In Flanders Fields

The famous poem written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, penned as a memorial for his slain friend, Alexis Helmer, pictured above, captures the essence of sacrifice. The chilling poem grew to symbolize World War One itself. School children in Canada were tasked with memorizing it, and reciting it at the eleventh hour, on the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. This year, as we remember the fallen, we know that they are all together now; there are no living survivors of what is often called, 'The Great War.'

It was supposed to be the war to end all wars. As my great grandfather was a committed pacifist, we can only surmise how difficult it must have been for him to see his only son go off to war. Fortunately, we have access to the letter he wrote expressing his thoughts:

The World Office,

Tuesday 1^st February, 1916

My dear boy, I suppose you find it hard to think of yourself twenty-one years ago, but the dear little chap who used to love me so much and put his arms around my neck, and climb up on my knee, and play ball and do all the other little things which you won't think anything of until you have children of your own, are all on my mind. Well dearie, you are a man now and your own master as I have always tried to have you be. I may not have done as well by you as I hoped, but you are all I could wish in the main things, clean, truthful, brave and generous. I think you will have enough regard for the old days to keep these things in your heart all your life.

You are going on a high quest now, not for yourself but for all the world. I have never bothered you much with religion, but I want you to feel that you are at all times in the care of the Master and that He will be with you in times of difficulty or danger. Even though you stand in the shadow of death you need fear no evil for He will be with you if your heart is turned to Him.

The war has interfered with many plans I had for you. You are going to England but not as I expected. I do not know what another year may bring, but we are all in the hands of the Eternal. I hope you won't think of this as a sermon or a screed. It is just a loving word from your old Daddy to wish you all the best things in the world, and to kiss you goodbye as you go away and leave all the old times behind forever. Don't forget, no one will ever love you better than I do. It makes me all the sorrier that I have such a poor way of showing it.

God bless you dear, now and always.

Love, my dear boy, Your loving Daddy

By the grace of God my grandfather lived and came home to raise a family. A recent book, released in Canada last week, depicted many of his experiences in the war. He was at all four major battles: Ypres, the Somme, Passchendale, and Vimy Ridge. He was also a fly boy, and in this book, I saw a photo of him in his leather coat, leather hat and goggles. At one point, his plane was shot down and even though he was wounded, he managed to land it in an obliging field. He said it fell in circles as a leaf comes down from a tree.

His gunner tapped him on the shoulder and asked, "What is going to happen?"

He said, "You and I have had a lot of arguments about religion Wardsy, and in about forty seconds, we will find out who is right."        
                                                  Conn Smythe in flight gear.

Mercifully, they managed to land and as they scrambled out of the plane, they saw a man waiving to them frantically. Feeling they were about to be rescued, they headed for him only to learn to their horror that it was a German. He pointed his gun at my grandfather's chest and pulled the trigger, twice at point blank range. Luckily, the soldier missed and my grandfather later told us that it was the force of his wrath and will that somehow steered the bullets into his coat, passing him by completely. After this brush with death, he was taken prisoner and later escaped. Eventually captured, he had to spend the rest of the war in solitary confinement.

To read of all these tales so many years later, to learn of the horrific carnage, and see photo's of his old friends and teammates from home, many of whom did not return, makes me so cognizant of the merest thread separating us all from life and death.

We have not lost sight of all the brave Canadians who died so far away from home. We pause in silence this Armistice Day, at eleven am on 11/11/ to remember all the fallen on all sides, and pray, as always, for a real, lasting and enduring peace.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place: and in the sky
The larks still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead: Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved: and now we lie
In Flanders fields!
Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw
The torch: be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields

Somewhere in Time...

