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JOURNEY TO THE JONES ACT | U.S. Merchant Marine Policy 1776-1920
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New Book Unveils the Untold Story of U.S. Maritime Policy: ‘Journey to the Jones Act’
In his book, ‘Journey to the Jones Act: U.S. Merchant Marine Policy 1776-1920,’ Charlie Papavizas embarks on a detailed exploration of the evolution of American maritime policy culminating in the historic 1920 Merchant Marine Act, widely known as the Jones Act. This groundbreaking work offers readers a comprehensive look at the legislative efforts that have shaped the U.S. merchant marine’s role in national defense and economic prosperity since 1776.
Published by FORTIS, A nonfiction imprint from Adducent, this meticulously researched volume sheds light on the complex history of U.S. maritime policy, from its early foundations in the English Navigation Acts to the pivotal moments at the Constitutional Convention through the trials of the Civil War, and the ambitious efforts to establish the United States as a permanent maritime power following World War I.
Charlie Papavizas, an esteemed national maritime lawyer and a recognized expert on the Jones Act, uses his extensive knowledge of the subject to provide an authoritative narrative. He uncovers the influential figures behind the policy, including well-known architects like James Madison and lesser-known contributors such as Senator Wesley Livsey Jones. ‘Journey to the Jones Act’ is a testament to the enduring significance of maritime policy in American history and a personal journey for Papavizas. Discoveries of his connections to the book’s subject, such as John Barton Payne, a name partner in an earlier iteration of Winston & Strawn LLP, and his grandfather, Constantinos A. Papavizas, who served in the U.S. Army in World War I, add a unique layer to this historical account.
Living and practicing law in Washington, D.C., Charlie Papavizas brings his rich academic background and professional expertise to bear in this compelling story. A graduate of Georgetown University with an advanced degree from Columbia University and a Juris Doctor degree from George Washington University, Papavizas’s work is a must-read for history enthusiasts, maritime professionals, and policymakers alike.
About the Author
Charlie Papavizas is a prominent maritime lawyer and partner at Winston & Strawn LLP. With a nearly three-decades-long career, he is recognized for his expertise in maritime law, particularly the Jones Act. Papavizas’s personal history and professional accomplishments make him uniquely qualified to author this definitive account of U.S. maritime policy.
Papavizas will be at IPF24 in New Orleans on April 24, 2024, for a book presentation and signing from 1:00 to 2:00 PM in rooms 203-205.
For more information about the book or to request interviews with the author, please contact the publisher at Admin@AdducentInc.com.
Praise for the Book
“While many freely toss around the term “Jones Act,” and cite it as the catalyst for decline of the U.S. Merchant Marine, few understand the true origins and evolution of our Nation’s domestic Maritime policy – culminating in the 100+ year-old Merchant Marine Act of 1920. Charlie Papavizas takes us back to decisions that our Founding Fathers made concerning maritime trade and skillfully walks us through every change of course as our young nation burst upon the international scene in the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries. Rich with detail, Papavizas has produced a book that tells the story of America’s emergence as a maritime power and the reasons why we have so vigorously maintained control over our domestic trade. Your understanding of U.S. Maritime policy is incomplete until you read this superb volume.” –Hon. Mark H. ‘Buz’ Buzby, RADM, USN (Ret), Former Administrator, U.S. Maritime Administration
“A crucial read for anyone looking to demystify a law woven into the fabric of American life. It unravels the complexities of the Jones Act, making its history and impact accessible to all. This book brilliantly captures how the Act resonates beyond legal circles into the heart of American commerce and defense, influencing the very currents of trade, industry, and daily life in the United States. As an offshore wind sector advocate, I found this book to be an insightful journey through the intricacies of the Jones Act, shedding light on its historical significance and its modern-day applications. It is a must-read for anyone who seeks to grasp how deeply maritime policy is anchored in our nation’s past and present, and how it continues to shape the flow of goods, services, and economic opportunities.” –Liz Burdock, President and CEO, Oceantic Network
“Meticulously researched and eminently readable, Journey to the Jones Act is a fascinating history of American maritime policy and the people, politics, and events that shaped it over two and a half centuries. Charlie Papavizas’s mastery of his subject matter is on full display… not only readers new to the “Jones Act,” but longtime students and practitioners of maritime policy will find themselves saying, “I didn’t know that!” again and again throughout this informative and entertaining read.” –Jennifer Carpenter, President & CEO, The American Waterways Operators, President, American Maritime Partnership
Dance of Fireflies [Creative Nonfiction]
![Dance of Fireflies [Creative Nonfiction]](https://adducentcreative.com/wp-content/uploads/Dance-of-Fireflies-2023-A-Creative-Nonfiction-Vignette-from-Dennis-Lowery-2-768x1152.jpg "Dance of Fireflies [Creative Nonfiction]")
A Vignette
I looked outside.
