Julie Lence's Blog, page 19
November 5, 2009
Structure and Goals
Last week, I was unable to write a decent blog. Some might ask why. I'm home all day. How hard can it be to come up with a topic and find the time to write a few paragraphs? Most weeks, it's not difficult. Others, my schedule gets trounced and before I know it, it's Wednesday night and I haven't written one word.
In the early years of my writing career, I had it easy; no kids and the hubby worked a rotating schedule. I wrote in the evenings and on the weekends when he wasn't home. There was no one to bother me. I could concentrate and keep typing away. Then I had my son, became a stay-at-home mom and there was about 4 years when I didn't write. Taking care of a baby and then an active toddler was hard work. If I so much as glanced at the keyboard for more than 10 minutes, he was into something he shouldn't have been. Or teasing the dog.
Once he went to school, I sat down and made out a writing schedule. Through the past few years, that schedule has been modified to fit my volunteer time at my son's school. This year, I have greatly trimmed my volunteer work in the hopes of staying on top of my writing.
Has this worked? Just like last year, the answer is no. Which frustrates me to no end. Things pop up, causing me to crunch time and fall behind--which I absolutely hate. I'm one of those 'get it done now and then I don't have to worry about it' types. (I've tried to pass this on to my son, but at 10, he doesn't get it. Yet.) But after a month of one set back after another, I'm happy to say, this week I'm back on top and feeling content.
Writing goals are important to me. I strive to complete one chapter per week; one that requires minor tweaking when I'm in the editing process later on. To accomplish this, I need daily structure and organization. Not just at my desk, but throughout my home. I hate clutter, messes and things out of place. I get as much 'home' stuff completed in the early morning as I can and then it's bottom in chair and write. And I like it quiet when I'm writing.
I used to listen to the radio when I wrote, but then I found I was paying more attention to the songs and the news than my story. So now, I keep the radio off and take a break here and there to give my eyes and brain a quick rest. And then it's back to work.
I write until lunch time and then see what errands I can put off for another day and get back in the chair for another hour or so of writing in the afternoon. My payoff for all of this is that feeling of accomplishment I get at the end of the week for a job well done. I don't require a bubble bath with candles, or dinner out, just a simple thought of, 'I did it'. And then my thoughts jump to next week's writing, but I do make time to enjoy my family over the weekend. Without them, I wouldn't have gotten this far. They are both loyal to my work, supportive, and they make life fun.
So make your list of weekly goals. And do your best to complete them. But remember, we are all human and life does get in the way. When that happens, take a deep breath and relax. You'll get to the end of your list, maybe via a different route than you envisioned, but you'll get there and feel that much more satisfied you did.
In the early years of my writing career, I had it easy; no kids and the hubby worked a rotating schedule. I wrote in the evenings and on the weekends when he wasn't home. There was no one to bother me. I could concentrate and keep typing away. Then I had my son, became a stay-at-home mom and there was about 4 years when I didn't write. Taking care of a baby and then an active toddler was hard work. If I so much as glanced at the keyboard for more than 10 minutes, he was into something he shouldn't have been. Or teasing the dog.
Once he went to school, I sat down and made out a writing schedule. Through the past few years, that schedule has been modified to fit my volunteer time at my son's school. This year, I have greatly trimmed my volunteer work in the hopes of staying on top of my writing.
Has this worked? Just like last year, the answer is no. Which frustrates me to no end. Things pop up, causing me to crunch time and fall behind--which I absolutely hate. I'm one of those 'get it done now and then I don't have to worry about it' types. (I've tried to pass this on to my son, but at 10, he doesn't get it. Yet.) But after a month of one set back after another, I'm happy to say, this week I'm back on top and feeling content.
Writing goals are important to me. I strive to complete one chapter per week; one that requires minor tweaking when I'm in the editing process later on. To accomplish this, I need daily structure and organization. Not just at my desk, but throughout my home. I hate clutter, messes and things out of place. I get as much 'home' stuff completed in the early morning as I can and then it's bottom in chair and write. And I like it quiet when I'm writing.
I used to listen to the radio when I wrote, but then I found I was paying more attention to the songs and the news than my story. So now, I keep the radio off and take a break here and there to give my eyes and brain a quick rest. And then it's back to work.
