Orphan Train Rider

 

I'm reading two books right now, both of which feature the idea of the orphan train so I thought I'd share with you the forward to Once Jilted.

"In 1883, Emma Lazarus wrote a sonnet entitled “The New Colossus.” Her words expressed the invitation sent from America to foreign lands describing the newly formed country as the land of milk and honey. Engraved on a bronze plaque that stands beside the Statute of Liberty, her words were:

 

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles.  From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips.  “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

 

From 1841 to 1860, the number of immigrants arriving on American soil was staggering. A report issued by The Immigration and Nationality Act, House Judiciary Committee, in 1995 entitled A History of U.S. Immigration Policy claims 4,311,465 newcomers settled in America. For many the hardships proved just has difficult as the situations they left at home. Poverty, starvation, and death left many children homeless.

In 1853, to combat the growing problem of orphaned children, Charles Lorring Brace along with a group of associates formed the Children’s Aid Society of New York City. He concluded that pioneer families located in central and western states with few family members to help with the heavy workload could benefit from housing these homeless waifs. In turn, orphans would be given a home. Thus began the orphan train movement that would last until 1929.

Some orphans found loving homes and were adopted, but just as many were treated as little more than indentured servants and suffered both emotionally and physically from the experience. Agnes Stanley Schenk David was one of these unfortunate orphans. While her adventures as an orphan train rider began in 1906, the heroine in Once Jilted was loosely fashioned from Agnes’s story.

With permission from W. Joseph Stell, who organized a series of interviews recorded by Elizabeth Herzig, a neighbor of Agnes in Schulenburg, Texas, I would like to summarize some of Agnes’s tale.

Born in 1901, Agnes was the offspring of an unwed mother and immediately after her birth in the Saint Ann’s Foundling Hospital was given into the care of that same hospital. Though early memories had faded, Agnes recalled her home as being “one cot among many standing at attention along the bare plaster walls (except for the occasional crucifix or painting of Mary) of the girl’s ward; her few possessions kept in a wooden trunk beside her bed. Days began early and ended early: meals in large communal halls, daily chores and, for those who were old enough, lessons.”

In 1906, a family from Texas filled out an application to adopt a child, and Agnes found herself on a ship bound for Galveston. “I remember being in a new place watching nuns cover windows so we couldn’t see outside. We stayed in that room and were kept busy for what seemed to be several weeks.” From Galveston, they boarded a train for Houston. Afterwards, the group of orphans was split into two, with Agnes’s group put on a train that would take them farther west.

Along the way, the train made stops, and the children were “paraded, inspected, marched, and, hopefully accepted by the families previously approved by the Foundling Hospital.” Those that weren’t accepted found themselves back on the train. Finally, it came time for Agnes to meet her new family. She remembered stepping off the metal steps to the dirt of the station landing. Strangers surrounded her, and excitement filled the air. A snack of jelly bread was passed out, but in the confusion, Agnes was missed. “No one cared if we ate or not.”

The family slated to receive Agnes decided after a few hours in her company they no longer wanted her. They spoke only German, and Agnes could not understand their words. They returned her to Father Szymanski at the rectory of St. Michael’s Church in Weimar. “Humiliated without knowing why, she crawled into a lonely bed to sleep. Now there were no whispers, no giggles, no teasing, no fussing, no crying, no one else tossing and turning in the moonlight. For the first time in her short life she slept by herself.” The five-year-old had been abandoned to an unknown fate.

Agnes remained at the rectory for an undetermined amount of time where she entertained herself by playing the piano. One of the church visitors, Mrs. Schromanek, became enamored of Agnes and wanted to adopt her, but Father Szymanski claimed she was too old to take on the care of an active child. Later, Josephine and Frank Schenk wanted to adopt her, but again, Father Szymanzki refused, saying the Schenks already had two adopted children. However, taken by Agnes, Josephine came up with another solution. Her son Franz and his new bride were childless, so she suggested they take Agnes, and the priest agreed.

“Agnes’s arrival was so unexpected that Franz and Annie had not had time to prepare a bed for her. Agnes watched Annie make a mattress by stuffing a sack with corn shucks, while Franz quickly constructed a bed by stretching chicken wire over a frame of 2 x 4’s. Crude though it was, this bed would be hers for most of the years of her childhood, and the former storage area would be her sanctuary and refuge.” Agnes would suffer many hardships and abuse while in Annie’s care for Annie considered her an indentured servant.

