Joys in January

 

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Cold, tired, eyes full of blue, black and glitter--that for me was January after our family moved to upstate New York in the early 1950's. I arose in the dark,  ate oatmeal and the obligatory spoonful of cod liver oil chased with a shot glass of orange juice, and then got ready for the school bus--boots, leggings, coat, scarf and gloves plus whatever homework I had before trudging out into the sunrise over the snow banks. In those days, the snow had been piling up since October, and by now it was also well glazed with ice. I remember shivering, standing on our porch sheltering from the ever-present North wind and peering, eyes watering, into the gold and red of sun just cresting the stand of trees on the next ridge, anxious to see the bus in time to get down the long driveway in time to meet it. (Needless to say,  there was BIG TROUBLE if I didn't.) 

 

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I remember playing outside in that cold with friends on most Saturdays. There were sliding hills, of course, but there were also enormous drifts in every yard to exploit. We'd tunnel into them and then sit inside, pretending we were in caves or that we were Indians or Inuit, sheltering during a winter hunting expedition. I remember me and my friends bringing candles, throw rugs, dolls and matches along to better enjoy our pretend.

After we'd furnished our "igloo," we'd light the candles and apply the flame to the wall and ceiling of until it dripped. The melt would speedily refreeze, but after a great deal of this careful work, we achieved a shiny frozen shell that might endure, during a truly bad winter, well into March.  Mittens beaded with frozen pellets of snow, toes aching from the cold penetrating our boots, we'd enter child's fantasy land. I have no idea how we endured outside as long as we did, before the inevitable surrender and numb escape indoors for warmth and hot chocolate. Those physical experiences, even so long ago, helped me to imagine some pivotal scenes in "Fly Away Snow Goose."

There are many birthdays for me to celebrate in January--of the living and the dead. Two cousins were born in this month, but also two of grand-girls, the youngest of whom just turned twenty-one! They are all Capricorns, like my mother, whose birthday was also in this month.  (How many families, I wonder, have this aggregation of birthdays in a single month?) 

In the days when my Muse was visiting, I also celebrated the birthdays of two Dead White Men during the month. Alexander Hamilton's birthday is January 11, either in 1755 or 1757, as historians argue over the date. Paper records kept in tropical Nevis have not always survived.

Perhaps Hamilton himself muddied the waters on the date, wanting, rather like Mozart, to keep his hard-won status as a  prodigy for as long as possible.  Born in the West Indies into a family in constant financial distress, with the appellation "bastard" attached to his name, it was of monumental importance to Alexander that every possible strategy to assist his climb the social ladder be employed.   

   Young Hamilton as ADC to General Washington by Charles Wilson Peale                   

I never had birthday parties for Hammie, although I'd loved him the longest of all my dead white man crushes. Here I am in Nevis back when it barely had an airport, and the electricity only ran between 6 a.m. and 6 p.m. My mother took us there--intrepid travelers that we were--back in the mid-1950's. Here's a happy January picture of me on the lava sand beach near where the Hamilton home was once supposed to have been. 

And of course in the days of Mozart madness, I'd prepare for weeks before. I remember the first birthday party we had, it snowed heavily and I spent the morning digging parking places for my friends. Some cancelled, because the weather was truly nasty and the roads treacherous, but here are the intrepid few who came to that first party, all of them writers.

Mozart's birthday party was a thing for many years here. At one gathering, an entire poetry/writing group of perhaps twenty souls arrived, and our small house was warmed by all of those folks, by Mozart's music and much spirited conversation. I always made syllabub, which has to be started a few days before you intend to serve it. The centerpiece was always a glorious German bakery treat such as the one seen below, and we all laughed like children, riding on the sugar/wine high. Winter was outside the door and life was tough, but right now we could forget it all and just be happy.

The baker I talked to about the cake turned out to be not only a recent immigrant from Austria, but a huge Mozart fan as well! He beamed and told me how pleased he was to do this. You can see that he fulfilled my expectations and then some.

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~~Juliet Waldron

  

The Ghosts that Haunt New Brunswick by Diane Scott Lewis

 

Amelia is sent to a strange land in the eighteenth century to marry a soldier she's never met. But will the handsome Acadian, Gilbert, capture her heart? Part of the wonderful series of Canadian Historical Brides. The founding of a new colony by the Loyalists who fled the American Revolution.

To purchase On a Stormy Primeval Shore: CLICK HERE

As we near Halloween, I wanted to delve into the myths and ghosts of New Brunswick, Canada, where this novel is set.

