The Naturalists
The Naturalists A Historical Novel of the Hayman Family (Vol. 1)
Reviewed by the "Historical Novel Society" based on their guidelines. **The review.
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The Beginning.
The journey starts in south-central Pennsylvania and follows pastor Abner Hayman to Illinois. From there, his son, John Hayman, flees to a land where he can begin a life for himself. The Naturalists, a historical novel of the Hayman family (fiction), covers three volumes spanning from 1827 to 2000. The primary setting occurs in the Rainwater Basin located in Fillmore and Clay County of south-central Nebraska. It is an area of wondrous bird migrations—a place where ducks, geese, and shorebirds stop on the way north. The wetland area is not as well known as the Sand Hill Crane habitat (the Platte River), but the basins in wet years rival or exceed nature's majesty of the Platte River big bend area.
Volume I
1827 – 1899
The Beginning
The Journey
The Settling
The Murder
The Trial
The Discovery
The Beginning
Let all regard themselves as the stewards of God in all things which they possess. Then they will neither conduct themselves dissolutely, nor corrupt by abuse those things which God requires to be preserved.
John Calvin, 1554, Commentary on Genesis, from the English translation of 1847. As reprinted by Banner of Truth Publishers, 1965.
THE MARBLE IS cool to the touch as I stand watching the glorious scene, unfolding, just as it has for ages. The sight never fails to send a chill down my spine. The ducks and geese dominate now, but they will soon leave—followed by the shorebirds. The sound floats in the air, gracing my ears with mesmerizing tones and harmonies.
My name is Chance Hayman. I stand on the native prairie sod within the fenced acreage above the Hayman Marsh in the Rainwater Basin of south-central Nebraska. This ground awaits my remains—a return—to nourish the grasses and forbs. My wife, Karin, who stood by my side for nearly thirty-five years, now rests in the assigned plot alongside where I will eventually begin again. Unlike the lichen-encrusted marble on which my hand rests, Karin’s memorial is a medium-sized granite block engraved with cattails that border the chiseled lettering. It is of beautiful clarity (like her mind) and smoothness, much like her lifelong complexion.
The marble memorial, where my hand rests, is that of my great-grandfather, John Hayman. It is he who began our family appreciation of this marsh nestled in the hollow to the east. It is where he first came in 1855. A land he loved, nurtured, and protected until the day he died. There is no wife’s grave. None of the Haymans know what became of our great-grandmother. I know she was born in the 1840s, fled the Oregon Trail, and married John in Fillmore County. Placed beside John’s grave, there is a small bronze plaque attached to a marble slab commemorating Maggie. Etched on the plate are the words: Thank you, dear Mother.
Henry Hayman, my grandfather, rests slightly downslope from John’s grave. The gravestone beside him inscribed, Aletha Jones Hayman with the numbers: 1903-1960. I did not know my grandmother, for she left Nebraska on my grandfather’s death. What little I do remember of her was the long black hair. A hint of lilac followed wherever she ventured. And endless gossip about Aletha churned in the small town’s quiet parlors and hushed church circles. Aletha returned as ashes, sent by her lawyer.
Dad, Jacob, died in 1981. My friends and their parents still hold him in high esteem. My mother, Lillian, peacefully died in 1994, a woman of God with an enduring conviction of honesty, and held a strong work ethic instilled by her father and mother. Mom always had time for us, my three sisters and I. Her patience, with her sometimes-rebellious son, allowed me to become a modestly successful person with an appreciation for life—every day.
The roar of flapping wings and honking geese breaks my thoughts. A bald eagle soars above the marsh seeking the genetically weak and ailing among the flock. I watch as the stately raptor rides the warming morning air and uses the enormous wingspan to assure this bald eagle will remain atop the food chain. Another lustrous white-headed eagle soaring over the flock suddenly peels back, and dives into the mind-numbing waterfowl numbers. Two more eagles soar around the flock, joining in the dizzying disturbance.
A slight breeze eddies past me, carrying with it the marsh odor, earthy smell of shallow, aged, and murky water. Thawing, from the body heat of the massive flock, provides much of the open resting and dabbling spots on this beautiful March morning, a morning that begins with an unrivaled crispness. A smile tugs at my face.
So many times, Karin and I came to this spot to watch similar spectacles unfolding before us. The peace of this family plot gave us many hours of pleasure. It is a refuge from the never-ending negativity—a place away from mouths of those who must be unhappy to be happy.
Karin died last year, two years after my mother’s death. I am finally healing. Still, my heart aches, and as I wait in the cloudless morning, I now wonder at the path I might follow. I can, if I so choose, work with the bureaucrats. I am critical of them and have been for many years. My familiarity with the governor brings her aides to me. They seek help with a problem: wetland restoration and preservation.
Not many people know or understand this state, the State of Nebraska. It offers greater diversity than meets the traveler’s eye. Here in the Rainwater Basin country—an area mostly known by wildlife biologists, birders, and hunters—is a force that must stop. To me, this marsh country is part of my drive, my existence, and my soul.
I owe all this to my great, great-grandfather. It all began because of him, Abner Hayman, a tyrant in his own right.
Reviewed by the "Historical Novel Society" based on their guidelines. **The review.
Ebook Store Universal Link
The Beginning.
