Christmas Moments by Elizabeth Clements

In the hushed stillness of midnight when everyone should be fast asleep, I heard a faint rustle, like a cat high-stepping through piles of paper. More rustling sounds, furtive sliding…

          “What are you doing down there!” a male voice thundered.

          Someone shrieked. Strange noises clattered and thumped. Then silence.

          I shot up in bed, flung back the covers and dashed from my room where I had been recuperating from a cold and sore throat. The living room was dark except for the glow of colored lights twinkling in the Christmas tree. And there stood my dad, arms akimbo, trying to look stern as he gazed down at my mother, kneeling amidst the scattered gifts, much like a deer frozen in beaming headlights.

          Of course my mother couldn’t come up with an explanation. Dad and I both knew curiosity was the death of any patience on her part when it came to gifts for her. Earlier, Dad had given me money to buy Mom a present because he knew I would know what she’d like. I’d snuck it into the house, furtively wrapped it and hid it in my closet because I knew she could not wait until Christmas Eve. Suspense was killing her. She just had to find her gift.

          That Christmas, when I was seventeen, was the first time I realized she was very good at sliding a sharp knife through the tape, carefully unwrapping if a peek wasn’t enough, then just as carefully rewrapping all the folds and placing new tape precisely over the old tape. Apparently, she’d been doing it for years. Became quite accomplished at it. And continued to do so ever after.

Any parcel from my brother in Toronto was opened ahead of time. Gift exchanges with her friends were also opened on the spot or the moment her friend went home. I resorted to urging my brother to send the parcel c/o me, but he didn’t believe me <grin>. Hence, if it hadn’t been for the gifts we brought, my mother would have had nothing to open on Christmas Eve. Or on her birthday. Or Mother’s Day.

I’m just the opposite. I love the anticipation. Love shaking a gift. Could it be perfume? And I love having fun with the gifts. I’ll write cryptic message on the gift tag, to give a clue to the contents. I also save boxes throughout the year because square shapes are so much easier to wrap. One time one of my boys opened a box and tossed it aside without opening it. I reassured him that you can’t always judge a gift by its container. <grin>

My dad wasn’t big on Christmas decorating, so he often brought home the sorriest-looking tree in the lot, stuck it in an old steel tire rim and left it to me to create magic. Of course there was no water for the tree to absorb, so by New Year’s the needles were probably falling off. But oh, the lead tinsel from those days, how they made a tree glitter like magic. I miss the tinsel, in fact I saved it from year to year for a long time until one could only buy that fly-away stuff that if someone sneezed or opened a door causing a draft, it would fly off the tree.

And speaking of trees, here’s the first of three tales of Christmas trees. It was my first time picking out a tree. It had to be perfect, as all new brides anxiously want everything to be perfect. And the tree I found, was of course the biggest, after lifting and scrutinizing dozens of trees. It was a bushy, fragrant tree that almost scraped our apartment ceiling. We set it in the corner of the living room, had fun decorating, and when we were all done, we closed the folding door that separated our bedroom from the living room. Moments later, we heard an odd scraping sound and a whooshing thump. The tree had fainted.

Luckily, there was little damage, a few broken ornaments and pine needles. In no time everything was perfect again, we slid the door shut and went to bed. Moments later, again that odd scraping sound and whooshing thump. Yep, you guessed it. The tree had fainted a second time. We also figured out why. The sliding door probably nudged it.

This time Doug got a nail and hammer and string, tied a long cord around the trunk and nailed that tree to the wall. The tree never had another fainting spell.

When our second Christmas arrived, we were in Germany. We were able to go to a tree nursery, select the tree we wanted and then the attendant chopped it down for us and strapped it to our car. Back then, it was quite the custom to put a small tree on top of a table. I missed a full-size tree, so the next Christmas we had moved into an apartment building and had a tall tree. By the following Christmas we had switched apartments with another military family who wanted a second bedroom for their newborn. I was quite happy with the switch because we now had a second-floor unit with a long balcony. It was fun having a bigger living room and we went all out decorating with lights around the windows and balcony.

That evening we heard a bunch of voices drifting up from outdoors. We looked out the window and saw pedestrians standing and pointing at our apartment. More people gathered. Even cars stopped and people rolled down their windows and stared, pointing. Things may have changed since 1968, but at that time white lights were the only colors on trees or outdoors. Indoor trees were lit with candles in special holders and shouldn’t be left unattended. The German people had never seen colored lights, let alone on a Christmas tree.

The couple living in the apartment directly beside us had a young girl and boy, probably aged five and six. I’d hear them giggling in their bedroom which was on the other side of my kitchen wall. When they saw our tree for the first time they stood in awe at the wonder of colored lights. When we moved back to Canada, we gave them all our Christmas lights.

And now onto the tale of the third Christmas tree. Many, many years later, Doug and the three youngest boys, all older teens by now, went with their dad to Calgary early Sunday morning to bring Chris back home to stay. I decorated our beautiful big tree, and went to bed, unaware that Doug and the boys were stranded at a truck stop an hour’s drive away. They had left Calgary later than planned, and luckily made it to Brooks. The highway had been closed due to a fierce blizzard.  I went to work the next day as usual, so I missed the surprise that awaited Doug and the boys when they arrived home around eight in the morning. Chris was especially tired and went into the living room and discovered the tree had “fainted” on the carpet. Oh no! No one needed this mess after the harrowing night they’d spent without any sleep.

