Mistletoe Magic!

We all know that when standing under the mistletoe a kiss is sure to be in your future, but have you ever wondered where the tradition came from, or who thought to pluck the berried leaf from the apple and willow trees to use as a kissing tool?

Thought to bring prosperity, and protection against evildoers, the mistletoe was held sacred, and magical by the ancient Druids in the late 1500’s. Custom states that on the sixth night of the moon, during summer and winter solstice, white priests would cut the mistletoe from its tree with a golden sickle. Along with sacrifices and prayers the Druids believed the mistletoe would grant them prosperity.

Throughout centuries the tradition of the magical mistletoe carried on. In the Middle Ages branches of mistletoe were cut and hung from the ceilings to ward off evil spirits. In Europe the mistletoe was placed over homes, and outbuildings to protect against the entrance of witches. Mistletoe was also used as an offering of peace within arguing spouses and on the battlefield. 

The kissing under the mistletoe originated from Greece where it was believed that a kiss while standing under the greenery brought on fertility and long life. In later years the British created the kissing ball, and for each kiss a berry was plucked from the sprig. Once all the berries had been taken no more kisses were given. A lady would stand under the mistletoe, a sign she was eligible, and wait for any suitors to kiss her. If not kissed before all the berries had been picked, she would not marry within the coming year.

Thus, the tradition of the mistletoe has come into the homes of many throughout the years, and whether you believe it to be magical, or not, everyone loves to be caught under the sprigs and the berries.

Merry Christmas,

Kat Flannery

I Think I Hear Sleigh Bells... by Ginger Simpson

It's the holiday season and my fellow bloggers are caught up in deadlines, shopping, etc, so blogging takes a vacation.  In the meantime, I hope you'll enjoy my Christmas memory.  Just remember all this happened between Gunsmoke and Bonanza.  *lol*

I share this every year as a tribute and reminder of a father who made the holidays so much more special by being present.  We miss you Dad.

“I think I hear sleigh bells,” my dad would say every Christmas.  We’d scurry to our bedrooms and pretend to be fast asleep.  Being the oldest of four, I knew Dad was the one who went outside and attempted to make reindeer tracks in the dirt.  We didn’t have a fireplace, so Santa had to come in through the door.  The important thing was that he came.

 How my mom and dad managed to give us such joy and the very thing we wanted when the raft shop where my dad worked at the local air force base paid ninety cents an hour.  We thought we were in hog heaven when he brought home the canned rations every now and then.  Each one had a candy inside, and the crackers weren’t bad either. I can’t recall a Christmas those special treats didn’t put a permanent smile on my face and joy in my heart.

 Although Dad was Jewish and didn’t believe in the reason for the season, he was always the first to shake the presents beneath the tree.  We always vowed to wait until Christmas morning to open gifts, but he was the culprit behind the “let’s open just one.”

Sure, one turned into two, and before we knew it, we sat amongst opened boxes and a landslide of wrapping paper, happy with what we’d received, but disappointed that once again we’d failed to wait until morning.  So the tradition continues.  Christmas eve is our time to celebrate, and I’m always urged on by my father’s voice in my head, telling me now from heaven, “just open one.  What harm can it do?”  Oh, we still have our Christmas dinner on the day of, and as a Christian, I celebrate the birth of Jesus, and I will be forever thankful for the parents he gave me.

We weren’t rich in the financial sense, but in love we were millionaires.  I’d give anything to have one of those Christmas Eves over again, and hear my Dad’s sweet voice talking to me for real.  He’s been gone for over twenty five years now, but if you’re listening Daddy, your “not so” little girl loves you with all her heart, and I miss you still.  You’ll always be in my heart, and in your honor, I’ll always open just one on Christmas Eve…or maybe all.

Another Cup of Coffee

 By Alison Bruce

Scene by a campfire...

"I see a sock in that pot."

"Yep.

"You doin' laundry or makin' coffee?"

"Coffee."

"Good. Can't drink laundry water."

"Did last week."

"But it smelled like Cookie's soup."

"That it did."

"There are many things that a cowboy can do without. Coffee is not one of them." 
(Cowboy Coffee, American Cowboy.)

