Farewell My Love

Tags

cars, movies, Music, Mustang, nostalgia, reviews

I saw Bullitt so long ago it was at a Southern California drive-in. I distinctly remember jamming my foot on imaginary brakes on the car’s floorboard throughout the car chase sequences. Baby Driver may put Bullitt to rest when it comes to breakneck driving but will never (be still my beating heart) remove my adoration for a Mustang GT. Alas, the stunt driving in in Baby Driver may have nudged Bullitt from its top spot.

Time to gladly eat my words. I’ve complained about films with distracting loud soundtracks, but Baby Driver makes it work in overdrive and—dare I say it—with synchronized perfection. Magnificent sound editing. Can’t see how any film could beat it come awards time. The only issue I had happened at the opening, the first bank robbery, when the robbers didn’t put masks on until they got to the bank door. That didn’t make sense with security cameras everywhere nowadays. The other issue I had was driving stolen cars to the meeting site after the robbery. That didn’t fit the slickness of these operators. Maybe it was some sort of statement about their arrogance and confidence, but it seemed sloppy to me.

I know other reviewers are raving about this flick as a “car chase action” film, but I have to take issue with that. I watched the entire movie seeing it as a beautifully written, exquisitely realized character-driven story enhanced by excellent direction. I decided to see it because of the marvelous cast and was not disappointed. The music, pacing and controlled violence will hopefully not distract from the cast’s superb ensemble work. The characters are clear-cut and diverse, ranging from the sweetness of youthful romance to the bizarrely sociopathic. The final topping on this delicious flick was the credits rolling to a fabulous rendition of Simon and Garfunkel’s Baby Driver.

The driving scenes brought back memories, things done that I’d never tell my mom about, (like burying the needle on the Hollywood Freeway in the middle of the night in a Mustang, of course), and made me long for the days of the gearshift on the floor. So, if you have one, slide it into fourth and go see this film.

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FRIENDS

Tags

friends, nostalgia, writing

 

Ten years ago, not many hours after my husband passed away, I heard a car pull up in front of the house. Still in wrapped in the numbness of shock, I saw through the front windows a woman hop out of a car, hurry up the walk, and bend to set something at the door. It took a while to get up and go look. The corner of a white envelope stuck out from under the welcome mat. Jane and Steve from church had left a message that they didn’t want to disturb me but wanted me to know they prayed for me, shared my pain, and hoped I would call if I needed anything. And so began one of the most poignant, remarkable, and horrible weeks of my life.

So often we hear or whine about how the world is rotting away, people are hardened, uncaring of others. It’s then that I remember the weeks after John died. My brother, Karl, immediately drove my mom from Illinois to Indiana to be with me. Only days after, my writing buddies brought food and themselves for a diner party that lifted my spirits and started to bring me back to life. Cards and phone calls poured in from my church. Flowers, more cards came, but that which lifted me most were the prayers. A choir member, Helen, a widow herself, told me that I would know when the prayers for me stopped. I woke up one day, almost a year later, and felt the absence of the cocoon of prayer that had buffered pain and loss, but by then, I was healed enough to make it on my own.

Then there are the friends of childhood, Connie especially. It’s hard to believe that it’s been over fifty years ago when our aunts introduced us. Instant friendship. I admired her bright, lively mind, musicality, and the kindness that pours out of her, her stubbornness to accomplish a task and do it well, her romantic heart. Mostly, I love the fact that I can tell her anything, everything, and know that as kind and sweet-natured as she is, she would stand stalwart at my back through any trial or problem.

The wonder is that Connie is not my only friend like that. There were theater friends who stood by me during my first horrific marriage. Coworkers over the years I’ve never forgotten and still hear from now and then. Linda, a new friend from my part-time job, didn’t hesitate when I called. She gave up her day off and took me to the ER for sciatica pain, sat with me, and took me home, constantly cheerful and patient. And in the last decade, I lucked-out and joined Summit City Scribes, a band of determined writers, finding more brothers and sisters, like Judy, my critique partner. I trust her judgment implicitly, admire her ethic, her clean writing style, and ability to plot with deadly accuracy. Imagine a tall, red-headed, dark-eyed warrior with a quick laugh and quicker mind. She is someone else I can say anything to and she will instantly and completely understand—more importantly, she will contradict or readily spout a differing opinion. How I love that about her.

