Elaine Faber

President Trump's recent stop in Japan resulted in trade deals and the gift of more Japanese Cherry trees. This reminded me of an article I posted up some years ago. Reprinted here today.

Folks often schedule visits to Washington, DC in the springtime to coincide with the blooming of the famous Cherry trees. Here is the history of the Washington Cherry Trees and their goodwill mission.

In January 1910, Japan sent 3000 Cherry trees to Washington as a goodwill gesture. Sadly, when the trees arrived, they were found to be diseased and infested with insects.

To protect American growers, President William H. Taft ordered the trees to be burned. Letters from the Secretary of State to the Japanese Ambassador expressed deep regret to all concerned. Goodwill was maintained, and in 1912, Japan again sent Washington, D.C., more than 3000 additional Cherry trees from 12 different varieties. Two thousand of the trees were planted on the White House grounds, and the remainder were planted around the city and along the Potomac River from the site of the Lincoln Memorial south toward Potomac Park. They grew and blossomed each spring and delighted thousands of Washington residents and visitors.

Shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack in December 1941, in protest, vandals cut down four cherry trees. Letters poured into the National Parks Commission, calling for “cutting all the Japanese trees down and replacing them with an American variety.” Throughout the rest of the war, in hopes of preventing future damage and ill will, the trees were no longer called Japanese Cherry trees, but referred to as those ‘oriental flowering Cherry trees.’

The National Cherry Blossom Festival, an annual springtime event since 1935, was suspended and did not return until 1947, when a Cherry Blossom princess and a queen were crowned. In 1957, a wealthy Japanese businesswoman donated a crown for the festival queen, containing more than two pounds of gold and 1,585 pearls. The queen wears the famous crown for just a few moments when she is crowned. It is then replaced with a miniature crown of gold with a pearl topping each point. The queen wears this crown for the remainder of the evening, and she keeps it as a memento of the event.

In 1965, the Japanese government generously donated another 3,800 trees to Lady Bird Johnson. Mrs. Johnson and Mrs. Ryuji Takeuchi, wife of Japan’s ambassador, reenacted the original planting ceremony of 1912.

In 198, when the course of a river destroyed many of Japan's ancient Cherry trees, and on several occasions since, cuttings from our original 1912 cherry trees were returned to Japan.

Private funds were donated between 1986 and 1988 to replant another 676 trees to restore the number of Washington trees to the original 3000. Between 1997 and 2011, cuttings from the surviving 1912 cherry trees were propagated to ensure preservation of the 1912 trees’ genetic lineage and will be used in subsequent replacement plantings both in Washington and in Japan. Thus, the original 1912 gift have come full circle and will ensure a cycle of giving between Japan and the United States.

An edited scene from Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer

 

Wilbur parked his Jeep about a quarter mile from the barn behind a pile of boulders. He stuffed a pair of black gloves and a lady’s stocking into his jacket pocket. He crept along the desert, moving from one clump of shrubs to the next until he heard music coming from the barn where the dance was already in full swing. The aroma of spicy barbecued chicken drifting through the air made his mouth water.

Wilbur swallowed and licked his lips. It had been a long time since lunch. His stomach growled. Waves of nausea spread through him, partly from hunger and partly from nervousness, thinking of what he was about to do.

The shrubs and garden structures concealed his movements as he circled the yard and approached Mrs. Milton’s house. Wilbur opened the screen door and tiptoed through the kitchen. He paused to listen. No sound except for the faint music drifting from the barn. He crept up the back stairs, knowing Mrs. Martin hadn’t attended the barn dance due to a sprained ankle.

The hallway was in semi-darkness except for a small scented candle burning on the hall table. Wilbur removed the stocking from his pocket and pulled it over his head. He tightened his fingers around a heavy metal flashlight as he approached Mrs. Martin’s room, where a thin stream of light shone beneath her bedroom door. The sweat felt sticky inside his gloves as he reached for the doorknob. He paused, hearing voices inside the bedroom. She was awake, and someone was in there with her.  

