Brownstonelit's Blog

11/11/11

R and I scheduled a reading for 11:11 PM on 11/11/11 and who do you think showed?

Charley… who sends me a ship in a bottle… a message.

Hazel…who brings me roses as thank you.

My parents… who tell me to hang my wreathe!

The shooter… who continues to vomit, spewing his guts in an effort to cleanse his soul.

Roxanne… who shows us the bakery and bids us speak to V.

The mistress…who says this is who she was. Cruel, cold hearted. She knew no other way, but has made her peace with Charley on the other side. She admits to using men as stairs, stepping one to the other- getting what she wanted for the moment and then moving on. She makes no apologies- no excuses for her behavior.

And what is this? Someone new?

Someone who knew the 4-way very well. Someone who wore a brown suit.

A black man who remains stuck in his untimely death.

Grim? I’ve caught you in a lie- but then this is just one of many. You said you and he were best friends. You helped count his money- refused to sell him a car?

Odd choice for a friend, Grim- a known felon, cozy with the law?

Hmmmmm… He saw you take the money from G, you know? Saw your greedy fingers grab and tear at the bills. Saw you double-cross him. He was furious, hiding in the woods as the money changed hands.

“You lied, you lied…” he said. “It was not suppose to go down like this! I know what you’ve done. I know and I will tell.”

But he never got the chance.  He was run over by a car shortly after. That too was called an accident. Just how many accidents have there been in Valdosta with your name imprinted all over them, Grim?

He has not moved on Grim. I would be careful if I were you. He knows. He saw.

G ratted you out. BM cannot forgive you.

So we ask G about LT.

Who is the man who had a thing for feathers too? A man who had a special feather? A lucky feather- brown and white. He put it in the band of his Fedora and kept it there even in death. Was in a wheelchair at the end? Buried with his hat…this is G’s LT.

She shows us the plow…he is a farmer too perhaps? It is an old plow.

I know of one LT that might fit this description. He lived not far from my other farmer who has the mustache and walks with a cane. They were near the railcars that carried illegal hooch between two stations. He knew about it all. The farmer in Florida- the cheese cutter and the silver lunchbox knows it all too. Near dead is not near enough. Confess before you leave this world dear man with the W in his name.

Death knocks at your door and opportunity knocks just once to tell the truth.

Tell your tale now…confess farmer…confess before you die and your soul remains in limbo forever, like the black man in the brown suit who walks the streets not knowing he is dead yet- only knowing that Grim betrayed him!

11/11/11

“It’s in the
blood…” she says.

Just like
her mother, manipulative, callous…it is in their blood. It is their way.

She mentions her
childhood… her mother’s boyfriend.

Age 8, age
8… age 8…

Age 8 it began.

Age 8, it all
went South- so did his hands.

Sexual abuse…
good girl, gone bad.

She never
loved Charley. It was a rouse.

It’s her. Dark
brown hair, long legs, red fingernails, red lipstick.

Who is this?
Who is this?

She
describes:

Gray hair,
long- bushy mustache- very thick?

Tall,
slender…older man now… walks with a cane.

Looks like a
professor.

Lots of hair for his age- thick, gray- his
mustache full.

Triad- G
involved with this man, the younger law enforcement and Charley… there is an association…
he is a farmer…he has the initial W in his name…he has  a son.

He knows
everything.

He is still
alive…. still alive.

I know who
this is and G knows I know.

Waiting for
more… 11/11/11

11/10/11

On the eve of 11-11-11…

G finally speaks.

11/8/11

Can’t help thinking about Roxanne today. I know R says sometimes victims don’t want to be found…that they don’t want their families to know how they died or what involvements or associations brought them to their death and I can accept that as an individual, but as a mother, I’m having great difficulty with that.

Your favorite clock dropped off the dresser in my office on the floor in front of me yesterday, Roxanne and I know it was you because there was no other reason for it to fall. And Saturday, one of you was in my office with me while writing because my little white Westie went crazy following something across the room’s ceiling.

