My Name is Hadesh Part 4 by P.M. Gilmer

If you missed part 3, here’s the link: https://pmgilmer.com/2017/11/14/my-name-is-hadesh-part-3-by-p-m-gilmer/

From part 3: The other women stood watching us closely, but made no comments. Unusual for these women not to have any opinions. I looked to them for help. “Look at this baby. Can’t you see he is Jemima’s and not mine? Would I not recognize my own child?”

“She has lost her mind,” Jemima interjected before anyone else could speak. “Did she not just wake up with that baby in her bed, and I wake up with this one? Did they get up in the middle of the night and switch places? Or perhaps a demon came in and switched them?”

The women gasped at this possibility, and I noticed a couple of them make a sign as if to ward off evil. If this hadn’t been such a serious affair, I would have rolled my eyes at Jemima’s absurd conjectures. I knew she was only trying to shift the attention from herself and her baby-switching ways. Then the truth of what must have happened occurred to me, and I involuntarily gasped.

“You! You rolled over on your baby and smothered him. Then you switched him with my own who was sleeping in his basket. I remember now I put him in his basket before midnight. You took my baby, then put your own dead babe in my arms.”

The women began to twitter at these allegations, and Jemima’s face became scarlet. I thought she might have an apoplexy right then. I could only wish she would. Instead she said, “You are mad, and making wild accusations will not bring your poor dead child back to life. You need to wrap your baby properly, and let us go and make arrangements for him.”

My Seled began to cry just then or I might have hurled myself at Jemima’s throat. Before I could decide how to respond or what to do to prove I was right, two men entered our house.

“What is going on in here?” the first one asked. “You women are making a lot of racket for so early in the morning. Didn’t know you started your day so early. If you don’t keep it down, someone is going to be calling for the guards. Has someone hurt you? Or left without paying?”

The man questioning us, Muppim, was well known to us all as was his twin brother, Huppim. The two frequented our establishment on an irregular basis. They came into Jerusalem to sell their produce–everything from grapes to honey–and often brought us what they didn’t sell. Considering how many people treated us like dirt or acted like they didn’t even know us (when they knew us quite well), the brothers were kind, if a bit odd.

I pointed my finger at Jemima. “She killed her baby, then stole mine.”

Jemima shrieked. “She’s crazy! You should call the guards and have her taken away. She is trying to take my baby by saying he is hers when her poor babe is lying there dead.” She pointed to where her baby still lay on my bed.

The men looked at Jemima’s baby, then at me, then at everyone else. “Zebidah?” Muppim asked. “What do you know of this?”

Zebidah looked at me, then Jemima, then shrugged. “They both had a baby boy just a few days apart. This morning one of those poor babies is dead. These two,” she jerked her head towards myself and Jemima, “are both hysterical and one of them is lying. Which one? How should I know? Am I as wise as our good King Solomon?”

A bit of nervous laughter came from all the women except Jemima and myself. Then Huppim said, “That’s a good idea.”

Everyone looked at him and waited for him to explain, but he only grinned, looking quite pleased with himself.

“What’s a good idea, Huppim?” Muppim finally asked.

“Asking good King Solomon. That’s what people do when they can’t decide on something, isn’t it? Go and ask the king to judge who is telling the truth.” He beamed as if he had come up with the most original and amazing plan.

I frowned, wondering if the king would see women such as us. Would we even be allowed anywhere near the palace?

“That’s a foolish idea,” Jemima said. “The king wouldn’t have time for the likes of us.”

And even though (or perhaps because) she had just voiced my own thoughts, I disagreed. “He’s the king of all of us, isn’t he? God granted him the wisdom to rule over each and every Israelite, so why wouldn’t he hear us?”

The other women began to murmur, but whether in agreement or disagreement, I wasn’t sure. Huppim continued to look proud of himself, and Muppim scratched his balding head.

“Well,” said Muppim, “if you think that’s the only way to solve this, we would be glad to escort you two ladies.”

Huppim nodded eagerly. “Certainly! We wouldn’t want you ladies wandering through the streets of Jerusalem alone. And, I’ve never been inside the palace! Do you think they would let us in, too?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But we need to go now before the grows any later. We may have to wait a long time to see the king, so let us make haste.”

Part 5 coming Saturday

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My Name is Hadesh Part 3 by P.M. Gilmer

If you missed part 2, here’s the link: https://pmgilmer.com/2017/11/11/my-name-is-hadesh-part-2-by-p-m-gilmer/

From Part 2: I continued to hug my Seled so close that he began to squirm. I made myself relax my grip before he began crying. I shouldn’t have been surprised at the midwife’s offer, but it scared me somehow. I knew people would think we had no business raising children–but this was my baby, and no one could take him from me.

