Texas history is full of larger-than-life men and women. There was none more compelling in the Old West than Temple Houston, the youngest child of Sam Houston.

Temple carried the distinction of being first child born in the governor’s mansion in Austin, Texas. He never knew his father because Sam Houston died when the boy was only 3 years old. His mother followed four years later when Temple was 7. Upon her death he went to live with one of his sisters.

Of the eight Houston children, Temple was most like his father in temperament and abilities. But he hated being compared to Sam and especially as being Sam’s boy. Temple was rebellious and had a need for adventure. At age 13 he signed on as a cowboy on a cattle drive going all the way to Dakota territory. To get back home, he was hired as a steamboat captain on the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers.

He began studying law and at the age of 19, he was admitted to the Texas Bar. He was well-educated and spoke fluent French and Spanish in addition to seven Indian languages.

None was more flamboyant and unorthodox. The 6′2″, long-haired man was fond of wearing black Prince Albert coats, elegant pinstriped trousers stuffed into high, handsome boots, and white sombreros. Temple was exceedingly handsome, had piercing gray eyes and coal black hair.

He was also a crack marksman. He carried a pair of ivory-gripped, nickel-plated Colts. And he didn’t hesitate to use them. After a courtroom argument with another lawyer, he met the man in a saloon. Houston killed the adversary and promptly entered a plea of self-defense. He was acquitted.

Before his 21st birthday, Temple was appointed first district attorney for the new district court in the Panhandle. He went to the wild, lawless town of Mobeetie where there was no jail. Not long after he arrived he insisted that one be built. While it was being constructed, one convicted cowboy was chained to a rock pillar in one of the town’s saloons. They gave him a blanket and left him in the saloon overnight. The following morning they found the man dead drunk, surrounded by whiskey bottles. He’d torn his blanket into strips and made a lariat. He spent the night roping bottles off the backbar and drinking the contents.

The next year at age 22, Temple married Laura Cross, a planter’s daughter. Seven children were born to them, but only four survived infancy.

Temple Houston was also an excellent defense attorney. At one trial, that of a man accused of murdering a skilled gunfighter, Houston whipped out his pair of Colts, pointed them at the jury, and fired away. Jurors dove out of the box, spectators dove out the window, and the judge ducked down behind the bench. Houston’s attempt to show the lightning speed of the gunfighter in comparison to that of the accused cowboy, even though the cowboy had shot first, was in fact a matter of self-defense. Once courtroom order resumed, Houston apologized for his gunplay, explaining that his own weapons had held blanks. The cowboy was acquitted.

But his most famous case was the one defending accused prostitute Millie Stacey in 1899. His closing summary is still studied by law students today. It’s considered the perfect defense argument and one of the finest masterpieces of oratory in the English language. In his speech which was spellbinding, he proclaimed Millie innocent, saying man was to blame for her shame and that “Where the star of purity once glittered on her girlish brow, burning shame has left its seal forever.” Millie went free, her guilt expunged.

(As a side note, a copy of the speech was framed and hangs today in the Library of Congress.)

A remark for which his is known is “Your honor, the prosecutor is the first man that I’ve ever seen who can strut while sitting down.”

Another time, a judge persuaded Temple to represent a penniless horse thief. Temple promised, “I’ll provide the unfortunate gentleman the best defense I can.” He asked the judge for a private office where he could talk to his client. A little while later, they found Temple sitting alone in the room with the window open. He smiled and remarked, “I gave him the best advice I could.”

Always a restless soul, Houston left Texas for a new frontier and more adventure. He participated in the Oklahoma Land Rush and raced with thousands of other land-hungry pioneers. He brought his family and moved his practice to the new town of Woodward, Oklahoma. His services were in great demand. Before it was over, he became as big a legend in Oklahoma as he was in Texas.

The man who lived life large died of a stroke in 1905 at the age of 45 and was buried in Woodward’s Laurel Land Cemetery. Needless to say, Temple Houston left a huge mark on the legal profession. And though he never reached the historical acclaim of his father Sam, he was a man to be revered.

