I have boxes of books sitting in my office floor—my Christmas anthology, Western Winter Wedding Bells! I’m going to give away advance copies to two readers who leave comments today.

Charlene and I were delighted to be asked to contribute stories to this year’s collection of western novellas.  Sometimes I have a fat binder full of research and notes and story ideas, even for a novella-length project, but for this story I have very few pages of notes, a couple of character photos, pictures of old churches, November and December 1880 calendar pages, a brainstormed list of 25 Things That Could Happen, and my seven page synopsis. That’s it. I didn’t even finish my character grids, which I do for every story. Well, every story except this one.

Every story process is different, and once I learned to go with the creative flow of the development process, I accepted that each story will develop in its own unique way. For Christmas in Red Willow, I started with two lists of character traits and ran with them.

Chloe:

Focused

Frugal

Honest

Inventive

Sentimental

Energetic

Lonely

Enthusiastic

Humble

Owen:

Concentrates deeply

Private

Quiet

Reliable

Confident

Nonchalant

Fearless

Perceptive

Organized

Detached

Analytical

Chloe Hanley lives right next door to the house Owen Reardon helped his mother select.  On Sundays she watches her neighbor lady’s children and grandchildren play on the side lawn. Chloe’s only family, her beloved grandfather, the parson, has been gone for years.  The church he loved so much is in ruins and the town council, led by Owen’s older brother who is also a former beau of Chloe’s, give Chloe a short deadline in which to fix up the church or it will be torn down.

Chloe asks Owen for his help.  Not only has he always been fascinated by her, he has his own reasons for wanting to see the church building saved.  It all boils down to a race to the finish line as they work to complete the repairs by Christmas.

Here’s an excerpt:

“What did you do when you left Red Willow during those years?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I kicked around the country for a while. Mostly I stayed clear of cities and found places in the mountains where it seemed like no man had ever set foot before. I saw the Rockies in Wyoming, Montana, Idaho. Spent a winter in Saskatchewan. I hunted and trapped mostly. Sold furs and pelts and did a little mining.”

She imagined him off on his own, wintering in the extreme climates and eating over a campfire. He was a quiet person, but setting out alone was a choice she had trouble understanding. “What about wild animals?”

“They mostly leave you alone if you leave them alone.”

“Weren’t you ever afraid?”

“Not really. When you’re using your wits to survive day to day, life is pretty simple. Uncomplicated.”

“But you came back.”

He nodded. “My father got sick.”

“Would you have come back if not for that?”

“I never intended to stay away indefinitely. My brother could’ve handled things, and my mother has the girls. I wanted to come home. I’d had a lot of time to think, and there were things I needed to do.”
She wanted to ask what those things were, but she didn’t have any right to pry into his privacy. “Well, I know your mother is thankful you’re here.”

He nodded. “Probably.”

She deliberately moved her gaze to the list on the table. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He didn’t say anything. Her heart rate increased. She stole a look at his face.

He was watching her with a soft expression, his eyes more like warm honey than cinnamon tonight. “Did you ever want to leave?” he asked.

She considered his question for a moment. As a very young girl she’d foolishly imagined going after her mother and finding her. She’d daydreamed scenarios where the woman was overjoyed to see her and accompanied her back to Red Willow. But all those imaginings had ended up with Chloe returning to her home.

This place was all she knew. She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have had anywhere to go.”

Owen had always dreamed about leaving Red Willow. The earliest plans he could recall involved enduring school so he could set out on his own. But even without a family tying her to this place, Chloe was content. There was much to be said about contentment, he decided.

“I think we’ve exhausted the ads in these papers,” he said. “This list should do nicely.”

“I’ll send the telegrams first thing tomorrow,” she assured him.

“Good. I have the man coming to start the roof. Can’t be completed soon enough with the weather so uncertain.”

“More snow would fall inside.”

He rubbed at an ink stain at the joint of his index finger. “Yes, but the real problem would be ice and snow on the roof, making it too treacherous for the workers.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” She gathered up the newspapers. “Will you be returning these?”

He shook his head. “I’ll put them in the kitchen. My mother has a hundred uses for newspaper.”

“I really like your mother.  She’s lovely.”

“She’s a special lady,” he agreed.  He gestured to the doorway that lead to the foyer.  “Let’s get our coats and I’ll walk you home.”

