Character Interview with Choctaw Jack

by Lyn Horner
Partners, do you want to have some fun today? Yeah? Then come on along with me and a special friend to Sunbonnet Sue's Down Home Radio Roost.

Sunbonnet Sue greets us on her front porch. A rather plump woman of indeterminate age, she's sitting in the shade with a microphone and a tall glass of iced tea, the national drink of Texas.

Sue: "Howdy Lyn. Glad you could drop by. I see you’ve brought a guest."

Lyn: "I’m pleased as punch to be with you today, Sue. This tall, good looking gent is Jack Lafarge. Um, you might know him as Choctaw Jack in Dearest Irish. That’s what most people called him until he hooked up with Miss Rose Devlin."

Sue: "How-do, Mr. Lafarge. I’m right happy to meet you."

Jack smiles and flicks back his long black hair. “Howdy Miz Sue. It’s nice meeting you, too. Just call me Jack.”

Sue: “My pleasure, Jack. Take a seat and kick back for a spell. You too, Lyn.” Our hostess points to a pair of rawhide-bottom chairs facing her, and we make ourselves comfortable.

 

Lyn: “Jack, why don’t you tell Sue a little about yourself?”

Jack: “Be glad to. I’m a cotton planter’s son, Miz Sue, but I’ve done some cowboying since the war. Uh, the War of Secession, I mean.”

Sue: “Young fella, I understand you fought on the Confederate side. Isn’t that a bit odd for a man of Indian blood?”

Jack: “No ma’am. A lot of us from what you white folks call the Five Civilized Tribes fought on one side or the other. The Choctaws mostly sided with the South and my pa was half Choctaw. When he joined up, I tagged along.”

Sue: “You don’t say. As the old saying goes, we learn something new every day. I’ve also heard you’re handy at blacksmithing. How’d you happen to learn that trade?”

Jack shrugs. “Pa was a blacksmith over in Louisiana before he moved us to Texas. I learned from him when I was a boy.”

Sue nods. “I see. So, is your father the person who most influenced you as you grew up?”

Jack frowns, studying the question. “I’ve never given that much thought. It’s true Pa influenced me a lot, but so did my mother. She turned my life around after the war when she convinced me to walk the white man’s road.”

Lyn: “That’s intriguing, but please don’t go into details. We don’t want to give away all your secrets. Instead, can you tell Sue about the scariest moment of your life?”

Jack turns pale beneath his copper coloring. “That has to be the day my P’ayn-nah, I mean Rose, was bitten by a rattler.” In a husky voice, he adds, “I nearly lost her.”

Lyn looks guilty. “Oh dear, I’m so sorry for putting the two of you through that. But the experience did bring you closer together, didn’t it?”

Jack scowls, ebony eyes glaring at the author. “Yeah, it did, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you for nearly killing off the woman I love.”

Lyn squirms uncomfortably. “Yes, well, on a more pleasant topic, is Rose a good cook? And if so, what’s your favorite food that she fixes?”

Jack’s scowl lifts. Crossing his muscular arms, he says. “P’ayn-nah – that mean Sugar, by the way – is a pretty fair cook, even if she burns our supper now and again. Her favorite food is Indian fry bread, and I reckon it’s mine too. Leastways, when I get to watch her make it.” He grins, dark eyes twinkling.

Sue laughs. “On that happy note, Jack, I’ll let you head on back to your Red River home. Thanks for coming to visit me today. Now, Lyn, why don’t you give me and my listeners a little taste of Rose and Jack’s exciting story.”

Lyn winks. “I thought you’d never ask, Sue. Here you go.”

 

Dearest Irish

Texas Devlins, Book Three

Blurb:

Although the story begins in Bosque County, Texas, where the first two books in this series both end, much of this paranormal Native American romance takes place in the Indian Territory (Oklahoma) ca. 1876.

Rose Devlin, like her older siblings, possesses a rare psychic power. Rose has the extraordinary ability to heal with her mind, a secret gift which has caused her great pain in the past. She also keeps another, far more terrible secret that may prevent her from ever knowing love.

Choctaw Jack, a half-breed cowboy introduced in Dashing Irish, book two of the trilogy, hides secrets of his own. If they ever come to light, he stands to lose his job, possibly even his life. Yet, he will risk everything to save someone he loves, even if it means kidnapping Rose. The greatest risk of all may be to his heart if he allows himself to care too much for his lovely paleface captive.

