Post by Shirlee on Sept 17, 2011 16:49:40 GMT -5
DEAR JOHN....
FORWARD
The circle of life is a never ending one and how easily it is taken for granted. Every moment is precious and every life should be treasured.
Dear John... is a tribute to a life; a series of endless circles that was forever broken by the very concept that life is meaningless. The 1800's and most notable the 1860's were a turbulent time for the nation as a whole and the human race in general. Torn apart by a war created by the ignorance for the sanctity of life, ALL life, and that no one race has the right to reign supreme over another. Slavery was an ugly part of our history, and the loss of human life from that Civil War was one of the largest human tragedies in our shameful history.
The 1860's proved doubly tragic because of the loss of our President Abraham Lincoln, a loss that only seem to underscore the turmoil our Country was in. Recovery was harsh, mending the broken lives a struggle, putting our chaotic lives in order a never-ending task, but we pushed on and persevered.
Writing Dear John... was one of the hardest tasks set before myself and it wasn't by my choosing that this story be told. My hands were merely the instruments by which this life unfolded. It, I felt, was a story that needed to be relived. It is a piece of rural history, Minnesota history. While all but a few names are true characters in this life story and all locations are true to fact, the personalities of all involved were evolved by the things the did or said. The Trivett family did exist, as did the Dornbuschs, Butlers, Washingtons, and Fahrenbachs.
Dear John... chronicles a real life, real incidents and what I feel is a true mystery in Perham, Minnesota history. The ending remains the same, but now you are the judge.
JUNE 10, 1882
Dawn was slowly breaking. The orange haze of sunrise warmed a sky that had cleared from the rain which had fallen the night before. The cleansing of Mother Nature's tears had not obliterated the muddied footprints, or the set of heel marks dug deeply into the crude dirt street.
Off in the distance, a puff of smoke rose into the sky, and then a train whistle cut the quiet morning air. A train filled with passengers headed somewhere south of that sleepy little village slowly made its way through. They expected to catch only a glimpse of early risers, or perhaps scattered buggies tethered along the street. Instead, they were greeted by something far more gruesome, more tragic than they had ever imagined.
The majority of the crowd that had drifted to the tracks were openly horrified; while some of the men seemed to have a satisfied look to them. Mothers, who did not want them to witness what would surely cause them nightmares, were hurriedly hustling of their children.
As the train cut its path through the center of town, the passengers became witness to the storm's aftermath. Close enough to touch was the crudely knotted rope, carelessly slung across a beam, its strands taut from the past night's soaking and the weight of the young man suspended from it. The body hung, head tipped severely to one side, eyes closed, jaw slack, his feet barely suspended from the ground.
As each car slowly passed by, gasps of dismay filled the air; female passengers turned their eyes away. But the engineer would not and did not stop the train, just nodded a solemn head as he blew the whistle. There was nothing that could be done now except to pass the word through the settlements. Nothing to do but learn the lesson provided them by what they had each witnessed.
This day would not soon be forgotten by the riders on that train and most certainly not the citizens of that sleepy little town in Minnesota.
FORWARD
The circle of life is a never ending one and how easily it is taken for granted. Every moment is precious and every life should be treasured.
Dear John... is a tribute to a life; a series of endless circles that was forever broken by the very concept that life is meaningless. The 1800's and most notable the 1860's were a turbulent time for the nation as a whole and the human race in general. Torn apart by a war created by the ignorance for the sanctity of life, ALL life, and that no one race has the right to reign supreme over another. Slavery was an ugly part of our history, and the loss of human life from that Civil War was one of the largest human tragedies in our shameful history.
The 1860's proved doubly tragic because of the loss of our President Abraham Lincoln, a loss that only seem to underscore the turmoil our Country was in. Recovery was harsh, mending the broken lives a struggle, putting our chaotic lives in order a never-ending task, but we pushed on and persevered.
Writing Dear John... was one of the hardest tasks set before myself and it wasn't by my choosing that this story be told. My hands were merely the instruments by which this life unfolded. It, I felt, was a story that needed to be relived. It is a piece of rural history, Minnesota history. While all but a few names are true characters in this life story and all locations are true to fact, the personalities of all involved were evolved by the things the did or said. The Trivett family did exist, as did the Dornbuschs, Butlers, Washingtons, and Fahrenbachs.
Dear John... chronicles a real life, real incidents and what I feel is a true mystery in Perham, Minnesota history. The ending remains the same, but now you are the judge.
JUNE 10, 1882
Dawn was slowly breaking. The orange haze of sunrise warmed a sky that had cleared from the rain which had fallen the night before. The cleansing of Mother Nature's tears had not obliterated the muddied footprints, or the set of heel marks dug deeply into the crude dirt street.
Off in the distance, a puff of smoke rose into the sky, and then a train whistle cut the quiet morning air. A train filled with passengers headed somewhere south of that sleepy little village slowly made its way through. They expected to catch only a glimpse of early risers, or perhaps scattered buggies tethered along the street. Instead, they were greeted by something far more gruesome, more tragic than they had ever imagined.
The majority of the crowd that had drifted to the tracks were openly horrified; while some of the men seemed to have a satisfied look to them. Mothers, who did not want them to witness what would surely cause them nightmares, were hurriedly hustling of their children.
As the train cut its path through the center of town, the passengers became witness to the storm's aftermath. Close enough to touch was the crudely knotted rope, carelessly slung across a beam, its strands taut from the past night's soaking and the weight of the young man suspended from it. The body hung, head tipped severely to one side, eyes closed, jaw slack, his feet barely suspended from the ground.
As each car slowly passed by, gasps of dismay filled the air; female passengers turned their eyes away. But the engineer would not and did not stop the train, just nodded a solemn head as he blew the whistle. There was nothing that could be done now except to pass the word through the settlements. Nothing to do but learn the lesson provided them by what they had each witnessed.
This day would not soon be forgotten by the riders on that train and most certainly not the citizens of that sleepy little town in Minnesota.