“This was a new life, indeed. But it was very far from the fairyland of her dreams. At times, this new life would seem more of a nightmare than a dream come true. No matter how hard she tried to please her new ‘family,’ it seemed to Agnes that she was always being scolded, spanked, or otherwise punished. She never heard an endearing word or a word of encouragement. She was never hugged. At least the Sisters had an occasional kind word or brief hug--something to allay the hunger of a small child for affection. Now there was nothing, and the need grew. Here in the midst of her new ‘family,’ Agnes felt more alone than ever and, more than ever, had to rely on her own resources.”

In fact, Agnes’ home life proved so miserable that she ran away as a teenager and made a life for herself with the help of neighbors and nurses at a hospital in a nearby town.

Agnes was but one of many such orphan train riders to suffer unspeakable hardships as America sought to alleviate the growing population of homeless children in New York. With an unbreakable spirit, she survived to later wed and have children of her own. It’s this very fighting spirit that shaped America and helped other orphans find their way."

I first heard of Agnes' tale from my mother who was best friends with Agnes' daughter. After hearing the story, I knew I had the background story for my own heroine, Shauna Joyce. Like Agnes, Shauna was resilient and managed to carve a place in the hero's heart.

Enjoy another excerpt from Once Jilted:

"You can’t stop the Clevingers from taking what they want, Shauna. People like that don’t care who they hurt along the way."

"Perhaps. But I can sure slow them down."
"Shauna. You have that look in your eye."
 
Shauna smiled and clutched Lora Lee’s shoulders. "I can’t stop them from knowing about the orphans, but I can stop them from going to the auction. You’ll see. I’ll figure out a way to prevent their attendance when the children are put on display. The Clevingers will not get another child to abuse."

The jingle of the bell and the entrance of five laughing men put a halt to Shauna’s tirade. She glanced at the boisterous bunch with a curious eye. Nyesville didn’t get many strangers. They sobered once they were inside the small store. A square brick of a man separated from the others and tipped his head. "Morning, lassies."

"Morning to you," Lora Lee answered, and he turned magnetic green eyes her way.
Shauna just stared. His thick Irish accent tickled her memory. Lora Lee shoved an elbow into her side. Surprised, Shauna whirled toward her friend, catching her funny bone on the corner of the pickle display.

Everything happened at once. Lora Lee’s eyes widened. She reached around Shauna to steady the jars. Shauna, not sure what Lora Lee was doing, leaned back. The pickle display toppled to the ground.

"Shauna Joyce!" Kupert’s surprised cry filled the store.

Horrified, Shauna’s hand flew to her mouth. Ten jars rolled around beneath their feet. Thankfully, only one had broken. Pickles littered the floor, and pickle juice saturated the hem of her dress.

"Oh my." Lora Lee giggled, clamping a hand to her mouth.

Shauna let her gaze follow the trail of liquid. Two large boots stood in the middle of the mess. Her eyes darted upward and met the amused gaze of the Irishman.

"Oh. I’m so sorry." The vinegar-dill liquid had splattered on his pants and coated the tips of his boots. She should offer to wash them, but the idea of touching a strange man’s britches seemed too intimate to suggest. Besides, he looked as if he’d just come from a bout of hard work. A little pickle juice couldn’t do too much harm to his mud-spattered pants. Could it?

"Nay trouble. I was growing a wee bit tired of the scent of bay rum anyway."  

Is it Butter?

 

This photo is of a butter churn
that has been passed down
from my great grandmother.
We are guessing vintage 1880 or 1890.

With the holiday season upon us, I thought I'd share a Christmas memory. We held our annual Christmas Girl Scout meeting at our assistant leader's home because she had a winding staircase and the tallest Christmas tree. She was also an excellent cook. That year, I was about ten and we made butter by vigorously shaking a jar with heavy cream in it. We sat in a circle and passed the jar around so everyone got a turn. I don't remember much after that. I assume we separated the buttermilk from the butter somehow, but for the life of me, I don't recall how. I do remember spreading it over a cracker and thinking how good it tasted.

With that memory fresh in my mind, I thought to share a bit more about churning butter. Historians believe the use of butter dates as far back as 2000BC. Pioneers had butter churns for making the process easier. I have the one my great grandmother used when she made her home at Fort Martin Scott.

