Michelle Ule's Blog, page 95

Fort Delaware and the Civil War

It rises out of the mist of the Delaware River dividing Delaware from New Jersey, a row of granite buildings on the very slight elevation of Pea Patch Island–so named because a ship ran aground there two centuries ago and dumped a cargo of peas.

The war of 1812 raised concern in Federal City (Washington D.C.) about the ability to guard Philadelphia from British warships sailing up the Delaware River. It was too late to put in a fortification during that war, but they wanted to be prepared for the next.

As it happened, the next war was the Civil War and the Confederates didn’t have a Navy that could threaten Philadelphia.

But Fort Delaware was a sturdy facility, reachable only by boat. The perfect place for prisoners of war. It became known as “the Andersonville of the North.”

Or, as it also was called: “the Fort Delaware Death Pen.”

30,000 soldiers passed through in the five years the north and south battled. Many Confederates were housed there following the Battle of Gettysburg, fought 150 miles west. Between July and December 1863, 1,222 prisoners died . Some perished from their wounds, many from disease and a handful drowned trying to escape.

It wasn’t easy.

The Delaware River flows swift around the island prison. To the west, boggy patches make up an estuary down to the water. Most escapees headed east, usually floating–not

really swimming– to safety. A ring of Confederate sympathizers waited across the river on the eastern shore and would spirit them into Maryland and thence south to Virginia.

If they survived.

Many did not.

The average death rate? 206 men a month; 6 per day over the course of the war.

I placed my An Inconvenient Gamble hero, Charles Moss, at Fort Delaware because he needed to meet up with prisoners from Anderson County, Texas. I learned about the prison fort from an insightful book: Unlikely Allies: Fort Delaware’s Prison Community in the Civil War by Dale Fetzer and Bruce Mowday.

A thorough account of the prison years, Unlikely Allies includes information about every day life for the prisoners. They had a prisoner band that drilled in the courtyard and even a small store. Among the items sold by the sutler: ginger snaps (25 cents a pound), hair dye ($1 a bottle), soused pig’s feet (15 cents each) and clothing items.

Playing cards useful for gambling and passing time, by the way, cost seventy-five cents a pack (linen back) or thirty-five cents if they were Steamboats–cards for poker.

By 1864, prisoners organized themselves into behavior more in keeping with their Southern sensibilities, according to Fetzer and Mowday. They had a chess club, debating society, theatrical club and a poetry society. Artists made art, jewelers made and sold jewelry, and barbers created up-to-date hairstyles.

The Army garrison stationed at Pea Patch Island began a fund raising campaign and in 1863, they broke ground to build a chapel. A Christian Society was formed and prayer meetings began.

The local Episcopal bishop, the Right Reverend Alfred Lee spoke at the ceremony marking the start of construction.

“Lee alluded to the religious foundations that all Americans shared, even in the midst of civil strife, and he fervently prayed that the foundation they were setting would be a symbol of the foundations that war had ravished. The Trinity Chapel was to be a Union chapel in every sense of the word. Lee pointed out that people of all religious creeds were welcome in God’s chapel and the 800-seat edifice would serve as a symbol of peace and reunion for all who worshipped there. Despite the formality of the military program, the troops and other attendees took comfort in the thought that this symbolic act offered hope, forgiveness and peace.”

Fort Delaware still was a prison camp. Men still suffered and died. But I like to think that some found the forgiveness, peace and hope they needed to enter whichever world awaited them.

Just like my Charles Moss.

Tweetables:

Was any Union POW camp as bad as Andersonville? Click to Tweet

Why would a prisoner need hair dye and soused pig’s feet? Click to Tweet

POWs, Horror and Hope

Like many, I grew up on sanitized versions of prisoner of war (POW) camps made famous by movies such as Stalag 17 or The Great Escape, not to mention the TV program Hogan’s Heroes.

But some of the heroes of my childhood included the Vietnam POWs. I wore a metal bracelet with Lt. Thomas Sima’s name on it for several years as many worked hard to bring the American POWs home.

(Thomas Sima came home alive.)

I didn’t give much thought to  POWs in other wars until I began research on my Civil War novel and information from it turned up in An Inconvenient Gamble, recently published in A Texas Brides Collection.

The only Civil War POW camp I knew was Andersonville in Georgia. The National Geographic described it well:

Andersonville, by far the most notorious Civil War prison, housed nearly 33,000 men at its peak—one of the largest “cities” of the Confederacy. Inmates crowded into 26.5 acres (11 hectares) of muddy land, constructing “shebangs,” or primitive shelters, from whatever material they could find. Lacking sewer or sanitation facilities, camp inmates turned “Stockade Creek” into a massive, disease-ridden latrine. Summer rainstorms would flood the open sewer, spreading filth. Visitors approaching the camp for the first time often retched from the stench. The prison’s oppressive conditions claimed 13,000 lives by the war’s end.

