Krampus, Frau Berchta & Zauberkraft

 

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https://www.julietwaldron.com/

Austrians and Bavarians have a divine pair of antidotes to our American diet of Christmas sugar. The best known is the Krampus, a German/Austrian devil who appears at winter celebrations, usually on December 5, which is also Saint Nicholas day. In Bavaria and in the territories of the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, he’s long been the Dark Companion to their Good Spirit of the season, the Christian St. Nick. 

Saint Nicolas & "Friends"

Krampus is doubtless a good deal older than the red-coated, crozier-toting saint, with his horns, furry pelt, and long, disgusting tongue. Krampus arrives to punish bad children, right beside Saint Nicholas, in, as some commentators have noted, a kind of bad cop/good cop routine.   He carries chains which he shakes threateningly and a bunch of birch branches, which he threatens to use on the backsides of all evildoers.

Krampus

Old Christmas cards from the region, especially from the 19th Century, show Krampus—sometimes portrayed as a female—delivering spankings in smirking 19th Century bondage scenes. However, I believe that Krampus has always been male, because of his enormous horns, that universal signifier of masculine prowess. In this case, the horns are trophies taken from the buck Steinbock, (Capra Ibex) which are an integral part of the traditional costume.  

Steinbock buck

Krampus has survived from pagan times in Austrian and Germanic lands despite more than a thousand years of disapproving Christianity. Soon, this magnificent horned god will dance in the streets as part of the celebration that lifts human spirits in a cold, dark time.  He does not dance alone, though. Long ago, he may have had a feminine companion.

Nature, in the form of the Teutonic Goddess, Frau Perchta or Berchta, is another seasonal deity. This Lady has two faces. In spring and summer she is Berchta, the shining one, dressed in white and crowned with flowers, who brings fertility to the fields and to the animals. Sometimes taking the form of a swan or of a lovely woman with one webbed foot, Berchta cares in a beautiful secret garden for the souls of suicides, the unbaptized and still born children, and those who have not been buried properly. This soul-shepherd could be a friend on a very personal level, too, for there are stories about her entering homes in the night and nursing babies in order to help their tired mothers get much-needed sleep. 

Berchta, the Good

In winter time, however, Perchta is no longer generous or kind to her human children. When The Wheel of the Year turns, she wears a new face, one that is old and cruel. Times past, as the Spinnstubenfrau, (Spinning room wife) this goddess would punish a woman severely if she had not finished all her spinning and/or housecleaning (*I'm doomed) by the Feast of the Epiphany--January 12.  Beneath the crone's dress, is a long knife she'll gut you with if you displease her. Every winter day she whips the land with ice, winds, and snow.  

In the howling of the gales you may hear the Wild Hunt blowing over your head--and Perchta, a winter witch, leads them, surrounded by lost souls. She is sometimes accompanied, it has been said, by the Capital "D" Devil himself. The birch tree is sacred to her in both aspects, and is represented by the rune Berkana.

Perhaps, once upon a time, the demonic Krampus creature was Perchta's mate. (He certainly looks like the Devil, doesn't he?)  The Old Woman haunts the time days before Epiphany. If you want to make friends, she enjoys a bowl of hot cereal left out for her, but, better yet, I've heard, is a glass of schnapps or brandy. 

                                                           https://books2read.com/b/Zauberkraft-Black

For the second part of my “Magic Colours” series I decided to employ a shape-shifting creature who lived in the Austrian Alps. The Krampus legend was an obvious choice, although I've altered it to fit the needs of the story.  Shape-shifters are limited to a single form--the werewolf being the prime example--but I gave my creature carte blanche. My hero can assume the shape of any animal that lives on his mountain.  

