Thursday, January 11, 2018

FEMINIST---19th Century Style by Karla Stover

Does everyone have a list of deceased people who would have been fun to meet for a cup of coffee? Three Puget Sound ladies are on my list: Mrs. Alice Blackwell, who came in Tacoma 1873, when the future town was nothing more than a few dozen people living on Commencement Bay, and who helped her husband establish the first hotel there; author Betty MacDonald, whose books The Egg and I was a huge best-seller, but who wrote a wonderful memoir, Anybody Can Do Anything,  about being a single mom and trying to find a job in Seattle during the Depression, and camouflage artist, Enid Jackson Kemper.

Camouflage isn't new. The ancient Greeks painted their boats blue-gray for concealment; the reconnaissance/intelligence-gathering boats Julius Caesar sent to scoop out the coast of Britain were painted entirely in bluish-green wax, as were the sails, ropes and even the crew. The French are generally credited with developing camouflage for use in war. In fact, "a 15th-century French manuscript, The Hunting Book of Gaston Phebus, shows a horse pulling a cart which contains a hunter armed with a crossbow under a cover of branches, perhaps serving as a hide." Then World War I came along and that brings us to Enid Jackson, as she was known then.

World War I Dazzle Camouflage

Enid was born I 1897 to a wealthy Canadian doctor, Robert G. Jackson and his wife, Robina Ann. The Jacksons moved to Tacoma sometime around 1912. She went to Annie Wright Seminary and after graduation began studying art at the Ogontz School for Young Ladies near Philadelphia. There she paid particular attention to learning how to disguise roofs. While in Tacoma, she learned to drive, while in Philadelphia, she learned to fly, saying, she wanted "to learn from the sky how to correct colors for purposes of deception."

The earliest camouflage artists came from France's Impressionism, Post-Impressionist and Fauve schools of art. However, cubism and vorticism, both of which often focused on disrupting outlines and played with abstraction and color theory, contributed to the war effort.

Image result for tree observation camouflage
Soldier inside a fake tree
As German aerial reconnaissance ramped up, disguising tanks became of paramount importance. British artist Solomon Solomon, (why would his parents do that?) a private in the Artists Rifles, a "home defense corps," was taken to the front lines to investigate techniques already being used by the French. He devised an elaborate four color scheme, which crews were required to copy exactly onto their own tanks. He also worked on tree observation posts and arguing tirelessly for camouflage netting. (tree, net, fake figures.)

Image result for camouflage net
Hiding under netting





Image result for camouflage heads world war i
Fake soldiers to fool the enemy

There appears to be no re4cords of how much war work Enid did. What is known is that she married into the wealthy Kansas City Kemper family, went through a kidnapping scare when a man broke into her home, and eventually made a substantial donation to Annie Wright Seminary, the school she attended in Tacoma.  What fun  it would have been to visit with these ladies.

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Wednesday, January 10, 2018

The Warrior Poet


http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/charbonneau-eileen/


The warrior poet is a great hero archetype.  Authors and readers spend much creative time with him!
His roots are in the Irish Fianna, an ancient society of professional protectors of the poor and voiceless. A man was not taken into this society until he not only proved himself in battle but also was a prime poet. He had to work with his mind, heart, and strength, with his courage leading all.  In his Fianna trials, he had to run through a gauntlet of nine fellow soldiers. His weapons could not quiver in his hand, nor could he crack a dry stick underfoot, or disturb a hair out of its braiding. This guy not only needed to be in balance, he had to have finesse!
Fionn mac Cumhaill of the Irish Fianna
 From legend and lore, you’ll find warrior poets like larger than life Robin Hood, King Arthur, Ossian, St. George (who, after slaying that dragon, helped in the birth of his children). The heroes of Shakespeare's comedies qualify, as does Romeo, but not Hamlet or MacBeth (out of balance guys!).  Jane Austen abounds in warrior poets, from proud Mr. Darcy to Colonel Brandon, the loving suitor of the sensual Miss Marianne Dashwood in Sense and Sensibility.  
Who could forget Alan Rickman in the role of Col. Brandon?


