Hi, everyone,

First, let me say how happy I am to be invited to be a guest at Petticoats and Pistols.

Having grown up in West Texas and having lived in three western states, I’m a true lover of the West. I’m from the cowboy culture, to be sure. My dad was a small cattle rancher and most of my family does something to this day related to ranching and agriculture. That’s why I enjoy setting my stories in a western locale. It’s what I know.

Even though my books are classified as contemporary mainstream romance, they have also become classified as “westerns.” I’m still not sure how that happened, but there you go.

In fact, most my stories are relationship stories. They could occur in any setting, but they seem to be a little more interesting set against a backdrop of cowboy life. After all, what red-blooded American woman doesn’t love a cowboy? I also try to throw in a little Western or Texas history, though not enough for the books to be called “historical” or for someone to scream at me about accuracy.  

In LONE STAR WOMAN, all of the players are cowboys and cowgirls to whom working outdoors with animals every day is a way of life and it’s a lifestyle they love. A big part of the character of the protagonist, Jude Strayhorn, comes from her love of the land and her family’s long ranching history. I based the setting and took the history from the old-time ranches that sprang up in Texas during the late nineteenth century, when the Eastern demand for beef fostered an entire industry and a culture.

During my research for that book, I delved into how “cowboys” came to be in the first place. Because before the Civil War, there really weren’t any cowboys as we’ve come to know them. What there was was Mexican vaqueros who knew how to ride the wildest of horses and rope the wild cattle descended from those the Spanish left behind. It’s no coincidence that much of the cowboy jargon descends from the Spanish, i.e., rodeo, remuda, lariat, reata, concho, etc., etc. Then there were Southern farm boys displaced by the Civil War who came to Texas without much other than the courtly manners of the Southern gentlemen. When those two factions met, “cowboys” emerged. And they’re still here, I’m happy to say.

            You can always tell a real cowboy. He probably won’t own a ranch, though he might own a cow or two. He’ll probably own a dog, a horse or two or ten and he’ll drive a pickup truck. If you’re female, he won’t let you lift anything heavy, he’ll always open doors. He won’t expect you to pay for dinner and would be insulted by the idea of “going Dutch,” even if he has to spend his last dime. He won’t have much to say and when he does, he’ll always call you ma’am. Now he might be a misfit of the tallest order, he might be a scalawag and a rascal, but he’ll always be charming to the ladies and he’ll always be an independent cuss whose mind isn’t easily changed. Willie Nelson said it all in “Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Cowboys.” He also said it again in “My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys.”

Pam here:  Come on in, and let’s talk cowboys!  Have you read the Anna Jeffrey books?  Remember those beautiful covers?  What is it about relationship stories that appeals to you?   And are you as curious as I am about how Jeffrey got her name?  LOL.

Jeffrey will be giving away a copy of LONE STAR WOMAN and an ARC of her July release, written as Dixie Cash–CURING THE BLUES WITH A NEW PAIR OF SHOES.  Is that a fun title or what?

To learn more about Jeffrey and her books, written as Sadie Callahan and Dixie Cash, visit the websites:

www.annajeffrey.com  and www.dixie-cash.com

Click on Cover to order from Amazon 

From the time the Pilgrims came to America we’ve been forging trails and roads to connect each other. And once colonies were established and thriving, there was a longing to head west to see what lay beyond the Appalachian Mountains. That quest for knowledge and adventure still beats in our hearts in this century as we explore the outer reaches of space–the new Western Frontier.

One of the greatest highways west was started in 1926. It would run from Chicago to Los Angeles, the first national highway system. Sections of it opened to traffic as the asphalt was laid, but the continuous highway was finally fully opened in 1938.

It was designated as Route 66.

Didn’t matter that is just a two lane road nine feet across. It was smooth and fast.

And there was no comparison between it and the government funded wagon road Edward Fitzgerald Beale built across the 35^th parallel. Incidentally, that old rutted road became part of this new and improved highway.