Doesn’t this sound like a hero right from one of our western romances? I’d like to have known him.

www.LindaBroday.com

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There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Few periods in American history have spawned as many legends as the 1896-99 Klondike Gold Rush.  The rush brought out the best and worst in the men and women who swarmed north in search of wealth.  The tales of their adventures, some true and some myths, have filled many books.  But few writers captured the spirit of gold rush life like poet Robert W. Service, sometimes called “The Bard of the Yukon.”  His writing was so expressive, and so evocative of the time that his readers took him for a hard-bitten old Klondike prospector. 

Nothing could be farther from the truth.  Robert William Service never prospected for gold and did not, in fact, arrive in the Klondike until years after the gold rush played out. 

Service was born in 1874 to a Scottish family living in England.  Trained to be a bank clerk like his father, he left Glasgow for Canada at the age of 21, hoping to become a cowboy.  He drifted around western North America for a time and finally took work with the Canadian Bank of Commerce.  After working in a number of branches, he was posted to the branch in Whitehorse in 1904, then later to Dawson City in the Klondike in in 1908.  Inspired by the vast beauty of the wilderness, Service began writing poetry about the things he saw.  Conversations with local characters who’d lived through the gold rush led him to write about things he heard, embellishing them with his own imagination. 

After collecting enough poems for a book, he offered a publisher $100 of his own money to publish the work.  The publisher returned the money and offered Service a contract.  The book, published as The Spell of the Yukon in America and The Songs of a Sourdough in England, made him world famous and also very wealthy.  Within two years he was able to quit his job at the bank and travel to Paris and Hollywood.  Service remained a British citizen for life.  During World War I he served as an ambulance driver.  He wrote many poems about the war and about other places he visited – more than 1,000 poems in all, as well as two autobiographical novels.

He married a Parisian woman and lived most of his life in France, where he died in 1958.  His wife, thirteen years his junior, died in 1989 at the age of 102.

If you’ve never read Service’s Gold Rush poems you’re in for a treat.  I especially love “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” quoted in part at the beginning of this blog, about the prospector who was always cold.  It’s too long to include in its entirety, but here’s a link:

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-cremation-of-sam-mcgee/

Enjoy!

Tularosa.  The word evokes the vision of a charming Mexican village in the desert, which is pretty close to accurate.  Tularosa is the name of an actual town in New Mexico (nicknamed Tulie), and it is the setting for my upcoming contemporary romance, Lucky in Love, being released June 1 by Champagne Books.

 I’ve been carrying on a romance with this southwestern village since 2004 when I traveled to the Land of Enchantment for the first time.  It took only two days for me to fall in love with the flowering desert, the multi-faceted mountains, and the eternal sunshine.  I fell so hard, in fact, that I bought five acres of land with the dream of building a ranch on it one day.  From the adobe home I imagined on the property, the Sacramento Mountains lay out my back door while the sacred mountain, Sierra Blanca, provided an incredible northeast view from my kitchen window.

Tularosa derives its name from the Spanish word tule meaning rose colored reeds, which grew along the banks of the Rio Tularosa, which still exists along the north side of the town.  Original settlers were attracted to this area in 1860 because the river flowed deep and cool year-round in the desert.  However, due to frequent raids by the Apaches from what is now the Mescalero Apache Reservation, occupation was untenable and the site was abandoned.  Two years later, Hispanic farmers from the Rio Grande valley succeeded in settling the area, with protection from Fort Stanton to the east. Orchards were planted and homes were built.  In 1863, Tularosa was formally established and forty-nine blocks of the new village were plotted, with water rights distributed and recorded.

All was not peaceful in this idyllic setting, however.  In 1868, the Apaches went on  a vicious rampage, killing eleven men and two women, prompting a battle between settlers and soldiers against the Apaches at Round Mountain, a cone-shaped peak 1,000 feet above the 4,500 foot high desert floor.  After that short skirmish, in which the Indians retreated, Tularosa was never again attacked, and the Hispanics promised to build a new church to commemorate the last battle with the Apaches.  The St. Francis de Paula Mission was started that same year and still stands today, shaded by ancient cottonwoods that line one of the oldest acequias in southern New Mexico.

The original acequia (ditch irrigation system) remains virtually unchanged and still provides the water for the trees lining the streets, grassy lawns, and a variety of beautiful roses, which grace many private gardens. A Rose Festival is held annually, the first weekend in May, to celebrate the abundance of blossoms. 

