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Chapter 11

Catherine’s Castles ^© Linda Pilkington printed on the City Castles®, LLC web site by special permission of the author. This story will appear as a serialization.  

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 The story is most appropriate for mature teens or young adults.  I have never felt that I could, or should, edit a story to free it of every fearful occurrence.  I would rather show that my characters learn to be brave- and to face that which frightens them.  However, children may be afraid of imagined characters and events- and in that case, should not read – or have the story read to them.  The characters and events in both books are imagined ones.  Since they are imagined, there is no need to look for their counterparts in real life.

 If you find some resemblance with “real life”- there are reasons for that- among those reasons are (1.) your own good imagination (2.) though this work is a fantasy- I am describing people.  People tend to share common behaviors, characteristics and destinies. 

 And now- rest, read- and later- return and bring a friend, and join us in “ The Queen’s Parlor.”  We will be looking for you at www.citycastles.com. – Pass it on!

 And now let us put all cautions, and worries behind us because- once upon a time…

 Linda Pilkington  

  __________CHAPTER 11___________

 City Castles®, LLC

At the last minute of the hour, Catherine Emerson slid into the last chair, in the last row, of the last class of the spring semester.

“You’re ten minutes late. I’ve ticked off two flirty girls, by refusing to let them have this seat, and I’ve offended three older, determined women, who glared at me. I thought you’d decided to ditch.” Jon Rutledge muttered at her, out of the side of his mouth.

“Ditch, after eight weeks in hell?” Catherine murmured, and then quieted as her teacher ended a conversation with her fellow instructors, took her place behind the podium, and smiled widely at the students who filled the small theatre.

“As you know, this diversity session, should have been given the first week of your Leadership Class, however scheduling conflicts delayed it. So my colleagues and I decided to save the best for last.” Mrs. Campbell gave a light little laugh, which the audience reciprocated.

“Most of you know Ms. Owens and Ms. Webb- both of whom are the instructors for the other leadership classes this semester.”

The students, aged eighteen to forty-plus made solemn nodding motions very much like third graders.

“Before we begin I want to take the opportunity to say to my own students, that it has been a pleasure to have you in my class and that I hope to see you again next semester.”

“That’s for the benefit of the teacher evaluation sheets that the students fill out at the end of class tonight.” Jon whispered.

Catherine nodded.

“To the other students here, I am teaching a second level, summer leadership class. Please see me after this session if you have any questions about the class.” She smiled broadly, and ingratiatingly to light applause.

“A commercial, which means she’s desperate to fill up the class before it’s cancelled.” Jon whispered again.

“Hush, don’t antagonize her in the last class.” She whispered, and when Mrs. Campbell’s gaze met hers, Catherine assumed an expression of interest, and deep sincerity.

Their instructor continued:

“You may not agree with the questions that we ask you tonight. You may not like the exercises - but I know that you will all cooperate.

“We hope that you will leave here with renewed respect for those people that are different from you. Our goal is better understanding between individuals and groups.”

“This session is given in the spirit of growth, and goodwill, which are necessary for peace between individuals. There must be peace between individuals before there can be world peace. And now, without further ado, I will turn you over to Ms. Webb our facilitator this evening.”

There was enthusiastic applause, and Ms. Webb, a broad lady, whose grim face belied those who might take her for the “fat and jolly type” took her place at the podium.

There was a moment of silence; she gave the audience that filled the small theatre, a sweeping, intense look, that seemed able to calculate each student’s hates, and prejudices.

“When this night’s session is over, you may realize that to confront a lifetime of, bias, racial hostility, gender discrimination, and class hatred, more is needed than a three hour seminar.”

“I recommend that each of you join my summer class, Minority/Majority Relationships, and Gender Identities in a Prejudiced Society. Handouts with the times and dates are on the tables in the vestibule.”


“If only she would let us know where she stands.” Jon said, as an aside, as the audience broke into thunderous applause.

“Are these people, phony, or spineless; my prejudice is that they are both.” Jon gave Catherine a cynical look.

“This is a diversity class; for tonight, you have lost your right to opinions, and to free speech.” She warned him, under cover of the applause.

Again, the audience was treated to another long stare from the facilitator, and then to a longer silence that made the atmosphere edgy and uncomfortable.


