STORY WEAVER JOURNAL

GO WEST YOUNG WOMAN

2012-01-24T07:00:00.000-08:00

This story is atypical of manygroups who headed west in the earliest migrations. Getting a late start, asmall group of wagons left Sapling Grove, Missouri on May 12, 1841. In thegroup were 35 men, 5 women and 10 children, and not one of them had any notion of what lay ahead.

Of the women in the group threewere married, one was a widow and one was a girl of marriageable age travelingwith kin. Totally unprepared for the vast journey into the unknown, theylistened to a story one man told of seeing a map showing a great lake with tworivers running out of it clear to the Pacific. It would be simple. All theyneed do was find the lake and follow the rivers to the sea and there layCalifornia.

With no compass, they turnedtheir teams west and followed the Platte River. It was amazing that they managed to reach'Fort Laramie, unbelievable that they found South Pass and headed across theRocky Mountains. What isn't amazing is that by mid-July seven men decidedthey'd had enough and turned back. Undeterred, the remainder moved on, and July30 celebrated the wedding of the widow who decided to marry one of the men inthe company. The emigrants had covered 1200 miles.

At Fort Hall some of them continuednorth on the road to Oregon; others kept on toward California.

Among these was Nancy Kelsey andher baby. Married at 15, Nancy had decided to accompany her husband rather thanremain at home. She remarked, "I can better endure the hardships of thejourney than the anxieties for an absent husband."

One of the party members latersaid, "With no guide, we were forced to smell our way west."

What they did know was that therewas supposed to be a river called Mary's River or Ogden's River or the HumboldtRiver, but where would they find it? By August 22 food was low. The animalswere tired and by August 26 they were completely lost. The exhausted emigrantskept moving west. As they grew more desperate, they abandoned a wagon andslaughtered the oxen for food.

On Sept. 7 the ragged group againdivided, two wagons were going south with some Indians, six wagons remained incamp. The next day they reunited, dismissed the Indians and continued lookingfor a river. It's not known precisely why they separated then got backtogether. But they continued to blunder on into the middle of September. Atthat point they abandoned all the wagons and tied their belongings onto theremaining oxen. Incredibly, they found Mary's River but they could not find theroad that would lead from there to the Truckee River. By then they weren'ttraveling west, but south.

On Oct. 22, trapped in the almostimpassable canyons of the Sierra Nevadas, they killed the last ox. Mule meatbecame a delicacy but every time they killed one someone else had to walk. Theyshot jackrabbit and coyote when they could. Nancy walked and carried heryear-old baby in her arms. They tried boiling acorns but no one could eat them.Oct. 30 they finally staggered into the San Joaquin Valley, alive but gaunt andexhausted.

Nancy did not write a diary, butyears later was interviewed for a newspaper. Her experiences could haveforwarned other travelers, but her telling of them was years too late for manywho tried the same trip.

Women seldom had any say in moving west.. The decision rested with the men, and farm men of the early 19thcentury were not inclined to excuse women from their daily responsibilities toprepare for such a common thing as childbirth. Women were expected to be strongenough to serve the ordinary needs of the day, and strong enough to meet theextra ordinary demands as well. The society of the early 1800s offeered littlecomfort to fraility or timidity, or for that matter to motherhood.

This story is not unusual, butmore common for the day. Most women had eight to twelve children, and they wereexpected to do so whether working in the fields, traipsing cross country orhelping with the butchering. Come what may, the work had to be done.

Check out my books on Kindle.They follow these strong women who traveled west to find a new life, theirhopes and dreams, the men they loved and those they didn't.

WOMEN'S DUTIES ON THE OVERLAND TRAIL

2012-01-17T07:00:00.000-08:00

Women Who Won The West Series

The division of work on the Overland Trail noted that women always did the cooking. But as the months dragged on, and the trip lengthened, women were expected to do much more. Writing in her journal, Martha Morrison recalls that the women helped pitch the tents, helped unload and helped yoke up the cattle. Some women did nearly all the yoking because many times the men were off.

She writes: “One time my father was away hunting cattle that had been driven off by the Indians and that left Mother and the children to attend to everything...”

Work, such as packing and unpacking was formidable and never ending. It had to be done at major river crossings, after heavy rains, and when wagons got stuck in the mud.

In her journal Esther Hanna wrote: “I am now sitting in our carriage in the middle of a slough. Our mules all fell down attempting to get through. I have never witnessed anything like it. We have put 14 yoke of oxen to the wagons to get them out...Our provisions got wet and they had to be unpacked to air and then packed again.”

According to various journal entries, though the children were called upon to share the heavy jobs, they kept of “good heart and good cheer.”

Many years after the crossing, Martha said: “We did not know the dangers we were going through. The idea of my Father was to get on the coast: no other place suited him, and he went right ahead until he got there; we settled on the Clatsop Plains close to the mouth of the Columbia River. We did not get there until the middle of January or the first of February. We went down the river Deschutes in an open canoe, including all the children; and when we got down there was no way to get to the place where my Father had determined to locate us, but to wade through the tremendous swamps. I knew some of the young men that were along laughed at us girls, my oldest sister and me, for holding up what dresses we had to keep from miring; but we did not think it was funny. We finally waded through and got all our goods. Mother was a very fleshy woman, and it was a terrible job for her to get through.”

Martha married within a year and a half of her arrival in Oregon. She was fifteen.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but after reading some of their adventures crossing the Rockies into the west, I’ll never again complain about moving my washing from the washer to the dryer; or from cooking meals over my electric stove. What amazes me is that more women didn’t play out than did. Many grew stronger and produced stronger children, and we have them to thank for our own stamina.

Order Dream Walker and The Montana Trilogy here:
Pre-Order Paranormal Wolf Song here:
Watch for the release of Stone Heart’s Woman from The Wild Rose Press in February, 2012
Read first chapters on my website.

WOMEN PHOTOGRAPHERS IN THE 1800s

2012-01-10T07:00:00.000-08:00

A studio camera of the 1850s

Today, all we have to do to take pictures is whip out our digital camera. Then to see the
results, we plug it in to the nearest computer. It's instant gratification and something
many women enjoy. But think of what was involved in photography over 150 years ago
and we might wonder why women ever wanted to have a career in that field.

Allie Caine, my fictional character in Images In Scarlet, soon to be released to Kindle,
learned to take pictures from her father and worked with him during and after the Civil
War. In researching this subject, I found that women in those days who wanted to be a
photographer almost always worked with a man, usually a relative.

It's a fact that few women are cited in the most popular books on the history of
photography. But there are several reasons for that. One is that sometimes incorrect
history is often repeated and in turn quoted, with the result that it becomes the
established lore even when the story may have left out some of the facts. Actually,
women were very active in this field and deserve far greater prominence than history
has given to them.

Early photography was quite an ordeal, and it's understandable that women might not
have been interested in taking up such a pastime. As soon as a glass plate was
exposed it was necessary to develop the picture with smelly chemicals. Plenty of water
had to be available. If working outside a studio, the equipment was heavy and awkward
to carry. One of the chemicals, Collodion, was first formulated in 1846. It was then,
and still is, used as a medical dressing. Made from cotton or cellulose, soaked in nitric
and sulphuric acids --- which explains the unpleasant odor --- the cotton is thoroughly
washed and dried and then dissolved in ether and alcohol. And add to that how hit and
miss the entire process was. Sometimes after all that work, no picture resulted. Despite
this, in the 1850s around 10,000 women were actrively involved in what was then
known as picture-making.

There is evidence that women did not receive the acknowledgement due to them. Most
played a supportive role to their husbands and were then content to accept that he
would receive all the credit. Well, at least if some weren't content, most didn't have
much choice. Early on, many of those who participated in picture making would be
relatives of a man who worked in the field. Fox Talbot had a number of female relatives
who were active alongside him. His wife Constance, took pictures and developed and
printed them. Emma Llwelyn printed for her husband, John Llwelyn. Robert Tytler
photographed the ruins following the Indian Mutiny of 1858; his wife Harriet
accompanied him, and though the work received much acclaim, the records only
mention the husband's name. Elizabeth, wife of Disderi, famous for his carte-de-visites -
-- the small oval personal photos often carried in a pocket or reticule --- was in
partnership with her husband, and continued to operate in Paris after his death, until
her own death in 1878. It says much of the times that her death certificate cites "without
profession, 61 years old."

Allie Caine heads west armed with a camera and a Navy Colt. Driving the “what’s-it”
wagon, specially adapted for use as a studio, she leaves bloody Missouri behind. The
Civil War is over; her mother and brother murdered by bushwhackers, her father dead
of a stroke. Fleeing the only life she’s ever known, she’s determined to reach Santa Fe
where she hopes to set up a studio. Making pictures of people in the wagon train she
will join up with will pay her way west.

She never expects to find a man sleeping in the middle of the road, a man with no
memories who wanders the land in search of his home, his family. Snatches of his life
are all he can summon from his fragmented past, swirling images of sheets scarlet with
blood and a woman lying still as death. Deep in his heart he knows he is not the killer
his flashbacks suggest. All he has to do is prove it. Should she fear this man or love
him?

Read Images In Scarlet, soon available on Kindle.

A Giroux camera from the 1850s

Order Dream Walker and The Montana Trilogy here:
Pre-Order Paranormal Wolf Song here:
Watch for the release of Stone Heart’s Woman from The Wild Rose Press in February, 2012
Read first chapters on my website.

BREAKING IN AFTER 50

2012-01-02T07:00:00.000-08:00

Are you 50 or older and wishing you could go back and do something different with your life? I'd just bet that a lot of my readers and followers are approaching that magic half-century. And some of you think it's too late to pursue a new career. I want to tell you a story that may help with whatever your endeavor may be.

Not too long ago a friend of mine, who is nearing my age, said to me, "I guess it's probably too late for me to have a career in writing." Well, did I have news for her. And not only about a career in writing, but a career in any field. If you are passionate about something, be it creative or simply a thing you've always wanted to do, it's never too late to give it a try. As my son once told me, "You're going to be 50 someday anyway, why not spend the time doing something you love?"

I've never forgotten that, and so I began to write novels as my 50th birthday loomed in the near future. I celebrated that birthday with one book completely written. Oh, of course, it had a long way to go to be finished, but it was written. Told from beginning to end. During that time I met a young writer just beginning her career and we teamed up to help each other. If I had met her without having begun work on my first novel, it would have been like ships passing in the night. We'd never have forged a friendship.

Furthermore, as I honed my craft and wrote two more novels, I began to meet others interested in the same thing. My passion could well have been anything, not just writing. If I designed jewelry, made quilts, tailored clothing, baked cupcakes, no matter what. Being 50 wouldn't have deterred me from that passion. Not many years ago I met a 78-year-old woman whose first novel had earned a WILLA Literary Award. She has gone on to write several more wonderful books, stories that would not have been told had she thought she was too old.

By the time I reached 60 I had found publishers for a nonfiction book and two first novels. So my son was right. I loved those years mixing with others with the same passion as mine, learning from them, networking with publishers, editors, best selling authors like Janet Dailey, Jeffrey Deaver, David Morrell, Jodi Thomas and Lisa Wingate, to name only a few. Had I decided I was too old to build a career, I'd probably be watching daytime television, sitting in a rocking chair as the world passed me by. Not that there's anything wrong with that if it's your passion, but I'm betting it isn't.

So, celebrate the New Year with hope and belief in your dreams. Find your bliss, then follow it, whether you're 50 or 70 or 80. You'll never regret it. Make 2012 unforgettable. Do something you love to do for the remainder of your life. What a thrill that will be.

How Women Won the West
Check out my Montana Trilogy on Kindle only $2.99 each
Pre-Order Wolf Song, the story of a reluctant shape shifter and a woman who runs with the wolves.

WOLVES AND THE PARANORMAL

2011-12-27T07:00:00.000-08:00

The idea of werewolves has always disturbed me, but not because of the horror of such a belief, but because it instills in mankind a natural fear of the wolf and make him believe that wolves will actually attack and kill humankind. There has never been a proven event of a wolf attacking a human, nor carrying off our children.

Wolf Song is about a shape shifter who becomes a wolf. There are no werewolves in the story. I leave that to horror writers. The Cheyenne Wolf Song is only beginning to learn his trade, inherited from his grandfather. He's still a bit clumsy and often forgets to bring along his clothes when he returns to his man shape, thus making for some embarrassing moments. Walls are a problem for him too, but you can read the book to find out how he improves his inherited talent.

Katherine Ramsland, PH.D. wrote in The Devil's Dozen:
The belief in the possibility that humans could change shape has been traced to 600 BC when King Nebuchadnezzar in the Bible thought he’d suffered from a condition that made him grow out his hair and romp around as a wild beast. By the 1500s in France, lycanthropy was a diagnosable medical condition. An informative early book about the myths was The Books of Werewolves by Sbine Baring-Gould, a nineteenth-century archaeologist and historian. Shape-shifting ideas were traced from ancient times and across different cultures, with many accepting that man-beasts were the result of an encounter with the devil. As the myth goes, when they managed to make the change, they gained a period of complete abandon into blood and violence.

Barry Lopez wrote in Of Wolves and Men:
One of the songs of the wolf is the Invitation Song, the howl the wolf used to call coyotes, foxes
and magpies to the remains of his kill. Some Indian hunters sing a song to call the wolf to one of
their kills, a bear. They would take a bear’s hide, but believed that the bear did not wish to be
eaten by humans.

The Indian turned to the wolf as a paradigm, a mirror reflection. He believed the life of the wolf
resembled his own --hunting for himself, hunting for his family, defending his tribe against enemy
attack as the wolf protected the den against the grizzly. He wished for that power and imitated
him by wearing his skin. We can imagine him saying, Help me to fit, to be valuable in the world,
like the wolf.

To most tribes, especially Cheyenne, Sioux, Pawnee the wolf fulfilled two roles. He was a
powerful and mysterious animal and so perceived by most tribes, and he was a medicine animal,
identified with a particular individual, tribe or clan. The wolf was the one animal, that again, did
two things at once year after year: remained distinct and exemplary as an individual, yet served
the tribe. There are no stories among Indians of lone wolves. Cheyenne medicine men wrapped
wolf fur around the sacred arrows used to motion antelope into a trap. End of Quote

Many tribes and specific clans believed that certain of their members could actually turn into an animal, such as a wolf. Thus the idea of the shape-shifter for this story of evil deeds, love and redemption.

Wolf Song appears to help Olivia, a young woman who dreams of running with the wolves to escape a dark secret.

Pre Order Wolf Song

DANG BURN IT, LET'S GO WEST

2011-12-20T07:00:00.000-08:00

The trek West by wagon train is depicted romantically in movies and western romance
novels. But what was it like really, to spend months on end in a wagon or on foot? Braving the
elements. The sun didn’t always shine, and even when it did, dust hung heavy in the humid air,
kicked up by hundreds of wagons and horses. When it wasn’t dust it was mud that swallowed
half the wagon wheel, coated boots and splattered from the hooves of galloping horses.
Taking a bath most of the time meant washing off the top layer with a rag dipped in a pan
of water. None of those lovely clear ponds surrounded by flowers and thick trees that provided a
lot of privacy, like we see in western movies and read about in novels.
Wait a minute. Am I trying to ruin the romance novel lying open on your nightstand? Or
waiting in your Kindle? Certainly not. An editor once told me that I should leave out the bedbugs
and lice, and she was right. But realism in my westerns is required so that the reader gets the true
feel of things. One day fighting mud, another fighting bad weather, and yet another devoted to
other discomforts, that’s enough. Then we can move on to the romance.
It’s true that young women going west looked at it as a great experience. More like play
than work. It was the older women with children, possibly pregnant with another, who suffered
the most from the trek West.
Here’s an idea of what was carried in those overland wagons, smaller and lighter than a
Conestoga, and much preferred for the long trip. In 1845 it was recommended that each emigrant
carry along 200 pounds of flour, 150 pounds of bacon, 10 pounds of coffee, 20 pounds of sugar
and 10 pounds of salt. In addition, supplies should include chipped beef, rice, tea, dried beans,
dried fruit, saleratus (baking soda), vinegar, pickles, mustard and tallow. Basic kitchen ware was
a kettle, fry pan, coffee pot, tin plates, cups, knives and forks.
And contrary to what we might believe, plenty of cash was needed for a successful trip.
Cash to replace stores, to pay the ferrymen at river crossings, to buy replacements for wagons
that had broken or oxen gone lame, to buy food through the first winter in the new lands.
But none of this would deter the frontiersmen and their families. Between 1841 and 1866
approximately 350,000 men, women and children emigrated to the Pacific Territories. A spike
from 4,000 in 1848 to 30,000 in 1849 and 55,000 in 1850 reveals the height of the gold rush.
Ordinary, everyday work for women included cooking in wind and rain and using weeds
or buffalo chips to make their fires. Often the plains offered not a stick of wood..
But hey, despite all the hardships, the loneliness of being separated from family, the heat
and cold and dust and wind, hail often the size of snowballs, nothing stopped the migration west.
For two decades the Mormon Trail and the Oregon Trail carried travelers, much like our
Interstates do today. Only difference, that overland journey that was 2400 miles from the
Missouri River to California, took from April to October at best. Today that same trip can be
driven in three days.
Romantic or not, we like to think of the westward movement that way. And romance
novels will continue to satisfy that desire.

How Women Won the West
Read my Montana Trilogy on Kindle for $2.99 each
Pre Order Wolf Song.

A WRITER'S CHRISTMAS

2011-12-12T07:00:00.000-08:00

We writers are an unusual, if not slightly strange bunch. We live mostly in other worlds with fictional people who seem so real to us we might be dangerous at times. We are the only people who can hear voices and not be considered crazy. Though, occasionally people look at me as if I were. Crazy, that is.

It was October, 1994 when my first of six western historical romances was released by Topaz. That Christmas I almost forgot to shop I was so excited. And you've got to know that our family is very big on Christmas. We pile gifts up around the tree until you can hardly get into the room. It takes hours with breaks for coffee, chocolate and milk and cookies to finish the opening task. We go around the room, one by one opening one present at a time and oohing and aahing over it before moving on to the next. Even the children realize the need to take part in this ritual, rather than ripping into their gifts with great abandon.

So you can see that my nearly forgetting to buy gifts was a really big deal. I felt terrible as I rushed around trying to find the just-so-right gifts for each family member. We are a small family, so each makes sure we buy something the other wants. There's no buying ten pairs of gloves or fourteen scarves to pass around. No. Grandpa has to have those furry house slippers and a new wallet and belt, wool socks, his very favorite tools that he's lost or worn out are replaced with glee. A longed for book, a music CD of his favorite tunes. And so it goes around the room.

Yet, there I was left with little time to shop--a chore I hate any other time of the year--and very special gifts I wanted to buy for each and everyone.

I remember when my two children were small, I'd go to the nearby Woolworth store in late September and put special toys on layaway. We had very little money, so it wasn't like it is today, with gifts galore. One really special item from Santa, a couple of smaller gifts from Mom and Dad. Over the years things changed, and so I was met on this late October in 1994, with a long list. Wal Mart was not then what it is today, but there were other stores in town as well. A K Mart, Sears and Pennys. Woolworth had long disappeared. Online shopping was a thing of the future, though catalogs were a favorite of mine.

I don't recall the gifts I bought that year, and probably no one else does either, which might say something about worrying so much about getting just the right thing. But I did make it without spending Christmas Eve trolling through leftovers. I vowed, that no matter what was going on in my writing life, that wouldn't happen again. And so, each year, deadline or no, book release or no, blog to write or no, I finish my shopping around Thanksgiving. Thanks nowadays to Amazon and other online stores.

This year I've uploaded to Kindle not only that long ago book that was first published in 1994, but three others, all available for gift giving this Christmas by simply hitting a couple of buttons. Family members with a Kindle will be delighted and so will you. Books that were originally $6.99 in 1994-1998 are now $2.99. That's quite a bargain when you consider inflation rates today.

MARRIAGE AND ROMANCE OUT WEST

2011-12-05T12:22:00.001-08:00

Though I write romances that take place in the historical West, it doesn't take long to learn through research that romance often took a back seat to more practical considerations. A woman considered herself lucky to snag a man who was prone to work hard. It was important that a man provide a living? Women seldom worked away from home. Her back breaking chores provided more than enough to keep her busy. So how did these two carve out the time to make their marriage work?

Chances are, they weren't conscious of doing so. It was just a given that once married, one remained that way till one or the other, or both died. In some cases, that meant a short marriage. The median age either one might reach in the 1800s was around 45-50, younger if they went West.

Consider the marriage bed. Often not much wider than our twin bed of today, it consisted of corn husks bundled and laid over rope laced into a form of springs, and covered by a quilt. If there was money to be had or the couple owned a large farm and raised a variety of birds that included geese, they might have a goose down mattress. In the winter the house grew frigid before the night was over, so that would have been conducive to cuddling. In the summer there were no fans, the only air conditioning was to open or uncover windows that had no screens and often no glass either.

Need became more important than love. A man who'd lost his wife often had several small children and would court the first available woman he found, marrying her so his children would have someone to raise them. The same was true in the reverse for widows left with children. All he or she cared about was that they could get along reasonably well.

Too often the bride and groom were teenagers, a term that hadn't yet been coined. It was common for the man to be 16 or 17 and the woman 14 or 15 when they spoke their marriage vows. Because of a lack of birth control methods, children came along every year or so, with miscarriages in between. If a couple had eight to ten children, they were lucky to raise half of them to adulthood when living on the frontier.

Considering all of this, romance soon took a backseat. But that's not what readers want when they read romances. An editor once told me to leave out the bedbugs and lice, no one wanted to read about that in a romance. She was right of course, and in presenting life on the frontier, the writer also sugar coats the hard stuff.

In reading diaries written by women who went West, we find the younger ones looked upon the trip as a great adventure, while those who were either pregnant or already had young children, saw it as drudgery and sometimes committed suicide. But again, readers expect exciting, happy stories from their romances, and so that's what we writers give them. We leave the unhappy endings for literary writers.

So enjoy Montana Promises, Montana Dreams and Montana Destiny for their strong and gentle heroes and tough but giving heroines. And join my part-Cherokee heroine in Dream Walker. That's a trip you'll enjoy. Find them all here.

SNAKE HOUSE ADDED TO ANTHOLOGY

2011-11-28T13:48:00.001-08:00

Earlier this year I took part in a reading at the Starving Artist Cafe in the Argenta District of Little Rock, AR. My story, A Day at the Snake House, has been chosen out of 155 stories read in 2011 to be published in the anthology, The Best of Tales From the South, Vol. VI.

Here's a very short excerpt to whet your appetite for this important Southern story anthology;

Living in the wilderness of the Ozarks, I’ve occasionally
experienced face-to-face encounters with the evil little crawlers.
It’s an understatement to say we have plenty of snakes in these
hills. All four of the continent’s poisonous snakes live
somewhere in Arkansas, three of them in our part of the state.
The best thing is, we rarely see them, but we know they’re
around. Lurking under rocks and boards and fallen trees.
So when Fred Lally made it fairly clear that it would be
“interview me, interview my snakes,” I had to reach a quick
decision. Did I want to chicken out or go for it? I’m thinking
here, small snakes, and definitely not poisonous ones. They’d be
in boxes or cages or terrariums, surely. Yes, I could do it.

With a quiver in my voice, I answered, “Of course I want to
see your snakes.”
“Okay, come on up to the house around nine, and we’ll
talk, I’ll arrange for a visit with the big guys.”
I managed to croak, “Big guys?”
Calm as could be he said, “Got me one of the longest
reticulated pythons in captivity.” END OF EXCERPT

My adventure had only begun with this phone conversation. For someone like me who was always terrified of snakes, this turned into one of the greatest adventures I had during my 9 years working with a small, rural weekly newspaper. It was by far not the only excitement I experienced, but it rates right up there at the top. Here's a link to find out more about the "big guys" I visited and held that day.

I'll let readers know when the anthology is released and post it to my website so you can read my story.

NINA AND PINTA VISIT FT. SMITH

2011-11-22T12:09:00.001-08:00

Saturday we drove to the Arkansas River Valley where the Nina and Pinta ships were docked. These two ships were reproductions of the original on which Columbus sailed to the Americas in 1492 on his first voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.

I was immediately struck by the size, especially of the Nina, pictured here. It is hard to imagine sailing across an immense ocean, weathering storms and rough seas in such a tiny craft. We learned that the Nina, on which there were 120 passengers, was the only vessel in West Indian waters to survive the hurricane of 1495. As a writer I have a pretty good imagination, but my mind boggled at the idea of 120 people packed aboard this ship.

While the Pinta is 85 feet long with a 24 foot beam, the Nina is a mere 65 feet long, with a beam of 18 feet. As you can see from the photo, there are two sails up front. There is also one which you can't see at the rear. She is steered, not with a wheel, but by a tiller attached to a rudder. Imagine that for a moment. The Nina has quite a history. After Columbus selected her out of 17 ships for his flagship, he later purchased a half share in her.

She was chartered for an unauthorized voyage to Rome and was captured by a corsair and brought to anchor at Cape Pula, Sardinia, where she was stripped of her arms and crew. The Captain Alonso Medel escaped with a few men, stole a boat, rowed back to Nina, cut her cables and made sail. She returned to Cadiz in time to sail for Hispaniola early in 1498 as advance guard of Columbus' Third Voyage. She was lying in Santo Domingo in 1500 and was last heard of making a trading voyage to the Pearl Coast in 1501. In all she logged at least 25,000 miles under the command of Christopher Columbus. Both were used by explorers during the Age of Discovery, but the Pinta disappeared from history without a trace.

These replicas of both the Nina and Pinta are the first historically correct replicas of a 15th Century Caravel. They were built in Valenca, Brazil, using only adzes, axes, hand saws and chisels along with naturally-shaped timbers from the local forest. The reproduction of the Nina was finished 16 years before that of the Pinta was built so that the two could tour the western hemisphere together.

It was a thrill to see them on the Arkansas River near Ft. Smith. For someone who loves history, this was an exciting day. In my mind's eye I watched the brave men who sailed such vessels, going about their daily chores, then taking turns bedding down on the decks to catch some sleep. How they must have fought to remain on board during stormy seas. Where did they eat? I couldn't help but wonder how enough food and water was stored in such tight quarters for voyages that took many months to complete.