In Zauberkraft Black, a disillusioned soldier, Goran, returns home from the Napoleonic wars to find his family estate semi-abandoned in the wake of that long and devastating European war. The Austrians changed sides--first fighting against Napoleon and then siding with him, an experience that felt like a betrayal to many. The Year without  Summer (1815-16), just passed, has also taken a terrible toll. Sudden climate change, brought on by a gigantic volcanic eruption on the other side of the world, causes crop failures and starvation all over. 

Not only unseasonable cold followed the now famous Tambora eruption, but endless rains.  In the high mountains, this caused devastating avalanches. One on the Heldenberg (Heroes' Mountain) kills Goran's mother at their alpine family estate. Now, this wild, beautiful place--once, for Goran, full of happy childhood memories-- is tainted with darkness.

 During his first hours on the land, while aimlessly wandering, Goran stumbles into a seasonal celebration among his tenants. It’s a traditional Summer Solstice party, with food, drink and a hint of sex, but instead of these simple pleasures, an ancient ceremony of soul-joining now awaits the newly returned young master. 

 ~~Juliet Waldron

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Earth Walker

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A powerful connection to the earth is a common theme among all 1^st Nations’ people about whom I’ve read, whether they live north or south of the arbitrary lines European colonists drew upon their home land. In every story I read written by 1^st Nations’ People, there is a recollection of a childhood where adults have carefully fostered a deep consciousness of what European culture commonly puts in a generalized lump called “Nature.” It’s that experience with which we European moderns, the “come heres” of the western hemisphere, are -- every day-- less and less familiar.

Football with my cousin, 1950's

Instead of gazing at screens all day, most folks my age (+70) remember playing outside regularly, especially during school summer holidays. My house was near a dairy farm and the surrounding fields were in hay and alfalfa. The farmer didn’t care if my mother and I roamed across them, or if I went by myself to a wonderful pond adjacent to a woodlot. In the spring it was full of tadpoles, crayfish, and blue gills. Later, in summer, it was full of multicolored frogs. Butterflies and dragon flies sailed above muddy flats, and floated over flowering plants, whose names I did not know, although I much admired their bright colors and floating seeds.  

Sometimes I’d see rabbits, fox, or woodchucks, or come across deer at their midday rest.  Red-winged blackbirds nested among the cattails; purple martens performed their fighter-pilot maneuvers over the pond.  At home, we even had a mud nest of barn swallows every year on the far end of our porch—off-limits to us until they’d finished rearing their adorable, plump, dun-breasted family.

For several years as a young teen I was sent to a summer camp--my parents' were fighting their way toward a divorce--for the entire three months. This particular camp was truly rustic, with unheated cabins, water you carried in buckets, and a bunch of retired police horses. These days it would probably be closed down as unsanitary and unsafe. You could take a bath--if you were willing to go to the owner's house--once a week. Otherwise, you "bathed" in the farm pond in the afternoon.

Some water came into it from chilly springs , but a creek flowed in at one end and over a dam at the other, so it was constantly in motion. The pond had been part of the original farm for years, so it was established. Water snakes cruised among the lily pads and cattail beds. While those reedy spots were green and inviting in the slanting afternoon light, we stayed as far away as possible, treading water and playing mermaids in the middle with friends.

It was, among us campers, a badge of honor to never go to the big house and take a bath. How humiliating! How sorry we were for the girls whose parents insisted upon it! The rest of us washed our bodies and our hair in the pond. We floated bottles, half filled with air and half with shampoo, as well as cakes of Ivory soap on the surface beside us. After a day of playing games, hiking in the woods, riding and grooming horses, and entertaining ourselves with marathon games of jacks--we dismantled the ping pong table to use the smooth wooden surface--everyone was ready to wash off the sweat before dinner.

When I returned home at the end of August, at my mother's insistence, I marched straight upstairs and ran the bathtub full. Standing naked before the mirror, I could see the brown dirt residue left from three months of "bathing" in a silty farm pond. The swim suit outline was shades darker than my suntan.

