I've been missing in action lately, working on various projects. The following is the text from one of my programs on The Ozark Radio Hour (ozarkradiohour.com) I hope you enjoy it. If you would like to listen to our program, broadcasts are available 24/7 on our web-site. Archived programs are also available.


                                              Hatchet Hall: The Carrie Nation House 

I’m in front of the Carrie Nation House, also known as Hatchet Hall, on Steele Street in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. It’s a two story house, remarkable only because it’s hanging precariously off the side of a steep mountain overlooking town; but that’s not so unusual—most of the houses in Eureka Springs proper are built on the side of one mountain or another. On second thought, I take that back. It’s remarkable that it’s still standing since Carrie used dynamite to blast a hole in the rock only a few feet across the road from her house, but more about that later.

I’m not sure the younger generation knows very much about Carrie Nation, although there was a punk band named after her a few years back and a designer beer called “My Bitter Wife” named in her honor in 2013. The label is a caricature of Carrie and her hatchet and is highly ironic since Carrie was one of the most famous prohibitionists of her time. For those of you not familiar with the Carrie Nation legend, she was famous for using a hatchet to break up saloons in her fight against the evils of drinking, a well-known national figure, and a heroine to many who were against the consumption of demon alcohol; although looking at her from a modern perspective, she must have had some demons of her own. Of course, that was a long time ago; but her house on Steele Street in Eureka Springs still stands, a memorial of sorts, to one of our more infamous residents. There’s still a sign in front of her house that identifies it as Hatchet Hall, the Carrie Nation House. She may be gone but is certainly not forgotten.

Carrie’s name seems to pop-up now and again in discussing the history of the Ozarks. I mentioned her recently in a program on the history of the Beaver Bridge and the town of Brooklyn, and she came up in my conversation with Stephanie Stodden at the

Eureka Springs Historical Museum recently. So who was this woman who led such a controversial life, and how did she wind up with a museum named Hatchet Hall in her honor?

Carrie Amelia Nation was born in 1846 in Kentucky. Her family was fairly well off but had financial problems over the years, and as a result moved several times before settling in Belton, Missouri. In addition to the family’s financial difficulties, there was a history of mental illness, with her mother suffering from delusions; and later Carrie’s only child would also have mental issues. During the Civil War, the family was evacuated from their farm by Union troops and moved to Kansas City where Carrie nursed wounded soldiers. There she met and married a young doctor in 1867, but the marriage only lasted a short time. Her husband was an alcoholic and they separated before the birth of their only child, a daughter. He died in 1869 of severe alcoholism. This experience no doubt played a part in her hatred for spirits of any kind.

Carrie’s second marriage was to David A. Nation, an attorney, minister, and newspaper journalist. He was nineteen years her senior and at the time of their marriage was fairly well off , but he made a series of poor investments. The family moved to Medicine Lodge, Kansas where he took a position as a preacher at a Christian church while Carrie ran a successful hotel. It was there in Medicine Lodge that Carrie seems to have gone off the deep end. She started a branch of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union and began her protests outside of salons in the area. By 1900 she was having visions that she said told her to use rocks, which she called smashers, to destroy the stock in the local saloons in Kiowa. As she continued these attacks, she was arrested numerous times and her fame began to spread. After she smashed up a saloon in Wichita, her husband jokingly suggested that she use a hatchet instead of rocks. Carrie is said to have replied, “That’s the most sensible thing you have said since I married you.” They were divorced in 1901.

Joined by other women or sometimes alone, she would march into bars singing hymns while smashing bar fixtures and stock with her hatchet. Between 1900 and 1910 she was arrested at least 30 times. She called her attacks “hatcetations” and coined the temperance phrase Carry A Nation, using her name as a play on words. She gave lectures, traveled to Europe, and published a newspaper, not surprisingly named The Hatchet. She sold miniature hatchets as souvenirs and appeared in vaudeville in the United States and in the Music Halls of Great Britain. She thought President William McKinley was a secret drinker and applauded his 1901 assassination, saying that drinkers got what they deserved. She described herself as a bull-dog running at the feet of Jesus.

Near the end of her life, Carrie moved to Eureka Springs, Arkansas and founded Hatchet Hall. The home is no longer open as a museum, as it was when I moved here over a decade ago; but visitors might be interested in driving by. The house is on the low side of the road, built on the slope of the mountain, nearest to downtown. Across from the house, the mountain rises steeply, covered in woods, much like it would have been when Carrie lived there. The small limestone caves and crevices of the mountain provided the perfect place to keep perishable food, even during the summer months; and there was just such a place directly across from Hatchet Hall. Believing she was called by God and protected, Carrie used dynamite to blast a larger opening to the cave, just a few feet from her home. It’s a wonder she didn’t bring the whole mountain down, and a wonder that Hatchet Hall survived Carrie Amelia Nation.

