Beckoning Candle | Randy Willis

Beckoning Candle | Randy Willis

Beckoning Candle by Randy Willis

I’ve read that novels don’t need an introduction, but Beckoning Candle is more than a novel. It is a nonfiction novel because it was inspired by true stories handed down by my ancestors. It depicts real historical figures and actual events woven together with imaginary conversations with the use of the storytelling techniques of fiction. Truman Capote claimed to have invented this genre with his book In Cold Blood in 1965.

In some instances, it’s 100% fiction.

Beckoning Candle is a sweeping family saga that spans four centuries. It is the story of two great nations and my ancestor’s struggle from tyranny—religious and political.

To better understand this saga, it will help if you know a little about my ancestry dating back to 1575.

John Willis and William Bradford were born in England in the 16th century. Both were Separatists because they separated from the Church of England, ruled by a king.

They were later contemporaries in the small village of Plymouth Colony, in the New World—America. They both lived out their lives there. Generations later two of their descendants fell in love! But I’m getting ahead of myself.

—Randy Willis

To order, learn more about the author, and the characters in Beckoning Candles visit:

http://threewindsblowing.com

 

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Randy Willis is an American novelist, biographer, rancher, and music publisher.  Website: http://threewindsblowing.com
Amazon author’s page:http://amazon.com/author/randywillis
Three Winds Blowing trailer
https://youtu.be/L6libzCS9No
Twice a Slave trailer:
https://youtu.be/IuPAzCcRn3s
Twice a Slave, the play trailer:
https://youtu.be/L7iT-7CiKA0 
     
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Randy Willis

The Spanish Flu 1918 / Randy Willis

The Ole Willis Place

She was beautiful, charming, and graceful.

That would all fade within hours after exposure to the 1918 flu pandemic.

She was my Great-Aunt Eulah Rosalie Hilburn Willis. She died from the 1918 flu pandemic, aka The Spanish flu, on February 6, 1919. She was only 34.

Her daughter, Flossie Willis (the baby in the wagon photo), was my cousin and friend until her death in 1985. She told me her father and mother’s story, and I included in my book Destiny last year.

The plague lasted from January 1918 to December 1920.

It emerged in two phases. In the late spring of 1918, the first phase, known as the “three-day fever,” appeared without warning. Few deaths were reported. Victims recovered after a few days. When the disease surfaced again that fall, people had lost their fear of it, but this time it was devastating!

It is estimated that 500 million people or one-third of the world’s population became infected with the influenza virus. The number of deaths was estimated to be between 50 and 100 million worldwide, with about 675,000 occurring in the United States. Nearly 200,000 Americans died from the “Spanish Flu” in October 1918 alone.

In the United States, about 28% of the population of 105 million became infected. Today, that percentage could even be higher since social distancing is far more complicated.

The United States had been caught unprepared in 1918 for the outbreak partly because advances in bacteriology made many Americans believe they could control infectious diseases. At least that’s what the experts told the people.

The influenza epidemic of 1918 has been overlooked in the teaching of American history—until now.

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Photo: The Ole Willis Home Place, August 5, 1906, located near Amiable Baptist Church (near present-day Longleaf, Louisiana), on Barber Creek.

My Great-Uncle Robert Kenneth Willis Sr. (1877-1951) has the reins in his hands. Robert’s first wife Eulah Hilburn Willis (1884-1919), is in the backseat. She died in the influenza pandemic of 1918/19.

My Greatgrandmother Julia Ann Graham Willis (1845-1936) is holding a catfish and is standing next to the wagon. Robert and Eulah’s baby girl Flossie Litton Willis (August 5, 1905 – September 1985) is held by an unknown lady. Flossie told me before her death that this photo was taken on her first birthday.

The story of Eulah Hilburn Willis may be found in my novel Destiny https://www.amazon.com/Destiny-Randy-Willis/dp/1792724470

Eulah Hilburn Willis is buried in the Lecompte Cemetery in Rapides Parish, Louisiana.

Be safe…

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Randy Willis
www.ThreeWindsBlowing.com

Robert Kenneth Willis

Randy Willis #randywillis randywillis

Merry Christmas | Randy Willis

Based on a true story
 
December 25, 1941
The Ole Willis Home Place
Barber Creek, Longleaf, Louisiana
Ran Willis arises before sunrise, nestles next to the fireplace, with hot coffee—as alone as the morning star.
 
The wind whistles through the dogtrot and awakens Julian. He struggles upright, half asleep, and rubs his eyes as he pours a cup of coffee.
 
“It’s our first white Christmas! Grab some firewood—please. And check on the horses, mules, and the dogs too.”
 
“Yes, sir, Daddy. Merry Christmas!” Julian shivers as he chips through the frozen water trough with a horseshoe. He gathers the firewood, now covered in two foot of snow. Icicles adorn the trees overhanging Barber Creek. It is cold and rather barren, but it has the loveliness of a Christmas card. And, like a Christmas card, it will hold that image in Julian’s mind for years to come.
 
Ran’s eldest son, Howard, driving his International Harvester truck, can be heard a mile away as it plows through the snow on the red dirt road. The family knows there will be no snowfall that will prevent Howard from delivering a Christmas tree to the homestead—a real tree, and not one of those artificial, awkwardly bent imitation trees that have no texture, no fragrance, no fullness.
 
