B.C. Gooding's Blog

I am very excited about the sequel to the first Altar Guild Mystery, OFFERINGS & OBLATIONS. The new book is entitled DUST AND ASHES. It follows the same characters Quint, Rachael, George, Angela, and, of course, Eleanor.
The spark for the plot came when I was getting my hair done. I have known Gina, my stylist, since she was my student for high school English. I have followed her to three different shops. I put the hairs of my head in her hands, so you know that I trust her. Therefore, when she told me that she had seen a ghost, I believed her.
Years ago, Gina, her husband Randy, and her young son Ryan visited Devil’s Den in Gettysburg Battlefield National Park. Of course, the little boy wanted to climb and jump on the rocks. Gina worried that he might hurt himself, but Randy persuaded her to let him have his fun. Nevertheless, both parents kept eagles’ eyes on their child.
Soon, an emaciated, gray-faced man dressed in dirty tattered clothes approached her. “You best watch that that young’un don’t get hurt,” he said with stinking breath. Terrible dread enshrouded her, but she shook it off and moved to Randy’s side.
Gina reported the warning and pointed to the hideous stranger. As they watched he seemed to fade away. “That man was a ghost,” Randy said.
Repeating the story gave Gina chills, and I grew gooseflesh. Questions popped like bubbles in my brain? Was he a soldier who died there? What if he followed them home? How many others has he warned?
I heard this story about five years ago. I put the anecdote aside until I started working on Dust and Ashes. Then, I raised the denizen of Devil’s Den and set him in George and Angela’s B&B.

Two of the major incidents in the sequel to OFFERINGS & OBLATIONS came from ghost experiences shared by friends of mine. Both took place in the Gettysburg National Battlefied.
My friend Gina tells about encountering a filthy, raggedy man at Devils Den. The man spoke to her in an "old-timey" voice, and then vanished. Her husband saw him, too, and agreed that they had seen a ghost.
Another story came friend a friend, now deceased. Patty said that she and her friend Linda encountered ghostly horses, wagons, and riders while on a bridle trail. They could hear, smell, and feel the phantoms. Their horses were completely spooked.
See how I weave them into the novel:
Once they crossed paved Confederate Avenue and reentered the trail, the horses began to balk. Linda tapped her legs against Sue’s sides, but she hesitated to move forward. Patty clicked at Ginger, leaned forward to stroke her neck and urge her on. Ginger recoiled and tried to turn to the right.
Then, they noticed the noise. Creaking leather, the clank of metal, and the murmur of many male voices floated toward them. Now, the horses started to flinch and snort. Sue screamed, “Eee,” as if she were nose to nose with a strange horse. A musky cloud of horse funk enveloped the area as the clamor of oncoming wagons, horses, and men grew louder. Linda and Patty dismounted and guided their horses off the trail, just as the phantom caravan clattered by. Sue and Ginger whinnied, blew, and cringed taking little back steps away from the trail. In a minute, the sounds of the convoy faded and the pong of strange horses lifted, and one tattered, emaciated man stood before them. They had not actually seen him arrive, but there he was.
“What was that?” Linda asked caressing Sue quivering nose. Spittle dripped from her lips around the bit.
“My God,” Patty tried to pull Ginger forward.
The stranger answered, “Been follerin’em from the Emmitsburg Road. Can hear’em and smell’em, but don’t see nothing.” His eyes rolled in his head and his ragged breath reeked. “You’ll saw ‘em, right.”
“No, we didn’t ” Linda corrected him. “We could hear and smell it. Our horses were frightened.”
“Praise God,” the man fell to his knees. “Horses ain’t crazy. They’s real, real as you and me.”