Some of the original block-long adobe homes still exist in Tulie as well.  In 1979, the Tularosa Original Town-site District, consisting of the original forty-nine blocks on 1400 acres including 182 buildings was recorded in the National Register of Historic Places.

With a population of around 3,000, this picturesque village has welcomed the arrival of Spanish-speaking ranchers, Texas cattlemen, soldiers, Anglos and Apaches, and has managed to weather them all.

In Lucky in Love, my heroine, Jordan Mackenzie, is one of those transplants who falls in love with Tularosa, the lifestyle, and the natural beauty of New Mexico, much the same way that I did.  Many of the landmarks, places and events in this story are real, such as The Lodge and Rebecca the ghost, the Otero County fair and rodeo, the fabulous Mexican restaurant, Casa de Suenos, and the Mission Church.  This story is near and dear to my heart, as is Tulie.  I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  You can watch the video and read a blurb and excerpt of Lucky in Love on my website: http://www.staceycoverstone.com

Leave a comment today and you will be entered in a drawing for a chance to win a free digital copy of the book.

Thanks to the fillies for having me today.  I always love talking to my fellow western romance fans.

Happy Reading,

Stacey

St. Patrick’s Day is fast approaching and I can already smell the corn-beef and cabbage–a St.Patrick’s Day must in our house. My hubby is half Irish, though with his fair skin and orange beard, he looks more like a giant leprechaun (he really hates it when I call him that *g*). I have always found it interesting that the four-leaf clover is a symbol synonymous for this Irish holiday.  While the four-leaf clover is certainly a universal symbol for good luck, the true Irish clover, aka, the Shamrock, is a THREE-leaf clover. St. Patrick himself chose the shamrock specifically because of the three leaves, using the clover as a symbol of the Holy Trinity. I came across a Celtic gift site that had a some great facts on both shamrocks and four-leaf clovers.

The Shamrock: a 3-Leaf Clover, is Ireland’s most recognized National Symbol.

• In the 5th century when St. Patrick came to convert the Irish information on Christianity could only be spread across the realm from one storyteller, or seanchaí, pronounced shan-a-key to the other.
• In mind of this St. Patrick used to the Shamrock to explain the concept of the holy trinity – that God was composed of three entities – the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit – yet each entity was part of the other just like the shamrock has three leaves but a single stem.
• As St. Patrick continued to use the Shamrock in his conversion of the irish it grew, through story telling to be seen as a holy plant, just as he was seen as a holy man.
• It is for this reason that the Shamrock is worn on the St. Patrick’s day and all other special occasions to celebrate his work and to bring ‘a bit o’luck’ to the Irish and all their children wherever they may be.
• Before the arrival of the Christians to Ireland the plant was sacred to the Irish Druids because the three leaves formed a triad.
• The word shamrock comes from the Irish word seamróg or seamair óg, meaning “little clover”.
• The tradition of wearing Shamrock on Saint Patrick’s Day can be traced back to the early 1700s.
• For good luck, it’s usually included in the bouquet of an Irish bride, and also in the boutonniere of the groom.
• In the 19th century it became a symbol of rebellion and began to be strongly associated with Irish identity. Apparently anyone wearing it risked death by hanging. People even ate the shamrock in times of famine.

4-Leaf Clover and Luck:

• Druids held the 4 leaf clover in high esteem and considered them a sign of luck. In 1620, Sir John Melton wrote: “If a man walking in the fields find any four-leaved grass, he shall in a small while after find some good thing.
• According to Irish folklore, finding a stem of clover with 4 leaves will bring you good luck, but finding a clover stem with more than 4 leaves will not bring you even more luck.
• The mystique of the four leaf clover continues today, since finding a real four leaf clover is still a rare occurrence and omen of good luck.
• One leaf is for HOPE… The second for FAITH…The third for LOVE… And the fourth for LUCK!

As I kid, I spent a ton of time searching those clover patches in the grass for the elusive four-leaf clover. Being a person who believes you can’t have too much good luck, those lucky 3-leaf clovers can come in real handy!