Excerpt:

Rose stretched and yawned. Something hard supported her head, and another something lay half across her face. This object felt like cloth and gave off a vaguely familiar scent. Swatting whatever it was away, she opened her eyes and had to squint at the bright sun glaring down at her from on high. In the time it took to blink and shield her eyes with her hand, everything that had befallen her during the night burst upon her like a waking nightmare.

Realizing she lay on the hard ground – she had the aches and pains to prove it – she turned her head to the right and saw Choctaw Jack lying a hand’s breadth away. He lay on his back, head pillowed on his saddle and one arm thrown over his eyes. Where was his hat, she wondered absurdly. Recalling the object she’d pushed off her face, she rose on one elbow and twisted to look behind her. First, she saw that she’d also been sleeping with a saddle under her head; then she spotted the hat she’d knocked into the high grass surrounding them. Jack must have placed it over her face to protect her from the sun’s burning rays. In view of his threat to beat her if she tried to run away again, she was surprised by this small kindness.

A throaty snore sounded from her left. Looking in that direction, she saw Jack’s Indian friend sprawled on his stomach, with his face turned away from her. He was naked from the waist up, his lower half covered by hide leggings and what she guessed was a breechcloth, never having seen one before. His long black hair lay in disarray over his dark copper shoulders.

He snored again, louder this time. Rose’s lips twitched; then she scolded herself for finding anything remotely amusing in her situation. Glancing around, she wondered how far they were from the Double C. Jack had been right to chide her last night. She’d had no idea where they were or in which direction to run for help. Even more true now, she conceded with a disheartened sigh.

She heard a horse snuffle. Sitting upright, she craned her neck to see over the grass and spotted three horses tethered among a stand of nearby trees. She caught her breath. Was one of them Brownie? Aye, she was certain of it. Excited and anxious to greet him, she folded aside the blanket cocooning her and started to rise, but a sharp tug on her ankle made her fall back with an astonished gasp. Only then did she notice the rope tied loosely around her ankle. To her dismay, the other end of the rope was wrapped around Jack’s hand.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, startling her.

“You’re awake!” she blurted, meeting his frowning, half-lidded gaze.

“Thanks to you, I am. You didn’t answer my question. Where were you going?”

“I saw Brownie over there.” She pointed to the trees. “I was only wishing to let him know I’m here, nothing more.” She swallowed hard, fearing he would think she’d meant to climb on the stallion and make a run for freedom – though without a saddle on his back and no one to boost her up¸ ’twould be well nigh impossible.

Staring at her a moment longer, Jack evidently came to the same conclusion. “I reckon he’ll be glad to see you,” he said, sitting up and freeing her ankle. “Go ahead. Say howdy to him.”

She again started to rise, but he forestalled her, saying, “Hold on. You’d best put your boots back on.” Reaching behind his saddle, he retrieved her footgear.

“Aye, I suppose there could be cactuses about,” she said tartly, recalling what he’d said last night. She forced a tight smile.

“Yeah, or snakes.”

Amazon: Dearest Irish                 Barnes & Noble: Dearest Irish

Visit Lyn on these sites:

http://lynhorner.com

https://twitter.com/LynHornerAuthor

https://www.facebook.com/lyn.horner.1 

This article is adapted from a 2013 post on Ruby On Tuesday. http://rubypjohnson.wordpress.com/ 

Making Soap on the Homestead

Sarah McNeal is a multi-published author of several genres including time travel, paranormal, western and historical fiction. She is a retired ER nurse who lives in North Carolina with her four-legged children, Lily, the Golden Retriever and Liberty, the cat. Besides her devotion to writing, she also has a great love of music and plays several instruments including violin, bagpipes, guitar and harmonica. Her books and short stories may be found at Publishing by Rebecca Vickery, Victory Tales Press, Prairie Rose Publications and Painted Pony Books, and Fire Star Press, imprints of Prairie Rose Publications. She welcomes you to her website at

Website 

My Amazon Author’s Page

Making Soap on the Homestead

In my present WIP, Penelope Thoroughgood takes in laundry from the Iron Slipper Saloon and Bordello as well as from the bachelors in the town of Hazard, Wyoming. This is the only way for her to eek out a living after her husband was shot dead cheating at cards. Washing laundry in 1912 was a far cry from the convenience we have today.

