Book Summary

Zachary Whitlock knows sheep. He knows farming and knows what it’s like to have his best friend forced into an internment camp for Japanese Americans. What he does not know much about is goats and traveling by sea on cargo ships, yet he makes a decision to go with a group of volunteers to Japan to help deliver a herd of more than two hundred goats, many of which are pregnant, to survivors of the U.S. bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Publisher: Black Rose Writing

ISBN-10: 1685136400

ISBN-13: 978-1685136406

ASIN: B0FGVFJGVG

Print length: 135 pages

Book Links:

Black Rose Writing: https://www.blackrosewriting.com/historicaladventure/p/zachary

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Zachary-Seagoing-Shirley-Miller-Kamada/dp/1685136400/

Bookshop.org: https://bookshop.org/p/books/zachary-a-seagoing-cowboy/7abbf249813d25c0

GoodReads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/237980236-zachary

About the Author

Shirley Miller Kamada grew up on a farm in northeastern Colorado. She has been an educator in Oregon, Idaho, and Washington, a bookstore-espresso café owner in Centralia, Washington, and director of a learning center in Olympia, Washington. Her much-loved first novel, NO QUIET WATER, was a Kirkus recommended title and a finalist for several awards. When not writing, she enjoys casting a fly rod, particularly from the dock at her home on Moses Lake in Central Washington, which she shares with her husband and two spoiled pups.

You can follow the author at: 

https://shirleymillerkamada.com/

https://www.instagram.com/shirleymkamadaauthor/

https://www.facebook.com/ShirleyMillerKamada

https://www.facebook.com/shirley.miller.1042032

https://bsky.app/profile/shirleymkamada.bsky.social

Blog Tour Calendar

November 3 @ The Muffin

Join us at the Muffin as we celebrate the launch of Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada. We interview the author and give you a chance to win a copy of the book.

https://muffin.wow-womenonwriting.com

November 5 @ Words by Webb

Visit Jodi’s blog for her review of Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada

https://www.jodiwebbwriter.com/blog

November 8 @ Sarandipity

Visit Sara’s blog for a guest post by Shirley Miller Kamada about Marshall strawberries.

November 10 @ Chapter Break

Visit Julie’s blog for a guest post by Shirley Miller Kamada about owning a coffee shop and bookstore.

https://chapterbreak.net

November 12 @ Storey Book Reviews

Visit Leslie’s blog for a guest post by Shirley Miller Kamada about the day her mother took a chainsaw to their sofa.

https://www.storeybookreviews.com

November 14 @ Nicole Writes About Stuff

Visit Nicole’s Substack newsletter for a weekend contribution by Shirley Miller Kamada.

https://nicolepyles.substack.com/

November 18 @ Reading is My Remedy

Stop by Chelsie’s blog for a review of Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada.

https://readingismyremedy.wordpress.com

November 20 @ Lisa Haselton’s Reviews and Interviews

Stop by Lisa’s blog for an interview with author Shirley Miller Kamada.

November 21 @ A Wonderful World of Books

Visit Joy’s blog for an excerpt from Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada.

https://awonderfulworldofwordsa.blogspot.com/

November 24 @ Author Anthony Avina’s blog

Join Anthony for an excerpt from Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada.

https://www.authoranthonyavina.com

November 25 @ Word Magic

Visit Fiona’s blog for a guest post by Shirley Miller Kamada about why so few people know about the U.S. firebombing of Tokyo.

https://fionaingramauthor.blogspot.com

November 27 @ A Storybook World

Visit Deirdra’s blog for her spotlight of Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada

https://www.astorybookworld.com/

November 30 @ Author Anthony Avina’s blog

Visit Anthony’s blog for his review of Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada.

https://www.authoranthonyavina.com

December 1 @ Reading is My Remedy

Stop by Chelsie’s blog for Shirley Miller Kamada’s guest post on learning that her grandfather helped build the internment camp at Minidoka in southern Idaho.