I write until lunch time and then see what errands I can put off for another day and get back in the chair for another hour or so of writing in the afternoon. My payoff for all of this is that feeling of accomplishment I get at the end of the week for a job well done. I don't require a bubble bath with candles, or dinner out, just a simple thought of, 'I did it'. And then my thoughts jump to next week's writing, but I do make time to enjoy my family over the weekend. Without them, I wouldn't have gotten this far. They are both loyal to my work, supportive, and they make life fun.
So make your list of weekly goals. And do your best to complete them. But remember, we are all human and life does get in the way. When that happens, take a deep breath and relax. You'll get to the end of your list, maybe via a different route than you envisioned, but you'll get there and feel that much more satisfied you did.
October 30, 2009
No Time This Week
Well, it's Friday, and as you can see, I haven't posted a new blog for this week. Why? There hasn't been time. Between my son being sick, school closed for two days due to the snow and trying to catch up on my WIP, the days have flown by.
Since school began in August, it's been one thing after another. I think I need to live on another planet where there are more than 24 hours in a day. Or clone myself. Which ever proves easier.
I hope you all have a happy and safe Halloween, and I promise to try my best to have something for you next Thursday. Until then, may a bit of 'Lady Luck' be with you.
Juls
Since school began in August, it's been one thing after another. I think I need to live on another planet where there are more than 24 hours in a day. Or clone myself. Which ever proves easier.
I hope you all have a happy and safe Halloween, and I promise to try my best to have something for you next Thursday. Until then, may a bit of 'Lady Luck' be with you.
Juls
October 22, 2009
Fall Cleaning
As I sit here watching a mixture of rain and snow fall outside my window, I think back over the last few weeks and have to wonder, who the heck came up with 'Fall Cleaning'? What was he, or she, thinking? But then, I know that if someone else hadn't come up with the tradition, I would have.
I hate clutter, which is why I spend two weeks slugging through this ritual I inherited from my mom and grandmother of cleaning out closets, cabinets and basement storage boxes. Toys, clothes and anything not used within the past two years are donated to Goodwill or my friend's day care center. Baseboards are cleaned. Windows are washed and the winter curtains are hung. And for every five items I get rid of, the hubby and kid bring home another treasure I don't want and have to find a home for within my four walls.
Why is this? The only answer that makes sense is they are both serius pack rats. My son has more stuff than any five kids put together, right down to tiny pieces of paper with but a few words scribbled on them. And my husband has things from twenty five years ago; out of style, never worn or of any value that he cannot part with. Neither are willing to let go of anything old when they bring home the new.
So what's a girl to do? Well, I find it highly effective to pitch stuff when they're either not looking or not home. And when they ask where something is, I say, "I don't know what you did with it". This answer saves on a lot of arguments, especially with my son. Besides, ten minutes later, he's usually on to something else. And the hubby? What he doesn't know won't kill him.
While all of this cleaning and re-organizing is back-breaking and tiring, it's also refreshing. I get rid of the clutter, duck the arguments and they get to bring home something new and wonderful. Something that will end up in the 'to go' pile when Spring cleaning rolls around in another six months.
I hate clutter, which is why I spend two weeks slugging through this ritual I inherited from my mom and grandmother of cleaning out closets, cabinets and basement storage boxes. Toys, clothes and anything not used within the past two years are donated to Goodwill or my friend's day care center. Baseboards are cleaned. Windows are washed and the winter curtains are hung. And for every five items I get rid of, the hubby and kid bring home another treasure I don't want and have to find a home for within my four walls.
Why is this? The only answer that makes sense is they are both serius pack rats. My son has more stuff than any five kids put together, right down to tiny pieces of paper with but a few words scribbled on them. And my husband has things from twenty five years ago; out of style, never worn or of any value that he cannot part with. Neither are willing to let go of anything old when they bring home the new.
So what's a girl to do? Well, I find it highly effective to pitch stuff when they're either not looking or not home. And when they ask where something is, I say, "I don't know what you did with it". This answer saves on a lot of arguments, especially with my son. Besides, ten minutes later, he's usually on to something else. And the hubby? What he doesn't know won't kill him.
