Movie Review: Lincoln

Before starting the review, let me state my background. I was born and raised in Illinois, the Land of Lincoln. When I was growing up, saying anything negative about Mr. Lincoln was practically next to a sin. For more than the past twenty years, I have lived in Virginia, where many have a vastly different view of Lincoln. Neither extreme portray the man in an accurate light. As a student of history, I like to see the reality, rather than some caricature. In that regard, the movie was partly successful.

I enjoyed the fact that Lincoln came off as a human being. Like everyone else, he had faults. In the movie, he told bad jokes, and apparently that was accurate to his nature. I also liked the fact that he didn't have the deep baritone voice that some attributed to him. From what I've read over the years, the deep voice was some figment of imagination dreamed up by Hollywood. Unfortunately, that's pretty much all I liked.

Even though Lincoln was portrayed as human, he apparently rarely swore. I'm certainly no prude as some of my characters have done their fair share of swearing, but I have no idea why someone would use such language incorrectly for a historical person, unless it's to help boost ratings. Throughout the war, Lincoln was plagued with constant depression. For some reason, this detail was overlooked and would have added tremendously to the plot, but I wasn't the writer.

During the opening, a couple of soldiers had memorized the Gettysburg Address. I find the scene totally implausible. Have you or do you know anyone who has ever memorized a president's speech? I rest my case. Sorry, but the Gettysburg Address only became more well known after Lincoln's death.

I could continue to nitpick other historical inaccuracies, but I fully understand the concept of writing historical fiction. I generally don't understand why if a fact is known, why someone would change it. The true history is usually much more fascinating than anything made up. Anyway, the movie centered around the Thirteenth Amendment. During the entire dialogue, nothing was ever mentioned about how the Emancipation Proclamation had not freed slaves living in Delaware, Maryland, and other border states.

Lincoln was personally against slavery, but in the beginning of the war, his focus was to keep the states together. Freeing the slaves became a genius political move at a later date. With the entire movie focusing on the Thirteenth Amendment, it became a political drama. One theme I noticed was how little things have changed over the years. Because I have studied the Civil War in depth, I was aware of that fact, but truly, if I had wanted to see a political drama, all I had to do was turn on the news.

At two and a half hours long, I found the movie BORING.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Crone Reminiscing

Crone Reminiscing

A striking studio portrait of a well groomed man, staring out at the world with the innocence of youth; what dreams did he have? What plans and ambitions? Then he was strong, vital, ambitious, quite ready and able to take on the world. Where is he now? His descendants, if any, perhaps not interested in treasuring his photograph for future generations to recognize a resemblance, or to seek out his wisdom.

A thick flannel sheet with yellow stripes at the ends and an edging of blue blanket stitching brings memories of cozy nights in chilly beds.  The need to be practical and frugal nurtured many creative life skills. When the centers were worn down to the bare threads they were neatly "turned"; cut down the middle, switched over and the edges sewed together putting the thin edges on the outside to be tucked under the mattress.

 A vintage coffee tin, rusted orange and faded black with gold lettering. How many pots, cups and mugs of coffee were made from that battered container? What counters did it sit on? What crowded shelves? What kitchens where sleepy families prepared to face the day's work? Long days, often with little pay were an integral part of its era. Endless conversations around well-used kitchen tables, wooden tops marked and dented with the tools of living. Words of love, of family plans, of neighborhood gossip, of accusations, denials, of grief, and whispers of comfort.

If the multitude of cast-off items could speak, if they could tell the stories they had witnessed, taken part in, heard of in passing through the many years, what tales they could tell us.

Church Rummage Sale: rubbish to some, treasures to others

BOB as GOLLEM, or LOVE YOU, MOM!

 

 

Returned from a 4 day road trip—3 of which were mostly road. The cats missed me, but particularly Bob, because he welcomed me home in his usual over-the-top Uber feline way. Hadn’t been in the house again for more than an hour, when I heard keening outside the door. It’s “Tigger’s” wurra-wurra-wurra, deep, and, somehow, both penetrating and nasal. Nasal of necessity, because he only makes this yeowly cry when he has some pitiful victim clamped between his jaws.  Yesterday, amid the blooming daffodils and the greening yard, the red buds getting ready to burst and send the human community into a coordinated allergy attack, was the last day for a poor young bunny, probably  little more than a month old.

