Archives: History

Time Travel: Head ‘Em Up, Move ‘Em Out

You’ve done it. You’re actually here–you have to pinch yourself. You’ve been accepted in the WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilots) program as a cadet when thousands got rejection letters.

Your letter said to report to the Blue Bonnet Hotel in Sweetwater, Texas. You and dozens of other eager women…your new classmates…show up and mill around until a vehicle arrives to take you to Avenger Field. The nearby military base will serve as your home for months.

You hear it before you see it. A motor more cantankerous-sounding than an old man scolding neighborhood ruffians rumbles closer. Then you catch a glimpse as it ambles into view and stops in front of the hotel. The brakes squeak in protest.

Yes, it’s the “cattle wagon.”

photo by WASP Betty Stagg Turner

photo by WASP Betty Stagg Turner

The nickname for the humble transport buses stuck throughout the WASPs tenure at Avenger Field. Worn yet reliably present, the cattle wagon shuttled cadets from the Blue Bonnet Hotel to Avenger Field, outside of town.

Yet cadets grew more familiar with them during flight training. Not all flights took off from the main runway. Auxiliary fields dotted the outer reaches of Avenger’s rolling Texas plains. The cattle wagons ferried cadets back and forth down the bumpy, dusty roads, depositing them where needed.

No need for windows: most of the year, the extra ventilation proved a blessing. And who needed real bus seats? The two basic, hard benches lining the length of the bus made cajoling with the cadets in your flight (training group) easier. But too bad about the bumpy roads. The benches would’ve been nice for a catnap between exhausting training sessions.

Kind of makes my cushy car seats feel a little cushier.

What about you? What would you nickname your current mode of transportation?

 

The Traveler: Why Stop?

It’s a Grab Bag Monday! You never know what’s going show up here.

You’ve seen them before: those roadside historical markers that pop up at random places along the highway. It’s easy to keep the cruise control in gear and coast by, not giving the unassuming sign a second thought.

So, why stop?

historical marker Nicolas Henderson

photo by Nicolas Henderson

Maybe the better question is, why not?

Years ago my husband and I sailed north on Highway 83 in Texas. We were en route to the Oklahoma panhandle for a dear grandparent’s funeral. It was a long, emotional trip. We needed a break. We spotted a large iron bridge that spanned the Red River near Wellington. It broke up the horizon, and a “Historical Marker Ahead” sign teased us off of the road. The gravel shoulder crunched under our tires as we eased to a stop.

My expectations of the marker hovered on the low end despite being a fan of history and cool-looking bridges. I expected tidbits on the construction of the bridge or something similar. But check out what it said:

The Red River Plunge of Bonnie and Clyde

On June 10, 1933, Mr. and Mrs. Sam Pritchard and family saw from their home on the bluff (west) the plunge of an auto into the Red River. Rescuing the victims, unrecognized as Bonnie Parker and Clyde and Buck Barrow, they sent for help. Upon their arrival, the local sheriff and police chief were disarmed by Bonnie Parker. Buck Barrow shot Pritchard’s daughter while crippling the family car to halt pursuit. Kidnapping the officers, the gangsters fled. Bonnie and Clyde were fated to meet death in 1934. In this quiet region, the escapade is now legend.

Excerpted from Why Stop? A Guide to Texas Roadside Historical Markers by Betty Dooley Awbrey and Stuart Awbrey

Holy moly. What a surprise! If that didn’t make us glad we stopped, I don’t know what would. My eyes were as big as a getaway car’s tires as I gazed over the bridge and followed the bank that sank into the riverbed.  I could imagine it all happening.

Isn’t it amazing the things that pop up around you that you’d never guess? One moment you’re trudging along an endless highway, the next you’re seeing the scenery in a while new light. Taking a minute, taking a chance lets ordinary surroundings whisper their amazing secrets.

I’m so glad we stopped.

What about you? When/where have you been pleasantly surprised by a chance encounter or unplanned stop? Hypothetically, what would a historical marker in the future say (funny or serious) about where you live?

Want to know more?

Interview with son of eyewitnesses by A. Winston Woodward

The Historical Marker Database online and its Google/Android App

25+ Top Apps for iPhone/iPad

The 411

Several of you have been kind enough to ask about the progress of my World War II novel, tentatively named Wild Blue Yonder. I’m happy to say that it’s alive and well. Some brave focus group readers took on the task of reading and commenting on the first draft. I then made a few changes, and sent it on to my talented freelance editor this summer. I’ll tell you more about her when she’s finished.

In the meantime, the research bug found me again. I’ve begun researching my next World War II novel. This journey has already thrown fun twists and turns, and I can’t wait to tell you more in the near future.

