Women and History from Ginger

Happy September everyone.  Can you believe we're getting close to the Holiday season again?  I'm ill prepared, but not nearly as much as I'd be to step back in history and try to make it through a day.  Because I'm dealing with health issues at the moment, I hope you'll accept this offering from a blog I posted back in 2009.  I found it interesting then and now, and some of my peers here at Cowboy Kisses have gone into much greater detail on some of the topics. 

 Re-reading this post made me so much happier to be a 'modern-day' woman. Oh...and I take no credit for the pictures since I used them from a common site on the Internet, and I'd gladly credit each contributor (if I knew their names) and thank them for enhancing my blog.  Since the recent post we've read about one author being sued for using a photo on her blog without specific permission, I think we've all become skiddish about using anything we haven't taken ourselves. I was lucky one time with these pics, so I'll try one more time...and hope I'm not pressing my luck.

Historical Facts

Even with all the economical woes and problems we face at the moment, take a minute and think what it must have been like back in the 1800s to be a woman. I love historical fiction set in the old west, but I often pause and wonder how I would have handled the challenges women of that era tackled.

Imagine your kitchen without all the conveniences you've become used to. No stove, no refrigerator, no microwave, no garbage disposal, no running water, probably not even one quarter of the little gadgets you find so very useful. 

Settlers often lived miles from the nearest town. Trips to shop often required an entire day of travel. The going was slow in a buckboard or wagon, and certainly not as comfortable as a ride to Walmart in a comfortable sedan. I prefer a Lexus myself. *lol*

Mail Order Brides were considered a legitimate way for men to meet and marry. I can't imagine traveling for weeks on a wagon train to meet and wed a man I've never laid eyes on. I can only assume many women were disappointed to see what they'd signed on for. Photographs, or tintypes as they were called, often didn't portray a clear likeness. I suppose you could equate that to meeting someone online who posted a picture taken twenty years ago. :)

Then there was childbirth. No drugs, and most often, no doctor. Just another woman who'd had children of her own or someone dubbed the area midwife. Even when a doctor was available, the profession was dominated by men, and that added to the discomfort of the prim and proper western women. The common position for delivery was back to the doctor with knees drawn up to avoid any eye contact.

I think given the challenges of being a pioneer woman and surviving past the age of forty-five due to child-bearing risks and diseases of other sorts, I elect to stay where I am. I can't imagine using a rag instead of a mini-pad, not having my hair dryer and curling iron, or even though I hate them, missing my annual screening exam. I had an emergency cesarean with my second child, and if I had given birth to him in the 1800s, we would probably both have died. So...even as much as I think things suck right now because of the economy and stupid political decisions...I'll take today anytime!

Pioneer women really had to have stamina. They cooked, cleaned, plowed, milked, gathered eggs, bore many children and if the elements and diseases didn't get them, marauding Indians often did. Yes, ladies. We have it easy these days compared to women of the old west.

To give you an idea of what one woman's experience was in the 1800s, here's an excerpt from my first historical romance, Prairie Peace, and to set the scene...Cecile has just been delivered to the 'ranch' her new husband bragged about. She's come from being an only child of the local banker and his wife to now having to become a pioneer wife:

Excerpt:

When Cecile first ventured into the house, she wanted to die right on the spot. Her first impression was that the floor was dirt, but upon further examination she found wood beneath the filth. Dust and debris sifted in through the crooked shutters and layered the plank flooring. The entire structure consisted of one big room, complete with a rustic-looking bed frame and a mattress that sagged almost to the floor. The main living area had a large stone fireplace and hearth in the corner, and the kitchen area consisted of a table holding a chipped water pitcher and bowl. Nearby, a cracked mirror hung from a rusted nail.

In contrast to the large windows in her Silver City home, directly over the table was one the size of a medium picture-frame. The grass outside had gotten so tall it crept through the crookedly cut, ill fitting shutter. She had no desire to open it for fear of the critters that might scurry inside.