“It’s right next door,” she answered with mild surprise.

“You never know what could be lurking in the side yard.”

She stood and walked ahead of him toward the front door.  “I’ve never run across anything lurking in the side yard.”

“How would you know?  It’s dark.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?”

He took her cranberry wool coat from the tree and held it so she could slip her arms into the sleeves.  Again he noticed her fair hair against the black-tipped brown fur.  “Not at all.  But those rabbits get pretty hungry this time of year.”

She laughed, and he liked the musical sound.  After pulling on his jacket, he led her outdoors.  It was a cold crisp night, every star in the heavens winking brightly.

“No sign of snow yet,” he said.  “The weather’s in our favor.”

They approached her house.

“You’ve painted your home its original colors,” he said.  “How did you know which colors to use?”

“I scraped layers of paint in several places,” she replied.  “I was pretty convinced I was right about the colors, and then I thought to ask Mr. Gregory.”  She gestured to a dark house across the street.

The man who lived there had to be nearly a hundred.  Occasionally Owen mowed his grass, and talking to him, he’d learned that the man had lived on the property nearly all his life.  His house had belonged to his parents before him.  Again Owen was impressed by her inventiveness and integrity regarding the preservation of old workmanship.

Chloe took a key from her pocket.  The windows of her house were dark.  “Looks like Miss Sarah has gone to bed,” he said.

“She retires early.”

“Want me to come in with you?”

For the record, neither Charlene or I chose the title of the anthology or the cover.

I especially love Christmas stories. They’re filled with optimism and good will. I hope you’ll look for Owen and Chloe’s story this October!

This has nothing to do with anything, but I’m an amateur photographer in my spare time. here’s Elli, my latest subject:

Thanks to everybody for your good wishes and comments yesterday.

I drew Mary J’s name out of the Stetson, so I hope you will enjoy your copy of Marrying Mattie.

When you have a sec, Mary J, please send your mailing addy to

 tanhanson@aol.com

Again, thanks to  y’all for an enjoyable day.

Marrying Mattie just came out at The Wild Rose Press, the second book in “The Paradise Brides” series, so I thought I’d babble a bit about it/her today. And anybody wanting to babble back in the comment section today gets in the Stetson for a signed copy! (It’s also available on Kindle. Yay. My kindle is my new favorite thing.)

Here’s how the story came about, which means I gotta go back to the first book for a little bit.  In Marrying Minda, Minda Becker, who raised her three little sisters by herself,  finally marries off the last of them and realizes it’s time for her. Signing on as a wealthy farmer’s mail order bride sounds like just the thing…so she ventures to Nebraska only to marry the wrong guy. Oh, Brixton Haynes is a hottie all right. But the cowboy isn’t a homebody and  misses his life on the Goodnight Loving. He just wants  to get back to Texas. Of course he starting to Fall In Love With Minda, but until he Knows For Sure,  she  gets wooed by the town schoolmaster who is eager to give her a nice life and help her raise the “stepkids”  left behind by the original bridegroom. After all, Caldwell Hackett has taught a couple of them.

So….as soon as my editor contracted this book, she wanted me to write a short  2,500 word Christmas story to kind of introduce myself. So I did…reckoning the poor schoolmaster needed a  love  story all his own. His Christmas Angel,  which came in at 2,499 words , was released six months before Marrying Minda, so  I decided to give readers a quick tale about Minda’s sister Mattie falling for the hapless schoolmaster Caldwell Hackett. (It’s a free download and will take about four minutes to read. C’mon!)

Since y’all know by the 2,499th word they’ll get together, I had to find a Good Reason to keep them apart—while not separating them—when I decided that Mattie and Call deserved their own novel.  Therefore, Mattie’s nasty ex-husband shows up at the wedding in Marrying Mattie to halt the vows,  smash the cake, throw a hymnal through a church window. break hearts and cause just a glut of problems..

To top it off, Call –who has given up the classroom to doctor sick horses around Paradise—has to face a strange epidemic  striking the horses in Paradise, even his own beautiful medicine hat mustang, Lakota. Poor guy ‘s got so much on his plate.

