Juliet Waldron's Blog
March 4, 2017
For Possum
So, I looked into the natural history of my marsupial buddies today, and here’s what I found.
Once upon a time, 70 million years ago or thereabouts, these little guys emerged from the Cretaceous North American underbrush. The proto-possums are called Peradectids, at least, that’s the latest research from the University of Florida and those sooooooutherners should know a thing or two about possums, after all. They were sharing their territory with the dinosaurs, so things were probably pretty tough, but then, just 5 million years or so later—the mere blink of an eye in geologic time—that famous or infamous asteroid struck, putting a sudden, dramatic end to the long reign of dino domination. Possums somehow survived.
What is more, they used the new space they’d acquired, after emerging from various fallout shelters—probably the gigantic ribcages of their now deceased neighbors—and, in a fit of exuberance, split into several families. Eating insects, fruit and eggs and other people’s leftovers, they trudged down Mexico way and over the land bridge into South America, where they continued to evolve. At this time, South America, Antarctica and Australia were still cuddled up together on a big comfy couch of floating basalt, and so from here, the proto-marsupials marched on to find new homes.
The three continents finally parted company and drifted away from one another. Eventually isolated in Australia, the marsupial line would proliferate into many strange and wonderful shapes. Sadly, most of these exotic critters, are now extinct or on their way out, like the legendary Tasmanian Devil, who is really—cartoon aside—quite a fetching little beast.
Meanwhile, in North America, all the possums went extinct during a time when North and South America were no longer connected. Therefore, for an epoch or two, North America was deprived of this a vital member of Nature’s clean-up crew. Fortunately, for fans, like me, a short three million years ago, the land bridge between North and South America rose again—or the ocean receded, locked up in the polar ice caps or whatever—and possums returned to their ancient point of origin once again.
Now, while you are laughing at possum—squashed by the side of road—no doubt intentionally driven over by some bully of an ape with delusions of grandeur because he sits in a machine with an internal combustion engine—well, think again! The “dawn of man” --and guess what, guys? There wouldn’t have been any “dawn” at all without woman, too—this “dawn” began a mere 3 million years ago, about the time possum was returning from his very successful South American road trip.
Now, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit—true proto-primates came on the scene some 55 million years ago—but essentially, a possum is, was and has been, a possum. You’d recognize a Peradectid as a possum, but you sure as heck wouldn’t recognize that little shrew thing with the forward facing eyes hanging in a tree as a member of your high-falutin' family.
There’s something to be said for plain and simple, for humility, for not making a fuss and aggrandizing oneself--that, and for a body plan which allowed possum to survive 70 million years -- plus that legendary asteroid that took down the grandest, over-the-top animal family our planet has ever given birth to. It has been said that "the meek shall inherit the earth" and perhaps they will--which is one of the reasons why I admire this mundane, gentle creature.
--Juliet Waldron
Once upon a time, 70 million years ago or thereabouts, these little guys emerged from the Cretaceous North American underbrush. The proto-possums are called Peradectids, at least, that’s the latest research from the University of Florida and those sooooooutherners should know a thing or two about possums, after all. They were sharing their territory with the dinosaurs, so things were probably pretty tough, but then, just 5 million years or so later—the mere blink of an eye in geologic time—that famous or infamous asteroid struck, putting a sudden, dramatic end to the long reign of dino domination. Possums somehow survived.
What is more, they used the new space they’d acquired, after emerging from various fallout shelters—probably the gigantic ribcages of their now deceased neighbors—and, in a fit of exuberance, split into several families. Eating insects, fruit and eggs and other people’s leftovers, they trudged down Mexico way and over the land bridge into South America, where they continued to evolve. At this time, South America, Antarctica and Australia were still cuddled up together on a big comfy couch of floating basalt, and so from here, the proto-marsupials marched on to find new homes.
The three continents finally parted company and drifted away from one another. Eventually isolated in Australia, the marsupial line would proliferate into many strange and wonderful shapes. Sadly, most of these exotic critters, are now extinct or on their way out, like the legendary Tasmanian Devil, who is really—cartoon aside—quite a fetching little beast.
Meanwhile, in North America, all the possums went extinct during a time when North and South America were no longer connected. Therefore, for an epoch or two, North America was deprived of this a vital member of Nature’s clean-up crew. Fortunately, for fans, like me, a short three million years ago, the land bridge between North and South America rose again—or the ocean receded, locked up in the polar ice caps or whatever—and possums returned to their ancient point of origin once again.
Now, while you are laughing at possum—squashed by the side of road—no doubt intentionally driven over by some bully of an ape with delusions of grandeur because he sits in a machine with an internal combustion engine—well, think again! The “dawn of man” --and guess what, guys? There wouldn’t have been any “dawn” at all without woman, too—this “dawn” began a mere 3 million years ago, about the time possum was returning from his very successful South American road trip.
Now, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit—true proto-primates came on the scene some 55 million years ago—but essentially, a possum is, was and has been, a possum. You’d recognize a Peradectid as a possum, but you sure as heck wouldn’t recognize that little shrew thing with the forward facing eyes hanging in a tree as a member of your high-falutin' family.
There’s something to be said for plain and simple, for humility, for not making a fuss and aggrandizing oneself--that, and for a body plan which allowed possum to survive 70 million years -- plus that legendary asteroid that took down the grandest, over-the-top animal family our planet has ever given birth to. It has been said that "the meek shall inherit the earth" and perhaps they will--which is one of the reasons why I admire this mundane, gentle creature.
--Juliet Waldron
January 19, 2017
The Rat and I
Another memory, this one from the West Indies, back in the early sixties. Mom and I lived in an apartment in Bridgetown, Barbados, one that was near the race track. Who knows what it’s like now? In those days, this was a quiet pleasant residential area. We shared the house with the owners, a pair of elderly British ladies who lived beneath us on the first floor. All sorts of stories could be told about events in this house, but one of the third-world variety recently came back to me.
Our kitchen was down a flight of stairs, an add-on affair at the back of the house. Outside the door, as was common, was a step over a gutter. Gutters ran along the sides of the streets everywhere and were to be avoided. When someone drained gray water, from a sink or whatever, it went down the gutter, right out in the open. You saw whether someone had washed their dishes, or their hair, or whatever and bits and pieces traveled along the gutter as well—bits of food etc. It was a common sight—and smell--here, but of a kind that I, as a middle class American kid, was not accustomed to. There were chickens—they belonged to someone who lived along the street—wandering wherever they wished, looking for bugs and odds and ends, like the bits of garbage that ended in the gutters.
Other critters found food there as well. Rats were common, easy to see at night, but I didn’t expect to see them inside the kitchen, which was where I met this one. I’m going to assign a sex and call it he, though I don’t know. He was quite tall and large, and seemed especially so because he was standing on his hind-legs, getting ready to leap onto the table just as I came down the stairs.
