Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Odd as it may seem, returning home from our journey has been a welcome breather. As I confirmed last time, “There’s no place like home.”

Still we’re gearing up for the continuation of our Caribbean adventure and really looking forward to what St. Kitts has to reveal.

In the interim, Natalie’s secret plan to rekindle my appetite for writing by encouraging me to post blogs about our travels has worked. For those of you who have had to listen to me drone on about various historical events, you know what a nerd I am. (Yes, a lot of other things, too, but this is a family-friendly site, so keep the mud slinging to a minimum!)

Many of you have prodded me to write an historical novel, and that’s exactly what I have started. I’m about fifteen thousand words into it and having a great time. The only complaint I’m getting now is because I’m compulsive about everything I do, I want to write non-stop. I’ll try to find more of a balance in my life.

My working title is A Dog’s Tale. It is about a man who was born on the morning of January 1, 1900 and is about to turn one hundred the first year of the new millennium.

Before you all correct me, I agree the millennium actually began on January 1, 2001, but all of us celebrated 2000 as the start. So, just go with it.

Anyway, for those who are interested in a sneak peek without the inevitable corrections from my editor, here is Chapter 1.

A Dog’s Tale

Alicia Smythington-Clarke smoothed her skirt, again checked her hair in the mirror she always had with her when she was working and struggled to calm her breathing and her agitation as she waited for “Dog” to come into the study of the large, stately home built in the 1920s on north Meridian in Indianapolis. He was late.

Instead of reporting on something really important like the impending disaster Y2K might prove to be, her producer had assigned her to do an interview with some guy called Dog, who would turn one hundred tomorrow morning, January 1, 2000. Who the hell was called Dog? More importantly, who would even watch a spot featuring someone who would likely be a shriveled, drooling old man and may or may not even remember his real name, David O’Grady?

The irony of Alicia’s irritation about Dog’s name despite the fact she, herself, was born in Jasper, Indiana as Candice (Candy) Ann Thompson and had created her television news persona after graduating from Indiana University four years earlier with a degree in Journalism hadn’t crossed her mind. She was a professional destined for the big leagues. Her faux, faint upper-class British accent came from the times as a child she had spent with her maternal grandmother, whose manner of speaking was legit. Americans love a British accent, the sonorousness of which encourage the listener to credit the speaker with intelligence and sophistication far beyond that of a southern-Indiana twang.

“Alicia’s” first gig out of college had been with a station in Fort Wayne, Indiana, but even though her reel had been limited, it clearly showed her potential. With the rapid expansion of the FOX network, she had been recruited six months earlier for a position with their Indianapolis affiliate.

Television news was a cutthroat business. She worked hard, kept herself fit and spent most of what she earned on her appearance. Alicia knew if she wanted to be national, she had to dress, act and think like her idol Jane Pauley, who had also graduated from IU.

Her leg bounced impatiently in her four-inch heels as she repeatedly crossed and uncrossed her legs. Where was the mongrel who was to be the subject of a public-interest story? She just wanted to get this thing over with so she could get ready for New Year’s Eve. Sitting here in this nice, once upon a time mansion smelling vaguely of age was getting to her despite her outward appearance of calm professionalism given away only by her leg gyrations.

Mike, Alicia’s cameraman, ignored her, looking instead at the photos of famous past political figures around the room. Curiously, the file on Dog had been virtually non-existent, yet the evidence around him suggested there was much more to this story. Alicia had noticed none of what surrounded her, and to Mike, was just going through the motions. Shrugging mentally, he thought, “Not my job. I’m here to capture the moment, whatever that may be, and do it in a way to visually grab the attention of the viewer.”

The expansive study was paneled in dark-stained walnut, as was the twelve-foot-high coffered ceiling. Books lined two walls, a third was dominated by a massive fireplace with an Indiana limestone mantle. The logs, which had been lit prior to their arrival, popped and cracked and gave off a comforting scent that made Mike suddenly want a hot cocoa as the flames warmed the room.

Hardwood floors had been covered with wool area rugs in muted colors. A worn, soft-leather, umber sofa with French nail heads faced the fireplace with two over-stuffed chairs perpendicular to it on either side. Rather than the customary coffee table, the space between these pieces of furniture was open as if to encourage those occupying them to converse with no barrier between them.

