Book Spotlight and Excerpt: ‘Tho I Be Mute by Heather Miller

 

Clarinda faces a moment of profound reality—a rattlesnake bite, a harbinger of her imminent mortality—and undertakes an introspective journey. In her final days, she immortalizes not only her own story but that of her parents—a narrative steeped in her family’s insights into Cherokee heritage during the tumultuous years preceding the forced removal of Native communities.

In 1818, Clarinda’s father, Cherokee John Ridge, embarks on a quest for a young man’s education at the Foreign Mission School in Cornwall, Connecticut. Amidst sickness, he finds solace and love with Sarah, the steward’s quiet daughter. Despite enduring two years of separation, defamatory editorials, and societal upheaval due to their interracial love affair, the resilient couple weds in 1824. This marks the inception of a journey for Sarah as she delves into a world both cherished and feared—Cherokee Territory. As John Ridge advocates for the preservation of his people’s land and that of his Muskogee Creek neighbors against encroaching Georgia settlers and unscrupulous governmental officials, the stakes are high. His success or failure hinges on his ability to balance his proud Cherokee convictions with an intricate understanding of American law. Justice remains uncertain.

Grounded in a true story, ‘Tho I Be Mute resonates with a compelling historical narrative, giving an intimate voice to those heard, those ignored, those speechless, urging readers to not only hear but to truly listen.

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Excerpt

From Chapter 2: All That I Have Ever Had Is Yours, John Ridge

Long days later, we approached Cornwall, Connecticut from the south, where the Housatonic flowed over rolling hills similar to my homeland. From my view behind coach windows, stables and sawmills introduced the villages’ logging trade. Sheep grazed in the valleys under Colt’s Foot Mountain, supplying the wool mill with raw materials. In this valley, hamlets of family farms surrounded First Church. Wooden fence posts and rails divided tiny Cornwall into squared lots, while at home, our land overlapped, providing for an entire people.

The carriage stopped in front of the Academy of the Foreign Mission sitting among the bare cedar trees and hemlocks during this blustery fall of November 1818. The school building was a gambrel-roofed, two-story structure with a chimney on one end and a weathervane on the other, acting as bookends. Next to our classroom, a winter garden grew purple-leafed kale and hearty cabbage. A bare maple stood alone in the yard. With it, I sympathized, naked and separated, under constant surveillance. Unimpressive in appearance, this academy was where I hoped to gain insight into history and English, more advanced than my former schools at Spring Place and Brainerd Mission. It was an honor to be sent here, but at that moment, it lacked imagination’s climax.

Reminiscent of the original ‘city on the hill,’ the Foreign Mission School was primarily for religious instruction, training future missionaries who intended to convert the ‘savages’ to Christianity. I understood the whites’ faith; the Great Spirit has many names. Therefore, I would be contrite, but conversion was not my intention. I did not plan to become a missionary. Father insisted I become a lawyer, a politician. The Great Spirit was more equipped than I to guide the Cherokee to salvation.

As Doctor Dempsey opened and stepped from the carriage and interrupted my observations with reminders of my father’s expectations and guidelines for my behavior. To say these reminders were absent from my attention would imply his words were irrelevant. Still, Dempsey’s lecture was unnecessary. Concluding his ‘Sermon from the Coach,’ Dempsey waved his hand and said, “We are here, John. Let us make our introductions.” We crossed the worn path, with Dempsey leading, and I following behind, as my limp slowed my gait.

Upon entering, smells of recent peat fires and old books struck me. Sheer numbers of texts bordered the log walls of the schoolroom. The spines on the shelves wrapped around rough-crafted tables and straight-backed chairs set for study and meals. A small fire burned in the hearth, while candles lit this day of clouds. As we entered, the students’ backs, grouped in pairs, hovered over books of prayer. They took turns reading to one another various verses in English, absent any context, and translated them into the languages of their homelands. Missionary school indeed. The Biblical stories whites esteemed taught me many things, including what they thought it meant to be a man. Although I would never be Sampson or King David, my name was John, Skahtlelohskee, the mockingbird.

History is better than fiction.

We all leave a legacy.

As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-four years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she’s writing it herself, hearing voices from the past. Heather earned her MFA in creative writing in 2022 and is teaching high school as well as college composition courses.

Miller’s foundation began in the theatre, through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and sing every note from Les Miserables. But by far, her favorite role has been as a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer, and a RN. Alas, there’s only one English major in her house.

Heather continues writing the Ridge Family Saga. Her current work-in-progress, Stands, concludes the Ridge Family Saga.

