F is for From the Dust

From the Dust is my only historic romance and pretty much my favourite book to research.  The people who actually lived through the dirty thirties are an amazing crew.  But I divert from the point, the point is this book and it's story.  It's a love story set on the prairies during the Great Depression.

“He died with liquor on his breath and poison in his soul. Doc MacPherson claimed that between the alcohol and the arsenic there were enough chemicals in his body to keep him pickled to the second coming.

It was a terrible way to die. Eva wouldn’t wish that on anyone, even him. She shivered. The last twelve hours had been awful. She pulled a bobby pin from her hair, rearranged a stray piece and secured it again. She hadn’t reacted well. She knew that. She regretted snapping at the child. She regretted a lot of things. None of them could be undone. Like Mr. Edwards, the time was gone, over. The damage had been done.”

And so begins the saga of Eva Edwards, a new widow and stepmother. Three steps ahead of one disaster or another, she struggles to survive on a Saskatchewan farm. It is 1935 and dust storms and poverty are rampant. But it is Tate Prescott Brown who becomes the biggest obstacle as he arrives from Ontario with wealth and status and a claim to her farm. It is a poignant battle against each other and the elements as two independent individuals face off and discover that in a battle of survival, love wins every time.

Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com

Expect the Unexpected

My first novel, From The Dust, is a historical romance set in Depression Era Saskatchewan.  As part of my research I interviewed a few people that had lived through the thirties.  Unfortunately, one of those I interviewed, my husband's uncle, recently passed away.   I've re-posted below, the blog post that was the result of that interview.

Here's to you, Uncle Jim.

A Whole Lot of Nothing In Saskatchewan

"No one had any money," the tall, handsome senior tells me. He was a teenager through much of the thirties. The thirties, not the depression, that's how many of the seniors I talk to refer to the depression, only as the thirties.

"What did you do for fun?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"No dances?" I prod.

"I played the fiddle my Dad bought."

"You didn't have any money," I remind him.

"We bought it before the thirties, when we still had some money."

"Did you play at dances?" I ask again.

"Wasn't that good," he says in his cryptic manner. "The neighour taught me. We had musicals at different homes. I played at them sometimes."


"And dances?" So give me credit - I'm persistent!

"Yeah. I played at a few. But usually we had a real orchestra come out."

"Orchestra?" Now I'm puzzled. What about the no money thing?

"Yeah, my cousin played banjo, his wife played fiddle and a friend played saxaphone. They came out every Saturday night."

Nothing is sure becoming an interesting term. There's a whole lot of nothing going on. But I press on.

"From the city?" I ask.

"No, from the farm." He looks puzzled at the question. "They came into town."

"So you danced every weekend?"

"When we didn't have money. Sometimes we had money you know."
He eyes me like everyone should know this fact and continues,"then we went to Disley and bought beer."
"Beer?"

"Yeah. But we got rid of the empties."
"So you returned the empties?" I ask assuming poverty stricken as they were they would want the cash on a bottle return.
"Oh no." He shakes his head. "That would mean we'd have to take the bottles home with us. We threw them away so our mothers wouldn't find out we'd been drinking beer!"

***

After "From the Dust" was published, I received this feedback from Uncle Jim:

 "I read your book," he said with his cane perched across his long legs.  He paused as if for effect.  "I liked it."

I let out a relieved breath.

"Except for one thing."

Silence resonated as I held my breath, almost afraid to think what might have been wrong.  It's a love story there were probably places where a man of his age might have wished I'd glossed over.  Yes, that must have been it.

He repositioned his cane, obviously loving the drama.  Then he looked at me with a smile and said, "Not enough sex."

 Uncle Jim

1917 - 2014

Life is Unexpected - Safe travels
Ryshia
Find me on Goodreads, Twitter, Facebook

Blue Monday

Today is officially the most depressing day of the year.  No, this is not something I made up.  I make up a lot of things but this one is official.  Documented even. 

But the good news, why I'm smiling, if this is the valley of winter, or it's deepest point, then soon we'll be coming out the other side.  So enjoy your day for tomorrow we will be climbing the hill to the other side, to warm weather and sun huts, barbeques and margaritas. 

Soon.

Meantime, exercise is walking the dog with fifty pounds of winter gear and shoveling snow off the drive.  But that's not a reason to be blue.  The snow and cold is actually rather refreshing.  No worries about sunburn or spending money on bug spray.  Winter does have its benefits.

Although that does lead to the question, do people in warmer parts of the world today get to participate in Blue Monday or is that just the privilege of those parts now covered in snow?

Geography aside, if you're feeling a little blue today, no worries, apparently it's normal. 

Meantime all this cold is good for one thing - upping that word count.  So it's back to Mulu, Malaysia and see how my characters are faring.

Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com
Ryshia on Goodreads

Who Said a Cow Isn't a Pet?

One spunky lady I interviewed had a tough childhood growing up in the thirties. She plowed the fields, tended the animals and quit school, like so many did, when she was barely a teenager. But she always had her pets. They might have been considered livestock but to her they were friends.



First there was Baby, a calf who she fed daily and who eventually learned to jump into the grainery after her so that it could get the best feed of the herd. The calf continued to follow her everywhere even after it was full grown. When the cows were herded in at night, Baby hung behind and walked beside the girl. If any of the dogs dared to walk anywhere near "her girl", the cow chased them away. Baby was the best milk cow they had and for that reason one day she was sold to a local farmer. Neither the girl or the cow ever got over that. The cow's milk production decreased significantly and the girl, well she still talks about the cow called Baby who was her friend and companion through some tough years in her young life.


Well, if the cow didn't work out you just have to move on. So then came the colt. So many years later my companion doesn't remember the colt's name but what she does remember is that she snuck sugar to it daily. The colt began to look forward to this and expect its daily treat. One day she was busy in the kitchen and hadn't had a chance to feed the colt its treat. The colt got tired of waiting and came up the porch steps and right through the screen door. It ended up standing in the middle of the kitchen looking calmly around for its sugar handout.



And then came Nellie. Nellie was an obstinant creature. An unrideable horse that had to be wrestled with to do the most basic duties like pull a plow. Obviously a challenge for any animal lover. "So," she says and only the wrinkles in her face give away her age, "I set out to train the horse." Nellie let her up on its back, kicking a bit before settling down. They rode along for a few minutes until the horse arrived at the appropriate destination. The slough. And that's where she was thrown off. When she arrived home, soaking wet and muddy her Dad took one look and said, "Nellie."



Who said a horse doesn't have a sense of humor?

She ran a hand along the cow’s tough hide. “Men are nothing but trouble, Ingrid. Do you know that?" Eva Edwards - From the Dust


Safe travels


Ryshia