In years of tales or myth, people have reported scented lilac ladies that float through rooms; keys that shift location; headless women; howling hounds; ghostly ships.

The Dungarvon Whooper is one of the most famous ghosts of New Brunswick. At Whooper Spring off the Dungarvon River (near Quarryville; once known as Indian town), there's an old logging campsite. The story goes that in the nineteenth century a young cook was murdered there by his lumber camp boss. His revengeful ghost terrifies local hunters, and especially lumbermen, with spine-tingling whoops.

Supposedly, the cook's grave has ever-blooming flowers. If anyone disturbs the grave, the ghost rushes out and screams. 

Another ghost story is told by an Acadian (the original French settlers) merchant. 

About forty years ago, in Northeastern N. B., a young man told a merchant that he was going fishing for months. He asked the merchant to supply his aged parents with groceries and when he returned he'd pay for them. Except, when the young man returned, he bought a car instead of paying the debt. When the merchant discovered this, he shouted: "He can go to hell!"

A week later, the young man went fishing again, got tangled in rough water, fell from his boat and drowned. Not long after, the merchant was cutting hay in his field. A big wind blew up, and in the middle of it rose the drowned man, his hair  blowing wild, wearing the same clothes he'd bought from the merchant's store. The merchant was so frightened, he burned the bills owed to him.

The drowned man's father came to him the next day and said he was walking his dog, and it howled and howled as if something was there. The unnerved father insisted on paying the debt. The village priest said to the father that his son was in Purgatory, and needed the debt paid so he could 'move on' to heaven.

In 1876, Rebecca Lutes of Moncton was only 16 when townsfolk believed she had supernatural powers. A judge condemned her as a witch and she was hanged from a tree branch, buried upside down, and concrete poured over the grave to keep her from crawling out. Today strange happenings are reported, floating lights, mysterious fires, and a creepy black cat, around her grave. 

I want to thank Alison Hughes for her wonderful site Eastern Gothic, ghost stories, for the first two stories:

https://new-brunswick.net/new-brunswick/ghoststory/ghost3.html

For more on me and my books, please visit my website: DianeScottLewis   

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with her husband and one naughty dachshund.

Here Comes the Brides of Banff Springs by Stuart R. West

Click here to purchase!

Rarely do I read romance. Even rarer? Rereading a book. But that's exactly what happened with author Victoria Chatham's elegant and entertaining historical romance novel, Brides of Banff Springs. The first time I read the book, I sat back with a sigh, wishing I could spend more time with Ms. Chatham's wonderful characters.

Books We Love LTD recently rereleased an extended second edition of Banff and, of course, I dug right into it. I loved it all over again.

The title refers to a myriad of "brides" of varying social and economic fortunes, a sort-of "brideacopia" of Downton Abbey-styled colorful characters. There's Fliss, a poor, sad maid at the ritzy Banff Springs Hotel in Canada, who's married to a bellhop, but has to keep their unity a secret in order to maintain her job; on the flip side, there's Burma, a brassy, sassy spoiled brat of a socialite who's engaged to a truly cretinous gold-digger; hey, how about the mysterious ghost bride who haunts the Banff Springs Hotel?; finally--and best of all--there's the heroine, Tilly, a down-on-her-luck poor girl who begins her backbreaking duties as a maid at the hotel while maintaining a never give in attitude and upbeat spirits. She's also being pursued by amorous trail guide, Ryan, but holds her own.

I'm certain you'll agree after checking out the following excerpt:

* * *

To Tilly, it was the loveliest evening of her life. Just before Ryan left her, he chucked her on the chin, and she smiled up at him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. “Wear pants if you’ve got them. I’m taking you trail riding.” Tilly choked back a groan. There it was again, that proprietary streak that gave Ryan his take-charge attitude. It might work for guides and packers, but it sure wasn’t going to work for her.

She fisted her hands on her hips. “I’m going to marry you. I’m going to take you riding,” Tilly said. “Doesn’t it ever cross your mind that a girl might like to be asked what she wants?”

Ryan looked at her in mild astonishment. “Don’t you want to go riding?”

“That’s not the point,” Tilly sputtered. “Why can’t you just ask me, instead of telling me? I do have an opinion of my own you know.”

His easy-going shrug infuriated her even more. “All right. Would you like to go trail riding with me tomorrow?”

“Thank you.” Tilly tilted her chin up as she glared at him. “I would very much like to go riding with you. And I do have pants and boots.”

