Home Books Links Contacts GuestBook Newsletter
I occasionally send an update
through
e-mail and also post it here. To be put on my newsletter list, please
send your e-mail address below. I do not share my
mailing list.
Hi Everyone and thanks for stopping by. To celebrate the season I offer you this story. Oddly, I'm posting this on Dec. 6 which is the 90th anniversary of the Halifax explosion. Alice A Christmas Tale It was the hat that drew her in, cherry red and cheerful. “Vintage,” the sign said. “Moth eaten,” Olivia thought. Still, on this Christmas Eve, so far from home and all alone, the cluttered shop behind the red hat looked inviting and homey. She pushed open the door and stepped inside. In an instant, she’d entered another world. A world of men in top hats and women in glossy fur coats. A world a hundred years away from the one outside, where blaring horns and swearing taxi drivers, and the frenzy of last minute shoppers dashing madly from shop to mall to department store drowned out the carollers on the street corner. Here, silver tea services lined up like soldiers on parade, graced the sideboards. Bone china, Waterford crystal and sterling flatware bespoke a world of wealth and privilege and ease. She drew a deep breath, savouring the aroma of lavender and leather and beeswax, and history. “May I help you?” A store clerk approached, a woman, with silver grey hair swept high on her head. Pendulous garnet earrings dangled from her lobes. A long cashmere dress in dusty rose brushed the top of her ankle-high boots. Olivia blinked. Was the shop door truly a magical passage through time? Had she, unwittingly, stepped into a rabbit hole, destined to disappear? She clenched her hands and felt the bite of her nails in the skin of the palm. At least she was still real. With her hand on the doorknob, she cast a nervous glance about the shop. She smiled and breathed more easily when her gaze lighted upon the very modern cash register discreetly situated behind an aspidistra plant. . “The hat.” She pointed to the window. “Could I see it?” “Oh yes.” The spectre in dusty rose glided toward the display. “A lovely item. Circa 1916, silk velvet with braided cording. The veil is so delightfully feminine.” She handled the hat lovingly, stroking her fingers over the rolled brim as though it were a sleeping kitten. The shop lady gazed so long at the confection in her hand that Olivia feared she’d been forgotten. But, at last, the sales lady relinquished the hat to Olivia. “Try it on, dear. There’s a mirror just over there.” Olivia crossed the shop floor to stand before a hall tree, complete with hat rack and mirror. Feeling just a little foolish – what did she need with an old hat? – she raised her arms and gently settled the hat on her head. It was perfect. The rich red colour brought a bloom to her cheeks. Her eyes, behind the tiny veil seemed to sparkle with a secret knowledge. She felt beautiful and desirable. Not at all like poor, abandoned Olivia with a louse for a boyfriend. She didn’t even have the louse, if she was honest. He’d departed for warmer climes with a woman who “made him feel alive.” She tested her lip with her teeth, seeking to disguise the pain in her heart. She turned her head slightly, dipping her chin and looking up at her reflection from under lowered lashes. She gasped and her eyes flew wide open. In this hat, she appeared vibrant and seductive and not at all like “a drain on my energy.” Harold’s last charming comment before he walked out the door. She turned her head again, striking the provocative pose, then smiled, ever so slowly, letting her lips curve in just the barest hint of invitation. The effect was stunning. She hardly recognized herself. She glanced again at the shop window. Outside, the city, grey and gloomy still stood, framed by the mullions and sashes of the casements. She turned her back to the window. She much preferred the atmosphere inside the shop. “It suits you perfectly.” The sales lady seemed almost mournful. “You should have it.” “Do you know anything about its history?” Olivia asked, puzzled by the clerk’s seeming reluctance to make a sale. “It has only recently come into the shop. A death, you know, and the heirs clearing out the home to put it on the market.” The faded lady picked up a long hatpin and stabbed it into a pin cushion. “It happens so often these days. Young people have no respect for tradition and family.” She straightened a display of lace collars before continuing. “I believe the lady who purchased the hat was killed in the Halifax explosion. You do know about the explosion.” She glared at Olivia, her faded eyes suddenly snapping with energy. “Yes, yes,” Olivia made haste to reply. “December, 1917, a ship carrying munitions collided with a freighter setting off a fire and the largest man-made explosion in history, outside of a nuclear bomb. Two square kilometres of the city flattened, 1500 killed instantly, more to die later in the tsunami and the blizzard, 9000 injured, many blinded, 6000 homeless. We still send a Christmas tree to Boston every year in gratitude for the aid received from that city.” Olivia snatched a breath and waited for the dusty rose lady to deliver judgement on her local knowledge. She must have passed the test for the tight line of the clerk’s mouth relaxed and her eyes resumed their dreamy expression. “Quite right, dear. Now, as I understand it, that hat was purchased by a lady who died in the explosion. Her family was more fortunate than some. Their house was damaged but not destroyed. Her descendants continued to live there until about a year ago when the last survivor, a spinster, passed away. Some distant cousins from Toronto inherited.” She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “Upstarts. No sense of history or duty. They’ve ransacked the place, pulling out the hardwood floors and the wainscotting and the clawfoot bathtubs and anything else that might fetch a dollar. They emptied the attics and offered everything for sale. Now they plan to tear down that lovely old mansion and put up one of those tawdry condominium buildings. As I say, everything for money and nothing for history.” Olivia’s informant pulled out a lace-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “Did you know the previous owners?” “Not personally, but I’m a Haligonian. It’s the history that matters to me.” Olivia turned back to the mirror allowing the lady in rose to compose herself. It was odd the effect the hat had on Olivia, taking her out of herself, almost as though the previous owner had left a trace of her own personality on the velvet. Olivia touched the red brim, pondering on the lady who’d purchased it first. Had she been young? Married? In love? Had she had children? Was her husband a soldier? Or her son a sailor? Halifax was a military town. It would be hard to imagine a family in 1917 without a husband or a son or a brother in uniform. “Do you have other items from the house?” “Too many to mention.” The ageless sales clerk looked suddenly old. Her shoulders drooped and her skin seemed pulled too tightly over her cheekbones. “Wander about. If there’s anything that interests you, bring it to the register.” She tottered away, so frail and thin, Olivia barely refrained from offering a supportive arm. But she held back, knowing instinctively that the patrician lady who served in the second hand shop would be ashamed to admit weakness. Still wearing the hat, Olivia did a slow circle of the shop, admiring the treasures crowded onto its shelves but merely as curiosities. Unlike the cherry red hat, nothing else pulled her into its world. Feeling a little deflated, she turned back toward the front of the store. She’d pay for the hat and be on her way. And then she saw it. A picture, in a silver frame. She halted, arrested mid-stride, by the man in the picture, a soldier, dressed in the uniform of the Great War. With a trembling hand, she picked up the photo, peering intently at the face that gazed back. A handsome face beneath the sharp brim of his dress cap, well proportioned lips pressed firmly together, neat mustache, classic jaw line. His shoulders square and straight under the cloth of his tunic looked utterly dependable. He was seated, but his legs were long, their muscular shape accented by the tightly wound puttees. Even in the aged photo she could tell the buttons of his tunic and the badge on his cap were polished to a high shine. But it wasn’t the physical proportions of his face and form that caught her attention. It was the character she saw revealed. His eyes seemed to reflect sorrow and perhaps a degree of trepidation, but they held steady, looking duty in the face and answering the call, holding to his purpose without swerving. The hands clasping the regimental stick were slender and fine-boned. Had he been a pianist? A surgeon? Whatever his life before the war, the soldier in the picture had put it aside to answer a higher summons. Olivia read regret in his face, but no shirking. Unlike Harold, this soldier would be true and steadfast, faithful until the end. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, feeling an uncanny empathy with the man in the photo frame. Had he left behind a sweetheart? She hoped so. She’d hate to think he’d gone off to the horrible trenches of Flanders without knowing love. Had he survived the war? Had he been wounded? Perhaps lost an arm or a leg? Or had his mind been damaged by the horror he saw? Perhaps he’d been in the Halifax military hospital when the explosion happened. Had he been maimed? Blinded? No! She pushed away the painful images. She hadn’t the courage of this soldier. She couldn’t face the ugly possibilities. In her fantasy, he came home, weary and sickened by death, but he had married his sweetheart and lived a long life, with children and grandchildren to cheer his days. Olivia sighed. In her imagination, she’d given him a happy ending, yet melancholy weighed on her shoulders. How had the photo of this fine man come to be in a second hand shop? Was there no one left to honour his memory? Only a few weeks ago she’d stood with thousands of others at the cenotaph, promising that “in the morning and at the going down of the sun, we will remember them.” So why had this photo been discarded, left to gather dust in an attic and finally consigned to a second hand shop? What family had been so careless of its forefather? What society was so careless of its heroes? She studied the price tag, tucked into the corner of the glass. Obviously the frame was sterling silver, too expensive for her. Regretfully, she set the picture back on the shelf. It was growing late. Even though no one waited in her small apartment, she needed to go home, away from the bleak nostalgia that suddenly enveloped her. She strode toward the cash register, digging in her purse for her wallet. “I’ll take the hat,” she said to the sales lady. “Nothing else?” The finely drawn brows rose. The lady’s eyes grew stern, her mouth pulled down in disapproval. “Just the hat.” Olivia glanced back at the photo. The soldier seemed to call to her, remind her that he deserved better than to languish in a forgotten corner, but the silver frame was too dear for her purse. Harold, the rat, had left her to pay his half of the rent. “That photo,” the dusty rose lady pointed unerringly, “came from the same house as the hat.” Olivia hesitated. “Do you know his name?” “No.” “He looks a very fine man.” She couldn’t help the catch in her voice. “Better than the thoughtless bunch who threw him out.” “It’s just – the expense...” Olivia faltered. She had no wish to beat down the price. The shop lady was dressed in vintage elegance, but Olivia feared she was in need of money. Why else would a woman of her age spend the day before Christmas minding a shop? “The price is for the silver frame. This one’s only a dollar.” The sales clerk pulled a wooden photo frame from under the counter. “It’s the same vintage as the other one. You would do the soldier no dishonour.” She reminded Olivia of the vice-principal of her old high school. His words, too, had been given as a suggestion, but the expectation was that they would be carried out like an order. “In that case. . .” Olivia hurried to the photo shelf and picked up the picture. Excitement coursed through her veins as she carried it back to the cash register, her earlier dejection banished. With practised skill, the saleslady extracted the photo from one frame and inserted it in the other, leaving Olivia no time to change her mind. “It says on the back his name was James.” The clerk wrapped the photo in tissue paper, the same dusty rose as her dress, then popped it into a bag and handed it to Olivia. “You’ll wear the hat.” “Yes.” Olivia nodded, although her agreement seemed unnecessary. The clerk rang up the sale, processed Olivia’s credit card and handed it back, apparently eager, now, to be done with her troublesome customer. “Thank you,” Olivia said, only to be waved away with an impatient hand. “Merry Christmas.” She opened the shop door and stepped outside. In an instant, her foot slipped on the icy step and she tumbled down in a heap in the shop doorway. She scrambled to her knees, clutching her purse and shopping bag. Her coat was covered in dirty slush, her stockings had two big runs from the knees up and the sidewalk was so icy she slipped again when she tried to stand. But this time, instead of landing in an ignominious lump she was caught under the elbows and assisted to an upright position. “Are you hurt?” A deep masculine voice asked. “No, no. I’m fine.” She was pretty sure she could feel blood running from a scrape on her knee, but she was too embarrassed by her clumsiness to admit injury to a stranger. She put up a hand to straighten her hat. At least the lovely red velvet had escaped undamaged. She turned her head and looked up into a pair of steady grey eyes, shadowed by a hint of world weariness, but kind and concerned. Her breath caught in her throat as her gaze traversed the contours of a handsome face. A neat mustache adorned his upper lip and the hands that held her steady, were slim and strong. “Oh!” Her breath escaped on a thread of sound. “Look, you’ve had a shock.” Her rescuer studied her face, his sharply arched brows wrinkled in concern.. “Let me treat you to a hot drink. There’s a tea shop just over there.” He pointed across the street. Dare she? Olivia raised a hand to touch her hat, then, she tucked in her chin, turned her head slightly, and looked up through her lashes at her modern day knight. She saw him do a double take, and smiled slowly, her lips curving in a faint invitation. “Thank you. I’d like that.” Her companion nodded, but didn’t move. For a timeless moment, his gaze locked on her face as though in a trance. Olivia gazed back, happy to lose herself in those grey eyes. A taxi whizzed by, splashing them with slush, startling them out of their reverie. “Sorry. I should have known we were too close to the pavement.” Her self-appointed guardian apologized. “Shall we?” He bowed, with old fashioned courtesy, and held out his arm, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Olivia slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow. She could feel the firm strength of his December 5, 2007arm beneath the soft leather of his coat. A tingle of excitement ran from her fingertips to her shoulder. “Don’t want you slipping again.” Her new friend guided her across and street, then held open the door to the tea shop. “By the way, my name is Jim.” copyright 2007, Alice Valdal. not to be reproduced without the written consent of the author |
| Hi Everyone and Merry
Christmas, The results are in for the "favourite romance of all time". Congratulations to Jackie in California, the winner of two autographed books. Her One and Only and The Man for Her are winging their way south, Jackie. Thanks for entering. I promised to post the most popular picks so here they are. LaVyrle Spencer comes out the winner with Morning Glory, Twice Loved, and “anything and everything by LaVyrle Spencer”. Also mentioned were classics such as Sweet Savage Love by Rosemary Rogers and Shanna by Kathleen Woodiwiss. The Bride Ship by Deborah Hale and Rogue’s Return by Jo Beverley topped the poll in the historical segment. So, if you’re looking for a good book to read over the holidays, any of the above come highly recommended. Thanks everyone for sending in your vote. The date at the top of this page amazes me. Remember when the whole world was wringing its hands over the turn of the century? Businesses were spending millions preparing for Y2K, airlines, banks and even the military braced themselves for disaster. And then at midnight, in all twenty-five time zones of the world, the calendars rolled on and nothing much happened. Now, we’ll soon be seven years into the new century and my tongue stumbles over nineteen hundred instead two thousand. What odd creatures we humans are. Winter on the prairies in 1906 -07 was particularly severe. Tens of thousands of cattle froze to death in deep snow drifts while the sparse human population barely avoided the same fate. Personal accounts written in the years following are full of references to ‘06, as though there could be no other century than the twentieth. I now date my letters with /06 in just the same cavalier manner. Just shows how supremely short-sighted and parochial most of us are. Praise be for the men and women of vision who dreamed of a world fifty, a hundred or five-hundred years hence. Men like Lord Stanley who set aside a thousand acres of parkland in Vancouver in 1889 "To the use and enjoyment of people of all colours, creeds and customs for all time." - One hundred and eighteen years later thousands and thousands of people still enjoy the benefits of his vision. And speaking of winter, we’ve just experienced our own storm, although by prairie standards it was rather puny. Still, the power went out in our house for fifteen hours and the inside temperature dropped to five degrees Celsius. My husband and I camped out around the fireplace, roasted wieners on skewers and toasted hot dog buns on twisted coat hangers. The whole experience made me nostalgic for the wood stove that sat in the kitchen of my childhood, with the kettle always on the boil and usually a pot of soup simmering at the back. Talk about the heart of the home! So, in honour of the humble wood stove, I offer you this month’s essay. Enjoy, Alice The Humble Kitchen Stove When woman first began cooking inside the cave, she used an open fire and a stick to sizzle the venison. Man liked the results and over the centuries applied his ingenuity to improving the techniques used to render the result of his hunt into palatable victuals. In medieval castles and hovels the size and decoration of the cooking fire varied, but the science was the same. Build a big fire to produce heat, build a chimney to vent the smoke, hang pots over the fire for cooking. Western civilization continued with this basic concept right up until the eighteenth century when, in 1735 a French architect by the name of Franççois Cuvilliéés, designed a completely enclosed fire with fireholes covered by perforated iron plates. This Castrol stove was much more fuel-efficient and allowed the cook to simmer her soups and stews in relative safety without fear of embers from the fireplace shooting out and burning her. Toward the end of the century the Castrol stove was refined by hanging the pots through the fireholes, allowing for heating on three sides instead of just one. One of the biggest leaps in the technology of home heating came with the invention of the Franklin stove, named after its inventor, Benjamin Franklin. Intended primarily for home heat the Franklin stove used a labyrinth system of baffles and plates to circulate the air through the stove giving us both radiant and convection heat. The front of the stove was still open, like the conventional fireplace, but the top of the heater was flat and allowed for cooking with flat-bottomed pots and pans. Another step in the evolution of the kitchen. Previous to this, cooking was done in round bottomed cauldrons. As an aside, did you know that Benjamin Franklin put all of his inventions into the public domain, refusing to file patents or to collect royalties? In North America, where winters were long and severe foundries everywhere were turning out variations on Franklin’s stove. Pot-bellied stoves, Quebec heaters, box stoves and dumb stoves proliferated in every home, taking the place of the inefficient fireplace. Although a round-bellied stove glowing red with heat wasn’t as romantic as a blazing open fire it was essential for warding off freezing temperatures inside as well as out. Martha Louise Black, a veteran of many Yukon winters vowed she’d never been so cold as when trying to keep warm over a grate fire in England during World War One. The fire barely took the chill off the room and “was a criminal waste of fuel, too, as most of the heat went up the chimney. Our little Klondyke stoves could have warmed the rooms with half the fuel. Below is pictured a Quebec heater such as Mrs. Black might have used in her own home. ![]() Nineteenth century ingenuity resulted