While all of this cleaning and re-organizing is back-breaking and tiring, it's also refreshing. I get rid of the clutter, duck the arguments and they get to bring home something new and wonderful. Something that will end up in the 'to go' pile when Spring cleaning rolls around in another six months.
October 15, 2009
Shopping
For a good 20+ years, I couldn't shop enough. The mall was the one place I could be found. Clothes, jewelry, things for the house; I enjoyed browsing, buying and feasting on a cheesesteak at the food court. Then along came the western stores, the super Wal-marts and Targets and I had a whole new set of outlets to scope out and learn the layout for those quick side trips. But all that has changed. Now, I hate shopping and really have to need or want something to drag myself away from my writing and go to the store. And when I do go, chances are the retailers don't have what I'm looking for.
I think the pioneers of this great land had the right idea; one mercatile and you only made the trip to town when necessary. And then you stocked up. Flour, sugar, salt, sewing materials, tools and other staples were usually not grown or made at home, so a drive to the mercantile was warranted. Sometimes, it was an all day trip. Others made it to town and back home within the morning. An excursion for trivial purchases, or to replace a worn shirt, was not the norm.
People took better care of their possessions in the days of old. Clothes were mended. Tools were sharpened or repaired. Oddities reserved for special occasions, such as a Christmas lace tablecloth, were saved and used year after year instead of being replaced with something new. Spend, spend spend was not the motto back then. They didn't have the money, plus they were raised to respect what little they did have and preserve it for the next generation.
As I get older, I've learned not to pitch everything I consider of little value or of no use--I get this from my grandmother. She saved and reused just about everything. Garage sales, church auctions and Goodwill are all places to pass along my treausres that aren't treasures to me any more. I'd rather help someone than toss something because I don't like it anymore.
I've also learned to see what I have in the basement storage chests before I go and buy new. Duplicates irritate me, especially when I think of the time and money I just wasted. But the most important thing I've learned--if it's not absolutely needed at the moment, let the hubby get it on his way home from work. This way I don't have to leave the keyboard and waste my time trying to find something the store doesn't have. Or be enticed to buy something I don't need from displays designed to make me spend, spend, spend.
I think the pioneers of this great land had the right idea; one mercatile and you only made the trip to town when necessary. And then you stocked up. Flour, sugar, salt, sewing materials, tools and other staples were usually not grown or made at home, so a drive to the mercantile was warranted. Sometimes, it was an all day trip. Others made it to town and back home within the morning. An excursion for trivial purchases, or to replace a worn shirt, was not the norm.
People took better care of their possessions in the days of old. Clothes were mended. Tools were sharpened or repaired. Oddities reserved for special occasions, such as a Christmas lace tablecloth, were saved and used year after year instead of being replaced with something new. Spend, spend spend was not the motto back then. They didn't have the money, plus they were raised to respect what little they did have and preserve it for the next generation.
As I get older, I've learned not to pitch everything I consider of little value or of no use--I get this from my grandmother. She saved and reused just about everything. Garage sales, church auctions and Goodwill are all places to pass along my treausres that aren't treasures to me any more. I'd rather help someone than toss something because I don't like it anymore.
I've also learned to see what I have in the basement storage chests before I go and buy new. Duplicates irritate me, especially when I think of the time and money I just wasted. But the most important thing I've learned--if it's not absolutely needed at the moment, let the hubby get it on his way home from work. This way I don't have to leave the keyboard and waste my time trying to find something the store doesn't have. Or be enticed to buy something I don't need from displays designed to make me spend, spend, spend.
October 8, 2009
Saloons
With their swaying doors and sawdust floors, saloons were visible in nearly every town in the west. Some places had only one and served warm beer and watered down whiskey. Other places had more than one and their whiskey wasn't tainted. An off-tuned piano, gilded mirrors and the requisite protrait of a lady in the nude, men from all stations in life gathered inside a saloon for the latest news, conversation and fun.