Many years ago, my granddaughter was taken for a walk in the woods for the first time when she was around two years old. Her entire experience of "outdoors" up until then had been playing in groomed suburban yards, or passing through parking lots and shopping malls with her Mama. After a first walk with her daddy on a nature trail, she haughtily pronounced the leaf and stick strewn paths “messy and uneven.”

It’s a funny story, but it’s also sad, as it shows how limited a modern child’s experience often is of this world in which she lives.  Fortunately for her, Dad got the message. From then on, he spent time with his girl out-of-doors, so she wouldn’t suffer from what I’ve come to look upon as Nature Deprivation. She can now out-walk her Grandma any day.

Snow picnic, 1970's, at a favorite spot

When she went to college, this eighteen year old was surprised to find "Walking" was a physical education course. As phys. ed. was required of freshmen and sophomores, she signed up, and then she was again surprised by the exhaustion and pain of which her classmates complained.

Considering all this, I guess it’s no wonder that so many people today are disrespectful of the earth, especially if shopping malls, macadam, and the virtual world are all they experience. It’s not only a great emotional and spiritual misfortune for them personally, but I believe this disconnection is the root cause of our civilization's current mega-scale disregard for our only home, our birth mother. 

Pipeline explosion

I’ve been reading To You We Shall Return by a Lakota author, Joseph Marshall III. This is part of an ongoing attitude adjustment exercise, as I hope to broaden my outlook and see the world through another cultural lens. (The one with which I was raised seems to have ever so many blind spots.) From that book is a Traditional Lakota Prayer to Mother Earth: 

 Grandmother,

You who listen and hear all,

You from whom all good things come,

It is your embrace we feel

When we return to you.

~~Juliet Waldron

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Genesee's story:

 Red men & White, at war in the world and in her blood.

Housewives, Traditional Sex Roles & Mopping the Floor

Alexander Hamilton & Elizabeth, A Master Passion

Amazing how much time housewives spend pondering their floors. You may think that such a preoccupation is a sign of not much going on in that life, but from a "housemaid" view, the state of the floor is a re-occuring issue. Worn board floors, where cat fur accumulates in powdery drifts after a mere 3 days, or the kitchen linoleum which desperately needs waxing, they all cry out to me. I might fancy myself in an observatory, pondering the gravitational fields of Trans-Neptunian objects, but math always evaded me. --Or maybe I was just a typist at heart.

Gravitational studies do have a small place in the field of housecleaning.  A bit of cat fluff falls at the same speed as the toast crumbs my husband sweeps absently from the table onto the floor. This practice of his used to make me see red. Sometimes he'd do it even while I, rag in hand, was on my way to tidy that exact surface. These days, however, I pick my battles. He doesn't seem to realize that things on the floor immediately become my problem. Or--more darkly--maybe he does.

Most likely, he doesn't think and then multiplies this by doesn't care, because really scratch the surface and most men don't think much about women's work, especially if they have a "proper" housewife in residence. 

This blog is from an elder's POV, one from the "baby bust" cohort. As a female of that era, I was trained to domesticity in the traditional mode by a mother who wasn't much for housework herself and maybe figured such a virtue would eventually help me out in the marriage market. Back then, the deal between the sexes was: The Man performs the work he does in field or office, factory or machine shop and in return, Woman cooked, cleaned and helped to tend the green square surrounding the house, as well as being MOM to the kids. If you were a farmer's wife, you had an extra task in the form of poultry. 

Prehistorical Digression:

Imagine a Cro-Magnon a.k.a. EEMH "European Early Modern Human" woman (perhaps an Aurignacian, the ones with the great wall "posters") cleaning out the clan cave. Gotta take out the garbage you know, or you'll attract all kinds of unwanted guests, like the cave bear who used to live here, the local wild dog pack or the saber toothed tiger, the old one who can't chase faster prey anymore.

This old tiger may be a bit lame, but he's fast enough the dine on you, monkey.