So how about the rest of y’all? Ever found a four-leaf clover in those three-leaf clover patches? Any special St. Patrick’s Day traditions in your house?

Well, it’s Friday the thirteenth. I don’t fancy myself a superstitious person (I do not count my quirks and phobias in this statement, which include my terror of down-escalators and cooking with yeast). However, if I see a penny on the ground, I admit to picking it up because all day long I’ll have good luck. I especially like finding a dime because that way I get ten lucks.

So I reckoned there must be some kind of superstitions in the Old West among our cowboy heroes. Somehow. Somewhere. So this is what I found.  

Cowboys seem to have many superstitions about their boots. First off, they believe old boots should be worn on Friday the thirteenth for good luck. So check your cowboy’s feet today. New boots: no-no. 

Tripping over a boot is a bad omen. Furthermore, cowboys consider it bad luck to step into their left boot first. Similarly, a bronco rider always puts the right foot in the stirrup first. For some reason, it’s bad juju to use those boots to kick a paper cup thrown down at a rodeo. 

However, if a cowboy drops an old boot outside the door as he leaves on a trip, he’ll have only good luck during his journey. 

He’ll quarrel with someone soon if he sets his boots on a table. Duh. I’d sure quarrel with anybody who did that in my house. 

If he wears out his boots at the toe, he’ll spend money as he goes.  

A cowboy won’t stow his boots higher than his head at night because if he does, he’ll have a restless night’s sleep. I reckon this is when he’s camping out along the trail. 

If he walks wearing only one boot, he’ll have as many bad days ahead as steps he’s taken. And he sure shouldn’t give boots to a friend. That means the friend will walk away from him. Furthermore, he’ll end up walking in the former owner’s troubles if he takes somebody else’s boots even as a gift.

If his new boots creak as he walks, this means he still owes money on them. And new unworn boots should be put high above the floor for luck. (Unless it’s that table-quarrel thing.) 

In every day life, if a cowboy wears his boots while his baby is being born, it’ll be a boy. Seeing a boot set atop a fence post is a sign that someone is at home. And seeing boots hung with the toes pointed toward the wall means their owner is dead.

For maintenance, our cowboy should place red pepper in his boots during winter to keep his feet warm. For a bad fit, he should fill his boots with dry beans or corn, pour in some water, and tie the tops shut. Or…put a zip-lock bag filled with water in the boot, and place the whole she-bang in the freezer.

Well, there’s more cowboy lore regarding rodeo superstitions and hat superstitions and of course, the whole range of Superstition Mountains in Arizona…but I think this will do for now.

Of course, dying with his boots on was the cowboy’s greatest dignity. Who can forget our favorite huckleberry, Val Kilmer’s Doc Holliday on his death bed, peering dolefully at his bare toes and saying, “Now that’s funny?” Sigh.  

How about ya’ll? Any superstitions out there? Anybody wear cowboy boots?

The Winchester Mystery House —Some legends say it is haunted by every person killed with a Winchester Rifle.

Deeply saddened by the deaths of her daughter Annie in 1866 and her young husband in 1881, and seeking solace, Winchester consulted a medium on the advice of a psychic. According to popular history, during a séance, the medium told Winchester there was a curse on the Winchester family because the guns had killed so many. The psychic told Winchester her husband and child died because of vengeful spirits and she was next.”

The Boston Medium told Winchester that she must “build a home for the spirits who have fallen from this terrible weapon. You must never stop building the house. If you stop, you will die.”

Sarah Winchester inherited more than $20.5 million upon her husband’s death. She also received nearly 50 percent ownership of the Winchester Rifle Company. Giving her an income of roughly $1,000 per day. This amount today is roughly equivalent to $21,000 a day so she was well able to fund the mansion she began building.

In 1884, Sarah began a construction project that lasted thirty-eight years. The Victorian mansion is filled with so many unexplained oddities, that it has come to be known as the Winchester Mystery House.

For the next 36 years, they built and rebuilt, altered and changed and constructed and demolished one section of the house after another. She kept 22 carpenters at work, year around, 24 hours each day.  The sounds of hammers and saws sounded throughout the day and night.

