Friday, February 6, 2015

Dressed in Fur, But not Furry

By: Peggy L Henderson






When I say the words “mountain man,” what’s the first mental image that comes to mind?  Robert Redford as Jeremiah Johnson, or perhaps Dan Haggerty as Grizzly Adams. What about Fess Parker as Davy Crockett?
What do the first two have in common that the other one doesn’t?
Jeremiah Johnson and Grizzly Adams had scraggly hair and scraggly beards, and dressed in thick furs and animal hides. Davy Crockett was rather well-groomed for a “mountain man”, with his short hair, shaved face, and clean buckskins.

I write romance novels about mountain men, and certainly the image of a dirty, unkempt man with a bushy beard just doesn’t strike an image of a romantic hero. Was I wrong in my description of fur trapper Daniel Osborne, the first hero I ever wrote?

Her eyes poured over his clothing and appearance. He wore a dark-colored breechcloth and leather leggings with fringes on the sides.  His faded red flannel shirt had been poorly patched in a few places. Several leather pouches were draped around his neck, and over one broad shoulder dangled a powder horn made from the horn of a mountain sheep. 
A tomahawk and large hunting knife hung from the wide leather belt around his waist. He wore un-decorated leather moccasins. His raven black hair fell to his shoulders, with some unruly strands tumbling over his forehead.
Aimee’s eyes moved to his deeply tanned face, his square jaw line shadowed by a day’s growth of stubble, and dark brown eyes that betrayed none of his thoughts as he moved ever closer.
Her pulse quickened as she met and held his hard gaze. She couldn’t help but stare. Those penetrating dark eyes drew her in. She blinked, but couldn’t look away. Dear God, she couldn’t recall ever seeing a painting or drawing of a mountain man that looked like this guy. Images of rough looking, bearded wild men came to mind.
The man in front of her was quite simply . . . stunning. The feral, masculine virility he projected took her breath away, leaving her head spinning dizzily, and not from dehydration this time.

What did a real mountain man, or fur trapper, in the early 1800’s look like?
If you answered Fess Parker to my initial question, you were more correct than if your image of a mountain man looks like Grizzly Adams. At least when it comes to facial hair, which is the focus of this article.
Probably the most common image of a mountain man is one with a heavy beard, someone who hasn’t shaved since the day he left civilization behind to head into the mountains and trap for beaver.
George Frederick Ruxton, a British explorer and writer in the 1800’s, states in his novel, Life in the Far West, “The elder of the company was a tall gaunt man, with a face browned by a twenty years' exposure to the extreme climate of the mountains; his long black hair, as yet scarcely tinged with gray, hung almost to his shoulders, but his cheeks and chin were cleanly shaved after the fashion of the mountain men.”





While most modern paintings and images of mountain men show them with beards, the artists of the time depicted mountain men as being clean-shaven. The Swiss artist, Rudolph Friederich Kurz painted Indians and trapper/traders in the 1840’s, and only a very small number of the “white men” had any kind of facial hair. Only two men were depicted in paintings by Kurz as having unkempt hair and beards, and one of those men was a traveler on his way to California, not a fur trapper.
Artist Alfred Jacob Miller, who painted scenes from the 1837 rendezvous also portrayed the mountain men without beards.

 
“Typically the free trapper was young when he went to the mountains. He was single, poor, farm-reared, and he had long hair, but kept his face shaved, except perhaps for a moustache.
The items he used daily, firestarting equipment, spare flint, usually a straight razor for, contrary to common belief, most mountain men shaved”.( Quote from The Mountain Men, by George Laycock, a book I use a lot for research.)

Why would these men, so far away from civilization, decide to keep their faces clean-shaven? Why not simply let the beards grow long?

Beards weren’t in fashion at the time of the fur trappers. Not until the 1850’s and 1860’s were they in vogue in America and Europe.

Another reason why shaving was preferable to letting a beard grow was hygiene. Although mountain men were not known for cleanliness, and didn’t bathe for months at a time (a fact I definitely left out in my romance novels), head lice were a very real and common problem in those days. Having a beard only gave those critters more room to roam.


