Friday, July 7, 2017


Grandma Budington was, in my opinion, the most beautiful old lady who ever lived. In her twinkling white hair there was not one strand that was not purest silver.
Grandma was probably as fine a cook as was to be found in the State of Michigan and on our cellar stairs were always to be found three crocks, one of sugar cookies, one of ginger cookies and one of doughnuts.
My mother, who was a strict Presbyterian, disapproved of her heartily, but nevertheless depended upon her to run our household, because mother was a business woman who ran very successfully the town's millinery store.
Pagan and Presbyterian had one thing in common, which was Pagan and Presbyterian had one thing in common, which was the love of beer, and they would send me down to the park casino with a large tin pail which I would have filled at the bar and bring back to them in their hiding place.
Grandma had the only set of quilting frames in the village. Thirefore, when a quilt was pieced and ready for quilting, all the old ladies in town would assemble at our house and make use of quilting frames while they drank tea and gossiped.
Grandma had come to Michigan from Albany, N.Y., in a covered wagon when she was a little girl. She had been a true pioneer.
She had three husbands, the last of which was her favorite. He was a very gentle, beautiful old gentleman with a lung white beard, and she revered him.
She was acquainted with farm families up and down the road and It was her custom, almost every week, to go and spend the day with one of them. In those days you did not make calls, you visited.
She had one book which she read over and over again. It was a paperbacked affair and the name of it was "Her Dark Marriage Morn."
In our house were two upstairs rooms, which were Grandma's. One was a bedroom and the other was a sitting room. Its decorations were two colored pictures called "Wide Awake" and "Fast Asleep." There was a whatnot on which were revered objects such as a bottle of water from the River Jordan, and daguerreotypes in conspicuous places of her friends and relatives.
She was acquainted with farm families up and down the road and it was her custom, almost every week, to go and spend the day with one of them. In those days you did not make calls, you visited.
Though of advanced age, she walked long distances to spend the day at the farms of her acquaintances. She was a sturdy old lady.
Down the street from our house was a boy whose name was Cappy Allen. It was his joy to make my life miserable. Every time I went to his end of the block, he would chase me home. Grandma did not like this and brought it to a conclusion.
The last time Cappy chased me home, Grandma stood at our front gate and when,I, a fugitive, sought shelter, she shut the gate against me and said, "Lick that boy!"
1 was more afraid of Grandma than I was of Cappy, so I turned on him and gave him a licking.
She brought me up because mother was so occupied with her business that she had little time for domestic affairs. So it was I learned more from her than from all the schools I ever attended. Her life's span extended from the days when the Indians were still important to the venturesome settlers to the 1890's when Port­land, Mich., had become a settled and prosperous community.
Grandma had tremendous self-respect and pride in her appearance and her antecedents. I was the apple of her eye and it would safe to say that she devoted herself entirely to me and my concerns as I was growing up.
Her most intimate friend was a spare and severe Scotch woman, a Mrs. Gay, whose Scotch accent was so pronounced that it was difficult     to understand. These two old ladies took me on their excursions, usually to Belle Isle Park in Detroit, where they would find a cozy spot in the woods and settle down for the afternoon.
There may exist today in the world old ladies like my grandmotlier and her friend Mrs. Gay, but I don't know where they can be found. If there do not exist isles of the blessed, to which people as my Grandma go when they pass away, then there is a defect in the hereafter.
As I have said, she was a complete pagan, but if the world were made up exclusively of such pagans as she, there would be an eternity of peace and comfort and kindly friendship.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

BACKGROUND OF A CITIZEN: An immigrant's famous son explains his patriotic debt

BACKGROUND OF A CITIZEN: An immigrant's famous son explains his patriotic debt

Distinguished U. S. Mystery Novelist and Arizona Political Leader
From the Rotarian Magazine Dec. 1954

