Mooney

[Not counting this, the above is the earliest photo of Mooney that I've been able to find; it's circa the late 1950s.]

[It's been a while. Part 5 is here]

Early in 1929, Junto editor Booth Mooney was beginning to get bogged down.  He wrote to Clyde Smith:

I, too, find that college is a terrible bore, and I’m not learning a damn thing. I don’t think that I shall go next term. As Bob says, “about the only thing colleges is good for is that they enable one to get a line-up on semi-humanity.” Hell, I don’t see why I ever wanted to attend a Baptist college, anyway.

No more nom de plumes will be used in The Junto. I’m not sure whether the magazine will be continued or not, for it takes up so much time. I’m trying to do a little writing now, and I need all the time I can get.

By February, he was clearing the way:

I’d like to continue “The Junto,” but I’m afraid that I just can’t do it. It surely takes lots of time—more than I have to spare. I may get out another issue or so to clear up the material that I have on hand, but I can’t make a definite promise.

And that spring he was done:

Yes, I have discontinued “The Junto.” I hated to do it. It was necessary, though. My time is limited. However, Lenore Preece is going to revive it, I believe. She asked me to send her all material I had on hand. Some of your stuff was in the bunch I sent her. If you have time, send her something pretty often. I should like to see the Junto continue to come out. I don’t know whether you know her address. Capitol Station, Austin.

How long The Junto was on hiatus is unclear, but by the end of May, Lenore Preece was ready to send out the June issue:

[handwritten]

Capitol Station
Austin, Texas
May 24, 1929
Mr. Tevis Clyde Smith
c/o Walker-Smith Co.
Brownwood, Texas

Dear Mr. Smith:

The June issue of “The Junto,” containing your “Fragmentary Portrait” and “God” should reach you within the next two weeks. As Booth may have informed you, I am editing the travelogue. I now have nothing to be published which is written by you.

Since, while “The Junto” was compiled by Booth, you were a frequent contributor, I trust that, under my management of “The Junto,” you will continue to submit manuscripts. Could you send me anything for the July issue? Also, I do not think that an autobiography of yours, with the accompanying picture, has appeared. Any material which you care to mail me will be appreciated.

I hope to edit “The Junto” as much like Booth as possible. Should it seem that I am not conforming to the standard evinced by him, please do not hesitate to point out the deficiency. I will welcome any criticism.

I regret that, last fall, I did not get to see you and the young lady (whose name, with my usual aberration, I have forgotten) before your departure. Thinking that I would have the pleasure of seeing you all that night of your arrival, I did not have an opportunity to invite you back, and tell you how glad I was to meet you.

Sincerely,
Lenore Preece

Unfortunately, we’ll never have a chance to peruse Lenore’s first offering as editor, as this note in the July issue explains:

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But despite her desire to reprint the issue, her August 15, 1929 letter to Clyde Smith reveals that, “On Booth’s advice, [she] did not re-issue the June number.” That same letter gives us a little more information about what was contained in the lost issue:

If Vinson wishes to send me “Canal Street,” Howard, “Nocturne,” and you, your sketch which described those gentlemen “occasionally saluting Bacchus,” (all of which were published in the lost “Junto”) I shall be glad to re-print them in subsequent “Juntoes.”

In his last surviving letter to Smith (circa Summer 1929), Booth Mooney mentions the Preece-edited Junto:

I haven’t had time to do more than glance over the Junto, but it looks like a good issue. By the way, has Lenore told you about the Juntite convention which she hopes to throw about the last of December—in Dallas, I believe? I hope you’ll be able to come.

We’ll have a look at the first surviving Preece issue next time.

Amarillo

Continuing north, the Howards reach Amarillo as Howard relates the journey in a letter to H.P. Lovecraft dated December 5, 1935:

We got to Amarillo well before sunset, having driven nearly 400 miles since morning. My mother had not regained her strength from her operation, but she stood the trip remarkably well. Amarillo is a town of some 43,000 people, and extremely modern and up-to-date, though somehow it doesn’t seem like a typical Texas town. It had a remarkable growth, springing from a small village to about its present size in just a few years. It spreads over an amazing territory, but, like most West Texas towns which have grown up since the beginning of the machine age, it has broad, straight streets, easy to drive on, and is very clean in appearance. It may some day be the biggest city in the State, if the Great Plains are ever developed as they should be. With its close proximity to the “Bread Belt of the Nation” it has great possibilities as an industrial center.

Howard gives a pretty description of Amarillo, however the actual altitude is 3,600 feet, not the 4,500 feet Howard mentions elsewhere in his letter. A minor point — I am not sure the health benefits, if any, would be affected by the difference.

sanbornhouseActually Amarillo was founded twice. First in April 1887 by J. T. Berry, who named it Oneida. Then a year later, Henry B. Sanborn,  the Texas sales agent for barbed wire, and his partner Joseph Glidden bought up thousands of acres of land a mile east of Oneida and created a new town they named Amarillo, and Sanborn became the “Father of Amarillo.” Sanborn was savvy enough to realize the original town site was built on low ground and would be predisposed to flooding during torrential rainstorms that were common in the area. Sure enough, in 1889 heavy rains almost flooded the original town site out of existence and motivated many residents to move to Sanborn’s new location. Around 1890 the railroads came to the town. By the late 1890s Amarillo had become one of the world’s largest cattle shipping points and the population grew larger as more and more jobs were created. Amarillians also proclaimed they were the helium capital of the world for having one of the country’s most productive helium fields. Amarillo’s economy continues to thrive on cattle along with agriculture, oil and natural gas. Little wonder it is the largest city in the Texas Panhandle.

There was an odd incident in Amarillo three years before Howard’s visit involving an inmate in the county jail that might be the first instance of a suicide vest being denoted. The man’s name was A.D. Payne, a prominent attorney in Amarillo. Here is an account of the incident from the Amarillo Sunday News-Globe, August 31, 1930:

A.D. Payne of Amarillo, accused of murder in a June 27 car bombing that killed his wife and injured his 11-year-old son, blasted his chest out with “some kind of infernal machine” while housed in the Hutchinson County jail. Payne had most of his cell mates move to another cell before he committed suicide with a self-inflicted blast. Payne was believed to have smuggled nitroglycerin into the jail.