I may be allergic to horses and other livestock. I might not be able to throw a rope or hit the broadside of a barn, I have a cowboy's need for coffee. I'm practically famous for being a serious coffee drinker. Imagine my chagrin finding out there was a method of brewing I hadn't heard about - Sock Coffee.

"Also known as “hobo” or “open-pot” coffee, this calls for putting the grounds into a (clean) sock and chucking it into the coffee pot... If you’d rather not use one of your socks, use a muslin bag or a commercially made coffee sock. Let steep until desired strength is achieved."
(Cowboy Coffee, American Cowboy.)

I honestly thought someone was having me on when they mentioned Sock Coffee. However, once I saw an example, it made perfect sense. It's the mama of the drip coffee filter and close cousin to the teabag. Supposedly the first cup tastes a bit odd, but after a while it makes a great brew.

Step 1 - Put cold water in the cup and medium to coarse ground coffee in the sock. Use 2 scoops of coffee to every 12 ounces of water.

You can do this in individual mugs. Just buy a commercial coffee sock (see above) or maybe a baby's sock will do the trick.

Step 2 - This part is so controversial, I couldn't find any real cowboys to demonstrate.

You either put the sock in the cold water and bring the water to a boil. then you take the pot off the stove and let it sit a while. OR...

You boil the water. Let it come off the boil, then pour the water over the coffee in a sock which is in a second pot (or mug). You let it steep for five minutes or until it's as strong as you like it. (I Need Coffee.)

Everyone agrees on Step 3 - Pour the coffee and enjoy with a friend.

Home Sweet Tent

For many of us, when we think of homes in the frontier, particularly in the wooded mountains, we think of cabins constructed of logs. A portion of an early 1850’s lithograph of Columbia, California, the locality of my Christmas novella, Too Old for Christmas, shows log cabins with stone fireplaces for homes around the city.

Many are probably fairly similar to this preserved cabin on Jackass Hill where Mark Twain and a few of his associates spent the winter of 1864-65. As a point on interest, this cabin in size and structure would have been similar to what Sean Flood in Too Old for Christmas was in the process of building, except he opted to buy a cast iron stove and save the shale fireplace for a future brick addition to the house.

 Whether on the plains or in the mountains, often the first homes were constructed of canvas over logs. Those pioneers who traveled by covered wagon, once they were ready to move out of that wagon box to something that didn’t roll, they didn’t let that big, heavy piece of thick canvas go to waste.

My Christmas novella, Too Old for Christmas, is set in 1854. It is well documented in the histories of that community that the first “structures” were constructed of canvas and board (or log). Even the first recorded store owner, Charles Bassett, in 1850 set up a saloon and a supply store, on Bassett Alley/Lane first constructed out of canvas. As often happened in the mining camps and towns of California, fire destroyed the city twice: once in 1854, just months before the time period of this novel, and again in 1857. Both times, canvas and log tents were erected until more permanent structures could be built. The triangular design may have been lived in by those miners actively working their claims.

However, for the town-dwellers, those canvas and wood tents probably more resembled these:

And these (In the background of the miners working:

A decade later, canvas tents were used in the Civil War for winter quarters situations, complete with fireplaces.

Brandy Station, Virginia - Winter Quarters

By the 1850’s there were some cast iron stoves that had been transported to California, probably by ship rather than overland. Even with the stovepipes high in the air, I imagine sparks falling on a canvas roof would have been a concern. I know even in this day and age, since we burn wood, we felt much more secure about our chimney once we replaced our shake roof with composition. In Too Old for Christmas, Ona McNair has a small box stove in her canvas and pole home.

Here are some more examples of canvas and pole structures. These are still used today. I live not far from Yosemite National Park, and some of the campground areas feature tent houses complete with wood foundations.

Yosemite National park - Curry Village

Notice the rain fly. In Too Old for Christmas, I made mention of a rain fly on Ona McNair’s home, not because I believe they were considered standard when such structures were first assembled. She had been living in the canvas and pole home for several years and struggled with tears and splits from the canvas rubbing against the poles and spark holes from her wood stove. If she was unable to afford all new canvas for her wooden frame, to me it made sense she would at least buy a rain fly to go over the roof in an attempt to keep the inside of her home as dry as possible. Since the story starts during a November rain storm, the condition of her home was a factor.