in some odd forms of heating. In 1888 the US Patent Office issued a patent for a corn-cob burning stove. Since it was considered inappropriate to place stoves in meeting houses during the early 1800's, preachers carried a little foot stove with them as they travelled from service to service. The box, about 12" x 12" by 8" high was filled with burning embers, fitted with a handle and used to keep the preacher’s feet warm both in the pulpit and in the sleigh as he travelled on to the next service. Portable tin ovens were used by the military in the field and by prospectors rushing to the latest gold strike. But, back to the harried homemaker bending over the hot stove. At the turn of the nineteenth century, Benjamin Thompson produced one of the first metal kitchen stoves, called the Rumford. Pots were still hung inside the firebox through the fireholes and the heat on each pot could be regulated.. Sadly for the humble housewife, the Rumford stove was designed for castle kitchens only. It wasn’t until 1834 that Steward Oberlin patented a compact iron stove and revolutionized the North American kitchen. Refinements on Oberlin’s basic design added cooking ovens, water heaters and warming ovens, bringing us to the beauties that sat in our grandmother’s kitchen and for which I pined on that long day of no heat and no electricity. ![]() Klondyke Stove. Note the ornate chrome work. The stove was a work of art as well as an essential element to comfort. Modern refinements on the wood stove have added catalytic converters to reduce emissions and improve the efficiency of combustion. Construction materials include soapstone, ceramics and glass as well as iron and steel and those of us who’ve endured a loss of power on a cold winter’s day are leading the charge to resurrect the humble kitchen stove – even if it lives in a forgotten corner of the basement most of the time. Sources: Black, Martha Louise My Ninety Years Alaska Northwest Publishing Co. Anchorage, Alaska, 1976 Curtis, Will and Jane, Antique Woodstoves, Artistry in Iron, Star Press, Kenebeck Maine, 1975 http://www/collectionscanada.ca http://www.canadian-antique-stoves.com/Z-kootenay1910.htm |
Hi Everyone, This newsletter is very late, I know and I apologize. Family illness has had me crisscrossing the country all summer long, so other things got put aside. However, I did make the draw for the free autographed copy of Her One and Only. If you didn’t get one, you know you weren’t the winner. <g>. It’s been exciting to see Her One and Only hit the shelves, and now I'm going to do a little bragging.. Booklist says “Valdal’s lively historical romance is set in a Canadian frontier mining town near Vancouver, and offers an intriguing glimpse at a bustling frontier culture as technology––––railroads, steamboat, and cable cars––––compete with horse and buggy. ——Lynne Welch” Romantic Times gave it three stars and finished the review by saying, "With its majestic mountains and untamed wilderness, British Columbia is a perfect backdrop for this enchantingly sweet tale. Emma and Grey's tender romance will have readers longing for Valdal to mine for more golden stories in Prospect." The book is a *reviewers choice* at Road to Romance where the reviewer said lovely things like, "Alice Valdal has crafted a truly extraordinary romance in HER ONE AND ONLY. Superbly written, with deep and charismatic characters, HER ONE AND ONLY has something for everyone." Romance Review Today said "This rich historical novel is a keeper and one you will not want to miss!" Romance Junkies gave it a thumbs up, "I was captivated from the moment I picked up this book," There's also a fun interview with me at their site. As I mentioned at the beginning of this letter, I’ve been travelling a great deal over the summer. I stopped at a book store in one small city and found and Her One and Only on the shelf. I took it to the counter and introduced myself as the author and offered to sign it. The clerk was thrilled and promptly bought the book for herself! She wrote to me later saying she loved the book and that the Mounties in the story reminded her of Mrs. Mike by Benedict and Nancy Freedman. That’s a wonderful old book that I read to tatters in my long ago youth. I’m curious about others favourite reads, so let’s have a contest. You e-mail me the title of your favourite romance – either new reads or from your keeper shelf -- and I’ll put your name in a hat. The winner receives autographed copies of Her One and Only or The Man for Her and I’ll provide a list of favourites in the next newsletter. Enter as often as you like. Contest closes Nov. 30, 2006. The winner gets books in time for Christmas. My historical tidbit this month concerns women and travel. Enjoy, Alice ____________________________ No Expedia! I crossed from British Columbia to Ontario several times this summer, both by plane and by car. By air, it took nine hours with two stops, by car, it took five days, with some sightseeing along the way. In 1807, Marie-Anne Lagimodiere travelled by canoe from Montreal to Manitoba. She and her husband, a voyageur with the North West Company, paddled up the St. Lawrence River into the Great Lakes in the spring. They arrived at Pembina in Manitoba in the Fall -- a journey of five months!. Marie-Anne was the first white woman to become a permanent resident of the West and she had the first legitimate white baby in what is now Manitoba. Marie-Anne hadn’t planned to become an explorer but she fell in love with Jean-Baptiste Lagimodiere. Marie-Anne and Jean-Baptiste settled down to farm along the banks of the St. Lawrence close to family and church but Jean-Baptiste couldn’t get the song of the paddle from his heart. He wanted to go west again and leave Marie-Anne at home. She wouldn’t hear of it. So, grumbling and embarrassed, Jean-Baptiste asked his bosses if he could take along his wife. They weren’t pleased, but eventually agreed to give Marie-Anne a spot in one of the big freight canoes. She wasn’t required to paddle, but she had to carry her own forty-pound pack over the portages. She counted thirty-six portages before they reached Lake Superior. But that was not the end of her journey. At Grand Portage, they left the waterway and walked nine miles before putting their canoes back in the water and heading on across Lake Winnipeg and up the Red River to the mouth of the Assiniboine. Marie-Anne might have thought she’d reached journey’s end, but Jean-Baptiste was a restless soul and by spring, he was eager to go further West. Marie-Anne, with their baby, Reine, packed up her belongings and travelled with her husband into what is now Saskatchewan. There she gave birth to her second child, a boy. The Lagimodieres continued to travel and trade with the Indians until they reached Fort Edmonton in present day Alberta. A third child, Josette, was born there, giving Marie-Anne the distinction of bearing the first legitimate white child in all three provinces. On my travels, I entertained myself with taking pictures on a digital camera, listening to radio and CD’s and, in the evenings, checking into a motel with a comfortable bed, running water and a TV and room service. Marie-Anne spent her long days swatting blackflies and mosquitoes, toting her own forty pound pack over the portages, mending the clothes of the voyageurs and gathering evergreen boughs to make her bed a night. For added excitement she fended off Indians who wanted to murder her, or steal her children, or, in one case, buy her for the price of five horses! Marie-Anne and Jean-Baptiste eventually returned to Manitoba, joining the Selkirk Settlers on the Red River. Marie-Anne had five more children, then grand-children and great-grandchildren. One grandson was Louis Riel, leader of the Red River insurrection in 1869. Jean-Baptiste died in 1855 and his widow went to live with her son Benjamin. She witnessed the coming of steam ships to Red River, the transfer of Rupert's Land from the Hudson’s Bay Company to Canada, the incorporation of Winnipeg and the coming of the Mounted Police. Marie-Anne died in December of 1875 but her descendants still live in Manitoba and delight in recounting the tale of their famous ancestor. Sources: MacEwan, Grant, ...and Mighty Women too, Western Producer Prairie Books, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, 1975. http://www.rasputins.ca/marieanne.htm http://www.mhs.mb.ca/docs/pageant/10/jeanbaptiste.shtml |
|
May, 2006 Hi Everyone, and welcome to the latest issue of my newsletter. May is here, can summer be far behind? And with summer, July, comes the release of Her One and Only. The book is available for pre-order from amazon.ca, now. Watch for my interview at romance junkies in their July update. Speaking of romance junkies, I'd love to hear about your favourite on-line communities for readers of romance. So, I'm holding a contest. Send me an e-mail naming your favourite site and why you like it. Then I'll enter your name in a draw for an autographed copy of Her One and Only. I'll draw the winning entry on July 1, 2006. My personal celebration of Canada Day! Be sure to include a mailing address so I can send you your prize. The month of May has celebrations for International Workers Day and Mother's Day. I think there must be a connection. And that brings me to the topic of this month's essay -- women and work. Have fun reading and don't forget to call your Mom! Enjoy, Alice The celebration of May Day, which commemorates, among other things, the struggle for an eight hour working day during the late 1800's, got me to thinking about women’s work – rarely confined to eight hours a day! At the same time as workers of the world were organizing and campaigning for worker’s rights, another group of young women were engaged in one of the more unusual jobs of modern history, that of the Hurdy-Gurdy Girl. These young women, usually of German extraction first appeared in Europe in the early 1800's. Poor farmers in Hessen, ( a German principality) suffering from poor crops, began making wooden brooms and fly whisks in the winter to supplement their income. They sold these goods during the summer months, often travelling widely in their quest for customers. It didn’t take long for an enterprising peddler to realize that he attracted more customers and sold more brooms if he was accompanied by a pretty girl, dancing and playing the hurdy-gurdy, (a kind of crank operated fiddle). After that, it wasn’t long until the pretty girl became more important, and lucrative, than the whisks. More enterprising gentlemen decided to dispense with the brooms altogether. These “soul-merchants” as they were called, canvassed poor villages for young girls, filling their parents heads with vision of vast sums of money their daughters could earn and send home. Farms and villages were soon bereft of young girls as these agents assembled troupes of dancing girls and.then sent them to dance halls in distant cities where they entertained mostly miners and sailors. The children of Hessen were soon known throughout Europe. They were particularly popular in England where they were called Hessian Broom Girls, or “Hurdy-Gurdy Girls.” When gold rushes in California, British Columbia and the Yukon brought immigrants rushing across the ocean, it wasn’t long until other enterprising gentlemen spotted a new business opportunity and brought their troupes of dancing girls to the boom towns. Thousands of gold-seekers, starved for female company flocked to the saloons and dance halls, laying down their gold to dance with a Hurdy-Gurdy Girl. At a dollar a dance, these girls worked hard for their money. The men didn’t so much dance with them as swing them about like bells. The object being to throw the girl’s feet skyward. The miner who could make his dance partner’s feet touch the ceiling received roars of approval from his comrades. No doubt the glimpse of feminine ankles and petticoats drove the popularity of this type of “dancing.” Although the girls were contracted only to dance, there is no doubt some were forced into prostitution, if only to pay off their debt. The agents who brought them to the gold camps would demand a thousand dollar payment to release them from their contracts. Considering that each girl’s passage cost about ten dollars, these ingenious gentlemen did very well for themselves without panning a single creek. By the time the gold rush reached the Klondike, the Hurdy Gurdy Girl had been replaced with the dance hall girl. Like the Hurdy-Gurdy, these women earned a dollar a dance but they also took a turn on the stage and hustled drinks to the customers. At the end of their shift, which usually lasted until five or six in the morning, they received a commission of twenty-five per cent on all the liquor they enticed clients into buying. Thus a dance hall girl spent six to twelve hours a night on her feet to earn her money. In the time it took the saloon girl to earn a dollar, a street-walker could turn a trick and make three. A higher class prostitute could command twenty. Still, with the shortage of women in the territories, many dancing girls went on to lead respectable lives as married women. French Marie actually auctioned herself off in Dawson on Christmas Eve, 1889. A Yankee called Sam won her with a bid of $30,000.00! She set up housekeeping with him in his cabin and they were legally married a year later. In the Cariboo, Jeanette Ceise, married John Houser and lived out her life in a neat and proper little house in Barkerville. She died in 1933, having spent the last fifty-three years of her life in the gold town. Newspapers of the time described her as the Grand Old Lady of the Cariboo. The age of the Hurdy-Gurdy Girl came to an official end in 1865 when the Hessian government passed a prohibition against "taking along of children for the purpose of the fly-whisk trade.” Sources; Lael Morgan, Good Time Girls, Whitecap Books, N. Vancouver, 1998 Rosemary Nearing, "The Hurdy-Gurdy Girls", British Columbia Magazine Fall, 2005 Cariboo Sentinel, Sept. 6 1866 B.C. Archives www.hotpipes.com/hggirls2.html |
March, 2006 Hi Everyone, Welcome to my February Newsletter, which is now my March newsletter. So why am I so late? In February I finished the copy-edits for Her One and Only, coming from Zebra in July, 2006. I read a passel of books for the RITA, RWA’s top award for published romance novels. I was part of a group book-signing at our local Chapters store. There were six authors from the Vancouver Island Chapter and the store went all out to promote us -- posters, cake, ginger ale, plus we had TV and newspaper coverage. A great finish to our Valentine awards lunch. Today, I completed the final proof reading for Her One and Only and sent back the pages for corrections. In between I’ve been working on my next project, holding down a day job and directing a junior choir at my church. So that is why you’re getting the February newsletter in March! Although I didn't get to the computer, all of the hearts and flowers, chocolates and perfume around Valentine’s Day had me thinking of the weird and wonderful courtship rituals we humans have devised. To the modern couple, arranged marriages, match-makers and bride-prices seem unthinkable, yet variations on these themes exist in every culture. Throughout history, marriage has been considered so necessary to civilization that courtship and marriage could not be left to the whims of the lovelorn. Other, presumably wiser, heads were needed to ensure a good match and a strong family. Everyone from grandma to the king had a hand in finding partners for the next generation. In North America, sparse populations and the drive for settlement led to drastic measures. Consider what happened in New France during the latter part of the seventeenth century. At the time, the population had peaked at 3000 and was unlikely to grow. The census showed 719 unmarried males and only 45 unmarried females living in the colony. When lonely soldiers and trappers called upon the King to provide female companionship, Louis XIV saw an opportunity to secure his new territories and solve a home problem all at one go. He provided a dowry to abandoned or orphaned females residing in the general hospital in Paris, and put them aboard ships bound for the new colony. Within weeks of their arrival, these filles du roi had married and within the year were producing babies. Over the next few years a series of letters from Jean Talon, the intendant for the colony, continue to urge the king to provide more marriageable women. He writes to his superiors, “I have been advised that the girls who were taken there last year, who were drawn from the general hospital, were found to be insufficiently robust to stand up to either the climate or cultivating the land, and that it would be more advantageous to send young village girls who would be in better condition to withstand the fatigue that must be borne in that country.” Apparently there was still reluctance on the part of some men to offer for these women, since Talon had to take into his own care thirty of the 125 latest arrivals. As match-maker extraordinaire, Talon urges the king to ensure “that those who are destined for this country [should] not in any way be ill favoured by nature, that they are not outwardly repulsive, that they are healthy and strong enough for country work or that they at least have some skill in manual work.” When some men still refused to give up their freedom and marry to increase the population of the colony, Talon took extreme measures. He ordered that they “be deprived of the right to trade and hunt, and that the honours and privileges of church and community be withheld, other than by decree, if, within fifteen days of the arrival of vessels from France, they are still not married.” Two hundred years later a man by the name of Asa Mercer, recruited women from the cities of the eastern US to help redress the balance of the population in the Seattle area where men out numbered women 9 to 1. Asa Shinn Mercer, the newly elected president of the University in Seattle, stood at a podium in the Unitarian Church in Lowell, Massachusetts to extol the virtues of Seattle and explain the territory’s need for teachers and ladies of quality. There was plenty of interest in his proposal since the civil war had left many families without men to support them and jobs were few. To the young women listening, the lure of a new life in Washington territory, was irresistible. However, unlike Louis XIV Mr. Mercer did not offer free passage. In the end, only eight young women from Lowell, two from New York and one from Boston were able to raise the $250.00 necessary for their passage. Those fortunate few travelled via steam ship, from New York, then across the Isthmus of Panama by train and from thence by steamship San Francisco and on to Seattle aboard a lumber barque. While Mercer was not as blatant as Jean Talon in seeking fertile women to increase the population of the Washington territory, most of the women he recruited did marry, It is this endeavour that formed the basis for the popular TV show, Here come the Brides. At the turn of the twentieth century in Canada, the path of romance was a difficult one for many a lonely bachelor on the prairies. The population imbalance in the Canadian West stood at ten to one in favour of men. Here there was no champion like Jean Talon of Asa Mercer to seek brides for bachelor farmers, but the Western Home Monthly, stepped into the breech. From 1905 to 1924 the magazine ran a personals column. Here you can read real life letters from prairie men seeking a wife. Many of the letters speak of the extreme loneliness of a prairie homestead. “Some of the girls .. rate us bachelors for drinking and gambling, but you know nothing of the loneliness of this big country....” “Oh girls, if you could but see these ‘boys’ alone in their shack on the plains and feel their utter loneliness..” A newly arrived Eastern girl was moved to add her voice to the pleas of the bachelors. “Just think of a man living off by himself for months at a time without hearing the sweet voice of a woman. He comes in tired and sad, there is no one to cheer him, he gets his own supper and goes to bed. This is repeated month after month.” Yet for all their loneliness, the bachelors of the plains had very definite ideas on the ideal woman. “I am looking for a good, sensible, working young woman.” “I would gladly give any good woman a home. I care not if she be young, strong and good looking. I would like her to be cheerful and kind and willing to share the lot of a humble, plain and honest man.” “A nice plain, serviceable, everyday healthy Protestant Christian girl, between 20 nd 30 years, will find it to her advantage to correspond with me.” “My ideas of a good wife run something as follows. She should be a good cook, willing to feed and look after the poultry, pigs, calves, milk about five cows, keep the house clean, do the washing, ironing, weed the garden and be prepared to get a lunch on the table for an occasional caller. Of course, she could play the piano, go to town or mend the clothes in her spare time.” Spare time!!!??? However, it’s a sign of the changing mores of society that the