Those making the long trek across our nation on wagon trains would place the cream in a bucket and attach the bucket under the wagon. The motion created by the moving wagon would cause the cream to become butter by the time the settlers stopped for the night.

And what about margarine? I discovered a very interesting article on ancestry.com regarding the history of margarine. See why this man went to jail for selling butter.

Excerpt from Once Jilted:

She searched for dried grass and brittle twigs to use as tinder, all the while feeling very unqualified to do the work she’d promised. What would Kane think of her if he knew she couldn’t even start a simple campfire? She kicked at the dried ground. What did it matter what Kane thought? She had to quit thinking about that man and concentrate on finding a suitor who wasn’t so opposed to marriage.

Her chore was interrupted by the arrival of Tom. His wagon clattered toward them. Stopping, he jumped down and hefted a large tin container to the ground. Shauna smiled. "Milk?"

"Yup."

Lefty paid him then sent him on his way. "I usually keep it in the creek, but I reckon you’ll want it close by for breakfast. I can move it out of your way afterwards.

"Thanks." She started to pick up a stick, when a thought struck her. "Lefty, do you skim the cream and save it?"
 

He shook his head. "Ain’t no time for churning butter if that’s what you’re getting at."
 

She nodded. Well, she’d be here for a while, and it only took a week to collect enough cream for a crock of butter. If she started saving now, she could offer the men a real treat in five or six days.
 

After gathering the needed fuel, Lefty showed her how to light it using only one match. He gave her instructions on feeding the flames until she had hot coals to cook with. Armed with new knowledge, she tackled the job with pleasure. Lefty meandered back to his own tent, leaving her alone to finish the morning meal.

While she waited for the right amount of heat, she explored the insides of the covered wagon. Whoever cooked before had not been very organized. A sack of flour rested in the corner near a bin of potatoes. To the right, she found a tin of sugar, while a container of lard was buried behind the bag of cornmeal. Though it took a while to scrounge all the ingredients, she decided on flapjacks for the morning meal. Lefty had shown her a four-legged flat griddle that was large enough to cover the fire pit. She dragged and situated the large cast iron plate over the glowing coals, leveling it with a rock under one corner.

After putting on a pot of coffee, she made sure she had all the ingredients she needed then mixed a large bowl of batter. Testing the griddle, she pronounced it hot enough and poured several spoonfuls of batter onto the sizzling surface. Next to the frying cakes, the water in the coffee pot began to boil. She smiled, pleased with her efforts.

"Ach, woman. Have you noo sense?"

She dropped the spatula, fell back on her bottom, and met the angry glare of Kane. "I’m cooking. Isn’t that why I’m here?" She righted herself and picked up the spatula, dusting off the grains of dirt.

"Aye, I can see that you’re cooking." He squatted beside her and placed one knee on the ground. "Has noo one ever taught you how to cook over open flames afore?"

She shook her head.

"Ne’er bend over like you were doing, lass. You’ll end up with your skirts ablaze or your palms burned. You have noo balance perched as you were."

"I thought I was doing just fine."

"Stubborn bird. Always put one knee to the ground like so," he said, indicating his own position. "This will force your skirts oot of the way and give you the balance you need. Try it."

She did as requested and found he was right. She flipped a perfect flapjack onto a plate and forgetting her annoyance, beamed at him. "Want to be the first to sample my cakes?"
An odd expression stole over his features. He rose without comment and walked away. She stared, dumbfounded. What had she said?   

How 'bout a DOG for the holiday?

Happy Labor Day. With so many gathering to barbeque and enjoy the great outdoors on this fine Monday, I thought I’d talk about DOGs (and not the kind you pet or the hotdogs you eat.)

Several years ago, I attended a DOG, a Dutch oven gathering. At the time, I didn't even know they existed, but since I'm a girl scout from way back when, I thought it would be a great article for the magazine I edit for so I contacted the coordinator for the event and my husband and I drove to a small town about an hour from home. It was a blast.

We enjoyed some incredibly good food, all cooked on Dutch ovens. When we arrived, several were situated in the park with their set-ups. I thought it interesting that they stacked the Dutch ovens with coals in between and encircled the tower with a ring of aluminum to contain the heat.

