Kit Morgan

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If you’ve spent any time with my fictional Weaver family, you know they’re a lively bunch. They tease one another mercilessly, laugh a lot, work hard, and when enough of them gather in one place, there’s a good chance something unexpected is going to happen.

Readers sometimes ask where authors get their ideas. In the case of the Weavers, I didn’t have to look very far. I grew up with them. Well… sort of.

My Aunt and Uncle had twelve children, that’s twelve cousins who became part of the inspiration for the Weaver family. I didn’t take Cousin A and turn him into one Weaver, or Cousin B and turn her into another. The fictional family came from something bigger than that. It came from the spirit of my cousins. Things I remember from summers at their ranch as a kid when my dad and mom would go help with the wheat harvest. 

They are quick-witted, fun, hardworking, and they laugh. A lot. Put a bunch of them together and the stories start flying. Recently, we lost one of those twelve. and as sometimes happens after a loss in the family, I found myself looking backward and learning things about some of my cousins that I’d never known. That’s how I stumbled across a newspaper column from the East Oregonian about my cousin Joe. And let me tell you, after reading it, I thought, Well, there you go. No wonder I created the Weavers so easily.

My cousins come from ranching country in Eastern Oregon. They’re wheat farmers, but cattle ranching is also a big part of the operation. Horses, cattle, corrals, farm equipment, wheat fields stretching over the hills, it’s not scenery they visit on vacation. It’s part of their lives. The article about Joe described a day spent touring his farming and cattle operations near Ione and through South Morrow County. And apparently, when Joe gives you a ranch tour, you had better clear your calendar.

The writer began the day riding around with him in a farm truck. Okay, that’s normal enough. Then Joe took him back to the farm, walked him over to what looked like a machine shed and introduced him to the next mode of transportation: A 1952 Super Cub airplane. The runway? A patch of wheat stubble.

Of course it was. Joe flew him over remote ranch country, pointing out ridges where he’d landed over the years. According to Joe, “sometimes on purpose and sometimes in an emergency.” And it gets better.

Joe built a contraption beneath the wings of the airplane that allowed him to carry salt blocks for cattle grazing in hard-to-reach areas. He could fly low, operate a pulley system, and drop the salt block where the cattle needed it. The writer admitted imagining some unsuspecting cow getting clobbered by a sixty-pound salt block falling out of the sky. Joe assured him he’d always missed the cattle. 

After the airplane tour, they got back into the pickup and drove into the mountains, eventually reaching a fully furnished house in the middle of the ranch country.  There, Joe made lunch. Then came the four-wheelers. For the next couple of hours, they toured rough country where thousands of cattle spent the summer. The writer described Joe charging up a primitive road at about thirty-five miles an hour through snow, ice, and ruts.

 At one point the writer of the article later told his son, “He took off up the road like a madman on that machine.” His son’s response? “You were the perfect companion.”
See what I mean? This is my family. And they’re wonderful.
Cousin Joe explained to the writer of the article, that his generation had plenty of family around while growing up. The article mentions the twelve children in Joe’s family, eleven cousins across the canyon, and another group of eight children closer to Ione.
At times, the school bus picked up twenty or more of Joes relatives at the homeplace.
Can you imagine being the poor unsuspecting child who boarded that bus after all of them?
No wonder big fictional families have always felt completely normal to me!

That’s really what inspired the Weavers. Not twelve specific characters copied from twelve specific cousins. It was the atmosphere. A big rural family. Wheat and cattle. Horses and corrals. Hard work. People who know how to pitch in because there’s always something that needs doing. Who tease one another because they know each other too well to get away with much.
People who can turn an ordinary workday into a story everyone will still be laughing about years later. And, most importantly, people who enjoy one another.

I think that last part is what found its way most strongly into the Weavers. They may fuss and meddle. They may get themselves into ridiculous situations. But beneath all of it is family, and that sense that whatever happens, nobody is facing it alone.
The Weavers themselves are entirely fictional. But the laughter? The chaos? The enormous family and ranching life? That part came from someplace very real. And now, after discovering Cousin Joe once took off from a wheat field in an airplane rigged to drop salt blocks from the sky, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’ve been too restrained with the Weavers. 

