Feminism vs. Just Gittin’ It Done…
Let’s be clear: I am no feminist. I do, however, write stories about strong-willed women who overcome some pretty stout obstacles. Often, my heroines are based on real people.
So, why am I not a feminist? Isn’t modern feminism basically the belief women should be treated the same as men? One dictionary defines it as advocating social, political, legal, and economic rights for women equal to those of men.
Hmmm. Let’s not give that platform a blank check. The FACT is women are different from men and when two things ARE inarguably different, they don’t always need to be treated the same. For example, only women can get pregnant. A woman shouldn’t be allowed to kill a baby growing in her uterus under the guise of women’s rights, or pro-choice or whatever pretty euphemism you’d like to use.
Furthermore, God’s Word draws a distinction between men and women, calling us the weaker vessel. Weaker. Not defective. Physically weaker.
Generally speaking, women didn’t sail the seas to find a new country. Women didn’t hack trails out of the wilderness to see what was over the next hill. Women didn’t trek deep into the heart of the mountains to trap beavers. When gold was discovered in California, women didn’t saddle their horses and ride hell-bent-for-leather to stake a claim.
Feminists would say slow female participation in these events was due to a society that held women back. Everything from unfair property laws to corsets, to educational barriers kept us from tackling great, ground-breaking, destiny-defining adventures. I say phooey. That is a bogus construct.
Women—namely, American women—have always done what they needed to do when they needed to do it. Especially if they really wanted to do it. Our female ancestors lived on the frontier, fought in the Revolutionary War, drove their own wagons west, panned for their own gold, opened their own freight lines, ranched on the edge of Indian Territory, won the right to vote. These endeavors were harder for them. Yet, rather than whine about their circumstances, like their physical limitations and ignorant men, they forged ahead.
And did all this without playing the victim, amplifying their own sense of self-importance (read “selfish” here), or casting off their moral compass, along with their femininity.
I believe the content of a person’s character is the true determining factor in their success. You can’t keep a good woman down and smart men eventually figure that out.
Speaking of strong-willed women, you should check out my book Grace be a Lady. Yep, it’s the tale of a feisty heroine who did what she had to do without selling her soul in the process.
She Couldn’t Vote but She Could Float
I stumbled across a lady in defiance today who left me in awe of her grit and courage. This gal stamped her name on history in one of the most unique yet most daring, most defiant ways ever. Talk about thinking out of the box for a paycheck.
Mary Myers flew balloons. Often, alone. In the 1880s.
Now that’s courage, sister.
Mary was born in Boston in 1849 but married Carl Myers in 1871. He was a sort of jack-of-all-trades—because he was a late bloomer. After several false starts, Carl came into his own when he began pursuing aeronautical engineering. Eventually, by the time he was in his 40’s, he was designing balloons and securing patents on fabric that would hold hydrogen. The couple opened a factory (a large home they called the Balloon Factory) to sell “passenger” balloons. Yes, balloons that would carry more than one person with a death wish.
The world’s a nicer place in my beautiful balloon
It wears a nicer face in my beautiful balloon
We can sing a song and sail along the silver sky
For we can fly, we can fly
At first the Myers hired test pilots to fly their new designs, but Carl wanted to get into the air himself and of course, Mary was right there with him. However, she thought her simple name of Mary was too bland, too common to reflect well on her new, exciting career. She chose a stage name: Carlotta Myers. A derivative of Carl. Clever.
They flew their balloons at expositions that drew massive crowds. I mean in the tens of thousands. Mary made her first solo flight in 1886 and flew right at 200 flights total.
Most excursions went well. There were a couple of noticeable exceptions. Once her balloon ran into a severe thunderstorm. Water poured into her gondola at a breakneck pace and literally started sinking her balloon. She tossed everything she could over the side but still wound up crashing into a tree and sitting like a pigeon eighty feet in the air, tangled in an oak. Hunters were able to rescue her about an hour later.
Perhaps more harrowing, however, was the time in 1886 when her balloon, handled too roughly by a massive crowd of spectators, came apart in mid-air! Amazingly she managed to gather the fraying fabric and fashion a parachute. Mary glided about 12 miles using this rig, nice and easy to roughly her expected landing area.
I don’t know what I find more amazing about this woman: her unwavering desire to fly balloons or her ability to pursue said calling in a time when women couldn’t even vote.
Hat tip to Mary “Carlotta” Myers for defying cultural norms, for marrying a man who believed in her, and for soaring. A true lady in defiance.