I originally had my hero Charles Moss a prisoner in this camp–until I remembered Moss was a Confederate soldier and Andersonville was run by the Confederates. I needed to find another, Federal, POW camp–particularly one where men from Brigadier General John Morgan’s men ended up after his Great Raid and also where soldiers from Anderson County, Texas spent time.

As it turns out, my great-great-great uncle was an Anderson County, Texas POW and he spent time in several different camps, including Fort Delaware.

Many of Morgan’s men ended up at the same camp and so, therefore, did Charles Moss. I’ll write more about Fort Delaware in my next blog.

According to the above National Geographic article, some 56,000 soldiers perished in prisoner of war camps, a number far higher than even the most bloody of battles. Most died of disease, as can be imagined from the Andersonville description. The camps were so large, no one really knew how to manage them. And if the supply chain was stretched thin to get food and ammunition to fighting men, would supply clerks be worried about feeding prisoners?

Chances are those who survived the war in a camp left with their health compromised. My genealogical research turned up a variety of family members who suffered from bowel problems for the rest of their lives–who knew hemorrhoids could be a disabling condition?

My great-great-great uncle Thomas Duval spent the final years of the War of the Northern Aggression traveling between several Union POW camps. At war’s end, he signed an oath of allegiance swearing he would never take up arms against the United States of America again and was returned to Anderson County.

Thomas Duval’s paperwork was interesting in that it provided a physical description: “sallow complexioned, light haired, blue eyed man, five feet, seven inches tall.”

The prisoners at most camps were starved–for food, comfort, news and entertainment. Some got mail from home, but as in Thomas Duval’s case, they could be transferred between facilities without a forwarding address. They were warehoused often in primitive conditions (there were few shelters at Andersonville in Georgia’s baking summer heat and freezing winter storms). The desire to escape was high and hours were spent gambling just to kill time.

In An Inconvenient Gamble, Charles Moss’s life changes after his bad bet results in a death. He spent the rest of his time in camp studying the Bible to atone for the tragedy prompted by his choice. Like many, his life was changed forever–in his case for the better. Prison gave him time to think.  Christianity gave him the forgiveness he needed.

I’ve read numerous memoirs by Vietnam POWs, most notable James Stockdale’s In Love and War, and many POWs like Howard Rutledge sustained themselves by relying on Bible verses and stories they had learned as children in Sunday School. Years of time, often in solitary confinement in Vietnam, provided them with opportunities to reflect on their lives. For some, remembering God and the Bible helped them through the darkest hours.

(This was also true of journalists like Terry Anderson, according to his book Den of Lions,  who was held as a hostage in Lebanon for seven years, as was Anglican clergyman Terry Waite).

I’ve never spent time in prison and hope I never do. But I’d like to think the Bible I’ve studied for so many years would provide the comfort I would need in any challenging situation.

What other good things can come from bad situations?

Have childhood-memorized Bible stories or verses ever helped you in unexpected places? Click to Tweet

Choosing to Believe

The man sat in the dark pit, his long hair tangled and hanging about his shoulders. His food may have been simple: insects and water. Taunting prison guards probably let his friends visit, because he was able to pass a message to the outside world. He thought he knew his purpose. He believed God had called him to say the words that sprang to his lips.

He had defied the authorities and called out truth to the governor. People had flocked to hear him, to see him, to have him pour water over their heads.

“Repent,” he said. “For the Kingdom of God is near.”

Zeal for God consumed him until he became no more than a voice crying out in the wilderness and then one day it all changed.

Out of the crowds who came from the capital– wealthy businessmen, spiritual leaders, soldiers and the common people–a man walked and asked to be baptized.

John could not believe his eyes. This was the man he had anticipated for so very long.

“I’m not worthy.”

“It is fitting.”

Into the water the man went, baptized for sin? The heavens rumbled when he came up. John heard the words and others glanced among themselves. Did we really hear that? Could it be true?

Was this really God’s beloved son?

Jesus returned to Galilee and John continued to baptize until the day the authorities arrested him.

He sat in the dark and wondered what had happened to the promised Kingdom of God. Had he misunderstood? Was his sacrifice futile? Wasn’t Jesus the Messiah, or should he have looked for another?

His friends took the question to Jesus, who heard them out and spread his arms. “Go and tell John what you see: the lame walk, the blind see and the dead are raised to life.”