It is because of the blessings of so many amazing people I can call friends that I started the regency series about friendship. I lost my dearest friend when John died but have so many others and know that in the future, there will be more.

A Rogue for Miss Prim, now available and 9th book in The Friendship series:

https://www.amazon.com/Rogue-Miss-Prim-Friendship-ebook/dp/B01KJ3K27I/ref=sr_1_10?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1472763851&sr=1-10&keywords=julia+donner#nav-subnav

And check out Judi Lynn’s webpage and Mill Pond Romances

https://www.facebook.com/JudiLynnwrites

webpage: http://www.judithpostswritingmusings.com/

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Western Romanticism

Tags

nostalgia, pioneer, Prairie, sixties, television, western romance

Remember the TV westerns from the sixties—Maverick, Rawhide, Gunsmoke, Bonanza—to name a few? Louis L’Amour and Zane Grey wrote about loner, prairie knights. They, movies, and television made shooting or knocking a man down with a single punch iconic and formulaic male western romance. All those rough, courageous types, hankering for a fight with fists or six-guns, always winning in the end and making the womenfolk swoon. Ladies moved on to present day steamy, western romances with hairless, bare-chested cowpokes changing their bad-boy ways for their gal.

Don’t get me started.

OK, too late. I’m in the zone and have to burst the bubbles. Most western romances have little to do with the reality, the same way Medieval-set romances with knights and ladies bear no resemblance to that era, when most people lost their teeth by the time they were thirty, were infested with fleas, and ate with filthy hands in halls with rotting, fodder-covered floors where the dogs fought over scraps pitched from the table and whizzed in the corners.

We’ve all seen the pictures of the true ladies of the West—prairie wives with lined, grim faces sitting in front of a sod house. The first thing that probably came to mind was why did that guy ever marry her? For one thing, she probably didn’t look that beaten up the day they married and men looked for sturdy women like me with broad shoulders, big bones, and industrial-strength genes. Life on the prairie was not for weenies.

There was nothing romantic about life for women out West. She got up at or before dawn, seven days a week, every day of the year. First, start a fire. If she’s lucky, she has a range, otherwise, it’s cooking in the fireplace. Next, pee in the pot under the bed, if you’re luckier, there’s an outhouse and it’s not winter. Then off she goes to schlep water, usually a walk to a creek or river. After that, milk the cow/s, and that’s twice a day, every day, all year long. If that handsome, shirtless guy on the book cover is around, he can use that six-pack torso to feed the stock. If he isn’t around, there’s also wood to chop and carry, and that has to be brought in the night before it rains or snows, or there’s no dry wood (or buffalo chips) in the morning.

Now comes the fun part. Make breakfast for husband, kids and perhaps a ranch hand. Dishes are washed in a pan, after toting in more water. Depending on the day of the week, there’s laundry to hand scrub on a washboard with Fels Naptha bar soap. Have you ever smelled it? Washing meant hauling in two tubs of water, scrub and rinse, then hanging them out. (Please God, don’t let the overburdened clothesline collapse into the dirt.) Tote the water back outside, and oh bliss, most of the time she’s pregnant.

There’s bread to bake every day, or every other day, food to preserve, if there’s enough food, garden to tend, (more hauling of water to keep it going in the summer) and maybe a chicken or two to kill for dinner.

It’s never mentioned how the chicken for frying has miraculously appeared in her kitchen, because we know dang well it hasn’t come all nicely sliced up in a package. The bird has to be caught, its neck wrung or chopped off, bled and gutted properly, doused in scalding water so the feathers can be removed, followed by the hunt for pinfeathers, then cut it up (correctly) before it goes in the pan. OK that’d just the chicken/s. What about everything else? You get where I’m going with this. Oh, and by the end of the day, if the shirtless guy was in the mood for sex, his wife probably said the equivalent of “whatever” and slept right through it.

