So, after Novembrance assured me that my writing is likely very safe here, I decided I'd treat you all (or I hope it's a treat) with a little snippet of the novel I'm writing. Enjoy!

Chet watched the trees slipping by as he searched ahead for a sign that told him that Daniel Boone Road was coming up. The woman at the gas station in Corbin had assured him that Barbourville was only about 25 minutes away. He'd been traveling for nearly 20 minutes and all he could see was forest on either side of him. There had been a few sparsely populated areas off I-25 as he had driven, but no sign of Daniel Boone Road or the "decent sized town" the woman had told him to watch for.

It was surreal to be driving here in Kentucky and as he drove, he thought back to the day in early August when he found out that he'd be coming here. His boss at the Tooele Army Depot had announced that they needed several mechanics to work for a six week TDY at Ft. Knox Kentucky. Chet had jumped at the chance.

Krystal, his wife, had been somewhat less enthusiastic.

He had told her the news over dinner and the kids had eaten quickly and gone outside to play, obviously sensing the tension that had sprung up. Krystal sat, staring at him incredulously.

"Six weeks?" she asked. "You'll be gone for six weeks, starting in the middle of September. The kids will just be starting school and soccer and dance lessons. I don't know how I can handle six weeks without you."

"I'll talk to your brothers. I'll make sure they help you with everything," Chet had reassured her. Then he had continued, pleadingly. "I really have to do this, Krystal. I've wanted to go back to Kentucky for as long as I can remember. I need to find my mom."

"I know," Krystal agreed, sighing. "You have to go. I don't like it, but I know what this means to you. You've got to go."

Now he drove, antsy as he drew nearer to his destination. It had taken three weeks for him to get a full weekend off to take this trip and he wanted to make the most of it. The sun had been far from showing her face in the eastern sky when he got up this morning to make the 200 mile trek. But three anxious weeks and a four hour drive were nothing, really. He'd been waiting for a lifetime.

Chet was only sixteen months old when his parents had died in these Kentucky backwoods. He had been too young to remember them, really. But throughout his childhood there had been one enduring, hazy memory. He remembered standing on the back seat of a car looking out the window at black pavement, the white lines playing a rhythmic game of catch-me-if-you-can as they slipped by. He didn't know to where they were driving, but he remembered a man and a woman in the front seat talking, laughing.

The man, he was certain, had been his father, Enos. Perhaps Chet hadn't known his name then, but he had been raised by his Grandmother and his father's sister, Millie. All through his childhood they'd told him stories about his father, what a character he was -- playful, lively, fiercely loyal and loving. He had looked at pictures of Enos Collins with his bright eyes sparkling beneath a khaki garrison cap, or looking sideways at the camera as if he was trying to get away with something. The pictures were almost like looking into a mirror. He had the same dark, wavy hair, the same brown, twinkling eyes and broad, solid chin and jaw. These details had filled in the spaces of this memory of his father. Enos Collins was real to him.

The woman, though, was always faceless in his memory. He could not remember her. There had been the grudgingly spoken sound of her name, Jean. Other details were scant and reluctantly given. Perhaps this was because Millie and Grandma hadn't known her well. Perhaps the grief and anger they felt kept them from sharing much. Maybe it was both. Either way, he didn't know much about her, but nobody needed to tell him how much she had loved him. He knew for himself, because the strongest part of this early childhood memory was the feel of her.

He remembered knowing the first thing that all children with loving mothers know, that visceral awareness that comes before words, before any other knowledge -- Mother.

That is what this memory was to him. It was warmth, love, safety, nourishment. It was knowing that he was special and cared for. And it was the reason he was here alone in Knox County, Kentucky, driving through this emerald canopy of trees. His heart was on a desperate search for one thing -- Mother.

Finally, he saw a sign for Daniel Boone Road and pulled off to find someone to talk to. He found a Handy Mart on Main Street and stepped in. The man behind the counter was tall and thin, with a tuft of thick, gray hair and an overgrown beard.

"Excuse me," Chet said. "I was wondering if you could help me."

"What can I do you for?" the man replied as he finished counting out change for a woman at the counter.

"You didn't know any Fusons who lived around here about thirty years ago did you?"

"Fuson, no. Why do you ask?"

"Well I'm looking for my mother's grave. She died here somewhere around Trosper in fifty eight. You don't have any idea where she's likely to be buried, do you?"

The man's eyes softened. "Could be anywhere, really. There's graveyards all over these hills, one at just about every little church."

Chet's heart sunk at this news. Where would he start?

"You could try the big Barbourville cemetery to start with," the man offered. "Just head back east on Daniel Boone and take Cumberland Avenue south. It'll go right past the cemetery. But, I reckon if she died near Trosper she's probably buried close near there. So, if you don't find her at the Barbourville cemetery, just get right back on Cumberland. It forks right at the end of the cemetery. You'll want to take the south road. It'll take you down into Trosper."

Chet had thanked the man, gotten right back into the blue Ford Tempo he'd rented for the weekend and driven to the Barbourville Cemetery. After hours of wandering through the green expanse, carefully searching the rows of stones, he hadn't found a single Fuson. The man was probably right. She was probably buried closer to Trosper.

So, he'd taken the road south and stopped at every cemetery at every little church off the side of the road on the way to Trosper. First, there was the Rice Cemetery in the little town of Artemus. Then, there had been the Birch cemetery on a sloping hill, cradled by a bend in the road. Then there was the Sowder's cemetery. It had been a bewitching mix of old and new. The headstone of one little grave was littered with dump trucks, stuffed animals and soccer balls. Another grave, up where the graveyard wandered into the woods, was marked with an ancient, lime-crusted stone and surrounded by a rusty metal fence.

He had searched meticulously. It hadn't been an easy job. The gravestones weren't always reliable. Some were professionally done but many were old and crudely made. Some graves were simply marked with a large stone at the head and a smaller one to mark the foot. At many graves there was a small, official marker -- no larger than a postcard, held up with a wooden or metal stake. He examined each marker religiously, even though the words on stones were often eroded and obscure, the typing on paper faded and illegible.

His eager, patterned search here at Tinsley cemetery had been no less thorough. Still it had been fruitless. It had led him to many graves that bore the Fuson name, but there was no Mayla Jean Fuson Collins anywhere he looked.

It had been a weary and heartbreaking day. He was discouraged, hungry, tired. Tears slipped shamelessly down his face, mingling with the sweat that had drenched him from head to toe in this humid Kentucky heat.

She had to be close. He was right on the outskirts of Trosper. The edges of twilight were beginning to creep in on him, the sun sinking ever lower on the horizon. He was no closer to finding his mother than he was when he first got here.

What now? Where else could he turn? He didn't know anyone here. He was tired, hungry, discouraged, losing hope.

So, he walked to the shade of a towering maple and knelt down beneath it. He offered one of the simplest, yet most fervent prayers of his life.

"God," he began. "Please. I don't know what to do anymore. Please help me. Please help me find her."