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I'm continuing on where we left off last week. This is from my WIP, Gold Digger, an 1880s California historical. This scene takes place in the Sierra mountains. Winnie is my protagonist who has run away from a marriage of convenience to learn how to dig for gold - a fantasy she'd had since she was a child. She's been in the mountains for almost three months by this point. Tibbs, the other character in the scene, is her uncle. Hope you enjoy!
“Winnie, Winnie, wake up.”
The voice came from far away. Her head hurt, an ache that ricocheted around her skull. Her arm throbbed. This must be what it’s like to be hit by a stagecoach.
“There ya are. Wake up now.”
Winnie worked her eyes open and saw Tibbs bent down over her. Worry was etched deep in his old face.
“What in the hell have you been up to?! I leave you alone for a minute and you done gone shot a bear.”
Welcome back to Snippet Sunday. Thank you so much for stopping by. Please make sure to leave a comment (if you're so moved) and to visit the other awesome authors at the Snippet Sunday Facebook page > I'm taking a break from Out Of Time, my short story. For CampNano, I've been working on Gold Digger, an 1880s California historical which I'd like to share. This scene takes place in the Sierra mountains. Winnie is my protagonist who has run away from a marriage of convenience to learn how to dig for gold - a fantasy she'd has since she was a child. She's been in the mountains for almost three months by this point.
“Baaaaah,” Becky trotted around from the other side of the cabin. The bear swung its head towards the ruckus, startling the goat who stumbled to an immediate halt. Winnie’s heart lodged in her throat. Quick as lightening, Becky turned and bounded away.
Winnie backed up quickly, not wishing to have her back to the bear. And promptly tripped over the stool that held the remnants of her afternoon tea. The tea pot shattered into a thousand pieces, and Winnie’s legs got tangled in the stool’s feet. As she came down hard on her ass, Winnie noticed three things in that split second. Pieces of broken ceramic dug into her and she wished she had on her layers of skirts instead of these thin men’s pants. The shotgun stayed in her hands and miraculously didn’t go off. The bear charged towards her.
Welcome back! It's #SnippetSunday time again and I'm continuing with Out of Time, a short story I wrote for an anthology contest. I'll learn by next week if I'll be one of two newbie authors to be selected. But hey, if I'm not, no worries as I will definitely release this story. I love it! And it also ties nicely into the world-building of my current series.
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Out of Time follows a young woman searching for a lost family history. In the haunted town of Benton, she discovers that past and present memories overlap, and that ghosts aren't always what they seem.
Her fingertips touched a delicate doily. She’d have to get a manicure next week when she got home. How the hell had her nails gotten so bad? There was dirt logged under most of them. Her hands balled into fists, hiding the offending objects.
A ring. A simple band of gold wrapped around her ring finger on her left hand.
What the? I’m dreaming. I have to be dreaming.
She looked up and was stunned to see a different face looking back at her in the mirror: big brown eyes, long wavy hair. She wore an old-fashioned shift, plain white, light cotton. The ties in front had come undone and it rested asymmetrically on her shoulders.
The face smiled, as if in on a secret.
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Out of Time continues from where I left off last week. I cheated and posted a wee bit more than ten sentences - but it's the end of this part. Next week's snippet shifts into a new scene. Hope you enjoy!
Apropos of nothing, how the heck did this week go by so quickly??? And tonight we're even losing more time because of Daylight Saving Time. It never made sense to me that it was called DST - in the spring and summer we have plenty of sunshine. Shouldn't DST be in the fall and winter when the sun's appearance over the horizon is shorter? We should be saving as much daylight as we can. See? Get my thinking? :-)
She sighed and looked out the window at contemporary Benton -- she didn’t know what she could possibly find. There was nothing here anymore. Nothing here but ghosts.
Kayla changed into her pink long johns and crawled under the covers. Opening her tablet, she pulled up the picture of the letter she’d found in Virginia City. Was the mentioned ‘Addy’, her Aunt Adeline? It was a common name in those days, but when Kayla had first found the reference, she knew this was her Addy. However, now that she’d had time to think about it, she wasn’t as sure. Kayla zoomed in until ‘Addy’ filled the screen. She traced the letters with her finger. “Aunt Adeline. What happened to you?”
She reread the letter a few more times, trying to find other clues she might have missed. Eventually her eyes began to close. Giving up, Kayla turned off the light and settled down for the night.
On Wednesday, July 26th, after an afternoon at the Marjorie Russell Textile Research Center in Carson City, Nevada, I headed up to Virginia City. I’d never been there before--I knew there’d be a few old buildings, maybe a museum or two. I figured I could do some research on gold mining, and submerse myself into the atmosphere of the old west.
