DREAMS: EXPLORING A VICTORIAN RESIDENCE

Those who know me well are aware that I LOVE old buildings, particularly those from the Victorian era. I just love the aesthetic of these buildings: the tall, narrow windows, lattice work, brick work, wrap around porches, etc. These buildings, particularly residences, evoke both romance and nostalgia. Any chance I can visit a Victorian house, I take it…as I did in my dreams a few nights ago.

I was running east down a narrow dirt road overshadowed by the lushest cottonwoods. It was the height of summer, gleaming green, cloudless sky. I was in a valley in the foothills, the valley floor a series of gradual rises and abrupt gullies. I passed by a modern house or two without a second glance, concentrating more on staying in the shade as much as I could. I could smell blossoms in the air. As I descended a gentle slope, I immediately took notice of the stately house just to the left of me: a two story brick home, the long, narrow windows and wraparound porch denoting it as Victorian. Right above the main entryway, a stone engraving proclaiming “1885” more than confirmed my suspicions. I was so in awe I came to a sudden halt, and just stared at the impressive building. The bricks themselves looked worn with time, but one could easily tell that the home had since been painstakingly restored to its original grandeur: someone actually lived there. A white picket fence surrounded the gardens circling the house, and I noted the cottonwoods on the property were by far the oldest I’d seen on my run so far. If I could just go inside, was my thought.

It was then that I noticed an elderly woman with salt and pepper hair looking at me through a modern screen door in the main doorway. I averted my gaze, feeling awkward and started to walk away when she opened the door.

“Hey there! C’mon in if you like. It’s mighty hot out there, and I’d be more than happy to give you a tour of my home,” she waved at me from the porch.

I looked down at myself: I was a sweaty mess, my shirt practically soaked, my hair plastered against my skull. As gross as I felt, I wasn’t going to pass up on her offer.

It’s weird how dreams cut from scene to scene, like a movie. Next thing I recall is I’m inside the house, and just speechless at how beautiful the interior is. I know the woman and I introduced ourselves, as we kept referring each other by name, but sadly I can’t remember what I called her by. I followed right behind her as she showed me the first floor, and immediately I was struck by how original everything was: the wood floors, wall paper, furnishings, etc. Only a few items and modern conveniences were evident. For example, the kitchen had a state of the art fridge and microwave, yet there was an old stovetop in the corner. The parlor was a beautiful room with wine red wallpaper and velvet drapes at the corners, with one reading lamp in the corner. The furniture was beautiful walnut and from the 1880s, the majority of the furnishings original as they had belonged to the first owner, a woman homesteader from the 1880s. The new owner showed me a collection of sepia photographs showing the first owner and her family in Victorian Sunday best: the husband in a fine dark suit with pocket watch, the wife in a high collared blouse, her extreme hourglass figure created by a corset. My gracious host explained that this family had run a cattle ranch here for many decades, but eventually the ranch was sold and some of the land developed (evidenced by the modern houses I’d passed by). The family moved on, and their beautiful home fell into an abandoned state.

As we toured the second floor—beautiful furniture in the three bedrooms, a stately office complete with oak desk and inkwell—she explained she’d come to own the house and most of its possessions. But as dreams go, I don’t remember the exact details of how/ when she came to own such an impressive, historic place. What I do vividly remember is how envious I was she lived in this house on such stunning property!

The next “scene” we’re back in the kitchen, and I’m babbling my gratitude for her letting me in her home, and commending her for keeping the house as close as possible to its original state. Gracious as ever, the woman presented me a loaf of homemade banana bread with almonds!

****

The featured photo at the top of the page shows what best resembles what I saw in my dream. This particular Victorian home is the Mount Buninyong homestead in Australia, built in 1884, by the Scott family, who lived here raising cattle, and eventually sheep. Descendants of the Scott family still inhabit the property to this day. I know I have certainly seen buildings akin to this style here in the American West, but when I came across this photo via Pinterest, it looked so much what I saw in my dream, I honestly felt my body go cold. It felt like deja vu…And yet, the thing is, I’d never heard of this particular place before….

It is amazing just how much I immediately recalled everything upon waking from this dream. It’s so strange how certain dreams stay with you, while other mornings you know you dreamed of something but can’t remember a single detail. It is especially easy, and tempting, to want to pull meaning from dreams, to perform psychological analysis essentially…but all I will say that is that I loved this dream. It felt so real. It was a culmination of things I love: running, summer, old (Victorian) houses, history, banana bread. If I can “subscribe” to more dreams like this, sign me up!

~LMC

*Featured photo from http://vhd.heritagecouncil.vic.gov.au/places/67548

19 MAY: REMEMBERING ANNE BOLEYN

Since I was 7 years old, I’ve been absolutely fascinated with the Tudors.

I do not mean the Starz TV series from a decade ago (that series, or rather, my intense dislike of it, merits its own post). Rather, I am fascinated by the Tudors themselves, particularly King Henry VIII’s six wives, and Queen Elizabeth I. As every true Tudorphile knows, today is a poignant date.