“For the first exercise, I want you to stand, turn to your neighbor and smile-whether you smile a small shy smile- or a broad grin- you are to make the choice. After the smile, you may be seated again.”

“That’s a nice, friendly touch- maybe world peace will begin with a smile.” Catherine whispered.

The audience stood. Jon Rutledge leered at Catherine, and Catherine flashed a wide phony smile back at him.

“We’ve lived through the first half hour.” She informed him, her eye back on the clock.

The audience sat down again.

“What kind of smile did you smile?” Ms. Webb asked looking around the theatre.

The audience, afraid to commit to which kind of smile they had chosen, in case they had picked the wrong one, murmured indistinct, and noncommittal answers.

“It doesn’t matter. What I want you to realize is that choice- how you smile- is nearly the only freedom you have left.”

“Forget world peace, Catherine. The smile had a sinister purpose. One freedom- I thought Roosevelt said there were four.” Jon murmured.

Catherine glanced towards the clock, and comforted herself that the first forty minutes were over. Then turning away, she caught a hostile stare from one of her classmates, and flustered, lost the thread of Ms. Webb’s lecture.

Then Ms. Webb announced a two- page diversity quiz, which the audience was assured would be self-graded. In the general buzz of conversation that erupted as the quizzes were handed out, Catherine turned to John.

“This isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It doesn’t come close to the one they made us attend at work. The quiz, and the discussion will take at least half-an hour. Then we are out of here- with a good grade, and most of our dignity intact. All we have do is remain silent and invisible.”

“Catherine, do you know how many people, long dead and buried have thought the same thing? Silence and invisibility have been tried. Jon said, sounding gloomy.

Catherine gave a sigh of impatience.

“Read the questions. Then imagine the follow-up discussion before you heave any more sighs at me, Madame Emerson.”

“Quit muttering at me.” Catherine answered.



1. ‘Complete the statement, I consider myself to be
___________, Politically.’

2. ‘Circle the statement that you most agree with: ‘Government is responsible for its citizens’ health and happiness. Each citizen of a country is responsible for his own health and happiness.

3. ‘Have you ever felt discriminated against?’

4. ‘What racial group makes up the majority of your friends?

5. ‘What groups of people do you most dislike?’

6. ‘Are there groups of people that your parents dislike?’

7. ‘Is there some individual member of a minority group that you dislike?’

8. ‘Complete the statement, ___________people are lazy, and have lower standards than_____________.

9. ‘As a student, do you believe that illegal immigrants have a right to in-state college tuition rates?

10. ‘Explain why or why not?’

11. ‘Have you ever been threatened because of your race, gender, sexual preferences or religion?’

Two pages of questions, which ended with:


12. ‘Have you ever felt that your race, gender, sexual preference, or religion has been insulted?’


Forty- five minutes later, they had sat through several emotional outbursts, two shouting matches, and one diatribe. Ms. Webb hadn’t felt called upon to intercede.

Catherine thought that at least the last question on the quiz had been answered even though they hadn’t gotten to it.

The answer sat all around her, and was reflected by smoldering eyes, jutting chins, and raised voices.

Obviously, everyone in the theatre felt that his or her own race, gender, sexual preference, or religion had been insulted.


After awhile, she had stopped listening. She was thinking of a picture that her aunt had painted for her. In it, twelve- year- old Catherine and nine year old Melinda stood together wearing their Prairie Princess costumes. They stood in front of the scenery that their uncle had made for that year’s Fourth of July pageant.

The girls were painted with their backs to the viewer. Little patriots, they looked through the open- heart shaped window that had been cut through the backdrop. The view through that valentine showed the pretty, and fertile Connor farm, the flag billowing above the house, trees and green hills beyond; a picture that offered all of the beauty that was summertime in Iowa.

At the moment, Catherine couldn’t remember any of her lines from that play, but she could recall the summer breeze that had belled out their skirts and wafted the fragrance of fried chicken over the audience.

Startled, she came back to the present, someone was shouting –something about the myth of the so called, old time, Southern gentlemen…shouting that the very term, “Southern Gentleman-when you considered that they had been slave owners- was an oxymoron.”

Jon Rutledge was from Virginia-and he had told Catherine that his mother claimed relationship, in some convoluted way, to at least one signer of the Declaration of Independence.

