"The Odd One" by Julie Christen

Click here to visit my website!

      Playing with perspective can be challenging and rewarding. As I let this Christmasy short story develop organically over the last month, I surprised myself. I also love how short stories don't have to tell all. A short story can just let the story ... be. It's kind of magical when even the most mundane or common moments want their story to be told, and be told by you. The truth is, I think, there are no mundane, common moments. Any moment is its own story. So you can tell it. 

The Odd One

 by Julie Christen

She’s not a typical tree hunter. The cold carries wisps of her breath into the still night air. She stands like a stone in the center of a stream of purpose-filled people. Do they know she’s there? Her eyes are limp. Her shoulders melt like wax inside her cheap poly-fil coat. Her tattered scarf hangs unevenly. Does she know what you’re supposed to do? She did get herself here, after all. She is most definitely an Odd One.

Wayward snowflakes haloed by the lot lights dangle about her.

“How about this one, Honey?” says a man in a long wool coat.

The Odd One’s head turns, though I don’t know if she or some outside force of nature made it happen. Her eyes are dull. Her face sags as she watches the man who’d spoken wave past her to the fancy lady standing behind her.

The man hadn’t been talking to the Odd One. In fact, no one calls to her. No one asks for her opinion. The odd tree hunter is here alone. Very alone. Even I could sense the lonely aura pulsing around her like a protective bubble.

Hunters of all kinds swarm about the lot. Shoppers. Whatever you want to call them. I have names for all the types, like the Strollers with their la-dee-dah, doo-dee-doo thing going on. Strollers touch everything - trickle their fingers along the Norway’s long needles, making those big softies purr. Or they pat the Spruces’ spiny needles, getting them all worked up and shaky. The Stollers hold hands as they go. This, for them, it is clear to me, is a full-on sensory experience. Boot laces hanging, coats open, scarves swinging. Quiet mostly except for the occasional “Mmm” and “That’s a nice one”. The Tree Pushers have no power over them.

“Can I help you find something?” the Pushers urge.

“We’re just browsing,” the Strollers say.

An hour later, I watch them pick any random old tree, strap it on top of their SUV, and away they go.

Then there are the Needle-seeking Missiles. They’re intense. On. A. Mission. Usually they’re by themselves, still dressed in work clothes – scrubs, suits, heels. Wallet in one hand, Karate chopping through the crowds with the other. Needle-seeing Missiles shoulder past the Strollers with a curled lip and an eye-roll.  

            One Needle-seeking Missile flags down the closest Pusher. “Where are your Douglas Firs?”

“Right over here, ma’am.” The Tree Pusher leads them to the special roped-off section intended for reservations only - as if they wouldn’t take your money anyway.

The DFs puff up and look down their branches.

“Here they are. Our finest.”

“Which one’s the best? That’s what I want.”

“Well, this one here stands at twenty feet, full and even, balanced and …”

            “Fine. Yes. It’ll do. Meet you at the checkout. Have it bound and taken to my vehicle.”

Self-important, the massive Douglas Fir grunts smugly as it takes three grown men to haul him out of there.

Then there are the Hurricanes. They come in groups of four or five or seven or eight. Usually, it’s two Tall Ones, and the rest are shorter at varying intervals. Sometimes one is so tiny, it fits in a taller one’s arms ‒ and squawks a lot. The Shorties of the Hurricanes whirl around the fake forest like snowflakes snatched up in a mini-tornado. They scream and scatter ‒ scatter and scream through the trodden paths. Knitted pom poms bouncing on top of their heads. Mittens on strings flopping like dead fish on a line. The Tall Ones reach and grab and try to collect their Shorties. I chuckle as they holler and sigh and gasp.

Sometimes, the Tall Ones have Lankies dragging behind. The Lankies lean a lot ‒ not helping in the least ‒ inspecting fingernails, gnawing on gum, and staring at something rectangular in their hand.

“This one! This one, Mommy!” screeches a Shortie.

“Daddy, Daddy! This one!” whines another.

