Have you ever tried to capture a childhood memory -- that illusive remnant of an adventure softened by the shadows of time? As adults, we might wonder if those events really happened, or if they are only figments of our imagination.  We might laugh now at our naiveté, but at the time, those painted carousel horses were very much alive, the pirate ship held tons of gold, and the cowboys always won.        

            For me, there was a candy dish; but not your ordinary candy dish of course…

 

            "Are we there yet?"

The road was bumpy, and Dad swerved to miss a snake slithering across the gravel.  It was hot, but July is always hot in Iowa, and back in 1956, air conditioning wasn't included on the sticker price of our Chevy station wagon.  It didn't bother me, though, because I was seven years old.  I was tough, and not about to let hot weather stop me from enjoying the drive that would take me to my adventure.

            Bugs splattered against the windshield, and a big grasshopper ricocheted off the rear view mirror to land on the back seat.  Dad said to get it out of the car, but one look at those beady eyes convinced me it wouldn't hurt if the grasshopper went with us. 

            Dad was taking me to my Aunt Bea's -- a farm with horses and other animals and homemade cookies and my cousin Craig.  We would take baths in a galvanized tub hardly big enough to sit in; we had to hand-pump water into the kitchen sink.  We played from sun-up until Aunt Bea rang the huge dinner bell, then after meals we played some more.

            At that time, there were no convenience stores on the corners, no public swimming pools and skating rinks or shopping at the mall every afternoon.  There were no computers, video games or cell phones; no colored TV in every room or central air conditioning. 

             Instead, we had acres and acres of green grass and blue sky in which to play; square hay bales to hide behind when playing cowboys; a big house with a huge porch and cookies hot from the oven.  Our imaginations never limited the source of our adventures, and we didn't need a lot of toys to occupy our time.  Unless, of course, you counted the dollar's worth of plastic cowboys we bought at the local Five & Dime. 

            Aunt Bea had a big old farmhouse -- far too large for just the three of them, so the front rooms had been closed off by a set of pocket doors.  White slipcovers blanketed the furniture and the draperies were always closed. Voices echoed eerily off the chill walls and hardwood floors should anyone happen to step into what looked like a mausoleum.    

            It was as though an entirely different family lived there, but they were never home.  Even so, you had to walk past the connecting doors quietly, for it wouldn't be polite to disturb them. 

            "Don't say a word," my cousin would whisper, a finger to his lips.  Of course, I believed him -- he was older than me and he lived there all the time.

            It was more fun living in the back of the house, anyway, because there were two kitchens.  In one, Aunt Bea put up summer vegetables from the garden.  There were big wooden worktables, the pump to get water into the sink, and a big, pot-bellied stove. 

            Aunt Bea made cookies in the other kitchen.  It was by the living room, where Uncle Clair watched black & white TV and an old sidesaddle hung on the wall.  My cousin and I would lie on the hardwood floor and play with little cars that went in a metal garage and rolled down the ramp to the car wash.

            Every day we played cowboys, hiding behind hay bales and shooting at each other with plastic handled pistols.  We'd take turns being the cowboys and bad guys because it was only fun when there was someone to shoot at.  After all, with just two of us, it would be too easy to steal horses from imaginary outlaws.  Even so, it was easy to get bored.  So we would hide out and try to decide what to do next.

            We could go get something to eat or drink.  It was hot and we played hard.  Of course, we couldn't just walk in and ask -- that would have been too simple -- so we decided to sneak in through the front of the house.

            The old weathered boards of the porch creaked beneath our bare feet.  The screen door swayed on rusty hinges and created eerie noises that belonged to the inky night, not to broad daylight.  I giggled and my cousin shushed me -- we couldn't dare be caught.  We silently crept closer to the door, keeping low beneath the windows.  Craig turned the handle -- a soft click and the door squeaked open, inch by noisy inch.  I held my breath, sure that any second we would be discovered.  Craig pushed on the big wooden door -- I grabbed his arm and hung on.  After all, he was bigger than me and much, much braver.

            Shadows loomed gigantic across the wood floors.  Shrouded furniture turned to ghostly shapes before our eyes and towered larger than any monster either of us had ever seen.

