“I met someone today who can help Louemma,” his grandmother said
Alan jabbed his key in the vicinity of the ignition twice, missing both times. “A doctor? At the hospital?”
“Not a doctor. What good have a host of sawbones done my great-granddaughter? No good, that’s what.”
Alan felt his burst of hope slowly shrivel. “Oh, not an M.D.” He clung to the belief that a doctor on the cutting edge of a new discovery about muscles and nerves would one day allow Louemma to move her arms again.
“Hear me out, Alan. I’ve lived many years and I’m not without common sense. The woman I met was working with old Donald Baird. She got him using his left arm and he's moving his fingers. What do you say to that?”
Alan turned his head. “After Donald’s stroke he had severe permanent damage to his entire left side.”
“Uh-huh. And today I watched him weave a potholder.”
“Weaving?” Alan snorted. This time he started the car easily.
“Don’t be making pig noises at me, Alan Ridge. Laurel Ashline said doctors recruited weavers during the Second World War to help injured soldiers regain the use of their limbs. Can it hurt to talk with her?”
“Fine, Grandmother. Tomorrow I’ll put out feelers. That’s my best offer.”
“You’re a good boy. A caring father. I’ve got no doubt you’ll explore every avenue to help Louemma. And that includes calling Laurel Ashline.”
Dear Reader,
Some books are born more easily than others. Such was the case with this one. Not long ago, I had an opportunity to travel to Kentucky and North Carolina. Being from the desert, I fell instantly in love with the rolling green hills and the beautiful mountains. I knew I wanted to set a story there, give some characters a home. Our trusty book tour led us through some beautiful and interesting places. But it was during a tour of The Little Loomhouse in Louisville, run by the Lou Tate Foundation, that my heroine came to life. Charmed by handweaving, we next visited the Weaving Room and Gallery in Crossnore, North Carolina. And Laurel Ashline’s tale really began to take shape.
Lou Tate was a talented woman of vision. She put her skill to good use, helping rehabilitate World War II soldiers coming home with shattered limbs. The weaving school at Crossnore began in 1920 and still provides funds for the Crossnore School started by Dr. Mary Martin Sloop and her husband. The school teaches Appalachian children who might otherwise not receive an eduction.
This book isn’t Lou Tate’s or Dr. Sloop’s life stories, although both are worthy of being called heroines. I did want my heroine to be a weaver and to help a child become whole again. Alan Ridge’s injured daughter, Louemma, showed up in my head one day to fill that role. By the time my journey ended, Laurel, Alan and Louemma’s story had almost written itself. I hope you enjoy the hours you spend with these characters. And if you ever have the opportunity to visit either of the weaving rooms, tell them Roz sent you.
Roz Denny Fox
I love hearing from readers. Write me at P.O. Box 17480-101, Tucson, Arizona 85731. Or e-mail me at
Daddy’s Little Matchmaker
Roz Denny Fox
This book is for John Wisecarver, high school English teacher extraordinaire.
With his gift for teaching, and because of his enthusiasm for all books, he opened new worlds to us and inspired all who passed through his classes to reach higher and dream bigger.
He will be missed.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
A NOISE AT THE DOOR made Laurel Ashline glance up. She was working with Donald Baird, an elderly stroke victim, teaching him to operate a hand loom. The woman who stood in the doorway was someone Laurel didn’t know. Laurel was fairly new to Ridge City, Kentucky, and had recently become a volunteer occupational therapist here at the local hospital.
The white-haired woman wore a dusty-rose chenille robe and matching slippers. She seemed unsure about crossing the threshold.
“Hello.” Laurel offered a warm smile. “Are you here for weaving therapy? I wasn’t told to expect a new student, but if you’ll take a seat I’ll run out to my car to get another loom. I’m sure your chart will catch up eventually. They always do.”
“Oh, I’m not here for therapy. I’m practically recovered from a touch of pneumonia, although my doctor and I don’t see eye to eye about my going home today.” The woman sighed. “In fact, he ordered me to spend the afternoon in the sunroom. Said he’ll decide later if I have to eat hospital food again tonight.” Her droll expression spoke eloquently about her opinion of hospital fare.
“I see. Well, the sunroom is at the end of this hall.” Laurel pointed.
“I know, dear. I just couldn’t help noticing how you have my friend pulling that bar toward him with both hands.”
The man in question stopped a painstaking quest to thread the shuttle in and out between thick rag strips. “Vestal? Howdy.” He had to peer around Laurel to see the woman. “It’s sad when a tough old duck like me is reduced to making pot holders. This is woman’s work,” he said, although his disgust seemed exaggerated.
“Nothing of the sort,” Laurel quickly interjected. “Weaving’s a time-honored craft anyone can feel good about. All the better if working a loom allows you greater arm and wrist mobility. Isn’t getting well your primary goal?”
“You tell that old coot—uh—sorry, I don’t know your name,” the patient lingering by the door said, gazing at Laurel from faded blue eyes.
“It’s Laurel. Laurel Ashline. And you’re—?”
Her gaze still on what Donald Baird was doing, the elderly woman moved in for a closer look. “Is this type of therapy successful for all upper-body disabilities?”
Laurel hesitated. At twenty-nine, she was a master weaver, not a certified occupational therapist. “I don’t know about all disabilities. But it’s an old technique, one that gained respect and popularity with orthopedic physicians after World War Two. Lou Tate, a weaver from Louisville, was the first to use desktop looms to help partial amputees and other maimed soldiers. There’s a wonderfully soothing quality connected to the repetitious motion of working a beater bar. The exercise develops tone in atrophied muscles.” Laurel might have expounded further on a subject near to her heart, but a nurse appeared to escort the inquisitive stranger away.
“Goodbye,” Laurel called belatedly. “Good luck getting sprung by suppertime.” Her conspiratorial grin was answered in kind as the departing woman glanced back over one shoulder.
Laurel set to work again shuffling between the three people currently in her program.