A Gallery of Butterflies

Elizabeth Ackerman

Description

A Gallery of Butterflies is a thought-provoking book that addresses a social problem of national proportions—the homeless—with lighthearted touches.

Sujets

• Christianity
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: WestBow Press
• Date de parution: 08 mars 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781512777468
• Langue: English

Extrait

A Gallery of Butterflies
A Homeless Chronicle

ELIZABET H ACKERMAN
 
 
 
 
 

 
Copyright © 2017 Elizabeth Ackerman.
 
The working title of this book is: 22 days and 11 portraits
 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 
Quotations at the beginning of each Part (One, Three, Four & Five)
are from Quotable Women:A collection of shared thoughts. Running
Press Book Publishers. Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1989.
 
 
 
WestBow Press
A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.westbowpress.com
844-714-3454
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.
 
ISBN: 978-1-5127-7745-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-5127-7747-5 (hc)
ISBN: 978-1-5127-7746-8 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017903350
 
 
 
WestBow Press rev. date: 07/28/2022
For my family
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to express gratitude to Gordon Taylor, a first reader, Kirk Bjornsgaard, Michael Wright, S.E. Hinton, and A.J. Tierney for development support; Thomas Meador, George Otey, Kathy Otey and Hobby Lobby for encouragement. Members of WestBow Press who have been especially gracious and important: John Opat, Arlene Vergara, Nicole Osbun, Hazel Johnston, Gemma Ramos, Rebecca Hogue, Bob DeGroff, Peter Le, Jomar Evidientes, Michael Grady, Elizabeth Calhoon and Jeanne Carreon.
Contents
Prologue
Part One: Introduction
Part Two: Making Contact with Help
Simone
Nancy
Merona
Jo Anne
Part Three: Getting Help from a Different Source
Constant
Rebecca
Togahawk
Sheron
Heather
Robert
Part Four: Going Back to Normal—Almost
Thomas
Marjorie
James
Gloria
Joel
Part Five and Conclusion
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
In a Midwestern mid-sized American town during August, Sandy Hargrove suddenly finds her living conditions in complete upheaval. During her adjustment to a different living location, she encounters an array of compelling figures. They aid Sandy, or walk with her for a time during her transition, provide companionship and claim her attention during a strange phase of her life.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
They emerge from their chrysalis, try their wings and go their separate ways. They, in anxious delight, find their way to flowers and feeding places momentarily; then aloft they go, sometimes finding their way back to a gathering place—but only for a short time. Then, they are off again to alight on different feeding places.

Part One
Life is what happens to you when you are making other plans.
—Betty Talmadge American meat broker; wife of former Georgia senator
“Y ou have fifteen minutes to get your clothes and a toothbrush,” said the handsome attorney, his manly voice sounding fierce in contrast to the open, vulnerable expression on his young face, younger than mine, at any rate, by at least twenty years. Faced with sudden expulsion from my home, I was dumbfounded by his order—I had expected Legal Aid to send help, not someone to persecute me further. I stared in disbelief at the attorney’s face and then turned to get some belongings. I had no money for a hotel or motel, no secondary house or apartment, no family in town. I did have a part-time teaching job, but my paycheck was a month away.
Day 1,—Thursday afternoon : At the courthouse, where I had driven to secure a hearing, there were lines of people at the counter and others milling about with a sense of purpose that added to the confusion and pressure I felt.
“Go to the door down the hall to the right,” indicated an official. “There you wait until the judge calls for cases at the end of the docket.” I did as I was directed and waited for the judge to recognize me. After forty-five minutes or so, I heard the judge speak loudly.
“Any other cases waiting to see me?” The judge scanned the remaining few faces in the room.
“Yes sir.” I replied as I stood up. I explained that a notice for a hearing for “a motion to vacate” had been posted on a door to the house where I was living, but it was a door that I never went in or out of and I had found the notice only after the hearing was scheduled. I wanted to re-schedule the hearing. The judge accepted my reasoning and re-scheduled the hearing for another day. Relieved, I went home. Steering into the wide driveway and clicking the garage door opener, I drove my car in. When I got out and approached the interior house door, my key did not open it. After recovering from the confusion of my key not working on any door, I realized I had to visit the sheriff’s office to get the situation straightened out.—I had a document in my hand that explained the re-scheduled hearing and thus my rights to the house. So, I drove downtown to the sheriff’s office. The officer who greeted me said, after examining the document,
“We had orders to change the locks on the house and it’s out of our hands. There’s nothing we can do.”
Staring at him in disbelief, I was speechless. Stunned into paralysis, I did not think to ask for his superior or to get another level of cooperation. I had planned to explain that I had just filed a stay of execution for judgment for possession of a house I was “caretaking;” I wanted to let his office know the papers would be ready at four o’clock that afternoon and the sheriff could let me in then. However, after I talked with the official, it was apparent the shifting legal situation was of no consequence to him. He told me all the locks had been changed on the house at one o’clock and that it was “out of the sheriff’s hands.” The officer was calm, casual and unconcerned on any level. It was as if this matter of locking people out of houses was a game of chess and they had just won—checkmate. Even though I knew papers would be ready later that day, the sheriff’s office was deaf to any options. I expected him to say, “Okay, come back with your papers and we’ll let you in.” But no, he was adamant—“those papers don’t mean a thing.” It was then that terror struck me like a sudden drop in airplane altitude. My psyche went into freefall and I began grasping mentally at anything to slow my descent. But there was nothing to check my fall—no friend, family or authority—only my innate sense of survival and the unconscious support of my breathing. I was upright and conscious, but barely. Though I remained standing, my posture was frozen and I stared ahead into the nothingness of space—not focused on anything—how could I look ahead? What was next? Totally unprepared to be locked out of the house, I finally made myself move. In the next surrealistic moments of suspended time, I turned away from the courthouse counter—“Civil Division.” These actions were “ civil ”? I could barely lift my feet to walk and breathing was quick and shallow. All the legal papers in the world would not give me access to the house that day, or my toothbrush, clean underwear, or the freshly-cooked batch of spaghetti in the fridge, not to mention my dog.
Finally, I gathered my wits and decided to call Legal Aid. I hoped to get an attorney to help me regain entry to the house and at least let my dog out and feed her. I went to the nearby college office to make the call. After repeated transfers and holds and more than a half an hour on the phone, I was told someone would meet me at the house at five p.m.
“Thank goodness,” I muttered, “I have a lawyer on my side and this nightmare will be over.” I waited at a coffee shop until about four-thirty p.m. before heading back to the house.
I pulled up in the driveway expecting to meet a lawyer or agent who was to let me in the house in which I had lived for three years. However, there was no other car there and as I walked around the entrance to a side where the glass afforded a better view, I found a sliding door partially open. Someone at the sheriff’s office must have realized my dog needed access to outdoors and had left the sliding entry ajar. Unexpectedly delighted, but cautious, I went inside. Thus, I was in the house before the attorney arrived. Neglected for more than eight hours, my pet of ten years was my immediate concern since my daughter had gone back to college several days before. I had no desire to circumvent any “rules” about being expulsed from the house, but thought my dog needed attention. The dog came bounding around the corner to greet me.
“Duchess!” I murmured and bent down low to pat the feathery fur on the spaniel’s head and shoulders. “Are you doing all right?” I had been gone from the house much longer than usual. A steady wag of Duchess’s tail and an appreciative lick on my hand let me know the dog was fine and glad to see me.
But now, in spite of the sheriff posting an eviction notice on a door I never entered, and to use time