The sky had darkened, and lightning struck just ahead of the downpour. The flash and crash of thunder almost on top of each other. Our lights flickered… dimmed… strengthened, and then went out. It was not quite sundown, and muted remnants of daylight came through the French doors and skylight over them. And—I don’t know why—I recalled thunderstorms when I was a kid in the 60s. And under dim, watery light, I wrote:
I remember watching dust clouds in the distance, coming off powder-dry dirt roads on hot summer days. The passing of mostly trucks in that back then, rural part of Texas. Sometimes I’d be on those roads, riding in the back of a truck, unrestrained. The maker of the plumes that would dust us as my father slowed or stopped. Gray-brown—the color of old bone—billows of dirt pulled along by the draft settled forward like pulling a blanket up and over my head. The coolness of the ride-created breeze would end, replaced with stifling dirt grit-in-your-teeth heat. The ride was much sweeter at night, soothing on the planes of your upturned, sunburned face, especially if a brief shower had dampened the road. I’d sit on the fender well, look up, and pretend to race the moon. To where I don’t know, but the moon always won. I didn’t mind. The thought I’d someday win made me smile at it above.
I remember summer afternoons somewhere off playing and then running far and fast to get home before the sun went down. Just in time to finish chores and wash up for dinner before my shows. Crushed if I missed the beginning of Lost in Space or The Time Tunnel. This was long ago when life and the things you enjoyed were in real-time. No recording to watch or replay later. You had to be there.
If one of my shows wasn’t on, I’d slip out to the backyard after dinner. I loved the night sounds, the music of crickets, the hum, and the buzz of birds, animals, and insects that stir at twilight. I’d sit on the steps and drink it all in, enjoying the evening wind as it arranged clouds for the night. My child-mind, empty of worries, held thoughts only of the next chapter in A Princess of Mars, I’d read before bedtime. I’d bought an old, used copy of the book for five cents at Mr. Petersen’s general store. [He had a barrel of them next to the counter. As my mother did her shopping, I’d sift through them.] The joy of discovering that story and the other adventures of John Carter is still fresh in my mind.
If the metal had cooled enough, I’d move to sit astride the long natural gas tank, shaped (so I thought) like a miniature submarine or spaceship, and look over my world. Sometimes, with the breeze right, I could catch the smell of Henrietta’s tortillas and tamales from her house, the closest nearby. Oh, how that aroma filled the air. She made them by hand, ground her meal fresh every day, and they were delicious. An always-hungry boy, my mouth watered though I’d just eaten my fill.
In the late summer, evening storms would roll in. Often just heat lightning, but sometimes the darkening sky’s rumor would turn true with flash and crash seconds ahead of the rain. My mother always said the rumble of thunder was “The Devil moving his furniture.” I never thought to question, shouldn’t that sound come from below and not above….
On those evenings, in the stillness, the backyard would grow thick with fireflies, dozens of points of light. I’d sit on the steps and watch the little gold sparks wink in and out of the shorter grass close to the house as they moved toward the taller, thicker growth further back. As I watched, I didn’t recall wishes or dreams of other things. There was no looking at the sky with longing—no hurt to deal with—decisions or questions to ponder. Only the simple moment and pleasure of watching the dance of fireflies.
After a while, from the screen door, under the single bulb above and in its small pool of light, my mother would step out, and I’d hear her call: “Time to come in….” Most times, I didn’t want to… like the evening that stands out in bringing forth this memory. But the night before, Sola had saved Dejah Thoris, and John Carter had fallen. Before I went in, I gave the fireflies a last lingering look—they still danced—and wondered for how long and how far it went on. I didn’t dwell on that, though. Once inside, I hurried through the bath-time routine. I had to find out what happened next on Barsoom!