If you’d like to read the article about Cousin Joe, you can find it HERE

How about your family? Do you have a larger-than-life relative who could walk straight into the pages of a novel?
Or is there someone in your family whose personality or adventures have inspired one of your own stories?
I’d love to hear about them! I’ve giving away a copy of Harvest with the Weavers to one lucky commenter! 

Last month, I shared photos of my daughter’s landlady’s lovely garden and wrote about the flowers that brought color and beauty to homes in the Old West.
This month, another garden sent me wandering down a different historical trail.
I’m writing this from my sister Carol’s house, where we’re getting ready to celebrate Hana’s college graduation. The celebration may be coming at the end of July, but better late than never!

Before the guests arrive, I’ve been admiring Carol’s magnificent garden.
She has flowers blooming everywhere, vegetables ripening, and enough green growing things to make me wonder why my own gardening efforts usually result in one brave tomato plant struggling for survival. Er, it usually looses the struggle. My sister has the green thumb in the family. I have the thumb of death when it comes to gardening. 

But, as  I walked around looking at everything this morning, a question popped into my mind.
Where did gardeners in the Old West get their seeds?

Many families saved seeds from one year’s harvest to plant the next. Friends and neighbors also traded seeds, bulbs, roots, and cuttings. A woman might carry seeds from her mother’s garden when she moved West, preserving a little piece of home in a new and unfamiliar place. But as mail service and transportation improved, gardeners gained another tempting source.

The seed catalog.

By the latter half of the nineteenth century, commercial seed companies were sending catalogs throughout the country. Customers could sit at a kitchen table hundreds, even thousands of miles from the company’s warehouse, and choose what they wanted to grow. They’d mail in an order, and eventually receive little packets filled with possibilities.

A garden really could come in the mail.

D. M. Ferry & Company of Detroit was already publishing illustrated seed annuals in the 1870s. Its catalogs offered descriptions and pictures of flowers, fruits, vegetables, farm seeds, and even gardening tools. Then there was W. Atlee Burpee.
Burpee began his mail-order business in Philadelphia in 1876, when he was only eighteen years old. He started by selling poultry and livestock. His customers soon began asking for a dependable source of garden seeds, and by the following year, seeds were becoming the heart of the business.

Imagine some farm wife opening one of those catalogs during the coldest part of winter. Outside, the wind might be rattling the windows. Snow could be piled against the barn. The garden would be nothing but a frozen patch of ground.
But inside that catalog? Tomatoes hung heavy on the vine. Cabbages grew to enormous size. Flowers bloomed in colors almost too perfect to believe. Somewhere between the sweet peas and the squash, spring waited patiently.

By the 1880s, many seed catalogs had become sizable booklets filled with bold, colorful illustrations. Improvements in printing, transportation, and mail service allowed the catalogs to reach more customers, and for some seed companies, the catalog became their primary salesman. And what a salesman it must have been. I don’t know about you, but I can be overly optimistic when looking at gardening pictures. Some part of me believes that if I purchase the correct packet of seeds, I’ll also receive rich soil, perfect weather, endless patience, and some mysterious ability to remember to water everything. Ha!  I suspect nineteenth-century gardeners occasionally fell under the same spell.

Of course, their gardens weren’t merely decorative. A successful kitchen garden could provide a family with beans, peas, onions, carrots, cabbages, squash, lettuce, melons, herbs, and cucumbers to eat fresh, dry, pickle, or preserve for winter. Flowers mattered too. Even when every inch of land had to earn its keep, women planted hollyhocks beside cabins, morning glories near porches, and sweet peas along fences. A few bright blossoms could soften a rough new home and make an isolated place feel settled.

Mail-order seeds also gave gardeners access to varieties they might never have found in a local store. A catalog from a large Eastern or Midwestern company could introduce something new to a farm, ranch, or small Western town. Before Rural Free Delivery began on an experimental basis in 1896, many rural families still had to travel into town to collect their mail. That trip could take hours. Imagine finally reaching the post office and discovering that the seed order had arrived!
Those little packets must have felt like promises. A row of beans. A bed of asters. Cucumbers for pickles. Marigolds beside the front steps. Those seeds meant food for the table and beauty for the soul, all tucked into an envelope or small parcel.
                                

Carol’s garden is already bursting with the results of this year’s planting. But looking at it made me think about all the gardens that began long ago with a catalog, a pencil, an order form, and someone dreaming of spring.

Have you ever ordered seeds or plants through the mail? And what is the one flower, fruit, or vegetable you would always make room for in your garden?

