Although, I hadn’t read all of Parker’s books, once I discovered Parker through his more recent works, I started picking up his earlier books when I saw them at used bookstores or garage sales, or to round out an Amazon order. Since I had most of them on hand already, news of Parker’s death prompted me to go back and start at the beginning of the Spenser series – The Godwulf Manuscript, (c) 1973. So for the past couple of months, I’ve just kept on through the entire Spenser series, in chronological order. It’s been extremely enjoyable – even rereading those I’d read quite recently.

Though each novel is written to stand alone as a crime novel, like most series in the mystery genre, a repertory of prime characters continues throughout. Apparently, the Spenser series is the most autobiographical of Parker’s works, and there’s an intimacy and authenticity in the evolution of these particular characters which shines through.

The main character, Spenser, is an intelligent, literate, ex-prizefighter, ex-cop turned private investigator – a tough, good-guy, wise-cracking thug with a big heart and who loves to cook. His long-time girlfriend, Susan Silverman, is a psychologist. The other most-constant character is Spenser’s best friend, Hawk – another ex-fighter toughie with noble intent – though Hawk’s activities and motivations often wander deeper into the realm of  illegal than his buddy Spenser’s.

As a psychology buff, I am naturally fond of Parker’s use of the dialog between Spenser and his psychologist- true-love, Susan, to effectively interject psychological elements into the resolution of each mystery. Parker often uses the same vehicle to comment on timely or newsworthy issues.

Within the gestalt of reading all of these books in rapid succession, I particularly enjoyed the dialog and evolution of the relationship between Spenser and Silverman as a reflective chronicle of the evolution of masculine and feminine stereotypes through some of the the most turbulent times of the feminist movement. As in life, there are no permanent or pat resolutions to the difficulties that surface, but, in my opinion, Parker did an excellent job showing us that the differences between men and women are as vital and important as our equalities. The Spenser-Silverman relationship flourishes because each honors the other’s individuality with compassion and a willingness to listen (plus a healthy thread of sexual intimacy).

It may have been coincidence, but repeatedly when purchasing Parker’s books, or reading them in public, I had women comment to me at how much their husbands or boyfriends liked Parker’s books. I hope this is not an accurate indicator of the ratio of Parker’s female fans. If so, it’s a shame, really. Though Robert B. Parker’s male protagonists are often violent and always extremely masculine, I perceive Parker’s message as, in many ways, strongly feminist.

Looking for Rachel Wallace, written in 1980, was a particularly pleasant surprise. I’m sure it was considered quite provocative when originally published.  The book juxtaposes Spenser’s competent, extreme masculinity against the radical feminist rhetoric of open lesbian, Rachel Wallace, who Spenser is tasked with protecting, and ultimately rescuing (using lethal violence) when she is kidnapped after firing Spenser. When thanking Spenser for the rescue, Wallace states: “You still embody much that I must continue to disparage. I still disapprove of you.”

Spenser’s reply: “Rachel, how could I respect anyone who didn’t disapprove of me?”  Rachel Wallace shows up briefly in later books as an valuable ally and friend to Spenser.

The character, Spenser, though masculine to the max, is likable, lovable and heroic – a life well-written.

Robert B. Parker’s other mysteries include the Jesse Stone series and the Sunny Randall series. I now plan to go back and read both of those series in chronological order as well. Character evolution through the progression of these series is part of the pleasure.

Robert B. Parker died of a heart-attack at the age 77, while writing at his desk – surely the most heroic kind of exit any writer would hope for.

If you are a Robert B. Parker fan (or even if you’re not), I highly recommend reading the touching, eloquent eulogy by his son, David, which was reprinted in its entirety in The Washington Post.

Though it is conceivable O’Keeffe’s art might have remained obscure were it not for Stieglitz’ promotion [exploitation?], the movie barely touched on O’Keeffe’s love of solitude and her many years as an artist after Stieglitz’ death. O’Keeffe’s solitary life without Stieglitz in her beloved “far away” (New Mexico) contributed a great deal to her artistic notoriety.