When I heard they were hiring on more crew members, I wished I were forty years younger. I'd take them up on it in a heartbeat. Nothing is more freeing than being on a boat or ship on open waters with nothing in sight but water and the horizon painted against a brilliant sky.

HEARTACHE OF WAR

2011-11-15T12:36:00.001-08:00

Heartbroken Dessa stood next to Mama and Papa and watched Mitch go out of sight through the trees. Tears flowed like fire down her cheeks. How could he leave them for a stupid war?

Mama patted her shoulder, but said nothing because she couldn’t speak either. She was crying as hard as her daughter. Their world had been torn apart, and Dessa was afraid it would never be the same again.

Papa cleared his throat. “Come on, girls. Let’s get back in the house before you catch your death standing out here in the cold bareheaded.”

Dessa stumbled along, staring over her shoulder for one last brief glimpse of her brother. Nothing there but shadowy woods. Without Mitchell the normal gaiety of Christmas in Kansas City would be drab as those leafless trees moaning and clattering like skeletons dancing in the cold December wind.

“But Papa, I’m bored with staying at home.” Dessa stood her ground against his scowl. “ I don’t want to learn to tat or embroider. I want to work in one of the stores. You need extra help for the holidays.”

“Perhaps you’d like to go away to one of those fancy boarding schools. I’d assure you you wouldn’t be bored there.”

The implied threat sent chills down her back. “God, no.” Immediately she bit her tongue. Papa did not tolerate the use of the Lord’s name in vain.

“Watch your tongue young lady, or that’s exactly where you’ll be. In a flash.”

“I’m sorry, but Papa, I’m eighteen, a woman grown.”

“Yes, and it’s time you found yourself a husband and settled down.”

“All the good men have gone off to war. Where would you like me to look for this husband?”

Papa sighed and waved an arm about. “Plenty of men bought off going to war.”

“And you would like me to settle for one of them? Rich cowards. With our Mitchell out there somewhere. Never would I even look twice at a man like that.”

“Please, child. I have to go downtown. There’s a problem at the store there. Without Mitchell I’m short handed —”

“I know, and I can help. I’m good with people. Let me just try it. Take me with you and you’ll see, I will sell more fashionable clothes than anyone you’ve got in any of the stores.”

Papa lifted his shoulders and glanced about, as if in search of help from Mama, who wisely remained in the kitchen when Dessa and Papa got into it, as she put it. When he saw no escape, he gestured around the room.

“All right, child, but I know I’ll regret this. Get your things and we’ll see what you’re made of.”

Dessa went to work in the downtown Fallon’s that day, and immediately endeared herself to everyone who shopped there. After Christmas, when business dropped off a bit, she feared Papa might let her go, but he didn’t. For the first time in her life she felt useful, not the rich little girl growing up with everything handed to her on a silver platter. If Mitchell hadn’t been gone off to the war, she’d have been content.

That April the war ended and Dessa readied herself for Mitch’s return. But he didn’t come and neither did a letter that he might be on the way. She dared not think of the worst, but by the end of summer it was clear her brother wasn’t coming home. The entire household went into mourning, and Mama took to her bed. Papa grew gaunt and let his store managers handle business. Dessa spent hours in her room, refusing to face the idea that she might never see her brother again.

Then a letter came from Virginia City, Montana saying that Mitch was alive. But it wasn’t from him, it was from some woman who claimed to have seen him.

Mama crawled from her bed and began tossing clothing from the chiffarobe. Papa paced the floor, reading and re-reading the letter.

“Papa, you know it’s probably not true. I want to believe it, we want to believe it. But who is this woman? She probably just wants money from you.”

He nodded fiercely. “Yes, yes, child, you’re right, I know it. If our Mitchell was alive he would’ve been in touch by now. But I simply can’t discount it out of hand. Our store in Virginia City is sorely in need of better management. It wouldn’t hurt if I went there where I could investigate this at length from close at hand.”

“You’re not going without me, Mr. Fallon,” Mama shouted, hands fisted at her sides.

“Someone has to remain here and run the household, and be available should something arise at one of the stores that can only be handled by family.”

Dessa glanced from her father’s stern face to Mama’s tearful one. The possibility of her brother’s being alive had brought Mama back from the brink of death. It was only right she go with Papa.

“I’ll stay then,” Dessa said. “But promise you’ll let me know the minute you find out anything. And that you’ll allow me to join you if it’s true and my brother is alive.”

Mama and Papa stared at her a moment. “Alone?” Mama whispered. “No, I won’t allow that.”

“Hush,” Papa said, taking her hand in his. “We’ll hire someone to accompany her, should it be necessary.”

That night Dessa lay awake for hours, imagining the discovery that her brother was alive. But that was foolish, wasn’t it? Just plain foolish.

Follow Dessa in the search for her brother in Montana Dreams.

A HEART OF GOLD

2011-11-08T12:24:00.000-08:00

Continuing my series on How Women Won the West, this is the tale of a prostitute with a heart of gold who is good to Tressie at a time when the young girl is sorely in need of friends. This story tells how Rose came to be in Virginia City, Montana.

A Heart of Gold

Rose pulled the sheet over her sweaty body and watched Carson pull up his pants. Without sparing her another look, he lay a few coins on the dressing table, grumbled something she didn’t catch and left the room. After cleaning herself up, she opened a drawer, unlocked a small box and deposited the coins there. She ran her fingers over the stash of gold and silver pieces. All earned the hard way. One day she would be done with this for good.
That night in Joe’s saloon where she worked her trade, a man rushed in shouting, “Gold, they’ve struck it rich.”
He continued to shout for a while, till Joe got him to calm down and take a couple of drinks.
“Settle down, man,” Joe said. “Where is this gold?”
“Alder Gulch, up by Virginia City. Picking up nuggets the size of their fist.”
The news spread through the room, putting an end to the poker games and stopping men and women who shuffled around on the dance floor.
“I’m telling you,” he continued. “Anyone with a shovel and some jerky oughta git on up there and stake a claim.”
Early the next morning, with dawn just silvering the sky, Rose crawled into bed, her last customer clomping down the stairs. She dreamed of getting out of this place, leaving Deadwood far behind. But how? What to do first?
That evening, she sat at the bar nursing a glass of bourbon when Weldon, a cowboy who’d been a regular with her for a few years, slid up close.
“How about one for the road, Rosie?”
She turned, looked him up and down. “You going somewhere?”
“Yep. Up to Virginia City to stake me a claim. I’m fed up with this place.”
“Could you do me a favor, then?” She wasn’t even sure where the decision came from, but there it was, plain as could be. “See if there’s any place in that town where I could set me up a Hurdy Gurdy house. It oughta do real good in a new town with gold nearby.”
He ran a finger between her breasts that poured from the neckline of her dress. “Let’s go upstairs and talk about this favor.”
When he left much later it was with instructions on what she needed and how much she could pay. “If there’s a bank, the money can be wired to the owner if you find what I’m looking for.”
“Some right smart fella might build you what you want if they ain’t a place available.”
And so a Hurdy Gurdy House she’d christened The Golden Sun came into being along the raw, rutty streets of the growing gold strike town in Virginia City, Montana.
By mid-summer Rose and Maggie, one of the girls from Joe’s, had packed up and boarded the stage coach.
The curtains, though closed, failed to keep out dust roiling up from the horses hooves. Skin covered in a thin coating, perspiration tracking through the grit, Rose held a dainty hanky over her mouth and nose, but that didn’t help much. The merciless trip from Deadwood to Virginia City dragged on and on. Never ending torture. Tasteless food served at endless stops, nowhere to wash up. If they slept it was on the stage. A couple of overnight layovers offered little better fare. All she could do was imagine her destination to help time pass.
True to his word, Weldon had arranged for the building of a rough hewn structure, rooms upstairs and cribs out back. A place of her own at last. A hurdy gurdy house in a town growing because of gold fever should do very well, and she would be its madame. No more following slovenly men to a crib and performing whatever ill-named task they had in mind. She’d need more women, and had left word with Joe she’d be hiring should anyone in Deadwood with enough looks to please a man be interested.
“How much longer do you think?” Maggie asked from behind her own hanky.
“I have no idea, child. But just keep a good thought. We’ll have a bath and a change of clothes and some decent food soon.”
Maggie nodded her pretty head, a few locks of loose dark hair bouncing around her exhausted features.
Beside Maggie sat a tall, thin Englishman who’d introduced himself as Jarrad Lincolnshire. “It shan’t be much longer now,” he said. “Do you have a friend in Virginia City?”
“No,” Rose said, lowering her eyes, loath to tell this handsome gentleman that she was a lady of the night. A soiled dove, some men called her kind. But that wouldn’t be her title anymore, would it?
He lowered his head in her direction. “If you need anything, please let me know. I’m just outside town at the mine. Send someone, those miners are pretty rough. Wouldn’t want a lady like you on site.”
A flush spread across her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d blushed. But being treated so fine brought out the shyness of her forgotten youth.
He touched her arm. “I mean that, Miss Langue.” His dark gaze roamed slowly across her body. “Anything I can do.”
The stage lurched. Her thigh jostled against his and she shivered with desire.
You’d think I’d have had enough of men’s lust to do me a lifetime. But this one, he’s different. He’s a gentleman.
She smiled and made no attempt to move away from the contact. Neither did he. Perhaps once she was settled, she could make one exception at The Golden Sun and invite him into her room for special treatment. That would mean revealing how she’d made her way in the west since her sixteenth year. Daddy ran off with a customer of his mercantile and Mama took to her bed and the store soon went under leaving Rose on her own. She’d had little choice.
No time to be thinking about that long ago past she’d worked so hard to overcome. She was a business woman now, an owner and proprietor.
She turned to Jarrad. “Where have you come from? You don’t sound like an American.”
“I’m over here from London. A businessman, but bored with the dullness of buying and selling antiques. I learned of this new way of mining gold, using water to wash the soil away into troughs where the gold can then be plucked out by the buckets.”
“Oh my, it sounds exciting,” she said and batted her lashes at him.
Stop that, Rose. You should be ashamed, flirting as if you were a cheap calico queen.
Well, she wasn’t that...not anymore. But she’d have to work hard to get away from such a reputation, even when she ran the house. She could only hope Jarrad Lincolnshire wouldn’t give a hoot what she did for a living. Because, on his arm she would be respected, looked up to. And she was determined to be his woman.

When Tressie finds herself alone in Virginia City with a baby to raise, Rose befriends her and becomes a secondary character in the Montana Trilogy books.

OFF TO THE GOLD RUSH

2011-11-01T12:49:00.000-07:00

I'm continuing my How Women Won the West series with this story. Hope you like it. Let me know and share it to Facebook if you'd like.

LONELY PRAIRIE

Prairie heat waves swallowed the horse and rider. Tressie wiped her tears and stared into the distance where Pa had disappeared. Inside the soddie, her mother’s sobs went on and on. She wanted to shout at her to hush up, but knew if she opened her mouth to speak, a great moan would escape and she might never stop. So she pressed her lips together and watched the emptiness until her eyes burned. He wasn’t coming back. Ever.
In the night she’d listened to them talk about the gold rush.
“Emma, it’s a good way to make things better for you and Tressie and the new one.”
“But what will we do without you?” Ma strained to whisper, but Tressie heard her in the stillness of the night.
“It won’t be that long. Bracken says they’re picking up fist-sized nuggets at Alder Gulch, just laying about on the ground. I’ll come home before fall and we’ll be rich. You can get by till then.”
“But the baby, I want you here when it comes.”
“I can’t be here and there too. I have to do this and you have to be strong, and that’s the end of it.”
Tressie had heard that tone on a few occasions. Pa was a gentle man, but Ma said he never could stay in one place too long. This time his itchy feet had won out over love for her and Ma. He didn’t even care about the baby on its way. The hankering for gold overpowered everything. One final look at the empty horizon and she turned her back on visions of the far off place called Virginia City and went inside the soddie to soothe Ma.
“Hush now, you’ll make yourself sick. Think of the baby.”
Ma sniffed and nodded. Tressie dipped a cloth in cool well water and handed it to her. “Here, clean your face. I’ll fix us something to eat.”
Ma took the rag and mopped at her tear-drenched cheeks. “I’m not hungry.”
“No matter, you have to eat. . .for the baby.”
Fists clenched against the swell of her belly, Ma groaned. “How could he do this?”
“I don’t know, but he swore he’d come back. We can’t give up.”
Ma made a rude noise. “Give up? He’s not coming back. We’re out here in this god forsaken place, no way to get supplies even if we had any money. What happens when we have nothing left to eat? The garden’s burning up, with no rain in sight. The chickens have quit laying. What are we supposed to live on?”
“Chicken, I guess. . .for a while, at any rate.”
“That’s not funny.” Ma chuckled anyway.
“Yeah, you’re right, it’s not funny.” Tressie laughed.
That night they ate chicken and dumplings until their bellies ached. With no way to keep the rest of the meal from spoiling, they fed it to the lanky dog Pa had left behind.
“You’re next,” Tressie said, watching the dog lap up the rich leavings, though she could never even consider such a thing.
That evening Ma sat in one of the three chairs while Tressie cleaned up the dishes.
“I want to show you something,” she said when her daughter dried her hands on a feedsack towel.
“What?”
“You’re seventeen, a woman grown. You’re going to have to help me have this baby. I’m sorry you have to do this, but there’s no one else.”
Limp with fear, she dragged up a chair and listened intently while Ma explained about how the baby would come, how she should support its head and clear its throat and tie off the cord. The idea sent chills through her.
“What if I do something wrong? What if I hurt it? Or you?”
“Just do as I’ve told you. And once the cord is tied off, wash it with warm water and then you’ll have to clean up the after birth.
“I don’t think I can do this.” A moan of dread shook her till she couldn’t say any more.
“There’s no one else. You have to.”
“I could kill him for doing this to you. . .to us.”
“Little good that would do.” Ma rose wearily and rubbing at her back, shuffled to the bed in one corner of the single room. “You can sleep with me tonight if you want.”
Tressie nodded, stricken mute by what lay ahead.
To keep herself from thinking about deliverying the baby, after Ma fell asleep, she checked the storage bins that served as kitchen cupboards in the corner. Flour and cornmeal, but not a lot; one cone of sugar, some pinto beans she’d shelled out the previous week before the plants died and not much else. It was time to dig the potatoes, but she didn’t expect many because the plants had shriveled from the heat. There might be some under that dusty ground, though.
Early the next morning, before the sun rose to burn its way through the day, she took a fork to the rows of potatoes. Her efforts yielded only small ones. They’d last a while. On her way to the house with two full buckets, she heard Ma cry out.
Heart in her throat, she hurried inside. For a moment she couldn’t see and waited till her vision adjusted to the darkness inside. Ma sat on the edge of the bed in her nightgown.
“The baby?”
“The pains began in the middle of the night. It’s getting close.”
Following instructions, Tressie stripped off the good covers and spread an old, ragged quilt for a birthing bed. Grabbing the water bucket she ran to the well to draw water, then hung an iron kettle on the hook over the fireplace, stoked up the fire and filled the pot.
Every few minutes Ma groaned through another contraction. Tressie alternated between holding her hand and bathing her face in cool water. A feeling of helplessness washed over her as the contractions grew closer together. Time moved on, Ma’s pain increased, and Tressie worried something was wrong. Was it supposed to be this bad? Take this long?
After what seemed like hours, a foot appeared where the head was supposed to be.
By that time, Ma was in and out of herself and Tressie had no idea what to do. This was definitely not normal.
She sat beside her mother, holding her hand and whispering to her, until finally, close to dawn of the next day, the awful pains ceased. So did Ma’s breathing.
For a long timeTressie held her mother close, then, dry eyed, she rose and went to the door.
“Damn you to hell, old man. I’ll find you, and when I do you’ll pay for this.”
Then she went to the barn, fetched the shovel and buried her mother and the unborn child on a rise above the soddie. From there she saw a rider coming out of the East.
“You’re too late,” she muttered. “Too late.”

Montana Promises is Tressie’s story. Reed Bannon is the rider in the distance, but he’s been shot for stealing the horse he’s on. You can find it at Amazon Kindle for $2.99.

THE TRAIL WHERE THEY CRIED

2011-10-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

A story of love and loss among the Cherokee in my continuing series about Women who went West

The child cried out in her sleep, and I turned over to soothe her. This dreary and cold place where the white man kept our people was nothing like her room in our farm house. With a heavy heart, I gazed for a time at her sweet face, relaxed in sleep. My grand daughter of five summers, the extension of my life on this earth, and I had to awaken her to face one of the worst hardships she might ever know.

Thanks to Josiah Keye trapper and lost father, Winter Dawn carries the white man’s blood along with ours. Yet she is Cherokee enough for the white man, and she will go with us on a long journey from our home in Tennessee to Indian Territory. The removal had been decreed by the white president they call Old Hickory. He wants us gone as do the ignorant white riff-raff of the south.

My daughter Quick Deer and my grandsons Bold Hunter and Small Elk, myself and this most precious child must now leave the home we have always known. Winter Dawn has inherited a gift I have carried all my life. She walks with the spirits who have moved on, and as she grows this gift will increase in power. This young one does not know it yet, but she will have great influence one day.

I am Bone Woman, a witch of the highest degree, and I sing over the bones of the dead to bring them peace, but Winter Dawn will soon bring peace to the living in such ways as she can not yet imagine. For that destiny, I must keep her safe on this trip, no matter what. Her mother has enough to do caring for the two young boys.

With reluctance, I touched her shoulder and watched her come awake, her dark eyes widening in startled fear. I put a finger to my lips.

“Hsst, my small one. We must dress quickly. We are going on a long journey and we must ready ourselves in silence.”

Her eyes filled with tears, and I put my arms around her slim shoulders. “It will be all right. Chief Ross and his wife Quatie are traveling with us. He will take care of us. Now, dress quickly. We must go.”

All around us men, women and children somberly prepared for the trip west. For the women there is fear. How will we live? Where will the children sleep. Are there houses as befit the proper Cherokee? Many think we live in hogans or tipis. As for the men, their anger is evident as many would rather stay and fight the white man’s government than surrender.

October, 1838 and a cold rain wet our hair and shoulders as we carried our small bundles toward the wagons lined up in the mud. My daughter, huddled together with the young ones as if she could protect them from the blast of wind that plucked at our clothing.

The white soldiers, most of them mounted, herded us like cattle into the wagons, until not one more man, woman or child could fit. Over one thousand in count, we were packed and packaged, as if we had no feelings, no needs. As if we were not human.
After all were loaded, Chief John Ross led us in prayer. The bugle sounded and the wagons moved, slowly at first, then at a better clip. All the children waved goodbye to their homes as long as they could see through the mist of their breaths. In the cold morning air.

Winter Dawn’s small hand clung to mine. In the crush we had become separated from her mother and brothers. “Grandma, where are we going?” Dawn asked in a voice I could barely hear over the hubbub of those around us.

“To another place, child.”

“What kind of place? Will we have a house and a garden?”

“I hope so, sweet one, I do hope so.” I slid down to the bed and took her on my lap. “Why don’t you try to sleep, child?”

“I would grandmother, but I don’t think I can.”

“Whyever not?”

“Because I am afraid that when I open my eyes you won’t be here.”

I gathered her close. “That is one thing you do not have to worry about. I will be here until you no longer need me.”

It wasn’t long after dawn that the sun broke through the clouds and many of us were allowed to climb down from the wagons and walk. What a relief that was after our cramped quarters. The mounted solders pushed and prodded us to move, move, always move.

Some of the older ones fell alongside the trail and, if they could not rise, were left. If we tried to stop and help them, we were dragged away. If we protested we were beaten into submission. How had this great people descended into such a pathetic state? We were the only tribe known to hold a recorded council while captives of the white government. Our first written laws dated back to 1808. How could we come to this?

The how I do not know, but the why is clear. The white government wants our rich lands and they have land that is next to worthless which they will give us and all the other tribes.

Many days later we struggled over the Cumberland Range and crossed our ancestors hunting grounds. At the Ohio river, we ferried across into Illinois. Winter fell upon us, attacked with stinging snow and bitter winds.

Old men and women along with children fell ill. Some died, including my poor dear grandsons. I fear their mother will not recover. I now have complete care of Winter Dawn who weeps for her brothers until my heart breaks.

Soon after we camped on a bluff overlooking the Arkansas river near Little Rock, the already ill Quatie gave her blanet to a sick child who lived, but the dear wife of John Ross perished and was buried in the mud of an unmarked grave. We wept there and wondered how many more we would lose.

My prayer is that Winter Dawn will one day be strong enough to put this behind her. I have many bones to sing over as we reach our destination. It is Ross who tells us that we lost over 400 lives on the long march: The Trail Where They Cried.

Sometimes I think it would be better had we all perished, rather than ended in this place where we are kept like prisoners to finish our lives without connection to our home, our spirits. All that we once loved.

HOW WOMEN SURVIVED THE WESTWARD MOVEMENT, OR NOT

2011-10-11T12:29:00.000-07:00

Because I've been busy Kindleizing my back list of Western Historical Romances, my mind has gotten in the groove of women and how they managed to stay alive and healthy during the westward movement that began before the Civil War, but really went into high gear after the end of the war.

If we look back into history and read some of their journals and diaries, we see a wide variety of survival clues. Sadly, we also see that some women didn't make it. There were deaths in childbirth, accidents, from terrible diseases and suicide. I well remember a story I heard during an interview I conducted.

A young woman who had several small children, lived with her husband in a cabin back in the woods of Arkansas. And I'll later discuss why Arkansas is included in stories of the west. Burdened with washing clothes in water hauled from a spring and heated in a large cast iron pot over an outdoors fire, she would then scrub the pine board floors with left over water. She cooked, if she were lucky, on a cast iron cook stove, though some continued to cook in a fireplace. But let's say she had a cook stove. She probably had at least two children in diapers and two more small enough to need constant care.

In the yard, snakes were a menace, some of them dangerous. This early in settlement, say they came in from Tennessee in 1848, predators like bears, bobcats, and the occasional painter (mountain lion) roamed freely. If she were lucky she was able to attend an occasional social event which was usually work related. Like Quilting bees, husking parties, barn raisings where the women cooked all day and the men labored at building a barn.

One morning her husband Sam announced that he was going to town. As he headed out the door to harness the mule to the wagon, she called out.

"I'd like to go along...please?"

He tossed a reply over his shoulder. "Not this time."

Not this time, or any time. She kept the words to herself, If she didn't have some company she would go stark raving mad. The nearest neighbor was eight miles away and she couldn't round up the children and walk that far with them so small. For a long while after he left, she sat near the window (an opening with no glass) and stared after the dust cloud his leaving kicked up.

Two of the babies began to cry and she shook herself from her reverie, changed their diapers and put one to each breast to nurse. Dreaming of seeing her mother again, which she was sure would never happen, tears flowed, dropping on the forehead of her boy baby, Samuel. With trembling fingers, she wiped them away, smoothing his dark hair from his face.

Her body told her that another child was on the way. What was she to do? She loved them all, the two playing in the floor at her feet, the two at her breast, the one only beginning to grow in her belly. But, Dear God, how could she go on?

She began to cry in earnest, like a child wanting her Momma. It was hopeless, this life could not be endured a moment longer.

Pulling the children from her breast, she lay them on the bed with pillows all around.

"I'm sorry, oh, God, I'm sorry, but I can't, I just can't. He never touches me except to make another child, and then he doesn't care for them or me at all. Help me." She fell to her knees but heard no reply to her plea.

Becky and Amos began to fight, screaming so loud she covered her ears.

With the screams echoing in her head, she fetched a coil of rope off the hook on the wall, tied it into a crude loop. Making sure the doors were closed so the children couldn't go outside, she tossed the rope over a beam, dragged a chair under it and climbed up. It took a while to get the rope just so by winding one end round and round the beam, then slipping her head into the loop.

Closing her eyes, she envisioned her mother. She would never know what had happened because Sam couldn't read or write so he couldn't let her know her daughter had died in such a horrible way. She shuddered, almost backed out. If she opened her eyes and took one look at the children, she would not do this. What mother would?

One driven crazy, that's what mother would.

Crying out, she stepped off the chair. Funny, she heard the crack of her own neck breaking before darkness folded over her forever.

This is indeed a sad story. It is based on a true event. Most all my books are based within true events, though my characters are fictional with the exception of those who were really there at the time. In this blog I'll tell tales of those women featured in my books, four of which are now out at Kindle. None of them took their own lives,but they had adventures. To some the times were glorious, to others they were harsh and unbearable. I write about strong women who never gave up, no matter what happened, and they found what they were looking for, sometimes in very unexpected ways.

A typical log house in the Ozarks, though not the home of my tragic mother in this particular story.

Please comment and occasionally I'll have a contest in which all those who have commented will be in a drawing to win a copy of one of my books. I hope you'll enjoy my stories.

RIDING SHOTGUN

2011-10-03T11:26:00.001-07:00

Today I discovered something amazing. For years I've done all the driving, whether it be journeying the 25 miles to town or on a long trip. My hubby would indulge in road rage and I enjoy driving so it makes sense, this arrangement. We always take the back roads to avoid the hustle and frenetic traffic of Interstates and to allow both of us to enjoy the scenery at a slower pace.

But this morning, because our mechanic right down the road met with a dreadful accident that took his life, we had to take the car 25 miles into town to have it serviced prior to a road trip. This meant my husband would pick me up after he ran some errands and bring me back home in his small Ford pickup. That meant, horror of horrors, I would not be driving. I would instead be installed in the passenger's seat. Riding Shotgun, if you please.

I'm the first one to admit that I have control issues and make a terrible passenger. That's the reason I drive. But this morning I decided that would change. I wanted the day to begin peacefully and enjoyably, so I climbed in, leaned back and began to take in the scenery out my window. I saw things I didn't know were there. We live in the Ozarks and the drive consists of a two-lane curving highway with bluffs on one side and the river on the other.

Now I've always enjoyed the drive and the view as a driver. But now I was able to gaze long and hard at the mountains and trees, at the rocky river bed, at ranches with lush pastures and cattle and horses grazing. I saw a pair of darling mules lined up at a board fence, their heads looped over the top rail, long ears pricked at some sound they both must have heard at the same moment. I saw the camels a horse rancher has bought and turned in with his thoroughbreds. What an odd, humorous sight they made against the green grass. Camels belong in deserts, I mused, yet they seemed to fit right in.