Route 66 came to be affectionately called “The Mother Road.” Prior to the building of Route 66 roads were in very poor shape and only partially existent. Car owners had no where much to drive their cars. Roads were mostly dirt or gravel. But with Route 66 lives were changed; hopes and dreams were born anew. The road was well-traveled. During the days of the Depression it carried migrant workers who were looking for any kind of job they could find. And after the Depression came to an end, the tourist industry saw growth it had never seen before. Americans had money in their pockets again and fell in love with the automobile. They hit the open road in droves.

Hundreds of mom-and-pop motor courts, eating places, and service stations sprang up all along Route 66 to cash in on the booming business. Fortunes were made…and lost.

In my childhood, I became well acquainted with Route 66. Every year in May our family loaded up the car and took off to California to visit my grandparents. I was so excited I could hardly wait for that time of year. There were so many neat things sitting on the roadside between New Mexico and California. I have many fond memories of those trips.

Remember the Burma Shave signs up and down the road? I loved reading them.

I’d save up my allowance all year so I’d have plenty to spend on our trip. We’d always stop at some of those Indian Trading posts that offered anything you could imagine. One of the things I always bought was a new pair of moccasins. I loved wearing those leather shoes. They were the most comfortable things on your feet. Like walking on a cloud. And I always saved some money so I could pay to see the animal exhibits and the snakes. Those trading posts always had plenty to look at and buy. Plus, it gave us a chance to get out of the car and stretch our legs. Sometimes I’d buy a bottle of Nehi Grape or Delaware Punch. Man, was that good on a scorching hot day!

One of my most favorite memories was when we stayed in the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, Arizona. Each room was inside an adobe structure that looked like an actual teepee. To a nine year old that was exciting stuff. I got to pretend that I was an Indian princess if only for a night. When I was looking for pictures to spiff up this blog, I Googled Holbrook and discovered that the Wigwam Motel has its own website now and has been listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Wow! Seems it’s as big a deal in this day and time as it was in the 60’s. I’m stunned. I figured it had fallen into ruin like most everything else in that era. Glad it hasn’t.

Another roadside attraction that we stopped to see was Meteor Crater near the town of Winslow in the north Arizona desert. Talk about an interesting thing to see. The huge crater was formed over 50,000 years ago when a meteor struck the earth. It sure makes you stop and think and wonder what would happen if another one that size plunged to earth. One thing for sure, it would leave lots of devastation.

And of course, Route 66 passed by the Grand Canyon just a bit north of Williams, Arizona. That’s a must-see sight. No matter how many times we went by it, we’d always have to stop and stand on the rim, gawking at the beauty.

There wasn’t a museum, ghost town, or roadside attraction that we didn’t see. And it was all because of someone’s vision and the road that was called Route 66.

Now that old road has been replaced by modern divided highways that bypass towns altogether and something wonderful has been lost. Kids today rarely get a chance to get out of the car and if they do it’s at a McDonalds or other fast food place. I wish they could’ve known what it was like before life took off in the fast lane.

Did you and your family take road trips? Or maybe you still do. Did you ever have a chance to travel Route 66 when you were younger? Ever drink a Nehi Grape? We have lots to chat about.

www.LindaBroday.com

Click on Cover to order from Amazon

 ”How The West Was Won” is one of my all time favorite western films. There’s not really a plot. It’s mostly stories within a story, vignettes of great turning points in the development of the west.

One of my favorites ‘stories’ was the scenes involving the building of the Union Pacific. The “boss” of the forward thrust of the railroad, played by Richard Widmark, was a ruthless martinet who lied and cheated not to lose one second in building tracks west. It was probably pretty accurate. 

I’ve always been fascinated by the building of the coast to coast railway. It’s considered the great physical achievement of 19^th Century America. It was also a great drama of two great antagonists, two companies racing toward each other in bitter rivalry, one from the east, one from the wet, to meet somewhere in the wilderness. Since there were great financial rewards for every mile laid, each sought to out build the other, and sometimes to undo the other’s work.

According to the American Heritage History of Railroads in America, “The hordes of workmen are like two armies – in fact they are armies, as great as most in antiquity – and different races contend as well; white men against red men on one hand, Irish tracklayers for the Union Pacific against Chinese for the Central Pacific on the other. And while this heroic cast struggles in the field, other more powerful and occasionally sinister figures who direct the armies or profit from them scheme and battle for advantage in the background. There is wealth for some and poverty and death for others, and the rewards are not necessarily given to the deserving.

