Pumpkins, Pilgrims, and Presidents

mayflower.jpgSitting in my comfortable home with plenty of food just a few steps away, it’s hard for me to imagine the hardships of the early pilgrims who landed at Plymouth Rock November, 1620. The conditions must’ve been horrendous, both on the Mayflower and in carving out a settlement in the dead of winter.

One hundred and two passengers set sail from England in a cramped ship that had little room for breathing, much less eating and sleeping. One adult male died enroute.  But one child was born during the long voyage, a baby boy who was named Oceanus.   

An unmarried passenger, John Howland, fell overboard during the voyage and was miraculously rescued. Here’s an odd fact—if he had drowned, we wouldn’t have had President George Bush Sr., President George W. Bush, President Teddy Roosevelt’s first lady, or Humphrey Bogart. They directly descended from John Howland. How wild is that? I’ve always heard that only six degrees separates each of us. Must be true. Five years after arriving in Plymouth, John married Elizabeth Tilly who had lost both parents within a few months of landing. John and Elizabeth ended up siring ten children and 82 grandchildren before they died.   

Also John Alden, another on board, was a descendant of John Adams, John Quincy Adams, and Vice President Dan Quayle. Seems these pilgrims contributed quite a lot to the presidential office!  

But back to their arrival in November, 1620, you can imagine how glad they must’ve been to have seen land. I know how squirmy I get in the car during a four hour trip. These people endured 66 days of nothing but water and pounding, gigantic waves. Most of the time, seawater soaked their bedding and clothing. It would’ve been extremely difficult to stay dry. Seeing that shoreline could only have renewed their hope. They just didn’t know what lay in store for them and how much strength and determination it would take.  

native-americans.jpgIn four months over half of them died. By March only 47 colonists were left. By the time they saw November, only four adult women out of eighteen who started out had survived. It’s a proven fact that none of the colonists would have made it if it hadn’t been for the generosity and compassion of the Native Americans who provided food and taught them how to live off the land. Oh, the thanks the settlers must’ve given!  

In November of 1621, Governor William Bradford of Plymouth Colony declared a day of Thanksgiving and prayer to celebrate the pilgrim’s first harvest and that was our first Thanksgiving.

  

From written account, they had roasted venison, turkey that was pilgrims.jpgprobably boiled or stewed. And for vegetables, squashes, carrots, cabbages and onions. They had no potatoes at that time. Corn was probably in the form of pumpkins.jpgmeal and not on the cob and used to make bread. Pumpkin, if they had it, was cooked into a pudding and not made into a pie. Honey and maple syrup was the only sweetener available. They had no cranberry sauce either. It wasn’t the most scrumptious feast, but I’m sure they were grateful for each morsel.

  

turkey1.jpgIt wasn’t until November 26, 1789 that George Washington proclaimed the first national Thanksgiving. But, the holiday wasn’t widely observed on the same day. States had wide latitude on which day they wanted to celebrate it. President Abraham Lincoln made it an annual holiday in 1863 and it was observed on the fifth Thursday in November. Then for three years, President Franklin Roosevelt moved it to the third Thursday. But after much uproar, Congress and the president anchored it officially on the fourth Thursday and that’s where it’s remained ever since.  

Now we get to celebrate it again this Thursday. I hope when we sit down to our heavily-laden table that we remember the pilgrims and their Native American friends—their sacrifices and the resiliency of the human spirit. It’s a time to give thanks for what we have and a time to remember our service men and women who are far from home.

I’m thankful for freedom to come and go as I wish, for the food I eat, and especially for the love of family and friends. What are you thankful for?

A Little House in the Desert

My love for the west comes naturally, though I have never lived there. My father’s family homesteaded in Arizona (he was two), and I grew up on his family tales and those of my uncles. The most cherished volume in my library is a history — written by my Uncle Morgan –of those homesteading days.

He was a superb salesman as well as a man of many other talents and though I believe his “history” is the only volume he wrote, it is a fascinating and wonderfully written glimpse of the west by a young boy, a teenager and a young adult.

Writing seems to be part of the Potter genes. My grandmother wrote poems and greeting card verses in the early part of the twentieth century, and her mother too was a writer. One uncle was a foreign correspondent, and the other wrote this very readable story of early days in and near Bisbee, Arizona.

But I digress. I picked up the “Potter” history the other day and did nothing for the next day but read again and relish. I thought I would share a few of the stories with you.

My favorite came as my grandfather was moving his family from a comfortable home in Minneapolis to Arizona where wealth and prosperity waited. It was the siren call to the male species that sent so many risking lives and fortunes to travel west.

In this case, they went by train, not covered wagon, but my grandmother’s reaction to the journey was the same as many of the accounts I’ve read of the woman’s view of the journey west.

“It was about noon when we reached the half way point where the future Potter ranch was to be located, and Will (my grandfather) wanted Minnie (my grandmother) to see the Paradise that he had promised her back in Minneapolis a month or two ago; so he had her come out and stand with him on the porch of the caboose so he could point out the landmark he had remembered; and just where he was going to build the most beautiful ranch house she could envision.

“As the train approached the white post designating Heckle (a whistlestop near his proposed ranch), Dad spied the mesa jutting out from the mountains on the right. He said, ‘Look, Minnie. That’s where we are going to live. We’ll . . .