The balanced and decent Navajo policemen in Tony and Ann Hillerman's mysteries or Dave Robicheaux in James Lee Burke's tales are more modern warrior poets, as is the cheerful Australian POW Joe Harman in Nevil Shute's A Town Like Alice.
One cheerful POW: Joe Harman in A Town Like Alice
An essential component of heroism is sacrifice. Much can be forgiven a person who has this kind of courage, who is willing to sacrifice his own life for another. This can mean battle. The Warrior Poet, either modern or historical, does not seek out a fight, but when it's an unavoidable part of the defending himself and others, he's good at it. Whether in the Scotland of the Outlander series, the Cornwall of the Poldark novels or 19th century America, our heroes don't shirk.  In contemporary settings, this passion can be seated in the hero's profession of fireman, police officer, FBI operator, but can also stem from plain, competent courage in the face of teaching in a ghetto school or being an honest accountant.  
Warrior Poet has the shell of his confidence protecting the core of his compassion. Sensitivity? Yes, the Warrior Poet has it. It is not a source of weakness, it's part of his strength and intelligence. Children open up a world of contrasts- fierce protection of the softest members of societies: baby cheeks and steel. Children provide a way to show our hero's softer side.  So do animals in need.  These guys are fierce warriors with a soft, compassionate side. We, as readers and authors alike, revel in their complexity.
Illustrator Eleanor Brickdale (1871-1945) knew how to mix baby cheeks and steel!
Charming medical professionals of Janet Lane Walters’ romances (Romancing the Nurse, The Doctor’s Dilemma, Heart Throbs)  The vet of Nancy M. Bell’s Christmas Storm, Gilbert of Nancy Scott Lewis’s On A Stormy Primeval Shore: New Brunswick are all wonderful examples of this archetype.  
My own heroes include Luke Kayenta, the warrior of my Code Talker Chronicles.  As a member of the Dine (Navajo) people, he has been taught to respect and honor women and their wisdom, treasure children and elders, and fight in World War II for the land he loves.  I hope you’ll enjoy his adventures.
Book 1 of my Code Talker Chronicles


Book 2 of my Code Talker Chronicles



Tuesday, January 9, 2018

BWL Publishing Launches first French Language Edition

The Twelve book in the Canadian Historical Brides collection featuring one book from every province and territory in Canada (with NWT and Nunavut combined in one volume) will be released in both Canadian Official Language. 

The first book to be released in French is His Brother's Bride, by Nancy M. Bell, translated by Marie-Pier Deshaies.  Following is the French translation of the book description.
 
 
 
Purchase links for the French edition at
 
 
Smashwords:
 
 
La cadette du médecin local et pasteur évangélique, Annie Baldwin devait travailler dur et ce, sans protester. La vie sur une ferme de pionniers était difficile, alors les voisins s’entraidaient.

George Richardson, l’orphelin mineur qui avait été envoyé dans les maisons du Dr Barnardo, avant d’être expédié au Canada quelques années plus tôt, fut prêté aux Baldwin pour aider à récolter le foin. Son frère cadet, Peter Richardson, avait été placé avec un autre voisin, alors les frères étaient restés en contact. La Grande Guerre apporta beaucoup de changements, même pour la vie dans les forêts éloignées de l’Ontario. Malgré leur différence de rang social, George et Annie tombèrent en amour.

Quand George quitta pour la France, ils avaient une entente et il avait promis de lui revenir une fois la guerre terminée. Hélas, le destin en aura décidé autrement. Après un long silence, Annie reçut la lettre tant attendue. Mais elle ne provenait pas de George, mais de son frère, Peter. Lui aussi dans les tranchées en France. George avait été tué durant l’assaut final le 8 août 1918 à Marcelcave, près d’Amiens. Les deux personnes qui l’aimaient créèrent un lien à distance via des lettres censurées. Quand Peter fut renvoyé au Canada, plutôt que de retourner dans l’est, là où il s’était enrôlé, il quitta pour Vancouver.

Malade des empoisonnements au gaz moutarde et sans le sou, Peter trouva du travail à Fraser Mills. Une fois qu’il aurait économisé assez d’argent, il planifiait de retourner à la petite ferme dans la brousse du nord de l’Ontario, mais un peu avant, il envoya à Annie une boîte de chocolats par la poste. À l’intérieur de cette boîte se cachait une bague de fiançailles. Liés ensemble par leur amour pour George, ils trouvèrent du réconfort l’un dans l’autre. Mais est-ce que ce sera suffisant ?                       
 
 
 
 

Monday, January 8, 2018

Tanayia from Connie Vine - Newest Release from BWL Publishing - Native American Historical

AVAILABLE FROM YOUR FAVORITE RETAILER


Apacheria, 1880.

Tanayia is alone in the world.  Her village destroyed and her people murdered by a group of revolutionaries who now hold her hostage.  A daring escape on the edge of Cochise’s stronghold saves Tanayia’s life, but she discovers her ordeal is only beginning.

Forced to live in a government run boarding school, Tanayia is stripped of her identity.  The headmistress is bent on destroying Tay, but Jacob Five-Wounds stands in her way.  Jacob urges Tay to run away with him—but diphtheria strikes the school.  Now, Tanayia must make a choice, a choice she knows may cost her both, Jacob and his love.

Editorial Review

“This well-researched novel is taunt with all the tensions and passions of any tale in which the characters are trapped.  That Sister Enid eventually gets her comeuppance (and from a native doctor, too) is only just and satisfying, and an epilogue tells of both the compromises and the triumphs of Tay’s marriage to Jacob Five-Wounds (once a fellow inmate of the school.”  A-!  ~  The McQuark Review



Married with two grown sons, Connie Vines resides deep in the quirky suburbs of southern California. She has published over one hundred short stories and non-fiction articles, ten novels, and has ghost-written two literary novels and one screenplay. The president of GothRom (Gothic Chapter of Romance Writers), Connie participates in local literary events and judges national and international writing contests.