 I foolishly opened the door and Bob rushed in carrying it, a tiger with head held high, proudly bearing prey. The sad little head and ears dangled on one side of his mouth, the adorable baby legs on the other. I ran to catch him and he dropped it at my feet. When I gathered the body up in a napkin, it was still warm and floppy. I wanted to cry.

“Damn you, “ said I, which was not the response he was looking for, even though I didn’t really push the regret and sadness I felt into the words. After all, he’s not a kid, he’s a cat, and, in his feline way, he truly meant to say "thank-you" for my return. I placed the corpse back outside on the porch. Bob followed and lay down beside it. He stretched out, head up, like a Serengeti predator relaxing with a fresh-caught antelope. As I gave him a quick stroke, I realized that like the LOTR’s Gollem, he’d brought “master” a lovely present.  

As Peter Jackson wrote for his Gollem: “Eat them! Eat them, they are young and tender!”

~~Juliet Waldron

Come, Time Travel with me

General Marsena Rudolph Patrick

In my research for my upcoming title, I Had Rather Die (please note the title change from previous blogs), about rape in the Civil War, I've come across many dark, heartbreaking stories. Oftentimes, the officers weren't as sympathetic to the women as one would have hoped. General Patrick was a notable exception. He was from New York and a graduate from West Point. Whether he was considered a good general by historians, I really don't know. My research was of a very different nature.

In 1864, Virginia, a woman had been raped by two men. She sought out General Patrick to report the crime. Through her tears, he listened to her story and promised that he would do whatever he could to bring the men to justice. At the same time, he wasn't hopeful of the outcome. In an army of over 100,000, he informed her that it would be difficult finding the men responsible for the attack.

He wrote in his diary:

There seemed to be no clew [sic] to the perpetrators, at first, but the leader could not keep away from the Spot, after the crime, & was the first to speak of it-- He was arrested & to make his own Story good, he had to tell of his comrade-- They were identified by the woman & her cousin...

As it turns out, not only were the men found guilty, they were among the few soldiers who received the death penalty for the crime of rape. Such a finding was rare during the era because few took the accusation of rape seriously. This is partly what impressed me about General Patrick. He went the extra mile to help a woman seek justice.

A couple of months after the execution, he rode out to the woman's house again to see how she was doing. She told him that they had a guard, so the soldiers didn't bother her much, "and she is now 'All Right'..."

An abridged version of General Patrick's diary with the title of Inside Lincoln's Army was published in 1964, but I sought out his actual diary at the Library of Congress. That's how I felt as if he had truly shared a piece of himself with me. His writing was detailed and eloquent. I wished I'd had the time to read all of it. More importantly though, I wished I had a way to thank him for taking a woman at her word and helping to bring the perpetrators to justice.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Crone Yearning

Spring winds are sweeping

Trailing skeins of tundra swans

Radiant chevrons of stark beauty

Drawn North by magnetic mystery

I am walking more

Damaged muscles regaining proper cadence

My hungry heart yearns for open fields

 Distant trees, meandering river spirals

With the wings of a swan

I could be there now

Buoyant upon the living waters

Supple though the rippling weaving reeds

Stoicism: Exit Stage Right

          Remember the stoics?  Those guys in togas who sat on their front porches and solved the world’s problems in Ancient Greek?  They came up with the idea that avoiding hedonism and facing danger with a stiff upper lip would save them from… from…they thought that being stoic was a very good thing.

          I don’t know when or how I got the idea that bearing pain and not complaining and carrying the rubber plant on my poor little ant-back would make me… better? stronger?  less likely to end up in… in… that admitting pain and complaining were not very good things.