Better to get the tell-tale odors away from your front door. You could simply heave the gnawed bones over the edge of the cliff. If you weren't lucky enough to have such a handy disposal area, you had to laboriously dig a hole with an antler pick and bury the stuff. And just about the time you'd get the place cleaned out, I'd bet dollars to donuts that the men would be back with a new carcass and all jazzed on fermenting grapes or something vegetative and disorienting they'd eaten in the woods. They'll just want to barbecue and party. If that's the case, tomorrow will just be same another day of taking out the trash.

Thank heaven EEMH men did "bring home the bacon," because women were incredibly busy. Either pregnant or nursing, chewing great swathes of hide to soften it sufficiently to sew, or gathering firewood and water and scrounging about for roots, nuts and berries, while trying to keep the older children from falling over the edge of that room with a spectacular view.

Years ago, post climbing the ladders to the dwellings at Mesa Verde, my first question was  how did they raise any kids up there? Or did they tie up toddlers  like backyard dogs until they'd acquired complete balance skills and some judgment?

So now, considering what housecleaning used to be like, I don't consider my modern housework all that hard. When I wrote Mozart's Wife I imagined Constanze's trials when the money ran out--which it often did--and how often she'd find herself doing the chores. Hand-scrubbing those lace cuffs and cravats and undies in a world in which there was no decent hand-cream for winter cracked skin! Soothing ointments? Another item for which you'd have to track down the ingredients and then concoct a cure yourself. Worse would be dishes in a world with no indoor plumbing. The Mozart's, like many today, ate a lot of take-out when they could no longer afford an apartment with a kitchen and/or the requisite cook and scullery maid to staff it.

Mozart's Wife

Personally, mopping floors has become a creative driver. Versions of this housewife's trance work often appear in my stories. The Cinderella-like tale of Genesee, where a Metis girl is demoted from beloved daughter to servant, or Elizabeth Hamilton's strategy in A Master Passion to "encourage" her husband to accept the gift of a housemaid from his in-laws, or  Angelica in Angel's Flight, attempting to settle her nerves by scrubbing the steps at her Uncle's Hudson Valley house on the eve of a British terror campaign .

Genesee

~Juliet Waldron

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"Thou dost appear beautiful on the horizon of heaven... "

(From the Hymn to Aton by Akhenaton "the Heretic")

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Bras, Basics and Blues

                          A-Master-Passion, The Story of Alexander Hamilton and Elizabeth Schuyler

Amelia Bloomer (1818-1894) "When you find a burden in belief or apparel, cast it off!"

If only I could! I begin with a digression.

Amelia Bloomer! How I hate to leave her behind, this strong woman, born in 1818, (while Napoleon was still kicking) who didn't leave off her earthly crusades for temperance, comfortable underwear, and equality for women, until 1894, just a few years short of the death of Queen Victoria. She advocated not only sensible clothing for women, but for Equal Rights for Women. Consider: She was a woman whose ideas were so far "ahead of  her time" that "her time" hasn't yet arrived.

Bras have been around for a long time. We can see them in Minoan paintings and Roman Mosaics. Minoan women appear to have worn a boned garment rather like the much later stays, however they left the breasts bare--perhaps this was only for priestesses or aristocratic women. Sadly, we can't ask them who dressed this way--was it a status thing, or was it garb for priestesses?  

Minoan Lady and entourage

Later, there are Roman mosaics of female athletes in bandeau, fabric strips tied to secure the breasts during strenuous activity.

Let us not forget the medieval "breast bags," which is the laugh line among all these varieties of bosom management.  One of the two medieval sources for the "breast bags" huffily claims such items of clothing were "indecent."  I'd like to see that fella deal with a pair of 46DDs and see how well he got along without some means of protection and support.

The stays and jumps were the body-shapers of the 16th-18th Century, the ideal to make an inverted cone of the upper body. The stays were boned and tailored to cinch the waist and lift the bosom. 

Margaret Wells in stays & Will, husband and security for her bawdy house.