Gamblers, cowpokes and maybe even a sheriff on occasion crowded around the poker and faro tables. Some tables were covered in green felt. Others were splintered wood. Fortunes were sometimes made at those tables with a turn of a card. More often than naught, they were lost. Blood was shed, gun fights erupted and the term quick-draw didn't
always refer to the cards. Still, there were those who were content to ignore the games of chance and remain at the bar, sipping their drinks and listening to the latest tidbits before they moseyed along.
Painted ladies in their low-cut dresses that had seen better days garnered employment within the saloon's walls. Some served drinks. Others dealt stud or danced with the clientele for a coin. And too many were often required to take a man upstairs for another form of entertainment. These girls came from all walks of life and usually had no other means to support themselves. They were shunned upon by society matrons, frowned upon by the clergy and always in demand by cowpokes and gentlemen alike with a coin to spare on pleasures of the flesh.
Some saloons were elegant and elaborate, with crystal chandeliers, wood floors and a long, mahogany bar polished to a shine. Others were nothing more than cheap pieces of wood nailed together over a dirt floor and lit by wall sconces. And those saloons installed in mining camps and crude settlements were flimsy tents that could be taken down at a moment's notice.
Today, we have air conditioning, tile and carpeted floors, big screen TV's and computer games of poker and golf housed inside the bar itself. Waitresses serve drinks and food and nothing else, and women are welcomed customers. Bright lights, fancy glasses and a variety of beers and liquors to chose from, the local saloon is more than just a place to gather for the latest news. Social clubs, sports groups and even housewives flock to these places, assured of a warm welcome the moment they pass thru those swinging doors.
Gamblers, cowpokes and maybe even a sheriff on occasion crowded around the poker and faro tables. Some tables were covered in green felt. Others were splintered wood. Fortunes were sometimes made at those tables with a turn of a card. More often than naught, they were lost. Blood was shed, gun fights erupted and the term quick-draw didn't
always refer to the cards. Still, there were those who were content to ignore the games of chance and remain at the bar, sipping their drinks and listening to the latest tidbits before they moseyed along.
Painted ladies in their low-cut dresses that had seen better days garnered employment within the saloon's walls. Some served drinks. Others dealt stud or danced with the clientele for a coin. And too many were often required to take a man upstairs for another form of entertainment. These girls came from all walks of life and usually had no other means to support themselves. They were shunned upon by society matrons, frowned upon by the clergy and always in demand by cowpokes and gentlemen alike with a coin to spare on pleasures of the flesh.
Some saloons were elegant and elaborate, with crystal chandeliers, wood floors and a long, mahogany bar polished to a shine. Others were nothing more than cheap pieces of wood nailed together over a dirt floor and lit by wall sconces. And those saloons installed in mining camps and crude settlements were flimsy tents that could be taken down at a moment's notice.
Today, we have air conditioning, tile and carpeted floors, big screen TV's and computer games of poker and golf housed inside the bar itself. Waitresses serve drinks and food and nothing else, and women are welcomed customers. Bright lights, fancy glasses and a variety of beers and liquors to chose from, the local saloon is more than just a place to gather for the latest news. Social clubs, sports groups and even housewives flock to these places, assured of a warm welcome the moment they pass thru those swinging doors.
October 1, 2009
Family
Families come in all shapes and forms, and to me, family is the most important part of my life. Talking on the phone with mom, watching my husband smile and holding my child's hand may all be daily occurances, but I value them more than I can express in a few short lines.
Mom and Dad taught me respect; not just for material things bought at the store but for people and life. They gave me a strong set of morals and showed me in their daily routines how to share and care for those in need. But, most of all, they sacrificied for me and my siblings, which gave me a better understanding of how a parent's love knows no boundaries.
My husband is a great partner and friend. He's kind, loving and supportive; especially with my writing career. Instead of having made jokes or remarking that 'I was crazy' when I told him I wanted to write romance, he bought me a typewriter (this was before most everyone had a home computer). Since then, he works hard so I can stay at home, take care of our family and write. Plus, he has the brain of a dictionary.
Without Mom and Dad and my husband, I never would have made it this far. All three have shown me a person's hard work and efforts do bring rewards. They've also shown me that love plays just as much of an important role in garnering those rewards. I am thankful and truly blessed to have each of them in my life. Now, if I can pass a fraction of this on to the next generation, then my time here will have been well spent.
