What Takes You Home? by Betsy Ashton

Home. We define it in so many different ways. The place we grew up. The place we live now. An imaginary locale we wished we inhabited. It doesn't matter what you call home. It matters that you have one.

And, now that you have admitted you have a home, what calls you to it? Is it the memory of an event that makes you smile? Like that Christmas your Uncle Greg told stories of his days hitchhiking across the United States in search of himself? You roared until your sides ached. Of course, that was the same Christmas when his daughter Cheryl ate all the butter cookies and threw up on a pile of unopened (and never opened) presents. I'm not sure Uncle Greg found himself, but he was a wicked story teller.

Is it a smell? Marcel Proust's memory of a cookie is world famous. Does the memory of a smell draw you home? Your mother's cooking, burnt chicken on the grill, your grandmother's talcum powder, your father's pipe tobacco?

Or, like me, is the home you return to in your memories a place, not a house, but a place. For me, it's a place we called the compound, three trailers with a connecting platform, where my cousin Jerry and I wiled away the hours in our preteen years, vast, open spaces outside the chain-link fence that surrounded that compound. Hundreds of square miles of sage brush, cactus, jack rabbits, chipmunks, a dog named Duke, and two burros, Shorty and Fatso. Today, we'd never name a burro Fatso, because it's politically incorrect, but she was round. We didn't know any better.

The place that draws me back, the memories that are as alive today as they were over fifty years ago, center around those trailers, animals, and my aunt, uncle, and cousin with whom I lived every summer. The only child of a single, working mother, I was grateful for three months of absolute freedom to roam. And roam we did. We walked all over the high desert of Southern California. We lay on our backs in the sand and watch Air Force jets maneuver and leave contrails, those magical pathways that took our imaginations to the stars and back. We rode the burros when we got tired.

My cousin and I read voraciously. My aunt and uncle only had a small television set, three channels, all black-and-white. Not much choice if you didn't like game and variety shows, boxing on Friday night, or wrestling on Saturday. We didn't care. We read the library empty of books, many way over our school grade. We grew strong and sturdy, tan with blond streaks in our hair. We were free-range kids before any such term needed to be applied. We just were.

Because those days keep beckoning me, even though my cousin, aunt, and uncle have all passed, I feel compelled to return, perhaps because I'm the last one who remembers. NaNoWriMo is almost on us. I think I'll make this out-of-the-desert story my project.

What draws you home? And are you doing NaNoWriMo with me?

Archaeology by Betsy Ashton

Normally, when I think about archaeology, it's in conjunction with digging through the detritus that is my desk. My husband has been known to refer to cleaning my desk as "dumpster diving." It's not THAT bad, but it can get messy with too many papers and Post-IT notes. Try as I do, I haven't made the switch to all electronic yet. Come to think about it, if I were all electronic, my laptop would be another place for cyber-debris.

This post is about something totally different. It's about "grandparent archaeology." As we grow older, so do our parents and grandparents. We can't stop it from happening. And when they pass on, or, worse, no longer remember, we realize what we lost. I'm advocating becoming a grandparent archaeologist.

Think about all the things an 80-year-old has seen in her lifetime. A world war. A police action in Korea. A war in Vietnam. Men coming home broken or not coming home at all. Flight, where getting on an airplane is as natural as getting into your car. Space shots, moon walks and living in space for an entire year. Women, blacks, LGBT and others marching for equality. Some achieving small steps forward, others still waiting for that promise of equality to become reality.

If your parents and grandparents are still living, they are repositories of history, theirs, the family's and the world's. We have the benefit of having world events archived for us online, in libraries, on social media. We don't lack for resources. Just turn to Google and ask a question. 

My grandparents and parents are all long dead. I wasn't able to "google" their memories to build my own library. I have found documents and photos my mother and mother-in-law saved. They help me shape part of the narrative of what made my husband and me who we are. We have tangible objects--dishware, hand-crocheted linens, silver--but no record of who bought these treasured objects or why. Why did my grandmother buy a heavy etched glass pitcher for iced tea? Did someone give it to her? All I know is it once belonged to my grandmother. 