A tiny squirrel darted across the highway in front of us and I was able to watch it scamper through the dried leaves on the forest floor and climb the shaggy white bark of a sycamore tree. I peered up long driveways that climbed into the thick woods and wondered who lived up there and what their house might look like.

The ride home passed quickly and I vowed from now on, on the rare occasions when I'm a passenger and not a rider, I'll take my foot off the brake, my fist off the door handle and my eyes off the dangers lurking on the road ahead and lean back to enjoy the ride home.

CARRYING HATE IS DESTRUCTIVE

2011-09-26T14:17:00.000-07:00

Recently, I was reminded how destructive carrying hate around all our lifetimes can be. It turns people into bitter, unhappy and even unhealthy human beings. My sympathy goes out to those who can't look at their past and find all the beauty there instead of dwelling on the bad things that happened.

Many people have such terrible lives and manage to turn them around into something productive, but sadly those who don't are doomed to continue to relive the bad times until all the good ones disappear.

I usually don't get philosophical on this blog, but something happened last week that brought out these thoughts.

I remember my past as one of mistakes and regrets, yes, but also of wonderful times raising two kids when we had very little money. Not enough to buy the classy clothing they might have wanted, or live in a fancy house and drive a fancy car. But we loved each other, even with the arguments that sometimes occurred. We lived on Long Island and salvaged a 26 foot cabin cruiser that had run aground. My husband spent a couple of years patching the damage and putting an engine in, then we found a dock for next to nothing and that's how we spent our weekends all summer long. Living in that cruiser from Friday evening to Sunday night.

My kids swam and played and had a ball and I remember so many good times there. Even when we scrounged to have enough money to buy something toward the end of payday, we had those times. We managed to go on a trip every summer. One year we went to Maine in July and of course, we camped in an umbrella tent. About two nights after we arrived at Lake Moose (the rest is unpronouncable and unspellable) the temperature dropped below freezing and we had to return home. But you know that first day when we went out in a canoe on that gorgeous lake so clear you could see 20 feet down was the most breathtaking time you could imagine. Something I'll never forget. But the bad stuff? I can't even remember most of it, and don't dwell on what I do recall.

There were exciting days in the City (New York) only a train ride away; we attended the World's Fair there one summer; and yes, there were dark days, days I wondered why I had had children when I was really too young to be a terrific mother. But we struggled through, and have only the most wonderful of memories because we tossed away the rest.

We could have carried those bad days with us all these years until every day was dark and ugly, our life unfulfilled, but we didn't. And when I see someone who has let their past turn them bitter and old before their time I want to cry, it's so sad. What a waste when life can be so beautiful.

Well, that's enough of that, and I won't carry on like this again, at least not in the near future.

Winslow Museum a trip to the past

2011-09-20T12:18:00.000-07:00

The row of buildings in the background house City Hall and the Winslow Museum plus a couple of apartments. To the left is the pavilion about where the depot once stood.

Yesterday I spent some time at the small museum in Winslow, Arkansas. I'd dropped in there a few times and thought maybe the editor of the paper I write features for would be interested in a story. He was, so I set up an interview for after closing time.

Winslow has a city population of 399, but the rural population brings that up sharply. The Post Office serves between 800 and 1000 families, depending on who's moved in or out lately. The small school was closed down a few years ago, but people continue to gather downtown every Saturday for a farmer's market all summer and for First Saturday year round when recycling is done and Friends of the Library has a bake sale.

The train doesn't stop there anymore, except occasionally when the Arkansas Missouri line runs a special tourist trip that includes a brief stop where the old depot used to be. City fathers had a nice pavilion built there and a local master gardener keeps half-barrels of flowers blooming almost year round. City Hall is located in a long stone structure butted up against a rock bluff. It faces the railroad. Next to city hall is where the library once was, but it's been moved up on the mountain to the rock building that once housed the high school.

And in the space left empty by that move are gathered memorabilia out of the past of this town that once was a mountain summer resort for the people down south in the Arkansas River Valley. A place where the temperature was always 10-20 degrees hotter than this Boston Mountain town. It's population would swell to 10,00 for those few months of summer. There were hotels, a variety of businesses, three doctors, the town had a local telephone service, and something was always going on. There's quite a lot of history here. And much of it can be learned in this tiny museum located off the main track.

I spent almost two hours there talking to Barbara Ashbaugh, who works for the city and runs the museum. She's a fountain of stories out of the past and can tell one about almost every individual treasure housed there. It's a real find for history lovers, and since the road to Devil's Den State Park goes right past, there are plenty of visitors happy to run across something like this out here in the boonies.

As a writer I grab on to these stories, for from them can be written short stories, novels, articles and of course, the feature I'm writing for the Observer. I've worked for them off and on since 1990 when I actually worked in the office as city editor and feature writer. Now it's an occasional assignment for the weekly feature column and I do it just to keep my hand in.

Lord knows, I have enough to keep me busy without that assignment once a month, but I can't seem to let go of the place. It's where I really learned how to be a good writer, it's where I was the day the call came to publish my first novel. This story seems to have become about the paper rather than the museum. But I've written the museum story, and I guess I just wanted to share a little piece of my life from out of the past.

INTERVIEWS CREATE STORY IDEAS

2011-09-12T12:42:00.000-07:00

This journal promised to follow me as I travel throughout the Ozarks doing what writers do to gather story ideas. When I was asked to interview a popular western singer who was coming to town for an annual trail ride and show, I jumped at the chance. And my decision was a good one.

Royal Wade Kimes is an outlaw of sorts. He can't help it, it's in his blood, but he puts that outlaw leaning to good use in writing and singing his old time western cowboy country songs. His voice is as smooth as the late Marty Robbins', his songs reminiscent of Merle Haggart and the most famous outlaw of them all, Waylon Jennings.

For those of you who are not familiar with these country singers, I feel sorry for you. You're missing the best of country western, the best of music and lyrics and the best of stories right from the heart.

I sat down with Royal and was immediately taken by his country friendly ways. He's the real thing, a cowboy who sits a horse with the best of them, a song writer who's written for Garth Brooks as well as for himself, and a singer who can sing the oldies but goodies with feelings that come from the heart and spirit. It's not often so good a creator of words and music can also sing them well.

I won't write my article here, it's meant for a Western anthology and hopefully for a regional magazine, but the point I want to make is as a writer of fiction, I've now filed away another character for a book or short story.

The fun part of all this is that I knew his outlaw background because he was born in the same valley in the Ozarks that I was. His video of 500 Miles Away From Home on You Tube is filmed in part in our hometowns, Mountainburg and Chester, Arkansas. It was fun listening to his smooth and poignant rendition of this song while watching him walk the Arkansas Missouri railroad tracks south of Winslow and stand in the rain outside the tiny Dairy Dream which is closed more than it's open.

The lesson learned here, is never turn down a writing assignment if you can do it at all. Don't worry about what you'll ask, that will come if you relax and enjoy being with someone who is willing to talk about their exciting life.

LIBRARIES RULE

2011-08-22T11:39:00.000-07:00

Because so many libraries in the state have invited me to present myself and my books in the past year or more, I think about the role these places play in the life of writers and readers. When I journey to a small remote village in the Boston Mountains, one thing is abundantly clear. There isn't a bookstore. So where does everyone go for their books? The small library, of course.

The towns I've visited have housed their libraries in the most unusual of places. From an old two-story feed store to a used bookmobile, anyplace books can be made available. And it appears the smaller the town, the more folks visit the library. When an author comes to town they do it up right. Banners are hung outside, posters with photos of the author and her books are plastered in windows. It's like that author is a celebrity, at least for a day.

The role of larger libraries in the state is entirely different, though. A large majority of those don't allow an author to sell books on the premises. However, as bookstores close their doors, and/or cut down on the books they carry, I see even the larger libraries becoming a place an author can visit and sell books.

One of the best visits I made this past year was to the main library in Ft. Smith. Over the years I've visited them at least once a year, and each time the mayor showed up with the press in tow to present me with a red rose, a key to the city if I didn't already have one, and a free pass to break the law at least once while I was there. I have really fond memories of the late Mayor Ray Baker striding toward me with a wide grin and his welcoming packet.

In September I've been asked to sit on a panel at the beautiful new library in Fayetteville. This is one of the most modern libraries in the state, and there are rooms there where authors may appear and speak on special occasions. Each year they hold Ozark Writer's Live, and invite authors to speak on various subjects. See more information here. My subject, that is the subject the panel with speak about, is the E Book Phenomenon. I will have handouts with links where visitors can learn more about self-publishing to Kindle, the reigning king of E Books at the moment.

Many of these links have already been posted on my writer's blog, which some of you follow. Here's a link in case you want to go back into the archives and check out the few weeks I let readers follow me through the process of publishing my first Kindle.

For many years, long before the new library was built, authors from all over the state appeared at the old library at least once a year when they presented some of the best Fayetteville and its surrounds had to offer. Among them, the late Donald Harington and Douglas Jones, Dusty Richards, Joan Hess and of course, myself among many, many others.

Libraries are beginning now to offer Kindle E Books and readers to their patrons, and I'm the first to applaud that. This does not mean an end to books as we know them, but only an addition to the wonderful world of reading free of charge to everyone.

WORKSHOP AND OTHER SHAMELESS PROMO

2011-08-08T12:19:00.000-07:00

A photo of Virginia City, Montana, which I've used as my book cover for Montana Promises, which is now up on Kindle. I would've posted the book cover, but fetched this one by mistake, so just leaving it here. I got this from dreamstime. This photo stock site has almost everything one could want. Check it out.

I'll add my cover later to the side bar to join Dream Walker. Both are from my back list of Western Historical Romances published by Topaz in the 90s. I just received word that the next two are currently being scanned, so I can soon go to work editing, formatting and uploading these to Kindle.

My workshop, scheduled for October 1 at Ozark Folkways, will cover publishing your book to Kindle. It's posted in events on my Facebook page. Cost is $25 for the full day and I'm only taking ten (well, you know if number 11 called, I'd probably make an exception.) Everyone will need to bring their laptop. Once you're registered I'll let you know what you have to download into your computer to take part in the workshop. We'll be uploading to Mobi Creator, which is one of the easiest and best I found after months of comparing various ways to publish to Kindle.

Those of you who look forward to my regular writer's workshop can plan on a spring event. This one on Kindleization has been heavily requested.

To read a first chapter of Montana Promises and Dream Walker, go to my website. My two blogs this week have contained some shameless promotion, but I've also tried to add helpful information for those who follow me.

VISITING SENIOR CENTERS

2011-08-01T12:01:00.000-07:00

Someone in our critique group came up with an idea to take our published authors to senior citizen centers. I guess they're called retirement homes nowadays.

Anyway, last Saturday seven of us met at Innisfree in Rogers, Arkansas and laid our books out on tables in a lovely entrance alcove. Slowly our visitors began to arrive. Some by walker or wheelchair or by shanks mare. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's the good old fashioned under your own power idea called walking.

At my age I was reminded somewhat of what could lie ahead for me. Yet these seniors were laughing and visiting and talking to us about our books. They were a lively bunch and most were interested in what we had written. I suspect that only those with this fine outlook on life actually showed up.

I read in a blog recently that someone was told if she lay in bed all the time, the life would drain out of her. I firmly believe that, so much so that I refuse to take a nap, even if I'm sleepy. My mother always said I wouldn't fall asleep cause I was afraid I'd miss something. And in a way she was right. I'm afraid I'll miss those two or three hours of living and doing something I love to do.

However, I believe we can become obsessed as well. I recently read another blog where the lady said she refuses to sleep more than 4 hours, takes those energy drinks, works eight hours, reads two hours, writes 4-7 hours. When does something become an obsession?

Every day I leave the dinner table, that's noon meal to us here in the South, and climb the stairs to my office where I remain till 5 or later. Often I spend a couple of hours there in the morning as well, taking care of the business of writing. If my phone rings around 3:30 and it's my daughter going swimming, I quit whatever I'm doing and join her. So, I am flexible. Some might call me obsessed.

Well, I got off on a tangent there.

Back to the Senior Centers. We have another one scheduled for tomorrow evening. I don't know if this is going to continue till we hit everyone of these places in Northwest Arkansas or not, I'm not in charge of setting these up. Leaving it to the younger set. I've decided not to do a lot of physical book signings any more. It's too physically draining for me and my hubby helper. I'll do a few if they really appeal to me. My work will be done online, for the most part, from now on.

I like library appearances and have one scheduled for next Saturday in West Fork, Arkansas, and again in September I'm taking part in a panel about the E Book phenomenon at the Fayetteville Public Library. But I'm done with three or four appointments a week from March through October like we did last year.

By the way, did you know that we can now sign autographs for our Kindle publications? Yes, indeedy. Thanks to Ronda del Bocchio who sent me a link, I've signed my first Kindle book for a reader. You can follow that link and I'll sign your copy of Dream Walker, or go to the site if you have a book at Kindle you'd like to arrange to sign for readers. This is so cool.

AM I TOO STUPID?

2011-07-18T14:11:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of sites online that suffer from being either too difficult, or so confusing I just log out. Why don't the creators of such sites realize that many of us aren't nearly as computer literate as they are, and simplify things just a bit?

For instance, I've been trying to conquer all the ins and outs of Good Reads for quite some time. Seeing that writers reviewed their own books as well as others, I decided to write a review for my latest book, Dream Walker, available on Kindle. There is a lovely image of the cover at Amazon, yet Good Reads told me there was no cover photo available. So there's this review with a big blank square stating no book cover available. Then the site asks me what book I'd like to read this summer, so I pick one and up pops this question. What did you think of the book? Well, crap, I haven't read it yet. What's that all about?

And what's with the reviews, sometimes ten or twelve, dated the same day, giving a review of a book the reader claims to have read. I know there are some fast readers around, but a dozen in one day, or even one week for that matter. So, what's that all about?

And then there's Facebook. Just about the time I learn how to use some of the many, many offerings there, they change them. I had a good business page with over 200 friends that I could message occasionally, and I didn't overdo that. Suddenly, it's been archived, I have to make a new page, and all the friends I had on the previous one are gone and I can't find any way to get them back. Or even get a new list of friends. There's not even a Like button that I can find. And I can't get a FB addy for the page, either. Had to resort to copying the link and making a tinyurl to link to it. Hey, what's that all about?

Now, I'll admit it's entirely possible I'm just too stupid to use these sites, but I'm not too stupid to figure out how to upload Dream Walker, my Ebook, to Kindle after properly formatting it. I'm not too stupid to learn how to use Word after using Word Perfect all my writing life. Well, more or less.

And to add insult to injury, my telephone voice mail has a glitch and keeps repeating the same instructions over and over again and the red light won't stop blinking. SO WHAT'S UP WITH THAT?

Any suggestions regarding dealing with this confusing electronic age would be greatly appreciated. Whoever sends the best solution will receive a free copy of my book, Fly With the Mourning Dove. If you already have it, think of Christmas giving, and try anyway. I'm waiting.

LET'S TALKS ABOUT WRITERS

2011-07-04T11:46:00.000-07:00

For several weeks on my writer's blog I've written about my journey through publishing short stories on Smashwords and my own efforts to format and publish a Kindle book.

This trip has taken me to some fascinating sites online and hooked me up with some very talented people. And it's reinforced something I've known since the first day I attended a writer's gathering some 28 years ago. Writers are some of the most generous people in the professional world.

Most don't consider new writers as competition, but rather as welcome additions to their world. They believe, as I do, that the more good books that are out there, the more readers will want to read, so rather than turning their backs on beginners, they nurture them. There has been no end to the people who have helped me during this long and exciting journey. And I will continue to "pay it forward" in every way I can.

Every time I've stumbled, a writer has helped me up. With ever rejection others supported me. When I couldn't get past a failed plot point, others have helped me brainstorm and find my way out.

Since 1985 I've been a part of a critique group that has grown and adapted over the years. Unlike most groups, we meet every week and we critique work brought in by novices and advanced writers alike. And over the years, through attending conferences and eventually organizing a yearly conference of our own, writers from our group have been published. Some remain in the group to help with the newcomers, others go their way. And that's fine. Two of us remain of the original group, and we keep things together. We're proud of our successes and continue to support those who stumble and fall.

Today we face an enormous change in the publishing world. Where the e book eruption will take us is anyone's guess. A few of our group's writers are embracing this new trend and we all celebrate their publications in the world of the e book. Only last month one writer had two books and a novella accepted by The Wild Rose Press, a prestigious e publisher. Many are eager to give Kindle a try, so we may do something on that at our next conference. Or perhaps a workshop will be formed to lead those eager pioneers through the tough paces.

If you are a writer without a group, think of forming one yourself. We began with five or six in those long ago years, and we felt our way through the maze of learning our craft, promotion, building a platform, and pitching our work. When one could attend a conference, they returned to share copious notes and handouts with everyone. Often four or five of us would share a room just so we could afford to attend a long weekend conference. I recall once one of the gals had a chance to rent an RV parked near where a writer's conference was held. Five of us spent two night there and enjoyed meeting with other writers we never would've met otherwise. You could do that.

Next week, I'll post some suggestions on how to form a writer's group or critique group and keep it going despite the problems that can arise.

TWO COVERS, ONE BOOK

2011-06-27T14:14:00.000-07:00

Today I received a second cover design for my book, Stone Heart's Woman. Neither my editor or publisher or the two designers are sure what happened. I've posted the first cover several places, but like the new one better. It's not quite so dark.

So I thought I'd get the new one posted every place I'd put the first one before going on to post it on other sites. Since the old cover (first) had a prominent place on this blog, I'm reposting the new one here today.

Hope you enjoy it.

2011-06-13T08:29:00.000-07:00

Here's my latest cover. The book will be released by The Wild Rose Press soon.

If her saintly Irish mother could see her now, she’d faint dead away. Standing half-naked on a stage, Aiden sings for a rowdy audience in exchange for a few coins. But the good women of town have had enough, and set out to save their ignorant menfolk from this red haired Irish hussy. Aiden flees under an attack of the broom and mop brigade, wearing only the skimpy stage costume and a buffalo coat an admirer loans her. On foot and alone, with the dark of night and a blizzard closing in, she stumbles across the snow-drifted prairie toward a distant shelter even as it disappears under the onslaught of a brutal storm.

She cannot know that nearby, at Fort Robinson, the final battle between the Northern Cheyenne and the white man has stained the snow red with blood and put in motion events that will sweep her into the arms of Stone Heart; ensnare her in his suicidal vow to make up for the evil deeds of his white father, George Armstrong Custer against his mother's people.

Stone Heart's Woman is a western historical romance immersed in the tragic history of The Beautiful People and their final struggle for survival. It will be issued as an e-book.

A DAY AT THE SNAKE HOUSE

2011-05-30T13:19:00.000-07:00

Last week we journeyed to Little Rock to read for Tales From the South, an NPR program broadcast in Arkansas and a few other places. Requirements for reading include that it be, of course, a story out of the south, it be a true story of the writer's experiences, and that the writer be a "southern writer."

I'm not sure if I'm a southern writer, but I managed to qualify. I was born in Arkansas, left when I was six and returned to live almost 40 years ago. I guess you can go home again, though it's been claimed you can't, and you can once again become a native. Though in the small town where we now live, we may forever be those people who moved in from New York. Even though we live a scant 15 miles from where I was born.

If you're of a mind, and want to see my reading, you can go here for a bit of entertainment.

At any rate, I experienced this particular tale in 1990 after I went to work for a small weekly newspaper here in Arkansas. And if you had any notion of how terrified I was of snakes prior to this experience, you would understand just how much courage it took for me to visit the snake man and his many slithery pets.

This video is hard for me to hear, though I had my volume cranked up, so hope you have better luck there. Otherwise, I'm afraid you won't enjoy it.

I returned several times to visit the snake man, taking with me our then 10 year old grandson Daniel. Unfortunately, he inherited a gigantic fear of all things crawly from his father who will stomp anything down to the size of a worm and often goes out of his way to slide the tires of his car over any snake crossing the same road on which he drives.

So, Daniel was not in luck when he asked if he could go with me. The snake man loved to tease with his snakes, and when he "accidentally" let a shoebox full of baby snakes loose in the house, our Daniel left out. I don't think his shoes touched the floor, the flew through the screen door and didn't land till he was out in the middle of the yard. To this day, and he's almost 32, he remembers Fred dumping several cobras out in the driveway and dancing around amidst them while they spread their hoods. "The man was crazy," he says with a shudder.

Fred told me later that it was so cool outside that the cobras couldn't strike. Being a showman, he loved his little tricks, and toured the countryside entertaining people with his feats of daring-do. I lost my fear of most snakes after a few visits, but never have been able stay in the same mile with a copperhead or rattler. They're both prevalent where we live, but we seldom see them.

Once I watched dozens of baby pythons cut their way out of their rubbery egg shells, and soon learned to walk among their 30-foot parents with no fear. This is only one of the many experiences I had while writing for the paper, and one I shall never forget. I hope one day to write a memoir of all those exciting, jaw dropping, and often terrifying experiences.

INDIANS OF THE EARLY OZARKS

2011-05-14T12:31:00.000-07:00

When the first Europeans journeyed into the Ozarks, they found the Osage Indians. Several ancient civilizations must have lived in the area, due to the fragments of their culture in the upper strata of earth, yet it was 90 established Osage villages that these first white men found. Prior to the coming of the horse, their principal villages were located geographically along the Ozark Plateau, which extended from the Missouri River on the north to the Arkansas River to the south, encompassing much of the Boston Mountains.

The tribe’s first treaty with the Federal Government was signed in November, 1808. It was made at Fort Osage on the Missouri River, and in it the Osage ceded all their land between the Missouri River and the Arkansas River lying east of a line running due south from Fort Osage to the Arkansas River. Nevertheless, they made frequent hunting expeditions in their old domain, contending that they might have given up their right of domain but not their hunting privileges. The Cherokee didn’t take kindly to this after they were ceded the land in the Boston Mountains, and fighting broke out constantly between the two tribes.

Between the years of 1817 and 1828 the Cherokee owned by right of title all of what is now Washington, Benton and Madison Counties in Arkansas, as well as that part of Carroll County west of the Kings River and a small portion of northern Crawford and Franklin Counties. What is now Eureka Springs, Beaver Lake and Holiday Island also belonged to the tribe. The area was known as Lovely County for about a year prior to 1828 when the Indians were removed West to Indian Territory, now Oklahoma.

The great Sequoyah, who created the written language of his people, the Cherokee, lived for a long while in Arkansas, and some of that time in Northwest Arkansas. Mt. Sequoyah in Fayetteville carries his name. Sequoyah, also known as George Guest, created a syllabary — symbols for the sounds in the language — despite the tribe considering him “tetched.” Even his wife thought something must be wrong with him, or why would he spend every day for 12 years in almost total seclusion. They pointed at him and called him Sequoyah, which translates to “pig in hiding.”

Only one other Indian tribe, the Cree in Canada, have a written language.

Today the Cherokee are second only in size to the Navajo tribe. Members reside in the Indian Nations in Oklahoma and around Cherokee, North Carolina. Just outside Russellville, Arkansas are the Counsel Oaks where Chief Black Fox in 1820 signed away all the Cherokee land south of the Arkansas river.

My great grandparents on both sides of my father's lineage are Cherokee. Our names are listed on the rolls in both North Carolina and Tahlequah, OK. My great great grandmother was a Soap, a common name among the Cherokee. She later is also listed as Sammy Tippett. Goodgion is the name most commonly found in the North Carolina rolls, though it is also present on Tahlequah's.

DODGING TORNADOES

2011-04-26T11:24:00.000-07:00

Last week hubby and I traveled to Tulsa so I could speak with the Tulsa Night Writers group. Now, ordinarily this would have been an easy journey of about 130 miles one way, but considering that there were tornado watches and warnings popping around the area like frog legs on a hot griddle, it became problematic.

A few emails and telephone calls into the day we were scheduled to leave convinced us that if we could escape Northwest Arkansas and get into Oklahoma we’d be safe. So, after assuring the group that we were leaving, but warning that if we ran into a wall cloud, we’d turn around and come home, we climbed in our car and started.

For years I’ve done all the driving when we travel together. It’s not that my husband can’t drive, he can and does, when he’s alone. When we’re together I drive, he rages. Yes, you probably understand that very well. You see he’s not only a man, he’s a retired semi driver, so no one knows what they’re doing on the road but him. Soon he’s yelling instructions to each and every driver, while dodging those he judges either don’t know what they’re doing or they’re doing it too slow. It becomes a ride very similar to a roller coaster.

Of course, with me at the wheel, I’m in danger of becoming a target of his criticisms. If you know me, you know that doesn’t work very well, though. So, off we went, into the throes of tornadic weather. If we could get across the Oklahoma border, we understood it was clear and warm.

The storm hit as we headed north toward Springdale, Arkansas. Rain, thunder, lightning and wind hammered at us until I could barely see to drive. In Springdale, we made our way west and had no more than left the city limits, till we burst free from the storm into nice balmy weather. You might wonder why we took the chance. It’s simple. I’d cancelled once on this group earlier in the year and didn’t want to do so again. I was determined to get there.

The remainder of the trip went smoothly and we arrived at the library where this group meets once a month. They invite a speaker for each meeting, and many of them are writers I’ve known for years but seldom get to see, so a good time was had by all. By 8 o’clock we were on our way back home.

Since that Tuesday last week we’ve had stormy weather, with tornado and flood warnings every day. Needless to say, we’re getting weary of it. At the moment I’m writing on my laptop with the Internet turned off and my computer unplugged because we’re being hit with yet another storm. This is supposed to continue through Wednesday.

If the sun comes out Thursday, as predicted, we’ll all do a naked in the yard dance to celebrate. Meanwhile, I’m trying to stay busy enough to ignore what’s going on outside the windows. Not an easy feat.

BATTLE OF FAYETTEVILLE RE-CREATION

2011-04-18T10:54:00.000-07:00

Saturday, April 16, the Washington County Historical Society held a ceremony honoring those who fought during this Civil War battle, and memorialized those who were killed.