 

Life went on fine for several weeks. Jemima and I both nursed our boys and began to regain our strength. The other women were accommodating, but we would soon need to be taking customers again. My Seled was sleeping well in his little basket, but Jemima continued to keep her Adar in bed with her as they fell asleep. We tried to tell her that wasn’t good for her or the babe, but she refused to listen. She wanted to cuddle her son as much as she could before going back to work, and I couldn’t really blame her.

The little world we had built soon came crashing in on us, though I probably should have known things couldn’t stay sweet for long. I woke one morning, while it was still dark, startled to find my babe in my arms. I realized I must have fallen asleep while nursing him and had failed to put him back in his basket. I needed to get up and stir up the embers in our fire pit, start some water boiling, and all those things that needed to be done to start one’s day. Feeling a bit cramped, I wanted to just get up and put Seled in his basket, but I felt sure if I did that without feeding him first, he would not sleep long, if at all. So, I nudged him a bit, so I could nurse him again before putting him in his basket.

He didn’t even stir, and my first thought was on how well he was sleeping and what a shame to wake him. Maybe I could carefully put him in his basket after all.

I tried to ease myself quietly up off my pallet, so I didn’t wake either him or Jemima and her baby. I knew both Zebidah and Hoglah had gone out for the night and were unlikely to be back yet. Holding my baby against my chest, I suddenly felt something was wrong. My babe felt cold, and I couldn’t hear his soft breathing as I usually did. My heart pounded as I sat back down, carefully laid him on my bed, and gently put my hand on his face. It was stone cold.

My heart seemed to stop, and I felt dizzy. No! My beautiful, healthy baby could not be gone. Just like that! He had been fine last night. I tried to remember nursing him and wondered again how I could have fallen asleep. But, then I remembered putting him in his basket. I did! I did put him in his basket! Did he awaken again, and had I sleepily gotten up and brought him back to bed with me? Sometimes the nights and the feedings did seem to run together.

I placed my hand on his face again, the tears running down my own. I sat, stroking his face, still in disbelief as light slowly began to illuminate our small room. Zebidah and Hoglah came into the house just as dawn was breaking.

“What is it, Hadesh?” Zebidah asked upon seeing my tears. “Is the babe sick?”

I threw back my head and let out a long, low wail. The sorrow poured out of me as if my grief could be unleashed and set free. Zebidah and Hoglah, as well as a few of our neighbors quickly gathered around me.

“Hadesh! What is it?” Then I heard gasps and more crying (besides my own).

“He was fine last night,” I moaned, finally opening my eyes to look at him, now that daylight was here. I started to stroke his face again, then jerked my hand back as if I had seen a snake.

“This isn’t my baby!” I cried out. I looked over at Jemimah who was huddled on her pallet, holding her baby close to her chest and crooning to him. Except . . . that couldn’t be her baby because her baby was lying here on my bed. Dead. And if this was her baby . . .

“Jemimah!” She finally looked over at me, but her eyes were hard and her mouth was set. “This is your baby! You must have mine. Give me back my son!”

Jemima held the baby to her chest, and he began to cry. “You are crazy! Grief has maddened you. Of course, this is my baby. I’m sorry your babe is gone, but that is no cause to try and claim mine. You must have rolled over in the night and suffocated the poor babe.”

I stared at her in horror. Rolled over on my baby? But, no, this wasn’t my baby, and I always put him in his basket. I never went to sleep with him. Did I?

The other women stood watching us closely, but making no comments. Unusual for these women not to have any opinions. I looked to them for help. “Look at this baby. Can’t you see he is Jemima’s and not mine? Would I not recognize my own child?”

Part 4 coming Thursday.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Name is Hadesh Part 2 by P.M. Gilmer

If you missed part 1, here’s the link: https://pmgilmer.com/2017/11/09/my-name-is-hadesh-part-1-by-p-m-gilmer/

From Part 1: At almost fourteen, I found myself pregnant and soon Jemimah was as well. It may sound foolish, but it excited us both to think of having our own child. I promised myself, and the LORD God, that I would take care of this baby, and he would always know his mother’s love. No matter what.

The months went by both quickly and achingly slow. I couldn’t wait to see my baby’s face, to touch him, to hold him. But, there is much to prepare when bringing a baby into the world, especially with no real family to help, so the days flew by with always more to do.