We have a few toys from our childhoods. My husband's and my teddy bears, a small stuffed black dog named Inky (mine), a leather horse (mine). We have jewelry, of course, Most of it will be given to our children by and by. 

I don't have their voices. No one thought to record memories. No one wrote anything down. Now, so many people want to capture these memories for grands and great-grands. What a wonderful gift. See if you can help a parent write stories down. These don't have to be the grand sweep of a life, but the silly stories people tell around the dinner table. "Do you remember when so-and-so ate all the Christmas cookies and barfed on the tree?"

If they don't want or can't write down anything, small digital recorders are very inexpensive. If you can get someone talking, record the stories in her own voice. Think oral history or a personal story repository. You'll remember what that parent or grandparent smelled like the minute you turn on the recorder or pick up a journal. My husband and I have a few recipes out mothers loved. We use their handwritten cards when we cook these special dishes. We feel as if we could reach out and touch the missing loved one.

If you can, don't miss out on this incredible repository of family lore. I wish I could hear my mother's or grandmother's voice again. I do in my mind. And sometimes a lesson or phrase floats up from all the stuff crammed into my head and finds its way into a story. With that, I keep the person alive, even if no one but me knows where the phrase originated. It doesn't matter. I do.

What about you? Have you ever done any "grandparent archaeology"?

###

Betsy Ashton is the author of Mad Max, Unintended Consequences, and Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, now available at Amazon and Barnes and Noble. I'm really excited that the trade paper edition of Uncharted Territory was released this week. Please follow me on my website, on Twitter, Facebook and Goodreads.

The Nations In Me

by Jena Galifany

At this stage of the generations of my family, I am quite a mixture of nationalities. The list goes something like this: German, Irish, Dutch, English, Souix, and two other tribes of Native American. I'm not sure what those other two tribes are but would like to find out someday. I'm sure that the intermingling of the Euroamerican with the Native American was frowned upon.

The next generation, my son, Nick and my daughter Amanda, have all of the above plus their father was 100% Italian, so that is added to their line. My younger daughter, Jen, is Scandinavian and English from her father. At least now, there is not much said against the mixing of nationalities.

The real mix is my granddaughter, Halle, Amanda's daughter. She is as follows: German, Irish, Dutch, English, Souix plus two other tribes of Native American, Italian, with Japanese, Chinese, and Filipino from her father. It's hard to believe there can be so many nationalities in one young girl. We joke that she can have World War 3 all by herself. If she should marry a man of Russian decent, I think her children will have the world pretty much covered.

How mixed up is your family heritage?
 ______________________________

The Native American was treated poorly by settlers and the government. In the late 1800s, it was becoming more and more difficult for the tribes to remain on their own land. In the west, the Paiute tribes in Oregon were struggling against the white man as well as each other. It was a difficult time for them. For a greater understanding of the situation, read more about the Bannon - Paiute War HERE.

It was during this time in history that my novel "Shyanne's Secret" takes place. Here is a taste of the story.

Excerpt:


     Cole wasn't ready to face Rita after the morning he'd had.  He'd spent several minutes at a creek washing the mud out of his hair and off his face, clothes and the horse before he continued home.  None of them had scored a direct hit but had only splattered him.  He made his way toward home, not in the mood for a rematch with Dex.  After he dropped off the kitchen supplies on the porch, he continued into the barn to unload the bags of oats and other working items. Just because his Pa was gone didn't mean he'd let the farm fall to ruin or the animals starve. He moved past the variety of trees around the perimeter of the property and through the barn. He unhitched the gray, led him to his stall and brushed him down. He wanted to be alone, sort out his thoughts while he cleaned stalls.

    By afternoon, as he walked through the cool of the barn, he inventoried the unfinished work that awaited him.  He was hot, tired and frustrated about what he should do with his life.  Should he be the one to leave, or should Rita go back to A.J.? After all, it was his father's property and didn't that make it his now that Pa was dead? If only the grant office would make up its mind. His half-blood status was being weighed over his right to inherit from his white father. Cole hated the idea that he might need Rita to claim the land so he wouldn't lose it. She could sign it over to him, then be on her way elsewhere, if it came down to that.