Eliza Pinckney Broke the Mold and Defied Expectations for a Colonial Woman
(This is a repost of a favorite blog from 2014 and, yes, I do compare Eliza to Donald Trump and, no, I won’t apologize)
Poor, oppressed women. We’ve been kept barefoot and pregnant our whole existence with little chance to improve our lot in life. America, this Land of Opportunity, provided no better alternatives…Or so spout the feminazis.
Gimme a break. If you read my blog, then you know women with fire in their bellies rocked their worlds…and no corset could hold them back.
Take the refined and educated Eliza Lucas Pinckney. The woman was a Donald Trump before there was a Trump.
Born in the West Indies in 1722, she attended school in England and learned all the proper lady subjects, such as French, needlework, and music, but she adored Botany. Her father, a British military officer, moved the family to Charleston, SC where he owned three plantations. His wife, however, died shortly after this move. At only 16, Eliza stepped up, helping raise her siblings and running the plantations whenever her father was called away for military duties.
A naturally savvy businesswoman, she spotted trends in the burgeoning textile industry right off. Dyes were in high demand world-wide so she actually cultivated an improved indigo plant, the plant that makes the stable blue dye.
Hitting this mark was nothing short of a Herculean task. Her first two crops were crippled by frost and then worms. Her third was robust and healthy, but the gentleman hired to extract the die purposely sabotaged the results. Hailing from Montserrat, he couldn’t allow South Carolina to develop an industry that would rival that of his home country. Eliza and her father both recognized the man for the scoundrel he was and fired him. Ironically, the man’s brother came in and salvaged the mess. Once Eliza knew she had a winner, she shared the seeds with other SC plantations.
In 1745-1746, only 5,000 pounds of indigo were exported from the Charleston area. Eliza’s strain bumped that to more than 130,000 pounds within three years!
When she was twenty-two, she married widower Charles Pinckney, a successful lawyer, politician, and neighbor. He had seen Eliza handle her father’s plantations and fell in love with the bright, independent young woman. He never tried to rein her in and Eliza loved him dearly…perhaps for his wisdom. Pinckney traveled frequently but was well aware his home was in good hands. She continued to run both her father’s and her husband’s plantations, and raise her own brood of four children.
Amazingly, Eliza also invested a great deal of time in educating her children. To no one’s surprise, her sons played major roles in the Revolutionary War and one would sign the Declaration of Independence. Why am I not surprised?
Eliza Pinckney died in 1793. She and her daughter had hosted George Washington once during his presidency and apparently made quite an impression. Upon hearing of her death, he volunteered to be a pallbearer at her funeral.
Eliza worked hard, loved well, and blessed many. She should inspire us all to become Ladies in Defiance!
Copyright 2014 Heather Blanton
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Changing a Book to Satisfy the Mob
Apparently, author Amélie Wen Zhao hasn’t heard the famous Lincoln quote: You can’t satisfy all of the people all of the time.
Amid the outcry of Snowflakes who thought she had treated the issue of slavery without enough sensitivity, the debut author asked her publisher to yank the release in June of Blood Heir so she could re-write some scenes.
As Publisher’s Weekly put it, “…particularly that a slave auction scene in Blood Heir was insensitive to POC readers due to the history of slavery in the U.S.”
Well, uh, I would suggest the mere historical FACT of slave auctions is pretty darn insensitive to POC (People of Color, if you’re not familiar with yet ANOTHER hip acronym).
This is a shame. The mob is telling this girl what to write and how to write it. And she caved. As did her publisher. As an author, you can probably imagine how much this bothers me. Where does it stop? Shall we run all our ideas by some PC filter group? Put some kind of warning on our books?
Here’s a thought: maybe we could just figure out who we’re writing for and keep that group happy. I know, crazy, right? Hitting our target reader. What a concept.
I’m sorry Amelie was ambushed by a virtual mob of “tolerant” liberals. I am sorry that she caved and won’t get to write the book she envisioned. That really does make me sad, but not just for her. Reading a book the way the writer saw the story is like sitting down to chat with a friend. It’s a personal experience. Her readers aren’t going to get that now.
As for me, well, I bet you can guess what I would say to a mob telling me how to write a book: don’t buy it.
My stories are written for folks who have at least passing respect for the Almighty, are okay with guns, happily salute the American flag, like fiery, determined heroines, long for a world that honors old-fashioned values like kindness and decency, and enjoy watching my flawed characters overcome steep odds. I’m pro-God, pro-gun, pro-life, pro-Bible, pro-US Constitution, and pro-freedom of speech.