“ Stay quiet. Don’t get involved; nothing you say will make a difference.” Catherine whispered to Jon- who was standing, his face flushed and angry.


The next morning, Catherine made coffee and sat thinking about the semester that had just ended.

From the beginning, she had despised the leadership class.

Going to the class was like working four additional, unpaid hours each week. Her instructor, Mrs. Campbell, reminded her of her office manager, and her fellow students were like her fellow workers. All except Jon Rutledge.

Jon sat to her right, and they had gotten acquainted when they had caught each other rolling their eyes at something Mrs. Campbell had said.
His asides, usually sarcastic, sometimes funny, had made the class bearable. They had taken their breaks together, and had talked about books, politics, and history.

Catherine wasn’t sure how she felt about him. He wasn’t handsome; the most that could be said for him was, “he’s not ugly.” He had sun streaked tawny hair, was tan and lean, with eyes that held an amused expression.

He was years ahead of her in life experience, had traveled, and had held important jobs. So far, Catherine was entertained, but wary. The first class had begun their friendship; she expected that the last class would end it.

Catherine had dreaded the diversity session because she hadn’t seen much good come out of them. It seemed that the fastest way to get people at each other’s throats was to send them to a class to teach them understanding and respect. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Jonathan, but she was sure that what he had said the night before had been important, the best part of the diversity session.

Jordan Emerson, her father, had told her that some of the greatest speeches in history hadn’t been written down. He had been talking about the pre-revolutionary hero, James Otis, whose famous speech against the writs of assistance was remembered, only because someone had taken notes.

Most of that brilliant speech, in which Otis had said, “…one of the most essential branches of English liberty is the freedom of one’s house. A man’s house is his castle…” hadn’t been written down, and so was lost.

She knew that Jon Rutledge’s eloquent words would be forgotten. So self consciously, Catherine took up a notebook and tried to remember what had been said.

First, he had said that owning slaves had been a great wrong, and that the country had suffered for slavery by fighting a war that had nearly destroyed the union.

“Democracy needs people who are able to see the good things about the country and the good things about a man, as well as the bad.” He said.

“You’re telling me that these “Southern Gentlemen”-these slave-holders did things that made up for treating people like animals?” Someone yelled.

“ What I’m saying is not to let the bad that has happened in the past, ruin all of the good that could be yours in the future.” Jon had replied.

Then he had gone on, “Sometime in their lives, every country, every person, each race, and sex has to decide whether to hold on to the wrongs, the animosities, the grievances, grudges, and resentments of the past.”

“You can fight old battles, but it means living in the past. So, stay in the past and fight those old battles. Remember that you are letting your youth pass by while you waste your life hating men that are long dead.”

“History has been filled with the tragedy of people clinging to the past.”

“To see what comes of fighting old battles- look at the middle-east. Hundreds of thousands of people, caught up in the hatred of the past, living with their hands locked around each other’s throats; they can’t live; they are much too busy choking the life from each other.”

“What should we do just forget?” Someone yelled.

“Instead of the bitterness of the Civil war, look to the ideals and the sacrifices made by the patriots of the Revolutionary War period. Some of those patriots were from the South. ”

Then he had gone on to speak of the signers of the Declaration, and reminded the audience of how many of them had been Southerners.

A Shout from across the room, “Southerners, and slave holders, were rich men-they wanted power for themselves, they didn’t care about freedom for ordinary people.”

“Didn’t care about freedom? What about Jefferson- he wrote the Declaration of Independence that gave us liberty.” Jon asked.

“You want to call that southern slave owner a gentleman? You proved our point.”

“Where is Mount Vernon?” Jon, eyebrows raised to the highest, asked.

There was silence.

“General Washington, from Virginia, watched his troops march barefoot in the snow. He commanded the army that gave this country independence and liberty- he was a southerner.”

“At the end of his second term as president- he had the love and the trust of the people- he could have held on to power- but he turned away and left government service.”

There was a brief silence. And then, Ms. Webb quickly handed out the teacher evaluation sheets.


The next day, to celebrate both the end of the semester, and the fact that she was going home to Colorado, they had driven to Iowa State University in Ames, to see Reiman Gardens.