Speaking of guy,  I modeled him after Guy Pearce who wore wire-rim glasses in a movie I can’t remember the name of. So imagine Call looking something like this with a Stetson and hair a bit longer and lighter. (I reckoned a schoolmaster needed spectacles. Doesn’t mean he couldn’t still be sexy, which if you’re looking at Guy, you get it.)

                                                                                                                 

Since Mattie’s ex, Woodrow  casts doubts on the legitimacy of their  divorce back in Pennsylvania,  she’s advised to act like a married woman until things get sorted out…meaning her “private time” with Call is somewhat limited. Fortunately, they take shelter in an abandoned soddy  during an impending  tornado and take full advantage of getting stranded. I couldn’t’ resist the tornado scene after my Nebraska friend Nancy told me about seeing clouds that look like boobs. They are indeed called mammatus clouds and here are some pictures. So imagine them when you read the excerpt.

     

Just past a stand of  ash trees, a brown little mound rested against a knoll, and she reckoned it was the old soddy, built rather in the dug-out style she’d learned about. Around the old place, the trees writhed in the wind, sending their shadows scurrying around the remnants of the disused farmyard.

The workhorse ran like the devil was after him. Up above, before her eyes, in the snap of a finger, the sky turned a savage brown, hung with hundreds of white clouds in the shape—she gulped embarrassed—of women’s breasts.

Hastily, Call parked the wagon near the trees and helped her down. “Go on.”

“Go where?” she asked, panic on fire in her chest.

“The house. If we’re lucky, there’s a root cellar.” Quickly he unhitched the horse and ground-tethered him against the bluff.

Around them, in the space of a single heartbeat, the air turned still as death, quiet as the grave, and too hard to breathe into her lungs. The bosom of clouds began to undulate in and out as if unseen fingers caressed them.

Call ran around the ragged old structure, and Churnhead neighed.

“No cellar. Get inside. The southwest corner.”

“What about the horse?”

Call shoved her inside a rickety door attached with old shoe leather. “Here.” He dragged her to a corner, and then met her eyes. “He’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. The funnel may not drop.”

“Funnel? You saw a funnel cloud?”

Call said nothing, but he didn’t need to. He had. She knew it.

“Oh Lord have mercy. Call!” She thrust herself into his arms. The funnel might not drop. But it just well might. And they could be killed. Their lives could be over before they truly had begun. What shelter did a tiny pile of sod bricks give them?

Also, the little hook for this one is, well, Mattie has been married before but Call is a virgin. Of course y’all know she eases his nerves in just the right way.

 Please sign the guestbook at my website as well for a chance to win a signed copy. www.tanyahanson.com

Hope you like your day in Paradise. Oh, I named Mattie after my son Matt and grandbaby Carter.

(P.S. Click on any cover to obtain…thanks.)

                                                                                              

Our newest anthology “Give Me a Texas Ranger” came out last month, but along with promoting and celebrating a new release, I was knee deep in writing the next of the “Give Me …” series “Give Me a Texas Outlaw”.  Of course I’ve had Texas Rangers and outlaws on my mind for months, so what better to write about than a Ranger named Bass Outlaw?

One of my favorite ways to create a character is to tailor them after a real person (preferably none of your family). While visiting East Texas, I found a book about Bass Outlaw, an ex-Texas Ranger short on stature and long on attitude. Bass Outlaw a/k/a Ranger Little Wolf was a moody, strange, and little known Ranger. I mirrored one of my characters in “Texas Ranger”, Muley Mullinex, after him. It was a simple plan for him to be the town’s darlin’ during the day but when he went on a binge he would be my antagonist. However, from the get go Muley proved to be as obstinate on paper as Bass Outlaw was in real life.

Not to be confused with a much better known Ranger, Sam Bass, Bass Outlaw, whose name was thought to be Sebastian Lamar Outlaw was the black sheep of a genteel Georgia family. He had an inferiority complex we might call the “little man syndrome” today, since he was around 5’4” and weighed maybe 150 lbs. His eyes, cold and unfriendly, were pale blue. He sported a mustache best described as bushy, not the heavy, flowing types worn by the likes of Doc Holliday or Wyatt Earp which were the fashion of that era. If it wasn’t for his prowess with a rifle and a pistol he would not like have commanded any attention at all.

