Harvesting Acorns

Copyright © 2011
Deirdré Amy Gower

All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval
system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, be let, resold, hired-out, or otherwise circulated
without express written consent of the author.

This is a work of
fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

C
hapter
One

Chloe
turned up the volume on the radio and belted out the lyrics as she sang along to
her all-time
favourite
song. The imagery it brought to mind of people with vision rousing a whole
nation tugged at something deep inside her. The song was the internal
soundtrack to her every waking moment. She remembered a time, not too long ago,
when she still had a dream: A dream of touching lives with her stories, of
bringing hope, moving a nation into action for things that had meaning. Now,
disillusioned, she drove along this road, winding her way down the mountain
path towards the ocean.

She
had packed her car with all the belongings she owned. She was leaving a life
behind, but she had no regrets. She wanted to be as far away from her hometown
as possible. Her failed career overshadowed memories of a beautiful carefree
childhood.

Chloe
had been an aspiring journalist. She had been ambitious, full of hope,
determined to change the world – she had been naïve. She wrote about
environmental issues; how seals were slowly strangling in fishing nets. She
wrote about children suffering in war torn countries; about the harmful effects
of cell phone radiation; and reported on the devastating conditions and pitiful
lives of circus animals; - but those were not what the masses wanted to read
about. People wanted the shock factor. They wanted to know who was divorcing
whom. They wanted to read about the twenty-five year old who put her wealthy eighty-two
year old husband ‘out of his misery’ and was now looking for sympathy in her ‘time
of grieving’. Celebrity diets and sex 101; fashion faux pas and glamour gurus.

She
could not pinpoint the exact moment that her career began to backslide, but
slowly and steadily the need to produce saleable articles had started to sway
Chloe’s writing style and research focus. Fortunately, she had not completely
sold herself before she
realised
what she was doing and had opted out. If she could not write about what
mattered most to her, the things that nudged at her heart, then she would not
write. The only problem was that she didn’t have a backup plan. During the
first few weeks after handing in her resignation, she still had hope that she
could find another job in a company whose ethic aligned with her own.

After
two months, she started to
realise
it was not going to be easy;
the industry was controlled by the public’s interest. In a small town, with a small-minded
ethos – Chloe’s job had lost its edge. As the third month drew to an end and
the rent due date approached Chloe realised she was out of money and out of
options. She sold her luxury Mini Cooper and bought a beaten up station wagon,
packed all her moveable belongings into it, sold all the rest and furniture to
the corner buy-and-sell for cash for fuel and enough money for a few weeks’
groceries, handed over the keys to her apartment, and drove out of town.

She
had no idea where she was going; she just had to leave. She spent many hours in
solitude over those last three months – either walking in a nearby forest,
sitting quietly in the early hours watching the sunrise over the sea, or rowing
down the river in the early evening. Through all the inward reflection she had
found peace with her decision and felt the stirring deep within that something
was calling to her from somewhere far away. There was somewhere that she needed
to be - she just didn’t know where. She did not know what she was going to do;
she just knew that she had to get out of that town and as far away from her
career as possible. Chloe had been sad to say goodbye to her family and
friends, but she had always been a bit of a loner and so she knew she would be all
right.

Her
older sister, Julia, was working as a pharmacist. She was married to a
psychiatrist and they had two small children. Chloe adored her niece and nephew
but did not get to spend much time with them as the family had moved to another
town when Julia’s husband had been invited into partnership in a large
practice. Chloe’s younger brother, Byron was in his Grade 11 year. As a middle
child, Chloe had always felt insignificant. Not the eldest child who had been
an only, spoilt, child for the first seven years of her life, and not the baby
who now had everyone’s undivided attention. A middle child left to find her own
identity and mature independently and early in a confusing world that at times
ripped her soul to shreds and at other times left her bewildered, frightened and
lonely.

When
she left school she had volunteered at a shelter for runaway teens – she knew
first hand their experiences of abandonment in an outwardly appearing
supportive family. Her experiences and encounters there sparked her first story
and her subsequent enrolment for a Journalism course at the university in her
hometown. She had worked hard and had achieved distinctions throughout her
studies. She had also worked part time during her studies at a game reserve
leading hiking and horse riding trails. She had free accommodation there and
had been very involved in helping raise orphaned wildlife, her favourite being
a little rhino calf whose mother had been slaughtered by poachers for her horn.