Hulu's Harlots 

Stays were what decent women wore, and are probably the original of "straight laced." Women who had health problems, who were lounging at home, or those termed "loose," wore jumps, which were laced, but were not heavily boned. Jumps were made of a sturdy quilted material and were widely worn by servants who required more freedom of motion and by pregnant women as bellies grew.

Jumps* pictured at 

http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O13542/waistcoat-unknown/

And on and on I could go--and I will--but would just like to stop here for a moment to say that the jumps are an item of underclothing I'd love to try. After years of enduring various iterations of of the modern brassiere, I've become convinced that this is my dream solution. My most recent attempts to shop for bras during the pandemic--where I cannot visit the fitting room--inspired this article.

After a brief period--Regency, Napoleonic--where young or slender women were released into wrapped corsets--the conservative reaction of the Victorian period came in. This would lead to ever more tailored full body corsets. Whale bone began to give way to metal wire in order to achieve shaping. In the most extreme fashionistas wearing these garments would lead to unhealthy, misshapen vital organs and what appears in fiction of the times as an epidemic of fainting. (And you would faint, too, if you were cinched in like that.) 

Bone, metal, cotton, 1830-35

Brooklyn Museum Collection @

Metropolitan Museum of Art

In 1889 Herminie Cadole of France changed the underwear game with the introduction of a two piece garment. Basically, she'd separated the one piece stay into girdle and brassiere, the later term coined by American Vogue, in 1911. Herminie called her invention a Corset Gorge-one item of underwear for the waist and belly and the other for bust shaping which was supported by the innovation of shoulder straps. 

Consider this:   like a lot of things in a woman's world, not much has changed in the land of underwear. The girdle is rarely worn anymore by girls, but it has made a bang up return lately as the older women of the western world steadily gain weight. Today girdles come in spandex, with "bones" of plastic. 

The Roman bandeau was reborn in the twenties. I remember my grandma telling me how she used to wrap herself up in medical bandages.  This fashion for flat-chested beauty was brief. GMA's story of the twenties was told before the travail of my going bra shopping with her and my Mother. I remember feeling that this event was some dreadful but hallowed middle-class woman's coming of age ritual, this teen age trip to the chilly fitting rooms of a city department store. 

Here my modesty was sacrificed under the eyes of -- not only my august progenitors, but those of a heavy, weary, white-haired sales woman wielding a tape measure. There were humiliations inside this Syracuse store for girls that  A Christmas Story's Ralphie could never know. 

I've had a war on with the brassiere for the last 35 years, a period which covers my transition from middle age to a "senior" body container. During this time, I frankly confess, I've been at least 30+ lbs overweight, much chub settling in my bosom.  

Step for a moment outside the box of culture and ponder all of the above. Why do we women believe we must shape our bodies to some exterior standard?  This belief has been part of human culture in hundreds of ways for thousands of years, this requirement that women must alter their bodies in certain ways, ways which constrain our movements, ways which weaken our muscles, especially the upper body. 

I'd like to "cast off" the burden of the bra, but unless I return to my youthful A cup self, this won't  happen. When cutting the hedge, mowing the lawn--or while playing Rosie the Riveter--a figure like mine needs support--containment--call it what you will. That's why I'm intrigued by those jumps. I suppose they'd be hot, but heck, they also wouldn't dig grooves in your shoulders.

~~Juliet Waldron

https://bookswelove.net/waldron-juliet/

Some sources:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_bras

http://thedreamstress.com/2013/08/terminology-whats-the-difference-between-stays-jumps-a-corsets/

https://www.amazon.com/Underneath-All-History-Womens-Underwear-ebook/dp/B077YFYWBV/ref=sr_1_5?dchild=1&keywords=underneath+it+all+books&qid=1590719300&sr=8-5

The Antics of Anthony

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Here comes Anthony again--because like a new baby in days of yore--this kitty takes up much of our time and attention here at the Waldron domicile. I think the first thing out of my mouth every morning is either "No! Stop That!" or "Get out there!" or just plain "OUCH," when he ducks under the covers and bites my toes, which in his hallucinatory kitten's world, must appear as tasty little sausages. Tony's not "bad," not any more than a toddler or a puppy, just filled with what the 18th Century called "Animal Spirits" or maybe what the stock market types call "irrational exuberance."