It was apparent why the previous occupants had left behind the odds and ends of furniture. The table and bench were made out of wood so rough Cecile imagined picking splinters from her behind if she sat. A chair with a broken rocker rested in the corner next to the fireplace, and beside it was an old crate where a rusty lantern perched precariously, most likely to provide light for anyone brave enough to risk the broken chair.

What had she done to herself? She pictured her mother’s living room with its matching furniture and crisp pleated draperies and fought hard to hold back tears.
Her mother had never really prepared Cecile for being a wife or housekeeper, requiring she only do minimal chores around the house. She surveyed the challenge set before her. This was going to be a learning experience she‘d have to endure on her own. Her days of being spoiled and pampered had ended.

She took a deep breath and dug in, trying to wash away the accumulated dust and grime. What she hated most was dealing with the various prairie creatures that thought this was their home. “Oh dear…I hate spiders,” she proclaimed as one skittered across the floor.

Wiping a trickle of sweat from her forehead, she glanced around the room for something to shuttle the insects outside, and spied an ancient broom in the corner by the fireplace. Although it had lost most of its straw, there was still enough left to use. Looking at the dirt and grime around her, she wondered why the broom looked so worn. How long had it been since anyone used it?

The floor had dried and warped with age, and the cracks between the planks had widened to reveal the ground below. Cecile vigorously swept several times, trying to get some of the dirt and dust to fall through. When she finished, she wore most of it.

Tossing the broom across the room in disgust, she peered at herself through the cracks in the mirror, barely recognizing the reflection staring back. Her hair hung in unruly strands around her face, and her complexion was gray from the coat of dust. She emitted a loud sigh as the looking glass revealed the sagging and dirty mattress behind her. Who or what had slept there before? Clearly, the bedding needed a thorough beating and airing out, and it was her glorious job to do it.

The tears welled again. She prodded herself to stay busy, believing work would keep her from dwelling on her disappointment. With great effort, she dragged the mattress outside, and for some reason, every whack of the broom against the old tattered thing made her feel better.

She struggled to get it back into the house and onto the bed frame. She refused to call Walt for help because he was busy outside, cleaning the yard and hauling junk from within their poor excuse of a barn. Silly emotions and false pride were not about to get the best of her. She wanted Walt to be proud of her, and she was determined to make the best of this, even if it killed her. Besides, she was tired of sleeping on the hard ground with nothing but a thin blanket between her and the dirt. Even this ugly mattress had some degree of appeal. As soon as they moved into the house, she’d cover it with the blankets from the bedroll and bring in the pillows still stowed in the wagon. Using the barn as shelter left her worrying the whole thing would fall down and crush them to death in their sleep. So many boards were missing from the walls, she was amazed it remained standing at all.

At the end of the day, both she and Walt were so tired, it mattered little where they slept. Cuddled together on the barn floor, Cecile nestled in the crook of her husband’s arm, and managed only a goodnight kiss before she drifted off.

Sun streaming through the cracks in the barn and shining in her eyes woke her. Walt was already up, and Cecile smelled coffee. She hauled her aching body off the ground, stood and stretched into a growing yawn. Another day of work lay ahead, but she thought of all she had accomplished over the past days. In the eyes of some it might not amount to much, but she'd done the best she could. At least the house smelled of soap and was as dust-free as she could manage. Now it was ready for the few belongings she’d brought along. Later they would acquire material for curtains, and hopefully some better furniture, but for the time being, the few knickknacks in the wagon would make it look homier. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. Homier? Was that even possible? She followed her nose, searching for a cup of strong coffee to see her through the day. She joined her husband outside for a scant breakfast and a breath of fresh air. She had to admit that a prairie morning was much more peaceful than the bustling streets of Silver City.

“Where do you want this?” Walt asked, following her into the house, with her trunk.

“Just set it next to the bed for now.”

While he tripped in and out, carrying her settee and small bedroom table and lamp, Cecile moved them from place to place, trying to find where they fit. They looked so out of place Cecile almost wished he had left them in the wagon. Such pristine objects for a shack.

