained bitter and undaunted.
From behind Gilvan, Veth’Dema pushed his way forward. The only one with dark hair, and dark eyes, and a fat belly; he stayed for his own unannounced reasons, begun to shout at the ship master, "Then ye, may wait for our arrival, in our own good time." A contemptuous smirk grew on his round face.
But Shelda’Mar grew frustrated with their stubbornness, and looked directly at Gilvan, "Thou knowest well, I hold not the key of that realm. It was given unto Gan’Meirith, and it was he who bade us come, for we are now the last to heed that call."
Gilvan disliked Meirith, that messenger from across the sea. He disliked him because he had not partaken in the War, nor witnessed the transitions of the last few months, and so Gilvan waved off the sound of his name like an annoying fly searching for a resting place, "Then be gone. We will remain 'til we are called again."
But Shelda’Mar felt compelled to restate the former's admonishments, "Remember his final call? I warn ye now: henceforth shall all your days dwindle to naught, for the doom of men shall fall upon you as well. For if ye depart not, then ye too will know the tears and sting of sorrow and pain. The longevity of your lives has been cut short by death's touch. None shall see more than one hundred and twenty years; after this day."
But they just stood there looking at him with disgust and disbelief, firm in their convictions to remain behind.
Seeing that they were all unwilling to leave, the High Lord of the City turned about and once again headed for his waiting vessel. It was a massive ship -- two hundred and fifty feet long, with its three huge, slanted sheets unfurled, waiting to be turned into the growing winds. Its foremast was draped with the emblazoned, seven-pointed Silver Star of the elven people. Its bow was ornately carved with the head and body of a great swan, whose wings formed the entire length of the grey-white hull. Its reflection was broken up by the foaming waves slapping the pier that it was moored to. An ornate vessel that declared the workmanship of a now fading people, to those who refused its heritage. Its crew, however, readied the lines for whenever the word was given.
Shelda`Mar's pale face was moist from the mist of the salty air, as his clear blue-grey eyes tearfully viewed the entirety of the city for the last time. With its solitary tower reaching skyward, and its uniquely designed Great Hall in the foreground, the grey havens suddenly took on the appearance of a graveyard to that departing Captain. The wind blew strands of his long blonde hair; through which, Shelda`Mar sadly looked down upon those who remained on the pier below. They murmured among themselves while staring up at their last chance slipping away. He tried to convince his kinsman to join them one last time, but their silent stern faces was his only answer. He knew then that leaving his brother, and the others, was difficult, but they had made their choice.
As the evening shadows lengthened, the pale moon rose brighter. Moments later the enormous canvases of the frail ship were filled with life, as they breathed in the westward winds, and were drawn out through the cleft gateway to the Great Sea beyond. The remnant they left behind only watched, with mixed emotions. It was now too late for a change of heart as the vessel grew small against the setting sun's horizon for the last time. Soon it joined the awaiting twelve of the White Fleet. With the final rays upon that fading armada they disappeared, never to be seen again; and in that breath the bell began to toll, atop the solitary tower, as the sun covered the blackened city.
Those who remained behind, came to believe that they did so only because they later wanted the others to return and create a paradise, grander than the old world. Yet, even as they stared upon that silent departure, they knew in their hearts all their hopes were in vain. They would become a diminished and forgotten people.
Slowly they turned back to their abandoned city. In the bright, full moonlight they watched as the waters of the bay had strangely gone placid again, without even the hint of a ripple or cloud above. Upon leaving the pier, they saw the reason for the bell's sounding; for a darkly cloaked figure approached, from its now reticent direction.
Upon clearly seeing the disappointed face of the one who hurried to meet them, Vendu`Mar broke from the group and angrily shouted, "Meirith! Why have you stayed behind?"
Pulling his pointed-hood back, he replied, "All is not lost: perhaps a signal may yet be heard -- "
Gilvan cut him off with, "Your advice was not heeded the first time, what makes you think it would be welcomed now? You did not understand our plans before they left, and with every argument you fought against us at every turn, do not start up again."
Veth`Dema admonished him with a hiss and pointed finger, "Be gone, you unwanted Apostate, and trouble us no more with your tainted words of a false hope."
Seeing that they were all in agreement against his presence, Meirith retorted, "So mote it be! Yet, others shall now be offered the chance to glory in your misstep." He replaced his hood and headed for the southern gate, toward the Blue Mountains.
As the weeks passed in silence, the harbor remained empty. A quiet somberness fell upon that remnant who stayed. Slowly we grew used to our new solitude.
Eighteen days later, it was decided that an eternal flame should be made, and continually kept burning atop the solitary Tower. Some thought, just in the event that the others might return like a thief in the night. Galadir`Mar, the nephew of Vendu`Mar, was charged with its continual care, which he did with loving and grave vigilance.