Beginning in E Company, Outlaw soon earned a solid reputation for himself as a quick draw with a deadly accurate shot. He could ride with the best, learned readily how to track even the faintest signs and was earmarked as a Ranger with a future. He climbed the ranks and historians have noted that he could have easily become a legendary Ranger such as William J. McDonald and James Gillette, but Bass Outlaw’s hair-trigger temper changed the course of his life … and history.

The personification of a prairie wolf, earned him his nickname, Lone Wolf. He was a loner, never volunteering anything about his past, never asking anyone about theirs. A moody, sullen, often cantankerous individual, he still possessed the qualities the Rangers required in those days on a wild and unsettled frontier. He was brave, wily and determined in battle. Outlaw was unpredictable in that he was either withdrawn or dangerously aggressive depending on his mood … and the amount of alcohol he’d consumed.

His head was on the chopping board more times than not, but generally after a good dressing down, his Captain would decide not to fire the arrogant lawman because of some heroic deed he’d done.

Bass Outlaw, Top Row, Second from Left

Like all lone wolves, his luck ran out. In 1893, after his Company had moved to a remote part of Texas southeast of El Paso, Bass was placed in charge of the unit while Captain Jones was away on business. 

 One day, after chugging rotgut once too often, Bass left the compound with no one in command and joined a poker game with a former Ranger which lead to his undoing. Bass lost the game and his temper, but had enough sense to know not to shoot up the place. Another former Ranger, Sheriff Jim Gillett, grabbed Bass and pulled him outside, managing to settle the dispute before there was any gunfire.

Needless to say when Captain Jones returned and got wind of the going ons he was furious and fired Bass Outlaw on the spot, ordering him out of camp pronto. 

Although it was a mess of his own makings, until Bass Outlaw drew his last breath, he held a grudge against the Rangers. His bone of contention was at first with Gillett, because he thought the sheriff had ratted him out. Later, Bass learned that the lawman had not reported his behavior.

Gillett was spared, as he was not the Ranger that Bass was destined to kill.

Bass Outlaw stayed out of trouble for a while and took on other jobs, including prospecting for gold and hidden treasures. Failing at all, he eventually caught the attention of the El Paso U.S. Marshall, another ex-Ranger, who hired him as a deputy.

Famed Ranger John Hughes predicted, rightfully so, that Little Wolf would someday kill another Ranger. This proved true when Outlaw entered into a squabble with a constable in El Paso by the name of John Selman, after going into a rant over a soiled dove. Outlaw shot him three times. Leaving the saloon, still sullen and dangerous, Outlaw was confronted by a young Ranger, Joe McKidrict, where Outlaw shot him dead. It is reported that was the only incident where a Texas Ranger has ever been killed by an active or former member of the fabled organization.

Ironically, John Selman recovered. Although the gunpowder damaged his vision and he walked with a cane, he killed the infamous John Wesley Hardin in a saloon in El Paso. Two years later, Selman was killed by Deputy U.S. Marshal George Scarborough in another El Paso saloon.

A witness to Bass Outlaw’s demise stated his last sound was a whimper, the kind a wolf tends to make when he knows his time is finished. For Bass Outlaw there were no flowers, no eulogy and no mourners … not even the soiled dove who proclaimed to love him. He was buried in the Evergreen Cemetery in El Paso, and his tombstone reads: “B.L. Outlaw, 1854-1894, 1^st Sgt. Co. D. F. B., State Forces, Deputy U.S. Marshall.”

Now you can see why writing Muley Mullinex fought me tooth and toenail all along the way.  In “Give Me a Texas Ranger,” I referred to Captain Arrington, Hayden McGraw’s superior. Other than Mullinex, Arrington, and McGraw, do any of you remember the name of a fourth Texas Ranger I used in my story? 

I’m givin’ away an autographed copy of “Give Me a Texas Ranger” to the first person posting the correct answer.

  <<<<Click on cover to order from Amazon

Sam, my heroine in my new book, The Lawman, is a pistol toting, whip welding, card playing woman of the west.

She was not unique for the time.

There are  many “real life” heroines of the west from which I modeled Sam. Some came from a book, “The Cowgirls,” by Joyce Gibson Roach. I’ve blogged about women from the book before because it includes some very remarkable ones.

