Michelle Ule's Blog, page 103

Exchanging the Norm for the Foreign: China

We’ve just wrapped up a second experience with kids from another country, this time China.

My sister-in-law put this one into motion with a phone call: “I’ve got this friend who runs a program called Cultural Homestay International and she needs a home for two Chinese boys. They’re coming with a class of fifteen kids and I’m taking the teacher. I told her you might take the boys.”

“Sure,” I said. “When? How old?”

“They land tonight and will be in Sonoma County tomorrow. They’re 13.”

Bring ‘em on.

We’ve raised three boys of our own and while they’re long gone, my husband and I have the moxie to take on two more. It was only for ten days and they went to school during the day. I knew the drill: cook and drive. No problem.

Of course with such short notice, they had to come along with our planned activities for the weekend which included visiting the Civil War Games  and then a day at the lake sailing my husband’s decript catamaran.

Were they interested?

“Yes, Mom.”

We hosted the bespectacled Harry (for Harry Potter–yes, he struck again) and Nick. To make things easier, they called us Mom and Dad. My husband and I both had to hide our smiles when, usually Harry, would ask, “Um, Mom, where is our Dad?” or “Dad, where is Mom now?”

As we had with Giovanna, we attempted to find common ground with cultural figures. They didn’t recognize Star Wars, but they did know Mr. Potter. Harry picked up one of the fat books resting on the shelf in our daughter’s room and stared. “Mom. This Harry Potter book has a great many English words.”

He’s right. 

Our appliances amazed them. Most Chinese homes do not have ovens; neither boy had ever seen a trash compactor or a garbage disposal. They stood above the sink every time I ran it and admired with goofy grins. “Wow.”

What joy to turn on the loud, shuddering trash compactor!

They’d never been in a boat before, did not have pets, and couldn’t believe the whole backyard, much less the house, belonged to us.

The doe with two fawns and the wild turkeys walking down the street astounded them. “Who do they belong to?”

“No one. They’re wild.”

Wild?  Their eyes went big around.

Thrilled by every shopping opportunity, the boys entered Costco with mouth gaping admiration, but exclaimed with pleasure at their favorite: The Apple Store.

Nick bought an unlocked I-phone and after much international discussion with home, passed on the I-Mac. We brought the teacher with us on that outing–I wasn’t going to be responsible for a thirteen year old boy spending large sums of money without oversight!

We pointed out most items are made in China, but they insisted quality is better in America.

We enjoyed these two very polite boys. They played foosball with my husband and sons, did the dishes, cooked several meals (french fries and noodles) and were enthusiastic about everything we suggested.

The highlight, though, caught them completely by surprise.

“We’re going to the beach,” my husband announced.

They napped on the 45 minute ride to the coast, but sat bolt upright when we parked at Goat Rock Beach.

Jumping out of the car, faces aglow with joy, they stood with their mouths open at the sight of the ocean–which they had never seen before. The thunderous waves, white beach, and calling sea birds energized them.

When their teacher Emily got out of the car, she stood a long time looking at the beach before whispering, “how many words for beautiful are there in English?”

We had a kite which they tried to fly. They waded in the water, stared at a low-flying pelican, marveled at a sea snail and relished sand between their toes. A great day.

All we had to do was drive.

After they left, my husband sighed. “I miss Harry and Nick, don’t you?”

Of course.

They finished their trip at the happiest place on earth. Harry, the puncitilious, sent me a photo.

He wants to be the Chinese premier some day.

He also fell in love with America.

Sounds like we had a good ten days worth of fun work to me!

Exchanging the Norm for the Foreign: Brazil

It began innocently enough, both times, with a phone call–but isn’t that how life changing things often occur?

A routine day suddenly explodes into a change that alters your life and rearranges your schedule  the very next day.

Fortunately, we’re flexible, which is a key component to welcoming foreign exchange students into your house.

Three years ago we got Giovanna–a lovely girl with excellent English skills from Brazil. A friend recommended us and a week later Giovanna arrived. She spent four months with our family and we learned a lot about Brazilian culture and food (For example, they consider avocados a fruit like strawberries, and Giovanna made us an avocado slushie. We had trouble getting past the sugar).