Wilbur hurried across the hall into the bathroom, left the door slightly ajar, and peered through the crack in the door, willing the person to leave so he could get on with his task.

He stood in the dark, thinking about what he must do. It was a shame he had to kill her. He actually liked the old woman, but now she was talking about leaving her fortune to one of her grandchildren and he had to act before she changed her will.

It seemed like hours until the housekeeper came out the door, carrying a dinner tray with the little marmalade cat winding around her feet.

“Alright, little one. Come with me to the kitchen and I’ll get you a treat,” he heard her say. The cat turned and looked back. Wilbur froze. Had she heard something? Would she come back and give away his hiding place? Wilbur closed his eyes. Within a few seconds, he heard the kitchen door click. He let out his breath with a gasp and realized he’d been holding it.

The hallway was quiet. Mrs. Lassiter’s light went out. He stood in the dark, counting to 1000, waiting for her to go to sleep, going over every detail; how he would kill her with the flashlight, then run down the back stairs to his Jeep, rush back to the motel, and pretend great shock and disbelief tomorrow when he heard of her most unfortunate demise.

When he felt enough time had elapsed, he gripped the flashlight, held his breath, slowly turned the doorknob, and pushed open Mrs. Lassiter’s bedroom door.

****

The big black and white cat lay snuggled close to her side, drifting between wakefulness and sleep, comfortable and warm, listening to the music drifting through the window. The sound of the doorknob turning brought him fully awake. His ears pricked forward. He jumped silently from the bed onto the floor and then eased to the top of the dresser by the door. He crouched, his gaze riveted on the doorknob as it gradually turned. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. His muscles tensed.

He waited.

The door inched open.

The next moment, the door flung open and a dark figure rushed across the room to Mrs. Martin’s bed. The intruder swung the flashlight, striking the sleeping woman’s temple. Blood flowed from the wound, and she lay still as blood seeped into the pillow beneath her head. Thumper shrieked and leaped from the dresser onto the killer’s back, digging his claws into the man’s shoulders.

Wilbur screamed and dropped the flashlight. He jerked from side to side, trying to dislodge his attacker. Thumper’s fangs sank deep into the flesh of his neck. Wilbur grabbed the squirming cat around the throat, yanked him loose, and flung him across the room. He screamed again as the cat’s teeth left a gaping hole where his teeth had been embedded in the flesh. Blood poured from the bite, dripped down his back, and spattered across the bed. Thumper’s body whacked into the dresser, and he lay still on the floor. Wilbur rushed from the room and down the back stairs. His heart pounded as if it would explode through his chest.  The scratches around his ears stung, and the bite in the back of his neck throbbed. From time to time, he reached up and touched the wound in his neck, cursing the beast.

All his plans were in ruins. His alibi was in shambles. His blood and DNA were at the crime scene, thanks to the cat. It wouldn’t take the police long to connect the dots, and his alibi wouldn’t hold water. He had planned that by the time the body was found, he would be safely out of town.

Now the cat was literally out of the bag, and the house was in an uproar, and he was nowhere near his motel and an alibi.

Wilber clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, furious that a cat had foiled his plan. He hoped the damn thing broke its neck when it hit the dresser. He smiled at the thought and stumbled on through the darkness. He felt a sense of relief when the shadow of his jeep loomed in the distance.

Now he had to decide what to do. Should he go back to the motel and tough it out? No, they would be able to test the blood in the bedroom and prove he was the attacker. There wasn’t any choice. He had to leave the country.

He smiled at the sight of his 1945 Jeep. A smile flitted across his face and quickly disappeared when another stab of pain surged through the back of his neck.

He grabbed the steering wheel and flung himself through the open door into the driver’s seat. He turned the key and pressed the starter on the floor. There was a click as the solenoid tried to engage the starter motor, but it didn’t have enough power to turn over the engine. He pressed it again. There was a click and then silence as the battery went completely dead. Vintage cars were always temperamental.

