Journal Notes

Some frontier teachers had a harsh rule they strictly enforced. They believed “Lickin’ and larnin’ goes together, No likin, no larnin.” (Now I’d start with “lickin” the teacher here, not only for the idea but for such poor spelling, but that’s just me). The forgoing dogma was basic to the educational philosophy of the old days. Lessons were regarded as a commodity to be pressed into reluctant vessels – the pupils – and a birch rod or hickory sick was used to accomplish this end. Legally in loco parentis, teachers relied upon it more heavily to enforce discipline, their devotion to scholarship often measured by the number of backsides they had reddened. Humanitarians, a tiny minority, thought otherwise, among them a former schoolmaster named Walt Whitman, who complained of the “military discipline” of the schools. “The flogging plan is the most wretched item yet of school-keeping,” he thundered. “What nobleness can reside in a man who catches boys by the collar, and cuffs their ears?” But such criticism posed no threat to corporal punishment, which was extremely hailed as a healthy and indispensable practice. (One inveterate disciplinary referred to his weapon as “my board of education.”) And concomitant with this belief went an austere mistrust of improvements to the physical plant because they were a “luxury.” A Washington Territory schoolmarm’s plea for the installation of toilets was turned down by the school board, which advised her that “there were plenty of trees in the yard to get behind.” Even her suggestion to replace the single well dipper with more hygienic individual cups was denied as being “undemocratic.”

Rural schools were handicapped not only by size – one room for all ages – but by the quality of instruction they dispensed. Teaching was an occupation of minimal prestige, with low pay, low standards and a high turnover rate. It was said that anybody could be a teacher, and while no doubt some were fine, dedicated individuals, most proved shiftless and unimaginative-products of the very systems they perpetuated. Because children supplied essential farm labor, the school year lasted barely twelve weeks, from Thanksgiving through early spring. It was hardly enough time for learning, or to encourage a teacher who genuinely sought results. And the salaries – in 1888-89 an average of $42.43 a month for men and $38.14 for women, grudgingly relinquished from frugal budgets-attracted mostly young men in transit to a profession or women who declared themselves schoolmarms to get away from a suffocating home life. Sometimes the teacher was a girl younger than several of her pupils, and almost as ignorant. Teachers were compensated for their low pay by being allowed to alternate free board and lodgings with various families. But many could not endure the accompanying scrutiny given their private lives and quit in disgust after a term or two, leaving the curriculum in chaos. Clarence Darrow recalls: “We seldom had the same teacher for two terms of school, and we always wondered whether the new one would be worse or better than the old.” To read more about teachers on the rugged plains read Frontier Teachers: Stories of Heroic Women of the Old West. Go to www.chrisenss.com for more information.

When my brothers and I had this picture taken it was one of the happiest times we had together. If we only knew what was in store for us then we would have savored the moment a bit longer.

Being a fan of western films, I think it only fitting from time to time to note some of the great lines from those movies. Given the fact that I’ve focused on soiled doves this month I’m going to focus on dialogue pertaining strictly to those ladies of the evening. From the movie Escape from Fort Bravo – Southern Belle Carla Forrester (Eleanor Parker) and Captain Roper (William Holden), discuss marrying soiled doves. “The women always look beautiful when they get married and the men always look scared,” Carla tells the Captain. “They both get over it,” the Captain replies. Although she wasn’t portrayed as a soiled dove in the movie Calamity Jane, Jane was indeed a prostitute at one time. Wild Bill Hickok, played by Howard Keel in the film, comments on actress Adelaide Adams to Calamity Jane played by Doris Day. “She’s lovely. Charming figure. Everything a woman ought to be,” Will Bill boasts. “Looks like a fat-frilled, upside undressed beef to me,” Calamity remarks. From the movie The Deadly Companions starring Brian Keith and Strother Martin. “I sure hope this town has some pretty girls in it,” Strother comments as they ride toward a village looking for some nocturnal company. “You get this far out in the brush, they’re all pretty,” Keith reminds him. And finally, from one of my favorite flicks, Destry Rides Again starring James Stewart and Marlene Dietrich. Dietrich ran the saloon and made sure all the male guests were taken care of. “Wait a minute, lady,” Stewart calls out to Dietrich. “Who you calling a lady!” Dietrich snaps back. To learn more about the soiled doves of the Old West and the lives they led read Pistol Packin’ Madams. To order the book visit www.chrisenss.com.