young women who answered these pleas expected more than a good home. They wanted a romance. “A good wife is a prize and must be won.” “ Bashful Kid says that the girls should go and ask the boys to take them to dances, etc. I think that if the boys have not got the spunk to ask the girls, they don’t deserve to have the girls.” “ It seems quite a number of the young men who write to these columns think the ladies should write first . . . I think that is wrong...I would advise them to write to me.” “I think that before making a final choice for life, both parties should be able to meet one another . . . and get an idea of each other’s real character.” “ Let us have all the fun possible but let us not forget the dignity of Canadian womanhood....” “Pen, paper and stamps were never meant to do the finale in winning husband, wife, home, love, happiness and all...” We don’t know how many of the correspondents to the Western Home Monthly eventually married but one thing is clear. Despite the unorthodox method or courtship, love was of primary importance. “The crying need of our country is homes, but let them be homes founded upon right principles, that we may not afterwards reap a harvest of woe.” “My advice to the girls of Manitoba and the North-West is, never marry unless that never-failing tie, true love, exists.” “...Double harness [marriage] isn’t the easiest thing to get along in. Little misunderstandings will come up and loving forbearance on both sides is needed to make things run smoothly. We cannot have too much love in the home life..” And finally, one incipient groom is willing to offer his bride the greatest expression of love he knows. “If I were married, my wife could accompany me on my next bear hunt in the Rockies if she wished to go . . .” True love -- it comes in many shapes and colours, plain or fancy. But where-ever we find it, let us embrace it, celebrate it and be thankful for it. That's all from me for now. Happy reading. Alice Sources: Azoulay, Dan. Only the Lonely, Fifth House Ltd. Calgary, Alberta. 2000 www.civilization.ca/ www.mercergirls.com/ |
|
December 2005 Hi Everyone, Christmas time again. A whole year since I published my first newsletter at this site. What a twelve months it's been. The Man for Her hit the bookshelves in March. I made a presentation to my local chapter of Romance Writers of America, I've learned to read a royalty statement and last week I heard the book has been sold to a Dutch publisher as well. My next book, called Her One and Only is due out in July. I've got a picture of the cover which I'll post to this page in the new year. I've been busy shopping and knitting and baking and wrapping and visiting and singing. My Christmas gift for you this year is a short story, "The Man who Loved Christmas." Enjoy, Alice ===================================================================== The Man who Loved Christmas Once upon a time in a land of frozen rivers and drifted snow there lived a man who loved Christmas. He was a practical man who worked very hard all year long tilling his fields and tending his animals. He hadn’t time for games or play or vacations. He worked from sun-up to sun-down and sometimes late into the night. There was always more work to do and the man was proud of his work. But every December a change came over the man. He got up later and he didn’t work so hard. He laughed and played with his children. Sometimes they would hear him humming Christmas carols as he worked around the barn. A week before Christmas he would drive his team into the woods to hunt for just the right Christmas tree, then bring it home triumphant, standing it straight and tall in a place of honour. As his children grew older they joined him on the tree hunting expedition. He was patient then, waiting while they ran wildly through the snow looking for just the right tree. At last, when they were ready to give up, he would show them the one he liked, round and bushy and green. It was always the perfect tree. In December, this practical man, grew fanciful. He knew the legend of the animals kneeling at midnight, and on Christmas Eve he would go alone to the stable. He never told anyone if he found the animals at prayer, but afterward his eyes glowed and his voice was soft. When his children grew too old for Santa Claus, he told them he still believed. “What?” they cried. “How can you?” “Oh, not in a little old elf, with white whiskers and a red nose,” he replied, “but I believe in the spirit of Christmas. That’s who Santa Claus is to me.” His children were chastened. In all their smug sophistication, they had forgotten the truth that lies at the heart of Christmas. In December the man welcomed the spirit of Christmas into his home. He bought candies and nuts and treats for his family and his neighbours. He invited all the relatives to Christmas dinner. Of course, his wife had to do a lot of cooking but she didn’t mind for she loved the man who loved Christmas. And the man loved presents. On Christmas Eve, after his children had gone to bed, he would pile the gifts higher and higher under the tree. A hockey stick for his boys, a doll for his girl. Skates and sweaters and mittens and books and toys and games. And on Christmas morning his face would glow as he watched the children open their gifts. When they smiled, he smiled too. When all the gifts were opened and ribbons and coloured paper littered the room he would say, “What a glorious mess!” and pass around the chocolates, even though it was still morning and sweets would ruin their appetites. The years passed and his children grew up and moved away and had children of their own. The man who loved Christmas grew older but still he worked hard from sunrise to sundown and in December he would smile and the children would come home, bringing their children with them. They would all go out to the woods to hunt for the perfect tree and then set it up in its special place. The man was so glad to see everyone. He stoked the fires and filled the cupboards with food. He put more chairs at the table and more beds in the rooms so everyone could celebrate Christmas with him. “What a glorious mess!” he would declare on Christmas morning and everyone looked for the box of chocolates. More years passed and the man’s eyes grew dim, his footsteps slowed, he no longer worked from sunrise to sunset. He took naps in the daytime, but still he loved Christmas. When his children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren came home they found the tree in its place, the presents piled high and the cupboards stuffed with candies and oranges and nuts. There was always room at the table for one more, or two or three. Everyone was welcome. The old man stoked the fires and bought presents and smiled at “the glorious mess” on Christmas morning. But the man who loved Christmas was very old now and one day his heart stopped beating. His family was very sad. They loved the man and they missed him terribly. At Christmas time they came back to the old house and put the tree in its special spot and piled the presents high but it wasn’t the same. They tried hard to be cheerful. They played games and they passed out chocolates and someone even said “what a glorious mess”, but their hearts were heavy because they missed the man who loved Christmas But then, on Christmas night, an amazing thing happened. A wild creature, from the forest, came to the window and looked in at the family gathered around the Christmas tree. Nothing like this had ever happened before. The family held their breath and gazed out at the wild creature, poised in the moonlight, sleek and elegant and free and he gazed back at them. They could almost see him smile. And then they knew. The spirit of the man who loved Christmas lived on, in the deep shadows of the forest and in the drifted snow and in the starlit sky. And in the “glorious mess” of Christmas morning. copyright 2005, Alice Valdal Not to be reproduced without the written consent of the author. |
|
November,
2005 Hi All, The Hallowe’en candy is out the door – thank goodness. Don’t you hate having to eat the left overs? <vbg> The garden is put to bed and we’re all hunkering down for winter. I’m so glad there are only thirty days in November, that dull and dreary month filled with chill winds and muddy fields. The glory of the autumn colours has fallen from the trees to rot in sodden heaps on the sidewalks and there is no sparkling snow to cover the drabness of the landscape. In this in-between time, after the bounty of harvest and before Christmas parties and winter sports, I’m so glad for a good book. And speaking of good books, there was a nice review of The Man for Her posted at the Mystic Castle. Here’s a quote: Alice Valdal pens a wonderful portrayal of love and life in the 1800's. The story never seemed to run dry and there was a wonderful sense of commitment and values throughout the story And since I’m blowing my own horn here, I can’t help but add this review from the Barnes and Noble site. This book is solid gold. Valdal's writing is absolutely delicious. And Lottie and Sean are characters who will tug at your heart, and stay with you long after you've read the book. I'd love to see more historical romances with heroes like Sean. And speaking of heroes, or the lack thereof, below is short essay gleaned from my recent reading. Three Women of the West, A Cautionary Tale. Miyo Nipiy In 1803, at Rat River in what is now northern Manitoba, William Connolly, fur trader with the North West Company, married Miyo Nipiy, daughter of a Cree chief and a French fur trader. William hoped the marriage would facilitate his fur-trading business and that his wife’s skills would help him survive in what was to him, a foreign land. Their union lasted twenty-seven years and produced eleven children. William even petitioned the Roman Catholic Church to baptize his two youngest daughters, assuring the priest that his relationship with and Miyo Nipiy was a true marriage. Yet in 1832, William renounced Miyo Nipiy and married his second cousin, Julia Woolrich, daughter of a wealthy Montreal merchant with many connections to the fur trade. William found lodgings in Montreal for Miyo Nipiy and supported her financially but her continued presence in Montreal and her unhappiness were an embarrassment to him. In 1840 he made arrangements for Miyo Nipiy and her youngest daughter, Marguerite to journey west with the intention of joining her eldest daughter, Amelia in Fort Vancouver. However, they were too late in starting and by the time they reached the rendezvous point at Norway House, the trading party from