I took my antique oven to share and en route, called my mother-in-law for more info. Turns out my husband's great grandfather was a chuck wagon cook for some of the outfits out of Fort Worth. The Dutch oven we have rode on the wagon train that took him and his family north to Oklahoma in 1905, but with him being a cook prior to this, we're guessing the oven to be something he used as early as 1890's.

The second picture shows the number, 12 in. Besides describing the diameter of the lid, the number also determines the number of coals used on top and underneath the oven. An outdoor cook knows the number on the lid indicates the number of coals to use. The cook places the number plus three coals on top of the lid and the number minus three underneath. This formula equates to about 350 degrees if you were to bake something in an oven. I've enjoyed many tasty biscuits done this way. I also love cornbread baked in a Dutch oven. Afterwards, settlers would scour the insides with dry sand then oil the insides with mineral oil.

Anyway, I thought I'd share since my heroine, Shauna in Once Jilted has to cook with one. Please enjoy an excerpt:


              He peered at the item that looked suspiciously like a pair of gray long johns he owned. His brow furrowed. “Whose intimates be you scrubbing on?”

She rolled her lips between her teeth and tucked her chin. After a brief pause, her nose scrunched. “Yours.”

He stared at the pile of wrung clothes stacked on a mat then shifted his gaze to the few items remaining in the rinse water. Beside the fire, steam rose from a cooling, large black cauldron of soapy water. He grimaced at the strong smell of lye. Her initiative felt like an invasion of privacy, an intimate act shared between husband and wife. Why he should feel this way, he had no clue. Possibly because her quest for a husband remained foremost in his mind. The laundress in Nyesville usually washed his clothes for a small fee. He couldn’t recall feeling this way with someone else scrubbing his dirties.

“You’re not upset with me, are you?” She lifted another item from the water and slipped it between the two rollers. Twisting the crank, she wrung out a shirt and piled it with the others. “I only meant to repay you for your generosity.”

“Mad?” He fumbled for a word that would do his emotions justice and failed. He wasn’t really angry, just... “I don’t know how I feel.”

“You are upset. I’m sorry. It’s just that I had nothing to occupy my free hours this morning, and I saw the pile next to my—your bed, and I thought I’d help you by washing and then...”

He held up a hand. “You’re rambling. It’s fine. Really. Just noot what I expected.”

She released a pent up breath and smiled. “I’ll just finish wringing these few. It won’t take me but a moment to hang them, then I can set out food for the men.”

He considered offering his assistance, but thought better of it and jammed his hands in his pockets. The thought of helping her hang his unmentionables alongside his shirts and pants was just too personal. The moment became awkward as he searched for something more to say.

“My usual day to handle this chore is Friday.” She cranked another article through. “Wednesdays I bake bread.”

His mouth watered at the mention of fresh baked bread. “Do you think you could bake bread here?”

Her gaze shifted to the supply wagon as she rolled the last piece of wet clothing through the wringer. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I can do it in the Dutch oven.” Her lips curved into an engaging grin. “Tomorrow, I’ll give it my best try. Lefty’s been giving me pointers on cooking outside, so I’m sure between the two of us, we can figure it out.”

He nodded and turned to leave.

“Kane? I know you let me sleep in your tent last night, but with all your things still there, it makes more sense to put me somewhere else.”

Somewhere else? Did she think to ingratiate herself with another man by sharing his space? “And where might that be?”

She blinked and cleared her throat. “I’m not sure. I thought maybe there might be an extra tent.”

“Well, you thought wrong.” He knew he was being obstinate. The idea of this cantankerous woman anywhere but in his own tent where he could keep a closer eye on her left him cold inside. Perhaps it was the vulnerability she hid so well behind stubborn pride that made him feel protective. Aye, that had to be it. While he trusted all of the men under his direction with bridge construction, some of them were a mite shady when it came to the treatment of women.

 

 

 

Ciara Gold Heats things up - for cooking

Yesterday morning around 6:30 AM, I woke to discover my block surrounded by fire engines, police and ambulances. Our good friends lost their home in a blaze that rose at least eight feet above the roof. So yesterday, when I’d planned to craft a really neat blog post, I was down the street with my other neighbors trying to figure out how we were going to support our friends in their time of need. Thankfully, they were on vacation so no one was hurt. But the house is a total loss. The fire fighters were incredible, however.