Outlawry wasn’t completely a man’s world, thanks to horse thief and prostitute Belle Starr (1848-1889). One of the great stories of the Bandit Queen holds that she galloped into a livery stable one afternoon and ordered her horse’s shoes to be nailed on backwards. That way, she could really confuse the posse that was hot on her trail. Belle Starr was born Myra Maybelle Shirley to a farming inn keeping family in Medoc, Missouri. The family moved to Carthage, Missouri, when Myra was a little girl. She attended private school there. Excelling in music and Hebrew. The stories about her start right around the time of the Civil War, when some folks swear she was teen spy for Quantrill. Her brother did ride with the raiders, but it doubtful Myra ever say the border butcher. Her father moved the family to Scyene, 10 miles east of Dallas, after the war. It was the summer of 1866 that young Cole Younger came riding by for a brief fling. When he left to rejoin the James boys, Myra Maybelle went to work as a soiled dove and a dealer in a Dallas gaming house. During this time, she met and married James Reed. The true paternity of Belle’s first child, a daughter christened Rosie Lee but always called Pearl, is still a mystery. In 1871, the Reeds moved to California, where Belle had another baby. The family relocated to Texas, where the new parents a earned a living stealing horses. One biographer states that Belle accompanied her husband during the robbery of Watt Grayson in Indian Territory. In that incident, a woman dressed as a man slipped a noose around old man Grayson’s neck and hoisted him “six or seven times” up a tree until he told where he had buried $30,000 in gold. Belle was widowed in 1874 when Reed was slain by a bounty hunter. Belle refused to identify the body, which meant the bounty could not be paid. Belle Starr was shot in the back with a shotgun by an unknown assailant in February 1889.

Mata Hari had the world by its tail-until it turned around and bit her. How else to describe the Dutch officer’s wife who fled Paris in 1904, changed her name (like many soiled doves do) from Margaretha Geertruida Zelle to Mata Hari, and pranced naked on stage while convincing the capitals of Europe that she was an exotic Indian dancer among other things? “I never could dance well,” even she admitted. “People came to see me because I was the first who dared to show myself naked to the public.” Just a few years later Mata Hari was despised as the most notorious spy of World War I. He trouble may have been that she was too popular, so that when war broke out the French and English immediately became suspicious of her German acquaintances. Those “acquaintances” included lovers who had kept her clad in jewels and furs-offstage-through her career, and one of them happened to be the German chief of intelligence in Spain. She was followed constantly throughout Europe, and finally, in February 1917, she was arrested at her hotel in Paris and charged with espionage. There is much speculation as to whether Mata Hari really was engaged in passing secrets to the enemy. She had a gift for talking her way into things-it was the foundation of her career, after all-so it could be that she simply got carried away with her own imaginative tales. She claimed she actually meant to spy for the French, even though they hadn’t requested her assistance. Whatever the case, France, on the brink of defeat, was not much in the mood to give her the benefit of the doubt. In a prison outside of Paris, Mata Hari was put in a padded cell to prevent her from committing suicide. Her many appeals were denied, even by her own Dutch government, to which she wrote, “Jealousy-vengeance-there are so many things that crop up in the life of a woman like me, once people know that she finds herself in a difficult position.” On October 15, Mata Hari was awakened at 5 a.m. and informed that she would be shot that morning. “It’s unbelievable!” she said weakly, but otherwise remained composed. She put on a gray dress, a straw hat, and a white veil, then was driven to the Chateau de Vincennes, a military compound outside of Paris. It was freezing and foggy when she was led in front of a firing squad of twelve soldiers. She refused to be tied to the pole and refused also to be blindfolded. It is said that as the soldiers raised their rifles, Mata Hari smiled at them, even winked. After she collapsed and army surgeon walked over, checked her briefly, then fired a final shot-the coup de grace-into her head to make sure she was dead. Her body, which had been no secret to much of Europe, was taken to a city hospital in Paris, where it was dissected for medical research.

