Butterfly Messages

Butterfly

Messages

Copyright © 2011 Jamie Elizabeth Tingen. 

All rights reserved.  Printed in the United States of America.  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.  Use without permission is illegal and is punishable by law. 

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This book is a work of fiction. All names, places, characters and events recounted herein are products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales, persons or incidents is purely coincidental.

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Cover design by Charlie McShane

‘Butterfly Messages’ is in many ways a personal reflection of many years ago. In reading it, you wanted to hurry along to discover what is just around the next corner.  It is very easy to read, and not so easy to put down, once you are meshed in the mystery.  Most enjoyable and very well written.  I highly recommend it.

Sadie Gamble

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I really enjoyed the book.  It was interesting and exciting. I couldn’t put it down until I read the whole thing.  You did a great job!

Carolyn Tripp

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I read the book in one sitting.  I thought it was excellent.

Pat Nelson

In ‘Butterfly Messages,’ Jamie Tingen reminds us that life is best lived in the present, without the regrets and baggage of the past.  As this touching story unfolds, we learn that things are not always as they seem, but love and healing is always possible.  The lessons are there for all that choose to learn, often from unexpected sources.

Anne Childers, freelance writer

To my wonderful granddaughter Sara, who brings joy to my heart.

As you travel the bumpy road of life,

have the love and compassion

of Mother Teresa,

the courage of Joan of Arc,

the adventurous spirit

of Amelia Earhart, and

the strength, determination and spunk

of Scarlett O’Hara.

Challenge yourself to be fearless, curious, adventurous, tenacious, persistent.

Have faith;

believe in yourself and your dreams.

Above all, be yourself, live in the moment;

and never ever, ever give up!