One night she put together a Brazilian barbeque, cooking a terrific meal of delicious meat–she made sure the local butcher did NOT cut the fat off the tri-tip. She put together a bread-like souffle filled with cheese and baked a chocolate cake riddled with cinnamon and sweetened with condensed milk.

I never cook with condensed milk; this was a new experience.

Giovanna had learned her English with Harry Potter. “I wanted to be able to read the books myself,” she explained. “I started with Harry Potter’s first book in one hand and the English-Portuguese Dictionary in the other. By the time I got to the last books, I could read them easily.”

Harry Potter wasn’t the only popular English-language culture she enjoyed.

Three years ago  Twilight and its sequels were popular. Giovanna loved the bookand was delighted to purchase a copy of the movie within weeks of arriving in America.

I laughed the first time she watched it. “Is this what your idea of American high schools were before you came? Have you seen anyone looking like a vampire at Montgomery High School?”

She laughed.

“That also explains why you like garlic so much,” I continued.

Giovanna shook her head, puzzled.

“Don’t you know vampires hate garlic?”

She laughed again. We could joke with her from the first week.

Even though the high school had expected her, they had a problem with her school transcripts when we enrolled her in classes.

“You’ll need to get this translated.” The school secretary flourished the transcript. “We can’t read it.”

I don’t speak Portugues, but I have a working knowledge of Spanish and Italian. These words didn’t look that complicated to me: Física, Biologia. Álgebra.

 Any guesses?

“Can’t we just have her translate it for you?” I could figure them out.

“Of course not. How would we know if she translated correctly?”

I glanced at Giovanna out of the corner of my eye. “Do you need this translated by an official translator, or can I use a friend?”

“A friend will do. We just need to be able to read it.”

“No problem. I’ll have it back in a couple hours.”

We went home and Giovanna translated everything. I typed up her words and we returned translated transcript later that afternoon.

“Perfect.”

Giovanna had things to learn in America. She had never done much manual labor since her family had a maid. She wasn’t familiar with a washing machine and had not seen a dryer before.  The dishwasher and trash compactor were new appliances as well.

More than anything, she liked to go shopping.

I hate to shop.

I decided, finally, it was a bonding experience between us and at least once a week sallied forth after dinner to hit the stores. Everything mesmerized her–she was sixteen–and often needed to purchase items for school.

We surprised her the week before Christmas when we took her to Disneyland. Here, truly, was a dream come true for her: meeting Mickey Mouse. We even mailed a pair of ears to her mother, another true fan!

The best part of having a foreign exchange student in our house was seeing our normal life  through foreign eyes.  She had questions about many things and shared astonishment about much in American life. We loved having her and were happy to do it again.

Have you ever considered having a foreign exchange student in your home? Why or why not?

Getting By with Lots of Help from Friends!

I’ve just sent off my most recent novella, An Inconvenient Gamble, to the editor. She’ll read the manuscript, take notes and in a week or two send me  suggestions on how to improve it.

I like that part of the writing process, the collaboration with someone who learns my story well. The arguing about plot ideas and words invigorates and often makes me laugh.

But my editor will not be the first person to read the manuscript. I get through the writing life with a little help from my friends because no woman is an island and we need each other.

Cliches aside, writers need people to help them present their best work to editors. Here’s an overview of how, why and who helped me–and perhaps this will spur you to enlist helpful others in your writing career.

The obvious: computer tools.

I always feel triumphant if I don’t have any grammar errors.  They just underline your errors without comment–very helpful.

Thank you, Microsoft Word spell and grammar check!

A significant other who listens and offers ideas at your request.

The first and closest reader of An Inconvenient Gamble was my personal patron of the arts, Robert. He sat next to me at his own computer as I wrote and he listened cheerfully–always laughing at the right spots–as I read each chapter aloud to him. He helped with the occasional plot points–not necessarily with his specific idea, but in allowing me to talk out my ideas and thus work through what I wanted to say.

He also took me out to dinner several times.

Experts in your story’s subject matter.

My niece, a veterinarian, answered detailed questions about livestock and corrected several significant errors I planned for my story. An Inconvenient Gamble takes place on a horse farm and I needed pertinent details about the delivery of a foal.