Clear as mud, as usual, Jesus.

As the friends returned to John with the description, Jesus bestowed his blessing: John is Elijah. Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.

What do you expect God to do with your life and your offerings?

What do you do when your expectations do not match your experience? Click to Tweet

If you pray about your husband’s job–that God’s will should be done since you know things are difficult–and he loses his job, what does that say about your faith?

I figured it this way: either God’s plan involved my husband losing his job or there was no God.

Some people will choose the “no God” option, but I could not.

I had seen God do too many things in my life in answer to prayer. I could not decide there was no God.

But like John, did I misunderstand?

Or is every setback an opportunity to choose to believe God is in control? Click to Tweet

Don’t we all get a choice in our everyday life? The choice of believing God is at work or not?

How did John feel when the friends returned with descriptions of what Jesus was doing?

Would that have been enough for John?

Would it be enough for you?

My husband got another job. He lost a job. He got another job. He’s done well for years.

But I have never forgotten the sinking, sick-in-the-gut feeling when my expectation, my faith in what our purpose in life was for, was disappointed.

Had God deserted us?

Of course not.

He just took us on a slightly different path than we expected.

Had John the Baptist pegged Jesus correctly? Was He the Messiah?

What did Jesus do?

Established the Kingdom of God by healing people and setting free those captive to sin. Raised others–and then himself–from the dead.

Just like the prophecies said.

John just had to meditate on the Scriptures a little differently than his expectations.

Through God’s prism, say, rather than his own.

Have you ever chosen to believe God’s promise, even if your circumstances suggest otherwise?

 

 

In Memory of a Good Dog: Suzie

We got Suzie as a rescue dog when she was almost a year old. Friends from church ran Springset Kennels just down the road from us at the time. She came shivering with fear and the first night my husband rocked the 45 pound dog on his lap to settle her down. She was fine the next morning, it was just tough that first night away from the pack she’d lived with.

We got her because I needed an excuse to go for a walk and an energetic dog did just the trick. Gordon Setters are trained as hunting dogs, but something had scrambled in her breeding and she wasn’t particularly interested in birds: squirrels and cats were more intriguing to her. She was a joy to walk, her plumed tail waving high and her muzzle raised to the sky in anticipation.

Mostly she lived in our backyard with forays onto the front deck to watch the neighborhood. Our yard borders a green belt and the thrill of spying wandering deer was palpable when she barked. Twice she found deer in our swimming pool (one dead, the others swimming laps) and the dog who didn’t like to get her ears wet could be found treading water for months afterwards, just in case they’d returned.

If anyone pushed back in the swing, Suzie would take a running leap to join them.

One day I found an inflatable owl in the back of my daughter’s closet. I put it on a pole in the vegetable garden for fun.

Suzie trotted around the corner of the house and froze, right front paw up, tail out straight and nose pointed at the prey.

We willed ourselves not to laugh, she was so serious. When we brought the “owl” to her, her shoulder sort of sagged. It sure didn’t smell like  a bird.

We had to divide our house into two halves: “dog land” and “cat land.”

Suzie lived with us in the great room most of the time. The long hallway leading to the bedrooms was off-limits. Occasionally, Suzie spied the cat and went into full point.

My husband, unfortunately in her opinion, never shot the cat. But, hope drove her, for years, to point out the cat was slinking away.

One horrific night, Suzie cornered a rat behind the desk. When my son pulled it out, Suzie pounced on the vermin.

I stood on a chair screaming.

She looked around and did the most logical thing: she tossed the rat to the “alpha dog,” my husband.

He jerked back and the rat got away–for just a moment before the hunting dog retrieved it.

Part of our agreement with Springset Kennels meant this beautiful dog of exquisite lineage would provide a litter of puppies. My daughter and I were on hand as Suzie produced nine. We watched the membrane sacs with wide eyes as our dog bit them open and licked the wet black nymph-like creatures with her pink tongue. We marveled as the puppies took their first breaths and we saw life begin.

“Suzie’s an excellent mother,” the kennel owners said. “She never killed any of her puppies.”

(Gordons can get distracted and roll onto the pups by mistake).

The real glory of Suzie’s life was the backpacking trip she took with my husband and daughter. Because they hiked the beach at Lost Coast, she had to wear booties.

She didn’t like them.

But the rest of the trip–my husband estimates she ran twenty miles for the seven they hiked–was glorious.

Twenty-eight months ago, I discovered I had become a “seeing eye human.” Suzie went blind in a short week, probably from Cushing’s Disease.

My niece the vet consoled us: “Sight is the third most important sense to a dog. Her ability to smell and hear are more important. She won’t really care if you don’t. Just love her the same.”

