John Otto and the Colorado National Monument by Sandra Crowley

Who could resist this striking beauty?

John Otto with spyglass. Recently erected in downtown Grand Junction.

John Otto couldn’t. In 1906, he arrived in Grand Junction, Colorado which sits at the confluence of the Gunnison River and the Grand River, renamed the Colorado River in 1921.

Atop CNM looking north across Grand Valley to the Bookcliff range.  

John spent most of the next twelve months exploring the mesas and plateaus that protect the city’s thirty-mile arcing valley home. Uncompahgre Plateau forms Grand Valley’s southern boundary. Its north-facing, sandstone strata rim drops toward the Colorado River in wild, winding canyons with soaring monoliths. This area seemed to speak to John’s soul the most. He thought all the world should experience it the way he did. Determined to make that possible, the eccentric recluse used pick and shovel to carve trails he envisioned visitors using along with him and his two burros, Foxie and Cookie.

His desire to gain National Park designation originally included Grand Mesa, Riggs Hill, the current Colorado National Monument, and McInnis Conservation area between the Monument and the Utah border. His choice of name was Monument Park. To attain this goal, John discarded his solitude in favor of any opportunity to publicize his beloved canyons, like an interview with a reporter and photographer, meeting public representatives, even conducting tours up and down the trails he’d broken to showcase such sights he’d patriotically named Independence Monument and Liberty Cap. Fundraising campaigns, petitions, editorials and letters to Washington politicians won more and more supporters.

On May 24, 1911, President William Taft added the Colorado National Monument to the park system. Smaller than the tireless eccentric had labored for and designated as a monument rather than a park; the thirty-two square miles of stunning grandeur was nevertheless open and preserved for an admiring public.

Coke Ovens

John Otto served as the new attraction's first custodian. And, on June 20, he married Boston artist Beatrice Farnham at the base of Independence Monument. John’s departure from a solitary life was short lived. His wife found the austere reality, and possibly his irascible behavior, far from her romantic idea of their life together. A few weeks after the ceremony, she left. "I tried hard to live his way, but I could not do it, I could not live with a man to whom even a cabin was an encumbrance."

John stayed, living in a tent and working within the monument’s boundaries at a salary of one dollar a month for sixteen years. One of his first accomplishments as a park ranger was the perilous four-hundred-fifty-foot ascent of Independence Monument. He laboriously hand drilled holes into the rock, hammering pipes into the narrow openings to create a ladder to the summit. There, he hoisted an American flag to celebrate Flag Day and Independence Day.

Independence Monument

Otto’s Route uses “Indy’s” broad northwest face and south ridge in four pitches that offer varied climbing techniques on mostly solid rock. It’s the easiest of Colorado’s classic climbs and the easiest of the Colorado Plateau’s major towers. However, don’t let those descriptions lure you into thinking it’s a route for novice climbers. The climb’s dangerous and tricky parts require experience at leading, placing gear, routefinding, multi-pitch climbing, and rappelling.  

John’s peculiar attitudes finally placed him out of favor with local authorities. He retired from park service and headed for California.

His legacy was shouldered by hundreds of young men--the CivilianConservation Corps. The CCC provided employment for young men, ages 18-25, in relief families who had difficulty finding jobs during the Great Depression. Paid thirty dollars a month in contrast to Otto’s one, the pay was almost equalized by the automatic sending of twenty-five to each man’s parents. President Roosevelt’s program also implemented a general natural resource conservation program in every state and territory.

Today, thousands of hikers, bicyclists, and motorists enjoy the Colorado National Monument. All owe a debt of gratitude to John Otto’s vision and perseverance.

If you want to learn more about both John Otto and the Colorado National Monument, the USGS offers an absorbing write up on the geologic story of the area.

I hope you enjoyed this glimpse into my backyard. Here's where the shameless plug occurs for my contemporary romantic suspense, CAUGHT BY A CLOWN -- a spontaneous freelance journalist on a mission of mercy gets entangled in the case of a methodical undercover agent out to settle a score.

Visit my website at www.sandracrowley.com for more info--like CAUGHT BY A CLOWN is available in both paperback and ebook and can be purchased at Amazon as well as many other online sites. VBG

Thank you,
Sandra Crowley

Escape with Me, by Sandra Crowley

Have you ever worked too hard for too long and awakened to a ditto day compounded with a bad case of “Don’t want to!”?

Sucker!