Doug and Chris righted the tree and seconds later it started falling again. Luckily, they caught it. While Doug held the tree, Chris went and rummaged in his toolbox, got out the drill and drilled through the tree stand attached to a square of plywood, and “nailed” that tree to the carpet. “Now, try and fall down, you s.o.b.” he muttered.

As extra insurance, a thick string was looped around the trunk and secured to the wall. To this day, that hook and string is still there to keep the tree from fainting. <grin> 

Do you remember when you or your children helped decorate the tree as high as they could reach (and then the perfectionist re-did the tree while the “elves” were sleeping?) Methinks I was guilty of the same…or was I just too tired to notice the imbalance?

I have a couple more anecdotes to share, that I hope will make you laugh, or at least smile? My family always opened gifts on Christmas Eve whereas Doug’s family opened gifts on Christmas morning. For several years, we opened gifts around midnight until we came back home from Germany. I always reserved one special gift for Doug for Christmas morning so he would have a special gift besides what was hung in his stocking.

One year I arranged with our neighbor to have a snow blower delivered from Sears and stored in his garage. Then he was to bring it over Christmas morning so Doug would have a surprise. I tried everything to get Doug to go outside. Finally he did, and nearly tripped over the dang thing when he opened the door. Dwayne had really planted it right by the door.

It never snowed that winter!

Now for a funny that still makes me smile as I type this—and it is something we’ve reminisced about around the dinner table when we were too stuffed with turkey and dressing to move for a while. In the fall of 1994 Dolly Parton released an autobiography. The bookstore had a special display of her book, complete with a life-size cardboard photo of herself. As I paid for my copy, I asked the clerk if I could have/buy the cut-out when the promotion was over. And shortly before Christmas the store called. I picked up “Dolly” and had Chris take “her” downstairs where he hid her in his closet until Christmas morning.

While I had Doug preoccupied with some task, maybe taking out the garbage—LOL, Chris put Dolly in the bathroom off our bedroom, and for some unknown reason, left the light on before closing the door. A while later, Doug went into the bedroom, saw the door was closed, and being the polite gentleman that he is, knocked on the door. Receiving no answer, he opened the door saw a woman standing there, muttered “Oh, excuse me,” and whipped the door shut.

The boys and I were just outside the bedroom door, holding our breaths and mirth. And then we heard the Lord’s name in an explosive burst when he re-opened the door. Doug is such a good sport and laughed right along with us, after he caught his breath. He’s a Dolly fan, too, hence the idea for my prank.

I hope this little glimpse in my world has left you smiling. That’s what Christmas is all about, love, laughter, family and friends and grateful to God and his Son for all our blessings. May your Christmas be filled with joy and light, and if you’re alone, re-visit your memories to coax a smile. Merry Christmas and have a wonderful new year.

Excerpt: Beneath A Horse-Thief Moon

Ten minutes later Chase couldn't wait any longer. He wanted Sara beside him. He hurriedly lit the dozens of candles he'd fastened to the fir boughs. “Sara? You ready to come out now? It's lonely out here without you.”

“I'm coming,” she replied, her voice muffled.

In two strides he was at the bedroom door and watched her struggle into a nightgown. “Let me help.”

From behind his back he produced a tissue-wrapped parcel tied with a green ribbon and dropped it into her lap.

“I couldn't wait any longer. Merry Christmas, Sara.”

She gazed at him, her mouth a perfect circle of surprise. “A present? For me?” she said in a hushed voice. “I've never had a Christmas present. Not even a doll.”

He ached for what she'd missed. “Next Christmas I'll buy you a dozen dolls.” He watched her untie the ribbon and fold back the tissue. Emerald satin shimmered in the candlelight. “Oh, my,” she breathed. A big, fat tear rolled down her cheek. “Oh, my.”

“Hey, you're not supposed to cry. I'll take it back.” He reached to take the parcel.

She grabbed it back. “It's the most beautiful gown I've ever seen. But it's far too fine for the likes of me.”

Chase heaved a sigh of relief. “No, it's you wearing it that makes it look fine.”

Sara cupped his face and kissed him. “You are the sweetest, most generous person I know. What did I ever do to deserve you?”

Chase shrugged, trying hard to hide his pleasure. “Let's get this on you. Hope it fits. I ordered it from Boston.”

He lifted her old nightgown from where it bunched around her shoulders and grinned at her nudity. “On second thought, I like you just the way you are.”

“Chase!” Sara ducked her head to hide her face.

With a laugh, Chase bunched up the green gown. “Raise your arms.”

She complied. Her eyes fluttered shut and a moan of pure pleasure escaped her lips when the material slid over her breasts. He helped her stand and slid the sleeves of the matching peignoir up her arms. A crush of green ruffles framed her face and floated in twin panels down her front.