I recently came across some valuable advice regarding the writing of historical fiction. The cautionary note indicated that the writer should not get lost in the research.  Luckily for me, I am one of those people who like the process of creating something; the journey is fun and I do not really want to get to my destination. This may explain why I often sit in my car in the driveway when I am returning home from a trip to the market. History should never be top heavy in the story; it should be there, but not in the way. What we want to see is how the characters react to the changing times, not to read about every last parliamentary procedure, or tiresome debate in the Senate. We need to have a light hand with that ingredient, yet it is just as important as butter is to a good batch of shortbread cookies.One fantasizes about writing the definitive work, and the writer wants to know every single last significant detail about the time, but then it has to be as a thick, velvet curtain at the back of the stage.

When I set out to write a story set in 1630, I  wanted to capture, for myself most of all, what it would have been like to live in back in Boston when Europeans were new to the continent.  I read everything written on the subject and then some. Due to the fact that my characters traveled back to England in the midst of the civil war, I had to cover that as well. Once I began to grasp the enormity of losing every safeguard put in place, and seeing England fall into a military dictatorship, I did want to cover it in great detail. Too much history came the response from my first readers, and so I had to chop and chop. Still, the story of the struggle remains.

While I am not a big reader of the genre known as historical fiction, I do love reading a gripping tale when I feel as if I have been transported to another place and time. To me, that is the key.

Last evening, we set out in the boat from our dock here at the southern end of Lake Coeur d' Alene. Given that we were after hours to some degree, and needed to fill up on gas, we decided to try the town of Harrison. Having always been a fan of the place, I was happy to go over and take our chances. We were told to go up to the bar and find the man who could help us. It gave me time, while standing and holding the boat, to think.

 Harrison has all the makings of a place that time forgot. Handsome brick buildings suggest that it was a town on its way to becoming a small city back in 1890, when a branch of the O.R. And N. railroad put in a stop. A large sawmill, moved up from St.Maries, meant that a substantial operation had begun. However, a large fire broke out at the same mill, in 1917, and  destroyed most of the town. When the steamships discontinued service, they were all but cut off and the town ended up having a different future. It is one of those places, where when looking at it from the water, you sense that you knew what it was like to live there one hundred years ago. As I stood on the dock,  waiting for my husband to return from One Shot Charlies, the bar where the man who could pump the gas happened to be visiting, I thought of potential stories regarding the town and how I always feel that way when I am there.

An enchanted place can often spark the impetus to write historical fiction. Those wanting to know more about the era, will often be drawn to the story.

In the movie, Somewhere in Time, the late Christopher Reeve plays a man who being stumped in his efforts at writing, decides to take a small trip and travel to the famous Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island, Michigan.  Once there, he becomes, captivated and obsessed regarding a photograph in the lobby. Desperate to know the hotel in its hey day and perhaps meet the person capturing his imagination, he accomplishes time travel and returns to 1917.  Of course, this is a metaphor for all writers and are we not lucky, that we have an imagination and picture what that may be like.

Time is running out to enter our contest here at writingnorthidaho. For details, read all about it in the sidebar.A picture can inspire 500 words.

In Your Wheelhouse

Upon returning from a trip to Nelson, British Columbia, I happened upon an old expression. Technically, the term in your wheelhouse, refers to your particular skill set. Literally, a wheelhouse is the enclosed compartment from which a vessel can be navigated. So it would make sense then that a writer casting about for subjects topics and ideas, would do well to consider this idiom.

In Nelson, I enjoyed basking in the culture of my native land. With my family off ripping up the powder at Whitewater, a ski resort blessed with both magnificent terrain and fine cuisine, I decided to take a personal day and wander around the town. My love affair with the city of Nelson began in my early twenties with it being the destination of a never to be forgotten drive across Canada. What we discovered along the shores of surely one of the most magnificent lakes on the planet, had much to do with the course of my adult life.

Vessels powered by steam, were the life blood of small towns on northern lakes. The mail, the groceries, the summer guests and the news of the day arrived with the welcoming sound of a steam ship whistle. This sent islanders and lake dwellers scurrying down to the docks; missing the boat meant waiting another week and doing without vital supplies. My mother told me tales of hearing shouts from upstairs windows in summer cottages: bread, milk, eggs, and get all the vegetables you can! Yes, the concept of a wheelhouse is ingrained in my mind, but taken to the idea of stories waiting to be told, I find it to be a useful concept.  After all, when writing, I alone am the captain.