Finally, the day came when my pains began, and I knew my baby was preparing to enter this world. Zebidah ran to get the midwife, and Hoglah helped me to walk around until time to sit on the birthing stool. Jemimah hoovered in the background, her babe almost ready to burst forth as well. As she was as inexperienced as I (and twice as scared), she gladly stood back and let the others tell me what to do.

Well, if you’re a woman, you know what follows, and if you’re a man, you know enough to know you don’t want to hear any more details. My baby entered the world with no complications, his voice as loud and demanding as any man’s. Yes, he was a fine boy, and I loved him at first sight.

Everyone cooed over him–except Jemima. She looked rather ill at all the mess this young one had made. I’m sure she was thinking of her own trial to come, so I tried to smile reassuringly at her, but she looked away, then left our house altogether. To get some air, she said.

“Don’t go too far!” the midwife called after her. “You look to be ready to have your own at any minute.”

This only served to increase her look of distress as she scurried away. The other women laughed knowingly. I paid them no attention, having eyes only for my newborn son who slept exhausted at my breast.

Sure enough, three days later, Jemima cried out in pain and dropped the laundry she had been carrying in. “It’s time! Oh, LORD God of the heavens, help me!”

I had been dozing with my little one who had just finished nursing, but I quickly settled him in his small basket and went to try to comfort and encourage Jemima. She wanted nothing but sympathy, however, and that not from me. Since I could well understand how she felt, I left her alone and went back to my baby who was fussing a bit at all the noise.

Jemima raised such a clamor as the other women tried to get her settled that the midwife soon appeared without anyone going to fetch her. News travels fast in our little neighborhood, and Jemima had been complaining for days, so I’m sure the midwife had been anticipating our call. Though she snubbed us in the streets, we paid her well enough, so she had no problem helping us when we might need her. Truthfully though, we hardly needed her at all.

Jemima’s labor was no easier or worse than normal–though that’s not the story she tells. They say you forget all about the pain once you see your little one’s face, but Jemima swore she would never forget one moment of the pain her little boy put her through. Still, she was just as enamored with her new son as I was with mine. It was just her way to complain and let her voice be heard.

“Another boy,” commented the midwife as she cleaned herself and made ready to leave. “You know, I’m sure I could find a home for either or both of these two lads if you decide they’re too much for you.”

Jemima and I both stared in horror at the old woman, clutching our babes to our chests. Though I wanted to screech at the nosy biddy, I said, (as politely as I could), “Though we appreciate your help with our births, you can go now.”

Jemima felt no reason to be polite. “Just get on out of here with your idea of help! You think just because we’re not rich or respectable women that we can’t raise our sons to be fine men.”

The midwife shrugged, unperturbed by our reactions. “Raising children is not cheap or easy. And there’s plenty who would be eager to raise a healthy son. If you change your minds, you know where to find me.”

I continued to hug my Seled so close that he began to squirm. I made myself relax my grip before he began crying. I shouldn’t have been surprised at the midwife’s offer, but it scared me somehow. I knew people would think we had no business raising children, but this was my baby, and no one could take him from me.

Part 3 coming on Tuesday.

“My Name is Hadesh” part 1 by P.M. Gilmer

This is the story of Hadesh, to be told in eight parts. 

I grew up in the city of Jerusalem during the days of King Solomon. I know some people only think of King Solomon as the man who built the temple and had so many wives, but I will always remember him for the wisdom and kindness he showed to me when others would have thrown me out or ignored me or even laughed at me.

I hope you won’t stop reading when I tell you what I did for a living or think any less of King Solomon for helping me. It might help if I tell you a bit of my own story first.

My father threw me out of our home when I was only six. My mother had just given birth to another daughter, and when my father learned he now had eight daughters, he picked me up and told me it was time I learned to care for myself. He was a very superstitious man, my father, and thought if having daughters could be lucky at all, he could have no more than seven. Why he didn’t just kill my baby sister, I don’t know, except he never seemed to like me. I felt I reminded him of something bad, but I never knew what. Two of my older sisters brought me food for a few days, but soon enough, they got caught, and then I was truly on my own.

I won’t go into the days and years I spent just trying to survive as that is not the point of my story. Suffice it to say, I survived the best way I could, and it wasn’t long before I was selling my body for something to eat. I made friends on the street, and by the time I was twelve, I was living in a house with three other women: Zebidah, Hoglah, and Jemimah. Jemimah and I were of a similar age, but Zebidah and Hoglah were several years older. They mothered us a bit (bossed us more like), but it felt good to have others in my life. Our life was hard, but we worked together, and usually, we could count on each other. But not always.