But O’Keeffe was an artist and educated woman before she met Stieglitz. (They met after he showed some of her paintings in his New York gallery without her permission.) And although she lived much of her life pre-feminism, and may not have defined herself as such, O’Keeffe was a feminist in her own right. For someone growing up in a time when men still controlled most power, most assets and most women, she achieved a high level of self-sufficiency and independence.

O’Keeffe is most well known for her large paintings of flowers (with an erotic, vaginal imagery which she denied was intentional); and her representations of the New Mexico landscape and its elements. Further details of her biography are available at Wikipedia. The website of the The Georgia O’Keeffe Museum has several good slideshows of her art.

O’Keeffe made it to the Most Memorable Hermits list because she valued solitude and found she could best experience it through her own creative process. This discovery occurred before she moved to the wilds of New Mexico (and before she met Stieglitz). This O’Keeffe quotation about the creation of her art is from 1915 (pre-Stieglitz):

“There was no one around to look at what I was doing, no one interested, no one to say anything about it one way or another. I was alone and singularly free, working into my own unknown – no one to satisfy except myself.”

O’Keeffe didn’t like to sign her paintings and rarely named them herself. I suspect she is an artist who would have painted, and painted what she wanted, whether or not her efforts ever gained notoriety.

She was not a total recluse. By the time she moved to New Mexico, she was a woman of means who could hire assistance with her property. But she did learn to drive so she could travel into the far away on her own, with her paint supplies in the back of her car. Outside of her paintings – perhaps her own words give us the best sense of who she was:

“I have things in my head that are not like what anyone has taught me – shapes and ideas so near to me – so natural to my way of being and thinking that it hasn’t occurred to me to put them down.”

“One day I found myself saying to myself…  I can’t live where I want to, I can’t go where I want to…I can’t do what I want to.  I can’t even say what I want to.  I decided I was a very stupid fool not to at least paint as I wanted to and say what I wanted to when I painted, and that seemed to be the only thing I could do that didn’t concern anybody but myself.”

“It was all so far away – there was quiet and an untouched feel to the country and I could work as I pleased.”

“I know now that most people are so closely concerned with themselves that they are not aware of their own individuality, I can see myself, and it has helped me to say what I want to say in paint.”

“Filling a space in a beautiful way. That is what art means to me.”

“I feel there is something unexplored about woman that only a woman can explore.”

“I know I can not paint a flower, I can not paint the sun on the desert on a bright summer morning, but maybe in terms of paint color, I can convey to you my experience of the flower or the experience that makes the flower of significance to me at that particular time.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Special thanks to Oregon hermit, artist John C., who recommended Georgia O’Keeffe for the Memorable Hermits list.

*Footnote: One irony of the Lifetime Channel’s ostensibly “pro-woman” worldview (and one reason I rarely wander there) is Lifetime’s over-emphasis on women’s successes and failures as a factor of the men in their lives – romance. On the other hand, I do appreciate the difficulty of marketing a film of a lone woman wandering around the desert with her painting supplies.  Most successful desert movies seem to require lots of horses and explosions.

The poem’s still imperfect and will remain so eternally – unfinished like life and good friendships. But posting the poem allows me to sneak in another opportunity to pressure Kathy into reevaluating her schedule.

Friendship never really fits
Inside a purchased card.
Cards may brush the truth
With quips and clever punch
But cards’ unexpanded tales
Miss friendship’s mortal soul -
The bond beyond the quip,
Unique between two friends.

She’s short and voluptuous
To my tall and not very
And we both love our walks
In nature and not
So we value our knees and our legs.
But when walking as two,
Her innate shorter stride
Hurries quick-time to mine.
Though she never falls back
And not once has complained
Burns more calories perhaps
Something always worthwhile
For carrot cake fests
And sticky bun loves
Dependent on chocolate
For solace.
When walking and laughing,
And walking and crying,
And walking and laughing again.

We first walked as neighbors
Near daily patrol
The banks of Shilshole Bay
A life aboard sailboats,
Sailors soldiering through
Feisty elements marine
On long laundry hauls
And facility showers.
Jelling friendship with
Walking and laughing
And walking and crying
And walking and laughing again.