“That’s a big cedar. Let me help.” Julian drags the Christmas tree out of the truck bed.
 
Howard’s wife, Zora cries out, “I need help, too.” Ran clasps her. “Ah-ha! All my favorites: freshly baked pies, peach preserves, and okra in mason jars. Oh, my, and even your famous buttermilk pie.”
 
Ran’s wife Lillie collects each family member’s handcrafted decoration for the tree. “Let’s hang them.” The aroma of cedar, sugared fruit, and gingerbread brings back memories of Christmases past.
 
Today is Ran and Lillie’s grandson Donnie’s fourth birthday, to boot. “Can I play with my birthday gifts, Grandpa?”
 
“Yep, but keep the stick horse at a trot. Let him get used to this colder weather, eh? See what else Santa left you. The new game Shoot the Moon and a wooden jigsaw carton puzzle.”
 
Good, long-time neighbors, John and Ruth Duke, along with their two kids, Johnnie Ruth and Jerry, arrive with a pumpkin pie and two fruitcakes.
 
Miss Ruth always spikes her fruitcakes with a little rum. “It’s no different from using cooking sherry and, therefore, is not an affront to the Lord,” Ruth says. “It provides moisture and helps preserve the cake.”
 
Ran fidgets. “The better part of valor is not to mention that to Lillie. Her definition of what constitutes a mortal sin may be different from ours. Let me taste-test the cake for moisture.” He pinches off a nibble and smacks his lips in approval. “Now, indeed, that’s the moistest cake ever! I may have another slice or two later.”
 
Johnnie Ruth and Donnie sit on the floor. Donnie prefers Conflict, a military board game—Johnnie Ruth, paper dolls.
 
Howard reaches and hangs the star of Bethlehem on the tree. “It almost touches the ceiling.” His brother Herman carved it from a piece of hickory. Christmas stockings, stuffed with nuts, candy, and fruit, hang on every available nail. Earlier, Lillie had placed books, tablets, pencils, wooden soldiers, and even a-rockin’ horse under the tree.
 
The children’s faces glow from the fireplace. Herman stokes the fire with a piece of pine-kindling.
 
The sunrise colors glisten in the snow. “Who can paint like the Lord of creation?” Lillie proclaims.
 
Donnie and Johnnie Ruth grab a shovel, off to go sledding from the barn. They slide down the hill to the banks of Barber Creek.
 
“You kids get back up here,” Lillie yells. “That’s too dangerous. Ten more feet and you’d both be frozen lollypops!”
 
Julian blows in his horse’s nose to calm him. It’s not the first time the animal has experienced snow, but it has been a long time, and any sudden change in the weather makes horses skittish, until they get reassurance from their masters that all is well and everything is still just fine. “The Comanche use to do this in Texas. Helps you bond with the horse.”
 
“I’m going to churn ice cream in my new pewter pot,” Lillie promises. She stirs snow, milk, cream, butter, and eggs. She also prepares Ran’s favorites, especially dewberry pie, along with a cup of kindness known as Community dark roast coffee.
 
Ran grins. “I hung some mistletoe.”
 
Lillie looks him in the eyes and kisses him on the cheek. “The kids.”
“We have enough to feed Camp Claiborne’s 34th Red Bull Infantry,” Ran says. The nearby U.S. Army military camp accommodates 30,000 men but does not give Lillie a sense of safety. A world war is still raging, and every American is on alert.
 
Lillie’s eyes sparkle. “Please play my favorite Christmas carol—O Holy Night?” Ran’s father bought him a fiddle on a cattle drive from East Texas when he was barely twelve. He spent his evenings teaching himself the fingering and bowing techniques.
 
“How can I refuse a woman of such virtue—and one so beautiful? Our home overflows with your sweet joy.”
 
Lillie hugs him. “Will it be our last Christmas with our sons?”
The snow drifts against the windows and doors, begging entrance into their lives like the events of the previous three weeks.
 
“There’s nothing as peaceful as Louisiana Longleaf pines covered in a fresh layer of snow,” Ran muses. “Ah, if only our world were that way.”
 
Ran’s eighteen-year-old nephew, Robert Willis, Jr., enlisted July 31, 1940, and reported aboard the battleship USS Arizona, on October 8, 1940, at Pearl Harbor. A surprise military strike by the Japanese Navy Air Service on the morning of December 7, 1941, detonated a bomb in a powder magazine. The battleship exploded and sank. Hundreds of marines and sailors were trapped as the ship went down.
 
The family held out hope, but those hopes had been vanquished a week ago, like a shadow darkening all elements of light. Rapides Parish Sheriff, U. T. Downs, along with Robert’s pastor from First Baptist Church, Pineville, delivered a Western Union telegram to Robert’s father.
 
Downs struggled to speak with tears in his eyes. “It has been confirmed that Robert’s entombed in the USS Arizona at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. I just can’t tell you how grieved I am to have to bring this news to you, and especially so soon after Thanksgiving. This is the part of my job that I dread the most. If there’s anything I can do for you folks, just say the word.”
 
Howard and Zora took Donnie to the Pringle Picture Show in Glenmora to see How Green Was My Valley. “We need to seem as if nothing has changed for Donnie’s sake,” Zora insists. “I fear that we will be one of many, many families who will receive telegrams before this war is over. Our hearts are broken, but we must carry on.”
 