“Hmm.” He appeared to be considering her response. The gleam of humour in his eyes put her on edge and she looked up at him warily, waiting for the comeback she knew would trip off his tongue. “So, if you’re coming with me anyway,” he said, “why make all that fuss? Why not just say okay?”

 “Because you can’t just take it for granted that I’ll fall in with your plans.” Tilly pulled away from him. “What if I’d wanted to do something else?”

“Do you?”

“Ryan!” She threw up her hands in despair. “I can see that arguing with you will be like trying to catch a cloud.”

“Don’t waste your time then.” He kissed the tip of her nose, wished her goodnight, and walked off leaving her laughing.

* * *

I adore the character of Tilly. And I think that's the secret to the book's success. Hands down, she's one of the best heroines I've come across lately in fiction. She puts the pluck in plucky. But the other characters are just as vividly drawn by Ms. Chatham's exquisite prose. And did I mention there's a ghost story involved? Something for everyone. Hey, if this ol' persnickety codger fell for the book's charms, ANYONE can.

I give it 5 enthusiastic thumbs (or...um, something like that)!

Check into the lovely Banff Springs Hotel today. Tell 'em I sent you.

Book your reservations now!

I Remember When...

(Reposted from the BWL Canadian Historical Brides blog)

photo © Janice Lang

Memories can be tricky little devils. Some are so crystal clear that no manner of dispute by people who were there can derail our version of that particular truth, even if it might be a tad faulty. They can be faded sepia by time like an old photograph, or replayed in the mind like a scratchy copy of an 8mm home movie. Others are dim recollections, fragments here and there, disconnected one from another, some even running together to form one imperfect memory. And then there are other those that remain intact throughout our lives, complete with enough sensory imagery to recall every detail.

I retain a number of such memories, some from earliest childhood…like when I was two or three and I made my first snowman (a tiny one, about the size of a baby doll) outside our apartment in the Bronx. I didn’t want to part with it, even as my mother insisted it was time for a nap. Eventually she acceded to my demands and let me take it upstairs, where we put it in the bath tub for safekeeping. Not understanding the properties of snow at the time, I woke from my nap and eagerly made a beeline to the bathroom, only to find a puddle, my red woolen scarf, and a couple of pieces of coal where my masterpiece had been. A lesson in disappointment.

My all-time favorite memory from childhood is quite the opposite. After over 60 years, it remains as vivid as yesterday.

I was six years old on Christmas Eve in 1956, when my dad took me to the gas station to have snow tires put on my mom’s car. I don’t remember why I went along with him to Frank’s Amoco, but there I was in the office, standing face-to-face with a glossy little stub-tailed black mutt. Sitting by the door to the bays on an oil-stained spot, he reacted with a joyful countenance as soon as he saw me enter. We struck up a conversation (mostly one way). But he had an expressive face and cocked his ears in a most appealing way, tilting his head when I spoke, as if he understood everything I said.

Time soon came for the car to get moved into the shop, so we all filed back out onto the blacktop. The day was chilly and blustery (I’d been wearing mittens, which I’d taken off inside). Just as we stepped out the door, a mighty blast of wind took one of my mittens and blew it across the lot. I watched in a dull sort of stupor as the mitten flew on a swirling gust and then kicked around at the curb. Before I could take a step toward it, the dog tore off, picked it up, trotted back to me, and dropped the mitten at my feet. And there was that look he gave me as he sat gazing up so expectantly, wagging his little tail….

I thought he had to be the smartest dog in the world (on a par with Lassie and Rin-Tin-Tin), and I told him so. Together we climbed into the back seat of my mother’s 1955 Rambler and went up on the lift while the mechanic changed the tires. All the while we talked about what it would be like if he could come home and live with me. I told him about my two sisters and our mom, our house and yard, and “the pit,” which was the greatest place on earth for us kids to play. Like the world’s biggest playground surrounded by acres and acres of trees, and slopes to sled down in winter, picking blueberries and blackberries in summer….

The whole time we were up there on the lift, Frank and my dad had been involved in what looked to be a conspiratorial conversation, and when the dog and I got out of the car, my father was smiling from ear to ear.

“Do you want that dog?” Frank asked with a wink at my dad.

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. It just couldn’t be true. But when I glanced up at my father, heart thumping with wild expectation, anticipating a let-down, he grinned at me like a little boy and nodded. Of course I wanted the dog, and so did he it seemed, almost as much I did.