I remember my grandmother washing clothes and linens on the back porch of her Victorian farm house in Pennsylvania. She had an old wringer washing machine. At least she had electricity. She talked about the lye soap she used and how it made her hands raw. Having never used lye soap myself, I had no idea what the soap was made of or why it made her hands raw, so I dug into some research about the history of soap.

I found some very complicated chemical analysis of how soap works that made my eyes cross and my brain numb. Suffice it to say, it basically lifts the dirt and oils away from the fibers in the cloth, emulsifies the fat (makes it water soluble), and allows the whole mess to be rinsed away. Soap has been around a very long time in its various forms. The earliest on record is around 2800 BC in ancient Babylon. A formula for soap consisting of water, alkali, and cassia oil was written on a Babylonian clay tablet around 2200 BC.

The Ebers papyrus (Egypt, 1550 BC) indicates the ancient Egyptians bathed regularly and combined animal and vegetable oils with alkaline salts to create a soap-like substance.

In the reign of Nabonidus (556–539 BC), a recipe for soap consisted of ashes, cypress oil and sesame seed oil.

The ancient Romans used oils messaged into their body which they then scraped off along with the dirt with a special instrument called a strigil. In Pliny the Elder's Historia Naturalis, he mentions the manufacture of soap from tallow and ashes, but he only sites its use as a pomade for hair. Aretaeus of Cappadocia, in the first century AD, noted that among Celts, men called Gauls, used alkaline substances that are made into balls called “soap.”

Galen describes soap-making using lye and prescribed washing with it to carry away impurities from the body and clothes. According to Galen, the best soaps were Germanic, and soaps from Gaul were second best.

In the Middle East, a 12th-century Islamic document describes the process of soap production. It mentions the key ingredient, alkali, which later becomes crucial to modern chemistry, derived from al-qaly or “ashes.”

In Medieval Europe, soap-makers in Naples were members of a guild in the late sixth century. By the eighth century, soap-making was well known in Italy and Spain. The royal will of Charlemagne, mentions soap as one of the products the stewards of royal estates were to keep an account of. Can you imagine being given soap via a will?

By the second half of the 15th century, France began the semi-industrialized, professional manufacture of soap concentrated in a few centers of Provence— Toulon, Hyères, and Marseille which supplied the rest of France. By 1525, in Marseilles, production was concentrated in at least two factories, and soap production at Marseille tended to produce more than the other Provençal centers. English manufacture of soap was concentrated in London.

Finer soaps were later produced in Europe from the 16th century, using vegetable oils (such as olive oil) as opposed to animal fats. Many of these soaps are still produced, both industrially and by small-scale artisans. Castile soap is a popular example of the vegetable-only soaps derived from the oldest “white soap” of Italy.

Until the Industrial Revolution, soap-making was conducted on a small scale and the product was rough. Andrew Pears started making a high-quality, transparent soap in 1807 in London. His son-in-law, Thomas J. Barratt, opened a factory in Isleworth in 1862.

Robert Spear Hudson began manufacturing a soap powder in 1837, initially by grinding the soap with a mortar and pestle. American manufacturer Benjamin T. Babbitt introduced marketing innovations that included sale of bar soap and distribution of product samples. William Hesketh Lever and his brother, James, bought a small soap works in Warrington in 1886 and founded what is still one of the largest soap businesses, formerly called Lever Brothers and now called Unilever. These soap businesses were among the first to employ large-scale advertising campaigns.

Liquid soap was not invented until 1865, when William Shepphard patented a liquid version of soap. In 1898, B.J. Johnson developed a soap made of palm and olive oils. His company, the B.J. Johnson Soap Company, introduced "Palmolive" brand soap. This new kind of soap became popular to such a degree that B.J. Johnson Soap Company changed its name to Palmolive. At the turn of the Twentieth century, Palmolive was the world's best-selling soap.

But, of course, pioneer women had little access to all these wonderful manufactured soap products. They had to make soap themselves and it was a difficult and nasty process. Twice a year, in spring and late fall, probably for the good weather since soap was generally made outside in a huge cauldron.