“End of quote, as Mother, being pent up with trepidation during the last few days of gawking through dusty windows and without a bath in God knows how long, threw out her arms in dismay and wailed, ‘Oh, Will, not this! You mean you sold our beautiful home in Minneapolis with its beautiful parks and lakes to come out here to this desert with scarcely a tree?’ With that, her arms still outstretched, her purse strap broke, and all the family valuables, as she was our treasurer, went flying down the roadway, fading from sight as the train finally came to a step about a half mile down the track when the Conductor pulled the emergency signal, warning the engineer to stop.”
The train couldn’t wait, so they put my grandfather off the train, “with Mother in tears, whether in anger or sorrow at the calamity she had caused.”

The story had a happy ending, in that my grandfather found the purse, and also spied a tent a mile off the railroad. A family of homesteaders lived there and drove Dad to the nearest town.

There are so many other stories recounted in the family history. My uncle recounted his first glimpse at what was going to be his father’s “empire,” traveling with him for miles on an overloaded wagon over land with no roads to the ‘homestead.’ A beautiful place, according to my uncle. “We gazed over the beauty of the desert in bloom with spring flowers, cacti, mesquite, grey-green bunch grass, flowing with the slight breeze that stirred up occasional ‘devil’s chariots’ as Dad called the small whirlwinds of dust.”

Then they discovered a slight problem. No water.

On a neighbor’s advice, they finally found water by going to a steep, dry river bed and digging a hole about a foot or two deep. They had to wait a few minute for the hole to fill with water before they could bail it out.

Undaunted, they filled up barrels and returned to the homesite. It was a journey often made in the next months. But the two of them started to build their home while Minnie remained in town with two younger sons. At the end of the first week, my uncle – then eleven – reported being tired but happy. “A few unexpected callouses on our hands, backaches from sleeping on the hard ground, a few burns from handling hot pans, and sunburns turning to healthy tans were the only casualties. We had killed a few rattlesnakes, scorpions and one Gila monster. We were learning the facts of life in the west. As we lay on our blankets at night, the sun setting in a fiery blaze, being quenched as it sunk behind the buttes, we couldn’t fail to fall in love – I did, not with a gal, but with the west.”

It didn’t go exactly as planned. A home was built by my grandfather and eleven-year-old uncle, but my grandfather’s dream of an empire never materialized. The land was too dry for farming or ranching. An attempt to find gold failed. Eventually my grandfather had to find a job in a town named Safford. Temporarily defeated, they moved back to Minneapolis but eventually returned to Bisbee, Arizona where my grandfather worked for the mining company and built houses. The Arizona bug had bitten hard.

They never returned to their little house in the desert, but the stories while there are many and colorful. And my grandmother who was so horrified at seeing the desert that was to become her home wrote this poem on leaving it:

“I sit in my humble doorway,
But I’m richer far than most,
For my doorway reaches to the skies,
Which is more than others boast.

And my air is undiluted
By dust and soot and smoke,
And my sun spilled down unhampered
When the golden morning broke.

Ah, men have cluttered the city
But God leaves the desert free,
Free for the healing of body and soul,
With only Himself and me.”

An Interview with Cheryl St.John

me555.JPG Although many writers know they want to be a writer from an early age, was there something in particular that made you decide to pursue your dream? 

The defining year for me was the year my youngest daughter went to first grade.  I had been at home raising four children spread out over several years and felt the void of sending the youngest to school all day.  Until then I’d been playing at writing, keeping handwritten notebooks and dallying with the stories like a hobby.  Then and there I decided that I was going to actually do what I’d always dreamed of doing and write an entire book.  I started it in October and finished it during that school year.  I had the time of my life.  I had no idea what I was doing, so it had no plot or conflict and the villain was wishy washy, but the characters were fun and I enjoyed creating a romance.  I even submitted the manuscript to every publisher and agent I could find.  Only years later did I understand how embarrassing that was.  I did everything you’re not supposed to do.  Who knew the time period was unmarketable?  Who knew you weren’t supposed to bind your submission in a pretty folder?  The story is as yet unpublished, though some day I’d like to rework it.  

How long after you first started submitting did it take for you to have your first book accepted? A lo-o-o-ong time.  As I said, I started submitting before I was ready, before I’d discovered a writing group or Dwight Swain.  I was writing for about four years before I found a local writers group.  I was fortunate.  I generous lady and talented Avon author named Diane Wicker Davis started my local chapter.  She read my stuff and showed me how to make the stories better and the writing stronger.  I lucked into a critique group with another published author, Barbara Andrews (who now writes with her daughter as Pam Rock) and she and the group encouraged me.   Once I learned the techniques to write to sell, it took about another three years.  

What attracts you to your time period? 

For me the appeal of Americana and westerns is the simplicity of the time and the durability of the men and women.  Life was difficult.  People were determined and resilient.  I watched westerns from the time I was a kid and learned to appreciate the charm and strength of a cowboy.  The ever-present themes of good verses evil are the foundations of those universally appealing types of stories.  Who doesn’t love to root for an underdog?  Who doesn’t want to see the bad guy get his comeuppance? The rancher/farmer’s sweat and blood are imbedded in his land–as deeply as the riverbeds and the roots of the ancient trees. It may have been his father’s before him, or he could have broken his back to earn it. In any case he will die to keep it. Solidarity. And any man who would pour this much passion into his land, will love his woman even more ardently.