Maura not only sent me an entire page of  “ways horses can get sick and die,” but she also corrected a major mistake. “No one in their right mind breeds a horse to give birth in November. That would be the last month anyone would use.”

Bummer. That event needed to take place in November. “How about a cow?”

“Cows can be born year round. That would work.”

Thanks, Maura.

A practitioner of your lead character’s passion.

Mandi has a degree in English from Sonoma State University, loves to read, and posts photos of her horse on Facebook all the time. I asked her to read the story and correct any horsemanship errors.

I had several. Here’s what she said about one:

“‘Carried away, she urged Caesar on and when they reached the paddock fence, he jumped it in effortless flight.’ I love this sentence, but it needs slight altering. Any horseback rider knows one of the top rules is to never run a horse home/to the barn. For one things, you should be cooling the horse down, but the main reason for this rule is because it teaches the horse bad habits.”

I didn’t know that, but it’s now been changed in the story line. Thanks, Mandi.

Someone who can read your story without a bias (or who won’t overlook yours).

I sent an early draft of the story to a reader friend who actually doesn’t like the genre. She’s a former English teacher, however, and I can count on her to catch any major writing errors and to comment on the story’s logic.

To my surprise, dog owner Linda wanted to know why I was always so mean to the dog.

What?

I went back and read through all the references to the “no-good traitor” dog, who was lazy, dragged herself off the porch, didn’t protect the heroine, and never came when called.

I’d meant to be ironic, but I could see Linda’s point. I rewrote sections so that Sal the dog improved over the course of the story and was a good farm dog by the end. Talk about needing a character arc!

Thanks, Linda!

Readers in your target audience/age group.

Other readers included my daughter Carolyn who thought the plot went “really fast;” Kim who enjoyed all the references to Morgan’s Men and thought they added depth to the story; Leah who described it as “cute;” and Rachel who just loved it.

The affirmation helped. Thanks, ladies!

Praying friends.

Some writers have a group of people who pray for them as they write their books. That’s  a wonderful gift to give– Rachel prayed for me as I wrote.

Sitting at the computer for long hours to write the story is a solitary pursuit, but we need friends to point out our errors, make us rethink our plot, challenge us on tone, and cheer us on.

How have your friends helped you?

Did I miss anybody? 

How Should We Look at the Olympics?

I spent the summer of 1976 in Switzerland at a house far up on an alp with little TV reception. As an Olympics fan, I was disappointed I wouldn’t get to watch the games as frequently as we did at home, but I was optimistic.  Afterall, surely the Swiss and the Italian family members would want to cheer for their teams?

No.

I saw one grainy performance, I can’t even remember the sport now, and that was all.

I survived just fine.

But it reminds me that not all the world views the Olympics through the same technicolor splendor and excitement as USA.

Indeed, I’d wager many people in the world would rather not see a behomoth team like USA win all the time.

Can you imagine? Athletes from other nations would like to hear their anthem played while they stand on the podium, too. They’d like to watch their flag be raised.

And since many of them feel like little Davids against the American Goliaths (sometimes literally), they’re rooting against my “home” team. 

I suppose that’s why I’ve felt uncomfortable in the past with the unashamble rooting for the USA which goes on over the TV airwaves. I suspect athletes from all the countries have personal stories of hardship, endless hours of practice, and dreams that have little chance of being fulfilled.

Which is why I enjoyed the 1993 Disney film, Cool Runnings, about an unlikely quartet of track stars from Jamaica who put together a bobsled team for the Calgary Olympics.

Like so many other athletes, they wanted to compete and to do so at their best. Jamaica has never won a bobsled medal, but that doesn’t mean they haven’t tried.

I’m thankful this year NBC will air (via the Internet for those who can access it), all the competitions for all the sports and all the different country’s teams.

That makes it feel more like an Olympics–a real world competition– to me.

How about you?

Olympic Games Opening Ceremony: 1984

My brother, whose star-studded life is a continuing astonishment, won tickets to the opening games of the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles.

My mother made this announcement while visiting me in Connecticut shortly before the start of those games 28 years ago.

“He doesn’t want to go,” she said. “The seats are good ones–$300 a piece. But he thinks it will be too much bother since he has to ride a bus and it promises to be a long day. So he gave me the tickets. You want to go?”