I was invited to attend and act as a greeter. Most attendees came in period costumes. Young girls in their hoop skirts flitted about in youthful abandonment while their more sedate mothers and fathers dressed for the 1860s visited and talked to the Union and Confederate soldiers who were there for the ceremony. Storytellers entertained groups on the lawn prior to the ceremonies.

Colors were presented by Union soldiers and they posted the American flag at Headquarters House. Confederate soldiers gathered on the perimeter and because in the original battle they mistook a house across the street for Headquarters house, they fired a shot off in that direction. Musicians played violin and guitarand honored both sides with the proper songs of the day, including Dixie and His Truth is Marching on.

Soldiers from the Arkansas National Guard, recently returned from Afghanistan, were honored, and received a standing ovation.

Biscuits and gravy were served for breakfast that morning and at noon a dinner of beans and cornbread was offered. Being there was like stepping back into the past for a few hours.

Celebrations honoring the Civil War Sesquicentennial will continue in Arkansas as many battles and skirmishes bloodied our soil during those brutal four years. Two of the larger battles took place at Prairie Grove and Pea Ridge. Bushwhackers from both sides rode rampant over the state, destroyed private property and killed those who took the wrong side. The state was split prior to secession and sent men into battle against each more than any other except Missouri.

A VISIT TO BAPTIST FORD CHURCH

2011-04-11T11:37:00.000-07:00

Taking on too much as a senior citizen can sometimes cause life to stall out. Like an old car that sputters and dies pulling a steep hill, I often run out of the energy to complete tasks on time. For those readers who follow my blog, I apologize for not posting for a couple of weeks. A new project is in the works and taking a lot of my time. I'll write more about it later, or see my other blog.

I want to tell you about my recent visit to Baptist Ford Church. As a writer of regional fiction, I often look for unusual places to promote my books. In this case, visiting the church came about when an avid reader who has been the direct cause of many book sales, called and said her pastor had been wanting one of my books for a long time. Could she just pick up a few and take them to the Wednesday night services for some folks who wanted them. My reply was, of course she could, but would she like me to drop in before the service and sign copies? She cried out, you'd do that? Yes, please.

A little background on Baptist Ford Church. The following is an excerpt from my book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks:

"Beginning in 1830, nondenominational church meetings were held in a log building on this site. In the Sheriff’s census of that year, there were 233 heads of household in all of Washington

County. Many of the earliest settlers moved in where Greenland would one day grow years in the future. There is a cemetery next to Baptist Ford church where services are held today. The view approaching from the south on a coil of the old highway is picture postcard perfect.

"In the original community of Baptist Ford, there were seven members, four men and three women. Thirty years later, a final entry was made in the church records. It reads December 1, 1860. In the ensuing gap three large black letters are penned: W A R.

"In reading them, I hear the cannons’ roar, the thundering march of soldiers, the screams of the dying as the state was split apart by a dreadful civil war. The years 1861 through 1865, struck silent the strains of hymns and the laughter of children. During those dreadful times, the original log building was destroyed, as war knows no boundaries. Its destruction left only the indomitable will of the people who continued to gather in their homes to worship."

And it was to this church, sitting on the banks of the West Fork of the White River just south of Greenland, that I traveled last Wednesday evening. In order to reach the church today, it's necessary to leave the new stretch of four-lane highway 71 and take the old abandoned concrete slabbed narrow two-lane off toward the peaceful church and cemetery where services continue to be held today over 175 years after they first began.

Inside the church, a few folks had gathered early, as is their custom, to visit a while before services take up. Children play and giggle while grandmothers and mothers hasten to quiet them down. Near the altar the pastor runs the vacuum over the carpeted aisle. I'm made welcome and installed halfway up on a padded pew. Everyone who comes in spots me as a stranger and comes to welcome me and shake my hand, even before we're introduced.

I can't help but think of those original seven founders and what they would think of those who carry on their legacy so many years later.

It's quiet outside when I haul my books back to the car to leave. There's a fragrance of growing plants and moist soil in the air. The river flows like a whisper in the silent evening air and somewhere a redbird cries out cheerily. My grandmother always told me the cardinal is saying pretty boy, pretty boy, but its cries are varied and I stop to listen to each before climbing in my car for the journey home. I'll not soon forget this visit or the kind and friendly people I met there.

SPRING PROMOTIONS ARE UNDERWAY

2011-03-31T13:25:00.000-07:00

Though it's rainy and gloomy, spring is indeed upon us. Grass is green, trees are budding and flowers are blooming. I'm still cold, but that will change shortly. What this weather has brought are requests for me to make appearances with my books. I expect them to slow down, this full year after publication.

April is looking good, and I'm looking forward to taking some drives and meeting bunches of new people. The gas situation notwithstanding, driving around in the Boston Mountains is still one of my favorite pastimes. Next week brings a trip to Alma and the genealogy folks down there in the Arkansas River Valley, then a visit to a local historical church known as Baptist Ford, where members want to talk to me and check out my books.

Saturday is my all day workshop at Ozark Folkways. I have openings this year, probably due to the high gas prices, and would welcome some last minute reservations. Please do not show up without calling Ozark Folkways. If we don't reach our quota and have to cancel, you'd be disappointed and I would be too. You just might be the one who puts us at the quota mark.

We'll spend the day writing, working individually with each writer on their project or helping writers come up with something to write. With so much input from everyone, you'll be surprised what you can come up with.

The following week, I'm going to Tulsa to speak to those super members of the Tulsa Night Writers. This group has been around a long time and many of the writers who belong have become good friends over the years. I'm looking forward to seeing them again.

That Saturday I'm scheduled to be a greeter at the celebration of the anniversary of the Civil War battle of Fayetteville. They're putting me out front under the trees at the lovely and majestic Headquarters House, where I can hand out brochures and also show off my books. Later that morning, I will be presented with a plaque for being honored earlier in the year as a Distinguished Citizen of the Washington County Historical Society. It will be quite a day, what with the re enactments scheduled to be presented.

It's obvious that I'm going to be rather busy this year, what with plans to publish my back list to Kindle, Nook and other ebook readers, plus finishing another book. But it's something I really enjoy doing, and it beats the heck out of retiring and sitting around knitting, watching TV or staring out the window wondering what to do with myself.

Hope everyone has a wonderful spring planned, and I'm sure I'll see some of you somewhere, sometime.

A VIDEO BLOG? WHAT A GOOD IDEA . . . EXCEPT

2011-03-24T12:11:00.000-07:00

Did you ever do something that the minute you did it, something told you it was a mistake? Sure you have, we all have. That's what happened to me last week when I plugged in my Flip video camera to download the videos from our free conference. I wanted to post them here. As you can see, that isn't happening, and I'll tell you why.

If you feel like an illiterate when it comes to the computer, then you definitely aren't alone. I've used a computer to write with since the late '80s, but some of this new technology is totally out there beyond my reach.

On to my story. I've never had a problem making movies (that is, editing videos, splicing them together, cutting out bad spots and coming up with a decent video to post) that is, not until I made the mistake of clicking "Upgrade" when I was notified in an urgent voice (yes, computers do speak to me) that I needed to upgrade my Flip Video software. If you haven't already done this, don't, not unless you're prepared to sit for hours trying to figure out how the heck to use it.

Firstly, the Flip video people have decided they know how to make movies better than the Windows Movie Maker. They don't, and before they sue me for saying that, let me add that it's probably all my fault. I don't know how to do it. However, I soon (several hours and many curse words later) learned that if I want to use Windows Movie Maker with the new software I have to download yet another program that will allow me to do so. Google told me this.

Okay, hey, I can do that. Sure, I can. Downloading from the Internet is something I know how to do, thank you very much. However, that program is so complicated I can't find out how to transfer my video to Movie Maker. They do that on purpose, you know. They don't want me to use Movie Maker anymore, they want me to use their movie software, which doesn't allow for clipping, or as far as I can tell anything but turning the existing video, warts and all, into a movie.

The Word people have done the same thing, but I still use Word Perfect, which is a subject for another day.

Yes, I've always been a bit paranoid, but this is ridiculous. I wanted a Flip Video camera because of its simplicity, not because I'm a budding movie mogul who's studied computer programing and become an electronic genius. Well, guess what? It's no longer simple. While I can shoot videos with a great deal of ease, and download the results into my computer quite simply, that's where easy ends.

But I've fooled them, I'm pretty sure. I have friends in high places. Friends who know a lot more about this "sh*" uh-oh, never mind, than I do. And a wonderful writer friend has told me she'll help me figure it out. I'm even going to make a cheat sheet so I don't forget before I get back home from our meeting. She made her own movie trailer, so I'll bet she can help me. If she can't, there are others who probably can. And when I learn how, I'm going to tell the world, so these people can no longer carry out their evil plan to put Windows Movie Maker out of business.

Being wise to how the written word can be misconstrued --- I may not be a computer genius, but I do know writing --- I'm going to add here that my tongue is inserted deeply into my cheek for this little piece. I'm not really an angry writer turned raving maniac out to get back at the Flip people. I just want to be left alone with my little simple camera and I wish I could unload that new program and get my old one back, that's all I wish. If anyone out there knows how to do that, email me under an assumed name to protect yourself against retaliation.

BACK ON THE BACKROADS

2011-03-15T13:33:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago the newspaper I occasionally write a feature for asked me to do a series on the cafes located along highway 71 through Washington County during the Fifties. They said, "make it like those you read about route 66." Back in those days there were no McDonald's or Sonic's, just small roadside eating places owned and operated by one person or the entire family.

How interesting, for I'd have an excuse to hit the back roads in search of folks who remembered the era. First it's get on the phone, call people I've interviewed to see if they know someone. After 20 years of talking to folks and getting stories for several newspapers, my contact list is long and valuable. On top of that, I know who is apt to have the information I need.

So one of the first contacts I'm referred to turns out to be a woman who worked as a cook in almost all the small cafes within a few miles along the route. My appointment with her is set for a Friday morning at 10 a.m. and here are the directions to her house. "We're off highway 74. Just come until you see two big black mailboxes with a paper box in between, then turn right. Don't go to my neighbors but just keep on coming till you get to our house."

My question, "Is that before or after Blackburn Church."

Her reply, "Oh, no, we're this side of Blackburn Church."

Mmm, this side. I had to presume that she knew where I lived and would put me on the right track.

So I gave myself twenty minutes to get lost, even though if I could drive right to it, ten minutes would be enough. The day dawned sunny and warm, a gorgeous spring day. The air smelled of newly turned earth and green grass. Along the highway, great plots of jonquils shone golden in the sunlight. In Arkansas, one easy way to spot all the old home places are the fields of jonquils, planted there one long ago day by a young wife while her husband cleared and tilled the fields of their new farm. The jonquils planted by my mother after she and my dad married and they moved into their log cabin, continue to bloom today.

I quickly discovered that there were many sets of two black mailboxes with a paper box in between. My contact probably never noticed that before. So at each one I slowed to a crawl to note the name or if a road turned off there. Luckily highway 74 doesn't carry much traffic up in the late morning, and I soon found the correct set. I turned off and it didn't take long to be very grateful I have a 4-wheel drive vehicle. One spot was so steep they'd poured a slab of concrete for a few hundred feet so one could get traction climbing it.

After curling, climbing and descending several times, I topped out in a wide field on the top of one of our Ozark mountains. There sat their house surrounded by jonquils. She later told me that the old home place had been out in the expanse of front yard and they weren't finished clearing it up yet. Much like our home, they had built almost on top of the old foundation.

We had a wonderful visit and I gathered a lot of information about many of the small cafes, all good fodder for my series which is scheduled to begin next week. Since then I've visited with another woman, this time the original owner and cook of a small cafe. I'll save her story for later. Over the years I've enjoyed this part of my job almost as much as the actual writing, and I'm so happy the newspapers continue to want my work, especially since I don't have to report to work and sit in their office all day.

MORE DAYLIGHT ON THE WAY

2011-03-07T12:46:00.000-08:00

Next Sunday heralds almost my favorite day of spring, the one in which we turn the clocks forward making our evenings of light longer after we quit work for the day. Some folks are irritated by this, but I say, "Hey, bring it on. I can hardly wait." It's neat to arrive at evening meetings while I can still see where I'm going. Or those evening book signings when I've never been there before, are so much easier to locate. Even my GPS can't jump out and standing in front of the building point and yell, "You're here, dummy."

Our critique group's upcoming yearly free conference promises to be a lot of fun and a learning experience. I always look forward to meeting old and new friends in the crowd and listening to the speakers, enjoying lunch shared with everyone and hearing news. We've been doing this for about 8 years now. It's our group's way of giving back to everyone who has helped us along the way by paying it forward. Dusty and I, co-chairs of the meetings, split the afternoon to give workshops about the craft. This year we're calling upon our members to present the morning workshops, sharing something they've learned that should benefit attendees. It'll be a fun though exhausting day.

My first signing of this year will be in Paris. Now I'll bet you didn't know I was an international star. Paris, Arkansas is located not too many miles east of Ft. Smith in the Arkansas River Valley, so it's not a very long drive. Besides, it's in the morning, so I don't have to worry about running out of daylight.

The Gattis Logan County Library invited me to spend some time with readers on an upcoming Saturday morning. They had to order more copies of my book because it was so popular in the library. Those reports are nice to hear.

Wednesday I'll travel over to Terra Studios east of Elkins to deliver an order of books. This is one of the prettiest places to visit. Located on the eastern border of Washington County, almost in Madison County, the park is so beautiful, and the little critters that hide out behind trees and bushes are entertainment for adults and children alike. Visitors can also watch the creation of the popular glass bluebird of happiness. The visitor's center is filled with the most glorious glass and pottery items. If you've never been there, put a visit on your calendar for the upcoming spring days.

Also on my calendar this spring is a visit to the Night Writers in Tulsa, OK. Haven't been there in a while, so am looking forward to seeing all the many writers who belong to this active group.

April is shaping up to be a busy time, which is fine with me. I was saddened to learn that the popular Books In Bloom celebration in Eureka, Springs has been cancelled. This was a terrific place for writers as well as readers and I hate to see this happen. However, Arkansas Authors Showcase will be in session as usual, and I'll add the date and more information as this event grows closer.

This journal today has become more a calendar of events to celebrate spring. Join me next week when I'll try to have something more interesting.

JONQUILS HERALD SPRING

2011-03-01T12:13:00.000-08:00

At the top, an ornamental pear that survived the terrible ice storm of 2009. Below our Tulip Tree, otherwise known as an Eastern Magnolia. Both in bloom last spring.

After a particularly brutal winter, patches of green adorn the yard and golden jonquils, known locally as Easter flowers, cover the southern slopes. Trees broken by the snow and wind have been cleaned up through the efforts of our sweet daughter and her hubby. If not for her, my Easter flowers would be buried under old dead weeds. She spent an afternoon cleaning out our flowerbeds and making sure all the brush was raked away from the hybrid and old fashioned jonquils.

Some of these flowers in bloom on this sunny afternoon have been in the yard since before we built our house here in 1972. Heaven only knows of the happiness and tragedy they've witnessed over all these years. And out in the side yard are iris we dug from my grandmother's yard before she moved from her house and came up to live near us in a mobile home.

I remember as a kid the glorious lilies, iris and fragrant lilacs that adorned her yard. As I recall my grandmother, she would rather work in the yard than in the house. One time, when she was in her late 70s, she climbed up a ladder to her roof to clear away some broken limbs. What makes this particularly remarkable is our young son-in-law found out what she was up to, and he said he'd finish up the work before she fell and broke something. At the top of the ladder, he missed a step and tumbled down into a rosebush. He came away with only a few scratches. It was truly a favorite video moment, if only we'd had a camera at the time.

Many years have passed since then, and now our daughter and her hubby do our yard work. Last weekend was "stop the encroachment of the woods into our yard" day. It doesn't take long for sprouts to ease their way under the fence and into the grass. Like sneaky rodents, they strive to take over. It's often said that if a place was left untended for a year here in the Ozarks, no one would be able to find the house.

It's looking a lot better around here and I'm eagerly awaiting the blossoming of redbuds and dogwoods that will soon adorn the mountains like a blanket of lace. Such beauty is truly a sight to be thankful for.

A VISIT TO THE NEW VAN BUREN LIBRARY

2011-02-22T13:31:00.000-08:00

My first presentation of this year took place last week at the fabulous new Van Buren Library down in the Arkansas River Valley. The day was beautiful, I was relieved to be out of the house after all the storms and snow, and I sang along with the CD player as I drove over the Boston Mountains and down south.

At long last, Van Buren has its new library. These folks have been plagued with problems, the worst of which was the library burning before construction was finished. That meant starting all over again. Who could blame them when they scheduled a week-long grand opening to celebrate. I was invited as a special guest of the Genealogy gathering. I followed simple directions and didn't even have to turn on the GPS. This is a gorgeous library with plenty of room for expansion. The grounds outside have been landscaped beautifully.

No matter where I go, the best thing, of course, is always the people. The group I was scheduled to speak to were the Friends of the Genealogy Department. What a friendly and happy bunch of people they are. We had a wonderful time exchanging stories, discussing families, and one grand lady even shared a recipe with me for cantaloupe butter which sounds scrumptious. This is a recipe I never heard of, so I'm anxious for those melons to come in season so I can try it. She told me that it smells terrible when it first starts to cook, but not to worry, it soon develops a delicious fragrance.

Speaking of recipes, we recently ran across a spaghetti squash at the store, the last one left and priced just right. We brought it home and I got online to refresh my memory on how to prepare it. I hadn't had one in many years, but remembered how good they were. After learning that I needed first to poke some holes in it and bake it for an hour, I went to work. I would serve it as if it were spaghetti and had some frozen sauce which I make from scratch from a recipe I obtained while we lived in New York. A real Italian recipe for what those friendly people call gravy. They never eat what we call gravy.

Once I cut it in half, dug out the seeds and strings I went to work with a fork on the pulp which magically turns into a huge pile of "spaghetti." It takes on the flavor of whatever you serve over it and is a bit crunchy. High in vitamins and as is all squash, very good for you. Made a delicious meal.

For a lot of authentic Ozark recipes, some as old as 200 years, check out my book, Arkansas Meals and Memories, available here. All are made from scratch. Happy eating.

TWO WEEKS SNOWED IN

2011-02-14T13:39:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, Sunday, I drove my car for the first time in more than two weeks. My husband and I went down to the field below the house to get his truck, stranded down there ever since he tried to get home before falling snow blocked our driveway. He didn't make it. You see, we live on the south slope of a pretty steep hill. We call them mountains here in the Ozarks, but you'all who live out west in the Rockies snicker at that.

What's it like to be cooped up in the house, just hubby and I? Well, you see, it's like this. I remained in my office most of every day so he could loll out in the living room, reading, watching TV and scrolling the Internet. Had we been forced to remain in the same room, I'm afraid chaos would've reigned. Not that we don't get along, we do . . . for the most part. Our biggest arguments revolve around the thermostat, in our case a propane heater and three electric heaters that heat our entire house. He likes it hot, I want it cool. So he turns his back and I flip the thing down a tad, I leave the room and he jacks it back up. Seems I'm the only one who sees dollars flying out the window when that thing gulps down propane.

Other than that, though, we have no trouble getting along. One thing I realized right away was that I needed several projects to keep from getting all hunched into one position for the entire day. So closets got cleaned out, scrapbooks brought up to date, well more or less, till I ran out of plastic sleeves and had to order more. I'm now waiting to finish that project, but everything is sorted into stacks.

But the best thing about the entire deal was the writing I could do. No one calling to ask me to go interview someone . . . though emails flew back and forth over upcoming features; no one called to ask me to speak to this group or that group, except for the NPR thing that didn't work out. In fact the only phone calls were from daughter to make sure we were all right. Every day or so she bundled up and walked over to bring us our mail and newspapers, which are both delivered at the bottom of that steep drive I talked about earlier.

Well, the snow's mostly all gone now. The north slopes and places where the "sun don't shine" are still filled with ice and snow. The creek that runs through our place has a few icy designs along the quieter edges. But for the most part, we're in good shape. Planning a run to the grocery store tomorrow because just about everything is getting scarce. But we made it all right. Proved we weren't too old to live in the wilderness, more or less, and didn't go cabin fever crazy either. Kept the water pipes from freezing when it dropped to 14 below one night --- shades of Alaska.

Also signed a contract with Wild Rose Press for my western historical romance, Stone Heart's Woman. I'm thrilled to have that coming out as an Ebook. Trying for some others as well.

Hope all my readers came through unscathed as well. Hope you all did a lot of writing or reading or both, and are ready for spring and visiting libraries and other organizations to see your favorite writer. I'll be at the grand opening of the Van Buren, Arkansas new library Thursday, Feb. 17 to present a workshop for the genealogy department. Maybe I'll see some of you there. In the meantime, enjoy the sunshine, but remember, it could happen again before spring, so be prepared.

A DAY AT THE SNAKE HOUSE

2011-01-31T13:40:00.000-08:00

Just last week I received an email from NPR in Little Rock, Arkansas. In November I submitted a true story for their program, Tales From the South, but then thought no more about it. The email informed me that if I could make it, I was scheduled to read my entry, A Day at the Snake House, before a live audience at the Starving Artist Cafe on Feb. 8.

Now, I have to say that speaking before audiences no matter the size, being interviewed for radio or on TV, is easy for me. I learned soon after my first book was published, that this sort of think was a breeze. No nerves, no problems, no stuttering. But what does make me so nervous I get the shakes is reading my own work in public. What was I thinking when I answered the call from NPR for tales from the south? When I see something I think I can do, I just do it without thinking of the consequences.

Now, on February 8th,which isn't that far off, I have to get in front of a microphone in front of a live audience and read my story. How will I keep from acting like an amateur? Practice a lot, I suppose. First I'll ask my critique group to listen to me read, that is if we get to have a meeting this week. As luck would have it, the weather report doesn't look too good for a meeting of our writer's group Thursday night.

If I could analyze my problem and figure out why I get so nervous reading my own words, maybe I could cure myself in that short time. I have a hunch it's because I'm so afraid that my writing won't be accepted, that it isn't good enough. Crazy, huh? After 12 books and 14 short stories and uncountable articles published, you'd think it would no longer be a problem. This "I'm not good enough," idea. But it is, and so I'm sweating this appearance.

Last summer I appeared and spoke at two to three places every week to promote my two latest books. Not one time did I feel nervous. My composure was steely solid. So why this?

At any rate, I'll journey to Little Rock next Tuesday, weather permitting, and I'll stand up on that stage in front of a microphone and I'll read my story about visiting a snake house and holding a 30 foot reticulated python. Me a snakeophobic from the word go. I learned in that day to no longer fear snakes, well that is, not the kind that don't bite, or if they do, don't poison you. It was a magnificent day for me, and I hope the story will strike a note with my audience.

Tales From the South is taped before a live audience at the Starving Artist Cafe, but I don't have a date for the actual broadcast yet. As soon as I do I'll post it to the Events on Facebook.

A LIFE WELL LIVED

2011-01-24T14:03:00.000-08:00

All her life Rettie Neville lived in the log cabin her father built near Brentwood, Arkansas in 1888, and she passed away there at the age of 96 years, beloved by family, friends and all who knew her.

Rettie once told the story of how her family came to be in Arkansas in the cabin built of hand-hewn logs located along a mountain ridge on a one-hundred-sixty acre homestead overlooking the West Fork of the White River.

Rettie sat in a rocking chair in the corner of the main room of the cabin to tell her stories and one could hear the music and laughter, the sadness and heartache lingering in the home of her childhood, the home of her entire lifetime. An old upright piano sat against one wall, sheet music of another day propped there. She smiled and gestured toward the instrument, held up gnarly fingers.

“I don’t play anymore,” she said, but there was no pity nor sadness in the tone of her clear voice. “I can’t see so well, and these don’t work like they once did,” she added.

The fireplace, originally built into the room, was boarded up, a propane heater sat in front of it, but in the kitchen, squatted an enormous cast-iron wood cookstove which Rettie still used. The family recently insisted that be replaced as they feared an accidental fire. Ironically, a fire did occur and the smoke and flames took Rettie’s life, but not before she lived it to the hilt, enjoying every minute.

The meals program in Winslow delivered a noon meal to Rettie every day. One of the volunteer drivers, Donald Brotherton, recalled that Rettie always liked to eat her dessert first, and would ask immediately that he open it and give it to her. She had been in a nursing home for a while, but begged her family to allow her to return to the only home she knew, and they finally relented. One can only imagine that she lived those last weeks in happiness with her wonderful memories embracing her.

Memories such as she once repeated in an interview conducted on her 90th birthday. She recalled her mother Elizabeth, and her Poppa Charles, who served in the Union Army. He and his first wife had four children, but later he married 19-year-old Elizabeth. For some reason he decided to take her to Texas. They traveled by covered wagon. Once there his young wife became the victim of congestive chills, and told her husband that even if she had to pack her stuff up in a hanky and walk, she was leaving Texas.

Charles, being a wise man, loaded up his children and young wife and headed for the wilds of the Ozarks. There he built the home in which he and his wife would raise ten more children in addition to the four from his first marriage. Tragically, Poppa passed away when Rettie was 8 and they existed on a $12-a-month pension from the Civil War service. Imagine the hardships they must have endured, but when Rettie spoke of the past she told wonderful, happy stories, because that’s the way she was.

Rettie remained in that home to care for her mother and didn’t marry until she was 42. She told of how that came about. “We had a little Branch Sabbath School here in our house, and that’s where I met Orba. He came down from Missouri, and three weeks later we were married. I’d been asked before, but mostly by men who’d already been married. I liked Orba cause he was young and had never been married.” She told him she would not leave her momma and he moved right in so she could care for her until she passed on.

She also told of how musically talented the Talley family was. Uncles would come from Oklahoma and bring their banjos, two of her brothers played the violin and she said once, “we girls could sing till we couldn’t sing no more.” To the tune of her laughter, she rocked in her chair and beat a rhythm on the arms, feet thunking on the wood floor.

We bid her a fond and cheerful farewell, for it’s easy to imagine Rettie rocking in that chair, keeping time to the singing of angels. That’s how she will always be remembered.

WORD OF MOUTH

2011-01-17T14:12:00.000-08:00

Today I'm not going to write about writing, but about something that happened to me that is too funny to keep to myself. It could only have happened in rural Arkansas.