During her final years in Eureka Springs, Carrie continued to use her hatchet to break up the numerous saloons in the area. One famous incident occurred on the White River at the town of Beaver, not far from Brooklyn, a small town of predominately Irish stonemasons, now just a memory. It was located across the river from Beaver where the railroad bridge crossed at the Narrows. The details of what actually happened are based on local legend and may be embellished, but it makes a good story.

One fine day, Carrie paid a visit to several of the saloons in Brooklyn, using her famous hatchet that she had named Charity to smash and destroy as much of the stock as she could. She was a big woman, almost six feet tall and weighed in at 175 pounds. I imagine she was pretty hard to control with that hatchet in her hand. After wreaking havoc in Brooklyn, she crossed the White River to Beaver town and made an assault on another saloon, but this time she was met with an angry mob who physically ejected her and chased her back toward the river. There the saloon owner got Charity away from her and threw the hatchet into the middle of the river. No doubt, this played a role in her collapse a few days later during a speech at a Eureka Springs park. She was hospitalized in a facility in Leavenworth, Kansas that treated nervous and mental troubles.

The consensus is that Carrie had a stroke that may have been brought on by her rough treatment that day on the White River. She died in 1911 and was buried in Belton, Missouri where the Women’s Christian Temperance Union erected a stone to her memory inscribed, “Faithful to the Cause of Prohibition, She Hath Done What She Could.”

This has been a brief look at the life of one of our most eccentric residents, one whose memory still resonates today in our little Victorian town. Before I leave the Carrie Nation House today, I think I’ll walk across the street and take a closer look at the little spring that’s named in her honor. Then I’ll head home to Beaver and cross the White River where Charity was thrown in by an angry crowd of men, all those years ago.

These days, Eureka Springs is known for its diverse population and prides itself on being tolerant, although it has been a challenge recently, with our differences aired to a national audience on The Daily Show. When I moved here over a decade ago, Eureka Springs was promoted as “The Town Where Misfits Fit.” I haven’t seen that slogan around in quite a while. I hope it still defines us.

The Hook

In my last post, we talked about the importance of creating a setting filled with detail in order for the reader to visualize a time and place. To accomplish this a writer must be an observer of life, and in my opinion the best writing draws the reader in and creates a sense of reality. In other words, the reader is there in the setting with the characters and becomes intimately involved in the story. That’s what the writer works for—a connection that keeps the reader turning the pages. Some writers draw the reader in through dialogue between characters; others use descriptive language. But no matter what the style, there has to be a hook! If you don’t engage the reader in the first chapter there’s a strong possibility that you’ve lost your audience.

One way to hook your reader is by using a little foreshadowing at the very beginning. This gives a hint about things to come. Yes, it’s perfectly acceptable to do this in the first chapter. I’ll give you an example. In my book Murder at Canterbury Faire: A Dr. Emily Goldman Mystery, Chapter I begins with a dream sequence that predicts (foreshadows) events to come. It doesn’t matter that the reader knows from the beginning that a murder will occur and can guess the name of the victim. Of course, the reader knows from the title that someone will die, but the dream sets the stage for events to unfold. To illustrate my point, I’m attaching Chapter I. I hope you enjoy it. By the way, it’s available at Amazon and would be something to consider for holiday giving.

Please remember this is copyrighted material and may not be reproduced without permission.

When April with his showers sweet with fruit

The drought of March has pierced unto the root

And bathed each vein with liquor that has power

To generate therein and sire the flower…

****

THE PROLOGUE OF THE CANTERBURY TALES

BY

GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Chapter I

     At first all she could hear was the jingling of the tiny silver bells adorning the bridles of the horses; but as her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see the long line of pilgrims dressed in garments of medieval finery as they emerged from the mist. Their faces, cloaked against the early morning chill, were hidden as the fog swirled around the legs of the horses and the bodies of the riders. As the procession became clearer in the unearthly light, she recognized the host, Harry Bailey, as he led the travelers on their journey toward Canterbury Cathedral and the tomb of the blessed Saint Thomas à Becket. It seemed that he was about to speak, to perhaps encourage them to begin to tell their tales; but suddenly his face contorted in a hideous grimace and, clutching his chest, he fell from his horse onto the soft wet ground. Through the mist she could see him lying on his back, his eyes staring heavenward; and she began to scream.

    She was breathing rapidly, and her heart was thumping in her chest as she threw off the bedcovers.  Slowly she sat up on the edge of the bed searching for her slippers on the floor where she always placed them. “What a horrible dream,” she said aloud, rubbing her eyes. She had been jolted awake, either from the shock of the nightmare or from the muffled sound she had made in her sleep as she saw the body hit the ground. The dream had been vivid with every detail so realistic she was still shaken. She suddenly realized the terrifying image she could see so clearly in her mind bore a marked resemblance to the new head of the English Department, Dr. Basil Bowen. She glanced at her alarm clock on her bedside table and had another shock.