          I have gone through many years of being strong, and stoic and confident. I have perfected the art of masking pain, sorrow, and feelings of anxiety or indecision. In fact, at different times I have walked around with clinical depression, debilitating anxiety, slipped discs, badly sprained ankles, and rotator cuff tears that went unacknowledged. And I thought that was a good thing, until recently.

          I awoke one morning in December of 2012 with a nasty kink in my neck. It was a very tough month emotionally, and I figured the pain would go away along with the stress I was under at the time. Then it was February and my neck was still hurting. I made an appointment and informed my family doctor that my neck was terribly sore, and I probably needed physical therapy. It had worked well before! He said a few things about pain relievers and x-rays or MRI’s if necessary, but he agreed.

          I went to therapy twice a week for a month and a half with good intentions and a sunny attitude until last week.  I decided that all the exercising was great, the heat and stim and ultra-sound treatments were wonderful, but I was still, in fact, in pain. And I had had enough of that. I went back to my doctor and said that muscle relaxers might help quiet this one stubborn spot on the right side of my neck, and he mumbled some things about orthopedists and second opinions, but he agreed.

           Armed with a new attitude and my Doctor’s prescription, I walked into the physical therapy office and  told them I was not going to do everything they wanted as many times as they wanted today. And the fun began.

          “It sounds like we better start with the stim first. Then we have to evaluate your progress for the insurance company.”

“That evaluation is going to hurt,” I said. “I probably won’t be doing much after that.”

“Let’s wait and see what happens,” he said, followed by that smile that says he knows exactly what will happen.

“I won’t do much more, I don’t want to hurt myself.”

“Well, why don’t you just do some lifts, like this…”

          And so it went. I whined through the evaluation, even though I was secretly pleased with how well I did. I said I’d had enough after one rep when he had asked for three. I made faces, sighed, and did everything I could to signify my lack of cooperation short of stamping my feet and yelling “Waaaah,” like a 2-year old. Finally, I heard my name and laughter rippling up the hall through three therapists and two assistants. I had to ask.

“What’s so funny?”

“Michelle wants to know if you’d like some cheese to go with that whine.”

          And I really didn’t care! I laughed along, but secretly acknowledged to myself that I liked being kind to my body. It doesn’t deserve punishment any more than I deserve pain. In a younger state, I would have said, “she’s getting old and weak.” In fact, I am getting wise and more respectful of my body’s future. Healthy food, gentle exercise, relieving stress with yoga and meditation – these are finally becoming very high priorities. And right up with those is the refusal to tolerate pain.

          My proud immunity to weakness can Exit Stage Right. When I hurt, I will whine -- with or without the cheese.

Air Travel, 1950's

Pilot ready to go, DC-3

(You'll agree, a wonderful shot!)

I was young when we took our first trip to the British West Indies.  In those days, air travel wasn’t quite the routine it is today, and the air route to Bridgetown, Barbados, was not a single hop. One reason for this was that although jet planes had just entered the commercial sphere, travel to the West Indies was not the popular run-of-the-mill destination it is today. The piston-driven planes and prop jets on which we’d travel had top speeds of a mere 200-350 mph v. the 550 mph of true jets like the Boeing 707.

Vickers Viscount

 

We’d fly from Syracuse, New York on Allegheny Airlines to La Guardia, on a trusty DC-3 or one of the newer Convairs. Then, the next day, somehow or other—I remember, sometimes via small planes, taxis, and buses—we’d travel across NYC east to Idlewild (now JFK). From there, we’d fly to Bermuda, and then the long leg to San Juan, where we’d pick up flights that took us to Barbados.  Mom was an Anglophile, so we often traveled BOAC, (British Overseas Airlines Corp.) though sometimes we’d go Pan Am for that first long leg, flying in DC 6’s and 7’s, or on TWA on the famous “Super Connies” (Lockheed Constellations), whose stick-insect bodies and three vertical stablizers marked them out. 