My husband had been out to sea, as usual, for awhile and the submarine wasn’t due back soon. In the days of airline deregulation, tickets were relatively cheap–especially if my mom paid for one of them. So, the boys (2 and 4) and I got seats on mom’s flight home and away we went.

A dream had come true. I was going to the Olympics.

Sort of.

I was an Olympics denizen. Indeed, on the airplane to LA, I tied for first place in the Olympics trivia contest. The stewardesses had to flip a coin to decide who won the bottle of wine. I lost, but what did it matter? I had a ticket!

When the day came, we parked the children with my in-laws and Mom and I caught a bus at a local college. The Harbor Freeway was practically deserted that day (indeed, Southern California folk left the freeways to the Olympic visitors. My father hadn’t driven through downtown so fast in 20 years!). We pulled up to the Coliseum parking lot and got in line.

There were a lot of lines to enter, even in those pre-terrorist days.

As the time drew closer to start and the metal detectors were backed up, we fretted. President Reagan was sitting in our section of the Coliseum–everyone had to be carefully searched. We could hear the trumpets blaring, the crowd cheering, but the line took forever.

By the time we entered and found our seats (we’d been to the LA Coliseum many times attending UCLA football games), the opening games had been going on for nearly half an hour.

But what an afternoon! Bands, music, thrills, derring do, even an entire end of the Coliseum stacked with grand pianos and black tie pianists playing Gershwin. The wonders and awe did not end.

We even participated in a giant card stunt–the entire stadium filled with the world’s flags.

The most dramatic moment was waiting for the torch to arrive and light the flame. This Olympics was the first time a torch had been run across a nation in the weeks preceeding the event. Folks lined streets all around the country to watch it run by–we did it ourselves in Torrance.

A Navy wife friend of mine had run with the torch in New York as it wended its way across the country. But the name of the final torch bearer, the one who would run it up the stairs and light the flame, had been a carefully kept secret.

He was a crowd favorite, particularly for the UCLA fans: 1960 decathalon gold medalist Rafer Johnson.

It took him a long time to climb all those steps!

A bit of history for us, and a lovely afternoon.

My family attended many events–particularly volleyball since my brother knew some of the Olympians. I went to college with one of the American track stars. But who could ever forget such a thrill as watching that opening?

Good luck to all in London this year, particularly Sonoma County favorites Kim Conley, Ryan Hall and Silas Stafford!

Civil War Dresses: Of Corset Hurts

It’s challenging to write an historical novel if you’re not sure what the clothes are like. How many of us have read Gone with the Wind and wondered if Scarlett really could have an 18 inch waist and still breathe?

The answer is probably not.

Recent Civil War events in both California and Tennesse have given me insight into the trials and tribulations of mid-1860′s clothing and since I’ve had a hard time figuring this stuff out myself, I thought I’d share a couple things I’ve learned.

1. An 18-inch waist may not really be only 18 inches.

A Civil War reenactor at Duncan Mills explained the mystery of corset sizing: “each corset has a three inch piece in the back where the strings are gathered. So while your character may wear a size 21 corset (as does mine), that doesn’t mean her waist was only 21 inches wide. You have to add that extra three inches and therefore can conclude she probably had a 24 inch waist.”

Wow, what a relief. You might be able to breathe with those extra inches!

Civil War historian Shirley Farris Jones observed an 18 inch waist is only feasible if the woman had several ribs removed.

No wonder the women were always fainting in those Civil War novels!

My confederate Kim Baily recently visited a fascinating exhibit at Oaklands, an historic home in Murfreesoboro, Tennessee, presented by PNJW Collections of Atlanta. The exhibit featured clothing from the era, some of which can be seen on their website here.

Look at this dress, however. It’s described as having an 18 inch waist. Looks painful to me!

It’s important to remember, as Kim told me, the average woman of the day was 5’2″ and weighed about 110 pounds. Her frame, therefore, would have been smaller than many 21st century women.

Still, 18 inches around is the size of the average thigh in the US these days!

2. Hoop skirts were augmented with starched petticoats to make a bell shape.

The woman in the plaid dress above gracious pulled up her skirts so I could actually see a hoop skirt. I’d read about them many times over the years–most notably in the Laura Ingalls Wilder novels, and I was curious what a hoop looked like–was it a cage?