I have been thinking about you a lot lately. Today I am studying about the effects of water on skeletal remains and how to distinguish between antemortem, perimortem and postmortem trauma. And with each sentence I want to say, “I’m coming Roxanne. I’ll be there soon. I will find you and bring you home.”

I do not know if this is your wish. I know you fought with your parents. I know they may have even kicked you out of the house at a tender age…but there are people who love you. I love you sight unseen. My heart aches for the likes of you and Jessica as I have girls of my own and mistakes are something we all make and try to survive.

Your chance to alter your life and survive your mistake was eclipsed by 4 evil men…2 who still walk upright, though not righteous. I’m doing my homework to serve you all better. Charley, the Mot… Jessica and Roxanne.

If you want to be found Roxanne and Jessica… if you wish to be held and comforted and brought back home…help me. If not, just let R know so that I might simply place a small flower at each of your places of rest and let you all move forward in your evolutions.

But think before you choose. While you may wish for your deaths to remain anonymous, and your remains unclaimed–those who love you need closure for their earthly evolutions. And even more?

I need to do this- for my closure. It will be my way of erasing the 31 minutes I was late for my mother’s death…one minute at a time. With you 4, I can cut down my debt to 27 minutes. One minute for every murder I solve.

With love,

11/4/11

Today I will be back for more. I could not tell you all that
transpired the other day, though what I did share was quite enough for now. The
clock continues to tick… the pendulum to swing and the reign of justice
begins its march to the sea…by way of Valdosta!

Grim, you should be very leery of Mr. Einstein right now. He is a
loose cannon and he will take you down with him, just as sure as he did the
others. Have you fixed the tear in your hat yet, or does the warped sweetness
of your sense of accomplishment still give you a rush? Pray that it does,
because it will be the last sweet thing you experience in this lifetime. You helped
take Charley out trying to find the MOT and I’m not talking about the man in
the hotel. Everyone knew where he was… including me, and today we both know
what that means don’t we?

Sooooo…shall we talk about the lunchbox of the farmer… what it
had in it? Is that why his kid won’t talk about it 45 years later? Or shall we
talk about the other farmer who watched you at midnight in the field?

Today’s riddle?

How many good ole boys does it take to roll a young debutante’s
body into the water? Hmmmm…. Answer?

4

That’s correct!

The four in flannel!

BINGO!!!

Let’s try another riddle.

Why was it so necessary for Charley’s boss to hammer Hazel for the
bag from the Morris Pawn shop? What $3.00 item in there was so significant that
everyone searched for it for months after Charley’s slaughter?

Mr. Einstein? Care to take a guess?

Hard to light your cigars
without it, wasn’t it? Couldn’t let that thing get out of the bag…ha ha ha! Afraid
Rox and Jessica could have identified it, huh?  Oh wait… that’s right. Jessica was dead
months before Charley got that bag. No matter. They did know who it
belonged to. So did Miss M, even though her husband, your friend, warned her
not to tell me.

Ok… let’s lighten things up a bit now. How about…today’s
favorite song? Here’s a hint…it’s by Hall and Oates?

Mr. Einstein… bet you know this one! Yes that’s right it’s, “Privates
Eyes” and you are today’s winner! For those of you in the know, that’s a
double-entendre. Be careful Mr. Einstein…yours may be watching me, but theirs are now watching you…closely!

Until later then…

11/2/11

Yesterday while riding into work I played the same game I always do with Charley. I hide his photo- my favorite photo of him driving a boat- inside the pages of my Angel Numbers book and then as I see numbers on license plates, I turn to that page and read the corresponding number- get my message and look to see if Charley picture is stuck inside that page. Its a little game of hide and seek we play-mostly for me to know he is with me. Some days, like today, he was spot on. The first plate I saw with 3 numbers led me to a message that was on the same page as Charley’s photo! As divined, I read the message of the number and then slipped his photo- without looking- into another section of the book. Next plate, next number… he found me again. All this to say that today I am still reeling from yesterday and want him by my side as I process the information received.