Libby Thompson twirled gracefully around the dance floor of the Sweetwater Saloon in Sweetwater, Texas. A banjo and piano duo performed a clumsy rendition of the house favorite, “Sweet Betsy From Pike.” Libby made a valiant effort to match her talent with the musicians’ limited skills. The rough crowd around her was not interested in the out-of-tune music; their eyes were fixed on the billowing folds of her flaming red costume. The rowdy men hoped to catch a peek at Libby’s shapely, bare legs underneath the yards of fabric on her skirt, but Libby was careful to only let them see enough to keep them interested. Many of the cowboy customers of the Sweetwater were spattered with alkali dust, grease, or just plain dirt. They stretched their eager, unkempt hands out to touch Libby as she pranced by, but she managed to avoid all contact. At the end of the performance she was showered with applause, cheers, and requests to see more. That night, Libby was not in an obliging mood. She smiled, bowed and hurried past the enthusiastic audience as she made her way to the bar for a drink. A surly bartender served her a glass of apply whisky and she headed off to the back of the room with her beverage. A large, purple velvet chair waited for her there in her usual corner spot by the stairs, along with her pets, a pair of prairie dogs. As Libby walked through the mass of people to her throne-like seat, she saw three grimy, bearded men surrounding her seat. One of the inebriated cowhands was poking at her animals with a long stick. “Boys, I’d thank you kindly to stop that,” she warned the unruly trio. The men turned to see who was speaking then broke into a hearty laugh once they saw her. Ignoring the dancer they resumed their harassment of the animals. The animal batted the stick back as it neared them and each time the men would erupt with laughter. Libby watched the three for a few moments then slowly reached into her drawstring purse and removed a pistol. Pointing the gun at the men she said, “Don’t make me ask you again.” The drunk cowhands turned to face Libby and she aimed her pistol at the head of the man with the stick. Laughing, the man told her to “go to hell.” “I’m on my way,” she responded, pulling the hammer back on the gun. “But I don’t mind sending you there first so you can warn them,” she added. The cowboy dropped the stick and he and his friends backed away from Libby’s chair. One by one they staggered out of the saloon. Libby put the gun back in her purse, scooped up her frightened pets, scratched their heads and kissed them repeatedly. Known as Squirrel Tooth Alice, Libby Thompson was named for slight imperfection in her teeth and for the burrowing rodents she kept, which were often mistaken for squirrels. Perhaps in spite of, or due to her idiosyncrasies, Alice was one of the most famous madams of the West. Among the many things that fascinate me about the west was the ability to challenge a bully without fear of getting sued. If you wanted trash out of your life and they wouldn’t go with a kind request you could force them to leave you alone. The bully wasn’t made the victim as is the case now of days either. My nephew works at a Walmart in Missouri and recently shared with me that Dottie Dial, a woman that has done nothing but cause heartache for my family, including accusing my nephew of some horrible acts, used his checkout stand to pay for the things she was going to purchase. While going through the line she had the nerve to ask him how he was doing and inquired about the rest of the family. Dottie Dial is a bully and should leave what’s left of my family alone. Given the circumstances she could have and should have gone through another line. But as I say, she’s a bully and no one will stop a bully these days. If only it were 1873 and Squirrel Tooth Alice was witness to the bad this woman has done and continues to do. I think I know the course Squirrel Tooth Alice would take. To read more about Squirrel Tooth Alice visit www.chrisenss.com.