Anyway, my first thought was to write on the history of fire fighting and how it evolved from neighbors passing buckets of water to organized teams paid by the city, but it required more research than my tired brain could handle after the day I'd encountered, so that may be a post idea for later. In the meantime, I’d written an article several years back on how to start a fire out in the open (for cooking purposes, of course) and thought I’d rework it for this post.

In 1800s, they didn't have the convenience of stovetop cooking or a microwave and while most kitchens boasted a wood-burning stove, cooking outdoors for a crew of hungry cowboys would look a lot different than what it might today.  
 
For the few scenes I’ve written involving cooking outdoors, I drew on my own experiences camping as a girl scout. We always had what was called a fire circle, a cleared place encircled with rocks. To begin, we dug a pit and fashioned what is called a key hole, a large groove that angled from the ground surface to the pit and provided air to the fire. My favorite style of fire was the A frame where we'd fashion an A with three smaller logs, then set the tinder and kindling against the horizontal crossbar of the A.

I remember one particular fire that I was trying to build. It was dusk and difficult to see, but we wanted roasted marshmallows. I fanned it until I was blue, determined to light it with only one match. The wood was damp and not cooperating, but I could see the glow of one spark and just kept fanning. Finally, we determined that the glow was a piece of orange yarn. Too funny.

After the fire is lit and coals begin to form, a grate is placed over the hole. Coals provide the most heat for cooking. We have in our possession a very large, flat griddle that is about twenty inches by twenty. My husband’s uncle made the griddle in the early to mid 1900s. I can just imagine the many meals cooked on it. We cooked a variety of foods from chicken and rice to chili to flapjacks to cake on the open flames. It was a fond time and one I hold dear.

For the cowboy with minimal supplies, he’d have to resort to using flint. Dried grass and leaves would allow for good starter material. The modern cowboy would probably have dryer lint with him as this is very flammable and an excellent starter. Starters are slow to medium burning items that will smolder until the wood catches.

If no cook wagon was around to carry Dutch ovens or grates, a spit could be fashioned from green wood. Yaupon is a native tree of Texas and grows in the Southeastern states. Green branches from this tree make excellent skewers for roasting meats. When wood was scarce for those crossing the plains, pioneers resorted to burning buffalo chips. It always amazes me the resourcefulness of our forefathers.

In my story, Once Jilted, Shauna takes the job of crew cook and has to learn to cook on an open fire. I used a lot of my own experiences as resource for this scene:

Though it took a while to scrounge all the ingredients, she decided on flapjacks for the morning meal. Lefty had shown her a four-legged flat griddle that was large enough to cover the fire pit. She dragged and situated the large cast iron plate over the glowing coals, leveling it with a rock under one corner.

After putting on a pot of coffee, she made sure she had all the ingredients she needed then mixed a large bowl of batter. Testing the griddle, she pronounced it hot enough and poured several spoonfuls of batter onto the sizzling surface. Next to the frying cakes, the water in the coffee pot began to boil. She smiled, pleased with her efforts.

"Ach, woman. Have you noo sense?"

She dropped the spatula, fell back on her bottom, and met the angry glare of Kane. "I’m cooking. Isn’t that why I’m here?" She righted herself and picked up the spatula, dusting off the grains of dirt.

"Aye, I can see that you’re cooking." He squatted beside her and placed one knee on the ground. "Has noo one ever taught you how to cook over open flames afore?"

She shook her head.

“Ne’er bend over like you were doing, lass. You’ll end up with your skirts ablaze or your palms burned. You have noo balance perched as you were.”

“I thought I was doing just fine.”

“Stubborn bird. Always put one knee to the ground like so,” he said, indicating his own position. “This will force your skirts oot of the way and give you the balance you need. Try it.”

She did as requested and found he was right. She flipped a perfect flapjack onto a plate and forgetting her annoyance, beamed at him. “Want to be the first to sample my cakes?”

An odd expression stole over his features. He rose without comment and walked away. She stared, dumbfounded. What had she said?

 

 

A fashion statement or necessity?

I'm old enough to still remember my mother wearing gloves and a hat to church. I even wore a pair to church when I was around 5. I think after that, the custom began to phase out except for special instances. My high school choir director made us wear long ones that reached our elbows for concerts. That was in 1974.