If any of these statements offend you–well, I must ask, what are you doing here? I’d love for you to read my books. I think most of them are pretty entertaining and inspiring. They’re really well rated on Amazon. But my world view isn’t changing for anybody.
Babies Have Rights, Too
Abortion. Yeah. I’m going there.
As a history freak, I’m pretty well acquainted with how hard life was for the women who settled and–might I add–fought–for this country. Sometimes they manned cannons or rode through hell and high water to deliver intelligence. They fought marauding Indians, beat off snakes with sticks, stared down cattle rustlers, stamped out brush fires with handmade quilts, heck, even crawled through blizzards. And a lot of the time our ancestors did these amazing feats with babies in their arms and toddlers clinging to their apron strings.
I read somewhere the average woman in the 19th century had six children. Most of these ladies probably would have liked to stop before then. Six babies is a lot, but having them was a fact of life because successful birth control (short of abstinence) wasn’t a fact of life. I surmise, however, if they’d had magic wands and could have “undone” any of these pregnancies, I’d bet 99.99% of these gals would have balked at the proposition. In fact, I’d bet they’d be willing to walk through hell covered in gasoline to protect their infants.
Fast forward to the 1970s when all a woman had to do to prevent pregnancy was pop a pill or slap a condom on her partner. Yet, Democrats and spineless Republicans pushed ahead (Roe v. Wade) to legalize abortion, though with “strict limitations” because those words make “murder” so much more palatable. Pro-lifers warned this was a slippery slope; man is after all evil and rebellious at heart.
So here we are today. The New York state legislature comes along and votes into law the right of a woman to kill her baby in the 3rd trimester. And she doesn’t even have to have a doctor perform the homicide. I heard this morning the Virginia legislature is considering a similar bill.
If you know me, you know I’m not politically correct so it won’t surprise you where I come down on these horrific “laws.” I am DEEPLY DISGUSTED by New York Assemblywoman Deborah Glick and NY State Senator Liz Krueger and Virginia Delegate Kathy Tran. The “sponsors” of these bills. I’d call them death merchants.
Ladies, a law that allows the murder of a child for no reason other than the baby is an inconvenience is diabolical. Abominable. Dastardly. Evil. Heinous. Soulless. As are you.
And I’m sorry for you.
I can talk politics all day long and not lose my temper. THIS is the one issue on which I struggle to maintain patience and kindness. I’m not just dealing with ignorance or fear (as I see so often when discussing the 2nd Am), this is EVIL. Pure and simple. And I stand in Defiance of it.
Pray, people, pray. Vote Pro-Life. Donate to pro-life candidates. Support our pro-life president.
Our ancestors didn’t fight and struggle to keep their children alive to build this nation and settle a country just so we could treat human lives as if they are less valuable than cattle. Think about it. If the politicians feel this way about a 9-month old baby in the womb, who’s next? Senior citizens? The mentally challenged? Jews?
Can I get an amen?
Look Out! I’m Going all Politically Incorrect Again…
As a nation, not only have we become deeply divided, but we’re divided over stupid things. Maybe–here’s a crazy thought–if we were a little less sensitive we’d all get along a little better. Instead of scouring the universe for something that hurts our little feelings, maybe we could be more concerned with things that matter.
So, here’s the reason for my rant. I recently read an article (Writing with Color Description Guide Part One) that said writers shouldn’t use words like chocolate, coffee, cinnamon, cocoa, etc. to describe a Person of Color. Such descriptors are, according to this article’s author, fetishizing, dehumanizing, and my favorite (and I quote): these words are about aggression and appropriation and have links to colonialism.
You can’t, according to the writer, use coffee, for example, to describe someone’s skin color because it refers to slavery. You’re microaggressively trying to show your European dominance. I have to quote the writer again: “Cocoa. Coffee. They drove the slave trade. They still drive the slave trade.” (Underline is hers not mine.) In short, you are obviously a racist if you use the word coffee to describe an African American’s skin tone. Give me a break.
BUT, we can use words like peachy and milky to describe whites–because, according to the article’s author, whites aren’t people of color. Furthermore, she says it’s okay to say Olive-toned (Olives have no historical connection to slavery?). She also says it’s okay to use other foodie descriptors like wheat, soybean…wait, what? Soybean?
