Dear Reader,

I grew up in rural Louisiana at a time when people looked after each other.

Miss Sally lived about the length of three football fields up the road from us. Late one Friday afternoon, when I was about eight years old, my dad looked out of the window and saw a massive amount of dark smoke coming from her house.

“Call the others and tell ‘em Sally’s house is on fire,” he yelled to my mother. He ran out of the house and jumped into his truck. He had parked facing the opposite direction from her house. He didn’t bother to turn around; he just backed up the road, driving a hundred miles an hour.

I ran out to the front porch for a good view of the excitement. It is often said that the land down there is so flat you can see your dog running away for three days.

On the cool ground of late winter, Miss Sally’s son was running barefoot toward the house with an empty bucket. He arrived at the same time as my dad.

"Now he knows it’s too cold to be barefoot,” I said.

Mr. Whitley, and his wife who had jumped on the tractor with him, raced down the road. I never knew a tractor could go so fast.

Tumpy had been parking his big yellow school bus. Mr. Whitley yelled to him as he passed by on the tractor. Backing the bus out of the driveway, Tumpy gave it too much gas. The bus went all the way across the road, landing in the ditch. Wheels spinning, he maneuvered out of the ditch and sped pass the Whitleys.

Rocks and dirt were flying up from the gravel road, creating a cloud. I could hardly see what was happening.

Li’l Bud, who was in his seventies and never drove his car more than thirty miles-per-hour, joined the parade. Today, he had to be driving at least thirty-five miles-per-hour.

“Go, Li’l Bud, go!” I yelled.

Cousin Johnny’s big truck, that we kids called Putt-Putt, hiccupped up the road from the opposite direction. There was almost as much smoke coming from the truck as from Miss Sally’s house.

Mr. Bobby rolled up beside Putt-Putt on his daughter’s bicycle. His little legs moved so fast they became a blur, like the spokes in the wheels.

They all came to screeching halts in front of Miss Sally’s house and ran inside.

A few minutes later, I saw my dad leading the neighbors out of the house. He took off his cap and scratched his head. They stood around talking while the smoke continued to rise to the sky.

I couldn’t fathom why they all had rushed to Miss Sally’s house only to let the house burn down.

When my dad came home, he explained that the smoke was from Miss Sally’s fireplace. She had been burning wood with a lot of bark on it.

I was relieved that Miss Sally’s house had not burned down. But a million questions still were bombarding my mind. One of them burst through and I asked my dad, “Where would they have lived if their house had burned down?”

“Don’t even think stuff like that,” my dad screamed. “You’re not supposed to speak out thoughts like that!”

I was ashamed of my thoughts. However, I couldn’t stop thinking, “What if…” I imagined multiple scenarios of how the scene could have played out. Then, it seemed that whenever something significant (or not so significant) happened, good or bad, the “what if” thoughts would take over my mind. I never shared the scenarios or my obsession with playing “what if” with anyone.

Then one day in corporate America, I sassed my boss (not a recommendation, folks!) and got suspended from work—without pay for ten days. The “what if’s” kicked in. I decided to write a novel…where I could safely share my “what if’s.”

I had read that writers should write what they know. My life consisted of my job in corporate America and my church. “What if I combined the sacred and the secular,” I thought. “I’ll write something for church folks who don’t get out much, and for secular people who get out too much.”

So, I chose a theme for which I was passionate, took experiences from my own life, from the lives of friends and acquaintances, from things that had been in the news,… and I made up a few more, of course. With the unplanned time on my hand, I wrote down the basic scenarios and launched into my “what if’s.” Great, great fun!! I gave the scenarios a timeline and went to the library to fill in the blanks with factual data. The result: “Mariah Jennings – The Battle.”

Now, is the story I just told you in this letter true? Almost! Given my obsession with “what if,” I just couldn’t resist a little embellishment. Well, maybe a lot of embellishment. What the heck, aye?

Have as much fun reading as I had writing!

--Rebecca