How calm and sweet he looks!

Whatever you call it, our Anthony's got it in spades--boundless energy, curiosity and Cat-itude. We've had a lot of cats over the last 50+ years, but this one, I have to say, is unique. Of course, you can counter that with Colette's "There are no ordinary cats," but this boy definitely has star quality.
Too bad I've got no one here to video his Surya-Bonaly-type back flips, his in-air-twists and seven foot leaps onto shelves no kitty should be able to reach, or we'd have a new internet sensation.
(If you don't remember this incredible athlete, check her out here.)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7UdVcEZZ6so




We get a daily work-out because he keeps Kitty Mom & Dad on their toes--and/or leaping out of their seats to grab what has just been bowled out of the way when Rocket Cat dashes across a window ledge or a table or the kitchen counter. Glasses of coke, water, house plants, framed pictures, Mom's stacks of paper or books--go over in the twinkling of an eye--dash, splash, crash--when "Ant-Knee" from Long Island is on a rip.

Tony says, "I sits where I wants, when I wants."

One morning, when particularly wound up, he ran upstairs after me, rushed into the bathroom and leapt straight onto the window sill which held a pair of forty year old cactuses. I think he was back out the door again in a single rebounding leap, even before the pots hit the floor, dumping the old fellows and their gravelly soil all over the floor in a giant prickly mess. Sometimes, when those "animal spirits" are high, he'll fling himself from the floor onto the walls and scrabble along as if he's a motorcyclist doing a circus "wall of death" stunt.


He wants to taste everything we are eating, and, as you can see, from his place on the counter where we are assembling our lunch, this is pretty easy. He loves cheese and has even assayed my curried kidney beans on brown rice with broccoli. (In end, it wasn't a favorite.) Tony much prefers swiping meat off the counter when Chris is attempting to get it into the sauté pan. Smacking cats doesn't work particularly well, although with him it seems to have a temporary effect in getting him to go away, it doesn't take him long to forgive us and return to whatever naughty thing he was doing.
The only cure is imprisonment in an upstairs "suite" where he has a bed, a box and plenty of munchies and water.

All bowls, pots, and pans are subject to footy inspection

A few days back, he launched himself from the top of the fridge onto the counter, scattering plates and dishes filled with food. This did not please his hoo-mans at all, and I carried him upstairs to the "slammer" while he gnawed on my arm and (alternately) my pigtail to let me know how cross with me he was. After all, his magnificent six foot leap should have garnered applause; moreover, he hadn't even begun his tasting tour of our lunch!

Willy-Yum and Tony (sort of) share a spot on the cat rack;

Still, Tony can purr, kiss, and cuddle with the best of 'em. We've never had so much creative mischief and charm bundled up into a single hyper active fur friend. Tony's a feline trip we're glad we've taken.
😺😺😺✌✌✌

~~Juliet Waldron
See all my historical novels @
https://www.julietwaldron.com

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Bohemian Rhapsody

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(It's Mozart's Wife, my friends, under a new title and cover here and there, because of Amazonian-evil-shenanigans.)

I'll call this a movie review , but I confess I'm writing because I've been unable to get my last weekend's viewing of Bohemian Rhapsody out of my head. I've got a case of full on ear worm, too, from hearing all those great songs. This topic is not too far off course for me, because forty years back, I dared to begin novel writing after having my brain completely eaten by seeing Amadeus.  