Wilbur slammed the steering wheel with the butt of his hand. Now what? The Mexican border was only four miles away. And how would that work? They’d be watching for his car at the border. Oh, look there. Here comes the only 1945 restored Jeep in the state of Texas. Do you think it's Wilbur Breckinridge, the guy with no alibi, a chomp out of the back of his neck, and blood all over his clothes? Do you think?

Forget the border. Wilbur scooted down in the seat to sleep, stifling a yawn. He’d make a better plan in the morning.

He awoke with a start. For a moment, he wondered what he was doing, sitting in his jeep in the middle of the desert. He shuddered at the memory of Mrs. Martin’s blood-soaked head. My God, I did it. I killed her. 

Pain pulsed through the back of his neck. He touched the cat bite, and his hand came away with tinges of blood on his fingers. He wiped his hand on his pants and cursed.

Wilbur’s heart leaped with the thought that maybe the Jeep would start this morning. He turned the key, hit the starter, and crossed his fingers. Click. Click. Nothing.

He stepped out of the Jeep and pulled his rifle from its vintage scabbard by the front fender. He slammed the bolt back and then forward, chambering a round, and set the safety. With the sharp metallic clank, all the desert sounds went silent. Wilbur ran his hand lovingly over the front fender, bidding his beloved vehicle farewell forever, and started walking toward the canyon and the destiny that awaited him.

***

You can purchase Black Cat and the Lethal Lawyer at Amazon e-book...   http://tinyurl.com/q3qrgyu

A fantasy story based on facts about 911 and a Halloween full moon.

Even six weeks after the World Trade Center attack on September 11, 2001, the nation continued to mourn the loss of over 3000 innocent victims when two airplanes crashed into the towers.

Several days ago, the editor of the Sacramento Daily Sun burst into my office. “Clive,” he said. “Pack your bags. You’re going to Salem, Massachusetts, to cover their Halloween celebration. Let’s give the subscribers something to think about besides the 9/11 tragedy.”

He had me at, ‘pack your bags!’ With yet another gut-wrenching editorial on my computer about the 341 firemen lost in the Towers, I was up for anything to get away from the twenty-four-seven news cycle.

October 31 is big news in Salem. Every year, 250,000 visitors swarm the city to experience haunted houses, costume balls, live music, dances, and holiday parades. This year, due to a full moon scheduled on October 31, the first full moon on that date since 1974, Salem planned even more spectacular events. Apparently, the occurrence of a Halloween full moon happens only four or five times each century! The next one isn’t expected for another twenty years, October 31, 2020!

Entering Salem, I was impressed by the witches and goblins, pumpkins and ghouls decorating houses and businesses, much like we decorate for Christmas back home. Witches are big in Salem all year long, due to the history of the Salem witch trials, but this year, even more so, what with the full moon phenomenon. Apparently, Salem’s city fathers thought the citizenry had grieved the 911 tragedy long enough and should get their minds back onto business as usual. Let the nation grieve if it must. Salem would strike while the moon was full!

Cornstalks lined the streets. Jack-o-lanterns hung from each lamp post. Shopkeepers dressed as witches and warlocks, ghosts and vampires. Every shop window displayed witches and cauldrons, spirits and ghouls. Tourists clamored through the town atop horse-drawn hay wagons and carts.

I ate lunch at a little diner and delighted in the attentions of a charming waitress with long black hair, sparkling gold eyes, and fluttering lashes. With a glance, Jenny churned up feelings I hardly remembered, being a widower well past middle-age, and an almost regular church goer.

Imagine my surprise when she handed me a napkin with a message inside. Meet me outside tonight. 11:25 P.M. Come alone. I must see you.