https://readingismyremedy.wordpress.com

December 2 @ CC King’s blog

Join Caitrin as she features a guest post by Shirley Miller Kamada about how the character of Zachary developed.

https://www.caitrincking.com/blog

December 4 @ Sandy Kirby Quandt

Visit Sandy’s blog for her review of Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy by Shirley Miller Kamada

https://sandykirbyquandt.com/

excerpted from Zachary: A Seagoing Cowboy

by Shirley Miller Kamada

Black Rose Writing, Aug. 14, 2025

ISBN: 978-1685136406

CHAPTER FOUR

Floyd Schmoe and the Big Leaf Maple

Early spring, 1948. An American Friends Service Committee meeting was in progress in our house. Several items of business were being discussed by a team of five members, who sometimes arrived with their children and occasionally a dachshund named Parker.

I sat in our big leaf maple tree, properly termed genus acer macrophyllum, which my older brother Jacob once said was planted as a memorial, although for what or whom, I don’t know. With my back against its trunk, and my feet wedged into the crooks of its limbs, I’d long felt I was a part of that tree. Behind my ear a pencil, on my lap a clipboard and my trigonometry assignment. I could work on assignments and keep an eye on the lambs out in the pasture.

Trigonometry is the key to any number of pursuits. Medicine. Engineering. Agricultural science. It was offered at Bainbridge High during the senior year, but I wanted to challenge it. I had enough credits to graduate early, except for a math course, and math was my strong suit.

High school. I felt like I was just marking time, and I wanted to be finished with it.

Then what? I had a part-time job with the island’s newspaper, first as a paper boy. (Of course, not all paper boys are boys. When we were eighth graders, my friend Reyna had a paper route.) Later, I took over what my employers called “the high school beat” and Young Farmers 

16 ZACHARY

news. But I was nearly seventeen, and I wanted more. Maybe university? Maybe travel? I wanted to expand my horizons, as the phrase goes.

So, I went to the bank, took money from my account, purchased a money order, and mailed it to the American School of Chicago, Illinois. Fully accredited. Trigonometry was tough. And I liked that. It was fun.

From the pasture I heard a quiet mewling. A tiny woolly being, born early and wobble-legged still, was getting some sun and fresh air and an introduction to the big, wide world. I knew the lamb was fine for a while longer. I could continue working and return the lambs to the loafing shed a bit later.

Twigs snapped, footsteps through the grass. “Hello.”

Standing below was a friend of my parents, Mr. Floyd Schmoe. A Quaker. A conscientious objector. Almost a legend.

My brother Jacob was, too. Not a legend, but a conscientious objector. Because he would not carry a gun, some people called him a conchie during the war. That’s rude.

Mr. Floyd Schmoe would not fight against the Central Powers in World War I. Violence all around. He would not kill. In Europe he worked with the Red Cross. Later, in Poland, he helped refugees find shelter, food, medical supplies.

He also worked for the Park Service at Mount Rainier as a naturalist and taught at the university in Seattle. Same as my parents, he and Mrs. Schmoe are American Friends Service Committee Observers. For the cause of fairness. Justice. They make it their business to visit places where people are being harmed for no fault of their own, but out of envy, prejudice, or greed, and they write about it.

“Room up there for one more?” Mr. Schmoe reached for a nearby branch. Long and lean, he levered himself up. “I’m interrupting you.”

“It’s okay. I’m stuck.” I tapped the clipboard with my pencil.

“You’ll figure it out. I asked after you, whether you were off to college.

Your mother said it would be a while. You’re a bit young still, she said.” “These are my trig calculations. I’m studying trigonometry by

correspondence, through American Schools.”

SHIRLEY MILLER KAMADA 17 

“American Schools? I’ve heard of that. Illinois, right? Trigonometry is usually taught in the senior year, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. But graduation? I want to get a jump on it. I feel ready to be done.”

“What courses do you still need, in order to do that?” “Just this—trigonometry.”