There were countless staircases which led nowhere; a blind chimney that stops short of the ceiling; closets that opened to blank walls; trap doors; double-back hallways; skylights that were located one above another; doors that opened to steep drops to the lawn below; and dozens of other oddities.

Nearly all of the windows contained 13 panes of glass; the walls had 13 panels; the greenhouse had 13 cupolas; many of the wooden floors contained 13 sections; some of the rooms had 13 windows and every staircase but one had 13 steps. This exception is unique in its own right…. it is a winding staircase with 42 steps, which would normally be enough to take a climber up three stories. In this case, however, the steps only rise nine feet because each step is only two inches high. Only 2 mirrors were installed in the house…. Sarah believed that ghosts were afraid of their own reflection.

When the great San Francisco Earthquake of 1906 struck the fireplace in the Daisy Room (where Mrs. Winchester was sleeping on the night of the earthquake) collapsed, shifting the room and trapping Sarah inside. She became convinced that the earthquake had been a sign from the spirits who were furious that she had nearly completed the house. Sarah never slept in the same bedroom two nights in a row and she spent from midnight to two a.m. conversing with spirits. On September 4, 1922, after a conference session with the spirits in the seance room, Sarah went to her bedroom for the night. At some point in the early morning hours, she died in her sleep at the age of 83. The building stopped the next day.

Sarah had managed to spend nearly every penny of her wealth. Rumor had it that somewhere in the house was hidden a safe containing a fortune in jewelry and a solid-gold dinner service with which Sarah had entertained her ghostly guests. Her relatives forced open a number of safes but found only old fishlines, socks, newspaper clippings about her daughter’s and her husband’s deaths, a lock of baby hair, and a suit of woolen underwear. No solid gold dinner service was ever discovered.

One of the first to see the place when it opened to the public was Robert L. Ripley, who featured the house in his popular column, “Believe it or Not.”

In the years that the house has been open to the public, employees and visitors alike have had unusual encounters here. There have been footsteps; banging doors; mysterious voices; windows that bang so hard they shatter; cold spots; strange moving lights; doorknobs that turn by themselves. Some special events include flashlight tours every Friday the 13th and at Halloween.  

Do you have historical landmarks in your vicinity?  Do you love to visit them?  Most importantly, are they near your favorite restaurant?

That last question isn’t a joke!  Right next to the rustic Sagebrush Cantina, (they make a mean chicken tostada and great Margaritas) where I’ve been known to frequent with my hubby, friends and my critique partners on Calabasas Road, sits The Leonis Adobe. This ranch house and surroundings is one of 200 or more rancheros that once graced the San Fernando Valley.  The entire area is deemed “El Camino Real”, the famous road that linked Spanish settlements and missions up and down the California coast. 

Before the Southern Pacific Railroad connected Los Angeles to San Francisco, El Camino Real was a stop on the stage line that was operated by Flint, Bixby and Butterfield and at that time, this now upscale affluent area, had a reputation as a rough and tumble wild spot in the San Fernando Valley.  

Miguel Leonis, a Basque land settler who stood six foot four inches tall, was a shrewd and powerful man who, after amassing land and great wealth, came to be known as the “King of Calabasas”.  He married an Indian widow named Espiritu and through that marriage he acquired 1100 acres of her family’s land, cattle, sheep and horses. It was estimated that after his death in 1889, his possessions and wealth steeped to $300,000. It is said that he left Espiritu a mere $10,000 of his estate and she in turn, sued for her fair share, a court battle that lasted ten years.  I have read reports of the house being haunted by Espiritu after her death. 

For me, The Leonis Adobe, which is open to the public, is an amazing visual form of research.  So often, I would go there, imagine my western stories, pick up details on daily life on the ranch and roam around the barn, visit the horses they have corralled, the birds walking free and other penned livestock. I’ve learned how the old windmills worked and how Miguel had managed to run water lines to his house for indoor plumbing.  The kitchen, dining room, bedrooms and parlor of the house helped me envision the furnishings in my own stories and how a big ranch house operated. 

An arbor of grapes provides entrance to the house and a small sampling of vineyards is still intact and growing next to an orchard.  A 600 hundred-year-old oak tree provides backyard shade for the house and barn. I always peek inside the bathhouse that is free standing near the house and windmill and imagine my hero washing up in there.  (Did I just write that?)