A few days ago, two teeth came out of my dental bridge. This isn't the first time this has happened. It's probably happened to all of us whose teeth are not entirely our own. The dentist who made the bridge has retired, and I haven't bothered to get a new one. So, I set out to figure out who to get to take care of my dilemma.

Our town has no doctor or dentist, but there's a dentist in a nearby small town, however I didn't know his name. I called a friend to find out cause I knew she'd used him. She said he wasn't in on Monday, but was in another small town. However, if I just needed a bridge repaired she knew of someone who specialized in that. He practices in a small town in the other direction. But she couldn't remember his name. His first name yes, but no last name. "He's been doing this for a long time," she told me, "and is really good."

She mentioned a friend who had been in an accident and broken her plate. "We took her there and he did a fine job repairing it for her," she said.

We dragged out the phone book, but there wasn't a listing for a dentist in the small town.

So, I called the medical clinic in there, but they said they didn't know of a dentist in town either. It seems this fellow isn't listed anywhere as a dentist. Hmmm. They suggested I call the Senior Citizens Community Center in that same town. I called and the lady who answered the phone couldn't remember anything but his first namer. However, she said her Dad had his plate repaired by this fellow. That he does really good work and is reasonable. She gave me her parents' home number.

When I called them and explained my dilemma, and that I'd talked to their daughter, the lady who answered the phone sent her husband looking for the phone number. She also supplied me with the dental guy's full name. Pretty soon her husband came back with the telephone number, which I then called. I was told to bring the teeth and bridge and leave them, they'd be ready the next day.

After she instructed me how to find the place, I thanked her and hung up. I drove over the Boston Mountains in a fog so thick I could've used a mule carrying a lantern to walk in front of me. But I found my way, taking twice as long to drive the route as it should have. At the moment my teeth are waiting in line at this very busy place and I'm doing everything without my four front teeth and a couple of back ones.

In this town I live in where a wrong number call can result in a thirty minute conversation, I'm glad that people are known by "word of mouth." Anytime we need anything, we just pick up the phone. Someone out there will know who and where we need to go.

EXCERPT FROM THE BOSTON MOUNTAINS: LOST IN THE OZARKS

2011-01-11T12:53:00.000-08:00

Mineral Springs

James Malone was a son of Moses and Susan. He was born at

Mineral Springs in 1861, the year of the outbreak of the Civil

War. When he grew up he married Margaret Rachel Lewis. They had

seven children: William Ralph, Everett, Noah, Delbert, Maud,

Perry and Tolbert, who was named after U.S. Deputy Marshal Paden

Tolbert. James became known in later years as Uncle Jim. He spent

his entire life at Mineral Springs except for an eight month stay

in Washington state in 1887.

On Mill Creek he dug coal which was used in a blacksmith

shop on Boston Mountain, the name of the mountain south of

Winslow in the Boston Mountain Range. There tools were sharpened

for use in the building of the Frisco Railroad, which was

completed to Ft. Smith in 1882.

Uncle Jim was fond of long hikes and once walked 52 miles to

Alma. He must have had a reason, but family records don’t mention

what it was. Perhaps simply because he wanted to see if he could.

Or prove he could. He was an expert bee tree hunter and it’s told

he once found seven swarms in a single day.

A bee tree is a tree to which a large gathering or swarm of

bees has attached itself. When they do this, they hang in a huge

pointy ball of wriggling, buzzing bees. There are various ways to

transport that gathering to a hive which can then produce honey.

One is to take along a wooden keg to carry the hive in, smoke the

bees and capture the queen bee. Place her in the keg and the

others will follow. The bees are smoked to settle them down so

they don’t tend to sting. I’m told she is easy to locate because

of her size, but it’s probably a lot harder than it sounds.

Uncle Jim was also an experienced hunter of turkey, deer,

‘possum and ‘coons.

Uncle Jim and Aunt Rachel’s son Tolbert and his wife had a

daughter who was born in 1923 and weighed one and a-half pounds.

She was kept alive in a warming oven by her grandmother Rachel

Malone, after doctors told her the baby would never live.

“She has no use for clothes,” they said to the grandmother,

to which she replied, “As long as she’s breathing she’s going to

have clothes.” The baby survived not only that ordeal but a bout

with polio years later. She grew up, married and raised two sons.

Wanda Malone Buckner, Tolbert’s daughter, was the

granddaughter of Will Shepherd, who lived on top of the mountain

at Mineral Springs. He helped establish the Washington County

Literary Society.

Wanda and her sister Jean were eighteen months apart, but

the family held Wanda back so both girls could attend school

together at Mineral Springs. Jean wrote about her second grade

teacher there:

“She was very young and loved to play with us at recess. I

remember one day we were playing Piggy Wants A Motion, and she

forgot to make us go in after recess. We were all scratched up

when we finally quit playing and she had to put mercurochrom

(sic) on all of us.”

Mary Stockburger, the young lady hired to teach the first

term, recalled the delight of her very first Christmas and

decided the children who had never celebrated Christmas or

decorated a tree would have both. She collected contributions

from parents and with the small amount of money rode horseback to

Fayetteville where she selected small gifts for every child in

the community. The round trip took an entire day. She then

persuaded a few young men to cut a large cedar and together they

stood it in one corner of the building. Berries and evergreen

boughs were gathered to hang on the walls and popcorn strung in

long strands to decorate the tree.

The night of the celebration, a warm fire crackled in the

stove. Families arrived carrying lanterns that were hung on the

walls and placed on high benches. Light glowed golden on the

freshly chinked logs, and a tart fragrance of apples and oranges

mixed with the pungent fresh cedar limbs on which candles burned.

The faces of children and adults alike beamed with awe and

joy. No one ever celebrated a finer Christmas than those few

folks creating a bright new life in the wilderness.

So many children eventually attended Mineral Springs that

many were finally sent to district #159 over on Sugar Mountain.

In November, 1915, when the new building at Mineral Springs was

dedicated, the rolls showed thirty-five students and one teacher.

Water from the springs discolored everything it touched and

didn’t taste so good, but in the words of one resident, “Everyone

drank it anyway. We didn’t have nothing else.”

Lula Ragsdale was six years old the year the new building

was constructed, and remembered that she hated school.

“I could already read everything in the Jones reader. I

could spell and do math. All we had was a penny pencil and a

slate.”

By her second year of school, before the end of 1915, the

new frame building was up and dedicated. That would be the one

that remains standing to this day, escaping that dreaded fate of

so many. Fire. The new school was built back of the old log one.

Sometime later the old one was torn down and the logs given to a

man whose barn had burned.

As an adult Lula went on to teach three, four-month terms in

the new building during 1928, ‘29 and ‘30, for which she was paid

$60 a month.

School continued there for sixty-one years until the

district was consolidated with Greenland in 1946.

HISTORY OF TB TREATMENT

2011-01-03T13:32:00.000-08:00

Imagine knowing that when you had children, at least two or three of them would die of a childhood disease or accident. It’s not something we think about that much today. There are cures for most illnesses. But in the 19th and early 20th century, death lurked in the shadows ready to take our children. It’s not a pleasant subject, but it’s what our ancestors faced.

Recently, I spoke to a group of teachers about Arkansas history, and this subject came up. Not long before that, I’d received a call from Geneva Long, who lives near Hazel Valley. She had found several copies of books recording the history of the Grand Lodge of F & A Masons in Arkansas in the 1920s, and wondered if I could use them. Not knowing what I might find, I paged through and was amazed to find a recording of the high incidence of Tuberculosis in children in those days.

One report was particularly interesting to me. It seems there were several sanitoriums run by the Masons in Arkansas for the care of children with Tuberculosis. This Grand Lodge reported on the year from November 15, 1928 to November 1, 1929. Since the hospital for treatment of TB in children was opened, they had reported 288 children taken in for treatment.

Some of the treatments used in those days were unusual. We have to remember there were no antibiotics to fight this disease and many people died from it. This was true far into the 1950s. All that was known was TB was infectious, easily passed from one person to another. That’s why adults and children were sent to sanitoriums, hopefully to recover but also to remove them from society where they could pass around the disease.

One of the treatments of children was to remove tonsils and adenoids. Another was to see that each child drank at least 12 bottles of milk each day, the milk taken from a herd of Holstein cows. These cows were constantly tested for Tuberculosis. The report doesn’t say how much milk was in each bottle, however.

Upon entering the treatment facility, a child was given three innoculations of Toxin Anti-Toxin, known to be preventive against Diphtheria. Their blood was also tested for malaria and they received a Wasserman test, a diagnostic test for syphillis.

Another favored treatment was to dress the smaller children in sun suits so that they developed tanned skin “like an Indian.” Children that could not be put outside with the sun suits were treated with Violet Ray exposure.

During all these treatments the children attended the Masonic school that operated with standards at or above that of public schools. The report reads: “The school projects done by these children have won first prize and much praise in contests with other schools in Logan County. These children are receiving school training twelve months in the year . . .”

The report goes on to thank all the people who give so generously of their time and money. George Tilles of Fort Smith is known by all of the children as their “Twelve Month a Year Santa Claus.” It was said that not a month passes that Mr. Tilles doesn’t visit the children and has packages of toys, candy, etc. Many other donors were mentioned from Fort Smith, St. Louis and Little Rock. When a piano was needed, the call went out and before they knew it, enough money was collected to buy one.

It’s eye-opening to read these reports about the treatment of Tuberculosis from the early 20th century. It makes me realize just how fortunate we are today. Perhaps in another hundred years my descendants will read how cancer and some of our diseases of today were treated and ultimately cured by programs like those described in the Mason report. And people will wonder how we managed in such an environment.

WHY THEY BURIED THEM AT NIGHT

2010-12-27T12:37:00.000-08:00

Old Iron bridge that crosses the river at Woolsey

This is the beginning of Chapter Two of The Boston Mountains, and it explains why soldiers were buried at night during the Civil War in Arkansas

Woolsey/Pitkin

Hiding from soldiers

Often searching for a lost community proves exciting and

revealing. Over the years I’ve written family stories that

involved the mysterious Pitkin, while never actually searching

out the site. Arguments still arise over its exact location, but

maps call the corner of Winn Creek Road and Woolsey Road, Pitkin

Corner. So there’s a clue, though in this case it doesn’t help

much.

Another day and a drive along Highway 71 will take us to WCR

#35 south of West Fork. Woolsey Cemetery is on the south corner

on the banks of the West Fork of the White River. Framing the

stones on the south is a thick growth of cane.

Here, on a long ago night during the Civil War, under cover

of darkness, a small group of women and children carried the body

of a loved one, wrapped in old quilts. Even the children made no

sound as the procession neared this last resting place. Around

them a brutal war raged, neighbor killing neighbor. It was a time

of distrust and fear. Brothers, fathers, sons and uncles served

on both sides of this war, and at times when skirmishes arose in

the hills, a soldier would sneak home to visit his mother or

sister or wife. He dare not be seen, for anyone, even a friend,

could favor the other side and wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.

On this dreadful night, one of the soldiers, wounded and

dragging himself home, died in the yard before he reached the

arms of his loved ones. Fearful of being seen, the women and

children wrapped his body and carried it to the site of this

small cemetery in the black of night. There they silently dug him

a grave and laid him to rest. They dared not sing their hymns or

say their prayers aloud to send him to his Heavenly home. And so,

into eternity he rests alongside those who fought against him,

their differences stilled in the serenity of death.

Such scenes went on throughout the Bostons during those war-

torn days. Bushwhackers rode the trails terrifying families,

stealing all they had, burning what they could not carry away. It

mattered not which side they were on. Everyone was fair game.

Terrified women grabbed up their children and hid out in caves. A

horrible existence.

Beyond the cemetery, the road crosses the West Fork of the

river on a single-lane iron bridge, one of the few left in the

county. It has been placed on the National Register of Historic

Sites to encourage its survival. Weight limit is strict, so be

wary.

HOLIDAY RECIPES

2010-12-20T11:36:00.000-08:00

A very Merry Christmas and happy and prosperous New Year to all my readers. I wanted to share today some of the holiday recipes from my book: Arkansas Meals and Memories: Lift Your Eyes to the Mountains.

Grandma's Hot Pepper Jelly

1/8 c. water

3/4 c chopped hot peppers

1-1/2 c vinegar

6 c sugar

Combine all, boil until sugar is dissolved. Let stand four minutes, add 6 ounces Certo and green food coloring and proceed according to Certo recipe. A great addition to the holiday table. Good with meat, especially turkey and ham.

Here is the pecan pie recipe I've always used and it's simple and beats anything I've ever tasted.

Pecan Pie

3 eggs slightly beaten

1 c dark Karo syrup

3/4 c white sugar

1/4 t salt

1 c pecans cut into medium pieces.

Mix first four ingredients well. Add pecans and toss only enough to moisten. Pour into unbaked pie shell and bake at 350 degrees until outer edges are firm and crust is brown. The center will appear a bit jiggly but remove and cool. Overcooking makes the filling impossible to chew. Delicious.

This Cranberry Bread is good year round, but especially so during the holidays. Dried cranberries are available now so it can be made anytime, but when my mother used to make this, it could only be made from fresh cranberries on the market during the holiday season.

2 c flour

1 c sugar

1- 1/2 t baking powder

1 t salt

1/2 t baking soda

1/4 c shortening

1 t grated orange peel

3/4 c orange juice

1 beaten egg

1 c chopped cranberries

1/2 c chopped nuts.

Sift dry ingredients together, cut in shortening. Combine juice, peel and egg, add to dry ingredients. Mix just enough to moisten. Fold in berries and nuts. Turn into greased loaf pan. Bake at 350 degrees for one hour. I always check at about 45 minutes. If this bread is over baked it is dry and not as moist as it ought to be.

Hope you get to try at least one of these during the holidays. Let me know what you think. If you want more of my mother's recipes collected over 80 years, let me know. The book sells for $21.95 and has 150 recipes plus lots of stories and Arkansas hoots.

EXCERPTS FROM ARKANSAS MEALS & MEMORIES

2010-12-13T11:43:00.000-08:00

Here's a photo of the house where my mother lived during the Great Depression. She met my dad after Grandpa bought the land and Dad helped build this house. Her sisters and brother are on the porch, her mother is standing on the right at the corner.

I thought I'd share a couple of recipes from my latest book, Arkansas Meals and Memories: Lift Your Eyes to the Mountains. In case you didn't get to take advantage of my offer to my fans on Facebook last week. Also included here is an excerpt from one of the items included in the cookbook. There are many more like it that are truly interesting, as well as stories about growing up here in our Ozarks during the Great Depression. One story tells how my uncle decided to get him some bees to earn some extra money. He had quite a time setting up his hives, trailing bees to a bee tree, then getting the bees back to the hive.

Feather Rolls

1 pkg yeast

4 T soft butter

1 T sugar

3/4 t salt

1 egg

3/4 c warm milk

2 c flour

Stir yeast into 1/4 c warm water and let stand until it begins to work. Mix all ingredients

except the flour into a large bowl and beat until smooth. Add flour and beat vigorously.

Cover and let rise in warm spot about 1 hour. Stir down and fill buttered muffin tins half

full. Cover and let rise about 30 minutes. Bake 15-20 minutes at 400 degrees.

Mother’s Buttermilk Pie

1 c sugar

3 T flour

½ t salt

3 egg yolks

2 c buttermilk

4 T butter

3 egg whites

2 t cinnamon

Combine salt, flour and cinnamon. Beat egg yolks, add buttermilk and melted butter, add

dry ingredients. Fold in stiffly beaten egg whites. Pour into un-baked pie shell. Bake in

350 degree oven until knife inserted in center comes out clean.

Lightning jars represent an important advancement in the history of home canning and are still a part of American culture. Some historians suggest that the term "white lightning" may have been inspired not only from the effect of ingesting homemade corn whiskey but by the name of the jars the whiskey was frequently stored in. These familiar jars with their glass lids and wire bales are still found in novelty stores today.

In 1882, Henry William Putnam of Bennington, Vermont, invented a new kind of fruit jar by adopting a bottle stopper patent by Charles de Quillfeldt. The Lightning jars became popular because the glass lids prevented food contact with metal, the metal clamps were cheap to produce and the lids themselves were much easier to seal and remove. The name Lightning suggested that the jars were quick and easy to use. Variations of the glass lid and wire‑bale scheme of the Lightning jar were produced for home canning into the 1960s.

The earliest advertisements for the Lightning jar date back to the year 1885. Mr. Putnam was the man behind the marketing of the Lightning jars and making them popular. Mr. Putnam also held exclusive ownership of the patents, and for many years, claimed the impressive profits from selling the jars.

MEMORIES OF COOKING WITH MOTHER

2010-12-06T12:13:00.000-08:00

My recipe book, Arkansas Meals and Memories, contains 150 recipes, most of which I found in my mother's 80-year collection. I wish she could hear some of the comments people who try one of her from-scratch recipes are sending me. But she passed away in 1996 in her 84th year of life. On January 20, she went quietly without much ado, while outdoors the pouring rain turned to ice that coated the trees and covered the roads and highways. After spending thirty minutes trying to revive her, the EMTs who had responded to my 911 call, huddled on the front porch waiting for the long, black hearse to come carry her away into the icy night. No matter how much I pleaded, they would not come back in the house until they could carry her out and see she was safely on her way.

My brother's comment, arriving after a harrowing drive down from northern Kansas. "Mom never did make anything easy."

Mom never had anything easy, and she was a stickler for doing everything the right way, which usually was her way. She was one of the best cooks I ever knew, and she could make something from nothing quicker than a flash. All her recipes, and there are many hundreds, are typed, handwritten, or clipped and glued into a book that bulges at the seams.

I will never be the cook she was, and I suppose there's a reason for that. Growing up, she couldn't get me in the kitchen. And she certainly tried. But I could only be found outside playing football or baseball with the neighborhood boys, riding a sawhorse and playing cowboys and Indians, or up a tree.

After my husband and I married, and I remained a tomboy to that day, I wished many times as we struggled together to put something on the table to eat, that I'd spent some time in the kitchen with my mother. How many frantic calls I made while trying to bake or cook, I can't count. I remember frozen salmon steaks still icy in the middle, gravy that held a spoon upright, and no telling how many other failed dishes.

Mother patiently coached me until I finally learned to cook before my family could starve. But never did I get the magic touch she had with angel biscuits, fried chicken, the best chicken gravy in the world, a maraschino cake too delicious to describe, and the list goes on.

She loved to collect unusual recipes, like grape-leaf rolls which I still make today. Raised in the Ozarks, that's were she learned to cook at the unbelievable age of 8 years. Standing on a wooden crate in front of a wood-burning cook stove, she made breakfast for everyone before going off to school. Most of the time she would cook supper too, as my grandmother liked outdoors work better. Must be where I inherited my tomboy ways.

The oldest of four children, this meant she had to prepare a lot of food. And in those days there were no instant anythings. My Dad's older half-sister was a super cook and shared a lot of her know-how. Bread was cooked for every meal. Store-bread was known as light bread and shunned by most. Biscuits for breakfast, cornbread for dinner, yeast rolls or loaf for supper.

Marrying while the Great Depression held a tight rein on the Arkansas Ozarks, times were hard. There were days when it was gravy and biscuits, or cornmeal mush. My folks were fortunate that Grandpa had gifted them with a milk cow when they married. And Dad and Grandpa planted cane to take to the mill for sweetnin' (molasses) on the shares. This only served to make a better cook out of Mother.

And so I so happily share many of her recipes and my dad's stories in this book published by Goldminds Publishing in Springfield, Mo. It's difficult to get online, but can be ordered from me or from the publisher.

A STEP INTO THE PAST

2010-11-15T12:02:00.000-08:00

Last week I journeyed into Madison County, Arkansas for a book signing and tour of the Draketown Hotel. Built in 1869, this is the oldest building in the county. It has been lovingly renovated by Jo Lewis and she is thrilled to take visitors through the two floors. Though this structure is her home and no longer functions as a hotel, each room stands as if ready to accept guests. Jo's lovely touch is evident in each and every room. I especially liked the addition of a bathroom which included all the necessities plus a huge comfortable chair in one corner.

Today Jo holds gardening classes at her home here in the old hotel, which she has renamed Garden Gate. If you wish to visit, check out her website.

This day Jo had baked a scrumptious pumpkin bread and served steaming hot coffee. The weather was brisk and sunny and some guests walked in off the road. My daughter Jeri accompanied me because she'd never been to Draketown. After touring the rooms, she spent most of her time outdoors inspecting the buildings and garden spots. She was amazed to find one of the buildings held dozens of bouquets of herbs hanging from the rafters to dry. I think many of the guests came to view this piece of history, but I did sell quite a few books.

Jo holds a Christmas Open House every year, and this year it's scheduled for Dec. 5, so if you're in the area, drop by and step back into the past for an enjoyable afternoon.

Her story of finding the building and buying it is an interesting one. The property and hotel were once owned by Art Calico, whose ancestors were some of the earliest settlers in Draketown. One day Jo was taking a drive along highway 295 and thought she spotted an old house through the heavy trees along the roadside. She convinced her young son to ask about it at a nearby store. Then she looked up Art and took a closer look.

"It was pathetic," she told me. "Doors falling off, the porch sagging, windows broken, but I knew I had to have it."

It took a while to convince Art to sell her this little piece of heaven and even longer to renovate, but her expert touch is everywhere.

She said with a laugh, that the first winter she spent there, the dogs water froze in his dish on the kitchen floor.

But the place is warm and cozy now, and so realistically out of the 1800s one expects to meet up with a Civil War veteran or a southern lady in full regalia.

I'm grateful to Jo for holding a book signing and sharing her lovely home with all of us who attended.

NEW WRITING FACILITY IN THE WORKS

2010-11-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

THE OLD RUDY SCHOOL HOUSE RE-DONE

Last week I went to visit with Susan Powell, who has bought a parcel of land on the mountain west of Winslow. Susan is a retired professor from the Hot Springs area and her specialty is writing and film making.

We drove out through her pasture to a small log building which she is in the process of renovating, a side specialty of this talented lady. This building is the Rudy school house, which she has painstakingly put back together after moving it to her property. We sat inside, which is exquisitely refinished. The floors are wide oak planks, two supporting beams are oak trees stripped of bark, the limbs trimmed to within a few inches of the trunk, everything is finished in wood from the area. And talk about talented, this woman is that.

The second building was once a log horse barn in the Ouachita Mountains and she's renovated it as well. This will hold her presses with plenty of room left over for meetings. Susan told me she fell in love with the Boston Mountains and searched until she found a property that suited her needs. From the ridge on which the place is located, one can see all the way into Oklahoma across the rolling peaks of the Bostons.

We talked for a long while on writing, writer's groups, critique groups and her plans to set up a print shop where she will publish books in the future. She already has small groups of writers meeting in the school house where three-hour workshops are held. In the future she hopes to welcome writers, musicians, artists and film makers to workshops and retreats. It's a joy to see someone of her caliber offering this opportunity to area writers and artists.

Susan calls her endeavor Talley-Ho Arts and she can be reached at talleyhoarts@earthlink.net

A SPECIAL AWARD

2010-10-18T12:42:00.000-07:00

Blogs are supposed to share information, according to the experts. And this one hasn't done much of that. Just followed me around seeing what I'm up to. I hope by reading these posts, other writers can learn what must be done to begin and keep a platform. There's so much more than writing to keep our career going. All summer I've posted the places I've been signing my newest books and tried to give insight into where writers can promote and sell their books.

This weekend, I was honored with the title of Distinguished Citizen by the Washington County Historical Society. This award is given to those who have done the most to preserve the history of Northwest Arkansas. This year there were two recipients, the other being Hugh Kincaid. When they finished telling all his works to help preserve our history I wondered how I had been chosen for such an award. Then when he spoke he said that some people gave money, but it was also important to give of your time.

Well, I've certainly done that. My latest book reflects the work of 23 years of interviewing, researching and writing local history. Still, I remain here in my office most of the time while others volunteer to do so many things that help preserve our history.

It takes a lot of volunteers to run an organization like the Washington County Historical Society. They not only put on events year round, they publish an historical quarterly and run a bookstore. Throughout the year members act out events important to Arkansas history. They also make donations of time and articles to other organizations that preserve our history.

In December they will hold an open house at Headquarters House, the second most historical structure in Fayetteville.

DeeDee Lamb presented me and did a super job. DeeDee is in charge of all the re-enactments put on year-round by the society. It was such an honor for me to receive this accolade from my peers, who love and preserve history just as I do. The day was so enjoyable and I was privileged to meet so many people and greet plenty of old friends who came out to help me celebrate. I thank them all for coming.

They asked me to tell some stories which I did. I shared the story of Texas Jack, whose name was actually Nathaniel Reed. He was born in St. Paul and spent eight years as an outlaw and 41 years as a man of God. I also gave a short history of how I came to be sitting there and we talked about the Butterfield Overland Mail and the U.S. Marshals who served under Judge Parker. It was a delightful experience.

Here's a photo that ran in the Northwest Arkansas Times today.

Without our stories we have no knowledge of who we are, and I consider it so important for them to be passed down from generation to generation and shared with others. We are here because of those who came before us. And we accomplish what we do because of their experiences that have been handed down to us. And most important of all, we are our children's history. What we do will affect generation after generation to come.

A VISIT TO THE LINCOLN LIBRARY

2010-10-11T12:34:00.000-07:00

Lincoln, Arkansas has a library close to my heart. It's situated on the old downtown square in an historical building that begs to be explored. When I parked I was immediately impressed with the large sandwich-board sign out front announcing my signing. I was welcomed by an assistant librarian and met head librarian Nicky Morris. She led me to a table appropriately decorated for the fall season.

My books were no more than set out on one end of the table when a lovely lady arrived carrying two white-oak Gibson baskets loaded with what I soon learned were goodies created from the recipes in my book, Arkansas Meals and Memories. This fabulous and industrious cook had re-created buttermilk pie and sweet potato pie as tarts, and were they ever delicious. She then made some miniature cupcakes from my mother's molasses cupcake recipe and nut-bread. Both were frosted with my grandmother's caramel icing, which she pronounced as so good and so easy to make.

Chairs were sat out in a circle and I wasn't sure if I would be able to hold the audiences' attention when they began to fill their plates. But once seated, talk began about the recipes which led me right into showing off my cookbook.

