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I stood on the third board of the wooden fence surrounding the hog pen and tossed corn toward the sows. Their squeal was as familiar as the sound of rain on the tin roof of our house.

“Make sure you spread that corn around,” Grandpa said. He pointed toward Sally, the oldest and laziest sow of the three. “She won’t move more than a foot in this heat.”

I redirected some of the feed and asked, “Who are the Cardinals playing this weekend?”

Grandpa filled the water troughs then scratched his beard. “I don’t know for sure. Might be the Pirates.”

“Can we listen to the game. I want to know if Dizzy Dean’s pitchin’”

“Maybe we can try to pick it up on the radio. It might be too durn hot to work in the garden,” Grandpa said.

After dinner Grandpa moved the Philco radio from it’s normal place above the ice box to the window of the living room. Grandma made some lemonade, and Grandpa and me sat in the shade of the big oak tree in the side yard.

“How long will the battery last, Grandpa?”

“We might not be able to listen to the whole game, but several innings at least.”

The battery lasted until the top of the sixth inning.

“Aw, shucks,” I said then drained the last of my lemonade. “Now I won’t know if Dizzy won the game.”

“It might be in the paper next week,” Grandpa said.

I listened to the leaves rustling in the hot summer breeze and asked, “How far is it to the city?”

Grandpa tilted his head back and forth, chuckled, then said, “You’ve been to town with me. It only takes a couple hours to walk there.”

I shook my head and waved. “No, I don’t mean Kinmundy Junction.”

“What do you mean?”

“How far away is St. Louis? You know, where the Cardinals play.”

“Aw, now that’s different.”

“Have you ever been to the city, Grandpa?”

“Well, I reckon I was back before the war. I took your father, God rest his soul, to the city on a train to visit a doctor.”

“A real train? Like the ones that go through town?”

“Kinda. They didn’t go as fast back then.” He looked at me and asked, “Why are you so interested in the city all of a sudden?”

“No reason I guess. Me and Michael were talkin’ about it. How far is it?”

“Well, it’s a million miles to the city now,” Grandpa said.

“Aw, come on. I know it ain’t that far. I’ve seen maps and it’s along the Mississippi River.”

“Well, I guess you’re right about that, but it might as well be a million miles away since it would take about a week to get there on foot.”

“I heard you and Grandma talking about how bad this depression is, and I know a lot of people can’t find no work.”

“We will always have work to do on the farm even if we can’t afford to plant any corn or beans.”

“At least we got plenty of taters and onions in the garden. We won’t ever go hungry, huh?”

“Aye,” he replied in his lilting Irish brogue.

“Dad, are you going to write something about Mr. Malachi?” my oldest son asked as he and his brother walked into my office.

I leaned back in my chair while staring out the window at a doe and its fawn. I turned my attention to my twin sons as my mind raced back through time.

“Well, are you?”

“I should, huh?”

“Ya think,” Amos, the younger twin and the middle son, said with a chuckle.

“You’re the only one who can write his story,” Malachi, the older twin, said. “After all, you knew him for how many years?”

I rubbed my jaw and thought about my dear friend Malachi Amos.

“I met him in 1958 when I was twelve, so if my math is correct, I’ve known him for forty-two years. Knew him for that long, I mean.”

“He always said he’d live to be a hundred, and he made it.”

“Yeah! And three extra years to boot,” I replied nodding to my Malachi and Amos. I heard my daughter, Sarah, talking to her younger brother in the hallway.

“Elijah, you can’t bother Daddy now. He’s talking to Mal and Amos about Mr. Malachi. It’s not the right time.”

“It’s okay,” I replied. “You can both come in.”

Five-year-old Elijah made a face at his sister, entered my office, stood on my left and gaped at the wildlife. Sarah, now a teenager and taller than her mother, stood behind my chair and hugged me.

“I’m glad I had a chance to meet him,” Sarah said.

I thought about the previous summer when Sarah convinced me and her mother she should be allowed to join the men on our trip to Iuka Falls. I chuckled recalling how the twins tried to convince her the Yukon was no place for a twelve-year-old girl. She ignored their pleas.

“He treated you like one of the boys,” I mentioned then realized something. “He didn’t know how to treat a daughter any differently than a son. You were probably the first female he spent time with in over thirty years.”