Somehow, though a mystery to her, Walt still beamed with pride over this place. Luckily, he hadn’t detected her disappointment. He walked in the door with another box, and at that moment, looking into his eyes, she forgot her surroundings and recalled the feeling of being in his arms. Tonight, they‘d sleep in the house, and christen the old bed. Suddenly she felt much better about things.

_____________________

Aren't you feeling lucky about now?     

We've Come a Long Way, BABY!

Ever give thought to what our "fore sisters" went through to have children?  Both me, and my son born in 1975, probably would have died during the 1800s because of my need for an emergency c-section. Thank God for modern medicine.

 Because I write mainly historical westerns, I'm quite familiar with the history of the pioneer and Indian woman, and it was fun to research a little deeper to provide today's post.

Prior to the appearance of "physicians," which by the way was considered a male-only profession, women relied on the practical experience of other women to help bring their children into the world.  Midwives of the period relied mainly on knowledge gained from the previous birthing assistance given, and the mortality rate was high.  In fact, many women feared pregnancy, seeing it as a certain death sentence, although the numbers of live births don't support that theory. Disease and accidents claimed many young victims who did survive the process.  Men played no part in the delivery, as it was unseemly for them to witness such a private event. 

Most American Indian woman used a "women's hut" for the birthing process.  The temporary residence was frequented by women during their monthly flow as a bleeding woman was deemed possessed by spirits dangerous enough to threaten a man's power.  Prior to pregnancy, young girls spent their first menses there, being taught customary tribal tasks, however, afterwards, their joy at reaching womanhood was usually a cause for celebration.

In birthing, many a pending mother brought her babe into the world in that same hut by kneeling before a stick driven into the ground and "dropping" her child into a furrow beneath her that held a clean piece of hide for swaddling.

In comparison, the pioneer woman didn't have it much easier.  Many traveled by wagon to far destinations, seeking new homes, and many times, a train was halted so that other women could tend to the birth of a new arrival.  To say that conditions were often not sanitary is an understatement, and it wasn't until much later that any type of "pain control" was introduced into the process.

When doctors finally began practices throughout the country, many women shied away because of impropriety.  Sexuality was a very private matter, and most husbands wouldn't allow another man to view their women unclothed. 

The picture shown here was "borrowed" from a Jane Austen site, demonstrating the modesty of the time.  Boy, have things changed, or what?  Although, I can't imagine living under the guidelines governing the era and having a strange man delve beneath my skirt, at least today, it's a common practice, but skirtless.  I cringe at hearing"scoot to the end of the table and let your knees fall apart."  I always laugh at the request to "relax." Easier said than done.

Yes, indeed, things have definitely changed over the ages...with coffee, with potties, with everything, if you've read the preceding posts.  Eventually home birth gave over to hospital birth with doctors in attendance, but truly not until 1930.  Until then, women still preferred giving birth with other women at their side.  In hospital stays, the use of opiates and delivery tools were standard practice in a process that for centuries had been what we today call "natural childbirth."  The medical institutions didn't provide much safer care because of the risk of infections, opiates that halted labor and required the use of forceps with often injured or killed the child.  Still, men were not allowed to be part of the process, and spent their time in waiting rooms, being guarded from exposure to such a "harsh" event.

Over the years, the process has improved dramatically.  Fathers are now invited and encouraged to participate in the birth of their child. Some even elect to attend "childbirth classes" with their wives.  Rather than keeping the babies and mothers apart, many hospitals choose to house the newborn with the mother and encourage immediate interaction and feeding.  Now if we could just find a way for Daddy to share some of the pain, but many believe that labor is God's way of punishing us for Eve's eating of the forbidden fruit.  Dang her!