            "Let's go," I whimpered, ready to forget the entire escapade.

            "We can't," Craig jerked me to a stop and pointed. 

            There, like a glittering crystal crown, a candy dish perched on top of the dark wood coffee table.  We stood in silent awe as it beckoned us.  Sunshine filtered through a gap in the draperies to form a spotlight, causing the crystal to wink knowingly at us.  Dust motes floated down the sunbeams and danced around the crystal, paying homage.

            We crept on hands and knees now, our eyes wide and our hearts pounding.  Any minute unbidden creatures would jump up and screech at us from behind the white sheets.  Beasts from beneath the couch would snatch our legs and drag us, screaming and fighting, beneath the draped edge, never to be heard from again. 

            Regardless of the danger, we slithered closer, for the candy dish proved a stronger lure than the threat of unseen monsters.

            Even as our grubby hands touched the sparkling cut glass, we cast furtive glances over our shoulders toward the doors that separated this section from the real house.  Craig whispered to be careful, for we not only had to remove the lid without letting it click against the side, but we must put it back so no one would know we had been there. 

            Our adventure became more difficult the minute Craig lifted the lid.  It had a fluted edge, and if the little curves didn't fit together just right, it would fall off to the side and break.  Not to mention making an incredible noise. 

            I could hear Aunt Bea moving around in the kitchen on the other side of the pocket doors.  The dog barked outside, and a horse neighed in the distance.  My heart beat louder than any ordinary noise, and I knew for sure she could hear us.  I held my breath as I reached into the bowl.  My hand closed around the prize -- sweet, hard bits of sugar.  As quietly as we had come, we left, pulling the door softly closed behind us.

            Those few seconds were as long as we could remain quiet.  With whoops of laughter, we jumped off the porch and raced for the hay bales, falling down to the ground only after we were safely out of sight and no one the wiser.  We laughed as we ate the spoils of our adventure, arguing already over who would lead the secret raid tomorrow.

            We never questioned the reason for a candy dish in a room no one ever entered.  After a week of raids on the ghostly haunt, we never once thought it unusual that the candy dish, sitting alone in a room never used, was always full.  After all, it was summer on the farm, and at seven years of age, it's easy to believe in magic.

***

If you like short stories for a change of pace, I invite you to grab a copy of “Before Tomorrow Comes” -- Can five women with tender hearts find the love they deserve before their secrets and pasts are exposed? This, and all my romance novels are available at your favorite online bookstore.

Here’s hoping your memories are magic.

 

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

 

Legacies

 As defined in the dictionary, a legacy is a gift, by will, especially of money or other personal property; something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

I’m not sure that today’s generation feels the same way about legacies as those of generations past. Our lives today seem more filled with disposable things and things not meant to last. As I look around my house, it’s certainly not filled with antique furniture from my grandparents or pictures that once hung in the parlor. I do have a small packet of letters that my dad wrote my mom back in 1946 when he left for Germany a month after they were married. When my parents died, they left the grandkids money, which according to definition is a legacy, but it’s not the same as something lasting such as jewelry, a pocketknife or other small memento from a life well lived.

Our history is also being lost because of technology. We don’t write letters; we send emails which are read then deleted to make room for more. We don’t have to write diaries or journals for those who come later to know our history. Everything you ever wanted to know is posted on multiple sites on the internet. While information is readily available, it has lost the personal element of the writer who took the journey. If you are one of the few who journal, you have a legacy for your children and grandchildren. You don’t have to have done something incredible like bicycle across the country or climb the highest mountain and then write about it to leave a legacy.

While the definition I found tends to make one think of physical objects, a legacy can certainly be intangible. I was brought up in a strict household where you said “yes, sir” and were expected to do your best – in school or at a job. I tried to instill those same attributes in my children. I can remember once when my high school daughter not so jokingly said “damn your work ethic” because her friends were playing hokey from work and she couldn’t make herself call in sick to her work place.

My love of writing a good story is another legacy I hope to pass down, although it has apparently skipped my children and gone directly to my grandchildren. At age “almost 13”, my granddaughter has been writing stories for several years, some with quite involved characters and plot lines. My 10 year old grandson prefers his stories full of monsters and explosive action, accompanied with original drawings of said exploding universes. That same grandson has my father’s surname as his middle name…another legacy from the past.

