Journal Notes

Elizabeth Custer is one of the most fascinating characters I’ve had the pleasure to write about. She was fiercely loyal to her husband, the boy General, and tough enough to withstand months in the field with George and the 7th Cavalry. “Instinct guided me always in detecting the general’s enemies,” Elizabeth wrote about George, “and when I found them out, a struggle began between us as to my manner of treating them.” Manner of treating them. I like that expression. It’s a very polite way of letting people know that she would deal harshly with anyone who threatened her family. Her method of taking down her enemies was much more refined than that of Wyatt Earp, but just as deadly. Her behavior peaked my interest today. My brother Rick’s ex-wife is going out her way to get in touch with members of my family again and thoughts of the manner which I’d like to treat her and her odious daughter play out in my mind. How satisfying it would all be if I could act out the last scene from the film the Quick and the Dead. All the evil that licks at my family’s heels like sick dogs would be taken out. Into all these vengeful thoughts a still soft voice whispers in my ear reminding me that Jesus loves them and that I want to serve him. So I can’t do any of those things I see Clint Eastwood or John Wayne do in the movies. Elizabeth Custer didn’t simply defend her husband’s actions at the Little Big Horn because she loved him, she collected reports that supported what happened the day he and 200 other men were killed in battle. I’ve done the same with my brother. I’ve spent five years investigating his case and gathering evidence. A month ago I learned much of the evidence the prosecuting attorney said they had was made up. They lied. I thought a lot about that when I left the federal prison two weeks ago after seeing my brother. Seeing him was very hard. I walked to the parking lot and sat in my car for a long time, weeping, unable to see enough through the torrent of tears to drive away. A piece of my heart stayed at the prison – a part I feel at times is vital for my heart to continue beating at all. Nothing about this journey is familiar, comfortable, or desired. It’s like a trip to another country – to a foreign land where my brother doesn’t belong. I want so much not feel this way, to go on like it doesn’t matter, to return to the way it was. But there is no going back. There was no going back for Elizabeth Custer either. What’s gone is gone.

All too often I find myself in ridiculous situations in which there is no way out. Generally, I sign up for a beating, I get a beating, and then I’m surprised I got the beating.. Such was the case with the book event I attended in Texas this past week. Exhausted and struggling with bronchitis, I drag myself to a location across from the Alamo to promote Thunder Over the Prairie. Most of the people I met were incredibly kind. I learned some interesting facts about history listening to some of the other authors at the program talking about their books. One of the speakers had written a book about John Ringo and had researched the outlaw’s death and concluded that Ringo had committed suicide. It was fascinating to hear him discuss the documentation that led him to that thought. He shared Ringo’s death certificate and historical information with a coroner he knows. Brilliant idea! There were a few self proclaimed historians sitting around me during the author’s talk who were jotting down mistakes they believed the writer made in his book. They couldn’t wait to share their mean-spirited critique. I realized in that instant that I was guilty of the same thing. I made a mental note of every snub and hurtful comment that was made to me about my work while I was there. And I couldn’t wait to share my thoughts with others if anyone asked. Many of us our critics. From the comfort of my couch I’ve sniped at a few active individuals struggling to effect political change, make a movie, write a book, tell a joke, design a faucet – okay, that guy is a jerk. The faucets are fine, stop messing around with them, all right. The ones in airports are like science projects with the electronic eyes and motion sensors, water-saving springs – Faucet guy! Stop it! I’m not saying there isn’t a place for solid, intelligent, constructive criticism. But when was the last time you read a review of something, a movie, play, book, that gave you a real feel of what the author was trying to say? Now I don’t have any personal ax to grind here. Bad reviews don’t even affect me that much. I’m not the kind of person who names names – in fact, I don’t even know the name of that insufferable blow-hard from Wyoming. But uh?I feel so cleansed? The key thing to remember about all critics is that they remain dependent on the innovator, the person doing the real work of creating. And because they just sit on the sidelines of life, never the hunter, they are doomed to be forgotten. I hope to have further news to report this week on the progress of the film based on Thunder Over the Prairie. I know I’ll have news to report about my brother Rick’s condition. In the meantime, here’s a review of Thunder that was emailed to me. If only every reader felt this way? “Earp! Bassett! Masterson! Imagine joining a posse that is after a murderer, corrupt with a sour passion of lust and love. That’s what it its like reading THUNDER OVER THE PRAIRIE! Ms. Enss has done it again! Surpassing her other great books such as Pistol Packin’ Madams, A Beautiful Mine, and The Lady was a Gambler. Being a amateur historian, its totally amazing how much time, effort, and travel has been made on research just for one book. All I can say is THANK YOU, Ms. Enss, THANK YOU!!!!! Waiting for another book. TL Smethers.”