On this day nearly 500 years ago, Anne Boleyn, Queen of England and second wife to King Henry VIII, was executed. She had been falsely accused of witchcraft, adultery, and incest (with her own brother). Such heinous crimes were treason, and the punishment for treason was death.

Even if you aren’t too familiar with the Tudors, most people know that good ol’ King Henry lopped off the heads of two of his wives (not he himself, of course; he had the executioners do the dirty work). Anne Boleyn was one of his unfortunate victims.

Who was Anne? Some Context

King Henry VIII was married to Queen Catherine of Aragon, who by European 16th century standards was the perfect wife and queen: humble, devoted, pious. When Henry and Catherine wed in 1509, it was out of genuine love. Born and raised in Spain, Catherine truly came to love and admire her adopted country of England and its peoples. But her true duty was to provide England a son, an heir. But through many miscarriages and stillbirths, Catherine failed in her duty. Only a daughter, Princess Mary, survived. Fearing the country would dissolve into civil war should a woman assume the throne, Henry entered into true panic mode. Only a son would do. Catherine, several years older, was now past childbearing age. Henry had had plenty of mistresses with whom he had sired bastards, but now was different. He needed to remarry, so that he would have a son—a legitimate one that is. So he began trying to extricate himself from his marriage. Henry stressed a Biblical passage in Leviticus, which states that should a man marry his brother’s widow, the couple would be childless (Catherine had been married to Henry’s older brother Arthur in 1501; the sickly boy died months later). Henry claimed that his marriage to Catherine had to be invalid because of this, and that Catherine had not been a virgin when they married in 1509 (Catherine vehemently denied this). But despite all this, the Pope in Rome would not give his assent, which led Henry to eventually break away from the Church and declare himself the head of the Church of England. It plunged the country into the bloodbath known as The Reformation. Thousands were tortured and executed for refusing to acknowledge Henry as the Head of the Church of England, and the monasteries, longtime institutions of education and social assistance, were sacked.

Anne Boleyn was the woman Henry had become completely infatuated with. Born in England circa 1501, she was a lady in waiting to Queen Catherine. Anne stood out, both in looks and personality. Anne was the opposite of Tudor beauty standards; instead of being a buxom blonde, Miss Boleyn was dark haired and dark eyed, with olive skin and a willowy figure. She’d served at the courts of the Regent Margaret of Austria and later at the French court of King Francis I. She spoke French like a Frenchwoman, and dressed like a Frenchwoman. She was educated, and harbored views of religious reform. In a time when the Roman Catholic Church was the center of society, Anne’s ideas made her a rebel.

Henry was enchanted by this woman, unlike any other he’d met (or had bedded). He begged and begged Anne to become his mistress, but she flat out refused. Being mistress to the king had its benefits, as the woman and her family were often granted land, titles, and money. But Anne was different. She refused to engage in a physical relationship with him; instead, she’d set her sights on something much greater, the crown. Anne was sexy, and she was young: she could bear the king a son.

In January 1533, after years of waiting and arguing with Rome, the couple were finally married. Poor Catherine had been exiled to the dreariest of castles, and stripped of her title, though she never acknowledged this. Her daughter Princess Mary was declared a bastard, and the two were forbidden from seeing one another.

From the get go, the English public, and all of Europe, hated Anne. How dare some upstart commoner replace the rightful, blue-blooded Queen of England. Anne was slandered wherever she went: “whore” was a common epithet. Henry had defied the Pope, and in doing so had created his own Church: he was a heretic, and all because he just had to marry that French speaking slut.

Anne was crowned Queen the following June. Heavily pregnant with the King’s son as she and Henry assured themselves, Anne must have felt jubilant. But in September, Anne gave birth to a healthy girl: the future Queen Elizabeth I. Accounts differ as to how the royal couple reacted. Surely they must have been disappointed. Yet Anne had proved she was fertile, and within a year she was pregnant again. But Anne was to experience the same heartbreak as Catherine; she miscarried.

Anne must have felt on top of the world when Henry had become infatuated with her. But she had failed to realize that kings will be kings, and soon Henry was chasing and bedding other women, one of them her own cousin. Anne was furious. How dare he dally around, and she reprimanded him. It was a mistake. Catherine, pious and devoted wife she had been, had been well aware of Henry’s hookups. But she had never questioned or berated him for it; it was the way of the world, a double standard that still exists to this day.

But Anne was having none of it. She did not want to admit that Henry’s interest in her was quickly waning. She had to conceive a son, and quick. But she wouldn’t back off Henry for dallying around. He hated it, and coldly warned her she’d best not complain, as he who had risked everything to raise her so high, could just as quickly bring about her downfall. Anne had never been popular to begin with, and she had to watch her step, especially with Catherine’s allies on the European continent threatening England.

In January 1536, Catherine died. Rumors abounded that she’d been poisoned, by none other Anne Boleyn. She was pregnant once again, but the worst thing happened: she gave to birth to a stillborn baby boy. Henry was devastated. Anne, very likely suffering postpartum depression, continued to lash out at Henry. He had had enough: Anne had to go, so he could be free to remarry and finally have a male heir. Plotting with his chief minister Thomas Cromwell, Anne’s downfall was swift. In May of that year, Anne was arrested and sent to the bleak Tower of London. She’d been accused of committing adultery with several courtiers, one being her own brother. Anne staunchly denied the charges, but one of the men had confessed to the charges (while being tortured that is). Everyone was sentenced to death.

