Showing posts with label Civil War. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Civil War. Show all posts

Monday, September 13, 2021

The Joy of Flying

 

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When I was ten, my parents took my sister Kate, brother Peter and me on our first trip by airplane. We traveled from New York to Washington DC. We visited museums, the OAS headquarters, and a cathedral. 


But my most vivid memory was of the Lincoln Memorial. My father stood us beside the wall of the north chamber and had us recite the words of Lincoln’s second inaugural address. I did not understand the sense of our sixteenth president’s thoughts about the national trauma that was our Civil War. But I understood the beauty of the sound of his thoughts…



With malice toward none, with charity for all, 

with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, 

let us strive on to finish the work we are in,

 to bind up the nation's wounds, 

to care for him who shall have borne the battle 

and for his widow and his orphan, 

to do all which may achieve and cherish 

a just and lasting peace 

among ourselves and with all nations.

I have shared my father’s love of flying ever since that trip.


On September 11, 2001 I was emerging from the subway in lower Manhattan when the first plane hit the World Trade Center. I rushed up the steps of the Federal Courthouse to meet with my fellow jurors, hold each other’s hands, and watch the debris bursting out of the gaping black hole like white doves in flight against an impossibly blue sky.


My father called me from his home in Florida a month later. His printer was broken.  He needed me to help him choose a new one and get it up and running. He was insistent, he’d pay for my flight, my mother was already making me a pie. He needed me right away.


So I boarded a plane, breathing deeply, telling my racing heart that all would be well, that my father needed me.


He didn’t need my help, of course. He needed me to get on a plane, to not let being an eyewitness to another national trauma take away my joy of flying.


Thank you, Daddy.





Friday, June 12, 2020

Footnotes







"The history books you read sanitized slavery, disregarded indigenous stories, minimized wars, 
and dismissed the narratives of immigrants, poor, and working people."
-- Humanity Archive


I have a profound appreciation of those who have come before, who have made my life possible.  Some of our ancestors have been left out…people of color, immigrants, women.  I cherish their lives. I want to find their stories, even if it means combing through the footnotes, finding obscure archives for articles, paintings, drawings, photographs.  Here's one I came across recently... Who would not want to tell this woman's story?



O-o-dee of the Kiowa, 1896


Sometimes I am lucky enough to find some scholarship just when I need it, like Charles Swain's book, helping me discover how brave African American families survived and thrived in the north of a country divided. This informed my knowledge of life in New York, often called City of Sedition because of its economic ties to the South, and the horrible carnage of the Draft riots there in 1863, featured in Mercies of the Fallen, the second of my American Civil War Brides series:



The culture of the Diné (Navajo) is seen through the eyes of a woman in:


You can be sure this informed my Code Talker Chronicles series.  I loved the thought of Luke Kayenta being raised by women like this one!

I hope you enjoy my novels and see history from a different perspective though them!











Thursday, July 4, 2019

Wild Bill or Buffalo Bill by Katherine Pym






 ~*~*~*~

From L-R: Wild Bill, Texas Jack, Buffalo Bill

I get these two mixed up. Even as they are different, they look sort of alike, maybe because of their long hair and similar beards. They both lived life to extreme, and they were friends.

Nine years difference in their ages, their lives paralleled in many ways. The two Bills were born in the same neck of the woods; James Butler Hickok (Wild Bill) in Illinois in 1837, and William Frederick Cody (Buffalo Bill) in Iowa in 1846.

Both came from religious families, Wild Bill-Baptist; Buffalo Bill-Quaker. Both families disagreed with slavery. Wild Bill’s parents worked in the Underground Railroad, helping slaves escape from the South. Buffalo Bill’s father was stabbed to death during an anti-slavery rally.

Both Bills rode for the Pony Express (at different times), and fought on the same side during the Civil War, where Wild Bill and Custer became fast friends. During the Indian Wars, Buffalo Bill guided a wagon train with Custer.