I’m house and cat sitting for a woman who owns the cutest bungalow surrounded by a simple, yet chaotic garden on three sides of the house. Being here, if only for a few days, reminds me of how it’s the simple, little things that can make a house a home. But how did women in days gone by, create such beauty?

One of the things I love most about writing westerns is remembering that the Old West wasn’t all dust, danger, cattle drives, and gunfights. Oh, those things certainly make wonderful story fodder. Give me a stubborn cowboy, a runaway wagon, a mysterious stranger, or a heroine with more courage than sense, and I’m a happy writer. But what really brings a western town or homestead to life for me are the little touches of beauty people carried with them.

A scrap of lace, teacups wrapped carefully in cloth and packed across the country.
A packet of flower seeds tucked into a trunk. A quilt made from dresses that had seen better days. Maybe a blue ribbon saved for Sunday.

Those are the details that make my imagination wake up. I often think about the women who traveled west and what they chose to bring when space was limited and every item had to matter. A cast-iron skillet was practical. A good needle was necessary, and a sturdy pair of shoes could make all the difference.

But then there were the things that weren’t strictly necessary and still mattered very much. Many a woman kept a pressed flower between the pages of a Bible. For some it was a pretty shawl or a bit of rose-scented soap. Many carried small pictures from home, while others packed packets of hollyhock, marigold, or sweet pea seeds.

Those little things remind me that people have always needed beauty. Not grand beauty, necessarily. Not chandeliers and ballrooms and velvet curtains. Just something lovely enough to soften a hard day.

Imagine a woman standing in the doorway of a sod house or a rough cabin. The wind is blowing dust across the yard. Supper still needs cooking. The children are muddy. Her husband is late getting back. There is work everywhere she looks.

But beside the door, a few stubborn flowers are blooming. That matters.
Maybe they came from seeds her mother gave her or she traded for them with a neighbor. Maybe she carried them across miles of prairie because she couldn’t bear to leave every pretty thing behind. That little patch of flowers says, “This is home now.”

I think that’s why I love writing heroines who create beauty wherever they land. Maybe they bake, sew, plant flowers, tend chickens, teach children, doctor neighbors, run boardinghouses, or make a lonely room feel welcoming. They’re not just surviving. They’re building something.

I western romance, that’s often what love is really about, too. Not just the grand declaration or the kiss. And let’s not forget the moment when the hero finally realizes he’s been a complete fool and had better do something about it before the heroine walks away. Though I do love that part.

Love is also in the small things. The cup of coffee waiting on the stove, the extra blanket. What about wildflowers left on a windowsill? Or when the man who notices she’s tired. The woman who sees past his gruffness and realizes he’s lonely?

It’s these little things that make a house into a home. And sometimes, those little beauties are what make a story feel real. So today I’m thinking about the small comforts people carried into hard places. The things that didn’t look important on a packing list, but meant everything once the journey was over. A flower garden, a pretty dish, a quilt, songs, memories and hope.

Those are the things that remind us our foremothers weren’t only tough, though they certainly were that. They were also dreamers. Women who could face a hard world and still say, “I’m going to plant something beautiful here.” And honestly, I can’t think of anything more heroic than that.

What about you? What little touch makes a house feel like home to you? Is it flowers, books, quilts, family photographs, a certain scent from the kitchen, or something else entirely?

There are few things as hopeful as a new dress.
Not a practical dress meant for scrubbing floors, hauling water, or feeding chickens. I mean a new dress. One sewn from carefully chosen fabric, trimmed with ribbon if one could afford it, and made for church socials, dances, weddings, or simply the pleasure of feeling pretty for an afternoon.

For women on the frontier, fashion was not frivolous. It was aspiration stitched into fabric.

Life in the West could be hard, dusty, and painfully practical. A woman might spend her days baking bread over a hot stove, mending shirts by lamplight, or battling wind that coated everything in dirt by noon. But even in rough mining towns and isolated homesteads, women still longed for beauty.  And when a new dress arrived? Oh, mercy. That was an event.

A woman might save for months to buy fabric from the general store, or eagerly await the arrival of a Sears Roebuck catalog to gaze at the latest fashions from back East. Imagine living in a tiny frontier town and suddenly seeing illustrations of elegant walking suits, velvet bodices, fitted jackets, lace collars, and sleeves shaped in the newest style. It must have felt like peeking into another world.