Yesterday while having a chat with Charley on my long ride in, he wouldn’t play. Confused, I looked at the photo and whispered that I missed him.

Just about that time I looked at the digital clock in the car. Having not gone in until late, the clock rolled over to 11:07 and so I thought about the date felt the desire to contact R. I grabbed my phone and then thought… Hmmmm… I’ll just wait till the bewitching hour; of 11:11 AM, and add that to the date of 11/1/11 and thought … WOW! That might make a powerful connection and Charley just might bring me something… and he did!

As I drove- waiting for the minutes to pass till I could hit the exact minute…I saw something huge and feathered squatting in the middle of the road 5oo feet or more in front of me. Annoyed, I slowed to a crawl. Assuming it was a buzzard, I laughed to myself- “Now that would really be a hoot! Instead of Charley placing a feather in my path… he had sent me a whole freaking bird!” And just as I began to chuckle out load… the head of the creature lifted and turned and I slammed on my brakes!  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It cocked its head and the white crest undulated in the simmering autumn light- the yellow of the beak glowed as if polished and the breadth of its wing span took up more than half of the broad side of my Mustang. I sat stunned and watched. Unimpressed by my intrusion, it eyed me for a second and then lowered its head to pick at the carcass beneath its talons. When I inched my way forward a few feet, it abruptly turned, hopped two steps towards my car and then unfolded its wings as if to threaten.

Startled, I jammed the brake pedal into the floor as it flew overhead to a high limb and watched me for several seconds. I shoved the gear into park- hit my hazard lights and waited to see what it would do next. A minute went by and when my car did not move, it dove at my ragtop –scratched at the fabric and then returned to its post on the ground. I watched it rip into rotted flesh with total disregard for the ensuing encroachment of another car. I lowered my window, reached outside, took a photo with my cell phone as the approaching car honked its horn. Dazed, it leapt into the air and as it passed me…its wings gulped in what air was left inside my lungs to raise it high aloft a neighboring pine.

Now… in the thirty two years I have lived in Georgia, I have never seen a bald eagle in the wild- let alone less than twenty feet in front of me. The time of this event? You guessed it…11:11. Convinced it was more than mere coincidence, I began to search for its meaning. Shortly after I re-engaged my car, I was ensconced in unforgiving roaming territory and never made the contact to R desired.

At exactly 1:11PM my phone rang… it was R.

Five pages later, I hit the end button on my phone, looked at the expansive crawl of ink on the pages before me and took a deep breath. I now had definitive answers to the questions that have plagued me for over 2 ½ years. I knew the identities of the “4 in flannel” without question and I had the final nod on the LT connection to Grim and G. Energies that have shied, finally came to the table and presented graphic scenes…

The shooter displayed himself for the first time.  Bending to wash blood from his hands in the lake where Roxanne resided, the taint spreading in circular ripples of crimson. Once completed, he would begin the process again and again as though they could not be cleaned.

The MOT, heavyset and panting was sweaty and panic stricken- revealing his golf association with the insurance agent connected somehow to Jessica.

Miss M tells me Theodore was two towns west of Valdosta, coughing up blood. She reminds me- what she told me when we first talked before she passed about one of the 4 in flannel that is still alive. She says. “I meant what I said. He’s a loose cannon- dangerous-unpredictable… dangerous… be aware…”

They tell me, “Chapter 13… your answers are in Chapter 13 of your book. Look there…”

R’s car fills with pipe smoke… it’s him- the pipe smoker…

Miss M shows the man who smoked cigars- R’s lungs fill with second hand smoke. He is the man with the silver engraved lighter tucked inside the bag from the Morris Pawn Charley had on him back in October 6^th, 1966. I have the receipt in his wallet!