Payne had plead insanity in the killing of his wife, partly because of financial problems and an extramarital affair. But he never got his day in court, instead choosing to go out with a bang.

During the time the Howards took their trip, Amarillo was a favorite tourist destination with its easy access by being the location were highways of 60, 66, 87 and 287 merged. This hub of highways made Amarillo a major tourist stop. The city had a number of hotels, tourist camps, motels, restaurants and souviner shops. But as the depths of the Great Depression set in, the city — like the rest of the country — suffered economically.

Canadian RiverEarly the following morning, the Howards rose early and took a drive out to the Canadian River to have a look what Howard described as “…a treacherous, turbulent river, running through shallow, rugged canyons. In some places dry canyons parallel the main bed, cut out by overflows, or caused by the river changing its course.” They then drove the 25 miles back to Amarillo for breakfast before driving southward back toward Cross Plains.

I doubt if just spending one night in the higher altitude of Amarillo would provide any therapeutic relief for Hester — a longer stay might have — but the trip did allow the family some stress free time together. It was a brief respite from the dark days ahead for the Howards.

Read Part One

boskop-skull-3

What you say of the pre-historic African race is most interesting and thought-inspiring, and I hope future research throws more light on the past. I feel a deep pity for that people – living in peace and friendliness – an unwarlike and pastoral race – and suddenly confronted by a horde of black slayers as rude and merciless as they were strong. It must have been a slaughter rather than a war, and it’s a damned pity that the Boskop people didn’t have some Aryan traits to stiffen their spines and train their hands in fighting. I hate to think of white people being wiped out and enslaved by niggers. How do you suppose these people got there in the first place? Did they wander down the coast until they came to a country that suited them, or do you suppose their trek took many generations as they slowly shifted southward?

Letter to H.P. Lovecraft, circa February 1931

I’m concerned that the above passage, with its obviously racist attitudes, is going to turn many potential readers off immediately. Some may say, “Oh blimey not another big discussion about REH’s racism in the offing,” while others with just as much justification may growl, “What bigoted crap!” and ignore the post right there.  This blogger thinks the subject has value, first because the subject of Boskop Man has gained a new lease of life lately, and second because I’ve never believed we should forget how recently bigoted crap like the above was acceptable in the most polite (white) drawing-rooms.

The whole idea of Boskop Man as a separate race began in 1913, when a couple of farmers found an ancient skull at Boskop in the Transvaal. The skull was rather big, its cranial capacity greater than normal, but it wasn’t complete and the estimate made at the time that its capacity would have been 1800 ccs had a margin for error – 1700 to 2000. Remember, this was 1913 and anthropology was a raw discipline still. The nineteenth-century pseudo-science of phrenology (assessing intelligence and character from the shape of the head) was having a revival in the early twentieth. London psychiatrist Bernard Hollander was its most influential proponent in England. His books The Mental Function of the Brain (1901) and Scientific Phrenology  (1902) were widely read by the middle classes and laymen as well as professionals.

Other large skulls were discovered in South Africa, along with greater numbers within the usual range. The latter were ignored. Any large skull from the region was labeled “Boskopoid”. Before long the enthusiastic belief prevailed that a separate race (or even species) had existed in the Transvaal between 30,000 and 10,000 years ago, characterized by large crania and small faces with childlike features.

boskop-skull-comparisonRobert Broom named the supposed species Homo Capensis. Broom, a paleontologist, made a new estimate of the skull’s capacity at 1980 ccs, against the modern average of 1400. But the original skull’s thickness made its precise capacity hard to assess, and in any case there are modern human beings whose brains have a volume of 2000 ccs. It’s big, but not unheard-of. And phrenology put in its ten cents’ worth at once. Arthur Conan Doyle was a believer. Not being a member of the Baker Street Irregulars, I can’t recall which Sherlock Holmes story it was, but Doyle had Holmes deducing, from an unknown man’s hat, just about everything about him except the details of his sex life – and he pronounced that the man was intellectual. Watson, as usual, asked how the deuce he could know that, and Holmes placed the hat on his own head, where it settled down to his nose. “It is a question of cubic capacity” he explained. “A man with so large a head must have something in it.”

Some ideas that were taken for granted back then seem pretty quaint now.

Raymond Dart, the man who discovered and reported on the Taung skull in the journal Nature, had taken an interest in the Boskop skulls before that, and written to Nature about them too – in 1923. It was a respectable and serious subject at the time. Naturally, being a bit sensational, the idea of an ancient race with large brains and large intelligence to go with it was grabbed by tabloid newspapers, pseudo-scientists and interested amateurs. It became linked with half the favorite myths of the time from prehistoric super-civilizations to racial superiority.

20224-004-AD967DEFBy the early 1900s, “scientific” racism was a strongly entrenched attitude. It served to justify colonialism for one thing. Herbert Spencer wasn’t a scientist – he was a philosopher and political theorist, and one of the best arguments against Plato’s ideal of the “philosopher king” this blogger knows. He invented the phrase “survival of the fittest” and thought it should apply to human society. Madison Grant, a lawyer and strong believer in eugenics, crusaded for the elimination of “undesirables” and certain “race types”. In 1916 he wrote The Passing of the Great Race. Grant argued that the basically Anglo-Saxon and Nordic stock of the U.S.A. was being undermined by non-Nordic immigrants. I’m happy to report that it was largely ignored when it first appeared and never became a best seller, but it reflected widely held views just the same. (H.P. Lovecraft was nauseated by the mix of nationalities in New York and inveighed against its “mongrel hordes.”)