                   

That was me a short time ago. I had mimicked the methodical, responsible hero, David Graham, in my romantic suspense novel, Caught by a Clown, far too long.

It was time to flip sides and exercise a bit of the book's heroine, spontaneous, fun-loving Stacie Monroe. I stepped outside my bedroom door, curled dew-drenched toes in long grass, battled the impulse to add mowing to my day’s work, and inhaled crisp fresh air. Freedom, relaxation lay a few feet away.

I opted for a fresh adventure.

Bottled water and lunch packed, I drove higher to an area I hadn’t explored yet. Late blooming wild flowers colored an inviting meadow. Bees buzzed busy, zigzag flights bloom to bloom, unmindful of my intrusion or the clackety-whirr of grasshoppers that enhanced their name with short aerial feats. Was each of these insects laboring through a Mother Nature imprinted TO DO list made all the more imperative by shorter days and cooler temps?

This one flew in last year to see how I lived.

A Mountain Blue Bird flitted past. Wing feathers caught the sun’s rays in iridescent flashes that flicked my guilt at playing hookey.  

 

I pulled a deep breath and set my gaze and feet wandering the meadow. Bits of red scattered across the ground captured my attention. Strawberry vines criss-crossed dirt and stone. Their tough tangle tripped me as if to say, “Stop a minute. Enjoy my fruit. It’s tiny but flavorful.” Four legged critters had thinned the pea-sized morsels to a bare handful that I quickly discovered rivaled any plump farmed variety. Concepts of duty and responsibility dropped away as nature’s sweetness lingered on my tongue and sunshine warmed my face. I struck out across a thin track the meadow’s grazers had left behind. The chilly shelter of Ponderosa Pines foretold autumn’s shorter, cooler days. I explored the deep timber. Scents of pine and loam thickened the air as I ducked branches and climbed over deadfalls. In a small clearing ahead, a golden glow graced the ground within a patch of sunshine. I’d stumbled onto a prize of Golden Chanterelle Mushrooms.

Yum. Yum. This treasure was destined for a date with a sauté pan, butter, garlic and onion.  I gathered the funnel shaped fungus, brushing pine needles and woody loam away from the smooth caps whose gill like ridges ran almost all the way down the stipes. High in Vitamins C & D as well as potassium, my treasure would turn into a healthy dinner. To be certain, I broke open a few to compare against the poisonous Jack-O’-Lantern, whose interior flesh is yellow-orange rather than the true Chanterelle’s white meat.



Professional quality pic of Jack O' Lantern mushrooms courtesy of Wikipedia

I stored my find in my vest pockets and rinsed my hands in a nearby stream. The gliding water’s throaty murmur lured me along its path far from civilization.

Further on, the stream quickened:

You can see from the shaky camera work that it was time to head back. Refreshed, relaxed, I returned home with the anticipation of the golden chanterelles titillating my taste buds.

I hope the last few minutes have given you a bit of the peace I enjoyed that day. We all need a change of scenery or activity once in a while. That’s an underlying theme in my romantic suspense, Caught by a Clown, available in paperback and ebook at The Wild Rose Press, Amazon Books, Amazon Kindle and others.

Thank you,
Sandra Crowley

www.sandracrowley.com

Sandra Crowley, Romantic Suspense Author

Hi y’all, I usually don’t yak about myself, but I’ll make an exception for this post. Hopefully, you won’t regret it.

Many of you may already know I spent a good deal of my childhood moving with my family. The constant change of environments and schools--thirteen in twelve years--taught me “home” isn’t necessarily defined by a location or the length of time spent there; it can be a state of mind nurtured by those who love each other. I believe that conviction flavors the stories I write.

Instead of boring you with a list of places we lived, learning which I believe impacted me most and why might interest you more. We had always lived in town until we moved to Oregon. We still lived on a street lined side by side by side with houses, yet who could resist the outdoor pleasures of an area called Treasure Valley?  It was there I fell in love with mountains and the wildness that offered me peace at the same time it demanded strength of body and soul. Riding horses became an extension of that for me. I wish I’d had opportunities to explore the high country more often from the back of a quarter horse during those years. But, now, that latent regret encourages me to seize each opportunity to saddle up and follow a narrow trail through alpine grasses, tall trees, or strike across country with only a cold stream or maybe a craggy peak to guide me.   

Treks like that, where experience, faith and trust carry one along, are what love is all about.