Shadow and me, circa 1964

I guess Frank was relieved that the stray mutt had found a place to live and be loved. He explained that the dog had shown up at the gas station a few days before and hung around day and night following the mechanics as they went about their business—a kind of a nuisance—but they fed him scraps from their lunchboxes and he slept in the shop and earned his keep watching over the place. They called him Shadow, and that was to be his forever name.

My mom wasn’t thrilled—not one bit—and it took all we had to convince her that I would walk him, feed and clean up after him. Finally, she gave in, albeit reluctantly. After all, he was smelly and grungy with grease and dirt. So we gave him a bath in the tub. With all that filthy, soapy water gurgling down the drain, I fully expected him to turn white.

For the first few weeks, Shadow would manage to get out of the house and disappear from morning until supper time. We soon discovered that he spent that time hanging out at his old place of employment (a goodly trek, I might add)…until he discovered Paul the mailman. For a couple of years he even got picked up and dropped off at our house on the days Paul’s route was scheduled through our neighborhood. He became the most famous dog in our part of Massapequa. Wherever we went (he followed me on my bicycle), kids would always shout,“Hey, isn’t that the mailman’s dog?”

Shadow retired from the US Postal Service when Paul was replaced (I learned from my mother later in life that he was a bit of a Lothario). 

For the remainder of his life Shadow’s only job was as friend, protector, clown and trickster. He also had a lot of Scrappy-Doo in him, often getting into fights with much larger dogs and paying the price. But he survived the follies of his youth to remain with us for 14 years before crossing over the Rainbow Bridge a week shy of Christmas Eve, 1970. By that time we had shared countless adventures and had lots of fun together. And I had a trove of stories to tell my kids as they grew up. Maybe one day I’ll write them down. 

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, "The Serpent’s Tooth" trilogy: Lord Esterleigh’s Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan’s Wife,  and The Return of Tachlanad, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon, Kobo, and other online retailers.

My Character by Katherine Pym

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When I began researching a good heroine for our Newfoundland story, I didn't think I'd find someone like Sara Andrews, later Lady Sara Kirke.

From the few historical texts that mention her, they confess she was one hell of a lady. Historians say after the arrest and subsequent death of her husband, Sara took the bull by the horns and for a good thirty years ran a very successful plantation (farm) in Ferryland, Newfoundland Labrador.

I haven't found any portraits of Sara Kirke. If there are any, they are locked away somewhere and off the internet grid. A pencil drawing of her husband exists but it's considered a modern rendering of what he may have looked like.

In 1638 David Kirke moved his family to an abandoned plantation named Province of Avalon, Ferryland, NL. (The term plantation was originally known as a colony, a settlement in a new land.) Ferryland is located on the coast southeast of St. John's. It has a natural harbor that kept ships afloat during storms.

The Kirkes settled in a nice stone house previously built for George Calvert, 1st Lord Baltimore. He moved to Ferryland thinking he could establish a Roman Catholic utopia, but after one hard winter and trouble with pirates, the myriad of fishermen who showed up on his shore, Baltimore threw up his hands and ran for the exit.

It took a lot of work to sustain a plantation household, that of their servants and fishermen who worked the sea, but Lady Sara Kirke was up to the task. She partnered with her husband and turned their plantation into a fishery. They owned several boats, salted fish and produced cod oil. They traded their products for wine and other sustainable goods with England and the Europe. Once the colonies of New England gained their footing, the Kirkes obtained goods from warmer climes down the Atlantic Coast.

After Sir David Kirke was arrested and returned to England, Lady Sara continued to work the plantation. Based on historical facts, Sara is considered North America's first and foremost entrepreneur, so no mewling babe here. When I built her character, I did not want to start with a shy, weak woman who over trials of life became strong and independent. I made her a force to be reckoned with from the get-go.

She came from a wealthy merchant’s family and married into another. I made her a partner in the Kirke’s wine business, had her outfit ships for sail to the New World, had her stand up to her husband’s gruff and stubborn ways. This made her capable for anything when she single-handed ran the Ferryland plantation, a single mother with three sons (there’s no record of her remarrying), where she had to contend with fishermen from so many nations who felt they could do what they wanted, when they wanted.

I came to like and respect Lady Sara Kirke, and am happy to have been a part of her story. 