“I see! Well, your mother sent me, said I’d probably find you here, and she’s about to serve crumb cake.”

Lambs called from the pasture. “Nice flock.”

“Thank you, sir. They’re Lincolns.”

He braced to swing down. “I’ll be heading inside.”

“You can go back in through the window if you like.”

He grinned. “Thanks, that’s okay. I’ll tell your mother you’ll be in soon.” Leaving my clipboard in the tree, I got the lambs, bleating all the way, into the loafing shed. After climbing back up to retrieve my clipboard, I went in through the window and put away my math lesson. A sweet smell drifted through the hall door. Crumb cake.

One good thing about hosting a Friends Service Committee meeting is the food. Salads and desserts. Easy to pack in a car, handy to eat from a plate on the arm of a chair. Or on a lap. Mother has always kept linen napkins edged in her hand-crocheted lace for those occasions. No one expected me to sit through meetings, but sometimes it was interesting.

Pausing on the top step, I brushed grass and bits of leaves off my pantlegs, then retied a shoe lace. Mr. Schmoe’s voice carried up the stairs. He was telling committee members about a project, delivering donated farm animals to families in Japan who had lost their homes and livelihoods because of the war. I heard, “Bombs. Innocent victims of conflict. Hundreds of thousands on the edge of starvation.” I heard, “Goats. Cargo ship. Japan.” One of the Peace Churches was organizing voyages and supervising volunteers to care for the animals. Finding volunteers—he called them Cowboys, and friendly laughter followed—was not easy. Goats aren’t as familiar as horses and cows, the more typical farm animals. No way around it, caring for livestock is hard work.

18 ZACHARY

The conversation quieted then, and I wasn’t much interested in less exciting news.

As I sat there on the stairs, the seed was planted. It sprouted and grew like bindweed. I could not get it out of my head. Mr. Floyd Schmoe was going to Japan. By ship. With goats.

For Mr. Schmoe, this was a way to aid suffering people and, also, to be permitted to visit Japan, since the country was under occupation by the Allied Forces and closed to all but a few civilians. After getting the goats to their destinations, Mr. Schmoe planned to talk with people whose advice he needed to get started on a project he felt passionate about. Building houses for those made homeless when the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima.

A feeling rushed through me. Shaken to my bones. The voyage, the animal care, helping families in need. I wanted to be part of that. All of it

As a member of the Young Farmers Club, I’d helped transport sheep to livestock judging competitions. YFC members worked together to pen and care for the sheep, sometimes for three days duration. Goats couldn’t be much different than sheep. I was sixteen going on seventeen. A couple hundred goats on a cargo ship to Japan? What could go wrong?

This was important, and I could do it. I knew I could. But how?

Downstairs, I enjoyed the cake and hot chocolate Mother had made for the younger guests and me. Later, I helped straighten the front room, as always, and on the floor, under the end table beside the couch, I found a pamphlet describing the Heifer Project. On the front was a drawing of cattle walking up a ramp onto a ship. A cargo ship, I thought. Tucked inside the pamphlet were several pages of questions and instructions. An application! Breathless, I found my favorite pen and went to my writing table. The questions seemed straight forward and reasonable. In answer to, “Do you possess any special skills that would be of value to the project,” I wrote, “I have cared for our family’s flock of sheep, which are ruminants, as are goats, since I could walk.”

SHIRLEY MILLER KAMADA 19 

20 ZACHARY

Giving “General Delivery,” as my return address, I signed and dated the application, slipped the pages into an envelope, licked the flap, and ran my thumb, twice, along the closing.

On Monday, when the school day was done, I took the application to the post office, bought and applied a stamp, and dropped the envelope into the slot. Just before I walked out the door, the postmaster called, “Hello, young Mr. Whitlock. Say hello to your folks for me.” I turned, lifted my hand and nodded, then went out to my bicycle. My stomach felt strange for a moment, but I pedaled toward home, and that feeling passed.