Roxanne rises from the water, unstained by the blood it now holds and ready to move on.

Jessica rises from the dirt, face intact and not a speck of soil on her she too is anxious to evolve to the next level.

The shooter walks with his two dogs- his hands wet and dripping.

Charley shows R the hour glass. He tips it over and the sand begins to run. The time is running out. Closure is coming. The shooter, the girls and the MOT begin to walk away. Charley follows, then turns and says, “You did it… you did it…” R whispers, “I wish you could see what this looks like… so beautiful, so beautiful…”

November 17^th is significant.

R says, “You will know when you get to the end of the book…when to stop writing and let the world read the story. You must trust the process, trust the process… trust the process.”

On my way home at 5:55 PM while passing the area where the eagle had made contact I finally made the connection. The eagle represented Justice. At 6:05 I played the hide and seek game with Charley’s photo, but he refused to stay in between the pages. Every time I opened the book his photo fell in my lap. Convinced he had something more he wanted to share; I held the picture while I drove and thanked him for the many blessings and information of the day. As I rubbed the edge of the photo, thinking about the eagle and the confirmation on the identity of the 4^th in flannel, I suddenly was drawn to think about two clues I had thought meant something else.

Charley’s clue, “The answer is in the car.” And Hazel’s clue, “I just threw it into the box. It’s been there the whole time and I never knew…”

As the autumn sun began to dip behind the Georgia Pines I noticed the two partial fingerprints that remained raised at the bottom right hand corner of the small photo… as if someone with something viscous on their hands had held the photo to inspect it. A photo that had been in Charley’s wallet back in 1966!

At 6:08 I had what I like to call an “Oh s_____!” moment and called R!

11/1/11

Note the date.

This morning I not only saw a feather in my path… I saw a bald eagle.

R called at 1:11 PM on 11/1/11, but it wasn’t until 5:55 PM that I understood the message. It is too much for me to process right now, but I wanted to chronicle this event as the beginning of the end.

I will write more tomorrow…tonight I can only awe and try to breathe.

10/30/11

Yesterday morning I took a break
from homework and life to drive to a small little town not to far from here and
shared a wonderful breakfast and crossword puzzle with my husband. The weather
was brisk, but not entirely brutal and the trees in brilliant display. After breakfast
we walked the sidewalks and rummaged through old hardware stores and kitschy
boutiques that boasted times gone by and times to come and I was glad for the distractions.

I was also happy because Charley had
spoken to R and I have dearly missed his input of late. I know you think I am
dogged and down right annoying about securing the identity of the fourth in
flannel, but you do not understand. Already I have mapped these men from
misdemeanor to manslaughter and so I must be precise and certain of my
information as it becomes the eventual tool of their demise.

The dead; helpful as they are sometimes like to walk around the
ball field before they make the final pitch and while I appreciate their
deliberations and need to show me the journey… some days I just want definitive
information without all the esoteric blatherings that might come with it. That
being said, I decided to stall in my advance and remain in my bubble a bit longer.

With hot coffee to go,
we drove the remaining countryside, weaving in and out of weathered glen and bucolic
bliss… and then in an effort to suspend the moment further, I slipped the ’Stang down
another back road that I knew would end into the drive of a home we have been
considering for a while as alternative to the yellow house. Mostly because we do not know
if it will still be available when the month for action arrives, and I am
determined to have a back-up contingency in place.

While I still prefer the yellow house
on the hill, there is something equally intriguing about this little house on
another hill not to far away that has captured my imagination. Small, too small
in fact for the herd of furniture I bring with me wherever I go… it rises
sweetly above a craggy shoreline of blackened rock and gnarled roots before,
toying with the treetops and a marvelous view of the water below. Shingled and
stacked, it is more contemporary than the other home and speaks more to privacy
and seclusion than family and fusion.

