FOR MOST OF THE CENTURY: READER'S DIGEST (PART 42)

Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

My desk, too, was strewn with papers, notebooks and reference books. During the 1970s some of my "little crumbs" of writing grew in substance and style, at least so editors said.

On a beautiful day in May when the irises and roses were blooming, I walked leisurely to the mailbox and pulled out a letter that had a return address of: The Reader's Digest, Pleasantville, New York. I remembered that I had sent them a manuscript way back in February, so what could this letter be?

Striving for composure, I walked slowly all the way back into the house, sat down, slit the envelope very neatly, took out the small sheet and read:

May 2, 1963

Dear Mrs. Mosley,

What must you think of us -- holding up your story, "The Day The Cow Didn't Come Home," for so long!

The delay resulted from the article being read by several of the staff in turn and I'm happy to report that the decision in favor of it was unanimous. A check for $1,500.00 is enclosed.

Thank you for giving us first chance at this delightful story. If you care to send us other material, we'll be glad to read it.

Sincerely yours,

(Mrs.) Helen Givins

I called Edward at his work and heard the joy in his voice as he received the good news. Then I made a most understated entry in my journal: May 4, 1963. Sold to Reader's Digest today!

The journal entry before this was:

May 3, 1963. The fine thing about man is that potentially he can do anything with himself!

Every once in a while a person gets the urge to turn over a new leaf, make a new beginning, either to accomplish an old aim or take aim at a new one. And the good thing is, there is nothing to keep him from it.

The greatest thing to be considered here is willpower. For only through willpower can some hard things be accomplished.

The journal entry after the understated Reader's Digest sale was: May 5, 1963. Had a curettement today. Dr. D.B. Elrod, the surgeon; Dr. Alyea, the anesthetist.

Life! Such a mixture of things -- cabbages and kings, joys and stings.

Not only had the Reader's Digest bought "The Day The Cows Didn't Come Home," they, later in the year, said it had been chosen as a "First Person Award" and sent an additional $1,000.00.

The piece started my "writing fling" with the Reader's Digest. During the 1960s and 1970s they bought thirteen other pieces, one was another "First Person Award" and one a "Drama in Real Life."

These writings helped me to believe that I was doing some good. Letters and telephone calls seemed to indicate that. Some of the articles were put into textbooks, gift books and inspirational books.

In the meantime the journal entries went on. Such as: March 1, 1964. March winds are sweeping the floor of the earth. It gives me an urge to do a little house-cleaning. I, nostalgically, want to put some kerosene on the broom, as in the old days, and set the furniture outside to sun.

Edward and I went over to Horseshoe Lake this afternoon. We saw thousands of geese on the water and in the fields. At "Buddy's" eating place on the way home we bought some ham which I will fry for supper. It was a pleasant drive.

June 16, 1964. June mornings are rare treasures. A cool breeze ruffles the window curtains. Birds, cats and butterflies are abroad. Am making some patchwork pillow cases for sofa pillows.

June 25, 1964. Life goes through us and we separate the cream from the milk just like in the old DeLaval cream separator.

July 2, 1964. Edward to Dr. Wilson. Chest X-ray and cardiogram. All OK.

Sept. 12, 1964. Louis LaCoss, Editor Emeritus, St. Louis Globe Democrat said in today's paper, "If for no other reason than curiosity, one should wish that his days will be many more just to see how the whole mess works out."

Sept. 21, 1964. 51st birthday! I am joyful, happy and enthusiastic about life and living.

Nov. 4, 1964. Leonard Mayberry fixed my shelves above stove.

Dec. 19, 1964. Menu for Christmas dinner: Chicken pie, mashed potatoes, peas in a carrot ring, coconut cake, cranberry salad, slaw, punch, relishes.

By the mid sixties I decided that if ever I was to write the biblical novel I wanted to, this was the decade to do it.

There have been so many wonderful biblical novels already published, how could I tackle one that would be different?

I had often thought about Zebedee, the father of the apostles James and John. When Jesus came by, choosing his disciples, the brothers so readily dropped their fishing nets and followed Jesus.

Did Zebedee resent his sons being chosen? Taken away from the family business? Did he, like so many would do today, not recognize who this Jesus was? I knew of no other book that had Zebedee as a main character. Indeed, he is just sort of mentioned in passing in the Bible. So I chose him around whom to weave my fictional story. I followed the chronology of the Gospel of John.

I had entitled the book, "My Brother, My Sister." Boardman Press, the publisher, chose the title "The Crosses at Zarin."

I did my best writing on the novel on the banks of Wessel's Pond. After supper, with Stephen settled down to studying or off on a date, Edward and I would drive out to Wessel's Pond, about seven miles away, to fish. It was a relaxing time for Edward who loved to fish. Relaxing for me, too, although at this time I went for a different purpose.

There was a rustic picnic table on the bank. On it I spread by writing materials and wrote most of the book there during the summer sunset hours. Evening breezes rippled the waters of the pond which caught the last sunbeams of the day.

In my mind's eye, the pond became the Lake of Galilee.

In the spring, blossoms from an overhead persimmon tree fell on my papers and in the fall sometimes a ripe persimmon would splatter on my pages. We often stayed until the whipoorwills began to call and a star or two came out in the night sky.

Sometimes other folks were there. Once a small, bright-eyed lad stopped at my table. He had two little fishes on a string he wanted to show me.

"What's your name?" I asked. "Andrew," he replied. A young lad, two fishes, Andrew, Lake Galilee, a.k.a. Wessel's Pond -- a shivery little feeling played around my spine.

Back home, after this pleasant interlude, Edward and I felt compelled to listen to the local and national news before going to bed.

The local news was never very disturbing. Progress on the flood wall to protect downtown from the ever flooding Mississippi River was reported. Interstate I55 highway was opened from nearby Scott City on the south to nearby Fruitland on the north.

All that construction noise to the west I had heard for many months could not be "traveled" upon. The new Central High School was well liked by the community and Santa Claus came to the Town Plaza Shopping Center via helicopter!

The national news was more depressing.

Despite the fact that the young, handsome John Kennedy had become our president and, with his lovely wife Jacqueline, had precipitated what were to be known as the Camelot years, acting on the advice of some of his "Knights of the Round Table," he embarrassed himself and the nation with the infamous Bay of Pigs fiasco, a failed invasion of Cuba, a Communist island with allegiance to the Soviet Union.

The Soviet Union was our enemy in the Cold War that started after the end of World War II.

Edward and I, sitting on the green couch, watching such news reports, decided it would be better thereafter to go to bed without listening to the national news. But then came the Cuban missile stand-off. Nikita Krushchev, Soviet leader, had secretly delivered missiles to Cuba. Kennedy ordered them removed and blockaded Cuba. Soviet ships menacingly faced American ships. America collectively shivered.

Thereafter, Edward and I decided to stay up for the national news lest we be "fried" in our beds by nuclear missiles. Not that the place of death made any difference; it was just that we'd have died "without our boots on!"

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.