Here's a scene from one of my historical novels, Prairie Peace, which ties in nicely:

Cecile's labor intensified, and she pressed her fist against her mouth to stifle the scream rising in her throat. Another cramp wrenched through her, and she bit into her knuckles, praying that God would make the hurt go away.  Her body bore down, trying to expel the baby, as pain after pain wracked her body.

Rain Woman stood ready to receive the child.  "Push with all your might, my daughter.  Your child is almost here."

Cecile wanted to scream--needed to scream.  "Get it out, please, please get it out!  If I push any harder I'm going to turn myself inside out."

While she crouched over the earthen pit in front of the labor stake, Little Dove massaged Cecile's abdomen in an attempt to move the baby.  With each pain, she tightened her grip and strained with all her might.  The hours seemed like an eternity and the pain never ending.  "I can't go on...I'm too tired," she finally declared.

The pushing became involuntary, and groaning and grunting, she used what she thought was her last breath and thrust her baby into the world.  All discomfort was forgotten when she heard its healthy cry.

***

Prairie Peace was my debut novel and received a four-star review from Romantic Times Magazine, which back in the day was quite shocking for me.  I hope you'll be enticed to check out the story of Cecile Palmer, who in 1860 eventually becomes "Green Eyes" as she married the handsome brave who saves her from pending winter, no supplies, and a husband they both believed dead. 

Thanks for stopping by today, and here's wishing you lots of Cowboy Kisses!

Ginger's View of Housekeeping Then and Now

As I was bemoaning the few chores I faced today, I stopped and gave myself a reality check.  I started thinking about the pioneer women in the novels I read and write, and realized how cushy my life is compared to theirs.

Take for instance making the bed.  All I have to do is spread up the sheets and comforter.  Of course, although I b*tch and groan about how my husband's wiggly foot manages to untuck everything, I gave praise that I don't have to deal with a straw mattress and flour-sack sheets and pillow cases. I didn't have to pluck a chicken or turkey to fill my pillow, nor, do I have to empty a chamber pot like those kept beneath the bed to avoid those nighttime potty calls.

 Next time you have to clean the toilet, thank God you have one. Our pioneer sisters didn't have the comfort of having an "on-suite" bedroom, so those treks to the outdoor privy, especially during the winter months, could really be the pits.

As I tossed a load of clothes in my washer and added my convenient liquid detergent and softener, I paused a moment and pictured the agony of having to visit a local stream and beat the clothing clean on a rock or, in the case of the more modern gal of the ages, lug out a washtub and scrub board and spend a few backbreaking hours laboring to refresh the family wardrobe.  Then my gaze caught sight of my dryer and I remembered back to when I first married in the early sixties.  We couldn't afford a dryer at the time, and I had to hang everything on a clothesline.  OMG, I hated that.  Sure, you got the benefit of a fresh air smell...when there was one, but the towels and linens were stiff and you weren't done with the hanging of the wet laundry, you had to go back and retrieve it.  Somehow, it always managed to rain while I had clothes on the line.  I was so happy to see those days pass, and I can bet the head of a pioneer woman visiting today would spin at all the modern conveniences we take for granted.

How about your vacuum cleaner?  The best a pioneer women could do was gather fresh straw and make a new broom.  They may have owned a rug or two, (handmade of course), but dirt or wood floors were the norm.  No wall-to-wall carpets for them.  Sometimes just sweeping the dirt smooth was the best a gal could do.

Can Openers?  Yeah, some of us may still use the ones you have to "manually" twist, but I've moved on to the one you set on the can and it does its magic all by itself.  Imagine using a knife blade to open a tin?  I'd probably be covered with Bandaids.  Hey, did they even have those back in the day?  I don't think so.  Torn scraps of cloth were some of the best first-aid tools available.

Stoves?  Some of the richer pioneers had them bought from the local mercantile.  They were huge and weighty pieces that took up a lot of room, but a vast improvement over bending over the hearth to stir soups and stews suspended over the fire.  With a turn of a knob, we have flames.  Even their modern stoves required wood, and that meant a lot of chopping and carrying to keep the supply plentiful.