It is not a social abode, but there is
something about its long and withered driveway… its subliminal submersion into
the foliage and fauna that looms above a staggered path that breaks into a
sweeping beach of golden sand that has captured my sense of mystery and need
for independence. My husband of course champions its configuration and its
miniscule mortgage and sees it as a way to buffer us from world and worry. He
calls it cozy, and while it has windows galore I wonder in the end if it might
not suffocate me without intention to do so.

Still, I am called to be judicious
and divine what will work now and in the future, for in the future we are as
two, but could be one and that one will be responsible for all that must be handled.
As I stood with jacket zipped and hood engaged, I watched the waters whip below
and saw a curious sight… An otter of considerable size who dipped between the swells of the waves and
poked his nose here and there with great joy to be out and about without human
interruptions.

From the lofty perch of a sullen deck, I watched his water
ballet for more than fifteen minutes and thought to myself…is this the kind
of life I could endear? Could this smaller slice of sky and broader scope of
shoreline, tucked within the privacy of wooded wonder be just what the doctor
ordered? Was wide open and expansive just obligation and invitation to constant
interruption or invasion? Or was there comfort in securing more space to redefine
oneself and accommodate others as they passed in and out of your reality?

Desperate for another point of reference… I walked down to the shore and crossed under
the bough of a tree and across to the beach at the water’s edge. The waves lapped
at the rocky border with arrogance, ignoring my presence and I knew that they would do
so regardless of who stood in my shoes. It was both irreverent and assuring at
the same time to know that the wind, the water and the mystery could co-exist,
defining one another without obscuring one another.

From the shore below, the
house was impressive…solid and eclipsed. Like the house in Hansel and Gretel
its shingled facade spoke of sweet interlude and assumptive joys…but there at
the shore with waves beating the sand and nature’s ragged breath thrashing limbs
about like broken rag dolls… I wondered if there was another reason it was
calling to me.

An impression… an assumption… a premonition.

It made me
shudder.

10/29/11

Charley was busy today
and woke R early…

“…4th in flannel=pipe smoker. Sat
in the same booth...the second booth all the

time in that restaurant "the fort" the one in the "v" it was his spot. People

should know
about him always sitting in the same spot. My air is filled with

tobacco
smoke...it's him. If still alive has intestinal problems(possibly

cancer) his
daughter may know the truth..."

Ok Valdosta, your turn. Who remembers the S&K
(Sit and Kiss) restaurant that sat in the V of the two intersecting highways?
You know, the one they used to call "the fort" where all the law hung
out! Come on now, think. In 1966 who sat where? We already know that G hung out
there quite a bit. G and S_________. In fact she once approached my mystery
emailer/caller and tried to get her/him to perform a sexual favor for somebody
in the trailer park nearby. Then later he/she was run out of town the night
Charley was murdered!

Hmmmmmmm.... who might that be?

Grim?

Albert Einstein?

Shooter?

Pipe-smoker?

I bet Miss M knows.
Maybe she will wake R early tomorrow morning and confirm the true identity of
the pie-smoker for me! Anybody smell mint tobacco in the room? Hmmmmmm.

I’d BANK on it!

Do you get it???

10/26/11

I know you
miss the rush of information and I am doing my best to serve many gods these
days; school, work, home, Charley, family crisis… I have not forgotten you, or
Charley. In fact I have asked Charley to reconnect and make his presence known
as I miss his guiding hand.

You see I am
quite at the point were faith must be my spouse. I can continue to write the
book and I have given as much information as I can to those whose eyes are more
trained than mine and other than that… I must find the hours lost to living
to plug the holes of questions I have yet to be answered. R assures me we will
find a space soon and perhaps then… or even before then if I am lucky,
Charley will come to me and share.

So who is Lisbon?

Who is
Granger?

Who is
Chauncey?

What about the
man from Dupont, Georgia
and what was so pressing about a man in Lakeland
in 1963 that this man had to hand deliver a letter to my dear friend… 3 years
before they took him out?