     Dr. Emily Goldman, Chaucer scholar and professor of English at Merryvale College, had actually overslept! She was going to be late for her eight o’clock class; and that was something that was unthinkable, something that had never occurred in her long tenure at the college. Why had she indulged in that additional glass of wine last night? She knew from experience that wine did not agree with her in the evening, and yet she had been tempted to indulge in just one more glass of a very nice Merlot.

     Predictably she had awakened at 2:00 a.m. and had tossed and turned for at least an hour, maybe more, before drifting back to what must have been an uneasy sleep.  When the dream jolted her awake, she realized she had been hitting the snooze button on her alarm and now she was running behind schedule. Totally disgusted with herself, her morning routine turned upside down, she prepared for the day as rapidly as possible. 

     “Maxwell of Dumfries, it seems to me you could at least bark when you hear the alarm,” she chided her spoiled Scottie, known to one and all as Max.

     His little black eyes looked up at her as if he was perfectly aware of what she was talking about; he cocked his head to one side and gave a short bark. “Too late now, little friend,” she said, as she reached down and scratched his ears. Although she was in a rush, she made sure he had fresh water, his morning snack, and that the doggie door was open so he could go in and out to the back garden before she started to get ready for class. His short legs were a blur as his stocky little body shot through the swinging door. I must hurry, she fretted.

     The lapse that accounted for her second glass of wine at the home of her department head the previous evening, a rare indulgence, was understandable she thought, as she selected an outfit for the day from her neatly arranged closet. The faculty of the English Department had gathered to discuss preparations for the annual Canterbury Faire, an event that had put Merryvale College on the map and attracted a large crowd of enthusiastic spectators. Although planning for the Faire had been the focus of the meeting, Dr. Goldman sensed she was not the only one there who seemed to feel a bit uncomfortable in Dr. Bowen’s home and that they were making very little headway in formulating plans for the yearly event. There was an undercurrent of discontent in the department, and momentarily a frown crossed her usually calm expression. 

     The faces of her dear colleagues did not radiate with their usual enthusiasm for the Faire either, and she felt a palpable tension in the usually genial atmosphere of the planning meeting. It would appear that the change in leadership that had occurred with the retirement of Dr. Stewart Stevens and the appointment of a new academic leader was still causing discontent in the department. Such a pity, she thought, since through the years they had all worked so happily together, but those happy days were in the past, not the present.

    Unfortunately Dr. Bowen had ruffled more than a few feathers on his arrival, and as a consequence no one seemed to be at ease with the new department head. She couldn’t quite put her finger on the problem, but the undercurrent of unhappiness and tension troubled her, and it may have been the feeling that things were not as they should be, more than the indulgence in a second glass of wine, which could account for her restless night. 

      Dr. Goldman’s beloved English Department was the focus of both her personal and professional life, and there was very little that occurred in that academic world that didn’t somehow come to her attention. As the meeting had progressed on the previous evening, she slowly sipped her glass of wine hoping to discover some way of diffusing the stress between the normally compatible members who had met at Dr. Basil Bowen’s home. Perhaps a mistake had been made in not holding more informal meetings from the beginning of the year when Dr. Bowen first arrived, to get to know him better and to help him with his new duties; or perhaps it would have made no difference at all, she thought. Now all of the resentment that had built up during the first semester was coming out in the open. The meeting to discuss the Faire was the first time he had invited them to his house since he had taken over the department; and many felt he lacked the social sense to realize that this in itself was a slight to the faculty, just another example of his superior attitude.  

     As the meeting dragged on, Dr. Goldman, one of the chief organizers of the Faire in the past, had eventually grown weary of the controversy and suggested that they were all working at cross purposes since no one seemed to be able to agree on much of anything this year. After all, it was an event that had changed little over time, and all that was needed where planning was concerned was the delegation of responsibilities. She had pointed out to Dr. Bowen that the reenactment of Chaucer’s Prologue to the Canterbury Tales was in no way an attempt to be a polished production.  The Faire had always gone smoothly and there was really no reason to alter the plan that had been successful in previous years.  Finally, weary of the endless discussion of details, she had bid them goodnight and returned to her home, still unsure what to do about the unease that had enveloped her of late and hoping she was wrong about her sense of impending trouble.

     Dr. Emily Goldman, or simply Dr. Emily to her close associates, was a transplant to the Deep South; and she never failed to recognize the good fortune that had brought her to such an idyllic spot in the central part of Alabama. The small campus, shaded with huge old oaks and brick lined walks, may have been off the beaten path; but that had been one of the main attractions for her after growing up in the cold climate of Illinois and her years as a student and lecturer at the University of Chicago. After an initial period of culture shock, she had never regretted her decision to flee the brutal climate of the city that had been her birthplace and where she had made a name for herself as one of the finest Chaucer scholars and translators of Anglo-Saxon in the country.