The prize? The empire of the west.

The railroad was made possible by Congressional action in 1862 and work began in 1863 from Omaha west by the Union Pacific and from Sacramento east by the Central Pacific. Because of the war, though, progress was slow in the first two years. But starting in 1866, it was full speed ahead. Tracks were laid at the rate of a mile a day and later as fast as two or three a day. A moveable city accompanied the rails, a Gomorrah of gamblers, saloon keepers and painted women who went to work almost as the first train appeared. “Hell-On-Wheels,” it was called.

The competition between the two railroads lay in the financing. Each railroad was to receive 6,400 acres of federal land laid out in checkerboard parcels on either side of the tracks for every mile completed, plus vast loans from the U. S. Treasury as they went along – $16,000 per mile of level track, $32,999 across the plateaus and $48,000 per mile across the mountains. It was a big incentive to sabotage the opposition, fight Indians and work day and night to lay tracks.

The iron men, the clampers and the spikers had their own assembly line, and they carried guns as well as tools. The Union Pacific hired men in Confederate gray who worked next to those in Union blue. There were freed slaves, hordes of Irishmen from eastern cities, Germans, English adventurers and, again according to the American Heritage History of Railroads in America, “tight-lipped characters who tend to join foreign legions and any moderately well-paid enterprise that promised adventure.”

The Central Pacific, on the other hand, hired gangs of Chinese. Tired of hiring Americans who seemed to hire on only as a cheap trip to gold and silver mines, where they departed, Charles Crocker, one of four men who basically controlled the Central, hired a group of fifty orientals. They worked so well that before long, ll,000 of them were at work on the Central Pacific. They proved industrious and strong, chipping away at tunnels at a rate as slow as eight inches a day (seven tunnels in one two-mile stretch) laboring under vast falls of snow, hanging over precipices in baskets to drill holes for explosives, and erecting the long snowsleds necessary to make it across the Sierra Mountains.

Since no meeting place had been fixed, the two competing railroads pushed past each other on parallel lines for hundreds of miles, and the Irish and Chinese often fought each other. Washington finally said enough and on May 10, 1869. The railroads met at Promontory, Utah, and the presidents of the two companies drove a ceremonial spike of gold.

Bret Harte wrote a poem for the occasion. It begins:

“What was it the engines said,

“Pilots touching – head to head,

“Facing on a single track,

“Half a world behind each back.

To travel the very first intercontinental railroad today will take you 1,780 miles through long tunnels, high bridges, deep cuts and spectacular mountains. It makes you wonder why today it takes a minimum of twenty years to build a north-south interstate with all the materials and machines we have today. It’s mind-boggling to realize bare hands laid these long ribbons of metal in little more than five years over a century and a half ago.

How many wonderful stories can be told of this adventure. I’m putting them in line now.

In the meantime, one of my goals is to take a train across country, including through some of those routes carved out by hand so many years ago. Have any of you taken a train lately?

Wasn’t Miz Winnie just the most wonderful guest? She sure shootin’ was!

I put all the names of those who hightailed it over to the Junction to jaw a while into a fishbowl and we came up with two winners……

Caffey

Connie Lorenz

Congratulations, ladies! If you don’t want Miz Winnie’s HAND ME DOWN FAMILY, you can visit her website to look at her backlist. Her website is listed at the bottom of her blog.

Then email her at winnie@winniegriggs.com and give her your mailing address. She’s waitin’ to hear from you!

Well, that’s all for this weekend. Hope you come back again now.

I have always been fascinated by colorful and quirky small town names.   I grew up in South Louisiana so I was familiar with town names such as Westwego, Cut Off,  Dutchtown, Raceland, Crown Point, Head of Island, French Settlement and Grosse Tete (French for Big Head).   

For someone who already had storytelling in her blood, these names really sparked my imagination.  I spent many childhood hours making up stories about how all these towns got their curious names.  Westwego – was it named by some settlers from back east who travelled great distances and decided this was far enough?  Or was it merely a stopping point for folks headed even farther west?   And who in the world would name their town Big Head?  At some point I learned Dutchtown was actually settled by German immigrants and was originally called Deutschtown, but the name evolved over the years into what it is today.  Another fascinating story-sparker!