 Super Constellation

My Dad had wanted to be an aeronautical engineer and he loved aircraft, so he always managed to have a few words with the pilot.   In those days, we could go up front and  look in at the flight deck, at the impressively uniformed pilot and co-pilot in their dial-and-gauge filled cockpit. Once on BOAC, we had a memorable ride from Idlewild to Puerto Rico on a Bristol Britannia, a 4 engine “whispering giant” turbo prop, which could fly with a top speed of 385 mph, and at the serene (and then remarkably pressurized) altitude of 20,000 feet. That was a real change from the noisy piston planes barging and bumping through turbulence and clouds. The older planes would drop for what seemed thousands of feet and then leap up again while still within a big cumulus, tossing overhead luggage down upon us and leaving our stomachs somewhere up on the ceiling. From those, we’d emerge almost deaf after so many hours of banging and rumbling.  

 DC-9

On the island hops, we’d be on feeder airlines again. BWI, British West Indian Airways, flew some Vickers Viscounts on the grand run from San Juan to Trinidad, Caracas and on into South America. Often, though, it was back to the good old DC 3’s again, where, lugging my carry-on, filled with books, teddies, a Swan Lake L.P. and sundries, I’d clamber up the steep rise of the gangway to find a window seat. Once in the air, I could see the islands and reefs surrounded by azure water and white caps, an astonishing change from the filthy frozen piles of snow we’d left behind in New York a mere 24 hours ago.

 

--Juliet Waldron

About the pictures:
 Love this image of boarding a plane, the way it used to be done, by lining up on the tarmak with luggage in hand. This appears to be a period shot of a DC-9, SAS. The Super Connie with her 3 tail stablizers appears to be in an air museum. It was a pretty singular looking plane.


Find more of my writing at:
http:www//julietwaldron.com

Insomniac #1

 

Art by Milosaur

 

It’s 11:11 p.m. Sometimes it’s 12:12 a.m. And other times it’s 3:33 or, maybe, it’s 4:56.  These are clock times which snag my imagination. They happen mostly the dark hours, when I wake up, check the time, shake my head and stagger off to the bathroom, or to let the cat out, or to wander around the house for a bit until my old joints unkink a little so I can go back to sleep. I suppose I shouldn’t waste time thinking about whether it means anything, but the problem is that during the 60’s I dabbled in numerology, and that even earlier, sitting on the floor to the off-stage right of a Barbadian bar, I read books about ancient aliens visiting earth, prehistoric collisions with Venus, or African tribes who knew all about the invisible-to-the-naked-eye-dwarf companion of the blue giant star, Sirius. I’ve been soaking in this other-worldly, one-brick-shy-of-a-load content since I was a post war child, with predictable results.

Whenever I wake up I always look at the clock, and because there is usually some variation of what I take to be a “meaningful” configuration, I’ve begun to imagine these are messages—from somewhere, about something. Don’t ask me what, although I’ve spent plenty of nights wondering.

Are these omens, messages from a hitherto uncommunicative universe? 

Will the TARDIS land in my bedroom?

Is something from some hideous Lovecraftian dimension with three toes and along snaky snout waiting just behind the door?

Is my ship—long awaited—about to come in?

Or is it all simply a series of unrelated events, just “random chaos ”(as one of my friends has it) business as usual on this particular plane?

 

 

 

 

Juliet Waldron

 

http://www.mozartswife.com

Dr. Clelia Mosher

Dr. Clelia Mosher was born during the height of the Civil War. Her master's thesis disproved the belief of the day that women only breathed from their chest, rather than their diaphragms. Her research showed that apparel, namely corsets, were responsible for the erroneous assumption, and women were not inferior to men.

Afterward, Mosher attended Johns Hopkins in order to pursue a medical degree. She turned her attention to the subject of menstruation. She created breathing exercises for women who suffered from painful menstruation. Once again, her research showed that common beliefs about women were wrong, and that women who failed to stay active while having their periods usually had worse pain.

In 1900, Mosher received her medical degree, and she opened a private practice. During an era with few female doctors, she struggled to get clients and finally accepted a research position at Stanford in 1910.

