Journal Notes

On Friday, December 14th I had the good fortune of being a part of a book signing at Amicus Books in historic Marysville, California. The ladies who hosted the event dressed up like characters from the book With Great Hope: Women of the Gold Rush and read aloud from a few of the chapters. It was a delight to meet the people that turned out for the event and I was honored that they liked the books enough to invite me to participate. I look forward to returning to the location in the near future. Tomorrow the production company that’s filming the documentary about John Wayne’s early years will be here to do an interview about the book The Young Duke. They sent me a list of talking points and I’ve been going over and over them in hopes that when the camera is on I sound like I actually know something about the Duke’s life. I feel like I’m studying for an exam – memorizing dates and places. He was a huge talent and I liked him because he was every man’s hero. He had a quiet strength. He was the good guy who always made the bad guy pay for his sins. I’m a big fan of that notion and believe the only place that ideal is ever realized is in motion pictures. I think that’s why so many are drawn to him. Who doesn’t want to see the Ned Peppers and Liberty Valances of this world shot? And who didn’t think Wayne was always the man for the job?

What a glorious few week of answered prayer and further dislpays of God at work. I’ve not kept up with my journal notes this week because I was directing the annual Christmas in Bethlehem production at the church I attend. A thousand people took the tour through the city and many lives were reached for the Lord. People left the tours knowing that we serve a real Savior. It was a blessing to be a part of the program. It couldn’t have happened at a better time too because right in the middle of spending long hours building the city I received an ugly message in the guest book section of this website. The designer of my web-page was able to trace the culprit down and I now know that the identity of the foul, unsigned memo writer. The note came during a rare moment when I was able to allow something else into my heart other than the overwhelming sense that my beloved brother is gone. My brother was a former policeman who attended numerous conference in his career to learn how to deal with a variety of situations. How to evaluate traffic accidents, how to identify arms dealers, how to identify and track people who forged checks, rob banks, plant bombs, and how to identify and track pedophiles to name a few. Every officer who attends such conferences receive how-to manuals to aid them in their efforts to apprehend criminals. The odious creature who signed my guest book stated that the training manual my brother was in possession of was in fact a book he had been writing himself about pedophilia. Every time the story about what happened to my brother is told more cruel lies are interjected. I guess that’s what some need to do to sleep at night. My brother was no author, but I am. And the book about the event, which is soon to be released, will tell all. In the meantime, life goes on. I’m going to get a chance to be a part of a documentary 20th Century Fox is doing on John Wayne. I meet with the production company next week and will be interviewed about the book I wrote on the Duke’s younger years. I’m excited about the possibility and look forward to meeting the crew. I hope the writer’s strike ends soon. The screenplays I’ve written are at a virtual standstill during this time. Work on the various books continues though. I’m blessed to have that.

I’m working this week on a missionary venture…giving tours through Bethlehem at my church. Once a year we transform the interior to look like the Holy city and conduct tours through it for the public. It’s a marvelous experience. I’ll be working on my new book as well, but the bulk of this important week is dedicated to telling people about God. I think it’s a great place to be when you are dealing with a loss. I have to admit that my hurt and anger has made me take my eyes off Him a lot lately. I hope this will be a blessing and many ways and act as a comfort. No one knew more about what it was like to be wrongly accused. The lies told about Jesus by the leaders of the Jewish high priests and Herod were staggering. I will take an example from my God. Herod questioned Jesus and asked Him about the things people have accused Him of, but Our Savior said nothing. Herod was too far gone to respond. Some depraved people are too far gone to respond to. Like Herod, evil has taken over and that’s all they see. Jesus knew responding to the enemy was a waste of time. There was no redemption for Herod. I’ve been hurting and very sad. This website reflects that to some extent. The loss of my brother has struck me hard. I miss him and always will. To know that he was lying in a pool of his own blood, beaten with his false teeth kicked out and smashed, glasses smashed, face unrecognizable. The image will haunt me forever. I am so grateful to God for giving me a heart to be torn over such things. I think I’m entitled to grieve. Dear Tammy, thank you for writing. I was able to get your email address from the brilliant webmaster of my site. I’m always amazed at what the people who manage a website are able to find out. So I’m off with paper in hand to write in between giving tours through Bethlehem. God knows it’s where I need to be writing.

Writer tells stories unearthed in Old West graveyards

By Carol Dexter

Many Old West graveyards have nothing more than faded pieces of wood to show for the lives of the deceased who are buried there. Gone and forgotten many may be, but Chris Enss brings back to life some of the more interesting characters’ stories in her new books – “Tales Behind the Tombstones” and “The Lady Was a Gambler.”

Some of these folks you’ve never heard of; some were and/or are famous, and some were even locals. Enss revives their faded memories with stories of how they lived, how they died and what led up to their mostly untimely deaths.

From Doc Holiday to the little child memorialized on Route 20 near the town of Washington, Enss proves that everyone has a story to tell. And most of them are tragic. These soiled doves – sporting women and gamblers of both sexes – earned their places in the castoff cemeteries outside the cemetery “proper,” where upstanding citizens rest in peace. They are, in my opinion, all the more interesting for that fact. Not everyone is dealt an easy hand. Not everyone can stay on the straight and narrow, lest they die of starvation along the way.

And more often than not, these characters were women. Using their feminine wiles to lure the unsuspecting female-starved prospector or dandy to their faro tables, these women were smart, talented and, most importantly, beautiful. Everyone, after all, has to have a gimmick.

What’s more interesting about these people and all of the others who didn’t make it into these books was that they risked everything to come West. Most of them reinvented themselves time and again as though it were the most natural thing to do in the world. And that, to me, is almost incomprehensible. Very few questions were ever asked and, if they were, you just moved on and started again. It must have been very liberating to know you could just pick up, disappear and start over.