For all the hate Anne inspired, never had an English queen been sentenced to death. But Henry VIII meant it, and the five men, including Anne’s beloved brother, were beheaded on Tower Green. Little Princess Elizabeth was declared a bastard, and Henry’s marriage to Anne was annulled. For the woman who had loved all things French, she was to be beheaded in the “merciful” French manner via a sword. Unlike the clumsy (and often drunk) English axe man who dispatched victims while they placed their neck upon a wooden block, Anne would kneel upright on the scaffold for her death. Prior to her death she made her final confession: she swore she had never offended the King with her body, and that she was truly innocent. On the 19 May 1536, Anne mounted the scaffold steps and gave a final speech. Witnesses agreed that she appeared calm and dignified; she died like a queen. She was beheaded with a single stroke, and was buried in the Tower Chapel, St. Peter ad Vincula. Eleven days later, King Henry VIII was remarried, to Jane Seymour, the polar opposite of Anne in looks and character. Anne may have died, but her legend had only just begun…

Anne Fascination

Anne had lost her head, but her reputation never dissipated. To this very day she exudes a fascination unlike any of King Henry’s other wives. Who was this woman who held the King is such sway that he challenged the powers on Earth and Heaven, just so he could have her? And why, how did such ardor turn into calculated, murderous disgust? Anne is viewed many ways by many different people: a whore, a home wrecker, a gold digging bitch, an absolute heretic…or as a champion of religious reform, a feminist before her time, a strong, independent woman whose only crime was giving birth to a girl.

Time and place always affects viewers’ perceptions of others. As a 21st century American, I’m centuries and a whole continent removed from Anne’s sphere of being. I know I’ll never be able to fully understand just how all powerful religion was in Anne’s day. The Roman Catholic Church was the be all, end all. Everyone’s lives centered on God: how to become closer to God, to achieve salvation. The fact that Henry broke away from Rome was, and still is, HUGE. The reverberations of this are still hugely present, religiously, politically, socially, culturally: Catholics v. Protestants. Who is Right and who is Wrong. Very very much a simplification, but this divide…it’s still there.

For many modern day individuals, especially women, Anne is often viewed as an early feminist. One must be careful with this, as this term did not exist in Anne’s time. Were there women in Anne’s day who stressed womens’ rights? Yes indeed. One such example is Christine de Pizan, whose writings Anne may have encountered at the enlightened court of Margaret of Austria. The fact that Anne was so outspoken in an age were women were not to be seen or heard, marks her as different. A rebel. A woman not afraid to fight for what she wants. A woman who was a victim to the rampant misogyny of her times.

The concept as Anne Boleyn as a feminist is so strong that several websites and forums are dedicated to Anne, her life, and times. These sites stress that they want to right the wrongs; i.e., the misogynistic labels of Anne as whore, strumpet, home wrecker, etc.

There is absolutely no doubt Anne lived in an age and place where women were excluded of any rights at all. Misogyny was the order of the day. Unmarried, a woman belonged to her father, and once married, was property of her husband. What we now term spousal abuse was seen as a husband’s everyday right to discipline his wife. At royal courts, men, especially kings, were not only expected to have mistresses, but were often encouraged to have “other women.” A man could sleep around, no questions asked. But if a woman was so much suspected of having been “improper,” this could bring about devastating ramifications, just as what we see with Anne…double standard much?

Society, then and now, often likes to categorize women via labels. Two come to mind: saint or slut. There is no middle ground. She, whomever she may be, is either good or bad. End of story. Anne is not exempt from this. She is either the martyr, or the punished strumpet.

I view Anne as a woman who was certainly unconventional for her time. Her firmness in refusing to become Henry’s mistress, and instead aiming for the crown, reflect a woman of individual ambition: a trait not applauded in women in 16th century Europe. She was educated for the times, and was open to religious reform. Yet, Anne is no saint. Her horrible, absolutely horrible treatment of Catherine’s daughter Princess Mary makes me cringe. She treated Mary like dirt, making her a servant to her daughter Elizabeth. Mary, who had been publicly declared a bastard by her own father King Henry VIII, so that Elizabeth would be declared princess…I can’t imagine the agony, the indignation Mary suffered. This is not to excuse what Mary did during her reign as queen (she burned Protestant “heretics”), but I certainly hold Anne culpable in determining how Mary turned out.

And then, of course, the Reformation. How many thousands of innocents, holding steadfast to their faith, were put to death? It baffles the mind. I certainly understand why the English public loved Queen Catherine, as she was dignified, God fearing, a born leader. She had served as Regent when Henry was away in France; she presented her husband with the bloodied battle shirt of their defeated rival, the Scots King James IV. She had successfully defended England, her adopted country. And so why, how, could one woman drive Henry to abandon his ever loyal queen, a capable ruler in her own right?

