FIXIN' THINGS

 A Review By Barbara Holmes =========================

FIXIN' THINGS

ISBN: 0-595218415

=========================

Peggy Bell's acute eye for detail takes us on an historical journey into the life of a family, devastated by the Battle of Gettysburg.

In this second offering by Bell, we find a novel embellished with characters to love and those we love to hate. From the opening pages we suffer along as Bell's heroine, Megan, is forced to grow up before her time. With both parents gone and a lustful brother-in-law seeking her out at every meeting, her coming of age, enjoyable for most girls, becomes a heart-wrenching obstacle.

FIXIN' THINGS carries its fair share of characters, but we're never to the point where we begin to wish for a map. Sam, the black man taken in by Megan's mother when they were young, the eccentric Aunts who live in the rented house...all wonderfully engaging & delightful to meet.

Like many novels written about this period, the battle begins to surround the family lands, but few have the colorful cast of characters given in this compelling community.

Although this is a novel, Bell's layers of harsh life, hate, bigotry and newfound love come incredibly close to a work of non-fiction. FIXIN' THINGS gives readers a shocking yet enjoyable glimpse into a Gettysburg life.

Copyright 2002 Barbara Holmes

 

Gettysburg, PA - Thursday, July 2nd., 1863

 

       Megan gnawed a chuck of melted candle wax to keep from gnashing her teeth.  She had stared at the Trinity Church window for what seemed like hours before she realized it was dark outside.  The eerie light of a dozen torches projected the scene behind her onto the glass.  Union doctors had ordered every third box pew dismantled to give themselves room to work.  Confederates had placed the removed boards atop the remaining pews and covered them with straw.  Refugees from slaughter lay head-to-foot from entry to altar.  God's meat tossed on a butcher's block waiting for the cleaver.
     Spilled blood obscured the color of their uniforms.  The differences no longer mattered.  Each time a soldier shrieked for admittance into heaven or hell and got his wish, the ambulance drivers put another in his place but there was nothing left with which to bind their wounds.  Megan tried to remember what the sanctuary had looked like on Sunday.  Four days ago?  The memory escaped her.
     "Have you nothing to do," Miss Anne asked sharply.
     The inanity of the question clawed Megan's attention from the grizzly reflection.  She
spun away from the window ready to issue a sharp retort, but one glance at Miss Anne's face proved that unnecessary.  It was obvious the comment had been a ploy.
     "Brooding accomplishes nothing," Miss Anne said.  "Here."  She folded Megan's hands over a pad and pencil.  "The men are all anxious to correspond with their families, though Lord knows when we'll be able to post the letters.  Not that way," she added when Megan turned numbly toward the entrance.  A soldier with a drill knelt in the blood beneath the surgeon's table.
     "By the pulpit," Miss Anne said as she turned Megan away.
     Megan marched toward the dais.  The bloody carpet squished beneath her feet but she did not look down.  Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the cross above the altar.  A piece of ancient anger fell away with every forward step.  Plaints from the men who lay atop the pews on either side soon became impossible to ignore.
     "Water," one called and then another.  
     "Please."
     "Water."
     "Please Ma'am.  Please."
     "Have you seen my Marilee?"
     "Ma'am?"
     A Rebel scarcely older than herself tugged at her skirt with his left hand.  When she
knelt beside him on the filthy floor, Megan saw that his other arm ended an inch or two below his elbow.
     "Would you write a letter for me Ma'am?"  He sounded apologetic as if ashamed to be an inconvenience.  "I'd have a bit of trouble doing it myself," he said with a rueful grin.
     Megan suspected that any sympathetic comment would be unwelcome.  Instead, she
touched the point of the pencil to her tongue then asked, "What would you have me write?"
     "Say I'm fine," the young man began.  "No," he corrected.  "First say Dear Sally.  Sally.  
     That's my wife."  Megan glanced up at him.  "We start early in Tennessee ," he said.  "Had a formal wedding we did.  Her pa painted his shotgun white."  He glanced at her expectantly.  She managed a wan smile.
     "Let me see," he mused aloud.  "Where was I?  Oh yes.  Dearest Sally, I'm fine.  We're whupping the Yankees real good.  'Scuse me Ma'am but we are."  He looked more tickled than sorry.
     "Put this down."  He tapped the tablet with his bandaged stump.  "We fought all day for two days so far 'n' we're still at it 'cause they didn't run this time."  He winked to let  Megan know that the last clause was in deference to her presumed patriotism.
     "Don't you worry none Sally," he continued.  "I won't be a fightin' 'em no more.  We don't have 'em licked yet but my trigger finger ain't what it used to be so I'll be heading on home right soon."
     Megan tried to get it all down while he caught his breath.  He smiled and patted her arm.  Then he went on dictating lies as if he did not see the tears that slowed her hand.   "Maybe I'll get there in time for the hay in Sally.  Only you'll have to do a little more this time on account of I won't be able to tie the shocks up so good no more.
     "Give Luke Junior a big smooch for me and keep one for yourself," he dictated.  "I'll be home to help ya get that other baby girl you want 'fore ya think.  Sign that, Love Luke.  And please Ma'am, if you know a way could you send it to Mrs. Sally Anne Conners, Westfork , Tennessee ?"
     "That I can do," Megan whispered.  Grateful to him for offering a task she could accomplish, strengthened by a renewed sense of purpose.  

DLH - What part of you is woven into your novels?

 

PUB - It’s not so much what part of me is woven into the novel, but rather how much of the novel is woven into me.  In the process of creating and loving Psappha, I have become Psappha.  She is my soul, my lover, and my life.  Over the years, I have spent many more hours in her world than I have in my own.  With FIXIN' THINGS, I've added others to my collection of fictional companions.  I think it would take all of the characters I have create plus all I have yet to create and more before even I will begin to touch the surface of the totality of who I am.

 

DLH - What is your writing process like?

 

PUB - When I started PSAPPHA, I had my old Remington Standard set up so that when I faced the keyboard I also faced the window.  The primary reason for this was so I could watch my children while I worked but, as it turned out, it became a perfect writing tool for me because I did not stop writing and planning when the children came inside.  Instead, I spent my evenings staring at that black window (we lived far from streetlights) and I watched my scenes play out as if on screen.  With FIXIN' THINGS, I turned off my computer monitor and used its blackness as a backdrop for the action.  I get more work done now than before because now I don’t have to wait for night.  Of course, no longer having children underfoot also has advantages.

 

PUB - Wow!  You ask tough questions.  There are many challenges.  I suppose that convincing myself to stop researching and begin writing is the most difficult.  I LOVE research.  And now, with the world at my fingertips through the internet I find it hard to pull myself away.  Setting virtual reality aside to create new worlds is hard for me.  I mean, let’s face it.  Writing is hard work whereas learning is FUN!

 

DLH - Who were your influences among writers?

PUB - To be perfectly frank, sorry, couldn’t resist.  My two most influential writers were Frank Yerby and Dr. Frank G. Slaughter.  The first because his research was sloppy at times.  The second because his never was.  I’ve written to both of them.  I was about 10 when I wrote to Yerby to scold him because he had his hero using something years before it was invented.  I forget what it was, but I knew I was right as only an adolescent can.  I wrote to Dr. Slaughter maybe 20 years ago with a research question to which he responded immediately and in depth.