These strong, independent women are why I love writing westerns so much. They had opportunities unavailable anywhere else. Widowed or deserted by husbands, they became ranchers, wranglers, doctors, proprietors, miners and entrepreneurs.   They opened rooming houses, taught school, drove mules and even robbed banks.

Eugene Manlove Rhodes in “Beyond the Desert” put into words an unwritten code for cattlemen. “It is not the custom to war without fresh offense, openly given. You must not smile and shoot. You must not shoot an unarmed man, and you must not shoot an unarmed man. . . ”

According to Ms. Roach, there was a different code observed by pistol-toting cattlewomen. These rules advised:

1. Strange men will do well to shoot.

2. Shoot first, ask questions later..

3. If you shoot a man in the back, he rarely returns fire.

4. Scare a man to death even if you do not intend to kill him.

5. If a man needs killing, do it.

My Samantha had at least two and possibly four of those reasons to shoot Marshal Jared Evans, a man she thought a ruthless pursuer of the man who raised her.

She would fit perfectly among Ms. Roach’s real life heroines.

There was, for instance, Mrs. Stevens who lived in Lonesome Valley, Arizona.. When her husband went to town thirty miles away, she stayed home to guard the homestead and their children. She glanced out the window and  saw a rag on a bush outside. Since she didn’t remember hanging anything on that bush, she decided it was an Indian. She grabbed her gun, drew a bead on the rag, and “plugged an Apache right between the eyes.” After the Indian fell, she discovered the ranch was surrounded by Indians. Emboldened by her success, she held off the Indians until some cowboys chanced by and ran off the Apaches. When finished, they asked Mrs. Stevens if she wanted to send a message to her husband. On a piece of paper, she wrote,

“Dear Lewis,

The Apaches came. I’m mighty nigh out of buck-shot. Please send more.

Your loving wife.”

No please come home. Just send buck-shot.

Then there was Willie. The story was familiar because I once wrote a book, “The Scotsman Wore Spurs” with a heroine just like Willie.

Women occasionally accompanied their husbands on cattle drives, but the usual mode of travel was a buggy.    Willie made it on horseback.

Willie was hired by a trail boss  looking for drovers in Clayton, New Mexico. The boy looked about nineteen, according to the trail boss, and made a good hand with the horses and cattle. According to Ms. Roach’s book, the boss declared that Willie got up on the darkest stormiest nights and stayed with the cattle. “Equally as impressive was the fact that Willie did not drink, chew or cuss.”

After four months, when the bunch reached the Colorado-Wyoming line, Willie said he was homesick, asked to draw his pay, and rode off. Later in the day, a well dressed young lady rode in and addressed the trail boss and asked if he recognized her. The startled trail boss finally recognized her as Willie and asked why she had done such a thing.

She replied her father had been a drover and she wanted to know what it was like. Upon hearing a trail boss was looking for hands, she’d taken her brother’s clothes and asked for a job.

But others earned respect without subterfuge. There was Maude Reed, a Swedish girl who gathered a herd of cattle in Colorado. According to a brief news item in the local paper, she started with a few head of cattle, and by strict attention, economy and bearing all the hardships of a frontier life, she became one of the shrewdest and ablest cattle owners in Mesa County.

In Texas, there were fifty cowgirls operating a ranch in the hill country between San Marcos and San Antonio in the mid-1880’s. Some supposedly came from the finest families in the state and some from the worst. They did, of course, all the riding and roping and branding. Their leader was a whip-cracking brunette from the Oklahoma territory whose boyfriend was an outlaw by the name of Payne.

Another Texas woman, Sally Skull, was very skilled in deciding who needed killing. A man once made an unkind remark about her and when she found out about it, she called him out and shot bullets at his boots until he danced.

Having learned about horses from her late husband, Sally was a horse trader. Totally fearless, she traveled south of the border to buy horses and sold them in Texas. She spoke fluent Spanish, hired Mexicans to work for her, and thought well of the Mexican people in general. She used a salty vocabulary which inspired respect from males, but her real talent was in handling firearms. She carried a rifle and was deadly with it. Two pistols hung from a cartridge belt around her waist and she could use them with either hand with equal skill. She also carried a whip with which she popped flowers off their stems for entertainment, She also liked to gamble, and she played poker at Haynes’ saloon which was also frequented by outlaw John Wesley Hardin.