Mom and Dad taught me respect; not just for material things bought at the store but for people and life. They gave me a strong set of morals and showed me in their daily routines how to share and care for those in need. But, most of all, they sacrificied for me and my siblings, which gave me a better understanding of how a parent's love knows no boundaries.
My husband is a great partner and friend. He's kind, loving and supportive; especially with my writing career. Instead of having made jokes or remarking that 'I was crazy' when I told him I wanted to write romance, he bought me a typewriter (this was before most everyone had a home computer). Since then, he works hard so I can stay at home, take care of our family and write. Plus, he has the brain of a dictionary.
Without Mom and Dad and my husband, I never would have made it this far. All three have shown me a person's hard work and efforts do bring rewards. They've also shown me that love plays just as much of an important role in garnering those rewards. I am thankful and truly blessed to have each of them in my life. Now, if I can pass a fraction of this on to the next generation, then my time here will have been well spent.
September 24, 2009
Women's Fashion
How did women do it back then? Wear those layers of petticoats, uncomfortable bustles and high-buttoned collars? Especially beneath the hot sun? All they had were parasols and the shade of a tree or a porch to keep cool. Today, we have sleeveless shirts, shorts, sandals, sun dresses and air conditioning to ward off the heat and keep us comfortable.
Fifteen years ago, summers usually found me in Wranglers and Ariats, unbothered by the heat and swearing I'd never part with my jeans and boots. I must have grown up somewhere along the way, because now I go for comfort rather than style. Capris, tank tops and soft T-shirts are my main staples for the summer, and flops on my feet. Age has caught up with me and taught me many things, one of which is to never say 'never'. You just never know when you'll regret saying that phrase.
Though styles have changed from decade to decade, there is one thing we have in common with the women from back then--a need to feel and look our best, no matter the occassion. While researching wedding dresses for a western historical romance novel I recently completely, I found this gorgeous dress on a website; a two piece ensemble of salmon. The dress easily rivaled those of today's designers.
Whether clad in a dress of calico or a pair of jeans, lace-up boots or high-heeled shoes, a shimmering gown or a plain skirt and shirt, women of every generation strive to look their best. We might have fancy perfumes and soaps, tanning lotions and make-up to help us look good, but I suspect the women from back then had their own tricks of the trade, too. Many of us share a kinship for baubles; around our necks, on our ears and in our hair. And what woman doesn't enjoy a hot soak in the tub?
I'm in awe of the women of 'old' for their strengths and courage, for the way they fought for their land and helped cultivate it. I admire society women who sat at endless tea parties or sewing circles, no doubt bored, because that's what society dictated. And I have a deep respect for the working mother of today.
Whatever decade or generation, women are the backbone of the family. We are devoted to our spouses, our children and our homes. No matter the clothes we wear and the shoes on our feet, the best thing to wear that never goes out of style is a smile. It helped the women of yesteryear accomplish so much and it helps the women of today to the same. So smile. Not only does it let your teeth breathe, you also help to brighten another's day.
Fifteen years ago, summers usually found me in Wranglers and Ariats, unbothered by the heat and swearing I'd never part with my jeans and boots. I must have grown up somewhere along the way, because now I go for comfort rather than style. Capris, tank tops and soft T-shirts are my main staples for the summer, and flops on my feet. Age has caught up with me and taught me many things, one of which is to never say 'never'. You just never know when you'll regret saying that phrase.
Though styles have changed from decade to decade, there is one thing we have in common with the women from back then--a need to feel and look our best, no matter the occassion. While researching wedding dresses for a western historical romance novel I recently completely, I found this gorgeous dress on a website; a two piece ensemble of salmon. The dress easily rivaled those of today's designers.
Whether clad in a dress of calico or a pair of jeans, lace-up boots or high-heeled shoes, a shimmering gown or a plain skirt and shirt, women of every generation strive to look their best. We might have fancy perfumes and soaps, tanning lotions and make-up to help us look good, but I suspect the women from back then had their own tricks of the trade, too. Many of us share a kinship for baubles; around our necks, on our ears and in our hair. And what woman doesn't enjoy a hot soak in the tub?