Both worked for the same stagecoach company in Fort Leavenworth, KS. During one trip, the stagecoach broke down, and Wild Bill, waiting for the repair crew, slept in the bushes while the passengers remained in the coach. During the night, Wild Bill was attacked by a bear. The passengers found him the next morning critically wounded, the bear dead with a stab wound.  

Our daring Bills performed in the same stage play where they showed their prowess shooting at targets, thrilling the audience. 

After the Civil War his life and Wild Bill's found separate paths, although they were lifelong friends.

Wild Bill Hickok

Captain Jack Crawford summed up Wild Bill as one fraught with faults but carried a gentleness about him until riled by insults. He was a good friend and generous to a flaw, but he had no qualms killing a man who did him an injustice. Toward the end of his life, Wild Bill spent most of his time wandering saloons, & playing cards.

He usually sat in a far corner with his back to the wall, but on one particular day, someone sat in his usual seat. Wild Bill reluctantly found a chair at the corner table, and sat with his back to the door.  That’s where Jack McCall found him, and shot him point blank in the back of the head.

Buried in Deadwood SD, everyone who knew Wild Bill mourned his death. He was only 39 years of age.





Buffalo Bill Cody

Charismatic Buffalo Bill’s moniker came when he worked for the Kansas Pacific Railroad, hired to provide buffalo meat for the workers. Over a period of 18 months, he killed more than 4000 buffalo.

From Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buffalo_Bill):

"Cody and another hunter, Bill Comstock, competed in an eight-hour buffalo-shooting match over the exclusive right to use the name [Buffalo Bill], which Cody won by killing 68 animals to Comstock's 48."

Buffalo Bill was a restless man and entrepreneur. He went on to tour with his Wild West Show in Europe and America, where most of the audience knew the names of his headliners, both American Indians and gunslingers. They showed the world how crazy was the wild west. It ran successfully until its final show in 1906. 

Buffalo Bill died in 1917 while visiting his sister in Denver, CO. He requested to be buried on a mountain overlooking the Great Plains, but rumor has it his body was spirited away and now rests in the hills above Cody, WY. He was 70 years old.



~*~*~*~*~
Many thanks to:
Wikipedia, & Wiki Commons, Public Domain


Sunday, April 7, 2019

Seven Aprils - My Favorite New BWL Release by Eileen O'Finlan
















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American women serving on the front lines in wartime is not as new as one might think. Remember Molly Pitcher (most likely Mary Ludwig Hays McCauley) who took over for her husband when he fell at the Battle of Monmouth.  Or what about Deborah Sampson, the young farmwoman who disguised herself as a man and joined the Continental Army to fight in the American Revolution.  An article on the American Battlefield Trust website entitled “Female Soldiers in the Civil War” claims a conservative estimate of between 400 and 750 disguised female soldiers fighting on both sides.  A few also served as spies.  According to the article women had a variety of reasons for taking on the hardships of camp life and risking injury or death including patriotism, the desire to remain with loved ones, a sense of adventure, and the promise of a reliable income.

Eileen Charbonneau’s new release, Seven Aprils, draws the reader into the life of one young woman who disguises herself as a man to serve in the Union’s newly formed medical unit for reasons quite different and even more compelling than those listed above.  To save her own life, Tess becomes Tom Boyde, assistant to Dr. Ryder Cole, and later takes on a third role as Diana, Dr. Cole’s prostitute lover.  How she manages to keep all her personas separate, adroitly recover and tend to the wounded even in the midst of frontline battle, and just as skillfully satisfy Dr. Cole’s lust for her makes for an adventurous, addictive tale.

Charbonneau’s adept handling of the changes from Tess to Tom to Diana never leave the reader confused.  The story, thoroughly engaging and totally believable, is filled with heart stopping adventure and smokin' hot romance. If you’re looking for a fresh take on a Civil War novel, Seven Aprils more that fits the bill!

