Susan Smith-Josephy's Blog, page 3

Short Story Challenge Round One Heat 39, Historical Fiction/a Widow/Sworn Enemies

Title: Claim JumperSynposis: The Widow Chapman, proprietor of The Sporting Saloon in Richman’s Valley, ponders past relationships while considering marriage to Judge Williamson.

Six-Feet Murphy didn’t have six feet nor did Pock Mark Davis have any visible pockmarks. Nellie loved both men equally. Or, as equal as she could under the current trying circumstances.She kicked her mud-caked skirt away from her ankles and got back to work.“Never mind all this jawbowing. Drinks, boys?”“Don’t mind if I do.” “Yes, ma’am.” “A round for the house.”This last comment was greeted with rough cheers and a general shoving towards the bar.Nellie handled it all. She always did.“Whisky for you, Sam. A fine ale for you Doctor Wilkes. A shot of brandy for you, Monsieur?”As the winter night progressed, the fug in the bar got worse. Smoke curled from uncountable cigars, and the black iron stove churned out a bilious concoction made from coal, wood and the occasional splash of kerosene. The piano churned out tune after jingly tune and the hurdy gurdy girls kept up a brisk business. They allowed themselves to be twirled and swirled around the dance floor, their red woolen skirts adding to the heat of the evening. At the end of every dance, strong-armed miners would heft their dance partners to the ceiling so the girls’ skirts swung like bells, exposing their off-white petticoats and black culottes underneath.“A dollar a dance, and no foolin’ around,” the hurdy gurdy girls chimed, their German accents thick and their voices sweet with youth.The men had stripped to their shirt-sleeves, the sweat pouring down their foreheads. It was good for the drinking business, all this dancing, sweating and virtuousness, thought Nellie.Of all the miners, the dreamers, the doctors, the lawyers, the brewers, the thieves and the general populous that lived in Richman’s Valley, about all of them were in Widow Nellie Chapman’s Sporting Saloon that evening. Except for Six-Feet Murphy and Pock Mark Davis. These two fellows never left each other’s side, like a pair of mangy dogs scrapping and growling over one gnawed-up bone. Once the best of friends, and now sworn and sullen enemies, they eschewed the party at The Sporting Saloon, and swore off the drink and the dancing. For they had their claims to watch over, and neither man trusted the other not to jump.With a whoosh and a bang, first the inside swinging saloon door opened, and then the outside log door struggled against the wind and the banked snow and finally groaned to a gap of two feet wide. That was enough. Just wide enough for a drunk miner to take a piss off the frozen boardwalk. Not only was it cold outside, it was damn cold. Cold enough so when a man spit, it turned to a slough-filled icicle, then crumpled on the ground in a disgusting yellow plop. Cold enough so that Old Man Chapman’s nose hairs were white with hoar frost when he stomped his way down the frozen mud of the main street.“You bally fools!” shouted Old Man Chapman to Six-Feet Murphy and Pock Mark Davis, who couldn’t be seen at present, but Old Man Chapman assumed the men to be in the frozen stiff canvas tents propped up on top of the men’s adjoining claims.Old Man Chapman pushed his stubby body through the two-feet opening of the log door of the Sporting Saloon and pulled the door shut behind him as best as he could with just one arm and a hook for a hand. He could tell those young idiots a tale or two about stubbornness. He didn’t bother with a dancing girl, just headed straight for Widow Nellie Chapman, behind the bar in the Sporting Saloon. “Well, daughter, you’ve got a full house tonight,” and pulled his custom-made ale tankard to his mouth. Not a drop spilled, not a drop wasted. “Almost closing time,” she smiled. “Coffee’s on in back, if you want.”“Charmed, I’m sure,” said her father-in-law, gallantly. He narrowed his eyes at his daughter-in-law. Married young, widowed young. Worked hard, canny business woman. Nice looking gal. “Your fellas are still camped out, girl.”“They’re not my fellas, and you know it.”Nellie had her eye on Judge Williamson for betrothal, and it appeared that the feeling may be mutual. She gave a glance out of the corner of her eye, and sure enough Williamson bowed slightly towards her. “Daddy, you’ve got it all wrong. Those fellas aren’t after me. They’re after gold and neither likes the other’s face.”Daddy gave a cackle, followed it up with a bout of phlegmy coughing, and then lit a cheroot. After puffing on it for a minute or so, and contemplating what Nellie had said.“I miss my son.”Nellie stopped. It was as if the music suddenly quietened, and the room faded away and it was just Daddy and herself, back on the ranch, waiting for Billy. William Chapman the Third, now deceased, but then very much alive but no longer, due to a bucking horse and Billy having quite an ego about being a horseman. Stubborn is just another word for stupid, thought Nellie.“As do I, Daddy.”“You going to marry the judge?”“I believe so.”William Chapman the Second, took another puff of his cheroot and removed it from his mouth with his hook. A fair feat, but one he had much practice with. Stubborn, like he said.“My blessing to you, then.”