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  Erma’s Attic

  (Angels of the Appalachians Book 2)

  Erma’s Attic is a heartfelt and humorous tale, filled with historical facts, folksy phrases and amusing adages of the Southern United States.

  When Annie, a young doctoral student living in Charleston, West Virginia, takes the advice of an elderly friend and spends a few nights at a farmhouse up Black Hollow Road, she discovers a journal in the attic.

  The aged diary, she soon realizes, was written by her dear friend, Erma, who had recently passed on over to the sweet by and by. Her friend’s memories transport her on an adventure that defines and embraces involvement in the women’s suffrage movement, chatting with Mary “Mother” Jones, and standing vigil outside collapsed coal mines in the first half of the twentieth century.

  Tales from the past, and from the present when the journal is revealed, are woven together to ultimately offer readers a compelling picture of life in the West Virginia Appalachians.

  Erma’s Attic (Angels of the Appalachians Book 2) renews the stories of Annie, Will, Erma, Ida, and of course, Hank. If you enjoyed Angels of the Appalachians, you are invited to explore this account of a friendship that spans across decades. If you haven’t read the first book, don’t fret, because you will still find yourself wishing to call on the fine folks of the Appalachian Mountains.

  It’s time to kick off your shoes, relax for a spell, and meet some of the angels who have made West Virginia so gloriously wild and wonderful.

  This delightful fictional novella is available only on Kindle.

  Erma’s Attic

  (Angels of the Appalachians Book 2)

  Deanna Edens

  Erma’s Attic

  (Angels of the Appalachians Book 2)

  By

  Deanna Edens

  Text copyright © 2016 Deanna Edens

  All rights reserved.

  ASIN: B01BJZAL2Q

  Cover Artwork by FairyTaleDesign@DepositPhotos

  Acknowledgements

  Special thanks to Cheryl Estrada, Nancy Holloway, Barbara L. Jones, Pam Tindell, Geneva Lacy, David Robert Edens Jr., Judy Mercer, and Ella Bokey for providing editing advice.

  Old Man Holding Cane - Photograph by myslitel@DepositPhotos

  Photo of Hank by vivienstocks@DepositPhotos and Tessy by kipuxa@DepositPhotos

  Quill by galdzer@DepositPhotos

  Some of the anecdotal illustrations in this book are true to life and are included with the permission of the persons involved. All other illustrations are composites of real situations, and any resemblance to people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  This story is a work of fiction.

  Proceeds earned from this book are donated to the Monroe County Humane Society.

  Available on Kindle

  Other Books by Deanna Edens

  The Convenience of Crafting Maple Fudge

  Welcome to Bluewater Bay

  Christmas Comes to Bluewater Bay

  Mystery in Bluewater Bay

  Love Blooms in Bluewater Bay

  The Adventures of the Bluewater Bay Sequinettes:

  The Complete Bluewater Bay Series

  Angels of the Appalachians

  Molly’s Memoir

  “The wings of angels are often found on the backs of the least likely people.”

  Eric Honeycutt

  It has been proposed that Shakespeare’s original accent would be more akin to the Appalachian dialect than to any other vernacular in the world today.

  I can’t assure that this is true, but I do know I have always been especially proud of the folksy phrases and artfully amusing adages, which are uniquely our own.

  It is virtually impossible to capture the eloquence of this language in the written word, which is why you should call on the wild and wonderful folks of the Appalachian Mountains to experience it firsthand.

  Sissonville, West Virginia

  April 8, 1981

  {{1}}

  “Why don’t ya just buy this old farm?”

  “Me?” I considered, as I scanned the rotten apples, walnut shells, and toppled tree limbs lying putrid in the yard. “I don’t know, Will.” I shifted my weight uncomfortably, “I don’t know anything about farming.” I shook my head doubtfully as I painstakingly thought-out his proposal.