ALL MY LIFE it has seemed to me that I have owed a sort of obligation to be as good a citizen as I can—and that I have owed it to a great many people who came
before me. It has also seemed to me that the best way to discharge this obligation is to take part in public affairs and politics.
Maybe the fact that I am the son of an immigrant has something to do with this. My father was born of a family of weavers in Manchester, England. When he was 6 years old he went to work in a mill in Manchester, He started work at 6 o'clock each evening and worked through the night until 6 o'clock in the morning. For his labors he received 2 shillings a week. Though at 6 he may have been a pretty mature fellow, my father still was actually a frightened little lad in a vast loft lighted only by candles. He worked at a carding machine, a frame covered with teasels over which the worsted runs and prickers raise the nap on the cloth. He was so small that he had to stand on a box in order to reach this frame upon which he worked.
At the next machine worked an old, broken-down, drunken weaver who could perform only the same duties as this 6-year-old boy. But that old drunken weaver was to my father and to me probably the most important personage who ever lived. Fortunately for both of us this old souse had a photographic memory, and through the long nights he told my father stories. He not only told him stories, but he recited them word for word—all of Shakespeare's plays, the classics of Dickens and Scott. Night after night he whiled away the long hours reciting these tales to this poor, little boy at the machine next to him. That was my father's education.
It is difficult for me to imagine today the severe poverty in which the Kelland family lived in England a century ago. This family—my grandfather and grandmother, four sons, and two daughters—in common with millions of other unfortunate people in Europe looked across the ocean to the United States of America, and there they saw hope. They believed that if they could find some way, of crossing the ocean, passing Ellis Island, and entering the United States, then their lot might be far different. Somehow they got the money to cross the ocean in the steerage of a sailing ship that look 12 weeks from Liverpool.
Upon arriving in the U.S., the family met and held a council. Two of the sons were men of reasonable age, old enough to enter the military service. Since it was then the second year of the Civil War, they decided it was their duty to express their gratitude to their new homeland by sending two of their sons to fight in the Union armies. That was my father's introduction to the United States.
He never became distinguished nor wealthy, but he was a good citizen. And he, from the time was very young, taught me his ideals of citizenship and of gratitude to the country which gave him refuge. In him resided those virtues which we today may look upon with something of envy.
He and my mother worked hard. Every time a dollar was earned they saw to it that a portion of that dollar was put away. They asked favors of nobody. The largest sum that my father ever earned was after middle age when, he became a travelling salesman at. the magnificent salary of $1,300 a year.
Yet my family had a pleasant life. We lived in a little Michigan town named Portland. It had 1,200 inhabitants. Dad clerked in a general store and Mother ran the local millinery store. Most of the business that was done in that town was done by barter. I can still remember sitting with Dad and candling the eggs that farmers had brought to trade for the cloth and groceries and whatever else they needed. The only contact we had with the Government of the United States in Washington was our trip to the post office to buy a 2-cent stamp. That was a pretty ideal age in a pretty ideal town.
We had another thing that was good to havethe Sabbath Day, I can remember now on Saturday being put in the washtub in front of the stove and given my Saturday-night bath. And on Sunday morning I was rousted out of bed.
There was something special about those Sabbath mornings. You had time to sit on the church porch and look off across the countryside at the yellow wheat and the apple trees and the locust and the maples. You could sense a sort of hum in the air. Everything was still and serene and very lovely. Then at 10 o'clock the Baptist church bell would ring. It was the biggest and the deepest-toned bell in town. Then the Congregational church bell would ring, and then the Methodist church bell, and then the bell in the United Brethren church. And the sounds of these church bells mingled and joined with the sounds of the birds and the insects and the rustling of the wind in the wheat and the trees; and somehow you knew that you had perfect peace.
Now what do these childhood memories have to do with citizenship? They have a great deal to do with it.
Good parents pass their blessings on. Though my father never had opportunity to go to school, he, I think, was the most usefully educated man I have ever known. Thanks to that old drunken weaver in his boyhood, he was intimately acquainted with all English literature. Ile would sit evenings around the hanging lamp in the parlor and read to me those stories that he had been told. That was our amusement. From it my father instilled in me a love of the written word.
Though my parents never attained great wealth, they nevertheless passed on their material gifts. When my father died at the age of 88, I found I knew far less than I thought of his and my mother's financial affairs. For years I had done what I could to see that their life was happy, but I now learned that they used hardly a penny that I had been able to give them. I now discovered that my parents owned two apartment buildings in Detroit, Michigan, and had $15,500 in Liberty Bonds! I think all of us might draw some sort of lesson from lives like that.
I think, too, that the world needs more of the church bells like those I used to hear in Portland. We need bells that will ring baud and long to call us to Divine worship where we can sit in our several places of reverence and meditate a little about the people that have gone before us, their integrity and independence, and the debt we owe them and ourselves and our children to be good citizens.