The love I treasure with my husband of many years sets up Texas as the place with the greatest impact on my adult life because it’s my husband’s birthplace as well as that of our children. Who could ignore that? Certainly not me! Even though I was happy to leave the heat and explore new areas such as Alaska, Puerto Rico, and others in between. Our current home is a high valley along Colorado’s western slope--it may hold us or we may eventually look for new horizons.

You probably want to know how I started writing. When our children reached their teen years, I seized the time to pursue my own interests. A need to send characters along paths I thought essential to stories I was reading convinced me to take extension courses in creative writing. Through those, I learned about Romance Writers of America. I joined its Yellow Rose chapter, a local Texas organization for me at that time. I quickly realized my imagination suited romantic suspense, and I joined the specialty chapter Kiss of Death. Workshops, online classes, and conferences offered by those organizations and others raised my confidence. I began to enter contests and then volunteered as a judge. Both help me improve my craft and create characters driven to danger. I hope my stories of murder, betrayal and redemption produce that Ahhh factor readers desire.

My first book, Caughtby a Clown, has received several strong reviews. The story follows a spontaneous freelance journalist on a mission of mercy who finds herself entangled with a methodical undercover agent out to settle a score. The Wild Rose Press published Caught by a Clown in both paperback and ebook. (It's also available at other online book outlets.) This spicy romantic suspense novel leads off three linked stories I hope will be published in the near future. Check my blog site Driven 2 Danger and website frequently for news of their progress. 

You’ll find bits of my life, past and present, as well as other subjects that catch my attention at Driven 2 Danger www.driven2danger.blogspot.com in posts I loosely describe as Trivia Tuesdays.  Fridays are reserved for interviews of people willing to share unique experiences. D2D’s visitors have met a rancher/blacksmith/metal artist, a CSI agent, a breast cancer survivor, and others. Even though I’m still relishing my summer hiatus, please stop in and scroll through earlier writings. I hope you’ll discover the site is like chocolate, a treat you want to indulge in often. (Driven2Danger posts will resume this fall.)

Visit my website www.sandracrowley.com  to read a little about the shyness that plagued my childhood. I’m learning to overcome it. Networking and marketing hammers away at it on a daily basis. Who would have guessed that the solitary craft of writing could generate the daunting tasks that line me front and center of audiences both live and virtual? Yikes!! Talk about shivers and racing heartbeats! Publishers still handled publicity when I started writing. Fortunately, virtual appearances occur far more often than live ones. Nevertheless, requests for book signings and how-to or inspirational presentations are increasing. I keep telling myself that’s a good thing. I wish I believed it.

Thanks for spending time with me. If you have questions or comments, please contact me through my blog Driven 2 Danger or my website.

Looking for a HOT Summer Read?

Dear Sweethearts of the West readers,

I'm Sandra Crowley, author of a spicy romantic suspense, CAUGHT BY A CLOWN. If you're looking for a great read to relax with, one that will carry you across the country and introduce you to settings you might not have encountered before, CAUGHT BY A CLOWN, is the book for you. Amazon readers have given it two 5-Star reviews, and it garnered three 4-Star reviews from Sizzling Hot Book Reviews, The Romance Reviews and The Romance Studio.

If this bit of shameless promotion intrigues you, the blurb and two excerpts follow: 

Blurb:  A spontaneous freelance journalist on a mission of mercy finds herself entangled with a methodical undercover FBI agent out to settle a score. 

Stacie Monroe's spontaneity lands her in hot water again when her best friend's little brother disappears and Stacie trails him to a nudist resort. To get inside the exclusive oasis and convince him to return home, she must blend in, a move tailor made to shock her oh-so-proper family and renew efforts to bring her in line. 

That's exactly what Special Agent David Graham intends to do when she interferes in his case. Yet, the soft-hearted temptress challenges his resolve, revealing the path to a love he thought impossible. Will that love survive when he betrays her in order to unravel the final twist in his case and convict a vicious killer?

Excerpt 1: 

 

       The tissue box on her desk shifted. Stacie kept her gaze on the colorful page filling her screen while the tropical scent of sunscreen blended with the faint tang of a citrus and spice after-shave lotion. Oh no, another dangling dandy hung too close for comfort.

       A long, slow rasp warned her someone was easing a tissue upward. With a sideways glance, she spotted a man’s blunt, tanned fingers spreading the blue tissue to its widest, highest extent, yet leave it anchored in the box. This man cloaked in secrecy what others at the resort openly displayed. She assessed thick wrists and an athletic build that registered in her drool range. Stacie sat straighter and focused on his hands. No ring bound his finger. No pale circlet of skin betrayed the recent removal of one. Looking up, she saw a square jaw shadowed by dark blond stubble. Thick lashes fringed gray eyes. He wore his blond hair long and pulled back, the complete opposite to her riot of short black curls.

