Carbide Lantern

In 1928 at the age of seventeen, my dad, Webster Warren Bateman, went to work in a coal mine in New Salem, North Dakota. The historical fiction novel I’m writing, Cat Skinner: A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s will include this experience and many others during his youth.

I was talking to my husband, Scott, about dad’s experience in the mine. This led to a Google search of Carbide Lantern.  What I found gave me a whole new appreciation for Dad’s own written description about the experience. The lantern, so small it could be held in a man's hand, had two chambers. The bottom was for the solid carbide chips. It screwed into a top chamber that held water. A drip system allowed water droplets to reach the carbide creating acetylene gas. A lever on top of the lantern regulated the length of the flame which came straight out the front, brightened by a round, metal reflector plate behind the flame. Once lit by a spark from a striker wheel on the reflector plate or a match, the lamp gave off a bright, warm light. Still, I can't imagine that as a miner's only source of light 300 feet into the earth. Webb's own words follow: 

One of my next jobs was for a coal mine in New Salem, North Dakota (1928). My earnings were the mainstay for the family that winter.

I worked for a few days for free with another miner to learn how to mine coal. We dug coal rooms working in about 5 inches of water most of the time. We wore the same dirty, crusty long-handled under-wear, overalls and rubber boots every day. Each man had to get out 10 – 1 ton car loads of coal and a car of slack (fine powder) each day or you got no bottom cut by a machine that night.

You had to lay a short length of rail-track and bore the shot holes with a hand auger, make your black powder shots and load the coal. The mule-skinner brought empty cars to the entrance and pulled out the loaded cars. The mules lived in the mines until they had to be changed.

I was only 17 years old, the youngest miner ever there and maybe the poorest because of lack of experience. I would almost always be last to ring for the pump-man to lower the cage 300 ft. to haul me up to the shower room but I’d have my cut out.

We were paid .50 a ton for the coal mined. The car of slack was free. We furnished the black powder, dynamite and fuse. Our only light was a carbide lamp fastened to the cap on your head. It put out about a 2 inch flame. Sometimes it would go out. No one but an old miner knows what darkness is. You had to make your lamp work again in total blackness. From then on you know no fear of anything.

 

 

Growing Up On Prairie Farms

Novelist Laurence Durrell once said, “It takes a lot of energy and a lot of neurosis to write a novel. If you were really sensible, you’d do something else.”

He was right and it’s why I’m so admiring of an acquaintance of mine, Phyllis Pahl Mitchell. With the help of my friend and author, Joan Tornow, Phyllis compiled stories she’d written about growing up in Nebraska in the 1920’s and 30’s. Her paperback book, Growing Up On Prairie Farms – A Rough and Tumble Childhood is now available on Amazon.

You can get a sneak peek at the stories and see this photo of Phyllis on the back cover. Phyllis, also an accomplished artist, created the artwork. At 93 years young, you can definitely see the likeness to her father in the beautiful water color. I was privileged to have taken the photo for the book cover and the other photo of Phyllis and Joan.

The compilation of stories in her book was written over a number of years while Phyllis was a student in Joan’s memoir writing class. She was encouraged to create a book, but it wasn’t until this fall, with Joan’s editing and design skills, that Phyllis’ dream became a reality.

Phyllis’ first person account of life on the farm, attending a rural one-room school and eventually teaching in a rural school herself shows similarities to characters in my novel, Cat Skinner: A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s. It also shows stark contrasts. Phyllis' loving parents provided guidance and support, while my father, Webb, was tossed out of his home, not once but twice by his parents, before he was fifteen.

While world events and environmental changes were the same for these families, the experience of the children was indeed very different.

My hat is off to Phyllis and Joan and anyone else who writes their first book. If we were sensible… But we’re not.

My Father's Life Through a New Lens

Light is a photographer’s best friend. The more light you have, the better the image will be. A camera captures light by exposing its internal image sensor. As a photographer, I have to be mindful of three primary ways of controlling the amount of light captured: aperture (controls light and focal point), shutter speed (controls the length of time the sensor is exposed) and ISO (controls the sensor’s sensitivity to light).

So why talk about photography when I’m attempting to write a novel? Because -  I’ve found variables in photography analogous to variables in novel writing. Rivoting – yes?

Probably not, but the project I’ve started, writing the story of my dad’s youth - Cat Skinner: A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s, is full of discovery. The excitement I felt when I decided to seriously pursue photography is what I’m feeling now in writing his story. (I just discontinued photography as a business after six wonderful years. www.BonnieKingPhotography.com).

The similarities are many. I’m seeing my father’s life through a new lens. The light I’m seeking is provided by those who have written successful novels and those who have written technical works on how to write a successful novel. And here again, there are three primary variables: character (without whom there is no story), plot (which the writer must imagine) and structure (the way in which the plot unfolds).