Some of the reader comments:
“You really know how to invoke all the senses and draw the reader into your world. As the cover says, you had to be there. But this vignette comes a close second — you are pulled into the story, the senses drawing you in until you close your eyes, and you’re right there. Beautiful.” –Vicki Tyley
“Wonderful writing that brings back childhood memories! I can see the things dreams are made of. Quite a talent and a blessing for us to read!” —Susan Gabriel
“I love when you write because I can put myself in that moment and visualize it. As if I was living in the story. Life was so simple as a child.” —Tanya Freisen
“Time and tide wait for no man or in the now waits for woman either. Wonderful to have that snapshot in time we can look back on. Loved the post.” —Chris Black
“Love this story! Amazing descriptions!” —Leigh at Booktrack
“Wonderful. Love it!” —Sherry Thompson
“That’s an awesome piece of writing. It really does bring back memories, too, of me riding on the back of my father’s truck, helping throw hay for the cows, or simply going to check over the farm fences. All the memories of racing back so as not to miss Astro Boy, etc.! Those were very different times. Great to grow up in!” —Jennifer Phillips
“This brought back great memories; being raised in S.C., as a child, it was the norm: to watch the fireflies, riding on the back of my dad’s truck with the wind blowing in my face, putting blankets on the back of that truck watching the stars and moon late at night, or watching a bird land on the second floor of my house to sing at my bedroom window… BACK THEN, it was the norm… NOW those are AMAZING MOMENTS. Thank you for taking me there, through your writing, for such a special walk down memory lane.” —Bernice Joe
“Wonderful, Dennis.” —Mike Trani
ABOUT The Quondam Series
QUONDAM
Adjective: What was but is no more. Belonging to some prior time.
Noun: A person dismissed or ejected from a position.
Each character in the stories is formed by those definitions. The stories are narratives of what once was ‘good’ or ‘bad’ to what might be ‘to come’ that is good or bad. The future is in flux and depends on people shaped by their past. Will Good triumph over Evil? When it has failed in the past, the Dark Times—and the malevolent—reigned.
When What Was Hidden… is Revealed
One Advance Reader of early versions of the stories (under different working titles) that form the series foundation said: “Character-driven and atmospheric adult fiction that blends history and legend with the tension and intricacies of contemporary society and events. Compelling and complex characters. Thoughtful, evocative, and page-turning; a story that promises to be well-told.” They’re not the only ones to offer that opinion. The premise and early versions of the stories proved so powerful that we have dozens of other Advance Reader reviews/comments and feedback on the core stories. We’ve planned the development of expanded versions of them to form this new series and to continue it with new stories.
‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’
Edmund Burke
“For the sleeper, when she awoke, learned she was not who she thought… at all.”
–Dennis Lowery, The Quondam Series [from The Quondam Agency backstory]
More to come as the series is developed by Dennis Lowery and co-author McKenna Foel with stories beginning in Summer 2024.
A ‘Little Piece’ of War — the Battle of Getlin’s Corner (Vietnam) March 30-31, 1967
The photo is PANEL 17E of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I took it on July 4, 2016, while working with General Richard ‘Butch’ Neal on his memoir, WHAT NOW, LIEUTENANT? The angle of the photo and time of day made for a perfect shot to highlight a particular set of names; some of the men Butch served with who died (one a posthumous Medal of Honor recipient, *John Bobo) at the Battle of Getlin’s Corner, Quang Tri Province, Vietnam, March 30-31, 1967 during Operation Prairie III. A day where uncommon valor was a common virtue.
*[I encourage you to read John Bobo’s MOH Citation.]
Butch received two Silver Star Medals in his two combat tours in Vietnam and went on to retire as a 4-star general and Assistant Commandant of the United States Marine Corps. I’ll share here a little about his book:
ABOUT THE BOOK (from the author)
The Italian poet, and novelist, Cesare Pavese wrote “We do not remember days, we remember moments,” and I agree. This book is a collection of moments—from events—that I assembled. You may wonder about the title. It seemed to fit when I began writing, but I was surprised by how often my story, and my life, circled back to that singular ‘What now, Lieutenant?’ moment.
Wars fought on a grand scale with global consequences are made up of countless smaller battles and events. For the men who fought, bled, and died in them they are not small—those little pieces of war—and the personal aftermath and their effect is beyond measure. One such battle pitted a North Vietnamese Army (NVA) battalion of 700+ men against the men of Company I, Third Battalion, Ninth Marines, Third Marine Division. Of the seven officers in the field at the beginning, only three walked out. I was one of them.