I'm in awe of the women of 'old' for their strengths and courage, for the way they fought for their land and helped cultivate it. I admire society women who sat at endless tea parties or sewing circles, no doubt bored, because that's what society dictated. And I have a deep respect for the working mother of today.
Whatever decade or generation, women are the backbone of the family. We are devoted to our spouses, our children and our homes. No matter the clothes we wear and the shoes on our feet, the best thing to wear that never goes out of style is a smile. It helped the women of yesteryear accomplish so much and it helps the women of today to the same. So smile. Not only does it let your teeth breathe, you also help to brighten another's day.
September 17, 2009
Tucson
I remember my one and only visit to Tucson, almost 15 years ago, like it was yesterday. My husband and I went to visit our good friend of 25 years, Mikie; excited to see him and the place he calls home.
I'd heard a lot of things about the desert. Some were good. Others unimpressive so I wasn't sure what to expect. We'd been to Taos and Santa Fe and loved the New Mexico landscape, but folks said Tucson was different.
They were right. From the red rocks and southwestern part of New mexico, to the desert with its hundreds of cacti and the mountain ranges surrounding Tucson, I fell in love with the area instantly.
Mikie was a wonderful host. He took us to Sabino Canyon where we could walk and see the cacti up close. Then he took us down country roads leading to Mexico (where the tacos are prepared differently but delicious) and old churches, giving us a real feel and flavor for the land and its abundance of history. We stopped often, not to stretch our legs, but to stare and breathe in the beauty around us. I was simultaneously excited and humbled and caught myself wondering about the people who'd come before us, those who'd forged this great state to call home.
Rich and bold in color, a variety of people from all walks of life, shopping, restaurants and an Air Force base; Tucson offers much to see and explore. I wished we'd have stayed longer, especially in that used book store where I thought I'd gone to heaven--that was my first time in one and I must have bought twenty books that day. I discovered hidden treasures in the old churches, whose structures and intricate detail took my breath away and left me in awe. I discovered a way of life in Tucson I could easily adapt to and not just because of the shopping. Looking at the cacti and exploring those churches is something I'd never tire of.
Someday, I hope to go back. Mikie is still there and it really is our turn to visit. He's been to see us numerous times. Plus, he has this gorgeous cactus in his front yard that I'm dying to dig up and take home. I probably would if I didn't fear so much I'd kill it.
When I do get back, I'd like to stroll along 'old Tucson' and learn more about its history--I became even more engrossed with the city when I researched it for my western romance, Lady Luck. I'd also like to visit Tombstone and other small towns in the area, and of course, another hike through Sabino Canyon is a must. But most of all, I want to stop, get out of the car and stare at this wonderful land, soak up as much of it as I can and never take it for granted. It's too beautiful to do it that type of injustice.
I'd heard a lot of things about the desert. Some were good. Others unimpressive so I wasn't sure what to expect. We'd been to Taos and Santa Fe and loved the New Mexico landscape, but folks said Tucson was different.
They were right. From the red rocks and southwestern part of New mexico, to the desert with its hundreds of cacti and the mountain ranges surrounding Tucson, I fell in love with the area instantly.
Mikie was a wonderful host. He took us to Sabino Canyon where we could walk and see the cacti up close. Then he took us down country roads leading to Mexico (where the tacos are prepared differently but delicious) and old churches, giving us a real feel and flavor for the land and its abundance of history. We stopped often, not to stretch our legs, but to stare and breathe in the beauty around us. I was simultaneously excited and humbled and caught myself wondering about the people who'd come before us, those who'd forged this great state to call home.
Rich and bold in color, a variety of people from all walks of life, shopping, restaurants and an Air Force base; Tucson offers much to see and explore. I wished we'd have stayed longer, especially in that used book store where I thought I'd gone to heaven--that was my first time in one and I must have bought twenty books that day. I discovered hidden treasures in the old churches, whose structures and intricate detail took my breath away and left me in awe. I discovered a way of life in Tucson I could easily adapt to and not just because of the shopping. Looking at the cacti and exploring those churches is something I'd never tire of.
Someday, I hope to go back. Mikie is still there and it really is our turn to visit. He's been to see us numerous times. Plus, he has this gorgeous cactus in his front yard that I'm dying to dig up and take home. I probably would if I didn't fear so much I'd kill it.