Yosemite National Park - Curry Village

Some of the modern canvas and pole tents are pretty nice and roomy. Give me a nearby flushy instead of the necessary of the type used in Too Old for Christmas or almost everywhere in the 1800’s until indoor plumbing was developed, and I would happily spend a few summer weeks in one set up in the mountains.

About the Author:

Zina Abbott is the pen name used by Robyn Echols for her historical novels. 
The author currently lives with her husband in California near the “Gateway to Yosemite.” She is a member of Women Writing the West, American Night Writers Association, and Modesto Writers Meet Up. She enjoys any kind of history including family history. When she is not piecing together novel plots, she pieces together quilt blocks.

 

Zina Abbott Links:

Website  |  Blog  |  Facebook  |  Pinterest  |  Goodreads  |  Twitter

Zina Abbott Amazon Author Page 

Too Old in Columbia Series on Facebook

Too Old in Columbia Series on Pinterest

Purchase Links:

Amazon  |  Barnes & Noble

 

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Emma Hart Willard

By Kristy McCaffrey

Born in 1787, Emma Hart Willard was encouraged by her farmer-father to read and think for herself. Emma was often included in family discussions of politics, philosophy and mathematics. At the age of 15, she enrolled in her first school in Berlin, Connecticut and progressed so quickly that two years later she was teaching at the institution.

Emma Hart Willard

In 1807, Emma left Berlin and worked as a principal at the Middlebury Female Seminary for two years. She was unimpressed, however, by the material taught, so in 1814 she opened a boarding school for women in her own home. She strove to improve the curriculum for girls, believing that women could master topics such as mathematics and philosophy. This passion for women’s education led her to fight for the first women’s school for higher education. In 1819, her success inspired her to write A Plan for Improving Female Education, a pamphlet that she presented to the New York Legislature. Her plan included a proposal for a women’s seminary to be publicly funded just as men’s schools were. Emma didn’t receive a response from the legislators, who believed women’s education to be contrary to God’s will.

Willard finally received support from New York Governor DeWitt Clinton, who invited her to open a school in his state. The Troy Female Seminary opened in September 1821 for boarding and day students in Troy, New York. It was the first school in the United States to offer higher education for women. By 1831, the school had over 300 students enrolled.

The Troy Female Seminary was renamed the Emma Willard School in 1895 and today still promotes her strong belief in women’s education.

In my new story, Alice: Bride of Rhode Island, Alice Endicott attends the Troy Female Seminary.

Available at Amazon

Alice: Bride of Rhode Island is thirteenth in the unprecedented 50-book American Mail-Order Brides series.

Fleeing her stepfather and an arranged marriage in Newport, Alice Endicott finds work as a seamstress at the Brown Textile Mill near Boston. When a devastating fire destroys the factory, she and all the girls face dire unemployment circumstances. But hope arrives when their manager, Roberta McDaniel, shares the Grooms’ Gazette with them. Each woman will choose a husband and become a mail-order bride. As Alice’s friends—Lottie, Leora, Judith, Beth, Lessie and Josie—embrace the idea, she too becomes caught up in the excitement of a grand new adventure.

When fisherman Frank Martel contacts her, Alice can’t pass up the opportunity to return to Rhode Island despite her stepfather’s presence. Upon arriving at the train station in Tiverton, however, Frank neglects to meet her.

James Martel is shocked to find a woman at the rail depot claiming to be his brother’s fiancée. Even more surprising is her connection to a man who ruined James’ father years before. When Frank confesses that he can no longer wed Alice, James steps forward to fill the role since the beautiful young woman holds the key to avenging the Martel name.

Can Alice convince her new husband that their marriage is worth saving once she discovers his subterfuge? And will James learn that love is more important than revenge?

A sweet romance set in 1890 America.