“That’s a nice tree, dear. But how about this other …” a Tall One attempts.

“No! I WANT THAT ONE!” echoes throughout the entire lot.

I really do feel for the Dwarf Pines in the fake North Pole. I can feel them shudder and clench as they’re yanked and knocked around. Even the plastic reindeer, eyes squinting, look ready to take a hit.

Amidst it all, there stands the Odd One. The alone one. Out of place. Unmoving. I think she’s given up. Yes. She’s definitely given up.

She blinks. A dot of water slips down her nose.

Larger snowflakes now float in the air like drunken fireflies.

She moves. Canvas sneakers drag in the snow toward the fake North Pole, but she stops at the candy cane entrance. Wipes her nose. I can’t be sure, but I think her shoulders slump even more as her face twists. More leaking from her eyes. Or melting snowflakes. I can’t be sure. Then she stares into nothingness for a time. Just sags and stares down the lane of little Dwarf Pines.

All around, fresh snow coats the sludgy paths with crystal flakes. A single draft swirls around her feet, sending diamond dust up to the sweatshirt hanging out from under her coat. Somehow, this appears to stir her toward the Douglas Firs.

She inhales deeply and, as though given a whiff of an unseen elixir, she, with what appears to be great effort, straightens and walks to the roped-off reserved section. She frowns ‒ a painful-looking contortion. Then her brow loosens as she shakes her head at the ground and all the way up to the top of an, I will say it, intimidating ten-foot DF. She throws her ratty-gloved hands to her head, closes her eyes, and breathes a defeated sigh.

Her footsteps are mushy. She looks around, now mildly desperate. Her chapped lips part a fraction as a Pusher sails past. A tinny “Silent Night” from the single-horn speaker attached to one of the lot lights scrapes the air. A whimper of a breeze makes the Norways rock-a-bye, lulling her toward them now. They’ll comfort her, if it’s comfort she needs. Norways are good at that.

But even as she pets their soft fronds and gently fluffs a dusting of snow off of them, she cries. Full-on weeps. So much so that some Strollers notice and give one of those “oh dear” looks. They move on.

I can’t figure her out, this Odd One. It’s like she’s searching for something that’s not even here. I find myself worrying that what she wants isn’t … anywhere.

Then, as though drawn by some mirthless place, she floats over to where I’ve been leaning since morning. She stops in front of the chain link fence and stares, arms limp, at the sign attached. “REJECTS and DISCARDS,” it reads.

She takes off her left glove and fiddles with a silvery metal band on her finger. I see a tiny sparkle in the center of it. She slides it off her finger and lays it in her palm. It weighs her down. A burden. But something visceral, a sense that travels down to my phantom roots, tells me she’s not ready to give it up. It is too much a part of her still.

Her fingers curl around it, and she looks up, confused, unsure, eyes glistening ‒ like she wants someone to tell her what to do about it, about the burden, about … all things. A Pusher glances her way and stalks toward her ‒ ready to tell her what she needs ‒ when she looks into my pen and sees me. And I think she can tell I see her.

The Tree Pusher’s voice is slick, “That’s an odd one there, ma’am.”

She gives him a quizzical look. The sparkly ring slips into her baggy sweatpants pocket.

The Pusher goes on, “A balsam fir of no impressive stature, flat on one side, and a gap at the center. I think a stray cat’s been shacking up in this tree’s belly every night for the last month. Chewed the needles, smashed and cracked a bunch of branches, and made it generally unfit for the lot. We finally slid it in here this morning.”

She and I just kept staring at each other. I think it was weirding out the Pusher because he rather unceremoniously said, “The trees in this pen, ma’am, are on a one-way trip to the chipper.”

I had figured my hours were numbered when they shoved me in here today. I’ve never seen a fellow coniferous in here more than two or three days.  But to hear it put so bluntly, well, it feels most uncomfortable. I imagine, however, I’ll return to a state that will take me back to the earth where I started some fifteen or so years ago.

The Odd One tilts her head and gives me such a look of consternation, I’ll admit, I get a little self-conscious. But her eyes are dry.