I’ve always believed a writer can’t possible make up anything as fascinating as real life, and this is particularly true of the bigger than life characters of the west.

Are you ready for the drawing? Bet you are.

Ah put all the names in a ten gallon hat and shook ‘em up real good.

And the winner is……….

GOLDIE HALE

Woo-Hoo! Ah’m so happy for you, Goldie. Send your mailing particulars to Miss Brenda now. She’s at brenda@brendaminton.net. She’ll get the book out on the next stage.

That wraps up this weekend. Have fun everyone.

Until next time………

Wow, I’m guest blogging at Petticoats and Pistols! When Tracy first mentioned it I actually had to ask her what to talk about! I’ve never guest blogged before. My own blog has been neglected this summer, but previous posts were about exciting things like noises in the night and runaway mules. If I’m going to guest blog, I’m sure I need something a little better than that, something a little more exciting.

Ummm, yeah, I got nothing. My life is about runaway mules, crazy kids, and chasing the Chihuahua down the road. In my spare time, I write for Steeple Hill Love Inspired. Most importantly, I write about cowboys. When I was searching for my niche, cowboys just made sense to me. It wasn’t about what was hot (not that cowboys aren’t) or what the publisher was looking for (although it’s always good to know). No, I picked cowboys because to me, they define HERO.

As an avid fan of the PBR (pro bull riding, for those who might be thinking Pabst Blue Ribbon) I love the sport because it is exciting, dramatic, and dangerous. But I also love it because cowboys are heroes. These men are competing against one another, and yet they are always there to help each other. They cheer for each other. They defend one another. They’re willing to jump into the arena with an angry, one ton bull if it means saving a friend’s life. And they pray for each other..

When I think of cowboys, I think of Cord McCoy, the professional bull rider who also competed on Amazing Race. Cord is a true cowboy. He’s a man of faith who smiles, even when the bulls are against him. Even when he’s losing, he’s smiling. He’s cheering for the guy who is beating him. He’s praying for them to do a great job and stay safe.

But these cowboys are also tough as nails. They can get stomped on by a two thousand pound bull, get back up and say ‘yes’ to a reride. They’ll ride with broken ribs, punctured lungs and torn ACLs.

Tough is the bull rider who jumps in the arena with bull fighters to grab hold of the rope that his unconscious buddy is tangled up in.

When we think of cowboys we think tough, gentle, heroic and chivalrous. A cowboy hero is the whole package–a man sent to rescue his woman. A man in faded jeans, five o’clock shadow and rip hard muscles sent to rescue his woman, and get rescued by her in the process.

John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, George Strait. What could be better than a hero in the mold of one of those men?

So, you ask, why do I write cowboy stories? Well, it should be obvious—the research is a wonderful way to pass a weekend. What better job than a job that takes a girl to the rodeo to watch men in wranglers!

In my August release, THE COWBOY’S SWEETHEART, the reader gets the combination of a tough-as-nails cowboy and the cowgirl who is having his baby. I’m so excited about this book that I’m giving away a copy to one of you who leaves a comment today. I hope you enjoy the story.

We’ve had such fun looking at pocket pistols and revolvers, I thought I’d share another I ran across: The Colt 1848 “Baby Dragoon.” Many consider this to be the first true hideout gun.

The Colt Model 1848 Baby Dragoon Revolver was manufactured in Hartford from circa l847 through to 1850 with a total of about 15,000 produced. A .31 caliber weapon, this baby held five shots in its cylinder.

In order to cut back on the weight of the gun, the loading lever was removed from under the barrel and the front sight was scaled down to a tiny bead. This also helped make the gun more “snag-free”, meaning it was less likely to catch in the lining of the pocket or purse when drawn. Rather important if you wanted to get the drop on a bad guy.

The one on the left has no loading lever; the one on the right does. See it, under the barrel?

The five-shot Baby Dragoon was a scaled down version of the large dragoon revolvers, and were manufactured with barrel lengths of 3″, 4″, 5″, and 6″ and a distinctive square-back trigger-guard.  The 3” and 4” are reasonable for a pocket revolver, but a 5 or 6” barrel, plus the cylinder and polished wood grip–not exactly a miniature weapon.