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Excerpt

As soon as Alice had arrived at the office of Martel Fishing Enterprises, the older Mr. Martel had sequestered himself away with Frank, her betrothed. Frank—with the same dark hair as James but shorter in stature—hadn’t appeared too happy to see her, barely shaking her hand.She had a sinking feeling she’d soon be headed back to the train station.

She ruminated over what she should now do. She didn’t have enough money for a return ticket. Besides, she had nothing to return to. All her good friends from the factory were in the process of departing for their own new husbands and lives. And besides, Massachusetts wasn’t really her home. She exited the stifling atmosphere of the office and wandered down to the stone pier, holding her bonnet in her hand and enjoying the crisp breeze upon her face. In the distance lay the Atlantic Ocean. The Sakonnet River must be more of a tidal inlet than a true river.

She stopped and closed her eyes; for the briefest moment the weight of the past several weeks left her. Seagulls squawked, and a breeze blew wisps of blonde tendrils that had escaped her bun across her cheeks. The odor of fish—thankfully not as pungent as at the rail station—and briny air accosted her, and tears burned her eyes as she thought of her father. Gavin Harrington had truly loved the sea, maybe even more than his wife and daughter.

Into each life some rain must fall. The words of her papa’s favorite poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, filled her mind. Well, it would seem her life was drenched at this point.

Alice decided that whatever the Martel brothers had in store for her, she wouldn’t leave Rhode Island. She would simply have to find work...somewhere. Somehow she’d get by. She would never return to the home of Daniel Endicott.

Footsteps from behind signaled the approach of, she guessed, Frank Martel, but she was surprised when his older brother James stood beside her and leaned forearms on the railing. In the distance, a steamship called the Queen City slowly approached.

“Do you like the sea, Miss Endicott?”

She nodded. “If I’d been a man, I would’ve worked on a ship. I can think of nothing more liberating than being at sea, sailing to some unknown land. It must be terribly exciting.” She glanced at the elder Martel and was taken aback by the contemplative gaze he bestowed on her. The frock coat was gone; the cuffs of his white tailored shirt were rolled to his elbows, revealing muscled forearms. With his hat also discarded, the breeze lifted his tresses with the gentlest of caresses, putting her in mind of a pirate from her school books.

Unsettled, she returned to staring straight ahead before continuing. “Let me save you the trouble of an uncomfortable conversation. I’m not completely witless. I’ve gathered that I’m not as welcome here as Frank’s letters had conveyed. I’ll just be on my way, but if it wouldn’t trouble you, I’d like to watch the water for a bit longer.”

“We’ve not been acquainted for long, but witless is hardly a description I’d apply to you.” He took a deep breath. “It’s true. Frank isn’t in a position to marry you. He’s promised himself to another.”

“I see.” Humiliation engulfed her. Beth had been right—she should’ve waited for Mr. Hughes of Iowa to respond. Now, she was left with nothing.

The man beside her shifted, reminding her she wasn’t alone. From the corner of her eye, James Martel appeared...nervous. But that couldn’t be. He was imposing, stalwart, and remote. A man who seemed shaken by very little in life.

“I’d like to offer you an alternative.” He cleared his throat and faced forward.  “I’ll marry you.”

Shocked, Alice faced him. “I beg your pardon.”

His eyes met hers. “If you’ll have me,” he added.

Panic threaded through her. She’d been prepared to wed Frank. His letters had shown an earnestness towards her, along with a good dose of humor. James appeared to be the furthest creature from whimsical. Then again, Frank had obviously not been truthful. Perhaps wittiness wasn’t a good measure of a suitable husband.

“I’m no charity case, sir. You don’t have to do this. I’ll figure something out.”

“As I understand, you left a situation in Massachusetts that was somewhat...desperate. Do you have family here that would help you?”

She considered her stepfather and his mansion in Newport. “No, I don’t.”

James watched her intently. “You couldn’t go back to your father?”

“My father is deceased.”

James raised an eyebrow. “He is?”

“My stepfather is still living, but he and I are distant.”

“And why is that?”

Alice stared at this man who had offered to become her husband. He was a stranger. Becoming a mail-order bride was more difficult than she’d imagined. She truly was in over her head. “I’d rather not say, sir. I don’t know you.”