This was a dog who would stare out the window for long hours just because she saw a squirrel run past one day.

I think she was depressed. One cold rainy night, Suzie insisted on going out. She wouldn’t return when I called her. When I finally found her, she was huddled in a shallow hole the farthest point from the house. I had to drag Suzie back into the house that night, it almost felt like she was trying to die.

A few days later, Suzie was her ebullient self again. Tail wagging, staring into corners, lifting her head when her favorite humans came home. She loved to walk around Spring Lake, always way in the lead, because she had trod the trail so often, she didn’t need to see anything.

She particularly enjoyed visits from young adorable grandchildren who spilled food.

But at twelve years, she obviously was slowing down. Her hearing became suspect.

On Thursday, May 2, we took our usual walk around Spring Lake. Her “other mother” Rachel was with us. As we neared the end of our four miles, Suzie was plodding, veering to the side and slow. Her breathing sounded labored.

We got her to the car and went directly to the vet. “This doesn’t sound good, Michelle,” he said. “Are you prepared?”

The x-ray showed multiple carcinomas.

I tried hard to keep the panic from my voice as I rubbed her ears and told her, yet again, how much we loved her, what a good dog she was, what a good job she had always done. Tears, of course, dripped down my nose onto her beautiful black feathery body.

I saw her gray tongue, her dim eyes faded, and then she laid down her head.

Gone.

We give away a piece of our hearts when we love our pets. Click to Tweet

Maybe God gives them to us for only a short time as a way to keep our hearts tender to those who need our care, who can’t do so well without us–whether four-legged or two. Click to Tweet

We like to think she’s in heaven running with her long ears flopping in the breeze, her eyes keen again and the joy filling her happy soul.

Oh Susanna of Springset Kennel was a very good dog.

We’re going to miss her.

Writing a Novel: Call the Vet!

The heart of any novel is the research, which is why so many cling to the old adage “write what you know.”

It’s smart, of course, to write out of your own experience–you can draw on your reactions, you know what things sound, taste and smell like, you have an innate understanding of the underlying elements of your tale.

But what if you’re writing about something you don’t know a lot about? What if you can’t avoid it because your hero has to have an occupation that makes sense, even if you’re not an expert?

I ran into that problem while writing An Inconvenient Gamble. My hero, Charles Moss, was a prisoner of war during the War Between the States. He spent time at Fort Delaware prison camp in the middle of the Pea River. A native of Lexington, Kentucky, he got caught in a bad bet which reformed his gambling instinct.

I needed to add gambling components to his back story and his life. He was from Lexington, the horse racing capital of America.

Well, that was easy.

He grew up on a horse farm.

My heroine, Jenny Duncan, lived and now owned a horse ranch in Texas. I just had to figure out the rest of the story.

I knew I wanted the couple to connect through the horses and thought an emotional scene involving a horse giving birth would add to the story. But I don’t know much about horses. Who could help me?

Who indeed? My niece Maura is a large animal veterinarian in Idaho. She works with horses and cows all the time!

I sent an email asking questions and she responded with a lengthy reply providing numerous ways horses could die in horse-birth. She also listed a number of other brutal events she had observed in her practice.

I didn’t want the horse to die, I just wanted a little drama. Since our heroine was pregnant, I thought a pregnant horse would do the trick.

“Normally if we leave them alone, horses do fine,” she said.

“But what about all those stories you tell about needing chains and leverage to midwife calves?”

“Oh, cows are a different story.”

I described the events of An Inconvenient Gamble to Maura and asked for an opinion. She dismissed my plot point immediately.

“No horseman in his right mind would plan for a foal to be born in December. That’s the very last month you want your horse to be born.”

“What if it was an accident? You know, an unexpected pregnancy.”

“Anyone who knows anything would laugh at you.”

Maura then provided a primer of sorts to equine obstetrics. My great scene just wasn’t going to work. I asked more questions and finally ended up with “what about cows? When do they give birth?”

She laughed. “Cows can give birth any time.”

I changed the story.

But I still needed sensory descriptions for the experience, though I didn’t want to gross out the reader.

Those of you familiar with medical professionals will understand how they enjoy going into detail. Maura pointed out maggots can be very effective in cleaning out wounds.

I’ve spared you, Reader.

Maura also talked about how to make a newborn calf sneeze–which forces the calf to breathe. That made it into the story. She talked about other technical things I needed to understand to provide verisimilitude to my tale.

And, I learned what to expect when I come across a cow with its tail sticking straight out.

You’ll have to read the story to find out. But, beware.