“He spoiled her is what you mean,” Amos replied. “He never made her chop firewood or do any chores.”

“I cleaned the cabin and cooked meals for you,” Sarah answered with a glare. “You never complained about what you ate.”

“Because Dad ordered us not to,” Amos said poking his sister’s shoulder.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Is that why you always asked for seconds? There were never any leftovers.”

“She’s got you there,” Mal said with a laugh.

“Fine,” Amos sighed. “So she can cook rabbit stew and make pancakes without always burning them to a crisp. Doesn’t mean she’s a real pioneer woman.”

After a moment of silence as we watched the deer, Sarah asked, “Will there be a service? Did he have any family at all?”

I shook my head. “No, to both questions. Well, kinda.”

“What do you mean, Daddy?” Sarah asked.

“He did have a family when he was a young man, but he lost his wife and both kids to the Spanish flu back in 1920 or ’21. He didn’t talk about his early days much, but once in a while he would reminisce a bit. I remember one night. We were sitting around a campfire, and he told us about his days as a soldier in the war.”

“Which war?” Elijah asked. “Did he shoot a real machine gun?”

I explained about the Great War, and the friends he lost.

“He never remarried, huh?” Amos asked.

“Nope! He said no woman could ever replace his Rachel.”

“What will happen to the cabin? There aren’t many people in town who know it’s there, and even fewer who care about its preservation.”

“Several years ago he mentioned willing the property to me. He didn’t trust anyone else to take care of it. He knew how much the place meant to me, and you guys.”

“We aren’t going to move there, are we, Daddy?” Elijah asked with a look of alarm.

“No, we will keep living in Waskatenau, and stay in the cabin in the summer.”

“Good! I don’t think I could give up watching Bob the Builder.”

“You spend too much time watching shows,” Amos admonished his younger brother. He waved his arms and pointed out the window. “You should spend your time outdoors. You need to learn how to chop wood, start a fire, trap game and learn to fish. You need to learn how to survive on your own.”

I smiled because of how much my older children had been influenced by Ol’ Malachi.

“I landed the Grumman G-44 Widgeon on the grass landing strip and taxied around a small herd of caribou. I shut the plane down close to the Iuka Falls Hotel, and my sixteen-year-old twin sons jumped out, grabbed their thirty pounds backpacks and raced toward the old man leaning against his Jeep.

“We’re here, Mr. Malachi,” they both hollered simultaneously.

“No need to shout. I may be old, but I ain’t deaf. I can still hear an ant crawling through the grass at forty paces.”

His matted, white beard and his uncut long hair gave him the appearance of a true mountain man. But it was his clothes that intrigued the boys from the time they met him four years earlier. He wore what appeared to be the fur of a bear, with pants made from buffalo hide and his leather boots had never been polished.

I tied down the plane, grabbed my gear and walked toward the hotel.

“It’s good to see you, Malachi,” I said. I pointed down what served as Main Street. It was the only street and ended at a lake a half mile from town. “Someone put up a new building.”

He turned and looked. “Yep. Some city feller from Vancouver built it end of last summer. He figgered he could open one of them businesses that cater to tourists.”

“Did it work out?” I asked noticing the dusty windows.

“He left a week after the first snow. Now the only thing it attracts are critters.” He told the boys, “Toss your gear in the back. I want to get up the mountain before it storms.” He leaned closer to me and whispered, “Can you tell them whippersnappers apart because I sure can’t.”

I laughed and confessed I sometimes called them the wrong name.

Malachi Amos zigged and zagged up switchbacks, through one meadow after another, crossed a stream thirteen times. I had over the years memorized each crossing. He eventually turned onto a path still too narrow to be more than a wildlife trail. We drove straight up the mountain for a hundred yards before he turned and stopped at the edge of a sheer cliff overlooking the Iuka Falls. We arrived at the now three-room cabin complete with a two-seater outhouse, a front porch, and a lean-to for the Jeep. The boys again rushed to the edge of the cliff to stare at the falls.

“Dad, I can see why Mr. Malachi never leaves his cabin unless he has to. I would never get tired of this view,” Amos said.