As I wandered happily about Nelson, I was thrilled to find the local museum open. In I went, knowing that because I was alone, I could stay there for hours and hours. Inside, I found much fodder for inspiration. A beautiful white linen summer costume, complete with  a lace collar and straw hat filled me with awe.  Photographs of old yachts, races and regatta days from the golden era before World War 1,  found me marveling, as I do here in North Idaho, at the courage of the settlers of long ago days. In every photograph of that era, here and to the north of us, and across the wide expanse of the nation, you see pictures of men standing beside a string of huge fish. The first skis, those huge curved planks, the photos of brave souls out in their warm sweaters, the parades, the soldiers returning from war, the wagons, and the horses, it is all there for anyone to see. Nothing inspires me more, or gets my creative juices flowing, like an afternoon spent at a local museum. It is not just the artifacts, it is the stories, the curiosity I feel in the presence of the past, brought lovingly back to life by the curators. Then, of course, there is the gift shop, the small volumes which would otherwise go unnoticed, depicting the lives of early settlers. If you are at a loss for words, find yourself out of ideas, fearing that your tank is running on empty, then I would suggest a wee trip and a small museum where something may just spring to mind. Keep your own culture, your own history, your community in the forefront, and write from your heart, from the seat of all passion, from your own particular wheelhouse. Do not be surprised if you are suddenly so inspired that your fingers can barely type quickly enough to match the rush of ideas.

As for Nelson, it is a welcoming destination for people from all over the world. If you take a trip there, don't be surprised if you find yourself falling in love with the place. 

Downton Abbey and the tale of Two Classes.

Julian Fellowes, Academy Award winning screenwriter for "Gosford Park," created a remarkable series for Masterpiece Theater called, Downton Abbey. To any readers who find themselves out of this loop, please do not despair. Boxed sets are available for purchase and the website will furnish past episodes. This series has created a great stir on both sides of the Atlantic.

The tale begins when the man set to inherit the estate of Downton Abbey, goes down with the Titanic. As his son perishes with him, the next in line is a distant cousin, a man who works for a living and is not 'to the manner born'. He has to be brought in to learn how to manage, not only the enormous house, but the thousand acres that go with it. He arrives with his mother in tow, and meets the three unwed daughters who grace the drawing room. Archly referred to as “the great matter,” the race is on to insure the survival of the estate. In this story, the house itself is a character.

The drama skips along at a tremendous pace encompassing the events of the outside world, the downstairs realm of the servants, and the upstairs affairs of the Grantham family. The Dowager Countess, played by Maggie Smith, is the supreme matriarch of the clan, having much social advantage over her American daughter-in-law, Lady Grantham. The fictitious Downton Abbey is filmed at Highclere Castle, a very real establishment in Yorkshire. The setting is as magnificent as one could possibly imagine and is described as “a statement of aristocratic confidence.” The audience cannot look upon it without imagining the staggering upkeep. Many great houses in England would have gone to ruin towards the end of the Edwardian age, had it not been for the large infusion of cash coming from Newport and New York. A crush of American brides came over; they were affectionately known as the buccaneers- some three hundred in all. Many were given the deep freeze by the old aristocracy who were glad of the funds, but would not soften. They stiffly insisted on perpetuating the status quo.

“Will you have a change of heart?” This is the question raised time and time again, episode by episode, from characters inhabiting roles both upstairs and down.

Wondering about the enormous popularity of the show, many have asked if there is not a sort of longing for the old days, a nostalgia, if you will, creeping throughout modern day England. Julian Fellowes responded by saying that perhaps there is a fondness for a more courteous time when working society involved respect for others. Even if that may have some appeal, he is quick to say, “the cheese of it is that you don't have to live it; you're not the one lugging the coal.” The quaint picture of the devoted servant has long been the fantasy of the employer and not so much the dream of past employees who longed for a proverbial ladder. Toiling from before dawn until midnight, they sought every way possible to improve their lot in life.