Discovering the Leonis Adobe was easy. I probably drive by it twice a week and it always warms my heart that this small street in Calabasas is still holding to old traditions with the Plummer House sitting on the property, moved from its original location and known as the oldest house in Hollywood, built in 1874. And the Calabasas Creek that is partially preserved in its natural state, just 100 yards from Leonis Adobe. All of this history in such a small area and backing up against the 101 Freeway, at times many forget it’s there. They sip margaritas on the outside patio at Sagebrush and watch the world go by.

That is, all but history buffs and writers.  We know its there. We know the legends and often think about what life was like more than one hundred years ago at The Leonis Adobe.

What about you?  Do you have historical landmarks nearby?  What’s the most unforgettable landmark or historical site you’ve visited?    

  ****Remember to follow us on Twitter and look for our new “Cowboy Under the Christmas Tree Contest” coming soon!

Wow. Let me first just thank Cheryl St.John for asking me to post to this wonderful site. I’m a long time visitor, sometime commenter, and have been a fan since researching my current release, All or Nothing.

Writers and readers of historical fiction know—whether we’re talking romance, mystery, or any other sub-genre—more goes into the story then simply writing the tale. We need to know the landscape of the piece. Understand the perils and pitfalls of the time period. And, most importantly—what was it like to be a woman in those conditions? How did one bathe? Eat? Where was the bathroom? And what was one to do when it was so blasted hot outside without air conditioning?

All or Nothing is set in the Arizona West of 1876. The time when my bandit—a real to life bad guy who was never captured, El Tejano—roamed the Dragoon Mountains outside of Arizona. The story is seasoned it with my own life experience, after spending much of my childhood playing among the rugged adobe ruins of Fort Lowell, in Tucson, Arizona.

However, much of my research came from my previous profession. A trained archaeologist.  I traveled the southwest surveying for corporations. I studied historic and prehistoric sites, bagged and tagged artifacts, and hauled boxes of them to dusty museums, all the while knowing that someday I’d fold all that knowledge into my own stories.

I’d been a writer for years, but strictly in the work sense. No romanticizing allowed, my supervisor would say.  I was an archaeologist, tasked with writing reports on sites we discovered, researching bottle-bottoms and landmarks, recording that history for posterity, for whatever corporation funded our research.

My favorite discovery came after surviving the scariest hike in history—surveying ridge tops down the rugged, red slopes of the Copper King Mountains in eastern Arizona. Exhausted, shaken from almost tumbling down a drainage hole during a rockslide, I needed a minute before starting up again. I walked. I took deep breaths, sat—head between my knees, when I saw it. A bit of white and blue mixed in with the pine needles and gravel. I picked it up, surveyed the shard, and found another. A broken plate. Praise God, I stumbled on an historic site—the Little Colorado Mine. My discovery, and mine to map, survey, and write up for history. But, just the facts, they warned me.

Fine. I did it their way. And, oh boy! It was a struggle.

My romantic nature wanted not just to report on the Limoges pattern on shattered dishes. I wanted to discuss the woman who’d opened her hope chest after traveling the rutted road in their rickety wagon, and found her wedding china smashed! How she sobbed over their hand-painted shards. Sure. Maybe that’s what happened.

Or, perhaps a marriage of convenience lured her to that God forsaken bit of land under the shadow of Copper King. In a fury, her husband out digging for silver (and finding nothing but wretched copper ore), she flung a plate or two at his head right before she hitched up the wagon and hightailed it out of there. 

Or, maybe their third baby knocked it off the table while reaching up for a cookie, they all had a good laugh, picked up the pieces and tossed them out onto the trash heap and went in to read the Bible together.

So, my supervisor was right. All I knew for sure was I had a shattered feminine plate in a rugged wasteland. It wasn’t my job to figure out how it broke or why. 

But guess what? As an author, I can.

I can take bits from that experience, the harrowing experience down the mountain side which opens All or Nothing, and weave it with the story of a massacre left widely untold by the popular citizens of Tucson, and pick apart the accounts to guess what might have actually happened there. I also can create a heroine who was confronted with one of the worst occupations in history – being an Army Laundress for the US Cavalry—some of the most unsung heroines of our time.

