None of the neighbors considered it trespassing. The run-downshack on 5 overgrown acres had been abandoned for years.
Hannah Blackwell has led a dull and dutiful life. Widowed young, she moved back to her childhood home to care for her ailing parents, and somehow never left. As she approaches her seventh decade, she often struggles to find reasons to get out of the house.
That all changes the day she receives a registered letter, informing her that she has inherited a five-acre parcel on an unpaved road, complete with rundown shack and unmanageable weeds, in the Sierra Nevada foothills. The inheritance, from a renegade brother she hadn’t seen in 30 years, forces Hannah out of her well-worn routines, and into a world of rugged and unfamiliar possibilities.
Hoping to find clues to her brother’s life, she visits the property, finding herself tantalized by its harsh landscape, and drawn to the odd assortment of neighbors who surround her. As Hannah’s connection to the land and the neighbors deepens, she uncovers fragments of her brother’s life, as well as the many ways in which she has abandoned her own life.
Blind Shady Bend tells the story of ordinary people whose lives can change radically and passionately, no matter how stuck they may feel, no matter their age.
Excerpt
I can’t say how long I’d been sitting there, plopped in the middle of my front room floor and wedged between too many damned throw pillows, when I heard the knock. My tea had become cold, I know that much. My morning ritual, sipping a steaming cup of Lapsang Souchong, black smoky leaves brewed to death, gives me the kick I need to start my day. I like to take it over to the armchair where I get a decent view of the goings on around the neighborhood, meager as they are.
But I was tripped up that particular morning on my way to opening the front curtains. I think it must have happened when I leaned over to pick up a pillow, that maroon and gold one, made in India with glassy beads that were quite lovely until Amos discovered he could paw them loose and swat them around like shiny dead bees. What used to be iridescent flaps of shine were now a mangled bunch of loose hanging threads.
Mother always had this ridiculous penchant for throw pillows and I hated them back then, hating having to push them aside every time I sat down and then propping them back up in fluffed up groups of three, she insisted on three. How I came to replicate that frivolous decorating twitch I will never know.
I think what I did was set the mug down when I picked the pillow up, and next thing I knew I was on the floor, legs splayed wide like a school kid, noticing all kinds of things you usually can’t see when upright. Dust balls beneath the sofa, that dark green hooked rug (another one of Mother’s specials), looking more like chartreuse with the field of cat hairs covering it. I could see water stains beneath the flowerpots proving I did tend to them every once in a while. How did I ever end up with so many God-damned African Violets?
At first I didn’t think it was a knock. Sounded more like the wind hitting the fuchsia limb against the side of the house. But no, there it was again, louder this time and I supposed I’d better hoist myself up.
“Coming,” I called, but I really had no desire to move. My age has been gaining on me lately, occasionally edging out in front. It doesn’t concern me in the least. I liked it down there. While I was sitting on the floor, a thin slip of morning light crossed the room, shedding light on a spider web suspended between the curtain rod and door frame, then moving down to spark the silver buttons of my slipper toes, catching the satiny blue edge of my tablecloth along the way. I was having a fine time really, nowhere particular to go today and no great reason to raise myself up to standing.
Just then I became aware of Amos’s litter box, stationed at a particularly unfortunate angle, kitty-corner as it were, from my mid-floor position. Some brief movement of air must have carried its putrid aroma directly my way.
“Coming” I yelled again, grabbing the leg of the sofa for leverage, pulling myself to where I could gather the strength to stand. My sweater had slipped off somewhere during the mid-morning slump and a thin string of spittle had slid down the side of my mouth, moistening the inside of my ear. I don’t want to think about what I looked like.
It was the Fed Ex man, holding out a registered letter like it carried something contagious. With finger pointed, he instructed me to sign at the X. I pulled my sweater over my housecoat but his eyes never left the envelope. I could have been wearing nothing for all he cared. I signed where indicated and before I could so much as say thank you, he was already back in his truck, gears grinding and off he went.
I moved slowly to the kitchen table. Who sends me registered letters? I didn’t even get much in the way of regular mail. Bills, catalogues, more bills, the church bulletin. I’ve asked them to take me off their list but it does no good. People don’t come by here much, other than the meter reader, Wilbur every other week to trim the hedges, and Haley across the street whenever she’s locked herself out. I keep her extra key, that’s all. And once in a while I pour her a cup of tea because when she locks herself out it usually means she’s been fighting with her husband and needs to talk. I don’t mind Haley’s chatter because she doesn’t go on too long, just needs to air a few sharp words about him, reminding me again that I was better off without one.
I kept fingering the envelope, felt its thickness, not wanting to open it. I decided that a letter of this called for Pa’s ivory handled letter opener, the one with foreign lettering on the side, Arabic or Chinese maybe. I didn’t keep many of his things but for some reason I couldn’t throw this one out. I vaguely remember that it was connected with one of his war stories. That and his ivory carved pipe, shaped like a skull with the lip broken off, were about all I had left of him, which was more than enough.
The envelope opened in one slick slice. A flurry of business cards spilled out first–-a realty office, Department of County Records, an attorney. I had to pull on the thick document to get it free.
“In re the Estate of Raymond Edmond Blackwell….” I read the title once, then again, and on the third time, my hands began to shake so hard I had to set the paper down to steady myself.
It was a simple, straightforward legal document. “Raymond Edmond Blackwell hereby bequeaths his entire estate to his only sister, Hannah Mavis Blackwell. Said estate consists of 7.5 acres of real property located in an unincorporated area of Nevada County, State of California.”
I reread the pages, about five in all, lots of legal jargon I couldn’t make out, mainly because wet splotches from my eyes smudged all the words into nonsense. I read from top to bottom, the law firm title, the court, case number 02673B, I read Ray’s name and then read it again aloud because I hadn’t heard it spoken for so long, because for so long I had avoided the mere sound of it.
I turned back to page one again, read “In re the Estate of…” out loud, slower this time, thinking it might help slow down my heart a bit, breathing hard, I closed my eyes to try and picture him, with his crazy hair flopped over his eyes, my baby brother gone, this time for good.
Dreamin’ Dreams is more than a collection of stories; it is a celebration of Irish life, adventure, and the unforgettable characters who make growing up in Ireland a journey worth remembering.
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