Iced tea anyone?  How often have you sat down to enjoy a nice cool drink during the summer?  I live on iced TN sweet tea, but I'd have to learn to forgo the ice in most cases if I was a pioneer.  Since I wasn't sure how the ice was kept, I borrowed this from Wikipedia:

Ice houses are buildings used to store ice throughout the year, commonly used prior to the invention of the refrigerator. Some were underground chambers, usually man-made, close to natural sources of winter ice such as freshwater lakes, but many were buildings with various types of insulation.  During the winter, ice and snow would be taken into the ice house and packed with insulation, often straw or sawdust. It would remain frozen for many months, often until the following winter, and could be used as a source of ice during summer months.

I'm back. *smile*  You didn't even know I was gone, did you? All the thought of iced tea made me thirsty, so I took a break in blogging and went for something to drink.  As I gazed around my awesome kitchen at the automatic coffee pot, the blender, the toaster, and all the other things that have spoiled me rotten, I opened the refrigerator and noticed the bottled water inside.  Although a few pioneers enjoyed a new-fangled indoor water pump, most had to trek to the well or river for water.  Something as simple as bathing for the early 1800 dwellers, consisted of several trips and buckets full for them in order to fill perhaps the same tub they used for washing the clothes.   Boy, do we have it made or what?

The next time I start to feel sorry for myself, I'm going to pull out my history reference book and remind myself of how far we've come.  As I sit here, blogging on my computer, I wonder how a pioneer woman would react to the Internet and the extended and immediate "reach" we have today.  You know, it often took months for the Pony Express to deliver the mail.  Loved ones might not hear from their families for years.  We can reach out and touch someone in seconds.  How great is that?

Oh, and just to give you a taste of how one might incorporate some of the housekeeping chores in a book, I invite you to share this except from Prairie Peace, my debut novel.  It's listed with all my books, on my Amazon page.

Excerpt:

It was apparent why the previous occupants had left behind the odds and ends of furniture. The table and bench were made out of wood so rough, Cecile imagined picking splinters from her behind if she sat. A chair with a broken rocker rested in the corner next to the fireplace, and beside it was an old crate where a rusty lantern perched precariously, most likely to provide light for anyone brave enough to risk the broken chair.

What had she done to herself? She pictured her mother’s living room with its matching furniture and crisp pleated draperies and fought hard to hold back tears. Her mother had never really prepared Cecile for being a wife or housekeeper, requiring she only do minimal chores around the house. She surveyed the challenge set before her. This was going to be a learning experience she'd have to endure on her own. Her days of being spoiled and pampered had ended.

She took a deep breath and dug in, trying to wash away the accumulated dust and grime.
What she hated most was dealing with the various prairie creatures that thought this was
their home. “Oh dear…I hate spiders,” she proclaimed as one skittered across the floor.

Wiping a trickle of sweat from her forehead, she glanced around the room for something
to shuttle the insects outside, and spied an ancient broom in the corner by the fireplace.
Although missing most of its straw, there was still enough left to use. Looking at the dirt
and grime around her, she wondered why the broom looked so worn. How long had it been since anyone used it?

The floor had dried and warped with age, and the cracks between the planks had widened
to reveal the ground below. Cecile vigorously swept several times, trying to get some of the dirt and dust to fall through. When she finished, she wore most of it. Tossing the broom across the room in disgust, she peered at herself through the cracks in the mirror, barely recognizing the reflection staring back. Her hair hung in unruly strands around her face, and her complexion was gray from the coat of dust. She emitted a loud sigh as the looking glass revealed the sagging and dirty mattress behind her. Who or what had slept there before? Clearly, the bedding needed a thorough beating and airing out, and it was
her glorious job to do it.

The tears welled again. She prodded herself to stay busy, believing work would keep her from dwelling on her disappointment. With great effort, she dragged the mattress outside, and for some reason, every whack of the broom against the old tattered thing made her feel better.