The journey starts in south-central Pennsylvania and follows pastor Abner Hayman to Illinois. From there, his son, John Hayman, flees to a land where he can begin a life for himself. The Naturalists, a historical novel of the Hayman family (fiction), covers three volumes spanning from 1827 to 2000. The primary setting occurs in the Rainwater Basin located in Fillmore and Clay County of south-central Nebraska. It is an area of wondrous bird migrations—a place where ducks, geese, and shorebirds stop on the way north. The wetland area is not as well known as the Sand Hill Crane habitat (the Platte River), but the basins in wet years rival or exceed nature's majesty of the Platte River big bend area.
Volume I
1827 – 1899
The Beginning
The Journey
The Settling
The Murder
The Trial
The Discovery
The Beginning
Let all regard themselves as the stewards of God in all things which they possess. Then they will neither conduct themselves dissolutely, nor corrupt by abuse those things which God requires to be preserved.
John Calvin, 1554, Commentary on Genesis, from the English translation of 1847. As reprinted by Banner of Truth Publishers, 1965.
THE MARBLE IS cool to the touch as I stand watching the glorious scene, unfolding, just as it has for ages. The sight never fails to send a chill down my spine. The ducks and geese dominate now, but they will soon leave—followed by the shorebirds. The sound floats in the air, gracing my ears with mesmerizing tones and harmonies.
My name is Chance Hayman. I stand on the native prairie sod within the fenced acreage above the Hayman Marsh in the Rainwater Basin of south-central Nebraska. This ground awaits my remains—a return—to nourish the grasses and forbs. My wife, Karin, who stood by my side for nearly thirty-five years, now rests in the assigned plot alongside where I will eventually begin again. Unlike the lichen-encrusted marble on which my hand rests, Karin’s memorial is a medium-sized granite block engraved with cattails that border the chiseled lettering. It is of beautiful clarity (like her mind) and smoothness, much like her lifelong complexion.
The marble memorial, where my hand rests, is that of my great-grandfather, John Hayman. It is he who began our family appreciation of this marsh nestled in the hollow to the east. It is where he first came in 1855. A land he loved, nurtured, and protected until the day he died. There is no wife’s grave. None of the Haymans know what became of our great-grandmother. I know she was born in the 1840s, fled the Oregon Trail, and married John in Fillmore County. Placed beside John’s grave, there is a small bronze plaque attached to a marble slab commemorating Maggie. Etched on the plate are the words: Thank you, dear Mother.
Henry Hayman, my grandfather, rests slightly downslope from John’s grave. The gravestone beside him inscribed, Aletha Jones Hayman with the numbers: 1903-1960. I did not know my grandmother, for she left Nebraska on my grandfather’s death. What little I do remember of her was the long black hair. A hint of lilac followed wherever she ventured. And endless gossip about Aletha churned in the small town’s quiet parlors and hushed church circles. Aletha returned as ashes, sent by her lawyer.
Dad, Jacob, died in 1981. My friends and their parents still hold him in high esteem. My mother, Lillian, peacefully died in 1994, a woman of God with an enduring conviction of honesty, and held a strong work ethic instilled by her father and mother. Mom always had time for us, my three sisters and I. Her patience, with her sometimes-rebellious son, allowed me to become a modestly successful person with an appreciation for life—every day.
The roar of flapping wings and honking geese breaks my thoughts. A bald eagle soars above the marsh seeking the genetically weak and ailing among the flock. I watch as the stately raptor rides the warming morning air and uses the enormous wingspan to assure this bald eagle will remain atop the food chain. Another lustrous white-headed eagle soaring over the flock suddenly peels back, and dives into the mind-numbing waterfowl numbers. Two more eagles soar around the flock, joining in the dizzying disturbance.
A slight breeze eddies past me, carrying with it the marsh odor, earthy smell of shallow, aged, and murky water. Thawing, from the body heat of the massive flock, provides much of the open resting and dabbling spots on this beautiful March morning, a morning that begins with an unrivaled crispness. A smile tugs at my face.
So many times, Karin and I came to this spot to watch similar spectacles unfolding before us. The peace of this family plot gave us many hours of pleasure. It is a refuge from the never-ending negativity—a place away from mouths of those who must be unhappy to be happy.
Karin died last year, two years after my mother’s death. I am finally healing. Still, my heart aches, and as I wait in the cloudless morning, I now wonder at the path I might follow. I can, if I so choose, work with the bureaucrats. I am critical of them and have been for many years. My familiarity with the governor brings her aides to me. They seek help with a problem: wetland restoration and preservation.
Not many people know or understand this state, the State of Nebraska. It offers greater diversity than meets the traveler’s eye. Here in the Rainwater Basin country—an area mostly known by wildlife biologists, birders, and hunters—is a force that must stop. To me, this marsh country is part of my drive, my existence, and my soul.
I owe all this to my great, great-grandfather. It all began because of him, Abner Hayman, a tyrant in his own right.
Cover Photo by the Author
Paperback book cover for the first volume of the The Naturalists
Photo and book cover are copyright of C. G. Haberman.
Photo and book cover are copyright of C. G. Haberman.
Nebraska Wetlands with three Phalarope on the left and a Pied-billed Grebe on the right