The day that the flame was to be lit, also marked the Conception Day of Lord Fay`Symodare. At one hundred and twenty years old he was counted as the eldest among those twenty-one Watchers who remained behind and saw their brethren leave. However, as the youngest among them, Seraphim was sent to awaken him; yet, upon arriving at the door of his chamber, Symodare was discovered lying dead in his bed. His serene face mocked the frightened ones that gathered him up for his burial.
As a bed of acacia wood was erected, Symodare's lifeless form, was bound with cords, wearing his most elaborate of red robes, and laid upon the bier. The hood-covered face of the shrouded figure gave no response, as the eternal flames were lit high in the heights of the tower above; likewise, to those that engulfed his final slumber. As his cold body burned before those gathered, the smell of fragrant herbs, anointed oils and consumed flesh had begun a new and somber rite for them. For the prophesied words of Gan`Meirith had now been fulfilled, and the reality of their folly, set in. But none could turn back now to unring the bell of fate; so -- Seraphim rang it anew to mark the occasion, and every year thereafter, on that same day was it rung twenty one times, for each one of us who stayed behind.
After the body of their peer had been fully consumed, the ashes of his crushed bones were gathered. We, each in turn, took a handful and scattered them in the direction of the bay's gateway to the sea. The remainder of his ashes were placed in a brass and ivory urn, into which the others pledged their own would some day join.
Nol`Mithlon, the half-brother of Sal`Gilvan said, "May these words ever be spoken at the passing of one of us, and may they be remembered before any of our future children: 'Long have the days of Elvendom passed, when their frail beauty and longevity inspired the heart, for the fires of forgetfulness have consumed them, and their hope of immortality, lost.' " Those words too, were carved on the Watcher's Urn.
Of all the Watchers who remained behind in the port city of Mithar, I was the only female among them. For I am Lyreah, the older sister of Seraphim. I was the first to grow disenchanted with their reasons for staying behind, and after the passing of Symodare, was the first to leave those Grey Havens.
The morning after his funeral rite, I announced to that gathering, during breakfast, "I can no longer stay here and watch as we all perish into forgotten ashes, one-by-one."
At which Gilvan sounded surprised, "Where would you go?” he said to me. “Surely not to the dwarves?" Then glanced around to see if any of the others agreed with him, that the possibility of my going to the mountain dwellers was an evil choice.
But I said, as if the answer should have been obvious to everyone, "No. I feel the need to return to the ways of nature. For, we once had many friends among that kingdom as well, before our hearts became compassionless."
Then the green eyed, Baal`Yic smiled, and with a hand over his heart nodded, "Blessings to you then, may we all meet again in Valithnor." From a raised goblet he drank to my health and leaving.
But I was too newly-bitter then, and much surprised by his words, and replied, "Blessings to you all; though I fear we are all doomed never to see that happy fate." As I left the marbled dinning hall of Varlendur in silence, and for the last time; my plate and glass remained untouched, for I had had my fill of their tainted “spiritually-incarnated” food and self serving lies.
Know this and keep it secret no longer; that I was the last of our people to possess the ability to use the morphing craft of shape shifting, and in the Yellow Woods, east of those Havens, I became one with the animal kingdom. The speed, agility and strength of deer-kind had won my heart as it was to them I was drawn.
My offspring came to partially possess that morphing gift as well, yet by their second generation the merging of our two races became the mixture you see in me now; and the Elodreen race of Kinderval. We are loners, and treated as outcast among both our original people. Feared for our differences and new ability to charm, as you have seen; yet, it will be our doom that we are to perish. But before we are gone from the world know that we were indeed here, and know too the truth of your own people as well.
For, no one can tell me what the Truth of the Nephilim is, or what they believe, because I was there. I know first hand what happened. And all the stories and versions I have heard since are only embellishments made by fools seeking a name for themselves.”
Slowly the flames of the campfire died down to mere embers of glowing coals in the now early morning light. With the breaking of dawn, the spell of enchantment faded. Lyreah was no where to be seen.
They woke up in another location different than where their original camp had been
Dazed and confused not only that their camp had been displaced, but also astonished by the group of onlookers staring down at them asking a multitude of questions: ranging from Where have you been for two days to Why were you sleeping here, and are you alright?
The only thing that told Fayendar that he had not dreamt their encounter with Lyreah was when he noticed the pouch she had been carrying had been left behind and was now at his feet.
The Dark Times are approaching, When winter comes and swings that cold ax, Of frozen winds and solemn tunes naked trees and silent birds. Cold nights and unnerving days, When inside gatherings come along and yearning for family times old memories creep in and stretch slowly out.