Finally, except for when they partied it up at rendezvous, the mountain men traded with the local Indians the rest of the year. Native Americans did not have facial hair, and considered men with full beards to be barbarians, and gave a man with a beard colorful names such as “dog face.” It was advantageous to the trapper to be on good terms whenever possible with the natives, not only for trading, but also if they wanted to marry an Indian woman.

Straight razors were known from the inventory lists of the time, and were used to shave off stubbly facial hair. Using a straight razor becomes more difficult the longer the hair grows. Most likely, the trapper didn’t shave every single day, but at least regularly before a beard became too difficult to manage.


Peggy L Henderson is a laboratory technologist by night, and best-selling western historical and time travel romance author of the Yellowstone Romance Series, Second Chances Time Travel Romance Series, and Teton Romance Trilogy. When she’s not writing about Yellowstone, the Tetons, or the old west, she’s out hiking the trails, spending time with her family and pets, or catching up on much-needed sleep. She is happily married to her high school sweetheart. Along with her husband and two sons, she makes her home in Southern California. 








Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Leon's Story, Part II



Emily wasn’t spoiled. While it was true she came from a wealthy family and wore vibrant gowns sewn from the best cloth, behind the closed doors of her grand home, she felt her pa’s hand strike her backside nightly. The same was true for her ma. Emily’s fancy-pants attorney pa enjoyed terrorizing his family. Emily had often said a wicked smile of euphoria shone in his eyes each time his fingers curled around her waist.
Eventually, the time had come for Emily to marry. Her pa had chosen a man for her; someone of the same nature as him. Unwilling to spend the rest of her life in torture, or allow the same to happen to any children she might have, she fled under the cover of darkness, guilt-stricken for leaving her mother behind to suffer even more because of Emily’s defiance. On the outskirts of Boston, she’d happened upon Leon and Earl Jansen; a man who had once been Leon’s friend.
“I couldn’t take you back to Boston. The detective I hired said your pa was more crazed than you remembered, and would’ve killed you soon as he saw you. Me, too, for helping you escape to Colorado Territory.” He swallowed hard. “You shoulda let me tell our children the truth. I know,” he held up a hand to silence her outburst echoing between his ears, “you’d rather they hate you than show you pity. That’s why you put up a brave pretense of disowning them for their mistakes, so they wouldn’t succumb to heartache should my claim about your pa killing you prove true.”
Helplessly, he kicked at the snow before lowering his hand and shoving it back into his pocket. “You were a good woman, Emily. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife, even when you browbeat me to take you back to Boston to find your ma. The detective said she’d passed, but you didn’t believe him.”
A tear laden with regrets slid from the corner of his eye to freeze on his cheek. He ignored the droplet, focused on the anxiety shooting up from his gut to bubble in his throat. Either he got to the point or forever held his peace.
“I’ve come to ask a favor,” he rasped, curling his fingers into his palms. “I’ve kept your secrets, including how you fancied Earl Jansen until you and I were forced to spend the night together to keep warm and Lucas was born nine months later…” He sighed heavily at the memory of what had started a forty-year feud between him and his best friend. “I told you about Emma. She’s done right by me all these years. It’s time I do right by her.”
Another gust of wind pelted his back, knocking his Stetson forward. He caught it and fixed the hat firmly back in place. “Please, allow me this, Emily, and I’ll continue to keep your secrets.” He pressed his lips together, thought a moment and smiled fondly. “Our secrets.”
Squaring his shoulders, he turned and retraced his steps. Listened to the wrought iron squeak again as he pushed the gate shut, his gaze falling on the headstone. “Merry Christmas, my sweet, sweet Emily. You’ll always be my first love, but Emma…” a lump of emotion lodged in the center of his chest. “I love her, too.”
Trudging through the snow, his bones again protesting the cold and his innards shivering, he ducked inside the barn and instructed his foreman to saddle his horse.
Jack eyed him uneasily. “Royce ain’t gonna like this, you going off alone. More snow’s a coming. I feel it clear down to my toes.”
“Something I gotta do, Jack.” Leon narrowed his eyes. “No tattling to Royce. Or Lucas. Or Creel. Understood?”
Against his will, and better judgment, Jack agreed and saddled the mare.
Leon made it to town without incident. His first stop was Jasmine’s eatery where he drank down a steaming cup of coffee to thaw his insides. Next he paid a visit to the preacher, then to the seamstress to collect a Christmas gift. One last cup of coffee at Jasmine’s and Leon made the long trek home, where he encountered Royce’s temper and Paige, Royce’s wife, ushering him inside to sit before the fire. She tucked a blanket around him, brought him hot tea, and as the afternoon gave way to evening, his children and grandchildren arrived, filling the house with sounds of laughter and merriment. Leon rose to greet Emma and tug her aside.
“You old coot.” She swatted his arm, perturbed. “I heard you went to town by yourself.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. “As if your high-strung mare doesn’t cause me enough heartburn. Were you hoping to catch your death in the cold?”
Admiring her gray hair pulled into a loose bun and the fire burning in her eyes, warmth stole through him at her concern. “Had something important to take care of.” He winked at her before looking over his shoulder to ensure they were alone. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a ring and slipped it on her finger. “Marry me, Emma,” he pleaded sincerely. “Tonight. The preacher’s on his way.”
A small gasp escaped her. Dumbfounded, she stared at the diamond and then at him for a long moment. “Put that away,” she fussed, swatting his arm again. “We’re too old for such nonsense.”
“Bah! We’re never too old,” he smiled warmly, threaded his fingers with hers. “I love you, Emma. I have for a long time.” He glanced at the festive pine in the far corner. “Cade and Tess each married on Christmas Eve. Why not us?” He inched closer to her. “Say yes. Please.
Tears welled in her eyes, which was most uncharacteristic of her where he was concerned. She bowed her head and touched her forehead to his chest. “Yes,” she whispered.
And just like his grandchildren, Leon stood before the preacher on Christmas Eve, with the woman he loved beside him, and recited his vows. When he finished, a familiar voice echoed between his ears.
“Merry Christmas, Leon,” Emily said. “You have my blessing.”     
 