No one knows for sure who wore the first gloves. They speculate that cavemen might have fashioned a crude sort of glove or mitten for protection against the elements or to perform a special task. During the Roman times, silk or linen gloves were worn when they ate to protect against greasy hands. The type of glove making we know began in the 11^th or 12^th century.

Fashionable gloves were sewn by hand and the Gloving Donkey, invented by James Winter in 1807, allowed the seamstress to stitch more evenly. By 1870s, fashion called for short gloves during the day since most day dresses had full length sleeves and long, past-the-elbow length for evening wear since evening dresses were usually sleeveless.

“The curious pride of the horseman extended also to his gloves. The cowboy was very careful in the selection of his gloves. They were made of the finest buckskin, which could not be injured by wetting. Generally they were tanned white and cut with a deep cuff or gauntlet from which hung a little fringe to flutter in the wind when he rode at full speed on horseback.” (from The Passing of the Frontier - Emerson Hough – 1918)

I was looking in my trunk of things I'd inherited from my grandmother and I ran across a box. Inside was a pair of really cheesy salt and pepper shakers with a note that said: the first Christmas gift our first granddaughter gave us. That would be me. Beside those was an odd apparatus that turned out to be a glove stretcher that my great-grandmother had used, circa 1880.

This generated an idea for one of my first scenes in Once Jilted so, enjoy an excerpt involving the glove stretcher:

A week later, Shauna attacked the set of silver like a banshee bent on scaring every guest in the castle. But then, the castle of her fantasies was little more than a two-story wooden frame house in Nyesville, Indiana. She picked up a fork that still had a coating of dry whiting and vinegar between the tines. After an hour soaking near the fire, the tarnish should come right off. The operative word being should. After scrubbing a stubborn spot, she dropped the fork and leaned her weight against the counter. Old enough to be on her own, she still worked like a slave with no future, living in a home that didn’t want her.

 

"Slacking again?"

She turned toward Madison’s shrill voice, determined not to let her nemesis nettle her today. "Aren’t you supposed to be at the Clayburgs for morning brunch?"

Madison pulled on white gloves and patted her perfectly coiffured hair. "Well, of course, but Mother had a tirade over her tight gloves. Seems someone broke her glove stretcher. I guess you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?"

Of course not. In a voice of false importance, she replied, "Do forgive me. I couldn’t seem to get the top to my treasure chest open this morning. I needed the glove stretcher to pry the lid. It worked quite well, and I was able to count every gold coin paid for my services over the years."

Madison narrowed her eyes. "I keep telling Mother we need to replace you with someone younger. Your sarcastic humor is unwelcome."

Perhaps she hoped to provoke the Clevingers into dismissing her, forcing her to find a different situation. Truth be told, the thought of being on her own proved intimidating. She’d been saving all her money with the idea of leaving, but she didn’t think the amount in her purse would be enough. Not yet. Not while the country suffered economic depression, and jobs were scarce.

At that moment, Mrs. Cora Clevinger rounded the corner and entered the kitchen. "Madison, stop by Kupert’s on your way home and buy another glove stretcher." She held up the broken tool. The scissor-like apparatus had one piece dangling from a spring.

"I haven’t time. Make Shauna do it."

"Nonsense. You’ll already be out and about, and Shauna has other work that needs tending."

Other work? That didn’t sound good. Shauna stared at the mound of silver and wondered what other chores Mrs. Clevinger planned to drop in her lap.

"I’m sure Shauna wouldn’t mind procrastinating for a chance to go into town."

Shauna picked up a silver ladle, ignoring their conversation. The last thing she wanted to do was travel to town. Since her disastrous trip down the aisle, she’d avoided people. She’d even skipped church yesterday by offering to make a special dessert for the noon meal.

"Shauna!"

"Ma’am?"

"If you rub any harder, I’ll lose the delicate engravings on that spoon."

Shauna dropped the spoon like it had suddenly spouted thorns.

www.ciaragold.com

 

Ciara Gold presents Behind Saloon Doors

Bet you think this is going to be all about those lovely Calico Queens, don't you? Well, sorry to disappoint, but I got to thinking about the basic running of a saloon. Almost all western stories includes at least one scene in which the setting includes a bar. Some of these bars are located in remote towns so how did they come by their beer and liquor? With that question in my mind, I did a bit of research on breweries. To narrow my search I decided to look for historical breweries in Texas.