I have been working on a project for quiet some time, at least fermenting in my head and coming out as several sketches. Years ago I began writing an Epic Novel. THE NEPHILIM AGE: The Watcher's Requiem. It is a complex tale, but basically a Fantasy. A man learns of his lost brother and develops a relationship with him. In doing so inherits an unusual gift. One of which is a manuscript that tells about an ancient "pre-flood" people.
I am crafting a Scroll that will be placed in a specially carved box.
The Cloth. One day as I took the trash out I noticed an old couch had been discarded near the dumpster. I had been thinking a lot about the idea of crafting the Scrolls of Mithar and upon seeing the upturned couch knew immediately where the "cloth" would come from. Taking my pocket knife I removed the underlining of that old discarded couch and a year later am only now beginning to design the artwork to put on them.
An Elven-teacher, Seraphim by name; the "creator" of the Scrolls themselves, (in the story). The handwritten Script, shown in this drawing I did, is called Sinenya. It is my own vocabulary mixed with variation of Tolkien's Elvish Sindar. [Not pictured here is the Language of Nasil, the common speech of men. With Nasil (which looks like Sumerian cuneiform), is a translation of my poems into Spanish, reversing the letters, and dropping the vowels by one and changing the font.] Dan Smith created the FONTS for me.
The Great Hall of Mithar; shaped like cupped hands with interlaced fingers. The "thumbs" of the building are supported with pillars and the main door just beyond them.
THIS is a Photoshopped design I did of viewing inside The Great Hall of Mithar.
The Watchtower of Mithar, with an eternally lite bon fire atop. (An original sketch done awhile back).
The Cultic hand-sign of the teacher's of Mithar's Tower, (with tattoo of their full titles).
The setting sun between the gateway to the sea beyond the Bay of Mithar.
Some of the Elves of Middle-Earth stayed behind and devised a new Cultic Society.
The High Lord of the Grey Havens of Mithar died and was cremated; the remaining Elves kept his ashes in a special Urn. From there after those who passed away of the original remaining 21 Elven fathers were added to his upon their own death. The Watcher's Urn. Each one of these sketches will be a panel with elvish script telling the story.
"...These are but needless things we do here, unto them who understand not the majesty of the lives once lived and now thusly enshrined as sacred ashes within this Holy Urn." ~ Baal`yik Dormath Second Priest of Mithar.
Afterward, Murelen approached his throne picking up a resting pouch, and shared its contents with his silent scribe, “Upon my father’s death everything he owned came to me. This was among his most prized possessions, and spurred him toward his deepest desire; which has now become our journey to new beginnings. I wish to give it to you, Fayendar as a token of our friendship, love and the deep respect my father had for you.” Smiling, he added, “Something tells me it is more a part of your destiny than my own. Keep it well.”
It was the leather satchel that the king had always carried across his shoulder. From it, Murelen removed a velveteen green-bag. Supporting it with both hands, one on top the other below, he presented it to Fayendar.
Accepting it, Fayendar said, “In the receiving alone, am I honored, milord.” While untying the wrapped-around gold-cord and unfolding the bag, he slowly withdrew the object within just as the King added, “It is the original Watcher’s Requiem, written by the very hand of Seraphim himself. I feel it will validate all that you have already come to believe, my friend and strengthen you for that which is yet to come.”
Seeing his genuine surprise, the king smiled back as the scribe’s face lit up, “Thank you, for such a unique gift indeed, sire!”
It was a small wooden box, almost the length and breadth of Fayendar’s hand. Its lid was latched closed with a simple metal flip-lock, which needed no key or peg. The lid’s top surface was ornately carved with deeply drawn vines. A windowed opening was accented with a hand carved swan-ship riding upon the waves, whose three unfurled sails pointed upward. A small cloth scroll was rolled onto two pine-wood spindles that were locked in place by the closed lid. Framed and showcased by the ornate window, Fayendar noticed that when he turned the left spindle the illuminated text was written in such a way that the lid’s carvings pointed out certain passage details: either chapter, verse or circled letters.
Interrupting the inspection of his new gift, Murelen told Fayendar, “I am pleased you are so taken with it; however, I must now attend to other matters pressing upon me. For the tribal leaders will soon be arriving with a multitude of questions.”
Returning the boxed-scroll to its bag, and returning it to the leather case, Fayendar quickly nodded as he was leaving through the tent flap entrance, “Certainly, and again, thank you, milord.”
Later that evening, in his private tent, Fayendar read the scrolls in their entirety, studying every word and its many detailed drawings with great interest. After decoding the circled letters, Fayendar read a message that really astounded him. For the author had written a warning not to add or take away from his words.