It wasn't long before we were all visiting like old friends and exchanging historical tales all around the room. During this spring and summer I've found that most of the people who attend my signings are history lovers and recipe collectors, which makes good sense.

As fall marches into colder weather I'll draw these personal visits to a close. My books will continue to be available, but I will begin to concentrate on getting more information on the Internet. However, if you know of an independent book store or library within the area where I might be welcome, just let me know and I'll get in touch with them. Some libraries are not equipped to have book signings, others prefer not to.

I will be at Books on Broadway in Siloam Springs, Arkansas on Saturday, Oct. 23 from 2-4 p.m. and at the Draketown hotel, in Draketown, Arkansas on November 6 from 2-4 p.m. That just about draws to a close my book signings for this year.

However, if you are planning on attending Oklahoma Writers Federation, Inc. Conference in Oklahoma City in May of 2011, I will speak there on Finding the Ideal Small Publisher and Unusual Ways of Promoting Books. Check out this conference online.

SMALL TOWNS AND LIBRARIES

2010-10-04T12:34:00.000-07:00

Last week I was pleased to return to the brand new, beautiful Elkins library. Librarian Susan Unger had asked me to be a part of the grand opening week of events and I was happy to oblige. They had yoga classes, children's events and readings and other "celebrities" besides myself. Yes, in this small pond, I am a frog of some distinction. But remember what they say about a prophet in his own land.

People see me around all the time and they aren't a bit impressed that I have a bunch of books out there. I'm just the woman who goes to the post office in ragged shorts and flip-flops. I couldn't possibly be of any importance.

In the small town where I live people mostly know everyone, though there are a few newbies filtering in occasionally. The rural area served by our small post office has a much larger population than the town itself. That's me and about 800 other families, which if we go by statistics means four and a half people times 800. Still, we mostly know everyone.

I've had book signings here where no one came. Well, we had four at the signing in Elkins, which is 20 miles through the woods and over the rivers. Keep in mind that I'd been there when the book first came out and had a good crowd. We decided folks are sort of tired of me coming around. Or perhaps bored. Seriously, the ladies who were there were so wonderful and they kept me talking and telling stories for over an hour. Wouldn't let me stop. I always figure if one person shows up I'm on stage and they came to see me, I'll give them the full course.

I was told that the librarian's assistant did nothing but talk about me all the next day. No, she did her work, she just kept talking about my stories. That's encouraging. Someone may overhear her and buy a book or two, or just give me a call to invite me somewhere to talk again. One thing I'm good at is talking.

My schedule will begin to thin out into November and I'll stay home and work the Internet. If you want to know my schedule, check out the Events page on my website. Hope to see you somewhere before winter shuts me up out here in the Ozarks.

A TRIP TO MISSOURI

2010-09-27T13:59:00.000-07:00

Occasionally I wander from the Arkansas Ozarks into the hills of Missouri. The other Ozarks. And Saturday hubby and I took off for Springfield so I could speak to members of the Springfield Writer's Guild. The sun flashed on and off through the trees as we headed east through the Middle Fork Valley, following the middle fork of the White River until we climbed a long rise and topped out above the sprawling White River Valley.

Fog banks hung in long white ribbons marking each river and stream that snaked lazily through trees still green and lush from recent rains. The drive to Branson is a familiar one, and from there it's a short 35 miles on north to Springfield. As is my habit, I followed precise directions and promptly got lost. The GPS is so new to me that I couldn't get it to program a route outside of Arkansas. I know it will do so, but after ten frustrating minutes, I wrapped it up, stowed it away and we followed the map.

Might as well not have done that either, for it immediately led us astray when we reached the city. We wanted Battlefield Road but ended in a small suburb of Battlefield, miles from our destination. Happily, I always allow plenty of extra time when I go to speak somewhere. To be late is a no-no, though it has happened when I've driven in circles for hours. However, a kind gentleman in a Quik Trip gave us explicit directions and we were soon on our way back the way we'd come.

We arrived at our destination with twenty minutes to spare. After a delicious lunch in the Heritage Cafeteria with SWG's president Mandy Barke, a vivacious and lovely lady I've corresponded with frequently, I headed for the conference room and hubby fetched his laptop to stay occupied while I talked.

Now, if you know me you know I can talk. Sometime I'll write my experiences in front of crowds before I became a writer. It was debilitating and unbelievable. I think I became an entirely different person when I started to write some 28 years ago (for the second time.) That, too, is another story.

It was standing room only by the time 1 o'clock rolled around and I was introduced. What a pleasure to be greeted by so many eager faces. After 45 minutes of talking, I managed to shut up so members of the crowd could ask questions.

Someone took a lot of pictures, and I have been promised one. When it comes I'll post it here on this blog. I so enjoyed the hospitality of this large and very active writer's organization. We drove home with me pumped and yakking. The very act of sharing ideas always stimulates and inspires me. I'm filled with new ideas and I can't wait to get home and put them to good use.

For this reason I'm going to miss summer, because once winter sets in I'll be home working, writing but not having the interaction with others. Thank goodness for our once-a-week writer's meeting. Still, icy cold nights prevent even that. I will create a lot over the cold months, but I will miss networking with others.

BRAIN WAVES

2010-09-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

Recently, I read that our brain sends out electrical impulses or signals for 37 hours after we die. I got to thinking about that and wondering if something or someone somewhere picks up those final signals. What messages would we want to send in the last 37 hours before shutdown?

It's an interesting thought. Thirty-seven hours is a long time for that final message, or is it? Would we list all the things we have learned in a fruitful life; would we tell our friends and acquaintances, those whose lives we've touched and who have touched ours, how we feel about them? Would some of us search out those who have wronged us and seek revenge?

My imagination follows my spirit seeking out loved ones, perhaps saying all the things we might have left unsaid. Oh, sure, I tell them I love them and do it a lot because it's the one statement we certainly don't want to leave unsaid. None of us knows the moment we'll be called away from this home. Did the Supreme Being give us those last hours so we could make amends?

Then it occurred to me that these messages may go unheard, the signal not picked up. There has to be a receiver somewhere. Has anyone ever contacted me? It soon became obvious that I have more questions than answers.

Perhaps we won't be conscious when one of these messages comes to us. It may only be a feeling of being touched, contacted, signaled.

Rather frivolously, I envision how this conclusion was reached. How many lifeless corpses were tested with electronic equipment to gauge how long their brain waves continued to send out signals?

Then again, maybe this was just some guys joke to see how far the information might go. It's an interesting premise for a weird, and convoluted movie plot. I, for one, have no way of testing this statement, so I guess I'll just stop worrying about it and get on with life, leaving what happens in the afterlife to those who poke and prod and cut us after we no longer care. Oh, and to those who write scripts.

PIONEER DAYS IN MADISON COUNTY

2010-09-13T12:03:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I mentioned having visited St. Paul Library and what a good time I had there. I was invited back to join in the fun and excitement of Pioneer Days in September. That's where my husband and I went Saturday.

It was a scorcher of a day that began with a good rain the night before, but neither detered a good crowd, a fantastic parade and some of the nicest people in the world stopping by my booth to look at my books.

I was delighted when an old newspaper pal from many years ago stopped to chat. We reminisced about working for a small rural newspaper all those years ago and laughed at ourselves a bit. Neither of us can give up keeping a connection to that world. Me with my historical articles, now going into two newspapers, and she with her job with one of the remaining papers from what was then known as The Cherokee Group. So many fond memories of those good old days.

My stories of Tigers and Snakes and Flying Machines will one day be a memoir if my brain continues to hold the memories long enough. Oddly, the paper I originally worked for, The Washington County Observer, out of business these past ten years, has been restored by a young couple interested in keeping this type of journalism alive in our country towns. And I'm writing an occasional article for them. It's like going home, after I spent nine years writing features and news and sports for them back in the 90s. Lots of stories there.

Back to Pioneer Days in St. Paul. The parade featured a good mile long lineup of horseback riders and wagons that followed the usual fire trucks, EMT responders, school teams, etc. People from many small towns scattered far into Washington County rode their horses and wagons, many pulled by mule teams, over to join in. It was a great deal of fun.

St. Paul is remote and peaceful. Though a state highway winds through town, it is quiet with little sounds of traffic. Most people have no reason to be on that highway unless they live in the area. It's probably the closest place to heaven one can find, though I have to say there are many such places in our Boston Mountains of the Ozarks. Our small town of Winslow is another.

After four hours of sitting in the bright sunlight, we reluctantly packed up and came home. I wanted to stay, but without shade, we couldn't do it, and the shady places were taken by the time we arrived. Being a late sleeper has its disadvantages, but I rose as early as my head and heart would allow.

We drove home through the White River Valley with its sprawling pastures filled with cattle and horses and humongous bales of hay laid out for the coming winter. Recent rains have greened up the pastures and filled the nearly dry creeks and rivers. What a beautiful day it was to appreciate and enjoy these mountains we call home. White daisies, yellow sunflowers, and nodding goldenrod filled the ditches on both sides of the narrow highway. In places trees formed a canopy of heavily laden limbs that blotted out the sunlight. All in all it was a perfect day.

BIRTHDAYS, DREAMS AND SILENCE

2010-09-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

As the years go by, often much too quickly, I continue to cram as much into each day as possible. It's disappointing to learn that that grows more difficult as one ages.

Sunday was my grandson's 30th birthday and his mother had a drop in party for him. I stayed till everyone left because I so enjoyed listening to those "kids" discussing their plans for that night and for their lives. They are so upbeat and filled with excitement. Some of the statements, like my grandson saying, "I refuse to let my work define who I am." That's refreshing in a day when so many people are in their work up to their necks and do nothing but work, eat and sleep.

He's going to college late because he spent six years in the Army first. Now he's getting his education and wavering between continuing on to Medical School or stopping when he qualifies for a Radiology Technician in two years.

He told his friends, "I want to jump off cliffs and climb mountains and see more of the world." He spent two weeks this summer with some friends backpacking all over Europe. What wonderful memories he's making for himself in a world where that is getting more and more difficult to accomplish.

Sitting in the midst of all this enthusiasm for living, I rejoiced silently. Perhaps we need to worry about some of our youth in this time of drugs and homelessness, but I'm thankful that I don't have to be concerned about these kids I spent the afternoon with. They're clutching life in both fists.

When you're my age, they don't pay any attention to you listening quietly. In silence, one can learn a lot.

A VISIT TO TERRA STUDIOS

2010-08-30T15:41:00.000-07:00

Today I took a drive to Terra Studios near Durham, Arkansas. The founders of Terra also birthed the Bluebirds of Happiness, the glass bluebirds that are sold all over the world today. Long before Terra was opened, I met Rita Ward, one half of the originators of the popular birds. Years ago the Ozark Native Craft Shop south of Winslow was a huge consignment shop for Ozark crafters. Twice a year the shop held a craft fair that attracted literally thousands of visitors and a large gathering of Ozark craftspeople.

It was at one of these fairs back in the 70s that I met Rita . She and her husband were some of the first crafts people to join the organization and show their work. Rita was a potter and they were also selling lovely little glass bluebirds that grew more and more popular as the years went by. So much so that eventually this couple bought land near Durham and built Terra Studios.

The grounds at Terra form a lovely park where visitors may walk around and search out little critters hiding in crevasses and crannies, or picnic or just sit and meditate while gazing out across the Ozark countryside. Glass blowing is done on site as well.

Today artist James Uleck runs Terra, and I met with him and Gayla, the lady in charge at the Art Gallery. They are planning a huge open house musical and art and craft show on September 11. The art gallery is undergoing a complete makeover and when it's done it will include books by local authors. Which explains one of the reasons I was there. They wanted copies of my latest book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks.

While there I saw so many exquisite examples of Ozark artistry and craftsmanship it's impossible to list them all. The gallery exhibits hundreds of crafts and art work. It would be easy to spend an entire day at Terra, and I imagine a lot of visitors will do just that September 11.

However, I will be at St. Paul for the Pioneer Days celebration. That's up the road a ways from Terra, but I hope to stop by on my way back home to catch a bit of music and visit with folks. Maybe you'll plan on doing the same.

A DAY AT OWL AND TOMATOES

2010-08-23T12:34:00.000-07:00

Saturday was the August quarterly session of Ozarks Writers League held in Hollister, MO just south of Branson and known to all as OWL. Writers by the score turned out despite the heat to listen to the wisdom of writer Angie Fox. A paranormal writer by trade, Angie has figured out how to write a fiction book without a sagging middle or so much back story it drags itself to a stop. Even though I've written and had published quite a few novels, I took copious notes, as one of our early members used to say.

Angie is wise in the ways of keeping the plot moving by not plotting. I was intrigued because I've never been able to plot either. I throw the rope out and wherever the knots occur that's where they are tied. Angie's trick of creating mini-plots to keep the book moving is a good one.

However, this blog is not about the craft of writing, but rather about the life of a writer. We left home about 7:30 a.m. on Friday because I had arranged a book signing at T. Charleston in Grand Village Mall on the strip in Branson. Sounds good, huh? Well, sometimes it is. I've signed there in the good old days of publishing when my name was on the marquee out on the strip. This time I offered my regional books without fanfare to a crowd of heat-weary travelers.

Most of these folks were seeking refuge in one shop after another to soak up some air conditioning before going on to the next. There seemed little interest in buying, not just my books, but anything. Food, as usual proved the most popular item.

Across the way from where I sat in the shade smiling endlessly at passersby, a talented fellow played old favorites alternating between a clarinet and a saxophone. He managed to make it a little past noon before he packed up and left. Determined, I remained until my scheduled 2 p.m. with no success. Every writer I know has experienced the "no sale" book signing, and I'm no exception. But one thing we always do is live to fight another day.

Next Saturday I'm going to Eureka Springs and its library located on Spring Street in this quaint village. I'm looking forward to spending some time there and talking about my books.

Fried some green tomatoes today for lunch and they were scrumptious. We're enjoying a daily fill of sweet tangy ripe tomatoes as well. We're lucky to live near a large tomato farm and we can drop by whenever we wish and buy as many as we wish of those not fit to take to the market. That means their size is irregular, or they are cat-faced, or they might have a sun blister on them. But they still taste luscious as an Arkansas tomato picked ripe from the vine. Hope they make it through this terrible hot spell and last till first frost.

GENTRY LIBRARY A HISTORICAL SETTING

2010-08-16T12:10:00.000-07:00

Last week, as the temperature soared over 100 degrees, an unusual phenomenon in our part of Northwest Arkansas, I drove west for about an hour to visit the Gentry Library. I'd been told it was in an old building downtown, so had no idea what to expect.

One thing I've realized as this long summer signing tour continues is that something will always surprise me, wherever I go. This was definitely the case when I arrived at the two-story building on Main Street. This wasn't what I would call an old building at all, but rather a historical structure. How wonderful to find a town that utilizes rather than razes these historical gifts.

It was once a hardware store, my hostess told me as she led me through the widely spaced stacks toward an elevator. Underfoot, the wide pine board flooring had the patina of years of care. On the walls and in the deep set windows were displayed antiques of all sorts. Upstairs were still more stacks where people wandered. In the center of the second floor was an open view to the downstairs with a rail around it. The librarian met me in her office up there and together the two ladies led me to the front of the building where tables and chairs were set up for my appearance.

From the tall windows, I could see out over the streets of this small town. People began to arrive and we started to talk about the history of the Boston Mountains and the settlers who came here so many years ago. For an hour and a half they kept me talking, asking questions about the books I'd brought along, and the stories there.

Finally, books signed and purchased, we began to pack up. Even then another visitor arrived and we talked about her hometown of Red Star and the generations of her family who'd lived in the area. In looking through the book, she found a photo which she was pretty sure had her grandfather in a group of men at a sawmill. Since none of us had a magnifying glass, she was going home to check it out. I hope she lets me know.

So many times people have located their family members in the old photos published in one of my books, and that gives me a lot of pleasure. Though my library tours are winding down, I still look forward to the few remaining on my schedule. I know each one will offer something new, a treasure for me and I hope for those who attend.

THE VALUE OF SMALL LIBRARIES

2010-08-10T12:48:00.000-07:00

This week I visited the 17th small library since I began my promotional tour in May. While I've always so appreciated the library in our small town, and our librarian's ability to find just about any book that existed for us (my husband is an avid reader), I never thought a whole lot about how many such libraries served our rural county residents. Then I began to contact them to see if I could visit with my new books.

It turns out that the more remote the library the more people show up to visit with an author. At a tiny library in St. Paul, Arkansas, I was greeted by a huge gathering at the school library because the community library is a Bookmobile. These folks are struggling to get a larger facility, and they later told me that in the 11 years they'd had a library, I was the first author to ask to visit. That explained the huge turnout, the table filled with food and the excitement generated by my appearance. I felt like a celebrity. They invited me to return when my next book came out, which was only a month or so, and I did. Now I've been invited to take part in the Pioneer Days Celebration in September.

Last week I visited Gravette, Arkansas in Benton county. When I drove up my photo was hanging on the outside of the building. It was a rather large copy of the photo on my website. The newspaper ran two articles in a two week period prior to my arrival. A man from the Benton County Historical Society arrived as did a writer from the newspaper. I was taken on a tour of the library, which is in a building obviously meant for something else in the past. Each room was designated for a different selection of books, videos, CDs and computers. Again, everyone was excited to have me.

Large libraries usually reserve a room for a visiting author, which is good. Most do nothing else to promote the visit. I arrived at one a while back and no one seemed to know I was coming. Neither did any of their patrons. The flyers I'd sent were nowhere to be seen. Two of my friends who lived there showed up and we had a nice visit. One told me that when Nicholas Sparks came to town, his visit to the library was just like mine, nobody came. No preparations or promotion was done for him or me. Guess I'm in good company.

It has finally occurred to me that large libraries have a different agenda than small ones. They serve the community very well, and that's their sole purpose. Providing a room for community events is a part of that purpose, but for some reason they think those using those rooms will bring their own audiences. It pays to remember this and act accordingly.

All in all, I recommend library tours to published authors, because the experience is an exceptional one if you remember the guidelines. Always email flyers and a press release for their use, but don't expect large libraries to use them.

Most of the small communities I've visited had no book store in town. Most still had a school, but some didn't. Often the library is the focal point in town. When there's an event, many residents will attend. So my advice: make a date with those tiny libraries when your book comes out, you'll be pleased you did.

TIME OUT IN MY OWN BACKYARD

2010-08-02T12:02:00.000-07:00

It's been pretty hot the past couple of weeks, and I haven't scheduled any trips around the Boston Mountains. As a result I've had time to enjoy the invasion of black butterflies to my wild phlox, which are blooming gloriously. Their magenta blossoms last for weeks and weeks and offer sweet honey to the hoards of beautiful butterflies that remain until the blooms wilt away.

The brilliant pink of the naked ladies sprung from the earth. What a surprise these special flowers are. Long after the deep green leaves sprout in the spring and die away, up from their beds spring the surprise lilies. Here they're called naked ladies and they are a favorite of the summer blooms.

The rose of sharon is another favorite when it blooms, but not so much so when thousands of little sprouts show up in the lawn and adjoining flower beds. We have them scattered around the back yard as does my daughter who lives just through the pines from us.

A nice surprise was our huge 35 year old magnolia tree. Long after the blooms disappeared when hot weather showed up, out popped smaller versions, one here, one there. Gratefully, one low enough for me to sneak a smell every time I go to the pool.

Out back of the pool, poke berries hang heavy on the large plants. Still green, they resemble tiny grapes, but they'll soon change to a deep wine color and feed the birds into the fall. My mother once told me that she couldn't keep me away from them and I'd have the blood red juice all over my face and hands. Poison? So they say, but I'm still here.

We've had so much rain that we are surrounded by thick greenery. Our backyard is kept cut for a ways, then becomes thick and wild on up the steep incline behind us that backs onto the Ozark National Forest. This means we have some wildlife visitors occasionally. Small black bears are shy and usually forage around at night. We have caught sight of them rarely. We hear more than we see, with the eerie cry of the "panther" prevalent during mating season in the early spring. These shy mountain lions live deep in the rugged wilderness, but are spotted once in a while. Their tracks are often left in the mud after a good rain. Hoot owls and screech owls and bats and whippoorwills and mourning doves live in the trees.

Well, I'm going to get back to my work. Later, when the large trees throw shade onto the pool, I'll go out for a dip. With temps touching 100 it's too hot to loll for long out there during the midday sun. I'm a sun lover, but not after it gets that hot.

MORE ROCKING IN MADISON COUNTY

2010-07-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

Funny how ideas seem to accumulate in the air somewhere where writers can pull them down. In this morning's local newspaper was an article about Madison County with lots of information about this remote and rugged Ozark county. This gave me a Twilight Zone feeling, since most articles are not written on the day they appear. My usual column for a small newspaper owned by this larger newspaper was about Madison County libraries and some of the small towns, but it won't come out till this Thursday. Possibly we're all tuned in to the same frequency.

Since we went to St. Paul last week, I thought I'd take you to a small town, not 177 miles round trip, but 133. Confused my digits, there.

Kingston, Arkansas once was rather famous for a large Presbyterian church and its surrounding community created by two men, the Rev. Elmer Jonathan Bouher and Otto Ernest Rayburn, the project's largest promoter. The enormous church that was built high on a hill above the small settlement of Kingston was said to be visible for five miles.

When these two men originally came to Kingston there was a population of 200 souls, a Baptist church founded around 1886 and possibly the oldest church in Madison County and a small Presbyterian church erected 9 years before their arrival. At that time the town was so small it wasn't on a map and in those days only reachable by rough dirt roads that forded streams, meaning it was not reachable in all weather. Their dream to create a church, a school and a health center was nearly reached, but thirty years after the first groundbreaking there was little trace of the church and school built on what had become known as Community Hill.

So, the day I drove to Kingston, it was to a small square with a few businesses. There is a school there, so small it would be consolidated if there were a nearby school to consolidate to. There isn't, and so it remains, with its dozen or so graduating class and other grades sporting about the same amount of students. I was told I'd have no trouble finding the local library, my destination for this book signing and presentation. There are no physical addresses in Kingston, but when I circled around, drove down an incline and came into town on one corner of the square, I immediately spotted the library across the way. A large banner hung outside announcing Program Today.

What turned out to be the most fun was visiting with all those who came in, some specifically to see me, others to check out books or bring some back. The history teacher and his wife, who is also the school librarian were there. Everyone shared stories with me about living so far removed from "civilization" and how much they liked it. Many are transplants who came there in search of peace and tranquility. They found it by settling in the area surrounding Kingston.

While we discussed history and my books and their stories, a couple brought a load of peaches to the center of the square. There an attractive gazebo offered shade for their sale. On another side of the square, a small cafe with an open sign in the window attracted some Saturday visitors. I was told that there was to be found the only bathroom in town, which by the way still has a population of around 200 souls. Since it isn't incorporated, that's difficult to verify.

One lady who bought a book told me that her house was built near the foundation of the Presbyterian Church and that only a rock wall stood as a reminder of that large building, which was torn down in 1951.

It is true that Madison County has not one single traffic light. There is a Walmart in Huntsville, and a few stop signs. In recent years a Sonic and a McDonald's were built, but the McDonald's is out on 412, which bypasses downtown Huntsville, so it really doesn't count, does it?

I like going to Madison County for its scenery, its oddities from the past, but most of all the people, who, with the exception of a small portion who do not want to be disturbed by man or beast, are friendly and fun to be around. They tell some great stories and have a down-to-earth attitude hardly found in today's busy world. Those who go there to disturb the peace and tranquility may find that many of these kind people walk around armed. They aim to keep it peaceful and tranquil

MADISON COUNTY ROCKS

2010-07-19T11:33:00.000-07:00

The Boston Mountains from Highway 71

As many of you know, I've been traveling all over the areas covered in my latest book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks. Last week I spent two days in Madison county, and I found some of the nicest folks and most beautiful scenery in our Boston Mountains. I'll continue to call them mountains, because that's what we call them. In reality, they are a deeply dissected plateau, and nothing like the grandeur of the Rockies. Yet they hold a beauty all their own. Once they were described as being protected by the angels, and I'm not sure but what that isn't true. Driving through these mountains is always breathtaking, but Madison County has so few residents that a lot of the traveling is in remote country where man's footprint isn't so evident.

To get to St. Paul takes some doing. It's one of those, you almost can't get there from here situations, which is not unusual in our Ozarks. First I drove north on Scenic Highway 71, which skirts the banks of the West Fork of the White River and follows a line of bluffs. Sycamore, hickory, oak and a variety of smaller trees surround the highway. With so much rain the woods are more like a rain forest. Vines cling to the bluff face, tiny waterfalls tumble noisily, the azure blue blossoms of chicory line the pavement, the ditch inclines are covered in small sunflowers and brown-eyed Susans --- known as doe eyes to the Cherokee. In about four miles, I swing to the east on Highway 74 which coils through the historic Middle Fork Valley.

Greasy Creek soon joins the waters of the Middle Fork rushing north from nearby mountains. We pass the sites of many long gone communities and old cemeteries, places all talked about in the book. Here cattle graze in wide green fields; other pastures are scattered with huge round bales of hay recently cut for winter feed. One fenced field holds two palomino-colored mules, which I've heard are very rare. They have a name, which I can't remember.

In about thirty minutes or so I make the final climb and see spread at my feet the White River Valley, surrounded by more mountains that go blue into the distance. Soon I swing right onto Highway 16 and in about four miles I enter Madison County. The road curves and climbs, falls and re-climbs, turns right and become the famous Pig Trail route to Little Rock. But I stick to Highway 16 until at long last I'm at St. Paul.

This small Madison County community is amazing. Situated quite a distance from any large town, the people here have come together to form an interrelated group. The school campus takes up much of the small historic town, and that's where I'm headed. Nearly everything that goes on in St. Paul goes on at the school. A maze of small rock buildings fill the campus, some much older than others. The media center holds the school library, and since St. Paul only has a Bookmobile for a public library, book signings and other such events go on at the school library.

I've been here once this summer, but they asked me to return and bring a larger variety of books including the new cookbook, Arkansas Meals and Memories, which wasn't available the first time. That appearance was a spectacular event, with couples gathered to meet the author and lots of picture taking. I later learned that in the 11 years they'd had the Bookmobile library, not one author had come to town with books. We had quite a celebration in my honor.

