Seneca Falls Convention of 1848

On this date in history, July 19, 1848, the first women's rights convention in the United States was held in Seneca Falls, New York. One hundred and seventy-two years ago! This two day meeting launched the women's suffrage movement that would ultimately lead to the 19th Amendment to the Constitution being ratified which gave women the right to vote. It took over seventy years.

Adopted were the Declaration of Sentiments, modeled after the Declaration of Independence, demanding women have equality with men under the law in education and employment, among other things. Many believe this convention started the women's rights movement that continues today.

Elizabeth Cady Stanton opened the convention with the following, "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men and women are created equal."

Say her name. Know her name. Remember her name.

Plans Change...Books Continue

It's always such a nice surprise when someone reaches out to me with a positive message about my books. Williamsburg Hill was published in 2018, yet I still receive kind words about how readers enjoyed it. I'm grateful for this, and for the fact that it's still being read while appealing to a new generation of people.

Covid-19 has affected life in ways that have forced us to change plans. I'd been working on a play about the suffragist movement and women getting the vote in 1920 (anticipation of a staged reading to coincide with the centennial anniversary in August). This won't happen for obvious reasons.  The performing arts suffer and the stage remains dark. At some point the play will be ready for the stage, just not as I'd hoped.

While the play is paused, I'm outlining the next book. I've a couple in the works, but research on a historical fiction piece has stalled due to limited access to records (again, the virus); so I'm proceeding with the one that is closer to having a green light. I'll share as it gets going.

For now, I'm going to repeat a blog post about the backstory to Williamsburg Hill since it continues to invite new folks to visit its pages. It can be ordered in paperback from all bookstores and every big chain store that sells books in the US: all of the independent booksellers in any city,  as well as Indiebound, Barnes and Noble, Walmart, Meijer, Books-a-Million, Target, Costco (I know I'm forgetting some), and of course, Amazon. It's also available for Kindle readers and is part of the Kindle Unlimited program on Amazon, too.

Thank you, again, for supporting my books. If you're interested in sharing this to invite new readers, well, thank you for that, too. Please visit my website www.veronicabatterson.com for more information and updates.

Now for the backstory...

In early 2014, I began listing ideas for my next book.  Historical fiction was a genre that I wished to attempt, but it was important to me that the historical part of the book be something that wouldn’t present a lot of challenges with research.  I lived in the Chicago area at the time, so I assumed some localized history would be easy enough to research; if travel were required, it would be simple to do by car.  Easy and simple were far from reality, as I discovered, with legends and lore playing greater roles than historical documents in creating this book.

I read about a town in south central Illinois, once active due to its main street being part of the Old Anglin’ Road stage coach route, that became non-existent in the late 1800s.  The town of Williamsburg (or village as some referred to it) was founded in 1839, and the region was referred to as Cold Spring.  Established at the time with a mill, the stage line, a general store, a blacksmith and postmaster, a medical doctor, Masonic hall and Methodist church, it is difficult to imagine how progress ultimately crippled the area and made it a ghost town.  In 1881, the stage line was discontinued as train travel replaced it, and the railroad tracks bypassed Williamsburg.  Residents and businesses moved, most to nearby Lakewood, leaving their former town to waste away.   

Williamsburg was located on the south side of Williamsburg Hill which still stands as the highest point in the area at over 800 feet.  Some speculate the hill was formed due to glaciers; others seem to think it to be an Indian mound.  There is really no definitive answer to its existence.  But resting at the top of Williamsburg Hill is Ridge Cemetery, still accessible today.  And there was the basis of my story.

I traveled to Ridge Cemetery twice (in 2014 and 2016).  It isn’t a place that one simply discovers on an afternoon drive. It is a pre-planned destination; its isolation is assurance of this.  It also isn’t a place a person should travel to alone.  As there is much folklore but little history that I could find about the cemetery, I assume it originated around the time that the village of Williamsburg did.  The dates on many of the tombstones verify this, but there are recent burials there as well.  It is an old cemetery, yet a currently used one; it is serene and peaceful, while strange and a little unnerving; it’s beautiful, yet rugged; maintained but weathered.  And yes, it is somewhat creepy.