“Ma’am,” the Pusher redirects her, “allow me to guide you to our trees for sale.” His words sound forced.

Mechanically, she turns to follow him. A swirl of wintry wind blows through the lane, ruffling her scarf and making her reach both hands to catch her loose stocking cap. I watch her fuzzy glove fall to the ground. The Pusher doesn’t offer to pick it up. When she turns back toward my pen and bends down to retrieve it, she looks at me again, squinty-eyed this time.

Some mystic version of “The Christmas Song” cuts through the thin air as more fresh pixie flakes twinkle down, landing on my uneven branches and my gaping hole.

The Odd One turns to the Tree Pusher and says, “I’m fine.” Then she turns to me and says it again, but this time it feels like she’s not talking to him. “I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself,” he says, having already turned around to hone in on a high-heeled, fur-coated Needle-seeking Missile.

The Odd One sniffs. Looks at her snowy fuzzy glove.

Shakes. It. Off.

With a snap of a glove cuff, she marches ‒ yeah, I actually have to say marches ‒ through the chain-link gate and plants herself in front of me, hands on hips. Her resolve quavers, I can tell, slightly with a weakened eyebrow and pressed lips, but she reaches in through my branches and grabs my trunk ‒ with more strength than I believed she had ‒ and stands me upright. I hear her spit out a needle or two, and I see her hair sticking with sap. In a minute, I’m propped up in a corner, and she’s taking a step back to get a look at me. I feel a little exposed, what with my gaping cat hotel vacancy for the world to see. She touches my needles gingerly, staring at the empty space. Then she lays a hand on her own center and gives such a look of understanding, the snowflakes on my needle tips melt.

Her voice comes softly but sure. “I’ll take this odd one,” she says so that only I can hear.

We stand in the falling snow. In the drifting music. Away from the rest. Just us. I’ll belong to her this season. Maybe we can fill each other’s empty spaces for a while.

 

So You Wanna Be A Writer? Do the Novel Thing? by Graeme Smith

 

https://www.bookswelove.com/shop/p/twice-born

SO YOU WANNA BE A WRITER? DO THE NOVEL THING?

(with apologies to ‘So you wanna be a boxer’ from the movie ‘Bugsy Malone’)

 

 

Once upon a time—well, you could see them most anywhere you went. Now? Now, not so much. Oh, they’re still there, if you know where to look. But now they’re in the back alleys and the darker streets. Not the really dark ones—the ones you don’t go down less’n you’ve got the types of friends nice folks don’t admit to, or maybe you just got no friends left at all. But not the bright ones, the big streets either. The other dark streets—the ones most folks don't remember is still there at all, the ones you only find when you got nowhere's else to go. Still, if you know where to look you can find a boxing gym here and there. Full of sweaty guys (yes, and girls. Women. Er, not-guys) punching bags of words that weigh more than they do and dreaming of being a Contender. And in the corner, there’s Joe. Joe don’t look much, but he owns the place. He's seen it all—the good times, the not-so-good. He could have been a Contender once, maybe, but now? Now he just takes money from guys (yes, Jones Minor. Or not-guys) he knows will never punch more than a bag, and tells old stories of The Guy. The Guy (yes, Jones Minor. Or The Girl) who walked in one day, and Joe knew. Knew she (or he) could have it all—but who maybe turned out to have a glass jaw. Or didn’t work hard enough. Or one day? Or one day, they just quit. Because they all think they have it, when they walk through the door. And ain’t none of them really know how hard it is.

But Joe knows.

So maybe it went like this…

The door creaked. Joe didn’t bother to look up. Some days, creakin’ was all it did. They looked in, saw what they saw. Heard what they heard. The bent heads. The pounding keyboards. The one in the corner on his last legs, cryin’ over the beatin’ Ten Finger Simpson just gave him over too many ‘that’s’ in his draft. And those days, they didn’t even walk through. They just walked. Walked away, and maybe that was the smartest thing they ever did. Because Joe knew anyone who did anythin’ else had to be crazy. A very special kind of crazy. And maybe this one was just that. That special kind of crazy. Because this one—she didn’t look at the ones pounding keyboards. She didn’t look at the tattered and faded Form Rejections lining the walls. She just walked in. Walked in, and came right over.