Chase unraveled her braid and let it cascade in waves down her back and over her breasts. “You're so beautiful, Sara.” He adored her with his eyes, then lifted her into his arms.

“Chase, you're crushing my gown.”

“I like the feel of you in my arms.” Walking into the main room, he sat her down in the rocker he'd pulled close to the fire. Around her legs he wrapped Silver's old blue horse blanket.

“Oh, Chase, the tree is so beautiful. And smells like the forest is inside. I've never had a Christmas tree before.”

Although she said it without a trace of self-pity, a lump formed in his throat that this lovely, generous woman had been so deprived of even the most simple things in life that most people took for granted. “How come?”

                                                  www.elizabethclements.com

 

Part Two: Underground Tunnels and Wolf Caves by Elizabeth Clements

PART TWO: UNDERGROUND TUNNELS AND WOLF CAVES – Elizabeth Clements

Isn’t it interesting  what a chance encounter can lead to? Back in the 1990’s, a giant poster in a booth at the Medicine Hat Exhibition & Stampede drew my attention and the lonely-looking author seated at the table with a stack of her book. Most Stampede attendees are more interested in buying cowboy hats or candy floss than a book to carry around on the midway or while watching rodeo events. Being a writer myself, I had empathy for her, stopped to chat, and bought her book—One Hundred Years of Grasslands. It remains my favorite book of all my dozens of research books of Canadian history.

Marjorie Rohde Mason was born and raised on a ranch in the Grasslands region of southern Saskatchewan. The ranch has been in her family for over a hundred years and thus she had heard lots of stories passed down about the lawless days of horse-thieves and cattle rustlers in the Big Muddy badlands. The book is full of history and reminisces by pioneers of the area. One quote speaks volumes: “Most of the time, you could not tell the colour of the horses for mosquitos.” One chapter heading and photograph particularly intrigued me: wolf caves. I had to visit them.

Nineteen years ago we made that trip to celebrate the new millennium. The day following our tour of the Chinese tunnels in Moose Jaw (Part 1), we drove approximately 160 kilometers south to the hamlet of Coronach. As luck would have it, we were the only ones who’d booked a tour that day, so instead of being crammed in a passenger van with a dozen  tourists, we had the guide all to ourselves in the comfort of our van with her giving my husband directions. What a stroke of luck that was having her undivided attention! I took lots of pictures and notes, which I can’t find right now,  so I’m writing from nineteen-year-old memories, Marjorie’s book, and a little help from Google for pictures.

Many of the places our guide took us to were located on private land, under lock and key, accessible only through her. We wandered around a one-room schoolhouse where we saw old school desks,  a pot-bellied stove, lessons  written on the blackboard and breathed in the dusty air of the old building.  In my mind I heard the children’s voices reciting their lessons, imagined the teacher walking down the aisles checking their arithmetic, and glanced out the tall fly-specked windows at the two outhouses near the play area.

We visited an Indian burial site and ceremonial circles that were fenced off.  Two particularly interesting sites  displayed effigies of a large turtle and also a buffalo, each a pattern of carefully placed stones that have rested undisturbed for decades. “Dakota Siksika legends use turtles to represent wise and highly respected people. Buffalo were the “staff of life” for Indigenous people and this (buffalo) effigy is believed to be the only one in Canada if not North America.”

Then at last we left the main road and traveled along a gravel trail on private land to the old Giles ranch. I still remember the lonely, deserted feel of the weathered fence rails with no cattle or horses in sight, the heat blasting on my shoulders, and the stillness of the prairie with only the breeze whispering stories too low to hear. Our guide had keys to unlock the gate. I don’t recall a sign on the gate then, but apparently one exists now that warns “All trespassers will be given a fair trial and then hung.”  Friendly, eh?

We drove a little further, disembarked, and at last I gazed at the entrance to Sam Kelly’s caves. One cave was used by the outlaws and the other held their horses to keep them hidden from sight. The caves were originally occupied by wolves; outlaws enlarged them. (For the safety of modern-day tourists, the caves have been reinforced with wooden beams.) 

I ducked inside the bigger one used by the men and just stood there, eyes closed, and breathed in the cloying smell of dirt walls all around me. Imagined two outlaws hunched over a tiny fire, heating their coffee and beans while another outlaw kept watch above on the high bluff for any sign of the red-coated North West Mounted Police approaching. If so, he’d warn the others and they’d rush their stolen horses across the narrow gully and up the slope of Peake's Butte  and cross the International Boundary (49^th parallel) just a few yards away. There was also an escape tunnel in case the "Redcoats" were to close.

This memory was used in the third book of my trilogy: Beneath A Desperado Moon which will be published sometime next year by Prairie Rose Publications. Reliving these memories, I may just want to go back and revisit that cave <grin>.

