Take a Step Back in Time by Victoria Chatham

This month's question is: If the time machine were invented today, when would you want to visit and why? I had to think about this quite a bit because, although I write Regency romance, I would love to spend some time in the Edwardian era if I could spend that time as an upper-class lady. Take a look at How to Dress an Edwardian Lady here. If I had nothing else to do, I can just imagine taking the greatest pleasure in dressing up. But, just to give you a bit of a background, here is how the two eras came to be. 

Like the Regency, the Edwardian era was technically a relatively short period, the former spanning the years from 1811 to 1820, the latter the years 1901 to 1910, each being allied to the monarch of the time.

In 1811 King George III was considered unfit to rule and his son the Prince of Wales, became the Prince Regent. When his father died in 1820, he ascended the throne and ruled as George IV, followed by William IV and then Queen Victoria. On her death in 1901, her son Edward came to the throne as Edward VII until his death in 1910. The eras, however, tended to evolve and end a few years before and after the actual reigns of the monarchs who lent them their names so, for many, the Edwardian era was not considered at an end until the start of World War 1.

Television shows like Upstairs Downstairs and Downton Abbey solidified my interest in the clothes of the Edwardian era. Series like The Edwardian Country House and movies like Somewhere in Time starring the late Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour, showed off the ladies’ costumes beautifully, especially their hats. The era of La Belle Epoque highlighted the balance, poise, and elegance of the super-rich who could afford to live the luxurious high life. The fabrics and styles leant themselves to the use of silks and satin for soft, feminine fashions with flowing skirts, ruffles and lots of lace. Fake fruit, fur, and feathers often decorated the wide-brimmed picture, or Merry Widow, hats held in place by a long hat-pin and it’s those hats that I envy the most. Take a look at the image on the cover of Envy the Wind and you will see what I mean. How pretty and feminine is this.

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For more about Anita Davison go here.

For more about Victoria Chatham go here.

Did Someone Say Spring?

I love spring. 

photo © Janice Lang 

I hate spring. 

My feelings are about as ambivalent as the weather here in Central Connecticut. Winter is my least favorite season, so it goes without saying that come the Vernal Equinox, I should be jumping for joy. The days are longer (Daylight Savings Time notwithstanding). There’s even a change in the quality of the light, warmer, brighter. Snow drops and crocuses, which often make their first anxious appearance in late February (only to disappear again and again under mountains of wet, heavy snow) are now blooming. Finally. Daffodils and irises are forming buds. Peonies are pushing up through the soil. At this time of year, the snow doesn’t linger very long. Still nights can get pretty cold, making for treacherous walkies when the doggie needs to go out for her “last whizz” before bedtime.

As T.S. Eliot said in The Waste Land, “April is the cruelest month.” Being a Taurus and April-born, I used to take exception to that bit. But, no longer. In recent years, it’s as if Mother Nature can’t make up her mind. I remember Aprils with summer-like heat—90+ degrees—and Aprils when it seemed as if Old Man Winter was having too much fun to step aside. This year is the latter.

Of Mark Twain’s famous adage, “If you don’t like the weather in New England, wait five minutes” he knew what he was talking about. He lived for a time in Hartford, not far from our home. Speaking of Twain, he also said the following:

In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four-and-twenty hours. It was I that made the fame and fortune of that man that had that marvelous collection of weather on exhibition at the Centennial, that so astounded the foreigners. He was going to travel all over the world and get specimens from all the climes. I said, “Don’t you do it; you come to New England on a favorable spring day.” I told him what we could do in the way of style, variety, and quantity. Well, he came and he made his collection in four days. As to variety, why, he confessed that he got hundreds of kinds of weather that he had never heard of before. And as to quantity—well, after he had picked out and discarded all that was blemished in any way, he not only had weather enough, but weather to spare; weather to hire out; weather to sell; to deposit; weather to invest; weather to give to the poor.

Come May, the weather should begin to settle down. We are gardeners here, grow veggies and herbs, some of the tender variety. So we wait until the last threat of frost is gone, usually by Memorial Day, at which time my husband optimistically opens the pool for the season. Some years we take a chance, if the temps are what we used to refer to as “seasonable” to plant our zucs and cukes, peas, tomatoes, and peppers a bit earlier. Alas, these early plantings are becoming a thing of the past.

Frankly, there is no such thing as spring in Connecticut of the kind I remember from childhood. We go from winter straight to summer. This always catches us off guard. One day we’re bundled in thermals and thick socks, boots and parkas, the next day we’re scrambling to find shorts, t-shirts and sandals.

My memories of spring from an earlier era are fond ones. My mother loved lilacs and planted them in a row along a rail fence in our yard. When ours bloom around Mother’s Day, the heavenly scent speaks to me in my mother’s voice. The colors of spring, that new green and the red and yellow casts around the maples and willows against an otherwise stark landscape make me nostalgic for my younger days when the seasons knew their place.

~*~

Kathy Fischer Brown is a BWL author of historical novels, Winter Fire, Lord Esterleigh's Daughter, Courting the Devil, The Partisan's Wife, and The Return of Tachlanad, her latest release, an epic fantasy adventure for young adult and adult readers. Check out her The Books We Love Authorpage or visit her website. All of Kathy’s books are available in e-book and in paperback from Amazon. Look for Where the River Narrows(Quebec), book 12 of the Canadian Historical Brides collection, with Ron Crouch, coming in July.

 

One Cat Short of...

Fly Away Snow Goose

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Books We Love

Well, Michelle, our intrepid cover artist, suggested "writing companions" for our March blog topic--so here goes, from a writer who is (and has been) as you shall see, just one cat short of crazy.