  You see, I had only known Will for a few short months and after our mutual friend, Erma, had passed on over to the sweet by and by, he was saddled with the responsibility of selling her house and donating the proceeds to her church. This old house, on top of a mountain up Black Hollow Road, came complete with a barn, chicken coop, and makeshift veterinarian clinic. It had been on the market for over three months and, to date, there had been exactly zero prospective buyers.

  “It’s pretty isolated up here, Will.” I told him as I ran my finger over the dust-covered railing of the large wraparound porch.

  “Hank will be up here with ya,” he nodded in the direction of the ole hound dog who was shamelessly spread-eagled on the decaying plaid couch stationed on the porch beside the front door.

  Hank opened one eye when he heard his name and his right ear perked up with interest. He lethargically dropped from the couch, sauntered over to me, and encouragingly offered an affectionate lick of his tongue as I reached out my hand to stroke his head.

  “See,” Will slid a pinch of Mail Pouch Tobacco into his jaw, “Hank figures it’s a good idea.”

  I suppressed a groan. “Hank thinks everything is a good idea, Will.” I told him as I swiped my slobber-coated hand across the front of my blue jean jacket.

  “I realize you are reluctant, but rest assured that if God puts ya someplace, he’ll be there to guide you through.”

  I faltered a moment, my mouth twitching with thought. “I’m not convinced God has put me here,” I tried to diplomatically explain, “and I’m just not quite sure I want to live in the country.”

  “You know, Annie,” Will spat a dribble of thick, dark liquid into an empty cola bottle, “folks are always talking about living in the country these days. Well, I have a brother who lives on top of a hill in Looneyville and I drove out there to visit him last weekend. I drove my car on the blacktop as far as it went, then took a graveled road, followed by a rutted dirt road. I had to hire a mule and wagon, and when the road ran out, I unhitched the mule and rode it for a spell longer.” He studied me to see if I was following along, “Finally I had to swing across the creek on a grapevine to get to my brother’s house, and when I got there I found a note on the door that said, ‘Gone to the country for the weekend.’”

  “Seriously?” I asked with skepticism, knowing that Will was always trying to pull my leg, “Why didn’t you telephone him first?”

  “Annie, I was just tellin’ ya a joke.” He shook his head mockingly at me, “My point is that livin’ in the country means different things to different folks. This ole farm ain’t as isolated as some.”

  “Are you trying to inspire me?” I studied him cautiously.

  His response came in the form of a muted chuckle, “Yeah, and it would be good for ya to move up here. The clean, fresh air and quiet time would give ya an opportunity to work on your dissertation.” He nudged me on the shoulder. “Plus, you promised Erma ya’d finish up your education.”

  I exhaled deeply as I glanced down toward the brow of the meadow, noticing the tiny dense buds that were just starting to burst into the bright green and yellow colors of spring. I spotted a squirrel scampering across the yard, its face stained black with walnut juice, and took a deep breath of the sweet-smelling air. I could hear a vehicle dodging the ruts of the willowy dirt path leading up the mountaintop.

  “Company is coming,” I announced as Hank began barking at the top of his lungs.

  “Another a
dvantage,” Will concluded, “ya can always hear when folks are drivin’ up the holler.”

  When the old brown pickup truck peeked through the thick forest at the top of the mountain, Hank hushed up and moseyed back over to the plaid couch. He leapt onto it and comfortably curled up into a tight ball.

  “Obviously, Hank is very alert and a lifesaving companion,” I declared sarcastically.

  Hank barely raised his head and released a low moan, “Huhh?”

  I immediately realized I had slighted his courageous demonstration of loyalty and bravery.

  “Hank is a smart ole hound dog, Annie. He knows the truck, who is in it, and he knows that they don’t mean ya no harm.”

  I pursed my lips together, realizing that Will was telling me the truth. I glimpsed toward the lazy old dog. “Sorry, Hank. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  The old dog reacted with a barely audible “Humph!” as he rolled over and covered his eyes with his right paw.

  A man wearing mud covered pants and boots hopped from his truck, slammed the door shut, ran to the passenger side of his vehicle, and frantically retrieved a cardboard container with holes punched in the sides.