Pro Anne fans always point out that Anne, in a posthumous way, got the last laugh. Her daughter, Elizabeth, became the greatest ruler of the Tudor dynasty, and one of the most successful monarchs in history. Though I do agree wholeheartedly with this, it does beg the question…what if Elizabeth had not been a successful ruler? What if she had lost England to the Spanish Armada of 1588? How then would we view Anne Boleyn? A failed queen who gave to birth to a failure of a daughter? What I call this concept is the “Elizabeth Lens,” in that by viewing Anne’s life via the life and successes of her daughter, Anne’s actions—her cruelty against Mary and Catherine—are rectified. No quite I say. One must recognize that Anne and Elizabeth, mother and daughter though they may be, are not one and the same.

Anne was, and is, human. She certainly was innocent of the charges brought against her, but she was truly inhuman towards Princess Mary. So many individuals went to their deaths for refusing to acknowledge her as Queen, and her daughter Elizabeth as heir. England fell into complete upheaval—religious, social, cultural—just so Henry could marry her, and the result was a true bloodbath. However, controversial and cruel she could be, I believe that Anne certainly did not deserve to die, not on trumped up charges. King Henry VIII is easily one of the bloodiest, cruelest monarchs Britain has endured, when one thinks how easily he dropped Anne from favor and into the grave. It is especially hard to accept that Henry would make his child, Elizabeth, motherless at less than three years of age…no wonder she never married.

In 2005, I visited the Tower of London. I stood before Traitor’s Gate (Coldharbor Gate in Anne’s time) where many of the condemned entered the Tower via the River Thames. I stood at or near the site of where the scaffold would have been (NOT the modern memorial; most likely the correct spot was in front of the Waterloo Barracks). But by far the most touching and powerful spot I visited was the Chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, where so many of the Tower’s executed are buried.

Henry hadn’t bothered to provide Anne with a proper coffin for her remains. Instead, a chest used for bow staves served as a substitute. The chest was too short, so Anne’s head was tucked beside her. Her attendants placed her remains under the altar pavement, near or alongside the remains of her brother. In 1876, under orders from Queen Victoria, the chapel underwent a much needed renovation. The remains were exhumed and the Victorians did their best to identify the myriad of bones, before placing a memorial tile with Anne’s Boleyn name and crest, upon the floor. But without modern DNA/ forensic analysis, it’s questionable that the bones “identified” as Anne’s are truly hers. Regardless, I stood before Anne’s memorial tile and paid my respects. It was just my parents and I, and the Beefeater nearby who’d admitted us in.

I remember being in awe that I was standing right near where Anne’s earthly remains rest under the pavement. The woman who had changed the course of history, who had given birth to one of the greatest rulers…it was hard for my mind to fathom. Yet I distinctly remember feeling sorrow that Anne had suffered such an especially cruel, bloody end. To have your head struck off—! I pray it was quick, and that she is at peace.

Whatever, however, you think of Anne, one thing remains certain: her allure in both life and death will never fade. From fan sites to historical fiction to TV shows, Anne, in a way, never really died…She is very much alive in her afterlife, as both her detractors and fans continue to debate her life and times.

~LMC

That Day in May…

Exactly a year ago today I was told by Flash’s vet that it was time to consider euthanasia.

Being the nostalgic, time/ date memorizer individual that I am (see my previous post “Nostalgia”), all I could think about today was what happened last year on this day…

It was a cold morning, snowing heavily. The vet was conducting a follow up examination. I’d been feeding Flash grain twice a day in the hopes of him gaining weight, but to no avail. It didn’t matter how much I gave him; he’d only put on a few pounds, but it was not enough. His ribs and hip bones were clearly visible, a far cry from the fat, sleek pony I’d grown up with.

It’s strange, how the human mind can almost selectively shut out, block, deflect, or anticipate bad news. I think I knew, deep down, what her assessment of my horse was going to be. But the mind stuffed it away, so I went about haltering Flash, and leading him into the indoor wash rack, to be out of the snow.

The vet took his off his blanket, and took one good long look. Flash, ever the people pony, loved his vet, and gently nudged her with his nose. She smiled, patted Flash and walked around him. “If you haven’t already fed him yet, go ahead and grab his feed and we’ll talk.”

I went to the grain storage room and filled up his flat bucket. I remember consciously stalling, deliberately taking longer than normal to fill the bucket. But even then, no clear, conscious thought came to my mind. But I felt dread brewing within my body.

Back in the barn, Flash set upon his food immediately, happily making a mess as he always did. A giant lump had taken residence in my throat.

The vet gave a sad smile, and put her hands in her jacket pockets. I don’t remember her exact words, but they were something like this: “Well, based on the frequency and amount you’re feeding Flash, he should be easily gaining, but he hasn’t. He looks about the same. So it’s time that we consider that option…the time to say goodbye, to have him avoid any pain or incidents.”

Already I felt like I was strangling; I knew damn well what she meant. “I-I know,” I croaked out, nodding as the tears, hot and fast, came streaming down my face. The vet then looked directly into my eyes, and I remember how much compassion and sadness I saw there.