Bathing was done usually at night with a bowl of water—but not until after the lamps had been filled, chimneys cleaned, wicks checked, and extinguished for the night. Immersion was a luxury and usually tub water was shared. Yes, shared, and if you were (again) lucky, you weren’t the last one in the tub. Public bathhouses made customers stipulate if they wanted “used” water or fancy bathing in water that never had a body in it. With two adults and a few sibs, the bathwater would be the consistency of mud by the time your turn came around.

For the women of the West, the sad fact was that men weren’t often around the house or underfoot. Cattle needed tending, guarding, moving to better grazing. Some men had to hire out for trail work and didn’t get home for months, while others disappeared to check out the most recent gold/silver strike.

Such was the life for women on the western side of the Mississippi, and probably many other places. At least it was better than what the prostitutes endured. But that’s another story.

M.L Rigdon (aka Julia Donner)

Follow on Twitter @RigdonML

Website http://www.MLRigdon.com

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Julia-Donner

Confessions of a Teenage Bibliophile

Tags

childhood memories, confession, Galena, librarian, library, nostalgia, reading

Do you know how certain smells or sounds can send us hurtling back to another place and time? The experience can be a crapshoot, pleasant, or nostalgic, sometimes painful. For me, the strongest memory trigger is a squeak—the protest of wooden steps many decades old. They originate in two places. One is the old house where I grew up with a narrow, steep stairway to the upstairs. The steps are grooved in the center from so many years of feet stomping up to bed and down to breakfast for a new day. You might think that my home would be the most poignant memory for me, but it isn’t. It’s where I spent my summers when I wasn’t swimming.

The avenues and venues for entertainment nowadays are legion. Cell phones alone, the constant texting, searching, and calls, can suck up huge chunks of our time. Not so in the early sixties. TV was in its infancy. Books were the most reliable and inexpensive source of entertainment, the means to sail away into intrigue, history, romance, or adventure. It was all there at the library. My hometown of Galena, Illinois is mostly hills, steep inclines and terraced streets, endless steps, and all of it a pistol to traverse, especially when it was a fourteen block walk, then a trudge up another hill with arms full of books. I kept thinking about the reason for the trek. Back and arm aches were worth it, so I could spend lazy summer days by an open window, a book propped in my face.

Galena Library was completed in 1894 and reportedly the first library in Illinois mandated to have four women on its board. Sturdy and august, the library has weathered over a century with grace. One of my clearest memories of the library is Mrs. Dodds, petite, thin, with round spectacles. She always answered the phone with three of her names, never one. “This is Mary Eustace Dodds.” She gave me the gimlet eye one summer when I chose to check out Tropic of Cancer, but she stamped the book and handed it over the counter. Before she did, she repressively said it wasn’t appropriate reading material for my age. (I judged it boring and liked War and Peace better.)

Then was the age of card cataloging, and if asked a question, Mrs. Dodds immediately stopped the search she was in the middle of, wedged a pencil stub between the cards, and answered my question. She may not have been happy about the interruption, but she was the librarian and took her position seriously.

I never had a bike, and thought one with a basket would be luxury, whether or not there were hills damn-near perpendicular to push the thing up. No matter. I trudged the blocks to the library, opened the door, and there they were—squeaky steps rising up to the library. Squeaky steps going down to the basement. So many books and stories. The smell of old bindings and paper. My favorite (and still is) the sculpture that rested on a pedestal by the door, an alabaster chariot drawn by two rearing horses. I surreptitiously touched them every time I entered, but it was the crunchy creak of the wood with every footstep upward, the expectation and possibilities of more exciting stories waiting to be discovered.

The library has changed a lot over the decades. The counter, where Mrs. Dodds stamped out my books, swiftly inspected them upon return, and wordlessly accepted my late fines, is gone. Now there are computers, an elevator, a different arrangement of the book shelves. My chariot and horses have been moved but are still there, and best of all, the stairs still squeak.