Sort of. Using flexible hoops, in this case made out of plastic but in the past using tapes and other constructions, three or four graduated circles sewn into a muslim petticoat helped hold out the dress.

Here’s an example, taken from here.

The CivilWarDresses.org website has a host of products if you want to make or purchase your own dress.

My Civil War living doll was actually wearing five layers of clothing that day: a chemise, a corset, a petticoat, a hoop skirt, and her wool dress. She assured us she was very comfortable and it provided enough layers to keep the beating sun from heating her up. She also wore that very large sunbonnet.

I asked about the corset and she commented that it helped not only give her clothing shape, but kept her back straight. Frankly, it looked like she wore a shelf in the bust area, but I didn’t ask her to unbutton the dress to show us reality.

The bell shape is very apparent when women walk in their hoops. The hem of their dresses sway in a pleasing manner.

3. Hoop skirts require care for the wearer and the bystanders.

Walking through the sutler’s tents required dexterity–those hoop skirted women took up a lot of space in the aisles! The hems of the dresses often reached between 130 and 150 inches in circumference–that’s 11 to 12. 5 feet around at the bottom!

I asked my Civil War doll to explain how a woman sat in such a dress.

“She didn’t sit,” the reenactor explained. “She had to sort of  ’perch,’ sliding onto the edge of the seat, in order to keep the hoop from flying up.”  This had the added benefit of making her sit up straight–which enabled her to sip her cups of tea in an endearing manner.

Or, if all else failed, gave her a colorful look as she languished close to the ground!

What crazy things have you done in the name of contemporary fashion?

Corset anyone? 

The Passion of an Amateur

The word amateur comes from the Latin base, amator, to love.  We’ve taken that word and turned it into a person who loves something so inaordinately passionately that they don’t care if it has any monetary value. Amateurs love something for the sake of loving it–and they usually want to share that passion with everyone they meet.

I thought about that word last week when I attended Civil War Days in Duncan Mills, California. As I’ve mentioned before, Tony Horwitz’ book  Confederates in the Attic, had warned me of the lengths Civil War reenactors went for verisimilitude. He describes men who routinely diet so as to have the wolfish look of the starving when they played their roles on the field.

I didn’t run into anyone like that.

But I did encounter people who loved the Civil War and could wax lyrical on even the most minor of minutae. They were fascinating to listen to and to watch as they described their personal area of expertise.

Why else would they devote their weekend to working a Civil War era blacksmith shop, or drive horses around like an ostler?

Many looked their parts and lectured me with joy on their subject matter!

Their passion came out as they discussed their parts and as an historian, they were invaluable to me.

I’m finishing a novella, An Inconvenient Gamble, which takes place in 1867 Texas and features a cavalry man who rode with John Morgan. I needed some tiny details–what type of saddle would he have used?

An ostler for the northern side gave me a 20-minute tutorial in the types of saddles, 1865 McClellan no doubt, and how a cavalry man would have used it on his rides.

No saddle horn; they would have used leather straps to carry things on their horse. The black saddle bag is all they would have had to carry rations. My horsemaster source also demonstrated the different ways the saddle would be cinched to the horse, discussed how much forage a horse would need and the distance they could travel if necessary. (Morgan’s men did a 1200 mile raid in Kentucky in two weeks for example. You do the math and understand how tired the horses were!)

My husband drifted off, laughing. “You made that man’s day. You took notes while he gave you far more details than you’ll ever need.”

He’s right. I don’t need most of these notes, but it was so much fun to watch the pleasure in this man’s face as he told me everything he knew about saddles and the Union cavalry, I couldn’t stop asking questions.

Amateurs, lovers, with their infectious zeal will do that to you!

Confronting a Book’s Demons in Real (sort of) Life

Many years ago a psychiatric nurse friend gave me a copy of Pat Conroy’s Prince of Tides, “because you need to confront some issues in your life.”

I read it, reluctantly, saw what she meant, and dealt with those issues. Thanks, MaryLynn.

But I can’t tell you what Prince of Tides is about per se, because I read it only once. All I know is there was this lion . . .

The lion’s dramatic scene hit me hard, even as it helped. I stuffed the story away and didn’t think about it again until one day at the San Francisco zoo.