At almost fourteen, I found myself pregnant. Jemimah, too, discovered she was with child. It may sound foolish, but it excited us both to think of having our own baby. I promised myself, and the LORD God, that I would take care of this little one, and he would always know his mother’s love. No matter what.

_________

Part Two coming Saturday.

Charles Dickens and Serial Fiction

Starting tomorrow, I will begin posting a new story in eight parts. I will not wait a week between each posting as I did with my last story, and each installment (except the last) will be considerably shorter than the installments of “My Name is Absalom.” I believe these shorter installments will be more attractive to those who like to read on their phone–whether waiting in line or finding yourself with a few minutes to kill waiting on a doctor or a loved one, etc. (not waiting in traffic, please).

Serial fiction is nothing new, and in the 19th century, many books were first published this way. I knew Charles Dickens published some of his books in serial fashion, so I decided to do a little research to learn more about how and why he published in this way.

First I learned that Dickens published all of his books this way. I heard someone just a few days comment (complain?) about the wordiness of Dickens’ books, but serial publishing explains this to some degree. No one in the 19th century sat down with an over 800 page copy of David Copperfield or Bleak House. Most of his novels were published in twenty parts. In Dickens’ first book, The Pickwick Papers (1836-1837), thirty-two pages of text along with two engraved illustrations, and sixteen pages of advertising sold for a shilling. The last installment cost two shillings as the text and illustrations were doubled and other parts were included such as a preface, table of contents, list of illustrations, etc.

Other authors who published in serial form include: George Eliot, Thomas Hardy, Anthony Trollope, and William Makepeace. In the early 20th century, books by Hemingway, Edith Wharton, and F. Scott Fitzgerald were also serialized. Their books were serialized in newspapers often after they had already come out in books.

In this century, several books have come about after being posted as blog posts. Andy Weir first posted the chapters of his book, The Martian, as blog posts after failing to publish other books. When his fans wanted it put in book form, he created a Kindle version for .99. After selling 35,000 copies in three months, he finally had the attention of some publishers, and the rest, as they say, is history.

How about you? Do you enjoy reading short stories in serialized form? Or even books? What type of stories do you think are best suited for being published in several installments?

 

Six Audio books of Different Genres For Your Listening Pleasure

As I’ve mentioned in a previous post (https://pmgilmer.com/2017/02/), listening to audio books is both a new and an old kind of reading for me. I started listening to some while walking, then tried while driving. When I first tried to listen while driving, I would find my mind wandering and lose track of the story. I now find myself frustrated if I don’t have a good book to listen to while driving. A few weeks ago, I started three different ones without even finishing the first disc. Having to drive with nothing but the radio (which I had done for years, after all) drove me crazy until I finally settled on a book I could enjoy.

Since I know there are a few others of you out there who enjoy audio books, I thought I would share some that have held my interest enough to make me want to take a long road trip to finish them. These books are of different genres as I get bored reading books of the same genre.

First, a children’s book, The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley. Though I listen to Young Adult books on occasion, listening to this one made me realize I may have been overlooking some fun and entertaining books by not listening to more children’s books. Nine-year old Ada is never allowed to leave her one-room apartment because her mother is embarrassed by her clubfoot. When her brother and other children of the neighborhood are gathered to send them out of London to protect them from the coming war, Ada escapes to join them. They are taken in, rather reluctantly, by Susan Smith who treats Ada like a normal child for the first time in her life. As Ada learns to read and ride a pony, she also learns about love and trust. But, the war can’t last forever. Will she have to go back to her mother? And shouldn’t she want to?

For suspense: Behind Closed Doors, by B. A. Paris. When Grace meets Jack–a handsome, successful lawyer–she believes she’s found the perfect man. She can hardly believe he wants to marry her and willingly accepts her sister with Down’s Syndrome as part of their family. To the outside world, Jack and Grace seem to be the perfect couple. Except–why doesn’t Grace ever answer the phone? Or go out on her own? And why are bars on their bedroom windows? Honestly, not the type of book I usually read because it totally creeps me out. Which is also the reason I couldn’t quit listening.