“His condition…there hasn’t been any lack of trying on your part, not at all. You’ve done everything you can to help him, but in the end he’s not going to improve. And we don’t want him to get to the point where he’ll be so weak and helpless that something bad happens to him, and he can’t help himself. He’s just old, and there’s no cure for that.”

I could barely speak, I was crying so hard. My body was shaking. I could feel and hear the blood rushing through my ears and my head; my heart slammed against my chest.

“Flash may be 28, but in human years he’s 94. So he’s had a long, happy life and that’s what counts. And he deserves to go out with dignity and in peace.”

I was practically hyperventilating at this point. The vet’s assistant was trying her best not to cry, and kept her gaze on the floor, though she kept patting Flash on his neck.

“It doesn’t have to be today,” my vet said, gently taking me by the arm. I nodded, utterly relieved. I wanted—needed—time to say goodbye, to prepare myself.

“H-h-how m-much l-longer do I-I have?” I stuttered out. The vet looked me directly in the eye.

“No longer than two months.”

****

Two months. The rest of May, of course, then June, then July. July. That’s when…my mind whirled.

It’s truly bizarre, how we discussed Flash’s eventual death and means of it, as he contentedly munched away, oblivious.

“He may be physically declining, but his disposition is the same as ever. He looks happy to me…and he certainly hasn’t lost his appetite!” my vet exclaimed, and the three of us all managed a laugh.

“This is the way you want to remember him, as he is. No one wants to say goodbye, but one shouldn’t wait too long, for if something happens…that’s the last memory you’ll have.”

I agreed with everything the vet told me, and accepted it. It hurt, my heart throbbed, but I knew she was right. I’ve heard stories of people being angry or indignant when euthanasia is suggested by their vet. I didn’t feel any of those emotions at all. I just felt…tragic. Defeated.

Somehow, I’m surprised I even mentioned it then and there, but I asked about burial options. My voice was low and flat. The vet gave me three options, and estimates for each: pasture burial somewhere in eastern CO, cremation, or burial up in the mountains by Evergreen. I immediately noted she did not mention the highly upsetting option of rendering, which is basically when a horse’s corpse is used for pet food. Not that there’s any meat on my horse, was my dark, twisted thought. It didn’t hit me until later that rendering would be unfeasible anyway, given the chemicals used in euthanasia.

***

The follow-up lasted about a half hour. I noticed how, as we all talked, other riders ducked their heads whenever they passed us; they knew what we were talking about. I don’t blame them. No one wants to hear, much less stick around, listening about euthanasia. As any animal lover knows, you don’t want to ever have to think about it.

The vet gave me the biggest hug before she left. “In the time being, he can have absolutely whatever he wants. Spoil him rotten!” was her parting advice. I agreed wholeheartedly.

And last summer, that is exactly what I did.

***

Once the vet and her assistant had driven off, I let Flash finish the rest of his feed. I felt dazed, while sobs shook my body. I hugged him before I put him back in his pasture. I found it nearly impossible to leave him. I walked back home in the snow. I burst into tears again when I told my parents the news. My mom promptly started crying, and my dad looked grim. I told them exactly what the vet had said, and they sadly agreed too. Together, we vowed to make Flash’s last summer on earth the best. And I am so pleased to say that we accomplished that.

As summer approaches ever closer, I know I’m only going to become more nostalgic, which is completely normal. Last summer I spent every single day with Flash. For whole days I was at the barn. I miss that. I miss Flash. But as I’ve said before, I know he is at peace. I feel it in my very being. And this knowledge, along with writing, this will sustain me once July swings around. If you catch me gazing into space, a faraway look in my eyes…I’m thinking, seeing, my beloved horse.

~LMC

13.1 Today in MAY!!!

Sweat and freckles

MAY! One of my all time favorite months. Everything just keeps getting greener, it’s warm, the clouds low and puffy in the sky. I seized the glorious weather of today to run another solo half marathon. It was sooo glorious out that I didn’t even bother checking what my time was; I know it took about the same time as other solo/ training half marathon runs. Gotta admit, it was nice not to concern myself with time. Instead, I just took in the beautiful foothills and this run by far has been the most…well, relaxing run! Think me crazy for thinking a half as relaxing, but such is the magic of May in the CO foothills. It is paradise on earth, so much so you almost forget that a season such as winter even exists. Yes yes, dramatic I know, but late spring/ early summer is such a beautiful, hopeful time. It is a season of rebirth, of renewal, of freedom. When I was in school, the air itself felt restless with anticipation when May swung around. As any student knows, all you think about is summer. With everything looking more summery outside, it’s difficult to focus on final exams and projects. One of my favorite May memories as a child was my last day of 3rd grade. As the final bell rang, I bounded out the classroom with denizens of kids whooping it was summer time! Making my way across the athletic field behind the school, my friend Susan and I started hollering in turn: IT’S SUMMER! I was so jubilant that I started spinning around, feeling the tug of gravity as I held my backpack in one hand. I spun around so violently that I nearly toppled over in the freshly mowed grass. My voice was hoarse from yelling, and I was free. Memories like that stay with you forever. I freakin’ love MAY!