Of course, there’s much more to photography than light and camera settings and there’s certainly more to novel writing than character, plot and structure. Both the photographer and the writer must have an idea of the desired result, be able to creatively compose subject matter, add special effects and then crop to assure the real story of the subject is told.

I was able to produce photo results that were pleasing to me and I hope to my photography clients. (I received rave reviews from many).

Whether I can do the same with this novel remains to be seen, but like photography, the challenge of learning and the journey itself, are well worth the effort.

Interruptions

One of the books I’m reading as a guide to my writing suggests, “Don’t ever stop. Even if you can only peck out a hundred words a day (anybody can peck out a hundred words in a day – and if you say you can’t then you really don’t have what it takes, so quit now).” James Scott Bell in Revision and Self-Editing for Publication, Second Edition.

Well, I’m not about to quit work on Cat Skinner: A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930’s, but there are days when I don’t write. Fortunately this same author also advises that if you hit a wall (His is around 30,000 words. Mine is every 2,000!), take one whole day off.

Truthfully, my days off are for reasons other than hitting a wall. Sometimes it’s plain and simple procrastination. Some days, it’s because I have other passions to pursue, people to care for, and coffee klatches I can’t miss!

This past month there have been plenty of excuses to skip writing days: A radio interview with Dorothy Wilhelm about Friends At Your Metro Animal Shelter (FAYMAS), a FAYMAS Board meeting and taking photos of the animals at the Metro Animal Shelter.

Then there was Thanksgiving at Scott’s niece’s home near Key Center, a fabulous wedding rehearsal dinner in Tacoma, Scott’s son Steve’s wedding (at which Scott announced to all attendees that my daughter, Kendall, is pregnant with her third child, as part of his toast to Steve and Kelli. That man! He said it just came out.)

Seattle doctor appointments for Scott filled two full days. By the way, he’s doing great which means I have to endure bad jokes all the way to and from his appointments and have my driving corrected every three minutes. (He’s driving the next time to keep from driving me crazy).

To assuage my guilt for not writing every day, I did attend a Plateau Area Writers’ Association meeting to hear Donna Seebo speak, my writer’s group monthly get together that always results in rewrites for me, and I stopped by the Sumner Library to hear Dorothy Wilhelm talk about her newest book, Better Every Day. It’s a compilation of some of her 25 years of humorous Tribune newspaper columns.

Coffee klatches certainly have their place in interrupting my writing. Had coffee with my photographer friend, Jessie; lunch with friend and VP of FAYMAS, Chris; coffee with neighbor Janine; breakfast with all my WIT (Women in Transition) friends at Charlie’s Restaurant; and just had coffee this morning with friend Shelly (she makes the best eggnog!).

Can’t forget to mention - babysitting my two grandchildren, Micah and Gracie, a number of times this month.  I just found out this week that they have an “incredible” cobweb hanging from their ceiling light. It told Kendall she has definitely trained them right – to see delight where others might see need for a broom.

Interruptions? Not really. How blessed I am to have such a rich and rewarding life.

The Objective - What Does Webb Want?

(Note: If you are receiving this as an email, the paragraph spacing is not accurate. For a better view, click on the title to see the actual blog post).

The Wordsmith’s met Wednesday evening. This is my writing group that meets once a month. I share a couple chapters of Cat Skinner with them a week before we meet. The other members do the same and we critique each other’s work. The group: Phebe, Renee, Judy and two new members, Sabrina and Sydney (mother/daughter), has provided me with invaluable feedback.

This week’s suggestions included moving chapters around to better prepare readers for the maturity of my father, Webb, who at the age of 12 in 1923 had a sexual encounter with a teenage girl slightly older than he was. While the scene was written in a humorous way, concerns were expressed by the group about the girl taking advantage of Webb. That’s certainly giving me pause to think about doing some rewriting. As I understand it from the little (very little) my father wrote about it, it was quite innocent.

There were also suggestions that Dorothy, Webb’s wife, be introduced as a more fully developed character earlier in the story.

I’m coupling group feedback with information from James Scott Bell’s book, Revision and Self-Editing for Publication (Second Edition). This has me writing out what I believe was Webb’s objective in life from the time he was first sent away from home to the end of my novel when he was 28 years old. Understanding his objective (what did he want) will help me develop the plot line (what happens to Webb), the structure (where to place incidents along the plot line), and how best to end the story. I also have relatives who may be checking the actual chronology of events!

In the end, I have to figure out:

1.     Did Webb gain his objective (happy ending)

2.     Lose his objective (unhappy ending)

3.     Gain his objective but lose something more valuable (classic tragedy)

4.     Sacrifice his objective for the greater good

5.     Is the ending ambiguous or bittersweet

Regardless of all this, I am gaining more insight into my father’s life than I ever thought possible. He spent a lifetime trying to prove he was worthy and ended up hurting a number of people along the way.