Dr. Mosher is best known for her unique research that she began in the late-nineteenth century and continued through 1920. She surveyed forty-five married women about health issues. The questions ranged from background, education, and how many children. More interestingly, the topics she examined also explored sexual practices and birth control. By no means is the study an exhaustive, scientific one. All of the women were from the North or West, most likely white, and well-educated, clearly biasing the sample selection. But the study lends an extraordinary rare glimpse inside Victorian life.

Contrary to the stereotype of frigid Victorian women, Mosher's survey revealed that most women enjoyed sex. The women responding to the survey varied as to what they knew about sex before marriage from nothing at all to having read advice manuals of the era. All but four (two refused to answer) women admitted to using some sort of birth control. In fact, the women weren't shy and 75 percent admitted to having orgasms.

For some unknown reason, the survey got buried and wasn't rediscovered until the mid-twentieth century. Dr. Mosher's sex survey was finally published in 1980, forty years after her death.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Sacred Soundsharing

Have you ever wondered how certain combinations of sounds, in a voice, a song, even a written phrase can bring such deep pleasure that all of life seems somehow so much better, more alive, and more harmonious?  

In Celtic shamanic studies women and men learn the power inherent in words, in the ancient poetry and songs, in the repetitive beat of the drum, the spangle of the rattles and the call of the spirit animals. Some have been surprised to hear of the high degree of influence held in Ireland during ancient times by the migrant poet/bards for they could sway public opinion to or from the ruling monarch/ leaders of the scattered clans. Daily life circled through simple prayers of greeting the morning light, for lighting the hearth fires, for safe passage through to evening return. In the Celtic world view all of life was intertwined and sacred sounds wove through from beginning to end and then to start again, like a refrain sweet high and low.

Chanting, singing and the resonance of musical instruments can be found in spiritual ceremonies throughout human history, continuing to our present time. Cultural traditions and paraphernalia continue to migrate along with traveling people. In North America we enjoy open and easy access to Tibetan singing bowls, Irish bodhran drums, and a seemingly endless variety of music-making tools. Certain sounds open and expand our most inner core, alter our perceptions, and sometimes enable us to walk a lighter path.

The following is a variant of The Kalevala, a compilation of folklore poetry/ songs collected by Elias Lonnrot in the 19^th century. Previous to the effort of Lonnrot and many other history gatherers Finnish poetry was primarily an oral tradition. The poems were often performed by two people, singing alternatively, chanting and replying in a form of verbal dancing.

Kalevala Day is celebrated in Finland on February 28 to honour Elias Lonnrot's first version of The Kalevala in 1835.

I am thinking           I am wanting

To arise and go forth singing

Sing my songs and say my sayings        hymns ancestral harmonizing

Magic verses we have gathered                        kindled by wild inspirations

There are other words of magic                        variations I have learned

Claimed in passing from the wayside   when the frost was singing verses

Many a rhyme the rain recited           with the drumming in the leaves

Other poems the wind delivered        through the saplings songs came drifting

Magic charms the birds have added     and the treetops incantations

There are still other songs           magic words learned in silence

Plucked from the wayside           broken off from the bracken

Torn from thickets             dragged from saplings

Rubbed off the top of hay           ripped from verges

The cold recited me verses          the rain kept bringing me songs

The winds brought me many whispers            lake waves drove some to me

The birds added harmonies        the trees magic sayings

These I wound up in a ball           arranged in a circle

I put it up in the granary loft       safe in a round metal tin

For a long time my songs have been in the cold       housed in darkness

Shall I pull my songs out of the cold?   Draw the verses out of the frost?

Bring my box into the quiet house?      At the end of the long bench?

Shall I open my chest of words?                        Unlock my song box?

Clip the frayed end of the tangled ball?           Undo the knot in the string?

I will sing from a leaner mouth              intone over water

To gladden this twilight                to honour this memorable day

Or to delight the morrow                        to begin a new day

In honour of all the individuals who find magical power in sounds and do the sacred work of gathering and translating the old words and music, making them available for others

FOR THE GREAT WHEEL

The "wheel" is the ancient wheel of the year. Seems a good time for this poem, as we've just entered Pisces, which is the last, and, in a way, the culmination and sum of all other Zodiac signs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Resurrection, Transformation,

You belong to the fish who swims

To the sun on rising water.