~LMC

Book Review: ONE THOUSAND WHITE WOMEN by Jim Fergus

I can’t believe that only just now I read this book. Because wow. Wow! All the genres/ themes I love—historical fiction, first person perspective, strong and most importantly, believable female protagonist—are all present in this novel. Published in 1998, I’ve more than once spotted this novel on bookshelves, yet didn’t pick up a copy till recently.

The novel stems from a highly interesting, yet never came to pass, proposal: in the 1850s, a Northern Cheyenne chief asked US Army authorities the gift of one thousand white women as brides for their warriors. Being a matrilineal based society, in which children belong to their mother’s tribe, the Cheyenne viewed this as the perfect way to assimilate into white society. Unsurprisingly, US authorities abhorred this idea, and no white brides came over. But in this novel, they do.

Told through the fictional diary entries of May Dodd, readers are introduced to a woman considered highly unconventional for 1875. A free spirit, May is banished to an asylum by her own family, for having loved a man beneath her station. When the chance for freedom is offered by participating in the top secret government “Brides for Indians” program, May seizes it. With the goal of “civilizing” the so-called savages, May and many other women in compromised situations find themselves heading west. May chronicles the women she meets, of all backgrounds and color, and of their fears and hopes of marrying and living among the “savages.” For May however, she soon finds herself torn between her love for a dashing US Army captain, and her eventual husband, Chief Little Wolf, leader of the Cheyenne nation. Caught between two worlds, May struggles to navigate two alternate lives, both of which are fraught with devastating consequences.

Highly detailed and emotive, May feels very much like a real character. In fact, I’m still in awe that this novel is written by a man. Fergus captures May’s hopes and fears regarding her children, her disgust with society’s hypocrisy regarding her sexuality, and her love and respect for both US Captain Bourke and Chief Little Wolf, both of whom are actual historical characters. Other characters, such as the street wise Irish Kelly twins, and the steadfast, former slave Phemie, feel real as well. May’s initial bewilderment to eventual acceptance and admiration of Cheyenne culture is well structured, as are all characters’ interactions with one another. Readers stringent in historical/ realistic portrayals may find the fact that May writes such long, detailed entries unrealistic, especially during the novel’s climax, yet one must remember that this is a novel. Like very many other readers, so immersed into the plot and characters was I that I wanted, needed, May to be a real character. Alas, as Fergus clarifies in the “Author’s Note:” “In spite of efforts to convince the reader to the contrary, this book is entirely a work of fiction” (Fergus xiii). Such is the magic of well researched and well executed fiction that readers whole heartedly ingest this novel. If you are looking for “a fresh twist on the traditional Western” (book review via San Antonio Express), I highly recommend this novel.

~LMC

One Thousand White Women: The Journals of May Dodd by Jim Fergus, St. Martin’s Griffin New York, 434 pages

*Postscript: The Vengeance of Mothers, the sequel to One Thousand White Women, has just been published this year. I cannot wait to pick up this book and will write a review once finished reading it.

BIRTHDAY RUN!

It’s my birthday, and I’ll RUN if I want to!!!…

16 miles, that is!

I know what you’re thinking: That I’m crazy! That out of all the ways I choose to celebrate my birthday, I RUN. Yep! And that today I chose to run the longest distance I’ve ever done before. 13.1 just wasn’t gonna do it today; I wanted to, had to, surpass that. Really, I wanted, and still do (and will!) run a marathon, but I didn’t want to injure myself. Everything in good time…

Historically, it usually rains and/ or snows on my birthday; tempestuous CO weather! But today I was gifted with temps in the 70s, and low, puffy white clouds sailing ‘cross azure skies. I had to take advantage of such glorious weather.

My run today was 70% trail, 30% road, up and down, along the foothills and accompanying strike valleys. I didn’t bother concerning myself with splits or time really; distance is what mattered. I kept entertaining the thought of running my first marathon distance, but knew that that was not yet quite feasible…but sometime this year, yes… 😉

Plus, I was planning on going out to dinner this evening with family and friends, and such a distance would take too long, since I started my run mid-afternoon…and I would need to clean up once done.

The majority of my run felt great: I was flying. The last four miles are when I felt fatigue settle in. Despite consuming multiple gels and goos, the heat was finally sapping my energy. But I kept at it. My speed slowed, but my determination did not. I sprinted the last half mile, and when I finally slowed to a walk, I was beaming. I was absolutely gross but felt glorious. Sweaty but sublime. A new running milestone, and on my birthday no less. A true present to myself. I was definitely “high” on the “runner’s high.” 🙂

I walked, stretched, cooled down, hopped in the shower. I put on my favorite blue dress, a memento from my trip to Barcelona a few years ago. Running, and exercise in general, gives your face the best glow. I’m serious! If makeup companies could somehow create a potion that mimics the runner’s glow, that company would make millions. My eyes were bright, my skin the perfect combination of tan and flush. It’s weird, given how sweaty (especially after this particular run), I can be after exercise, but it’s often when I feel the most beautiful. I feel strong, empowered, capable of anything.

