The man crept down the long hall. Passing doors, he tried not to look in, knowing how much he guarded what little privacy he had. The hospital in Los Angeles was too far away from his home in Georgia for any of his friends and most of his family to ever come visit. This was one of the largest military hospitals in the country and, in 1944, was full of combat injuries or mental problems. He knew he was getting the best of care and wondered if it would be enough.
Blood was not on the menu the night of Thursday, April 5, 1962, as far as Kings County Deputy Jailer Raymond Van Dyke was concerned. But the spray of crimson erupting in the steely wake of a razor could never have been mistaken for ketchup.
Heavy footsteps shook the hot, dusty air, jolting us out of our downstairs vigil; all eyes shot up to the Bastille’s second-floor VIP section — what had once been the women and children’s ward of the former Kings County Jail.
As frost and fog envelop the Central Valley in the ghostly shroud of winter, thoughts drift inward to the warmth of family, home, and the holidays. But as the Christmas tree is lit and the New Year rung in with loved ones, the season’s longest, darkest nights recall a time when ghost stories and spooky soirees were the otherworldly order of the day.
Take a time machine to the time of King Henry VIII and Sir Thomas More. It is cleverly disguised as the Good Company Players’ 2nd Space Theatre production of Robert Bolt’s A Man for All Seasons. The time machine is only available through October 16.
The simultaneous, yet conflicting, demoralization and romanticism of the Native Peoples of the Americas throughout modern American history is a fascinating and sad phenomenon. They were often portrayed as savages, attacking the pioneers heading west to claim their virgin land under Manifest Destiny. Yet, many amateur genealogists lay claim to Native American inheritance.
December 1941: as Pearl Harbor burned and the United States marched headlong into its second World War, the Sisters of the Holy Cross took up residence at 1050 S. Street in downtown Fresno, a grand Colonial Revival home crowned by a widow’s walk.
school district existed, and even before the town had a name, a schoolhouse was erected on the Thomas Law Reed ranch; it was known as the Smith Ferry School. In what some called a twist of bad luck (which others may have deemed arson), an attempt to move that schoolhouse into the burgeoning city of Reedley came to an abrupt halt when the school burned to the ground in February of 1890.
I mostly write historical mysteries, although the short story that appeared in Mystery Most Theatrical, Perfectly Awry, is a contemporary setting. But I do have two historical series and one almost historical series. Which is why I was asked not too long ago, how do I keep all my time frames straight?
Holiday traditions around Reedley are many and varied: from tamales to turkey dinners, house decorating to cookie baking, caroling to care package giving, and so many more. One tradition that hasn’t faltered in our quaint little town is the display of our community Christmas tree. Even in the midst of a worldwide pandemic, the custom continues. By most accounts, the city has displayed a community tree since before 1920, and for most of those years it has been right downtown, smack in the middle of G Street, serving as a beacon of light and cheer in the heart of our little town.