The rat spun around and stared at me; I stood on the last step and silently stared back. It was one of those frozen moments. He was rather pretty, actually, athletic, sinewy, and glossy brown. His beady eyes were bright, and not particularly anxious. He’d apparently come in through a broken screen on the kitchen door; his home was probably beneath the gutter step just outside. We were neighbors, it seemed, although uneasy ones, not really on good terms. When I reached around the corner to grab a broom—the only weapon within reach—he shot away through the screen door hole and disappeared beneath the step.
Our kitchen was down a flight of stairs, an add-on affair at the back of the house. Outside the door, as was common, was a step over a gutter. Gutters ran along the sides of the streets everywhere and were to be avoided. When someone drained gray water, from a sink or whatever, it went down the gutter, right out in the open. You saw whether someone had washed their dishes, or their hair, or whatever and bits and pieces traveled along the gutter as well—bits of food etc. It was a common sight—and smell--here, but of a kind that I, as a middle class American kid, was not accustomed to. There were chickens—they belonged to someone who lived along the street—wandering wherever they wished, looking for bugs and odds and ends, like the bits of garbage that ended in the gutters.
Other critters found food there as well. Rats were common, easy to see at night, but I didn’t expect to see them inside the kitchen, which was where I met this one. I’m going to assign a sex and call it he, though I don’t know. He was quite tall and large, and seemed especially so because he was standing on his hind-legs, getting ready to leap onto the table just as I came down the stairs.
The rat spun around and stared at me; I stood on the last step and silently stared back. It was one of those frozen moments. He was rather pretty, actually, athletic, sinewy, and glossy brown. His beady eyes were bright, and not particularly anxious. He’d apparently come in through a broken screen on the kitchen door; his home was probably beneath the gutter step just outside. We were neighbors, it seemed, although uneasy ones, not really on good terms. When I reached around the corner to grab a broom—the only weapon within reach—he shot away through the screen door hole and disappeared beneath the step.
December 14, 2016
God speed, John Glenn
It was on February 20, 1962 that John Glenn, a Marine pilot who'd flown 149 missions during World War Two and the Korean War, completed his historic three trips around Planet Earth--as "spam in a can." It took a heck of a lot more nerve and balls out skill to survive those earlier military assignments, I'm sure, but it was for the orbital flight of the tiny Friendship 7 that he attained fame and a ticker tape parade. Such are the ways of popular culture, but he was the first American to orbit the Earth and the third American in space.
John Glenn went on to serve his country in the Senate for many terms, as a Democrat from Ohio 1974-1999. No "come here" politician, Ohio was his home state. He'd been born in Cambridge, Ohio in 1921 and attended Muskingham College, where he studied mathematics. When the attack on Pearl Harbor brought the US into World War II, he dropped out of college and enlisted, first in the army and then, after not being called up, as a Navy aviation cadet. He was an old style gentleman, married to his childhood sweetheart for 70+ years, a staunch supporter of the social safety nets for aged and less fortunate Americans, as well as a lifelong advocate of NASA and of first class science education in the kind of well-funded public schools that kick-started his own career. (Contrast this with the politicians we elect nowadays -- self-dealing confidence artists -- and feel sorry for yourselves.)
I was in boarding school in England when all this happened, so wasn't stateside for the hoopla, although I soon learned about it, from the teachers (mistresses) at tea time when we all sat down together. (Don't get any big ideas about "tea" at 1960's boarding schools. In those days it was brown bread and a single pat of butter, and several cups of hot tea--and that, dear readers, was all there was to eat until morning, where we received the same tea and bread all over again.) At any rate, the news made me happy. It was about time our power house country caught up with those "Ruskies!"
In the '60's, kids like me were called "children of broken homes," and mine certainly had been, with violence and betrayal, via a divorce granted by some southern state which deemed child support unnecessary. Nevertheless, I remained proud of my nation, though my classmates, whose parents remembered the great days of the British Empire, often scoffed. When I heard the news about that orbital flight--me, the solitary "Yank" walking the 45 degree halls of the grand old buildings where we boarders housed--I experienced a chest puffing moment of national pride!
One evening soon after, I stood, wrapped in my robe, in the top floor hall where three flights of stairs ended. I sang "America the Beautiful" as perfectly as I was able. My voice, of which I was proud, reverberated nicely inside the space. Though I was far away from home, alone, with no support on any side, I was, on that long ago day, proud to be an American and not afraid for anyone to know it.
So, with the passing of John Glenn, another chapter in my own old memory "copybook" closes, one of a more hopeful time. As Scott Carpenter -- now the sole survivor of the Mercury Missions -- radioed on that day in 1962 -- "God Speed, John Glenn."
PS ~~It wasn't all Good John Glenn, though. There was a side I'm not too fond of, as well. His testimony before Congress kept women out of the seats of fighter planes for another generation and also nixed the inclusion of women astronauts in the Mercury Program. The Russians--although I generally don't have much good to say about them--didn't keep women from serving their country as either fighter pilots or astronauts. Don't understand why denying 1/2 the human race the chance "to be all that they can be" is ever a good thing.
~ Juliet Waldron
October 15, 2016
Green Tomato Pie
I made my first Green Tomato Pie a very long time ago, back in Connecticut, in the 70's. We lived in the middle of an agricultural area in what would become primarily a commuter town.
Today those fields, needless to say, are filled with tarmac circles and rows of McMansions. Then, though, in a dilapidated 1790's farmhouse, we were surrounded by cornfields and some nearby shade tobacco and potatoes. Those last two required tons of pesticide, and I spent a lot of time gathering in my toddlers, pets, and laundry and closing windows whenever a new application began. There have been long-term health issues from exposure to these aggie cocktails, but that's another story.
We had a super garden there, plowed up the first spring by a local farmer, full of good black Connecticut bottom soil. I was, and still am, a haphazard gardener. Still, we got lots of food out of our plot: lettuce, chard, spinach, beets, beans, melons (which were often stolen by the even poorer neighbor's kids), winter and summer squash, pumpkins, and of course, tomatoes, and peppers. I inter-planted herbs like basil, oregano, thyme, sage, and flowers, marigolds and nasturtiums, as "protectors."
I was darn proud of this pretty and productive garden and spent some time in it daily. Eventually, my husband dug a trench around it and half buried fence to discourage the groundhogs and bunnies who'd zeroed in on all this tasty stuff. I often encountered snakes there, hunting for field mice, bugs and frogs. Once, arms full of produce, and not really looking where I was going, I bare-foot stepped on a lovely long red and white corn snake. He was basking in the path, I think, all hot from the sun. He felt dry and smooth, like warm leather. I screamed, leapt into the air, and dropped the vegetables. He, apparently uninjured, slithered for it, disappearing as fast as he could go into the weeds. Hard to tell who was more scared.
One year, a hard frost hit the valley and my still growing plants hard and left me with buckets of green tomatoes. I set them out along the porch in rows, some wrapped in newspaper to see if they'd ripen. In those days, friends of friends, traveling across country, would sometimes drop in and crash on mattresses on the floor of our mostly empty 13 room house overnight, on their way from the Midwest to colleges in NYC or Boston. I was the good wife who could produce a hot supper with from the garden sides at the drop of a hat. One evening, when we'd had some warning, I decided to produce a pie, but I was nearly out of apples--an unusual occurrence for me, as I'm an apple aficionado. Most autumns there was usually a basket stashed in an unheated room somewhere. Not this time.