When I went to college, I moved further north while still remaining in Louisiana and encountered a whole new map of town names to puzzle over.  There I encountered towns with names like Bunkie, Dry Prong, Flatwoods, Powhatten and Breezy Hill.  Again, I couldn’t stop myself from wondering about the circumstances and people who settled these places.

Then I married my college sweetheart – a prince charming disguised as a cattle-rancher-in-the-making.  He swept me away to his home town, a place I was delighted to discover was called Plain Dealing.   

Today, whenever I start a new book, finding the right name for my town (always fictional) is just as important to me as finding the right names for my hero and heroine.  There is always a story in my mind about how the town name came to be, though that rarely makes it to the pages of the book.

My first book, WHAT MATTERS MOST, was set in the Texas town of Far Enough.  The town name was based on my childhood musing over the real town of Westwego.  I pictured a small group of settlers travelling through the area and the womenfolk getting tired of the whole thing and telling their menfolk they’d travelled ‘Far Enough’ and were ready to settle down NOW!

For my second book, SOMETHING MORE, the heroine arrives on the scene at a stage relay station called Whistling Oak.  The name came about when I pictured a giant oak with a hole formed by two trunks that had not quite fused together.  As the stagecoach driver explains it to the heroine, “See that ol’ oak tree over yonder with the hole in the middle?  That’s what gave this place its name.  Big wind blows through just right and you can hear the whistling for near a mile.”

Large flocks of small blackbirds winter near my home.  Hundreds of them will land in fields or trees in the area.  If something comes along to spook them, they all fly up at once, like a scattering of pepper on the wind.  That was the inspiration for Pepper Cloud, MO,  the town my third book, WHATEVER IT TAKES, takes place in.

My fourth book, A WILL OF HR OWN, is set in a town called Clover Ridge, VA, a somewhat more mundane town name than I normally go for.  But I wanted something that was indicative of lushness and serenity.  Besides, the story doesn’t tarry there for long.  A good one third of the book actually takes place aboard a ship.

Turnabout, TX, was the town name I chose for my fifth book, LADY’S CHOICE.  That one was almost a no brainer since the whole theme of the book, in both the primary and secondary storylines, was about turning one’s life around after having made poor choices earlier in life.

When I started work on my current release, I struggled for quite a while with what to name the town.   I came up with and eventually discarded several names.  THE HAND-ME-DOWN FAMILY is my first foray into the inspirational market and I wanted something that would provide a subtle nod to that change.  I also wanted it to have that rural, small town feel and be just a tiny bit quirky at the same time.  And then one morning I woke up, and there it was.  Sweetgum, TX.  The sweetgum tree is indigenous to the area, the name is fun and rustic sounding, and the word itself has that hint of heart to it that I was looking for.

So, do you pay very much attention to town names in a book?  Do they help set the tone for you at all?  And are there real town names you’ve come across that have tickled your fancy, piqued your interest or just plain caught your eye?  Share some of your favorites.

Come on in and visit!  Winnie will give away a copy of her newest book, THE HAND-ME-DOWN FAMILY, or one from her backlist to TWO lucky commenters!

 <<-Click on cover to order from Amazon

To learn more about Winnie and her books, visit her website:

www.winniegriggs.com

Quilt Lady!

Congratulations!   Please send me your snail mail address and what book you’d like from my available backlist, either western or contemporary!

charlenesands@hotmail.com

This weekend the Fillies are hosting Miz Winnie Griggs and what fun we’ll have! Hee-hee!

Miz Winnie is set to entertain us with the whys and wherefores of towns’ names. Some are just downright too hilarious. Others make us wonder what the founding father had in mind when it came to naming the town. Anyway, Miz Winnie is going to sort it all out for us.

She’s not coming empty handed either. No sirree. She’s bringing prizes for a couple of lucky people. If you want to get your name in the hat for one just show up and post a comment. Easy as falling off a log backward.

Head on over to the Junction and get you a seat. Prop up your feet and sit a spell.

It’s true that I lead a double life.  And it’s time I confessed.