I checked into the Gold Hill Hotel (supposedly the oldest hotel in Nevada) on the outskirts of town. I’d booked a room in the older, original part of the hotel, thinking it would be more interesting to stay there than in the more expensive, recently built addition.
Now, before I go on, I have to confess that I’m a ghost and haunted-locations fanatic. I frequently try to book haunted rooms in haunted hotels when I’m traveling. My family laughs at me (lovingly, I’m sure) whenever I whip out my cell phone to try to record an Electronic Voice Phenomenon (EVP). I watch the shows. I even thought of joining a local ghost-hunters group.
So yes, I was excited that I’d be staying in ‘Rosie’s Room’ at the Gold Hill Hotel. It was a haunted room, with videos on YouTube to attest to the haunting.
The hotel was quiet when I arrived. My car was the only one in the parking lot. The place was quaint and my room was, well it was small and pink. There were a few small bug carcasses showing through the thin canopy above the bed. As a good friend later pointed out, the canopy was doing its job.
The floors in the room were slanted—I wish I’d had a marble as I would have videotaped that sucker moving from one side of the room to the other. Proof of ghosts.
The room was old, it had character, and I was excited to stay there for the night.
“My shift is over in a few minutes. You’re the only one staying here.” I looked at the blonde hotel manager, a woman about my age. She held the room key towards me. “If you need anything, well, you probably won’t need anything. The owners live across the way. If there’s an emergency, just go out onto the balcony and yell. Hell, if there’s an emergency, dial 911.”
“Uh, okay.” I couldn’t decide if I should make a joke or cancel my reservation. I went out onto the balcony that overlooked the 2-lane highway leading to the heart of Virginia City. A ferociously loud motorcycle drove past.
I heard Blondie behind me come out onto the balcony. “It really is safe. I’ve been here five years and nothing’s ever happened.”
Ah, shit. Well that’s tempting fate, isn’t it?
I took the key from her hand. “Are there any places open for dinner in Virginia City?” I’d come this far so I might as well stay. Plus, if anything did happen, I argued with myself, I’d have a great story to tell. Assuming I survived.
By 8 PM I was back at the hotel, having eaten enough at a place in Virginia City to last me until the next day. I went downstairs to the lobby to write and camped out on an old wooden table. There truly were no other people, which was good. I had the whole hotel to myself.
With no one there, no TV, no radio, I thought I’d crank out thousands of words, sitting at that wooden table. But my ears were more active than my fingers and every cricket outside and every drip-drip-drip of the faucet in the bar held my attention. I walked around and peaked out the windows into the darkening light. The huge orb spider in its web stopped me from cracking open that window. Drip-drip-drip. I felt like Jack Torrance. All I needed to complete the scenario was a wife, a child, and a drinking problem.
After forcing out less than a paragraph, I made my way back up to Rosie’s Room. It was time to face the haunting.
Sitting there alone, I decided there was no way in hell I was about to do an EVP session. Or invite anything, anyone, to come visit with me. The only thing I could do was lock my door (there were three locks because, yeah, it’s safe), tuck myself into bed, and hope for the best.
I left the light on in the bathroom.
Eventually I fell asleep, waking up an hour later to some noise, imagined or not. Eyes wide open, I listened for the noise again but didn’t hear a thing. I fell asleep again. Then woke again, repeating the pattern until morning.
Did I ever see anything? No. Feel anything? No. Sense anything? No. However, I sure as shit did not get a good night’s sleep.
I was going to spend the day tooling around Virginia City, playing tourist, and I knew I’d be too tired to drive home that night. So guess what I did? Booked another night. Because, why not? I was in a different room, an even smaller room, but it wasn’t (supposedly) haunted. There were also other guests staying at the hotel and I heard them moving around, making alive noises.
I slept deep and well that second night.
If I go back to Virginia City, which I'm sure I will, I'll stay again at the Gold Hill Hotel. It was an experience and I'm sure there are more to be had at that there hotel.
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This snippet is from my WIP, a historical romance set in early 1880s California. Without giving an ounce of plot away, the (tentative) title of the book is 'Gold Digger'. Enjoy!
"I know I’m being childish, but I don’t want to marry. We are not in love.”
“How can you not be in love with the man?” Mary Beth’s voice rose an octave. “He is brave. Deliciously handsome. Why, I would be delighted to marry him if I were you.”