Do you have legacies – things passed down to you? Are they from more than one generation in the past? More important, do you know the stories behind them?

Writing “Her Scottish Legacy” led to quite a bit of mystery in the process of Heather and Hunter discovering her legacy, left undetected for over twenty-five years. Available as an ebook at any of your favorite online retailers https://books2read.com/Her-Scottish-Legacy and in print through Amazon. Her Scottish Legacy: Baldwin, Barbara: 9780228616153: AmazonSmile: Books  I hope you enjoy it as much as I did while writing-- especially all the Scottish history and learning about the textile industry of the time.

Wishing you a creative and healthy New Year,

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

 

 

 

 

Antiques and Auctions

 Every September I like to remember the Steamboat Arabia, which sank in the Missouri River near Kansas City in September of 1856. Because the river changed course over the next hundred or more years, it was discovered in a cornfield in 1988, and a wonderful museum was opened for the preserved artifacts in 1991. I have visited the museum every time I am in Kansas City, and as I walked through the exhibits my imagination soared. What was life like back in that time? This was the premise for "Hold On To the Past", a romantic time travel I wrote about being on board the Steamboat Arabia during its last fateful voyage.

Of course, the cargo on board now falls under the definition of antiques, which got me thinking about other ways we salvage the past through auctions and antique malls.

Years ago, I went to an auction with my sister. I have to preface this by saying I'm afraid of going to auctions. You see, I talk with my hands (not sign language; just gesturing) and waving your hands around at an auction can get you in trouble. Plus I never understand exactly what the auctioneer is saying and worry that if I bid and think it's for 50 cents, it might actually be for 50 dollars. So while I go, it is with hands tucked under my arms or in pockets, and I have my sister bid for me.

The best auctions are estate auctions, as I am always on the lookout for old things. I don’t collect antique furniture, china or Depression glass. I hunt for diaries, journals, old ledgers –written glimpses into the past. At this particular auction, I found baggies of old letters, written by a young man stationed in Europe during WWI. In addition, there was a small book with rules for enlisted men upon discharge. THIS is the world of antiques that interests me.

The downside was that I only had letters he had sent home to his family. I didn’t have the letters from Iowa that were sent to him. Even so, I came to know this man and some of his family. For one example, he did not particularly like the young man his sister was spending time with. His life, and who knows how many stories, lie within the words he penned over one hundred years ago.

At another auction the same sister bid on and won a quilt top. When she spread it out at home and we took a closer look, we found it had been hand stitched, not machine sewn. At that time quilting was my sister’s thing, not mine, but then she said “I wonder who made this quilt and why. I wonder where they lived and how they managed.”

As a writer, that was something I could get my teeth into. Her simple statements led me to write a story I called “The Christmas Quilt” about a quilt, made for a daughter having a child at Christmas, and how that quilt was handed down through the generations.

Auctions are good for the creative process in different ways. Studying the items for sale can give you a sense of life as it was played out for a family in a particular community. (Realizing that a rural community will possibly sell farm implements right along with the family dishware.) It can give you a feel for the value people placed on particular items.

And more than even the items up for auction, the participants at these festivities can provide you with a wealth of background and characterization. Everything from facial expressions to stances can give away a person’s interest in an item being auctioned. If you watch, you’ll soon discover who is a frequent participant and buyer; who knows who and who knew the deceased owner of what is being auctioned.  Even more important, if you’re the auctioneer (or a writer looking for inside information), see if you can discover a bidder’s “tell.”

I went to a cattle auction once with my dad and throughout the entire affair, the auctioneers and helpers kept pointing and saying “yep”, “yep” but I never saw anyone raise a hand or their bid number. I particularly studied my dad, who was in the market for calves, but he sat there with his arms crossed over his ample stomach and never said a word. When I whispered my question, he said simply, “watch.” And then I saw it – the slight lift of a finger; a simple wink; the touch of a hat brim. It was a small town weekly auction, and I daresay the participants knew each other as well as their “tells”, but it was a game everyone participated in.