The tale he read on the scrolls were almost identical in every detail to Lyerah’s personal account. It was written in poetic form in the tongue of Sinenya. The version of the Watcher‘s Book he had studied those many years ago at Varlendur paled in comparison to the beautiful simplicity of the original cloth scroll. For it contained none of the additional embellishings about the family and priestly lineages who followed the Watchers. Neither were there any of the proverbial sayings and ceremonial songs nor the lyrical prohibitions against associating with dwarves, and venturing into the western woods of Kinderval.
Fayendar began to remember all his ‘sacred service,’ the mundane ceremonial duties he had preformed, and how they were labeled as ‘theocratic secrets,’ forbidden to be shared with even his non-priestly family members. Strangely his eyes began to tear up. He felt confused inside. A scene of loss, and a feeling of gain all at the same time. He had been told by so many people his entire life what the book said, that finally being able to read it for himself was an almost overwhelming experience. A scene of disappointment made his shoulders drop because of the story’s difference was so different, so plain and simple, yet believable. Suddenly, he realized his tears were of joy. For he felt an inward growth, and the weight of all his guilt and frustration had finally lifted from his mind and heart. The king was right, learning the truth about, ‘The Truth’ had validated his new beliefs, and strengthened him with a resurgence of confidence.
Hidden in clear view, engulfed within the shadowy side of the trees was a satchel. A three by one by one and a half foot black box. From the brass fittings, rollers on the back, and segmentedly-extended handle anyone could tell the brief case must have been placed there on purpose. With its flap-top handled-lid still closed, and its undisturbed combination locks still bearing their original proactive ties the case seemed to have an untold story. It was obviously new and not ready to be discarded, yet there it sat outdoors all alone.
The dog-walker, who happened upon the mysterious discovery, immediately noticed it was at least thirty feet into the undeveloped woodlands away from his apartment’s back lot dumpster. It was not “thrown out”. But why was it there, he wondered? As his collie, Sherman approached the owner nervously pulled back on the dog’s leash commanding him to stay back from the unknown. The canine suddenly began sniffing the air in the direction of his owner’s attention. The dog would have just kept going without having taken any notice of it but now, it somehow commanded his full investigational skills. But Thomas would having nothing of a close inspection of the object, either by himself or his furry friend.
“That thing could have - anything in it boy!” Thomas Mathers told his dog as though he understood every word he spoke. Tom’s thoughts ran the gambit of crazy thoughts during those moments standing there looking at the thing.
THIS IS JUST a portion from the Abridged version of THE TEXAS SNOWS I am working on:
"...Alice was named after her great grandmother, (Selena Cora "Alice" Farmer), and after her grandmother, on her father’s side, Irene. Alice Smith went to Oak Park Elementary, Driscoll Junior High, and graduated Roy Miller High School in 1980. Alice was proud to be a stay at home mom, and held no real interest in furthering her educational studies.
Her only aspiration was to be a housewife and mother. Like her own mother, she too worked in the child care field, and her local Baptist church nursery. She was a shy and quiet person who liked owning a variety of pets: dogs, (mainly poodles), cats, hamsters, birds, rabbits, fish, and ferrets. Alice Snow suffered a heart attack and underwent a quad-bypass in November of 2007, only later to be paralyzed by a major stroke after carotid artery surgery a year later in 2008. Though able to get around with limited mobility, she uses a cane or wheelchair, and refuses to be home bound; showing much courage in striving to regain her former condition.
David and Alice Snow were the parents of one daughter:
These are harsh words to myself. Probably shocking to those who tend to know me best. They were for me at least as I scribbled them down before I re-wrote them here. I sketched out the years of my life, and the "time-travel" of it all. Seems my Time has arrived to "step-up". All the brooding thoughts have simmered long enough. Looking over my life, and placing tick marks on a page, adding all the years up and in the grand scheme of things; interesting.
Having no idea the number, nor the quality of years remaining - dawn has come. Seems there may be more years behind me than what lay ahead. Yet it is that very fact of not knowing either that lends itself to hope and optimism. An anticipation of what lies ahead and of what can only be touted as "achievements" to come.
Goals? I have a few. What? Shall I "risk" placing them here in full view? Why not? If I fail (though I vowed that is no option), none have cared to ridicule me for those past failed goals more than myself. Maybe in the sharing some fair amount of encouragement (I will take it or leave it for again, I have determined to do this thing); or good sprinkling of inspiration may befall others afraid to fly as I too often had been.
I chose to be optimistic, hopeful and eager in what is yet to unfold in the three goals I now set before myself, namely:
(1) Complete a Leadership Training Camp Course at work.
(2) Seek a promotion from that fruit, as an Orientation Instructor.
(3) Publish my first novel.
For me these are high goals to be achieved with rewards in themselves; but none greater than in the experience of their journey toward completion.
I just turned 50 in July, 51/52 would not be a bad deadline!!!!