Jon had told her, “You need to take time to sniff the roses and visit the butterflies in the pavilion. You need silence, you’ve had people talking at you for months.”

They walked silently through the butterfly pavilion. Trying to maintain the silence, Catherine watched the people as well as the butterflies.

One couple, as quiet as themselves, intrigued her. The woman was blond, slim, and pretty. She sat close beside a man that Catherine guessed to be her husband.

She watched as a beautiful blue butterfly landed on the blond woman’s blouse.

“She’s smiling, but her eyes look sad.” Catherine said.

They left the pavilion and walked out into the grounds.

Jon Rutledge walked companionably beside her.

“What’s the name of the rose bush we are looking for?” He asked.

“The Prairie Princess; we don’t really have to find it – the roses aren’t even blooming yet. I’d forgotten that they wouldn’t bloom until June.”

“Let’s look, and then you can tell me what that rose, the Prairie Princess means to you.”

They had searched for a while, gave up, and sank down on a bench under an arbor.

“That was quite a scene played out in the theatre last night.” Catherine said.

“You’ve heard the quote, from the Bard, ‘A tale told by an idiot full of sound and fury and signifying nothing’.”

“But, you spoke well. Maybe you changed some minds.”

“I hope so. It would be good if someone chose happiness for once. Now, tell me about the Prairie Princess.”

“The rose, the Prairie Princess was developed by Griffith Buck, who was once a professor at Iowa State.”

“When I was young we visited Iowa each July. My aunt lives near a small town which celebrates the fourth with commemorative events, one of them is a pageant about the Revolutionary War.”

Catherine continued, “Aunt Colleen wrote the pageants. Sometimes her plays told our family’s history along with patriot history. She named the group of girls who acted in the plays for her favorite rosebush-the Prairie Princess.”

“My sister, and I joined the group and acted in the plays; my aunt directed, and my uncle constructed the scenery.”

“One year, the scenery consisted of a backdrop that had an open window cut in the shape of a giant heart. Through that heart shape, which symbolized love of country, was the rest of the scenery, which was the Connor farm, the American flag flying above it, the green fields surrounding it.”

“The play that year was about two young sisters and their grandmother, supposedly our ancestors, who lived in Philadelphia during the war. There was Molly Connor, ten years old, red haired and fearless, and her sister, Ginny, who was nearly thirteen.”

“Their mother had died. While their father was away fighting for the patriot cause with Mclane’s troops, the girls lived with their grandmother, a widow, on the edge of town.”

“In the mornings since he had left, the girls had come down the stairs and stood for a moment at the front window where they had watched their father as he had left for the war. Every morning Mrs. Connor had joined them at the window, and the three of them stood waiting, almost expecting to see Sean Connor, coming towards them down the road.”

“Then Ginny had gotten sick. For over a week her grandmother and Molly had nursed her, crying when she cried in pain, feeling sick at heart when in her delirium she called out for her dead mother and absent father.”

“Sean Connor was the light of both his mother and daughters’ lives.”

“On that windy Sunday night, Ginny sleeping in a little chamber off the kitchen, was burning up with fever. Mrs. Connor had stepped into the hall to get away from the smell of the sickroom.”

“ ‘If the wind would stop howling the child might rest.’ Mrs. Connor thought as the Hawthorn tree scraped against the window, and the wind howled through the attic.”

“ ‘If Sean could come home the child might live.’ ” She said, never guessing how close he was to home. He was a scout and had been sent to deliver a message to the patriots trapped in British occupied Philadelphia.

“Big battles between the armies were infrequent; but constant fighting went on between the scouts and guerrillas of both armies. His mission was a dangerous one; it was rumored that the dreaded Queen’s Rangers, a group of loyalist raiders was in the area, and raiders seldom took prisoners.”

“Sean Connor traveled cautiously, and luck was with him. He delivered the message, and hid the return message in his boot. Then, in answer to his question of, ‘What’s the news?’ He was told that Ginny was sick with a fever.”

“Mrs. Connor longed for summer. She thought about the rose garden outside her front door and remembered the sunlit mornings when she tended the roses instead of a sick child.”

“She shivered as the wind swept through the trees that lined the driveway. The Hawthorne tree scratched and scraped at the glass, and Mrs. Connor already nervous stood tense- staring at the front door.”