This time, I found that the Media Center was under renovation, so I went over to the gym where a lot of cars were parked. Since there's no cell phone service there, I couldn't call the librarian for directions. Someone in the gym sent her daughter to tell them I was there. Soon a fella showed up to lead me to where the signing would occur this time around.

I've been to a lot of locales signing books, all of them very hospitable and generous, but I think these people are about the friendliest I've run across in my travels. When I went in the building, a large table was filled with food and other tables and chairs had been arranged with one up front for me. My daughter had accompanied me the first time, and someone asked about her, others came up and greeted me warmly and welcomed me back to town. The librarian was in another building helping a group of kids paint pots, and she came in when they finished. The kids came over and got cookies and left.

Two hours later I finally pulled myself away. The campus continued to be abuzz with people coming and going for various functions. Outside someone was jumping a car battery for a woman who couldn't get her car started. Several people went with me to my car to help me reload my books, though I have that down to a science. Another warned me to look out for the deer, he'd seen a lot of them on his way back to town earlier that afternoon. At long last, they waved me away.

Sure enough, I hadn't gone but a few miles when I topped a rise and saw what I thought was a small dog in the very center of the highway. A car coming from the other way and I slowed to a stop to allow a spotted fawn to decide what to do, then trot off to the woods. I hope the doe was in there. So many are hit along the road, I just hope she hadn't been killed.

Next week I'll write about another Madison County town that is even more remote than St. Paul. It was 177 miles round trip for me, and I truly feel I went back in time. But more about that next week.

LOCK THE DOORS IT'S ZUCCHINI TIME

2010-07-12T13:37:00.000-07:00

There's an old Ozark joke that when you park your car on the square in mid-summer, make sure you lock the doors or you're liable to come back to find some farmer or gardener has left you a sack of zucchini squash on the seat. This is probably the most prolific crop we can plant in our gardens and, as a result, long ago cooks were constantly trying to come up with another way to prepare this tasteless squash. It picks up the flavor of whatever it's cooked with, but it also gives a moistness to cakes, breads and pancakes they wouldn't otherwise have.

Did I mention pancakes? Yes, and today I'm featuring a favorite recipe from my new book, Arkansas Meals and Memories: Lift Your Eyes to the Mountains. And here it is right from my mother's collection of recipes.

3 cups grated un-peeled zucchini, pressed dry between paper towels (I like to grate in a food processor)

4 Tablespoons grated onion

1/2 cup flour

4 Tablespoons mayonnaise

salt and pepper

1/2 cup Parmesan cheese

4 eggs

1/2 teaspoon oregano

Mix all ingredients, fry in light oil, using 2 heaping Tablespoons per pancake. Serve with sour cream or sweetened clabber. Serves 4 to 5.

If you can't find clabber on your grocer's shelf try sour cream sweetened with honey or sugar.

My mother was a terrific cook, having been placed on a wooden crate in front of a wood cookstove to cook the family meals at the age of 8. Her mom, my grandma, preferred yard or field or garden work to cooking. Imagine doing something like that today.

At any rate, she started to collect recipes from her grandmother at an early age, as well as from friends and relatives who lived around the family in the Boston Mountains of the Arkansas Ozarks. By the time I got to know Mother, she was the best cook I'd ever seen. Naturally, I didn't take to cooking. Why should I? She did such a good job of it.

When I married, my husband and I were both novices at the cook stove. I remember the first gravy we made held the spoon upright once it was set. Another time, we dropped a bunch of sliced potatoes into a big pot of hot oil, it ran over into the stove (a gas one) and made the biggest mess you can imagine. We were days getting it all cleaned up. Wonder we didn't burn down the house.

It wasn't Mother's fault I didn't learn to cook. She did her best, but I was so stubborn and untalented that it was easier for her for finish what I started. Once I decided to invite my boyfriend (now my husband) over and I was going to fix fried chicken. She left me to it, a wise woman who knew her daughter would learn more from her mistakes than from instructions. The chicken had a nice crisp outside but when we bit into it, there was blood at the bone. I almost died of embarrassment. She showed me how to finish it up so we didn't have to go to a restaurant to eat. No McDonald's in those days.

Over the years, though, using mostly her recipes and my own collection, I've learned to cook. I'll never be the cook she was. Those women who cooked on wood stoves had a knack for making the best biscuits, cobblers, cornbread and beans. You name it, they could cook it.

My book has a lot of those old recipes in it as well as some very unusual ones, just for the flavor. They're all made from scratch, but recipes that, for the most part, you can cook today, even on your fancy glass-topped electric range. See here to order your copy.

WANDERING FOR SIGNINGS

2010-06-28T12:48:00.001-07:00

Now that The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks and Arkansas Meals and Memories have been released, most of my wandering and losing myself in the Bostons is done to conduct presentations. I prefer to call them that, rather than book signings because I spend a lot of time talking about my adventures with those who attend the event. Keeping it very casual is the best way, so that people who are in a hurry can come and go without interrupting a formal speech.

Since the books came out I've been to some wonderful places. Small communities in the Boston Mountains are filled with friendly and very receptive people. Many times in my writing career I've held a book signing at a book store and no one came. Oh, they are in the store, but they avoid me like I had the plague. I sometimes think that only writers actually understand what a book signing is. I thought about teaching people about authors and how we desperately hope some people will stop by when we're sitting there smiling broadly and trying to attract the attention of folks who obviously read books, else why are they in the book store?

But I've finally decided that my job is to write good books and then do my best to promote them so they get into the hands of the readers I'm sure will like them, if only they'll slow down and pick one up.

This idea to hit all the libraries in the four counties of the Boston Mountains written about in my book turned out to be a good one. My publisher wasn't sure. He figured folks in libraries were there to check out books, not to buy them. And of course, he's right, as far as the idea goes. But you take a small community with no book stores and a nice library, folks pretty much know where to go to get books. And a lot of them will buy books there, given the chance. I've had some call me when they couldn't make the presentation and say, "I checked your book out of the library and I've just got to have a copy. How do I get one?"

It so happens both my books were published by small publishers, which means the big brick and mortar book stores aren't too eager to carry them. I don't care that much. I figure they'd just get lost in all those thousands of books stacked, piled and filed throughout the Walmart-size store. The biggest problem I'm having is keeping those folks supplied who want copies and miss my appearances in their town. I've settled for a mail-order sideline. I live close to our small community post office so it's not much trouble, and there's never a line, even on April 15.

After a calm few weeks, appearances are picking up again and I'm booking some libraries for the second time. Being a writer involves wearing so many hats. I'm a cold caller to talk folks into having me in their library or place of business, I peddle my books everywhere I go, and speaking is high on the list as well. Promotion in every form is necessary to keep sales up and to make sure everyone who wants a book gets one.

Of course, writing is always a priority. Currently I'm working on a novel and a biography. One is sold, the other has gained a lot of interest from an editor. So talk about multi-tasking. I try to avoid that, by dividing my chores into doable chunks each day. Monday for this, Tuesday for that, and so on. It works out pretty well most of the time. It's an enjoyable life, dealing with characters who live in my mind and all those wonderful real people I meet along the way. I wouldn't trade it for any other profession.

NO SUMMER DOLDRUMS

2010-06-21T14:05:00.000-07:00

The only thing I dislike about hot, lazy summer days is getting dressed. I often joke that if it weren't for clothing summer would be perfect. It's not so bad when I'm home and writing. I can wear as little as possible, but even two tiny? chunks of fabric can be difficult to put on over a sweaty body. Other than that, I'm happy as can be with heat.

Poor hubby, though, suffers greatly. But he has a bigger problem. He has a two-degree comfort zone. Anything above or below those two degrees and he's miserable. He freezes me to death turning on fans in the summer and burns me up raising the thermostat in the winter. I don't think I'm the only woman with this problem. Why is it we weren't all given the same thermostat? Can you guess why our home doesn't have air conditioning?

We travel a lot and we no sooner get inside the motel than he's fiddling with the heater/cooler. Running it up to 80 or down to 60 depending on the weather outside. Why isn't 70 okay year around? Don't ask me. He hasn't let me in on that yet.

I was born suited to live on a south sea island where the weather remains above 70 all the time. Not only do I not like cold weather, I detest wearing layers of clothing. And shoes, don't get me started on shoes. I keep buying them in the hopes I'll find something comfortable or at least tolerable. Flip flops aren't bad, nor are moccasins, but other than those two, I haven't found anything really easy on the old feet. My solution is to go barefoot most of the time, but it's frowned on when going for an interview with an editor or showing up for a television or book store appearance.

Here I sit at my computer writing in a one-piece flimsy, no shoes on my feet. And if that's too much of a visual for you, well I'm sorry.

So come on summertime. Let the sun shine in, face it with a grin. Is it illegal to quote that much of a song?

BLESS INDEPENDENT BOOKSTORES

2010-06-14T12:56:00.000-07:00

This past weekend two independent bookstores hosted me and my new books, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks and Arkansas Meals and Memories. I can't say enough in praise of these few remaining individually owned bookstores. The huge bookstores like Barnes & Noble, Books A Million and the like have all but driven the majority of them out of business. It's a shame because the "indies" offer so much to regional authors with small publishers as well as to readers looking for a bit of old-fashioned enjoyment.

When I arrived at Nightbird Bookstore in Fayetteville, owner Lisa and a helper bounced out the door to help me carry books inside for the signing. I arrived to find chairs set up, a table for my books and a place for me to present my program. As people drifted in, they were greeted and escorted into the well-lit, comfortable area. After talking about the stories and recipes in my two books and reading a bit from each one, I answered questions and we all had a nice visit. Books were purchased and a good time was had by all. Lisa bought some of my books for the store as well. I left feeling special.

The other day I called Barnes & Noble and didn't get any farther than saying I was with a small publisher. Silence was soon followed by a definite NO. "I can't find your books in the computer."

My next signing this weekend was with Trolley Line Bookstore in Rogers owned by Myra and her husband. I met Myra when she attended the free conference our critique group sponsors each year. She heard my friend Radine Trees Nehring and I present an Author's Chat and asked if we would do the program at her bookstore sometime soon. "And make sure and bring your books," she added.

That time was Sunday afternoon. Before the program and signing, Myra treated us to Brunch across the street from her establishment. We then went to a special room in the back of her small store which she had all ready for us. We presented our program, chatting about a writer's life, why we write, where our stories come from and some of the strange things that have happened to us since we began to write.

It was a very pleasant afternoon spent with readers and writers and we enjoyed it so much. Not once did anyone mention our books not being in a computer. They are now on the shelves of two Independent Bookstores in Northwest Arkansas because of these good people who are struggling to keep open despite the stress and competition.

My advice. When you want a book, go to an Independent Bookstore in your area. If they don't have the book, it's my bet they can get it. Meanwhile, you'll enjoy your visit in a friendly, down-home atmosphere.

CATS ARE PEOPLE TOO

2010-06-08T12:53:00.000-07:00

Bobbi came to live with us as a squalling infant. She clawed her way up my shirt and nestled against my neck and began to nurse whatever she could find to suck on. The earlobe proved the most popular. Our daughter brought her from a litter one of her ladies had produced after a wandering huge bobtail cat visited the area catching us unawares. Bobbi inherited her father's bobbed tail, his broad shoulders and his peculiar wild cat walk, but she isn't very big.

That was four years ago in March, the same week our great grandson was born. She immediately took over, scratching her way up four steps the second night, climbing the side of the bed and curling up between us. She soon matched her schedule to ours. What we do she does. When we sleep she sleeps. In the winter she lays in hubby's lap while he reads in the afternoon.

Right away I had to teach her not to play on the keyboard when I'm working. So she searched out another companion, someone with less rules. That was my hubby. They became great pals. He goes out on the deck she is with him, he's in the yard, she is too. If he doesn't go out when she thinks he should she fetches him and talks until he does what she wants. She has favorite games like hiding in the bushes while he walks around calling, "Where's Bobbi? Where's Bobbi?" Then she leaps out.

We had her spayed when she was old enough, but occasionally a male cat will come visiting and try to get his way with her. She comes in and gets my husband to go out and protect her. If he doesn't go to bed when it's time she begins to scold him, walking circles and trotting halfway to the steps then back again.

He rigged the spring on the front screen door so that during the summer she can push it open and go outside, then paw it open to come in. You may have guessed that we don't have air conditioning, living out here in the Ozarks where fans and open windows are much better than being shut up in re-constituted air.

When he goes somewhere and is gone very long, she fetches me and gives me a right good talking to about his absence, then crawls in my lap. A substitute only when he's gone or she's peeved at him about something. When that happens she glares at him from my lap.

Since I work all day at the computer my lap is only available in the evenings, but she'll settle for it under those conditions.

Sometimes she frightens me because I can tell her to go do something and she'll study me a while, then go do exactly what I told her to. Not so with hubby, however, cause he has her so spoiled she doesn't mind him at all. She's done her best to convince me that she's smarter than either of us are. And maybe she is. After all, who feeds who?

MEMORIES OF THOSE WHO SERVED

2010-05-31T11:35:00.000-07:00

Today is a special day for everyone, for it is the time we remember all those who've sacrificed for our country.

Being a history buff, I can't help but go back through our family's past. My husband's dad served in World War I and fought in France. He was a doughboy. He married late in life and my mother-in-law was so young at the time. But together they produced a family of five children, all of whom have lived productive lives. I know very little else about him. He left home at the age of 16 and the only family we ever met was his sister, who coincidentally married and moved to Wichita around the time he did.

On my side of the family, my father, his brothers and several cousins all served in the Navy. The youngest of his brothers, who was 15 when I was born, was aboard the U.S.S. Missouri in the Pacific during the A bomb tests. He died of cancer at the age of 32, the year our son was born. Uncle Al was my favorite uncle , mostly because he lived with us and spoiled me rotten when I was a baby. I still miss the way he always called me Bethie and teased me. My mother saved a large photo of his ship and I still have it.

One of my dad's cousins had his ship sunk and he floated in the Pacific for many days before being rescued. His emotional health was forever compromised. Dad was a radio man on the U.S.S. Attu, a flat-top. His story of the day a Japanese Zero crashed on the deck always fascinated me when I was young. How exciting, I always thought when he told it. Now I realize that there is much more involved than excitement. I was nine years old when the war ended and my dad came home to stay. Mother worked at Boeing, a "Rosie the Riveter" during the war, but she quit when Daddy came home. I remember how all us kids paraded up and down the street where we lived beating on tin pans when the announcement came of the end of the war.

My cousin was on the U.S.S. Enterprise when it laid out of Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. He remembered that day clearly and talked about it often, wondering what had caused the order that kept the Enterprise from being caught in the bombing that destroyed so many ships and killed so many men. I don't think he ever came up with an answer.

Brave men and women continue to serve in wars today, wars that are a far cry from the two world wars. Still, each and every service man deserves our special thoughts on this day. Those who gave their lives and those who fought. Like most everyone I look forward to the day when no more of our men, young and old, are sacrificed to war. But history shows us that the world has never been at peace. Dare we hope that one day it will be?

ADVENTURES IN THE OZARKS

2010-05-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

Well, it finally happened. I got lost with a GPS directing me. It seems that the powers who program those things don't always know precisely where a town is located. St. Paul, which is out on highway 16/23 as it heads toward Huntsville is not there at all but between Crosses and Combs on highway 16. Anyway, that's where we were told it was. There's nothing there but thick woods and a few farms far off the highway.

At any rate, I should've known better. I've been to St. Paul in the distant past, but my brain didn't retain its exact location. Oh, I was on highway 16, but I turned south on 23 rather than continuing on northeast. Returning I decided I really couldn't remember where the small town was located, so we checked daughter's Iphone, which has a GPS on it. As we headed back toward Elkins on 16, it pinged us as being in St. Paul as we passed Crosses.

This is typical of my forays through the Ozarks. Thus the subtitle of my book. For 20 years I've spent a lot of time lost in the Ozarks. Mostly because I have no compass in my head, and that's only the beginning. My daughter Jeri goes with me occasionally, but she's no help at all. Her compass is defective too. However, when I take hubby all is well. If he'll speak up. Sometimes he decides to let me flounder around a while before rescuing me and putting me on the right track. Course he needs a map and it always has to be held with north pointing up, even when we're heading south.

Now, I don't know about you, but I need my map to point the way I'm going, whether it's south, east, west or north. That absolutely unhinges him. "North is on top," he'll insist.

"But that's behind us," I'll retort and you can hear his sigh over the hard wind blowing.

"Turn east up here," he'll say.

Trying the best I can, I flip on the blinker and inevitably I've guessed wrong. The worst part of this scenario is he doesn't know his right from his left. You can imagine the fun we have traveling, as we don't take Interstates, preferring to go by the old back highways.

I tell him turn left and he'll go right every time. It makes for some interesting trips.

Now, daughter Jeri is different. She prefers the GPS, and actually I do too, despite the few times it gets lost. That's why I now have one on the dash of my Mitsubishi, which is too old to have one built in. Courtesy of my kids who chipped in for Christmas.

My biggest problem is thinking I know where something is when I don't. Old Tom Tom can get me out of that, but in doing so I'm sometimes handed another adventure. He takes the closest route, be it narrow winding roads over the mountains or unpaved roads along the edge of a lake. There are lots of those in the Bostons and I've seen places I never knew existed since getting Tom Tom.

But come what may, he can always lead me home cause he knows where that is, and he always says turn left or turn right. Just like it's supposed to be.

NEVER TOO OLD

2010-05-03T15:07:00.000-07:00

Win at OWFI recently

When I was a new writer, I eagerly entered writing contests to get my feet wet. To learn what it was like to compete with my peers and to once in a while come out on top. I'll never forget my first entries. There were three, one was the first chapter of a Western Novel, another was an Essay about Arkansas, and the other was a short story.

One of the greatest surprises of my life was to take a first place in all three at the small conference. I'm sure there wasn't much competition, but I did learn that a well-known and much published author took second to my first in the Western Novel. He was very gracious and gave me a cheek kiss. He is still a best friend after all these years. That was back in the early 90s. That book went on to be published as a Western Romance Novel with Topaz. It was followed by three more before the bottom fell out of that category. Many well known writers continue to be successful, but I didn't get a chance to become a big seller.

During that time I attended romance conferences and met many famous authors. I had the time of my life and experienced some culture shock when dealing with those sexy cover models who courted authors to be chosen for the cover of their next book. I was already well into my 50s while many of them were much younger. But I took it all in stride and look back on those days with fond memories.

Moving into the nonfiction field brought about different experiences, and that's where I've been since 2002. Even though I have 13 short stories published in regional anthologies, I've become a successful nonfiction author. That taught me that to give up when one door closes is foolish.

This year I decided to enter some fiction in a fairly large conference contest just to see how the stories did. One won a first place in the Historical Novel category, so maybe there's hope for me there yet.

A friend of mine told me recently that I should not look at the years left to me as limited, but to continue to pursue whatever dream I have. I'd like to get back in fiction and am still pitching books to editors. Maybe one day one will hit, but if it doesn't I can feel successful and happy with the career I have.

Promoting my new nonfiction books has been so enjoyable because I'm meeting so many wonderful people who enjoy them. I also know writers who are beginning their careers in their 70s and having a wonderful time. That's what's most important, that we enjoy what we are doing.

So I guess it's true that we're never too old.

THE JOY OF SMALL LIBRARIES

2010-04-26T12:22:00.000-07:00

Nearly every small community in the heart of the Bostons has a library. Some are small and cozy, others have a room in which they host special events. These are ideal for holding intimate book signings.

My publisher was surprised that I booked so many libraries when I began my book signing tour. He said, "It looks like to me people who go to libraries would simply check out the book." And some will, I'm sure. However, there's something special about these libraries in that they are the only place where folks can get books. Sadly, there are no book stores remaining in these small towns. The economy and large brick and mortar stores like Barnes & Noble and Books a Million have driven them out of business. Yet these large stores never set foot in these small towns. Their footprint is huge.

So, being an author, I go where I know people expect to find books. And so far the turnout has been wonderful. After we spent an afternoon in the Ozark Library, which I wrote about last week, we've been to several others. Elkins Library sits at the end of a long row of pines behind the senior citizen building and next to city hall. We were welcomed by several patrons already waiting for the library to open up "after hours" for my signing.

Susan Unger says she prefers late evening signings. It allows for more of a turnout. Some folks grabbed a book, had it signed and hurried out to finish their day's chores. Others stayed to reminisce with me about their family's histories. This is the most enjoyable part of signing in such intimate circumstances. The visiting and getting to know other people's family history in Arkansas.

We went on down to Mountainburg a few days later. This small town is situated in a picturesque valley cut lengthwise by Frog Bayou. Clear Creek to the state and county boys. Frog to the people who've lived there for several generations. This is my hometown, the place of birth listed on my birth certificate. However, I was born out in the boonies up by where Lake Ft. Smith state park is today. I still know a lot of the family names, but the faces are no longer familiar.

Sue, the head librarian, had set out a table of munchies in the room next to the book and computer room. Several ladies were already sitting in there, visiting and waiting for me to show up. I'm always early so this is sometimes a surprise to find others already there. We talked about the book and some of the stories I'd discovered, we discussed families that had long lived in the area and I met some folks with familiar names.

Next I'll travel down into the Arkansas River Valley to meet with the Ft. Smith Historical Society. That story next time.

I hope everyone likes the new design of my blog. Isn't it attractive? Thanks to Blogger for the update on templates.

PROMOTING IN THE OZARKS

2010-04-12T08:38:00.001-07:00

Nothing could be more beautiful than spring in the Boston Mountains of the Ozarks. Carmine blossoms of the redbud trees brighten feathery pale green leaves sneaking out to take a look. Buds of dogwood are showing creamy white and the service berry trees add their snow white to the mix. The sky is bluer than seems possible and the air smells of lilac and tulip trees, moist earth and life.

Today, I gather boxes of books and begin touring these mountains to present to readers my efforts at writing down the stories of people who settled here. I will drive south to the county seat of Franklin County, the small river town of Ozark. Nestled against the northeast bank of the Arkansas River, this was once a bustling railroad town. Today the trains fly through on their way somewhere else. A steel bridge carries traffic over the river and into the vast valley.

The pig trail, as highway 23 is known, brings travelers into Ozark from the North, winding its way through the rugged mountains. Many Razorback football fans use this as a cut-through to I 40 on their way to games in Little Rock. Others of us simply drive the narrow winding road because of its breathtaking beauty. It gets its name for more than one reason. Mostly because it follows the lay of the land from where it leaves Highway 16 east of Elkins and heads through the most rugged of the Bostons. It goes the way animals would go, the best route with no consideration for sharp curves and steep inclines.

A part of the highway washed away in some heavy rains last fall, the pavement and tons of rocks cascading into the deep gorge. One lane and eventually the entire highway, was closed for a short time while that portion was rebuilt. Our route, however, for expediency this time, will be south on Scenic Highway 71 to I 40, then east to Ozark. A trip of beauty as well. We used the pig trail last summer to gather information and find the old gold mine, about which I write in my book.

Going south from where we live on the north slopes of the Bostons, we'll find the dogwood in full bloom, joining the redbud to lace the hills in red and white. Greenery is bursting out everywhere. And so I'd better stop this and prepare for the trip. More next time.

Finding Old Home Sites

2010-04-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

In Arkansas, especially here in our Ozarks, it's fairly easy to spot old home-sites, even though the stones and logs of the old structures may have slumped silently into the landscape. One thing remains constant. The flowers that were planted around the homes continue to flourish.

Some of the most popular are jonquils, known locally as Easter flowers, and the small purple and golden old-fashioned iris, called flags by those who put their rizomes in the ground so many generations ago. Here on our place, where we built on the actual foundation and around the stone fireplace of an older house that had been torn down, rows of yellow and purple flags line the fence out back. Golden jonquils like spilled sunshine filled the front yard and ambled off down the hill toward the road. Once we began to mow, we lost those scattered into the yard, but retained those that mark the borders of what we consider the tame section of our property.

Behind the house, beyond the line of jonquils and flags is the wilderness area. It climbs the south slope to the top where the Ozark National Forest butts up to our land.

Other markers are fireplaces and stone curbs that mark water wells. Hand dug by men who spent weeks going deeper and deeper into the soil until they hit a strong spring, these wells have survived many decades. Beware if you venture into the woods. For at one time home places were everywhere, in places no longer marked by roads. Perhaps the vestige of ruts along a bench, but nothing more. And some of these wells have no curbs. Their mouths lie open and in wait for the unwary hiker.

If you spot the jonquils and flags, you can pretty well be assured you're on an old home-site. Take care as you investigate that you don't end up tumbling into one of these open wells.

We had a dreadful scare once years ago when we were younger and spent a lot of time hiking in the woods. We came upon a home-place and one of these open wells. As we leaned carefully forward to check it out, a slice of sunlight caught something bobbing on the surface of the crystal clear water. Blonde hair floated from the small figure and I'm sure my daughter and I squealed in terror. Fearful it was the body of a baby, one of the men got a long pole and moved it around enough that we could see it was a child's doll. Our hearts didn't slow down for a long while as we considered the dire possibilities.

Jonquils begin to bloom in late February and continue as long as the weather remains cool. As you drive the Boston Mountain countryside in the early spring you'll spot huge beds of golden jonquils where nothing else appears. You're looking at a spot where someone once lived. A family who raised their children, who plowed the land and planted food. Women who cared enough for beauty that they set out these bulbs to mark where they had been. The blossoms today are like special markers of a different time, of lives well and courageously lived in this rugged wilderness I call home.

RECIPE FROM MEALS AND MEMORIES

2010-03-22T12:03:00.000-07:00

Here's one of the 150 recipes included in my book, Arkansas Meals and Memories: Lift Your Eyes to the Mountains. You may have to wait until your garden grows many of these prolific black-green squash before trying it out, but it's delicious.

Zucchini Pancakes

3 c grated un-peeled zucchini, pressed dry between paper towels

4 T grated onion

½ c flour

4 T mayonnaise

salt and pepper

½ c Parmesan cheese

4 eggs

½ t oregano

Mix all ingredients, fry in light oil, using 2 heaping T per pancake. Serve with sour cream or

sweetened clabber. Serves 4 to 5.