The Beauty of Canada - Quebec Province, by Kathy Fischer-Brown

cover photo © Janice Lang

Twenty days after setting sail from Saint-Malo in Normandy in April of 1534, Jacques Cartier reported: “The fairest land that may possibly be seen full of goodly meadows and trees.” His small fleet had just arrived for the first time on the coast of New Brunswick. He named the bay where his ships moored “Chaleur” (now Chaleur Bay), which means “warmth” in French because of the heat they encountered in May of that year. His first impression of the interior of Canada was not so favorable: “The land should not be called New Land, being composed of stones and horrible rugged rocks…. I did not see one cartload of earth and yet I landed in many places… there is nothing but moss and short, stunted shrub. I am rather inclined to believe that this is the land God gave to Cain.” Cartier obviously was no naturalist; nor did he have an appreciation for the untamed beauty that greeted him. His mind was fixed on discovering a western route to China.

Salmon Beach, Chaleur Bay

In 1535, Cartier made a second voyage across the Atlantic to New France, ever hopeful of finding riches for his sovereign. Instead, he was greeted along the St. Lawrence by natives of Iroquois-Huron extraction at Stadacona, now Quebec City. From here he was determined to sail farther west upriver to Hochelaga, an Iroquois town of over 1,000 people living in bark longhouses surrounded by palisaded fortifications. By then, autumn had settled over this wild country, coloring the leaves in bright hues that astonished these French seafarers, who remarked they were “the finest trees in the world.”

Countryside, Quebec Province

From there they continued their journey west in long boats up the St. Lawrence, ever hopeful of finding that elusive Northwest Passage. Thirteen days later they came upon open fields in the shadow of a great mountain. “On reaching the summit,” he wrote, “we had a view of the land for more than thirty leagues round about. Towards the north there is a range of mountains running east and west. And another range to the south.” Cartier named this summit Mount Royal, today’s Montreal. Again, no mention of the colors of fall against an azure sky, or the sheer thrill of viewing nature in an unspoiled state.

View from Mount Royal

Four hundred-and-thirty-some-odd years later, during my childhood and a few times while in my teens and early 20s, I visited a few of these same places in Canada on vacation excursions—mostly with my family to visit historical sites and landmarks—and later with friends. Even though the weather was cold and drizzly that spring in 1964, our trip to Quebec was remarkable. With its narrow cobbled streets, ancient brick buildings in the characteristic New France architecture, and the magnificent Chateau Frontenac of late 19^th century vintage rising above the Old City walls, I experienced a sensation of having been taken back in time. I remember during the drive through the countryside that the land around the area was rustic, with miles of open farmland and everything just beginning its transformation from winter to spring. Set against the gray dippy sky, the scene resembled a water color painting.

Montreal’s Plains of Abraham were memorable—if not a bit soggy in the rain—as were the restaurants and shops and trying to speak French with the wait staff. The sun finally came out during our jaunt to Ottawa, where we toured the imposing Parliament with its gothic revival style and posed for pictures with the Mounted Police on duty there. (That was an extra-special treat for me, as I’d been a long-time fan of the TV show, “Sergeant Preston of the Yukon” since I was a kid in the mid- to late 1950s.) 

On another trip, we ventured to New Brunswick, where to our amazement, the Saint John River magically reversed its course as the Bay of Fundy’s changing tides exerted a power I’d never seen before or since. 

 

Montreal a second time had its charms in wintertime, especially the underground shopping and dining, which I experienced anew during a romantic weekend getaway prior to an enormous blizzard that closed down the Northway just hours after our harrowing escape return to upstate New York. Unfortunately, we did not get to see the city blanketed in snow, but that is all well and good, since I’ve never been a fan of cold and snow anywhere.

View of Ottawa

A visit to Toronto in 1971 with a friend, whose parents had relocated there from Connecticut, was also memorable. The nightlife was spectacular, especially for us young ’uns. Although not exactly a natural beauty, the city’s subways—the trains and stations—which we utilized to get around, impressed me with their bright white tiles and exceptional cleanliness.

Beauty is many things to many people. While I greatly appreciate and admire the natural beauty of lakes, rivers, and mountains, of foliage in spring and autumn, sunsets and moonrises, fireflies on a warm summer evening, I take special pleasure in the monuments built and left behind by rugged pioneers and settlers—their homes and places of worship, their struggles to survive and thrive. My travels in Canada have left me with lasting memories and a few faded photos. It is my hope to return again soon.

Reprinted from the Canadian Historical Brides blog, Jan. 13, 2017

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh's Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her The Books We Love Author page or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon and other retailers.