Julian now works with the horses and mules—plenty of grain, hay, and water for them. He grooms their coats of hair and checks to see if they are sound and well-shod. He’s gentle with horses, the elderly, and children, but as tough as rawhide on men who are no-account. “I wish I could ride you guys into battle, but an airplane will have to do.”
 
Two stray goats, covered with ice, nudge their way into the barn. Julian jumps up to shoo them back outside. “Get out of here. You’re going to break Daddy’s deer horn hat rack I made. It’s his Christmas gift.” The goats resist but then yield when Julian gives each a swat.
 
Herman, quiet and soft-spoken, takes off, without saying a word—impeccably dressed, as always.
 
Howard and Julian help their father with the firewood. “It’s best you two find him—now! Take my Ford,” Ran insists.
 
They pump ten gallons of gas into Ran’s ’40 Ford Coupe at Bob Johnson’s Grocery Store at Shady Nook. “Where do you think he’s at?” Howard asks.
 
“Charlie’s Cafe in Glenmora is the closest—let’s try there first.”
 
“He just left, but not until he whipped two men for making fun of his khaki pants,” the owner tells them when they arrive.
 
“Did he say anything?” Julian asks.
 
“He mentioned, he would not be back, ever, and he preferred Boom Town’s honky-tonks. Not sure which one, but they’re all outside Camp Claiborne’s main gate. As long as that base keeps bringing in new boys who are wet behind the ears and willing to waste their pay during a weekend pass, those places will thrive. Check ’em one by one.”
 
This time one man lay on the floor in need of medical attention.
 
“Let’s check the Wigwam, in Forest Hill,” Julian says, “before someone kills him or, God forbid, wrinkles his pants.”
 
The sounds from the beer joint known for live music and its jukebox shakes the windows as they drive into the parking lot. Chicken wire fencing wraps around the bandstand to keep the band from getting hit with beer bottles.
 
As they enter, the bartender yells. “Break ’em up before they destroy the place!” Three men are holding Herman while two others are landing repeated punches and kicks. The jukebox blares Jimmie Davis’s hit—I Hung My Head and Cried.
 
Herman, bleeding like a stuck pig, calls out, “Are y’all going to help me or just stand there, whistlin’ Dixie?”
 
“I’ll take the three holding him, you the other two. Use that chair, Howard.”
 
After a melee of about ten minutes, they settle with the barkeeper for fifty bucks in damages and haul Herman outside to his truck. His lip is busted, his nose is bleeding, and one eye is starting to seal shut. He refuses to show any sign of weakness or pain, although he wheezes when drawing in a breath between bruised ribs.
 
They arrive home in time for a delayed supper. Ran examines Herman’s cuts and bruises. “Save all that anger for the Japs and Hitler.”
 
Lillie brings clean towels. “My three sons fighting in the Devil’s playground and on Christmas Day! May the Good Lord find mercy to forgive you for such behavior!”
 
Ran smiles. “At least they didn’t go to the Duck Inn…it provides more than liquor.” She does not find the humor in his observation, as her grimace reveals.
 
Lillie pulls her collar up, tightens her scarf, shoves her hands deep into her pockets, turns her face, and walks outside into the biting wind. “I need to gather more snow for the ice cream.”
 
She returns—but with no snow. “It’s suppertime.” Her words are all that is needed for family and guests to gather around the candle-lit table.
 
As Ran says grace, a light dispels the darkness in their hearts just as the Star of Bethlehem did long ago. The reflection in Lillie’s face, from the beckoning candle, contradicts the devastating news from Hawaii.
 
Ran bows his head as everyone joins hands. “Lord, we know the world will still turn, the songbirds will again make their joyful sounds, and this too will pass. Keep our sons in the hollow of Your hand. Bless this food—and bless our nation. In the name above all names—Jesus.”
 
American men from coast to coast step forward to retaliate against the attack on U.S. soil.
 
In the days shortly after Thanksgiving, Julian had enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Corps and Herman in the ground forces Army after hearing President Roosevelt’s words on the radio: “No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.”
 
Howard went with his brothers and did his best also to enlist. However, the recruiter didn’t even need to wait for the results of a physical to see that Howard had a deformity that would make him 4-F. Howard had a serious head injury, caused by a blow from a split rim truck wheel. It had exploded while Howard was filling a tire with air in Glenmora. He tried to disguise the injury by pulling a cap down over his hair and forehead, but the recruiter—who was not new to his job—pulled off the cap, surveyed the scar, and motioned a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Howard was “out” of the running.
 
Ran tried to assure Howard he could still be of service to the nation in other ways. For a scrapper and brawler like Howard, those words brought little appeasement.
 
Now, as they continue to enjoy what will probably be the last Christmas as a united family for perhaps years to come, Howard stokes the flames in the fireplace with a kindling-stick from a busted chiffarobe.
 
Ran raises his fiddle. “Join me, in the family key.” Everyone joins in.
“O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth;
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
‘Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.”
As the long day ends, Ran leafs through his great-grandfather Joseph Willis’s six-inch thick leather-bound journal written long ago.
 
“What would he do?”
 
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Destiny is a sweeping family saga that spans four centuries. It is the story of two great nations, and my ancestor’s struggle from tyranny—religious and political.
 