       “He can’t be David Graham. I am. Always have been.”

       Snapping back to reality, Stacie realized the new hero of her dreams thought her guess about Alan changing identity was wrong. She agreed with him. Seeing David Graham in the flesh, yummy hunky flesh, proved he looked nothing like Alan Walsh.

       “Why do you think he’s me?”

       “It doesn’t matter.” Concerned she’d upset a legitimate member, she introduced herself and offered a warm smile.

       “What does this Alan Walsh look like, Stacie?”

       A distinct tan line slashed low across the man’s abdomen, dividing sun-gilded skin from virgin white. A faint alarm sounded in her mind.

       “Maybe I’ve seen him and could point you in his direction.”

       His fidgeting hands and taut body mirrored her reaction to public exposure. Stacie relaxed. She would have signed in using a fake address and name if she’d come as a guest. He probably thought helping her would ease him into this new and daunting experience.

       “Alan has cinnamon brown hair. Styled, not cut. The hundred dollar appointment kind instead of the twelve dollar walk-in type.”

       Graham’s attention remained intent without a hint of reaction.

       “He’s five, maybe seven years younger that your...thirty-three?”

       Graham shifted his weight from one foot to the other, but he stayed silent.

       “Shorter by several inches than your...what...six-three or four...?”

       A tight smile pulled his firm lips. “Some people think I throw a long shadow.”

       She figured they should be more worried about the heavy muscles that slabbed his arms, shoulders, and chest. “Where you’re built like a weight-lifter, Alan’s a long distance runner.”

       “I know the type.”

       David Graham’s flat comment implied it fit Alan’s personality as neatly as it did his body. Goose bumps prickled Stacie’s arms for the second time that day.

       She looked at him without attraction fogging her senses. What was an intensely private man doing in a nudist resort? One possibility chilled her. Mick Caputo had sent him.

 

Excerpt 2 from later that night: 

     Stacie tapped one sandal-clad foot on the floor while Agent I'd-Rather-Scare-You-Than-Confide-In-You ignored her. She glanced toward the bathroom, crossed her legs, and wished she hadn't finished that last glass of wine.

     "Aren't you going to search that closet or open those two bottom drawers in the dresser?" she asked when he tucked his camera inside his pack.

     "Can't."

     A nasty suspicion raised its head. "Why not?"

     "Don't have a search warrant. That limits me to a visual inspection of what's in plain sight."

     "I won't tell," she pushed, despite being certain of his response.

     "There are laws."

     She groaned over the close match to a pronouncement she'd heard her whole life. There are rules.

     Boring. Snoring. Gone. Think of something else.

     Like how Agent By-The-Book caused this mess. If he'd mentioned being from the FBI when they met in the office none of this would have happened. He ignored her interest in Alan Walsh and her intelligence in favor of treating her as if she were a child in need of a lesson.

     Nature threatened to float her teeth, but Stacie refused to ask for relief. She fidgeted on the hard chair and crossed her legs the other way. The backs of her thighs pulled where her skin had stuck to the wooden seat. That twinge of pain reminded her she ought to be thrilled Graham claimed a badge and not a rap sheet. Instead, she rattled the handcuffs that shackled her to the chair and worried how far he meant to carry her arrest.

Find out how far David carries Stacie's arrest and learn who's CAUGHT BY A CLOWN.

BUY paperback at TWRP or Amazon

BUY Ebook (all formats) at TWRP, DigiBooks Café  and

Bookstrand  or Amazon Kindle

YouTube trailer.

www.sandracrowley.com
www.driven2danger.blogspot.com
Amazon Author page
Sandra's Facebook page
Caught by a Clown's Facebook page

I appreciate your consideration. Thank you and have a wonderful summer!!!

Sandra Crowley

Tin Cup, Colorado - Mining Gold on Several Levels

It’s been several years since my husband and I have been up to Tin Cup. The old mining town in Colorado’s Rocky Mountain lies above Gunnison at 10,157 feet elevation. Some of the poor pictures I took way back in October of 1991 are shown here. If we manage the excursion later this summer, I’ll compose better shots--a repost would be worthwhile, at least in my unbiased opinion. LOL

Big Horn Sheep above Gunnison near Taylor Park Resevoir

I learned about the town through my husband, who hunted the area with his brother, father, and friends from the 1950s through the 1990s. The first time my husband took me, I fell in love with the town, its history, and its unique cemetery.