“…earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust…,” echoes the burial service. Unmistakably, we will die and return to the elements. Ash Wednesday reminds of our fate.
“Remember, oh man, thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return.” These ominous words accompany the imposition of ashes in the old Book of Common Prayer liturgy.
Palm ash represents our mortal remains, but it misleads us. At least, I felt surprise when I opened a container of cremains. I did not find ash, earth, or dust. The residue of what was my mother was gray and gritty, somewhat like powder.
I recall, years earlier, kneeling beside my teenage son one Ash Wednesday as an elderly member of our congregation hobbled his way up to the altar rail. Too infirmed to kneel, Tim stood with the help of his cane and received the ashes. Smudged, he turned and staggered back to his pew. My son felt outrage. “He shouldn’t have to do that,” he hissed. I could see his heightened color and the moisture in his eyes. I did not reprimand him. I was just grateful to share the moment.
This year, when the priest’s thumb marks the cross of ashes on my forehead, I will receive an extra blessing because I will know the woman who prepared the ashes. I do not have permission to share her name, but she is the head of the altar guild at a small church. Each year, she personally burns the psalms from the previous Palm Sunday in a steel pot and collects the ash. Next, she grinds the ash with an apothecary’s mortar and pestle. “This is the blackest ash in the country,” she boasted lifting the lid of the square marble box in the sacristy. Indeed, she had every right to be proud of her work.
So, we begin the journey of Lent, forty days of penitence that winds through the earth, ashes, and dust and finally, rises to eternal life.

Here is a first draft of a sequel to OFFERINGS AND OBLATIONS. Please take a peek.
"Rachel groaned as she reached for her cell phone and disabled the alarm setting. Saturday morning meant getting up and out for Altar Guild duty at nine o’clock. No lap swimming this morning because the college offered a faculty water aerobics class. She chuckled to think of some her older colleagues bouncing and bobbing to the beat of rock music. Her amusement helped her rise from her bed and head to the kitchen where she dropped in her coffee selection, Colombian Hazelnut, and started her brew.
A jolt of caffeine and a shower readied her for the ordeal. Today, she partnered with Eleanor Fauquier to prep the chapel for Sunday services. At least, she would not be forced to talk over the events of last winter when Eleanor was compelled to acknowledge her daughter Angela by her deceased brother Gregory. Father Joe, “Quint” had celebrated a proper funeral mass in hopes of healing Eleanor’s obsession with her brother’s grave. Rachel wondered just how cured she was, but at least, she never talked about Angela or Gregory. She acted like none of it ever happened.
When Rachel drove her Corolla up the hill to church parking lot, she found the Fauquier Suburban already there. She got out and paused to appreciate the nascent life evident of the apple orchard across the drive. March had been gentle and April looked promising. Coming late in the month this y¬¬¬¬ear, Easter should be glorious. Still, the apple blossoms would not appear until May. Rallying herself, Rachel headed up the walk by the graveyard toward the front of the church. She cast an eye over to the spot where the cremains of Gregory Burkitt lay beneath a CSA belt buckle. “Rest in peace,” she whispered.
His sister Eleanor stood inside the red door. “It is about time that you got here. Come and look at this. I could have fixed it myself, but I wanted you to be a witness.” She pointed up to the dark sanctuary lamp hanging above the altar.
“We need to get a new candle.”
“That is just it. We put in a new candle on Wednesday before the healing service and one the Saturday before that.”
“They should last seven days.”
“Exactly, but we have been doing two a week since Lent began.”
Rachel entered the sacristy to fetch the pole with a hook to pull down the lamp. “Is there something wrong with the candles?” Then, she saw that the lamp was empty. The red sleeve that should hold a heavy pressed glass tube full of candle wax was unoccupied. “It’s gone.”
“Someone is stealing our candles. You know they cost us about $25.00 apiece. We insist on beeswax.”
“Of course,” she muttered as she disappeared into the sacristy. Opening the cupboard, she discovered the empty space where the case of candles stored on the bottom shelf should be. A sign escaped her lips, and she braced herself before delivering the bad news. “Mrs. Fauqueir, the case is missing. Do we have any other candles elsewhere?”
“What do you mean ‘missing?” Eleanor’s outraged countenance appeared at the door.
“I mean box is gone. It’s not here.”
“Well, that will not do. By my count, we should have five more candles.”
“We will have to order more.”
“This can’t be. What will we do until the sanctuary candles arrive? There must be vigil lamp for the reserve sacrament.”
Rachael smiled to herself. Inwardly, she admitted that she enjoyed Eleanor’s rattled expression and tone. Losing control of a situation unnerved her. “Don’t worry Mrs. Fauquier. We will just leave the apse spot light on. I am sure Jesus will be comfortable with that.”