In the story, the Grantham family know their lifestyle is not sustainable. They are well aware that change is coming, and that the labor movement is gaining strength. The Great War sees servant and master side by side in the trenches, both willing to give their lives for England. Many voice the belief that war changes everything. The servants hope that change will come: the upper classes fear it.

Highclere Castle has its own first family, namely, the Carnarvorns. Like all great estates, they made changes in order to survive, opening the house for tours, serving tea, and hosting weddings and private events. The staff fluctuates between sixty and eighty people and they have a ninety year old living under their storied roof.

The Dowager Countess in Downton Abbey states that she is not a Jacobean revolutionary. She is perfectly comfortable with her life and extends her fan to blot out the glaring lights brought by electricity. Yet we sense that when the changes come, she will be able to manage.

Ghandi said, "The spirit of democracy is not a mechanical thing to be adjusted by abolition of forms. It requires change of heart."

The rules were clear back then and the dress code very exact. Was it a simpler time? That would depend on the lens through which it was perceived. The higher one climbs, the better the view tends to be. As the story continues to move through the twentieth century, we know the lines will be blurred and we wait with joyful hope to see both sides weather the coming storm. Julian Fellowes says the next installment is "done and dusted," but we will have to wait almost a year before it airs. As far as Downton Abbey is concerned, I for one will not have a change of heart. I shall wait with baited breath.

The Watershed Moment

Having recently read a book written by Stephen King, entitled, "11/22/63," a work of fiction depicting a watershed moment in our lives, it lead me to thinking about the topic. There are events that change everything; they are not always personal, but more along the lines of incidents which alter the shape of a nation and will interfere with the way a country views itself from that moment forward. We try to make sense of events beyond our control, in any way we can, and sometimes, our interpretation of those events will change over time.

These moments spark some of the greatest novels ever written. Watershed moments are those in which thousands of stories begin, or, in some cases, signify the beginning of the end. We are transformed by such events and distinct actions are put in motion.

In fiction, we have to have moments of great crisis for the protagonist, but they are often of a more personal nature. However, an author can use a watershed moment in history to launch an entire family into a completely different course of events than it would have been on otherwise.

The figurative definition comes from the literal meaning of a point, or division in a river, or stream where the river is split into two distinct paths that will not intersect again.

Here is one idea of the top ten watershed moments in history:

10.The October Revolution: The second phase of the Russian revolution put the Bolsheviks in power.

9.The invention of the Watt steam engine. Thus began the great leap for industrialization.
8. The Assassination of Archduke Ferdinand. Because of this shocking act, Austria/Hungary declared war on Serbia which obliged France and Russia to mobilize.
7. Black Plague: two thirds of China's population were wiped out as well as two thirds of Europe's.
6. Storming the Bastille: King Louis XVI asked, “Is this a revolt?” The answer: “No sire, its a revolution.”
5. Vaccine For Small Pox: a devastating disease was eradicated.
4.The Invention of the Printing Press; in 1436 Johannes Gutenberg revolutionized the printing of books.
3.Publication or the 95 Theses: Martin Luther, in 1517, creates an alternative to path open to Christians.
2. Berlin Conference: Otto Von Bismark, carves up Africa.
1. Birth of Jesus of Nazareth

It is curious to note the juxtaposition of the good with the bad in this compilation of earth shattering events. Too often, it is a "shot heard round the world," that sends events into play, but what precedes such an action, must not be ignored. Tensions build on many fronts; this is the stuff of great stories because watershed moments cause great change. As much as we would like to go back to the way things were before, we find we cannot. We must adapt, adjust, and rethink everything. Therein lies a novel.

"History is a relentless master. It has no present, only the past rushing into the future. To try to hold fast is to be swept aside. " John F. Kennedy