To nearly all women I’ve spoken to on the subject of cowboys, physical appearance plays a major part in the attraction. The reality was that dungarees or Levis were not exactly ‘slim cut’ or sexy; they were stiff and probably dirty, and few real cowboys fit the image of the Marlboro man, but our fantasy cowboy has a lean backside in a pair of tight-fitting jeans, long legs, and that ever-present Stetson pulled low over his eyes. Ever notice how a pair of chaps invariably draws the eyes to the uncovered sections of denim? Our man wears his Colt strapped to his thigh, the holster rides his lean hips, his spurs jangle–this dangerous guy exudes sex appeal. The western hero is a hard body due to demanding work on the range, riding and roping, chasing outlaws, stopping the runaway stage, and sleeping on the ground.  He’s untamed, a little wild, and a lot sexy. He doesn’t need a gym membership or a treadmill.

dsc00326.JPGWhat does your writing cave look like? 

Messy.  Papers everywhere.  Books all over.  I’m known far and wide as a collector and my office reflects that particular gene as much as any room in my house.  In my office  have a curio full of old and new dolls: Barbies, My Scene, Ginnys, Disneys, Madame Alexanders, and any others I can’t resist. There are framed writing awards on the few visible walls—most of the wall space is taken up by bookcases.  The color of the walls is called Strawberry Pot, it’s a soothing and inspiring teal, my favorite color.   I have a comfy rocking chair piled with pillows, a TV on an upper shelf, a counter full of office machines like copiers and printers and two computers. 

My book covers are thumb tacked to the bulletin boards that back my desk area on three walls, along with pics that readers have sent.  I have half a dozen oil lamps, a row of Angel Cheeks, framed photographs of the cutest kids ever, a jeweled tiara and paperweights.  A vintage globe that belonged to my grandmothers sits atop one of my cabinets.  There are many things I love about my space, and one of them is that it’s sound proof.  You can actually hear the difference when you come into the room—the effect created by four walls of books.   

When you are not writing what do you do? 

Probably not sleeping,  LOL  My husband and I like to garden together, so many of our weekends are spent creating arbors and gardens and soon ponds.  We love to shop flea markets and browse antique malls.  More often than not you could find me selecting paint, then watching him roll it on or arranging a spot in the house just so.  I like to make interesting displays of vintage collections and have so many I have to change them out to enjoy them.  I’m a movie junkie, so late night I watch movies (and take plotting notes—it makes me feel like I’m working).   

My Neighbors Never See Me … or A Day in a Writer’s Life

It’s true. My imagescrazy.jpgneighbors never see me anymore. They know I’m home, in here somewhere, doing my job. Gone are the old days, when I’d sit outside watching my kids play in the street with the other kids, while the mothers swapped stories images2.jpgabout school and shopping, sharing their innermost thoughts. Now, my kids are grown and I define myself not as a part-time childbirth educator any more but as a full-time writer. It’s not glorious or glamorous but it’s work I’m passionate about. That’s not to say I don’t have some “pull my hair out” days.  I do and they aren’t pretty. Most of the time, I’m racing with the clock. There isn’t enough time in the day for me.  Often times I’m working 7 days a week – it seems rare that I get a weekend without a few trips to the computer. This is not news to writers. I’d venture to guess we’re all about the same.

I had the good fortune this Saturday to sit with bestselling, award-winning author, Stella Cameron during my Romance Writer’s of America chapter meeting and she remarked about people’s preconceived notions about our writing life. So I picked an “average” day and thought I’d share with you my routine. 

As soon as my dh kisses me good-bye (After 30+ years, I’ve learned the man isn’t a conversationalist in the a.m. so I don’t get up until he leaves – I’m too chipper for him).  I imagescoffee2.jpghead straight for the kitchen and brew some decaf.  While I’m waiting I log onto the computer and pull up my emails. A slow email day is 20, a busy email day is 5o. If I miss a day due to a computer glitch (I’m presently angry with my computer!) I’ll log on to over 100 emails.  Most emails I simply read and delete,  but many require a response.  I get my coffee and sit down and spend the next hour going thru and answering the emails.  One email requested me to send in my profile, an interview and bio for the Mills and Boon site, the request coming from an editor.  This takes time, so I set this aside for the time being as I try to figure when I’ll be able to get to it.   My coffee is tasting really good by now and I’m almost ready for my morning breakfast of Weight Watchers English muffins and another cup of coffee.  I try to limit my email time to one hour, but often I exceed that. 

By 9 AM, I’m ready to really dig in, but as I check my email messages one last time, I see a note from my editor- she needs my bio and dedication and a Dear Reader letter for my upcoming release.  Okay, that can’t really wait.  I bring my breakfast to the computer and I think what I want to say in the Dear Reader letter.  The bio is easy, but the dedication isn’t.  I like to make them short and sweet and today it isn’t really coming. wordtree5.jpg The Dear Reader letter takes me almost two hours.  The ideas from my idea tree aren’t formulating easily. 