I'd heard of green tomato pie, but there was nothing about it in my trusty Joy of Cooking. Determined to go ahead, it was time to punt. I had a single apple, a big sweet Cortland, and lots of tomatoes, so I just went ahead and used an apple pie recipe, only substituting chopped tomatoes. As usual, I put in lemon juice, cinnamon, a dash of nutmeg, some brown sugar and some white, as well as mixture of flour and cornstarch. It smelled good and looked fine.
Somewhere in the middle of the first slice, after supper alongside fresh cups of coffee--the things we didn't worry about doing in those days!--one of the guests said, studying a bite poised on his fork, "Uh, this isn't an apple..."
So, I explained. By that time, however, the weirdness had been overcome by the comforts of sugar, fruitiness, and fresh baked. Everyone finished their portion--even my children, who were initially as alarmed by Mom's revelation as anyone. I was entirely pleased, though, when this same guy asked for seconds.
Now, of course, no one is going to freak out over green tomato pie. You can Google it. It has been blessed by Paula Dean and other cooking show stars, as a real ol' time Southern treat. It has even acquired a certain cache. IMHO, I think it's probably just one of those ideas born of the plain old make-do spirit of a gardener's home cookin'.
Juliet Waldron
Today those fields, needless to say, are filled with tarmac circles and rows of McMansions. Then, though, in a dilapidated 1790's farmhouse, we were surrounded by cornfields and some nearby shade tobacco and potatoes. Those last two required tons of pesticide, and I spent a lot of time gathering in my toddlers, pets, and laundry and closing windows whenever a new application began. There have been long-term health issues from exposure to these aggie cocktails, but that's another story.
We had a super garden there, plowed up the first spring by a local farmer, full of good black Connecticut bottom soil. I was, and still am, a haphazard gardener. Still, we got lots of food out of our plot: lettuce, chard, spinach, beets, beans, melons (which were often stolen by the even poorer neighbor's kids), winter and summer squash, pumpkins, and of course, tomatoes, and peppers. I inter-planted herbs like basil, oregano, thyme, sage, and flowers, marigolds and nasturtiums, as "protectors."
I was darn proud of this pretty and productive garden and spent some time in it daily. Eventually, my husband dug a trench around it and half buried fence to discourage the groundhogs and bunnies who'd zeroed in on all this tasty stuff. I often encountered snakes there, hunting for field mice, bugs and frogs. Once, arms full of produce, and not really looking where I was going, I bare-foot stepped on a lovely long red and white corn snake. He was basking in the path, I think, all hot from the sun. He felt dry and smooth, like warm leather. I screamed, leapt into the air, and dropped the vegetables. He, apparently uninjured, slithered for it, disappearing as fast as he could go into the weeds. Hard to tell who was more scared.
One year, a hard frost hit the valley and my still growing plants hard and left me with buckets of green tomatoes. I set them out along the porch in rows, some wrapped in newspaper to see if they'd ripen. In those days, friends of friends, traveling across country, would sometimes drop in and crash on mattresses on the floor of our mostly empty 13 room house overnight, on their way from the Midwest to colleges in NYC or Boston. I was the good wife who could produce a hot supper with from the garden sides at the drop of a hat. One evening, when we'd had some warning, I decided to produce a pie, but I was nearly out of apples--an unusual occurrence for me, as I'm an apple aficionado. Most autumns there was usually a basket stashed in an unheated room somewhere. Not this time.
I'd heard of green tomato pie, but there was nothing about it in my trusty Joy of Cooking. Determined to go ahead, it was time to punt. I had a single apple, a big sweet Cortland, and lots of tomatoes, so I just went ahead and used an apple pie recipe, only substituting chopped tomatoes. As usual, I put in lemon juice, cinnamon, a dash of nutmeg, some brown sugar and some white, as well as mixture of flour and cornstarch. It smelled good and looked fine.
Somewhere in the middle of the first slice, after supper alongside fresh cups of coffee--the things we didn't worry about doing in those days!--one of the guests said, studying a bite poised on his fork, "Uh, this isn't an apple..."
So, I explained. By that time, however, the weirdness had been overcome by the comforts of sugar, fruitiness, and fresh baked. Everyone finished their portion--even my children, who were initially as alarmed by Mom's revelation as anyone. I was entirely pleased, though, when this same guy asked for seconds.
Now, of course, no one is going to freak out over green tomato pie. You can Google it. It has been blessed by Paula Dean and other cooking show stars, as a real ol' time Southern treat. It has even acquired a certain cache. IMHO, I think it's probably just one of those ideas born of the plain old make-do spirit of a gardener's home cookin'.
Juliet Waldron
August 9, 2016
About A Master Passion, A Hamilton Love Story
You’d never know, at first glance, that Mrs. Hamilton was a Leo. When you first learn of a shy girl, “the best tempered girl in the world,” -- an 18th Century way to praise one who is not a great beauty – you can’t imagine any sort of classic Leo female. Such women radiate energy, flaunt their good looks and always have something clever to say.
Still, according to General Washington’s ADC, Tench Tilghman, who met Betsy Schuyler during a war time visit to Albany, she was “…A Brunette with the most good-natured dark lovely eyes that I ever saw, which threw a beam of good temper and Benevolence over her entire Countenance…” Later, during that same visit, three ladies and three gentlemen took a picnic “of Sherbet and Biscuit" to the Falls at Cohoes, north of Albany.
They went for a climb up the rocks in order to get a better view—or at least, Betsy and Tench Tilghman did—and she astonished the Marylander by climbing unaided right alongside him, for “she disdained all assistance and made herself merry at the distress of the other Ladyes.” This gives us a far more Leonine, picture of Miss Betsy—of a healthy, able-bodied creature, who was used to and thoroughly enjoyed physical activity—even if it wasn’t considered “ladylike.”
And she could fascinate in a Leonine way, too, when it suited her. Here follows a sweet story told by one of the elder children of the Ford Mansion, the stately home where Washington’s military family was housed for the winter.
In order that teen-age Timothy might go see his friends in the Village of Morristown, he was given the nightly countersign so that he could pass the sentries posted around the house after dark. One night, as he approached the sentinel, he heard the call for the countersign, but the young officer who’d been trudging ahead of him through the snow couldn’t seem to remember it. The sentry, following orders, presented his bayonet.
The absent-minded officer was Alexander Hamilton, who had been leaving headquarters almost every night to spend time with Miss Betsy, now staying with her Aunt and Uncle Cochran at a farmhouse nearby.
Timothy and the sentry both knew Lieutenant Hamilton, of course, but the sentry didn’t dare disobey orders. In the end, Hamilton took Timothy aside and asked for the password, which he then presented to the still dubious guard. This is the only story concerning absent-mindedness I’ve ever read about the sharp-as-a-tack Hamilton, and I give the Leo in Miss Betsy all the credit.