This area of the Big Muddy was the first point of the Outlaw Trail, which was carefully organized well over a century ago by Butch Cassidy and  Kid Curry (whose real name was Harvey Logan). Patterned after the successful efficiency of the Pony Express before railroads made the Express obsolete, Butch had set up relay stations all along the route from Canada to New Mexico for the convenience of The Wild Bunch. Butch arranged to always have stations equipped with fresh horses, food, and protection. There were “friendly” American ranchers all along the border and down through the western states who willingly helped the outlaws by keeping fresh horses at the ready. For more information about the Outlaw Trail in the Big Muddy area, check out this link: https://www.coronach.ca/outlaw-trail.html

The discovery of gold in Montana enticed not only the gold-seekers but also the building of railroads to transport the ore—and ruthless outlaws who were happy to relieve them of their gold and money. The drought of 1883 caused tremendous cattle losses; the price of beef went down and many cowhands were let go accordingly. Unable to find work, many of them drifted into robbing banks and horse-stealing to survive. If you can buy or rent the movie, Monte Walsh played by Tom Selleck, here’s the trailer to give you a good idea of a cowboy’s life herding cattle: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0r0fBbTjEo8 .

The Wild Bunch outlaws were excellent horsemen and accomplished horse thieves. Although they were most noted for their bank and train robberies, one branch of the gang concentrated on stealing as many as 200 horses and driving them across the border, selling them, stealing them back and fleeing into Montana and North Dakota where they’d resell them again. The Nelson-Jones Gang, reportedly a part of The Wild Bunch, and Dutch Henry were known to do this quite successfully. 

In my book, Beneath A Horse-Thief Moon, the Billy Cranston Gang was inspired by the Nelson-Jones Gang that raided the border ranches, causing a lot of grief and hardship. Nelson was a tall, skinny red-haired, red-bearded man described as having sharp eyes as “cold as fish”.

In Montana, Nelson was known as a rustler and a killer and was never without a gun. One of the stories about him involved him boldly breaking a gang member, Trotter, and another prisoner out of a Montana jail in 1894. Seffick promptly joined the outlaws. Nelson’s gang created so much trouble that ranchers banded together and posted a $1500 reward each for Nelson and Carlyle, an ex-mountie turned outlaw, and lesser amounts for several other outlaws.

Charles "Red" Nelson (also known as Sam Kelly) eventually gave himself up in Plentywood, Montana, but due to insufficient evidence and because most shootings were considered self-defense, he was released. He (ironically) bought a ranch in the Big Muddy area and it was rumored he was periodically visited by former gang members. I love this little tidbit: “If the rain barrel was tipped a certain way it was a signal to visitors that it was not safe to be in the area.” He supposedly died in 1954.

Another outlaw in my novel is French Henri, whom I mentioned in my author’s notes as being patterned after Dutch Henry, an excellent horseman and bronc buster, but best known for being a horse thief in the Big Muddy area. After being kicked out of Dodge by Wyatt Earp, Dutch hooked up with a trail drive to Montana and proceeded to swindle his boss, eventually causing the man to go bankrupt. Dutch and his men would haze as many as 400 horses across the border, selling, re-stealing and reselling just like certain members of the Wild Bunch. His gang had some interesting names: Bloody Knife, Pigeon-Toed Kid, James McNab, Duffy, and Birch. With names like the first two, no wonder they were feared by the border ranchers.

There are conflicting accounts of Dutch Henry’s death. One story is that he was killed in Canada by the North West Mounted Police—twice! Another account says he was found dead in the Minnesota brush, yet a third report claims he was hanged in Mexico. Or did he marry and live peacefully in Minnesota until he died of a gunshot wound? This has stimulated some history buffs to play detective to solve the mystery. Check out this link for a little more history on Dutch Henry: https://www.coronach.ca/dutch-henry.html

The Big Muddy Badlands is an amazing narrow valley about a two hours’ drive south-west from Regina, Saskatchewan. It has amazing scenery, created by the Ice Age traveling through the area  millions of years ago and melt water creating all kinds of formations. Wind and rain also play a part in erosion of the cliffs and buttes. They also provide great hiding places for outlaw activity. On our last day we did some exploring on our own.

We traveled off the main roads onto a trail across the prairie to see Castle Butte, an amazing large sandstone and clay hill pockmarked with caves—perhaps wolf caves in the past?

It stands 200 feet high and is a one-quarter of a mile around the base. We didn’t climb it, but I saw all kinds of possibilities for this in a book. Apparently, some of the caves are narrow and deep so you take a risk exploring them. Years ago, when lost, people used the landmark to get their bearings again. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Muddy_Badlands

On our way home to Alberta, we headed west toward Eastend, south of the Cypress Hills to visit a friend. Along the way near Wood Mountain, we came across a small North West Mounted Police Museum but sadly after the Labor Day weekend, it was open only on weekends so we couldn’t go inside. Perhaps we’ll see it on our next trip. The mounted police had a base at Wood Mountain and had their hands full with whiskey smugglers and outlaws whipping in from Montana, stealing cattle and horses and escaping across the border again and avoid prosecution. All they could hope was to catch them in the act in Canada and incarcerate them.