 When there’s a knock on the door, I freeze. I’m never dressed before noon and I have to decide if I want to answer the door in my fluffy lavendar robe.   Yesterday, I didn’t and I missed an important package.  Today, I decide to take my chances and go for it.  I open the door to Gayle, my mail lady and she’s got my AA’s (author alterations) for my March  historical,  Taming the Texan.  Wonderful … the AA’s require going over every word in the 300 page manuscript looking for errors.   There’s a deadline and luckily I’ve got more than a week to do them. After I sign for them, teasing Gayle that I’ll only open the door looking like this … to himagesmailady.jpger, she replies, “I’m sorry, I always seem to wake you.”   The irony makes me smile. To this I reply, “I’ve been working since 6:30 at the computer.  There’s no need to get dressed – I can’t afford to waste the time,” I explain and we have a laugh.  (I’m still not sure she believes me.)

With AA’s in hand I head back to the computer. I’m feeling slightly put off – I haven’t gotten to my work in progress yet and it’s almost noon!  I have this uncanny habit of checking my email every few hours.  So I check it again and have a message from my daughter. There’s always time to answer her.  And I have a cute joke from my hubby.  By now, I’m needing a lighter moment, so I read the joke and it makes me laugh.  There’s 10  more emails to read and I  answer as many as I can quickly.

It’s 12:15 and I realize I better get cracking. What’s worse than being on a deadline, is trying to get a proposal sent off to your editor.  This requires 3 chapters and a synopsis. Only this time, it’s a trilogy that I’m working on.  That means a full proposal for the first book and two more synopses for the 2nd and 3rd books. Most writers would rather have a root canal than write a synopsis.   Putting your ideas down is easy, having them make sense isn’t!  So it requires hours of honing and editing. 

By 2 pm, I realize I haven’t eaten lunch. This isn’t good.imagessalad.jpg I’m trying to lose weight and skipping meals doesn’t help. You’ve got to eat your 3 healthy meals a day and snack lightly in between.  I learned this not from WW, but from the TV show, The Biggest Loser.   I hate to stop, but I need nourishment so I fix a salad, turn on my faithful show Days of our Lives that I’ve taped with the DVR aimagesdays.jpgnd try to get my story out of my head for half an hour.  I’m really enjoying the salad and the time away from the computer but as soon as the meal is finished, I head back to my work in progress. I NEED to finish this proposal – the bulk is there – but it still needs more honing and polishing.  A good writing day for me is 5 pages of polished work.  An excellent day is 8 pages of semi-ready work. I’ve barely written three pages today and the clock is ticking. Soon, I’ll have to stop to make dinner. 

Not that my hubby isn’t supportive – he often volunteers to cook when I’m busy. But he’s just worked an 8 hour day and honestly – I need time off the computer chair.  As I leave my seat to put together my dinner, I pass our “exercise” room and I look longingly at the treadmilimagestreadmill.jpgl.  I’m not being sarcastic – I really try to work out every morning, but today’s not going to be that day. The morning’s long gone and it’s time for my husband to come home from work.  I resign myself to working with weights and doing some late night pilates while I’m watching television with my hubby later on in the evening.  This is a “must do”.  

Dinner is great and I spend an hour or two with my hubby. If he happens to head to the garage to work on a  project – today he’s bent on fixing a drawer in our kitchen, then I head back to the computer. I check emails, do some editing and start working again.   Sometimes, I work until 8PM, sometimes 9PM and I’ve learned to always make time for my husband.  I’ll drop my work in a heartbeat if he needs my attention or simply wants to do something together. That is another “must do”.  

When I finally close down for the night, I make a mental list of what I need to do first thing the next day.  I still have to do the Mills and Boon interview. I need to send a book I promised for a charity benefit. I have to return a few phone calls I didn’t get to today. I owe my best friend a call too.  The AA deadline is looming. I can’t put that off – the book is scheduled for March.  I haven’t checked MySpace in days or Shelfari in weeks! Or entered the Rita Contest or sent my January book out for review.  And I NEED to finish my proposal! 

But tomorrow is another day.

Update: It’s been more than 2 weeks since I began this Blog.  I still haven’t finished the Mills and Boon thing.  BUT, the AA’s are done!  AND I sent off my proposal and SOLD it during that time. I’m employed again!  I  just realized I made two “obvious” typos in my November ENewsletter due to rushing – ugh!  And I’m making mental lists of all the things I still need to do. Did I mention I’m also planning my daughter’s wedding? 

So what’s your story?  Is your writing day similar to mine? And if you’re not a writer – what’s your average work day like? Do you have a job that’s a  neverending compilation of “to do’s? Any daily rituals you’d care to share?

 

 

ROOTS AND NATIVE AMERICA

horseheader1.jpeGood Morning!

Because we have just celebrated Veteran’s Day on Monday, I thought I’d take a moment to post about something very American — fhe Native American influence on America, itself — how we are today and how we got here.

Long ago, after meeting and talking to many Europeans, I was struck by the fact that the American idea of freedom is much freer than that across the Atlantic.  I didn’t quite understand why since our roots go back to England and France and Holland (and others of course, but these three were here first).  But because my next book is set in the land of the Iroquois, I have been getting quite an education.

Did you know that Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Paine were greatly influenced by an ages old Confederacy of the Iroquois?  Did you know that much of our Constitution has very deep roots in the Iroquois Confederation?

If you didn’t, don’t feel bad.  I didn’t either.

red_3-crop-email.jpgIndeed long ago, before the white man ever set foot upon the North American Continent, five warring Native American Nations decided to ban war forever and to seek peace and to try to bring this peace to other nations, that war should be forever abolished.  They developed a set of laws to help them along this path and they “buried the hatchet” and by doing so established a long tradition of peace.  It was brought about by the man they call The Peacemaker, or Deganawida, and Hiawatha (the real man, not the legend of Longfellow’s poem).  They lived as hunters and farmers in villages with cleared fields that grew the three sisters, corn, beans and squash.