The cast of characters in this story are fictional, with the exception of J.P. Dunaway, J.W. Torbutt, Dr. Thomas Fritts, and Orville Robertson.  Their occupations in my book are true to their history.  What is a little sketchy about them might be the location of where they settled.  I was fully into writing when I discovered a first-person historical account by a Dunaway descendant indicating the family had lived in Findlay, Illinois, not Williamsburg.  Because I was too far into the story to change anything, I took liberties.  Documented history about the area wasn’t easy to find, but plenty of folklore existed, so much of what I wrote is based on this.  And most of the folklore indicates these four figures and their families were part of Williamsburg Hill, at least at some point during the town’s reign.  It was important, perhaps out of obligation, to briefly mention the town of Findlay at the end though, which I did.  I also interchanged Williamsburg and Williamsburg Hill within the story, because it seemed to me that people living there would’ve done this as a way of generally referring to their home.

Finally, there is nothing left of Williamsburg.  Ridge Cemetery is not private, but open to anyone who wishes to visit as long as it’s done during the daylight hours.  It is a place deserving of respect.  If visiting, observe its history, wonder about its past, and listen quietly.  Perhaps you, too, will then hear the voices and laughter dancing through the breeze just as my character, Erastus, did.    

Next Time

When I was a kid, I remember believing the program dial on a radio took me from my little bedroom in Tennessee to places around the world I could only dream existed.  I would sit on the floor at night, holding the radio (with the antenna extended at maximum length) close to my ear while turning the knob and listening. Breaks in the static revealed music and conversation meant for listeners in far away places. It was probably my first introduction to hearing foreign languages spoken as many Spanish language formatted stations broke through after dark.  I learned a lot about music by doing this, hearing songs I liked and wanted to hear again.  It fueled my imagination; I wondered who might be listening to the song I was hearing from that "other-world" city, and it made me want to travel and see things beyond my own spot of earth.

That period of time was pre-FM, so the spinning dial that opened a gate to the world for me was strictly through AM stations.  FM (which had been around for a long time) became big in my neck of the woods later when I was in high school, which is probably deserving of its own blog post.  But AM radio ruled then and in our little community, just a few streets from our house, sat a giant 50,000-watt AM powerhouse.  It was no joke when someone said they could hear music from WFLI playing from the kitchen sink, or from an electrical outlet, or behind a wall, or… wherever and anywhere.  I thought it was the coolest thing.  It was music, and I was a kid opening my eyes to the world, and for some reason it meant a taste of freedom and the future.  Jet FLI, as it was known, reduced its power at night to only 2500 watts, which probably helped with other stations reaching my listening ears as I went in search of them once night fell.

It was about that time in my life when the use of “someday” and “one day” became a road map of planning things.  One day I would see this, and someday I’d visit that place; one day I’d accomplish (fill in the blank); a great deal of the time I did.  It wasn’t until later in life that those two expressions went from being a pursuit of dreams to procrastination and excuses for not fulfilling them.

On last season’s series of This Is US, the character known as Rebecca rationalized with another one: next time.  Spoilers are ahead in case you’ve yet to see it. With the show’s typical use of flashbacks, Rebecca found herself always using the excuse of “next time” to justify why she didn’t get to see/do something she had planned, usually when she took a backseat to what her kids wanted, or when time for her couldn’t be worked in around other family or work wants.  When it was revealed the character had early stage Alzheimer’s, she admitted to her son how time was running out for next times to happen.  This wonderfully written character said, “My life has been full of next times, things I assumed I would get to eventually. But now I realize I am running out of time to do them.” 

