Part Two . . . To Quire by Victoria Chatham

  

In my last post I looked at the development of the fountain pen. In this post I’m addressing another part of the writing experience equation – paper. Where would we be without either?

We have the Chinese to thank for the art of paper making, possibly even 200 years earlier than the recorded 105 BC. Ts’ai Lun, an official at the Imperial Court so history tells us, became fascinated with the nests of wasps and bees. Inspired by their industry, he pounded mulberry bark into a sheet, let it dry and then wrote on it. This first experiment was improved with the addition of rags, hemp and old fishing nets a ll soaked together in water, the fibers then beaten into a pulp and strained through a cloth sieve onto a drying frame. Court officials were now able to discard the heavy and unwieldy bamboo strips or expensive silk previously used for writing. With the invention of woodblock printing circa 600 AD it was no wonder that by 740 AD China had its first printed newspaper.

Paper was used not only for writing, but also wrapping and padding, toilet paper and tea bags. Have you ever wondered how long paper money has been around?  The government of the Song Dynasty was the first to issue it. The earliest piece of paper, inscribed with a map and found at Fangmatan in Gansu province, dates from 179-41 BC while the earliest recorded woodblock printed book was the Diamond Sutra (Perfection of Wisdom) of 868 CE found at Dunhuang. The British Library states ‘it is the earliest complete survival of a dated printed book’.

The art of papermaking was a closely kept secret but it was inevitable that along with spices, jade, lapis lazuli and the lucrative silk that gave the route its name, knowledge of paper   made its way along the Silk Road. In 8^th century Samarkand a water-mill was first used in the paper making process, a process that was repeated across the Arabic world and then medieval Europe. Modern papermaking began in earnest in the 19^th century with the invention of the Fourdrinier machine, capable of producing rolls rather than sheets of paper. In 1844 inventors Charles Fenerty, a Canadian and F.G. Keller, a German, developed a machine that used wood pulp and forever changed the face of papermaking.

Paper is produced in many weights and sizes. We are all familiar with letter, legal, ledger and tabloid sizes. Some of these sizes have names such as Post, Crown and Double Demy. Imperial UK sizes include Antiquarian and Grand Eagle. The old adage ‘against the grain’ comes from the paper making industry for, if paper is folded against its grain, it can crack along the fold. The heavier the paper the more cracking will occur. A ream is 500 sheets of paper and a quire 1/20^th of that, or 25 sheets of paper.

The word paper is commonly considered to derive from the papyrus plant, used by the Ancient Egyptians. The pith of the plant is processed quite differently and produces a heavier type of paper. Animal skins have been used throughout the centuries as a writing medium. Vellum is produced from calfskin, the very best being produced from unborn or stillborn animals. Today quality vellum is hard to find and expensive but is still produced in the UK by the family business of William Cowley of Newport Pagnell, Buckinghamshire. Established in 1870 they still use traditional methods passed down by word of mouth and use skills that are virtually unchanged for 2000 years. Parchment is a term for skins prepared from other animals such as horses, cows, deer and pigs. Today there is a form of vellum made from plasticized cotton.

One of the reasons I love old books is the paper they are printed on. As Helene Hanff writes in 84 Charing Cross Road, ‘I’m almost afraid to handle such soft vellum and heavy cream colored pages. Being used to the dead-white paper and stiff cardboardy covers of American books, I never knew a book could be such a joy to the touch’. The most expensive book I ever purchased for myself was an illustrated edition of Kenneth Grahame’s Wind in the Willows. The grain in the paper is definitely a joy to touch.

I still like to have quality writing paper to hand, for those occasions when I actually take pen to paper for a letter at Christmas or a thank-you note. At one time I had my own design embossed letterhead notepaper but that was before the advent of the computer when letter writing was still fashionable and mail arrived twice daily Monday to Friday and on Saturday mornings.