There are lots of interesting, historic places to visit in western Canada that give you glimpses of our pioneer days, the difficult task the police force had to control the whiskey trade, horse-stealing and cattle rustling. I could only touch on a bit of that history. I’m glad you came along for the brief outing.

www.elizabethclements.com

Link for Castle Butte and pictures https://ibackpackcanada.com/exploring-the-big-muddy-badlands-castle-butte/

https://www.tripadvisor.ca/Attraction_Review-g3347603-d155807-Reviews-Big_Muddy_Badlands-Coronach_Saskatchewan.html#photos;aggregationId=101&albumid=101&filter=7&ff=329947225

UNDERGROUND TUNNELS AND WOLF CAVES: PART ONE – Elizabeth Clements #PrairieRosePubs

UNDERGROUND TUNNELS AND WOLF CAVES: PART ONE – Elizabeth Clements

The first week of September 2000 remains a memorable one for me even now, almost nineteen years later. It was the long-anticipated millennium year—thus, I wanted Doug and I to do something memorable to celebrate. A couple of years earlier I had started writing a new western romance—Beneath A Horse-Thief Moon, and I wanted to explore the site of the wolf caves that cattle rustlers had used to camp in while hiding from the law. I’ve been fortunate to have always explored the settings for my books. Hence, the research trip.

We had never been to Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, nor had we ever stayed in a bed-and-breakfast. By the time we arrived, settled in and went out for supper, there was little else to do except decide which underground tour to take: The Al Capone Tour or The Passage to Fortune Tour as there wasn’t time to take in both. The Tunnels of Moose Jaw (website HERE) had just opened that summer. We registered for the Chinese tour, explored the displays and waited with two other couples. Soon, we were led down a flight of stairs to a small theater room to watch a short documentary.  

The film no sooner finished when suddenly a door flew open and a man charged in, yelling and calling us vile names. He ordered us to come with him. Startled and puzzled, we anxiously followed him into a dirt-walled hallway that led into a maze of corridors. We peeked into the area where a huge laundry operation used to be, then rooms used for sleeping and dismal opium dens where it cost a worker two days’ wages for a brief, drug-induced oblivion from this underground hell.

At times our tour guide was in character and other times he explained the function of each area. Then we arrived at the final destination. I remember it being a big, rectangular room with a long eating table, mismatched chairs and directly behind, three stalls with doors and buckets on the ground. By this time my heart ached, imagining the day-to-day misery of these poor, mistreated Chinese eating here and having stinking latrines behind them.

Giving us a moment, our guide said, “Now imagine what this was really like a century ago” and pressed a button. The room erupted into a cacophony of sounds: clanging pipes, hissing steam, rumbling machinery, the buzz of voices…. I went into sensory overload, imagining the steamy heat, the stench of the latrines, and the suffocating, very real, nostril-clogging smell of earth from the walls around us.

I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Gulping in fresh air outside, glad to be free and feeling guilty because the same couldn’t be said for those poor souls who had toiled for months, even years, under such intolerable conditions, I couldn’t get that horror out of my mind and it haunts me to this day.

In the late 1870’s, Ottawa undertook the building of a railroad to span the country. In the West, many Chinese workers were employed because they were cheap labor and were skilled in the use of dynamite to blast the railroad through the Rocky Mountains. After the Canadian Pacific Railway was completed, the Chinese remained, even began bringing their families from China.

Trouble broke out in 1908 at the CPR depot in Moose Jaw. Chinese workers were beaten because it was felt they were taking jobs away from Canadian men. The Ottawa government was forced to step in and quickly created a (despised) head tax to (hopefully) curb the tide of immigration from China. Thus, the persecuted Chinese feared for their lives and unable to pay the head tax for every family member, even babies, they hid in the underground tunnels of buildings owned by legal Chinese immigrants. They worked secretly underground, providing laundry service for the hotels in exchange for food, supplies and lodging.

Prohibition in the United States (and Canada) in the 1920’s brought further corruption to Moose Jaw because of its proximity to Chicago via the railroads and because of its ideal remote location. The corrupt police chief and reportedly all of his force aided and abetted Al Capone’s mob in gambling, prostitution and storing booze in the underground tunnels.

Illegal whiskey was smuggled in via rail cars and was unloaded or loaded through a shed in the rail yard that had direct access to a tunnel, which ran under the train station. The police chief (1905-1922) was so powerful that for twenty years not even the mayor could put a stop to his iron-fisted control. Apparently, the Chinese businessmen and the bootleggers were in cahoots, sharing the tunnels for their nefarious operations.

For 75 years the City officials denied the existence of these tunnels, which connected many downtown hotels and buildings underground in the previous century. Then one day a bus fell through Main Street, revealing a maze of tunnels, and the ugly truth was revealed about one of the “wildest frontier towns in the Canadian West”.

Picture-taking was not allowed on the tour, so sadly, I have no photos to share of the tunnels. The tunnels are open year-round. Perhaps this will entice you to visit Moose Jaw, which has a lot to offer visitors beside the tunnels. There is also an aviation museum on the outskirts of the city.

According to my research, these passages would have been built in the late 1890s to early 1900s. “Most of the tunnel structure would have been in place as basement rooms and access corridors for the steam engineers long before the major influx of Chinese to Moose Jaw. Some may have worked and lived in these spaces to avoid prosecution for illegal status or persecution because of race. The earliest use was as utility tunnels between buildings. The steam engineers who maintained the boilers constructed these access passageways so they would not have to exit one building to get to the next.” It saved time, but also was welcome in winter when temperatures dipped well below zero.

