A number of years ago, during the pandemic years of Covid in the early 20s, I started to look at writing some longer fiction. I have written short stories and poetry, but not a novel, even though I have considered a number of possible narratives
During my working years, time was a factor., so I had an excuse.
At that point, I had no excuse for not pursuing this potential narrative. The story is roughly based upon the Ku Klux Klan invasion of my hometown of Lilly, Pa. in 1924. However, the fictional part of this is that my uncle, Phil Conrad, was killed in that riot. And my grandmother, Katie Brady Conrad, lost her eldest son after her husband had passed away about a decade earlier, leaving her with six children, the eldest of whom was just in her early teens.
However, the novel is not just talking about what happened that night. It is about finding who the assassin of my uncle might have been — ir there was one. And why he might have gone after Phil. The pursuit of that sleazy guy will be the focus of this novel.
Truly fiction.
The story will present the horrible side of the KKK and what despicable people they are. I will obviously not talk about the plot, but this is what I am seeking. I am now reading a fascinating presentation of the Kkk in the 1920s, and how that philosophy is alive in the u.S. today.
However, what this story is lacking is the Irish background of the narrative. I have to go back to my grandmother’s roots and explore them. I need to be able to explore the roots of the hatred of the KKK for Catholics.
And it will explore how those same KKK people with their un-Christian, inhumane biases are now running the United States of America and make up nearly half of the population.
The KKK is alive, without the robes.
I wrote this poem decades ago. It will be a thematic and symbolic portaion of my story:
The Rage of Needles
by
Hugh Brady Conrad
Today they stand, tall and majestic,
towering, verdant growth seemingly
oblivious to the family domicile below,
which enshrouded repressed rage.
Intense fury that occurred because of
a ghastly Spring night, a time when
white-robed warriors disdainfully
whisked away the family’s sustenance.
The transgressors approached, surreptitiously
slinking into town like tramps upon the rails,
casting a pall of darkness before kindling
their denigration of the Papacy.
A cowardly and despicable act, wrought by
those who clothed themselves with a
repugnant veil of virtue, then scurried
away as thieves from an ill-fated heist.
But more crushing was the anguish
of the mother who buried her young son,
whose exuberance was whisked away
by those reckless purveyors of hatred.
The lessons brought from the Isle’s were gospel,
exacting hollow smiles from the family,
their sunny countenances obscuring the rage
at the perverse act of the demented invaders.
“You must not cry, Mother feels so bad,”
the youngest was told, compelling
her to suppress the incessant anger
that smoldered in her solitary cauldron.
A grieving brother planted the trees, attempting
to obscure the act that She had witnessed,
a futile attempt to shade their eyes, those
that were seared by the fateful debacle.
The needles and cones sprouted as
maternal fortresses from pain, obscuring
Her view of the domicile below, where
supplication provided a slight reprieve.
Over time, the family suppressed the anger,
their horrific pain divulged daily
to Him, the one whom the killers had
derogated by their repulsive arrogance.
And while He listened, their painful journey
altered the footprints for future generations
who also struggled as children, seeking to
comprehend the message from that night.
The needles fell, Mother’s battle serving as a
beacon of hope for those eternally struggling,
using a buffer to dissipate the pain, but never
removing the source of its infliction.