Sunday, February 5, 2017



WALKING on the lawn to make no noise, the man hurried toward the bungalow. Keeping close to the wall, he tried to look through the living room window. Cautiously he set down his package and raised himself for a better view.
"Don't move . . . and keep your hands up," said an icy voice from the shadows. The man swung round, his face a pale mask in the dusk. Slowly his hands rose above his head.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" asked the policeman, stepping into the light from the window. Something metallic shone in his hand.
"I just wanted," said the man, his voice shaking slightly, "to see some one in the house."
"Then why didn't you go up to the door and ring the bell?"
"That's a long story, I'm afraid."
"Talk fast, mister," said the officer.
"It goes back about a year," the man said. "I was driving through here on my way to Chicago. It was raining and getting dark. I was tired. I never saw the little girl crossing the street — until after I'd hit her."
He paused, thinking of sonic way of expressing his thoughts. "Imagine how I felt, knowing it was my fault. Of course, I did everything I could, but that wasn't much. I'd have gone crazy if it hadn't been for one thing. I knew the kid's hospital and doctor bills would be paid. I knew she'd get the best of care. And the insurance company had promised to keep me informed of her progress. Yesterday, thank God, they called up to tell me that she had com­pletely recovered at last."
The man's face was full of eagerness now. He was completely absorbed in his story. "I didn't have to do a thing. It had all been so easy for me. But I felt I had tosce her for myself, to see her well and happy. So here I am. She lives in this house. I brought her a little present."
"I still don't see," said the officer, "why you didn't ring the bell and ask to see the little girl."
"I didn't ring the bell because I didn't want to meet her father." He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. "You see, he made a point of never meeting me. He said that if he ever did, he couldn't trust himself. He said — well he might kill me."
"I see, I see," said the officer thoughtfully.
Suddenly the front door opened and a little girl came running out. "Is that you, daddy?', she cried.
"Of course it is, darling," said the policeman, "and look, I've brought home one of our best friends. He'll be staying for dinner."

(The above appeared in an obscure magazine in the 1940s that ran super short mystery stories from time to time which purportedly took only that long to read. Reprinted by permission the Kelland Estate.)  

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Wednesday, September 21, 2016


An Interview with Clarence Budington Kelland
From Desert Magazine August 1943
Conducted by Oren Arnold

 (illustration of CBK from Desert Magazine)

True fans of the desert may not like it but a western formula developed by Clarence Budington Kelland has been a potent force in publicizing the Southwest country. Oren Arnold gives us a close up view of the author of Scattergood Baines stories who a few years ago "went desert" in a serious energetic way. He bought a home near Phoenix, Arizona, and promptly started to turn out one novel after another telling the country at large about the adventure and romance still to be found in the desert. -Editors