While there are people who live in the now and make the most of fulfilling every possible situation while they have it, that’s not a possibility for many of us.  We settle, balance, compromise, sacrifice, and excuse until we look around and are shocked at where the years have gone.  We realize the boat that’s carrying all of those others to the somedays and one days, and yes, now, left us behind and we’re just treading water with whatever time we have left. 

In 2015, I wrote a blog post (Your Life is Now), that explained how I’d basically started laying out a road map for my future when I was seventeen.  Recalling how I lamented a bit about wishing I could change some things, the biggest regret I had when I wrote it (and still do) was wishing I’d slowed down a bit and savored the now.  Hearing those radio stations through tiny speakers as a youth no doubt kickstarted my eventual planning for the somedays and one day; I can’t pinpoint though when it changed for me.  I have traveled, yet there’s so much more I’d like to see, but the urgency and need aren’t as strong anymore.  Maybe it’s my age or perhaps I’m finally accepting the now; like Rebecca, I also worry about running out of time, but I think that’s due to the unknown of what society is currently facing, in addition to how old I am getting.

I like to think being confined at home during this pandemic opened our eyes, brought others down to earth and made all of us appreciate how fragile life is and what a limited time we’re given. Realizing priorities. Based on some of the ugliness I see on social media though, I know I’m being naïve in thinking this. One can hope though. 

That early foundation known as music set me in motion, and helped me dream.  I wrote much of my book, Daniel’s Esperanza, listening to William Ackerman’s Meditations, and Ottmar Liebert’s Spanish Sun, all instrumental.  If you’ve read the book, and know the music perhaps you can visualize the story and scenes and how they came to be with this musical influence. It’s how I create. Listening to music. The artistic side continues but at a less frenetic and frenzied pace…in the now, and looking forward to next time more slowly.  

  

Face Masks

As the country takes steps to lift stay-at-home orders, it's difficult to believe that anything will ever be the same as we've known it. The future is about change and adjustment, compromise and being accommodating. Wearing face masks in public is the new normal, at least for the foreseeable future. 

Kudos to those who have made and donated masks; some of us are selling them, as well. Those provided via Pixels/Fine Art America are made from images created by artists on that site. All products are 100% satisfaction guaranteed. Below is a sampling of some of mine that are available; full resolution and the entire product line can be found at www.veronica-batterson.pixels.com. For masks, click on the apparel link at the top on the home page. 

Many thanks, as always, and please be safe, diligent, and kind. 

                                      

 

Kindness

During these trying, uncertain times when we need each other, I'd like to share some quotes, sayings and song lyrics that hold meaning for me. It's the small things that count. Stay safe, everyone. Care about others and be kind.

* You have not lived today until you have done something for someone who can never repay you. ~ John Bunyan

* If you haven't any charity in your heart, you have the worst kind of heart trouble. ~ Bob Hope

* Oh, why you look so sad, the tears are in your eyes
   Come on and come to me now,
   and don't be ashamed to cry
   Let me see you through, 'cause
   I've seen the dark side, too
   When the night falls on you, 
   you don't know what to do
   Nothing you confess could make
   me love you less, I'll stand by you. ~ The Pretenders

* When the night has come
    And the land is dark
    And the moon is the only light we'll see
    No, I won't be afraid
    Oh, I won't be afraid
    Just as long as you stand 
    Stand by me.  ~ Ben E King, Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller

* Keep your face to the sunshine and you cannot see the shadow. ~ Helen Keller

* Out of difficulties grow miracles. ~ La Bruyére

* What lies behind us and what lies before us are small matter compared to what lies within us. ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Gratitude

Some of my photographs at Palladio Interiors, Memphis

I’m sitting at my desk, nursing an injured foot while my dog snoozes on the floor beside me.  Gordon Lightfoot’s If You Could Read My Mind is playing as I write this.  And if you could read my mind…what a tale my thoughts could tell, too.  This past year has been full of life: of living this gift too many of us take for granted, experiencing what it offers and enduring what it doles out to you, embracing the miracle of life, and mourning the loss of it.  The same as every person does, we all go through it.  And then life goes on; the sun sets on the past, and rises with new opportunities and hope. 