At 24 years old this was my first significant combat experience (and shockingly, what happened—what I was called upon to do—was something I had never imagined. What came afterward defined me for the rest of my life). The fighting lasted six hours and toward the end, we were almost out of ammunition. Those few hours changed forever the lives of the survivors, including me, and the next of kin of the men we lost.
That battle was the crucial event in my life; an ultimate What Now Lieutenant moment that taught me so much that came into play in other such moments in my future. True, they would not be as traumatic as what I experienced as a lieutenant, but they were moments that whether I was a lieutenant, major or general, each forced me to call upon my experience, knowledge, training, and common sense to respond appropriately. That phrase… that question with all it entails and how one responds when it’s asked of them… seemed to fit best as a title for what you’re reading now. Seeing that question in the eyes of the men on Hill 70 that day is how I learned a most valuable lesson about leadership long ago over the course of a bloody day in Vietnam.
Everything that happened to me before that day and afterward is now seen through that prism.
–Butch Neal
My connection with Vietnam War veterans:
My then-new brother-in-law, an Army veteran (1st Cavalry Division, Airmobile), came home from Vietnam in late 1972 but hardly spoke of it. He focused on the present and getting on with life.
In 1974, I was in Army JROTC; the war was already in years-long discussions among instructors (who had served in Vietnam in the early years of the war), family, and a few friends, a topic through the end in 1975. Then much head shaking afterward; questions, anger… and my mother’s relief (like many felt).
When I joined the Navy in 1978, one of my instructors was a special forces operator who served in Vietnam. I remember after workouts, seeing him come out of the showers, towel around his waist, scars on his torso front and back. One that ran diagonally across his stomach from below where the towel covered; a long, puckered, purple scar that wrapped up to his left rib cage and around. I thought, God, how in the Hell did he survive that? He never talked about it; if you brought it up and pushed, he’d fix you with a look you did not want. His stare would pierce you and stick four inches out your back.
I roomed with John from Paris, Texas, in my training school. John, an Army veteran, had been wounded in Vietnam and had three round scars, through-and-through, in his right thigh. He’d DEROS’d in 1972 and spent six years trying to be a civilian. He couldn’t and rejoined the military, but a different branch, the Navy.
Rex, a corporate regional director, who hired me after I got out of the Navy, had been a Marine whose tour in Vietnam in 1969-70 had left him with facial scars from shrapnel that were far worse than the character, Sergeant Barnes, portrayed by Tom Berenger in the movie, Platoon.
There are others I served with, met, and worked with and for… who also bore scars (inner and outer) from the war.
I came to know aspects of the war through what they said and didn’t say about their experiences.
So, the shadow of Vietnam loomed as a teenager and young adult. As a writer, I’ve ghostwritten two novels set in Vietnam from 1967-79, and in my business career, my company, Adducent, has worked with dozens of veterans, many of whom served in Vietnam. All have stories about how their military service, especially combat… changed them forever.
Creating Books…
Our experience in book development and publishing includes more than 100 projects, spanning POD, Traditional, and Special Edition/Custom Publishing.
We’ve also worked with many self-published authors and provided services to other publishers for their titles.
It’s always a thrill to witness the transformation of ideas, experiences, and thoughts into stories and books. It’s incredible to hold a book you’ve had a part in creating.
Following is a great video on the manufacturing process.
How A Book Is Made
Interested in writing or publishing stories or a book(s) and need help?
Contact Us for a Free No Obligation Consultation Call
WINGS [Fiction]
![WINGS [Fiction]](https://adducentcreative.com/wp-content/uploads/WINGS-2023-Short-Fiction-by-Dennis-Lowery-2-768x1152.jpg "WINGS [Fiction]")
One of my readers sent me a photo of a mist-shrouded forest, serene and ethereal. From her posts and comments, I knew a little bit about her. She was a single mom raising a child under challenging circumstances and sometimes struggled.She also loved fairies and had a wonderful sense of humor and appreciation for the beauty in our world (despite all she dealt with). When she sent me the picture, she asked: “Can you write me a story about this?” I did, and here’s the result.
Fánaí came upon her in the twilight mist. She was at the foot of a pile of large rocks that had sheared off the escarpment above. A gash ran from her forehead into the thick tangle of auburn hair. It had happened some time ago, maybe that morning, since it had clotted and dried despite the dampness of light rain.
He unslung his pack, quiver, and bow, and kneeled. The cold ground and the damp chill of the evening coming on with sundown settled into his joints. In the waning light, he saw the bruises on her face. Her torn clothing could hide others.