I’m pretty sure a stranger would be offended if I described her skin as a warm soybean color. Now THAT is dehumanizing.
And just who does this writer suggest run the Politically Correct Botanical Comparison Police anyway? Her? Frankly, with stupid suggestions like “soybean,” someone needs to take her badge away.
I LOVE coffee. I am pretty sure that’s not because I’m a subconscious racist. Coffee smells like heaven. The texture is gritty and firm. The taste is warm, savory, and comforting. I could sleep on a bed of steamy milk. Anyone who walks into a Starbuck’s and inhales that heady aroma knows exactly what I’m talking about.
My point is rather than worrying about microaggressions or poor cliches in literature, people that live to be offended should try to be more constructive. That is if they truly want to make this a better world.
Instead of complaining about being called coffee, go have a cup with someone who has a different view of life from yours. Instead of acting like your elders’ march for civil rights didn’t break any barriers, let’s march together to end sex slave trafficking. Instead of whining about the way illegal immigrants are treated, study America’s history and look at what blessings members of the “melting pot” have added to the world.
I have a suspicion, though, the writer of “Writing with Color” would rather just go read Mark Twain and strikethrough all the offensive words. Maybe she’ll feel better but I doubt it.
How about you? Do you feel victimized by bad color metaphors or do you even give a rip as long as you can see the scene and the character?
(To be fair, the author in Part 2 she does offer some nice substitutes, but she clearly shies away from metaphors and similes, preferring to just use colors to describe characters).
My Heroes Have Always Been Princesses–Even Disney Ones
Feminism. Do you ever wonder how in the world America was built without those early pioneer women being told (incessantly) they were strong, brave, and didn’t need a man around? Golly, it’s a wonder we were able to help build a country.
In the last few days, I’ve heard a couple of Hollywood starlets berating Cinderella, Snow White, and Sleeping Beauty for being bad role models. Keira Knightley said her favorite Disney movie The Little Mermaid is not allowed entertainment for her 3-year-old. “I mean, the songs are great, but do not give your voice up for a man,” she told Ellen DeGeneres.
I think about the way our culture is working so hard to feminize men and make women masculine and it really ticks me off. Generally speaking, we’re smaller, daintier, physically weaker, more emotional–we’re VERY different from men. And that is our strength. Don’t denigrate it.
Meet a couple of my favorite heroines:
Sybil Ludington, raised in a genteel home with the usual simple expectations of her fairer sex, rode 40 miles in one night to warn the American militia the British were coming.
Another Revolutionary War heroine, Margaret Corbin followed her husband into battle, then took over his cannon when he was killed. Horribly wounded, she fired at the British until she passed out, but hers was the last cannon going.
Or let’s consider Sacagawea who crossed a continent, climbing mountains, shooting rapids, and trekking across remote country for thousands of miles, all while carrying a baby on her back.
And then there’s Susan McSween who, after the broad-daylight murder of her husband, fearlessly stood up to the lawless element in Lincoln, New Mexico and eventually became the state’s largest, most powerful rancher.
And I bet every one of these women had heard some version of Cinderella. In fact, unlike our culture today, women of the past were not expected to be anything but a princess! They weren’t shielded from their “limitations.” Yet, when it came down to brass tacks, when their feet hit the fire, when it all went sideways, our female ancestors stood up, shouldered the burden, and made a difference. Nobody had to tell them they were as smart, as strong, as courageous as a man. They certainly weren’t told they were better than a man, or that all men are bad. They weren’t insecure or threatened by men. They accepted the way things were and rose above it without whining, rioting, or turning their daughters into little self-centered, angry man-hating robots.
I think it was Ginger Rogers who said she could do everything Fred could do, only she did it backward and in high heels. But she liked her high heels and pretty, flowing gowns.
I like being a princess–which, frankly, is just code for being A Lady in Defiance of Expectations.
What about you? Are you proud to be a princess or am I waaaaay off base? Do you have a favorite Disney princess?
I Speak My Mind and, Yes, That Should be Okay
Last week I let loose with some choice thoughts for what was happening in this Brett Kavanaugh fiasco. Talk about a smear train coming through and this man is standing on the tracks. BUT, that is not what I’m writing about here. I’m writing to express my SHOCK at how many people congratulated me on speaking my mind. Even other authors secretly contacted me to high-five me, lamenting that they don’t have the courage to speak up ON THEIR OWN FACEBOOK pages.