Later on in their marriage, after her husband's sordid affair with Maria Reynolds, nosy biographers and novelists like me, would love to know how Eliza reacted. (As they grew older, Hamilton's pet name for his Elizabeth changed to one more dignified.)
However, with the strong desire for privacy evidenced by many 18th Century wives of famous men, Mrs. Hamilton, like Konstanze Mozart and Martha Washington, two other notable contemporary examples, doubtless burned any and all written evidence of recrimination. To quote the astrologer, Linda Goodman, on the bravery of Leo* "...there's no one who can bear more in stoic dignity, or adjust more courageously to depressing conditions with sheer faith and optimism...".
This perfectly describes Elizabeth. She lived for more than fifty years after her "dear Hamilton" had died and never ceased to love him and defend his memory. She worked to preserve his vast, scattered written legacy, and fought to maintain his reputation in the face of his longer lived, formidable (Adams, Jefferson) but relentlessly jealous enemies.
Although she had to scrape to raise her children, Elizabeth made her mark in the world, being one of the co-founders of the first orphanage in NYC, a project dear to her heart because through this she honored her husband, who'd also been a fatherless child.
The train of disasters, financial and emotional, which beset this lady never kept her spirits down. Quoting Linda Goodman once more on Leo: "It's hard to sway them from a set path...They accumulate only so they can distribute to others...when a real emergency falls on Leo's strong shoulders..." they will "never shirk ... duty...they will help "the defenseless" and "protect the frightened."
Juliet Waldron
For information and inspiration for this blog, I am indebted to:
*Women of Colonial and Revolutionary Times by Mary Gay Humphreys
*Life of Major General Schuyler by Bayard Tuckerman
*Sun Signs by Linda Goodman
~~Juliet Waldron ~ All my historical novels : http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi
Still, according to General Washington’s ADC, Tench Tilghman, who met Betsy Schuyler during a war time visit to Albany, she was “…A Brunette with the most good-natured dark lovely eyes that I ever saw, which threw a beam of good temper and Benevolence over her entire Countenance…” Later, during that same visit, three ladies and three gentlemen took a picnic “of Sherbet and Biscuit" to the Falls at Cohoes, north of Albany.
They went for a climb up the rocks in order to get a better view—or at least, Betsy and Tench Tilghman did—and she astonished the Marylander by climbing unaided right alongside him, for “she disdained all assistance and made herself merry at the distress of the other Ladyes.” This gives us a far more Leonine, picture of Miss Betsy—of a healthy, able-bodied creature, who was used to and thoroughly enjoyed physical activity—even if it wasn’t considered “ladylike.”
And she could fascinate in a Leonine way, too, when it suited her. Here follows a sweet story told by one of the elder children of the Ford Mansion, the stately home where Washington’s military family was housed for the winter.
In order that teen-age Timothy might go see his friends in the Village of Morristown, he was given the nightly countersign so that he could pass the sentries posted around the house after dark. One night, as he approached the sentinel, he heard the call for the countersign, but the young officer who’d been trudging ahead of him through the snow couldn’t seem to remember it. The sentry, following orders, presented his bayonet.
The absent-minded officer was Alexander Hamilton, who had been leaving headquarters almost every night to spend time with Miss Betsy, now staying with her Aunt and Uncle Cochran at a farmhouse nearby.
Timothy and the sentry both knew Lieutenant Hamilton, of course, but the sentry didn’t dare disobey orders. In the end, Hamilton took Timothy aside and asked for the password, which he then presented to the still dubious guard. This is the only story concerning absent-mindedness I’ve ever read about the sharp-as-a-tack Hamilton, and I give the Leo in Miss Betsy all the credit.
Later on in their marriage, after her husband's sordid affair with Maria Reynolds, nosy biographers and novelists like me, would love to know how Eliza reacted. (As they grew older, Hamilton's pet name for his Elizabeth changed to one more dignified.)
However, with the strong desire for privacy evidenced by many 18th Century wives of famous men, Mrs. Hamilton, like Konstanze Mozart and Martha Washington, two other notable contemporary examples, doubtless burned any and all written evidence of recrimination. To quote the astrologer, Linda Goodman, on the bravery of Leo* "...there's no one who can bear more in stoic dignity, or adjust more courageously to depressing conditions with sheer faith and optimism...".
This perfectly describes Elizabeth. She lived for more than fifty years after her "dear Hamilton" had died and never ceased to love him and defend his memory. She worked to preserve his vast, scattered written legacy, and fought to maintain his reputation in the face of his longer lived, formidable (Adams, Jefferson) but relentlessly jealous enemies.
Although she had to scrape to raise her children, Elizabeth made her mark in the world, being one of the co-founders of the first orphanage in NYC, a project dear to her heart because through this she honored her husband, who'd also been a fatherless child.
The train of disasters, financial and emotional, which beset this lady never kept her spirits down. Quoting Linda Goodman once more on Leo: "It's hard to sway them from a set path...They accumulate only so they can distribute to others...when a real emergency falls on Leo's strong shoulders..." they will "never shirk ... duty...they will help "the defenseless" and "protect the frightened."
Juliet Waldron
For information and inspiration for this blog, I am indebted to:
*Women of Colonial and Revolutionary Times by Mary Gay Humphreys
*Life of Major General Schuyler by Bayard Tuckerman
*Sun Signs by Linda Goodman
~~Juliet Waldron ~ All my historical novels : http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi
May 9, 2016
Flowery May~~For My Nanina
I’ve always prided myself on careful research on the historical characters who star in my novels. I’ve certainly done so in Mozart’s Wife, and although there are those who don't like my characterizations, there aren’t many who can reasonably disparage the research. Interpretation of fact, when dealing with historical characters, is always tricky. We weren’t there and we’ll never know what exactly did happen. All we have are the documents, letters, diaries, newspapers and hearsay. From those, the historical writer does the best that he/she can. Two hundred and fifty years (roughly) is a long time for “the truth” to survive.
My Mozart is another kind of story. While the characters are the same people who appear in Mozart’s Wife, they are viewed through another narrator’s eyes. As in Rashomon—or in many court cases—witnesses, even those with the best intentions, often tell conflicting stories. Back in the mid-eighties, when I wrote My Mozart, I was unable to discover much about the life of Anna Gottlieb. What there was in German and not translated or easily available here. As a result, I fictionalized my heroine. The historical Anna and the one I created are, in many ways, quite different.
Here is a brief outline of what I have since learned about the historical Anna Gottlieb. She was born into a theatrical family who worked for the National Theater, just as mine was, however, in real life, she was one of four daughters. Anna was five when she played her first noted role at the Burgtheater. Aged twelve, she played Barbarina in Mozart’s Figaro. At fifteen she played ‘Amande’ in Wranitzky’s Oberon, King of The Elves. At seventeen, she was Mozart’s Pamina in The Magic Flute at The Theater Am Weiden, which would be the peak of her career. According to Agnes Selby, author of the well-respected Constanze, Mozart’s Beloved, a much older Anna was to remember: "The immortal Mozart created Pamina for me, and the same voice which is now unpleasant to you, was the delight of the great master, and I was, proud as a queen, carried on the waves of applause." She also recalled his gift of a beautiful fan given her by Mozart in appreciation of her artistry.