******

As you can guess, I devoured everything in sight after my run. I went to my favorite Italian restaurant, and promptly replenished all my lost carbs via chicken parmigiana with spaghetti. My Mom, super loving and generous as always, had brought cupcakes from a professional baker, for dessert.

Having my family and family friends surrounding me, well, I’m going to say a total cliché, but…I’m lucky. Blessed. I know, saaaapppy. I won’t bog you down with further, well exhausted clichés. But truly, you know who you are, and I want to say thank you. I mean it. To everyone who wished me a happy birthday, whether by text, post, card, etc., thank you. 🙂 I love you all.  You all made my day extremely special.

*****

Birthdays are about, well, getting older. But my five year old “former charge” (i.e., the girl I nannyed recently; clearly I read too many historical novels), is convinced that I am 10, and not a twentysomething. I told her my age, but she wouldn’t have it, as she steadfastly declared, “You’re 10! You’re the same size as my friend!”

Everyone at the table laughed. “Well, thank you! This is the best birthday ever! Instead of a year older, I’m more than a decade and a half younger! I can go with this!” I exclaimed, to more laughs. So, I run my longest distance so far and I’m getting younger? Cool. Happy Birthday to me. 🙂

~LMC

My First Ever True Running Shoes: A Total Fluke!

As an avid runner, having the right shoe is paramount. Comfort is key. It blows my mind that I used to run in my actual tennis shoes, which are like bricks: they’re sturdy and have no flexibility or cushion whatsoever. Great for stabilization on the court, for explosive moment and cutting type maneuvers…but for running, not so much.

As I increased my mileage in college during my junior and senior years, I knew I wanted, needed, a true running shoe. I had zero knowledge about actual running shoes, but I knew I needed something much lighter and flexible. As my senior year approached, my answer for running shoes was solved…via my grandma! I was visiting my grandparents for a few days in August 2013, two weeks before classes started. On the second to last day, my awesoma Grama Brenda came into my room holding a shoe box.

“Leah, darling,” she said with her beautiful English accent, “your Grandfather gave these to me for my birthday, but they don’t fit me. Would like to have these if they fit you?” Whereupon she proffered me the box.

Inside was a pair New Balance shoes, of a medium gray color with blue laces and trim. I’d never worn New Balance shoes before, but recognized the brand’s distinct “N” emblazoned on the sides. I quickly laced them on.

Right away I felt the difference: these shoes were flexible, comfy, and best of all, light weight. I knew I’d found an actual shoe for running.

“They’re a perfect fit! Thank you, Grandma,” I exclaimed with a hug. She stepped back and took in the sight of my new shoes. “They look wonderful on you, my dear. Glad to know they’ll be put to use!”

****

And were they ever. With my 2014 resolution to just, well, run more, I wore my New Balance 401s EVERY SINGLE DAY. With them, I practically flew. The difference between them and my tennis shoes was night and day; no longer was I clomping by. As I exponentially increased my mileage and frequency that year (I ran 6-7 days a week, 7-8 miles per run on average), those shoes practically became attached to me. In addition to running, they served as my gym/ strength conditioning shoes. I wore them to class and for walking. Unless I was dressed in my other outfit of t-shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots (Ariat or Justin), you were hard pressed to find me wearing other shoes.

In May 2014, I went to study abroad for a month in Spain, and you guessed it, those shoes came with me. Running along the streets of Barcelona, these shoes provided comfort on the often cobbled pathways and roads. Once back home for the summer, those NB traversed plenty of local trails, as well.

There’s no doubt I wore those shoes waaay past their lifetime. One day in late 2014, they just felt…flat. My feet felt like they were slapping the pavement. The cushion was long gone. I stopped, looked at the underside of one shoe. The tread under the ball of the foot and toes was worn smooth. Setting my foot back on the cement, I noted how my toes, particularly the right foot, had poked holes in the upper mesh of either shoe. They were so bad you could tell what color my socks were. I sighed. “Time for new shoes, I guess,” I muttered, before resuming the rest of my run, my feet noticeably whining, as I brainstormed the where and what for a new shoe…

~LMC

Visiting the Past: Central City Cemeteries, Nevadaville, and Lookout Mountain

I love ghost towns. Old graveyards. Old buildings. Just old, yester-century things.

This love affair with history began from the start: my earliest memories are of my dad and I cruising up into the Rockies to explore old, abandoned mining towns. Bobbing in my car seat as we drove rocky, 4-wheel drive roads, these “ghost towning” adventures gave me the history bug. As my dad propped me in front of an old storefront for pictures, I wondered:  Who had lived here? What did they do? Even at such a young age, I found myself genuinely curious about the history and people of the places we visited: Central City, Tin Cup, Buckskin Joe, Wild Irishman, etc., are just a few examples.

Call me strange, but I especially liked, and still love, visiting old, often abandoned cemeteries. Graveyards never frightened me, even as a toddler. My dad instilled in me that cemeteries were not scary, bad places as other kids my age perceived them. Instead, he emphasized that the individuals resting there had been people just like us, who had lived their lives, and had known triumph and tragedy: in other words, cemeteries were and are to be treated with utter respect. His words are essentially about reflection, as one cannot help but question, when reading headstone inscriptions: Who was this individual? What was their life like? And so often a constant question when visiting older cemeteries: Why and how did they die so young?