In spite of technology, paper is still a big part of our lives. From official documents to brown grocery bags and parking or speeding tickets, it is not likely to go away any time soon. How does paper feature in your life? Do you like your magazines from the store, or online? Or both? The next time you handle a piece of paper, give some thought as to how it reached you. You may be surprised.

For more about Victoria and her books go to:

www.bookswelove.com/chatham.php
www.victoriachatham.webs.com
www.amazon.com/author/victoriachatham
www.facebook.com/AuthorVictoriaChatham

I'm remembering Daddy On Father's Day By Sandy Semerad

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE FROM AMAZON

  
What do Dads want on Father’s Day?

The number one answer, according to a recent survey, is spending time with family and loved ones. Number two is clothing. Beer is number three.

This survey may not be scientific, but I agree with the number one answer. I wish I could have spent more time with my Dad.

As a child, I was afraid of monsters and would often sneak into my parents’ bed at night. After I fell asleep, Daddy would carry me back to my bed. One time he didn’t.

That was the night he died. I was seven.

The next morning, I found Mama crying in the living room. Our house was full of people. Many of them were crying also.

“Where’s Daddy,” I asked Mother.

“He’s gone away,” she said.

Daddy looked handsome in the shiny casket, but asleep. I didn’t understand he wouldn’t wake up. He died of a heart attack, I was told.

Before Daddy died, he’d complained of a backache, and I remember he came home early one afternoon to rest his back. Mama told me not to bother him.

But I couldn’t resist. I sat on his bed and chattered away, as he puffed on a cigarette. I can still see his pack of Camels on the bed stand.

Daddy rarely came home early. He worked most of the time. He wanted to give us the so-called finer things in life: a large brick home, a fishing pond, a swimming pool, tennis courts and our own merry-go-round.

Friends from Geneva, Alabama who knew Daddy, called him--Ira Hodges--an entrepreneur. He owned Hodges hardware in the heart of town, but before he married Mama and moved to Geneva, he was a Texas wildcatter--an oilman.

One of my Geneva friends, John Savage, who as a teen worked with Daddy, said he thought Daddy seemed too big for a small town.

But Daddy loved Geneva, Mama said. He’d often give credit on a handshake, and he helped many people in need.

Daddy once repaired the broken windows in a family’s house for free. “It was freezing and we couldn’t afford to pay,” the father of the family told me.

Many years after Daddy passed, I spotted a strange figure, wandering around our house. I froze in fear. Mama wasn’t home at the time.

I called police before I realized the man wasn’t a stranger at all. He used to work for Daddy, but had since moved away from the area. He didn’t know Daddy had died, he said.

“Whenever I needed work, Mr. Ira would always give me some,” the man said.

I’ve told my daughters and granddaughter this story and other stories about Daddy. I want them to know he was compassionate. He helped people and gave generously of his time and money. I only wish he could have shared more of his time with us.

I’ve missed not having him in our lives, and on this Father’s Day, I wanted to pay tribute to him. #Father’sDay.

To find out more, go here: www.sandysemerad.com

My novels: http://www.amazon.com/Sandy-Semerad/e/B003ONTN4Y/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1434228601&sr=1-2-ent

THE TRAIL OF TEARS BY GINGER SIMPSON #history #nativeamericans

Greed begets nothing good...

http://questgarden.com/

I'm an fan of western historicals, and some of the research I've done for books of that genre bring tears to my eyes.  The TV westerns always portray the native americans as the "bad" guys, but can we not claim the injustices we heaped upon them?

The Trail of Tears is a sad testament of the greed displayed against Native Americans in the 1800s.  In order to achieve land and build states, the Native American tribes were forced to leave the lands they occupied, and moved against their will.  Although those who wanted to stay were allowed to remain and assimilate into society, there is no doubt they were not treated well as white men didn't look favorably upon those with red skin.

Oklahoma, not yet formed was the home of the Choctaw Nation, later named Indian Territory. The government's aim to achieve their personal goal was to relocate Native Americans to the west.  The Indian Removal At of 1830 allowed President Andrew Jackson to enact treaties allowing the removal of all tribes living east of the Mississippi.  For the most part, the removal of the Choctaw was peaceful, but those who resisted were eventually forced to leave if they didn't wish to assimilate into society.

