I Am Strong

Recently, while talking about Ragtown with two friends, Jenifer Badamo and Cristy Minton, the subject of strong women came up.  Although my historical novel is set during the building of the Hoover Dam, I really tried to capture the experiences of the families involved in the project, not just the men who worked in the diversion tunnels.  Yes, my guys are, for the most part, tough guys, but my women are strong, too, each in their own way.  Since this is the beginning of what is known in my family as 'Kelly Week' (I'll explain that later), I thought it would be fun to tell you about a few of my strong Ragtown women.

 

Betsy Carter arrived in the desert eight months pregnant and gave birth to her youngest of three children on a hot desert night on the bank of the Colorado River.  Although Betsy is the motherly influence, underneath that Mother Hubbard is one tough gal.  She is a crack shot with a pistol, and not afraid to use it to protect her family.

 

As young girls, Mae and Sally had dreams of one day marrying and living happily ever after.  However, when both of their parents died, Mae, a teenager, was forced to do whatever was necessary to take care of her younger sister.  It was the 1930's and what few jobs were available were reserved for men. Mae and Sally work as prostitutes in the small cribs behind the Railroad Pass Casino.

 

Helen Carter is a sixteen year old firecracker.  Small and redheaded, she has a mind of her own.  While the other residents of Ragtown are withering under the desert heat, Helen seems to take her strength from it.  She is part of the desert and finds beauty in what others consider ugly.  If there is a rock of the novel, it is Helen.

 

So as 'Kelly Week' begins, my conversation with Jen and Cristy comes back around, because during the conversation, Cristy made the following comment, which really hit home: 

I think we are ALL strong, just most of us don't see that in ourselves...

I have friends that have overcome breast cancer, have undergone chemotherapy for Hepatitis, have lost husbands and children.  I know women who are raising kids with Autism and other disabilities, who are taking care of their parents and grandparents, and who are raising families on their own.  I have writer friends who have dug deep into their souls to share painful past experiences, others who are working on advanced degrees to improve their lives, and still others that have become successful businesswomen in a world that is still dominated by men.   These are the women I consider strong.  I certainly don't always think of myself as strong, but I am a Nurse, and a mother and I have made it to 29 (whatever).  So, in my own way, I am strong, too.  As Cristy said, 'most of us don't see that in ourselves'.  Well, it's time we do.

Now to 'Kelly Week'.  National Nurses Week is celebrated annually from May 6, also known as National Nurses Day, through May 12, the birthday of Florence Nightingale, the founder of modern nursing.  My birthday is on May 7, and I will be 29 (or something with a '9' in it).  And of course, Mothers Day is May 13, and of all of the hats I wear, that's the one I cherish most. 

 

But I'm changing 'Kelly Week' to 'Strong Women Week' (since it is a made-up week of celebration, I can do that).  Thank the Nurses you know for all they do, show your Mother how much she means to you, and by all means, raise a glass to my 29-ish years.  But also, take the time to say thank you to ALL of the women in your life for just being the amazing people they are.  And women, take a minute to see the strength in yourself.  Then say it loud: 

I AM STRONG.

Hoover Dam Stories: It Takes a Village

I'm often asked, "Why the Hoover Dam?"  So I thought I would share how I first became interested in the subject.  It all started with a one room schoolhouse I learned about in an archeology class ten years ago:

In the early 1930’s, construction plans for the Hoover Dam brought thousands from across the country in search of jobs.  This resulted in the appearance of “shanty towns” or "Hoovervilles" in and around the area accessible to the dam.  One area that was home to several of these camps was called Railroad Pass, located just south of the current day Henderson, Nevada along Boulder Highway. 

Those seeking jobs brought their families. By the end of 1931, several of the residents of the camps felt a school was needed in the area. Although some monies were supplied by the state and the county toward the establishment of the school, it was the efforts of the residents of the Railroad Pass community that had the actual schoolhouse built and running by January, 1932.  Through the use of volunteer labor, and loans for supplies, the schoolhouse was built: a dirty white, one room schoolhouse, approximately 14’X16’ (before the expansion), with two outhouses on the north side of the building. 

The small structure filled quickly.  Within two months, the need for an addition was apparent. On March 12, 1932, a School Benefit Dance was held at Railroad Pass Casino to help raise money to pay off the existing debt and to allow for expansion.  The dance was met with an overwhelming response, with assistance from several Las Vegas merchants who donated prize merchandise and the Las Vegas high school whose band played in the streets of Las Vegas to sell tickets and distribute handbills.  