“After a dinner of venison, beans and biscuits, Malachi told the boys his plan for the summer.

“You are really going to teach them how to be guides like yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, and we are going to get to the top of Dall Mountain. We came close last year, but had to turn back because of an avalanche.”

“We will make it this year,” the boys said.

I left after five days, and flew back two months later. My sons met me at the hotel.

“Where’s Ol’ Malachi?” I asked.

“He stayed up at the cabin,” Malachi answered.

“He let you drive his Jeep?”

“We both know how to drive it,” Amos said.

He grabbed my gear and tossed it in the back with all the effort it took to lift an eagle’s feather. It was then I noticed both boys needed s shave… and a bath.

“What have you been doing?” I asked as my son Malachi expertly and slowly headed up the trail.

They each answered, and I eventually figured out they had become expert marksmen with a bow and arrow, they built a shelter in the woods and stayed there for a week, and they had guided ten groups of tourists on fishing and camping expeditions.

“How about Dall Mountain?”

“Piece of cake,” Amos said.

“Yeah, the weather was perfect,” Malachi added.

“Did Ol’ Malachi summit with you?”

“Yeah, and he carried an old army ammo can to the top. There’s a notebook in it for people to sign if they make it that far.”

“Do you want to come back next summer?” I asked.

They stared at each other then at me.

“What?” I asked with a bit of trepidation.

Malachi said, “We were hoping we could spent the whole year up here.”

I knew they were serious, and immediately began to think of what I could tell my wife when I returned home alone.

“Fynn! What are you doing in the attic?” my grandmother Susanna Bennett Colwell hollered from the bottom of the narrow staircase.

I leaned over the edge, held up an old piece of yellowed paper, and answered, “Nothing. Just going through some old junk. I found this.” I waved the fragile paper at her. “It looks like a survey or something.”

“Bring it here, and let me see,” Eamon Colwell ordered as he put an arm around his wife’s waist. “I’ve been meaning to clear out those trunks before they start the house on fire.”

“I’ve waited forty years for you to finish what we started when we moved in. I suppose it can wait a while longer,” she answered.

I tromped down the stairs with the paper in my hand. I picked out a cat’s eye from the old New & True coffee can Grandma used to store the collection of playing marbles and stuffed it in my pocket.

Grandma shook her head, but didn’t say anything.

“I found this in the trunk by the chimney. It looks like an old survey of someplace. It’s not this farm, is it?”

Granda took the paper and studied it.

“Do you know anything about it?” I asked.

“Come with me. We can sit in the parlor, and I’ll tell you what I know about this old survey.”

I followed him. He picked up the Sunday paper from his rocking chair and tossed it onto the small table next to it. He sat and began rocking while staring at the survey.

“I’m surprised it’s still in this good of shape,” he whispered.

“What’s it supposed to be?” I asked impatiently.

After a moment, Granda held out the paper so I could read it. “Do you see this part?”

I leaned closer. “Sure! It says Vandalia, Illinois. That’s where you used to live, right?”

“A long time ago,” he answered. “I don’t think there’s much of it left now. The farm, I mean. Not the town. Maybe some of the foundations, but not much else.”

“Is that where Bone lived?” I asked. Breccan “Bone” Colwell was my great-great grandfather.

“He lived there after he got married. He bought the farm from a lawyer named John Todd Stuart,” Granda said with a wry smile. “This is the official survey he requested. It was signed by the surveyor, but the name is smudged and almost illegible.”

“Should I throw it away since it’s so old and the farm isn’t even there anymore?” I asked taking the survey from Granda.

He shook his head. “No, I think we should hang on to it.” He shrugged and added, “Who knows? It might be worth something someday.”

“Okay.” I looked at the survey again. “Is that the whole story? The way you’re smiling makes me think you’re holding something back.”

“Eamon! Tell the lad the whole story,” Grandma insisted as she adjusted her white apron.