—Randy Willis
 
 
 
Destiny is available now at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733567402
Randy Willis Destiny a novel

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For my four Grandchildren on Christmas Eve 2019 | Randy Willis

Randy Willis Grandkids Eyes

He was born in a little—known town in the country. He was fetched up by his parents in another village known for its unblemished lambs. Folks said nothing good would ever come out that hamlet.
 
He worked with his hands in a carpenter shop until he was thirty. The next three years He traveled as a country preacher.
 
He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never commanded an army. He never owned a home. He never went to college. He never traveled more than a couple hundred miles from the place where he was born.
 
While still a young man, the tide of popular opinion turned against him. One friend denied him; another betrayed him. Most of His other friends abandoned him. The politicians rejected—the religious folks even hated him.
 
He was turned over to his enemies with a kiss. He went through the mockery of a trial—then nailed to a notorious prisoner named Barabbas’ cross between two thieves. His executors gambled for his only possession—his coat.
 
When he died, he was laid in a borrowed grave. He would not need one of his own for you see the next Sunday mornin’ He rose from the dead!
 
Today as we look back across the centuries and examine the evidence we must conclude that all the armies that ever marched, all the ships that ever sailed, all the governments that ever sat, all the kings that ever reigned and all the presidents that ever lead combined have not had the influence on mankind of that one Country Preacher.
 
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“I’ve learned much from seeing the world through the eyes of my grandchildren, for you know, it is written, “the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.” ~ Randy Willis
 
Excerpted from Destiny and Three Winds Blowing, two novels by Randy Willis.
 

Christmas Day 1852| Randy Willis

On Christmas Day, in 1852, my 4th Great-Grandfather Joseph Willis celebrated his 92nd Christmas. His younger wife, Miss Elvy, had earlier that year, asked for his children to take him.
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Christmas Day ✯ December 25, 1852 ✯ Longleaf, Louisiana, near Babbs Bridge

Great-Grandpa Joseph Willis relived much of his life in Louisiana on the wagon trip in October of 1852 from Evergreen to Babb’s Bridge. He poured out his heart to us, and I discovered a joy in writin’ and keepin’ an account of all his stories.

Just when it seemed that no day in our family would ever top the 1845 Willis Feast of Thanksgiving…it did. It all begin the first time ever I saw a white Christmas, December 25, 1852, in Babb’s Bridge, and the entire family was there. Each family member brought a decoration for our tree. The cedar was so big that we had to cut it down three times just to get it inside the door. There were strings of popcorn, wooden figures, sugared fruit, paper dolls cut out by the girls, gingerbread, and somebody even brought a bird’s nest.

We had ornaments that had meanings, too, like a pine tree, which symbolized eternity, pinecones that meant warmth, and a teapot that signified hospitality, which has always been taught by our family. There were candy canes with the Good Shepherd’s crook, with white stripes for the purity of Jesus and his virgin birth and the bold red stripes for Christ’s shed blood. At the top of the tree was the star of Bethlehem made from a quilt. And, the Christmas stockin’s stuffed with nuts, candy, and fruit hung on every available nail.

I’ll never forget the looks on my cousins’, brothers’, and sisters’ faces. Dolls, books, tablets, pencils, wooden soldiers, and even a rockin’ horse were unwrapped that happy morn. I got a new writin’ tablet that I started using to write this.

Christmas Day started with a few flurries, and everyone ran out to see the snow. Mother taught us to make something I’d never eaten before—ice cream. She showed us how to add milk, cream, butter, and eggs with the snow in a pewter pot. She had read where President Thomas Jefferson had even made ice cream with split vanilla beans. Imagine that! Our traditional hot spiced cider warmed us from the cold. The smell of roasting chestnuts in Mama’s cast-iron skillet in the fireplace brought back precious memories of Christmas past.

As the flakes began to fall steadily, more guests arrived, including Mr. Cormier and Miss Adelaide. She was with child, due in a few months. Mr. Cormier told Great-Grandpa, “If the baby is a boy, we are gonna name him Joseph.” Great-Grandpa’s face shone with an all-knowin’ peace. You could hear the excitement in their voices as Mr. and Mrs. Cormier brushed the snow off.

Mr. Malachi Perkins, Miss Eliza, Randall, and Emily came in together. Mr. Perkins went right up to Great-Grandpa and gave him a hug, sayin’, “Pastor, we consider ourselves engaged, but as you know by Louisiana law, we can’t get married. We’ve fallen in love, and if it was legal, we’d be hitched already.” He hesitated, then went on, “We so want to do what’s right in the eyes of the Lord. I remember ya tellin’ me how your mama and daddy had a clandestine weddin’. I don’t want to bother ya on this special day, but would ya mind thinkin’ ‘bout it in a few days and lettin’ us know if ya’d perform our weddin’ ceremony?”

Great-Grandpa took all of two seconds, grinned, and said, “Ain’t gotta think about it, Malachi. I’d be honored…if ya don’t mind if I do the ceremony sittin’ down. I’m a half-step slower than I used to be.” Everybody laughed.

“Ya know, Pastor, ya could get in trouble for doin’ it!”

“Yes, I know, but I’m ninety-four, and my race here is almost run. What are they gonna do, shoot me? They already tried that, when I was only knee-high to a grasshopper.”