Sometimes dresses were ordered ready-made. More often, however, women sewed them at home or paid a local seamstress if they had the means. And frontier women could be remarkably resourceful. A dress might begin as one garment, then be altered and remade several times over its life. Skirts were recut. Bodices reshaped. Trims removed and replaced as fashions changed. Nothing was wasted.

Still, despite the practical nature of frontier life, women absolutely paid attention to fashion trends. Bustles, fitted waists, decorative buttons, embroidery, ruffles, and fine hats all made their appearance in western towns sooner or later. Even isolated communities wanted to keep up with the times.

And honestly? I love that.

There’s something deeply human about wanting a little beauty in the middle of hardship. I especially love imagining the excitement surrounding special occasions. A church social. A wedding. A town dance. A woman carefully pinning up her hair while smoothing her newest skirt, hoping the hem didn’t drag in the mud before she arrived. A husband pretending not to notice the new ribbon while secretly thinking his wife looked prettier than the sunrise.

Believe me, men noticed.

Oh, they absolutely noticed! I think that’s part of why dresses mattered so much. They represented more than fashion. They represented identity, femininity, dignity, and sometimes even hope. On the frontier, where life could become survival very quickly, putting on a beautiful dress was a reminder that a woman was still herself beneath all the work and worry. And let’s be honest… there is still a little frontier woman alive in most of us today.

Modern women may not wait six months for fabric to arrive by wagon train, but we still understand the thrill of finding the dress. The one that makes us stand a little taller. The one we smooth over our hips before turning to the mirror with a smile.

Some things never really change.

So now I’m curious…

If you could step into the Old West for one evening, what sort of dress would you wear to the town social? Something elegant and sophisticated? Bright and cheerful? Lots of lace? Or practical with just a touch of flair?

Yes Felicia came to visit me, and Yes, I have a winner! Congratulations to Debra Guyette. You’ve won a $10.00 Amazon gift card! Contact me at authorkitmorgan@gmail.com so I can get your prize to you!

Janice, you’ve won an e-book of Kit’s of your choice.
Email Kit at authorkitmorgan@gmail.com so she can gift you the book.

We’re said it or heard it at some point. “It’s the code of the West!”

The Code of the West was like a sacred law, passed down through generations of rugged cowboys. It was never written down, but it was understood and followed by all who called themselves true cowboys. Here is a “loose” list of some of the unspoken guidelines that governed their way of life.

A man’s past was not to be questioned or judged. He was to be taken as he was in the present, his character measured by his actions and words.
No crime was greater than stealing another man’s horse. This offense would be met with swift justice, often resulting in death for the culprit.

In a land where danger could strike at any moment, defending oneself was necessary for survival.
Self-sufficiency and independence were highly valued traits among cowboys. They looked out for their own needs and didn’t rely on others for help.

Etiquette even extended to the dining table – guns were to be removed before sitting down, ensuring a peaceful meal.
Whiskey was the drink of choice, and anything weaker would not be accepted by a true cowboy.

Threats were not made lightly, as they could lead to severe consequences.
When passing another person on the trail, it was customary to greet them with a friendly “Howdy.”

To avoid startling someone from behind, a loud greeting should be given before getting within shooting range. And it was considered rude to wave at someone on horseback, so a simple nod sufficed as a proper greeting.

Looking back at someone after passing them implied mistrust. A cowboy’s word was his bond, and trustworthiness was highly prized.

Borrowing another man’s horse without permission was almost as bad as betraying him with his wife – something no honorable cowboy would ever do.

In true cowboy fashion, whiskey glasses were always filled to the brim – leaving no room for timidity or hesitation.
Cowboys were known for their stoic nature, reserving their breath for breathing rather than idle chatter.

But despite their tough exterior, cowboys had a code of conduct to uphold. They were always considerate and tended to their horse’s needs before their own.
Strong language was tolerated among men, but never in the presence of women, horses, or cows. And if someone complained about the cooking, they would often find themselves taking over those duties.
When drinking whiskey, it was customary to hold the glass in one’s gun hand as a sign of friendship and good intentions.

Ingratitude was not tolerated among cowboys – they understood the value of loyalty and appreciation for others.

Even when things weren’t going well, a cowboy remained pleasant and forbearing. Complaining was seen as a weakness, and quitters were despised.