Perhaps these people could do that because there were so many vacant niches in the vast, unsettled West. But I can’t imagine that most people today could so easily start over so many times, often with new identities. In today’s world, where everyone is identified by numbers, passports, vehicles, bank accounts and references, I just can’t imagine pulling this sort of thing off myself. I don’t think most people could – at least not without a hefty bankroll behind them. And the people in these books had no such luxury.

Pack your things; get on your horse and go. The thought is very alluring. These books might just give you ideas.

My appreciation for teachers continues to grow. I’m writing about schoolmarms of the Old West and am amazed at all they had to do to bring formal education to the frontier. Some of the teachers used McGuffey Readers to teach their class how to read and spell. Others only had a Bible or a Sears, Roebuck catalog as a text book. I applaud the teachers I’ve had in my life. Viginia Upton was a dedicated teacher who was as kind as she was intelligent. Most everything she taught me has turned out to be correct with the exception of one item. She believed in justice and taught me that evil would always be found out. Not true. A copy of letter came today to my mother requesting that my brother quick claim deed the house he owned with the unfortunate horror of a human being he was married to, over to her. My brother will never be able to sign his name again. Evil will never be found out. I wish my heart wasn’t so overtaken by hatred at times like this. It’s hard not to think that way when your mother is crying and misses her son…and always will. Where is the relief? If only a teacher knew.

I was given the opportunity to be a guest on KNCO Radio’s afternoon program yesterday and it is always a treat to be a part of the broadcast. I appreciate KNCO’s staff and talent. They eagerly welcome authors and are genuinely pleased to talk with you about your work. KAHI Radio in Auburn, California is the same way. I’ll get to be a part of their programming next month. In the last few years I’ve been surrounded by people that have proven themselves to be untrustworthy. A few of whom I was once related to and one specifically I was proud to call my neice. The level of deceit and hurt on her part shattered my faith in many who claim to care. And it’s been hard coming back from it all and I can’t say I’m over it yet. Small acts of kindness as witnessed in the generosity of the KNCO staff, my friends from church, my family, and the readers of this website are helping me to make it through to another day. I’m grateful for that this Thanksgiving. And Tammy, if you could, please send me your email address. I’d like to thank you for your encouraging words.

I got a nice email from a friend from Buena High School in Sierra Vista, Arizona where I graduated. He had some nice comments about the books I sent him. And I quote, “I finished “The Lady Was a Gambler” on Saturday. What a fun read! The way you write, I could smell the leather, the wood, the cigar smoke and the perfume! I couldn’t wait to start the next one. I spent the whole morning reading, instead of watching my weekly Westerns on TV.” I thought it was darn nice of him to write. Thank you, Dale.

Wouldn’t it be nice to go back to high school knowing what we know now? I think I’d appreciate it a lot more. I know I’d thank my teachers more. I had a great history teacher. Her name was Virginia Upton. She was tough, but fair and I loved her a lot. She’s gone now, but she will never be forgotten by this former student. Teaching is a gift and I appreciate all the gifted educators I’ve known. They’re heros to me.

Sorting out the best way to market a book is probably the most challenging part of the writing process. I invested in a number of marketing campaigns this year for the books Ive had released and am unsatisfied with the slow sales. The ads that Ive placed in True West Magazine, American Cowboy Magazine, and Chronicles of the Old West all contain my website address. It disheartening when people say, You have a website? I am frustrated because I want to get the word out about the work and the website and am obviously doing an inadequate job. Ill keep at it. I havent been as vigilante as Id like to be with that aspect of writing. Try as I might I cant seem to get my brother off my mind. I wonder how long that will take. The despair is overwhelming the sadness is always there&lurking. Im off now to collect art work for the schoolmarm book due out next year. Im already planning a publicity campaign for that book and I pray that it will be a success.

I’m in San Jose today doing research on a schoolmarm who started the first school in the area. Her name was Mary Graves and she was the heroine of the Donner Party. Her story is tragic and inspired. It will be a great addition to the book. No matter how hard I try I cannot stay totally focused on the work. Thoughts of my brother’s torture creep in. I see him lying there, his teeth kicked in and his glasses busted. Bruises on his face and head, unable to move, ever. I will miss him always. The constant thoughts of the brutality are like a mistress. Someone who takes everything, but leaves nothing but sadness. I cannot find out anything about my brother’s body. The prison officials continue to be cruel. I was told that if “there was enough of him that a rat could eat I’d be lucky.” I am heartsick for my poor mom and dad. I wonder if the real criminal in all of this knew that we would be condemn to such a life? I’m sure she did. I wonder if the man she married will be safe? I suspect in two years time or less, this poor man’s mother will be suffering as she watches her loved one go to prison and die. Some souls are black as the night. There is no mercy and no way to fight such evil. When Mary Graves’s husband was murdered she felt the same way. It seems odd that most of the characters I’m writing about lately have experienced similar heartbreaking circumstances in their lives. There is comfort in that I suppose.

I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Wyatt Earpy, Bill Tilghman, Charlie Bassett, and Bat Masterson to ride the plains of Kansas looking for Dora Hand’s killer. Just as they picked up on the murderer’s trail a freezing rain washed away any trace of his horse’s hoofprints. They kept at it though and eventually got their man. The sad, awful misery of it was that James Kenedy went free. His father was very wealthy and helped get his son out of trouble. Even in 1878 the color of justice was green. I feel like my brother got some justice today. After a grueling intake process from Moody Bible Institute he was accepted as a full time student. I wish he’d known how many people spoke out for him and recommended him to the program. I wish he’d known how many lives he touched. I wished I’d had adequate enough money to have helped my brother. I wish…