Fánaí stood and looked around. He had traveled far, and this was a strange country. Not so young but not so old, in his late 40s, no family left and tired of the sameness of his own land, he had followed a dream. To find a place where magic still lived and perhaps where he could heal. Fánaí had not expected to discover a young girl hurt and unconscious at the foot of a mountain.
Shaking his head, he stooped again to pick her up. A hardness, high, mid-back where he expected pliant skin made him fear broken bones hidden beneath. The girl opened her eyes and sat up as he got his arms under her. She coughed and stared at him, eyes wide. But their glinting umber lacked the wildness, the skittish confusion of pain; she seemed focused, not disoriented, as she asked: “What will you do to me?”
The girl shivered, cold and wet from the day’s rain, which had stopped. A chill mist blanketed the ground and thickened among the rocks. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders. Curious but not asking about the trepidation he sensed behind her question, he said, “Well, the first thing is a fire to dry out and warm up.”
“You’re a man,” she said, part statement and question, “why are you helping me?”
“There’s what could be a cave where we can shelter from the weather.” His chin jutted to gesture beyond her shoulder at a shadowed area behind the rocks. Walking from her, he gathered sticks and slabs of bark from nearby trees, checking the underbrush farther back to find what was dry. “It’s not far,” he returned to where she sat on the ground. “Can you walk?”
“Why are you helping me? My people receive no kindness from men.”
She stood, and though young, was as tall as he. Looking closer at her, he realized what had felt strange about her back. He had heard stories of mythical creatures that lived here—the lands far to the east of his own—but never thought he would see, let alone meet one.
“Humans,” she locked eyes with him, “…men take advantage of us, especially lady fairies.” Her hand went to the long, slim blade sheathed at her hip. “I won’t let you hurt me.”
The gray sky grew darker, and the crowding clouds above threatened more rain. They now stood facing each other. She had cast off his cloak and, shaking with the chill, asked again: “Why are you helping me?”
The mantle at her feet was a gift from his wife. Given to him, knowing how he loved his walks even in autumn and winter. The wind’s icy bite made him shudder, but Fánaí ignored the desire to drape its warmth across his shoulders. “You need this,” he said, setting the armful of kindling on the ground, picking up and handing her the cloak as the rain fell. He grabbed his pack, slung it over a shoulder, and re-gathered the pieces of brush and tinder. “Bring my bow and arrows.”
Fánaí turned toward the rocks. Entering the hollow, he found it led enough into the mountain to be dry inside, away from the opening’s exposure to the wind-swept rain. He kicked a clear spot in the dirt at the back of the cave and dropped the load of kindling. More was needed if his back told him right. A hard freeze was coming with nightfall.
The girl still stood in the rain but wore the cloak. Passing her, he gathered larger pieces of wood from the copse of trees that began where the rocks and boulders ended. Four trips yielded enough for the night. With the fourth armload, he found her in the cave’s rear, sitting with her back against its stone terminus. Her knife was out and in the hand that rested on her lap. His pack near the kindling, bow, and quiver of arrows beside her.
Using flint and steel, he struck long runners of sparks into the tinder. They caught, and he nursed them with breath and handfuls of dried grass and twigs from an old, abandoned nest he’d found with the last load. As the fire took, gobbling the wood and wanting more, he sat and fed it bigger pieces. It warmed the cave and cast light in a growing circle until it reached the girl.
She used a cloth from the pouch carried at her side—soaked from rainwater—to wipe away the caked blood from her face and gingerly along the cut on her head. Her features, though pale and strained, were striking. The now clean lines of her face and cheekbones caught the light. His eyes went to the fire, and he said without turning to her, “I’m Fánaí, and I mean you no harm.” The fire crackled in the stillness, broken after a dozen heartbeats.
“I… I am Shayleigh….” the girl said.
“Are you a princess?” Fánaí thought a girl as beautiful as she must be. “Running away from an evil prince?”
“No,” she replied with a half-laugh, half-cry. “I’m anything but.”
The tear that rolled down her cheek, dull, opaque, and without shine, unlike humans, dried instantly. “How did you end up here?” he asked, cocking a thumb toward outside where he had found her.
“I was headed to the Peak,” she gestured toward the cave ceiling, hesitated, then added, “where fairies learn to fly.”