How important is it to you the research be complete when you read an historical novel? How much medical detail do you like in a story? 

Tweetables:

Can an author write about what they don’t know? Click to Tweet

Where do you find experts for your novel?  Click to Tweet

Why does the cow stick out its tail? Click to Tweet

(Birthing is imminent)

We’ll Catch Up in Eternity

“Kindred spirits are not so scarce as I used to think. It’s splendid to find out there are so many of them in the world.”

― L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

I recently wrote a letter to an acquaintance this way:

It’s always seemed to me that we are kindred spirits, and we’re both extremely busy people. I see you across the room and catch your eye. I think of all the things I’d like to say; ways I’d love to commiserate, stories I want to hear. But you’re moving in a different circle with people who need you in a different way.

There’s no time when we’re going about Kingdom business.

I’m just as busy, too, but with a different group that need my particular gifts.

So we recognize we’re kindred spirits, smile, nod, and move along.

While I’d love to know you better, I think, ‘we’ll catch up in eternity.’

I picture myself during those first “ten thousand years bright shining as the sun,” finding a shade tree and sitting down to visit–one by one– with all the people busy going about the Father’s business here on earth now.

We’ll tell the stories of how God worked in our lives. How we saw Him use our feeble efforts to glorify the Lamb.

Some will argue I should take the time now, to spend time with people I admire and whose company I enjoy.

Yes, on the one hand, no on the other.

I believe God has put us in our particular time and place for His purposes. It’s no surprise to God that I was born in Southern California–he knew me before that day I came into the world and he gave me a set of  talents, abilities, problems, family members, experiences, education and thinking skills to do His business.

It took me fifteen years to find Him, but once I made the connection, the Holy Spirit could go to work in my life.

God gave me mentors along the way. Some I knew and loved: Mrs. Hahn, Liz and Mary.

Some I knew only through books: Edith, Elisabeth, Biddy and Madeleine.

Perhaps I got a glimpse of this parallel living concept when I wrote a fan letter to Madeleine L’Engle. I was twenty and had recently traveled through New York. I noted, “I had time and gave some thought to finding my way up to the library where you worked to visit. But then I did not.”

She kindly wrote back. “Next time, do come.”

I was astounded and shook my head. I never would have visited her–because I thought she had much more important things to do than chat with a gawky admirer who dropped by.

I knew a kindred spirit when I saw one. I wouldn’t dream of trespassing on the limited time she had on earth.

But I could follow her ideas. I knew her God. I could listen to Him and pay attention to where He was directing my particular gifts and go with it.

I’ll catch up with Madeleine in heaven.

There are others in my life–far more than I ever would have guessed–than the friend to whom I did not send the above letter (it felt a little presumptuous).

I can cheer them on and pray for them, celebrate the victories I hear about and rest confident I’ll get the details a long time from now.

Until then, I rejoice that I can serve the Lord with Robin, Becky, Mary, Ardys, Mary, Shelly, Holly, Shirley, Nancy, Karen, Debbie, Debby, JoAnne and  . . . you get the picture.

Maybe even you. 

How do you define a kindred spirit? What have they brought into your life?

Tweetables:

Are Kindred Spirits scarce? Click to Tweet

Who are you looking for in eternity? Click to Tweet

The Ministry of Interruption

We watched a video the other day of Kathleen Chambers, only daughter of the Reverend Oswald Chambers and his wife Gertrude (Biddy). Kathleen was four when her famous father died and most of her stories about him dealt with others’ memories.

But she an adult when her mother died and about Biddy, Kathleen knew much.

The interviewer asked her about Biddy’s daily work while she was compiling My Utmost for His Highest.

(For those who don’t know, Biddy took all of Oswald’s talks down in shorthand and spent the thirty years after his death transcribing the verbatim teachings of her husband. All the books by Oswald Chambers available are because of Biddy).

Kathleen didn’t remember much because Biddy.

“You mean she didn’t sit down every afternoon for hours and type?”

Kathleen laughed. “Oh, no. She was always stopping to talk with the people who came looking for her.”

My husband shook his head.

I started to cry.

I saw, suddenly, that  Biddy Chambers and another one of my “mentors” Edith Schaeffer had delighted and thrived in what I call “the ministry of interruption.”

Interruption was their work for the Kingdom of God.

I dwell there, too.

I just haven’t always appreciated it.

Traditionally, I take the summer off from my job to write. Several years ago, I spent that summer on a novel, as yet unpublished, called Waking Dreams of Hope. It’s the story of a brilliant young woman trapped by a pregnancy into a life she doesn’t want. Even though she knows she should appreciate it and recognizes God gave her the desire of her heart in another area– it just took a surprise pregnancy.