The African continent and its history was often an issue. Great Britain and other colonial powers found scientific racism a useful tool to justify conquest – the “White Man’s Burden” and so forth. In southern Africa the “White Man’s Burden” often consisted of a considerable weight in gold and diamonds. In southern Africa, too, the impressive stone-built ruins of Great Zimbabwe became a subject of hot dispute. One typical comment comes from J. Theodore Bent’s The Ruined Cities of Mashonland (1896): “… it is a well-accepted fact that the Negroid brain never could be capable of taking the initiative in work of such intricate nature.”  The Rhodesian government later tried hard to discourage journalists and scholarly writers from publishing any work to the effect that Bantu peoples did in fact construct Great Zimbabwe. It didn’t want this known. Along the same lines, some anthropologists from Europe rejected the idea that the Yoruba people of West Africa had really created the very fine bronze work characteristic of that culture. They didn’t believe them capable of it and assumed white artisans had produced the lost-wax bronze sculptures, sometimes even claiming the hypothetical whites had been refugees from Atlantis. Amazing how Atlantis finds its way into nearly every half-baked theory.

ValleyOfWorm-bw-wt2-34I haven’t read the letter from H.P. Lovecraft, to which REH was responding above. But Howard’s letter suggests that there were theories current in the early 1930s to the effect that the Boskop People must have been white. With high intelligence, what else?  And peaceful, friendly, and pastoral. Either Lovecraft theorized that they had been wiped out by ferocious black tribes moving into their territory, or he came across the idea in the course of his voracious and eclectic reading. Howard wrote a number of stories, those of James Allison’s many reincarnations especially, with the theme of restless white tribes wandering far across the world. He was fascinated by the idea, and as he wrote to Lovecraft in another letter (June 1931)  “What you say of the unfortunate Boskops interested me greatly … ”  He evidently believed they had been whites, but couldn’t have been Nordic Aryan whites like those in his story “The Valley of the Worm” or else they would have won the conflict.

Advances in anthropological knowledge since then pretty much assure us there never was any such conflict – or any distinct Boskopoid race. If there had been, the Boskopoids surely wouldn’t have been “white.” The region then was inhabited by remote ancestors of the Bushmen and Hottentots. There wouldn’t have been any Negroid tribes in the area to slaughter them, either. Not ten thousand years ago. Even granting that, they would have been hunter-gatherers as peaceful as the Boskopoids, most likely. Neither group would have been “pastoral”.  The crude beginnings of agriculture might have existed in Syria and Mesopotamia that early, and the domestication of sheep and goats, but nowhere on the African continent.

LEOne of the best known essays on the Boskop People was Loren Eiseley’s “The Man of the Future” in his 1958 collection of essays, The Immense Journey.  Eiseley thought that the Boskops were intelligent beyond any norms today, had childlike faces under their large crania, and were Negroid in general appearance. Eiseley concluded, pretty much as Howard and Lovecraft had done twenty-seven years before, that the Boskops perished in “a desperate struggle to survive among a welter of more prolific and aggressive stocks.”

He published his book at a time when the notion of Boskop Man was being shelved as disproven. Ronald Singer wrote his book, The Boskop ‘Race’ Problem, at the same time as Eiseley’s The Immense Journey, and it was published the same year. He (Singer) reviewed the evidence as it existed in his day. He reached the conclusion, that, “It is now obvious that what was justifiable speculation (because of paucity of data) in 1923, and was apparent as speculation in 1947, is inexcusable to maintain in 1958.”

The idea died hard, though. In fact it hasn’t died at all. Two contemporary neuroscientists, Gary Lynch and Richard Granger, published a book of their own on the subject in 2008. The title is Big Brain: The Origins and Future of Human Intelligence. The authors are distinguished and able men in their own field, and the neuroscience part of their book is probably well worth reading, accurate and informative. But they are NOT anthropologists or specialists in evolution. Although I haven’t read their book, if the enthusiastic review on Amazon.com gives a fair capsule description … they’ve stumbled on that aspect.

Lynch and Granger aren’t responsible for some of the responses to their book online, either. Discover Magazine headlines “What Happened to the Hominids Who May Have Been Smarter Than Us?” (The Brain, 2009 issue.)  The article hints at “rapid evolutionary changes” and reminds us that such faces “are often attached to ‘alien abductors’ in movies.”  It adds that the Boskops are now “almost entirely forgotten” and suggests this is because “the very fact of an ancient ancestor like Boskop, who appears un-apelike and in fact in most ways seems to have had characteristics superior to ours, was destined never to be popular.”  The word “fact” used twice in the same sentence on such an iffy subject, is typical. So is the insinuation of a cover-up.

Clearly we’re no less ready to buy doubtful theories now than people were in the ‘thirties.

This entry filed under H. P. Lovecraft, Howard's Fiction.

IMG_0001When I was no bigger than an Innsmouth tadpole I thought Weird Tales was the magazine for high literary thrills.  I haunted used bookstores, undoubtedly making a pest of myself, seeking any anthology containing yarns from “The Unique Magazine.”

Sure, in the reading of these precious books I stumbled upon some writing that was pretty awful, but I thought what the hell, it couldn’t be bad; it was published in Weird Tales right?  As my reading tastes grew a little more discerning I realized that this old pulp, great as it had been, had a few things wrong with it.

Some of the writers were just plain hacks, leagues away in literary ability from Howard, Lovecraft, or Clark Ashton Smith.  I figured editor Farnsworth Wright had probably gotten his head stuck in his nether regions when he refused to publish such classics as “The Shadow over Innsmouth” and “The Frost-Giant’s Daughter.”  And, of course, when he took magazine space for a reprinting of Frankenstein—something any reader of Weird Tales probably already had in his or her library, I thought Wright was just plain wrong.  Some of the artwork was pretty sad also, resembling grade school chalk drawings by wild-eyed children.

But, one of the best things the pulp ever did, and this is comparable to the publishing of Howard and Lovecraft, is when Wright introduced Finlay to the readership.