On January 10, 2012, this blog took life and while I had great ambitions for it to continue, I never thought it would be active very long.  There was no timetable planned, just something new I started to promote my books and give myself a voice.  It has been a struggle, the reasons why explained in past posts.  Yet, it still chugs along and I refuse to give up on eight years of investment in personal goals.  So here we are.  For those reading what I post, there might not be much in the way of value to many; however, for myself the words are invaluable and at times therapeutic.

In recapping 2019, I will start with the best of the year which happened toward the end of it: the birth of my first grandchild.  Being there for my daughter and seeing her little girl enter this world is something I’ll always cherish. The darling one has charmed me already with her ready smiles and curiosity.  Another best is finally purchasing that second home so that we can be near her, something that had been planned for years.

Some highlights of the year included updating and launching my new website, www.veronicabatterson.com, and starting work on a play about the suffragist movement (I have been promised a staged reading of it upon completion).  While I have shared two new book ideas in previous blog posts – one historical fiction piece set in Memphis with a dual timeline about the Yellow Fever Epidemic and Martyr’s Park, and the other being an Almost Famous type story (see my short story in this blog, Stardust from April 6, 2017), the third book idea happened recently while making dinner reservations in Denver, Colorado! These ideas drop in my lap in the strangest of ways.  Rounding out the work, I had an art exhibit at WKNO’s Gallery Ten Ninety-One during the month of May, and my photographs were exhibited at Palladio Interiors in Memphis for six months (June 1 – Nov 1).

In August, my husband and I traveled historic Hwy. 1 along the coast of California.  With our drive originating in Reno, Nevada, we visited beautiful Lake Tahoe and historic Truckee, drove through Sacramento and the Napa Valley to Inverness and Point Reyes Station, then headed south along the coast. Stops included seeing family and friends along the way while enjoying the beauty of San Francisco, Half Moon Bay, Monterey Bay, Morro Bay, Big Sur, The Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, Hearst Castle in San Simeon, Solvang, Santa Barbara, Santa Ynez, 17 Mile Drive through Pebble Beach, Carmel-By-The-Sea, San Luis Obispo, Pismo Beach (not in any particular order, and certainly overlooking much). We had the best lunch at Phil’s Fish Market at Moss Landing, and I enjoyed great seafood tacos at a place near Torpedo Wharf/Crissy Field in San Francisco.  There was also a nice brunch with incredible views at Café Kevah (Nepenthe Restaurant) in Big Sur. We flew home from LAX, the least favorite part of the trip, with great memories and a lot of beautiful photographs.

The year began in the worst way, however, by learning of the passing of a friend, who was the daughter of a friend.  Death snuffed out a light that was too young and new.  She left too soon, and I can’t in any way imagine the pain her mother faces every day.

The final event of 2019 that I’m sharing is one that has been difficult for me to shake because I’m struggling to move past it; it haunts me, it won’t go away, and it makes me angry.  I remain shocked that it happened, question why every day, but more than likely I’ll never get an answer.  And if it can happen to me at my age, it can happen to any woman.  “It” has many names: GHB, Rohypnol, roofies, liquid ecstasy, Ketamine, Special K, GBL, club drugs, date rape drugs…they’re odorless, tasteless, and they can’t be seen; they can be slipped into a drink or onto your food.  If describing in humiliating detail the effects of what “It” did to me can help just one woman be aware, then I’ve made a positive out of something unthinkable.  I’ve also used this forum as I initially intended it to become eight years ago: a voice.  My voice.