Many popular dime novels of the Old West were written about soiled doves. Author Metta Victor was one of the most famous dime novelist of her day. Readers couldn’t wait to find out what happened to Gold Rush harlots like Eleanora Dumont and Stagedoor Angie. Metta kept thousands of pioneers entertained with her work. At the end of a long and difficult day traveling from Independence, Missouri to points West, invading a wild land and homesteading an uncertain territory, women of all ages escaped their hard pioneer life reading Dime Novels. The mustard colored, paperback books provided the tough female stock of the 1860s with romantic, spellbinding tales of courageous women who braved the elements to find true love. Author Metta Victoria Fuller Victor was one of the most successful Dime Novel writers in the 1860s. Over her forty year career she penned more than 100 stories for the publishing house Beadle & Adams. She entertained hundreds of thousands of fans. Among her most loyal readers included political activists, inventors and the 16th President of the United States. She was born on March 2, 1831 near the town of Erie, Pennsylvania. Her parents Adonijah and Lucy Fuller, moved Metta and their four other children to Ohio in 1839. It was there that eight year-old Metta began writing. While attending a female seminary she crafted her first story entitled The Silver Lute. The well written story appeared in the Wooster Gazette in 1844. Metta was 13 years-old. Two years later a Boston printing company published her romantic novel, The Last Days of Tul; A Romance of the Lost City of Yucatan. The successful book centered around a pair of missionaries who fall in love while working in Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. The charm and maturity in which Metta wrote captured the attention of many well respected editors who gave her the chance to write additional material. N.P. Willis and George Morris, editors of the New York Evening Mirror and the New York Home Journal, published her next two stories and a serial entitled The Tempter. The serial appeared in the New York Home Journal and was circulated throughout the United States and Great Britain. British readers thought the story was a continuation of a popular book written by Reverend George Croly entitled Salathiel. The books main character, Salathiel, led the mob which promoted the death of Jesus, in return for which he was condemned to the misery of the undead state. Metta’s The Tempter was a best seller in England and was hailed as “a fitting conclusion to the life of an evil betrayer.” In addition to being prolific, Metta was versatile. After tackling romance and Biblically themed stories, she ventured into poetry. In 1850, Metta and her sister, Frances coauthored a book called Poems of Sentiment and Imagination. The work was inspired by Metta’s feelings for the man she had just married, a Doctor Morse from Ypsilanti, Michigan. From 1851 to 1856, Metta wrote four more books and contributed to the Saturday Evening Post and Saturday Evening Bulletin. Her work always contained characters wrestling with a moral dilemma and she was criticized for what some readers called “heavy handed sermonizing.” In time she learned to present her ideals in a less forceful manner and was then praised as a “writer with significant influence.” Her most important book during this five year period was a temperance novel entitled The Senator’s Son. The work was extremely popular and was reprinted ten times. Personal information on Metta is slim. What exactly happened to her first husband, whether he died or they divorced, is not known. But by the summer of 1856, Dr. Morse was no longer a part of her life. In July of that year she married a fellow writer named Orville J. Victor. Orville was the editor of the Sandusky, Ohio Daily Register and the Cosmopolitan Art Journal. In 1858, the pair moved to New York to further their writing careers. Both contributed to various periodicals including the New York Weekly. The editors of the paper were so taken with the Metta’s style they offered her a five year contract worth $25 thousand dollars. Metta managed to fulfill her obligation to the paper while raising a family of nine children and maintaining a home and marriage. Metta’s association with the publishing house of Beadle & Adams began in 1859. Already familiar with her background, editors Irwin and Erastus Beadle made her the editor of a weekly magazine entitled The Home. Metta contribute numerous articles for the periodical and proved her range by providing the publication with a series of books containing recipes and cooking tips. She continued to add to her repertoire, but chose to use a number of pseudonyms on each of the books she completed. Among the nom de plumes was Louis Le Grande, M.D. and Mrs. Mark Peabody. On August 1, 1860, Beadle & Adams released Metta Victor’s first romance novel. Alice Wilde: The Raftsman’s Daughter, the heart wrenching exploits of a rugged woman starting a new life out west, was read by thousands. Fans of the genre and Metta’s writing style eagerly anticipated her next book. The Backwood’s Bride was quickly rushed to the printers and released three months after The Raftsman’s Daughter was made available. Metta’s follow up to the Backwood’s Bride entitled Myrtle, the Child of the Prairie, came out in December that same year. Young women responded favorably to all the romantic novels offered by Beadle & Adams, but had a particular fondness for Metta Victor’s work. She was cleaver and skillful and frequently sprinkled her stories with a dash of humor. Whether her books listed her given name or one of the many pseudonyms she used specifically for her romantic novels, her work was easily identified. In 1861, Metta’s husband joined the editorial staff at Beadle & Adams. Orville encouraged his wife to continue working for the company, considering himself to be her most devoted reader. Shortly after he took the job with the profitable publishing house, Metta’s antislavery novel Maum Guinea was released. Orville felt the book was her best work yet. Maum Guinea was as popular as Uncle Tom’s Cabin and praised by President Abraham Lincoln and Congressional Clergyman, Henry Ward Beecher. Metta followed the successful Maum Guinea with a similarly themed piece entitled The Unionist’s Daughter; A Tale of Rebellion in Tennessee. In 1863, she penned another Dime Novel romance entitled Jo Davies’s Client; or Courting in Kentucky. Not unlike The Raftsman’s Daughter, Jo Davies’s Client was a best seller. By the age of 33, Metta Victor had achieve notoriety as an author of romance, social injustice, poetry and humor. All that was left was mystery. When Beadle & Adams published her work The Dead Letter in 1865, she secured her place in American literary history. The Dead Letter is credited as the first full-length detective novel written by a woman. Metta’s combination of gothic horror elements and suspense made The Dead Letter an original and unique read. In early 1865, Metta took a short departure from mystery and romance to write a book on housekeeping. The Housewife’s Manual included chapters on cleaning and renovation, sewing, cultivating plants and flowers, caring for birds and household pets. By the end of the year however, she returned to the subject of love and penned The Two Hunters; or The Canon Campus, A Romance of the Sante Fe Trail. Metta Victor authored more than 150 books and articles and before her death in 1885 she was working on yet another novel. Cancer claimed her life when she was 54 years-old. She passed away at the family home in Hohokus, New Jersey.

Joyce Carol Oates once wrote, “Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another’s skin, another’s voice, another’s soul.” I hoped to be able to encourage young people to want to read at this latest book event in Missouri. I was pleased when a mother approached me after the talk to let me know how excited her daughter was to read the western books I’ve been fortunate to pen. Her daughter won a library of my books and a set of saddlebags at the Saddlebags and Stories signing in Norborne, Missouri. I’m happy that the soon-to-be sixth grader has an interest in pouring over tales of the accomplishment of the brave women heading west in the mid-1800s. It makes being a writer a rewarding venture. On the other hand being at the location where my brother Rick once lived was heartbreaking. I still miss him. I guess that pain will always be.