a Shoshone teenager teaches me about patience: The Legend of Jimmy Spoon [part two]

While researching The Legend of Jimmy Spoon, I volunteered as a tutor for the high school Indian Club. This was in Pocatello, Idaho, seven miles from the Shoshone-Bannock reservation. Basically I was a blond California girl who knew little about Native Americans, but wanted to learn. I was eager and cheerful. Also, I talked a lot.

Yackety-yack while helping students with English essays, blabbidybla while correcting math papers (which I knew even less about). One morning, a Shoshone boy named Kerwin Toane sat at the table across from me. He wore his hair in long braids and was quiet. I offered to help with his homework then chatted on and on about this-and-that. Finally I asked why he wasn't saying anything.

"I'm just waiting for you to finish," he answered.

Ouch.

Over the next weeks, Kerwin and I developed a friendship. When I remembered to keep my mouth shut, he talked about his tribe and traditions. The more quiet I was, the more I learned. He recounted going into the mountains with his uncle, to capture a sacred eagle feather. I took detailed notes. He translated Shoshone vocabulary for me.


So in The Legend of Jimmy Spoon, Chapter 21 describes how Nampa and Ga-mu ride their horses into the foothills with Jimmy. They teach him how the Teton Sioux catch an eagle without harming the bird.

It's one of my favorite chapters.

exploring the ghost town of Bodie, California for "Orphans Runaway"

ghost town of Bodie, California

At nearly 8,400' elevation, the old mining town of Bodie, California takes your breath -- literally from the altitude, but also from its stark beauty. It's high in the Eastern Sierra Mountains on a wind-swept plateau.

Getting there is tricky: 10 miles off Hwy 395 up a winding canyon, then another three miles of jaw-rattling washboard. There are no trees. When you finally arrive, you understand why this historical park is called a "real ghost town." The buildings are in a state of "arrested decay," meaning some day they'll just crumble into the sagebrush. The stores remain stocked with goods, just as they were when people up-and-left. A coat hangs from a hook in one of the homes, a hat nearby. A table is set for supper. It's eerie peeking in the windows. Visitors are instructed not to touch anything, but to leave every rusty can and fencepost in place for others to see.

In its boom years, Main Street was a mile long with 65 saloons. Shootouts, stabbings and stagecoach robberies added to Bodie's reputation as the most wicked mining camp in the West. There were brothels and gambling halls. Its Chinatown had opium dens. In 1879, a newspaper quoted a young girl who had learned her family was moving there: "Goodbye, God! We're going to Bodie!"

I had visited many times, but not until we took our young sons did I imagine this rough place through their eyes. Greg and Cody wished they could have roamed the hills without parents, smoked cigars and stayed up all night. That sounded like fun to me!

So on a subsequent trip, Dave Marquart and Susan DesBaillets from the California State Park Service, escorted us through Bodie's deserted stores, schoolhouse, morgue, hotel, and the frightening stamp mill. My copious notes became a middle-grade novel, Orphans Runaway. It was a lot of fun writing about two young brothers who tumble through adventures in this wild camp of 1879.

when a Mormon boy ran away to live with the Indians: The Legend of Jimmy Spoon [part one]

Shoshone Chief Washakie

When I read the memoir Among the Shoshones by Elijah Nicholas Wilson, I thought perfect -- an adventure for boys set in the 1850s! I contacted Nick's son, Charlie, an elderly gentleman living in the Wyoming town named for his father -- Wilson -- at the base of the Tetons. When I asked permission to write a biography, he was gung-ho. He mailed me his family's genealogy and recounted details of his dad's life with the Indians and as a Pony Express rider. I was thrilled.

After months of research & writing, my manuscript Nick, the White Indian Boy was accepted by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich. As a final detail, HBJ wanted Charlie to sign a release. "No problem," I said. But his letter chilled me. I never gave you permission, he responded. You may not write about my father. I felt sick. Literally, I was shaking inside. When I calmed down, I phoned him. A caretaker explained that Charlie had just had surgery and "wasn't well." Translation: all our correspondence was null and void.

One of my favorite covers

Now it was HBJ's turn to say "No problem." They advised that I just rewrite it and change the names. Rewrite a novel? It was like pulling a thread in a patchwork quilt that made the whole thing unravel. One change led to another ... you get the idea. It was a ton of work, but the process actually freed me. I no longer had to be 100% accurate, as biographies should be. I could make stuff up!