When I do get back, I'd like to stroll along 'old Tucson' and learn more about its history--I became even more engrossed with the city when I researched it for my western romance, Lady Luck. I'd also like to visit Tombstone and other small towns in the area, and of course, another hike through Sabino Canyon is a must. But most of all, I want to stop, get out of the car and stare at this wonderful land, soak up as much of it as I can and never take it for granted. It's too beautiful to do it that type of injustice.
September 10, 2009
Stagecoaches
For years, Hollywood has had a love for westerns. John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Maureen O'Hara; the movies glamorized the cowboy, the outlaw and the women who loved them. It is from those movies, shown on Sunday afternoon tv when I was young, that my passion for life in the 1800's developed; hard and relentless, yet pure and honest. Much hasn't changed since then. My fascination for that era remains strong to this day.
Not far from where I live is a western museum. It's basically a small-sized warehouse, with benches inside to sit, look around and fantasize. The north and west walls hold false-fronted buildings. Some are open to step inside and others are roped off; each housing tools, fashion and furniture. At the south end are my two absolute favorite things--Stagecoaches.
Ever since I saw John Wayne in STAGECOACH, I've wanted to climb aboard and take a ride. Sadly, these two beauties, polished to a shine, are also roped off, but their doors are wide open for a peak inside.
The first thing which struck me about the stagecoach--the swaying box on wheels is much smaller than I had imagined. People were stuffed into those small compartments worse than sardines in their tin cans. And with the bench seat in the middle, leg room was non-existant.
Still, I'd love to take a ride. Not the harrowing, hold-your-breath as we barrell around this mountain pass, but a slow, easy gait. Body swaying, foot tapping on the floor, the breeze blowing in through the windows; I'd feel right at home, like a queen on her throne. And if a tall, handsome cowboy with a soft drawl were on board, I'd swear I'd been transported back in time to when STAGECOACH was originally filmed.
And when the ride ended, I'd have to insepct the rest of the stagecoach. From the harness for the horses to the driver's box and the lattice work at the back, even the roof and the luggage rail would hold my attention. I'd be a kid again scrambling over a jungle gym tying to see and touch everything there is. Thank goodness I have a camera to remember it all when I get home.
I'm thinking the next time to rodeo comes to town I'm going to have to mosey on over there and see if I can't worm my way into a ride--they have a stagecoach and it's driven around the outer perimeter of the arena at least once during the show. Until then, I have my heroes and heroines and will have to live through their escapdes with stagecoaches to fulfill my dreams.
See ya'll next week.
Not far from where I live is a western museum. It's basically a small-sized warehouse, with benches inside to sit, look around and fantasize. The north and west walls hold false-fronted buildings. Some are open to step inside and others are roped off; each housing tools, fashion and furniture. At the south end are my two absolute favorite things--Stagecoaches.
Ever since I saw John Wayne in STAGECOACH, I've wanted to climb aboard and take a ride. Sadly, these two beauties, polished to a shine, are also roped off, but their doors are wide open for a peak inside.
The first thing which struck me about the stagecoach--the swaying box on wheels is much smaller than I had imagined. People were stuffed into those small compartments worse than sardines in their tin cans. And with the bench seat in the middle, leg room was non-existant.
Still, I'd love to take a ride. Not the harrowing, hold-your-breath as we barrell around this mountain pass, but a slow, easy gait. Body swaying, foot tapping on the floor, the breeze blowing in through the windows; I'd feel right at home, like a queen on her throne. And if a tall, handsome cowboy with a soft drawl were on board, I'd swear I'd been transported back in time to when STAGECOACH was originally filmed.
And when the ride ended, I'd have to insepct the rest of the stagecoach. From the harness for the horses to the driver's box and the lattice work at the back, even the roof and the luggage rail would hold my attention. I'd be a kid again scrambling over a jungle gym tying to see and touch everything there is. Thank goodness I have a camera to remember it all when I get home.
I'm thinking the next time to rodeo comes to town I'm going to have to mosey on over there and see if I can't worm my way into a ride--they have a stagecoach and it's driven around the outer perimeter of the arena at least once during the show. Until then, I have my heroes and heroines and will have to live through their escapdes with stagecoaches to fulfill my dreams.