Now, on the 100th anniversary of Finlay’s birth, I’m sure he’ll be honored all across the Internet, and that’s a fine thing.  My humble little post can’t begin to do justice to a talent as great as Finlay’s but I couldn’t let the day go by without some sort of recognition on my part.  The beauty, and grace, of great illustration is evident in almost every piece Finlay produced, from bold, colorful magazine covers to a drawing for Howard’s “Skull-Face”, shown above.  In a class all by himself, his work was always, always,  of high quality, and frequently—very frequently—better than the story he was illustrating.

IMGWeird Tales was a great pulp, because, in spite of some of the egregious mistakes Wright was known to make, the old mag had a pretty good stable of talent, and some of the best horror/fantasy stories ever written first appeared inside the covers.   Damn near 100 years old itself Weird Tales continues to have a wide following and devotees of fantasy still meet to argue the merits of the Windy City Grab-Bag, as HPL once satirically referred to it.  It was like catching lightning in a bottle, and what a jolt Virgil Finlay gave the magazine, issue after issue. So take time to remember Mr. Finlay today—an artist whose imagination, and talent, places him as one of the greatest illustrators to ever put pen to paper.

The other Finlay displayed in this post is an example of his astrological drawings, and is part of my personal collection; something I purchased from his daughter a few years back.  Certainly not one of his greatest works, I still think it’s beautiful and it won’t be leaving my library without a fight.

aresaabonito3-23aauntitled

Between 900 and 1150 CE, Chaco Canyon was home to an accomplished and highly organized people. It lies in north-western New Mexico, not far south of Farmington. In our day it’s a national historical park because of the archaeological remains to be found there. Jared Diamond gives a chapter of his book, Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Survive, to the Chaco Canyon culture.

Now Diamond is an impressive bloke, winner of the Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction and twice winner of the Science Book Prize. He might not think much of my mining his work for tie-ins to a pulp writer’s fantasy story, but just the same, Chaco Canyon is part of REH’s fabulous southwest and its history. It’s also hard to resist as a place of origin for that mysterious person Ghost Man (“Old Garfield’s Heart”). Whether alive or dead as normal people understand the terms, Ghost Man was around the southwest for hundreds of years. He knew the conquistador Francisco Coronado in the mid-sixteenth century, and made an appearance in the Texas oil boom days of the twentieth, to take back the borrowed heart of an ancient god. He may have been far older than that.

Suppose that while he was mortal flesh and blood, he belonged to what we call the Anasazi culture. To quote Diamond, “The Anasazi did manage to construct in stone the largest and tallest buildings erected in North America until the Chicago steel girder skyscrapers of the 1880s.”  Their heyday began around 600 CE and lasted – perhaps – until 1200. They passed at about the time Genghis Khan was conquering Asia.

PII_housingThe first farmers to inhabit Chaco Canyon lived in underground pit houses. After a hundred years they were – independently – developing architecture in stone. They had the numbers, the social organization and the techniques finally to create stone buildings five or six stories high, with hundreds of rooms. The roof supports were made of logs five yards long and weighing as much as seven hundred pounds. The living apartments were built around open plazas and large underground chambers called kivas, which seem to have developed from the primitive pit houses and to have been used for worship and magical ceremonies. They may be circular or square. Usual features are a bench around the wall, a central fireplace, a vent in the wall, and a small hole (“shipap”) in the floor. The shipap to the Pueblo peoples is a symbol of the passage through which the first human beings left the Underworld and reached the upper earth.

The greater kivas in Chaco Canyon were built between 1000 and 1100 CE – the latter date roughly the time of the First Crusade in Europe.  Besides having considerable accomplishments in architecture, the people of Chaco Canyon observed the movements of celestial bodies and kept records of them. In the center of the canyon, on Fajada Butte, they carved a “Sun Dagger” on which a band of sunlight passing between two slabs fell precisely at the time of the Winter Solstice. The Summer Solstice is marked by a groove in the wall of the Great Kiva. The Anasazi of Chaco Canyon also recorded the unique occurrence of a supernova in the year 1054 CE. The light of that colossal conflagration had been travelling through space for four thousand years before it reached the Earth. It first became visible on July 10th, 1054, and its radiance was so bright – even after dispersing so widely — that it could be seen with the naked eye at midday, six times brighter than Venus. It stayed visible for 23 days. The remains of that exploding star are known to us today as the Crab Nebula, in the constellation Taurus. If it had been a hundred light-years away from us instead of four thousand, earthly life would have been devastated. Probably no human beings would have survived.

Below the West Mesa of Chaco Canyon, the Anasazi left what appears a definite record of the supernova, a panel containing three large symbols – a large star, a crescent moon, and a handprint. Just below these symbols, in a separate panel, is a depiction of what appears to be a comet – three concentric circles, with great red flames trailing from it. That very probably records an appearance of Halley’s Comet, since there was one, only a few years after the supernova.

Gonar from "Kings of the Night" by Michael L. PetersI’m assuming that Ghost Man lived then and was the foremost priest-magician of his people. His supernatural and natural knowledge would have included movements of the heavenly bodies. Perhaps it was even Ghost Man who painted the depictions of the supernova and comet on the rocks below West Mesa. Perhaps he even performed the ceremonies that allowed him to evade the ordinary human limitations of life, death and time while the supernova blazed in the sky. He doesn’t seem unlike the Pictish wizard Gonar, the white-bearded ancient who aided Bran Mak Morn against the Romans. Bran says with only partial irony to the Gaelic prince Cormac of Connacht (“Kings of the Night”) “He claims direct descent from that Gonar who was a wizard in the days of Brule the Spear-slayer who was the first of my line. No man knows how old he is–sometimes I think he is the original Gonar himself!”

If he really was, then he’d have survived tens of thousands of years and two world-wide cataclysms, the one that destroyed Atlantis and Lemuria, and the one that ended the Hyborian Age. Ghost man’s eight or nine hundred years would have been picayune compared with that. His powers and knowledge might have been comparable with Gonar’s, though – and he certainly was sufficiently close to the red man’s ancient gods to have been able to borrow the heart of one on request.