“Exactly! You should be the one—“
“Winifred Lucinda Bergman! I’ve just about had enough of your complaining." Winnie’s mother slammed the door as she entered the room. “Your father has worked hard to give you a good home and to make sure you land yourself in one that’s just as good.”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry, Mother.” Winnie hung her head in shame. Her shame was not that she’d complained, but that she desired a different life. She wanted an adventure, like her brother, Frederic. He’d left for the West Indies five years prior and had not been home since. His letters had filled her mind and heart with the places he'd been and the people he’d met. If only she could have that life and not the life she was consigned to.
It wasn’t fair.
On Wednesday, July 26th, I drove almost four hours to Carson City, Nevada to meet with Jan Loverin, a textile researcher who heads up the Marjorie Russell Clothing & Textile Research Center. I went there as an introduction to clothing from my time period, specifically looking for clothing that women miners in the 1880s might have worn, clothing for men, but interested in any nuggets of info she had to share with me.
I’m a complete novice when it comes to period clothing, or 'costumes' as Jan called them. For women I know there was usually a corset involved. Bloomers? What the heck was the difference between petticoats and skirts? And did wealthy men wear Unionsuits just as the working men did? Or did they wear something else?
Jan, taken back a bit by my ignorance, was a trooper and gave me a crash course on the basics of clothing from that time period. She also pointed me in the direction of some solid introductory materials. Jan gave nearly two hours of her time and showed me a few samples of dresses, corsets, other undergarments. I then spent almost another hour organizing my notes and exploring the library.
I was able to take pictures, but it was purely for research purposes. I had to sign an agreement that I wouldn’t publish or post any of them. ☹ So, wikkicommons, here I come. Or, you’ll just have to use your imagination.
First off, she didn't have information about women miners but she suggested some resources which are listed at the bottom of this post.
Women’s clothing: Layers
The first layer, closest to the skin was a chemise. This was easily laundered, certainly more so than the outside layers. The best way I can describe it is that it looks like your typical grandma’s white nightgown with short sleeves. Usually made of cotton or linen, I believe. Jan thought that before the 1880s in America, women usually wore the chemise or something similar to it for bed as well. However, she wasn’t sure.
Second layer was the corset. These weren’t worn as an outside layer, but on the inside. The ones I saw were laced in the back and hooked in the front. The boning was apparently made from whale bones. I was very excited to find a corset labeled ‘wedding lingerie’. On Winnie’s wedding night, she’s wearing a special corset and chemise—I was thrilled to discover I’d gotten it right!
Third layer starts to get a bit confusing. There may or may not have been a corset cover, which, as far as I can figure was like a modern-day camisole. Jan said something about it protecting something from something. Maybe it protected the corset from the outside layer? Or the other way around?
Bustles were common in the 1880s and there were a variety of types. They weren’t overly huge and the purpose, according to Jan, was to give fullness to the yards of skirts. These tied around the waste and rested at the lower back area, not on the ass. However, it did make sitting in chairs a bit challenging, especially if the seat wasn’t deep. Thus, apparently Victorian furniture became deeper to accommodate the bustle.
Fourth layer (or fifth? I’ve lost count) were the petticoats. I have no idea if they went on under or over the bustle, though from the picture on the left, it looks like it went over the bustle. And I don’t know if there was more than one petticoat layer or not.
Finally, there was the outer layer of clothing which consisted of a skirt and a jacket-like thingy. Depending on the purpose (formal events, being out an about town, working at home, etc.), the skirts may have been in two parts and the top might have also included boning.
What about underwear? Bloomers? Drawers? According to Jan, many women didn't wear these particular undergarments until beginning in the early 1880s. However, I've also subsequntly read that women did wear them--they were not permanently closed at the crotch, however and were secured either by ties or possibly buttons. Supposedly this helped with going to the bathroom.
But what about menstruation? How did they deal with that? Surprising, there's not a lot of information about this and experts disagree. The best Jan could come up with is that there might have been a belt or ties of some sort that secured layers of material.
Men's clothing: Boring
They had almost nothing of men's clothing. Jan said that very few people kept, or at least donated things from men. So, a researching I will go.
Clearly, I still have much to learn. However, I am so grateful for the time I spent at the research center. It was a great place to start my education of costumes from the 1880s—seeing the clothing was much more helpful to me than looking at pictures or reading descriptions. I now have the background to put additional information and research into context.
Comstock Women: The Making of a Mining Community
Dress, Journal of CSA
The Female Economy by Wendy Gamber
Nevada State Museum Textile & Clothing Research
Costume Society of America