Once I get my editor’s suggestions, I’ll launch into a rewrite – believe me, it needs it! Then I’ll begin submitting it to agents. If/when I’m fortunate to get an agent, he or she will sent it to publishers in hopes of a contract.

Whew! I know: It’s a long process. And I’m enjoying every bit of it.

This past weekend, I breezed through Sweetwater, Texas, and got to visit the good folks at The National WASP WWII Museum. I love spending time there. It’s a great reminder of what this novel is all about. I’ll leave you with a photo of their in-house Stearman biplane, very similar to one near and dear to the heart of my main character, Josie.

WP_000839

 

Time Travel: What are the Odds?

During Time Travel posts, we transport to different points in history. No TSA security checks necessary.

Imagine something you’ve wanted, and wanted bad. So much so that you’re willing to risk your life doing it and take no pay for it. In fact, you have to pay to do it.

But first, you have to beat out 22 other gals for that privilege.

www.nebraskastudies.org

www.nebraskastudies.org

Each of the WASP (Women Airforce Service Pilots) of World War II seemed to believe it was worth it. Each carried their own reasons, along with the footlockers they toted to training on the vast prairies of Sweetwater, Texas. But they boiled down, really, to just a couple: love of flying, love of country.

Their unique skills meant military planes reached their stateside destinations, new ships met their match during testing, trainees learned to fly, and bullets connected with towed targets during live-ammunition practice sessions.

And they stayed mindful that close to a dozen other women would love to take their place quicker than a West Texas flash flood. Twenty-five thousand women had mailed off their hopes in the form of an application. WASP founder Jacqueline Cochran chose 1,830 of them. 1,074 made it through the rigors of training to receive their graduation wings. 38 women paid the ultimate price.

And the American skies – and the war effort – were altered forever.

Let’s talk: Has there been something in your life that was worth this much effort? Who in history do you admire for this kind of commitment?

 

High Flying Christmas

Come on, you yellow Pansy!” Josie muttered at her parked Stearman biplane. Only when it didn’t cooperate did she use the canary-colored plane’s nickname.

She sauntered around a few seconds to refocus, hands on her hips, then turned on a heel to face the propeller once again. With a swift motion she yanked with all her might. The plane chugged, sputtered in protest, then fell silent as if pouting. Frustration rocketed out of Josie. Her fist connected with the cold metal shell of the plane with a dull thud. The bitter chill of the wind magnified ache in her knuckles.

It was Christmas Eve, for Pete’s sake. Only two days off from WASP training. She shook her sore hand and glanced around the barren, rolling plains. Wind whipped her chin-length brown hair into her eyes, but she could still see far down the dirt runway in the mid-afternoon stretch of sunlight. Maybe two more hours of daylight. Maybe.

Hmmm. Only a few miles back to Avenger Field. Even so, Otto was long gone and daylight was burnin’. West Texas dust had trailed her truck after she’d dropped off Josie where the Stearman was parked on a family friend’s air strip.

She turned and sized up the plane once again while hugging her thin coat to herself. It had to start. She placed an open hand on the side of the plane as an apology for the punch. The faithful Stearman hadn’t deserved that. She shot a quick prayer skyward – part plea for help and part asking forgiveness for getting distracted from Jesus’ birthday. Taking a deep breath, she rounded the front and turned to the propeller once more. One more swift yank, one more burst of hope.

She shouldn’t have been surprised. The motor roared to life and the baritone whirrr warmed her heart. The last few months had taught her that nothing was impossible. Now, what was that saying? …Something about truth being stranger than fiction? She chuckled at the memories of the last month-and-a-half, yet wasted no time. Two seconds and she vaulted herself from wing to cockpit.

Mercy, it felt good to be back in her family’s plane. To grasp familiar controls. No cramming bushels of new information just to get airborne. She smiled and sped through the pre-flight check with expert precision. A quick touch to two bags at her feet and she was ready.

Within moments she rumbled down the airstrip, easing the controls in a firm, smooth motion to push away from the land.

She leaned into a steep bank from north to east. Oh, how she loved those turns. She surveyed the land and caught sight of Sweetwater on the horizon. Cold air turned her nose as red as Rudolph’s. After sailing by the sleepy town, she headed southeast. It was almost as if the plane could fly home blindfolded to the James farm.

Home. The thought warmed her as she readjusted in her seat. Her weary body and mind rejoiced to be free from the rigors of training for a couple of days.

If only Johnny would be there with them. The sting of missing her older brother pricked her.  What would his Christmas be like? Leading a mission? Hunkering down in a chilly tent with a bunch of stinky fellows, all wishing they were home with their families?

Yet pride filled her as she thought of her brother’s service to their country, to the free world. He’d be home as soon as he could. In the meantime her parents awaited her return tonight.