In this excerpt from Seven Aprils Tess, who has become Tom, now becomes Diana:

    Tess turned. Madame Lanier stood in one of the room’s three doorways. Dress and hoops gone, she was still imposing in her silk dressing down. Tess felt more trapped inside her uniform than when the boys first teased her for not joining them at the swimming hole.
    “Would you loosen my corset strings, love?”
     Tess swallowed. “Sure.”
     Madame Lanier’s dressing gown sang as it slid off her shoulders and to the ground. Tess released the back tie that held in the cinch at Madame Lanier’s waist. She watched the ties slip through their grommets as she waited the space of a few of the woman’s deep breaths. “Is that all right?”
    “Perfect.”
    Tess secured the ties in the new position.,”
    “You have done that many times before, cheri," Madame Lanier said. “Now. Would you not like to do the same?”
    “Ma’am?”
    “Shed your uniform for one night? Remember who you are underneath those handsome shades of blue?” The woman eased Tess down before the dressing table with a gentle press at her shoulders. “They suit you, the blues. Did you wear the color in your other life?”
    Tess took in a careful breath. “Wore mostly homespun, back then. Browns from walnut casings, yellows from onion skins. A little green cloth from sage.” She was babbling. The truth, of course, and in detail. “I do admire the shade of blue. Made a mix of milk and blue pokeberry for my sleeping place in the loft once. Never got to paint it, though.”
    “Why not?”
    “My pa said I was putting on airs. Said plain board’s good enough for the menfolk of the family, and it was good enough…for—for…”
    “For you?”
    “Yes, Ma’am, for me.”
    What was she doing, talking like a magpie to this woman, and almost giving herself clean away besides? She heard Ryder Cole’s laugh from the room beside Madame Lanier’s. Her head hurt. If they discovered her a woman, would the army think he knew all along? Would they blame him?
    “You are a chemist, Private Boyde, with the making of your paints! Perhaps you’d like to investigate my beauty concoctions?” Madame Lanier gave out a short, throaty laugh. “Purely in the interest of scientific study, of course?”
    “I’d like that fine, Ma’am,” Tess said, turning her attention to the lace-covered table.
    “Good. Sit.”
    She reached over Tess’s shoulder and picked up a brush with an ivory handle as fine as those on Doctor Cole’s French-made surgical instruments. “We will do only what you like tonight, I promise.”
    “Thank you,” Tess whispered, hearing the relieved crack in her voice’s low tone.
    “Your hair has a lovely natural curl. May I?”
    “Uh… all right.”
    The hostess began her task. Tess tried to lose herself in the cut glass bottles leaking their scents, but the deep massage of her scalp was too wonderful not to revel in. Her mother had brushed her hair like this, so long ago. She closed her eyes, remembering.
    “You have never seen yourself as beautiful, have you?”
    Her eyes opened. Tess stared at the reflection of a stranger. Slicked down, always-pulled-behind-the-ears strands were now soft waves framing a round, flushed face, a nose off-kilter since Laban let the handle on the pump up too fast when she was eight and broke it.
    “Beautiful?” Her laugh sounded like dry leaves before a storm. “What would the point of that be, Ma’am?”
    Madame Lanier’s brows slanted in amusement. “Well, it’s been the point of my own existence for as long as I remember.”
    “Oh. ‘Course. Beg pardon, Ma’am.”
    The light, throaty laugh came again. It was true. This woman was not going to force her to do anything. She was not full of meanness like the few predatory men that Ryder, Joe and Davy shielded her from at camp. Maybe Ryder was right, maybe everything would be all right if she could just relax in this strange, gaudy place.
    Madame Lanier laid down her brush. She swiped three fingers full of a substance that looked like butter from the lilac-scented jewel bottle. She brought it to Tess’s temple and began kneading it in, counterbalancing the throbbing there.
    “Better?” she whispered.
    “Yes.”
    The skilled hands anchored her jaw now, and continued the gentle massage of her cheekbone, sliding across the bridge of her imperfect nose. The massage continued around her ear, down her throat. Is this how Madame Lanier started with the men? Those jealous men who were angry at the lady’s choice of partner-of-the-evening? It’s a wonder this woman didn’t live in a castle with those men at her feet, Tess thought.
    “Can you see it yet?” Madame Lanier asked softly.
    Tess stared at their reflections. “See, Ma’am?”
    She kissed Tess’s cheek. “That every woman with the fire of purpose is beautiful.”
    “Woman?”
    “And I see your purpose as well as I see the affection you carry for your captain.” She frowned. “As if you haven’t got enough burdens, my darling girl.”
    Suddenly, the weight of the day crashed down, turning the bottles blurry as Tess struggled to take in gulps of air. The woman’s long, strong fingers unbuttoned, then lifted off coat, vest and blouse until she found Tess’s own corset: plain boned muslin, tied towards a different purpose. She loosened the strings.
    “Breathe easy now. I will not add to your burdens. You’re safe here. You’ll always be safe here, do you understand?”
    Tess looked up at the woman’s reflection. “Will I?” she whispered
    “Yes. Now, let’s get that uniform tucked away for a few hours, shall we? Then how about a few of my night-off girls and I help you into some silks and finery?”
    Soon Tess had what she’d always wanted, though she’d never known it before that moment—seven sisters dousing her in lilac water, powdering her shoulders, pulling her waist tight under corset ties. They graced her neck with amethysts, found ear bobs, painted her lips and cheeks. She shyly pulled her braid from its secret pocket for them to marvel at. Then they combed her shorn hair back and pinned the cascading fall to it, even planting silk flowers where they attached it.
   As her transformation continued, they told her about picnics along the Potomac on their days off, and going to the theater where goddesses on a gold chariot were pulled by a great mechanical lion with real smoke coming out of his nostrils. Encouraged, Tess told them about her mountains back home, and how cool they kept the evening breezes even at this summer time of year, and the white birch trees with mushrooms growing in their shade—mushrooms big enough to fry up like a steak.
    When the girl in the cinnamon colored dressing gown asked about Ryder and his scar, Tess even told them about the first time she’d laid eyes on her captain, his doomed horse and the panther. When she got to the panther’s death throes, the girl let out a shriek, followed by mad giggles from others to hush up.
    The door to the adjoining room swung open.
    Tess felt Madame Lanier’s hand take her shoulder in an iron grip. She looked up into the mirror and caught sight of Ryder Cole standing in the door frame. His eyes darted around for an instant, then landed square on her face.
    “Diana?”