The last time we visited, Tin Cup sported a couple businesses. The most notable was Frenchy’s which is a restaurant housed in an old log cabin I’m sure boasts of a colorful, if not dramatic past as the most famous of the town’s early saloons. Today’s Frenchy’s is said to serve up a delicious burger. I wish I could verify that. Unfortunately, a closed sign has always been prominently displayed whenever we drove past.

Research sources often claim Tin Cup is a ghost town. However, the real truth is that those few hardy year round residents and the additional summer occupants who desire the peace and quiet that blanket the high country have cleverly refurbished original log cabins so it appears nothing has changed in 150 years.
 

Capt. Zebulon Pike

Captain Zebulon Pike reached the general area in late December 1806 during an exploration of territory acquired by the United States in the Louisiana Purchase. (Christmas In The Old West - Sweetheart post December 18, 2010) But, it wasn’t until the late 1850’s that this picturesque valley was settled by white men, disheartened prospectors who hadn’t realized their dreams of riches in California’s gold fields and who paused for rest on their long trips back east. The story goes that in October 1859, one such young man, James Taylor, an 18 year old from Georgia, took a sip of water from Willow Creek and discovered gold in the bottom of his tin cup. He promptly dubbed the area Tin Cup Gulch. Obviously, Jim was neither creative nor romantic. Other versions of this story time the incident in 1861 and/or add two friends with Jim. I also found reports that attributed the town’s name, not to a profitable sip from a tin cup, but to the tin cup being used as a storage vessel for a lucky prospector’s poke of gold dust while he headed out of the valley to parts unknown.

Although it may never be absolutely certain which version inspired the name, Tin Cup Gulch seemed to remain unknown by most until the 1870’s. Strikes of high grade gold and silver in 1878 drew adventurous souls to the area and the town of Virginia City was born in March 1879. The following year, Virginia City census counted 1,495 inhabitants. Maybe the growth spurt started the trouble, maybe something else, but, whatever it was, Virginia City’s citizens found their hometown increasingly confused with Virginia City, Nevada and Virginia City, Montana. I, for one, am glad they officially changed the town’s name in July 1882 to simply Tin Cup, minus James Taylor’s descriptive “Gulch” attached.

Tin Cup boasted of a population of 6000 in 1882, a number that easily supported the 20+ saloons in town and made it lucrative for some entrepreneurs to ski or snowshoe out for supplies and then unload their bounty to the highest bidders upon return. Declared one of the top three of Colorado’s wildest, unruliest mining towns, Tin Cup quickly found itself taken over by an underworld of cutthroat gamblers. The gang hired and controlled local law enforcement to their benefit, for unsuspecting visitors and settlers were lured by the façade of law and order. It was only after being fleeced of their money and/or valuables that the victims wised up and left--if they were alive to do so. This dismal history wore on the upstanding men hired as fronts. Colorado’s Historical Society states the first one quit, the second was fired, the third was gunned down, the fourth was shot by a gambler, the fifth quit and became a preacher, the sixth went insane, and the seventh was shot.

Which brings us to my favorite part: Tin Cup’s cemetery. It’s divided into four parts.

Protestant Knoll lies to the north. Jewish Knoll sleeps to the east.

Catholic Knoll occupies the center. Boot Hill Knoll to the west still sports a few intriguing markers.












The epitaph on Black Jack Cameron’s grave, located in the southeast corner, reads “He drew 5 aces.” Another is marked Pass Out/Dance Hall Girl. How can you not wonder, “What if...?”

Tin Cup’s eighth marshall miraculously finished his term. I’m unaware of the exact timing of the town’s string of men of the law. However, I suspect the eighth’s luck held because of Tin Cup’s decline to around 400 citizens as mines played out about 1884. The shrinking town clung to life though, installing fire hydrants in 1891, a few of which remain. The local post office closed in 1918.

Sandra Crowley

CAUGHT BY A CLOWN, a spicy romantic suspense about a spontaneous freelance journalist on a mission of mercy who finds herself entangled with a methodical undercover agent out to settle a score.