“You’re a good man, Daddy Chapman.”She looked away, then down. The counter could use a polishing, she thought. Not many more months in this place. A Judge’s wife. Well, it was all right for a Judge’s wife to have a past. Everyone did in this place, in this town, in this region, in this territory. In the whole damn place, everyone had a past. The marriage vows would take care of it, and she’d sell The Sporting Saloon for a tidy profit and she’d have her own nest egg plus a judge’s wife’s life besides.As she mused on her future, she didn’t realize at first that the saloon had become quiet not just in her own head. It was silent in real life, too. No piano, no dancing, no shouting, no singing. A few creaks when someone’s boot caught a chair leg. A hiss when a drop of sweat hit the hot stove. An intake of breath when people realized that Six-Feet Murphy and Pock Mark Davis had pushed their way passed the thick log outer door, onto the small frost-covered square of wood that led to the saloon door that led to the saloon itself. “Whisky,” croaked Six-Feet Murphy. In reality, it sounded like “whzhh” because his vocal cords were a little rusty having not been used for a few months now.“Brah,” gasped Pock Mark Davis, and the Widow Chapman guessed correctly he wanted a swig of brandy.Both men sucked back their drinks soon enough, and demanded a second and a third.In the past, Six-Feet Murphy and Pock Mark Davis coming in together to the Sporting Saloon would not have raised a hairy eyebrow. The two men had come to the diggings together after they left California, and had shared a cabin for many a year. They also shared a gold claim and some people said they had shared a woman or two but that’s another story entirely. But years of poverty, scraping to make ends meet, and eventually, a bad case of cabin fever, had led them to this moment.Their drought over, Murphy and Davis, both professional Irishmen, got up on cold-stiffened legs and headed to the piano. Mr. ‘Jingles’ Coxenburg, the piano player, had been dreading this moment. To think he had studied at the Royal Conservatory in Belgium. He imagined his father, The Marquis, and how shocked he would be to see his son playing the piano in the Widow Chapman’s Sporting Saloon. Or any saloon, for that matter. Still, no one in Belgium wanted to pay him to play, and here he was, with an ale glass full of coin, bills and cigar butts, if we’re being honest. But oh how he dreaded the Irishmen and their…“A jig!” shouted the former friends and former enemies and currently friends again. “Play us a jig,” they cried, and began to dance a drunken, bent-legged, rather obsequious jig. Gone were the memories of dividing the cabin in half, complete with death threats and booby traps if the other man dared to pass into the other half of the cabin. Gone were the accusations of claim jumping, gold stealing, and horse thieving.“Let ‘er rip!” shouted someone in the crowd, and The Sporting Saloon was soon hopped up with energy, liquor and stale sweat oozing from the unwashed. It had been a long winter, and only a few establishments offered baths. Most men would rather put their dollar towards a dance or a drink rather than wasting it on cleanliness.“A reel!” and sure enough Mr. Jingles obliged, and Old Man Chapman waved his cheroot, and Widow Nellie Chapman polished the counter, and silently counted the take for the night. Heavy-booted feet pounded on the floor boards, and dishes and bottles rattled as the rhythm got louder and faster.Judge Williamson, who had been playing cards all this time looked up idly. My, that Nellie Chapman surely is a fine looking woman. Good cook, too, I’ve heard. He looked back to his cards, and then to Murphy and Davis. As the judge was 6 foot five in his silk socks, and a successful amateur pugilist, he thought he might get called in for assistance if Murphy and Davis regressed to old behaviour patterns.Six-Foot Murphy, was known as thus because he cleverly found a six-foot no man’s land between two high payout claims, and staked it for himself. He believed himself to be the intelligent one of the pair. Pock Mark Davis, who did have one pock mark, but not on his face, and truly, only someone who’d shared a bed or a bath with him could tell you the location of that pock mark, considered himself the good looking one.Neither was much of a dancer. But the entire saloon was so relieved that a drunken, bloody argument hadn’t broken out, that they received much more accolades than they deserved for their dance.Nellie loved both men equally. Or, as equal as she could under the current trying circumstances. She remembered when Six-Feet Murphy had been Doctor Murphy, five maybe six years ago. His blonde hair and beard neatly trimmed and how he’d doffed his hat when they’d met at the ranch. Her husband William Chapman the Third had been alive then. Her husband had been a stubborn man, and had died as a consequence.Nellie knew where Pock Mark Davis’s pock mark was. It was on his behind. His beeehind, as her former father-in-law Old Man Chapman would say, his cheroot lit and hanging out the side of his mouth. She’d seen that pock mark, one day when she was bringing in some fresh hot water to the bath she kept in the room behind the bar. Davis was a clean man in those early days, and insisted on a weekly bath. An Irishman from Boston, he came from a wealthy family that sent him remittances ‘til this very day. And on that bath day when she’d seen his pock mark, he’d been naked, his white buttocks almost glistening, as he bent over to fiddle with the water taps. He hadn’t been a stubborn man then.
“A jig!” and Mr Jingles, of the Belgian Royal Conservatory obliged, pounding out yet another jig for the two men that Nellie, soon to be the Judge’s wife, loved equally. Or as equal as she could under the current trying circumstances.