It’s never been confirmed if Al Capone actually visited Moose Jaw, but some of his mob hired young boys as messengers, paying them and even teaching them to play poker.

Moose Jaw was founded in 1882 due to it being chosen as a site for the Canadian Pacific Railway and by 1885 was a thriving town. Settlements along the CPR line quickly developed into permanent communities. The name Moose Jaw comes from a Cree name for the place, moscâstani-sîpiy, meaning “a warm place by the river.” The first two syllables, moscâ-, sound remarkably like “moose jaw”. Also, three creeks in the area, when sketched on paper, loosely resemble the jaw of a moose.

A popular attraction in Moose Jaw is the fiberglass moose statue. His name is Mac.

Creative Commons image - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moose_Jaw#/media/File:Mac_(86395457).jpg

On the ride home, I began writing a poem to help myself come to grips with what I’d seen and the misery it conjured in my mind. This is a terrible black mark in our history—yet another example of man’s inhumanity to man. Alas, I’ll have to save the wolf caves for my April blog.

TUNNELS OF TIME

                - Elizabeth Clements

"Be Off! Go Away!
Your kind aren't wanted here."

We died like black flies in autumn
Building your mighty railroad;
Treated worse than the deaf and dumb,
We staggered beneath our load.

Where will I go? What will I do?
I'm a stranger in your land.

Cold, heavy snow clings to my back,
The wind cuts through my clothes;
I seek a cave or empty shack
And a fire to warm my toes.

"Hey, you! Have you paid your head tax?
I thought not. Come with me."

Strong, brutal fingers clamp my arm
And shake me like a dog,
My heart thunders with alarm,
Despair creeps over me, gray as fog.

Why do you hate us so?
Beneath our skin we're all the same.

Struggling, I'm dragged against my will
Down a flight of wooden stairs,
An earthy stench near makes me ill;
I fall hard, but no one cares.

Why do you attack us and call us names?
An animal is kinder to its own.

Dim rooms swarm with shadows and I cry
For my people stooped with shame;
For years we’ve toiled, not seen the sky--
Can prejudice be to blame?

 Oh, no, what's to become of us?
I weep for the misery in our eyes.

Days blur into years without sunshine
In tunnels of endless nights;
"Coolies" can't complain or whine
Nor get pity from the "whites".

The stench of the latrines make us ill;
Pigs have cleaner sties than us.

Leaky water pipes hiss and steam,
Soiled laundry's piled sky-high;
Leaving this nightmare is our dream
So we can live before we die.

The opium lures me into oblivion--
Two days' wages is the price.

Deep despair mingles with my sweat,
My body's wracked with pain;
Three more years to pay off the head tax
Before I'll hold my wife again.

Amidst this madness, I caress your picture;
Your dear image keeps me sane.

Five years I've spent in this hell on earth
I've scrimped and saved my pay,
Made friends and shared moments of mirth,
Which sometimes saved my day.

An understanding touch or smile
Gives me strength to struggle on.

Despite the deep wounds carved by hate

My faith helped my soul survive;

While in my heart, the love of my mate

Got me through this hell alive.

Oh, pure sweet air and bright blue sky!
Freedom, I embrace you.

www.elizabethclements.com 

Here is an interesting article about the tunnels <click

Beneath A Horse-Thief Moon

Available on Amazon.com
Available on Amazon.ca

Location Location Location by Elizabeth Clements

LOCATION LOCATION LOCATION by Elizabeth Clements

A sense of setting is as essential to a story as dialogue, conflict, and pacing. Without it we have talking heads in a pea-soup fog. Artists and singers and movies have the advantage over writers by giving instant visual or oral gratification…like all these years later I’ve never forgotten the vista of the sweeping western frontier that greeted Lt Dunbar in Dances With Wolves. In a smaller dimension, our Cypress Hills reminds me of North Dakota and I can see those hills from where I live and it’s the setting for my trilogy.

Years ago, I became hooked on Mary Stewart’s romantic suspense mysteries. I read every book of hers available in our town library. She was excellent at painting word pictures and to this day there’s a scene that remains imprinted on my mind. I don’t recall the title, but the book may have been Airs Above The Ground, about the Austrian Lipizzaner horses. I’m fairly sure the setting was mountains and Austria, which makes me think of that title. She describes the scene beautifully, romantically, even perhaps with an air of mystery, her trademark, then ends that descriptive paragraph with a thud—"and the odor of pigs” (or something like that). Funny how that little snippet has stayed with me for decades and now I want to find and read that book again.