Making soap was one of the hardest and nastiest of chores, but also one of the most important. Soap was made from ashes, water, and fat. Early spring and late fall were the most popular times for making soap. People saved table scraps and lard all winter for use in spring soap-making. Soap-making required skill in judging correct proportions and temperatures and the process was not always successful. First, water was poured through wood ashes to produce lye. According to the domestic manual, one made soft soap by boiling the lye until it was strong enough to "eat off the soft part of a feather." The grease and lye were then boiled together to produce soap thick enough to form cakes at the bottom of a cup of cold water. This produced a soft, dark yellow paste for washing clothes. To make hard cakes of soap, the lye had to be strong enough "to float an egg." Grease was added to the lye and the mixture boiled until thick, when salt was added. The mixture hardened for a day, then was melted down again before forming hard cakes of soap for bathing. 6 bushels of ashes plus 50 pounds of grease yielded 1 tub of soap.

 

Of course, modern soap is made with different ingredients such as palm oil and olive oil and the alkali is obtained from a more refined, sodium hydroxide. Essential oils or herbs are added for a delicious scent to make it perfect for a luxurious bath.

Here are some examples of modern soap made in molds of silicone:

If you want to learn how to make soap, here is more information:

http://candleandsoap.about.com/od/soapmakingbasics/a/How-To-Make-Soap.htm

Resources:

Wikipedia

Wood Ridge Homestead

Country living in the northern Shenandoah Valley in Virginia

http://woodridgehomestead.com/2010/09/09/pioneer-soap-making/

All photographs are free domain from Wikipedia and Amazon.com

Climbing Up and Down My Family Tree Today~ Tanya Hanson

Once upon a time, a handsome Illinois schoolmaster married a debutante from across the Mississippi River. Paper Japanese lanterns glowed. Years before, the bride’s grandpa had marched with General William Tecumseh Sherman. She is said to have weighed a whole 98 pounds full-term with child. Of their eight kids, one would become a preacherman.

                                  .

 About this same time, in the heartland, a farmer fell in love with a pretty, feisty neighbor from a nearby homestead. (I’m said to look like her.) He died from a ruptured appendix far too soon in their marriage, leaving behind a brood of their own kids and several adopted orphans.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 The farmer's daughter married the preacherman, who had been assigned to the nearby country church after seminary.She gave up art school to marry.  Over the next decade, she gave him a half-dozen children.  After a time, the preacher took a congregation on the West Coast.  Mostly he needed sunshine and warm weather for his health.  His kids enjoyed the beach. All were excellent students.  His wife (my brilliant gramma and personal hero) brought the family through the Great Depression with class, grace, and without complaint.
                                           
                                                         

 During the Second World War, their oldest daughter, a schoolteacher too, married her sailor.  (She’d had a crush on him since high school. He signed her yearbook fairly lame: To a nice quiet girl, but admitted later on he’d been interested in her too.)   She longed to wear her mama’s wedding gown, but everything fell to shreds when unwrapped.  In her hair the bride wore the only surviving finery--a little bunch of silk flowers.

                                                            

Forty years ago TODAY, their daughter, also a schoolteacher, married her fireman on a hot August afternoon.  (Strapless and sleeveless bridal gowns not acceptable then.)   The locket she wore came from her grandfather's grandmother!
                                                                         

                                                        
 Two kids and two grandkids later...they lived happily-ever-after.

Love from us to you on our special day...

www.tanyahanson.com

http://tinyurl.com/pxwg2w7

A beautiful attorney widowed by a foolhardy man...a successful builder vanquishing guilt over his wife's death. Can they rebuild faith and find love enough to give each other and their kids a happy home together?

Nancy Kelsey – First White Woman in California

By Anna Kathryn Lanier

I learned about Nancy Kelsey in With Great Hope, a book by Joann Chartier and Chris Enss. If you have not heard of or read any of Chris Enss’ books, I highly recommend you look her up.  Her website is www.chrisenss.com. She has multiple books out about Women of the West and other Western themes.

Nancy Kelsey

Nancy was born in Kentucky in 1823. She married Benjamin Kelsey when she was only 15 years old and by the time she was 17, she was a mother.  Benjamin heard of the land in the west where a ‘poor man could prosper’ and Nancy agreed to go with him, saying “Where my husband goes, I go.   I can better endure the hardships of the journey than the anxieties for an absent husband.”  The young family arrived in Spalding Grove, Kansas just in time to join up with the first organized group of Americans traveling to California.  The train was led by John Bidwell and John Barlteson. “We numbered thirty-three all told and I was the only woman. I had a baby to take care of, too,” Nancy told the San Francisco Examiner in 1893. 