The entire room seemed to be filled with a sweet joy. We all cheered and clapped. Randall and Emily looked the happiest. Great-Grandpa motioned for me to come over and whispered in a voice real low, “Quite a few folks are named after me now. If you ever have a son, Dan, you should name him Randall, after Eliza’s son. You can even nickname ‘im Randy, if you so like. That way, our descendants will remember that miracle and share it with their children.”

We watched the storm bringin’ heavier snow, which seemed to be driven by a blue norther as our neighbors Mr. and Mrs. Robert Graham arrived. And yes, Julia Ann was with ‘em. Great-Grandfather asked to be carried to the barn to talk to his aged four-legged friend, Ole Sally. He told her he had a gift for her—a mule blanket that all the Willis women had made. They had made a matchin’ blanket for him, too.

I listened to ‘im sweet-talk ‘er in ‘er ear. He thanked ‘er for being a good friend and told ‘er that he could never have done it without ‘er. As Ole Sally leaned over the stall gate, Great-Grandpa kissed ‘er on the nose. She backed ‘er ears, and he laughed, sayin’, “Aww, you know you like it.”

We carried him back to the house, and then I asked him to share his annual Christmas story once again. Everyone gathered ‘round the fireplace. He looked like he was doin’ what he loved best.

The wind was blowing the snow so hard we didn’t hear Mr. Ford arrive with Mr. and Mrs. Peter Tanner, the brother and sister-in-law of his late wife. Mr. Ford rushed through the door with a great big smile, sayin’, “Looks like Solomon Northup will be freed on January 3rd. He’s gonna be a free man!” Again, everyone clapped and cheered.

Great-Grandpa’s heart was full of joy. Mine, too! He beamed as he said, “I don’t see how a Christmas could get any better than this.”

He’d started to tell the Christmas story when there was a knock at the door. I jumped up to answer the door. There stood a snow-covered, half-frozen woman in a green hooded cape. Her hair was all wet and matted. All of a sudden, I recognized her—and so did everyone else. There were a few gasps and then lots of hugs. Great-Grandpa couldn’t see very well, as his eyes were dimmed by age. He asked, “Who’s that? Who’s here?”

She put her finger up to her lips to keep everyone silent. No one said a word as she went over to Great-Grandpa, hugged him, and said, “Merry Christmas, Pastor Joseph Willis. I love you with all my heart.”

His eyes glistened as he pulled her to him and said, “I love you even more, Miss Elvy Willis. Welcome home! I’ve saved a place beside me for ya. You’re just in time to hear my favorite Christmas story again.

“He was born in a little-known village. He was brought up in another community that people said nothing good would ever come out of. He worked with his hands in a carpenter shop until he was thirty, and then for three years, he traveled as a country preacher. He never wrote a book. He never held an office. He never commanded an army. He never owned a home. He never went to college. He never traveled more than a couple hundred miles from the place where he was born.

He was rejected by the religious folk of that day. While he was still a young man, the tide of popular opinion turned against him. One friend denied him. Another betrayed him. Many even hated him. He was turned over to his enemies. He went through the mockery of a trial and was then nailed to a notorious prisoner named Barabbas’ cross between two thieves. His executors gambled for his only possession—his coat.

“Most of his friends had abandoned him by then. When he died, he was laid in a borrowed grave. Then, on the next Sunday mornin’, he rose from the dead. As we look back across eighteen hundred years and examine the evidence and sum up his influence, we must conclude that all the armies that ever marched, all the ships that ever sailed, all the governments that ever sat, all the kings that ever reigned, and all the presidents that ever led combined have not had the influence on mankind that this one Country Preacher has had!”

Not a sound was heard ‘til Great-Grandpa said, “Merry Christmas, everyone!

I got a stirrin’ in my heart and started singin’, “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”

Great-Grandpa and Miss Elvy joined in: “Let earth receive her King; let every heart prepare Him room….” Finally, everyone was singin’. “And Heaven and nature sing, and Heaven and nature sing, and Heaven, and Heaven, and nature sing. Joy to the earth, the Savior reigns!”
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Excerpted from Three Winds Blowing (http://threewindsblowing.com/) by Randy Willis

My Willis Ancestor’s First Thanksgiving

My Willis Ancestor’s First Thanksgiving…
 
The Mayflower arrived in Plymouth Bay on December 20, 1620. During their first winter, half of the 102 passengers died.
 
Fifteen years after the Mayflower voyage, 29-year-old John Willis sails on the ship Paul from Gravesend situated on the south bank of the Thames River near London.
John Willis arrives in St. Christopher (a.k.a. St. Kitts) in the West Indies, on April 3, 1635. Within days he made his way to the New World—America—in Plymouth Colony carrying dreams that would be passed on to subsequent generations, including my family.
 
It is there that John Willis becomes friends with the Governor of Plymouth Colony, William Bradford.
 
A century later, John Willis’s direct descendant, Joseph Willis, would marry a direct descendant of William Bradford, Rachel Bradford. Joseph Willis would go on to preach the first evangelical sermon west of the Mississippi River in 1798. I’m the 4th great-grandson of Joseph Willis and Rachel Bradford Willis.
 