Author Links:

Website: https://www.heathermillerauthor.com

Twitter: https://x.com/HMHFR

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/HMillerAuthor

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/heathermillerauthor

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21805281.Heather_Miller

TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@heathermillerauthor

 

Book spotlight and Excerpt: Yellow Bird’s Song by Heather Miller

 

Rollin Ridge, a mercurial figure in this tribal tale, makes a fateful decision in 1850, leaving his family behind to escape the gallows after avenging his father and grandfather’s brutal assassinations. With sin and grief packed in his saddlebags, he and his brothers head west in pursuit of California gold, embarking on a journey marked by hardship and revelation. Through letters sent home, Rollin uncovers the unrelenting legacy of his father’s sins, an emotional odyssey that delves deep into his Cherokee history.

The narrative’s frame transports readers to the years 1827-1835, where Rollin’s parents, Cherokee John Ridge and his white wife, Sarah, stumble upon a web of illicit slave running, horse theft, and whiskey dealings across Cherokee territory. Driven by a desire to end these inhumane crimes and defy the powerful pressures of Georgia and President Andrew Jackson, John Ridge takes a bold step by running for the position of Principal Chief, challenging the incumbent, Chief John Ross. The Ridges face a heart-wrenching decision: to stand against discrimination, resist the forces of land greed, and remain on their people’s ancestral land, or to sign a treaty that would uproot an entire nation, along with their family.

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 EXCERPT

Sarah Northrup Ridge, Near New Echota, Cherokee Nation East, 1827

Orchards greeted us in neatly planted rows, dense with peaches and apples, creating a fragrance in the air like home. Servants’ quarters bordered the tree line of flat valley land surrounding Diamond Hill. Joe Vann’s large manor, a two-story brick home with expensive glass windows and large white columns, held verandas on the front and the rear of the house. There were corncribs, smokehouses, and outbuildings for weaving and cooking. Given the abundant number of horses and carriages, many attended. A surge rushed through me, nerves on fire, reminding me of the importance of the event, framed by the fear I’d make a mistake.

Our carriage rolled through Vann land between a row of walnut trees bordering endless green pastures. Black and white cows, silent sentinels, gnawed grass and watched as we passed, undisturbed. As the horses pulled us the last distance, I saw an open door at the side of the house. From it, trails of servants carried trays and crockery from the exterior kitchen to the main house near white linen tablecloths and white-washed ladderback chairs in neat rows. Their movement reminded me of fire ants seeking sweets, and, in a line, returning to their self-constructed dirt abodes. Other servants turned a pig on an open fire, slaughtered for the occasion. The smell of salt and fat from the roasted meat mingled with the aromatic sweet apples hanging on the trees. The bees hummed louder amidst such plenty. 

Most whites were surprised to know slavery existed among the Cherokee. John and I argued over the institution. The Ridges treated their servants like family. However, their will to choose their lives was the identical desire of John’s people, fighting for God-given liberty to govern themselves. While we still lived with his family, I could do little but speak to my husband and pursue change. But I knew a time would come when America and the Cherokee Nation must make the moral choice, no matter the economic difficulty such a choice might bring. 

Once I stepped from the carriage, John held my gloved hand and said, “I’m instituting the wink law.” John’s top hat shaded half of his face, so I couldn’t see his eyes in the bright sunlight. I predicted his expression from his carefree tone. “Are you familiar, Mistress Ridge?” he asked.

“I am not, Mister Ridge. However, I would hate to violate without intention.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse. It is in the Constitution.”

“I’m aware.” I grinned.

“One wink means I have ten minutes to end my conversation and take you home.”

“What does a whole blink mean?” I asked. 

I surprised him with my question. “I don’t know. You have something in your eye?”

“A whole blink means I’m proud of you and content to remain by your side, but thank you for saying so. You know I am worried about leaving Rollin and Clarinda with Honey. She can manage one, but if Rollin wails…”

“Amendment duly noted, Mistress Ridge.” He rechecked his watch. “I’ll have you back to our children in hours.” His promise was sincere, just under the surface of his sarcasm.

I pulled him close so I could whisper. “Promise me you won’t leave me alone too often.” For a man so aware of time, he lost hours debating politics.

“Agreed. I hope we get to mingle with the many guests in the time we have. Some have traveled great distances and are new here.”

Major and Mother followed us into the sunlight. A row of white women adorned in a rainbow of pastels held fast to their matching parasols with white-gloved hands and whispered about the heat while their white-breeched, black-booted husbands stood in small circles gesturing about important matters. White pipe smoke hazed around their heads.