  He hurried to the porch where Will and I were standing. “It’s Sparky,” he said. His lips trembled as though he were unable to say more.

  “Who’s Sparky?” I queried.

  “Sparky,” Will explained, “is Sam’s dog.”

  “Okay,” I looked from one man to the other curiously waiting for the situation to become transparent.

  “Sparky cut his leg awful bad and I was figurin’ ya’d be able to stitch him up.”

  “Me?” I gasped, as my hand rose to cover my heart. “I’m not a veterinarian like Erma was. I don’t know anything about doctoring animals,” my tone of voice was clearly hesitant.

  “Will told me you were studyin’ to become a doctor,” Sam informed me.

  Honestly, the bamboozled expression that covered my face should have alarmed the man. “Geeze,” I nodded numbly. “Yes, I am earning my doctoral degree in psychology. So unless Sparky’s wound was self-inflicted, I can’t be of any assistance.”

  The farmer eyed me suspiciously, “Self-inflicted?”

  “Yes, unless he hurt himself intentionally,” I clarified.

  “Why in the tarnation would Sparky hurt himself on purpose? That’d be just out-and-out harebrained, wouldn’t ya say?” His eyes darted toward Will. “If she can’t suture up a dog’s leg then she ain’t much of a doctor,” he declared exasperatedly.

  My lips formed a flat straight line, as I carefully deliberated on how to go about explaining my total incompetence concerning authentic medical procedures.

  Fortunately, Will intervened and lifted the box from Sam’s arms, balanced it in one hand and picked up his walking stick with his other hand. He added a jerk of his head indicating I should follow him into the house. “Annie will take a look at him and see what she can do,” he told the man.

  “Thank ya, Ma’am.” The farmer responded, as he shoved Hank over to make room on the old couch and plopped down on the edge of a cushion. “I’ll just wait right here.”

  I followed Will through the living room and back to the rough and ready clinic, all the time protesting, “Will, I do not know one single thing about doctoring animals.”

  “You’re a smart girl. Ya can figure it out. Erma’s notes and books are stacked right there on the table,” he directed my attention toward the tiny desk in the corner as he lifted the cardboard box onto the wood and metal examination table. He carefully removed Sparky and started stroking him gently, “She’s gonna fix ya up, fellow. Don’t ya worry,” he whispered in the terrier’s ear.

  “Why doesn’t he take Sparky into Charleston where there is a licensed veterinarian?” I asked Will as I anxiously thumbed through the operation procedural manual.

  “He don’t have enough money to do that, Annie.” Will squinted at me, “Poor fellow probably ain’t got enough money to put fuel in his truck to make the trip to Charleston. Heck, gas prices are over a dollar a gallon these days.” He lifted the empty bottle to his mouth before carefully spitting a stream of tobacco juice down its neck, “It’s highway robbery if ya ask me.” He nodded his head a couple of times, “But hopefully, President Reagan will get this mess under control pretty soon.”

  “Look at this, Will.” I indicated a specific picture in one of Erma’s books.

  “Annie,” Will stared at me with all the seriousness he could muster, “I think this is a manual for doctoring people, not animals.”

  “I know. I was simply pointing out the correct way to… oh, just forget it.” I took in a deep breath, glanced at the suspended IV holder, and plucked a thick plastic pouch labeled General Anesthetic up before hanging it on the hook, just as I had observed Erma do months before. “Fiddlesticks!” I stammered, as I reflected on my incompetence, “I’m not skilled enough to use this contraption.” I quickly decided to dispense a local anesthetic and began searching through a cabinet fastened to the wall. I investigated several vessels labeled Lidocaine, quickly scanned the directions on the packaging, and silently prayed that I had chosen wisely. “I think this should work.” I held the petite bottle up for Will to view, “What do you think?”

  “Probably so,” he concurred.

  I took in a deep breath, gently rubbed the patient, and nervously stabbed the tip into his leg. He let out a loud whimper, but quickly relaxed as soon as I pressed the plunger, which slowly released the liquid from the barrel of the syringe.