BUY paperback at The Wild Rose Press or Amazon

BUY ebook at The Wild Rose Press , Amazon or DigiBooksCafe

www.sandracrowley.com     

A Letter between Families following the War of Northern Aggression - Shared by Sandra Crowley

You may or may not know by now this is the 150^th anniversary of the War Between the States. I am taking this opportunity to share a bit of Crowley family history, my husband’s family history, or at least a 50/50 chance of it. LOL   

But first, bear with me while I relate my first impressions of Texas and its Confederate pride. I was about ten when my folks took me to Texas to visit relatives. I was struck by the prominent monuments to Confederate Soldiers erected in nearly every town square we drove through and surprised that feelings still ran deep, even in the 1960’s.

I met my soon-to-be-husband in the early 70’s. His folks' comments that their son was dating a Yankee astonished me. I’d never thought of myself as a Yankee; I’d never felt personally connected to either side of a war fought almost 100 years before I was born. Happy to say, my Yankeeness didn’t prevent my soon-to-be-inlaws from accepting me wholeheartedly, and we’ve grown to love and respect each other as if I’d always been a Crowley.

My husband’s cousin, Alta, compiled the family history years ago, a daunting task. Unfortunately, copiers weren't as precise then so I'm unable to provide Crowley pictures suitable for this post. I can share a picture or two taken from a different branch of my family that should represent the same or similar situation.

As in my own considerable family history, first names are repeated within and without lines which makes it hard to follow without error. So, I preface the letter below with this cautionary statement: E. P. Crowley lived somewhere within my husband’s past.

Elijah Prince Crowley was born in Tennessee on April 11 1818. He died in Texas March 6 1879. Elijah was the son of Isham Crowley a resident of Tarrant County, Texas in 1866. Isham received this letter from his daughter-in-law Louisa Jane following the War of Northern Aggression:

Elijah and Louisa might have lived in something like this.

Greenville, Clay County, Mo. 2 August 1866

Dear Mother and Father, Brothers and Sisters:

I once more embrace this opportunity of writing to you to let you know that we are on the land among the living and our health is tolerable good at this time except myself. I am just getting over a spell of sickness. I was confined to bed three weeks. My heart is not good but I do hope that when these lines reach you they will find you all well and doing well for it has been a long time since we have had the pleasure of writing to each other.

We have seen and felt a great many hard trials since this most cruel and unholy war commenced. Doubtless you have heard that my dear and lovely boy Dock, as we always called him, was murdered shortly after he came back to Missouri by a pack of those thieves and murderers called Feds. For that was their business whenever they thought they had the chance.

He came home on Tuesday night the 28 March 1865 which was very unexpected to us for we told him if he ever got to Texas to stay there until the war ended, but I expect he wanted to see us and know what had become of us again. He was at home three times, Tuesday night, Thursday night and Friday night. He went to try to get away, for the Feds was after them and had killed two of the young horses that day. On Saturday night he and James Charley was taken prisoner as they was going though Smithville. They kept them there till late Sunday evening. They told them they was going to take them to Ridgely and try them. They went about a mile and a half, took them out in the woods and shot them and left them laying there. An old man heard their groans and went next morning to hunt them and found them and made his two little boys bury them.

We heard that they were killed we got a Union man to go and find about it. We then had a coffin made and sent for him and brought him home on Friday and buried him at Bethel Church on Saturday the first day of April and I do hope and pray that he is better off then his murderers ever will be and if they do not meet with justice in this world, they will be sure to in the world to come.

I have his tintype that is dear to me. He had it taken and gave it to me before he left home. We also got the little gray mare that he left home on. Perhaps you have heard him speak of her. He called her Kate. We all think a great deal of her. We would not part with her for no mention on his account. He told us he was with you all and how kind and good you was to him. I hope the Lord will bless every one that was good and kind to him while he was gone. He professed religion several years ago and joined the Methodist Church. I hope he had not forgotten it. He was a good and kind boy to us all and beloved by all.

          The rest of Louisa Jane’s letter concerns the general health and doings of the family. Here I’ll skip to Elijah’s comments which pertain to the war:

The Crowleys might have lived/looked similar to this family (picture taken 1893).

This war has been wretched on us. We have lost a great deal by it. We greatly feel the need of what we have lost. Taxes is about to break us up. They have been very high for several years, but double this year to last year. Times are rather unsettled here. Every few days some are killed. The policy of our State is very bad. The radicals has the rule. We look for bad times at the next election, but people are determined to change policy. There is a large majority of Johnson men in this State that can vote. Our county has but few radicals. In upwards of one thousand in favor of Johnson’s reconstruction policy.