If Ghost Man was originally a priest of the Anasazi, in Chaco Canyon, then his culture passed away circa 1200 CE. What caused its decline is a bit outside the topic of these posts, but it appears to have suffered from environmental problems combined with the usual unfair distribution that always arises when a society turns into an empire. Chaco Canyon became the centre of a mini-empire, not a huge one like Rome’s, but its problems of transport and communication were comparable after a while. Warfare, rivalry over water sources, even cannibalism, occurred before the end. Ghost Man presumably left before then, seeing the writing on the wall, and took his wisdom to less advanced peoples.

Read the rest of this entry »

This entry filed under H. P. Lovecraft, Howard's Fiction, Howard's Texas.

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In a lengthy letter to H.P. Lovecraft dated December 5, 1935, Howard details a trip he took with his parents to the Texas Panhandle. It was likely the final family vacation the Howards took. Howard mentions in the letter it was a 400 mile drive from Cross Plains to Amarillo. While it was a long drive, Howard stretched it out a bit — the distance was closer to 300 miles using highways existing in 1935. The trip actually happened in late July 1935 and one of the goals of the drive was to see if the higher altitudes of the Panhandle would improve Hester’s health.

I think I sent you some pictures of the Panhandle. My parents and I went to Amarillo in the latter part of July. None of us had ever been to that city, and I wanted to see if the high altitude, 4500 feet, might help a persistent cough that had been bothering my mother. Those upland plains are monotonous to look at, but the atmosphere whips fresh blood and new life through the veins; at least it always did with me. We ate our dinner at the little town of Post, a few miles this side the Cap Rock.

PostTexasAlgeritaHotel1916TOPtbThe town where the Howard family stopped for dinner, Post, Texas, was the utopian vision of breakfast cereal baron and troubled genius C.W. Post. Post purchased 200,000 acres of ranchland to establish his ideal city in 1907. Originally named “Post City,” it sits on the fringe of the caprock escarpment of the Llano Estacado, the southeastern edge of the Great Plains. C.W. Post founded The Double U Company to develop the town. Double U built a number of quaint houses and other structures, which included the Algerita Hotel, a gin, and a textile plant. He hoped to create an oasis in the beautiful High Plains of Texas. But two issues wrecked havoc with his plans — lack of water and the dry, hot weather. As the old real estate saying goes, “location, location, location” and Post picked a less than ideal location to build his town. Still he did not give up, going so far as to use dynamite to summon rain — with no luck.

Every street in Post was lined with trees and landscaping and both liquor and brothels were prohibited. The settlers had the option of renting or buying houses and farms from Double U. Post had a post office, which began in a tent during the year of Post City’s founding. By 1909, the town had a school, a bank and a newspaper. The city continued to grow and prosper when the railroad reached the town in 1910. “City” was dropped from the name of Post City when it was incorporated in 1914, the same year C. W. Post passed away. When it was incorporated, Post had a population of 1,000, ten retail businesses, a dentist, a physician, a sanitarium, an apartment building and a number of churches, including Baptist, Methodist and Presbyterian houses of worship. Over the years the town has flourished and is a thriving community of 5,300 people today.

Isaac, Hester and Robert continued their trip north to Lubbock and Plainview. Once they passed Lubbock, they were farther north than they had been before.

Read Part Two

IMG_0001Robert E. Howard was very familiar with the story of the 1836 kidnapping of Cynthia Ann Parker by Comanche tribesmen, and this book, The Searchers: The Making of An American Legend by Glenn Frankel, is a must read for anyone who wishes to learn more about this bloody era in Texas history, and how it was adapted into one of the greatest western movies of all time.

In his  letters to August Derleth and H. P. Lovecraft,  Howard mentions the particulars of this horrifying abduction, but in one of these missives he uncharacteristically makes a historical mistake when he writes that “Colonel Parker”, Cynthia’s father, spent quite a few years trying to find his daughter, and failed.  In May 1836, just a few months after the fall of the Alamo, Parker’s Fort was raided by a band of Comanche warriors and Silas Parker, Cynthia’s father, was evidently one of the first casualties.

There has been such a great amount of information, and misinformation, written about this tragic day it’s probably easily seen where Howard might have erred on this point.  Indeed, a quick check of the Cynthia Parker entry on Wikipedia displays the same error, even now, when that writer repeats the myth that father Silas set out on a protracted search, looking for his lost daughter, who had been possibly nine years old when snatched away from family and friends.

Author Glenn Frankel, in his meticulously researched book, tells that, in reality, it was James Parker, Cynthia’s uncle, who, after searching for his niece for about fifteen years, finally gave it up in 1851.

While most histories of this terrible day revolve around Cynthia Ann it should be remembered that there were four other people taken at that time, one of them being Rachel Plummer, James’ own daughter, who was pregnant.  Her story is especially sad and illustrates quite well some of the atrocities being committed—on both sides, it should be emphasized—during this period in Texas.  Giving birth a few months after the raid she was allowed to care for her baby until it started to interfere with her chores.  Taking the baby from her arms some of the braves held it by the throat until it turned blue and then commenced tossing it into the air, laughing as it slammed into the ground.  Thinking it was dead they returned it to Rachel.  When they noticed that, somehow, it was still alive they tossed a noose around the baby’s neck and dragged it in the dirt until life finally had fled.

James Parker, the long-searching uncle, was also more than willing to commit a few diabolical acts of his own.  At a trading station he met an Indian wearing a vest that Parker thought had been one belonging to him during his time living at the Fort.   Mounting his horse he leveled his rifle and fired, stating later that he was placing a “new button hole”in what he believed to be his former article of clothing, with no further proof evidently needed.

Frankel, in the first third of his history, describes with great detail the abduction of Cynthia Ann, and the legacy left by her famed son Quanah Parker.  The searching of James Parker for his niece has assumed mythic proportions, perhaps comparable to Ulysses’ ten-year long quest for his besieged wife Penelope and his beloved homeland of Ithaca.  James had no Homer to chronicle his wanderings, but his story was given masterful treatment in a novel written by a writer who was very familiar to Robert E. Howard and readers of Adventure, and Frankel, in the second part of his book, covers this also in informative fashion.