Although it's a fairly middle-of-the-road biopic, Bohemian Rhapsody struck me similarly.  The movie was, after all, about another human one of a kind, one of those rare people about whom others say: "They broke the mold." Don't think I'll get any argument if I say that we'll never see another Mozart, nor will we ever see another Freddie Mercury--at least, not in this dimension.*

Rami Malek as Freddie at Live Aid in Bohemian Rhapsody

Like Wolfgang M., Freddie Mercury was born with an abundance of charisma, drive, and a mad desire to entertain. A biopic hero with drama-ready flaws and conflicts, Freddie Mercury's bisexuality, when yoked to the excesses of the 70's and 80's rock world, made him one of the many victims of the AIDS epidemic. His career, like those of many many artists, performers and musicians, was cut short. Fortunately, the audience in whose company we saw Bohemian Rhapsody seemed to honor this gifted "sinner."

Freddie Mercury

I went with a friend to whom those dark days of AIDS in the 80's still hold a lot of pain. Magda has custody of the cremains of three dear friends who--as they burned away in their 5th floor walkups--had only their artistic "families" to tend their terrifying disease, and later, to mourn them. 

On my side, things were far more casual. I'd come to hear and see a spectacle with great rock songs.  You'd have to have lived under the proverbial rock not to have heard any music by Queen--even if it's just the football anthem We Will Rock You. Somebody to Love is one of my all-time favorites--and, along with Radio Ga-Ga--one of today's ear worms.

My sons were growing up when Queen was knocking out hits. "Kid" music made its way from behind closed bedroom doors into my ears. While I've always loved classical music and opera as well as rock'n'roll, I never doubted the musicality of this band. To me, Queen's music was operatic, if it not 'opera.' And it wasn't just the lead singer. The other band members seemed to hear the music resident in the spoken word as well. Even when lyrics don't appear to make much sense, the words themselves, the sounds and the mouthfeel, become essential parts of their electrifying composition.

The plot is pretty sanitized -- maybe even homogenized? That, in the end, didn't really detract from my enjoyment. I was a working mom when Queen strode onto the scene and had no time to follow the dramas surrounding rock personalities, so the story was mostly news to me. I really liked this movie far more than I'd anticipated, because of the unexpected sweetness of the story. It was romantic, in a way, with dark moments and all.

Bohemian Rhapsody begins as the freakish, sexually ambiguous and talented hero finds first acceptance and then unlikely stardom through hooking up with a band at the precise moment their lead singer decamps. Farouk--or Freddie, as he christened himself--has finally found freedom to express the craziness and the talent inside. He and the band enter into  touring and performing show-biz destiny.

The dark moment comes when Freddie beaks up the group in order to pursue a solo career. The change doesn't make heart (or even self-preservation!) sense, for deep down Freddie knows he's abandoned his musical family--in a way, his only safe place. The script is evenhanded; no bones are made about that fact that this star needed his band as much as they needed him. Queen--just like the Beatles--was a creative partnership. 

After a plea from his ex-wife, Freddie asks pardon of the other three band members, and Queen goes on to their epic performance at Live Aid. There isn't a focus on it, but we all know that Freddie has also received his AIDS death sentence.

I came away not only liking the movie, but the characters. Here's a show biz story where you expect bad decisions, drugs, fabulous music, and walks on the kinkiest of wild sides, but it resolves on such a quiet, decent--almost domestic--note. Self-knowledge, willingness to forgive and plain old human honesty bring this musical family back together again. A small thing, in the landscape of human triumph, you might think, but this old woman didn't really need another dose of darkness.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o8Eg-mWdDLc

Freddie, who loved opera, performing with the divine Monserrat Caballe, one of his idols.



~~Juliet Waldron 

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*Yes we're all unique, like snowflakes, but some of us have far more curliques than others!



        

All Hallows' & New Covers

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I'm excited about new covers!