“You Joe?”

The words might have been a question. But Joe knew she wasn’t askin’. Wasn’t even Tellin’ she knew who he was. She was Showin’. Showin’ she was somewhere she was supposed to be, and to hell with anyone what thought different. And all that was a good start. So he did what he always did with the ones who might Have It. He ignored her. The dumb ones never got it, and the smart ones were used to it already.

“I… I got a book.” She held out a sheaf of loose bound sheets.

Joe shrugged, even if he did it inside and his shoulders never moved an inch. So this one was a bit of both. Part dumb, part smart—and maybe just crazy enough to make it, ‘cos you had to be crazy to even try. And at least she’d written a book. There was them as wanted to and never did, and them as started and never finished, and—his eyes never moved but his mind wandered over the hunched figures pounding keyboards—them as kept startin’ and never finished nothin’. Never would—and still didn’t quit. But this one? He ignored the sheets of offered paper as much as he was ignorin’ the person holdin’ 'em—this one had finished.

Or thought she had.

Like every other time, Joe wondered what she’d say if she really knew. Knew the damn thing in her hand was just the start. The easy bit. Or not even that. Joe wondered if she knew about Queries, and Synopses. Knew about bein’ surrounded by a hundred thousand others, just as smart, just as talented, just as clever. A hundred thousand others maybe one ounce more persistent than she might want to be, in the long nights when she wondered why she was botherin’ and figured the smart thing to do was just quit. And if she Had It, knew none of that mattered a damn, ‘cos she was goin’ to carry on anyway. Joe wondered if she knew about Agents, and how little they cared she’d written something great, something amazing—and how it was right they didn’t care because all that mattered wasn’t what was great, but was what the Public wanted to buy. He wondered if she knew about No-Reply-Means-No, and Form Rejections, and Partials and Fulls and—and how none of even that maybe meant a damn, because after every one of ‘em ‘sorry’ wasn’t the hardest word at all. He wondered if she knew it was the easiest in the world most times, and one she was going to see and hear a lot, if she heard any damn thing at all, and not what Simon and Garfunkel sang about - or that Disturbed guy. Because you pretty much had to be—disturbed that is—to Have It, or even anythin' near. He wondered what she’d be like after her first time with Ten Fingers, maybe in Query Critique. Would she be a shouter, when Ten laughed at her Opening Rhetorical Question and told her he’d seen better Hooks in a crochet kit? Joe’s eyes moved for the first time as he looked over to Jack, still pounding away in the far corner. Jack, who Ten Fingers had reduced to tears when he’d torn his Query apart for the hundredth time, and told Jack he didn’t know motivation from meatloaf, and how Ten couldn’t see from the Query why Jack’s Main bothered even getting up in the morning. Mostly Joe wondered if this one knew what she was, what she was going to have to become, going to have to be. And how even if she Made It, became one of the Greats, how one day none of it would matter, all over again.

“I got a book!” She waved the sheets again, under his nose.

“Yeah.” At last, Joe looked up. “So did I once.

Digging in to a donair -- and a sequel by donalee Moulton

  

I’m ushering in the new year by returning to my mysterious roots. My first novel, Hung Out to Die, features Riel Brava, attractive, razor-sharp, and ambitious. And that’s just on the surface. Dig beneath the surface and you find a man who grapples with fitting in, finding the right word, and fearing a misstep in a world where he doesn’t quite belong.

 Riel is a psychopath. (Not the killer kind. The other kind.)

 As CEO of the Canadian Cannabis Corp., Riel becomes embroiled in a murder investigation when the company’s comptroller apparently hangs himself. Emphasis on the word “apparently.” Unravelling the whodunit brings Detective Franklin (Lin) Raynes into Riel’s life. Raynes, in turn, introduces Riel to the donair.