           

By December, 1932, there were approximately forty-five students enrolled. At one point in the mid 1930’s the number of students reported at the small school was seventy-two.  They ranged in age from six to sixteen and resided in the various camps around the Railroad Pass area, which included Texas Acres, Dee’s Camp and Showwalter Camp. 

The words of one of the teachers at the school, taken from an unsigned letter archived at the Boulder City Museum and Historical Association, best describes the conditions under which she worked:

“The people were rough and tough and so were their offspring.  Upon our arrival the first day, it is very hard to guess who was the most curious, the children …or us; I know we were the most frightened.  When we arrived with the wind and dust all 72 of the kids were lined up to look us over.  The biggest one stepped forward and told us that a couple of dames were not welcome.

In the midst of our first day, Mr. Greenwood and Art Klinger, school board trustees, came along to protect us just in case.  Mr. Greenwood (was) equipped with a gallon jug of home-made corn squeezings and Klinger with a baseball bat.”

           

While this story may seem to many like just a tale of how a school was built in the desert, it affected me a little differently.  The people who lived in these camps were representative of the most desperate our country had.  They had nothing, many living openly on the desert floor with their children: no shelter to protect them from the unbearable heat, barely enough food to fend off starvation.  But regardless of their economic situation, they wanted, needed to provide for the education of their children.  They understood the importance of an education and as a group, this ragtag community came together to build a school.  

           

The stories I share about the Hoover Dam aren't as much about the construction as they are about the people who built it.  After learning more about the school, I continued to read about these people, our grandfathers and grandmothers, who persevered during hard times, and still maintained the values they considered important, such as the education of their children.

           

While the dam itself is a grand structure, for me it is a testament to the strength of a generation.  A generation whose story deserves to be told.  

For the Love of Research

Last week, I stated on twitter that I easily do ten hours of research for every one hour of actual writing.  I wasn’t surprised that I heard from six other historical writers that said, ‘yes, that’s about right.’ I also heard from another half dozen writers in various genres who basically said, ‘you must be out of your mind.’ You do have to enjoy your subject and enjoy research in general. You also have to be willing to tuck 90% of what you learned into the Trivial Pursuit folder in your mind, because hours of research may give you one great chapter-or one great paragraph-or just one great line.

But here’s a secret.  Researching can be a lot of fun.  (Shh... Don’t tell, or everyone will start doing it.)

My dive buddy---I had the camera

The site of my upcoming novel, Ragtown, is now under Lake Mead, making it difficult to actually walk the wash area that was once a tent city and home to thousands of Hoover Dam workers and their families. I still wanted to go there.  So I slapped on the dive gear and visited Ragtown-- even donated a set of ankle weights and a dive knife to the site for future researchers to ponder.



Boxing night at the Hard Rock

I have a scene in my novel that revolves around a boxing match. I read everything I could about boxing in the 1930’s, and not saying I am an expert (ask me anything about Ray Sharkey or Max Schmeling), but I learned quite a bit. Still, I needed to ‘be there’ to write the scene effectively.  Luckily for me, I live in Las Vegas, where boxing matches are a dime a dozen.

Not a zoomed photo

How can you write about the intense yellow eyes of a Bighorn sheep unless you have looked into them?

I write about the prostitutes who worked behind the Railroad Pass Casino in 1931.  The small shacks are long gone, but I felt I needed to walk the path from the casino that led to 'Whore Row'.  How far was it? What was the view from there? I’m not unfamiliar with walking in the desert and I usually find something interesting that I didn’t expect. Yes, I found the proverbial dead body in the desert that day.

(Sorry, no picture. The Coroner wasn’t thrilled that I asked.)



My most recent adventure? What I call ‘eating rocks.’ I am currently working with Craig Childs, possibly the greatest nature/adventure writer of our time, a man who the New York Times calls “a modern-day desert father.” He bleeds sand and cries cactus juice. He suggested that I ‘taste the desert’, or at least the area near Lake Mead where my story takes place. Be a part of the landscape. Put a river rock in my mouth and see what it feels like.

I was hesitant, even though I knew it would involve a day at the lake, which is hard to say no to. And Craig is brilliant and hasn’t steered me wrong yet.  So I did it.

What happened? I will leave that for my protagonist to explain.

In the meantime, check out the 'modern-day desert father' Craig Childs at his website:

House of Rain