Linda Broday

I grew up in New Mexico on a steady diet of red beans and fried potatoes. Occasionally, we might have a roast, some fried chicken, or pork chops. Only that didn’t happen very often. Also, once in a blue moon my mama would boil some spinach or greens. You couldn’t have paid me enough to get a bite of that green slimy stuff in my mouth! Yuck. But, as I grew older and left home a funny thing happened—my tastes changed. Now I love spinach, cabbage, and cauliflower, plus a lot of other foods that I turned up my nose at when I was young. 

Taste can also be applied to fashion and those changes for me on a regular basis. I’m not that finicky about clothes and shoes and purses. I like a lot of different things—mostly everything my daughters hate. It seems we have opposite ides of what looks flattering. Go figure. 

 But, what I’m finding totally amazing is the change that’s happened in my book preference over the last ten years. I used to scan through a book when I contemplated buying it to see if the heroine was young and if there were no “distracting” children in the story. If the heroine wasn’t late teens/early twenties or the story involved children, it went back on the shelf. I wasn’t interested in reading it, no matter how well recommended. Truth was, I didn’t give the book a chance. I wanted the girl young and the story free from anything that cluttered it up, like kids. My interest was only in the relationship between the hero and heroine. 

I’m not too proud of this, but I once spurned a good story simply because the hero was short. I didn’t care that he was handsome and tough. The fact that he was short ruined the story for me. 

Somewhere along the line, and I can’t remember when or how it happened, I drifted toward older heroines and I began to love stories that involved children. I found that children added a depth to the story that it probably wouldn’t have had. And now I can’t stand stories featuring some young thing that hasn’t lived long enough to have real character. Those go back on the shelves. I want my heroine to have had experiences that shaped her into the person she is.  Doesn’t matter to me if she’s married, widowed, or a spinster as long as she’s late twenties to late forties. And I want children, the more children the better. I want a rich, full-bodied story that tugs at my heart. I want the woman to have struggled and lost something very precious so that she knows when fortune smiles on her, she reaches for it with all the strength and tenacity she has. I want the same for my hero. He’s a man who’s rugged, who’s come through the fire, and who isn’t afraid to live life to the fullest. Rarely does he care what those around him think. He’s his own man and he walks tall even though he may not have physical height. I do confess though that I still prefer him to be tall, but I’ll read the story now even if he isn’t. Another thing I’m finding is that I love to read mainstream where there’s no romance at all, which is something I wouldn’t have considered ten years ago. It was romance or nothing.

 There’s no accounting taste I guess. Not everyone’s is the same. That’s why there’s room for all sorts of stories about a multitude of subjects and people. Variety is good. That way everyone can be happy and have what they prefer.

Maybe my age has something to do with my taste. As I get older my tastes in things change? I don’t know. That’s a deep subject. Could be true though. I just wonder if I’ll suddenly develop a craving for seafood? If I do, that’ll be a miracle. I’m not about to discount it with absolute certainty. And I wonder if at some point I’ll yearn for stories with seventy and eighty year old heroes and heroines?? Ha! Can’t imagine that now but who knows. Guess I’ll have to wait and see. 

What are your tastes and do you find that they’re changing or have already changed? Or what kind of books do you really like? I’d love to hear your comments.

The American cowboy had a whole passel of unwritten codes and sayings about how to conduct himself in the West. In fact, a list of those would probably fill an entire book. They were usually short, blunt, and to the point because the cowboy was sparing of his words. They always brimmed with a whole lot of wisdom though. And breaking one of their rules might land you in a heap of trouble.

Love and protect your family. 

Be gentle and kind to your horse. 

Respect yourself and others. 

Treat the land well and it’ll be good to you.  

Don’t spit on the sidewalk. 

Keep a lid on your can of cuss words in the company of womenfolk.  

Don’t stick your nose in where it don’t belong or it might get broken.

And the list goes on. The saying that sticks in my mind lately though is this one–“Dance with the One That Brung You.”