Most of my readers know me as Charlene Sands, writer of romance in western and contemporary genres.  Yep, that’s me.  I love romance, as many of you know.   And romance has been good to me.  I started my writing career in 1995.  No, that’s not true.  I began writing then, but I wasn’t actually published until 1998, so I guess that’s when my career started.  At the time, I wasn’t sure I’d make it as an author. After all, there’s so much competition out there and I live near Hollywood, where everyone is writing a book or screenplay.  But when I sold my first book, Chance in a Million, it was quite a thrill. The next year I sold another and the year after that, I sold another. In 2001 my first western came out from Harlequin, Lily Gets Her Man.

I find myself now a multi-published author of 28 novels. I’ve had some Border’s bestsellers and I’ve won several awards. Today I think of myself as a writer first, but I have another identity (don’t we all?)

For the past 25 years I’ve taught childbirth and baby care classes at a local hospital. I work two nights a week, but it’s not just teaching that keeps me busy. It’s staying abreast of current issues and reading everything I can about new trends in childbirth and parenting. It’s keeping my affiliation up with the American Heart Association to retain my Pediatric CPR instructor status.  Last night, as I found myself on Web M.D., looking up second trimester baby growth (for a book I’m writing, this time) and immunizations for my students in class, it dawned on me for the umpteenth time that I do have two very separate and unique jobs.  Both take a great deal of time and dedication. 

Most of my pregnant students have no clue what I REALLY do for a living.  If you have children, then you know that when you’re expecting your first baby, you’re in a different zone.  You think, sleep and eat, baby thoughts!  That’s what I’ve found for the most part. And when I teach these classes, I’m solely involved in their efforts, not trying to promote my own.  

I’m with these students for six weeks. I commiserate with them, try to help them with their fears and encourage them in every way I can.  When the class ends, I set up a Cyber Class Reunion.  Back in the day, I used to have everyone come to my house with their babies for a reunion, but it’s hard to do in today’s busy world. Now, we keep in touch with email and I get pictures of their babies right after they are born.  Most times, the whole class participates and the other day I bumped into a graduate of my class with his baby, who told me none of their friends from different classes had kept in touch with their classmates/babies, and they were all jealous about our Cyber Class Reunions.  I can’t go anywhere locally, without seeing a student of mine. If there’s a stroller in sight, I may very well know who’s pushing it!

 It’s a rewarding thing that I do and I can’t seem to stop.  I don’t want to give it up until they toss me out on my rear and/or my daughter has a baby and comes to my classes! (whichever comes first)  But at the same time, it makes my life nuts!

I’m either wearing my author hat or my childbirth instructor hat. When I sold my first book, I couldn’t believe how many people asked me why I’m still teaching class when I was now a successful author.  (Authors out there… are you smiling yet?)  

The time I put into both professions is unreasonable.  I know.  My life could be so much simpler if I just wrote full time.  But you see, writing is a lonely job. It’s just me facing my computer screen everyday.  What a luxury it is to be able to do something equally rewarding with real, live, vital, people – couples who are expecting their first child. And I get to see the result of their labor (pardon the pun) many times firsthand.  Teaching allows me to get my butt off the computer chair twice a week and teach a class that affects so many lives in a positive way. I meet the most interesting people from all walks of life from police officers to film producers to contractors to schoolteachers and my own life is enriched by knowing them.

I found that nothing stays constant in our lives.  I’ve morphed from a childbirth instructor who happened to write, to a published author who happens to teach. Of the two, writing consumes most of my time, but I fully enjoy doing both.

 So, I guess I’ll be leading my double life for a little longer. I would describe myself this way:

Teaching is what I do.

Writing is who I am.

That sums it up nicely.

So how about you?  I know many of you wear different hats.  Are you torn about giving up one thing for the other or can you manage both? What kind of double lives do you lead?  I’ll be giving away a book of your choice to one commenter today, so be sure to share your thoughts.

And any of you living in the L.A area, I’ll be teaching a writing workshop on Sunday, March 15^th at the Los Angeles Chapter of RWA.  Contact me for details. I’d love to see you there. The first meeting is free!  charlenesands@hotmail.