Small groupings of furniture were clustered elsewhere in the large room, as well, in a way to create intimate spaces. The lighting was subdued, despite the floor-to-ceiling leaded glass on the wall opposite the fireplace with French doors opening to a small, tidy, walled English garden with neatly trimmed boxwoods. Of course, the perennials had been cut back for winter, but Mike imagined it must be beautiful in bloom.

A simple writing desk was positioned off to one side of the room giving it a view of both the fireplace and the windows. Mike noticed a number of framed photos on the desk.

Turning on the light for his camera, Mike began to film the room, before turning to the desk and zooming in on several of the photos, including one of Teddy Roosevelt with his arm around a young man who might have been in his early teens and one of Winston Churchill with a uniformed man that looked like a forty-something version of the youngster with Teddy. In still another, it appeared to Mike that same man was in the Oval Office with JFK.

He was starting to bring his discovery to Alicia’s attention when a tall, broad-shouldered, trim older man in a well-tailored, grey pinstripe suit, crisply starched white shirt and burgundy and pale blue foulard silk tie walked into the room, smiled and extended his hand to Alicia.

“Miss Smythington-Clarke, I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was on an unexpected call. I’m David O’Grady, but people call me Dog.”

Alicia and Mike were both taken aback. No way this guy was turning one hundred. He could have easily passed for someone thirty years younger. The producer must have screwed up.

Standing and recovering herself, Alicia finally said, “Mr. O’Grady, I’m the one who must apologize, my producer sent me here to interview a man turning one hundred tomorrow. Perhaps your father?”

“Dog, please.” Laughing softly, Dog continued, “No, I’m afraid that would be me. But, thank you for the compliment. However, when your producer contacted my assistant, I suggested I’m not much of a story, other than the fact I happened to be born just after midnight on the morning of January 1, 1900 and I’ll be a century old tomorrow.” He gave a theatrical shudder and said, “Wow, scary to think about that, isn’t it? I don’t know how I got so old. Well, I guess I do – one day at a time.”

“Now, since you raised the subject of my father, that’s a story.”

Immediately drawn in by this man’s presence and forgetting her previous self-absorbed irritation, Alicia said, “I’m sure you’re being far too modest.”

She introduced Mike, who had his camera at the ready.

“I hope its alright, I started early while we were waiting for you and filmed some of the photos in the room. They’re fascinating and I’m sure there’s a story behind each one of them.”

Caught off-guard, Alicia pretended to understand Mike’s reference to the surrounding pictures. Pivoting to the one of Churchill, she had no intention of allowing Mike to upstage her. Taking a guess, she asked, “Is this you with Winston Churchill?”

Dog’s eyes narrowed slightly, his smile never leaving his face. “Hmm. Leave it to the fourth estate to quickly get to the heart of things. Perhaps we should have met in the living room, instead, where I don’t have such memorabilia, but yes, that is a younger version of me with the Prime Minister.”

Referencing an oil painting on the wall behind the writing desk, Mike asked, “Is that an original Churchill?”

Dog’s smile warmed in appreciation. “I’m impressed, Mike. What made you come to that conclusion?”

“I know Churchill loved to paint, worked mostly in oils, often chose to do landscapes and worked in an impressionistic style similar to that of Monet and Manet. Just a lucky guess when juxtaposed with the photo of you and the Prime Minister.”

“More than a lucky guess, Mike. Are you sure your primary job is that of a television cameraman or a cover for your secret identity?”

Although said in jest, Alicia sensed a hesitancy in Dog’s response and changed the subject. “How did you happen to be called Dog? I assume it was because of your initials, but who gave you that nickname?”

“Ah, yes, we’re back to my father. As I said, his life is the real story.”

He waived Alicia toward the sofa, “Please, have a seat. May I get either of you something to drink? Coffee or tea? Something a bit more festive? Afterall, it’s New Year’s Eve. I just happen to have Champagne chilling.”

Declining, Alicia thanked him, “Perhaps after we wrap?”

“Yes, of course. Better idea. Although, Churchill most certainly would have disagreed. No time like the present for a chilled Pol Roger, his favorite.”

Leading with one of her brightest smiles, Alicia said, “Tell us about yourself.”

“Well, you asked how I came to be ‘Dog’. Let’s start there.”