See ya'll next week.
September 3, 2009
Coming West
Route 66; Interstate 70; I've heard it said all roads lead west. And what's not to love about the western part of the United States? Breath-taking scenery, the friendlist of people, good food and an abundance of history; it's all here.
Sometimes, I look to the east, at the wide-open plains and envision the throngs of people walking alongside their horse-drawn, or oxen-drawn, covered wagons. I wonder how they survived that hard journey, and then I look to the west, toward the mountain ranges and wonder what their first thoughts were upon seeing those tall peaks reaching toward the sky. Mine would have been, "No way. No how," as I kept my children close, prayed like I'd never prayed before and continued to follow my husband.
I can't imagine what was harder; plodding along in the heat, feet swollen and tired, worrying about the next meal and disease or forging up and down those glorious peaks where there once were no roads or maps. Picture having to unload your wagon at the bottom, hoist one-at-atime, and by rope, your possesions up and then down a narrow, rocky slope, hoping your prized bureau or table didn't crash into a hundred pieces at the bottom. Once you braved that terror and won, you'd to pack up, cross a mountain valley and do it all over again at the next range.
Then came the desert, scorching heat more unbearable than the heat of the plains, cold nights with nary a tree in sight for firewood, the threat of Indian raids and bugs you've never before encountered. Rattlesnakes, the hard, dry ground, gravel in your shoes and those heart-stopping, jaw-dropping red rock formations and cactus in bloom. And at long last, the tall grasses of California.
While I have a soft spot for covered wagons, I don't know that I could have made it over that first range and onto California, though I would have loved to live on a ranch complete with horses in a corral and a pond nearby. If I had made it over the first peak, that's where my journey would have ended. Then again, the base of the mountains are spectular, too. With trees and waterfalls and spacious land, that would have been more my sytle than chancing losing everything, especially my family.
Even today, when riding in the car, I cling to the arm rest on the door when going up and down those 14,000 footers, especially if my side of the car is closest to the edge and I'm staring down at nothing more than a sheer drop off. I'm not the adverturous type, never was and that's most likely why I'd have never made it over the first range. I would have settled at the foot of it and lived a happy, safe life.
Sometimes, I look to the east, at the wide-open plains and envision the throngs of people walking alongside their horse-drawn, or oxen-drawn, covered wagons. I wonder how they survived that hard journey, and then I look to the west, toward the mountain ranges and wonder what their first thoughts were upon seeing those tall peaks reaching toward the sky. Mine would have been, "No way. No how," as I kept my children close, prayed like I'd never prayed before and continued to follow my husband.
I can't imagine what was harder; plodding along in the heat, feet swollen and tired, worrying about the next meal and disease or forging up and down those glorious peaks where there once were no roads or maps. Picture having to unload your wagon at the bottom, hoist one-at-atime, and by rope, your possesions up and then down a narrow, rocky slope, hoping your prized bureau or table didn't crash into a hundred pieces at the bottom. Once you braved that terror and won, you'd to pack up, cross a mountain valley and do it all over again at the next range.
Then came the desert, scorching heat more unbearable than the heat of the plains, cold nights with nary a tree in sight for firewood, the threat of Indian raids and bugs you've never before encountered. Rattlesnakes, the hard, dry ground, gravel in your shoes and those heart-stopping, jaw-dropping red rock formations and cactus in bloom. And at long last, the tall grasses of California.
While I have a soft spot for covered wagons, I don't know that I could have made it over that first range and onto California, though I would have loved to live on a ranch complete with horses in a corral and a pond nearby. If I had made it over the first peak, that's where my journey would have ended. Then again, the base of the mountains are spectular, too. With trees and waterfalls and spacious land, that would have been more my sytle than chancing losing everything, especially my family.
Even today, when riding in the car, I cling to the arm rest on the door when going up and down those 14,000 footers, especially if my side of the car is closest to the edge and I'm staring down at nothing more than a sheer drop off. I'm not the adverturous type, never was and that's most likely why I'd have never made it over the first range. I would have settled at the foot of it and lived a happy, safe life.