The first, the calico girl admiring the fishies, was taken almost twenty-five years ago. It's Stanzi Marie Pussycat, who was a retiring lady, as torties often are. When I got her from the Humane Society, the gal at the desk replied wearily --I'd asked if Stanzi was pregnant--"They're all pregnant." Fortunately for us, she wasn't.  I gave her Mozart's Wife's sweet nickname, the same bestowed by her "Little Husband."  She spent a lot of time rolling around on the floor next to me while I wrote, chirruping: "Please get down and pet me, Mom!" while I was concentrating--or attempting to.   

"Mrs. Washington has a mottled orange tomcat, who she calls, in a complimentary way, Hamilton..." (Such an elegant diss for the rebel general's favorite aide de camp from the Tory newspapers!) This Hammie usually slept on my head, but like the original Hamilton, he was a charming, gay (tho secretly tender-hearted) fellow. He arrived via a free paper ad, where a young woman simply posted: "Help me. I have thirty-eight cats." 

Hammie was the one who climbed into my lap when I sat on the ground to admire the furry gang gathering around. I patted him, and he purred. Then he bit me, really hard, in the arm, and ran away--just a few feet--to anxiously study me. The rescuer observed, "He doesn't mean it."  I knew he didn't, so I took him home. He performed his keyboard blocking, head butting, standing on the keyboard, drinking out of my water glass cat duties for Mozart's Wife, A Master Passion, Angel's Flight and Genesee.  

Here is another Revolutionary War period cat, Major General Schuyler, or "Sky-Sky." A scrawny fellow, he reached out to my husband and me through the bars, meowing "take me home!" His tail had been broken in multiple places, so that it felt, when you ran your fingers over it, "like fifteen miles o' bad road" as a friend's truck driver husband so aptly put it. He had a fondness for doughnuts, which, as you can see, eventually caught up with him. It was a taste he'd probably picked up on the streets of a nearby dead steel town, his place of origin.  Some kind person, knowing he was a good boy, had brought him into the shelter, hoping he'd find a home. You can tell from his name that my string of American Revolutionary War novels was still in progress. He was a good "Dutchman," fastidious about his appearance; his white fur always shone.

Next up, Elizabeth (Miss Betsy Schuyler--naturally!). She was dropped off in a pet shop, whose owner was a friend. Deb called me to say--through tears--that the women who'd left her behind had said, magisterially, "Here! You take her! Cats smother babies!" Then she'd walked out the door, leaving Lizzie behind, bewildered atop the counter. As you can see, Elizabeth was always super helpful when I was creating.  I soon learned to type while balancing her 8 lbs. atop my forearms...

Here's the Sainted Tycho, who came from our local PAWS. I had been cleaning cages at the Petsmart every Friday night for a year when I met him, one among an entire litter of black kittens who'd been rescued at a gun club. When I opened the cage door and allowed the babies to come tumbling out to romp in the narrow space we were allotted, this little boy, instead of chasing his playful siblings, climbed onto my shoulder, leaned against my head and began a heartfelt purr--it was love at first sight. He didn't live long, but for a few precious years, he was a fragment of the Divine, briefly embodied in a black cat. His companionship helped me to survive a crash and burn health crisis.    

This is cat is not one of mine. I met him at the Schuyler Mansion in Albany, where he was greeting visitors to Major General Schuyler's stylish Georgian Home, making fellow 18th Century/Rev War author Kathy Fischer-Brown and I feel welcome as we approached the lovely old place.  He's another dapper iteration of the Hamiltonian orange tom cat gene. Delightful serendipity! 

B0B--the heartache of losing this big handsome tiger, just last November, is still fresh. He was a boy from the 'hood, tough and swaggering, a whole Tom when he introduced himself to us, yet always gentle. He loved to be petted. ("So happy I could just drool" became a saying around here.) I cannot number the dead critters he deposited on our door step during the decade our home was privileged to be his designated crash pad. (Never let it be said that B0B didn't know how to say "thanks" to his faithful posse!)  I still miss being awoken at 2 a.m. every night by his yells of "Lemme in!" from the porch roof below my bedroom window. Ever your servant, Lord B0B! I would stagger downstairs and wait while he climbed down the tree and sauntered to the open door. Fly Away Snow Goose was created under his sway, because it's hard to get back to sleep when you are awoken in the middle of the night. Besides, I knew thatLemme in was often followed, around 4:30, by Lemme Out!

 "TES" or "Translucent Ear Syndrome" (Bon mot courtesy of author K.A .Corlett.)

Soft kitties, warm kitties...

Kimi-wah only recently decided she didn't have to hide all day. I can't credit her with a lot of writing face time, our PTSD pud! She does have a late afternoon trick of rubbing on my legs while I work, which is pleasant, and a whiny plaintive meow, not so much. The meow summons me to get down on the floor for some concerted attention. (She obviously thinks I need a break.) My husband and I are both relieved that after a mere 8 years of TLC, she's decided we're trustworthy. 

Same couch, different year, Caturday. (I was skinnier, too!) 

And last, here's Willeford, the Waldrons' most recent rescue. He's a semi-disabled elder, and our latest fur friend, named by the shelter. The name's now morphing into "Sweet William,"or "Will-Yum. He just finished biting me up and down one arm and swatting me for good measure a bunch of times because he was cross that I would not let him lie on the keyboard while I was typing this.  Clearly, Will-Yum will be another capable writing "assistant." Maybe he'll help me finish Green Magic, or Moonshine's Bride...  

~~Juliet Waldron

Juliet Waldron's Historical Novels

(Believe it or not--that's not all the cats we've loved.)