It was proper etiquette for a lady to always remember who brought her to the dance and to show her appreciation by nothing less than dancing with that person. Abandoning her escort to dance with another was considered unmannerly, not to say ill-advised, and tantamount to throwing down the gauntlet. The spurning could lead to serious consequences–and had sometimes been known to cause a case or two of lead poisoning.

Grant you, society today is very different from the way it was a hundred or so years ago. But, most of us who remember the unwritten rules of conduct fare much better than those who’ve tossed them in the trash. I still cut a wide berth around someone who hawks up a big wad of phlegm and spits it on the sidewalk. Yuck! And we sure haven’t done too good a job at taking care of the land. We’ve polluted and ravaged what was once so bountiful.

I remember my mama’s teachings and try to live accordingly, not only to make her proud of me, but because I want to make myself the very best I can be. So far, her wisdom has steered me in the right direction. When I was born in the late 1940’s, my parents, two sisters, a brother, and me lived in a one-room tent. The picture at the right shows a little of what it looked like. (And it was the first time I rode a horse. Seems I started early. Even if the horse was borrowed.) It took my parents a long time to recover from the Great Depression. They never had too much to begin with and what precious little they had was lost when the Depression hit. My folks were long on pride and short on money. The tent was a blessed, prized possession. They’d seen plenty of times when the sky was their roof and the ground their bed. Even then they gave thanks for that. There’s much to be said for doing what you can with what the good Lord gives you. I’m not ashamed for having lived in a tent for the early part of my life. Being poor is no reason to hang your head. I think if the young, spoiled movie stars today had a lot less money and a more stable structure to their lives they wouldn’t be in the revolving doors of rehab and jail. Maybe instead of a cell the judge should sentence them to living on a working ranch for a few years? That might help them learn to appreciate the wonderful gifts they’ve been given. And to keep their dadgum bloomers on! It sure couldn’t hurt. Nothing else seems to work.

I think everyone should always remember where they came from, how they got where they are, and who brought them to this dance called life. I’m proud of my humble beginnings. No matter what success or accomplishment may come way I never want to forget for a single moment the place I came from and the sacrifice of loving parents who worked their fingers to the bone. They’ve already gone from this earth but they  left a treasured legacy in trying to give their kids the very best they could. I know I’m deeply satisfied to have been so lucky. Because of them I have a clear view (most of the time anyway) of the world and how I fit in it. At least I keep my bloomers on!

I hope I never get too uppity or forget my raising. And I always want to remember to dance with the one that brought me.

Do you have memories of your growing-up years that still influence you today?    Or maybe you still practice some of the codes of the west?

Special Reminder: Be sure to enter the Big Fall Bonanza Contest on our Primrose News Submittal Page!!! Lots of neat prizes to give away to some lucky person.  Yea!  🙂           

What could be better than a June night with a group of friends under the Texas stars, laughing more than the law allows, and eating until we couldn’t hold another bite?  Not much any better than that. I don’t get to do near enough laughing so when Phyliss Miranda and Jodi Thomas twisted my arm and made me sign my name in blood, I knew I’d fill the empty well with so much laughter it’d spill out and soak into the rocky ground. Sharing the experience with such wonderful friends made it even more special when Phyliss, Jodi, Molly McKnight, Ginger Porter and I gave Hilary Sares of Kensington Publishing a taste of real pioneering life. I hope she won’t hold it against us! 

Big thanks go to Hilary for toting a neat surprise—the title of our second anthology, Give Me A Cowboy—all the way from New York. She’s the best. You wouldn’t take her for a New Yorker in the ten gallon hat Jodi brought for her to wear. She looked more like a Texan than we did. A regular cowgirl. 

But, back to my story.  In Palo Duro Canyon just south of Amarillo, Texas there’s a certain sound of happiness in the music of the wind, the twill of the songbirds as they flitter among the branches of the mesquite and cottonwood, and the rustle of the sage as the evening draws to a close. We perched on some rocks like a gaggle of satisfied fat geese and watched a magnificent sunset. You had to be there. The fading light bounced off the walls of the canyon, giving us a show I won’t soon forget. Don’t know about the rest, but I felt as if I’d died and gone to paradise. It reminded me of the song that asks to go to Texas when you die. I hate to brag, but our corner of the universe is something. I never tire of looking at the wide expanse of sky and the land that goes on forever. 