A lovely eastern girl inherited a ranch in the Arizona desert. She came west to run things, and two gents fell in love with her. She married the one with the quickest pistol and the fewest buck teeth—then faded with him and the saguaro cactus into the sun setting in Skeleton canyon. The End
THAT beautiful formula has done more to publicize the desert country in the past 10 years than all the desert chambers of commerce combine. It is the plot pattern used by Clarence Budington Kelland, highest paid author in the world.
Whether or not it is a "good formula is beside the point. It is good for Kelland. And it is good for the desert. With variations, it has been written, broadcast and screened so many times that all of us Americans should be sick of it. We aren't. It was an oId plot when Kelland was born, and it will be new when he dies, We Americans like to see the lovely girl triumph with her hero, and we especially like to see the picturesque desert land, which is naturally keyed to adventure and romance.
Bud Kelland can turn out three novels a year and do a lot of short stories, radio talks, politics, horseback riding, and loafing, on the side. He is not a desert citizen by birth or rearing. In fact he started his personal and professional life away hack East, began writing nearly fourty years ago on tile once distinguished American Boy magazine. He created Scattergood Baines, a Vermont philosopher. He did a lot of miscellaneous romance.
 But he didn't—by his own admission—get his journalistic stride until he discovered the desert. And that happened by accident, He was rolling from civilization to California (a New York neighbor said that!) when his trailer house broke down in that wild western region called Arizona. For several hours he had to wait there amid loneliness and prickly pears. A rancher rode by looking for steers.
"Good afternoon,- Mr. Kelland greeted.
"Howdy, pardner. Nice day."
"Yep it is. Say I want to know something about this country. I am Clarence Burlington Kelland."
-Um," grunted the rancher, "right smart stretch of name, stranger, What do yore friends call you?"
The distinguished author swallowed. "Bud," he said then, grinning.
"All right, Bud. Mine's Ike. Ike Bane, Now this country is a great place for either cows or minin'. Me, I'm in the cow business here, you want a cigarette makin'?—because they are more shore. A man cain't eat a gold mine he don't find, but I can always manage to eat my own beef if I have to. Hanh?"
That was enough! Two smart men, each salty and wise in his own way, had all they needed in common. They didn't stay strangers long.
Bud eventually came on into Phoenix, and walked around down town. Several people in the banks and the hotels discovered he was Clarence Budington Kelland—but not a doggone one fell over himself begging for autographs! Nobody gasped and looked at him with awe. Yes, they knew about him. Kelland, the famous author. What of it? Looks like a good egg. Lots of good fellows come out here. How do you do, Mr. Kelland; make yourself at home.
It was a new live-and-let-live sincerity. He hadn't expected it. These Westerners, these desert folk, just didn't give a whoop how important he was; they liked him because he was likeable. So Bud Kelland promptly bought himself a $50,000 home near this desert town of Phoenix, and he expects to grow old gracefully and die there.
It wasn't many months after that when the Saturday Evening Post burst out with the first of the famous Arizona trilogy in fiction. It was a serial called "Arizona." The girl this time was even more impossible than his heroines usually were and more lovable. She baked pies and she swung a blacksnake whip—remember? The Post circulation jumped up. The book version of the story sold fast. The motion picture was filmed on the open desert near Tucson—in the grandest set ever created out of Hollywood, a re-creation of historic old Tucson, adobe walls and all.
Next one was about Prescott and third one about Phoenix, the same plot retold with new details, the same general setting. Again they clicked high everywhere. The Post ballyhooed them on its cover. The screen called them epics, which they weren't. The public loved them. "Valley of the Sun" was the Phoenix story, and it was partially true. It got Mr. Kelland in good with the citizens of his new home town.
Since then he has done several other desert stories—nobody ever tries to keep up with his titles, because they come too fast‑ and all of them have ranged toward best-seller class. As recently as 1940 Bud Kelland was rated by the profession (as reported in Writer's Digest) as the highest paid author in the world, and 90 percent of his output was concerned with the desert. He sees in every storied hill a new setting for his romance. He reads a bit of history about an old mine, a picturesque rancho, a wagon train, an Indian raid, and goes to his workshop out back of his residence, He types for three hours, then rides a horse on the desert nearby. Next day he types some more. That's all the "inspiration" he seems to require.