Fear of the unknown and worry over the health of her daughter filled Nancy as the group started out on their arduous journey May 12, 1841. By July they had arrived at Fort Laramie in Wyoming. Without guide or compass, the group did well on their first thousand or so miles of the trip. Unfortunately, this good luck didn't last.  Nancy relayed in her interview:

“Our first mishap was on the Platte River, where a young man named Dawson was capture by Indians and stripped of his clothing. They let him go then and then followed him so that, without his knowing it, he acted as guide to our camp.  The redskins surrounded our camp and remained all night, but when daylight showed them our strength they went away.”

By August, the group was searching for the Humboldt River, near which was the road to the Truckee River.  The draft animals were weakened from thirst and hunger and the group began to dump the heaviest wagons. Eventually, all wagons were abandoned. As they searched for the way to California, they were forced to eat the oxen, often after the animals had collapsed from exhaustion. 

On September 7, they finally located the Humboldt, but the road continued to elude them.  Nancy, who often carried her daughter on her hip as they walked, held her tightly, praying for food, water and shelter for Ann from the relentless sun.  By October, the last of their animals had been eaten…the entire group was on foot.  Nancy often went shoeless to relieve her blisters. 

At last, they reached the escarpment of the Sierra Nevada.  Nancy relayed the struggle to cross the mountains, “We crossed the Sierra Nevada at the head waters of San Joaquin River. We camped on the summit. It was my eighteenth birthday. We had a difficult time to find a way down the mountains. At one time I was left alone for nearly half a day, and as I was afraid of the Indians, I sat all the while with my baby on my lap. It seemed to me while I was there alone that the moaning of the winds through the pines was the loneliest sound I had ever heard.”

Bidwell’s diary tells the story, too.  “Having come about 12 miles, a horrid precipice bid us stop—we obeyed and encamped. Men went in different directions to see if there was any possibility of extricating ourselves from this place without going back but could see no prospect of a termination of mts., mts., mountains.” 

Finally a place was found to descend.  It was steep and rocky and at one point, four pack animals fell over the edge, taking with them what was left of the provisions.  Benjamin (Nancy’s husband), too, nearly died from ‘the cramps.’ It was suggested that he be left behind, but Nancy refused.  They slaughtered a horse to eat and her beloved husband recovered enough to continue onward.

With great fortitude, the group finally reached the San Joaquin Valley around November 1.  There, they found an abundance of food: fowl, deer, and antelope.  After going hungry for so long, to the point of starvation at times, the party rejoiced.    Within a few days, they had reached John Marsh’s house and feasted again on fat pork and flour tortillas.

Nancy was sorely disappointed that her husband didn't settle down and make a home for her and Ann.  After just five months in California, he moved the family to Oregon.  This trip was just as harrowing as their first journey.   They drove their cattle up the east side of the Sacramento River for some forty miles before crossing it.  “The men were all trying to drive the stock into the river and I was left alone in the camp,” she wrote, “when several nude Indians came in and I as I thought they intended to steal I stepped to a tree where the guns were. As they approached me I warned them away.  My husband saw from where he was that the Indians were in the camp and sent one of the men…to protect me.  He was a reckless young man, and as he rode up he ordered the Indians to go, but they drew their bows on him and reversed the order.  Then he drew his pistol and killed one of them and the rest fled.  The Indian fell within six feet of me.”

From Oregon Benjamin moved his family to the Napa Valley, San Joaquin plains and Mendocino.  In 1848, he went to investigate the gold claim.  After a ten day trip, he returned with over one thousand dollars. On his next trip, he took sheep to sell off for mutton and came back with sixteen thousand dollars.  He bought a ranch for Nancy and his two daughters in Kelseyville, a town the couple helped build.

Nancy thought they were finally settled and she was happy with her home, but it was short-lived.  In just a few months, Benjamin sold the ranch and moved the family to Eureka and Arcata, where they were among the first settlers.  After once again settling in, Benjamin came down with tuberculosis and the family moved to Texas for his health.  It was here that she encountered her worst fear, as she told the San Francisco Examiner:

“In 1861 we were attacked by Comanche Indians. The men were out hunting turkeys, and a neighboring woman and her children and I and mine were alone.  I discovered the Indians approaching our camp, which was situated in a brushy place. I loaded the guns we had and suggested that all hide themselves.  The two oldest girls ran and hid and a sixteen-year-old boy went along to a hiding-place.  The women and the smaller children secreted ourselves in a small cave.