His response was silence.

“May I ask why you would want to take a woman you don’t know to be your wife?” she blurted. “You’re very handsome. Surely there’s a woman you fancy.”

His piercing gaze had her shuffling uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Then, he smiled and her breath caught. He had certainly been handsome in the stoic stance she’d only ever seen of him, but when he grinned, a boyish, rakish appeal snagged her as if he’d reeled her in on a fishing line.

“I accept your compliment,” he said. “The truth is, I wasn’t planning to marry. Running our fishing fleet keeps me busy, but Frank was irresponsible in how he handled this situation, and I feel compelled to rectify it.”

“You sound like a knight in shining armor.”

She wished he would stop grinning, as she was swiftly losing her train of thought.

“I like that,” he said. “Will you let me rescue you, Miss Endicott?”

Alice didn’t know what to say. She knew the correct answer was no. But looking into Mr. Martel’s eyes, more deep blue than green, much like the ocean beside them, fate tugged at her, whispering in her ear. Life is a grand adventure. Her papa had told her such when she was young.

James Martel represented a new beginning, and perhaps it wasn’t altogether a bad one.

“Yes, Mr. Martel,” she answered quietly. “I’ll marry you.”

Copyright © 2015 K. McCaffrey LLC

Don't miss this exciting series. From November 19th through January 7th, one book per day releases. To learn more, visit our dedicated website.

To stay up-to-date on releases and special giveaways, like our Facebook page.

American Mail Order Brides Series

I was honored to have been asked to join the American Mail-Order Brides project! My contribution is Emma: Bride of Kentucky, and it is Book 15 in the Series. 

Forty-five authors come together to bring readers a new series of epic proportions. On fifty consecutive days beginning November 19, 2015, a romance, featuring a mail-order bride, will be published--one set in each of the fifty states. The books will be released in the order the states were admitted to the union. The stories all take place in 1890, following a day when a factory in the East burns to the ground, leaving these women unemployed and forced to choose mail-order marriages for survival. Share the experiences of these brides as they seek love and new lives across the United States.

Blurb:

Emma Waterston is determined, headstrong, and comes from a lifestyle where class structure determines one’s associations. Left destitute after the death of her mother, she takes a job at a textile factory. When a fire destroys her place of employment, leaving her penniless again, she makes a desperate decision and answers an ad for a mail order bride from a wealthy Kentucky horse breeder.

Sam Hawley is content with his life as a horse trainer on an affluent Kentucky estate. His primary focus has always been on the horses. He views their owners as rich people with nothing to do but flaunt their money. Loyalty to his mentor is the only thing that keeps him rooted to one place. When he meets the bride-to-be of the man he detests the most, his life is about to change.

Too late, Emma discovers the ad she answered was too good to be true. Her future husband is not what she was led to believe and a horrific experience leaves her no choice but to face the kind of life she’s been trying to escape. Kentucky was supposed to promise a return to her life of wealth. What she finds instead will redefine her definition of being rich. 

Excerpt:

“Miss Emmaline Waterston,” someone called from behind her. 

Emma’s heart lurched in her chest at the deep voice calling her name. Finally. Curbing her agitation at having been left waiting for so long, she plastered her best smile on her face, and swallowed the lump of apprehension in her throat. When she wheeled around, she nearly tripped on a loose wooden board under her feet. 

The smile faded, and her forehead wrinkled when she glimpsed the man walking toward her. Her eyes darted around to see if it might have been another man calling out her name, rather than the one heading directly at her.

She mentally recited the description David Benton had given of himself - dark-haired, with a moustache, nearly six feet tall, and wealthy. The man in her direct line of vision did not fit that description, not in the slightest. 

He was dressed in a simple, light-blue cotton shirt tucked haphazardly inside tan britches that were held up by dark suspenders. The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his wide shoulders did not escape her notice. Neither did this man’s dirty blond hair that poked out from beneath a brown cap that reminded her of the newspaper boys back in Lawrence. The other ends of his britches were tucked into old, worn boots. 