Another friend said, “If you’re going to the zoo, make sure you’re in the lion house at three. That’s when they feed the lions and it’s very dramatic.”

Our sons were young, under eight, and we enjoyed the zoo back in 1988. At two-fifty in the afternoon, we entered the lion house–an enclosed old adobe building then, with cages on three sides where the big cats lounged while awaiting their meal.

We’d been warned it was fresh meat.

These cats knew the time and at three o’clock began demanding their food loudly when the haunches and legs appeared.

The thunderous roaring rang through the enclosure, echoing off the walls with an almost physical sound wave.

The boys were delighted. My husband grinned.

I flashbacked to Prince of Tides, that lion scene. My heart raced, “flee,” screamed my brain, and pure panic threatened. “I’ve got to get out of here,” I shouted over the growling, snarling, salivating roars.

My husband shrugged, “Sure.”

I ran.

Wracked with sobs and terror I didn’t even know I possesed, I flung myself onto a bench outside–the roars now dulled to a manageable, TV volume–and shook until I calmed down.

Something I had read and barely remembered was provoked by an experience and became too much to handle.

How’s that for confronting my demons, MaryLynn?

I remembered those emotions last Saturday when my husband, two Chinese foreign exchange students, and I visited Civil War Days at Duncan Mills, California. It was a lovely day and we entered the large acreage eagerly. I was there to do research, the boys to experience American culture, and my husband to humor me.

We started in the sutler’s camp where Civil War-related items were for sale. We walked past the wooden replica of a nineteenth century building serving food (hot dogs). Beyond that we came to the parade grounds and there they were: a lineup of Union soldiers.

My husband laughed, the boys surged ahead, and I freaked out.

I’m writing a novel from the Confederate side–my hero is a cavalry Brigadier General fighting against the men in blue.

Who would have guessed I’d have trouble just seeing Union Army re-enactors?

And would it be worse when the shooting began?

I’ve read so much on this subject, visited the cemeteries and the battlefields, seen the movies, why was this so difficult?

Perhaps it was sitting in bleachers on a warm day, hearing the roar of real period cannon (firing blanks or nothing at all), seeing the smoke, hearing the jingle of the harness as horses galloped into battle?

Maybe it was experiencing it in three dimensions through all my senses, rather than only reading it on a page and allowing my mind to invent the images?

Experts tell us one of the differences between reading a scary book to a child and allowing a child to watch a frightening movie is when you read something, you bring to that book your own life experiences and imagination.

Thus, you can only “picture” the story using something in your experience.

When you watch it on television, you are seeing what someone else–usually someone with a different set of life experiences from you–envisions the scene.

Thus, what is terrifying to a small child being read to, is something concrete: they understand Heidi’s fear when she can’t find her grandfather in the fog. Isn’t that what a child fears most? Not being able to find a parent when they are frightened?

But what if a child watches a film that exposes them to a terror “owned” by the director–an adult who has lived longer? Wouldn’t that scary scene be harder for a child to assimilate, and thus more terrifying?

I took 30 years of life into Prince of Tides, and that lion scene (whatever it was) forced me to confront demons from my past in a way I didn’t see coming. And while I dealt with the issues after that, some of them were still sleeping when I went to the lion house on a hungry afternoon.

Seeing that book image in three-dimensional roaring, snarling, white-toothed reality, triggered a primieval fear. I took a priveval course of action and ran: to a bench where I could then regain my emotions and my mind and deal, yet again, with my fears.

It was not dramatic like that at Civil War Days. I got over my horror at confronting the men in blue. But I had to take long deep breaths and remind myself, “this is all in fun.”

And it was fun.

Even when we had to stick our fingers in our ears and open our mouths against the roaring cannon concussions.

My hero has demons to deal with and so do I, yet. Hopefully, my writing the pages of his story will allow some of those fears to be confronted in a positive way.

You know, to take into real life?

Have you seen literature do this? Any book in particular?

Traveler’s Tales: Civil War Days

I’m finishing up a novella that takes place in 1867 Texas (An Inconvenient Gamble) and then I’m returning to my novel about Brigadier General John Hunt Morgan and his wife Mattie Ready. Since this is the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, it’s a great time to revisit the history, particularly with the ready access of so much research.