After Mozart’s death, Anna “defected” to the Leopoldstadt Theater. In 1798 she played the part of ‘Hulda’ in The Nymph of the Danube. She was famous as a mimic, and she often parodied reigning prima donnas. According to Grove, during this time she was “a mainstay of the company.”
The Napoleonic Wars ruined the economy and disrupted the ancient social and patronage system. After a four year’s absence, occasioned by war, Anna returned to the Viennese stage in 1813. Sadly, her voice and looks were now in decline. As a result, she now played smaller roles in comedies and often played old women. In 1828, a new director of the theater, Steinkeller, dismissed her. Lacking a pension, she fell into poverty. She unsuccessfully petitioned the Emperor for a pension. In 1848, she contacted the newspaper editor L.V. Frankl, to describe her plight, and he organized a fundraising campaign which sent her to Salzburg to view the unveiling of the Mozart memorial, which she longed to see. In one memoir concerning that day, Anna is thus described: “There entered a tall, thin and eccentric looking old woman…” She was the last surviving singer who had actually worked with Mozart.
So it appears that My Mozart is more “historical fiction” than semi-biographical. In my defense, I’ll plead that I’d fallen in love with the composer. As anyone who has caught the all-consuming Amadeus bug knows, this isn’t a minor ailment, nor is it unusual among people who adore music. The effect of a Mozart Possession is visceral, shattering, as I’d imagine a gigantic dose of Ecstasy. I was Mozart’s fan, body and soul, and I wanted to write a story which expressed my love, my longing, and, most of all, the physical pleasure which his music brought to me. To write such a story, I needed a narrator, someone who could be that delirious, head-over-heels fan. One evening, while reading Otto Erich Deutsche’s Documentary Biography of Mozart , I came across this quote:
"Most painfully affected of all by Mozart's fatal illness was Fraulein Nanina Gottlieb..."
~~~From Joseph Deiner's Memoirs, related at Vienna, 1856
That was when I knew who the heroine --the ultimate, passionate Mozart fan--must be!
There is another matter to consider, too, and to me it’s not a small thing. As a writer, I’ve created many characters, working from the rough outline in my mind, until these “playmates” begin to talk and walk on their own, to tell me their stories. Nanina was different. From the evening I saw Joseph Deiner’s remark, I was visited by a presence--graceful, feminine—and deeply anguished. She came in the dark hours and sent me to the computer to write for most of the night, write a story as I’ve written no novel since. Pictures would arrive; I’d hit those keys. As I worked with “her,” I typed ever faster, while a story of a perfect first-and-only-love, of loss and of madness poured forth.
Call it “automatic writing” or whatever. I’m not a big fan of categorizing paranormal events, although I’ve had more than a few in the seventy years I’ve been on the planet. Whatever this unique experience was, I felt honored to be the chosen channel for a sensitive, talented individual—perhaps a beautiful soul from a time in Vienna where, ever so briefly, lived and loved a matchless musical genius.
--Juliet Waldron
My Mozart is another kind of story. While the characters are the same people who appear in Mozart’s Wife, they are viewed through another narrator’s eyes. As in Rashomon—or in many court cases—witnesses, even those with the best intentions, often tell conflicting stories. Back in the mid-eighties, when I wrote My Mozart, I was unable to discover much about the life of Anna Gottlieb. What there was in German and not translated or easily available here. As a result, I fictionalized my heroine. The historical Anna and the one I created are, in many ways, quite different.
Here is a brief outline of what I have since learned about the historical Anna Gottlieb. She was born into a theatrical family who worked for the National Theater, just as mine was, however, in real life, she was one of four daughters. Anna was five when she played her first noted role at the Burgtheater. Aged twelve, she played Barbarina in Mozart’s Figaro. At fifteen she played ‘Amande’ in Wranitzky’s Oberon, King of The Elves. At seventeen, she was Mozart’s Pamina in The Magic Flute at The Theater Am Weiden, which would be the peak of her career. According to Agnes Selby, author of the well-respected Constanze, Mozart’s Beloved, a much older Anna was to remember: "The immortal Mozart created Pamina for me, and the same voice which is now unpleasant to you, was the delight of the great master, and I was, proud as a queen, carried on the waves of applause." She also recalled his gift of a beautiful fan given her by Mozart in appreciation of her artistry.
After Mozart’s death, Anna “defected” to the Leopoldstadt Theater. In 1798 she played the part of ‘Hulda’ in The Nymph of the Danube. She was famous as a mimic, and she often parodied reigning prima donnas. According to Grove, during this time she was “a mainstay of the company.”
The Napoleonic Wars ruined the economy and disrupted the ancient social and patronage system. After a four year’s absence, occasioned by war, Anna returned to the Viennese stage in 1813. Sadly, her voice and looks were now in decline. As a result, she now played smaller roles in comedies and often played old women. In 1828, a new director of the theater, Steinkeller, dismissed her. Lacking a pension, she fell into poverty. She unsuccessfully petitioned the Emperor for a pension. In 1848, she contacted the newspaper editor L.V. Frankl, to describe her plight, and he organized a fundraising campaign which sent her to Salzburg to view the unveiling of the Mozart memorial, which she longed to see. In one memoir concerning that day, Anna is thus described: “There entered a tall, thin and eccentric looking old woman…” She was the last surviving singer who had actually worked with Mozart.
So it appears that My Mozart is more “historical fiction” than semi-biographical. In my defense, I’ll plead that I’d fallen in love with the composer. As anyone who has caught the all-consuming Amadeus bug knows, this isn’t a minor ailment, nor is it unusual among people who adore music. The effect of a Mozart Possession is visceral, shattering, as I’d imagine a gigantic dose of Ecstasy. I was Mozart’s fan, body and soul, and I wanted to write a story which expressed my love, my longing, and, most of all, the physical pleasure which his music brought to me. To write such a story, I needed a narrator, someone who could be that delirious, head-over-heels fan. One evening, while reading Otto Erich Deutsche’s Documentary Biography of Mozart , I came across this quote:
"Most painfully affected of all by Mozart's fatal illness was Fraulein Nanina Gottlieb..."
~~~From Joseph Deiner's Memoirs, related at Vienna, 1856
That was when I knew who the heroine --the ultimate, passionate Mozart fan--must be!
There is another matter to consider, too, and to me it’s not a small thing. As a writer, I’ve created many characters, working from the rough outline in my mind, until these “playmates” begin to talk and walk on their own, to tell me their stories. Nanina was different. From the evening I saw Joseph Deiner’s remark, I was visited by a presence--graceful, feminine—and deeply anguished. She came in the dark hours and sent me to the computer to write for most of the night, write a story as I’ve written no novel since. Pictures would arrive; I’d hit those keys. As I worked with “her,” I typed ever faster, while a story of a perfect first-and-only-love, of loss and of madness poured forth.