He stopped just in front of her, and Emma raised her head to look him in the eye. He languidly peeled the cap from his head, revealing a disheveled mop of hair that fell forward over his eyes. His lips curved in a slow grin, creating indents in his cheeks. Emma’s heart fluttered inexplicably in her chest. She blinked, and shook her head slightly at the reaction. She stared up into deep-blue eyes that threatened to suck her right up. She’d never seen a man this handsome before, even if he appeared unkempt.  

“Miss Emmaline Waterston?” he asked again in that rich drawl she’d already heard once before. 

A slight shiver passed down her spine, and goose bumps formed on her skin, despite being warm under her cloak.

“Yes,” she answered, having to clear her throat to say it a second time. “And you are?”

Surely, this couldn’t be David Benton. If so, she’d been deceived.

“Sam Hawley,” he said, holding out his hand. 

http://amzn.to/1PXhn0l

Peggy L Henderson

Western Historical and Time Travel Romance

“Where Adventure Awaits and Love is Timeless”

Award-Winning Author of:

Yellowstone Romance Series

Teton Romance Trilogy

Second Chances Time Travel Romance Series

Blemished Brides Western Historical Romance Series

               

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The Poinsettia

courtesy of www.bloom.uk.com

The Poinsettia is a native Mexican plant. Its origins trace back to present day Taxco. The poinsettia, Euphorbia pulcherrima, Willd, is a member of the Euphorbiaceae family and is defined as a female flower, without petals and usually without sepals, surrounded by individual male flowers enclosed in a cup-shaped structure called a cyathium. The Euphorbia genus contains 700-1000 species. The Aztecs in central Mexico cultivated the plant and used the colorful leaves, known as bracts, to make a reddish-purple dye for clothes and makeup. The Poinsettia’s milky sap was made into a medicine to treat fevers. 

 

Joel Roberts Poinsettcourtesy of http://www.apsnet.org

Joel Roberts Poinsett is credited as the first American to bring the plant to the United States. A botanist from Greenville, South Carolina, Poinsett was also the first United States Ambassador to Mexico. Best remembered as the founder of the Smithsonian Institute, Poinsett traveled to the Taxco area, discovered the colorful plants growing on adjacent hillsides and had some of them shipped to his home, where he grew them in his greenhouse. From there, he gifted some of the plants to his friends and also sent some to botanical gardens and to fellow botanist John Bartram in Philadelphia. Bartram sent the plant to his friend Robert Buist. Buist was a plants-man from Pennsylvania and thought to be the first person to sell the Poinsettia under its original name. Legend has it the Euphorbia pulcherrima, Willd, became known as the Poinsettia in the 1830’s, after Joel Robert Poinsett. 

 

courtesy of www.orthodoxytoday.org

How did the Poinsettia become known as the Christmas plant? The Aztecs prized the poinsettia and believed it to be a symbol of purity. In the 17^th century, Franciscan monks in Mexico incorporated the flower into their Fiesta of Santa Pesbre; a nativity procession. This is the first time the Poinsettia was associated with Christmas, leading Mexico’s Christians to adopt the plant as their Christmas Eve flower. The star-shaped bracts symbolize the Star of Bethlehem. The red leaves represent Christ’s blood and the white leaves symbolize his purity. 

 

courtesy of www.distinctive-decor.com

Once the monks included the Poinsettia in their nativity procession, a few legends sprang up as to why and how the plant became associated with Christmas. One is the tale of poor, young Pepita who was upset because she did not have a gift to give to the baby Jesus at Christmas Eve mass. As she made her way to the church, her cousin tried to cheer her up. Pedro told Pepita that even the smallest gift presented to Jesus in love would make the Christ child happy. Pepita picked some weeds and placed them beside the manger. Before everyone’s eyes, the weeds magically transformed into beautiful red flowers. Another tale says it was an angel who told Pepita to pick the weeds and bring them to the church. Regardless, the parishioners swore they’d witnessed a miracle, and from that evening on, the flowers became known as Flores de Noche Buena; Flowers of the Holy Night. 

 

Merry Christmas Everyone! I wish you and your family a joyous holiday season. Julie