The Homeplace

by Gilbert Morris, Bestselling Christy Award-Winning Author

• ISBN13: 9780310252320
• ISBN10: 0310252326
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2005-08-01
• Publisher: Harpercollins Christian Pub

Summary

Lanie took out her journal and dated it April 12, 1928. She started the habit of writing down everything that happened to her when she was no more than eight years old, and now she had six journals completely full. She thought about the prize at school, almost prayed to win, but somehow she could not. "God," she finally said, "I'll do my best, and if you'll help me, that's all I ask." Fourteen-year-old Lanie Belle Freeman of Fairhope, Arkansas, has high hopes for her future. Happy on the five-acre family homeplace, she dreams of going to college and becoming a writer. And with her father launching a new business and her mother expecting the fifth baby, the bright days of an early Southern spring seem to herald expansive new beginnings for the Freeman family. But her mother isn't as strong as she should be, and it's going to take time for the business to pay back the mortgage. When unexpected tragedy strikes, it is left to Lanie to keep the family together and hold on to their home. In a world shaken by the Great Depression, it is faith in God and love in a tightly knit family that will help Lanie and her siblings overcome the odds and create a future that promises the fulfillment of love. The Homeplace offers a warmhearted and inspiring saga of a courageous young woman who holds her family together through the Depression era.

Excerpts

The Homeplace
Copyright © 2005 by Gilbert Morris
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Morris, Gilbert
The homeplace / Gilbert Morris.
p. cm.—(Singing river series; bk. 1)
ISBN-10: 0-310-25232-6
ISBN-13: 978-0-310-25232-0
I. Title.
PS3563.O8742H655 2005
813'.54—dc22
2005010115
All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the King James
Version.
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, photocopy,
recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without
the prior permission of the publisher.
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680
Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.
Interior design by Michelle Espinoza
Printed in the United States of America
05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 /?DCI/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Chapter 1
Awedge of pale sunlight slanted through the window to Lanie’s left,
touching her auburn hair and bringing out a slight golden tint.
She bent over the Warm Morning cookstove, opened the firebox, then
with quick, economical movements removed the gray ashes with a
small shovel, dumping them into a five-gallon can. She reached down
into an old apple crate filled with what her dad called “rich pine”—
fragments of pine knots so soaked with sap that when lit with a match
they would burn like a torch.
Piling several knots onto the grate of the firebox, Lanie took a kitchen
match from a box that rested on a shelf and struck the match on the rough
strip on the side. She leaned down and held the flame against the wood
until the rich pine caught. Quickly she pulled small pieces of pine kindling
from a box and put them on top of the blaze. She crisscrossed three
smaller sticks of white oak firewood, arranging them expertly so that a
draft was formed, causing them to burn evenly. She shut the firebox door
and opened the draft on the stovepipe, then paused, listening to the
crackle of the flames and the rush of air up the chimney. Satisfied, she
turned the knob for the damper partway to slow down the fire.
Lanie Belle Freeman paused, listening to the fire. She tucked a rebellious
curl from her forehead behind her ear. At fourteen, Lanie had
reached that stage when adolescence gives way to young womanhood.
She was thoughtful in most things—cautious and sometimes slow to
decide, but moved quickly once she made up her mind. Her faded green
dress with a white-flower print revealed the curves of an emerging woman.
Her arms suggested a strength unusual for one her age. Sunlight highlighted
the curves of her cheeks. Her eyes were large and gray with a hint
of green. They were well-shaped, widely spaced, and contemplative, but
at times could flash with temper. Her lips were full and expressive, and
when she smiled, a dimple appeared on her right cheek.
She moved to a tall wooden kitchen cabinet with a gray-speckled
porcelain countertop and pulled open the flour bin. “Plenty of flour,”
she murmured. A thought came to her and she picked up a Big Chief
notebook on the counter and crossed to a table set against the far wall
just beside the icebox. As she picked up a pen and sat down at the table
in a cane-bottomed chair, a smile turned up the corners of her mouth.
Opening the book to a blank page, she began to write. Her handwriting
was smooth, even, and neatly executed:
April the 12th, 1928
Lanie Belle Freeman
600 Jefferson Davis Avenue
Fairhope
Stone County
Arkansas
America
North America
Earth
Solar System
Milky Way Galaxy
Lanie studied what she had put down. A quizzical look touched her
eyes and she smiled. “There’s just one more place to go after that, I
reckon.” At the bottom of the list she added “Universe,” then studied
what she had written.
She smiled, then laughed out loud. “Now I reckon I know right
where I am.”
Closing the book abruptly, she pushed it to the back of the table
and put the pen beside it. Suddenly she took a deep breath. “Ice!” she
said. Whirling, she walked to the oak icebox and opened the ice compartment.
All that was left was a small lump of ice. She shut the door
and bent down to check the drip pan. It was almost full. She dashed out
of the kitchen and down the long hall that led to the front porch, then
turned right into the living room. She caught a glimpse of her brother
Cody working with something in the middle of the floor, but ignored
him. Going to the window, she reached up on the wall and pulled
down a foot-square card that was marked on different sides in large
black numbers: “25,” “50,” “75,” and “100.” She put the card in the
window with the “100” upright to let the iceman know the size ice
block she needed.
“Cody,” Lanie said, turning to the boy, “go empty the drip pan
from under the icebox.”
“Aw, shoot, I’m busy, Lanie. You do it.”
Cody Freeman did not even look up. He had a screwdriver in one
hand and was assembling some sort of apparatus. At the age of eleven
he spent most of his waking hours inventing things. Few ever worked,
but he had unshakable confidence that someday he would be another
Edison.
“You heard what I said, Cody. Now leave that thing alone. You can
come back after you empty the drip pan.”
Cody grumbled, but got to his feet. He had the same auburn hair
and gray-green eyes as Lanie, and there was a liveliness about him. He
hurried down the hall, and by the time Lanie got to the kitchen, he
had dragged out the drip pan and succeeded in spilling a widening pool
of water on the floor.
“You’re making a mess, Cody!”
“Well, dang it, I can’t help it if the dumb ol’ thing’s full!”
“If you’d empty it when you’re supposed to, it wouldn’t get full.
Now get it out of here.”
“I’m gonna invent something that’ll drain this dadgummed ol’ icebox
so nobody’ll have to carry the dumb water out!”
“Well, until you do, just take it out—and stop calling everything
dumb.”
Lanie held the screen door open for Cody, who walked out with
the pan, leaving a trail of water behind him. After checking the firebox,
Lanie nodded with satisfaction. The rich pine had caught, and the
fire was blazing. Straightening, she turned the damper down a little
more to lessen the air intake. She had become an expert in building
fires in the wood stove and rather liked it.
Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was almost three. She went
to her parents’ bedroom, where her mother was sitting in a rocker
beside an open window, crocheting.
Elizabeth Ann Freeman was thirty-six. Her body was swollen with
the child she was expecting, but she had retained much of her early
beauty.

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Excerpted from The Homeplace by Gilbert Morris
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.