Her frustration, of course, reflects years of my life (though not the pregnancy part).

I wrote that book sitting at this desk in our family room while life took place round about me. Several teenagers were home, someone probably lived with us, friends dropped by, the phone rang– it was seldom quiet and serene, though rich and full of life.

Every day I tapped away, crafting my story.

But because I was home, I also increased my volunteering on a local crisis pregnancy center hotline. Whenever I had no plans to leave the house–”just write”–I often took an extra shift on the hotline.

I talked to a lot of people that summer. In my house, on the phone and even through IM-ing. Because I was there, I could listen and solve problems, make suggestions, oversee household projects and write my book.

Some days it was lovely.

Other days anguished frustration built up–I just wanted to write my book! Some of the book’s scenes left me weeping as I poured out the jumbled feelings of my heroine.

But then someone would ask, “are we really out of peanut butter?”

Invisible steam erupted from my ears, but I reminded myself, “they’ll be gone in a couple years. This is now. Take the time.”

I was better at it some days than others.

“Look down stairs. I’m sure I bought more jars.”

Was I just a footservant in the ministry of interruption? Click to Tweet.

A phone call and a woman in crisis. What was she going to do? Where was she going to go? Who would help her?

I listened. I made suggestions. Sometimes I cried with her.

And then I went back to the novel.

I got to the penultimate chapter by the end of the summer, 85,000 words in, and realized I didn’t like it.

“So what’s the deal here, Lord?” I whined. ”What was this summer all about? Typing practice for me? I already type 120 words of minute, how much more speed do I need?”

God didn’t say anything.

I like to look at situations from a slightly different angle when I’m thwarted. I call it “turning the prism.” Was it possible God was doing something else that summer?

What if the Lord had engineered my life contrary to my expectations? What if my real purpose was to minister and he used the “excuse” of me writing a book so I would be available to others?

What if the point of our lives, really, is a ministry of interruptions? Click to Tweet

The novel languishes in cyber-space. I reread it recently and it’s actually pretty good, full of wisdom and truth. Maybe some day that woman’s awakened dreams of hope will bless readers

But the relationships, the babies born, the children fed, the grace bestowed that summer–that’s work that will last for eternity.

I hope, just like Biddy’s and Edith’s.

“Are you crying?” my husband asked on Saturday.

I nodded. “For joy. God is doing something in my heart.”

Thanks be to God–and to his servants for their example throughout the ages.

How about you? How do you react to interruptions?

Soldiers and Gambling: the Civil War

You mix together lots of young men far from home for the first time. They’re mostly involved in menial tasks: latrine digging, food foraging, foot drilling, weapon cleaning (if they’ve got a gun) and a host of other petty rituals.

99% of the time they’re bored.

But the hill over yonder could erupt at any moment with a thunder of horses bearing men with swords drawn or guns firing. Artillery could send up puffs of smoke in the eardrum-splitting roar that marked the beginning of battle.

Your life was on the line the other 1% of the time.

But so many hours were empty, once you’d marched and repaired, cleaned and gulped. What did these guys do with their time?

Some played musical instruments and sang. Others read their Bibles or wrote letters. You had to carry everything in a knapsack, so libraries were not available–books had to be shared.

Or you gambled.

Gambling, of course, was discouraged by authorities. Harper’s Bazaar Magazine included a drawing of how one general handled the incessant betting:

Some inveterate  players, belonging to the Ninety-third New  York, were provided with a table, dice, and a tin cup for a dice-box, and, under  charge of a guard, were kept at their favorite amusement all day, playing for  beans, with boards slung on their shoulders with the word GAMBLER written on them.  They did not seem to enjoy it, an attempt to make the most of the time and play for greenbacks being nipped in the bud. Dinner was also denied them, on the plea that gamblers have no time for meals.”

But cards and dice were portable, easy to carry and a source of amusement.

Gambling was so prevalent in 1864 that one of the Federal divisions, the Army of the James, was referred to by soldiers as “the Army of the Games.”

The men played poker, of course, faro and threw dice. Horse racing, cock-fighting, anything that could result in a “random” winner would do.

Betting on the Lice Click to Tweet

Some even raced lice, as Byron Liggett noted:

“Lice races were a favorite form of gambling. The critters were plentiful, active, and required little care. Even the lowest ranking soldier could maintain a stable of miniscule steeds.

Lice races were often accompanied by much excitement and wagering. Two owners would place their animals in the center of a tin plate. Spectators bet on the “runners.”