I left my lunch half-eaten and stumbled outside to ponder the situation. With her charms, she had the pick of any young man; what could she possibly want with me? I interviewed shopkeepers and snapped photos of the holiday events that day and well into the evening. Even knowing it was a fool’s errand, at 11:15 P.M, I was drawn back to the diner like a moth to a flame.

****

At 11:20 P.M. Jenny wiped down the last table, flipped over the CLOSED sign and locked the café door. She had nearly given up hope of the middle-aged man with silver-white hair and mustache arriving at the last possible moment to change her destiny?

Jenny wrapped her cape around her shoulders and stepped out the front door. There Clive stood, a puzzled expression on his face. She was blessed with a sixth sense, knowing when the phone would ring or a visitor was at her door. An oppressive spirit had even settled on her the morning of September 11, feeling something evil on the horizon. She had powers over men, but on this night of night, with the full moon overhead on this auspicious date, her fate lay in the hands of a stranger. Without his cooperation, she could not escape the family curse.

“Hello. Thanks so much for coming.” Jenny placed her hand on Clive’s arm, in an effort to bend his will to her own needs. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

“I’m happy to oblige. But why ask a stranger? Don’t you have family or friends who could help you?”

Jenny lowered her head, brushing her lashes against her pale face. Her lips trembled as a tear trickled down her cheek. A curl of white hair tumbled onto her forehead, seemingly out of place among her mass of black curls.

“Here, here, now. None of that.” Clive brushed Jenny’s hair back into place. “I’ll help you if I can, my dear. Don’t cry.” He tipped up her chin and dried her tears with his handkerchief. “Now, give me a smile and tell me all about it.”

“I fear you’ll think me crazy, sir, but I swear I speak the truth.” Jenny sat on a bench and began an inexplicable tale.

“I am a descendent of the judge who unjustly hanged Sarah Good as a witch in 1692, right here in Salem. Since Sarah Good’s death, the judge’s descendants have suffered a terrible curse. Upon the rare occasion, only about four or five times each century, when the full moon is overhead on All-Hollow’s Eve, any of the judge's female descendants between the age of 18 and 21 is in grave danger.

“As the full moon is upon us this night for the first time in 27 years, and to avoid the curse, I must find a middle-aged man with long silver-white hair, who resembles the judge who sentenced my poor ancestor, Sarah, to death. Before midnight, a drop of this man’s blood must be placed on a particular stone that stands at the edge of town.” Jenny’s dark lashes fluttered.

“Would you shed a drop of your blood on Sarah’s commemorative stone to save me from the curse?”

“What kind of curse, my dear?” Clive raised perplexed eyebrows.

“It is so terrible, I dare not speak it aloud.” Whispering these words, Jenny clung to Clive’s shoulder and wept piteously. Would it be enough to convince him to go with her to the stone? And, once there, could she muster the courage to do what she must do to stave off the curse?

****

Clive was speechless. Never had he encountered such a stunning creature that so captivated his heart within minutes of meeting. Never has such a ridiculous tale so captured his imagination. He was inclined to leap from the bench, take her by the hand, and race to the stone in question. Only with great difficulty did he pummel his rash impulses into submission and sit back on the bench, staring into the starry sky.

The full moon hung blood-red over the city, casting an orange glow across the sidewalks, still churning with costumed tourists, jostling and laughing, their joyous songs of nonsense carried into the black sky on the night wind.

The young woman stirred in his arms, her sobs finally ceased. She dashed tears from her cheeks and looked up at him. “You will help me, won’t you? I’m so desperate. We only need a teeny-weeny drop of blood, really. I’d be ever so grateful.”

If she truly believed her outrageous tale, considering the unusual request, even a gentleman couldn’t help wondering, how grateful? On the other hand, just exactly how much was a teeny-weeny drop of blood and just how crazy was this charming girl? Clive shivered.  A thin cloud crept across the center of the moon, seeming to cut it in half.