The craggy rocks far above them, shrouded by the lower rim of the rain clouds, had appeared unclimbable to him. When he had raised her from the ground, he’d felt the two hand-sized humps on her back. The edges of a bone frame jutting beneath, not breaking the skin. His look moved from her face to between her shoulders, half-turned toward him.
“They’re late,” she said harshly and twisted away. But she realized that gave him a better view of where her wings should be and spun to face him. Her features—even angry or maybe because of it—had the fragile beauty of fine porcelain and gleamed in the light. Her eyes flashed at him, then the flicker faded. She looked so young, lost, and lonely.
“In my land, most have forgotten that fairies were…,” his eyes flicked to her shoulders again, “are real. Some believed that if they existed, it was long ago. She studied him, and he thought perhaps she sensed his regret—her eyes steadied on him—as he continued. “Why did you leave your people?” he asked, adding more fuel to the blaze.
“I was common, nothing—no one—special.” Shayleigh shifted closer to the fire, wrapping his cloak tighter around her. “I’m a year past the age when girl fairies should get their wings.” Her bitter tone grew sharper. “I met a boy before then who I thought would be my lifemate. And he thought the same of me. So he said….” She paused, taking a deep breath. “When my wings didn’t come, he acted ashamed of me… as if I had become ugly… unworthy.”
It all came out in a spurt—a stream dammed for too long, then released. More dull, gray tears pooled in her eyes, quenching the glow he’d seen earlier.
“He couldn’t accept me… as I am… and for what I was; what I was destined to become. Wingless.”
“And so you left,” he said, understanding in his own way how she felt.
“All he told me—his love for me—was a lie.” She looked up at him. “And I had no family. There was nothing there for me. Nothing there with him. No one for me, and I was so lonely.”
Fánaí closed his eyes, the weight of his past and how it had taken all his strength to bear it unforgotten, and opened them to find her watching him. “And without wings, you came here.” He leaned to hand her a cup of water poured from his canteen, noting her blade was now sheathed.
Shayleigh nodded. “But not for them… for me!” He studied her bruised face and hurt for her. “To fly… or fall.” She bowed her head and whispered, “I fell.”
He wondered at how tough she must be to not have been hurt badly. Not pitying her—that would pain her more than the cuts and abrasions—he said: “In my life….” Stretching his legs, he stood with a grunt and a crackling of joints and took a few steps. “I thought I was trapped between what had happened and what could never be.” He studied her from across the fire. The flame’s dance of light and shadow on the stone behind her as she sat with her head down. He turned his back to the fire and contemplated the darkness beyond. “The road is so much longer when we have no dreams to believe. And we have no destination… life has no purpose.” The steady sound of water running down the mountain filled his quiet pause. Wearing away more rock, he mused and continued. “It stayed that way until I decided one day to walk and not stop until I found what I sought.” Turning around, he returned to the fire to find her watching him.
“Have you found it?” she asked.
“Not yet.” He could hear the same yearning in his own voice.
“Why do you go on?”
“Because.” He smiled at her with the self-awareness that only comes from experience. “Because, Shayleigh, I deserve to find what I want.”
She stared into the fire, her eyes mirrored the light, and the silence stretched from moments to minutes.
Finding the loaf of hard bread in his pack, he broke it in half and handed one piece to her. “All I have to share; I’d planned to hunt tomorrow.” Taking it, she tore off smaller bits and ate.
Biting off chunks, Fánaí chewed his until finished, dusted his hands on his pants, and drank from his canteen. “Tell me about your kind… fairies… what do they enjoy? What do they love?” he asked.
At first, it didn’t look as if she would answer.
“We love to ride the wind… especially after rain, when the richness of the air and moisture gives our wings more bend and reach.”
Shayleigh straightened and squared her shoulders. Her eyes widened, seeing something not there as she continued.
“We fly highest and farthest then. That freedom… the feeling of wings drinking in the air, spreading on the wind to lift us is what we—I—long for.” Her eyes fixed on his. “To dance through the sky is why we exist. You can always tell when we’re happiest. When we fly, we cry with joy, and those tears trail behind us in a stream of colors.”
As she set her eyes on him for a long moment, he understood what she meant and had known a similar longing. She must have sensed that as she grew quiet again, a more thoughtful, less painful silence.
Fánaí nodded. “Sometimes, all we need is just one thing—one meaningful thing—to carry us, to help us get on.”
“On with what?” Shayleigh asked. Her head bobbed… chin to her chest.