Before that, though, she had a job to do. The time in the air would give her the chance to plan that she’d missed while working on the plane. She rechecked her bearings while noting the faint outline of Abilene to her left. Good thing she didn’t have to stare down the setting sun on her other side. Satisfied, she let part of her mind focus on the task at hand. The bit of money she’d earn would surely come in handy on the farm.

Now, she had to time it just ri–

“Yowww!!!” Josie yelped and jumped in her seat. The plane lurched off course. Confusion clouded her mind. She scrambled for the controls and tipped the wings level again.

Only then did she look down to see what pain gripped her thigh. Breathing hard, her eyes grew as big as Mama’s pecan pies when she spotted him.

“Confound it, Gravy!” The scared, crouching cat at her feet stared at her with innocent eyes while an outstretched paw hooked claws into her leg. “How in tarnation did you get here?” More stares.

Josie tore her eyes away to regain her bearings. Her thoughts raced and she shook her head. She dared a glance down. Yep, still there. Still staring at her.

That stupid cat. He’d almost been the death of her almost as soon as she’d set foot on Avenger Field.  Cats belonged in barns, earning their keep by mousing. This flea bag – she felt him climb onto her lap, gripping claws all the way – had made her dream her first week about warm Russian-style hats. She’d read about them in school. When she awoke one morning from the recurring dream, she’d heard purring. Jerking fully awake, she looked at her pillow only to see this lounging gray and cream tabby cat gazing at her, content. She’d shooed it off her cot and watched, still in disbelief, as it hopped on another one and out the open window.

Her five baymates–her friends–had only chuckled and ignored her attempts to keep him out. Betty, who slept closest to the window, would reopen it after Josie conked out every night. The routine repeated each day. Before long he’d taken on the name of Gravy, after the cream-colored fur on his soft belly.  Josie allowed a small smile.  Truth be told, she’d never slept better than when he warmed her head each night. Not that she’d admit that to anyone. She cleared her throat.

Quick scans around the cockpit floor confirmed her suspicion. Her canvas bag now gaped. Bits of fur decorated the opening. “Well, cat,” she glanced down at his closed eyes. How could he sleep up here in the sky? “I reckon Brown Betty will have a barn visitor for Christmas.” She laughed out loud, anticipating her mare’s whinny of displeasure. Brown Betty didn’t like cats any more than she liked swarming flies on a June afternoon.

Ugh. Josie clamped her mouth shut. She’d laughed too long and swallowed a high-flying bug. Her grimace continued through a coughing fit. Get it together, flygirl! She peered ahead and took in Buffalo Gap’s twin hills getting bigger. Shadows below were getting bigger, too. Time was running out to finish her plan.

Now, where was the Kramer house from here? Mr. Olin, a baker in Sweetwater, had described it to her while handing a warm cinnamon roll over his counter. “It’s across the road from the church,” he said with a nod and a smile. “Red bench out front. My son-in-law built it himself. Can’t miss it.” The family had moved to Buffalo Gap two months prior. Josie asked Mr. Olin to hold the reward until after she’d completed her mission.

The glaring sunset chased her toward town. She leaned forward. Gravy stirred. Would she be able to find their home in time?

A few minutes later her hopes had faded with the light as she approached town. She couldn’t see the houses below in the gray dusk. Her pulse raced. Another quick prayer.

Her mind went blank as the town turned black. Faint lantern light flickering in a few windows offered now help. She sighed. An incomplete mission. She frowned yet stayed her course.

Just as she was thinking of how to explain it to Mr. Olin, a bright glow glimmered ahead. What in the world?

Then it dawned on her. The church’s Christmas Eve service. She smiled, tears trailing down her cheeks. Moment by moment the light grew. She began to make out the line of people streaming outside to the front yard, candles in hand.  The light grew so much as she neared that the glow spilled to the neighboring houses. Josie banked, circling over the neighborhood.  It just might work…

She frantically scanned the small homes and yards. Where was it?

The she spotted it. The red bench, tiny below. And a couple with a little boy perched on their laps, watching the candlelight service. She kept one hand on the controls and reached the other for her second bag, a round, burlap one cinched near the top.

Wait, wait….now! As she shoved the bag over the side, the painted red words on the bag “From Santa” rolled by her. She caught a glimpse of the surprised churchgoers as she pulled up hard. Gravy gripped her lap.

Had it made it? She had to know. She swung wide and returned.

She craned her neck and found the home again. Peering through the dark she spotted the parents kneeling over the open bag. Wrapped packages sat next to it. The little boy jumped up and down. Just before she passed out of view the parents looked up and smiled at her. Her own huge smile made her frozen cheeks hurt.

She didn’t care. Mission accomplished. Pansy veered east and headed home.