Shirtless Cherokee separated themselves by sitting on their heels on the ground. Cherokee women walked through the guests with red and purple baskets in their arms and yellowed gourds slung from leather straps around their necks. Like John’s family, wealthy Cherokee slipped easily between these two groups. As for me, I did not know where I’d fit in this mix of classes and attitudes.

As a veteran English teacher and college professor, Heather has spent nearly thirty years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, with empty nest time on her hands, she’s writing herself, transcribing lost voices in American’s history.

Author Links:

 Website: https://www.heathermillerauthor.com

Twitter: https://twitter.com/HMHFR

Facebook: https://facebook.com/HMillerAuthor

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Spotlight on Heather Miller, author of Tho I Be Mute

 

Home. Heritage. Legacy. Legend.

In 1818, Cherokee John Ridge seeks a young man’s education at the Foreign Mission School in Cornwall, Connecticut. While there, he is overcome with sickness yet finds solace and love with Sarah, the steward’s quiet daughter. Despite a two-year separation, family disapproval, defamatory editorials, and angry mobs, the couple marries in 1824.

Sarah reconciles her new family’s spirituality and her foundational Christianity. Although, Sarah’s nature defies her new family’s indifference to slavery. She befriends Honey, half-Cherokee and half-African, who becomes Sarah’s voice during John’s extended absences.

Once arriving on Cherokee land, John argues to hold the land of the Cherokees and that of his Creek neighbors from encroaching Georgian settlers. His success hinges upon his ability to temper his Cherokee pride with his knowledge of American law. Justice is not guaranteed.

Rich with allusions to Cherokee legends, ‘Tho I Be Mute speaks aloud; some voices are heard, some are ignored, some do not speak at all, compelling readers to listen to the story of a couple who heard the pleas of the Cherokee.

 

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FUN FACTS

(Stuff you may or may not know!) 

Heather Miller
 teacher and author
‘Tho I Be Mute: Based on the lives of John and Sarah Ridge

A Fireman’s Family I married my firefighter in 1995 with a Victorian ceremony at a turn of the century bed and breakfast in Marietta, Georgia. We celebrated our 25^th wedding anniversary last year. We have three children: Jacob, 23, Emma, 21, and Wyatt, 17, none of which inherited my love of history and literature. All three are science-minded young people. I’m so proud of them.

“All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.”-William Shakespeare. I earned my bachelor’s degree in Theatre. Directing is one of my passions. I’m most proud of my teen production of Of Mice and Men, Godspell and Blood Brothers, and adult cast productions of Annie Get Your Gun, Big River, and Spamalot. Directing is a lot like writing, except the story comes from the play/musical’s scriptwriter. Directing is in the light, the focus, the subtleties of set and costumes, of an actor’s gesture and inflection. If theatre and English were to have a love child, it would be the novel.

Just like the “Griswolds” When I was young, no matter the expense, my parents believed in teaching my younger brother and me a “living history” by visiting National Parks and historical landmarks. My family would load the back of our green and wood-paneled station wagon and hit the interstates. My favorite trip was to Mammoth Cave, Monticello (Thomas Jefferson’s home), Mount Vernon (George Washington’s home), Jamestown and Williamsburg, Virginia, and Washington D.C. My mother would say, “Life’s a school.”

Can you recite them from memory? I also have a master’s degree in English Education. Each year of a twenty-four year teaching career, mostly spent in American Literature, I’ve read aloud the Gettysburg Address and the Declaration of Independence to my students. With five classes each school year, that makes 120 recitations of each American foundational piece. How many people can say that? And yes, I can quote a great deal by heart.

Generation X My husband and I love a good road trip, listening to the 80’s rock of our youth: Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, and Def Leppard. My husband speeds when we listen to Metallica. When we were dating, if a cassette tape quit working, he would open the sliding window on his beat-up Ford Ranger and toss the thing in the bed of his truck, perhaps never to be seen again.

We are road-tripping from Georgia to Oklahoma in June, which we postponed last year due to Covid. 

 

Heather Miller

As an English educator, Heather Miller has spent twenty-three years teaching her students the author’s craft. Now, she is writing it herself, hearing voices from the past.

Miller’s foundation began in the theatre, through performance storytelling. She can tap dance, stage-slap someone, and sing every note from Les Misérables. Her favorite role is that of a fireman’s wife and mom to three: a trumpet player, a future civil engineer, and a future RN. There is only one English major in her house.

While researching, writing, and teaching, she is also working towards her M FA in Creative Writing. Heather’s corndog-shaped dachshund, Sadie, deserves an honorary degree.

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