Did you know that when the white man came here, America was not a wilderness?  Land had been cleared for farming — and the forests were like gigantic parks — the under brush was burned off so as to produce a place for hunting that was much like our parks of today?  At least so writes Captain John Smith.

The Iroquois had a very definite sense of freedom.  Man was free.  He was not subject to a King — he did not abide by the “Devine Right of Kings,” and he was an independent being.  His elected officals were sent there by the elder women of the tribe and could be removed for not obeying the laws by the women of the tribe.  In fact, after 3 notices, a man was removed — and lived the rest of his life in shame.  No offical ever was paid for being on the council.  It was considered his duty to his people and to his tribe.

It was only after learning more and more about the Native American that I have come to realize that we owe the Natives of this country a debt.  Our sense of independence, our very thought of what it means to be free comes not from those who came to this country as serfs, but rather from those who lived on the American Continent in freedom.

So, since we have just observed Veteran’s Day, I’d love to hear your comments on freedom, veterans, and what it means to you to be a free people.  Do you have any experiences to tell me about?  If so, I’d love to hear them.  So come on in and let’s talk.

Paty Jager: Perfectly Good Nanny

paty.jpgHello Everyone!  Thank you, ladies of Petticoats and Pistols for letting authors of western romance be guest bloggers.  I’ve been scarce making comments this week because my two daughters and their combined four children – all under the age of four – have been at my house since last Saturday. While it’s fun having them- it puts a crimp in my usual daily activities. Such as blogging and writing.  

My newest release is a contemporary western set on a cattle ranch in SE Oregon. This book was the easiest to write because I didn’t have to do as much research as I do with a historical. My husband and I raise cattle, so the day-to-day worries and work were easy to write. Our little “hobby ranch” is nothing like the one in my story.

perfectlygoodnanny_wrp308_680.jpgPerfectly Good Nanny is set in a remote area of sagebrush, rabbit brush, and bunch grass. It is harsh land that requires diligence on the part of the rancher during calving season.  It is a part of the country where the cattle had to scrounge to find feed all year round until the invention of irrigation pipes.  The hero and heroine are thrown together by a 12-year-old girl, tired of taking care of her 2 year-old brother, and a meddling Klamath Indian neighbor. The two hire a nanny without the father knowing. When the woman shows up knowing everything about his family, Brock Hughes is not the least bit hospitable. But between the nanny and the girl they manage to get him to agree to the one month the neighbor paid for. Sparks fly and two people who’d given up on love learn to love again.   

My story depicts the daily lives of remote ranchers. To some extent though they have the newer equipment a lot of the day-to-day chores are the same as a hundred years ago.  Before haying and equipment, herds were moved to the higher range in the summer to eat the grass, saving the lower, taller grass in the meadows to feed the cattle during the winter. They also hayed, but would not reap as much feed from their hard work as they can now with the modern equipment.   

Grass was cut, usually from a meadow that was watered from a creek or a spring. A hand-held scythe was used to cut the grass. And later on in the 20th century a ground driven sickle was pulled behind a horse to cut the hay. By the late 1800’s they used a dump rake pulled by a horse to “rake” the hay into piles.  Those piles were then forked onto wagons or sleds.  The hay was then either forked into a barn or loft or a large outside pile. In the winter, this pile was pulled onto low sleds and dragged by a team of horses. These piles were then towed to the pasture where the cattle were wintering and forked off to feed. 

dscf0190.JPGIn the 1800’s just feeding the cattle could take half a day or longer if they were scattered among several fields. Of course, if it was a large enough operation, they would have several feeding sleds.  Being from a ranching family, I find the historical aspects of ranch living more interesting than the day-to-day lives of people living in the cities in the 1800’s  

What is something you have always wondered about? What kind of bathroom facilities people living in apartments in large cities in the 1800’s had? How long did it take to make soap or actually weave enough cloth to make a garment, or even how long did it take to sew by hand a dress or shirt?  That is what I find so fascinating about writing historical stories, the research that answers these questions. Why do you write or read historical romance?  

Thank you for participating today.  Leave your comments and I’ll pick one person to win an autographed copy or their choice of either my current contemporary western “Perfectly Good Nanny” or one of my previously published historical westerns.  

Also check out my website www.patyjager.com to enter my November contest and read my reviews.  

Visual Motivation ~ Collage It!

I’m a very visual thinker and I’ve found having visual stimulants for my books to be extremely helpful—not only with writing, but also with goal setting. A college English teacher of mine once told us how the first books were actually written out on pottery and an author should be able to visualize their story as a piece of pottery, a whole object you can turn over in your mind and see how it all flows into one piece of artwork. I loved that image but didn’t truly grasp the concept until I went to my local RWA chapter’s writers’ retreat and they had an evening workshop of making collages for your story– a pictorial representation of the book. It’s a crafty way to get a hands-on feel for the story.