Bud Kelland is no arty author. His stories lack the pompous importance of Zane Grey's westerns, and because of that is probably closer to real literature than anything Grey ever wrote, Kelland's novels are sassy, pert, cute; never heavy or profound. Dialogue is as rich and spicy as a high school girl's. Philosophies are elemental and sound and so simple that Ike Bane can understand them, are in reality Scattergood Baines' reasoning redressed for desert use. In short, Kelland stories are not the enduring classics we might like them to be, but they are tops in entertainment. That's all their author ever has claimed for them. That's the only goal he has ever set.
As a craftsman, he is good enough now never to rewrite, edit or even read his own stuff. (Among us lesser hacks, that fact will be phenomenal.)
"At nine o'clock each morning I sit down at my typewriter," says he. "I put in a clean white sheet and three carbons. 1 pause a moment, and then I begin to type.
"By 12 o'clock, almost invariably, I have done about 1,000 words. That's where I quit for the day. One thousand words a day is enough for any writer. That means 30,000 words a month. That means a novel complete in two months, or a little more.
"I do not bother to read what I have written. It is not necessary. I do not edit my own stuff, nor have any one else do it. I do not even have it copied. If some young squirt editor back east wants to change a word or two, it's up to him,"
Actually, the young squirts don't bother. Bud Kelland has them all bluffed, has editors begging him for manuscripts night and day at his own rates—which automatically makes him the patron saint of all other writers, who have been slaves to hope and revision!
It wasn't always like that with Kelland. And in this lies the inspiration for us all. His career, no less than Lincoln's and any other rags-to-riches man's, started from scratch. About the turn of this century, 25-year-old Buddie Kelland had been striving to sell fiction for seven long years before one story finally clicked. An editor paid him $7.50 for it
He spent the next six months in celebration, went back to work and eventually sold a second yarn for $10. Since then, some statistician has estimated, Americans have spent 10,000 years reading Bud Kelland stories. (Figuring the average time to read the average story, by the average number of readers of magazines in which his stories appear.) Many more aggregate centuries have been spent by us Americans looking at his stories on the screen. In his 60's now, his production is still amazing, and demand for his work is greater than ever. There's no guessing what sort of desert romance may pour out of his agile brain when he turns loose on desert army camps, aviation centers and the like. The war situation is bound to influence him.
Now with such a phenomenon as that publicizing the desert —what is the desert people's opinion of him? Do they approve of him? Do they like him personally? Does he "belong"?
To the latter question, the answer is yes and no. He offended a great many folk by being superficial in his historical novels of Arizona. It was a justifiable offense—most of us feeling that some great (which is different from popular) writer could have made "Arizona" as distinguished a novel for the West as "Gone With the Wind" is for the South. Answer to that, however, is that the gate is still open. America has known only two truly epic periods of history, the antebelium South and the Wild West. Margaret Mitchell did the former in her incomparable novel. Who among us will do the West?
Kelland is regarded as an eccentric now. Which means he has to maintain a sort of crusty guard against pests who bedevil him to read manuscripts and to speak to the ladies' society pink tea. He is not tough, or hard to talk to. He is exceedingly fond of children, He loves horses, dogs, and wild critters that bark and yap and scream in the desert nights.
His idea of a good time is to play a round of golf with some salty friend like Guy Kibbee, who plays Scattergood in the movies, then go for a desert horseback ride. Often he rides alone. He may just sit out on a desert rock and think—or, as the feller says, just sit. It's a pretty good form of recreation.
Any famous author is held to be wise, and perhaps that is so. This wise Mr. Kelland, then, admits in formal interview that life is sadly confusing, and that he isn't sure what he'd do with the U.S.A. if somebody thrust a dictatorship into his lap. He will occasionally venture a generality or two.
"Work, work, work!" he almost shouted at me once, when I asked him how to prevent unemployment. Work to prevent unemployment? It calls to mind another sage observation made by another wise man; Calvin Coolidge himself once said, "When a great many people are out of work, unemployment results!"
But when he isn't dodging, Bud Kelland does better. "I think we grew into a spoiled-brat nation," said he, on another occasion, "because we had too much luxury. Luxury is enervating. When the reaction set in, we soon had thousands of people floundering around like cry babies, and eventually we had to face a war because of it.
"America wasn't made in the first place by whiners. It was made by pioneers who felt not that the country owed them a living, but that they owed the country a living."
And that statement ought to bring nods of agreement around anybody's campfire.

(Final novel in the Arizona Trilogy, set in Prescott.)
Watch for new paperback and ebook editions of the entire trilogy in 2017 from Digital Parchment Press.