Book review: Barkerville and the Cariboo Goldfields by Richard Thomas Wright

The book Barkerville and the Cariboo Goldfields by Richard Thomas Wright is one of the standard works for understanding history of this region. Now in its fifth printing, Wright's book has been updated and rewritten. The first four editions of the book sold more than 35,000 copies in the 30 years since it was first published. I have confidence that this version will also sell very well.

I first read this book many years ago, when I was in university and getting a degree in history. Now I live very close to Barkerville, and write non-fiction British Columbia history books. So a new edition of Barkerville and the Cariboo Goldfields is a great addition to my already groaning bookshelves.

Not only is this an excellent introduction to the history of Barkerville and surrounding regions, it puts the region and its people into the greater context of British Columbian history. The Cariboo Gold Rush of the 1860s, in which Barkerville was one of the main players, was just one of many gold rushes that spanned the globe. Miners from as far flung places as Australia, India, Europe, China and as close as the United States all formed a tight-knit group of men and women who carried friendships and feuds from goldfield to goldfield. Here you'll find engaging tales and anecdotes of eccentrics, land barons, merchants, miners, murderers, and much more.

As well as being a keeper as far as my bookshelf goes, I liked the volume because it also included "A Visitor's Guide to Williams Creek." Wright is well-positioned to give advice to visitors. He has worked at Barkerville Historic Town for many years and now, in addition to research and writing, manages Barkerville's Theatre Royal with partner Amy Newman as Newman and Wright Theatre Company. Barkerville is one of the Cariboo region's greatest treasures, and this book is a must-read for people love the place as much as I do.

Barkerville and the Cariboo Goldfields is published by Heritage House, and is available where ever fine books are sold.