Man, this isn’t the way it’s supposed to work in America. I mean, we are still the land of the free and home of the brave. We have our First Amendment rights. We speak our minds and that is supposed to be okay. FOR EVERYONE.
So, two things. First, I don’t feel particularly brave or courageous when I post anti-Lefty things. I have carefully built my tribe on Facebook. If you are my friend, you are either conservative, a follower of Jesus Christ, inordinately polite in conversation, an #NRA member, a fan of #LastManStanding, or possibly all of the above. Therefore, Facebook is my happy place. Last week when I spouted off about the Kavanaugh smear campaign, I unfriended one person and gained EIGHT new friends in one day. (Now, we’ll see what happens here.)
But, second, I am WELL aware there is some risk. I don’t live in La La Land. When I post stuff on Facebook, I figure my biggest threat might be a liberal Facebook employee who decides to monkey with the algorithms and sink the posts. Yes, this could even happen at Amazon. I offend the wrong IT person and my books could fall off the edge of the world never to be seen again.
BUT, I also know that my God is still on the throne. If he wants my books to get out in the world, out they will go. Look at the success people like Tim Allen, Tim Tebow, heck, even Trump have had by believing in the values that built this country.
I still believe in freedom of speech, freedom of religion, the right to keep and bear arms, the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. I also believe in discussing matters in a polite, friendly way. (Okay, my posts can be a touch sarcastic, but when I’m face-to-face, I’m ALWAYS polite.)
I will continue to speak my mind as A Lady in Defiance of the Left’s tyranny. And, I believe, so will most of you! It’s your right!
Who’s with me?
I’d like to invite you to subscribe to my newsletter. I don’t talk politics there (well, not often), but we have fun, I keep you updated on important matters (like this movie option thing that’s happening), give stuff away, and let you know about new releases. I hope you’ll join me here.
How does a man, missing a limb, feel whole again?
Welcome to a sneak-peek of my newest release,
To Love and to Honor— Enjoy!
From Chapter 5:
A day later, Joel was strong enough to travel.
And to send word to Ruth of his whereabouts.
He tapped the pencil on the Western Union form, trying to determine how much to write. He believed it a safe assumption his wife did not care where he was so long as he was not in her presence.
His time away with the cavalry had changed Ruth. Her letters had grown colder, her thoughts more succinct. Coming home minus a limb had only served to deepen the divide between them.
What exactly was the state of their relationship now? Dead? Dying? How did one resuscitate a marriage in this condition? Prayer. Ask God for a miracle to revive their love?
He had prayed for revival, but without any passion behind the request. He knew he should care, be desperate to save their marriage. Yet, desperation had died with every brief, emotionless letter from her, every repulsed look she had revealed, and every touch from which she had recoiled. The guilt of his growing apathy weighed on him. He suspected Ruth had reasons for some guilt as well, but Joel had no proof. Without proof, suspicions were merely that—suspicions.
Finally, tired of debating, he wrote, Delayed in Evergreen, Wy. Will notify you when I proceed to South Dak. He pondered adding love, Joel. In the end, he didn’t and slid the paper over to the clerk.
The Bar FB sat in a long, flat valley, ringed with hills that alternated between open pastures thigh-high with brittle, fall grass, and deep, dark-green forests of Scotch and Blue spruces. White-faced Hereford cattle milled about everywhere.
Various log buildings such as the barn and bunkhouse surrounded the imposing main house at strategic distances. Surprising Joel, the home was a white-washed antebellum structure with a cupola on the top. From it, he imagined a man could sit up there and see the whole valley in any direction.
King of all he surveys, eh?
“You could still back out,” Angela said from beside him, hunching her shoulders and rubbing her arms. Joel assumed she was cold, but the action could have also just as easily expressed her fears at this homecoming.
He tapped the reins across the horses’ rear ends to maintain their speed. “Not much of an option right now.”
“You could drop me off and keep riding.”
A cowardly act he couldn’t fathom. He was here now and he was committed to the cause.
“You’re an honorable man, aren’t you, Captain Chapman?”
“I used to think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t like lying. Normally I wouldn’t have fallen into something like this. I believe almost any man can be reasoned with.” He cut his eyes at her. “You’ve made me believe your father may be the exception and this subterfuge is necessary. I hope I have not misjudged.”
She heaved a great sigh. “I understand your concern. Two seconds with my father, though, and you’ll understand mine.”