“Give me a minute, please,” he replied. “Okay. When I was a young man, Bone told me about the day he purchased the farm. He had to travel to Springfield, meet the seller and sign the legal papers. There was another man in the office who was introduced to Bone as the surveyor without revealing his name. Bone told me about the man and how rough he appeared.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Bone said the man was tall, gawky and not very handsome, but his eyes displayed intelligence. After everything was signed, he shook hands with Mr. Stuart and the man who did the survey. He thanked them and turned to leave. He overheard the surveyor tell Mr. Stuart in a rather unexpected high, squeaky voice, ‘I need to get back to my law studies if I ever want to become more than a simple surveyor.’”

I stared at the survey again. Thoroughly confused. Granda continued to smile.

“Do you think the surveyor ever became a lawyer? Did he ever amount to anything? Would I recognize his name?”

Granda beamed and replied, “Oh, I think you might have heard the name once or twice. Mr. Lincoln did all right for himself.”

A little over fifty years ago I went to a wedding and a reception. My parents insisted it was important for me to be there because I was the groom. I cut short the basketball game with my buddies, got cleaned up, put on my rented tux and made it to the church in plenty of time.

I don’t remember much about the ceremony because it was over fifty years ago, and I have trouble remembering what I ate for breakfast thirty days ago. I do remember the preacher insisting on traditional wedding vows. I had no idea what ‘pledging my trough’ meant back then, and I still don’t have a clue. Sheila hasn’t complained about it, so I guess I’ve done all right.

Our church didn’t have a room for the reception, so we used a room at the other Nazarene church in town. Today people spend thousands and thousands of dollars on fancy receptions. We didn’t have any money, so our reception was rather simple. We had a cake, of course, maybe some sandwiches and punch. I could ask Sheila for more details but she might get agitated because I don’t remember. I don’t want to upset the ‘pledging my trough’ thing whatever it might be.

People did give us gifts, and I think we might have opened them at the reception. Again… not going to ask…

I have no clue who gave us what, or how many gifts we received, or anything like that… except for one item.

I’ve always called it the ‘Hamburger Pie’ dish because we don’t use it for anything else. Hamburger Pie was one of the first things – other than pasta – Sheila learned to make. It’s really our version of Shepherd’s Pie. The basic ingredients – hamburger, corn, French-cut green beans, a can of tomato soup, topped with mashed potatoes and a couple slices of American cheese, – haven’t changed. At times we add onions, baby carrots and even bacon bits occasionally. Everything is better with bacon except maybe lemon Jell-O.

I still enjoy hamburger pie to this day. I don’t know what we would do if our ‘Hamburger Pie’ dish ever broke. You might think we’re silly and we could replace it with something new, but it wouldn’t be the same. How can you replace fifty years of hamburger pie creation?

I’m also thankful that sometime soon after our wedding, we lost the ‘Tuna Casserole’ dish. I grew up eating tuna noodle casserole, and if I never eat it again, it will be okay with me.

“Hey! Can we have hamburger pie for dinner tonight? We haven’t had it all week.”

I said those words on April 21, 1973, and they mean more to me now than ever.

Wow! Fifty years have passed.

Sheila and I got married at a very young age by today’s standards.

No, she was not quite that young.

This photo was taken less than a month after we got married. It was in the church directory.

Another church directory photo taken a few years later.

I’ve always loved this photo even though I look so dorky.

Here is a more recent church directory photo.

I said “I Do” fifty years ago, and I still mean it. I love you more than ever even if I don’t say it enough.

Oh, Happy Birthday, too.

“Why do we have to help clean the house if the cleaning lady is coming to do it tomorrow?”

I would ask Mom this question repeatedly as a teenager. This was the silliest idea in the history of the world to me. My mom taught second grade, and my father was a school administrator. They didn’t make a ton of money, but enough to afford one of the neighborhood ladies to help Mom once or twice a month. As a male teenager, I had no clue how much work it was to keep up with all the housework. I still don’t as a senior citizen, but that’s another story.

Fast forward to present time, and my wife decided the house needed a thorough spring cleaning. I went along with the plan because it is getting more difficult for her to do some of the work. It’s almost impossible for her to clean the tub in my bathroom, and I have no interest in scrubbing the tub or the toilet. I’ll give it a quick once-over occasionally so it’s not totally disgusting, but it needed a thorough cleaning. I thought it would be a perfect ‘gift’ for her to have the house cleaned by professionals. I didn’t ask about the cost but assumed I wouldn’t have to sell one of my antique Packards to cover it.