“With life.” It had grown late, and he banked the fire, telling her, “Time for sleep; you need rest. Tomorrow is a new day.”
The girl slipped into a semi-doze, and Fánaí stepped around the fire, spread a blanket, and eased her onto it. Covering her, he brushed the strands of hair from her face. So young and beautiful, he thought, just like my daughter if she had lived.
* * *
Fánaí awoke to realize dawn had passed, and it was near midmorning. The days and miles behind him had worn him down. The fire had burned to embers, and as he sat up, he realized his cloak now covered him. Standing with a groan, he looked to where she had slept. Shayleigh was gone.
Outside, he stood near where he had found her and then slowly turned, his breath a wreath around him in the freezing air. The sky had cleared, and as his eyes searched the rocks above, a bright rainbow arched overhead. The largest he had ever seen, so high and extending so far, he couldn’t see its end. The sweep of wings and laughter carried to him on the wind. A message that Shayleigh would live and, somehow, somewhere… find happiness.
Fánaí smiled at the magic and realized he had found part of what he had searched for. Meaning and purpose, where his choices and actions made a difference, not only in his life but in someone else’s too. The past could not be left behind—he could never recover who and what he’d lost—but his step would be lighter as he continued his journey.
# # #
NOTE FROM DENNIS
Having just read this story, I think you’ll understand its context and message, but I want to touch on it here.
In our lives, we all go through adversity. Good things we expect to happen. Don’t. People who present as believable and appear honest in their words and intentions. Then prove they are not. Someone we love is lost… and it devastates us. We cry over what’s happened (or not happened) because we’re hurt, sad, or bereft.
But—in life—at other times, bad things we’ve worried over never materialize. Someone we don’t trust based on appearances or our superficial judgment proves us wrong. They speak the truth and stand by us when we have no reason to expect them to do so. They earn our trust by their actions. And sometimes, when something beautiful happens, we cry because we’re happy… the most profound thing that touches our soul’s wellspring.
One of the most important things to realize is that hard times and sadness are transitory (though they may not appear so at the time). Moving beyond them, changing bad into good only happens if we have faith in ourselves and believe that if what we want is worth it, then doing what may be hard… is what we must do.
And this is perhaps the most important thing to learn: We must try… must take that first step. Then another. And another. Though we may get lost along the way. Though we may make many attempts and still fail.
Understand that perseverance—self-determination—more than anything, gets us (you) through tough times and tragedy. Even when we (you) feel no one loves us (you) because of who we (you) are… or sometimes… who we (you) are not. How others think of us (you) and how they treat us (you)… is external.
That’s right, I’m making it (the ‘you’) personal. Because that’s what life is. It’s personal. Once you realize what’s inside you controls your life, you can decide and act (I hope) to make good things happen. Sadness turns to joy. Doubt turns to confidence and earned trust. And you can fly… leaving a rainbow behind you for those around you to see, just like Shayleigh.
AUTHOR | McKenna Foel
In collaboration with Adducent…
McKenna Foel is a widow who began writing while mourning the death of her husband and daughter. Within a year of that tragic event, she left her 15-year position as a Targeting Analyst/Officer in the Intelligence Community to devote full time to writing.
She uses her middle name, McKenna, from her Scots and Welsh heritage, derived from the Gaelic name Cináed, meaning, ‘born of fire.’ And like the legend of the Phoenix, she rose from the ashes of a tragedy to establish a career as a ghostwriter for several bestselling books. That success has led to her writing her own stories under an ancestral surname, ‘Foel,’ and to her upcoming THE LIST OF NEVERs, Book One in the developing series, The Mispers.
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Coming Summer 2024 (an entrée to the Quondam Series Stories)
KALI’S TRAVELS [Children’s Book]
![KALI’S TRAVELS [Children’s Book]](https://adducentcreative.com/wp-content/uploads/KALIS-TRAVELS-Front-Cover-JPG-100dpi-768x943.png "KALI’S TRAVELS [Children’s Book]")
One of the books in our Military Family Series
From the Author:
In Kali’s Travels, I aim to help parents and guardians understand how scary it is for a little child to see their world packed up in boxes and their life uprooted. I hope these words will help explain to your little boy or girl what happens when we, as adults, are asked to move our families. This book shows them it is okay to be scared to move away from our homes and friends and that there will always be more exciting adventures in the next place filled with new friends, new places, and new memories to be made.
–Marlene Norgard