Clive glanced at his watch. 11:40 P.M. “Well, let’s get on with it. Can we walk to the stone?” He would humor her and see where all this would lead. His hand rested around a small penknife in his pocket. If a tiny drop of blood is all it takes to satisfy her fantasy and win her gratitude, I can do that.

The wind whistled overhead as the cemetery loomed into view. Groups of tourists ambled amongst the gravestones. Raucous laughter burst from the direction of Bridget Bishop and Martha Corey’s graves, also victims of the 1692 Salem witch trials. From the sound of merriment coming from the shadows, one would think it was an amusement park rather than a cemetery.

Jenny squealed as a man dressed as a vampire loomed from the bushes. Clive put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. She was really a dear little thing, and his heart stirred. He wanted so to calm her fears. Perhaps he’d bring her coffee in bed tomorrow morning…

Sarah Good’s commemorative stone gleamed in the moonlight.

Jenny ran her fingers over the grooves in the stone forming the letters– Sarah Good 1653 – 1692 “Poor thing. I’m so sorry, Sarah. Please forgive my ancestor.” Jenny glanced at her watch. “Are you ready?” She drew a huge serrated bread knife from her purse. “We don’t have much time. I only have two more minutes. Clive?” Jenny’s beautiful smile, only moments ago holding so much promise, faded, replaced by a fiendish leer. Only his blood splashed across the accursed stone would make her smile now.

At the sight of Jenny’s wild eyes gleaming gold in the moonlight, Clive stepped back. The thrill of the lovely lady and moonlight adventure faded and common sense prevailed. Jenny would not settle for a pricked finger and a drop of blood. With the knife in her hand, she crept closer and closer with murder in her eyes.

“Hold on, there, young lady.” Clive backed away, glancing left and right. Where had all the costumed tourists gone? The witches and ghosts and had disappeared at the first sight of Jenny’s knife.

In the distance, Clive heard the town clock begin to strike. Twelve o’clock…the witching hour. Bong…bong…bong. The hour that a real witch, if there was such a thing, might easily murder a stranger to thwart her twisted notion of an imaginary family curse.

Bong… bong… bong. Clive’s dull evenings suddenly held more appeal. He wished he was back in New York, playing solitaire, and had never heard of Salem. Bong… bong… bong.

Bong… bong… Jenny shrieked and rushed at him, the knife raised...

Paralyzed with fear, Clive put up his hands, closed his eyes and held his breath, waiting for the death blow. Bong! Midnight!

Seconds ticked by. Clive opened his eyes, ran his hands up and down his chest. “I’m still alive?”

Jenny’s cape and the bread knife lay on the ground. She had waited seconds too long past the stroke of midnight but… Where was Jenny?

Sarah Good’s gravestone gleamed in the moonlight where a small black cat huddled on the stone, her tail whipping around her black toes. A white blaze crept over her nose, across one golden eye, ending beside her ear. She stared up at Clive, terror in those golden eyes, enough to soften the hardest heart.

“Jenny?” Clive whispered, stepping closer to the stone. He’d never believed tales about witches turning into black cats, but... He stroked the little cat and peered into her eyes. He gasped. Jenny’s golden eyes stared back. The curse!  “Only my blood could have protected her from the curse. She needed me... She still needs me.”

He would write his 2000-word newspaper story about Salem, about the haunted houses and the costume ball and the decorations and the Halloween parades. The story would be colorful and for a few minutes the Sacramento Daily Sun readers could forget the tragedy that took almost 3000 lives on September 11.

He would write about tonight being the first full moon on October 31 for the last twenty-seven years, but he would not write about a 300-year-old curse that turned a Salem witch into a little black cat. Who would believe it?

Clive cradled Jenny in his arms. “Don’t worry, Jenny. You don’t have to worry ever again. I promised to help you, and I won’t abandon you now."

.....

If you enjoyed this story, check out my 13 mystery novels at Amazon. Black cats are my favorite!!