Mustang_Wild

My first collage was for MUSTANG WILD and having this tacked on the wall beside my desk while writing this book was great when I needed a quick visual to place my mind in the scenery.  Okay, and that Stetson man is plain nice to look at.  With Tucker’s nickname for Skylar being Angel Girl, the winged heroine worked.  The map represents the journal Skylar used to plot their course from New Mexico to Wyoming and I clipped a bit of scenery from each stage of their journey and some key words to touch on the conflict and motivation for the story. 

AZ_Sky

My contemporary western ARIZONA SKY is set on a dude ranch, and a renovated Spanish-style house is the central setting and a focal point for this collage—having a quick reference to help place my characters was a really nifty tool.   To make your own storyboard collage you’ll need a poster board or a wide strip of paper—some prefer softer paper so it can be rolled up and stowed away—and a few magazines.  Personally, Cowboys & Indian’s was a gold mine of pictures and key words – Arizona Highways is another favorite of mine. Grab a glue stick and you’re ready!  While attending the workshop they only allowed 10-15 minutes for flipping through the magazines—point was to not over-think anything, just whip & rip when a picture struck you for whatever reason. It was a lot of fun to then go over the pictures you’d ripped IntoTheWildout on a whim and figure out why they spoke to you and what they said about your story.  The exercise was also helpful for plotting!

I was recently looking for pictures for my next Wild book, tentativley titled INTO THE WILD, set during the blizzard of 1886 in Wyoming, and my heroine is a tough-on-the-outside, tender-on-the-inside mountain woman who blends in with her surroundings–so of course she’d need a white fur coat to cammoflauge her against the snow—check out the first picture I came to…..Wild!  😉 Sheila_C

I shared this collage method with my critique partner, Sheila Raye, and she took her collage to a whole new level—she made actual models to her stories–this one is for one titled LOVE LIGHT, can you guess the setting? Talk about seeing your book as a sculpture!

From a writer’s standpoint, this creative, hands-on approach really allows you to explore and see your story in a whole new light, while spending time with your characters.

I also have a collage to help me exercise. Like many office jobs, I spend hours sitting at the computer–only I don’t have a time clock telling me to take breaks or when to quit, and I can spend 10 solid hours sitting on my derriere, lost in another world as my circulation slowly trickles to a stop ( ack!).  Some friends and I started a phone-party-line walking group, and to kick us off, we went through our favorite clothing catalogs and made a collage of all the clothes (and shoes!) we’d like to get when we hit our goals.  We have them on the wall beside our treadmills.

 See it – Believe it – Live it

Before I published I would print out these fancy dream signature lines with the titles of my to-be published books beneath my name and would tape them around my computer monitor as a way to visualize my goal–of course all twelve of my finished manuscripts were listed  😉

Always dream BIG

Harvey Girls: The Women Who Tamed the Wild Frontier

hg2.jpgMuch has been written about women who traversed the continent by wagon train as well as those who were mail-order brides. But there’s a less well-known, more unique, and equally important percentage of young women who blazed a trail of civilization from east to west coast. These were the Harvey Girls. 

As the railroad charged across the west, little thought was given to the comfort of passengers. Food was inedible or lethal and service sloppy. Some café owners even went in cahoots with railroad crews and scammed passengers: No sooner was the food placed before the patrons who had paid half a dollar in advance, than the whistle would toot. Afraid of being left behind, passengers ran for the train and the food was “recycled” for the next trainload of unsuspecting victims. 

Fred Harvey, an Englishman, worked his way up in fine eating establishments in the East before trying his hand at a partnership that failed. After brief service on a riverboat and a stint as a postal worker, he sold advertising for a newspaper and invested in cattle ranching, finally deciding while working as a freight agent that there was a crucial need for improved food and service along the rails. Harvey negotiated with Santa Fe Railroad and built his first dining operation in a wooden depot in Topeka. The premises were spotlessly clean. Premium prices were paid for top-quality supplies and ingredients, and table settings included Irish linens and English silver.

Harvey’s standards brought instant and overwhelming success. At his second establishment, a restaurant-hotel at Florence Kansas, he hired a chef away from Chicago’s Palmer House Hotel and paid him a $5,000 salary, more than the local bankers earned. The little town of Florence became famous for its Harvey House meals. Uniforms, fingernails, place settings, food lockers, and all facilities came under stringent regulations.

hg1.jpgHarvey, perfecting the Sudden Unannounced Visit as a means of quality control, would suddenly appear and conduct a white-glove inspection, tossing an offending manager out onto the platform at the least infraction. 

New Harvey Houses opened up at the division/meal-stop points, and by 1883, Harvey was operating seventeen establishments along the old Santa Fe Trail. The restaurants made a profit despite their devotion to quality food, generous portions, and elegant furnishings.

The only drawbacks to their success were the staffs of unreliable male employees who either showed up for work hung over or were injured in brawls. In 1883 Harvey implemented a policy that would be his greatest impact on the American West.

Advertisements appeared in several eastern and Midwestern papers: 

WANTED: Young women, 18 to 30 years of age, of good character, attractive and intelligent. 

hg4.jpgHarvey hired waitresses the same way he’d set about locating the finest food, furniture, chefs and managers. Women were screened with the same perfectionist methods. Upon signing a contract (twelve months in the early days), she usually had twenty-four hours to tell her family good-bye and begin rigorous training in Newton, Kansas. 

Between 1883 and the 1950’s, tens of thousands of women applied and learned “the Harvey way”. The first women answering the ads had many motivations for doing so, financial reasons most prevalent: Starting out, they were paid $17.50 per month, plus tips, room and board, and unsurpassed meals. 