Call it “automatic writing” or whatever. I’m not a big fan of categorizing paranormal events, although I’ve had more than a few in the seventy years I’ve been on the planet. Whatever this unique experience was, I felt honored to be the chosen channel for a sensitive, talented individual—perhaps a beautiful soul from a time in Vienna where, ever so briefly, lived and loved a matchless musical genius.
--Juliet Waldron
April 14, 2016
How Writers Become Distracted
Kitty speaks and asks:
Have you finished training your person?
Have you? Really?
Well, well, so you say, but let us see! Let us run through the steps again.
Repetition is how we learn best!
***
Instructions for successful "owner" training:
Approach your person, meowing plaintively. When they glance down, as they do, you will do a sweet kitty drive-by, gently rubbing against their leg.
A good tip for beginners: When they are typing at high speed is the best time for this kind training!
Your person leans over. Yes she does! She says “What do you want, my fatty fuzzy drawers meatloaf meow-meow puddy-wuddy??” (Sometimes, it’s even dumber than that!)
This type of vocalization, inane as it may sound to you, is an excellent response. It shows that you haven’t been wasting your time. If you haven’t been training this person for long, maybe you’ve lucked out and are working with one of the smart ones.
Next, it’s time to flop down beside her chair. Stretch out really long, forepaws and backpaws extending in such a sexy way that, just for a flash, you show off the length of your claws. Bow your belly into one of those easy arcs that screams how flexible you are. Your tiger pelt catches the light with in a sublime halo of red-gold guard hairs.
Do this whole-heartedly, as if you’ll never arise again. Sometimes, for added effect, you may look over your shoulder and send one of those come hither blinks at the person before turning your head away, finally resting it, in a half disinterested manner, upon the floor again.
As soon as your person—the old ones, like the ones I have, will most certainly grunt and groan and make a huge fuss because they have to sit down cross-legged on the floor, whingeing on and on about “vertigo” “last week's surgery” “hip/knee replacements” or whatever is currently ailing their show-offy-monkey balancing-on-their-hind-legs skeleton. Do NOT ever, ever cave. They can get down onto the floor beside you--and, if you have anything to say about it--they will.
As soon as they are all the way down and are just starting to pet (or groom) you, jump up and walk away.
I know this may be tough, especially if they've presciently begun to execute the Aunt Patti Frequent Flyer Eagle Star Super Premium Top Gold level Wuffle (c) which rubs all around your spine in the very bestest way. At such times, you must exercise will power.
You want a win for this session, don't you?
Remember, consistency is the key to successful person training--even if that means also being consistently-inconsistent, and always at those times when they are relying on you to do what you did four times last week.
Leaving the scene doesn't necessarily mean distance. In fact, at first, it’s better if it isn’t, because then your person will continue attempting to interact, calling and enticing you with mousie fingers to return. But if you're going to close the deal, you must stick to the program and play hard-to-get. You might even flick your tail at them as you turn away and head out to the kitchen food bowl for a crunchy.
But don't be in a hurry. Bide your time. Be patient. Maybe have a big drink, too, or even visit the cellar cat box. While you are doing that, though, remain ever-vigilant.
As soon as their annoying self-centered typing resumes, trot upstairs and begin the process all over again.
Don't feel sorry for them. Don't waste your time.
Sometimes, okay, they do get to type, because you're napping on the couch on the cat furniture on the other side of the table upon a special fleecy blanket or upon a Queen bed upstairs. You don't really need to be entertained, just at that moment. Besides, this person takes pretty good care of you. The cat box is effectively scooped. There is always a bowl with the aforementioned crunchies and daily fresh water--if that senile co-deity who also holds court here didn't keep standing in it.
If basic things like housekeeping aren't to your liking, you'll soon make those feelings clear. Believe me, persons--this is not a threat, it's a promise! I'll take up this weighty subject at our next "owner" training lesson.
~~Juliet Waldron
https://www.facebook.com/jwhistfic
Have you finished training your person?
Have you? Really?
Well, well, so you say, but let us see! Let us run through the steps again.
Repetition is how we learn best!
***
Instructions for successful "owner" training:
Approach your person, meowing plaintively. When they glance down, as they do, you will do a sweet kitty drive-by, gently rubbing against their leg.
A good tip for beginners: When they are typing at high speed is the best time for this kind training!
Your person leans over. Yes she does! She says “What do you want, my fatty fuzzy drawers meatloaf meow-meow puddy-wuddy??” (Sometimes, it’s even dumber than that!)
This type of vocalization, inane as it may sound to you, is an excellent response. It shows that you haven’t been wasting your time. If you haven’t been training this person for long, maybe you’ve lucked out and are working with one of the smart ones.
Next, it’s time to flop down beside her chair. Stretch out really long, forepaws and backpaws extending in such a sexy way that, just for a flash, you show off the length of your claws. Bow your belly into one of those easy arcs that screams how flexible you are. Your tiger pelt catches the light with in a sublime halo of red-gold guard hairs.
Do this whole-heartedly, as if you’ll never arise again. Sometimes, for added effect, you may look over your shoulder and send one of those come hither blinks at the person before turning your head away, finally resting it, in a half disinterested manner, upon the floor again.
As soon as your person—the old ones, like the ones I have, will most certainly grunt and groan and make a huge fuss because they have to sit down cross-legged on the floor, whingeing on and on about “vertigo” “last week's surgery” “hip/knee replacements” or whatever is currently ailing their show-offy-monkey balancing-on-their-hind-legs skeleton. Do NOT ever, ever cave. They can get down onto the floor beside you--and, if you have anything to say about it--they will.
As soon as they are all the way down and are just starting to pet (or groom) you, jump up and walk away.
I know this may be tough, especially if they've presciently begun to execute the Aunt Patti Frequent Flyer Eagle Star Super Premium Top Gold level Wuffle (c) which rubs all around your spine in the very bestest way. At such times, you must exercise will power.
You want a win for this session, don't you?
Remember, consistency is the key to successful person training--even if that means also being consistently-inconsistent, and always at those times when they are relying on you to do what you did four times last week.
Leaving the scene doesn't necessarily mean distance. In fact, at first, it’s better if it isn’t, because then your person will continue attempting to interact, calling and enticing you with mousie fingers to return. But if you're going to close the deal, you must stick to the program and play hard-to-get. You might even flick your tail at them as you turn away and head out to the kitchen food bowl for a crunchy.
But don't be in a hurry. Bide your time. Be patient. Maybe have a big drink, too, or even visit the cellar cat box. While you are doing that, though, remain ever-vigilant.
As soon as their annoying self-centered typing resumes, trot upstairs and begin the process all over again.
Don't feel sorry for them. Don't waste your time.
Sometimes, okay, they do get to type, because you're napping on the couch on the cat furniture on the other side of the table upon a special fleecy blanket or upon a Queen bed upstairs. You don't really need to be entertained, just at that moment. Besides, this person takes pretty good care of you. The cat box is effectively scooped. There is always a bowl with the aforementioned crunchies and daily fresh water--if that senile co-deity who also holds court here didn't keep standing in it.
If basic things like housekeeping aren't to your liking, you'll soon make those feelings clear. Believe me, persons--this is not a threat, it's a promise! I'll take up this weighty subject at our next "owner" training lesson.