I will give you a short history of the times. Money is a little scarcer than it has been. Property high. Good horses two hundred dollars, mules about the same, milk cows from 35 to 75 dollars, year old steers 50, two year old 20 to 35, hogs from 8 to 10 cents gross per pound. Hemp about 12 dollars per hundred.

We greatly mourn the loss of our dear brother, Hiram, but we hope his is where all the angels of heaven is rejoicing. Tell his companions weep not for him for he died in a good cause, but trust in God and persevere in Holiness.

***

Thanks to Alta's research, we know Hiram joined Grapevine’s Mounted Riflemen. He was a captain in Company A of Alexander’s Regiment CSA. Hiram died at the Battle of Yellow Bayou, Louisanna 1865.

A published list of Confederate soldiers killed in Missouri lists Benjamin Franklin Crowley (aka Dock) as killed at Smithville.

I'm fascinated by family history. My side is extensively documented, also arriving from England as well as Ireland and Europe and settling in northern states--another side to this story. It's the Crowley's who came to this country before the American Revolution, fighting for freedom in that war, then settling in southern states and contributing its men to other fights for the growing land.

Thanks for stopping by. I'll try to answers any questions you might ask.

Sandra Crowley

CAUGHT BY A CLOWN, a spontaneous freelance journalist on a mission of mercy finds herself entangled with a methodical undercover FBI agent out to settle a score.
This spicy romantic suspense novel is available in e-book and print at The Wild Rose Press and Amazon.

Easter on the Kansas Prairie late 1800s by Sandra Crowley

HAPPY EASTER TO ALL

I hope you and your family are enjoying this day of rebirth.

Easter on the Kansas prairie was sparse in the late 1800s. At least it was for those members of my family who left Germany and settled on the wind swept grasslands. Like the majority of pioneers, they worked long hard hours to establish farms they hoped would shelter and feed their families. They had little time for frivolities. However, Christmas and Easter warranted trips to Bloom or Delhi, the nearest Osborne County towns, to attend church and socialize, maybe join in an Easter Egg Hunt.



Ernest, Edo, Elsie Sunday-go-to-meeting duds

 I suppose the kids back then asked the same question I asked my mom decades ago, “Why does the Easter bunny bring eggs?” Two possible answers appeal to me. The first: Rabbits symbolize fertility. Fertility is the basis of spring. And, spring coincides with Easter, the time of rebirth. The second: German legend tells of an egg-laying hare named Osterhase that youngsters made nests for, leaving them outside for the rabbit to lay her eggs in. Osterhase might have evolved from the Anglo-Saxon goddess of spring and fertility, Eostre (or Ostara in German), who was said to have changed her pet bird into a rabbit to entertain children. The rabbit laid brightly colored eggs to the delight of the kids.

But, why eggs? Rabbits don’t lay eggs; they give live birth to bunnies. The answer could be that ancient romans believed all life came from eggs. Lent played its part, too, in Medieval Europe. The christian time of penance and fasting forbade consumption of eggs. Instead of letting the protein rich food spoil, Christians boiled their eggs or preserved them in some other manner until fasting ended on Easter. They were then the mainstay of that first meal. They were even given as presents to children or servants because many believed two yolks in an Easter egg meant the finder would soon grow rich. Christians of the time period also believed that if one kept an egg laid on Good Friday for one hundred years, its yolk would turn into a diamond. Considering how many things my family passed down through the years, I’m surprised we don’t have an egg or two among our treasures.

What we saved are adorable construction paper Easter Baskets we made as children in grade school. Do you remember those? Do you have one that your mother treasured and passed to you? Maybe you have one of your child’s tucked away in a baby book? They are the modern equivalent of the nests German children made for Osterhase centuries ago. Life continues, always changing, yet remaining the same.

Wishing you all the very best,
Sandra Crowley

Spurs by Sandra Crowley

Spurs assist reins and a rider’s natural commands of leg, seat, hands, and voice to urge a horse to step forward, sideways, or execute complicated movements such as dressage or a Lipizzaner’s "Airs Above The Ground."

Celts used spurs during the 5^th century BC and their usage was also mentioned by the ancient Greek, Xenophon (c 430-354BC), an historian and soldier. In medieval times, squires’ spurs were silvered. A squire traded up when he “won his spurs,” a reference to gaining his knighthood and the gilt spurs that accompanied that honor. Spanish Conquistadors wore Espuela Grande, the “Grand Spur," with rowels as large as six inches.  