Red Magic recently got a re-brand--a new cover and a re-title. It is now Zauberkraft~Red, just in time for Halloween.  It was initially hard to chose a title for this story, back when I was grappling with that. In my long ago 'tweens, I'd been a fan of Baroness Orczy and so it was tempting to try to write that niche-within-a-niche version of "historical romance." Alpine Austria isn't exactly a popular venue and the books are cross-genre.  I'm the first to admit the Zauberkraft series crosses the abyss from Zauberkraft-Red's witchy romance into the fantasy (with a nice red dollop of horror) that is Zauberkraft-Black.

Zauberkraft-Red began because I had a character who wouldn't stop talking. This was Constanze Mozart's lover from Mozart's Wife (now titled The Intimate Mozart.) This guy was already a tall, dark, handsome and rather dangerous leading man type, who, however, turned out to be have unexpectedly decent, warm-hearted center. By the end of the Mozart story, he is indeed The Rake Reformed. 

When this fellow's property-minded family insist upon his marriage to a pretty, horsey, immature cousin who is just sixteen, he, now on the rebound, decides his roving days are over. She, however, doesn't believe a word he says--as well she might. As you can imagine, there is a book's worth of relationship work ahead for both of them.

At his alpine estate, the young woman finds her surroundings decidedly creepy and lonely. The jagged, snow-capped mountain behind the manor is a palpable presence. The freeman peasants who work the estate celebrate the older, weirder holidays as well as the newer Christian ones. Sighting these, she begins to anxiously ruminate upon a frightening experience from her childhood.

On the day of her arrival, the heroine is given a house tour which ends with her husband's bed chamber, separate from her own. After getting over the shock of his Height-of-Fashion 18th Century French pornographic bed curtains, she finds someone she did not expect lounging on the pillows--a cat, who is large, black and fluffy.

As a proper 18th Century lady she is now surprised to discover that her hunky new husband has such a "feminine" pet. The cat's name is "Furst," which is German for "First," which was often the short-cut title for a leader. I'm not sure where the inspiration for Furst came from, except that I wanted to slightly blow up the image of a romance's leading man with a "wussy" fondness for cats.

Furst is not completely based upon an actual animal companion, as many of the other cats in my books are. He's most like my own over-the-rainbow Katter Murr, who was named for E.T.A. Hoffman's (of The Nutcracker fame) illustrious pet. Hoffman's cat was a gray tiger, but our Murr was a barn-found Maine-Coonish sort of feline.

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Zauberkraft~Black  is is a no-holds-barred All Hallows' Eve story. Here, twenty+ years on from the first book, the now grown soldier son of the original couple returns to his childhood home, just after the last violent gasp of the Napoleonic Wars.

Goran has just left Vienna after discovering that his fiance has run off with an older and far wealthier nobleman. Not only that, but he's wounded from a decade's experience of the brutality of war. He's only twenty-seven, but he's grown utterly cynical about politics. His leader, the Austrian Emperor, switched sides when Vienna was threatened by Napoleon's forces. As a result, he, like other  Austrian military men, had been forced to fight first against Napoleon and then for him, a political decision which is firmly stuck in his craw.

As Goran arrives at at this rural estate where he grew up, he sees that things are in a bad way. Men left for the wars and many did not return, so barns and houses, left empty, are falling into ruin. Not only that, but here, in the mountainous back of beyond, there have been attacks by bandits and roaming gangs-- rogue soldiers for whom looting and killing has become a way of life.

Within hours of Goran's arrival, while he is taking a self-pitying ramble around the land, bottle in hand, he finds a May Day party being celebrated. He decides to party for a time with his tenants, and then, numbed with drink, begin the dreary task of listening to the old men complain about the state of things. Later that night, however, the celebrants let their young master into an ancient secret, one which brings all manner of bizarre changes into his life. Goran discovers that he has even more responsibilities and ties to this land--and to the people who live here than he--or even his parents before him--have hitherto imagined. 

Happy Halloween or Samhain or All Hallows' 

--your preference!

~~Juliet Waldron

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