Upon the command “Go!” the two competitors, cheered by their respective supporters, run for the edge of the plate. The first to cross over the edge of the plate was declared the winner. ”

In my novella, “An Inconvenient Gamble” part of A Texas Brides Collection,  Confederate prisoner Charles Moss gets involved in a betting scheme: “will the teenager survive his escape in Fort Delaware‘s Pea River?”

Seeing all the men betting against the kid, Moss understands the nineteen-year-old’s chances are rapidly diminishing and steps up to bet in his favor. The young man is grateful for the vote of confidence, particularly when others join Moss–who was known as an excellent gambler.

The result?

Moss became a reformed gambler.

The Advantages of Putting a Poker Player in Charge Click to Tweet

The fortunes of the North during the Civil War changed when Abraham Lincoln put a poker player in charge. Grant understood what it meant to look a person in the face and bluff. This was in sharp contrast to McClellan who built the superior Army Grant ultimately used to finish the war, but was too cautious to even advance, well, a low risk card.

An apocryphal story I found while researching gambling during the Civil War talked about how bored the soldiers would get, even with the enemy not far away. Soldiers from both the North and the South would meet in the “in-between zone” late at night, gambling on cards or with dice.

One night a group had met when an officer on  a horse approached. “Who’s winning?” the officer growled.

“We are, Sir,” said the soldiers from the South.

The officer nodded. “Collect your winnings and return to your units. Game’s over.”

The soldiers closed down the game, the officer rode on and as the evening faded away, one of the men called “Goodnight, General Grant.”

He raised his hat.

Does it take a gambler to win a war? Click to Tweet

Using Genealogy to Write a Novel

Three of the four books I’ve written have been “on assignment.” I was given circumstances (Log Cabins, Christmas, Texas, Pioneers, brides) and concocted stories to fit.

It wasn’t particularly difficult for me–I just had to visit my family history, Pioneer Stock, to find pertinent information.

Genealogy can provide your family with plenty of discussion topics and can serve as excellent training for writing an historical novel. Click to Tweet

I spent five years in genealogical and regular libraries digging up information about my family lines. From that experience, I gained a number of skills:

* How to use microfilm and microfiche machines.

*How to document  information.

*How to use library catalogues.

*How to engage librarians to research the most arcane questions with delight.

Looking at family trees taught me:

* how to recognize patterns.

* how to question dubious material (is it likely this woman was 75 years old when she gave birth?)

*how close in time we really are to our ancestors.

I often remembered my US History teacher, Mrs. Klocki, who used to shake her head at our fantasy novels. “Read history. The stories are not only more fantastic, but they’re also true.” Click to Tweet

American history looks completely different when you can put names to events. One of my forbearers, Thomas Ballard, watched his wife Ann lined up with other women in front of stocks during Bacon’s Rebellion (he’d sold Nathaniel Bacon a cow just weeks before).

Another group hiked through the Cumberland Gap into Tennessee where they sailed the rivers and battled the Indians. One book I consulted described the macabre story of a woman sending her ten year-old son out to milk the cow. She next saw him when a native American rode his horse around the clearing waving a pole with her son’s head on it.

That wasn’t my family, but it was a window into the danger those brave people faced every day while just trying to make a living.

It puts me and my first-world problems to shame.

But a massive family history like Pioneer Stock (225 pages; over 900 end note citations) also provides plenty of fodder for stories, particularly if you write historical fiction.

When the opportunity arose for A Log Cabin Christmas Collection, I remembered my ancestors in 1836 Texas building dogtrot cabins and dealing with native Americans–who had much less sadistic streak.

Because I’d spent so much time with land records hunting the Hanks family of Tennessee and Texas, I understood what some of the problems would have been for those families while they built their log cabins. I incorporated the issues, and several family members, into the story.

My most recent novella, “An Inconvenient Gamble,” part of Barbour’s A Texas Brides Collection, took parts of my Duval family history and included one of my Hanks ancestors, James Steele Hanks–the one who rode around Anderson County, Texas for years surveying property.

The Duvals have a tragic story of the 1867 yellow fever epidemic. My particular ancestor, Ballard (named for the above ancestor!) was the youngest son in the family and doesn’t appear much in the historical record–possibly because of his youth.

Fort Delaware

We know he served in the Confederate Army during the Civil War. His next older brother was a prisoner of war–and spent some time with other Anderson County soldiers at the Union’s Fort Delaware prisoner of war camp.

Ballard married an equally young woman eighteen months after he returned from war and worked on the county roads. He died of yellow fever six months after his marriage.

My great-grandfather (Ballard) was born eight months later, a posthumous child.