The cleaners were scheduled for Tuesday morning, and of course I spent most of Monday picking up stuff that we use everyday and normally leave in places with easy access and finding places to hide said items, emptying the trash, removing some of the three-inch thick dust from the shelves in my office (there was more dust in my office than in the entire state of Oklahoma during a dust storm) and doing my best to make the house look somewhat presentable. I didn’t want to be totally embarrassed, or have the cleaners call the EPA because our home was detrimental to the environment. The pros were arriving at eight o’clock sharp, so I set an alarm for four-thirty. I wanted to go over the house once more. After hitting the snooze button for three hours, I tumbled out of bed and checked the time. Dagnabbit! I had fifteen minutes to shower, eat breakfast, do the dishes, finish checking the entire house for cobwebs (which grow to the size of football fields overnight in the basement), make sure the house didn’t smell like thirty cats lived there and shared one litter box, sweep the sidewalk and front porch because our one cat liked to leave presents for us (in the form of dead animals) and… shoot! I forgot to wash all the windows.

The cleaners arrived. I took a look around the living room and realized my wife hadn’t tidied up her area. Oh well! Too late to do anything about it now. I opened the door and watched the army of ladies carrying their cleaning supplies up the driveway, around the corner of the garage and up the sidewalk to the front porch. They entered the foyer, surveyed the area and set their supplies down. I was relieved they hadn’t refused to do the work. My wife greeted them like lifelong friends and gave them a quick tour of the house. I retreated to my office and tried to think of all the places I should have cleaned but didn’t have time.

Fortunately for me, the team of cleaning professionals knew exactly how to tackle the issue of cleaning our home. No, they didn’t run away, or set it ablaze – which had crossed my mind. They started at the far end of the house and efficiently and methodically moved from room to room with the precision of a team of open-heart surgical specialists. They arrived at my office and my heart sank. Surely now they would realize the futility of trying to make it look presentable. It would be easier to remove asbestos from an ocean liner the size of the Titanic than to clean my workspace.

But somehow they worked a miracle, and the entire house looked cleaner and shined brighter than a 1958 Chevy in the showroom. I walked through the kitchen and my jaw dropped. I had to step outside to make sure I was in the right house. Places that had been ignored for decades appeared to have new life.

“It looks brand new!” I exclaimed inspecting the sink and faucet. “Now I don’t have to buy new ones.”

The kitchen sink and faucet shone brighter than the brightest star in the Milky Way.

My wife commented, “This house has never been as clean, or looked half as good.”

If she was happy, I was happy. Then she left to pick up our daughter-in-law from work, and I was left to pay the bill. I thought about offering them one of my classic cars in payment, but, fortunately, the price was affordable. All I had to do was sell a thousand copies of my latest book, and I could cover the cost.

In case you are unfamiliar with most of my blogs, they are usually written in jest, but now it’s time to be serious. The professional cleaners were good friends from church who happen to be very good at what they do. Thank you, Angela and Janet. The house is cleaner (and smells better) than ever. I gave Angela one of my Emmy books because she feigned interest. Who knows! Maybe she will like the series, and I can recoup some of the money I spent.

“Granda, I have to write a story and read it to my class,” Fynn Colwell said with a sad look and slumped shoulders Sunday morning. “Can you help me? I don’t know where to start, and you always tell good stories.”

“When do you need it?” Eamon Colwell asked setting his Sunday paper on the small table next to his rocking chair.

“Tomorrow!” Fynn replied.

“Tomorrow! How long have you had this assignment?”

Fynn stared at the hardwood floor and muttered, “Mrs. Rosenbloom gave us the assignment a couple weeks ago, but I kept putting it off. I don’t think fourth-graders should have to get up in front of the class and tell a story.”

“I can tell you a story about President Hoover I heard at the barber shop,” Eamon said.

Fynn shook his head. “No one wants to hear about him.”

Eamon rubbed his jaw. “Okay. Have a seat, and I’ll tell you a story about a friend of my granda.”

“Do you mean Bone Colwell?” Fynn asked sitting in Nan’s chair.

Eamon nodded.

“This should be good. What was the friend’s name?”

“I don’t know his real name, but everyone called him Buckskin Cal.”