I slowly made my way through the Polo Lounge Restaurant at the Beverly Hills Hotel, careful not to gawk at whatever celebrity might be dining at the same establishment. When my eyes did stray I noticed that everyone around was tall, perfectly tan, and dressed in crisp, freshly pressed garments. I was wearing a white dress with a matching black and white coat, slightly crumpled from the plane ride to L.A.. My skin is hopelessly white. It’s as if I’ve never been around the sun. One would think my parent’s were polar bears. My new shoes were pinching my feet and I walked with a slight limp. Something didn’t belong in this setting and it was clearly me. That fact became even more obvious when Walter Hill met Howard Kazanjian at our table. Sitting between two legendary film makers who were polished and poised and discussing the art of film making with reverence, I blurt out “So, how about those Long Riders.” The Long Riders is a great western Walter Hill produced. He kindly responded, but clearly I didn’t belong there. I was dumb-struck by the setting and company and from what I can remember, was barely able to string two sentences together that made sense and that didn’t include the expression, “Holy Cow!” Walter was nice and complimentary of the book Thunder Over the Prairie and I was thrilled with that. He will be adapting the material to the screen. Until everything comes together and the film premiers my part is done. All I can think is Holy Cow! I’m off to San Antonio tomorrow to the Western Writers History Association conference. It should be a real learning experience. I can only hope one of the things I learn is another phrase to express my enthusiasm and admiration. “Holy Cow” is getting a little old.

I’m off to Los Angeles today. I’ll get to see my brother and make some inroads in getting him some teeth at long last. My meeting with Walter Hill will now be on Monday. I’m very excited. Even if nothing ultimately happens. What a thrill to meet such a distinguished director and discuss Thunder Over the Prairie. I’m going armed with one of the following 8 reviews: By W. Hylinski (California) -See all my reviews: “I don’t get a lot of time to read with 2 little boys in the house, and most books take me weeks to read. This book though had me hooked right from the beginning and I found myself making time to read it. I loved the attention given to the backgrounds of everyone in the book, it was filled with facts that are often unknown by most or that are given little attention. The writing was top notch and you could just see all the hard the work that went into putting it together. Chris and Howard have once again brought to the world a piece of art in literature. I’m happy to send out a few promotional copies of the book. Just drop me a line and let me know you’d like one and I’ll get it out to you.

All efforts to view the Elizabeth Custer archives in private hands in Montana have failed. The owner will not allow me access to the material. I don’t blame him for being a suspicious given the fact that the Federal government overtook his property and seized historical items he acquired himself. The claim was that the material belonged to the national museum in Washington. It reminds me of the final scene of the first Indian Jones movie. I’m not giving up however. I travel to LA this week in part for work, but mostly to see my brother. It breaks my heart. But it should, I guess. I struggle everyday with trying to forgive the two women responsible for the broken man I’ll see again Thursday. Over and over again I recall Ephesians 4:32 “Be gentle with one another, sensitive. Forgive one another as quickly and thoroughly as God in Christ Forgave you.” And Matthew 18: 21-22. “Master, how many times do I forgive a brother or sister who hurts me? Seven? Jesus replied, ?Seven! Hardly. Try seventy times seven.’ I love that last verse because it reminds me Jesus knew that forgiveness, for more of us, is a process that often has to be repeated, not a one-time decision that lasts a lifetime. And so again today, I’ll pray that forgiveness seeps into my soul. I’ll have to repeat the scene again when I see Rick. It just isn’t getting into my heart. I want to insists that my prayers for this situation get answered with the favorable resolution I have requested. But God says, Chris I have a bigger plan than you envisioned for this. Trust me. I’m lousy at trust too.