    He wiped his brow on his shoulder and climbed the ladder to the loft.  He tossed his jacket into a corner that was piled with loose hay. He rolled up his sleeves, and sat on the pallet situated along the wall.  He closed his eyes, and recalled the hot summer days that he'd spent up here, listening to his Pa talk about how he and his friend, Martin Marshall had traveled out to Oregon for the free land the government was giving away.  The two friends had become brothers-in law when they'd married sisters; pretty squaws from a local tribe of Paiutes, when they found out they could get six hundred forty acres, a double portion of land if they had wives.

    Pa told him how he'd come to love that pretty little Indian lady after he convinced her that he'd never sell her. She was terrified the day her daddy sold her to Seth and her sister to Uncle Martin. She thought he'd bought her for a slave.  Seth had trouble convincing her that he'd made her his wife. Seth and Martin both had trouble convincing the community to accept their wives, and more problems when they'd had to convince the town council to allow their sons born a few months apart to be taught in the school with the white children. That only lasted until Cole and Will were twelve. So much for an education, but they got the basics and learned to work the farms instead.

    When Cole's parents were threatened, Uncle Martin got nervous and sent his wife and Will to stay with the tribe for safety. Cole missed his cousin but Seth couldn't do without his help. Cole felt he'd lost half of his spirit. The cousins were close and looked like twins, except that Will, the bolder of the two, was a bit taller and Cole's hair was a shade or two darker. They looked so much alike they delighted in causing minor trouble that the other would be blamed for. Four months after the Jackson murders, Uncle Martin brought his wife home but Will chose to stay on to learn more about his mother's people.

    The gray plow horse in the stall below nickered, reminding Cole where he was. He missed sitting up here listening to his daddy talk. Opening the buttons on his shirt, he pulled out the turquoise stone that hung on a thin leather thong around his neck, a talisman his mother had gifted him with years ago. He held it in his hand when he missed her, and wished he could bring her back.

    He collapsed on his back, one arm across his forehead as he contemplated the picture he'd drawn on the barn wall with a piece of charcoal when he was eight. Pa thought it was so grand he'd burned it into the wood so it would never fade. Cole once more envied the freedom that the wild mustang enjoyed.  In the midst of his thoughts, he remembered a certain smile and the kind blue eyes of Shyanne Bennett.

    He wanted to talk to her, say the things he had never said to any girl before.  He wanted to tell her how beautiful her blue eyes are; how much he'd like to touch her golden hair, how much he wanted to be loved by someone – anyone.  If that someone could be Shyanne Bennett, nothing else would matter.  He closed his eyes, and savored his memories.

_____________________________

BACK COVER BLURB:
    Cole Jackson promised to take care of Shyanne Bennett, to keep her secret. It was a promise he intended to keep—and then her father lynched him. It might take time, but he'll find a way.

      Shyanne Bennett loved Cole Jackson, that sassy half-blood. She lost her mind when he died to keep her secret. Cole promised to take care of her but how can he once Harvey Bennett hung him? Maybe her heart will find solace in becoming the wife of his look-alike cousin, Will Marshall. And then again, maybe the heartache will only begin again.

_____________________________

From my family to yours, I pray you have a safe and special Thanksgiving.

For more about "Shyanne's Secret" click HERE.

Cheers!

Who's Face Was That?

by Jena Galifany

I love to spend time trying to back track my family history. We do have the occasional highlights in the family tree. On my mother's side, she is third cousin to Winston Churchill, a fact that shows up with a look at my brother.


The thing that amazes me the most is how the faces keep being handed down. They may skip a generation or two, but there are several repeat performances.


One such repeat had my father baffled at how my younger sister could be in a picture with our mother when Mom was only fifteen. It turned out that the one who Sherri shares a face with was my dad's sister, Julia. Daddy didn't figure it out until my uncle told him he should recognize his own baby sister.



Then there is my niece, Talena and my father's Aunt Cornie. The hair styles were definitely different, but the face is the same.

I have been privileged to share a face with my Grandmother Margie Pearl, my dad's mother. The older I get, the more I look like her.





The most fun I've had matching the faces in my family photo collection is this set. It shows me in the first photo. The second photo is me again, the baby sitting on my Grandmother's lap. The third photo is my son, Nick.