Here is a first draft of a sequel to OFFERINGS AND OBLATIONS. Please take a peek.
"Rachel groaned as she reached for her cell phone and disabled the alarm setting. Saturday morning meant getting up and out for Altar Guild duty at nine o’clock. No lap swimming this morning because the college offered a faculty water aerobics class. She chuckled to think of some her older colleagues bouncing and bobbing to the beat of rock music. Her amusement helped her rise from her bed and head to the kitchen where she dropped in her coffee selection, Colombian Hazelnut, and started her brew.
A jolt of caffeine and a shower readied her for the ordeal. Today, she partnered with Eleanor Fauquier to prep the chapel for Sunday services. At least, she would not be forced to talk over the events of last winter when Eleanor was compelled to acknowledge her daughter Angela by her deceased brother Gregory. Father Joe, “Quint” had celebrated a proper funeral mass in hopes of healing Eleanor’s obsession with her brother’s grave. Rachel wondered just how cured she was, but at least, she never talked about Angela or Gregory. She acted like none of it ever happened.
When Rachel drove her Corolla up the hill to church parking lot, she found the Fauquier Suburban already there. She got out and paused to appreciate the nascent life evident of the apple orchard across the drive. March had been gentle and April looked promising. Coming late in the month this y¬¬¬¬ear, Easter should be glorious. Still, the apple blossoms would not appear until May. Rallying herself, Rachel headed up the walk by the graveyard toward the front of the church. She cast an eye over to the spot where the cremains of Gregory Burkitt lay beneath a CSA belt buckle. “Rest in peace,” she whispered.
His sister Eleanor stood inside the red door. “It is about time that you got here. Come and look at this. I could have fixed it myself, but I wanted you to be a witness.” She pointed up to the dark sanctuary lamp hanging above the altar.
“We need to get a new candle.”
“That is just it. We put in a new candle on Wednesday before the healing service and one the Saturday before that.”
“They should last seven days.”
“Exactly, but we have been doing two a week since Lent began.”
Rachel entered the sacristy to fetch the pole with a hook to pull down the lamp. “Is there something wrong with the candles?” Then, she saw that the lamp was empty. The red sleeve that should hold a heavy pressed glass tube full of candle wax was unoccupied. “It’s gone.”
“Someone is stealing our candles. You know they cost us about $25.00 apiece. We insist on beeswax.”
“Of course,” she muttered as she disappeared into the sacristy. Opening the cupboard, she discovered the empty space where the case of candles stored on the bottom shelf should be. A sign escaped her lips, and she braced herself before delivering the bad news. “Mrs. Fauqueir, the case is missing. Do we have any other candles elsewhere?”
“What do you mean ‘missing?” Eleanor’s outraged countenance appeared at the door.
“I mean box is gone. It’s not here.”
“Well, that will not do. By my count, we should have five more candles.”
“We will have to order more.”
“This can’t be. What will we do until the sanctuary candles arrive? There must be vigil lamp for the reserve sacrament.”
Rachael smiled to herself. Inwardly, she admitted that she enjoyed Eleanor’s rattled expression and tone. Losing control of a situation unnerved her. “Don’t worry Mrs. Fauquier. We will just leave the apse spot light on. I am sure Jesus will be comfortable with that.”