Many times instead of an auction, the remains of a family estate find their way to antique stores. Antiques by definition are items 100 years old or more, and too often their stories are lost through time. People live through tough times and must sell family possessions to have money for food. The very last great-grandchild of a family rooted in the community for hundreds of years dies, leaving no one to inherit the curio cabinet or the jelly glasses much less to pass down the stories behind such items.

Almost every town has an antique store or perhaps a mall, where several vendors have booths. While I enjoy looking at various items, I am dismayed to see things that I had as a child are now in antique displays! According to definition, I am not yet an antique. I prefer to consider myself a collectible, or perhaps like a fine wine – I am vintage. 

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

https://bookswelove.net/baldwin-barbara/

 

Road Trip

       

   And we’re off. Whether everyone’s piled in the car or in a mobile RV; whether it’s just you, or you and a friend riding bikes or motorcycles, taking a road trip is one of the greatest adventures you can have. If you mapped out your trip beforehand, did you leave time for unexpected stops? Did you plan to specifically stop at tourist attractions along the way to your destination? Whatever you plan, DO NOT get in the car, buckle up and not stop until you get to your destination.

            The very best road trips are those times you find unexpected treasures along the way. Sure, there are a whole lot of “The World’s Largest”…whatever. There are even towns that have very creatively turned themselves into a travel/tourist stop. One such place is Casey, Illinois, where throughout the town you will find the world’s largest golf tee, the world’s largest wind chimes, the world’s largest knitting needles (which actually work!), and the world’s largest rocking chair – all in one place!

            Yet the very best “finds” are sometimes “hidden in plain view”. Have you ever seen barn quilts while driving through the Midwest? What about a long, long row of fence with old cowboy boots upside-down on each of the fence posts? When we were kids traveling to grandma’s house in the summer, there were no interstates and we could find all sorts of things as we drove two lane highways. (Remember travel bingo?) Finding Burma Shave signs was always a great treat.

            One of the most intriguing finds recently was during a drive from Niagara Falls, Canada to Sudbury, Ontario, Canada. The highway was cut through rocky hills and suddenly we began seeing rock statues high along the tops of rock outcroppings. These weren’t carved out of rock, but were rather what looked like statues of people made out of rocks. We were seeing them from the ground and they were anywhere from a foot to more than eighteen inches tall. Further research when we had the time and we discovered they were “Inukshuk”, used by the Inuit in the north as directional markers. They are in the shape of a person to signify safety, hope and friendship. These stone sculptures were important for navigation, as a marker for hunting grounds, or possibly to denote a food cache. And we found them totally by accident!

             

Once upon a time I took a trip across Missouri into Kentucky to eventually end up in Tennessee. I loved the estates I saw in Kentucky, given romantic names such as “Misty Farms”. Large brick homes with tall white columns across the front were surrounded by white wooden fence, and many had green pastures full of thoroughbred horses. On the interstate, I drove by a uniquely built barn; so unique I pulled off the interstate at the next exit, turned across the overpass and returned the opposite way to get another look at the structure. Going the proper speed, I missed it again. The second time I exited the interstate, I took a back road and found a piece of history – an old tobacco barn with open slats on the sides and a totally unique interior. At that moment, I decided the rest of my trip would be made on back roads and two lane highways. As a writer, road trips such as this are invaluable for everything from collecting strange and unique names to use in my writing, to imagining scenes as real life slides by the windows.

             I’ve posted covers from two books this month – “Love in Disguise” and “Hold on to the Past” because both of these are about traveling. The first takes place along and aboard the first transcontinental railroad, and the second is about a trip on the Missouri River aboard the Steamboat Arabia. Both are great “road trip” stories of a different sort, full of mystery and romance and can easily be ordered at Amazon where you can also find my other books.

              Taking a road trip is something we can begin to do as we emerge from the pandemic because it doesn’t involve large groups of people in very public places. Fill up the car with gas, pack a lunch and head out along the back roads. Perhaps you’ll come across the fire-breathing dragon we did.

            Whatever you do, don't just read the billboard about the Drive-Through Safari. Take that exit!