I’ve thought of that young wife often–Sally was her name. In the Reconstruction of the South following the war, when everyone was broke and society had turned upside down, what did it mean to find herself widowed and pregnant? Who would have cared for her? How did she manage?

I explore what that might have been like for a woman like Sally in “An Inconvenient Gamble.” I use my Hanks ancestor as a surveyor who brings to her ranch a man who had spent time as a prisoner of war in Fort Delaware.

I even gave him, sadly, a besetting sin from my family.

While I didn’t write specifically about my Duval family, their story gave me the sympathetic heart, understanding, and history to put a new tale into place.

All because I did my research 15 years ago and wrote it up.

Do you have family stories that would make an historical novel? Click to Tweet

Wanted: Patrons of the Arts

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Cover via Amazon

We live in a world where people do not always get the credit they deserve and where people often forget to say thanks.

For anybody that can be challenging–we all love to be thanked, particularly when we go out of our way to help.

But for an artist, not having our work recognized as having value can be debilitating. To create for years and not have anyone appreciate your output can cripple.

That’s why it’s so important to have a patron of the arts.

Most of us started with the basic set: parents. Parents are expected to cheer on their offspring (It’s in the manual they get when they have children. Didn’t you get that manual?), encourage their talents, and to be a haven from the cruel world.

They also should be honest about where that child’s strengths lie–and don’t lie. Even if the kid shrieks and complains the parents “don’t understand.”

Probably because they don’t.

But a parent can  open a door and point to a child’s gifts. They’re in a good place to recognize what unique abilities their child has to offer the world. When I get into discussions with parents lamenting their (usually) teenager’s lack of ambition, I ask what the kid is good at or that child is interested in.

If they think long enough, most parents can come up with something, even if it’s only “playing video games.” From there, we usually can extend the discussion into what skills are required to play, say, video games well and how that can translate into something else. It doesn’t always work, but even the kid who never sits still has his interest captured by something.

What did you do when your mother asked you?

My mother handed me a notebook as we embarked on a 10-week trip. “You’re the writer in the family,” she said. “You need to take notes so that when we return we’ll be able to remember where we went.”

She had an itinerary, of course, but she wanted to challenge 14 year-old gawky me into using what she saw as my talent. Because writing appealed to me (and we only had three books with us on that trip–what were we thinking?), I set to the task every day–detailing what we did and what I saw.

I’m mortified by the notes now–my brother, apparently, was the star of the whole trip, vexing us every day–but I finished the task.

My mother was the first patron of my art.

Patrons of the arts–people who encourage and often monetarily provide for artists–have been the means by which a lot of great artistic works have been created.  Click to Tweet

Michelangelo never would have painted that Sistine Chapel without the hectoring and (too little) money provided by Pope Julius 11 (see Irving Stone‘s The Agony and the Ecstasy for a fictionalized account of this challenging relationship).  Most of the great artwork now covering museum walls in Europe was originally painted under commission from a patron–often the Catholic Church which is why so many paintings have religious themes.

People may grumble about the subject of those paintings now, but without patronage, Leonardo da Vinci never would have had the wherewithal to paint La Giocanda.

Music often was funded by patrons–think Mozart’s operas (see Amadeus, for another fictionalized account) and Beethoven’s symphonies

Writing–William Shakespeare couldn’t have done it without the help of companies wanting his playwriting skills (See Shakespeare in Love, more fiction) and his buddy Ben Jonson was the same way. Someone has to pay the artist enough to live on so they can live long enough to create their art work.

I’ve been thinking about this lately as I see shrinkage in the amount of money writers, musicians, and artists make these days. It looks impossible to put together a creative career on your own. But maybe it never has been possible?

I acquired another patron of the arts when I left my parent’s home: my husband. He has provided the emotional, financial and technological support I needed to write my four books–and all the others that have yet to see a royalty-paying publisher. He listened for five years as I researched and wrote a massive family history (Pioneer Stock), and funded all the expeditions. He bought countless computers, untold reams of paper, and even watched the children when necessary.

More importantly, though, unlike Pope Julius, my husband seemed to grasp my need for positive encouragement. He’s been my cheerleader and my confessor. I couldn’t have done, and wouldn’t have wanted to do, any of my books without him.

What have you done to support the arts? Click to Tweet

Perhaps it’s part of being in a relationship–a family, a marriage, a partnership, a friendship?

Perhaps it’s part of being a supporter yourself.

Have you done anything for an artist lately?

Bought a ticket to a play or musical performance? Purchased a book, listened to a poetry reading? Do you have original artwork on your walls? Have you encouraged a kid with an unusual talent?

William Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Michelangelo, Wolfgang Mozart–all needed someone to help them. Could it have been you?