 Donairs are commonplace in my neck of the Canadian woods. People love them. Or not. (I’m in the latter category.) Riel’s wife, Tiffany, is with me. She leans toward veganism and certainly away from spiced ground beef sliced off a rotating cone and smothered in a sweet, garlicky sauce.

So, as I begin to write the second Riel Brava mystery, I thought I’d share with you the scene from the first book that introduces Riel to the wonder that is the Nova Scotia donair.

 

 

Order the first Riel Brava mystery here.

Excerpt from Hung Out to Die -- without the sticky sauce

 

Raynes looks like he’s getting ready to leave. Looks can be deceiving. He lingers for a second. “Have you ever had a donair?”

Donairs are a Halifax specialty. Some residents contend this is Nova Scotia’s official food. Aficionados spend a great deal of time discussing the nuances of the dish, thin slices of spiced beef on a warm pita, sprinkled with diced onion and tomato, and swimming in a sweet, garlicky sauce. Or so I’ve been told. To answer Raynes’s question, “No, I’ve never had a donair.”

“Let’s go.” He pauses for a split second. “I won’t tell Tiffany.”

I’m in. We head to the Donair Queen in Elmsdale, a play, I assume, on the King of Donair in Halifax, where the dish is said to have originated.

I let Raynes order for me. “Two donairs,” he says.

Apparently, it’s not complicated.

The decor is fast food meets comfort food. You order cafeteria-style and either head out or grab a seat. Most people do the former. A few plastic chairs and tables are scattered at the back of the restaurant. Raynes and I stake out a table in the corner. Only one other person is eating inside.

For the next 15 minutes, Raynes and I concentrate on demolishing our donair. It’s not as easy as it sounds. The meat, toppings, and sauce are rammed into a loosely folded pita and blanketed with a small piece of tinfoil. No matter where you bite, something falls out or spills over from another place. I see why Raynes grabbed a large handful of napkins.

“What do you think?” Raynes asks when we’ve finally swallowed the last sloppy morsel.

“I think I’m in heaven. Let’s do this every week. And if Tiffany finds out, my marriage will be over.”

 

BWL Publishing New Releases January, 2026

 

                                         https://www.bookswelove.com/search?q=dekelver

It is 2047, two years since Vancouver was devastated by an earthquake and tsunami. Taylor West, Carlie Fleming, and Mai-Li Wong, and two children, Eddie Coleman, and Debbie Ross, fear retaliation from Willie Arbuckle who they banned from their group for stealing food and threatening Carlie. They leave their winter sanctuary and continue their journey to the Interior and arrive at Blackfoot and are welcomed by the Chinese and the Similkameen Band. 

Chief Pete Johnson and Mai-Li, now ruler of the Chinese, tell Carlie she must exonerate Willie, as there’s no room in Blackfoot for resentment and malevolence. Taylor tells Carlie he loves her, but before they can be together, she must confront Willie. Without informing her, he leaves with Pete on an expedition. Unable to forgive Willie, Carlie is banned from Blackfoot. She returns to the cabin and Lance, Pete’s grandson, goes with her. He talks about the culture and traditions of the Similkameen people and confesses he has feelings for her. 

Taylor and Pete arrive at the cabin; Lance must return to Blackfoot to undertake leadership of the Band. Carlie refuses to return and is left on her own. She discovers an interest in wildfires and while exploring one day, is captured by Lars, a violent man from Taylor’s past who has a grudge against him. She escapes and is injured when she falls from an embankment. Will help arrive in time, will she find the strength to absolve Willie, and find peace and contentment with the man she loves? 

Editorial Review by Crystal White

This book entices the reader to look at our world, how it is, and how it could be in the future in vivid detail. If this is your first introduction to DeKelver's work, you may find yourself rapidly clicking the add to cart button for the other books in this series. 

                                          https://www.bookswelove.com/search?q=dekelver

When fishermen discover a disembodied foot tied to an anchor in Voyageur’s National Park, Doug and Jill Fletcher are called in to identify the victim and the circumstances of his death. 

