Journal Notes

The western pioneer was independent only until the supplies in his covered wagon ran out. They looked to stores to supply them with goods necessary for life and desirable for comfort. The local market was the place to get powder and shot, tobacco, coffee, clothing, beans, liquor and news. Specialty shops provided pioneers with wallpaper, stationary, crayons, stereoscopic views, beauty cream and other refinements not usually associated with life on the plains. The general store was the place of first resort for everything from coal oil to calico to canned oysters, and much more. The place smelled of just about everything; the rich fruitiness of plug tobacco, the leather of boots and belts, fresh ground coffee, cheese, dried and pickled fish and the subtle musty-sweet tang of fresh fabric in bolts. Not an inch of space was wasted.

I’ll be speaking at the Nevada County Historical Society meeting tomorrow evening at 6:30 p.m. at the Madelyn Helling Library in Nevada City. The talk will center on the most recent book released The Bedside Book of Bad Girls: Outlaw Women of the Midwest. Email me for more information – gvcenss@aol.com. Hope to see you there. And now for this commercial message…. The stagecoach figured prominently in the early west. Under ideal condition, a coach driven by a fresh team of horses could “cut dirt” at the breakneck pace of nine miles per hour. Yet driving condition throughout much of the century were rarely ideal. Vehicles got stuck in ruts of mud so often that the expression “up to the hub” became a national colloquialism to illustrate any intractable predicament. Bad roads and driver impatience frequently combined to turn a coach over. During any long stage trip, in fact, passengers expected and were mentally prepared for at least one turnover.

For those who might be feeling as poorly as a centipede with sciatic rheumatism the following Old West advertisement might just be the thing to make it better. In the early 19th century most Americans healed themselves as their ancestors had for centuries. Professional medical assistance was either too far away, to expensive, or both. Even wealthy urban families usually attempted some sort of home health care before the doctor was called. This care was usually administered with the aid of books, pamphlets, and proprietary medicines purchased at the general store. Proprietary medicine advertisements were the mainstay of newspapers in the Old West. Newspapers carried notices for medicated vapor baths, artificial teeth, genuine Galvanic Rings, the Anodyne Necklace and other amulets. Some patent medicine companies spent more than $100,000 a year advertising their products. Patent medicines were the hottest-selling items on store shelves. If the labels on the medicines were to be believed, they could handle just about any and ever complaint. One concoction grandly promised to cure thirty different disorders including “nervous debility caused by the indiscretions of youth.” Mostly they relied on a heavy lacing of alcohol to work their proclaimed wonders. Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters, for instance, soothed indigestion with a formula packing a fifty-proof wallop.

And now a word from Royal Baking Powder…. Pioneer women spent a great deal of time cooking and baking for their families. Baking bread was a daily occurrence in most households and baking powder was an essential ingrediant in such. It was compounded of sodium bicarbonate and an acid salt or an alum that caused pastry and quick breads to rise. In 1880, Royal Baking Powder was the brand frontier wives preferred. It was one of the first name brand cooking items in the West. Other brands who dared compete with Roayl found themselves in the middle of an advertisement war. Royal claimed their baking powder was the best and hurled insults at their rivals in newspapers and magazines. Eventually the market became so flooded with different baking powder brands that Royal stopped their attack ads and focused solely on what their product had to offer.

A one-room log cabin with dirt or puncheon floor, simple fireplace, sawbuck table and straw mattress in which an entire family might sleep – that was as far as luxury went on the frontier and in newly settled regions of the country. Long-settled communities enjoyed roomier abodes, of course, and as the wealth of the region and of the nation grew, houses became larger, more elaborate and better equipped. Specialized stores helped homeowners furnish their dwellings with the most fashionable sofas, chairs, and love-seats available. Early Victorian furniture was popular and the most common style carried by furniture stores. Victorian furniture was large and made of mahogany, rosewood or black walnut. Notable characteristics were saber legs; marble table tops; turned bedposts; mushroom-turned wooden knobs for handles; ornamentation in the form of carved medallions featuring flowers, fruits and foliage. There’s nothing simple about that look. I’m not surprised the advertisment boasted that the items were cheap.