What fun it was to find The Legend of Jimmy Spoonin my head. In a future "Notes From the Sunroom," I'll tell about doing research with teenagers from the Shoshone-Bannock tribe.

waterhemlock poisoning on the Oregon Trail

Western Waterhemlock

The headline in our small town newspaper gave me chills: "Toxic taste of waterhemlock sends ditch crew to hospital: Youths mistook poisonous roots for wild carrots." We were living in Cortez, an exquisitely beautiful corner of Colorado. This news freaked me out as it did other parents whose kids love playing in the canyons and fields.

The article detailed how four males--ages 7, 15,18 and 20--were cleaning an irrigation ditch and decided to sample the plants. Though they took just small bites, they quickly became ill. By the time they reached the hospital, two had suffered seizures and were unconscious, and were put on respirators "as the poison paralyzes the vital functions." All four had their stomachs "flooded with a mixture of charcoal" to neutralize the toxin, then pumped. I interviewed one of the ER physicians. When she described how it took several people to hold down the boys in violent seizure, I thought, wow this stuff is dangerous.

At the time, I was researching Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie: The Oregon Trail Diary of Hattie Campbell, 1847 [Dear America]. One source told of cattle dying along the route after eating "wild parsnips." Hm. It figured that humans could have made the same mistake and more probably kids, as had the boys in my town. So in Hattie's story, I created the scene where the children pick 'carrots' for soup, but with disastrous results. Some of the women crush charcoal from the campfire into a powder, trying to force it between the jaws of the convulsing victims.

Young readers often ask me why some characters have to die. They say that since I'm the author, I can make everyone live happily ever after, right? But I kept the tragedy to make a point. Pa lecturing the children and Hattie's tears express my motherly worry, also my hope that even one life might be saved from this story.

In French Canada waterhemlock is called la carotte à moreau, or carrot of death. It's common in the Western United States, thriving in meadows and swamps, and along streams and irrigation ditches. 

Last I heard about the four youths in Cortez, was that they recovered, sore and tired, but apparently just fine. So there's a happy ending!

searching for Valdemar

Wind Point Lighthouse, Racine  

 My dad's story was wild, but I wanted to believe it: In the late 1800s his grandmother, Christine, had been a servant in Denmark's royal palace. When she got pregnant by one of the princes, probably Valdemar, she was whisked away to America to work in a logging camp. Her baby grew up near the Wind Point Lighthouse in the Danish community of Racine, Wisconsin.

I'd always wanted to write this tale so last month I introduced myself -- via email -- to relatives in the Midwest, asking about our royal blood. Ha! They hadn't heard that one, but they mentioned a "family secret" that several had taken to their graves, and that records for Christine's firstborn were sketchy. His name? Valdemar. I knew it! She had so loved the prince, she named her baby after him. Coincidentally one of my cousins, Kris Olson Elbert, had already begun researching our Danish ancestry so our emails flew. We wanted to meet each other and visit our cousin, Bill Johnson, who had grown up knowing Christine. Bill lived near the Wind Point Lighthouse and was as curious as we were.

So I did what we've told our kids NEVER to do: met someone online, hopped a plane to Chicago, hugged hello in a hotel lobby, then drove to a new city to spend time with strangers. I didn't even have a Plan B.

Meanwhile Kris had scoured census records and with Bill's help found Christine's real name -- Maren Kristine Sorensen. This led to the discovery of a ship's manifest from the S.S. Island of the Thingvalla Line which arrived in New York on August 17, 1893. Captain Skjodt recorded that she was an unmarried servant from Copenhagen, age 26, traveling with one piece of baggage. I could picture that hot summer day on Ellis Island and Christine hiding her pregnancy from immigration officials.

Well, someone has to be level-headed in these matters. Kris did the math then broke the news: no prince. We're just regular Americans. Turns out Christine married a fellow Dane, Christian Nielsen, and their son Valdemar was born in 1895. But what happened to this boy, also called Walter? Did he run away from home because his dad was crazy? Maybe he died from hypothermia after rescuing a friend in a river, as one story went. We couldn't find any record beyond his birth until we looked through a dusty ledger at the Bethania Lutheran Church. The beautiful handwriting was in Danish but finally Kris spotted Valdemar Nielsen, son of Christian and Christine, who died in the spring of 1910. We were thrilled to see his name, but also felt sad. What happened? He was only 15. The cemetery didn't have any burial record.