The Creek refused to move, but in good faith, signed a treaty in March 1832 to surrender a large portion of their land as long as the remaining lands were afforded protection.  The US failed to deliver, and in 1837, the military forcibly removed the tribe without benefit of a treaty this time.

The Chickasaw realized they had no other alternative, and and signed a treaty in 1832 to include their protection until their move. The Chickasaws were forced to move earlier than expected as a result of white settlers.  The war department refused to intercede.

A small group of Seminoles signed a relocation treaty, but the majority of the tribe rebuked the agreement.. After resulting in what is known as the Second and Third Seminole Wars, those who survived were paid to move west.. 

www.seerandolphcounty.com

In 1833, the Treaty of New Echota provided two years for the Cherokees in the state of Georgia to move west or face a forced exit.. By the deadline, only a small number of Cherokees had migrated westward and sixteen thousand remained steadfast on their land. As a result, the US sent seven thousand soldiers to enforce the treaty, not even giving the tribe time to gather their belongings.  The escorted march westward became known as the Trail of Tears because four thousand people died along the way.

The thousand-mile march began In the winter of 1838, many Cherokeecovered only with skimpy clothing, most on feet without shoes/moccasins.  Beginning in Red Clay, Tennessee, the tribe crossed Tennessee and Kentucky, never allowed to step foot into any towns or villages because of the fear of disease.  Having to bypass these places added miles to their journey, but when they finally arrived at the Ohio River in Southern Illinois around December 3, 1838, they were subjected to a dollar per person toll to use Berry's Ferry.  The traditional charge was twelve cents per head, and the Indians were not allowed to cross until all others were served.  During their wait, as many of the tribe as possible sought shelter under "Mantle Rock," a  bluff on the Kentucky side of the river.  While huddled together, many died from exposure. Several Cherokee were murdered by locals.

The marchers reached southern Illinois on December 26.  An agent for the detachment wrote, "There is the coldest weather in Illinois I ever experienced anywhere.  The streams are all frozen over...  We are compelled to cut through the ice to get water... It snows here every two or three days...we are now camped in Mississippi swamp 4 miles from the river, and there is no possible chance of crossing the river... We have only traveled sixty-five miles in the last month, including the time spent at this place, which has been about three weeks.  It is unknown when we shall cross the river...."

click to purchase from Amazon

"I fought through the War Between the States and have seen many men shot, but the Cherokee Removal was the cruelest work I ever knew.".
—- Georgia soldier who participated in the removal

The Trail of Tears

Historical information for the blog was gleaned from Wikipedia, including the map above.  Other photographs have been given attribution.

Why Modern Technology Hates Suspense Writers by Stuart R. West

For my just released book, Ghosts of Gannaway, I did an awful lot of research (emphasis on the “awful”). I uncovered more about the 1930’s and mining than any one person should know. Now, I’m the type of writer who likes to jump right in and let the characters run wild. Once I set them up, they pretty much chart their own course and fate. So the uncustomary preparatory research made me antsy. But thanks to the miracle of “Mr. Google,” the research wasn’t nearly as bad as it could’ve been.

Which made me wonder how writers managed to research during the pre-internet era. Good ol’-fashioned phone calling and pavement pounding, that’s how.

Writers are spoiled nowadays with the convenience and luxury of computers and the internet.  When I was in college (back in the ‘80’s, a decade not known for much other than big hair and even bigger shoulder pads), I pounded away on my portable electric typewriter, a then state-of-the-art contraption. Armed with a bottle of white-out at my elbow, it was slow, frustrating going.  I couldn’t imagine writing a novel on a typewriter, wouldn’t have the patience. Just a couple of weeks ago, I found out my daughter had never used a typewriter. To my horror, she didn’t even know how to return the carriage. And I’m really beginning to sound like a grumpy ol’ coot, aren’t I? (“You kids get outta’ my yard!”)