Researching these things in a time before the internet was a bit like finding a needle in a haystack. But, with the help of women like you—I was able to research historic catalogs, read through to find the price of coffee (green or roasted), by the bag or barrel, and what rations and pay were given a woman who worked for the Cavalry!

Like a kid in a candy store, I grabbed facts. I pocketed them. I wove in “spice” for the story, seasoning my characters and their encounters with each other. I walked with them through the fort grounds, laid out my map, figured out what angle to reach the stable from the parade grounds, and lived the story with them.  My editor picked out the rough spots, evaluated my historical claims and matched them to reality. Where did the train really stop? What song would your heroine be dancing to? Humming? In 1876! Thank heaven for the Internet. A library at our fingertips.

Does an author do this much research for a story set in modern day? Perhaps. But, there is so much that contemporary authors can take for granted that we have to stop and really think about. Our readers can tell when we’re faking it.

www.ashleyludwig.com

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One commenter will win an e-book copy of All or Nothing with my compliments… Thanks so much for visiting!

 The other day I was doing some heads-down research for my current work in progress.  The subject of my quest was stagecoach accommodations but, as often happens when I do research, I got sidetracked by a tidbit I stumbled upon.  What caught my eye was an intriguing reference to  a stage-driver by the name of Charley Parkhurst.  “One-eyed Charley”, as the popular driver was called, led a very colorful and singular life. 

Charley was born in New Hampshire around 1812.  Orphaned while very young, Charley was sent to an orphanage, escaped from the orphanage at around age 12 and found a job as a stable boy.  There it was discovered Charley had a way with the horses and was promoted from stable boy to handling teams and eventually progressed to driving coaches.  Charley’s skill was such that patrons were known to specifically request the young driver by name.

In 1851 Charley moved to California following the opportunities that opened up with the gold rush and soon earned a reputation as being one of the safest and fastest drivers around, easily handling the ribbons for a team of six.  According to one source looking back over Charley’s career, “. . . in more than twenty years no highwayman had dared to hold up a stagecoach with Charley Parkhurst on the box, for the first two who tried it had been shot dead in their tracks.”

At some point, Charley lost an eye as a result of being kicked by a horse.  Not deterred by the mishap, Charley wore a black eye black patch from then on, and thus obtained the nickname “One-eyed Charley.”  From all accounts, though a fair and honest person, Charley was no saint.  The colorful driver’s habits included, smoking cigars, chewing tobacco, indulging in moderate drinking, card playing and other forms of gambling, and swearing volubly when the occasion called for it.

Eventually, when rheumatism (a common condition among long-time drivers) began taking a physical toll and the railroad expansion took more and more of the overland business, Charley retired.  Never one to remain idle, the former stage-driver, now past sixty, turned to raising cattle and occasionally hauling freight for neighbors. 

All of the above points to a vivid life lived fully and with gusto.  But the most astounding thing about Charley wasn’t revealed until it came time to lay the body out for burial.  It turns out Charley was a woman!  Her real name was Charlotte Darkey Parkhurst.  For the most part, co-workers, business partners, neighbors and even close friends were absolutely  flummoxed by the news.  In fact, Charley had fooled everyone to the extent that she was allowed to register to vote in the presidential election of 1868, long before women were awarded that privilege.

Reading this remarkable story had the writer in me imagining story after story to account for what had led Charley to lead such a curious life. 

Had she taken the disguise as a child in order to land the stable boy job and found herself trapped for a lifetime by her own deception? 

Had she become so enamored of the freedom afforded her as a man that she was unwilling to give it up? 

Was she running from something in her past and was afraid to resume her true identity? 

Did she ever long to throw off her disguise?

Another piece of this intriguing puzzle that spurs the imagination – it was said that those who went through Charley’s possessions after her death found baby clothes. Wow, if true, does this ever raise additional questions.

Did she in fact have a baby?  If so, when – after she reached California or was it actually part of the reason she headed west?  What happened to the child – did the baby die or did she find a home for him/her?  Who was the father and under what circumstances was the child conceived?