 It amazes me how the genetics work to pass a face down through the years. Last but not least, my mother has the Churchill look down pat. Don't you think? After all, they are third cousins.

I hope I've not bored you too much with my comparisons of the family faces that have been handed down over the years. There are others but I didn't want to be known as the blogger with the "old home movies".

I do want to point out that it is important to record all that you can about your family history. My mother is the last survivor of her family. She is the youngest of fifteen children. She never thought it was important to listen to the old stories Now she wishes she had because there is no one left to ask. We have a large collection of photographs from years gone by but there is no one to ask who the people are in the photos.

If you have elderly in your family and you have photos, have a reunion and spent time writing down who is who as well as anything else you can find out about your heritage. It will mean a lot to the generations that come after you. Especially if they happen to see their own face in one of those old photos.
 ________________


Cheers!

Please check out The ShadowsForge Series and Shyanne's Secret, available from Whiskey Creek Press
Available from Red Rose Publishing are Her Perfect Man and Love Lifted Me. Coming Soon from Red Rose Publishing: Day Labor.

Did You Say Family History? We Have Some Of That

By Margo Hoornstra

My oldest grandson is amazing. My oldest son, his uncle, is pretty amazing too. You might ask why I would say that. Because it's true.

Though they are taking different paths, their journeys are much the same. They are each learning about and preserving their heritage. Some times they even cooperate in this 'joint venture'.

My grandson, a whiz on the internet as most thirteen year olds are these days, is using that means to research where he came from. (All without paying one single dime, I might add. I did say he was amazing.) He'll call me on the phone with some URL he wants me to go to. Clicking into the virtual world, up pops a picture of my father and the Air Force Squadron he served with in World War II. Or a picture of my great grand father. He's accumulated so many unknown facts and information about the lives of family members he never knew. My mother's father was the youngest of ten children. My grandmother had a younger sister who lived with them right after my grandparents married.

My son is now doing much the same thing without so much technology. His father's side of the family is more advanced when it comes to this heritage thing. Several years ago, a distant cousin began to seek out and accumulate family facts. He even put together and published a book of family lineage beginning with four brothers who traveled to America from Friesland a few hundred years ago. When volunteers to carry on this formalized tradition grew sparse, my son stepped up. Elected President of the Hoornstra Dutch Heritage Society this year, he's working on plans for a week end long reunion so distant relatives can become close friends.

My most recent release Night Stars and Mourning Doves (how's that for a smooth segue?) has to do with family. Family lost and family restored. It begins like this:

“Daddy. Where do stars live in the daytime?”

Eric Matthews glanced down at the small head nestled against his chest and swallowed. At four, his son’s questions about the world were endless. Not to mention at times a challenge to answer.

“Stars live in the sky all the time,” he began softly as the fan in his parents’ living room whirred against the early morning heat of summer. “It’s only after the sun goes down and the sky gets dark that we can see them.”

“Does Mommy live with the stars?”

Pulling the warmth of his son nearer, he shut his eyes. It had been a year since Jan died—along with their little girl—from complications after a miscarriage when she was six months along.

“She does now.” He pushed the words around the familiar ache that had become a permanent fixture by his heart. With his son tucked close, he shuddered at the cruel reality of his loss. Jan was considered an older mother when she carried and delivered Jay as it was. They were advised about the risks of trying for another child, but his wife insisted and he relented. Something he never should have done.

“Can we go outside tonight and see her?”

Eric opened his mouth to reply but could only haul in a gasp of frustration. His heart squeezed. “Mommy doesn’t live at a place where you can see her exactly.”

Two pasts riddled with grief, will they recognize love when it finds them?

Speaking of families, please remember our wounded warriors, today and every day. They gave their all, they deserve our best.

My days to blog here are the 11th and 23rd.

To learn more about me and my books, please visit me at:

My website: www.margohoornstra.com

My blog: www.margohoornstra.blogspot.com

FaceBook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Margo-Hoornstra-Author/251502834867396

Twitter: https://twitter.com/#!/MargoHoornstra

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3222492.Margo_Hoornstra

Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/Margo-Hoornstra/e/B00504OMPA/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1368732646&sr=1-2-ent