The “Baby Dragoon” pistol was more accurate and more powerful than earlier pocket guns, and their lighter weight made them the weapon of choice for Pony Express riders, and the Wells Fargo Company.

Want more info? Check out Colt’s Pocket ‘49: Its Evolution, Including the Baby Dragoon & Wells Fargo by Robert M. Jordan & Darrow M. Watt. The book is out of print, but you might be able to find a copy through your local library.

Hello you little darlin’s,

On tap for Saturday is a brand new guest.

Brenda Minton is so excited to blog with us. Seems she’s heard lots of good things about us.

Miss Brenda is hankering to talk about the things that make a cowboy such a good hero. You’ll find her hanging out at rodeos watching bull riding and the like. She calls it research but she doesn’t fool Felicia Filly. Ah know she has her eyes peeled for tight fittin’ jeans and a killer smile. Real cowboys are mighty polite and know how to treat a woman like a lady.

Miss Brenda has a new book out and we won’t even hafta twist her arm to get her to talk about it. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t like to be some cowboy’s sweetheart. Hee-hee! Ah’m guilty as sin about that subject.

So rise and shine on Saturday morning and saddle up.  Ride over to the Junction and sit a spell.

We’d love to have you!

 My oldest son is getting married!!!!  Yes, we’re excited.  Before I get into bridal showers, can I brag a bit? He pulled off one of the best proposals ever.  He went to grad school in Egypt, and he’s done a lot of travel in the Middle East. He and his soon-to-be fiance were backpacking in Syria where he took her to the highest tower of the Crac des Chevaliers, a castle from the Crusader era.  At the top, he asked a British tourist to take a picture.  Clever to the core, he faked having a rock in his shoe. When his girlfriend turned around, he was on bended knee with a ring on display, asking her to marry him.

She said yes and we’re so glad she did.  She came to Lexington this past weekend for a family bridal shower and we had great time.  We shopped for my “Mother of the Groom” dress together, ate Chinese food for lunch and came home to presents, games, food and Skype.  My son is still overseas, but we got things set up so he could watch the festivities via webcam. 

Imagine Skyping to a bridal shower. The world has sure changed . . . or has it? We had a kitchen themed shower much like mom had in in 1954.  As a kid I remember looking in the hope chest she’d filled with sheets and towels and an assortment of what-not for her new home. As long as I can remember, she had special things in that chest.  The history of hope chests would be an interesting blog. Since I have weddings on my mind, maybe I’ll do that next.  Today, though, I’ve been thinking about bridal showers.

My husband and I got married in 1980.  We practically eloped so we skipped the bridal shower tradition, though we made up for it with baby showers a few years later.  We started out with a set of everyday dishes, pots and pans, bedding and a lot of hand-me-downs. What we didn’t have, we bought at Pick n’ Save.  It’s been 30 years and would you believe I’m using the same red-handled can opener?

Bridal showers are a special time for the bride and family alike.  The custom as we know it in America originated in the 1890s.  It’s a gift-giving party for the purpose of getting the bride and groom set up in their new home.  In some cases, where the bride’s family was poor or perhaps opposed to the marriage, the bridal shower made sure the wedding could take place. It provided the bride and groom with what they needed to set up house and sustain their marriage.  Bridal showers also have ties to old dowry practices.  If a woman’s family refused to support her decision to marry, friends would come together and bring gifts to fill in the lack of a dowry.

Did you ever wonder why we call these events “showers” and not just parties”?    I figured it referred to showering the bride with gifts, but the word has more literal roots.  In the 1890s, it was the custom for the bride’s family and friends to put small presents in a parasol and open the parasol over her head.  Small should be the key word.  We gave my future d-i-l a set of pots and pans.  If they’d hit her in the head, she’d have been knocked unconscious . . . Same with the flatware! 

Bridal showers started as an urban tradition among wealthy families, but the custom quickly moved to rural America. Over the years, showers have evolved into a celebration that can be anything from a couples party to a bachelorette party to the traditional kind of party my mom enjoyed.

What about you? Have you given a bridal shower?  Been the bride at a shower in your honor?  What did you like best?  My favorite moment was watching my son on Skype as he joked with his bride-to-be.  It was just so sweet . . . I’ll never forget it.