~~Juliet Waldron
https://www.facebook.com/jwhistfic
April 2, 2016
Elder Yard
We’re those annoying old folks in the neighborhood who don’t (and post-retirement no-longer-can afford even if they wanted to) yuppie “Arcadia” style* lawn care. (What else would you expect from a blogger who possum- identifies?)
Husband and I bought this house 30+ years ago when we were in our late thirties and strong enough to do all the required maintenance. We cared for three long privet hedges, we mowed, and had the old, beat up silver maples—the reason we purchased the property in the first place—regularly thinned. We both worked, so paying for large tree maintenance was not a problem. We conscientiously fed the trees and hired trained arborists, not the butchers who engage in “topping” a.k.a. a really fast way to make a tree diseased, rotten, and highly likely to fall down in a wind storm.
Over the years, I’ve planted 30 more trees on the property, which, considering that it’s barely an acre, was Arboreal Over-kill. The star of these early additions was an apple tree. The blooms delight us every spring. On a warm April evening it is possible to stand beneath it and hear the music of bees in the blossoms. For many autumns, this tree literally rained apples upon us. It still delights the eye and will always be honored for the mountains of sauce and pies it has provided.
Husband loathes yard work and curses every minute he spends doing it, so much fell on me and my bad back—although I’d expected all that and had still opted for this house. Our silver maples are “trash trees” which shed sticks and branches like crazy. I am forever picking up after them. Husband was forever driving to the recycle center with loads of dead wood and hedge clippings.
Years passed. Our health declined. There were trips to the hospital for big-deal surgeries. Much privet was removed. Yard maintenance has suffered.
We and the silver maples are all now in some disrepair, but we're still here, breathing for one another (carbon dioxide/oxygen cycle) and hoping for spring. They're sending up trial balloons as they shuck off those red bud casings.
Never mind that they cover my patio with their litter or that the pollen from their buoyant flowering makes all the mammals sneeze. We’re all quite pleased to witness another Vernal Equinox, another Purim, another Easter, another Hola Mahalla, another Holi, and any other spring celebration extant on our little blue planet. Welcome to the Growing Season!
* "Arcadia"
X-Files, Sixth year, Fifteenth episode
(Scary meets Hilarious)
~~Juliet Waldron
All my Historical Novels
http://www.julietwaldron.com
Husband and I bought this house 30+ years ago when we were in our late thirties and strong enough to do all the required maintenance. We cared for three long privet hedges, we mowed, and had the old, beat up silver maples—the reason we purchased the property in the first place—regularly thinned. We both worked, so paying for large tree maintenance was not a problem. We conscientiously fed the trees and hired trained arborists, not the butchers who engage in “topping” a.k.a. a really fast way to make a tree diseased, rotten, and highly likely to fall down in a wind storm.
Over the years, I’ve planted 30 more trees on the property, which, considering that it’s barely an acre, was Arboreal Over-kill. The star of these early additions was an apple tree. The blooms delight us every spring. On a warm April evening it is possible to stand beneath it and hear the music of bees in the blossoms. For many autumns, this tree literally rained apples upon us. It still delights the eye and will always be honored for the mountains of sauce and pies it has provided.
Husband loathes yard work and curses every minute he spends doing it, so much fell on me and my bad back—although I’d expected all that and had still opted for this house. Our silver maples are “trash trees” which shed sticks and branches like crazy. I am forever picking up after them. Husband was forever driving to the recycle center with loads of dead wood and hedge clippings.
Years passed. Our health declined. There were trips to the hospital for big-deal surgeries. Much privet was removed. Yard maintenance has suffered.
We and the silver maples are all now in some disrepair, but we're still here, breathing for one another (carbon dioxide/oxygen cycle) and hoping for spring. They're sending up trial balloons as they shuck off those red bud casings.
Never mind that they cover my patio with their litter or that the pollen from their buoyant flowering makes all the mammals sneeze. We’re all quite pleased to witness another Vernal Equinox, another Purim, another Easter, another Hola Mahalla, another Holi, and any other spring celebration extant on our little blue planet. Welcome to the Growing Season!
* "Arcadia"
X-Files, Sixth year, Fifteenth episode
(Scary meets Hilarious)
~~Juliet Waldron
All my Historical Novels
http://www.julietwaldron.com
March 7, 2016
Local Advertiser
Once a week you find these in the lobby of the grocery store. I have a habit of reading through them. There are the usual advertisers, the churches, the realtors, the auctions, the used car dealers, restaurants that offer “early-bird” specials for seniors, and club listings—chess, photography, computers, knitting, quilting, and a host of support groups. There are a few obituaries, but I hope never to find the few people I do know featured. There are classified ads, too, and these are mostly the reason I read it.
Every once in a while there’s something that makes me smile. My most recent favorite said: “Found! One of those things you pick up things with in the 300 block of Mayberry Street.” This writer had good intentions, but the words to describe the object he’d found eluded him. Still, he did note where he'd found it, and perhaps that would reunite the owner with the lost object.
Sometimes, the ad reveals something about the mental state of the person who wrote it. This is unintentional, but here’s a good one, full of anxiety: “Lost blue tool box full of tools. I’m not sure where I lost it, but it’s blue, full of tools and says Erector on the lid. Reward! Thank-you.”
You can tell that losing the box was a terrible thing, but you can also tell that the writer has probably lost a lot of other important things over the years. As someone who can relate to absent-mindedness and loss, I sincerely hoped someone eventually returned his toolbox (blue).
Another ad, one I responded to, said: “Help me please! I have 31 cats who needs good homes. Bring cat food.“
I went to the place—the back of beyond behind a very small somewhere along-the-highway town and up a hill via a gullied dirt road. There I found a ramshackle house and on it's last legs barn. There were cats everywhere, running for cover. A woman, thin and tired looking, with tattoos all over her arms, came out and we sat down together on the grass. She explained that she had worked at a shelter, but couldn’t endure the weekly euthanasia, and so had ended up with all these cats. I could see straight-away that most of her cats had no use for people—probably with good reason.
I watched cats skulking under the rusting junkers and behind old engine parts that littered the yard. After a few minutes, she opened the big bag of cat food I’d brought and spread it on the ground. Skinny cats came swarming from every direction. After gulping hastily, all keeping one eye on me--the unknown--most ran away. I’d been watching an orange threesome, scrawny nine month adolescents. The kind weary woman pointed them out, calling them "my orange brothers.”
One, the skinniest and shabbiest, climbed onto my lap. As soon as I touched him he began to purr, a huge roaring purr. He drooled with joy as I began to pet him, very gently. His eyes were washed-out yellow. His fur was dry as straw and his nose ran. I could count ribs and feel his knobby spine.
I felt a strong emotional connection—and then he bit me, grabbing the skin of my forearm with his teeth and twisting like a bulldog. Just a millimeter short of drawing blood, he leapt off my lap, stood just out of reach and continued to gaze at me, trembling, drooling, and purring.
“He didn't mean that,” she said. “He just gets excited.”