the western fort had already set out for home. Miyo Nipiy and her daughter eventually ended up in St. Boniface in a convent run by the Grey Nuns. Marguerite became the first Metis nun in the Red River Colony. In 1848 William Connolly died, leaving all of his considerable estate to Julia. Miyo Nipiy and her eight surviving children received nothing, except the stigma of being labelled illegitimate. Kate Carmack Sometime around 1886, Shaaw Tlaa, the daughter of a Tagishwoman and a Tlingit man married, “in the custom of the country”, George Carmack, an American prospector and had a daughter with him. Upon her marriage, Shaaw Tlaa became known as Kate Carmack. Kate was skilled in the art of survival in the harsh climate of the Yukon. She kept house for her husband, raised their daughter, Graphie Grace, sewed moccasin and warm winter clothing to sell to other miners, picked berries and snared game for food and even took in laundry to keep the family going until the mining claims began to pay. Then on Aug, 16, 1896, George, along with Kate’s brothers, Skookum Jim and Dawson Charlie, discovered gold on Rabbit Creek The three men hurried to Forty Mile on the Yukon River to register their claim and the Klondike Gold Rush was underway. By default, Kate became the first woman on the Klondike. For the first year after their strike, Kate’s life didn’t change much, but in 1898 George decided to take a trip “outside” to enjoy his new wealth. Taking Kate and Graphie Grace with him, George headed south to visit his sister Rose Watson, in California.. In Seattle, George signed Kate into hotels as Mrs. Carmack and showed off his wealth by draping her with gold-nugget necklaces. He even told the newspaper reporters that he had a mind to take his family to the Paris Exposition in 1900 and he would be glad to have Jim and Charlie along. Sadly for Kate, the city proved her undoing. She was unhappy and bewildered in these strange surroundings. She and her brothers drank too much. Once she was arrested and spent a night in jail. The newspapers of the time delighted in portraying Kate and her brothers as wild savages. George doesn’t appear to have done anything to ease her way into southern society. After a few weeks in Seattle, the Carmacks moved on to California to stay with George’s sister, Rose. Rose was delighted to see her brother, but had scant regard for Kate. She must have felt enormous relief in the spring of 1899 when George took her home to the Klondike. The only fly in her ointment was that Graphie Grace stayed behind with her Aunt Rose to be “civilized”. On a second trip South in the summer of 1899, Kate was again sport for the newspapers and George complained bitterly to his sister about her, saying he’d like to send her home to Dyea right away. Instead of acting on that reasonable impulse, George returned to the Yukon alone, leaving Kate with his sister in California. In the winter of 1899-1900, George met Marguerite Laimee in Dawson and proposed at once. Marguerite accepted on the spot. Hurt and confused, Kate charged George with adultery, but although they had lived together as man and wife for thirteen years, she could not produce any legal documentation to support her claims. George married Marguerite in Seattle. Kate returned to the Klondike where. Skookum Jim build her a cabin in Carcross. She earned a small income from selling her needlework to tourists and occasionally posing for photographs. George sent not a single dollar to support her or their daughter. Instead, when Graphie Grace was sixteen, George arranged for her to leave the mission school in Whitehorse and join him in Seattle. It was the greatest betrayal Kate could have endured. In the Tagish traditions children belonged with their mother’s clan. A year later Graphie married her step-mother’s brother and severed all ties with her mother. Kate died of influenza on March 29, 1920. Amelia Connolly Douglas In 1828, Amelia, daughter of William Connolly and Miyo Nipiy married James Douglas, a young clerk with the Hudson's Bay Company. There were no clergy or civilian authorities available to perform the ceremony but, the bride’s father, as Chief Factor, took it upon himself to officiate. Amelia’s marriage might have been short lived, for an attack by members of the Dakelh nation on the remote Hudson’s Bay fort saw James held at knife-point by an angry warrior. Amelia saved her husband’s life by throwing tobacco, handkerchiefs, clothing and other goods into the crowd of raiders. The gifts were accepted and young James’ life was spared. James and Amelia had a long and, by all accounts, loving marriage. James was often away for months in his work for the Hudson’s Bay Company but he always returned home, eager to see his family. The couple had thirteen children although only six survived to adulthood. As James’ fortune and influence rose, Amelia’s circumstances improved as well. When James was appointed governor of Vancouver Island his wife became the first lady of the colony. Upon his retirement in 1863, James was made a Knight Commander of the Bath and Amelia assumed the title of Lady Douglas. Once the railway was completed and more British emigrants found their way to Victoria, some of them tended to look down on the Douglases, especially Amelia, as being too rough and unsophisticated for their position in society. It is true that Amelia preferred to stay quietly at home with her daughters but James never disparaged her for her heritage or her tastes, or the disgraceful conduct of her father. However, we know that both James and Amelia were relieved when John Connolly challenged his father’s will in court and won. Miyo Nipiy’s marriage was validated and her children, including Lady James Douglas were declared legitimate. Thirty-six years after William had declared his marriage to Miyo Nipiy invalid, John Connolly and his siblings were awarded the whole of their father’s estate. Perhaps James Douglas treated his native wife better than William Connolly or George Carmack because he was of mixed race himself. Or perhaps his Christian faith compelled him or perhaps true love bridged the cultural differences between James and Amelia. In any case, it’s good to know that not all liaisons between native women and the men who swarmed to North America over the past centuries ended badly. Sources: Frances Backhouse Women of the Klondike, Whitecap Books, 1995 North Vancouver John Adams Old Square Toes and His Lady, The Life of James and Amelia Douglas Hordsal & Schubert, 2001, Victoria, B.C. That’s it from me for this month. Happy reading, everyone. |
| Summer is over and Autumn,
my favourite time of year is begun. The high heat of August
gives way to crisp nights and apple scented afternoons. The
potatoes are dug and stored in the cold room. The pantry
shelves are lined with bottles of jam and jelly and chutney and the
freezer is filled with berries and beans and peaches. School
children head back to classes. Recreation centres
post their new schedules. And yesterday, I went to the Fall
Fair. I love the Fair, it’s part of who I am and where I come
from. I was reminded of that fact when I cleaned out an old chest
of drawers the other day and discovered a book I’d won for having the
highest points for “Girls” at our school Fall Fair in 1959. (I
also discovered a 4-H record book in which I advised the Department of
Agriculture to stop teaching us how to make junkets since even the cat
and the dog in our house wouldn’t eat it! But that’s another
story.) As for winning in the “Girls” category, don’t think that was a sop to the females of the classroom while the real competition was in “Boys”. The boys might outnumber us in the livestock division but every girl in the district exhibited fruits and flowers and vegetables and drawing and printing and leaf collections and poems. Getting the most points there was hard work. The Fall Fair varies from place to place and from generation to generation but it is a continuing icon of our heritage. Indeed, the Fair is woven into the very fabric of our country. In 1791 An Agricultural Society was founded in the Niagara region with Governor Simcoe as its patron. One of the purposes of the society was to organize a Fall Fair. Governments of the day saw agriculture as the economic engine of the country and were eager to support farm enterprises. During the 1830's the government of Upper Canada (now Ontario) offered one hundred English pounds for any district which supported a Fair for the “encouragement of agriculture.” The competitions at the Fall Fairs became a way to improve livestock and crops in the young colony. A prize-winning ram could command a good price when put out to stud and farmers were eager to vie with each other for the title of “best in show”. Farm women weren’t left out as they competed in baking, sewing, flowers and vegetables and needle arts, usually for pride but often for cash money as well. In 1864 the Milton Fair distributed $225.00 in prizes. Today they hand out as much as $25,000.00. Fall Fairs are a common thread running across the country from the Maritimes (Fredericton N.B. held one in 1825), to the Rockies (Kootenay Lake’s Fall Fair is 94 years old) In 1909 the Acton Fall Fair boasted 459 entries in horses alone. Sadly, by 1923 the government had failed to come up with a grant and they posted a deficit of $1.20. The directors, thrifty farmers all, decided to raise the price of admission to 35¢ In its earliest inception the Fall Fair included a dinner for the directors, judges and other notables that was as important as the exhibition. While our local Fair is strictly alcohol-free, the records from one Fair Dinner in Ontario document that toasting was lavish and frequent. Pledges were proposed and heartily drunk to the successful competitors ... the unsuccessful competitors ... the judges ... the directors ... the president of the agricultural society ... the secretary/treasurer of the agricultural society ... the Queen, ... the Government ... the Opposition ... Although I didn’t find it listed, I hope the celebrants also toasted the ladies who prepared and served the meal as well as doing the washing up and carting home the “head of the household” along with the livestock and produce the farm had exhibited. As the country grew and industrialization took over, the Fall Fair changed and thrived, becoming a show place for farm machinery and washing machines and electric lights as well as cows and hogs and chickens. Midways were added and dances wound up the celebrations at the close of the Fair. Yet for all the urban additions, the Fall Fair remains at heart a celebration