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I review books about British Columbia and about Nordic Noir. Please contact me directly if you want your book reviewed. I am on Twitter a lot. Drop by and say hi. I'm writing a book about Jean Caux, aka Cataline, the famed packer of British Columbia. It's almost finished. I'm typing as fast as I can.

Release the hounds! A prize to the person who comes up with the best caption for this photo.

I will mail a prize to whomever comes up with the best caption for this photo.
 FYI, big dog is Fred, small dog is Freda.Winner determined by a panel of international experts (OK, me). Prize to be determined, but it'll probably be books (previously read and reviewed by yours truly, so may be some thumb marks) and chocolate. Send your entry via comments below, or to me on Facebook, or Twitter or some other creative way. Yes, these are my dogs. Deadline? Oh, I don't know. Jan 15, 2014, I guess.

Book Review: "Campie" by Barbara Stewart

It seems that everywhere you go in Canada, you hear of people leaving for the oil fields in Alberta or Northern British Columbia to get a job. Some of these jobs are paid very well indeed. Others, not so much. Especially if you're the campie.

I've had this book for a while, and just got to reading it a few days ago. I wasn't expecting to like it, given the description on the front of the book which gives one definition of campie (the main character of this memoir) as "a sober, celibate, bankrupt vegetarian" because that doesn't sound like much fun now, does it?

But I was wrong. This is a very good book indeed. Barbara Stewart has given us great insight into not just the lonely slog work of a campie (a camp attendant in an oil-rig camp...a cleaning lady, a janitor), but also allows us to witness a searching insight into the soul of the writer. For some oil patch workers, their experience in the north turns into their own personal Heart of Darkenss. For many, it may be the only choice they have. What seems to be a quick way to accumulate some ready money, turns out to be much more.

Stewart looks into herself and sees how she ended up where she did, and how she was going to get herself out of that place, both emotionally and physically. Campie is beautifully written and constructed, with a smooth flow from one event--and thought process--to the other. The book is 190 pages long, and I read it quickly in one evening. That says a lot for the quality of the words, and the deep emotional connection that the author conveys. 

For an interesting insight into how she incorporated her religious faith into the book, read this great blog post.

Campie is published by Heritage House and is available anywhere fine books are sold.

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I review books on British Columbia , and on Nordic Noir. I can be found on Twitter @susmithjosephy I'm writing another book, so check out my website.

Merry Christmas to all my friends, old and new

Fred

Fred

Iceland, according to Detective Erlandur

The flag of IcelandSo. This is my Iceland entry for my #EarthReading project. So far, I seem to be sticking with the Scandinavian countries. This is because I'm just grabbing stuff off the New Books shelf at the library. No other reason. Really.

ICELAND

Detective Erlandur (no last name required, this is Iceland, after all) is one of my favourite fictional characters. Not only is he tormented by his childhood, he screwed up the greater portion of his adult life, too. Naturally, these novels by Arnaldur Indriðason link themes from Erlandur's personal life to the mysteries he solves.

There is so much to like about the Erlandur series. The writing is great, the translations are beautiful, and the moody tales are perfectly fitting to this time of year. All dark and shadow and sadness, with just a tinge of hope. 

The books also give a sense of what Iceland is like with the fire and ice scenery, the sparse population, and the deep historical roots so many of the people have there. I have never been to Iceland, yet I feel I know a lot about it now, having read six of these books. I probably know squat, but I FEEL I know a lot. That being said, if I ever go there, I will probably be one of the tourists that author Arnaldur pokes gentle fun at in his books. These mockable tourists are all happy, healthy, wear brand new hiking boots and Icelandic sweaters, of course oblivious to the gruesome and terrible murders going on around them. And speaking of Icelandic tourism, Rick Steves sure was mean, eh? Here's a quote from a recent article he wrote:


"And local pride is actually a psychological condition. Social scientists note that people who live on little, remote islands often have an inferiority complex and brag about whatever they can. It’s called the “Small Island Syndrome” and it actually makes visiting Iceland more fun. Little things are big here. Icelanders of note who live abroad are almost revered here. The place where Bill Clinton ate an Icelandic hot dog is practically a historical monument."(N.B. I made it look like Mr. Steves was talking in Times New Roman because it seemed like a rather stuffy font.)
The Detective Erlandur books are definitely snoir material. I coined the word snoir because I had become obsessed with novels and non-fiction where ice and snow play an important part in the writing. I'm still working on the exact definition of snoir, but I know it when I see it, and the Detective Erlandur novels are IT. I will have to admit, the first book I read by writer Arnaldur was Operation Napoleon, and though it was good, I found the Erlandur books superior.

The only negative thing I have to say is that I only set out to read one mystery novel set in Iceland, but because the books were so good, I had to read all of them. Dammit.

If you have a suggestion for a mystery novel set in a certain country, let me know. Twitter is the best way @susmithjosephy

Post Script

#EarthReading is me reading a mystery novel set in every country of the world. Don't worry, it's not that difficult. I probably would have done it anyway.

I have changed my mind

A while back, I loftily claimed that I would read a book from every country on earth. I thought, hey, I like to read. I like countries. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, what went wrong is I forgot that I really have lowbrow taste in books. I pretty much only like to read mystery novels. 

So, without belabouring my shortcomings too much, I've decided to revamp my original quest. The new quest, which is much simpler than the original one, is to read mystery novels set in different countries. Which, I hope, will not be a problem. #EarthReading

My cat, wearing tights

No tights were harmed...
Looks like he gave up half way through getting ready to go out.
His legs are so long!
America's Next Cat Model.
What's the diff?
Well, he's got gloves now.

9/11 memorial, New York City

Ladder Co. 10, Engine Co. 10 was right next door to the Twin Towers.
Read a bit more here
Earlier this year, I went to New York City. One of the highlights of my trip was my visit to the 9/11 Memorial. 

The events of that day, 12 years ago now, are forever remembered by so many of us who witnessed it only on the television news channels. And there is always a lingering sense of being incomplete, of not having grieved properly, and of guilt.

Ladder Co. 10, Engine Co. 10 lost 6 men on that day. A memorial on the wall of Ladder Co. 10, Engine Co. 10

So carrying these feelings, and a sense of stress and worry, I walked to the 9/11 memorial site from my hotel in Chelsea. It wasn't far. Nothing is far in New York City. And that was something that struck me, too. I tried to imagine being there on that day, on that perfect, beautiful, blue-skied morning. 


The images came back into my mind only so well. The airliners crashing into the towers, the people running, the falling debris, the collapsing buildings, the people helping each other and the survivors and heroes that we all remember. Because everything in the city is pretty much within walking distance, the memorial became that much more urgent and immediate. I must see it. I had to. 

Inside the memorial area, you will see two large fountains.

I was scared. What would I see? How would I feel?

There was the usual security precautions, winding lines of patient people, security staff checking packages, police officers, signs, walls and various checkpoints. But it was all very efficient and we were inside behind the plywood outside walls in no time. 



And the names of the dead are revealed.
Out of so many, here is one person:
Vernon Paul Cherry was a firefighter and a hero



I went there in early May of 2013--the park area is new, green and tranquil. 

The twin towers are gone, of course, and in their place are fountains, big square fountains with deep holes in the middle that seem to go into the very depth of the earth. Around the holes, are walls with the names of the people who died on that terrible day.

The Freedom Tower was completed during the week I was in New York City.
It is right next door to the 9/11 memorial.

I took some photos, but so emotional I wasn't really even aware of what I was taking pictures of. I'm sharing some of these photographs here today.


The Freedom Tower reflected in the broken window at
Ladder Co. 10, Engine Co. 10 The water splashes down and a fine mist floats up,
touching the passersby and making the loss seem so much more tangible.

Some people may think it's a trick of the water, camera and light,
but I like to think it's the souls of the departed, filled with light.