                       The End

 
   




Creel continues with
No Luck At All. 












 



Rachael concludes in Bring Me Luck














          

Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Valentine Greetings

by Shanna Hatfield
When I was in grade school, we always decorated shoe boxes or envelopes for Valentine's Day. Something grand, covered in glitter, was needed to collect all the Valentine cards we knew we'd receive. Hopefully, one or two especially wonderful friends might even include a piece of candy with theirs.
Oh, the giddy splendor of it all.
One year, the teacher held a contest to see who could create the best envelope. I labored intently over mine, coloring the cupid (inside the lines!) and adding glitter and red hearts made of construction paper.
I think it was working on that project that spurred my interest in creating cards. Hours would slip away while I worked to create the perfect card.
When rubber stamping become so popular, I jumped right into that phase, then segued into graphic design that allowed me to add or subtract elements until I had something that looked just right.
As I learned more about designing cards, my inspiration often came from a collection of old postcards we'd acquired from Captain Cavedweller's grandparents.
In one of their storage sheds, buried beneath piles of family treasures, we found an old wooden box full of postcards that were mailed in the early 1900s, mostly during World War I.


I've often pulled out the postcards and stared at their beautiful, bright designs, wondering what led the sender to choose that particular card or what the recipient felt when they received it.

I just love old Victorian postcards and greetings.

They seem so sweet and endearing - full of charm.


 I can just picture a cowboy riding into town and seeing a display of cards in the store. He might saunter over, spurs jingling against the plank floor of the mercantile, and casually glance through the selections. Would his sweetheart like one with birds, or perhaps roses? What message should it convey?


Do you have a favorite Valentine card? One that was so special you couldn't bear to throw it away?

*~*



A hopeless romantic with a bit of sarcasm thrown in for good measure, Shanna Hatfield is a bestselling author of sweet romantic fiction written with a healthy dose of humor. In addition to blogging and eating too much chocolate, she is completely smitten with her husband, lovingly known as Captain Cavedweller.
Shanna creates character-driven romances with realistic heroes and heroines. Her historical westerns have been described as “reminiscent of the era captured by Bonanza and The Virginian” while her contemporary works have been called “laugh-out-loud funny, and a little heart-pumping sexy without being explicit in any way.
She is a member of Western Writers of America, Women Writing the West, and Romance Writers of America.
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