How perplexed we could be
Over confounding, alien ways
Of our logical, linear men
Who’d unwittingly retreat
To their logical lines
And offer them up to us mates
Who most needed their hugs
And not logic, of course.
So as friends we would hug
In sorry console,
Sharing a bottle of wine or two,
A fine mug of grog and a dinghy ride.
“What do you do
with a drunken sailor?”
You laugh,
You laugh,
You cry from time to time
And then you laugh again.

Both loved as children,
A particular cross
In this culture of the good excuse.
But our fine childhoods’ grew,
Another bond from our roots
Common libraries of family songs,
Old tunes and carols
Serendipitously sprout out
In spontaneous duets
On some of our walks -
Surprising each other
And any audience about
(‘Cause we’re not very good).
But granting to us
Another reason to laugh,
Walking and laughing,
And walking and singing,
And crying from time to time,
And walking and laughing again.

But have I told her often or lately
How much I admire
Her grit and resilience
Through passionate loves
And deep, deep loss.
Her ceaseless momentum,
Education devotion.
(She taught on her knees once
In pain’s compensation.)

How appreciative I am,
That she scours her schedule
Fitting adventures with me in the mix
Sidelining striving enough
So I’m privileged to be
With this woman at rest,
In her natural state
Doing goofy and giggly
Like they matter most.

Not enough time for herself,
Her life’s tightly-packed,
Bulky, day-timer ruled,
Which is baffling to
Someone like me
Who does time at arms length
Keeping calendars blank,
Clocks often unwatched,
Something baffling to her
I know.

She endures all my jibes
When I tease about stress
And she rarely jibes me back.
But it’s with affection deep-felt
I remind her again:
“That third chapter starts NOW
Retire and paint.
Let the goof rule your day.
Every day.”

No longer neighbors,
Our circles disparate
An hour or more apart
Our bond never hits that
Old, always-there thing.
But we both know it could
And without pause it would
If the need ever surfaced again.

So now, frequently weeks,
And often some months,
And one time even some years
Vanish between our meets
But we jump right back in
Where we last left off,
The dialog never ends.
For now when we walk,
Our good union includes
This long tale to review,
Depth-filled with laughter and tears
Where fears of the world,
And aging and change,
Are allayed by the joys
Of true wisdom and worth
Of fine transits well made.
Walking and laughing,
And walking and laughing,
And walking and crying at times,
And returning to laughter again.

In haphazard desperation
This continued search for love
Skirts simplicity for complication.
Unheralded and quiet truth – above
All rewards those cherished others may impart,
Award yourself your loving heart.
Invaluable, illusive art,
But valid joy’s innate foundation,
Seed for all capacity to love
Without imposed condition.

It may not be the best poetry, but it’s an interesting retrospective for me.  Could be interpreted as narcissistic I suppose, but the value of self-esteem was my goal.

I was a college freshman when I wrote it. It was not part of a class assignment; just word therapy, a journal entry, commentary on what I perceived as the social chaos of my college dorm (all women).

I was aghast at the amount of energy my housemates seemed to perpetually invest in finding, talking about, preparing for and recovering from “dates.” The emotional melodrama seemed relentless. Someone was always ebullient over a new boyfriend or crying over a break-up. To me, it felt like a highly-valued and accepted bedlam of dating hysteria.

And most of it just seemed silly. Yes, I dated, but I don’t think I ever approached it with the enthusiasm and focus that seemed to motivate many of my college housemates.  For me, the importance of finding a mate was secondary,  not primary – an enhancement to life certainly, but not life itself.  It’s probably remarkable I wound up in a partnership at all.

Group living never did work very well for me. I was probably a hermit in search of solitude even then – a peculiar being from the start.

More often we celebrate our first date  – which was also the day Mount St. Helens erupted, May 18, 1980. We weren’t in the path of volcanic destruction, but you could see the ash plume from Seattle (150 miles north). There is great symbolism in having started our relationship on such an explosive day.