“They succeeded in catching my girl because her dress got tangled in the brush.  She was twelve years old.  We found her the next day, but oh the anxiety I felt during that long night.  Yes, we found her, and my anguish was horrible when I discovered that she had been scalped and was partially deranged.  My husband and seventeen men followed the Indians three hundred miles, but never caught up with them.”

In 1884, the family returned to California and Benjamin built Nancy a cabin near San Diego.  He died in 1888 in Los Angles.  The daughter that was scalped died when she was 18 of complications from her earlier injuries.  Nancy died when she was 73, in 1896 of cancer.  She was not only the first American woman to cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains, but she “enjoyed riches and suffered the pangs of poverty.  I have seen U.S. Grant when he was little known; I have baked bread for General Fremont and talked to Kit Carson. I have run from bear and killed most all other kinds of smaller game.”

Of her trip in 1841, one of the fellow travelers wrote of Nancy, “Her cheerful nature and kind heart brought many a ray of sunshine through clouds that gathered round a company of so many weary travelers. She bore the fatigue of the journey with so much heroism, patience, and kindness that there still exists a warmth in every heart for the mother and child, that were always forming silvery linings for every dark cloud that assailed them.”

Nancy is buried in Santa Barbara, California. There is a small stone marking the grave, simply inscribed with KELSEY.

http://historytogo.utah.gov/utah_chapters/pioneers_and_cowboys/nancykelsey.html

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=7524959

http://www.missionscalifornia.com/stories/women-pioneers-alta-california.html

References:

WITH GREAT HOPE: WOMEN OF THE CALIFORNIA GOLD RUSH by JoAnn Chartier and Chris Enss

THE OLD WEST: THE PIONEERS, Time-Life Book

Copyright ©2011-12 Anna Kathryn Lanier

Anna Kathryn Lanier

www.aklanier.com

The Wit and Wisdom of the American Cowboy

Cowboys branding a calf. (National Park Service)

By Kathleen Rice Adams

It’s been said that when a cowboy is too old to set a bad example, he hands out advice. According to the National Park Service, which lists several historic ranches among its properties, old cowboys weren’t all that common, at least during the days when cattle roamed the open range.

Crusty old cowboys were mainly an invention of movies. Most cowboys were young, some only eleven or twelve. By the time they were in their mid-20s, most had taken up ranching on their own or found a less strenuous way of life. It was a young man's trade, for the hardships of six-month trail drives and the injuries sustained in working with livestock took a physical toll. Some cowboys eventually became cattlemen, while others stayed on the ranches as cooks and handymen.
—Brochure for the Grant-Kohrs Ranch National Historic Site, Montana

Nevertheless, cowboys have a reputation for passing along hard-earned wisdom in some downright colorful ways. Even today, folks who work ranches—and country people in general—speak a language all their own.

Here are some choice tidbits one might hear from a cowboy.

"The Cow Boy," J.C.H. Grabill, photographer
Sturgis, Dakota Territory, c. 1888 (Library of Congress)

About conversation

Don’t expect mules and cooks to share your sense of humor.
Don’t make a long story short just so you can tell another one.
Don’t worry about bitin’ off more’n you can chew. Your mouth is probably a whole lot bigger’n you think.
If you have the opportunity to keep from makin’ a fool of yourself, take it.
Never trust a man who agrees with you. He’s probably wrong.
Speak your mind, but ride a fast horse.
When there’s nothin’ left to be said, don’t be sayin’ it.

"Branding Calves on Roundup," J.C.H. Grabill, photographer
South Dakota Territory, 1888 (Library of Congress)

About conflict

Always drink your whiskey with your gun hand, to show your friendly intentions.
Don’t bother arguin’ with a rabid coyote.
Don’t corner somethin’ meaner than you.
Don’t wake a sleepin’ rattler.
If you climb into the saddle, be ready for the ride.
Never drop your gun to hug a grizzly.
When your head’s in the bear’s mouth ain’t the time to be smackin’ him on the nose.