The first commercial brewery opened its doors in 1845 in La Grange, Texas by Henry Ludwig Kreische. The history of the area is fascinating.  Monument Hill & Kreische Brewery State Historic Site is now open to tourists and it's on my to do list as it's not that far from my home.

There isn't much information regarding beer. Most breweries in the 1840s were small home operations. The Germans brought beer-making recipes and techniques to Texas and the majority of the beer brewed was a lager beer. Most of the breweries were then located in areas heavily populated by the German immigrants.

Most beer was brewed in the winter as back then there was no refrigeration. Artificial ice wasn't manufactured until 1865 when they installed a Carré machine in San Antonio. I did research on real ice for Sarah's Brass Token and discovered they shipped big ice blocks by train from the North. To keep it cold, they used sawdust and rock salt as insulation. The beer industry evolved and in 1884, Lone Star Brewery opened the first mechanized brewery in Texas.

Even my own grandfather brewed beer in his basement. One particularly hot day, the lids on all his beer bottles started to pop off and the loud noise was quite telling. He worried that the sheriff who lived next door might hear and arrest him on the spot. Well, he poked his head outside to see if his neighbor was headed over only to hear the distant popping from the sheriff's home as well. Seems the local sheriff was doing a bit of brewing himself.

Prior to 1873, imported beer was brought in from Europe by way of ship to Galveston, then transported to various towns by wagon. Unfortunately, by the time the beer reached its final destination, the quality was sorely lacking. After 1873, many changes occured that allowed for a better product to be delivered to saloons and restaurants throughout Texas. Mechinary, manufactured ice or refridgeration, better techniques for pastorization, and the train all helped in shaping the making and transporting of beer.

Whiskey was another matter all together. And yes, I had a great uncle who took to moonshining during the prohibition days as well. Anyway, saloons in well-established towns with lots of customers could afford to supply a vast variety of liquor, wine, and beer while saloons in smaller, off-the-beaten-track towns probably had to resort to servings of rotgut.

Interestingly enough, the local option laws of 1876 and 1891 forced many legal saloons to close their doors. I don't usually think of prohibition happening before 1920 but I suppose if you plan to put in a bar scene in your stories, you should be sure and check the liquor laws for that particular town. What you find might surprise you.

So belly on up to the bar and enjoy a cold brew and remember that it wasn't so easy in 1840 to come by the tasty beverage.

Enjoy a scene at the bar with the hero, Kane of Once Jilted:

Kane clinked his empty glass against Brewster’s. "Here’s to women."

"To women."

"So—you were going to tell me why you’re in here drinking. Something aboot a fight with your fiancée."

"Yep." He waved the glass about. "She made me mad. Wanted to accompany Shauna on her escapade, and I wouldn’t let her. Lora Lee still hasn’t forgiven me. I wouldn’t loan Shauna my wagon either. I thought that would be enough to discourage Shauna from going as well. Who’d have thought Miss Spendthrift would part with coins to rent a wagon? Were they any good?"

"What? Oh, the pies?" Kane frowned. "I wouldn’t know. I doon’t much care for pecans, but my men devoured them. Too bad they took ill shortly afterwards."

"Well, it wouldn’t have been Shauna’s baking. She’s one of the best cooks in the county." He leaned closer and put his hand to his mouth. "Don’t tell Lora Lee, but I like Shauna’s cooking more than I like hers. Yep, Shauna might not be the prettiest filly in town, but she’ll make some man’s stomach very happy."

Kane stared at his empty glass and decided he might just need another. He held it out for the barkeeper and admired the stream of golden liquid. Fortification for a guilty conscience. He still didn’t know the full story behind Shauna’s actions, yet already he suffered a severe attack of conscience. He hung his head. "I accused her of poisoning my men."

Brewster shoved his shoulder. "You what?"

"What else was I to think?"

"Well, you can go to the Clevingers’ home and apologize to her tomorrow."

"I could, but she woon’t be there. The Clevingers sent her packing this evening."

Brewster slouched and laid his head on the bar. "Oh no, Lora Lee will never forgive me now. If I’d escorted the women today like they wanted, this might not have happened." He raised his head.

"Do the Clevingers know about the child?"

Kane downed the shot of whiskey. "I thought you said she was noot pregnant." He was very confused, and the whiskey wasn’t helping to straighten things out.