Dr. Zhivago has some of the most unforgettable scenery ever: springtime in the Urals, with the breeze dancing through a field of yellow daffodils, accompanied by that incredible soundtrack; or the snow-encrusted summer house nestled like a miniature ice palace amidst the snowdrifts, the windows covered in delicate patterns of frost and lit by a single candle. Another brief but unforgettable wintery image from the movie that packed a powerful visual punch for me was the boxcar crowded with people fleeing from Moscow—and when the straw was scooped and tossed out the open doorway, I flinched seeing all that mold staining the floor. A stark picture of the miserable, war-time conditions of all those gray-clad occupants who were crammed like chickens onto tiered bunks that reached to the ceiling of that frigid boxcar. The camera shot lasted only a few seconds, but it spoke volumes in my mind of the misery endured by these desperate victims of war. Here’s a clip from the movie that shows Yuri and Lara’s arrival at the ice-crusted summerhouse: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vXtFRl1nSs4

Dances with Wolves also made a succinct but powerful ecological statement with just a quick shot of an empty tin can of beans tossed carelessly onto the prairie by the wonderfully disgusting muleskinner who played a small but important part in the movie. Perhaps it was the director’s not-too subtle jab at littering, which is so prevalent in today’s throwaway society?

And who can forget the stunning visual in Gone With The Wind’s famous railway scene with its hundreds of wounded and dying soldiers lined along the tracks? And Atlanta burning around them as Rhett and Scarlett flee to the safety of Tara?  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Us6LpxSkKYo

I cite these movies in particular because I’d read Dances and Zhivago just a few days before seeing each movie. I was gratified by how closely and satisfyingly the director had followed each book (although the film’s ending differed from the Zhivago book). I know there are lots of other movies that come to mind, that have fabulous imagery, especially Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings or the new worlds created in the Marvel sci-fi movies. And don’t get me started on the fabulous settings for many western movies: Utah, the iconic Monument Valley, Bryce Canyon, New Mexico and the magnificent Grand Canyon, to name a few western settings.

The weather can be an important element in a book or movie. It’s been probably twenty-five years since I read one of Linda Lael Miller’s books, which was set in the Pacific North-West. I’ve forgotten the book title and the characters’ names, and sadly, even the plot, but what vividly remains in my mind of that dreary, sodden mining town is the incredible impression she gave the reader of the misery of sullen skies, day-after-day rain, and mud. And what a scintillating day when the sun stopped sulking and came out to play. Everything was gray: the skies, the rain, the buildings and even the clothes. The weather became a unique character in that book because it dominated so many scenes. 

The movie, Paint Your Wagon, is another wonderful example of rain and mud creating atmosphere—and you can almost smell all those unwashed bodies mining for gold. Clip from the movie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTymtAbaG08&list=RDNTymtAbaG08

For us to create unforgettable scenes for our readers, we have to help them inside our vision. Telling is easy but showing takes more words, hence the advantage movies and paintings have over books. Sometimes we can spend hours perfecting what we see in our minds. Years ago, I did a workshop on imagery for a romance writers’ group in Calgary and used three songs for the exercise of stimulating imagery. It was interesting to see some writers scribbled several pages, while others wrote just a paragraph or two, and others gazed thoughtfully into space.  Some willingly read what they’d written; it was interesting how the impressions varied amongst the group members from the same stimulation. After one of those songs, I said I was going to write a book about “What if the hero comes back?”, thus inspiring Beneath A Horse-Thief Moon. What if has always been my favorite writing inspiration. I’m sure I’m not alone!

One show vs telling exercise I like to use to create a visual in a reader’s mind is this simple sentence: He was walking angrily into the room. That’s telling us, but three people can immediately form a picture in their mind and they are all different. How was he walking? Limping, stomping, dashing? How did he look?  Red-faced, scowling, sneering? However, if you write: He strode into the room, kicked the cat out of the way and slammed the door so hard the windows rattled—we form a pretty good impression of him and we also have a much stronger use of verbs. We still don’t know what his face looked like, or his hair color, but we sure know he’s mad about something and he’s not a very nice person (poor kitty). Also, we don’t have to tell he was mean because the writer showed he was a nasty person or at least in a foul mood.

I like to start my books with action to (hopefully) hook the reader, and when the action slows a bit, then toss in some more of the setting, description or a bit of backstory. Snippets of the character’s personality can filter in via the action. Your reader should be too busy wondering what’s going to happen next that hair and eye color is the least of her must know now concerns.  Besides, she’s possibly already seen the cover and knows those details.  

Here is a brief excerpt from the beginning of Beneath A Horse-Thief Moon to give a sense of setting:

Someone’s behind me.

Chase Reynolds dipped his head to block the campfire with his hat brim while inching his hands toward his holsters. Better to die fighting than be shot in the back by a yellow-bellied bushwhacker.

 “Touch ’em and yer dead,” snarled a guttural voice.

 Chase froze. He risked a glance over his shoulder. Moonlight outlined a rifle aimed at his back. Teeth clenched, Chase raised his hands.

 “Git up.”

Chase rose slowly, turned and took satisfaction in towering over the bastard, who scooted back three steps. 

The man whistled. “Fang,” he called out. A wolf-like dog materialized from the darkness. Firelight gleamed on its shaggy gray fur and glittered in its pale eyes. The creature stopped in front of Chase and growled.

“Aptly named,” Chase muttered, his gaze riveted on the animal's sharp teeth. 

The outlaw jerked his rifle at the flames. “Douse it.” 

Warily, Chase bent and dumped his coffee pot. The fire sizzled, sputtered, and died. A plume of acrid smoke spiraled into the air, lighting a spark in the dry grass. The man stomped it into the ground.