Though black and white uniforms, black shoes and stockings, hairnets, and no make-up were intended to diminish their appearance, the Harvey girls were the best “dishes” the dining halls served up for the frontier men. The girls were friendly faces in an often lonely land. 

Most dormitories had a courting parlor where gentlemen could call, plus a sewing room. The girls were among the best paid and best dressed females in their towns. Many, being farmers’ daughters, sent earnings home to their families. 

The women worked their way up from the lunch counter to the dining hall and earned promotions or transfers to other houses along the Santa Fe. They worked six- and seven-day weeks, often twelve hours a day in split shifts around meal trains. When not serving, they cleaned and polished and kept their station ready for the next train. 

When they did have free time, they rode the rails free, visiting family, or played softball. Some Harvey Houses had their own teams that traveled up and down the line competing in other towns. 

A Harvey House was a social and business gathering place. Many real and imagined romances were spawned in the elegant setting. Countless contracts were broken and pay forfeited when Harvey Girls met and married railroad men, cattle ranchers, and businessmen.

The impact of these “good, attractive, and intelligent” women on the towns they poured into shouldn’t be underestimated. As approximately 5,000 of them married and raised families, eastern culture and civic improvement spread throughout Illinois, Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, California, and eventually the rest of the states.

These were the women in the forefront of the law and order movements, improving safety and quality of life. Their voices were the ones heard in civic activities, church choirs, and community stage productions. The Harvey Girls who married and settled in the West tended to marry men of high standing and to be the most capable women in the community. It’s been claimed that thousands of boys born to these couples bore the names Fred or Harvey or both. More so than dining experiences and service standards, Harvey’s most profound contribution to the civilization of the American West was the advent of the Harvey Girl. They worked hard, but with dignity and a sense of purpose. They were professionals worthy of respect and admiration. 

Many Harvey Houses survived the great depression o the 30’s, and as part of the war effort, Harvey Girls served thousands of troops during WW II. The disappearance of Harvey Girls is historically linked to the extremes of war and to progress in the form of automobiles and airplanes, an appropriate and worthy end to the legendary women who settled the West. 

harveygirls_01.jpgWill Rogers, western philosopher and humorist, recognized the contribution of the Harvey Girls with this: “In the early days the traveler fed on the buffalo. For doing so, the buffalo got his picture on the nickel. Well, Fred Harvey should have his picture on one side of the dime, and one of his waitresses with her arms full of delicious ham and eggs on the other side, ‘cause they have kept the West supplied with food and wives.”

I’ve written three books with Harvey Girls as characters, and I still find them as fun and interesting as always.  Many people remember the movie with Judy Garland, which was actually set toward the very end of the era, and much liberty was taken with that storyline. 

Harvey Girls are perfect material for heroines because they’re adventurous and out of their element in a new land.  Can you imagine, as a young woman, leaving your family behind, traveling to a rugged part of the country, and working in such a disciplined atmosphere?  Your needs would be provided for, you’d be supervised, and you’d probably send your wages home to help out the family.  Of course, you just might meet a studly cowboy–with a heart-stopping mustache, of course–and live happily ever after! 

When a Baby Just Couldn’t Be Had

A while back, when I blogged about soiled doves, Tanya Hanson asked about birth control and what women did to prevent disease.   It was an excellent baby4.jpgquestion, one I had long been curious about myself.  Tanya provided me with the incentive to finally lay those curiosities to rest.

But, I gotta tell ya, it took some doing. Information was scarce.   I rolled up my shirt sleeves and sought help from a soiled dove expert who recommended some resources. None of the libraries in my area had those books, but I found them online and promptly bought them. I also stumbled upon a book detailing the history of contraceptives in America, which proved my biggest treasure of all.

So here you go, my friends. Birth control in the Old West.baby1.jpg

First off, let me explain why information was–and still is–difficult to obtain for that period.  A religious zealot, Anthony Comstock, was so incensed by the lewdness he observed in New York streets during the 1860’s that he surreptitiously wrote a law that would forbid it, along with the plentiful printed matter that openly promoted/advertised promiscuous living.  An over-worked Congress quickly passed the bill, their intent being to keep the integrity of the mails safe, yet it’s doubtful anyone realized at the time the immensity of what they’d done.

In its attempt to stop the spread of pornography, the Comstock Act of 1873 targeted information on contraception as being obscene, making it illegal to advertise or ship said information and devices. Postal inspectors hired secret agents to enforce the law, an overwhelming job at best.  And while that could be a story in itself, (as well as how creative entrepreneurs evaded the law), needless to say, with the end of the Victorian era, sex thrived.

(Disclaimer:  Before we go on, I in no way endorse any of these methods, however promising they might seem.  Please do not try these at home.)

Now, where were we?

Contraceptives have been around *forever*.  As in 1850 B.C. forever.  The oldest known guide was found in an Egyptian papyrus which described vaginal suppositories made of crocodile dung, gum, or a mixture of honey and sodium carbonate.  In actuality, there was some validity to the honey mixture, as it did seem to impede sperm motility.But crocodile dung? Yeesh.

In 4th century B.C., Aristotle writes how women coated their cervixes with olive oil. (Now, this one worked. Relatively recent studies done on 2,000 women resulted in a 0% pregnancy rate with olive oil being the only contraception.)