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As a result of hard work and assistance from local Native Americans, the Pilgrims reaped an abundant harvest after the summer of 1621. Bradford served as Plymouth Colony’s Governor, intermittently, for 30 years between 1621 and 1657.
 
In 1623, Governor William Bradford proclaimed November 29, as a time for Pilgrims, along with their Native American friends, to gather and give thanks. His proclamation contained these words: “Thanksgiving to ye Almighty God for all His blessings.” It would later be known as Thanksgiving.
 
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What brought these men and women to the New World—America?
 
In 1620 a small group of Separatists would flee England via Plymouth Sound, situated between the mouths of the rivers Plym to the east and Tamar to the west, in the county of Devonshire.
 
Besides fleeing religious persecution and searching for a place to worship, they wanted freedom from tyranny. They were not the same as the Puritans, who had many of the same objections to the English church but wanted to reform it from within. Separatists chose to separate and are commonly referred to as Pilgrims today.
 
The Mayflower was the aging ship that transported them. They sailed from Plymouth, on the southern coast of England, bound for the New World, seeking their new Plymouth. There were only 102 passengers and a crew of about 30 aboard the tiny 110’ ship. They found their new home and named it Plymouth Colony. Five died during the voyage, and another forty-five of the 102 immigrants died the first winter. There, they signed the Mayflower Compact, which established a rudimentary form of democracy.
 
The Mayflower Compact was an early, successful attempt at democracy. It undoubtedly played a role in future colonists seeking permanent independence from British rule and shaping the nation that eventually became the United States of America. William Bradford is believed by many historians to have written it.
 
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John Willis (a.k.a. Deacon John Willis), was the first deacon in Plymouth Church. Reverend James Keith was the first settled minister in the area. The church parsonage, sometimes called the Keith House, was built for him. It is preserved and maintained by the Old Bridgewater Historical Society (OBHS), in West Bridgewater, Massachusetts. It is the oldest parsonage in America.
 
The population was about 400 when John Willis arrived in 1635. He held offices in Duxbury in 1637 and at Bridgewater in the 1650s. Bridgewater was created on June 3, 1656, from Duxbury, in Plymouth Colony. In 1648, John Willis was a juror at the murder trial of Alice Bishope, who was hanged for killing her daughter, Martha Clarke.
 
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There are many who have descended from the original passengers on the Mayflower like Myles Standish, John Alden, and William Bradford. They include Humphrey Bogart, Julia Child, Norman Rockwell, and presidents John Adams, James Garfield, and Zachary Taylor, and others like me.
 
From our family to yours, have a blessed Thanksgiving!
 
~ Randy Willis
 
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Excerpted from Destiny by Randy Willis
 
Destiny book trailer: https://youtu.be/jkzpyTJfvR0
Destiny is available now at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733567402
 
Website: wwwthreewindsblowing.com
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Destiny the movie

Randy Willis #randywillis randywillis

Randy Willis

“The best men I’ve known have been cowmen. There’s a code they live by—it’s their way of life. It starts with an abiding reverence for the Good Lord.

They’re taught to honor and respect their parents and to share both blanket and bread.

Their words are their bond, a handshake their contract. They’re good stewards of His creation, the land. They believe the words in His Book.

Learn from these men—from their stories of triumph over tragedy—victory over adversity, for the wisdom of others blows where it wishes—like a Louisiana Wind.”

Randy Willis

These are the stories of such men….

http://www.ThreeWindsBlowing.com

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A man in a cowboy outfit with his horse

Randy Willis | #randywillis| Randy Willis

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Randy Willis is as much at home in the saddle as he is in front of the computer where he composes his western family sagas.

Drawing on his family heritage of explorers, settlers, soldiers, cowboys, and pastors, Randy carries on the tradition of loving the outdoors and sharing it in the adventures he creates for readers of his novels.

He is the author of Destiny, Twice a Slave, Three Winds Blowing, Louisiana Wind, Carolinas Wind, Beckoning Candle, The Apostle to the Opelousas, The Story of Joseph Willis, and many magazine and newspaper articles.

Randy Willis is an American novelist, biographer, rancher, and music publisher.

http://threewindsblowing.com

Destiny is available now at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733567402

Randy Willis #randywillis randywillis

Randy Willis #randywillis

#randywillis

December 25, 1941, The Ole Willis Home Place
Barber Creek, Longleaf, Louisiana

Ran Willis arises before sunrise, nestles next to the fireplace, with hot coffee—as alone as the morning star.

The wind whistles through the dogtrot and awakens Julian. He struggles upright, half asleep, and rubs his eyes as he pours a cup of coffee.

“It’s our first white Christmas! Grab some firewood—please. And check on the horses, mules, and the dogs too.”

“Yes, sir, Daddy. Merry Christmas!” Julian shivers as he chips through the frozen water trough with a horseshoe. He gathers the firewood, now covered in two foot of snow. Icicles adorn the trees overhanging Barber Creek. It is cold and rather barren, but it has the loveliness of a Christmas card. And, like a Christmas card, it will hold that image in Julian’s mind for years to come.

Ran’s eldest son, Howard, driving his International Harvester truck, can be heard a mile away as it plows through the snow on the red dirt road. The family knows there will be no snowfall that will prevent Howard from delivering a Christmas tree to the homestead—a real tree, and not one of those artificial, awkwardly bent imitation trees that have no texture, no fragrance, no fullness.