IMG_0002Alan LeMay’s The Searchers, first serialized in the Saturday Evening Post was published in novel form in 1954.  A literary success, it was picked up by Reader’s Digest and the movie rights were sold to C. V. Whitney, who had formed his own film company, hiring Merian C. Cooper (of King Kong fame) as his executive partner.  Cooper in turn, was a business colleague and friend to famed cinematic director John Ford and, after reading LeMay’s book, Mr. Ford thought The Searchers might make a pretty good movie.

This last section of Frankel’s book is my favorite, as I’ve long been an admirer of The Searchers, believing it to be John Wayne’s greatest acting performance.  The story of the making of this monumental movie is extremely interesting, and Frankel provides facts that were new to me.  Frankel tells us that “Buddy Holly and his drummer, Jerry Allison, saw The Searchers when it first opened” and after leaving the theater wrote “That’ll Be the Day”, a phrase that, to those who have seen the movie, will be recalled as one of Wayne’s best lines.  More movie trivia—the role of Martin Pauley went to Jeffrey Hunter, but Robert Wagner, John Agar and Fess Parker all approached Ford hoping to be picked instead.  Fess Parker, Disney’s Davy Crockett, might have won the honors but Walt Disney “refused to lend him out.”  Ken Curtis, known to all of us as Festus from Gunsmoke, plays Charlie McCorry in the movie, and, while Curtis does his usual fine job of acting, it probably didn’t hurt that he was married to Ford’s daughter, Barbara.

There is a ton of information contained within the pages of this book—I haven’t even touched on Quanah Parker, or the so-called rescue of Cynthia Ann in 1860, but it’s all here, presented entertainingly by author Frankel.  It’ll make you want to watch the movie again, and if you haven’t seen this American classic, get yourself a copy, now.

This entry filed under August Derleth, H. P. Lovecraft, Howard's Texas.

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Robert E. Howard was nothing if not versatile. He wrote boxing stories, oriental adventure, detective stories, horror, westerns, pioneered heroic fantasy – and the weird western genre.  “The Horror From the Mound,” “The Dead Remember,” “The Man on the Ground” and “The Valley of the Lost” are examples. And there is the current springboard, “Old Garfield’s Heart,” firmly in the weird western genre and rooted in REH’s much-loved southwest, Texas particularly. Its background includes the Comanche Wars, Ewen Cameron and Jack Hays’ exploits, San Jacinto, the Lipan tribe, and Coronado’s expedition.

The “Old Garfield” of the title is a tough Texas pioneer, “the first white man to settle” in the narrator’s part of the country. He’s inexplicably – by natural means – long-lived and vital, despite his great age. The narrator’s grandfather had arrived in 1870, and according to him Jim Garfield had been living in his log cabin then, and has not perceptibly aged since. (The story was published in 1933. It mentions “a bootleg joint” so it is clearly set during Prohibition, the Roaring Twenties or early ‘thirties.)

Battle of San JacintoGarfield claims to have fought at the Battle of San Jacinto (1836) and been with Ewen Cameron on the ill-fated Mier Expedition (1842), which ended with the captured Texans being forced to hold a death lottery, drawing from a pot of mixed black and white beans. Cameron drew a white one and should have been spared, but in Garfield’s words, “The Mexicans shot him. Damn ‘em!”  He rode with Texas Ranger captain John Coffee “Jack” Hays (REH spells it “Hayes”), probably against the Comanches and almost certainly in the Mexican-American war of 1846-48. Garfield might also have been at the Battle of Plum Creek in 1840. That was actually more of a running fight, with Comanches under Chief Buffalo Hump trying to get back to their West Texas home ground with an immense amount of plunder they were reluctant to leave behind – the reason they were overtaken.

Garfield turns out to be long-lived and notably hard to kill because of the assistance of a mysterious Lipan Indian known as Ghost Man. Garfield tells the local medico that Ghost Man was, or is, “the Lipan priest of the Gods of Night” and also refers to him as a “witch-doctor.” He adds that the Lipans “dwelt in this country before the Comanches came down from the Staked Plains and drove ‘em south across the Rio Grande. I was a friend to ‘em.”

The narrator’s grandfather verifies part of that account. He assures his grandson that in the early 1870s, he and Garfield were in a fight against a raiding party of Comanches, and Garfield took a thrust from a lance that ripped through his chest and split his heart. “Nobody could live after a wound like that.”

OldAn old Indian suddenly appeared, making the peace sign, and for some reason none of them could explain, the white men didn’t shoot him, even though their blood was hot and raging after the fight. The Indian – Ghost Man – asserted that he was an old friend of Garfield’s and wanted to help him. Although that seemed well beyond possibility, they allowed him to try, and in the morning “Jim Garfield came walkin’ out of the mesquite, pale and haggard, but alive.”  His terrible wound had closed and begun to heal. And like the narrator’s grandfather, the local doctor, whose next birthday will be his fiftieth, says that he has known Garfield all his life, and “he hasn’t aged a bit.”

Garfield explains that he first met Ghost Man on the Rio Grande, when he (Garfield) was riding with Ewen Cameron. He had saved Ghost Man’s life from the Mexicans once. Whether that was really the case, or whether Ghost Man was truly alive – or dead – as ordinary human beings understand the terms, is uncertain. Still it appears he had cause to be grateful to Garfield, and came when Garfield needed him.

It doesn’t seem certain that Ghost Man was really a Lipan, either. My post “Silver and Steel: Bowie’s Mine” discusses the Lipans, and just as REH’s weird western story says, the Lipans were driven from the southern Great Plains by the Comanches. They played a considerable part in Texas history during the 18th century, when the area was ruled by Spain. The Lipans were briefly allied with the Spanish against their Comanche enemies, but that relationship soon fell apart.