For two days we hung out in Racine with wonderful family, all new to me. I learned that Christine's favorite flowers were violets gathered in the spring by her children. Bill drove us by her boarding house where she had had chickens and a garden, and cooked for eleven Danish men fresh off the boat. She listed herself as a widow when, in fact, Christian was in an asylum for 25 years. In Bill's kitchen -- which overlooked a beautiful and stormy Lake Michigan -- we scoured family letters, documents and photos, shared stories, laughed, and grieved a little. At the library Kris and I searched old newspapers on microfilm. Those things are hard to read, but we finally saw where an "undersheriff" took our gr.grandfather Christian to the State Insane Asylum. Then at last we discovered the obit for Walter. He died in St. Luke's hospital from "a lingering illness." Bill returned to the cemetery with these details and found Walter's grave and cause of death: pneumonia.

We still have many questions, such as, why was Christian "adjudged insane" on his daughter's 3rd birthday? But we're happy to have found Valdemar's resting place. One photo shows an earnest young man who would bring his mother wildflowers. He had three younger siblings and may well have braved an icy river to rescue one of them. Hypothermia untreated could have led to pneumonia.  Bill is going to straighten the crooked head stone and we'd like to have a family reunion. I'd love to gather some violets for Christine, to put on her son's grave.

Her daughter Gertrude -- my grandmother -- wrote that Christine was "noble and kind" with the "God-given strength of a Viking Pioneer in Amerika." I'll say.

"Son of C & C Nielsen" 1895-1910

controversial book covers #1: no boys with knives!

True story!
In 1818 pirates attacked the Spanish owned village of Monterey, California then continued down the coast blasting cannons at various missions. One of the two ships was a 42-gun frigate captained by the cruel Argentinian privateer, Hippolyte de Bouchard. The other captain was Peter Corney a British officer who, lucky for me, turned out to have a way with words.

I say lucky, because he wrote of these dastardly deeds in the primly titled Early Northern Pacific Voyages, published in 1896. He made it sound like a travel article for Sunset Magazine, but nooo, these were bad guys. When I discovered his thesis I thought, perfect! I'd always wanted to know about pirates from my native state, especially because we now had two little boys. They hated reading so I hoped that if I could just tell a story with cannons and sharks and dead bodies, maybe just maybe they'd be enticed to read a few chapters.

So I wrote The Stowaway: A Tale of California Pirates under the guidance of my pirate-y editor Regina Griffin. Main character is 11-year-old Carlito, a Spaniard who sneaks aboard the frigate. The original cover is lovely [PHOTO, top left], but I was hoping for something gritty and dreadful. I didn't complain because, gosh, it's such a thrill to have a book published. But when Scholastic told me they'd be reprinting the paperback with a new cover I said, "Oh! Oh! Please make Carlito dirty and scared."

The artist, Craig Nelson, did better than that. Not only was Carlito's shirt torn, ragged and dirty he looked terrified and was holding a knife. I loved it. Drama. Surely it would tempt boys to pick up the book. Well ... [big sigh here] ... we were informed that certain principals in certain school districts would never allow a book into their curriculum with a cover that depicted violence such as this. The pub date was near so instead of redoing everything, the knife was painted out [PHOTO, lower left]. At least we didn't have to give Carlito a clean shirt!

An encouraging note: Despite the cover Parents Magazine named The Stowaway a "riveting drama" and A Best Pick for 1995.

life's small pleasures & My Darlin' Clementine

My husband and I have a saying when we're feeling discouraged by world headlines, or I'm bummed by another rejection, or we're missing our sons: "Okay, let's find an LSP!" -- Life's Small Pleasure. We're not as flowery as Anne Shirley of Green Gables, but seriously sometimes all it takes to feel better about life is to get outside and hear birds singing--or take a picnic to a soccer match and watch a friend's son play his heart out.

It was 91 degrees yesterday in Boise, Idaho. Parents were cheering from the sidelines, the boys ran the field in the happy clustering I remember from our sons' games. One of the kids wore bright yellow shoes--which I thought showed guts and creativity--and Nathan scored a goal. The LSPs were adding up.

But what a surprise when my friend's daughter, Katie, showed me a copy of  My Darlin' Clementine. She explained she was reading it for her 5th Grade class in Bellevue, and even had some questions for the author. I'm stoked this book about Idaho history is being used in schools. LSP times ten!

So it was a beautiful Saturday. We went home to our goldens who shook themselves from their nap to greet us. While my husband was cooking dinner, we enjoyed the best LSP: a phone call from Seattle where our sons and their sweethearts were about to watch the sunset. Sunset as in sunshine, a bonus for that rainy city. We smiled about their afternoon together, especially when one of them posted a terrific photo on Facebook.



PHOTO above: on the soccer field with Jessie [L] and Katie, holding Clementine.