She struggled to get it back into the house and onto the bed frame. She refused to call Walt for help because he was busy outside, cleaning the yard and hauling junk from within their poor excuse of a barn. Silly emotions and false pride were not about to get the best of her. She wanted Walt to be proud of her, and she was determined to make the best of this, even if it killed her. Besides, she was tired of sleeping on the hard ground with nothing but a thin blanket between her and the dirt. Even this ugly mattress had some degree of appeal.

As soon as they moved into the house, she’d cover it with the blankets from the bedroll and bring in the pillows still stowed in the wagon. Using the barn as shelter left her worrying the whole thing would fall down and crush them to death in their sleep. So many boards were missing from the walls, she was amazed it remained standing at all.

Note:  The piece of "mirror," hanging haphazardly and cracked, was mentioned in a previous paragraph.

Author Credibility

If you can't tell from my backlist, historical western romances are my favorite genre to write, although the most challenging. A lot of time and effort goes into writing any story, but I spend even more time researching my work and making sure my historical facts are correct. There is no faster way to lose credibility as an historical author than to refer to equipment not yet invented in your era, or speak in a manner not befitting the time period.

In my debut novel, Prairie Peace, I took my first adventure to the Dakota plains. Although cast iron stoves were available, my astute editor pointed out that it wasn't very likely that one would be in a run-down shack in the middle of no where. First they were cumbersome and hard to move, and shacks generally consisted of one large room with a fireplace and hearth where cooking was done. I knew that, but in telling my story, I didn't stop to visualize the obvious.

 As an author, typing a story doesn't always allow your brain to stop and focus on what fits and what doesn't. This is a real great reason why critique groups come into play. I cannot give enough credit to the ladies in my historical crit group who have caught numerous things that were not historically appropriate for the western era, or suggested that I tweek my language skills a tad.

Words as simple as "kids" referred only to goats, so to have a mother refer to her children in that manner was something you wouldn't hear. You certainly would be pulled right out of the story if a pioneer woman fired up a vacuum to clean her rugs instead of hauling them outside to beat them with a straw broom. The images we paint have to put the reader in the moment, and the moment has to be right.

In Sparta Rose, I spent a lot of time researching pistols.  My heroine goes to the mercantile to buy one in order to teach herself to shoot.  Her goal is to best the hero in a contest to win favor with her pa.  It was extremely important to gun experts who might read my story that the model I selected by appropriate for a woman's smaller hand while assuring it was one offered for sale in the 1800s.  I learned more about guns that I ever expected to know, but there are those folks who read with a critical eye for detail, and you want yours to be spot on.  A gun is not just a gun to everyone.

In Odessa,  although I had creative license with names of characters, I researched Wells Fargo for their stage coach runs, the railroad for the date they came to Phoenix, AZ, and also made sure of the existence of the towns I choose to showcase.  Yep, research teaches the author as much as it does the reader, and I love it.

I lived in Show Low, Arizona for a while, knew it's history, and I was fascinated about how the name came to be.  I used that little tidbit in the story, and I thought it added interest to an exchange between my heroine and a young man she met in the saloon who was from there.

For the sequel to Prairie Peace, White Heart, Lakota Spirit, I spent even more time researching the rituals and lifestyle of the Lakota Sioux as my heroine was their captive.  I'm fascinated with the American Indian, and this is probably my most favorite topic to delve into.  The Sioux, along with most other tribes, were and continue to be very spiritual people who believe that even something as simple of as the number four is symbolic.  Visions questions, Sun Dances held in the summer, sweat lodges, women's huts...who could ask for more interesting fodder for books.  The secret is peppering the facts into the novel so that the story doesn't resemble a history lesson yet still provides interesting details that put the reader in the time and place.