But even with the ease of computers, progress isn’t always a good thing for writers. Especially suspense writers.

Sure, I’m able to research with a few clicks of a button. But since my research over the past several years has included poison, witchcraft, black magic, animal tranquilizers, human sedatives, cults, hate churches, designer guns, lock-picking, serial killers, toxic gases, and other thriller staples, I’m sure I’ve raised a few governmental eyes. Probably on a couple of “To Be Watched” lists. Before the internet, writers could more easily maintain anonymity. A double-edged sword.

And since I like to wallow in suspense and thrillers, the advent of cell phones has made it tough. It’s hard to strand characters in perilous situations when they can just make a call. Characters in my books have the worst phone service providers ever; lots of dropped calls and fading batteries. Like Clark Kent, I miss phone booths. Hitchcock loved ‘em and for good reason. 

Then there’re all the electronic eyes everywhere! Security cameras, traffic cams, satellites looking at who knows what. Pity the poor fictional criminal; it’s next to impossible to pull off a nefarious deed these days without being witnessed.

Don’t even get me going on the state of forensics now. A crook practically has to hermetically seal himself in a plastic bag to pull off a successful murder. I envy the thriller writers of yesteryear, when the bad guys could perpetrate their crime, then boom, off to the Caribbean. 

I can’t keep up with the technological advances. I wrote a thriller a year ago, one I thought was relatively “cutting edge.” But, recently, a writer took me to task for having my anti-hero using a flip phone. “That’s so, like, five years ago,” she said. So I texted her back (painstakingly tap-tap-tapping three times per each letter on my flip-phone), Oh, yeah?

Progress. Bah! (“You kids call that a haircut?”)

What say you, other writers? How about it readers? Has progress helped or hindered what you write and read?

Ghosts of Gannaway, a decades spanning ghost story by Stuart R. West, from Books We Love Publishing is out now at the special sale price of .99! That's a whole lotta research for under a buck!

Click here for Amazon.

Stuart R. West's blog: Twisted Tales From Tornado Alley

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Twitter: @StuartRWest

 

Something a Little Different by Nancy M Bell

Welcome to my day on the Books We Love Blog! So nice to see you all back. Rather than ramble on about something that is important to me, I thought I would share something a little different this month. I love to write poetry, the way the words sing and how they evoke emotions and even the memory of certain scents. With that in mind, I thought I would post a few poems from my dusty dusty poetry vault. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on my thoughts. LOL

Nostalgia

Bittersweet; nibbling at the toes of my subconscious
Memories of long past summer days
Evoked by the essence of green cut hay
A myriad of days
Wrapped up in the rustle of ripening wheat

Shimmering moonlight
Freeing the ghosts locked away in memory
Sending them shouting and galloping once again
Through the now silent dark
Plunging me back into half-forgotten dreams
And half-remembered loves

Sweet moon shadowed innocence of youth.


This poem was inspired by memories of riding with my friends when I was in my late teens and early twenties. I can still see it as clear as day, the blue June sky, the belly deep waving grasses, the smell of hot earth and dry grass sharp on the breeze. My horse strong and smooth between my knees, the lovely smell of clean horse and sweat. His coat silky under my hands, our thoughts as one, horse and rider. As if somehow we could capture a moment and freeze it in time, holding it forever in our hearts and minds.

Yesterday’s Last Day

This is the last day of yesterday
It can be no other way
Every other day will be tomorrow
Where joy will not be borrowed

I am closing the door on sadness
Offering myself forgiveness
No more misty dreaming of the past
I’m seeking a promise that will last

No walking with memory’s guidebook in hand
Revisiting places we played on the strand
With somehow tomorrow drifting away
Until I’m caught forever in the last day of yesterday

So now I’m searching through the clouds for tomorrow
Ignoring the beaconing sighs of yesterday’s sorrow
I’m leaving behind this lonely madness
And closing the door on sadness.