Over the past dozen or so years I’ve been researching Old West events I’ve come across some interesting advertisements. Newspapers from the mid 1800s are filled with peculiar, poignant and sometimes comical ads that provide insight into the lifestyle of the rugged pioneers who settled in the wild frontier. In the beginning traders, politicians and merchants peddled their wares using town criers, outdoor displays and eye-catching signs painted on the walls of buildings. The invention of moveable type in the early part of the 19th century gave business owners a new way to market their products and persuade consumers to buy whatever they were selling. However, advertisers did not abandon the old ways of pitching goods and services. By 1870, five years after the end of the Civil War, America was awash in advertising. Announcements were everywhere. Not only were they prominent in newspapers and magazines, but posters and broadsides, many in full color, blazoned from the walls of buildings in city locations from where they could be seen at considerable distances. Almanacs, filled with advertisements, were piled on druggists’ counters for customers to pick up. Notices were painted on rocks or sides of country barns, inside retail shops and offices, and on the outsides of public transportation. On the streets of large cities sandwich men were seen, at times in groups with each carrying individual letters which spelled out the name of a product. Banners were strung across streets and drummers were hired to beat out a tune and direct people into various general stores. The advertisements I’ve included in this month’s journal entries were featured in Almanacs and painted on the sides of country barns. The following advertisement, written by George Donner, leader of the ill-fated Donner Party, appeared in the Springfield Illinois Gazette in 1846. Ninety-seven people joined the party and left for points west in April of that year. Twenty-one pioneers survived the journey which included a long trek through a hot, barren desert, pounding rainstorms, attacks by hostile Indians, lack of water, blinding blizzards, and no food. The tragic outcome of the Donner Party did not halt westward migration. The promise of a better life in a land rumored to be rich with fertile ground and warm temperatures spurred hundreds on to California. The discovery of gold in 1849 brought thousands more to the state. The compelling ad read as follows: “Westward ho! Who wants to go to California without costing them anything? As many as eight young men of good character who can drive an ox team will be accommodated. Come boys, you can have as much land as you want without costing you anything!”

In the thirteen plus years I’ve been writing books about the Old West I’ve had many amazing experiences relating to the field. Some experiences have been more memorable than others. Two specifically stand out in my mind. In June 2009 the gracious curator at the Dodge City Museum on Front Street granted my outrageous request to hold Bill Tilghman’s and Bat Masterson’s guns. The historical artifacts were on display behind a thick sheet of glass. It took some time to remove the glass, but the wait was well worth it. Holding the weapon of one of the most respected lawmen ever born was an event I’ll always cherish. Marshal Bill Tilghman has been my idol as far back as I can remember. The next memorable experience took place at the Lone Pine Film Festival in Lone Pine, California. I was there signing copies of the John Wayne book I had written entitled The Young Duke. Among the numerous western film legends on hand at that event was Harry Carey Jr. Carey was an accomplished character actor who had starred in more than a few of my favorite westerns – films like The Searchers, Red River, She Wore A Yellow Ribbon, Rio Bravo and Tombstone. I met the quiet, unassuming man and his wife at dinner. Carey was in his 80s and dressed every bit the part of an actor who had just walked off a set from filming. Behind the gray beard and hat pulled low across his brow I couldn’t help but see the same boyish charm he possessed in the early years of his career. After introducing myself and pointing out the fact that we were born on the same day, Carey was born on May 16, 1921 and I was born in 61, the conversation happily shifted to the films he’d had the privilege of making. He talked about his father Harry Carey, Sr., John Wayne, and John Ford. He talked about serving in the Navy in the Pacific Theater as a medical corpsman during World War II. Carey was gracious and kind and a wealth of information. He let me ramble on about his performance in the John Ford western 3 Godfathers and Cheyenne Autumn. Harry Carey Jr. passed away this past week. He was ninety-one years old. Not only did cinema lose a fine cowboy actor (yes, I know he played other roles, but I’ll always remember him as a cowboy), but the world lost another World War II veteran. I’ll always remember meeting Harry Carey and think fondly on the last words he said to me, “We’ll be talking at you soon, Ms. Enss. Thank you kindly for the chat.”