Giraffe Jargo

“Jeezus christ, Webb!” Shorty screamed as the truck careened over the side of the road and into a ditch. The load of poles shifted and caused the old Model T to buck and sway like a bronco.

Webb sprang back to life. He’d closed his eyes for a second, but that was all it took for the truck to head off the road. He cranked the wheel slowly back to the left, shifted down and gave the unwieldy, top heavy rig enough gas to get her back on the road.

“Want to get us killed, kid! That’s a sure way to do it. Good thing we’re not hauling the dogs or ponies. They’d be kickin’ shit about now.”

“Hey, Shorty, Good thing you don’t weigh more or it woulda been all on you. Get it?” Webb grinned sheepishly. 

“Look. I’ve been with a lot of these small time circuses and managed to survive. I don’t want my headstone to read, ‘Shorty – Mighty Midget bought the farm at the bottom of a pile of Big Top tent poles."

“Awe, come on. I was just catchin’ a couple winks. Can’t blame a guy, can you? We work from first light, way past midnight, get only four or five hours sleep a night. How’s anybody s’pose to stay awake under these conditions?”

“You’ll be awake alright when you and your brother are hitchin’ it down the road without a job and probably without pay either. Good ole Honest Bill’s been known to leave roustabouts in the dust, if he doesn’t like somethin’ or somebody. Good thing we’re the last truck or you would be hoofin’ it in short order. Not a pretty thought in the heat of summer in the middle of goddamn nowhere, South Dakota.”

###

This is the circus chapter's opening scene (at least for now) in Cat Skinner, A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930's. I admit, writing this chapter is intimidating. It may be because there is such richness of possibility with the characters, the setting and where I might go with the story line. It's not a case of writer's block, it's a case of obsession with the research!

Last week and this I've spent time contacting a book distributor, publisher and an author to get permission to use a photo of a giraffe jargo. My dad and his brother, Ray, were the two humans in a giraffe suit led around the Big Top by a clown. Since the circus was small, everyone had multiple jobs. Webb and Ray, as roustabouts, also put up the circus, took it down and drove it from town to town the summer of 1925.

So far I've only found dead ends in terms of legally using the photo. But the author did give me other suggestions for where to find other photos. I've started that search today. As a photographer myself, I'm hoping to share the visuals of my dad's story as well as the story. But now it's time to keep writing.

 

 

 

How Can You Ever Forget Old Norway - Kan du glemme gamle Norge?

There is a Christmas party scene in Cat Skinner: A Story of Lust, Love and Loss in the 1930's where the majority of the attendees are immigrants from Norway or descended from immigrants.

As a child, I can remember my Dad, Webster Warren Bateman, singing this song in Norwegian. The only part of the song I remembered was the first line which is also the title. Thanks to my cousin, Janet Peterson Esser, I now have all the words in both Norwegian and English.

I'm sharing them here because this blog will eventually become my personal book of memories of what it took to write my first novel. It's an eye-opening, sometimes heartwarming (this song for example) and surprising look at who my father was as a young man.

Kan du glemme gamle Norge?   Norwegian – American Folksong

1.     How can you ever forget Old Norway? I can never forget that country, with its proud castle-like mountains is and will remain my native land.

2.     How can you forget this country which first embraced you? Do you think you’ll ever find another country with such a proud and glorious name?
3.     How can you ever forget Norway^’s forests with their pines, and birches and firs? If you can forget the waves of the ocean, then you are able to forget everything. 

4.     How can you forget these narrow fjords which twist and turn? There as a child you often were rocked by a stiff breeze. 

5.     Don’t your thoughts at times take flight to the place your cradle stood? Don't you feel your heart is beating for the land you left behind? 

6.     Let, Oh let your thoughts take flight; let them fly so easily. Long live Old Norway, forever young, in the hearts of all Norwegians.

 

1.     Kan du glemme gamle Norge ? Aldri jeg det glemme kan, som med stolte klippeborge er og blir mitt Ødeland.

2.      Kan du glemme dette landet som dig først tok i sin favn ? Mon du finne vil et annet med så stolt og herlig navn?

3.     Kan du glemme Norges skover med sin furu, birk og gran ? Kan du glemme sjØens vover, alt du da forglemme kan.

4.     Kan du glemme disse trange fjorde, som sig bukter inn ? Hvor som barn du mange gange vugget dig for førlig vind.

5.     Svever stundom ei din tanke dithen hvor din vugge stod ? Føler du ei hjertet banke for det land som du forlot? 

6.     La da kun din tanke sveve; det kan aldri falle tungt. Må for nordmenn lenge leve.