Anyway, this little side trip through my research cost me several hours since I couldn’t resist digging deeper into her story even though it’s not something that will be useful to my work in progress.  Then again, who knows?  Pieces of this tale, or variations thereof, may someday find their way into a future book.

So what about you?  Did this snippet of Charley’s history cause you to start spinning tales in your head about what her life might have been like?  What aspect most intrigued you, what piece did you immediately hone in on?

In exactly one year from today on May 22^nd, I’ll be the mother of the groom!  My son is getting married! The wedding will take place on a country club golf course and their vows will be spoken on the first tee.  My son is an avid golfer, you see, and he wanted to get married on a golf course.  No other place seemed fitting enough.

My husband and I recently celebrated our 35^th wedding anniversary. Since both of us worked that day, he took me to Mission Burrito for a taco salad. The entire dinner cost $12.00. We were blissfully happy anyway and will take a little trip next month to celebrate properly. But either extravagant or simple, I feel very fortunate to have spent these past 35 years in a relationship with a warm-hearted, loving man.

My daughter was married just last fall, and now we’re back in wedding mode again. As we stuffed the beautiful engagement party invitations, my husband said, “Seems like we were just doing this.”  It’s true – it was only 7 months ago when we were in full wedding swing. This party will be a summer luau with all the trimmings, including a Tiki Bar with my dh as the Mai Tai Master.  

How different weddings are now than in the past. While today young women and girls look forward to marrying their loves, forming that loving bond together with stability and compassion, back in the first half of the 1800’s, that wasn’t necessarily the case. Often, women weren’t overly enthused with the thought of marriage. For them, it meant a hard life of cooking, mending, sewing, chores and bearing children. 

I was surprised to learn that women had on average five to seven children! That’s a lot of meals to cook and clothes to clean! But more importantly, if love wasn’t the means to their marriage, wives were often subjugated to a husband’s wrath. They depended on him for monetary support and therefore, the men always had the upper hand.  Woman often spoke of their upcoming marriage with impending doom or at the very least, anxiety.

Whereas, it’s observed that in the first part of the nineteenth century men looked favorably upon marriage. They’d have good meals cooked, clean clothes and sex on a regular basis.  While women of that time enjoyed sex with a mate before marriage, often their desire waned after marriage. Statistics show this to be true today as well.

In the early part of the century a minister performed the ceremony in the bride’s home for most marriages, although church weddings became more popular later on and soon became the norm. Perhaps due to the preacher’s heavy schedule of sermons and church services, most weddings in early 1800’s were performed on Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Thursdays.

Women of the West tended to court and marry at a later age than those in the East and South. They also engaged in more premarital sex and often married if the woman became pregnant.

Today’s research shows from a 2008 study that the average marrying age for women is 25 and for men, 27. 

Since two of our fillies are marrying off their daughters this season, both coincidentally named Kristi/Christi, I asked them about their thoughts and family traditions that continue from generation to generation.  Both Pam Crooks and Tanya Hanson had something unique to share!

From Pam: 

“With a talent she didn’t know she had until she was in her late thirties, my sister Kim decorates beautiful cookies.  Starting with my first daughter, and continuing the tradition with my second and now my third, she makes cookies for every guest at the wedding reception. 

As you read this, Kristi is hours away from being married.  Afterward, since she and her new husband will be moving to Virginia Beach, the guests will find beach-themed cookies at their table.

Love the cookies Pam! Aren’t they adorable! Best wishes at the wedding today!

From Tanya:      

I’m a little crazy right now LOL. Christi had her first fitting on Saturday and suddenly, it’s almost here.

Some traditions, old and new:  Christi is using the cake knife and server, and silver toasting goblets from Matt and Debbie’s wedding, and the little Noritake china bridal cake plate Tim and I ate from. 

A five-generation tradition: Somewhere during the ceremony, the hymn “Let us Ever Walk with Jesus” happens. At our wedding, it was a solo. My parents walked up to the altar to it during WW II. At Matt’s and also Christi’s, it’s the song I will walk in to.

I think all of these traditions are amazing and endearing. 

What about you?  Any weddings on your horizon?  Did you have family traditions that continue on from one generation to the next?   And what wedding scene from either a book or movie stands out in your mind?  

Curious minds want to know!

Don’t forget to enter our Fillies Contest!!