Usually, a bad man was buried unceremoniously in a local “boot hill,” so called because most of those who were buried therein died with their boots on, and were even buried with them on. However, some had funerals; and tombstones with epitaphs marked their graves for some time, usually until souvenir hunters demolished them. On Sam Bass’ tombstone was engraved, “A brave man reposes in death here. Why was he not true?” On Seaborne Barnes’ gravestone was written, “He was right bower (meaning he was an anchor) to Sam Bass.” Besides his name and dates, Cole Younger’s tombstone had the words, “Rest in Peace, Our Dear Beloved.” Perhaps Jesse James’s complete epitaph should be given: “In Loving Remembrance of My Beloved Son, Jesse W. James, Died April 3, 1882, Aged 36 Years, 6 Months, 28 Days Murdered by a Traitor and Coward Whose Name is Not Worthy to Appear Here.” (I think I’ll have something like that inscribed on my brother’s tombstone.) The coward referred to was Bob Ford who, as you recall, shot Jesse in the back while he was hanging a picture on the wall, very unusually unarmed. Other than biographical information, Langford Peel’s tombstone bore the inscriptions: “In Life, Beloved by his Friends, and Respected by his Enemies. Vengeance is Mine, Saith the Lord, I Know That My Redeemer Liveth. Erected by a Friend.” Most unusual of the epitaphs of bad men was that of Lame Johnny, a man who never knew when to keep his mouth shut, hanged by impromptu vigilantes and award the epitaph: “Lame Johnny, Stranger, pass gently o’er this sod. If he opens his mouth, you’re gone, by God.”

Old West cowboys looking for a job driving cattle across the plains were generally asked the following question. “Can you ride a pitching bronc? Can you rope a horse out of the remuda without throwing the loop around your own head? Are you good-natured? In the case of a stampede at night, would you drift along in front or circle the cattle to a mill? Just one more question: can you sing? Some cowboys could not. Every time they went on guard and sang, the cattle would get up and mill around the bed ground. Good cowboy singers would have to be called in to serenade the animals. The cattle would quickly lie down when they sang. Considering that so few cowboys could sing and that it wasn’t the quality of the singing that counted-just the reassuring sound of a familiar voice or even a humming or whistling or yodeling-it’s a wonder that cowboy songs are as good as they are. As a matter of fact, most cowboy songs, especially cowboy ballads, were written by known (if forgotten) cowboy poets, to older tuners. Except as they help to soothe restless cattle or to keep them moving, cowboy songs are not true work songs like sailor’s chanteys. They are more like lumberjack songs-occupational and recreational songs-in which men sing about their work and play and express certain occupational attitude. Cowboy songs have the freedom, casualness and uncomplicated quality of cowboy’s life. Because the cowboy’s subjects are so few and basic, he has mastered them and can handle them simply and sincerely. As the Chisholm Trail from Texas to Kansas was the classic cattle trail, so the song that takes its name from the trail is the classic trail song. The easy swing of the tune is deceptive considering the cowboy’s troubles on the trail-weather, food, boss, pay. Here are a few verses from the song The Old Chisholm Trail. “I wake in the mornin’ afore daylight and afore I sleep the moon shines bright. Oh it’s bacon and beans most every day; I’d as soon be a-eatin prairie hay. With my knees in the saddle and my seat in the sky, I’ll quit punchin’ cows in the sweet by and by.” I bet Roy Rogers could have lulled a herd of cattle into a coma with his voice. Ride on, Roy.

A useful part of the cowboy’s costume was his neckerchief, or “wipes” as he called it. Neckerchiefs were usually red or blue, like the old bandana of the South, or black silk which did not show the dirt. The rodeo rider of modern days goes in for bright colors. Rangemen usually wished to avoid colors which attracted attention. An inconspicuous rider was more apt to catch a rustler. Usually the cowboy wore his neck scarf draped loosely over his chest with the knot in the back. If the sun shone on his back he reversed the scarf to protect his neck. When riding in the drag of a herd he pulled it up over mouth and nose to keep out the dust. In winter he might put it over his eyes to prevent snow blindness or to protect his face from icy winds and stinging sleet. He could use it to tie down his hat, to serve as an ear muff in cold weather, or to keep his head cool on a blazing summer day by wearing it, wet, under his hat. When he washed his face in the morning, an ever ready towel was hanging from his neck. In his work he had this handy mop to wipe the sweat off his face. He could use it for holding the handle of a hot branding iron, for a blindfold on a snaky horse, or as a “pigging string,” that is, a string for tying a roped animal by all four feet the way a hog is tied. Likewise the neckerchief could be used as a makeshift hobble for his horse, a tourniquet a sling for a broken arm, or a bandage. In the movie Appaloosa with Ed Harris and Vigo Mortensen, Mortensen’s character demonstrates just how important the neckerchief was to cowboys. In one scene he is carefully mending a tear in the garment. In addition to all these great uses I’ve found that the neckerchief is perfect for covering unsightly turkey neck.