“Did he wear old clothes like Daniel Boone?”

“That’s likely how he got his name. Anyway, when he came to this country from Ireland, he settled in the Colorado mountains.”

“Was he a gold miner?”

“Among other occupations,” Eamon replied. “He found some gold and silver in the mountain stream that ran through the valley. News got out somehow, and other miners arrived and settled along the gulch creating a mining camp. In the beginning the camp boomed, and grew rapidly like so many others.”

“Were there saloons and dance halls?” Fynn asked with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Of course. Buckskin Cal prospected for a time, but never struck it rich. Then he moved into town and ran what you would call a drugstore. He sold home remedies along with supplies for the locals and the prospectors. He did that for several months, and made a good living. He made enough money to open the biggest dancehall saloon in town. He even married one of the saloon girls who worked for him. She was called the most beautiful woman in the whole territory and could sing like a nightingale.”

“Sounds like he had it made.”

“The legend is that he made so much money he had a pair of boots made of snakeskin with fancy silver heels that clicked on the floor as he walked.” Eamon made a clicking sound then chuckled. “But then the gold ran out. The miners moved on, and the town was mostly deserted.”

“Did he live in a ghost town?”

Eamon chuckled. “Not exactly.

“What happened to the town? What was it called?”

“The original name of the mining camp was Aikens Gulch, but that name didn’t last long.” Eamon clicked his teeth and stared at the fireplace before continuing. “A little over a year after the mining was in its heyday an epidemic of small pox hit the town. Lots of people died, and many of the others moved away. Buckskin Cal and his wife stayed and tried to help the people who didn’t leave.”

“Because he sold medicine, right?” Fynn asked.

“Yes. He would go into the mountains to find the remedies and his wife would take the medicine around the town. She carried a bucket of water from the mountain stream that was supposed to cure the disease.”

“Did they get sick?”

“No. They survived, but the town didn’t,” Eamon paused before adding, “At least they survived for a time.”

“Oh no! That doesn’t sound good.”

“After taking care of all the local people, Buckskin’s wife succumbed to the disease, or so the story goes. She sort of just disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“Be patient, and I’ll tell you. Years later when Buckskin Cal was an old man, he caught small pox and was real sick. Near death.” Eamon looked around the room then motioned for Fynn to move closer. “The legend is that a woman in a black dress with a black veil could be seen late at night watching over Buckskin Cal, but no one ever saw her outside of his house. People claimed they heard her singing to him. He eventually passed away, and the last of the townspeople buried him in the cemetery with the other victims of the small pox.”

“What happened to the town then?”

“The town had another period of prosperity because of another silver strike. The people couldn’t agree on a new name, until someone suggested naming it Buckskin Cal. The name stuck, and the town lasted another two or three years. Eventually, the mines played out, and everyone left because of the harsh winters. The buildings decayed until nothing was left but some foundations and the old wagon trail.”

“Too bad,” Fynn said.

Eamon nodded then whispered, “The only thing left of the town now is the old cemetery, and the story is that once in a while late at night you can see a woman in a black dress and veil wandering among the graves with a bucket of water. They say if you are real quiet and listen closely, you can hear her singing.”

I spent most of last Tuesday watching YouTube. I wasn’t wasting my time on frivolous videos about cars, trucks, class B motorhomes or country songs, but was nerding-out watching films about Abraham Lincoln. Being originally from southern Illinois, I have visited several Lincoln historic sites. I’ve been to New Salem, the Vandalia Courthouse, his Springfield home and his law office for example. I learned new facts about his early life in Kentucky, Indiana and Illinois. My wife and I are hoping to take some of our grandchildren on vacation this summer and visit as many Lincoln sites as possible. It will be one way to force them to put away their iPads for a few hours. One of the films was about the restoration of his Springfield home. Totally cool. Another film made extensive use of old photos, letters and other documents. Lincoln’s signature was a prominent feature of the film. Seeing the signatures reminded me of a blog I wrote several decades ago. Since the original article is difficult to find on my website, I decided to re-post it.

“’I don’t want a dead bird,’ your mother screamed,” Kenny said with a laugh.

“What are you talking about?” Emmy asked walking through the kitchen with a basket of dirty clothes.