  “My hands are shaking, Will. I’m not sure that I can do this.” I told him without glancing up.

  “You’re doing fine, Annie.”

  “Right. Right.” I murmured, as I located a needle that was saturating in a jar of antibacterial disinfectant. I poured a stream of sanitizer over the wound before pinching the dog’s cut skin between my fingers. I could feel the overused portion of sanitizer dripping from the table and slowly soaking into my Converse tennis shoe. Although my heart felt like it had jumped up into my throat, I patiently and carefully stitched the slash back together – just as if I were hemming a pair of blue jeans.

  Once this nerve-wracking process was complete, I found a small glass container with a blue lid and stabbed a thin hypodermic needle into it. I had seen Erma perform this procedure several times, so I felt a teeny bit more comfortable with this last step. I withdrew the needle, released a minuscule squirt of the liquid into the air, and injected Sparky with the antibiotic.

  I exhaled deeply as my eyes involuntarily misted with tears. “Maybe I should have used the stronger sedative,” I asserted.

  Will and I studied each other for a long, drawn-out moment before he replied. “You did great, Annie. Erma would’ve been proud of ya.” He pointed his finger in my direction, “I told ya.”

  “You told me what?”

  “Ya need to buy this ole farm.”

  I gazed down at the anesthetized dog and felt a twinge of pride. “Let’s see if Sparky makes it through this mishap first.”

  “Sparky will make it,” he assured me as he gently patted my shoulder.

  A sudden realization hit me like a blow to the gut, “You know I could be arrested for performing an operation on an animal without a proper license.”

  He provided a dismissive wave of his hand. “Erma started doctorin’ animals years before she had earned her degree.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better about breaking the law? That was a long time ago, Will. The regulations have surely changed by now.”

  “Nah, don’t ya worry.”

  “Don’t worry,” I mused, “easy for you to say. I’ll be the one doing hard time in the slammer.”

  We both stood staring at the small dog sleeping peacefully on the table, “Annie,” Will blurted out, “just in case you’re wonderin’, Sparky has an optimistic sort of personality.” He then guaranteed, “He would never hurt himself on purpose.”

  “Thanks for clearing that up for me,
” I provided a flippant roll of my eyes, “I was extraordinarily apprehensive concerning Sparky’s mental health.”

  Will laughed out loud before offering to brew a pot of coffee and by the time Sparky blurrily stirred from the ordeal, Hank and Sam had fallen asleep on the old plaid couch. I nudged the farmer’s shoulder gently. He released a loud reverberating snort as he awoke.

  “Is Sparky alright?” Sam inquired, as he darted straight up, “I done got myself in a tizzy worrying ‘bout the old boy.”

  “Sparky should be just fine. He’s going to be lethargic for a few more hours, so you need to take him home and keep a close eye on him. Don’t let him wander outside until tomorrow.”

  “Lethargic?”

  “Yes, he’ll be tired and lazy. Let him sleep as long as he wants.”

  Will opened the door and handed over the heavy cardboard box. Sam gently raised the lid and a smile quickly formed on his face when he saw his drowsy terrier lift his head. “Thank ya, Ma’am. How much do I owe ya?”

  I held out my hand to stop him, “You don’t owe me a thing. Like I told you before, I’m not an animal doctor so I wouldn’t feel right charging you money to sew up Sparky’s cut.”

  “Alrighty then,” the farmer agreed, “but when the produce comes in I’ll bring ya over a bushel full.”

  “That’d be right neighborly.” I nodded cordially, “Thank you.”

  As soon as Sam’s brown pickup truck backed out of the yard, Will started in again. “I really think ya need to consider buying this old place.”

  “Oh Will,” I sighed.

  “Why don’t ya stay here for a few nights? You might find out ya love it up here.”

  “Or, I might end up having to deliver a calf,” I curtly replied, “or worse.”

  “A couple of nights?”

  Since it was getting late, and the apartment building where I was renting a small loft was in the process of having the roof noisily replaced, I consented. “Just a couple of nights.”