“She was alone except for the girls. Ginny was sick, maybe dying, and little Molly was sleeping on the parlor sofa. Whatever the night might bring Mrs. Connor had to face it alone.”

“There was a muffled bump. She turned, ran to the kitchen and came back holding a knife.”

“Another bump, the door swung open, and Sean stood before her, his face white and blood streaming from his arm.”

“She ran to support him.”

“ ‘Mother, they are after me!’ He said, and then passed out.”

“Father!” Molly Connor, red hair flying, ran to help her grandmother.

“Minutes later, seated in the parlor Molly heard a sharp knock at the door. She barely had time to call, ‘Come in!’ when the door opened and a soldier strode in. He was tall, and thin. Molly thought that he was cranky looking.”

“ ‘His Majesty’s business. Where’s your father?’”

“ ‘He has been away. Grandmother is here.’ Molly said, her voice shaking.”

“ ‘Get her. I am looking for a prisoner who escaped. I captured him just up the road from here.’ ”

“ ‘There’s no prisoner here. Just my sister and grandmother.’ ”

“ ‘I’ll see for myself.’ The soldier said, starting down the hall.”

“ ‘Molly jumped down from her chair and stood in front of him. ‘You better not go in there. Grandmother won’t even let me go in Ginny’s room.’”

“ ‘Now why wouldn’t you want me to see what’s in the other room?’ He asked, with a suspicious look.”

“ ‘Because she is sick with a bad fever-you might catch it.’ ”

“The soldier had slowed down when Molly said, ‘fever’, but still continued down the hall.”

“Trailing behind, Molly heard him open the door to the sickroom.”

“ ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my home?’ ”

“ ‘A soldier, looking for a prisoner.’”

“ ‘There is no prisoner here- only a sick child.’ ”

“The soldier hesitated, looked at the flushed child on the bed, and
Then, took a breath that was full of the stench from the sickroom.”

“ ‘Sorry to have bothered you.’ he had choked, and then practically ran from the house.”

“Later Molly helped pull her father from under Ginny’s bed.”

“Ginny's fever broke, but she didn’t regain her health, she laid an invalid, in the little kitchen chamber.”

“Her father lived but was never the strong man he had been before the war. The war went on, killing more of family, friends, and neighbors.”

“When the war ended, Mrs. Connor wondered if all of the losses, and sacrifices had been worth it. Had the cost of freedom been too high? Night and day the question plagued her heart. A terrible depression settled over her. She no longer took pleasure in her grandchildren or in her rose garden.”

“ ‘My pain would be eased, and my heart would be full of gratitude if I could know, if only for a minute- that freedom was worth the fight. I need to know that the lost lives were not wasted. I need to know that the pain we suffered had meaning.’ She thought, staring out at her neglected garden.”

“That night, Ginny had a fever again. Mrs. Connor sat beside her, dozing, and waking, then dozing again throughout the long night.”

“It was nearly dawn when the dream came to her. She saw Ginny and Molly dressed for the day, coming down the stairs. They didn’t speak to her, but she was there behind them as they looked out the window.”

“Mrs. Connor stretched forward to see the yard, the rose garden, and the road that ran in front of her house.”

“But this was a dream, and so there was a different view from her window.”

“There before them was a brilliant risen sun, shining over a prosperous and peaceful farm. Above the house flew a flag –different than the flag that had flown over the patriot army, but recognizable as the same flag.”

“Looking at that scene a wonderful sense of peace flowed over her. When Mrs. Connor woke, the depression had lifted and suddenly she was certain that good would come out of their sacrifice.”

“She told her son about her dream.”

“He never understood why a dream had changed things for her, but he was relieved to find that his mother was better whatever the reason.”

“She tried to tell him that, for a moment, a bit of magic or some miracle had allowed her to look through the ages.”

“She wanted him to understand, as she did, that the sacrifice they had made, and the freedom they had won was not just for them, it was for Ginny, and Molly, and their children. The sacrifice had been for the people who would live in that sunlit house a hundred years after Mrs. Connor had died.”

“ ‘The sacrifice was for people that I will never know. But I know this, they will dwell in the sunshine of freedom!’ She whispered to herself as she went out into her garden.”


 

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