Here at my place it is cold, 23 degrees at 5 A.M. I woke at 4 A.M. and couldn't go back to sleep. So, I lay and thought about my books. I thought in particular about my Western Series concerning the great gunman, Cedric Gant. My mind wandered peacefully over his life and career. I thought about the things he'd done, the fights he'd been in. How he had gained a wife, and notoriety as a gunslinger. I thought about his failures as a person and their tragic aftermath. I thought about his courage and the good he'd done for many. How he was willing to take the part of the weak and downtrodden.
So the thoughts came and went, there in the darkness of the bedroom, my wife sleeping beside me. I thought about how Cedric and his friends had found a wagon in Southern Colorado. How the wagon had been burned by Indians and the horses stolen. How the bodies of several priests were there, mutilated and scalped. I remembered the mission bell they had found in the ashes and how they hung it from a tree at their ranch.
I thought about how that same bell had saved several lives, including a Nun who had been abducted. That brings us to the title of this post, Whispering Bells. This was the title of a cool old song from the 1950's, I guess. I can play it fairly well on piano. The reason I bring it up is because I have been going around humming it all morning. I was thinking about the bell in my books and I guess my mind sifted through all the clutter and said, "Hey, I bet old CE would like to hear this golden oldie..." Then it comes out over the 'airways' like a disc jockey who plays tunes only for me.
Whispering Bells, please bring my baby back to me...Baby back to me.
I once read a story that Zane Grey's son had written concerning his dad. He said that in his later years, especially when he was near death, Zane Grey would go back and read his own books. He would be tremendously moved by certain parts of them, literally brought to tears by specific sections. I totally understand this. Those sections were no doubt real to him. They were probably heavily influenced by events from his own life. people he knew, memories precious to recall. Plus, we become vested in our characters. They grow up under our care. They live, laugh, love, perhaps even kill. We watch over them like a benevolent uncle or something. Then, when their tale is told and finished, we think back on the old rascals with the greatest sense of satisfaction... and peace. We have created something that, perhaps, someone will relax with a generation from now. That may well provide some pleasure and escape from the unpleasantness of life to someone who is not even born at this present time. It is a nice feeling.
As I lay against Carley, warming my aged bones, I thought about the old home on the mountain. We just sold it, lately. It was the original green retreat and boy, was it isolated? It was a perfect place for a writer. It was a thirty minute drive to a place where you could buy a coke. I could walk outside on a night like this and see the dark forest, stripped of leaves, the moonlight searching the trails, animals stalking their prey. I could look toward the creek and see the night fog laying like a loaf of white bread below me. I could hear a distant freight train, faintly singing with its wheels on the tracks, like whispering bells.
I'm CE Wills. Good day.
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