 

Sunday, January 7, 2018

Holidays Are Over - Or - Time to Take Down the Tree

http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/dowell-roseanne/
The man next door, his granddaughter, and her sister’s ghost help bring Rose Asbury out of her seclusion.

 
Click here to Visit Roseanne's BWL author page for links to purchase from your favorite online retailer

     I love the holidays. Always have, probably always will. I can't wait to decorate and I begin before Thanksgiving. This year was extra special, we'd recently moved into our new house - not new by new standards, but new to us. Actually, the house was built in the 50s, so far from new. But that didn't matter, it was all freshly painted and everything looks new.

     I always look forward to putting up the tree, although last year, I replaced our 7 foot tree with a smaller 4 foot one that sits on a table. I miss the big tree, but the smaller one is easier. I guess I've graduated to a full-fledged senior citizen. I never thought I'd give up the big tree and the decision wasn't easy. Although the house we lived in really didn't have room for the larger tree. I had to move a lot of furniture to fit it in.
But that's another story.  Thing is, I hate taking the tree down. I hate taking all all the decorations down. While some people, my sister included, can't wait to take theirs down, and think it looks clean. I think it looks bare and boring. I miss the lights and colorful decorations.

     I'm sure by now, most people have their trees down, decorations put away, and all thoughts of Christmas far behind them. I never take ours down until after January 6th, the feast of the Epiphany (and my oldest son's birthday) and yes, that was yesterday.

     I'm not normally a procrastinator. I've always been very organized. I plan ahead and do things far in advance as I can. Nothing waits for the last minute.  Nothing except taking down the decorations. I put it off as long as I can. I hate the way it looks. So cold and dreary. I mean, let's face it, January is a dreary month as it is. Very little sunshine, at least in this part of the country, Northeast Ohio. Unfortunately, it's inevitable, I've threatened to leave the tree up and decorate it for various holidays throughout the year, but I can't bring myself to do it. It's a Christmas tree after all, not a holiday tree.

I guess I should look at it as a clean, fresh start to the new year. However, they have to stay up until after the feast of the Epiphany, which was the 6th.That's when my mom took ours down, so it's become a tradition for me. The official end to the Christmas season.  Maybe I'll do it today, or I might just wait until tomorrow. It'll get done eventually.
Happy New Year, everyone.

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Charles Dickens Had It Right by Gail Roughton

Home is Where the Heart Is


"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness..." So begins one of the most iconic masterpieces of all time, A Tale of Two Cities.  Many a high school student has groaned over its pages, including me, but one thing I didn't groan over was the opening paragraph, because even at fourteen--or at least I think I was fourteen, I'm pretty sure I was in the ninth grade, anyway--I actually understood what Dickens was getting at. It's as true now as it was in the year of Our Lord One Thousand Seven Hundred Seventy-Five, the year cited by Dickens, and the older I get the more I recognize how aptly Dickens described life in that first short paragraph of the first chapter of the novel.

All anyone has to do is turn on the news to be immediately regaled with stories of war, famine, serial killers, epidemics and man's general inhumanity to man. And intertwined with those stories are updates on medical advancement in the treatment of devastating diseases, of teenagers starting a community garden to supply local food banks with fresh produce, of a couple who foster and adopt babies and children with lifespan-limiting and debilitating disabilities, of First Responders and EMS volunteers rushing to rescue people and animals struggling to stay alive in the face of and aftermath of natural disasters, and Lord knows there've been plenty of them this year.  

In other words, there's tons of Bad with a capital B running rampant in the world right now. But there's also plenty of Good with a capital G running right alongside of it.  Personally, I think that's the natural balance of the world. I think sometimes Bad tips the scale really, really far over, until it seems impossible Good can ever tip the scale back on an even keel again, but it always has in the past, giving us hope that it always will in the future.  Or in Dickens' words, it's always simultaneously the best of times and the worst of times and it always will be.

But this is just me talkin', and I'm certainly no authority on too much of anything other than my own little personal world (which is set in a small little country town, just like Turkey Creek in Country Justice.)  Like the outside world, it's had some bad things happen in it (though I wouldn't say it's ever had anything Bad with a Capital B happen), but the scales have definitely stayed tilted more to the Good side (and yes, I'm lucky enough to say I'd class the Good things in my life as Good with a Capital G).  At the start of this brave new year of 2018, I send wishes to all that your coming months are filled with Good with a Capital G, and if any bad visits, it's not Bad with a capital B, but only the inconvenient and temporarily unpleasant bad that makes us really appreciate the beauty and blessings of life. 

Happy New Year, all! 

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