A few others from early times: West African women used crushed root for intra-vaginal plugs. Japanese women, bamboo tissue. Easter Island woman made algae and seaweed pessaries. Islamic guides from the 13th century recommended elephant dung which has more acidity and would’ve offered more protection than the crocodile’s stuff.

Time went on.  In pre-industrial America, women depended on methods many of us recognize today:

baby2.jpg

*Prolonged Breastfeeding

*Coitus Interruptus

*Rhythm method–counting days on the calendar.  Women were instructed by their physicians to count 14 days after the cessation of their menstrual period.  (Too bad the docs hadn’t figured out that was her most fertile time.)

*Squatting over a pot of steaming water immediately after sex to help fumigate internal organs.

As women moved further into the isolation of the west, they fashioned homemade remedies such as:

*Vinegar and water douches

*Diaphragms made from hollowed-out lemons, orange peels or beeswax

*Vaseline (I found this in several resources.  Mixed with salicylic acid (similar to aspirin), it destroyed sperm without injury to the vagina or cervix.)

*Cocoa butter and boric acid.  Another strange one.  Recipe in hand, women got together to make these like we’d get together and bake cookies.  They took a shoe box and poked holes in the lid, then put the cocoa butter in and added the boric acid which made little cones.

*Sanitary sponges–dipped in antiseptic, they were used to keep the ladies ‘germ-free’.  (Germ meaning sperm.)

*Abortifacients.

While doing this research, I was struck by the lengths women went through to control the size of their families.  Hindered by the Comstock laws, they were forced to depend on each other to learn and protect themselves with what little they had.

Next time, the male side of contraception.

  baby3.jpg On a lighter note, please share your stories of your funniest or worst visit to your gynecologist.  Or how you learned about the birds and the bees.  Or anything about your first pregnancy or delivery.

You could win the drawing for a copy of WESTERN WINTER WONDERLAND, my Christmas anthology, signed by Jenna Kernan, Cheryl St.John and 9780373294671.jpgmyself!

I’ll go first. My daughter–when she found out I was working on this blog–told me how her doctor (a female) was doing a pap smear on her right before Thanksgiving.  In the middle of the exam, the doc said, “Mmm, mmmm, mmm. I could sure go for some pecan pie right now!! I love pecan pie around Thanksgiving!!” Thinking it was the oddest, most bizarre thing ever to say to someone in stirrups during their annual exam, my daughter still giggles about it.

Love And Marriage On The Trail

As promised, we continue on our journey via wagon train from Missouri to Oregon. And this time the subject is love and marriage on the trail.

Marriages on the frontier were often made before a girl was half through her adolescent year. According to one young woman mentioned in the “Women’s Diaries of Westward Journey,” “she was married at fifteen . . .those days the young men wondering why a girl was not married if she was still single when she was sixteen. That summer Judge Deady . . . came by . . . we all rode horseback . . . We met occasionally at weddings and other social doings,” and soon they were married.

There’s instance after instance of girls of fifteen or less marrying along the trail and soon finding themselves with child despite the painful lack of privacy for people “to whom the taboos of sex and other bodily functions were completely controlling.” Some women, for instance, could not even mention in their private diaries that they were pregnant. They merely noted the arrival of a baby.

Despite the lack of privacy, there was also a new freedom. Although most girls and women continued to ride sidesaddle and wear dresses, there were opportunities for romance not present in their previous lives.   An escape to a wooded river,  trips to replenish firewood,  close proximity over thousands of miles and through any number of hardships, evenings  sitting by fires while young men played a guitar, mouth organ or fiddles all promoted romance.

Once a wedding took place, the other members of a wagon train often held a Chivarie for the couple. One such description, again from the “Women’s Diaries of the Westward Journey”: ” Such a Chivarie as they got that night was enough to awaken the Seven Sleepers. The newly married couple occupied a wagon for sleeping apartments. The first notice that they had of any disturbance was when the most of the men and women in the company took hold of the wagon, the men at the tongue pulling, the women at the back pushing and ran the wagon a half mile out of the prairie. Then the fun began. Such banging of cans, shooting of guns, etc. and every noise conceivable was resorted to. The disturbance was kept up until midnight when the crowd dispersed, leaving the happy couple out on the prairie to rest undisturbed until morning when they came walking into camp amid cheers and congratulations.”

When babies came, as they often did on journeys lasting six to eight months, there was little time to rest or celebrate.  The train had to continue on and usually did the same day or the next morning birthing. And, remember, these wagons had no springs.

And the prospect of birth along the trail must have been terrorizing.   I imagine these women watched the horizon anxiously in the last days of pregnancy, trying to learn whether the weather would be calm or threatening, if the wagons were near or far from water, and, most important of all, if another woman was at hand.

And often there was not. If a wagon broke down, it was left. Families were separated along the way. One huge family of some ten wagons separated into three different groups along the way. No one could wait on a damaged or overloaded wagon for fear of being caught in the mountains during early winter. Some women were seen walking along the way by themselves, their wagon and man gone through some disaster.

The danger involved in pregnancy during these years on the trail — and the early years on the frontier — is most readily evident by one pioneer daughter. She grew up with four stepmothers in succession, each one dying in childbirth.

And so it was with love and marriage on the trail.

 

Petticoats & Pistols