The Old West's US Calvary didn't award spurs to its new members, nicknamed "Shave Tails" for their assignment to horses whose tails had been shaved to warn other riders to give the novice more room. It was only after the amateur had proved capability with horse and saber that he was awarded his Spurs. Troopers often spent an entire month's pay to buy distinctive sets engraved with his mount's name, or his sweethearts. The traditional Calvary spur is usually a Prince of Wales type that's also popular in English style riding. It's sleek in design because the rider’s leg is positioned close to the horse and the preferred blunt tip helps provide precise aid guiding the horse into lateral and complex movements, such as pirouettes.

Antique spurs

Western spurs are heavier due to the rough country and have a longer neck to offset the saddle’s longer stirrup set and thicker fender that puts the rider’s leg further from the horse. Metal buttons, either attached to the heel band or to hinges on the heel band, fit through slits in the spur strap to fasten both pieces together. There may also be small curved-up hooks, “chap guards,” on the neck (shank) between the heel band and rowel. The hooks keep the chaps from interfering with the rowels. A tie-down (a short length of chain, leather, or rubber) goes under the instep of the boot, tight against the heel, to stop the spur from rotating upward. Some cowboys add small metal jingle bobs or jingo bobs near the rowel to create a jingling sound whenever they take a step. That’s the jingle fans of Clint Eastwood hear in many of his western movies.

Spur chap guard and jingle bobs

                                                                 

Western spurs are often highly decorated. Silver heel bands, plain or engraved, are popular as are hand-tooled or silver studded/buckled leather straps. Would you believe gem crusted? That one-of-a-kind gift for the lady who has everything.    

Roper's saddle-higher cantle, and taller, heavily wrapped swell/horn.






 

It only takes a few minutes in the saddle to teach a rider new to spurs how to wear them--a spur’s strap buckle goes on the outside of the boot which positions the spur so that the neck points downward, giving a smooth roll of the rowel against the horse’s side in an upward motion as the rider brings her heel in and back. It’s not the ease of reaching the horse’s side with the spur or the difficulty of making that contact that tells the rider she’s got her spurs on right. If the spur strap buckle rests against the inside of the boot, the stirrup rubs against it, quickly giving the rider a sore spot. Better her than her horse!



In the picture of my husband's roping saddle, you'll notice the leather strap flopped over the bottom spur. That strap is the spur's tie-down, described earlier, that fits between the sole of his boot and his boot heel. Chain is the preferred tie-down as it holds up to the friction and wear of walking. Of course, a cowboy would rather ride his horse five feet than walk that distance. BTW, that roping saddle is ten times heavier than my Australian saddle. The reinforced construction is necessary to stand up to the antics of the animal in the rope's loop!  

Notice the rowels on my spurs in the pic on the lower right are practically smooth while my husband's have a deeper tooth. He's ridden tougher country on less "enjoyable" horses. lol Riding is the one place I want to simply enjoy rather than be challenged. 

My Australian saddle with braided handle rather than horn.

Spurs, like the brothel tokens I posted about last month, have become a popular collectors item. Possibly one of the most famous spur makers was Oscar Crockett. Born in 1887 in Pecos, Texas, he opened his first blacksmith shop in 1916 in Pawhuska, Oklahoma. He left Oklahoma for Kansas City where he worked for or with C. P. Shipley until 1920 when Oscar bought out Shipley’s bit and spur department, creating the Crockett Bit and Spur Company with his uncle, W. Brice. Oscar and his uncle prospered, eventually moving the company to Lenexa, Kansas. By 1940, Crockett Bit and Spur Company supported 18 workers and sold 105 bits and 177 styles of spurs. Oscar made one last move, to Boulder, Colorado, in 1943. His business continued to grow and gain worldwide recognition until his death in 1949 when his wife sold out to James Renalde, owner of the Denver Metals Foundry.

A collectible spur made by Oscar will have “CROCKETT” marked inside it. A “CR” stands for Crockett Renalde. If the spur has an anchor mark, it was made by Judd and Anchor, a rival company.

This post is just a nibble of the fascinating information available on line. I highly recommend you take a few extra minutes and visit the Lipizzaner, US Calvary, and Western spurs links. Thank you. I enjoyed our visit. 

Sandra Crowley

http://www.sandracrowley.com/

http://www.driven2danger.blogspot.com/

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