of agriculture. Rural life, especially on the Prairies was lonely and the need to work together sparked not only the organization of Fall Fairs, but of ploughing matches and Women’s Institutes. Folk made their own fun and organized themselves to improve their communities. It’s that streak of self-reliance, the determination to “get the thing done and let them howl” as Nellie McClung would say, that I celebrate in my books. You’ll forgive a little god-motherly boasting when I report that the spirit of sharing and caring is alive and well in the next generation. My godson, aged 8, overhearing the lad behind us bemoaning the lack of tickets for a ride, wanted to offer one of his tokens. Despite his mother’s suggestion that the boy didn’t really need help, my godson insisted and gave away one of his ride tickets. The giver was happy, the recipient ecstatic and mother and god-mother were bursting with pride. Worries over liability and insurance costs and a dwindling farm community have spelled the end for many of the Fall Fairs that used to pepper the autumn calendar. All the more reason to celebrate the ones that remain. So, feeling that I should contribute more than just the price of admission to our local Fair, which, in its one hundred and thirty-eighth year, boasts of being the longest continuing agricultural Fair in Western Canada, I entered in six different categories; knitting, crewel, three rose divisions and a cake made to look like a bunny – the theme of this year’s Fair. I won two seconds and a special mention for the roses and nothing for the cake and needlework. And, like all the generations who’ve brought their produce to the Fair before me, I left the grounds thinking “Next year ...” |
| Hi Everyone, Here’s my July newsletter. I know, it’s late but I told you it was irregular. Hope you are all enjoying summer, picnics in the park, swimming at the lake and gorging on strawberries, preferably with ice cream. My garden is growing well. We’re eating our own onions, lettuce, beets, and, yesterday, our first new potatoes. My annuals haven’t fared so well. The slugs, a West Coast peculiarity that this displaced Easterner could do without, ate them! Fortunately, the nurseries are clearing out stock so I was able to buy six packs of petunias, dahlias, snapdragons and marigolds at only six dollars a pack. I also picked up some slug bait! Went to a Canada Day party on the First and couldn’t help but muse on the differences between now and the days when our national holiday was called Dominion Day. We have all the glitzy star power performing on Parliament Hill broadcast directly into our living rooms via the CBC but when Saskatchewan and Alberta became autonomous provinces in 1905 most rural residents of the prairies didn’t even have a telephone. They relied on the telegraph to learn what was happening in the world and on the local newspaper for news of their neighbours. For example, The Nanton News of July 14, 1905, reported, on the front page, that, E.M Elves took a trip to Calgary, Monday, on business. Geo Brand was a visitor from Stavely Thursday night. From The High River Times December 7, 1905, Two horses were killed ...by the train last week during the storm. The front page also contained this notice. If you have not subscribed to the Times do so this afternoon as we need the money badly, yes we do. Now there’s a piece of honesty in disclosure that Nortel might like to emulate! Innisfail Free Lance, Sept, 14, 1905 W. Geary is exhibiting a potato in his store which weights 3½ lbs. It’s an Irish Cobbler. The Eye Opener from High River Alberta, June 6, 1902 featured this fictional story. “Yes,” said the schoolmaster addressing his scholars “Dominion Day will soon be here. How thankful we should all be for the glorious privilege of living in Canada and for our good fortune in being Canadians, passing our days in the garden of the earth, clothed with righteousness and attired, like Adam and Eve, in a maple leaf. Canada, dear scholars, is young, thrifty and ambitious. Canadians are doing something more than marking time in the progress of the world. We are able to work out our own destiny and the future looms brightly on the horizon.” Makes the “I Am Canadian” rant sound tame, don’t you think? Of course, the article went on to slam the government for misspending public money on the C.P.R. so perhaps things haven’t changed all that much after all. The following, from the Medicine Hat News of July 20, 1905 shows our forebears had a practical outlook on matters political. Now that the Autonomy Bills have become law, the committee organizing the great celebration at Regina has again got down to work. The bills come into effect on the 1st of September but the organizers have chosen the 4th of September as the date of the celebration. Inquiries showed that the 1st of September would be altogether a too inconvenient date, whereas the 4th being Labor Day, a wide-spread holiday, was found to be best fitted for the occasion. The date was not fixed without consultation with Ottawa and it was found that the day was as convenient as any other for the notables that are to be present from the capital of the Dominion. Not much flag-waving there! I’ve been delving into early newspapers because my next book is set on the Prairies in the early years of the 20th Century. I confess to having a one dimensional view of that era, one that saw sturdy peasants from Europe taking up free homesteads, building sod houses and toiling endlessly against drought, rust, frost, blizzards and hail. There is certainly truth in that view but I’ve also discovered a varied and vibrant community in the pages of the newspapers. As well as farmers there were merchants and carpenters and milliners and harness makers among the wave of settlers moving west. Farming was the economic engine of the region but there was time for play as well. Every town had a baseball team and the competition between them was fierce. Folks met at Fall Fairs and horse races. The Ladies Aid held fowl suppers and strawberry socials to support their mission work. There were barn-raisings and shivarees and skating parties and most of all there was a sense of optimism. It’s that optimism that has drawn me to write stories of our pioneers. Despite the hardships, -- and there were many, roughly half of the homesteaders in Saskatchewan and Alberta failed to prove up their land, -- the writings of the time are filled with the belief that one could begin again in the Canadian West and with hard work and industry, succeed. Next-year country, as it was called, denoted not only hope for a better crop but also a hope that a new generation would be free of the poverty that had hampered its predecessors. Surely such an attitude was as necessary to the survival of a pioneer farmer as a yoke of oxen and a breaking plough. It’s an attitude we could benefit from today. Sources: Friesen , Gerald, The Canadian Prairies, A History, University of Toronto Press, 1984 Broadfoot, Barry, Next-Year Country, Voices of Prairie People, McClelland and Stewart, 1988 http://www.ourfutureourpast.ca/home.htm |
|
Hi everyone and thanks for
reading the
latest edition of my irregular
newsletter. Spring has come here on the West Coast and the garden, with her siren call, is luring me from my desk. Like Lottie, I love to dig my fingers into warm, fecund soil. Unlike Lottie, I don’t live on Pine Creek Farm and my garden is mostly rocks and clay so the digging requires a pick-axe! Still, the urge to plant is irrepressible. We’re already enjoying fresh asparagus from a long-established bed and the rhubarb is ready. I smell a pie in the offing. Blossoms on the strawberry plants promise a good crop and I’ve high hopes for the blueberries and currants. The rhododendrons are in full bloom and yesterday I found a dahlia beginning to sprout amongst the weeds of the flower bed. So, despite the less than ideal soil I have dreams of a bountiful harvest. I’ve got some good news on the publishing front as well. My next book, working title, Schoolmarm, also set in the fictional town of Prospect, is slated for publication in July, 2006. That’s a long way off, but given that historicals with a pioneer theme are a hard sell just now, I’m happy just to have a pub-date. Don’t ask me why these books aren’t more popular. I love them – both to read and to write. And speaking of writing, I’ve been doing research for my next project and discovered all sorts of interesting facts about Canada’s role in the South-African (Boer) War, 1899 -1902. Did you know . . . «– that Canada sent over 7300 men from the 2nd Royal Canadian Regiment, 2nd Canadian Mounted Rifles and Lord Strathcona Horse (Royal Canadian) Regiment? «- that this war marked an important step in Canada’s evolution from colony to nation? The Canadian troops fought in Canadian units rather than being seconded into British outfits. «- that four Victoria Crosses (the highest award for bravery) were won by Canadians in this conflict? «- that Private R.R. Thompson, a medical orderly, was twice nominated for the V.C. but did not receive it? Upon hearing of his disappointment, Queen Victoria knitted him a scarf instead. «- that veterans of the South-African War, as it was called, were allowed to take up a quarter section of free land under the Homestead Act? «- that Wilfred Laurier was Prime Minister at the time? «- that this war, although it heightened French/English tensions in Canada marked the first time soldiers from French Canada and English Canada fought together on the same side? «- that twelve women nurses from Canada served overseas? The Head Nurse, Georgina Fane Pope, from Charlottetown, PEI, received the Royal Red Cross - the firstCanadian to receive this distinction. «- that the town of Ladysmith on Vancouver Island is named after a famous battle of the war and that the streets are named for prominent officers in the conflict? Well, now you know. Happy gardening, everyone, and remember -- History is fun! Alice Sources: Creighton, Donald, Dominion of the North – A History of Canada, Revised Edition, Macmillan Co. Toronto, 1957 http://www.vac-acc.gc.ca/general/sub.cfm?source=feature/100africa |
|
This has been an exciting month
for me, as The
Man for Her
hit the bookstores on the first of March. It's been great
fun to see
it in stores in my own city and to find it on websites as far away as
Austrailia and New Zealand. In fact, if you check out Rosemary's
Romance Books,
you'll find a contest with The Man
for Her
as a prize. And, speaking of contests, join my mailing list and
be
automatically entered in a draw for an autographed copy.