It’s interesting that Garfield mentions the Pueblos. The Native American Pueblo culture covered the area where Utah, Arizona, New Mexico and Colorado join. Part of the original Lipans’ home was in New Mexico. The Pueblo culture was ancient. And Ghost Man was far older than even Garfield, as the story makes clear. Garfield says, knowing he won’t be believed, “I’ll tell you this much – Ghost Man knew Coronado.”

coro4Francisco Vázquez de Coronado was a conquistador who led an expedition in 1540-42 from Mexico through (what are now the states of) Arizona, New Mexico and northern Texas into Kansas. If Ghost Man knew Coronado, then he was at least three hundred years old when Jim Garfield first met him. At least. Not surprisingly, the doctor reacts with a testy, “Crazy as a loon!”

Coronado’s expedition was a landmark in the history of the southwest. It began as a search for the Seven Golden Cities of Cibola. Coronado, governor of the province of new Galicia, had sent Friar Marcos de Niza on an expedition from Compostela. Niza came back excitedly telling stories of a fabulous golden city atop a high hill, apparently as large as the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan had been, and wealthy beyond belief.

Wealthy, eh?  Gold, eh?  Ahhhhhh . . .

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This entry filed under Howard's Fiction, Howard's Texas.

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At Howard Days this year, Dennis McHaney brought along a copy of Skull-Face and Others and the Howard-signed Christmas card posted above, both of which had once belonged to Lenore Preece. There aren’t any markings on the reverse of the card, no postmark or address, so it was probably included with a letter or submission to the Junto, circa December 1929. Perhaps later. These items were on loan to McHaney thanks to a former neighbor of Lenore’s, Brian Clifford. He wrote the following:

STATEMENT FROM BRIAN CLIFFORD, FRIEND OF LENORE PREECE—JUNE 12, 2014

I met Honey Lenore Preece in the spring of 1994, when she was living on Avenue F in Hyde Park in Austin.

I’m a native Texan, but I’ve spent a lot of my life traveling in other states and countries, and during one return home, I was staying with a neighbor of Lenore’s. She caught my attention one afternoon as she was puttering around her porch. Something about her intrigued me. Not the least of which was that some of her neighbors called her The Cat Lady, and I have a soft spot for animal lovers, eccentrics, and elderly people who live on their own and who seem to be just fine with that.  I walked over, and we struck up a conversation. That conversation quickly evolved into a very close friendship that would continue over the next four years, until she died on December 7, 1998.

Lenore and I had a great rapport, that’s the only way I can describe it. During my visits back to Austin, where I had spent important chunks of my youth, we would pass the afternoons together talking about old Austin, old Texas, and the way society had changed since she was a girl. She was particularly pleased to show me her books and ephemera collections, and I often went to the grocery store or ran errands for her; I also brought her back small tokens from my vagabonding. The entire time I knew Lenore, she rarely mentioned family, and to my knowledge, she never had family members check on her. This always worried me and it saddened me greatly.

One particularly special encounter with Lenore was in 1996, after I had finished fixing up my fire-engine-red  ’67 GTO. When I rumbled into her driveway, she came to her front door, admiring the car. I asked if she’d like to take a drive out to Lake Travis. Surprisingly, she agreed. This was only one of a handful of times I saw Lenore leave her house. She piled in, and we took off to Travis. When I asked her when she’d last been to the lake, she thought for a moment and said, “Oh, sometime right after World War II …”  50 years! On the way back to town, she asked that we try to find the old Preece Family Cemetery off 2222, but we never could. (I found it after she died—it’s on Vaught Ranch Road.) On another occasion, I convinced Lenore to venture out to the Omelettry off Burnet Road. We had a great time.

During the years I knew Lenore, I fretted over her health; I thought of her frequently while I was on my travels. I sent her post cards, and she occasionally wrote me in care of my mother in Houston.  Whenever I hit Austin, she was always the first person I would go see.

The last few times I saw my friend, I’d become increasingly concerned about her physical health, her mobility. On one of those occasions when I returned to visit, I found her house empty. I learned from the police that she’d fallen and broken her hip and had been taken to a nursing facility in Northwest Austin. I managed to locate her. I went to see her several times before she died, which sadly happened when I was in Europe in late 1998. She was buried at a pauper’s cemetery in Austin, instead of at the family cemetery. This fact has always perplexed me, because I assumed that someone in her family would have been notified.  More than that, it haunted me, and it still does. I’d like to see her laid to rest in her proper place, somehow.

Over these past 16 years, I’ve held the memory of this exceptional Texas poet very close to my heart.  I still think of her often, and I have lugged from city to city and country to country many of the items Lenore gave me during our four-year friendship—cards, books, little mementos from her house, her life. Over the time we were friends, she frequently gave me items that she treasured and didn’t want to see tossed when she passed away. I still have some beautiful antique lace handkerchiefs, some hand-embroidered linens and table throws, some vintage crockery and china serving platters, several antique and collectible books, and her scrapbook, which I retrieved from the abandoned house after she died. What remained in her home on Avenue F was put out on the curb or thrown away.

So, whatever Howard letters or issues of The Junto which might have remained with Lenore, if any, are in a land-fill in Travis County. We are lucky, however, that Mr. Clifford was able to retrieve Lenore’s scrapbook: It is there that the Christmas card was found. Also this photo of Lenore’s brother, Harold Preece:

1930 03-27 HaroldPreecefrom Lenore scrapbook-crop-sm

This is no doubt the same photo that Harold sent to Robert E. Howard, who, in a letter postmarked March 24, 1930, said “Thanks for the picture.” Also, in an early April letter, this: “I don’t know if I thanked you for the picture in my last letter. If I didn’t you can take it that I do now. It’s a good likeness of you.”

Many thanks to Mr. Clifford for sharing these items with us, and for being a friend to Ms. Preece at the end.

This entry filed under Harold Preece, Howard Biography, Howard Fandom.