But this weekend, the Civil War actually came to my neighborhood, so my family (including foreign exchange students from China) went out to watch, talk and marvel.

The only thing I knew about Civil War reenactors came from Tony Horwitz’ hysterical Confederates in the Attic. Perhaps things are different on the West Coast where no battles were actually fought, but I found this group to be pleasant, encouraging and full of knowledge.

Or, as they kept insisting, “Civil War re-enactment is a family-friendly experience.”

I’ll talk more about my personal reaction on Friday, for now, enjoy terrific photos take by my brother-in-law, Dave Kronberg.

First we start with the battle line up:

They were using real cannon:

Authentic ones!

You also had onlookers:

Nuns and other women followed the battles to clean up afterwards, tend the wounded and send them off on ambulances.   At the end of the day, you had retreat from weary battlers–either then or now.

Writing, Genealogy and Serendipity

“I saw a photo once,” my 91-year-old grandmother said, “of three girls in an oval frame. They had red tinted hair and were very pretty. That’s the only picture of Melia I ever saw.”

My great-grandmother, Permelia Hanks Dunn Duval is a cypher. Born shortly after the Civil War to a 58-year-old CSA colonel and his second, exhausted, wife, she moved through the pages of history without leaving much of a trace.

Part of it was her name–Permelia, after her grandmother Permelia Cunningham Dial. When found in census records she’s called “Amelia” or even “Melia.” She married twice, buried one husband and her oldest son, and then had four others by my great-grandfather, Ballard Bennett Duval.

My grandfather scarcely knew his mother–she went into a tuberculosis sanitarium when he was a child and never came out.

I have no personal stories about her, much less a photo.

But since my grandmother described the photo she saw circa 1933, I’ve wondered and searched and turned up nothing.

Until, possibly, today.

I’ve been writing a novella the last couple weeks called An Inconvenient Gamble, which will release in June 2013, part of The Texas Brides Collection (Barbour). My story is set in 1867 Neches, Texas and features my actual great-great-grandfather Colonel J. S. Hanks.

I wrote the final chapters today.

This morning before I started writing, I got an e-mail from one of my Duval genealogy pals, Carol, with a link to some picture on the Anderson County Genealogical website. Carol knew of my “auxiliary” family lines and asked if perhaps these photos were meaningful to me.

How do you think I reacted to this one?

Permelia had two full sisters–one older, one younger. Fannie was born in 1860 and Permelia, 1867. Louezer was the baby and born in 1870. That would be Melia on the right, if this is a photo of the Hanks daughters. 

Tantalyzing. Without a description on the back, though, how will I ever know?

The website had other photos, including one of the same girls with what could be an older brother:

The Hanks girls had two older half-brothers, Claudius born in 1854 and Nathan born in 1856. Do you think the four children in that photo could be the three girls and maybe Nathan? Do they look far enough apart in age to you?

I’m not so sure.

One more photo and this one does have a description: Bells, Poseys, and Dunns.

I know I’m dealing with relatives here. The three Hanks girls’ older half-sister, Isabella Hanks, married TJ Posey. Frances and Permelia married brothers TR Dunn and Ben Dunn. I’ve already mentioned the Bell connection. One of the women in this photo may be my great-grandmother and another may possibly be her mother, Louezer Dial Bell Hanks Ezell.

Any guesses?

I’ve looked and looked.

Melia had one son by Ben Dunn. I only see one definite boy in this photo on the left, unless the baby is a boy. We know the woman in the middle is Elizabeth Shelton–she’s marked. (Lizzie was born circa 1858, how old does she look to you? Knowing the year the photo was taken could narrow some of the guesses).

The closest woman to the boy sits with her back  to the camera.

How could she do that to me!

This is the closest I’ve ever come to possibly seeing my great-grandmother’s face (and maybe my great-great-grandmother’s face!).

It will have to do for now.

But what a fun day to arrive in my in-box.

Oh, and the log cabin at the top? That one’s marked–Grandfather Hanks’ old house, probably the one JS Hanks built when he moved to Anderson County, Texas in 1845.

I just love the serendipity which comes from genealogy and writing. How about you?

(Please! Label your photos!)