The reason we rarely celebrate our anniversary, is we actually “got married” for practical reasons, not romantic ones (no, I was not pregnant). We’d known each other for 21 months and lived together for 18; but we’d both been married before and were convinced the success and romance of our bond rested at least partially on our unmarriedness.

There was no entreaty on bended knee, no flowers, no diamond ring – there was simply a mutual discussion resulting from Griz’ acceptance of a job on the opposite coast. Would I go with him? Of, course.

Should we get married to salve the concerns of my parents and legitimize Griz’ image with the conservative organization he’d  joined? Perhaps.

Should we get married so I could receive health and flight benefits? Probably. [This pre-dates domestic partnerships qualifying for spousal benefits.]

Griz and I waxed philosophically at least several minutes after addressing the practical matters. Neither of us had fond memories of  being married, but in the end we concluded we should marry – at least legally. Our objective was to not allow marriage to change our relationship: there would be no big wedding, neither of us would wear rings, I would not change my name. We would try to limit the marriage part of our relationship to “just that piece of paper.” We would call each other partners, not husband and wife – we were driven to avoid the roles.

It was a very small wedding – Griz and me, my parents and my first cousin. It was a cold February day in south Seattle, but the sun was out – so we walked outside with Justice-of-the-Peace Rev. Zady Evans to her muddy garden. Her chapel, the AAA Vagabond Ministry, was in the basement of her home where she also ran an answering service consisting of a bank of phones that actually rang. It was quieter in the garden, even though the view overlooked a freeway.

We wrote our own vows. When a friend of mine read them later, she said they were more like “un-vows.” She’s a big wedding person – she’s had several more weddings since then. Here’s what Griz and I committed to (and what we didn’t):

“I commit to you my love, friendship and support, deeply and sincerely; and I value as highly the love, friendship and support which I receive from you.

“Your well-being, growth, fulfillment and happiness are as important to me as my own. My well-being, growth, fulfillment and happiness are enhanced by your presence in my life.

“I commit to always honestly confide in you my innermost feelings, desires, fears and ideas as they evolve through time and circumstance, that no barrier to our closeness may develop through lack of knowledge in one another.

“I commit my best understanding and consideration of your innermost feelings, desires, fears and ideas as you honestly and openly express them to me.

“I commit to share my life with you in love and respect, facing together the demands and rewards,  joys and frustrations of this lifetime; so long as our mutual and individual happiness is promoted by this union.”

Has it all been bliss?  Of course not. Put two “smarties” under one roof and sometimes “there will be blood“ - at least emotionally. Most of the dangerous explosions took place in the first 10 years.  We learned that “open and honest” communication is much harder than it sounds. We discovered we actually spoke quite different languages. Griz spoke precision male engineer, I spoke fuzzy female artist.

We learned the rhythms of each other’s language, but we also learned how to hurt each other – and ultimately how to choose not to.  I learned how to fight, and why sometimes it’s necessary. Griz learned how not to fight and why volume sometimes diminishes the effectiveness of your message. We both learned “winning” is always a shallow victory between lovers.

At one point during those first 10 years, while living aboard, with both of us working way too much and spending too little time together, we actually faced a cusp in which ”our mutual and individual happiness” was not being promoted by our union. It hurt to admit it; but rather than fleeing, we honestly addressed why and we got through it – individually and collectively better for the crisis.

I don’t believe there is any one formula for what works in a spousal relationship. But what works for Griz and me is love based on open communication, mutual respect, shared laughter – and especially critical early on - engaging sex to fall back on when all other forms of communication fail.

“A difference of tastes in jokes is a great strain on the affections.” -  George Eliot

For us, the shared laughter is critical. It continues to fortify our bond. You have to be able to get over yourselves and experience mutual joy – stimulate each other’s sense of humor – face together the ridiculousness of your common predicament. We fall back on laughter even in the worst of times.

Sometime after those first 10 years, and I can’t pinpoint exactly when, we wandered into “ the comfort zone.”  Anyone in a long-term, successful relationship understands this. (I know, it sounds like a horrible condition to the very young. When I was young, I too considered comfort a disastrous relationship outcome. “Comfortable as an old shoe?”)