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He had thought of the South as a sunny, lazy land washed by soft breezes laden with spice and warm blossoms, where life ran tranquilly to the rhythm of black folk singing in sun-bathed cottonfields. But now he had discovered another, unsuspected side – a dark, brooding, fear-haunted side…

– “Pigeons from Hell,” The Horror Stories of Robert E Howard, p. 430

In his writing, Robert E. Howard made frequent use of subjects from history and folklore, especially — in keeping with his Southern heritage and Texas upbringing — that of both the American Southwest, and the Deep South. This includes elements from the African-American folk magic practices popularly known as conjure (or hoodoo) and voodoo, which turn up to create fear and atmosphere in various tales of horror and “weird mystery,” most famously in “Black Canaan” and “Pigeons from Hell.”

Where “voodoo,” a ceremonial religion involving a group of people with a defined hierarchy, has a place in the popular imagination, many people tend to be less familiar with “hoodoo.” Even the name isn’t agreed upon: the most famous collection of folklore on the subject is called Hoodoo – Conjuration – Rootwork – Magic, and those are all equivalent synonyms. Someone who practices “hoodoo” can be called a root doctor, a root worker, a trick doctor, a spiritual worker, a two-headed doctor, or a conjure-man or -woman. We’ll primarily be using “conjure,” in honor of Howard’s atmospheric essay “Kelly the Conjure-Man.”

mojo_rootworkUnlike voodoo, traditional conjure is not organized in any way, but is a loose collection of magico-spiritual practices used by individuals as they see fit. Familiar props include candles, herbs, graveyard dirt, and the “mojo bag,” which is usually made of red flannel, and contains various objects, from coins to literal roots. Conjure can be practiced as part of everyday life, but often workers are professionals, who charge for their services, and who sometimes – like Howard’s conjure men — generate actual supernatural awe.

While voodoo and conjure have many differences, there have always been practitioners who mix up elements from both types of magical practice. New Orleans, in particular, is known for a spiritual heritage that partakes of both, with practical conjure techniques (such as spells including red pepper, red brick dust, salt, and honey, which are all conjure-derived) that are dressed up with voodoo theatricality. Even in groups that perform communal drumming, and/or veneration of snakes (traditions associated with formal voodoo), a lot of their actual magic activities, especially if done privately, without a direct ritual element, can still be more accurately described as conjure.

Some contemporary practitioners display frustration with the common confusion of terminology, viewing the different practices as substantially different, but the labels have always been used loosely by people in the community. When African-American writer Rudolph Fisher wrote The Conjure-Man Dies, frequently cited as the first black detective novel, in 1932, the “Conjure-Man” was an African who performed spiritualist séances for mostly white clients. So in a story like “Black Canaan” (1933), where Howard depicts voodoo-like ceremonies led by a character referred to as a “conjer man,” his usage of the term seems entirely in line with his contemporaries.

Historically, most conjure folk were either knowledgeable about traditional herbal medicines, or were perpetuating folk traditions based on remembered African spiritual lore, or both, and much of what they practiced was benign. There is evidence, though, from slave narratives and other historical sources, that some conjure men and women, reputed or real, did indeed use their magical reputations to gain power and intimidate others — both fellow slaves and white authority figures. For example, in his authoritative book Conjure in African-American Society, scholar Jeffrey Anderson states that “The power of hoodoo translated into enormous influence within black society for successful conjurers … fear of conjure had a profound effect on individual blacks,” and “the fear of hoodoo was present in a significant portion of white southerners.” (p. 79, 86, 78)

4f29e60f0c317d34cc98e8bb508b0f24To some extent, therefore, the “sinister figure” of folklore described in Howard’s brief “Kelly the Conjure-Man” essay doesn’t seem particularly exaggerated, although Conan fans will note that he’s is  both “a fine figure of barbaric manhood” and “supple like a great black panther,” (p. 377)  physical descriptions which echo those of his more famous specimen of barbaric manhood.

Kelly, “son of a Congo ju-ju man” and “born a slave” (p. 376), develops a reputation as a healer, and gains power over others by frightening them with his reputed abilities, ultimately becoming more feared than respected. All of which sounds like a perfectly plausible career for a local conjure practitioner of his age. Howard steeps the tale in mysterious atmosphere and speculation, but much of the material in the essay –  such as how “the black folk came to him to have spells lifted from their souls where enemies had placed them by curses and incantations” (Horror Stories, p. 377) — would be right at home in any collection of folklore on African-American conjure.

That some people “obsessed by the horrible belief that their stomachs were full of living snakes” (p. 378) is also a well-known phenomenon in the history of conjure. In Yvonne Chireau’s overview Black Magic: Religion and the African American Conjuring Tradition, referring to interviews with former slaves and other first-person accounts, she says that “African Americans described Conjure sickness as an intrusion of entities within the body…physical affliction is portrayed as a state in which the body becomes a living menagerie” (p. 104). She quotes a source as saying “My wife Hattie had a spell put on her for three long years with a nest of rattlesnakes inside her.” (p. 104)

Blog REH CanaanKelly, the non-fiction character, fairly obviously inspired the fictional Saul Stark of “Black Canaan,” another “giant,” intimidating magical practitioner. In this story, interconnected rural communities of former slaves and slave owners are threatened by the activities of a Conjure Man who performs voodoo-type ceremonies in the swamp. His goal is an uprising that would kill all the white people, although he’s equally willing to kill (or perform horrible magic on) any of the black members of the community who don’t bow down to his power. And his greatest weapon is the threat to “put (them) in de swamp,” (Horror Stories, p. 386) an act which transforms them into “mindless, soulless semi-human dweller(s) in the water” with elongated legs, webbed hands, and expressions “no more human than that of a great fish.” (p. 408)

More famous than “Black Canaan” is “Pigeons from Hell,” another of Howard’s stories that makes use of elements and ambience from African-American folk magic. After a bizarre murder, the investigators research the crumbling old Southern mansion where the crime took place, and end up at the hut of Jacob, a now-elderly one-time “voodoo man.”

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