    It was her turn to shriek.



Monday, August 29, 2016

Pantser Confessions






I never thought I could get myself into such a tangle in the course of writing a plain, old-fashioned traditional romance. This book has taken a lot longer than I'd projected, but I think I've finally reached “The End.” After the editor gets it, there may yet prove to be a few slips between the cup and the lip, but that's the way it's been ever since I started this story, a sequel to Hand-Me-Down Bride, which is a story about a German mail order bride, brought to Pennsylvania to marry a wealthy older man. 
Another book, set in Pennsylvania farm country, in the home of the now happily married older sister, in the time just after the Civil War, looked, at first glance, to be a snap. A nice title, Butterfly Bride,  jumped into my head, instead of waiting until the last second to put in an appearance, like so many titles do. 
As you may know, in the writing world, I’m (more or less) a "pantser".  This used to feel easy-peasey, but in this case, it turned out to be a case of "not so much".  There was a sketchy  outline at first but the characters spent a lot of time avoiding me, going into hiding after I wrote the first four chapters.

It’s taken a long time to get to know anything about them.  And I know I’ve blamed the heroine, Miss Elfrieda Neiman, casually called “Elfie.” She’s very pretty and rather immature, this Butterfly Bride. She's not the only one who has fluttered around, though, refusing to follow my nice neat outline, not by a long chalk.