“That’s a big cedar. Let me help.” Julian drags the Christmas tree out of the truck bed.

Howard’s wife, Zora cries out, “I need help, too.” Ran clasps her. “Ah-ha! All my favorites: freshly baked pies, peach preserves, and okra in mason jars. Oh, my, and even your famous buttermilk pie.”

Ran’s wife Lillie collects each family member’s handcrafted decoration for the tree. “Let’s hang them.” The aroma of cedar, sugared fruit, and gingerbread brings back memories of Christmases past.

Today is Ran and Lillie’s grandson Donnie’s fourth birthday, to boot. “Can I play with my birthday gifts, Grandpa?”

“Yep, but keep the stick horse at a trot. Let him get used to this colder weather, eh? See what else Santa left you. The new game Shoot the Moon and a wooden jigsaw carton puzzle.”

Good, long-time neighbors, John and Ruth Duke, along with their two kids, Johnnie Ruth and Jerry, arrive with a pumpkin pie and two fruitcakes.

Miss Ruth always spikes her fruitcakes with a little rum. “It’s no different from using cooking sherry and, therefore, is not an affront to the Lord,” Ruth says. “It provides moisture and helps preserve the cake.”

Ran fidgets. “The better part of valor is not to mention that to Lillie. Her definition of what constitutes a mortal sin may be different from ours. Let me taste-test the cake for moisture.” He pinches off a nibble and smacks his lips in approval. “Now, indeed, that’s the moistest cake ever! I may have another slice or two later.”

Johnnie Ruth and Donnie sit on the floor. Donnie prefers Conflict, a military board game—Johnnie Ruth, paper dolls.

Howard reaches and hangs the star of Bethlehem on the tree. “It almost touches the ceiling.” His brother Herman carved it from a piece of hickory. Christmas stockings, stuffed with nuts, candy, and fruit, hang on every available nail. Earlier, Lillie had placed books, tablets, pencils, wooden soldiers, and even a-rockin’ horse under the tree.

The children’s faces glow from the fireplace. Herman stokes the fire with a piece of pine-kindling.

The sunrise colors glisten in the snow. “Who can paint like the Lord of creation?” Lillie proclaims.

Donnie and Johnnie Ruth grab a shovel, off to go sledding from the barn. They slide down the hill to the banks of Barber Creek.

“You kids get back up here,” Lillie yells. “That’s too dangerous. Ten more feet and you’d both be frozen lollypops!”

Julian blows in his horse’s nose to calm him. It’s not the first time the animal has experienced snow, but it has been a long time, and any sudden change in the weather makes horses skittish, until they get reassurance from their masters that all is well and everything is still just fine. “The Comanche use to do this in Texas. Helps you bond with the horse.”

“I’m going to churn ice cream in my new pewter pot,” Lillie promises. She stirs snow, milk, cream, butter, and eggs. She also prepares Ran’s favorites, especially dewberry pie, along with a cup of kindness known as Community dark roast coffee.

Ran grins. “I hung some mistletoe.”

Lillie looks him in the eyes and kisses him on the cheek. “The kids.”
“We have enough to feed Camp Claiborne’s 34th Red Bull Infantry,” Ran says. The nearby U.S. Army military camp accommodates 30,000 men but does not give Lillie a sense of safety. A world war is still raging, and every American is on alert.

Lillie’s eyes sparkle. “Please play my favorite Christmas carol—O Holy Night?” Ran’s father bought him a fiddle on a cattle drive from East Texas when he was barely twelve. He spent his evenings teaching himself the fingering and bowing techniques.

“How can I refuse a woman of such virtue—and one so beautiful? Our home overflows with your sweet joy.”

Lillie hugs him. “Will it be our last Christmas with our sons?”
The snow drifts against the windows and doors, begging entrance into their lives like the events of the previous three weeks.

“There’s nothing as peaceful as Louisiana Longleaf pines covered in a fresh layer of snow,” Ran muses. “Ah, if only our world were that way.”

Ran’s eighteen-year-old nephew, Robert Willis, Jr., enlisted July 31, 1940, and reported aboard the battleship USS Arizona, on October 8, 1940, at Pearl Harbor. A surprise military strike by the Japanese Navy Air Service on the morning of December 7, 1941, detonated a bomb in a powder magazine. The battleship exploded and sank. Hundreds of marines and sailors were trapped as the ship went down.

The family held out hope, but those hopes had been vanquished a week ago, like a shadow darkening all elements of light. Rapides Parish Sheriff, U. T. Downs, along with Robert’s pastor from First Baptist Church, Pineville, delivered a Western Union telegram to Robert’s father.

Downs struggled to speak with tears in his eyes. “It has been confirmed that Robert’s entombed in the USS Arizona at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. I just can’t tell you how grieved I am to have to bring this news to you, and especially so soon after Thanksgiving. This is the part of my job that I dread the most. If there’s anything I can do for you folks, just say the word.”

Howard and Zora took Donnie to the Pringle Picture Show in Glenmora to see How Green Was My Valley. “We need to seem as if nothing has changed for Donnie’s sake,” Zora insists. “I fear that we will be one of many, many families who will receive telegrams before this war is over. Our hearts are broken, but we must carry on.”