Frederic Remington drawing
(Harper's New Monthly magazine v.91, issue 543, August 1895)

About life in general

Don’t get callouses from pattin’ your own back.
Don’t use your spurs if you don’t know where you’re goin’.
If it don’t seem like it’s worth the effort, it probably ain’t.
Keep skunks, lawyers, and bankers at a distance.
Never approach a bull from the front, a horse from the rear, or a fool from any direction.
Never follow good whiskey with water, unless you’re out of whiskey.
Never take to sawin’ on the branch that’s supportin’ you, unless you’re bein’ hung from it.

19TH CENTURY SHIP TRAVEL

I recently began research for my next book, MATELYN AND THE TEXAS RANGER, Texas Code Series, The Bennings.




In chapter one, Mattie is preparing to travel to Galveston, Texas with her employer, Madame de Marceau. Mattie has packed the trunks but wants to pack her important documents separately so they will be protected from water damage. She learned on her trip across the Atlantic from Ireland to take special care with packing certain items.

Possible type of ship they will sail on

Mattie knows, but I have no clue.


So the quest began. First I posed the question on my Facebook page and in a western historical group in which I'm a member. Two very nice friends answered. One suggested wooden boxes, more specifically a cigar box. Hmmm, that might work, but what happens if the boxes get wet? Won't the items inside still get wet?

19th century Cigar Boxes

 A second suggestion was for canning jars. These are bulky and breakable and probably not what she would choose.

Canning Jars from the 19th Century

While these are both good suggestions, I failed to give them my complete plan. I neglected to say that I intend to torture Mattie on her journey. At some point she will need to prepare to abandon ship and will secure her documents beneath her clothes, so she needs to be able to fold everything as flat as possible.

Oilcloth in the making

Oilcloth for the table

The best thing I've found is to have her wrap her papers in oilcloth.I'm open to any suggestions.

I'll keep you posted and next month, I'll have an excerpt to share.

Thank you for stopping by today. I appreciate your visit and hope you enjoy the rest of your weekend!

Carra

Find me on my website:

http://carracopelin.com

Facebook: http://facebook/carracopelin

Twitter: http://twitter/CarraCopelin

A Western Fashion Statement

 

A look at western wear through the Ages

From Wikimedia

I get tickled sometimes when I see a historical western author describe a western cowboy shirt on their hero, especially when they start talking about decorative yokes and such. The western shirt as we know it won’t come into play until the early 1900s when westerns became a popular theme for the newly developing film technology. In fact we have Jack Arnold Weil to thank for “the look” that most cowboys sport.

Prior to Weil’s designs, the pioneer didn’t always have the luxury of choice in regards to fabrics. Before the railroad system made it easier to obtain cottons and wools, most frontier folks had to make do with animal skins. Fashion relied on the blending of cultures by way of trading posts that offered a unique sampling of goods. The proprietors would often trade with folks from wagon trains and thus had a wide array of goods for sale as these travelers would barter items from their country of origin for more practical staples.

Needless to say, western wear evolved out of a need for comfort and durability. The signature yoke showed up in the early 1900s to make the shoulder area sturdier. In addition, shirt tails became longer so they wouldn’t pull out when riding a horse.

Jack Arnold Weil founded the Denver-based western clothing manufacturer, Rockmount Ranch Wear. His goal was to create an identity for working ranchers through fashion. At the time, the film industry was making serious strides in gaining public adoration. Many of his western designs were worn by the stars who portrayed western characters. Wild West Shows and dime novels also perpetuated America’s fascination with the west.

Along with the fashion statement associated with the west, he was the first to put snaps on his shirts and he invented the bolo tie.

"The West is not a place, it is a state of mind." ~ Jack Arnold Weil.

The popularity of anything “western” continued to grow and in the 1940s, Dude ranches became a favorite vacationing spot. I actually had the great fortune to spend a weekend at the Silver Spur Guest Ranch in Bandera, TX. I loved every moment. The staff made us all feel special and were very patient with those of us who could be labeled “city slickers.”  I signed up for the early morning trail ride which I was a little nervous about. When I was twelve, I was on a trail ride in which the horse decided to run off with me. I held on for dear life and bounced past the rest of the riders. I remember one of the workers coming after me and getting the horse under control but still the fear has always been with me. But not this time. This time the wranglers teaching us what to do and what not to do were very patient and thorough. I climbed onto the horse like I knew what I was doing and had a most enjoyable ride (even if I did keep leaning to the left a bit in the saddle).

And though I didn’t have on my “yoked” cowboy shirt, I did remember to wear my cowboy hat and boots. Yay me!