Probably, I should have included this story in OFFERINGS & OBLATIONS.
When I was a bride in 1969, my husband took me to meet Punky Barns, a senior member of The Church of the Ascension in Westminster, MD.[ Picture a short version of the dowager Lady Grantham as played by Maggie Smith and you have a fine image of Punky.] She lived in a little steeply gabled brick cottage across from the chapel. Once the rectory, Francis Scott Key had organized a Sunday school for “colored” children in the front room.
Ascension was to be our church home and the place where our two sons would be baptized, and probably, the place from which we will be buried. This was my introduction to the place.
That summer day, Punky gave me a warm welcome and a cool glass of iced tea. She immediately entrusted me with the latest gossip about the parish. The former priest, Father White, had retired leaving the church without a resident clergy. He had favored smells and bells at every service. He said mass every day and always kept a sanctuary lamp guarding the reserve sacraments.
Nevertheless, a member of the vestry had taken it upon himself to call a new priest who was as low-church as the former had been high. Punky nodded and explained that the vestryman was brought up Baptist. “Father White’s popish ways had always made him uncomfortable.”
Pinkney, the new clergyman, informed the vestry that he would not be keeping reserve sacraments in the church. He thought the Lord’s Supper should be celebrated only once a month. He believed familiarity breeds contempt, even in worship.
Punky’s lips formed a cat’s smile. “The Altar Guild advised him that we would keep candles burning for the reserves that were presently in the sanctuary. When the supply of lamps runs out, he may dispose of the reserved wafers.”
“Oh,” I responded, “How many candles do you have?”
“Believe me,” she chortled, “We will never run out.”
Indeed, I never remember the lamp disappearing from the interior of the grey stone chapel. When we enter, rest, and pray the light assures us that Christ is there.

Eventually, we are all egocentric. The horrific events in Paris remind me of my own run-in with avenging Muslims.
When I was five years old, I lived in Tripoli, Libya where my father was stationed at Wheelus Field with the U.S. Navy. We lived in an apartment building on Via Canova directly across from a pasta factory. I loved to sit on the balcony outside my bedroom a watch the spaghetti and rigatoni drying on racks under the blazing sound. From that same balcony, I could see a minaret and listen to the call to prayer. I have to agree with President Obama when he says that it is the one of the most beautiful sounds on earth. I loved my balcony, until I realized an avenging rug man might climb it to kill me.
One evening Ali, a native man who shopped for us, brought two of his cousins to our apartment to show my parents some handmade Arabic rugs. They came into the large anteroom and spread out an assortment of gray, brown, black, blue, and red designed carpets with silky tassels. I stroked the plusher ones and tried playing hopscotch on the ones with an evocative pattern. Very soon, I was scurried across the hall to the DeFilla’s apartment.
The DeFillas were an Italian family who had lived in Tripoli for generations. Eight year-old Aurora lived with her parents and two teen-age brothers in a flat the same size as ours. The boys shared a bedroom in what was our living room, and the anteroom served as their living room. Aurora’s room matched mine. In fact, we shared some happy times on our adjoining balconies. Her brothers acted like typical teens. I remember how they melted my basic colors box of Crayolas in an experiment to see if they were wax.
I do not remember why I did not stay with Aurora that evening, but I will never forget what happened next. I came back across the landing and entered our apartment through the open door. My mother, father, Ali, and his rug trading cousins stood around the door talking. As I entered, I automatically slammed the door closed behind me. A blood-curdling scream ripped through the air. The senior man had been leaning against our wall with his hand braced around the doorpost near the topmost hinge. When the door closed, his fingers smashed and bled.
My mother flew into action, gathering towels and chips from the block in our icebox. She wrapped his hand and soon the bleeding stopped. Meanwhile, my father slapped me and forced me to sit against the far wall. Despite my frantic wailing, I remember that Ali and his cousins marveled over the ice. Mom gouged out a big chunk for them to take with them. Dad helped Ali and the uninjured cousin roll up a few rugs and he turned over cash for the ones that stayed. Just when I thought they were about to leave, my father came over and clobbered me again.
After he helped them down the stairs with the merchandise, he returned with a warning. “Bobbie,” he said, “You injured an Arab in our house. Those men could come back and slits our throats as we sleep.” I looked at my mother. She had nothing to say.
That night, I put my pillow at the foot of my bed so I could watch the French doors to my balcony. The following Friday, when Ali came to accompany us to the Suk, he told me that his cousin’s hand was healing well. So, I thought, he can hold a knife. Every night, I waited; my assailant did not come.
Amazingly, we did not talk much about the incident with the Arab rug traders. Consequently, when I was twelve years-old, Stateside, and typically smarty pants, I asked my father why he would have ever threatened me with such a frightening tale. He responded, “Because, it was true.” I never asked how much money he paid out that night. I wonder what he would have to say about Paris.