So, you see, there is a lot that goes into creating a novel, especially historical ones that require accuracy in detail.  It's always important to make a story as believable as possible...if not the plot, then the personalities of the characters.  If the reader cannot connect with those who hold the starring roles, then they are more likely to lose interest.  Hooks, conflict, and emotion go a long way to creating the desire to continue turning pages.  My goal is to put my readers in the character's shoes and have them feel the emotions, the wind, the pain, smell the aromas, and cry real tears.  If I'm lucky, I'll remember to SHOW rather than tell to help them make the connection.  As an author, I learn something new almost every day. 

Have you read any good books lately.  Leave a comment and share what about them made them more memorable for you.  In case you'd like to give one of mine a try, you can find them all listed on Amazon, most in print and download.  Of course, I recommend Kindle cause I'm in love with mine.  :)  I also have trailers for most of my books posted on my website.

Learning Through Historical Research

Writing historical novels is much harder, in my opinion, than writing contemporary.  Those who read historical whether romance or non, usually read with a critical eye and expect facts and language the author uses to be correct for the period. Sometimes, making sure this happens requires a lot of extra reading on the part of the writer.

I have long appreciated any story in which the American Indian plays a part, and while researching information for my first historical novel, Prairie Peace, I fell in love with the Lakota Sioux.  I cannot tell you exactly why that particular tribe attracts me, but I migrate to that tribe when selecting a home for my heroes. 

In Prairie Peace, I describe quite a few of the rituals undertaken by the Lakota, and I'm particularly interested in tiny facts I discovered.  For instance, the meaning of the symbols painted on the horses, the direction in which the lodges face and why, all the many things made from the buffalo and why the animal's demise impacted the Indians so severely, and so many other things I'll be sharing with you on this blog.

Today, I'd like to share a scene from Prairie Peace, specifically the Sun Dance which was a twelve-day religious ceremony which testified to the courage and endurance of the people.  The Lakota, considered part of the 'plains Indians' were major participants in this summer ritual.

In this scene, Cecile, later known as Green Eyes, is speaking with her husband, Lone Eagle.

"What is the Sun Dance?"  There was still so much she didn't know.

"During the celebration, tribes gather to honor the Great Spirit.  We dance to thank him for his  blessings.  Many braves will participate with their bodies painted in symbols and colors telling how much pain they are willing to bear.  Some will only dance, while others will endure great suffering to commune with the spirits.  Those who have skewers placed through their skin and hang suspended from a pole until the flesh tears endure the greatest agony.  It is through our discomfort that we receive direction from the Great Spirit."

Lone Eagle bore scars on his body, and by the way his chest puffed with pride while describing the festivities, Cecile knew he'd been a worthy participant.  She couldn't imagine what would drive someone to go through such a test, and her body shivered at the thought of hanging from a pole by her skin.  "Isn't there more to the Sun Dance than that?"

"Of course."  Lone Eagle continued.  "It's also an opportunity to visit with friends from other tribes who we see only once a year.  Just think of the new friends you will make.  The sun dance is a festive time enjoyed by the entire tribe."

***
Although there is no set pattern to the way the tribes celebrated during the Sun Dance, it was a rare year when the Lakota didn't attend.  The first four days were festive, a time for the bands to come together, swap stories and bond.

The second four days were a time of segregation for those electing to dance.  They were instructed by the Shamans/Medicine Men about the meaning of the ceremony and the part they would personally play in honoring the Great Spirit, or Wakan Takan as 'He' was called.

The final four days were the most sacred.  The women of the Sioux were charged with locating and 'capturing' a cottonwood tree, representative by the shape of the leaf to  the tepee in which families lived.  The tree would be the centerpiece for the celebration, and  the object around which a war dance was held.  Painted in four different colors, the trunk of the tree also held cutouts of a buffalo and human, both male, at which the braves would shoot arrows.  The final day of the celebration marked the sacred dance.  The ceremony ended when the final 'dancer' ripped free.

I hope you'll join me in the coming days when I'll share some more Indian lore with you.  My favorite book, America's Fascinating Indian Heritage, from Reader's Digest has been a most valuable asset for me in learning about the Lakota and I'll be using it as a reference point here on Cowboy Kisses.