Julian now works with the horses and mules—plenty of grain, hay, and water for them. He grooms their coats of hair and checks to see if they are sound and well-shod. He’s gentle with horses, the elderly, and children, but as tough as rawhide on men who are no-account. “I wish I could ride you guys into battle, but an airplane will have to do.”

Two stray goats, covered with ice, nudge their way into the barn. Julian jumps up to shoo them back outside. “Get out of here. You’re going to break Daddy’s deer horn hat rack I made. It’s his Christmas gift.” The goats resist but then yield when Julian gives each a swat.

Herman, quiet and soft-spoken, takes off, without saying a word—impeccably dressed, as always.

Howard and Julian help their father with the firewood. “It’s best you two find him—now! Take my Ford,” Ran insists.

They pump ten gallons of gas into Ran’s ’40 Ford Coupe at Bob Johnson’s Grocery Store at Shady Nook. “Where do you think he’s at?” Howard asks.

“Charlie’s Cafe in Glenmora is the closest—let’s try there first.”

“He just left, but not until he whipped two men for making fun of his khaki pants,” the owner tells them when they arrive.

“Did he say anything?” Julian asks.

“He mentioned, he would not be back, ever, and he preferred Boom Town’s honky-tonks. Not sure which one, but they’re all outside Camp Claiborne’s main gate. As long as that base keeps bringing in new boys who are wet behind the ears and willing to waste their pay during a weekend pass, those places will thrive. Check ’em one by one.”

This time one man lay on the floor in need of medical attention.

“Let’s check the Wigwam, in Forest Hill,” Julian says, “before someone kills him or, God forbid, wrinkles his pants.”

The sounds from the beer joint known for live music and its jukebox shakes the windows as they drive into the parking lot. Chicken wire fencing wraps around the bandstand to keep the band from getting hit with beer bottles.

As they enter, the bartender yells. “Break ’em up before they destroy the place!” Three men are holding Herman while two others are landing repeated punches and kicks. The jukebox blares Jimmie Davis’s hit—I Hung My Head and Cried.

Herman, bleeding like a stuck pig, calls out, “Are y’all going to help me or just stand there, whistlin’ Dixie?”

“I’ll take the three holding him, you the other two. Use that chair, Howard.”

After a melee of about ten minutes, they settle with the barkeeper for fifty bucks in damages and haul Herman outside to his truck. His lip is busted, his nose is bleeding, and one eye is starting to seal shut. He refuses to show any sign of weakness or pain, although he wheezes when drawing in a breath between bruised ribs.

They arrive home in time for a delayed supper. Ran examines Herman’s cuts and bruises. “Save all that anger for the Japs and Hitler.”

Lillie brings clean towels. “My three sons fighting in the Devil’s playground and on Christmas Day! May the Good Lord find mercy to forgive you for such behavior!”

Ran smiles. “At least they didn’t go to the Duck Inn…it provides more than liquor.” She does not find the humor in his observation, as her grimace reveals.

Lillie pulls her collar up, tightens her scarf, shoves her hands deep into her pockets, turns her face, and walks outside into the biting wind. “I need to gather more snow for the ice cream.”

She returns—but with no snow. “It’s suppertime.” Her words are all that is needed for family and guests to gather around the candle-lit table.

As Ran says grace, a light dispels the darkness in their hearts just as the Star of Bethlehem did long ago. The reflection in Lillie’s face, from the beckoning candle, contradicts the devastating news from Hawaii.

Ran bows his head as everyone joins hands. “Lord, we know the world will still turn, the songbirds will again make their joyful sounds, and this too will pass. Keep our sons in the hollow of Your hand. Bless this food—and bless our nation. In the name above all names—Jesus.”

American men from coast to coast step forward to retaliate against the attack on U.S. soil.

In the days shortly after Thanksgiving, Julian had enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Corps and Herman in the ground forces Army after hearing President Roosevelt’s words on the radio: “No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.”

Howard went with his brothers and did his best also to enlist. However, the recruiter didn’t even need to wait for the results of a physical to see that Howard had a deformity that would make him 4-F. Howard had a serious head injury, caused by a blow from a split rim truck wheel. It had exploded while Howard was filling a tire with air in Glenmora. He tried to disguise the injury by pulling a cap down over his hair and forehead, but the recruiter—who was not new to his job—pulled off the cap, surveyed the scar, and motioned a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Howard was “out” of the running.

Ran tried to assure Howard he could still be of service to the nation in other ways. For a scrapper and brawler like Howard, those words brought little appeasement.

Now, as they continue to enjoy what will probably be the last Christmas as a united family for perhaps years to come, Howard stokes the flames in the fireplace with a kindling-stick from a busted chiffarobe.

Ran raises his fiddle. “Join me, in the family key.” Everyone joins in.
“O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth;
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
‘Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.”

As the long day ends, Ran leafs through his great-grandfather Joseph Willis’s six-inch thick leather-bound journal written long ago.

“What would he do?”

*****
Destiny is a sweeping family saga that spans four centuries. It is the story of two great nations, and my ancestor’s struggle from tyranny—religious and political.

—Randy Willis, 2019

Website: http://threewindsblowing.com/

Destiny trailer: https://youtu.be/jkzpyTJfvR0

Destiny is available now at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1733567402

Destiny the movie

 

Destiny 3D upload

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