Barb Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

http://www.bookswelove.com/romance-authors/baldwin-barbara/

Water, Water Everywhere

Water, Water Everywhere

The sky darkened and with no more warning than a single roll of thunder, the rain began. It washed down the roof, overflowing the gutters and splattering through the screens to wet the bricks of the patio.

We quickly moved the seat cushions to the other side of the porch but I left one on a wicker chair. I love summer storms and wasn’t about to huddle inside. Rain continued hard enough to wash away the spilled charcoal dust from the grill where my birthday dinner had been cooked. The remnants of the party disappeared, but not the warm feelings of contentment I tucked away in my heart. 

The rain lessened then grew stronger again and yet the sun shone on a patch of green grass along the side of the house. Pitter-patter; drip-drip. You know what it sounds like running down the gutter pipes and dripping off the house. If it continues, I will sleep out on the porch tonight. I can’t hear the rain inside behind bricks and insulation. It reminds me of summers past, camping at the lake in a canvas tent. “Don’t touch the roof,” Dad admonished as it would make the canvas leak. Yet someone invariably would. If there wasn’t lightning, we’d play in the rain; even swim in the lake. After all, it was summer and we were at the lake to get wet.

Another round, coming hard enough to rush down the street like an overflowing river. A curtain, obscuring the trees across the way. The smell of rain. You can’t describe it but anyone else will understand exactly what you mean.

“Why are you out here?” my grandson asked.

“Writing about the rain.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s there.”

*************

I recently read a book about how water can make you happier, healthier and of a better frame of mind. While most of the book was more scientific than I could understand, the gist was that we need water in our lives. Not only to drink, but to be near, in, on or even under water. While I don’t live near a body of water, I realized how often water, in its various forms, plays an important part in my novels.

“Prelude and Promises” is set on a small island, thus surrounded by water. “Hold on to the Past” takes place on a river. “Spinning through Time” has a dramatic and tragic scene on a frozen pond. “A Game of Love”, set in Boston, has a close connection to the Boston Harbor. And the list goes on. 

I also love writing thunderstorms into my novels; water cutting rivulets down a dirt street; ominous cracks of thunder awakening my characters in the middle of a dark night. You don’t have to wait for the next time it rains to curl up with a copy of “Love in Disguise” and find out just how diverting the rain can be when it keeps Max and Abby from pursuing a killer. Find all my books on my website or through the Books We Love link below.

Best wishes for a wildly wet new year!

Barbara Baldwin

http://www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

http://www.bookswelove.com/romance-authors/baldwin-barbara/

Finding a Hero

 

          

What better place to search for characters for my newest book project than a mall, where people of all shapes, sizes, colors and styles happily gather. Without interfering in their enjoyment, I can study and choose from thousands of character traits, personality flaws and secrets – free to the discriminating shopper.

            I’ve tried shopping at home with catalogs. It sometimes works for a minor character, but it’s hard to tell if I have a good fit without seeing the actual character in motion. All those idiosyncrasies that make my characters special come out in public – their walk, laugh, voice. Perhaps what I’m looking for is the way they hold their head, cling to a boy friend, or talk with their hands. Too much personality remains unnoticed on a still life, one-dimensional photograph in a catalog.

            So I settle down to window shop.

My first “purchase” is not your stereotypical hero. His belly’s a bit too large; his face beginning to show the first stages of age. Gray threads his hair and his laugh is a bit too loud. But he also has the nicest smile I can ever recall and the kindest blue eyes. His gentle gaze speaks of trust and honesty and I immediately realize I want him in my book. He will make the best “best friend” anyone can have.

I turn my head at the sound of male laughter. Cowboys. Are they real or wannabes? They lean against the railing and I study them as they study girls. I have my pick of sizes, the tallest being well over six foot. If I take a composite of the group, I just might have my hero. Let’s see – the glasses from the third guy; another's thick brown hair; and the tall one’s smile, his lips lifting a little higher on the right than the left.

I like the tall one’s attitude. As I watch, his face never changes expressions. He’s aloof, trying to look disinterested. His thumbs are hooked in the belt loops of his jeans; one boot crossed in front of the other. While his body language might indicate he’s bored with this activity and wants something more exciting, his eyes tell another story. Twinkling green, slight crinkles at the corners, they laugh and mock and never miss a thing.