In 1906, San Francisco’s fire department was one of the most modern and efficient in the world.  At the sound of alarm bells, the superbly-trained firemen could hitch the horses, fire up the steam pump and be on their way to a fire in ninety seconds.  They had to be good.  In a city built mostly of wood, even a small fire could blaze out of control in no time.  The 58 fire companies were on constant alert to keep the city safe. 

The man responsible for them all was their legendary chief, Dennis Sullivan.  A vigorous man of 53, Sullivan had been at his post for 13 years.  His men loved him, and there was nothing about fighting fires he didn’t know.  He had lobbied the city government for years to get the failing water pipes and cisterns repaired and to build a line to pump water from the bay in case of a big fire. “This town,” Sullivan had declared, “is in an earthquake belt.  One of these fine mornings we’ll get a shake that will put this little water system out, and then we’ll have a fire.  What will we do then?”  But the board of supervisors, rife with corruption, paid little attention.  

On April 18, 1906 at 5: 12 a.m., Sullivan’s prediction came true.  The animals sensed it first—dogs barking, horses shifting and whinnying.  Then, as a distant rumbling rose to a deafening roar, the quake thundered through the city.  The first shock lasted forty seconds, followed by a brief silence and another twenty-five second shock—little more than a minute in all.  But to the million Californians who felt it, the quake seemed to last forever.  The heaving, cracking earth toppled chimneys and towers, splintered rows of frame houses, twisted steel rails, bridges and pipelines.  People and animals were crushed by collapsing buildings and falling brick walls.  

Dennis Sullivan and his wife Margaret were asleep in their rooms on the third floor of the Bush Street fire station.  The dome of the California Hotel next door toppled onto the roof of the fire station, crushing the building.  When Sullivan sprang out of bed to find his wife, who’d been sleeping in the next room, he fell through the floor, all the way to the basement, where he was scalded by the steam boiler.  His men dug him out of the rubble and rushed him to a hospital.  Mrs. Sullivan survived, but Dennis Sullivan never recovered from his injuries.  He would die four days later. 

In the silence that followed the quake, survivors poured into the streets, gaping in horror at the damage.  The scene that met their dazed eyes looked like the end of the world.  But the worst was yet to come.  Fueled by broken gas mains, fires began to flare in the city.  The firemen rushed to do what they could.  But the odds were stacked against them.  Water was in short supply, the water mains broken, the cisterns in such poor condition that many of them were empty.  And the men had lost their beloved chief. 

The wooden buildings burned like tinder.  The heroic firemen were driven back as fire swept through the towering office buildings and hotels in the downtown area.  The wealthier neighborhoods had suffered little damage from the quake because they were built on solid rock.  Now, with water gone, the military commander, General Funston, ordered that many of these homes be dynamited to create firebreaks.  Unfortunately the one man who knew how to use dynamite in fighting fires—Chief Sullivan—was gone.  As a result, many buildings were blown up unnecessarily, and some fires were even started by the dynamite.  The fires raged for three days.  

By the time the Saturday evening rain dampened the ashes, 490 blocks, totaling 2831 acres, had been burned and more than 450 lives had been lost.  Perhaps the greatest tragedy was the loss of the man whose leadership and experience could have made all the difference.                                                                                                            

My April Harlequin Historical HIS SUBSTITUTE BRIDE , is set against the backdrop of 1906 San Francisco in the last days before the quake and fire.  Dennis Sullivan appears as an offstage character, a friend and ally of my hero, Quint Seavers. 

Do you enjoy stories about real events and characters?  Do you have a favorite event?  A favorite real-life hero or heroine?

Click on a book to order from Amazon.com.

Hello Darlings,

Up next at the Junction is Miz Winnie Griggs.

Now, Miz Winnie is blazing a trail to our fair city from the bayou country of Louisiana. She’s a lovely lady and talented author who loves to talk cowboys and romance. Ah know she’ll fit right in here like a kitten nestling next to its mama.

Miz Winnie has a brand spanking new book out that we’re itching to learn more about. It’s called THE HAND ME DOWN FAMILY.

The Fillies are proud and happy to have her come calling. We’re bustling around, cleaning and whatnot, to get the place ready.

Mark your calendar for Saturday and saddle up. Help us make Miz Winnie feel at home.