Hi there readers and fellow authors. I am Willie Tee and I send out newsletters from time to time to keep you informed of the progress I am making in the promotion of my book, The Winds of Destiny, 2nd Edition. I will mention in my newsletter book festivals, speaking engagements and book signings that I attended or will attend in the future. I also inform readers of other fellow authors that I have met and the titles of their books. Importantly, I want to encourage others to become authors, a dream come true, and to provide them guidance on how to become skillful authors.
Newsletter Dated: 9/23/2004 2:01:36 PM
Subject: The Winds of Destiny - The Keepers of the Secret
The Keepers of the Secret, a non fiction memior, is currently being printed and will be available in less than thirty days. There will be a special event held to herald the release of my new book. You will receive an email with information about the event soon. Reminder: The audio book (4 CDs & 4.5 hours in length) is now available for sale at this site and at www.amazon.com. It will be availabe through all book stores, but call in your order before going to the book stores. Here is the synopsis of the book and an excerpt:
Coming Soon (In the Printing Room)
The author continues the dramatic and tragic real life story about his family’s secret. His previous novel, which critics and readers have given rave reviews, sat the stage for sequels to his dramatic story. Readers demanded sequels to the previous novel. The author agreed to quench their thirst with more true drama about his family.
In this dramatic true story, the author finds and visits for the first time the grave of a relative who perished during the great family tragedy, though it is forty-five years after the tragedy occurred. The event was filmed by the author’s hometown television station.
In this offering, the author, Willie Tee, explores in depth the issues and problems that caused his family’s burdensome tragedy during nineteen fifty-seven on his maternal grandparents farm. The tragedy would be kept as a secret from Willie, his siblings, and cousins, who were toddlers when the incident occurred. The secret and its burdens were revealed to them when they became teenagers.
A series of tragedies spun from the secret over a forty-year period of time. Perhaps it was coincidental, but this sequel raises some issues about the tragedy that are laden with mystery. This memoir mentions that subsequent deaths and tragedies within the author’s family had dates with similar numerical significance. This story explicitly depicts the relativity of dates on which family tragedies occurred. The dates indicate a pattern. It is often said that our lives and its events are destined when we are born. The pattern of dates in which tragedies occurred in the author’s family seemed predictable and is eerie. Readers will be inspired by this masterpiece of a story.
Growing up on the Farm
“Willieeeee Teeeee”, Granny exclaimed in a loud gruff voice. “Get on up and come to breakfast.” I was only partially asleep that cold winter morning during the winter of 1960. I smelled the odors of frying bacon and home made baked biscuits during the early hours of the morning as Granny prepared breakfast on her old propane gas stove. Small puffs of condensation rolled from my mouth, as I moved from under the warm quilts that covered our bed. Quilts were piled on top of beds during the harsh North Carolina winters. The quilts, combined with the body heat of other bed companions, kept us fairly warm at night.
My feet shriveled when they struck the cold wood floor of the bedroom. I got out of bed and dressed hurriedly and awakened George, my younger brother, who was almost three years old. I was older than him and almost five years old. George and I pulled on one-piece zip up padded jump suits with the boots attached. We then grinned broadly at each other and marched towards Granny’s kitchen. We paused for a few seconds near the cast iron potbelly wood stove, which was the main source of heat for the den and kitchen area. The bedrooms were closed off as well as the living room and these rooms were unheated.
Aunt Virginia, who was perhaps fifteen years old, Uncle Leon who was fourteen years old, and Aunt Linda, who was perhaps ten years old had already departed for school on the county school bus that stopped on weekdays on the shoulder of the paved two lane major highway that.
The highway was located a short distance from my grandparents three bedroom single level house. Aunt Virginia, Aunt Linda and Uncle Leon were the teenage sisters and brother of my mother, Annie. A rutted dirt road, almost a city block in length, extends from the paved main highway to the farmhouse.
George and I waddled across the vinyl floors of the kitchen and approached Granny, who was dressed in a gingham style dress that was hemmed well below her knee. Granny wore a flowery apron around her waist. Granny was a short and stout dark brown coffee color skinned woman, who was slightly rotund, but solid as an oak tree. There was no fat or flab on Granny’s physique. Granny lived on a tobacco farm from 1900, when she was born, to the present time of 1960. She was one of seven children in her family. Granny had two sisters and two brothers living during 1960. Two of her older brothers had passed on into eternity some years earlier as well as both of Granny’s parents. Needless to say, rigorous farm work had transformed Granny and her siblings into sturdy and powerful farmhands. This was also the case with Granny’s seven daughters and two sons and her numerous grandchildren. We were human powerhouses.
With broad smiles on our faces, George and I strode into the kitchen area and sat on chairs at a large wooden table. With a broad smile creasing her face, Granny heaped grits, fried eggs and ham onto two large plates. She then gingerly grabbed two homemade biscuits from a pan and placed them, one at a time, onto the two plates of food. As I devoured my food, I glanced out of the window of my grandparent’s one story, three-bedroom house, which was constructed of a wood frame and sturdy wooden siding.
Over the years, or later on, the siding of the old house would be painted white, green, blue and other colors.
I peered out of the window of the house that cold wintry morning of February 1960 and spied the small field at the side of the house. The field contained some wilted vegetables, which were the remnants of the fall harvest. Small gray and black sparrows hippity hopped across the barren field and would pause to peck at wilted plants and grass with their beaks. I often wondered how such frail looking birds could survive the harsh southern winters. I would learn later when I became older that birds have layers of feathers, which protect them from the frigid winter temperatures. As a four-year-old and an adolescent, I was curious about every creature that I saw. I had a keen interest in birds or fowls because they could fly and glide effortlessly through the air, while I remained earthbound.
I looked beyond the field and noticed that about one city blocks from Granny’s house and in a clearing was a large shanty with an outhouse situated at its rear. The shanty belonged to my Aunt Peggy and her son Howard, who was nicknamed “Snap” and about nine years old during this time period.