Ah, we have dreams then—

Fluorescent, Neptunian,

Despairs of night that

Wither the heart,

Resignation and the slow

Erosion of the spine,

Ecstasy, like the touch of

a longed-for lover.

 

Yes, we will die for our sins,

Slither forth again exhausted

From the tunnel of pain into

Azaleas of light and

The cries of our mother,

The throbbing night journey

Over, skin electric

With disconnection

And the first breath

Of a fish

 

Out of water.

 

 

 

 

 

 

~~Juliet Waldron

http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

 

BLIZZARD OF FEBRUARY, '69

The Cool Hat Guy

We dropped out right after Chris’ graduation from U. Mass. That winter found us living in a wood-stove shack north of the Quabbin Reservoir, trying to make ends meet on $32 a week from leather work. We already had a three year old, and another baby on the way, so this wasn’t the wisest course, but 1968 had been the famous (infamous?) Summer of Love and a mad and totally unjustified sense of optimism had been in the air. We’d stayed in contact with saner college friends, now dispersed around the area, so that weekend, we went to visit another graduate family who’d moved to Brookline, Mass. It was supposed to snow that weekend, but so what? In those days, that’s what it did in winter.

We arrived, had supper, stayed overnight and then arose early (they had a new baby and we had a 3 year-old dynamo) for breakfast. It was snowing heavily outside, with big thick flakes whizzing past the windows. WBZ was issuing gale warnings. Disappointed, we cut our visit short. The three of us climbed back into our 1963 Beetle, and started to drive through what already was a pretty stiff snowstorm.    We’d have to pick up 128, the great Boston ring road and then wend our way on blue roads in the general direction of Amherst. (When our little family had moved into the town of Cooleyville at the tip of the Quabbin the year before, we’d raised the year-round population to a grand total of six.)  

Almost at once we knew we were in trouble.  Plows were running, opening a single lane of four northbound, but the wind howled and freshly plowed snow came rolling back, lapping in like a winter tide. Big, softly-sprung American cars wallowed around us, fish-tailing and sliding. It was a white knuckle drive for Chris, wearing his very cool and big-enough-to-fit 1890’s hat, with pregnant wife beside him and little boy playing in the backseat.   We had the radio on, and all of a sudden the music stopped and we heard nothing but blizzard warning and get-off the-road-get-off-the-road!  We began to push snow. Larger cars were sliding off on every side, heaving helplessly like beached whales. The VW‘s windows were freezing up, leaving Chris a small porthole through which to navigate. Visibility was down to just about zero every time the wind gusted. We were being blown, too, side-to-side, and other drivers were heading up any exit they could navigate.  

Fortunately, my husband had grown up in Boston, and knew his way around. He’d set his sights for the exit to Lexington, where his parents lived.  We crawled; I prayed. After what seemed a blind and howling eternity, he found what he was looking for, but the exit was already disappearing under a curling drift. Foot down, we went plunging in, only to find someone stuck at the last rise  ahead of us, grinding and throwing snow. We came to a stop, Chris cursing like a sailor. I was none too calm either, but we were both determined we were going to reach his folks’ house.

We got out. I remember the blizzard whipping my long dress, ice lashing my legs and face, eyelashes instantly freezing. A wade around and I was in the driver’s seat, with Chris, alternately cursing and barking orders through the open window, shouting against the wind as he pushed with all his might.  Our VW, (“Rosinante” after Don Quixote’s faithful horse,) lived up to her name. Her back feet found purchase and she maneuvered around that other car and fish-tailed her way to the top.  We were free—but his wonderful hat was a victim, vanishing in the white out gale over 128. Our bug was the last car to escape. Not until three days later could we find a way home, because that’s how long it took for Boston to dig itself out from this nameless, infamous Nor’easter.   