A retired policeman’s recollections of an unsolved disappearance provides an explanation, but the dots don’t connect. The colorful locals at a resort offer plausible theories on the victim’s identity and the cause of his death. Marks on a stolen anchor and unusual knots on the frayed anchor rope offer the only concrete evidence. 

 

S. Peters-Davis Book Review for: The Anchor Murder by Dean L. Hovey  

 

Doug Fletcher Mystery # 18 – Excellent mystery for Doug and Jill Fletcher to investigate. Captivated by the first chapter, I couldn’t put this book down. A ‘who-done-it’ to the very end, one that keeps the reader locked in, wading through the possibilities, and there are plenty. Gripping, tense moments with the perfect cast of characters, especially Doug and Jill, as if you’ve known them all your life. Mr. Hovey’s books would make a fantastic series come to life on television. 

https://www.bookswelove.com/search?q=stirling

Set in New York’s Greenwich Village, Cui Bono dramatizes the clash between justice and vengeance. Visiting investigative reporter Lucy Hunter, determined to resist speculation and uncover fact, makes her way through a landscape where fascination and horror co-exist. She ventures willingly into the darkest recesses of human imagining. Imbued with Apollonian light, able then to avoid the whiplash of the furious truths that confront her, she must establish for herself a course of action between legal responsibility and personal betrayal. Lucy’s dilemma is resolved, and the question of cui bono is answered. The court of moral judgement she envisions transcends the limitations of time that her flight of fancy inspires.

https://www.bookswelove.com/search?q=stover

By a stroke of luck, eighteen-year-old Louise Tanquist has fallen into a new job as a photographer’s assistant. But it’s 1917 and the United States is in the verge of entering World War 1. Suddenly, Tacoma, Washington where she lives is being overrun with army recruits headed for nearby Camp Lewis. The Red Cross is asking for socks, socks, and more socks; the Foundation Boat Building Company needs volunteers to paint camouflage on their shops, and spies are skulking around the waterfront. Just when Louise thinks she has more things to photograph than she can find time for, let alone to find time for a new romance, she suffers a serious assault. With her beau out of town, she has an opportunity to go north to the Makah Indian Reservation and provide photographs for a book on Native Americans. It’s an exciting time to be alive but Louise knows she will lose friends and relatives in the war, and that the perfect summers she grew up with are over. Editorial Review by Nancy M. Bell During the period when the US entered WW2 it was a tumultuous time. Lady photographer Louise discovers that making her way in a man's world is not always easy. And she also finds that, after closer inspection, people in her close circle of friends and family may not be exactly who, or what, she believed. A story of courage and self-growth with a memorable ending.

 

BackLinks for BWL AND you.

 

WHAT AM I TALKING ABOUT?

When we post links to each other's content and webpages, it generates a sort of legitimacy which search engines tokenize and use to recognize content that they SHOULD be posting in their results list.  

How does this work?  Well, backlinks are a key ranking factor for search engine results, as they generate what's called 'pass authority', which increases both parties' standing in search results lists. Backlinks are still one of the core SEO signals that engines look for, despite modernized pay-to-play tools which artificially boost standing in the results lists.  

The key takeaway here is that for a group of folks like us who have a common theme and shared interest in traffic generation, coordinated quality backlinks can boost overall domain authority, making it easier for all pages to rank and attract shared organic traffic. Now, I HAVE been paying the beast (google) to artificially boost Bookswelove.com in the search standings (though I'd really rather not) and it DOES generate a pile of traffic, but I would darn sure rather be doing so naturally. I will likely continue to boost our profile for now, and linking to our juiced site will actually amplify your own personal pages and sites in the search standings as long as we develop this robust backlink network.  

And folks, this is an effect which compounds over time so the sooner we get out and make these connections happen, the faster we'll grow our footprint.  If you haven't yet sent me links to your pages/sites, please do so ASAP; conversely, if you haven't added https://www.bookswelove.com/shop or https://www.bookswelove.com/ to your pages/sites... well, I think you get the picture. 