Interesting. Most outlaws wouldn’t give a damn. 

www.elizabethclements.com

https://www.amazon.com/Beneath-Horse-Thief-Moon-Prairie-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B07BHQNBDW/ref=as_li_ss_tl?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1521556636&sr=1-1&keywords=BENEATH+A+HORSE-THIEF+MOON&linkCode=sl1&tag=httpliviajwac-20&linkId=eda8601d5e33245a7bf486b6eb0c838c

The other thing I’d like to share about settings is that I’ve been fortunate to visit the areas where my books are set. This isn’t always possible, and many writers rely on research, videos, movies and biographies to color their stories. However, nothing can replace being there: to see the flora and fauna indigenous to the area, breathe in the prairie sage or salt-laden sea breeze, experience the desert heat or damp chill and appreciate the vastness of the setting. The photo below is an overview of the Cypress Hills. From this, one sees how easily the heroine’s ranch can be hidden in the coulees and trees.

Cypress Hills and Reesor Lake in south-east Alberta, spreading for miles eastward into Saskatchewan

When I began my first book, a contemporary, the history part of it was from the Yukon Gold Rush and that’s the only place I haven’t been, but the modern-day action was set in Edmonton, Alberta, a city I’ve visited several times. Two more books are set right here in Medicine Hat. My first historical was inspired by a month-long visit to New Brunswick and the famous “flower pots” of Hopewell Cape. We spent an entire afternoon wandering through a working pioneer village. Thus, I’ve tried to incorporate into my novel all the sights and sounds and scents of southern New Brunswick’s famous Bay of Fundy area.

Years later, on a research trip to southern Saskatchewan, I visited the wolf caves situated a few yards from the International Boundary. Standing in that enlarged wolf cave, breathing in the dirt and imagining a couple of horse thieves camped there, waiting for a safe moment to run with their stolen horses hidden in a second wolf cave—well, I just knew I had to incorporate that experience into a book. Then more magic happened—my secondary characters demanded their own story and thus the Prairie Moon Trilogy was born, lol, all set in the lush, historic Cypress Hills of Alberta and Saskatchewan.

We’ve all heard the advice write about what you know. That is true, but I’ll go one step further…write about what you love, what you feel passionate about! It will resonate in your story. Research is great and necessary, but get the passion down first, then polish it with research. As lovers of history, we writers can get caught up in research, often gathering far more than what we actually need. This way we can narrow our research to what’s pertinent to the story instead of wallowing in it then having to edit much of it out. However, in defense of necessary research, it can unearth some terrific nuggets that will enrich our story even more.

When I first began writing, I was advised to stick to American settings. I strongly resisted. I felt and still feel Canada has fabulous scenery and interesting history that should be shared with readers. In my late teens and twenties, I’d read hundreds of romances, historical and contemporary, always set in the U.S.A. or England or France, etc., but never in Canada. When I finished writing my first book in 1982 (yes, that far back), I finally came across one book—a Harlequin Presents—that was set in Canada—Calgary, to be precise. When I saw that pocketbook in the bookstore, with the Calgary Tower on the cover, I was devastated because my book was set in Calgary; I didn’t want the editor to think I had copied the book (even though I’d already sent my manuscript off to Harlequin before I even began reading that romance).

Well, when I read it, this writing novice learned something very useful. Good, accurate research is imperative. That published author had obviously never been to Calgary (that’s all right) and knew nothing about the city other than the fact that English friends had been to the Calgary Stampede and she thought that would make an interesting setting. There was not one single landmark mentioned in the book, not any mention of the cowboys and the arena events, not even a note about the mountains or prairies or foothills or Calgary’s fabulous western history. 

Readers love to identify with a place they’ve visited while reading a book. It gives them a much more intimate enjoyment of the story. However, this British author failed to do that for me. For a while, she put out a book a month or every other month and had an irritating habit of plunking in a paragraph describing the heroine that read like a paint-by-number list.

Am I being over-critical? I don’t know; I just go by what I like and don’t like and try not to make mistakes that I’ve perceived in books or at least things that annoyed me in a book. By the way, I stopped buying that author’s books years ago. She was new and refreshingly different, initially, but after five or six books of the same…. That’s a death knell for an author’s books.

I don’t wish to end my blog on a negative note—everything I’ve written here is simply my humble opinion. There are a lot of fabulous writers and books out there, many I have yet to read, including PRP authors, but I simply wanted to share my writing experiences with you, what I’ve learned to do and not do. And if anything I’ve said helps someone at their stage of writing, then these words are all worth the effort. I’m far from perfect and I’m learning all the time.  I feel the day I ever think I don’t need to learn anything more is the day I must dig deeper.  Also, I must remind myself not to compare my writing with others who write much better than I, but rather just dwell on the love of creating my own stories the best way I can. I do believe in following my instincts, and they’ve never led me astray when it comes to the way I feel about books.

Thank you for visiting the PRP blog and have a wonderful day, no matter what you set out to do today. Please visit my website to view the many photographs my son took for me of the Cypress Hills and historic Fort Walsh.