Historical fiction: The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane by Lisa See. I’ve listened to several books by Lisa See and this is my favorite so far. See tells of a Chinese ethnic minority, the Akha, who raise tea in a very secluded environment. Their culture and traditions make a fascinating read, but it is the characters who make the story. Li-Yan receives an education that few are granted in her world and becomes an interpreter for her people. When she becomes pregnant out of wedlock, she manages to hide her baby (rather than kill her as her culture would dictate) and bring her to a city where she leaves her with a teacake. The baby is adopted by a wealthy California couple. Haley leads a happy life, but wonders about her origins. Meanwhile, Li-Yan goes on to learn more about the modern world and becomes a bridge between this new world and her old one. Through the world of tea, they both search and long for each other.

More historical fiction: The Alice Network by Kate Quinn. A difficult, but fascinating read about a woman, Eve, who was a spy against the Germans in WWI and now spends her days drunk, full of rage, fear and regret. In 1947, Charlie St. Clair, shows up at her door looking for her cousin. Though she finds Eve pathetic, she believes Eve can help her and eventually obtains her help. Along the way, she learns Eve’s story–about her grossly misshapen hands and the demons she tries to hide. This story is based on a true female spy network used in WWI.

Historical Mystery: A Study in Death by Anna Lee Huber. This is the fourth in the Lady Darby series, taking place in Scotland in 1831. I have listened to all four of these and look forward to the fifth book. (I reviewed the second book last year: https://wp.me/p1X6gd-fP) In this installment, Lady Darby has been commissioned to paint a portrait of Lady Drummond. When Lady Drummond is found dead, Lady Darby is appalled at Lord Drummond’s seeming lack of concern and suspects poison. She suspects Lord Drummond, too, but how can she prove it? He is a respected gentleman, and Lady Darby is still trying to overcome her past left her by her late husband.

Finally, the book I’m listening to now: Rise and Shine, Benedict Stone Phaedra Patrick. Benedict Stone, living in a quiet English village, finds himself stuck and his life falling apart. His marriage is in trouble and business at his jewelry store is almost non-existent. Then one night, a teen-age girl shows up on his doorstep. Gemma, the daughter of his long estranged brother who left for America years ago, has lost her passport and seems to be rather lost herself. Together, they learn about family and how to help and encourage one another.

How about you? If you listen to audio books, how do you find the ones you like? How important is the narrator to you?

 

In Search of a Critique Group

Critique groups for writers are a necessary evil. Aren’t they? Most of us who write prefer our own company to any other. Also, as long as we are the only one reading our writing, we can believe it’s pretty good. Or not too bad. Or actually, it’s terrible and not worth the hard drive on which it has been stored. (See what I mean?)

But there comes a time when, if we’re serious about putting our work out there to the public in some way (preferably publication as in people are lining up to buy our books or we’re winning prizes for our stories and New York is calling), we must find some other writers who can give us constructive feedback. Letting your friends and loved ones read your work and tell you it’s the best book they’ve ever read (even if they haven’t read anything since high school) is all well and good, but will not impress any agent, editor, or publisher.

How to find that perfect critique group has eluded me so far, so, unfortunately, I am not here to give you any helpful tips if you are in that same position of looking for a good group. I have a couple of possibilities right now, and I hope to be able to share with you in the next few months about how I have finally found that group and how amazingly helpful they have been.

So, while I’m continuing my quest for a critique group, I will share the basic guidelines for what I expect from a group, and maybe you can suggest a few more. The first may seem obvious, but you would be surprised. Everyone in the group needs to be writing and to be serious about writing. (Who would join a group about writing who isn’t actually writing? All those who dream about writing and know how easy it really is, and think ‘what’s the big deal anyway?’)

Secondly, everyone needs to be willing to share something of what they’ve written and be willing to listen to everyone’s comments on their selection without being defensive or apologetic. And, third, everyone needs to be willing to read the writings of all members and give helpful feedback. No “this was great” or “this was terrible.” Be specific at what you like, don’t like, or feel needs to be made more clear.

Coming Soon: Besides rewriting Solomon I (totally changing the POV; more on that another time) and working on Solomon II, I’m working on a story to post in this very blog. Soon.

Fun Fact: I noticed when I started writing this blog, I have published one hundred posts, so here’s to 101.

P. S. For any of you writers out there, the Charlotte Writers Club has their nonfiction contest open now. Any piece of unpublished nonfiction from 750-2000 words may be entered. For more information, check out their website: charlottewritersclub.org

How about you? Have you been part of a critique group? What worked and what didn’t?