When
she was twenty-one, she had gone to a circus with a university friend. They had
sat up close to the side of the ring. While everyone had cheered as the animals
performed, Chloe sat silently, wishing for their escape. She had stared into
the eyes of an elephant as it raised its trunk to take an apple from its rider,
and cried as she watched tears trickle down its face. Her article the following
week raised supportive responses from animal rights activists, but she had also
taken a great deal of written abuse and negative media from entertainment
moguls.

Her
story on the Children of War had been written from inside a refugee camp in
deepest Africa where she had been volunteering; bathing babies, feeding
starving children and nursing bedsores of the bedridden injured and sick children.

Chloe
was hands-on in her stories. She was never just an idle commentator. Her
experiences and involvement shone through in all her writing. Her compassion
and devotion to helping others was etched in every word. She was passionate
about her work. Not many in the industry could claim the same.

Now
it was all over. Three years of study and ten years of hard work and dedication
now seemed such a waste. At thirty-one Chloe felt her defeat heavily, but had
been able to walk away with her dignity intact.  She had many awards behind her
and knew one day she would be able to look back with pride, knowing she had
gone down without diminishing her character or casting aside her values.

As
she wound down the hill towards the sea she opened her window and felt the sea
air whip through her raven black hair. She wore her dark glasses, her blue eyes
were very sensitive, but she could still pick up the sharp glint of the sun off
the ocean. She could smell the kelp that had washed up on shore and could see a
flock of sea birds hovering above the sea, every minute or so one diving in and
up again with a fish in its beak.

She
had been driving for about six hours and was way beyond exhausted – physically,
mentally and most definitely emotionally. She had no idea where she would sleep
that night but her unrelenting faith told her not to worry. She had never been
to this part of the country before. It was absolutely magnificent. Winding down
she had the mountains on her right. To her left was the sheer drop to the
ocean. On the mountainside beautiful, tall, proud pine trees formed a sparse
forest and she saw a deer dart into its depths.

She
approached the town. Old buildings rose up to meet her, history proclaiming
itself alive and prevalent in this picturesque seaside village. Chloe felt an
immediate sense of kinship and belonging to this town that seemed to say:

‘I have been around for so long… let me reveal my
wisdom… I have what you seek.’

As
she drove through the town, each building seemed to call to her to visit, just
to sit awhile on its veranda, enjoy a cup of tea and let it speak to her of all
it had seen through the generations. The old railway station seemed to say:

‘
I
have watched all who leave to seek the grandness of the cities, and I have
listened to those who arrive seeking the tranquility of a village – let me
share their tales’.

The
battered post office called to her:

‘Let me tell you of the writings of those who are
homesick for Catch ‘o the Day shared with loved ones at the diner on the pier’.

That
familiar stirring roused her from her reverie – this was exactly where she was
meant to be, right now.

A
little café caught her eye – Tea for Two. That would be her first stop. It was
a chilly afternoon; she had noticed the first few leaves had turned brown.
Autumn had arrived. A steaming cup of tea and a butter croissant with
strawberry jam and mature cheddar was precisely what she needed at that moment.
She found a parking space close by, put on her jacket and went inside.

“Ah,
Bonjour Mademoiselle! Bienvenue! Welcome!” An elegantly dressed woman greeted
her with a kiss to each cheek.

“You
are new here! We know everyone and we have not seen you around here before.
Please, come sit; come enjoy your visit with us.”

Chloe
definitely was not used to such a warm and inviting greeting from a stranger.
Again the stirring within, like another puzzle piece shifting into position.
Something big was coming.   Chloe ordered the croissant she had been craving –
just her luck that the first place she chose was a French café! Chloe adored
the synchronicity that frequented her life. She also ordered a bottomless
Ceylon tea.  When she had finished her croissant and was pouring her second cup
of tea, the French lady came over and asked if she may join her for a chat.