Courage was a necessary trait for life on the frontier. There was no room for cowardice in any outfit worth its salt.

A true cowboy was always willing to lend a helping hand, even to strangers or enemies.

Hats were personal property and should never be tried on without permission.
Hospitality was extended to all who crossed their path, regardless of past feuds or differences. Strangers were always welcome at the dinner table, just as riders were welcomed into cowboy camps.

Giving an opponent a fair chance in a fight was integral to the code. It was known as “the rattlesnake code” – always give warning before striking. However, if someone was being stalked or ambushed, this rule could be overlooked.

Women were to be treated with respect at all times – violence against them was strictly forbidden.

Consideration for others extended to all aspects of life on the range – from avoiding stirring up dust near the chuckwagon to not waking the wrong man for herd duty.

The land and environment were held in high regard by cowboys, who respected nature by not smoking in hazardous areas and preserving its natural beauty.

Honesty was paramount, and a cowboy’s word was his bond. A handshake was more binding than any written contract.

And perhaps most importantly, cowboys lived by the Golden Rule – treating others as they would want to be treated themselves. This code of conduct not only governed their actions but also defined the very essence of what it meant to be a cowboy in the American West.

Have you heard of any other Codes of the West? What are some you’re most familiar with? I’m giving away one e-book of mine of choice to one lucky commenter!

If you’ve never been to Old Sacramento and get the chance to go, take it. I love Old Sac. Every time I used to visit my son in Stockton, which is about forty-five minutes south of Sacramento, I like to set aside a day to wander through Old Town.
Old Sacramento is exactly what the name suggests: an entire historic district along the waterfront. The wooden sidewalks, brick buildings, and old storefronts make you feel as if you’ve stepped back into the 1800s. The buildings have been preserved and are still very much in use today, filled with shops, restaurants, candy stores, and museums. It’s the sort of place where you can spend hours simply strolling and peeking into windows.

One of my favorite stops is the California State Railroad Museum. Ty Smith, the museum’s director, once said that “trains and railroading are at the heart of who we are as a people. We speak in railroad language and metaphor. To speak of trains is to speak of freedom and movement.” He also says the museum is made up not just of trains, but of stories.

And there are plenty of those.

Every time I visit the museum, I learn something new. For instance, many towns in the American West were built around railroad tracks rather than the other way around. A town’s location was often determined by where the tracks ran. Of course, some places were settled long before the railroad arrived, but once the trains came through, those towns often grew quickly.

The tracks were usually laid along the edge of town or just outside it, and over time the town expanded until it surrounded them.

It’s fascinating to realize just how much trains shaped the way communities developed.

Trains also left their mark on American music. There are countless train songs in the American songbook. Trains have a rhythm that musicians couldn’t ignore. There are tragic train songs, “working on the railroad” songs, love songs, and songs about love lost. Trains are wonderfully percussive. If you listen closely to old recordings, you can almost hear the syncopation of wheels on rails and the cry of the train whistle woven into the music itself.

The museum is a wonderful connection to the past, when train travel was as much about the journey as it was the destination. Travelers sat in plush railcars watching the country roll by outside their windows. People met, shared meals, and sometimes formed friendships that lasted far longer than the trip itself.

In recent years, train travel has been making a bit of a comeback. More and more folks are choosing the rails again. It’s a relaxing way to see the country and a refreshing change of pace from crowded highways and busy airports.

One of the highlights of visiting the museum is the steam-powered excursion train on the Sacramento Southern Railroad.

Watching the engine chug to life and hearing the whistle blow makes history feel wonderfully alive. It’s easy to see why people of all ages love riding trains.

So if you enjoy trains, or just enjoy a good piece of history, the next time you’re passing through Sacramento, take a little time to stop at Old Sacramento State Historic Park and visit the California State Railroad Museum. Stroll the boardwalks of this wonderful place, visit the shops, grab a bite. You’ll be glad you did.

One train ride I’ve always wanted to take is called The Fruit Loop, in Oregon. It takes you to a string of farms and farm stands that sell all kinds of apples, pears, nuts, and other goodies!

Tell me, have you ever taken a train trip? Or do you have a favorite train movie, song, or story?

Crystal, congratulations, you’re my winner!
You’ve won a free e-copy of one of my books of your choice.
Contact me at authorkitmorgan@gmail.com so I can gift you your book.