“I’m telling the kids about Mr. Souchek.”

“Then you better tell them the whole story,” she ordered.

“Okay, I will,” Kenny said. “It happened like this…”

“Emmy, this letter came in the mail today for you. It’s from the office of Bushell, Strohmeyer and Plimpton. They must be attorneys,” Kenny said. He handed the letter to Emmy as she walked into the kitchen.

“What could this be about? I hope we’re not being sued or something.”

“I think the only way to find out is to open it,” Kenny suggested.

Emmy opened the letter and they read it together.

“I haven’t thought about Mr. Souchek for several years. He was the old man who lived next door when I was a little girl. He and his wife treated me like a grandchild.”

“I vaguely remember the name.”

“He passed away at least five or six years.”

“Why would this attorney need to see you in his office as soon as convenient?” Kenny asked.

“I have no idea, but maybe we should call this number.”

They did and set up an appointment for the next morning. They drove to downtown SoHam, found the office in the old Palace Theater Building, and were shown into Mike Bushell’s office.

“Now I know why I thought I recognized the name,” Emmy said. “My friend Annie O’Dell used to work for you.”

“She did. Now I handle her writing career. The legal side of it.”

He offered coffee, which they declined, and they talked about Annie, her family and her books for a time.

“I know you must be curious about the letter.”

“Yes, we couldn’t fathom why Mr. Souchek would instruct you to contact us. All I could think it might be about was the old doll his wife gave me years ago. I still have it, if I need to give it back. She said it was the only doll she had growing up during the depression.”

“It’s not about a doll, Mrs. Colwell.”

“You better call her Emmy,” Kenny said. “She might sue you otherwise.”

“All right. Emmy it is. Mr. Souchek passed away in 2004. Six years ago plus a couple months. His will stated his estate be divided among any living relatives on his side of the family who could prove kinship. He specified a time limit of five years. That limit passed, and the estate was probated…”

Emmy listened as Mr. Bushell explained all the legalities involved with closing the estate.

“So each of the relatives received a check for $1,127.19. This is the judge’s signature to close the estate. Only one thing remains. Actually two items. He very specifically bestowed two items to be held in safe keeping until such time as required… blah, blah, blah. There is the automobile that had been stored in his garage and a birdcage.”

“A birdcage!” Emmy and Kenny said together.

“Do you remember anything about a car?” Mr. Bushell asked.

“I know he drove a beat up old Ford. Why would he leave that to me?”

“It wasn’t an old Ford.” He showed Emmy a photograph of Mr. Souchek’s garage. “Can you make out the tarp behind all the junk?”

“Yeah! He used to brag about some fancy old car under it. I peeked under the tarp one day, and it was just a piece of junk like all the other stuff around it.”

Mr. Bushell shook his head.

“Em, I think Mr. Bushell is trying to tel you something.”

“What? It wasn’t just a piece of junk?”

Mr. Bushell held up a piece of paper. “This is the title to that piece of junk. It’s actually a 1958 Packard Hawk with a supercharged V8 engine.”

Kenny gasped and held his breath.

Emmy shrugged. “What does that mean? Is it mine? Does it even run?”

“It runs and it belongs to you. I can have it appraised if you’d like.”

“No, if Mr. Souchek wanted me to have it, I’ll keep it out of respect.”

“That leaves the birdcage,” Mr. Bushell said.

“I remember he had songbirds in a cage, but they would die and he would replace them. He called each one Fortune and had them stuffed or whatever you call it. His wife always made fun of that.”

“He left his ‘Fortune’ to you, Emmy.”

“Get out! I don’t want a dead bird!” she screamed.

“Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately in this case, he didn’t mean one of the birds. He meant the actual birdcage.” He stood up, walked over to a large cabinet and pulled out an ordinary looking birdcage. “This is what he left you along with its contents.”

“The contents better not be those stuffed birds.”

“Mr. Souchek left detailed instructions about the cage itself. It was built with a false bottom just deep enough to place a letter passed down from his great-great grandfather.”

“Are you saying the birdcage is an antique and worth some money?” Kenny asked.