     ~~Juliet Waldron

http://www.julietwaldron.com

Come Time Travel With Me

Mozart Novels: Mozart's Wife and My Mozart

Roan Rose: A little Something for Richard

http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BWL Blurbathon Begins

BWL BLURBATHON
Welcome to the Books We Love Blurbathon.

SAVAGE POSSESSION BY MARGARET TANNER
A sweeping tale of love's triumph over tragedy and treachery in frontier Australia .
A mistaken identity opens the door for Martin Mulvaney to take his revenge on the
granddaughter of his mortal enemy.
An old Scottish feud, a love that should never have happened, and a series of
extraordinary coincidences traps two lovers in a family vendetta that threatens
to destroy their love, if not their lives.
http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B008EL0FTI


Juliet Waldron's blurb will appear on Sunday 27th January. We hope you will come back and check it out.

February Song

 

 

What does the wind hunt in the night?

Hurling sticks at my window,

Tearing too tall pines from sodden ground,

Sweeping lost souls into brown water,

Scouring bare limbs, the

Fat buds all armored in red.
 

At dawn, a wasted moon fades,

Commonplace Canadas cry,

But among them are snow geese

Plying black-tipped wings,

Singing sagas of their lost homeland,

Of poles and stars that have wandered,

Of solar storms,

Crashing like waves upon Mother Earth.

Bird-gleaned now this raw barren;

Wind dances frantic, alone.

Wild huntress, here searching, there seeking,

Warm blood and green leaves that burgeon

Beneath February's dark dolmen. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

--Juliet Waldron

http://www.amazon.com/author/julietwaldron

 

Virginia's Other Cash Crop

Photo courtesy of Creative Commons

With the recent election where a couple of states have voted to legalize marijuana, I thought I'd blog about the history of hemp (which includes the marijuana variety) in Virginia. In the early 1600s, the colony was on the verge of failing to make a profit until John Rolfe married Pocahontas to gain the secret of growing tobacco. But hemp, often overlooked in history books due to its bad reputation in modern times, was another important crop.

 In 1611, Sir Thomas Dale introduced hemp to Virginia. The English navy depended on the crop, but the demand was far greater than the country was able to produce. Hemp was used for paper, cordage, fiber for linen, and of course, medicinal uses. The First Virginia Assembly encouraged colonists to grow hemp, and they received favorable reports from England on the superiority of the colony's crop.

 The early years were hampered by shortage of seed and lack of skilled labor to separate the fiber from the woody part of the stalks to make cordage. In 1646, the Virginia Assembly commissioned houses to be built where poor children were taught to card, knit, and spin, thus helping the manufacture of linen. In 1665, the removal of import duties to England stimulated production further

Less than ten years later, laws were enacted for each county to purchase and distribute hemp seed. Failure to do so resulted in fines. In spite of these encouragements, during the 17^th century, hemp production tended to remain limited to self-sufficient farms, never really competing with tobacco until well into the 18^th century, where the practice became so common that even founding fathers George Washington and Thomas Jefferson grew hemp.

Hemp's importance went beyond cordage and fiber. Both industrial hemp and what's known today as marijuana are classified as Cannabis sativa, a species with hundreds of varieties. According to some sources, many varieties that were grown in North America have been lost. The East Indian variety (marijuana) of hemp was known as "bangue" in the 17^th century from the Hindi word "bhang."

Culpeper's Complete Herb first published in 1653, states that hemp, "is so well known to every good housewife in the country, that I shall not need to write any description of it." Besides the well known modern use of pain relief, Culpeper advised the different portions of the plant to be used for various ailments, such as jaundice, digestive disorders, killing worms, flushing earwigs from the ear canal, and burns.

While hemp has become much maligned in recent years, Virginians of the 17^th and 18^th centuries held no reservations for making use of its quality fiber or legitimate medical uses.

Kim Murphy
www.KimMurphy.net

Sources

Herndon,George Melvin, "The story of hemp in colonial Virginia." Doctor of Philosophy dissertation, University of Virginia, 1959.

Culpeper, Nicholas. Culpeper's Complete Herbal