On November 15, 2019, I attended an event in Memphis at a place where I have a right to be, and a place where I should not only feel safe, but be safe.  Within minutes of sipping a glass of wine, I started feeling nauseous and very warm.  Thinking all I needed was some fresh air, I stood up to make my way outside, took a few steps, turned and started stumbling, losing my ability to stand, much less walk unassisted. My vision became cloudy as well, everything was blurred.  I suddenly heard someone’s voice in my ear (a person I recognized) who helped me get to privacy, which was a room with fewer people, then he left to find help; I then remember setting my purse and cell phone aside, lying down on a settee and passing out, only to be forced awake by another voice I recognized (different person) urgently telling me to sit up. I’ve no idea how much time passed.  Eventually, I recognized two other voices (one was my husband); I couldn’t see any of them because I couldn’t make out shapes, nor could I communicate with any clarity.  I lost all cognitive function and vomited all over myself, shortly after that everything turned dark, and a chunk of time became a black void lost to me.  I have no memory of how I got home, only my husband relaying to me how I did.  My next recollection came at 4:30 a.m. when I awoke with a start in my own bed, clear-headed, scared and knowing something terrible had happened.  Something that had worn off and was no longer affecting me.

With all of this I was fortunate…lucky I was amongst people who I knew and who helped me.  It was fortunate that I didn’t choke on my own vomit, or that it didn’t prove to be lethal due to an interaction with prescription medication I take, that I didn’t go into a permanent coma or need a respirator.  I now know the potential horrors of what women face under the same circumstances if they’re alone or around strangers.  But I’ve also experienced a reaction to it from others, although not from everyone, that surprises me.  I’ve heard, “Well, no one can imagine who would do such a thing.”  That may be, but it doesn’t change the fact that it happened, and somebody did.  Another suggestion was that maybe I’d just had a seizure.  If so it was the first one I’d ever experienced and I have a lot of years behind me, but seizures are a side effect of these drugs. At any rate, it stresses the importance of medical attention in any such situation (intentionally induced or otherwise).  Timing is everything; it is critical.  It’s crucial for a diagnosis and to collect evidence; the timeline for such a drug to be in a person’s system is short (just a few hours), and it’s all the time a predator needs.  I didn’t get medical attention, and I wasn’t in a state to ask for it.  Two more things that are facts: I wasn’t intoxicated and I’d eaten a plate of barbecue for dinner at this very event, so it wasn’t due to the lack of food.  I was normal and coherent, and within minutes I was incapacitated.   

Which brings up two other things…how the burden of proof falls on the person who was victimized, and the victim is the one who has to protect herself/himself from it ever happening again.  How does one go the extra mile when you already run a marathon protecting yourself every day you leave your house?  Should I pack the car with water bottles and only drink my own at all events? Refuse to eat food that is served to me at the same functions (even though others are eating) out of fear?  As women, we have safety issues drilled in our heads from the moment we’re able to venture out on our own.  Do I look at it as, “Whew…dodged a bullet there,” and do a hand swipe across the forehead?  Sorry, I can’t.  All I know is this: it happened, and if it is what it appears to be, the predator who targeted me is still out there to do it again.  Just as bad: the expletive-filled slime knows he/she/they got away with it.  It’s illegal to possess such a drug, it’s also illegal to use it.  That night, apparently, I was the victim of a crime.  

This post is about gratitude, so I’m grateful that it wasn’t worse, and I survived.  However, I do everything in my life in a safe way, always careful (at times overly so).  I lectured my daughters about being aware of such drugs when they were teenagers and when they started going out with friends and on dates; I’m watchful and cautious. It still happened. One can be grateful and still be outraged.  That’s where I am, and seeking counseling.

A New Year, New Work

As I begin my ninth year of blogging here, I will start a January (which has almost slipped by already) post by sharing some new products from a photo I recently took, which I've added to my Pixels/Fine Art America site. This photograph was taken from my front porch in Colorado! Many products can be ordered with this image (as well as other photos that I've recently added). Check out my website at www.veronicabatterson.com for more information. A new blog post is coming soon! Happy New Year, all!