 

 

Trip to the Outer Banks-Part 2

To continue with our trip: Of course, we made plans to visit the most famous lighthouse of all–Cape Hatteras, also known as America’s Lighthouse. Confession: I thought it was the only lighthouse on the Outer Banks. I obviously need to get out more. Since we stayed in Kill Devil Hills, our trip to Hatteras took us close to two hours. Recent hurricane weather had flooded the roads and what was to be a “scenic drive” was mostly driving through water and seeing rather large sand dunes on the sides of the road. Still, I enjoyed the drive and what scenery we could see.

Having climbed one lighthouse and spending $10 for the privilege, I was content to view this lighthouse from the ground. My husband, however, was up for the challenge (and saw a deal in $4 for seniors) and made the climb. I promised to wave to him when he got to the top, but spent a little too much time in the museum and gift shop, or bookstore. Someone waved to him, however, (who apparently looked amazingly like me–from the top of a lighthouse anyway), so thanks whoever you are!

We also visited The Graveyard of the Atlantic Museum. (I don’t know why I didn’t take a picture outside. None were allowed inside.) The most interesting sight here is the “lost lens” from the original Cape Hatteras Lighthouse. There are also artifacts from the ghost ship Carroll A. Deering. This ship passed Cape Lookout Lightship on January 29, 1921. Some months later, the ship was found abandoned and no one knows what happened to the crew. For more reading on this mystery: https://www.nps.gov/caha/learn/historyculture/theghostship.htm

On our last day, we started by visiting the Wright Brothers National Memorial. Though the museum is still under construction and won’t be open until next year, we were still able to climb the hill that had been the sand dune where the brothers performed many of their experiments and now displays a monument in their memory. This climb was almost as difficult as the one up the lighthouse and will give you a new appreciation for the determination the Wright Brothers had and the work they put in to learn to fly. Reading David McCullough’s book The Wright Brothers last year helped me to understand better what the Wrights accomplished. I’m afraid the vision I retained from my elementary days was of a couple of old brothers jumping off a sand dune with a strange-looking contraption. Obviously, there was quite a bit more to it than that, and I can highly recommend McCullough’s book for more detail.

As no vacation would be complete without a visit to at least one bookstore, we visited a couple, including ones at every historic site we toured as well as the Island Bookstore in Kitty Hawk.

And, finally, though we ate some good food at several places, I had to make a stop at Duck Donuts before we left.

There’s still much we didn’t see on our trip to the Outer Banks, so hopefully, we can go again someday. Maybe I’ll even climb another lighthouse. How about you? Visited any lighthouses lately?

Trip to The Outer Banks, N.C.–Part 1

Last week, my husband and I made a trip to the Outer Banks, N.C. to celebrate our 30th anniversary. We’ve lived in N.C. twenty-nine years, but this was our first trip to the Outer Banks. There are closer beaches, but I wanted to see the lighthouses and learn more about the history of both the Outer Banks and our state. The Outer Banks is home to five lighthouses, and we managed to see three of them.

 

On our first day, we went to Corolla and visited the Currituck Beach Lighthouse. This lighthouse began flashing its light in 1875 and stands at 158 feet. I enjoyed climbing this lighthouse and seeing the great view from above.

Near the lighthouse is the Corolla Schoolhouse. When exactly this one-room schoolhouse was opened is unknown, though some sources cite it as early as 1890. It was closed in 1958. In front of the schoolhouse is a Little Free Library, a replica of the schoolhouse.

After a lunch in Duck (where there are plenty of food options), we ended the day with a walk and some reading on the beach at Kill Devil Hills.

New Name, New Domain

For those who have been following my blog from the beginning, you know I started this blog for a class assignment while working on my masters degree. My original intent was to share homeschooling news, library events, and book reviews.

For the past two years or so, I have returned to writing on a more serious and full-time basis. I have heard and read that I need to have my own domain–under my own name–in order to build a better platform and so that people can find me. I have been dragging my feet about it, but have finally taken the plunge and will be blogging under http://www.pmgilmer.com. I will start with an introduction, then will post “My Name is Absalom”. It will still be in seven parts, but I will probably not wait a week between each post as it is a rerun to most of my readers. Of course, I hope to attract new readers, and I believe this is a good example of my writing.

It will take me a few days to set up my new blog, (and if you go to it now, you will only be redirected to “declare”) and I will continue to post book reviews and other random things that take my fancy on “declare”. I know many people keep up with more than one blog, but I doubt I will do that for long. Then again, who knows?

I hope you will continue to follow me here, but will also join me in my writing journey at http://www.pmgilmer.com