I realized it had been quite a while since I’d visited any ghost towns, so up I-70 I went and soon found myself wandering the several cemeteries of Central City. And yes, true “ghost towners” will critique me here in that this town is not a ghost, far from it. Since casinos and gambling took root here in 1991, the area is thriving, albeit in a different manner. As Philip Varney describes in his book Ghost Towns of Colorado, “A ghost town has two characteristics: the population has decreased markedly, and the initial reason for its settlement (such as a mine or a railroad) no longer keeps people there.” Popular though the town may be with tourists and gamblers, it is no longer mining that attracts people to the area. In fact, prior to 1991, Central City and environs was closer to a true “ghost.”

Driving through town, many impressive stone and brick buildings still line the streets, as do restored Victorian “doll house” residences. But seeking the solitude and somber aura of the cemeteries, I drove up the dirt road to where the graveyards lie west of town. Divided into several separate cemeteries, I visited the Catholic, I.O.O.F. Knights of Pythias, and Red Man Lodge plots. Not surprisingly, in the Catholic plot are those of Italian and Irish descent. As with the I.O.O.F and Red Man Lodge plots, these graveyards are the most open with their meadow location. Knights of Pythias, however, is the most eerie, nearly hidden amongst aspens. Visiting in the summer, this plot is stunningly beautiful. But with the trees leafless today, this area had an intense feeling of nostalgia and melancholy.

Catholic Cemetery, Central City

As with all older graveyards, there are so many children’s and infants graves. In the Catholic plot was a single headstone for three children, siblings aged six years and younger. They all perished 1918; I speculate from the great influenza pandemic, but who knows? Families often had not one, but multiple child deaths. And sometimes accompanying these tiny graves, were the graves of the mothers who died in childbirth.

These cemeteries are still in use today. Newer gravestones are present and are often adorned with flowers and mementoes. But it touched my soul to observe several child and adolescent graves decorated with flowers and stuffed animals. These individuals, who died well over a hundred years ago, are still remembered.

Observing the faint inscriptions and designs on these Victoria era headstones, my favorite aspect I saw was a small hand pointing upward to heaven. I understood the significance: focus not below where the body lies but look up to where to the soul resides.

*****

1879 Masonic Lodge, Nevadaville
1879 Masonic Lodge behind me

After my solemn sojourn, I drove southward to Nevadaville. A true ghost town, Nevadaville is a far cry from the bustling place it once was. For a short period in the mid-1800s, the town’s population was bigger than Denver at the time! But eventually the mines closed, residents left, and buildings fell into ruin. On Nevadaville’s Main Street stand several impressive brick buildings, such as the Bald Mountain Trading Post and 1879 Masonic Lodge, both of which are still in use today. For a few minutes I wandered along the street, peering through the windows as all the buildings were closed for the day. Though a few people live in the area, I did not see a single soul: Nevadaville confirms its status as a true “ghost.”

Main Street, Nevadaville

*****

Buffalo Bill’s grave

My final stop was Lookout Mountain, to visit Buffalo Bill’s gravesite. The last time I visited was 2004, so this time I was able to drive there myself. I drove down I-70 and took an exit near the Mother Cabrini Shrine. Winding my way up, I reached the top and first took in the dramatic views from the parking lot: Denver and it’s urban sprawl, and to the north, the Flat Irons. To the west, the Continental Divide beckoned, the snow coloring the peaks with an almost surreal glow. I then walked the short, paved path to the final resting place of William F. Cody, better known as Buffalo Bill. The centennial anniversary of his death was January 2017, and I mused how that is not all that long ago.

One of my favorite idols growing up was Annie Oakley, the female sharpshooter who toured with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. Impressed with her sheer talent, Cody hired her and the two remained friends until his death. Recently I re-read Oakley’s tribute to Buffalo Bill written upon his passing and was quite touched by the amount of respect she held for him. Both these individuals were celebrities in their time, and I couldn’t help but think (rather bemusedly) from a millennial viewpoint, that they would’ve had quite the social media following had such media platforms existed then.

Continental Divide, as viewed from Lookout Mt.

*****

My step into the past was brief, but enjoyable. Exploring historic places is one of my all-time favorite things to do. The worries of today fall away as you realize just how rough living conditions were, even one hundred years ago. Yet you gain a sense of appreciation and respect for those who lived long ago, for their tenacity and dedication. If I could time travel, I would. And yet I wonder…if someone from the past visited our time period, what would they think? Ah, the ruminations of a history freak are endless…

Until my next historical adventure,

~LMC

EQUINOXIN’

Happy Day of Equal Light and Dark, or…HAPPY SPRING! Whoot whoot!

Anyways, I confess that I have spring fever: restless and wanting warmer weather (i.e., I WANT SUMMER NOW)! Even Boots the Cat seems to be antsy, too. And yes, she DID attempt to distract me while I was setting up my computer to write, surprise surprise. In fact, I just realized I have CAT HAIR on the key pad, whelp.

~LMC