"Yes, the poor girl was the victim of a sinister plot for the throne and was queen for exactly nine days from July 10th to July 19th, 1553. She was accused of high treason and held in the tower of London. She was just 16, when she was beheaded on Tower Hill on February 12th, 1554. The queen was buried beneath the altar of the Tower’s Chapel Royal of St Peter ad Vincula, and her ghost can be seen roaming the grounds usually around the anniversary of her death. I can't enter into this quilting cottage Gemma. All who enter without her permission, find themselves in an early grave, same as she did."
The snow stretched on for ages, but it didn’t matter in that moment because there was death on the horizon and death is worse than the blistering cold. If you are ever chilled to the bone, be still of mind, be grateful, because you know that you are still alive…you are able to feel it. This is a blessing...this is from the Wolpertinger Code.
Many years later, as he lay on the deck of his boat, Patrick remembered the day he got him. Rembrandt was a German Shorthaired Pointer and was dappled brown. Exceptionally strong and energetic, he needed lots of exercise.
The Easter season began and Grandmama was selling off our belongings. Our sleepy Iowa town sold corn and gossip by the bushel but didn’t have a lot of room for old jazz musicians like Grandmama was. It was the 1950’s.
Rescuing fireflies took all evening. After finishing my summer reading, I ran through the fields and the long grasses whipped at my legs. I didn’t care about the welts. I got on my four-wheeler and rode back into the remote corners of the woods where there were barely pathways and opened my jars, being sure to cup my hand over the openings. I collected fireflies for hours in larger jars with oxygen holes. The jars were the kind you filled up to water big dogs. My mom boarded animals for a living on our tiny farm, where our happiness used to reside.