Thank you for listening to my nerdy TED talk about BWL and your influence in cyberspace 🤓🤓🤓

The Editor

The White Dress by Eden Monroe

 

 

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorEdenMonroe/

 

https://edenmonroeauthor.com

 

https://books2read.com/Tomorrow-at-Daybreak

 

 It was certainly well represented at Canada’s very first Dominion Day garden party held on July 1st,1870 in Tomorrow at Daybreak:

 

“It was a balmy July afternoon, ideal for the community picnic underway to celebrate the creation of the Dominion of Canada on July 1st, 1867. Dominion Day had now become a public holiday to commemorate Confederation, albeit twelve years after the fact, and all were in a festive mood. Women wore their best full-length white muslin dresses, many in the fashionable princess line. Their elegant straw hats were elaborately festooned with artificial flowers and ribbons of every colour, and of course there were plenty of parasols.”

 

The men in attendance who no doubt appreciated the beautifully dressed ladies around them, were well-turned out themselves in the male finery of the day:

 

“The men were attired in their Sunday best with several wearing top hats. Pate wasn’t much for stiff and staid apparel. Even if he could afford to be appropriately tailored, he would still prefer a clean shirt and sturdy trousers. However, in salute to the occasion he had polished his boots. And if his hat looked a bit too battered, well so be it. He truly didn’t care about such things. At twenty-four he was his own man, and prepared to defend that to anyone who might suggest otherwise.”

 

It seems muslin was everywhere — represented in both women’s and men’s fashions, the latter enjoying its versatility in shirt components and underwear. A fabric that achieved massive popularity, the origin of this plain-weave cotton textile actually predated the 1800’s. Says icefabrics.com: “The history of muslin fabric traces back to the Indian subcontinent, particularly in Dhaka (present-day Bangladesh). During the Mughal Empire, muslin cloth fabric was highly prized for its exceptional fineness. It was considered a luxury fabric, worn by royalty and traded across Europe, the Middle East, and Asia. The delicate weave and lightweight feel earned it global fame, with some muslins so fine they were referred to as ‘woven air.’”

 

So because air, woven or otherwise, is for the most part transparent (when not cloudy or opaque), muslin was considered highly improper for women’s outer garments by a shocked public according to bbc.com: “In late 18th-Century Europe, a new fashion led to an international scandal. In fact, an entire social class was accused of appearing in public naked.

 

“The culprit was Dhaka muslin, a precious fabric imported from the city of the same name… It was not like the muslin of today. Made via an elaborate, 16-step process with a rare cotton that only grew along the banks of the holy Meghna river, the cloth was considered one of the great treasures of the age. It had a truly global patronage, stretching back thousands of years – deemed worthy of clothing statues of goddesses in ancient Greece, countless emperors from distant lands, and generations of local Mughal royalty.”

 

Muslin was also produced in silk and wool, but cotton surpassed them all in terms of fashionableness and acceptance by a discerning public.

 

“European merchants during the 17th and 18th centuries imported large quantities of cotton muslin material, fuelling the demand across fashion houses and noble courts. Sadly, colonial trade restrictions and industrial shifts reduced traditional muslin production. However, the fabric retained its popularity because of its affordability and usability in daily life.” (icefabrics.com)

 

Then, as now, nobility greatly influenced style in many parts of the world. It was in the latter 1700’s that Marie Antoinette appeared in a simple muslin dress that understandably provoked outrage in royal court as well as in social circles. This little white dress was appalling, but ultimately transformative:

 

“Worn without stays or corseting, the dress was a scandal in its day. Not only was the simplicity of the dress unlike the lavishly beaded and embroidered gowns then in style, but it was also made of a semi-transparent cloth that could be somewhat revealing. (gallery.ca)

 

“Although the dress worn by Marie Antoinette in Vigée Le Brun’s portrait is voluminous and rather frilly, by the end of the century, the silhouette had changed considerably, to a more columnar form redolent of Classical Greece. It was also adapted by the era’s “hipsters” who shocked polite society with virtually see-through versions of the gown that hugged the figure.”