The contest
will run until April 15, then I'll send out books to three lucky
winners. I hope you enjoy the brief history essays I've posted to this page. This month's is especially dear to my heart. |
| RCMP – A Tribute On March 3, 2005 four young constables with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police were shot to death in the course of their duties. This was the worst loss of life in the RCMP in a single day since the North West Rebellion of 1885. Canadians from the coast to coast and from the Great Lakes to the Arctic mourn the fallen Mounties and grieve with their families. We also reflect on the place of the scarlet-coated policeman in our national fabric. Formed in 1873 with Col. George French as its first the first commissioner, the North West Mounted Police was to be a “body of not more than 300 healthy men of good character, between the ages of 18 and 40, able to ride and to read and write English or French” Samuel B. Steele, at age 22, already a seasoned veteran of the Canadian Militia, joined as a Troop Sergeant-Major in charge of training. While equestrian skills was a prerequisite for enrollment he soon found many of his recruits inept horsemen. Rigorous in his demands for the new force he insisted that by the end of their training he’d have “men who could ride anything with hair on it.” When one young recruit complained of saddle sores, he was told to put salt on them. Eventually, the young recruit wrote, “we became so tough we could sit on a prickly pear.” Recruitment and training completed, in the spring of 1874 the Force began the long march West. Three hundred men to spread the rule of law, assist settlers and assert Canadian sovereignty over 300,000 miles of wilderness inhabited by trappers, native Indians and whiskey traders. None quailed at the magnitude of their task, but set off with hearts high, eager for the adventure. The force quickly earned a reputation for fearlessness, loyalty and dedication to duty. There are countless examples of a lone Mountie enforcing the law in the face of overwhelming odds. One of the most famous is the tale of Major James Walsh, who, accompanied by a sergeant and three troopers, rode into an encampment of 5000 Sioux who’d crossed the border into Canada from the United States. Just months before, this tribe of warriors had defeated Custer at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. After spending a day explaining the law of Canada to Chief Sitting Bull, Walsh was on his way out of the camp when he spied some horses he knew to be stolen. After threatening to put the thief into leg irons, Walsh relented and allowed the miscreant to go free but under the astonished gaze of 1,000 warriors, he confiscated the horses From then on Sitting Bull respected Major Walsh and trusted the Mounties. So long as the Sioux remained in Canada, they obeyed the laws of the great white mother (Queen Victoria). In 1904, the North West Mounted Police were given the designation of “Royal” by King Edward VII and in 1920 were combined with the Dominion Police Force to become the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. The Mounties have participated in all of Canada’s wars, beginning with the Northwest Rebellion, 1885. During the South African (Boer) War, 1899-1902 , Mounties, including Sam Steele himself, served in the 2nd Canadian Mounted Rifles and the Lord Strathcona’s Horse. In the First World War, 1914-1918, the police were in cavalry squadrons for overseas service and in WWII, RCMP Marine and Air Section personnel transferred to the Royal Canadian Navy and Royal Canadian Air Force for overseas duty and served in No.1 Provost Company for military police duties. In more recent times, the Mounties have been part of Canada’s peacekeeping tradition. Since 1989, 1500 police officers have participated in 25 UN missions around the world, including service in Haiti, Jordan, Bosnia, Iraq, Sierra Leone, Afghanistan and the Ivory Coast. The Mounties have become one of our country’s most cherished icons, a symbol of national pride. They are also our neighbours and friends. The skill and pageantry of the musical ride that delight audiences wherever they perform, also raises money for charity. Local detachments participate in community fund drives such as the “Cops for Cancer”, old-timer hockey games and school anti-drug programmes. Despite the tragedy of March 3, 2005, the men and women of the RCMP continue to do their duty with skill and determination and passion. In the face of evil, they will “maintain the right”. This column is dedicated, with gratitude, to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. 1. Sam Steele, Lion of the Frontier, Robert Stewart, pg21 2. Ibid, pg.27 3. www.thehistorynet.com/we/blmountiesteele/ Ssources Samuel B. Steele, Forty Years in Canada, Toronto,McGraw-Hill, Ryerson Ltd., 1915 Robert Steward, Sam Steele, Lion of the Frontier, Toronto, Doubleday &Co. 1979 www.rcmp-grc.gc.ca/history/highlights_e.htm historynet.com/ l |
| The remittance man referred
to in the opening chapters of The
Man for Her was one of a coterie of young, well-born,
well-educated English gentlemen, who emigrated by the boatload to the
colonies of the British Empire during the latter part of the nineteenth
century. Between 1875 and 1900, 45,000 of these “gentlemen”
came to Canada. The emigrants were generally younger sons who for
various economic and social causes, suddenly found themselves
superfluous to the world they’d been trained to inhabit. For generations, the law of primogeniture had ensured that estates and fortunes were inherited by the oldest son. Younger men found careers in, the civil service, the church, law or medicine, and especially the military. Many an exasperated Victorian father had dealt with a wayward scion by purchasing him a commission in the army, trusting that military discipline would succeed, where hectoring parents and harsh schoolmasters had failed, in turning a black sheep into a respectable citizen. However, following the disasters of the Crimean war, when well-trained and professionally led Prussian armies inflicted huge losses on the British, a demand arose for more capable leadership. In 1871 Parliament abolished the practice of purchasing commissions. The military as a career for a second son, was available only if he graduated from the Royal Military Academy or the Royal Naval College. For many a privileged gentleman, emigration seemed a preferable alternative. In the fields of law, medicine and the civil service, too, the power of patronage declined in the latter half of the nineteenth century as the British public demanded a higher standard of scientific knowledge, intellectual skill, and greater competitive initiative among the learned classes. The new “meritocracy” replaced the aristocracy as position, usually reserved for men of good family and useful connections, were now filled by open competition and awarded on the basis of merit. Only the Church of England remained wholly open to these supernumerary gentlemen graduating from the best public schools in the land with nary a practical skill to offer. Faced with the choice of “riding the range” or taking Holy Orders, many opted for emigration. The crowning event that sealed their fate was the agricultural depression Britain endured during the 1870's. The landed class suffered large losses and many estates simply could not afford the upkeep of a younger son. With no useful employment, these young men tended to drink, gamble and indulge in sport and scandal, becoming a social as well as a financial embarrassment to their families. The solution was to send them to the colonies, where, if they couldn’t make something of themselves, they would, at least, be invisible. In addition to the disadvantages of remaining in England, Canada offered many enticements for the adventurous young man. The Canadian Pacific Railway was completed in 1885 and the Canadian government was anxious to settle the vast empty spaces of the Dominion. The Canadian Department of Agriculture launched an advertising campaign extolling the riches of the Canadian prairies, not only for farming but for ranching, hunting, fishing and generally living the life of a “squire” without the expense. In 1872 the Dominion Land Act offered 160 acres to any male British subject over the age of eighteen. All the applicant had to do was improve his homesteads over a period of three years and pay a registration fee of $10.00 (ℒ2). Coming from England, where the average farm was 100 acres and extremely expensive, such largesse was irresistible. Countless English schoolboys arrived at the port of Halifax, bringing with them all the accoutrements for refined living, including silver, china, bath tubs, fine linens and trunks full of books. They also brought romantic notions about becoming cowboys and equipped themselves with snowshoes, fur coats, rifles, chaps, ropes and other accoutrements that made them the laughing stock of their practical neighbours. The reality of life on the frontier came as a rude shock to the privileged lad who found he was expected to walk behind his own plough, chop his own wood, build his own cabin and fend for himself without a single servant. The cost of living as a gentleman was also more onerous than expected, forcing our remittance man to constantly write home with requests for more money. One enterprising young man wrote to his father that he was running a ground hog ranch with about a thousand head and needed more money to get his herd through the winter. Duly impressed with his son’s enterprise, his father provided additional funds. Another, employing a different tactic, wrote that he was so lonely and so broke, he thought he must come home to dear old England. His family instantly dispatched another remittance to keep him in the Dominion. While some of these men, became successful and respected citizens, the majority were treated with scorn by their more thrifty and industrious neighbours. The remittance man, so named for his oft repeated promise to pay his tab “when the remittance comes in,” gained a reputation for indebtedness, drinking to excess, holding himself aloof from his “colonial” neighbours and, in general, spending his life as a schoolboy, without ever accepting the responsibility of an adult. With his fine clothes and good manners and generally cheerful disposition, the remittance man was a welcome addition at parties and social outings but no hard-working farmer wanted his daughter to marry a dissolute “remitter”. Yet, for all his failings the remittance man made an important contribution to the life of the new country. With their ideals firmly grounded in the British Public School system they saw public service as a duty and willingly served on the councils of their new communities, promoted public schooling, built athletic clubs, brought an appreciation for arts and culture to the frontier, supported the development of churches, and maintained the “Britishness” of the Canadian frontier. Even their excessive drinking brought much needed capital to the hotels and taverns and hence into the coffers of th |