Mr. Bushell shook his head. “No, the cage isn’t worth more than a few dollars. However, I have a copy of a letter contained in the birdcage. The original letter is in a safe place to keep it from disintegrating.” He waved his hand. “It’s been authenticated by experts in that field and is kept in a secure place. This is the copy.” He slid the letter across the table.

Emmy and Kenny peered closely at the letter. They read part of it.

Kenny looked up and said, “It’s reads like some kind of legal document. It’s all legalese to me.”

“Me, too,” Emmy added. “There’s a signature at the bottom. It’s hard to make out, but it looks like an A followed by a name.”

Kenny realized it first, grabbed the copy and took a closer look. “It says Lincoln, Em. A Lincoln.”

“You mean like Abraham Lincoln? The President?”

Mr. Bushell smiled. “The letter is dated February of 1840 which make it one of the oldest, if not the oldest, known signature of President Lincoln.”

“That must be worth more than a birdcage,” Emmy said.

Kenny rolled his eyes and Mr. Bushell nearly choked.

“Granda, who is Breccan Colwell?” I asked rushing toward my grandfather with an old book I had found on the top shelf of the parlor bookcase. “This dusty, old book must have belonged to him because his name is here.”

Eamon Colwell set the Sunday paper on the small table next to his rocking chair and accepted the opened book. “Where did you find this?”

“On top of the bookcase. Nan told me to wipe off the dust, so I climbed up on a chair.” I picked up the paper, noticed the photo of the brand new Empire State building on the front page and turned it over to check the sports section. “This book was kinda wedged in the corner. It looked really old, so I pulled it out. Do you know who it belonged to?”

Eamon studied the faded signature on the title page for a time then smiled. “I certainly do.” He turned a few pages until he found an illustration. “I used to read this when I was your age. It gave me nightmares.”

“Who was he? Shoot! The Cardinals lost yesterday.” I tossed the paper toward the table.

“We always called him Bone.”

“Bone! What kind of a name is that?”

“It wasn’t really his name, but it’s what we called him.”

“We who?” I asked taking a seat in Nan’s chair since she was cooking dinner in the kitchen.

“Me, my brothers and all my cousins. Even your grandmother,” Granda answered. “Breccan Colwell was my paternal grandfather. He would be your great-great grandfather, Fynn.”

“Did I ever meet him? When was he born? Where was he born? Did he come from the old country? What did he look like? What did he do for a living? Was he a bank robber like Pretty Boy Floyd?” I asked without pausing for breath.

Granda shook his head. “Pretty Boy Floyd, huh? Is that what they’re showing on the newsreels at the Strand now?”

“No. I heard about him from Devlin Maloney. What do you remember about your granda?”

Nan stood in the doorway holding her rolling pin. She wiped some flour from her forehead and said, “I grew up about a mile away, and I remember listening to him tell stories about growing up in Contae Chiarraí. He also loved to scare all the kids by telling stories about ghosts and undead creatures.”

“Where?” I asked not hearing about the ghosts.

“County Kerry. Southwest part of Ireland. Bone only knew a few words in English,” Granda answered.

“He understood, and could speak more English than he let on. He grew up in a time when the Irish and English didn’t always see eye to eye.”

“When have they ever?” Granda chortled.

“I want to know more about him. How did he get the name Bone?”

“Okay, I will tell ye. As near as we knew, he was born around 1820, or so, on a farm outside of Killorglin. I don’t think he knew the exact year. He had several siblings, but he was the only one who lived long enough to raise a family.”

“You were born in Ireland, right?”

Granda nodded. “On the same farm, and in the very same room as my granda. August 8, 1852. My mother remembered the date because it was during the Great Potato Famine, and several of the local people either died or moved away.”

“I read about that, but didn’t really understand why so many people starved.”

“I will tell you what I remember another time.”

“Okay, but tell me why you called him Bone? Was it because it was easier to say than his real name?”

“Nothing like that. I remember the locals calling him Bone, and when I asked him why, he would shrug. I later learned it most likely was because he would butcher hogs and an occasional cow.”

“That’s boring,” I replied. “Do you want me to put the book back?”

Granda turned back to the title page. “Carmilla by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu,” he said softly. He stared at his wife.

“I shall put it back,” Susanna Bennett Colwell said taking the book.