You move in with your Gram, that’s what you do. That’s what I did. Thought it was a pretty good idea, too. Great, actually. Right up until the son of my mother’s long-lost love walked into my life and threatened to take away the very home I’d just moved into. How could he do that? Take away the farm my family owned and worked for more years than Gram remembered? Why, my ancestors are buried on a small plot just north of the spring—now that’s history. Gram would die if she had to leave my Uncle buried in that plot with no one to care for the flower garden she planted every April and weeded till first frost.
We tried everything from selling goods at the farmer’s market to shares of an organic crop in order to save that old farm, but God had other plans. God and my Gram that is. That Gram of mine, she sure has more smarts than I ever give her credit for, but I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Lindsay Murphy and A Summer in Oakville is the story of our family’s tumultuous summer. You’ll have to read it to believe it.
Post a note below sharing a bit of your family’s history with us to enter a drawing for a free copy of A Summer in Oakville. Ms. Shellie and Ms. Lisa, the authors of our story, will chose a winner at random from the comment section. Can’t wait to learn
about your family tree.
In the meantime, here’s a snippet from my story:
Shoving the double doors wide, Lindsay Murphy brought the oppressive June air into the Bakersfield Town Board meeting. With the short-stack of notifications rolled into a tight cylinder, she ah-hem’ed as loudly as she could, calling all eyes to her. Pointing her magic wand of official documents at Town chairman Hiriam Bakersfield, Lindsay leveled her best don’t-mess-with-me glare on his watery eyes.
“What is the meaning of this?” Again she waved the notifications around like a flyswatter near an old fruit plate.
Hiriam raised his palm in a slow and calm gesture. The speed of which irritated Lindsay more than the notices themselves.
“Ms. Murphy,” he said in his throaty voice, probably worn scratchy by the cigar smoke she could smell. “You are out of turn.”
“I don’t care. If you are about to kick my grandparents off their farm, I really don’t think turns are something we should be arguing over.”
Hiriam’s face turned from pink to red to purple before he raised his other hand in a surrendered fashion. “Now see here, Ms. Murphy. We are doing the best we can to work through your grandparents’ case.”
“Are you insane?” She knew her voice had reached a level of whine that was neither persuasive nor adult. “You’re doing nothing of the sort with this offer.”
Hiriam’s eyebrows rose to meet his bushy grey hairline. “There’s no need to take that tone. We are working under the advice of our attorneys. With that faulty septic system and worn-out well, your grandparents won’t be able to sell that farm anyway.”
With an exasperated sigh, Lindsay crossed her arms over her chest and tipped her head to the side. “One question. Why my grandparents’ farm?”