The cold water beaded up and rolled down the sides of the shiny irrigation pipe making it difficult, but fun, for my brother and I to walk on. On one side, the dirt had been heated by the summer sun until it was an unbearable temperature–even for feet toughened by weeks of running on gravel roads–and all kinds of stickers grew where the dripping water refreshed them–where no herbicides reached them.

Some were vines that grew in snake-like fashion along the ground with thick barbs. Some grew hidden in a clump of green with thin, tiny needles. Then there were the cockle burrs that had no intention of hiding. They boldly grew on bushy plants with large, prickly balls that grabbed pants and shoestrings.

The water that gushed out of the pipe on the cornfield side quickly created gloppy mud–mud to wiggle our toes in, mud to sink into up to our ankles–but mud that was being chilled by water pumped from deep within the earth. It sent shivers up our legs and sent us scrambling over the pipe to brave the stickers for a bit of warmth before climbing back on, our muddy prints telling the tale of our adventures.

The corn leaves swayed, giving its wave offering to the clouds, wafting its green aroma on the wind. Wild flowers, too, released their sweet scent to the breeze, and nearby, the earthy smell of cattle.

On some days, the nearby grove of trees would be black with birds that all took off at once with a flutter of wings, or a cow could be heard bellowing for her calf as we made our way along the cold, slippery pipe.

We picked the pinkish purple flowers that shared the moist soil with the stickers. The bouquet wilted in our sweaty hands as we neared the well, the noise of which was deafening. I could feel the low pump, pump, pump sound in my chest until I felt like it was my heart beating. At the same time, my ribs felt as if they were closing in–collapsing.

I always felt like running to escape this assault on my chest, but the cool, sparkling water called to my dry throat. To get a drink I had to get right next to the well. I took the metal tumbler from off the faucet where it rested upside down, and with a twist of the handle, released the water with a rush that sent the icy spray splashing up my sun-warmed arms. Ignoring the heat of the engine and the beating in my chest, I poured the frigid water down my throat. My insides felt instantly frosted from my lips to my stomach.

The dust on my feet didn’t feel quite so hot.

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Four years after the tragic loss of her family, newspaper reporter C.G. Harrellson is still a splintered soul. Blaming herself, she denies herself any opinions save the syndicated opinion column she anonymously writes as a release valve: Cinnamon Girl Explains It All.

Even though Detective Wolf Hunter is in the midst of trying to track down a serial killer, he can’t help being intrigued by the strange, little reporter who has been assigned to meet with him weekly to write a crime report.

Despite C.G.’s initial fear of the brown eyes that remind her of her late husband and the tender touches that make her feel not just new love but old pain, Wolf patiently pulls her out of her numb, emotionless existence to start again.

Meanwhile, Wolf’s partner notices similarities between the Cinnamon Girl column and the murder scenes, sending Wolf in search of the elusive Cinnamon Girl, herself.

Little does he realize, she’s as close as a kiss.

A detective, a reporter, her best friend, a cheating husband, a serial killer, Bingo…

Cinnamon Girl Explains It All

I’m not a journaling kind of person. I really wish that I was, ’cause so much of my life has just disappeared into the netherworld, and I’m sure at least some of it was interesting…

There have been occasions, however, when I took the time to write about some happening. I give you Sept. 10, 1996, when my sons, Tristan and Tracy were ages nine and five…

Whew! What a day! Actually things didn’t start going crazy until about 3:00. That’s when I realized we had a tape that needed to go back to the Lawrence Library today.

Well, with lists from three different stores staring at me, I was determined not to drive clear to Lawrence just to return a tape, so I threw together my grocery lists as fast as I could and we were out the door by about 4:00.

As we were heading toward Food-4-Less, I glanced down at the gas gauge and saw that my tank was nearly empty, so I whipped into a station and filled up. Then, of course, I needed cash for the grocery store, so I went to the bank and got cash out of the machine. I then remembered the checks I’d been carrying around for awhile, so I decided to turn around and get in the drive up lane to make a deposit.

With cash in hand and stickers for the kids, we finally, really, headed for Food-4-Less. It was 5:00. I parked the car, gather our shopping bags, and Tristan announces, “I don’t have any sandals.”

I just looked at him.

“You mean to tell me,” I began slowly, “that you didn’t put on any sandals”–I was starting to build up steam–“before we left home?”

Tristan shrugged.

Not knowing what else to do, we headed toward the store anyway. I was hoping they wouldn’t care, but there it was on the door, “No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service.”

What could I do? I knew one thing. I was not going home without groceries! I decided to take the kids over to Kevin at work, so he could take them on home while I got the groceries. We just missed him, however, so we went on to plan B…buying new shoes for Tristan.

Forty-five minutes and $25.00 later, we emerged. It was now nearly 6:00, so I decided to go to Dillons to call Kevin to tell him of our unfortunate afternoon, and that we were going to eat out and then do the shopping or we wouldn’t get to eat until 8:00.

With that accomplished, we got back in the car where my brain suddenly started firing–we couldn’t eat out–I had not brought any of Tracy’s enzymes, and there wasn’t much he could eat without them. So we had two options, just charge ahead and get the shopping done and take home frozen dinners to eat OR scrap everything and go home.

Since the latter meant that the forty-five minutes of hell trying to fit Tristan with footwear JUST so he could go to the grocery store had been all for nothing, I opted for the former.

The kids were so thirsty that they felt that they couldn’t leave Dillons parking lot without a pop, so we piled out of the car once again only to find that everything in the vending machine was either sold out or not working. As we were heading out of the Dillons lot, Tracy pointed to another pop machine, but for some reason, my foot refused to leave the accelerator.

Well, to make a long story even longer, we finally stepped over the threshold of Food-4-Less. That’s when Tristan and I stopped and stared at Tracy dancing. Yep, we needed to find a bathroom.

We really did finally make it home with groceries, and yes, we sat down to eat at 8:00 sharp.

 Many of you know that my husband and I are in the midst of moving. We have been purging, scanning, shredding, and packing for a month now, and frankly I’m bored to death with it all. The keyboard is calling me, so before it, too, ends up taped up in a box, I’m ignoring the TO DO List in favor of some reminiscing.
Early in my brother’s foray into 4-H, Dad bought him some sheep–Cheeko, Meeko, Peeko, and Baa Baa. Mine was Baa Baa. (NOT the sheep pictured here. These two were Ophelia and Isaac Hayes from several years later.)

We spent nearly every Sunday afternoon that summer, clip, clip clipping the sheep’s wool in an attempt at 4-H perfection. They probably still had a good two inches of wool on them by the time the county fair rolled around in August. Back then it was all about “blocking.” For some reason, they wanted the sheep to look square.

In later years, shearing was popular, to the point of some sheep being barely clothed for their parade around the show ring. Probably a sign of our decaying society.

One summer, the sheep shearer had had a few belts before he put shears to sheep and we weren’t sure if we wouldn’t be better off just taking them straight to the slaughter house, since they were nearly cut to ribbons anyway.

Poor Dorcus Hines.

That was the sheep that developed kidney stones. We took her to the vet, but he was getting ready for some wing-ding of a barbecue, so performed emergency surgery right there on his lawn. I was appalled at this inconsiderate violation of my lamb, who was none too happy about it herself. And the vet’s wife was livid. He was getting blood and yucky stuff on the grass. She did not recover from this ordeal, and Dad ended up having to shoot her a week or so later to put her out of her misery.

Dorcus, not the vet’s wife.