Yesterday was a high point in my life with regards to my work. I spoke with Emmy winning screenwriter Walter Hill about Thunder Over the Prairie and he was very complimentary. I’ve always been a big fan of Hill’s work. In fact I have a movie poster of The Long Riders hanging in my home. He was gracious and kind and I was honored that he read the book. Howard and I will be meeting with him next week in L.A.. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity and if nothing comes of it I am thrilled that it got this far. The research into the personal life of Elizabeth Custer continues. I have a specific idea about how I want to approach the story, but need a few of her letters on the subject to bring it about. I believe that the rumors about his infidelity were fueled by fellow officer Frederick Benteen. He was Custer’s nemesis. I’ll keep digging. In the meantime, press packets for the children’s book Cowboy True’s Christmas Adventure need to be created. The book will officially be launched in December, but all the press material has to be mailed by the first of August. It’s a busy time and I’m glad for that, but I miss my brother. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him or see his suffering in my mind’s eye. If he were gone from this world perhaps I wouldn’t grieve so. I wrestle with the part of me that knows how mighty and just God is with wanting to see the wicked who did this to my brother get theirs now. I can’t sleep. Rick is gone, but he’s here. At night there is nothing to occupy my mind, no one to reach out to. I am consumed with the image of his slow demise. There is nothing and no one to drown out the hurt. There is only the dream that nothing will go right for the mother and daughter who did this until they admit what they’ve done and how they’ve lied. Dreams seldom come true however.

My desk and the floor around my desk is covered with research papers and books about Elizabeth Custer. She was a fascinating woman. From almost the moment she met George to the time she passed away at 91 she sang his praises. They were wed in 1864 and he was killed 12 years later. She never remarried and she died in 1933. She was hopelessly devoted to George. I want to do more research on Libbie and the General, but I’ll have to go to Monroe, Michigan where she was born to get it done. I’ve just returned from a long trip and am not anxious to get on another plane. Flying has turned into an amazingly arduous process, especially boarding the plane, which has now become this tedious Bataan death march with American Tourister overnight bags. The last trip I took I was stuck behind one guy who took forever to get situated. He clogged the aisle like a piece of human cholesterol. He folded his sport jacket like he was in the color guard at Arlington National Cemetery. I’m a nervous flyer I guess. I’m suspicious of those masks that drop down in the event of decompression. The flimsy apparatus looks like a Parkay margarine cup on the end of an enema bag. The airlines always have these bizarre instructions to start the flow of oxygen. “Tug down lightly on the cord.” Yeah, you know when I’m shoulder-rolling at seven hundred miles per hour, lightly just isn’t in my vocabulary. In comparison to the mode of transportation Elizabeth Custer used to get to the military posts where George was located, flying is still the easiest and fastest way to get from one point to another. With that in mind, I’m off to book another flight.

It’s a good thing my life as a writer isn’t a reality show. Nothing could be more boring. I spend a great deal of my day just looking for my reading glasses. When I find them I’m going to go back to researching the life of Elizabeth Custer for the new book I?m writing. I’ll have to make a trip to Monroe, Michigan to get all the information I need. That’s where Mrs. Custer was born. Guess I’ll go there after I get back from San Antonio and the Western Writers History Association conference. I’ve spent some time today mailing off review copies of Thunder Over the Prairie and praying the movie goes through with Hallmark. I’d be so thrilled if that happened! I imagine myself in the audience when the theatre goes dark and the film starts. Of course first there will be the dancing candy ad that theatres always run before the movie begins. That ad was always a little disturbing to me. If the candy can dance, and for that matter, play musical instruments, why should I get up, go to the snack bar, and buy the candy? Why can’t it just walk down the aisle and meet me at my seat? And why does a Coke cost more than the ticket? The Cokes the theatres serve are so big you could swim in them. Halfway through the movie I’m so bloated I have to step outside for twenty minutes of dialysis, which means I have to come back the next day and see the movie again to find out the part I missed. Perhaps I’ve shared too much. If I could find my glasses I’d reread what I’ve written and delete the part about being bloated. But I don’t know where the glasses are! Maybe they’re with the television remote. That’s been missing since Monday.