This one was about the angst of letting go of a relationship that has gone up in flames, but somehow I kept sifting the ashes through my fingers until I realized there wasn't really anything to hang on to anymore. I was in my late teens when I wrote this one.

Memories from a Honeymoon
May 1977

I remember green English fields and coal fires
Rain and Jubilee banners
Pigeons in Trafalgar Square
Walking through Hyde Park in the sun
Feeling the presence of ghosts from the past

And then Paris, City of flowers and bridges
Notre Dame rising from the stones
As if it has always been there
Inside the candles shining in the dark

I remember a pink rosebush in a park
Near the Eiffel Tower and more pigeons
Walking on the Champs Elysie in the rain
Sitting a little café with a café au lait
That cost a buck a cup
Crepes with strawberry jam from a street vendor

Zurich’s mountains and lake
A white swan in the river at dawn
And a hotel that was closed
Red roofs and cobble streets
Alpine flowers on the slopes and sweet mountain air

Amsterdam, city of canals
Dam Square and more pigeons
The Red Light District and a hungry alley cat
Walking along the Prinsengrache and Damrack
McDonald’s at last
Shopping the bustling streets
Wheels of cheese and fish markets
French fries with mayonnaise
And more rain

And over it all the glow of everlasting love.

This one is pretty self-explanatory. Memories of our honeymoon. Europe on a shoe string. Hard to believe it was 38 years ago.

Touchstone

We are linked by love
You and I
You have been my steadfast friend
My anchor in the stormy seas
My safe rock on which to stand
And survey my uncertainties

The sharer of my secrets
The keeper of the wings of my spirit
You have given so much
And asked so little
Touchstone of my soul
Transcending even the distance of death.

This is a tribute to my first horse, Brandy. He kept me sane through my teenage and early twenties. I wrote this right after he died. His name was Brandy, Brandance Kaine.

Secretariat

You were bred to win
And born to race
While still a colt you left
Your rolling Meadow fields
Forever

Destined to show that dreams
Can still come true
The essence of power and beauty
Running for love of it
Running for yourself
Honestly and truly

The sun was your spotlight
You were the ruler
The world your minions
Like your daddy’s name a Bold Ruler
And like your momma’s truly Something Royal

And now each time we see a flaming chestnut
The world looks again hoping that it’s you
Knowing that it never will be again.


This is appropriate seeing as American Pharaoh won the Triple Crown. I wrote this after Secretariat won in 1973. The first horse since 1948 when Citation won.

Winter Morning

Snow silvered branches spread against the pearl velvet of the sky
Bare trunks a dark slash against the white-blue snow
The frosty filigreed branches glow with illumination
The pale light gathered and thrown upwards by the fields they guard
The Goddess is holding her breath
There is no colour on this palette
Only shades of silver pewter
The pale blue-white of snow and shadow
And the stark black wounds of the trees
Stitching the earth to the sky.

This is just a small vignette of a winter morning that enchanted me.

Okay, only one more. I promise!

Just Shy of Eighty-Two

You were just one day shy
Of eighty-two years old
The day you went missing
Really, just one hour shy

The night closed in
And you drifted away from us
You left the face we knew on your pillow
Taking the part that was You
Where we couldn’t follow

You chose to leave in solitude
Sending your lover to catch a bus
Alone, your great bear heart settled into rest
Your great bear spirit free from its cage

Where I sat in the dark car outside a Tim Horton’s
Stopping briefly in my mad rush to reach you
I knew I was too late
Even before my cell phone split the silence
As we passed the Barrie Racetrack

You are still here in the blood of your children
And your children’s children
In your daughter’s eyes you are a hero
The hero has just gone on a new quest
There is an empty place at our banquet table

Mom and Dad 1956

Daddy

This was written when my dad died in 2008. No matter how old we get, we will always be our parent's children.

Well, I hope I haven't bored you all to death! Looking forward to hearing your thoughts and comments. Until next month!