As though one entity, they turn to follow a group of girls when they pass. Red-blooded, American boys to the core, but I’m still not sure I can use them, so I study their walks. Only one has the rolling gait of a cowboy—someone who actually spends time on a horse. It’s the tall one; the guy with laughter in his eyes and the crooked smile.

I watch them walk away, and he turns and touches his forehead as though tipping his hat. And then he winks at me.

Oh, yes, I definitely need a cowboy in this book.

Developing characters is such a fun part of writing a story. They soon take on a life of their own and often go in a direction I couldn’t have imagined. Charlie doesn't intend on becoming a cowboy when he visits Stone, South Dakota to research his next novel, but when he and Jacy accidently end up back in the 1800's, he finds he has the ability to live in the historic era and does what he must to become the hero Jacy needs. You can read more about Loving Charlie Forever on my website and I hope you grab a copy of this historical romance and get lost in Charlie's and Jacy's story.

Barbara Baldwin

www.authorsden.com/barbarajbaldwin

           

I Love Carousels

From afar, she heard the music,

A slow waltz from another time.

And the horses danced to a tune

They could not hear.

The carousel spun round and round,

Painted horses galloped freely.

And magic wove a wondrous spell

Through the silvery night.

Proud heads held high, the horses pranced,

Chasing mystic sounds to the past.

Seeking a world of fantasy,

They lured her through time.

Yet when the music ended,

And the horses finally stopped.

The magic still coursed through her,

Love had found her heart.*

            Who doesn’t love a carousel? Beautifully painted horses and a menagerie of exotic animals, gaily circling ‘round to the sounds of a Wurlitzer organ. It is childhood and knightly fantasies; a secret rendezvous and a race to freedom.

            I have a collection of musical carousel horses, some of which go up and down as the music plays. Others are stationary, just as early carousels had been. Today, carousels are often at the hub of shopping malls and county fairs. I’ve visited the 1901 Parker carousel in Abilene, Kansas, the Central Park Carousel New York City, and the historic Flying Horses on Martha’s Vineyard, among others. I even had the opportunity to see a carousel factory where they made carousel-like horses which at one time decorated a famous national restaurant chain. The carousels are all different and unique and we are fortunate this piece of our history has been preserved.

            It was at the Flying Horses where I learned some of a carousel’s forgotten history. The horses on this particular carousel do not move up and down as the platform circles. The uniqueness of this carousel is that at one point there is a metal armature sticking out containing brass rings. As riders “gallop” by, they can grab for the rings, collecting them during the ride. The history of this particular activity dates back to medieval years and the jousts that were held. Besides trying to knock each other off horses, a knight would gallop down the course and try to snare a large ring onto his lance. Sometimes the rings were held by pages, other times they were thrown in the air as the knights rode near. Some believe this is also where the expression “catching the brass ring” came from.
           Not all carousels were horses or animals attached through a center pole to a moving platform. Swing rides, the earliest form of carousel, were made with ropes and baskets that carried people and spun in circles around a center pole. There are still swing rides today at fairgrounds that have chairs suspended by chains from the top of the carousel instead of seats shaped like animals.

Long before motorized platforms (as early as 1873) it has been noted that a live mule or a horse was hidden beneath the Carousel platform to power the amusement ride. The animals were taught to start and stop when the operator tapped on the floor.

            And then there is the restored Dentzel carousel found at State Fair Park in Dallas, Texas. Gustav Dentzel, a German furniture maker, lived in Philadelphia in the 1870s  and turned to carousel horse making when they became all the rage.

With all this history; the beauty and romance and my love of carousels, how could I help but write a story involving them?

My story involves professional photographer Jaci Eastman who photographs the Dentzel carousel for a magazine spread and finds a blurred image of a man in old fashioned dress behind one of the horses. She only believes reality can be photographed. So how can she photograph a man who doesn’t exist in her time beside a carousel horse that didn’t exist in his?

            Follow the romance and mystery of a carousel horse in “Spinning Through Time”, available through Books We Love or wherever you like to find your romance.


--”Gorgeous story, it was lovely from beginning to end. A keeper. One of the best time travel romances I've read!” SS, Amazon review



*Opening of “Spinning Through Time”