According to the folks at Hallmark Films “we may be able to get this one (Thunder Over the Prairie) set up this fall!!!” I certainly hope that’s the case. People don’t always mean what they say. What a blessing it would be though. Howard and I were guests this morning on a radio program out of Sacramento called Insight and spoke quite extensively about the four lawmen in the new book. I’ve got another signing coming up this weekend and will be talking to book buyers about the title then too. I’m doing everything I can think of to keep the momentum going for this tome. I really like the book, but the window of time needed to get everyone else to like it is very short. Soon, very soon, it will be old news. It’s moments like these that make me wish I had gone into some other line of work. Maybe I should have been a lawyer. Not a dishonest, grotesquely rapacious pimp like the one who let my brother go down, but a good lawyer motivated by compassion and concern. I didn’t always have such low opinions of lawyers. The word “lawyer” used to conjure up images of an upstanding, tireless advocate for the little guy. An Atticus Finch or Clarence Darrow, who was passionately dedicated to truth and justice. I think the law has been bastardized by a band of hucksters (like the dishonest, grotesquely rapacious pimp and his staff who let my brother go down) who have made it so cryptic, so utterly puzzling and arcane that Moses and Judge Judy working around the clock for twenty years could not understand it. The average person walking into a courtroom (like my parents and I) have long abandoned any expectation of justice. Because the American legal system has been turned into nothing more than a baroque multitiered Vulcan chess game where the rules have become too intricate for the average citizen to play and where the loser is no longer the guilty party but rather the least clever of the two. Okay, maybe I don’t want to be a lawyer and it’s too late to change careers now anyway. So, it’s back to writing and the struggles inherit with that. By the way, did I mention Thunder Over the Prairie is in book stores everywhere?

Nellie Bly was an American journalist, author, industrialist, and charity worker. She is most famous for an undercover expose in which she faked insanity to study a mental institution from within. Lucy Stone was a prominent American abolitionist, suffragist, and reporter for the newspaper The Liberator. Both women are subjects in the new book I’m working on entitled Front Page: Women Journalist of the Old West. Both women have admirable qualities, but I respect Nellie more than Lucy. She never made her gender an issue. She did what she knew she could do based on her skill and talent alone. She didn’t hide behind a cause. She acted and in so doing opened the door for many investigative journalists to follow. I think we trivialize women’s issues in this country by fixating on the insignificant and ignoring the consequential. With all the serious inequities heaped on womanhood: the fact that we don’t get paid equally; the fact that we’re often brutalized by incomplete males. What do we focus on? The freak show, giving women sports caster’s access to football locker rooms, young girls being allowed to join the Boy Scouts. I’m aware that I have benefited greatly from the women who made sure I had a right to vote and could attend school to become a doctor or a minister, etc. and I’m grateful. But things have changed since Nellie and Lucy broke onto the scene. Women don’t just want their rights anymore, they want more. As a proponent of father’s rights I have seen the way women have brutalized men. I have seen women in the so-called justice system rape men and terrorize them in ways they never would a female. Because I’ve witnessed such blatant acts personally I have a general distrust of women. I don’t think I’d feel that way if I knew more women like Nellie Bly. From the research I’ve done for this new book I believe women like her would have exposed injustice regardless of gender. I wish I’d known Nellie. I could have introduced her to my brother. Maybe she could have saved him from the succubus he married. It’s interesting how all stories seem to lead back to the same hurt.