Why Are Those Dummies Stumbling Around in the Dark?

Tags

historical, nostalgia, pet peeves, writing

Many people over fifty look at their smart phones and wonder what to do with it besides make calls. I hand mine to my grandson and ask him to employ whatever voodoo is necessary to fix the problem. I’ve succumbed to the fact that there is a new gene that comes with being born in the last twenty years. It’s called the knowwhattodo-technowisegee-nome. Whatever it is, it’s nowhere to be found in my DNA strands.

On the other hand, this same age group came to me one day to ask what happened to the TV remote because they needed to change the channel right now. I remember staring at their stumped expressions, walking over to the TV set, and pressing a button on the side. They looked at their grandmother with awe. A miracle, and I stood amazed at how quickly time erases the simplest aspects of life.

One of the most difficult tasks of penning historical works is keeping one’s head in the time period. Impetuous lovers rush up unlit staircases, down halls then into black rooms with no thought of lighting. There were no light switches on walls prior to the late eighteen-nineties, and yet the hasty pair can see each other perfectly as they whip out of their clothes. To be fair to all genres, I’ve encountered this (what I call the Dark Room Stupidity Affect) in fantasy works, where the world building has laid out a primitive culture and yet there is perpetual lighting.

Perhaps I should have titled this post Bring on the Flaming Torches.

Some writers are so deep into visualizing the action in their minds that they set their scenes as if on a stage, where someone in the light booth has set the computer with cues. Instant let there be light.

Uh-no.

We all have our little peeves that make us shake our heads in disgust. The last time I threw a book across the room was when I read about a ball in the nineteenth century where a man cut-in on a dancing couple. First, I doubt kids today even know what it means to cut-in, but more importantly, the practice of interrupting a couple during a dance didn’t come about until the beginning of the twentieth century. Women carried dance cards, often with tasseled, little pencils attached. They looked like tiny booklets. Inside there were lines where a gentleman could write his name for a specific dance from a waltz to a schottische. Some women preferred to write the names down, and of course, the gentleman should have been previously introduced before signing up for the cotillion. The cards were saved as mementos, to sigh over the next day, following weeks and years.

Years ago, there were specific, well-accepted rules of courteous behavior when it came to social engagements, just as there are today. It’s rude to talk on your cell or scan messages when with others. At the very least, ask to be pardoned. Manners are slowly disappearing in current culture but were an ingrained fabric of life a century ago.

Don’t get me started on horses. I’m boggled at how teams, mounts, and rigs can appear and disappear, like vapor. For a drive in town, whether one had servants or not, horses hooves had to be cleaned before driving or riding, tack had to be selected, carried, harnessed or tacked. A horse should not be taken directly from standing in a stall without some sort of warming up, the horsie stretch-out. Sometimes carriages had to be rolled out of the carriage houses and barns to an open area for harnessing. Seasons and weather demanded changes. After the equipage came back, tack/harness had to be carefully cleaned and stored, equipages checked for damage and cleaned, the horses had to be walked if overheated, wiped down, cooled, then fed and watered. The easy way to get around in a western town was to use hired equipages. Most towns had a livery of some sort or someone who would provide the services, and yet, I’ve read of women, who wore corsets, hats, parasols, gloves that they wouldn’t want smudged, layers of clothes, hopping into a rig for a quick drive to somewhere. There were no quick trips, unless on horseback, on flat land, and at a full-out, hard gallop.

On the other hand, when it comes to authenticity, there are exceptions. When reading medieval, I don’t want to know exactly what it was like in the castle, where the air was thick of the stench of the midden or overfull jakes. In the dark ages, you could watch fleas jumping from one person to the next, share a haunch of food with the guy sitting next to you, who probably couldn’t remember the last time he’d washed his hands. OK, let’s not go there.

Next time: Hometown Ghost Stories or Yesteryear Urban Legend