Naturally, this desperate, sick, love-starved soul is the one I took home. You never know what kind of cool stuff you'll discover in the local advertiser...
~ Juliet Waldron
Every once in a while there’s something that makes me smile. My most recent favorite said: “Found! One of those things you pick up things with in the 300 block of Mayberry Street.” This writer had good intentions, but the words to describe the object he’d found eluded him. Still, he did note where he'd found it, and perhaps that would reunite the owner with the lost object.
Sometimes, the ad reveals something about the mental state of the person who wrote it. This is unintentional, but here’s a good one, full of anxiety: “Lost blue tool box full of tools. I’m not sure where I lost it, but it’s blue, full of tools and says Erector on the lid. Reward! Thank-you.”
You can tell that losing the box was a terrible thing, but you can also tell that the writer has probably lost a lot of other important things over the years. As someone who can relate to absent-mindedness and loss, I sincerely hoped someone eventually returned his toolbox (blue).
Another ad, one I responded to, said: “Help me please! I have 31 cats who needs good homes. Bring cat food.“
I went to the place—the back of beyond behind a very small somewhere along-the-highway town and up a hill via a gullied dirt road. There I found a ramshackle house and on it's last legs barn. There were cats everywhere, running for cover. A woman, thin and tired looking, with tattoos all over her arms, came out and we sat down together on the grass. She explained that she had worked at a shelter, but couldn’t endure the weekly euthanasia, and so had ended up with all these cats. I could see straight-away that most of her cats had no use for people—probably with good reason.
I watched cats skulking under the rusting junkers and behind old engine parts that littered the yard. After a few minutes, she opened the big bag of cat food I’d brought and spread it on the ground. Skinny cats came swarming from every direction. After gulping hastily, all keeping one eye on me--the unknown--most ran away. I’d been watching an orange threesome, scrawny nine month adolescents. The kind weary woman pointed them out, calling them "my orange brothers.”
One, the skinniest and shabbiest, climbed onto my lap. As soon as I touched him he began to purr, a huge roaring purr. He drooled with joy as I began to pet him, very gently. His eyes were washed-out yellow. His fur was dry as straw and his nose ran. I could count ribs and feel his knobby spine.
I felt a strong emotional connection—and then he bit me, grabbing the skin of my forearm with his teeth and twisting like a bulldog. Just a millimeter short of drawing blood, he leapt off my lap, stood just out of reach and continued to gaze at me, trembling, drooling, and purring.
“He didn't mean that,” she said. “He just gets excited.”
Naturally, this desperate, sick, love-starved soul is the one I took home. You never know what kind of cool stuff you'll discover in the local advertiser...
~ Juliet Waldron
February 14, 2016
Angelica ponders the Revolution
Angelica Ten Broeck, patriot heiress, writes in her diary a few days after the American defeat at New York, 1776.
I still can't believe what I saw outside of Aunt Letitia's parlor windows last night. The whole City south of her house was on fire. We were afraid, and the servants stood before the door with muskets in hand. So much smoke blew about that even inside the house we were coughing. The whole sky turned red, and throngs of people carrying pitiful bundles of clothes ran and wept, driving their cows and horses down the street.
I hadn't believed it could happen, that General Washington could be driven out of New York and that the British would rule here again, but that's what has come to pass.
My Aunt believes that Americans set fire to the City themselves, that British troops were not responsible for this arson. This morning the fires still burn, and we've heard that more than half of the buildings downtown are in ruins. Auntie and I had hot words on the subject at breakfast, but after what I've seen and heard of this war, I confess I am truly not certain of what the truth is.
It's unimaginable, the things my Uncle Ten Broeck has written of, terrible things being done all up and down our peaceful valley, the looting and burning, the cruel maiming of horses and cattle done by those who must have nothing but evil in their hearts. Everywhere, my Uncle says, men settle old scores with their neighbors, while hiding these dreadful crimes behind politics--as if calling themselves "Loyalist" or "Patriot" can excuse the wicked things they've done.
Oh why did I ever come to New York? It has turned out exactly as Uncle Jacob warned. I've been a great fool, traveling in the middle of a war! All I want now is to go home, to sail up the river back to Kingston, but now I am trapped behind the lines of our enemy. My Aunt Letitia says that I--and my inheritance--are safer here, that because my Uncle Jacob is a patriot and defies the British, he will be hanged and his lands forfeited to the Crown. It is better, she says, that I "not be involved in his folly and ruin."
She keeps saying she wants me to marry "a respectable English gentleman" and "leave forever this barbaric place". She doesn't seem to understand that I am an American, bred in this land and rebel to the bone. Even though General Washington has been defeated, I believe that in the end--somehow, someway--our Cause will triumph and that one day we shall enjoy the blessings of true liberty and peace...
Angel's Flight originally published as Independent Heart is the Revolutionary War sister book to the award-winner, Genesee.
~Juliet Waldron~
See all my historical novels at:
http://www.julietwaldron.com
http://www.julietwaldron.com
I still can't believe what I saw outside of Aunt Letitia's parlor windows last night. The whole City south of her house was on fire. We were afraid, and the servants stood before the door with muskets in hand. So much smoke blew about that even inside the house we were coughing. The whole sky turned red, and throngs of people carrying pitiful bundles of clothes ran and wept, driving their cows and horses down the street.
I hadn't believed it could happen, that General Washington could be driven out of New York and that the British would rule here again, but that's what has come to pass.
My Aunt believes that Americans set fire to the City themselves, that British troops were not responsible for this arson. This morning the fires still burn, and we've heard that more than half of the buildings downtown are in ruins. Auntie and I had hot words on the subject at breakfast, but after what I've seen and heard of this war, I confess I am truly not certain of what the truth is.
It's unimaginable, the things my Uncle Ten Broeck has written of, terrible things being done all up and down our peaceful valley, the looting and burning, the cruel maiming of horses and cattle done by those who must have nothing but evil in their hearts. Everywhere, my Uncle says, men settle old scores with their neighbors, while hiding these dreadful crimes behind politics--as if calling themselves "Loyalist" or "Patriot" can excuse the wicked things they've done.
Oh why did I ever come to New York? It has turned out exactly as Uncle Jacob warned. I've been a great fool, traveling in the middle of a war! All I want now is to go home, to sail up the river back to Kingston, but now I am trapped behind the lines of our enemy. My Aunt Letitia says that I--and my inheritance--are safer here, that because my Uncle Jacob is a patriot and defies the British, he will be hanged and his lands forfeited to the Crown. It is better, she says, that I "not be involved in his folly and ruin."
She keeps saying she wants me to marry "a respectable English gentleman" and "leave forever this barbaric place". She doesn't seem to understand that I am an American, bred in this land and rebel to the bone. Even though General Washington has been defeated, I believe that in the end--somehow, someway--our Cause will triumph and that one day we shall enjoy the blessings of true liberty and peace...
Angel's Flight originally published as Independent Heart is the Revolutionary War sister book to the award-winner, Genesee.
~Juliet Waldron~
See all my historical novels at:
http://www.julietwaldron.com
http://www.julietwaldron.com