If any of my readers don't know what clabber is, I'm sorry for you. I remember eating it by the bowl-full at my aunts. One takes rich milk right from the cow before the cream is separated, sits it out on the counter until it turns solid. Watch so that it doesn't go sour on you. When it's solid, sprinkle with a bit of sugar/cinnamon and eat with a spoon. Delicious. Milk you buy in the store will not make decent clabber.

Or use it as you would sour cream. Those days were so different from the way we live today. Not only the way of life, how we dressed, our entertainment, travel, work ethics, etc., but the way we prepared and ate foods.

I'm speaking of growing up in the Arkansas Ozarks during the Great Depression. Today we see haunting photographs of people standing in line at soup kitchens and "bread lines." Journalists took photos of women, thin and unsmiling; small children dirty and hungry; lines of cars heading west to California to escape the terrible dust bowl that occurred while the country was deep in that Depression.

No one came to our house to take my photo. We lived in a small log cabin in the Ozarks. My father built it, there was a beautiful rock fireplace that pierced the blue sky and a porch facing the valley below. We had food because we grew it. We had no money because there was no work. My mother washed clothes in a large iron kettle down at the bottom of the hill where the well was. Under that kettle a fire was built and she drew buckets of water from the well to fill it. She carried the clothes back up the hill along with my brother and I. There she ironed all the clothes with two or three flat-irons (they were literally that because they were made of iron) that she kept hot on the wood cookstove.

My aunt told me after I was grown that she never saw me in a dirty dress. My clothes were always clean and ironed even when I was sent out to play. Where were those photographers then? Oh, I have pictures. None of them show my mother and father looking gaunt and haunted. Though some of their memories may have been tough ones, they told many wonderful stories about their adventures in those days.

In 1930, when he was 16, my dad came to Arkansas with his dad to blast out rock to build Jefferson Highway, which is now Highway 71. After my parents married he planted a garden using a mule to pull the plow. He dug fence post holes in return for whatever we might need like coal oil for lamps, shoes and the like. He also became a good barber and bartered that talent as well. After the Depression lightened, he got jobs laying rock and walked several miles to and from work each day.

I asked my mother once what it was like to be that poor. She said, "We didn't realize we were poor. Everyone we knew lived the same way we did. It was a way of life and we had a lot of fun."

My mother was one of the best cooks I've ever known, as were my aunts, who lived the same way we did. They learned how to make-do with very little in the way of spices and fancy condiments. All they had were fresh vegetables and fruits from the garden, beef, pork and chicken they'd raised themselves, fresh eggs, fresh churned butter, buttermilk, milk. Their biscuits were scrumptious. My mother continued to can garden produce until the summer before her death at the age of 84. She also pieced and quilted quilts, one winter finishing a dozen of them which she sold at the local craft outlet. She could crochet so fast you couldn't see the needle and I never saw her sit down without work of some kind in her hands.

I've shared many of her authentic Boston Mountain recipes collected over the years in my cookbook, Arkansas Meals and Memories. I've also written there many of the memories of growing up in the Ozarks back then.

The book is ready for pre-ordering now at Amazon. This link will take you right to the book: or you can check my schedule of appearances on Facebook and stop by and pick up a signed copy, along with one of The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks.

A LOST COMMUNITY

2010-03-15T11:49:00.000-07:00

Tatum Springs with the Gourd Dipper

Last week's video showed the modern spring, this photo is much older and some of the story is shared below.

Middle Fork Valley

A drive north from Winslow on 71 highway, and an east turn on 74 leads into the Middle Fork Valley of the White River. The state highway soon becomes county road 43, winding through many historic settlements. Alongside the paved road, Greasy Creek flows, twisting and turning so that I cross the chattering stream several times. At about 8.4 miles a bridge spans the Middle Fork of the White River which has flowed in from the south. But before that I make a few stops.

Tatum Springs/Arnett

Where the spring never stops flowing

Tatum Springs is located 5.4 miles off Highway 71. To the left, on a steep incline above the road, a rock basin traps the constant flow of crystal clear water that bubbles from an underground spring year round. Not in anyone’s memory has it stopped running, winter or summer. Sometime in the past someone installed pipes to route the water downhill from the old spring

house and a smaller reservoir to the large holding tank near the road. Several feet deep and icy cold, the water has provided sustenance for centuries.

This never-ending spring was once a favorite spot for the Cherokee to camp long before their removal to Oklahoma. During the war troops regularly watered there, as did travelers.

Later Claude Tatum settled on the place. On the side of the hill he built a rock spring house to cool their food. Their home sat on a rise above the spring and road. It’s gone now.

The spring once supplied water for the Arnett Canning Factory, which was moved there from Durham because of the abundance of water. The huge barn across the road is all that’s left of the cannery. There farmers sold crops such as tomatoes and beans. And every spring pickup loads of poke were hauled in for canning. The factory closed down in 1936.

Claude Tatum had a rule that there had to be a gourd dipper or tin cup at the spring so travelers could stop and take a drink. Carl Richardson, who bought the property from Tatum, remembers when he was a kid and there were flowers all over that hill. “It was a beautiful place. I always wished I had some pictures of that.”

Richardson says the original owners of the land was the Stout family. Early stories, however, indicate that Alex White may have homesteaded there first. The old house was built of logs

and if you stood at the spring and looked up to the left you could see it nearly covered up in vines.

This is an excerpt from my latest book THE BOSTON MOUNTAINS: Lost in the Ozarks. It is only a part of the story of Tatum Springs which traces the Stouts and stories of the Tatums and their family. There are hundreds of such stories within its pages.

The photo is one of 137 to be found in the book, some dating back into the 1800s. This is not a history book, but a book that shows the history of the people who tamed this rugged land; stories of their hopes and dreams, their sorrow and happiness.

WRITERS MAKE FINE COMPANY

2010-03-08T13:18:00.000-08:00

Recently, I attended an all-day quarterly meeting of Ozarks Writers League, which is held south of Branson at the College of the Ozarks. I've been a member of this organization almost as long as I've been writing. Only occasionally do I miss one of the meetings, for these gatherings are much more than meetings. These scheduled programs present writers, editors, agents, photographers and other creative people who give workshops and share what they've learned about our crazy business.

It was here that I first learned how generous writers are in sharing what they know. There is never a feeling of competition, but rather the idea that we're all in this together and we can make it easier on each other by simply lending a helping hand when it's needed. Here I first met Jory Sherman, an Ozarks writer whose book publishing credits are in the hundreds. This man is probably one of the most generous writers I've ever met. He's always ready to give a helping hand to the rest of us, whether it's contacting an editor who's holding on to our manuscript or sharing the name of one. Another, who has remained a "buddy" since the earliest days, is Dusty Richards, who now is two books away from 100 published western novels. At that time, he, like I, was just getting started. We soon learned we were both from Northwest Arkansas, and that eventually led to us beginning a writer's group that still functions today.

My first meeting at OWL, I was alone and not sure if I even belonged in such an organization with so many published writers. I carried my lunch in a paper sack and drove over in my old station wagon. It was the 80s, and if you remember, money was quite scarce back then, at least for us here in Arkansas. I was writing a novel and a weekly column in three local weekly newspapers, and not sure where I was going or how I would get there. It wasn't long until I learned from these generous people and within a few years I found myself on the podium sharing what I knew about breaking into the business. They trusted me to teach them. My first speaking gig, so to speak, and there I learned how to stand in front of a crowd and speak without sweating or stuttering.

For the past few years I've held two writing workshops each year. These are hosted by Ozark Folkways, the organization that got me started in writing so many years ago when the manager asked me to write profiles of Ozark Crafts people for three newspapers. That meager beginning led me not only to a permanent job with a local newspaper, but convinced me that I could write for pay. What we call Free Lance Writing.

Those workshops have become very important to me, because of the writers who attend them. And each time one of them succeeds I celebrate with them. This brings me back to OWL and the woman I met there in February. It was not my first meeting with her. She had attended one of my workshops and there became convinced that she could write the book she'd always wanted to write. At OWL, she sat behind a table filled with books, a huge smile on her face. Frankie Carlin Meyer, one of my workshop attendees had produced her first book, and it's a beautiful work. It's called Bushwhackers, Visions, Star-Crossed Lovers, and she told me it's because of me and my class that she produced the book. It must be quite a book, because she's already sold 500 copies. You writers all know that's quite a feat with a self-published book.

Nothing could make me feel better than such a success. In fact, I'm so pleased I asked her to bring her book to my next workshop and tell of her success. She told me when she came to my class she never dreamed she could do such a thing. "But you convinced me," she added. I couldn't be happier for her.

I'm going to upload a video to this post that has very little to do with my subject matter. It was taken at one of the places I visited in writing my latest book which is going to press as I write this. There is audio with the video, and the full history of Tatum Springs is in my book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks. I hope you enjoy it.

SECOND BOOK ON ITS WAY

2010-03-01T12:52:00.000-08:00

For the past few weeks I've written about the upcoming release of my book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks. Recently the publisher of a second book, Arkansas Meals and Memories: Lift Your Eyes to the Mountains, let me know that it will be out April 1. Like that title? My good friend and inspirational writer, Linda Apple helped with the co-title. It's from Psalm 21: Lift Up Thine Eyes to the Mountains and helped us place the recipes in the mountains of Arkansas rather than farther south where recipes are a bit different.

You can imagine that I'm overjoyed to have both Ozark books coming out at the same time. It will make promotion and sales so much easier. Maybe.

A recipe book was something I never thought I'd write, but when Steven Anderson, acquisitions editor for Goldminds Publishing in Springfield, MO, approached me at a conference and asked if I could do one about the Boston Mountains that included stories of growing up in the Bostons, I couldn't say no. Who would?

The first step was to gather all my mother's recipes, a huge collection she'd had since she was a young girl and find the ones that originated around the area where she grew up. She also had so many from friends from other countries that it called for a lot of checking. Fortunately, she always wrote who gave her the recipe if it was something personal. Others she clipped were simply stapled to pages of her recipe books. Without knowing it, she'd made the task somewhat easier for me.

Most of them I was familiar with having enjoyed eating them at one time or another while growing up. Others dated back to my great-grandmother and had no measurements. A chocolate cake, for instance, called for enough cocoa to make cake of proper consistency. I never did get that one to turn out, so didn't include it. Another I was pleased to include. It was my grandmother's wedding cake, which she baked herself. These are all authentic, but can be changed to suit today's ingredients. Like shortening or oil in place of lard as an example. I also collected some from friends living in the Bostons today.

The next step was getting someone to check each recipe to make sure the ingredients made sense. Like I hadn't maybe transposed 1/2 t to 1/2 c baking soda. Or sugar to salt, that sort of thing. I was fortunate to have someone in our writer's group, Becky McCall, who not only loved to cook, she loved to read recipes. It seems there are some women who read them like I might read a novel, for the sheer enjoyment. She checked everything over for me after I'd given it all a final look.

Gathering the stories was the easiest part, since that's what I do. Collect family stories. I remembered many my Dad had told, some from my mother, then my own recollections of my younger days growing up in the Ozarks. Daddy was a natural-born storyteller, but some didn't suit the book, if you know what I mean. He could get a little rowdy sometimes. He's the one who first interested me in writing about my cousin Edna. The stories later became the book, Fly With The Mourning Dove, which was a finalist in the 2008 WILLA Literary Awards. I wonder if he ever thought that his tales would prompt his gawky daughter's writing. I'd like to think he'd be proud.

The editor of the cookbook wanted photos too, since I had so many old ones to offer. My biggest concern was that I might inadvertently use some of the same pictures as those we'd put in the other book. It has 137 photos, so there was that possibility. I could easily duplicate without knowing it. Again, double checking was called for.

The best story to my notion is about the time my uncle, who was fifteen when I was born, and lived with us for a while, decided he wanted to raise honey bees to make extra money. My Dad had told the story, and so I decided to tell it in his words. That one was a lot of fun, and in some places necessitated some creativity for the dialog. But creative nonfiction is something I've done quite a bit of, so I didn't really have trouble there.

Now that the books are ready to come out, I have copies of the covers, which I'm told may be tweaked a bit more yet. I'm including them in this blog without the tweaks.

HANGING IN THERE BRINGS RESULTS

2010-02-15T08:42:00.000-08:00

More years ago than I care to admit, I had an idea for a biography about a local woman whose life fascinated me. She accomplished so much in a time when women were expected to stay home and raise their children. Her life was not at all easy, and she suffered heartbreaking losses, but she continued her struggle to improve her existence.

I wrote three chapters and a proposal. I wanted to write it as what was then known as fictional biography. In other words, it would read like a novel, and I felt would attract more readers. At the time I had written several historical romances all based on some historical happenings. No matter where I tried to market this book, no one wanted it. They said it would not have a large readership because she was not well known.

To me, the book was every bit as exciting as any of my historical romances, so I couldn't understand their thinking. After all, no one knew my fictional characters. One publisher suggested that I write a nonfiction book about her and include three other Arkansas women who were important to history. That would have meant her story would have to be pared down. I didn't want to do that, so eventually I put it away.

Last week, my new publisher, Old American Publishing, told me they would like the book if I wanted to finish it. In their words, "Home town biographies, for the most part, are part of a large, untapped market." I am thrilled. Now, as I get into the promotion of my latest book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks, I can get busy and finish the biography, which today will be classified as creative nonfiction. I'm calling it Summit Home, which is the name of the remote stage stop that becomes a railroad boomtown a few years before Maud moves there with her family when she is 14. I don't know if I can keep that title, or not.

It is thrilling when a publisher tells you that you are professional and they want to continue to work with you. I'm grateful to them for taking a chance on this book. Together I know we can promote this book and sell enough copies for it to be profitable for them.

Hey, maybe they'll want my own memoir someday. It's called Snakes, Tigers and Flying Machines and covers my nine years working for a small, rural newspaper, plus the things that happened to bring me to that place in my life where I could enjoy such a career after half-a-century of living.

SECRET HOUSE HIDDEN SINCE 1977

2010-02-08T11:53:00.000-08:00

The Red Cross in the stone left of the front door of the house. Photos courtesy of Doug and Janet Crouch. Above is an interior shot of the large home.

A good friend and writing buddy, Lois Kleinsasser, suggested that I write about some of my traipses into the woods, and this one is not only interesting, but it uncovered a secret kept from the public since 1972. I've been asked not to reveal where this house is located, but I can tell the story, told to me by the son of the owner.

It began when some Arkansas natives, now living in Texas, called and asked me to meet them at the local Craft Outlet. They had some stories to tell and pictures to show me. I'm always happy when readers of my weekly column in the White River Valley News get in touch. I met them and they told me some good stories and shared some photos, some of which appear in my new book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks.

However, one of the stories they shared with me did not appear in the book. A few weeks before our meeting I had written an article about a mysterious house in the Middle Fork Valley of the White River here in Arkansas. I couldn't find it, but a reader had told me about it. Known as the "Red Cross House," the abandoned place had long ago disappeared in the jungle like growth typical here in our Ozarks. It's always been said that if you left your home in the Ozarks country for one year without a caretaker, when you returned it would be completely overgrown by vines, brambles and persimmon sprouts.

Well, I wrote to my readers asking if any of them knew about this mysterious Red Cross House. Some calls told me stories I could write, but still did not pinpoint the house so that I could actually find it. My Texas readers went in search of that house while they were here. He remembered it from childhood. When they found it, they sent me several photos. I now know it's exact location but will not to reveal it because of the problems the family might have with vandalism. Here is the final, true story of this mysterious house.

Kavin Harris is the son of Dean Harris, grandson of Homer Harris and great-grandson of Josie Harris. After reading my column, he spoke to his father Dean and this is the story he related. He shot down some of the stories told to me. That a famous general in the Civil War was killed at the house; that it was built as a school or hospital, thus the Red Cross formed in the rock structure; that another family once lived there. Kavin said that a general didn’t get killed at the house and that it was built for a home for the Harris family and non other had ever resided there. He went on to explain how the cross in the style of today’s red cross came to be on the front of the rock house.

But let’s begin at the beginning of Kavin’s story. He wrote that when Josie and Britton Harris returned from New Mexico, they bought the land where the house stands. Once they purchased the land they had the house built. The person laying the rock mentioned to Britton that he was thinking about putting a red cross on the house.

Britton replied, “You’re laying the rock so you do whatever you want.”

It seems that Josie and Britton Harris had twin sons, Homer and Harold. Some time later Josie and Britton split up and he returned to New Mexico, while Josie remained in the house. When their son Homer married Ella Shumate they were given some land up on the hill behind the Harris place by her mother Cora Shumate. There was a cabin on the place and that’s where Dean was born. When he was somewhere between 8-10 years old Josie’s health began to fail and she went to live with her son Harold and his wife Marie until her death.

At that time Homer and Ella and their children moved into the red cross house where they lived until their deaths. Ella passed away in 1972 and Homer in 1977. The house has been vacant since that time. They are buried along with Josie at Whitehouse Cemetery. Dale Lewis and Wayne Lewis were half-brothers to his father, Dean.

The red cross is fashioned of rock on one side of the front door. There is another rock of the same size on the opposite side of the front door with the house builder’s name and date the house was built. Kavin did not know that date, but we had an earlier report earlier that it was built in the early 1900s. He wants to check it out as soon as the weather permits, and will let me know the date on that other stone.

I was reasonably sure that the house wasn't built during the Civil War with the red cross emblem, since use of the red cross symbol in this country did not come about until the founding of that organization by Clara Barton in 1881 here in the United States. It was, however, used overseas during World War I to identify medical vehicles, personnel and field hospitals.

I have since driven to the location and from the road there is no sign of a house, though it's not but maybe 25-feet off the pavement.

WITHROW SPRINGS STATE PARK

2010-02-05T12:41:00.000-08:00

Withrow was once a community with a water driven mill placed near where this video was taken. Richard Withrow founded the settlement when he built the mill. Like most places where mills were built, a small community soon grew up there. Today there is no sign of that community, but the lovely small park attracts campers, fishermen and locals who want to visit the serene locale.

Richard's story and that of the small settlement are told in The Boston Mountains: Lost In The Ozarks, coming out in March.

DR. CARTER HELD MANY JOBS

2010-02-02T12:20:00.000-08:00

John C. Carter was first a medical doctor. On the left is his office, and to the far left is John C. Carter. Later he became a storekeeper, establishing the only store between Hazel Valley, Arnett and White House. There are some of his adventures in my upcoming book The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks. The settlement went under various names: Carter Store, then Carter's Store, and finally simply Carter. Zion cemetery is located about two miles north. The following is a story that didn't make it into the book. It was shared with me by the Terry family, who had visited Arkansas and conducted research on their family.

Clark Henderson Terry and Tabitha Jane Long were married on 16 November 1856, at Carter

Store, Arkansas. This marriage was witnessed by Jessie and John Long, Tabitha J. Long’s

brothers. A Baptist minister by the name of Riley Jones performed the ceremony. Riley and his family are buried at Zion Cemetery.

When viewing their marriage certificate it was not apparent whether Carter Store was a store or a Township. With the aid of computers and the internet, Terry family genealogists determined

Carter Store was a Township in Arkansas during the last half of the 1800’s. This small

Township, located on the Middle Fork of the White River, consisted of a general store, post

office, blacksmith shop, and a few farm houses. None of these crude structures remain there today, yet each spring jonquils bloom on the home sites, their sunny blooms nodding in the warm spring breezes. If we listen, we can hear the voices of those who once carried on their fruitful lives in these remote mountains.

It was July 1875 when Dr. John C. Carter established the general store that later served as a post office. He probably realized it would be a successful business, since there were no others for miles in any direction. Dr. Carter also erected a 2-story house south of the store, and built an office west of the road across the road from the store. Though he ran the store, he also carried on a busy medical practice. The office was built over a spring which came from the east bank of the Middle Fork River. The Doctor’s store and office were still standing in 1965. How he came about the land is expanded upon in my book.

A blacksmith shop operated by Ben F. Johnson was located north and across the road from the

store and south of the Seth T. Mills farm.

On 29 October 1986 Dr. Carter’s office was moved to the Shiloh Museum in Springdale,

Arkansas, and is being cared for by the museum.

Our Northwest Arkansas Writers Workshop met there a couple of times, but the building proved much too small for our growing group and we had to move elsewhere.

Geneva Lee Smith Long lives in Hazel Valley in the cabin her husband Gene Long restored. It was originally built on the banks of the Gene Long Branch by his great-grandfather in 1815. Enormous sycamore shade the yard and house, their plate-sized leaves singing in harmony with the tumbling creek. Gene was born there and he passed away while living there. Geneva continues to live in the cabin and a daughter lives nearby.

She gave the Terry's more information when they visited her. She told them how to find Carter Store township. Find the White House Cemetery on South, White House Road, and go 2 miles to the North to the Ben Hicks residence, at 12488 South White House Road, They followed Geneva’s instructions and met Ben and Reathel Hicks.

To the Terry's delight, Ben Hicks said that Riley Jones was his great-grandfather. He had no photos because his house had burned. He rebuilt a new house on the same location as the old Carter house. They were delighted to find a very old forked tree standing next to where Carter's Store once stood. No doubt, they wished that old tree could talk, for the scenes it had witnessed would make for some fine storytelling.

THE LITTLE LOG SCHOOLS

2010-01-25T11:27:00.000-08:00

Carrie Alexander

Some of the first public schools in Washington County, Arkansas, were located in and around Fayetteville. District #1 was contracted in 1871 and finished in 1886. It had six classrooms, two large rooms 24 feet by 60 feet, three floors and a 12 foot cupola, topped by a flag staff 15 feet high.

But let's journey backward in time from that accomplishment to the first "little log schoolhouses," the one-room schools where settlers first began to educate their children. Many of these date back to the earliest settlement in 1828. Sadly there are no records other than memories recorded in family letters and journals, for these were not public, but rather subscription schools. And we will never know how many or where they were.

However, we can make some pretty good guesses. To do this, I go back to a book written by the retired school teachers in Washington County. Though their writings tell of the district schools established from 1871 in the county, most of these schools replaced the earlier subscription schools. And from their memories of schools that existed in these small settlements many years earlier, we can place most of these subscription schools.

Let's take, for instance, Woolsey School, District #3, located three miles south of West Fork. This one-room clapboard school opened in 1885, but the book tells me that there was a school there in 1871 when the districts were first designated. Therefore, I can be pretty sure this was a subscription school and it had probably been there since soon after the settlement of this particular community. The new school was christened Liberty School, and had one room in which eight grades were taught.

In the list of teachers, I find Jewell Caudle, Pauline Karnes Brock, Eunice Loftin, Johnny Ryan, Irene Carrigan, Carrie Alexander and Amanda Bassett.

The Alexanders were one of the first six families to settle in the Fayetteville area after the Indian Removal of 1828, and down through the years we find young women with that family name teaching in many of the one-room schools in Washington County. If you recall from earlier stories, Black Oak cemetery, where so many of these early founders are buried, was abandoned and lost to all but a few until two women came along to right that wrong.

If we move on to information on Son's Chapel, District #4, we read: "During the territorial and statehood history prior to the Civil Ward, educational programs for the children of Arkansas were largely church sponsored or done on a subscription basis." It wasn't until 1867, following the end of the Civil war that the State Legislature passed an Act providing for a system of taxation in support of public schools.

The many communities scattered all over the counties in the Northern Boston Mountains all had schools. One of the first buildings that went up once folks had their homes established was a combination church and school which also served as a community building. There are so many stories about these schools and the children, how they were educated and how dear their memories of those days are.

Most of the one-room schools were built of logs, they had no window glass but hung quilts over the windows to keep out the cold. Some had wooden shutters that could be closed, a duty students were eager to fulfill. The earliest schools had a mud fireplace in one end. If they had a toilet, it was outside. One for girls, one for boys, some reportedly had as many as five seats inside. Desks were made of split logs, and if they had a slate and marker they were lucky.

Often students came from two or three large families who paid $1 per student per term. The teacher was usually an eighth grade graduate. But in the earliest days, one of the male town members who had a decent education served as the teacher. It wasn't until much later that women were allowed to teach. Girls sixteen years old could qualify by going to Ft. Smith to take the test and passing it.

After the railroad came through in 1882, those school districts which the railroad passed through became rather well off from the taxes collected and they could afford bought'n desks and the proper books. Even then, most labor and land for the school was donated by settlers. Usually, teachers boarded with a nearby family because traveling to and from their distant home was too arduous.

So many people have shared their stories with me and I in turn eagerly share them with my readers, spending many years recording and writing about the lost communities, the families who settled there and events that continue to shape our lives today. History establishes that we belong, and that's why I've spent the past 25 years prodding at the minds of those who know the old stories and will tell them.

The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks shares all those stories and some new ones as well. It will launch from the heart of the Bostons at the Visitor's Center at Lake Ft. Smith State Park on April 18. I hope you'll join me there for some of my personal stories.

COLE YOUNGER'S SISTER

2010-01-18T11:54:00.000-08:00

Continuing with photos not in my book, The Boston Mountains: Lost in the Ozarks, here's one of the home of the sister of a most famous outlaw. After Cole Younger went to prison for the big bank robbery in Minnesota, he sent a message to his sister by an aunt who visited him in prison. The message is included in the book, as well as where this house is located.

His sister married a man by the name of Duncan and moved onto the mountain. The aunt who carried the message to her had never been to Arkansas. Was she ever in for a shock when she took the St. Paul Branch of the Frisco railroad into the remote wilderness of Madison County. The trip by wagon to the top of the mountain liked to shook out her gizzard. If she hadn't made the promise to Cole, she would've turned back before even stepping up onto that springboard wagon. Her story was published in Wild West Magazine back in the Seventies.

I've been to the top of Pinnacle Mountain on the road that probably hasn't changed one iota since Cole's aunt traveled it. Though we were in a car, I might as well have been in the wagon, in fact might have been better off. It took us 45 minutes to make the 8 miles or so to the ranch where Dick Courteau raises American Saddle Horses.

The Duncan house was "off over yonder," pointing across the Boston peaks that lay at our feet plumb to the horizon. We didn't go over there, but this photo was furnished to me. It didn't make it into the book, but the story did, as well as Dick Courteau's, one of the rare remaining genuine mountain cowboys.

Oh, the message the aunt carried? It's in the book due out in March.