     She had been well liked and left behind many friends in Chicago and a smaller more intimate social circle, most in some way connected to the University. Her life was full and rich, but it wasn’t enough after a failed relationship with a colleague in her department. The man had been a great disappointment to her; and coming so soon after the loss of both of her parents to illness and old age, she decided her best option was to make a fresh start somewhere else, somewhere far away from everything that reminded her of the unhappiness of the last few years. A change of scene was what she had needed, and at the time she thought it would only be for a short while, just until she had time to think and reflect. Her colleagues in the Department of Anglo-Saxon and Medieval Literature, awed by her brilliance, had always assumed she would

 move on at some time, probably to Yale or Harvard or one of the other Ivy League schools; so there was a sense of shock and surprise when she announced she planned to accept a position at a small Southern college that none of them had ever heard of, a college that was located in what they considered the hinterland.

     No doubt she was suffering from some sort of crisis that she would soon be able to overcome: depression or a failed love affair, they speculated, a temporary case of nerves. Dr. Emily wasn’t one to share her emotional life with her acquaintances, so most of her friends never realized her motivation for leaving. Only a few of her intimate friends knew about the emotional toll she had gone through. They had briefly tried to talk her out of it, of course, but she had persisted in her intention to leave what most scholars would consider a prime position in the academic world and settled into the small Victorian house at the edge of the Merryvale campus and had happily remained there for almost twenty-five years

     On this early spring morning, although running behind schedule, she dressed carefully in the classic clothes she favored: the tartan skirt worn with her maroon cashmere sweater, the pearl necklace that had belonged to her mother, her sensible low-heeled pumps. April in Alabama was like every other month except July and August, unpredictable; and there was still a chill in the air. The light sweater would be perfect. Her short white curls caressed the edge of the black velvet beret that had become her trademark. She was rarely seen without it when the weather was cool.

     She had an established routine of dressing each morning; but running late was certainly not part of her plan, and she felt rushed.  Grabbing her briefcase, she locked the front door and headed across campus still annoyed with herself for sleeping through her alarm, still feeling out of sorts, and wondering what her students would think if she was not there waiting for them at the beginning of class.

     Slightly out of breath, she rushed up the steps of Julia Tutwiler Hall, the venerable building that housed the English Department, becoming even more put out with herself with every minute that ticked by. She thought she might actually be able to hear them as the minute hand moved closer to the eight o’clock hour on her wrist watch, the one her dear mother had given her for a graduation present from undergraduate school all those years ago. Checking for a final time, she was relieved to see that she was going to make it at precisely eight and avoid being late—the UNTHINKABLE!

     Suddenly she realized she would be so winded from her brisk walk and the climb to the second floor of the building that she would find it difficult to start the class with her usual obscure line from a long forgotten Anglo-Saxon narrative. Her mind was a blank—she couldn’t think of a single quote! Her round cheeks were bright pink as she entered the classroom, and she noted unhappily that she was indeed the last one to enter the room.

     The clock could be heard striking the hour from the tower on the Quad. Her students’ upturned faces, many barely awake, but still looking forward to her lecture, looked at her expectantly. Dr. Goldman’s class on Chaucer was one of the most popular courses in the department. 

     “Make no comments on my obvious tardiness! Let us take a moment to reflect in silence on the memory of Dr. Thomas Underwood of the University of Chicago, Professor Emeritus, on the anniversary of his death,” she gasped. Turning her back abruptly, she picked up a dry-erase marker and wrote Dr. Underwood’s name on the board, followed by a formidable list of academic credentials.

     Looking at the class with a critical eye, she spoke with authority. “Will you please stand in honor of Dr. Underwood?” It really wasn’t a request—more like an order.

     Amazingly, the entire group of English majors stood in silence; some even bowed their heads, although they had no idea who on earth Dr. Thomas Underwood could possibly be. Those who had not assumed a prayerful position in observance of this mysterious man shifted a little so they could catch each other’s eyes. A few smiles were exchanged between the students who treasured Dr. Goldman’s eccentricities. If nothing else, she kept them guessing.

     After a prolonged moment of silence in which Dr. Emily was able to catch her breath and organize her thoughts, she felt she could go on with the lecture for the day.

     “Let us begin with The Prologue of The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer,” she trilled in her high melodic voice, and she was back in her element, all troubles of the previous night forgotten, and all thoughts of the upcoming Canterbury Faire put out of her mind. She was back in the more romantic past where most of her waking hours were normally spent. Ah, academia!