Looking at all that beauty, it never even dawned on me that I had quite an experience in store. Ha, I’m a little slow sometimes, but let’s not go there. 

That night I learned the meaning of three words that I’d casually slung around like ground corn to a flock of chickens. I’d always thought of rustic as something that’s kinda modern except with an old appearance. And a bathroom as a piece of smooth porcelain—or shoot, even a wooden outhouse with a round hole. But spending the night at Cow Camp educated me in “roughing it.” I found out quick why Jodi went back to her soft bed and shiny white porcelain. Yep, I certainly did. She’s a pretty smart cookie.  😉

Now, the word Cow Camp should’ve given me a clue as to what I’d signed up for. But, like I said I’m a little slow. They promised me that the bathroom was just across the road. No problem. The CCC (Civilian Conservation Corps) built these cabins during the Great Depression in the 1930’s. They constructed them from natural rock from the area with no frills. And, other than limited electricity, they’re exactly as they were when they finished constructing them. These rock shelters had no bathroom, no sink, and no running water. Thank the good Lord we had electricity at least and a bed of sorts that used rope for the springs. That was my saving grace. 

It was after I discovered that we had to walk quite a distance to the “road” that led to the bathroom that panic set in. In daylight it wasn’t so bad, but in the dead of night by flashlight it was another story altogether. Rather than risk an encounter with rattlesnakes, wild critters, and god-knows-what else, we each chose a bush and put our name on it. No wonder they told me to bring bedding, water, and toilet paper. That should’ve been a clue as well. I’m gonna have to smarten up a bit. 

Later we sipped on cold drinks, told ghost stories, and laughed our silly heads off and I knew that having fun came in lots of shapes and sizes and wasn’t measured by what accommodations I had or didn’t have. Friends can renew the strength of someone who’s had too much heartbreak. They can remind you that life stinks but it’s full of amazing joy too. And friends can polish your soul until it shines like a brand new penny. Some things you can’t put a price on. 

The next morning over breakfast, we fed a flock of wild turkeys some sausage balls and peach cobbler. They didn’t complain. I swear, I thought they were going to climb in the car and go home with us. The crazy turkeys! They probably would’ve if we hadn’t slammed the door fast enough. 

Our fun did extend with a raid on the gift shops and meeting Gerald Cathern, an author who knows just about everything there is to know about Palo Duro Canyon. Gerald was doing a booksigning in the gift shop. He’s so full of fascinating stories. He writes a lot about Charles Goodnight, the famous cowboy who with Oliver Loving established the Goodnight-Loving Trail. (If you recall, Robert Duvall played Oliver Loving in the movie, Lonesome Dove.) In 1876 Charles Goodnight began ranching in Palo Duro and at one time was sole owner of the canyon that only had one way in and one way out. The rugged trail was a steep incline and I can only imagine how he managed to get his cattle down it.  Probably took a whole lot of cussing and quite a bit of expert roping ability.

 Goodnight was an interesting and very enterprising man. He was reportedly the first rancher in the Panhandle to use barbed wire, he invented the chuckwagon that came to be used by every outfit driving cattle to market, and helped organize and serve as the first president of the Panhandle Stock Association. Plus, he made his famous treaty with the great Comanche, Quanah Parker. He promised Quanah two beeves every other day in exchange for leaving his herds alone. One of the highlights for me on this trip was seeing Goodnight’s old dugout in the canyon that’s still in excellent condition today. It was dug into the side of a hill with cottonwood and cedar logs enclosing the front. With a man and his horse inside on a rainy night, it would’ve certainly brought new meaning to the word cozy. 

History of both the American Indian and the cowboy pressed around me so close at times that I felt I could reach out and touch it. A really neat feeling. And I came away with new appreciation for friendships old and new, regardless of the lack of white porcelain. I just wish we’d have gotten to see the musical, Texas, in the outdoor amphitheater but we didn’t have time. Shoot! Guess we’ll save that for another day. 

Have you visited a place that gave you the sense that you’d stepped back in time?

Or maybe that you might’ve lived there?