 

In hindsight, given today’s predilection for wearing revealing clothing, Marie’s dress seems modest by comparison. Nevertheless a trend in the styling of women’s dresses had begun and the mood for muslin continued unabated. In the 1800’s it was all the rage. That’s not to say that everyone was running around in see-through dresses, although some were inclined to do so. By contrast, extravagant muslin gowns were created that stayed true to the acceptable social mores of the time.

 

Meet Aunt Nell

 

Below is a photo of Aunt Nell in her fine white muslin gown, an image I found identified as such among a collection of old family photos although sadly I have as yet been unable to place her in the family tree. Nevertheless I’m sure there’s a great-great attached to her name, as more dedicated sojourns into genealogy may someday reveal. In any event, in addition to her lavishly constructed muslin dress, we also have to appreciate her spectacular rose corsage.

 

 

 

But in considering all those oceans of beautiful white muslin in the days before modern washing machines and dry cleaners, one can only imagine the labour-intensive work necessary to keep them in top condition. And of course in addition to normal maintenance, there would also be the inevitable stains to contend with. Says Mimimatthews.com: “In the Victorian era, women’s clothing was just as likely to spot, stain, and soil as it is today. For fine fabrics, this posed a particular dilemma. Ladies couldn’t simply throw their printed muslin dresses into a washing machine or send their silk ball gowns to the dry cleaners. Instead, they relied on their lady’s maids to keep their clothing clean and in good order. Not only would a competent lady’s maid know how to sponge and press a gown for wear, she would also know precisely how to wash a delicate muslin or remove an oil stain from silk.”

 

Muslin fabric was also available in patterns or prints, and those items required extra effort according to Mimimatthews.com: “These dresses could be washed, but if the fabric was patterned or printed, great care had to be taken to preserve the colors. For this reason, it was inadvisable for a muslin dress to be washed in hot water. Soap, when applied directly to the fabric, was equally harmful. Instead, the 1856 edition of Godey’s Lady’s Book recommends that a lady’s maid:

 

‘Make a lather by boiling some soap and water together; let it stand until it is sufficiently cool for use, and previously to putting the dress into it, throw in a handful of salt.’

 

“After soaking, the muslin dress would go through a double rinse in ‘clear cold water’ and salt. The dress was then carefully wrung out and hung to dry with the folds spread “as open as possible” so that no part of the dress was lying over another part.”

 

Muslin’s fundamental composition has not changed over time, but the “quality, fineness, and source of the cotton fibre have changed significantly since the 1800s.” It is still an essential fabric, celebrated not only for its historical prominence but also for its modern applications. From baby swaddles to haute couture, muslin remains a fabric that is both traditional and practical — lightweight and breathable in either bleached, unbleached or organic options. I personally keep a good supply of this fabric on hand for quilting projects. The various types of muslin available now include the ultra-lightweight gauze which can be styled into clothing or used by doctors for wound dressing; sheer and lightweight Swiss muslin that is typically patterned, plain and lightweight; Mull, which is more of a worker fabric adding body and structure to garments, and lastly muslin produced in thick, coarse sheeting.

 

And Then There’s Dinah

 

Dinah Gladstone, the bold tart in Tomorrow at Daybreak, was used to the best of everything and so would have chosen muslin for most of her garments. However she didn’t much care what they were made of when it came time to take them off:

 

“She pulled the blouse over her head, revealing her lace-covered chemise beneath. He felt a surge of energy charge through him. It seemed he was in better shape than he thought he was. Leave it to Dinah to fix what was wrong.

 

“She unbuttoned her riding skirt and let it pool at her feet, clad now only in her thin undergarments. She began to dance suggestively for his entertainment, and he was a rapt audience. How had he come across such a delectable creature? A woman who stated without apology what she wanted from life, and offered up her body to him on a silver platter.

 

“’I wish there was music,’” she called over her shoulder, laughing her tinkling laugh.

 

Extending her arms, she swayed to an imaginary tune, obviously basking in his unblinking stare.

 

“He took his shirt off…”