They rolled beneath the gate that proudly displayed the Bar FB encircled in barbed wire, and then into the main yard. A few ranch hands nodded and tipped their hats. One, a large fellow with a silvery-yellow beard, paused, allowed his smile to widen, and approached the buggy. Joel pulled it to a stop.
“Miss Angela.” The cowboy swiped his hat off. “What a surprise. Your father said you was back East in school. He didn’t say anything about you coming for a visit.”
“Howdy, Glenn, it’s nice to see you. I’ve missed your saucy jokes.”
The man blushed from his neck up, the color disappearing into his beard, then stole a quick glance at Joel. A glint of disapproval flashed across Glenn’s face but disappeared quickly.
“Oh.” Angela squared her shoulders. “Glenn, this is my husband, Joel Chapman. Joel, my father’s foreman, Glenn Leary.”
Joel reached across Angela and the two shook hands. Glenn was clearly shocked by the news, judging from his slack jaw. “Husband, huh? Yeah, your father didn’t mention that either.”
“I imagine there’s a lot he hasn’t mentioned about me since I left.”
The man pursed his lips as if acknowledging a secret. “Yeah, he hasn’t said too much since you’ve been gone.” He replaced the Stetson. “And he has been in one continual sour mood. Now that you’re back, maybe he’ll quit yellin’ so much.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t sound like she believed it. “We’ll see you soon.”
Angela touched Joel’s arm and he drove the rig up to the front of the house. “Well, here goes nothing.” Her voice wiggled and Joel wished he could give her a reassuring hug.
In lieu of that, he said, “I’ve faced a hundred screaming Indians, dodged a hailstorm of fiery arrows, and a blizzard of bullets. I’m not afraid of your father.” He smiled, hoping he had reassured her some.
Instead, her smile was pitying. “That doesn’t mean he can’t hurt you.”
Please pick up your copy TODAY of To Love and to Honor!
Exploring Deadwood–Day 2
Day 2 Thursday
Deadwood at 6 in the morning. As quiet as the name would suggest. I walked around the main street and got some great shots.
It seemed the wild-and-wooly past was a little closer without the tourists and cars drowning it out. I gazed up at buildings that pioneers had looked at. I couldn’t help but wonder at the people who risked so much to build this little town.
We stayed in the Bullock Hotel and the little restaurant is just as historic as the rest of the building. Tin tiles in the ceiling. A huge fireplace in the room. A little saloon-style bar behind which the chef whipped up some simple but yummy breakfast items—and the biggest cinnamon roll I’ve ever seen in my life!
I realized that morning that I had no way to get photos from the memory stick in my camera to my Mac so after breakfast, Dawn and I drove over to Spearfish. A pretty big town—it has a Walmart! The drive over was gorgeous. The Black Hills of SD really are truly haunting, even a little mystical. While there, we had lunch at a lovely little coffee shop/café that seemed to serve a lot of college students. Turns out, Black Hills State is located there. I want to remember the veranda we sat on, the warm, dry air, the stunning blue sky and mountains in the distance. On the way into Spearfish, we saw a homeless guy sitting at an intersection. On the way out of town, we took him a sandwich and gave him a little money. Yeah, he might drink up the cash, but we gave to be a blessing and show Jesus. No judging.
Now, one of the interesting things about Deadwood is how it’s situated between two steep, mountain walls. And I do mean steep.
There are several old, Victorian homes up there. We were so curious to see them up close so Dawn and I ventured up there—I felt like I was back home in Western North Carolina! I mean we are talking narrow, twisty little roads. I don’t know how these people get around in the winter! But what a view!
We still had some time before check-in, so we made the trek to the cemetery. The day was warm, even by my Southern standards, and we took the stairs from the street which cuts the walk in half but doubles the difficulty. I thought my sister—who has asthma—was going to kill me. Mt. Moriah Cemetery is one of the most beautiful, peaceful, and historic graveyards I’ve ever visited. I mean, you don’t get to see “Killed by Indians” on too many tombstones. For a Western writer, that’s kind of a thrill.
The first event of the Wild Deadwoods Read program was a meet-and-greet. While I am not a huge social butterfly, I was pretty much ready to leave after we collected our lanyards and swag bag. But we did meet up with authors Kari Trumbo and Danica Favorite, two of my fellow authors from the Brides of Blessings series. Starting to run out of gas, Dawn and I split for dinner in the hotel and brought Kari with us. She’s really sweet and a great writer. You should check out her work!
And with that, we called it a night. In Deadwood. Love it!