To be fair to my girl, Elfie has three suitors, all quite different, and each one offering things/experiences which are attractive. Of course, all of them are decidedly good looking. 

Bachelor #1 is filthy rich--or at least, lives as if he is. He's the heir-apparent sort of prospect a pretty lady from a down-on-their luck family is supposed to jump at. Bachelor #2 is a muscular smith/farrier, a veteran and proud owner of a winning trotting horse, whose large family works the timber on the nearby ridge. Bachelor #3 is a thoughtful, musical, educated man of the cloth, who lost a leg and nearly died fighting at the Battle of Spotsylvania.
All three of these characters, as soon as I began to imagine them beyond their cardboard cutouts, revealed unexplored depths as well as some serious demons. I was forced to confront the fact that it takes more exposition to establish characters who were so determined to pop into three dimensions.
As a result, what should have been a nice little bare-bones sequel got complicated. I’ve been enduring months of those writer’s nights where you go to bed and lie half-awake, running scenes in your head—some of which, by the light of day, turn out not to be so great. And that’s a pain in the you-know-what, because, despite remaining sleepless until 3 a.m., the nagging problem/plot point remains without a solution.

What are they saying? Where are they now? If it’s a party—and with pretty gad-about Elfie and her social young friends, it often seemed to be. Who else is there in the crowd scene that these willful characters have dragged me into? Are they dancing, eating, or just hanging out?  And, more to the point, what are they thinking? 
Finally, however, after a final week long marathon of 10 hour days and "No More waffling, Mrs. Waldron--FINISH THE STORY", my young heroine started to grow up a tad and at last settled upon Mr. Right. She just needed a few more jolts, some of those "learning experiences" which we all dread so much, to discover the truth of what had always been right there, inside her heart.





 
Juliet Waldron
All my novels:
and
http://www.julietwaldron.com


Friday, May 2, 2014

99 Cent Sale--HAND-ME-DOWN BRIDE

 

If you are a fan of traditional love-stories with a genuine, old-time, rural setting, check out Hand-me-Down Bride. Meet the Wildbach's, both the schemers and the dreamers, and take a cool evening walk alongside the mill pond...


 
Judge Markham sat at his desk.  George Wildbach faced him across the mahogany surface.  A bottle stood between them.  It was the finest Kentucky bourbon, meant for sipping.

The Judge poured.  Then, ceremoniously, the two men raised their glasses.

"A good day's work, son." It was not just a figure of speech.  George's wife had been born Sally Markham.  The union had made kin of the two sharpest dealers in the county.

"I don't know how I can thank you, sir." 

"Just doing the right thing, m'boy."  The Judge's spectacles were misty with emotion.  "You've been a fine husband to my little Sally, and now there's Teddy and the girls.  They come first."

"To think! Just because Papa died so suddenly, Ilga Bullmaster and her niece would have waltzed off with $2,000 next week, skimmed right off the top."

"Well, with both wills in my file and the witnesses in my pocket, it was easy enough."

"A damned handsome girl," George took a meditative sip.  Oddly, he felt a little sorry for Sophie.  She seemed quite innocent, although Heaven knew that conniving Ilga was not.

"Forgive me for being candid, George, but nothing less than handsome would have suited your father.  He was a man of the most informed taste.  Ilga had the good sense to offer him a rose as perfect as any in his garden."

The Judge paused to splash more whiskey into George's glass.  "It's just good business," he declared, "not to let money get away from the family. Real family, that is."

George drank the second shot neat and then shook his head in an attempt to clear it.  He wasn't accustomed to drinking so early in the day, nor was he accustomed to downright larceny. Theft which could be performed under cover of law, like foreclosing on that shiftless Washington McNally a few years back, well, that was one thing!  To "lose" a signed and witnessed codicil was something else...

 
  
http://amzn.com/B00G80YHFG
 
http://www.bookswelove.net/julietwaldron.php


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