Love my girl!

~~~~~~

And to my sons, Sid and Rick,

you make me proud.

Love ya heaps!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author wishes to thank:

CONNIE HARTSFIELD HAMMOND for first and final draft reading, editing and for believing in the dream.

JESSICA GREENE for promotional writing and author assistance.

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Especially, all friends and family who have always been there for me, no matter what.

And to you, sincerely, the readers of this novel.

The author, editor and publisher wish to thank the following for permission to reproduce copyrighted material:

My Favorite Year, music by Michele Brourman; lyrics by Karen Gottlieb

It is eternity now; I am in the midst of it.  It is about me in the sunshine; I am in it, as the butterfly in the light laden air. Nothing has to come; it is now.  Now is eternity; now is the immortal life.

Richard Jeffries

Life is uncertain, so, like a butterfly,

savor the sweet nectar of the moment

Chapter 1

Christmas music blared on the radio, stirring up feelings from the past. Tears surfaced as Mag let her mind wander back to painful places. She wished she could rewind the clock and start over. She snapped the last bean, wiped her eyes on her mother’s old apron and walked over to the corner of the room.

Mag picked up the cloth-covered jewelry box that held remnants of her memories of Ash. The delicate fabric was frayed around the edges from so much handling, and the rusty latch that held it together had given way with time. She carried the box everywhere she went and never let it out of her sight.

She reluctantly placed the box on the floor and with it was a note in big red letters: DO NOT PACK. She had time to think about what to do with it; no need to rush. She’d waited 40 years for these memories. The box wasn’t going anywhere until she said so.

She wondered whether she was becoming like old Willie Roy, the town drunk who carried a corncob around for luck for 20 years, until one day his wife inadvertently threw it out. Some argued she meant to do it, suspecting he thought more of the corncob than of her. He’d hooted and hollered for a month.

She rubbed a clean spot on a dusty   windowpane with her hand and gazed into the distance, in deep thought about the finality of this chapter in her life. She wasn’t sure she was ready to let go of the past. Keeping the old box made her feel closer to her beloved Ash. What’s the harm? she thought. Maybe another day. As Scarlett O’Hara would say, I’ll think about that tomorrow.

Mag shifted her eyes away from the box, letting them wander across the yard. Wildflowers grew helter-skelter, their colorful little heads nodding back and forth with the soft breeze. Emerson was right: Earth laughs in flowers.

She knew she’d never be like old Willie Roy. She was getting closer to giving up the box,  and she was annoyed with herself for trying to keep the past alive. A good sign.

This was supposed to be her day of reckoning, her day to move on, put the past behind her. Life is so unfair, she said aloud, as if saying it would somehow make it go away. Tears slowly slid down her lined cheeks and onto her drawn lips as she tried to hold back the inevitable.

A loud roar drew her attention. She watched a rusty truck make its way toward the cottage, brushing tree limbs and bushes aside as it meandered up the narrow, dusty road. Not exactly what she expected, but finding any type of moving company in a small town like Parkersville was almost impossible. Looking in a phone book as thin as a strand of hair didn’t offer many choices. The only one in town was We Move Y’all.

Mag was moving her personal belongings out until she could decide where to go and what to do. She’d read in the local weekly newspaper that the Children’s Home was in dire financial straits and needed a place for abused and abandoned children, so she’d  decided to donate the cottage to the charity. The little house where she’d grown up had less appeal now that Ash was gone.

She grabbed a corner of her soft blue shirt and dabbed at her eyes and nose. It was the same shirt she’d worn when she’d seen Ash for the first time in 40 years.

The old truck shifted gears and sputtered as it approached the cottage. Mag glanced at her watch. Where was Lilly Mae? Darn it, she knew Mag was pressed for time. Her best friend was coming to help pack, to give moral support and reassure Mag she was doing the right thing.

As  she peered out the window at the truck to make sure it didn’t run over her flowers, Mag picked up the phone and punched in Lilly’s number. She felt anxious after hearing the phone ring three times. Please pick up.

Hello?

Bob, I’m so glad you’re there. Has Lilly left yet?

Yes, hours ago. Why?

Mag didn’t wish to alarm him, but her immediate thought was that something bad had happened. And she couldn’t take another loss.

Lilly hasn’t arrived yet. Concern thickened Mag’s voice.

The storm came up suddenly after she left. We’re having a tornado, with roads washed out and other severe weather. His voice echoed Mag’s fear.

Mag  tried to calm him down and convince herself. I’m sure she’s okay.

She got some shocking news today concerning you and needs to talk with you, he said cryptically.

What is it?

Her question was met with dead silence.

Bob, Bob, are you there? Mag screamed into the receiver, then frantically redialed. But the line was dead.

Chapter 2

Her stomach still roiling with worry for Lilly, Mag pulled back the curtain to get a better look at the man in the truck. I’ll bet his name is Shug or Otis, she thought. She liked trying to guess people’s names before meeting them.

The old truck rocked back and forth as the heavyset man stepped out. He took a tattered piece of cloth out of the pocket of his clean, faded overalls and wiped the sweat from his craggy face and neck. Stuffing the cloth back in his pocket, he shuffled his worn brogans toward her door, kicking up dust along the way. Salt-and-pepper hair peeked out from beneath a black baseball cap bearing the words, I’m hot stuff.

Mag frowned. Looks more like hot and sweaty to me. She opened the door while he slowly climbed the steps. He tipped his hat and peered over black, horn-rimmed glasses held together with duct tape, sizing her up before speaking.

Name’s Scratch. You Miss Magnolia?

Not Otis or Shug, not even close.

Yes, I am. She extended her hand, aware of his sweaty, limp hand as it slid into hers. Call me Mag.

Mag was her nickname. She’d been born Magnolia Anne Gardner late one moonlit night while whippoorwills called  in the distance and the sweet, delicate fragrance from the magnolia trees wafted through the bedroom where her mother had given birth.

Mag had nearly died of pneumonia at age 4, and the experience created a fierce determination and strong will, traits she’d need to face the struggles she’d encountered throughout her life. Adversity, she’d discovered, was cement for the soul.

Eager to get started, she waved her arm toward the cardboard boxes that reached nearly to the ceiling.

They’re all yours, she told Scratch.  I still have some packing to do in other rooms. Empty boxes are in the kitchen.

Noticing that one box was still open, Mag walked over and peeked inside. On top, partially sticking out, was an exquisite butterfly made of gossamer material with a wingspan of 12 inches. She decided to leave it for the Children’s Home. She held it up to the dappled light coming in from the window and allowed the shimmering colors to mingle.

Holding it close, she remembered the day Ash gave it to her, knowing her fondness for butterflies.

Butterflies know more ’bout livin’ than folks do, Scratch said, interrupting her thoughts.

Annoyed, she looked over her shoulder. You can finish packing and start loading the truck now.

Humming When the Saints Go Marching In, he shuffled to the little box in the corner. Do I take this, too?

Rolling her eyes and exhaling loudly, she snapped, What does the note say?

I don’t read much, Miss Mag, Scratch replied as he lowered his head and peered over his glasses, a chagrined expression on his weathered face.

Mag felt guilty for embarrassing him. I’m sorry, Scratch, she said, then glanced at her watch. I’m concerned about my dearest friend, who should have been here hours ago. It’s not like her to be late. With the storms all around, I’m concerned she may have been in an accident.

Hum, hum, hum, lordy mercy.  None of my business, but ain’t you learned by now that worry takes up so much room in your  head that nothin’ good can come through? Kinda like the garden hose all twisted. Papa’d say, ‘Don’t worry ’bout things you can’t do nothin’ about. Won’t do a lick of good no how.’

Easy for you to say, Scratch, but difficult to do, she murmured, thumbing through the papers wadded in her important documents file that needed sorting.

"He’d say you can pretend you’re windin’ up somethin’ in your head. I call it my wiggle waggle. You think real hard that worry won’t do no good and that you won’t do it. Anyhow, you can tell this wiggle waggle whatever you