The end of the year is traditionally time for evaluation of the past year and forming plans for the New Year. 2014 has been an extraordinary one. Having been in our home for thirty-seven years, we had to replace some basic infrastructure. First, the bridge on lane leading to the farmhouse washed out during the rain and snowmelt. More burdensome, our septic system, which was three years old when we moved end, malfunctioned.
When we investigated replacing the system, we learned about the BAT laws. Best Available Technology meant that we had to install a nitrogen reducing system with an electric motor, pumps, and a vault as big as a small house. All the required digging left our yard a muddy bog. However, we did receive a grant from the much-derided flush tax to pay for the HOOT; that is the name of the system. Once spring comes and new grass grows, all evidence of the ordeal will disappear.
Another big event this year was self-publishing on Kindle and Amazon. On one hand, I checked a major item off my bucket list. On the other hand, I resurrected the battle with my archenemy dyslexia, and with that came all the tension and paranoia I thought that I had put behind me. My husband helped with the proof reading, and I appreciate his efforts. But, as any spouse knows, fault finding is hard on the relationship. If I ever decide to write a sequel I will hire a professional.

Hearing that a reader actually enjoyed my writing is thrilling One thoughtfully placed a review on Amazon. O&O won three stars. Thank you, Betty
I delighted to have another reader ask to read more about Eleanor. She called an intriguing, dark character. Thank you, Janet.
Actually, I have been thinking quite a bit about Eleanor, because of my characters she is the nearest to my age and experience. By experience, I am referring to being on the altar guild in an Episcopal church.
My experience with altar guild began when I was a student at the University of Maryland in College Park. I attended noon mass at the chapel several days a week. I also used to sit in the chapel and read; a quiet place to study was hard to find. Soon, I found myself polishing brass.
When I married, I started attending the Church of the Ascension in Westminster. Feeling experienced, I volunteered for altar guild. The older ladies showed me their style of sanctuary maintenance. They washed the marble altar with Ivory Flakes. Being young, intimidation scared me off. However, after raising children, teaching school, and retiring, I have returned to the altar guild. I love it even though I still find it challenging.
Getting back to Eleanor, I do have plans for her. She is too stubborn to fade into the background. I even believe that she may show up at Angela’s wedding.

On Wednesdays, I volunteer as a docent at the National Shrine of Saint Elizabeth Ann Seton in Emmitsburg, Maryland. Those few hours highlight my week; the beauty and tranquility of the place inspire me. In fact, the stained glass windows in the Chapel of the Holy Agony stirred the idea of the sacramentals that Eleanor uses in Offerings and Oblations. Unlike, the croqueted charms on the apple trees, the real green scapulars are legitimate, venerable sacramentals.
Father Jo explains the Green Scapular to Rachel. “… those scapulars are Marian devotions. They have an interesting history. A Daughter of Charity named Sister Justine Bisqueburu claimed that she was visited by the Virgin Mary and given the design for the scapular. It dates back to 1840. On one side is the image of a heart pierced by a sword and dripping blood. The legend reads, “Immaculate Heart of Mary pray for us now and at the hour of our death.” The other side shows the figure of Mary. Supposedly, it has the power to convert non- believers. Devout grandmothers like to tuck them under their grandkids’ mattresses.”
Four stained-glass windows illuminate the stunning Chapel of the Holy Agony: the Green Scapular windows to the left and the Red Scapular windows to the right. In the center, stands a ghostly marble statue of a Jesus and angel in the Garden of Gethsemane. An intricate mosaic depicting the skyline of Jerusalem and the sleeping apostles decorates the circular wall. Overall, the chapel exudes exquisite holiness.
Offerings and Oblations