But it’s not that kind of comfort.  It’s the point where hostilies end, competition is over. It’s the point where you start empowering each other -  stimulating each other’s creativity. When you get there, you also notice it’s happening without having to work at it.  There’s an ease between you – that’s the comfort part. The rough edges are gone. You are a well-oiled, spontaneously occurring, mutually supportive  team.

I’m sure it happens faster for some people, and never occurs for others.  It’s the point when the word “family” truly represents you and your spouse (and sometimes your children). You still value your extended family and friends, but you wake up one day and realize your primary bond is clearly the gestalt between you and your mate; and whatever is promoting this gestalt is relatively effortless. You truly “get” each other. You prefer each other’s company over that of others. When you see each other across a room, in or out of a crowd, you emotionally experience a reassuring, uplifting, positive “Ah!”

“Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer”  – Han Suyin

Our relationship gestalt also incorporates our mutual respect for each other’s alone time. Our common hermit natures require this. We lived on sailboats for half of our relationship, and we have also run several small businesses together. We have probably spent more time in proximity than many couples who’ve been together for 50 years. But we also know how to be in each other’s proximity without intruding on each other.  Our interdependence is strengthened by our independence.

We have many things in common, but we’re different enough to maintain a healthy and stimulating friction. Yes, we still argue over some things and even get angry with each other from time to time, but our recovery time from any disagreement is spontaneous and now almost instantaneous.

For me, this is the gravy of a healthy, long-term relationship. The simplest way I can think of to describe it is “loving peace.” It’s a relationship status I feel very fortunate to have reached. I hope everyone who desires it experiences it at least once in their lives.

I hope the world learns to desire it and experiences it someday.

Unfortunately, blogs are the antithesis of closets.

This post is an experiment in exposure. Sometime early last month before weather (the conversational safety net) began to predominate my psyche and blog, I was going to add a couple of Most Memorable Hermits to my list, but I kept procrastinating because both are spiritual teachers and I have some fairly deep-seated inhibitions over “talking about religion.”  It is so easy to offend.

Now that I no longer have weather to hide behind, I’m stalled out again, so I’ve decided to just blat out some of my own beliefs first (to put what I say about the two hermits in context). I’ll then add the two hermits in rapid succession and see what happens.

Perhaps those I offend will forgive me.  Linear time is a bit illusory in the blogosphere, but perhaps by Sunday I’ll have deleted the posts, acquired a pseudonym, stopped blogging all together, or been struck down by lightning. Here goes:

I believe in an immanent and transcendent Divine Creative Field – universal consciousness, oneness, allness, some sort of divine essence – call it God if you want, I usually do not though I am not put off when others do.

I DO NOT believe in a pathologically megalomaniacal, vengeful bearded white dude sitting on a throne somewhere passing judgment on the behavior of humans and punishing any that don’t conform to his dictates.

Although I believe there are threads of positive, universal moral, ethical and spiritual truths to be found in the writings of all of Earth’s major religions, I DO NOT BELIEVE any one religion’s “Word of God” is more accurate than any other. I consider words themselves human constructs – when translated and politically redefined through generations of evolving circumstances, written works have been known to stray from the original – occasionally missing the author/speaker’s original intent completely.

I believe this Divine Creative Field is accessible to each one of us with or without religious hierarchy, ritual or dogma.

I believe in the eternal continuity of spirit (though not necessarily the continuance of individual identity). Spirit to me is energy – divine energy, the essence of creativity, peace, unconditional love, compassion and forgiveness – that which motivates us to transcend our animalistic instincts and be more  – call it a Soul if you want, I usually do not, though I am not put off when others do.

I believe in the power of forgiveness, love and compassion for ourselves and all others as the best path to understanding and transcending the way things have been, accepting the way things are and improving the way things will be.

I believe we all come into the world truly innocent (even the bad guys) – each and every one a perfect creation of the divine field – and after we get here, things go to hell or heaven, or any combination thereof, both of which exist, are accessible, and can be experienced and seen right here on Earth – no separate PLACES to go to.

I believe life is a learning opportunity for each of us. An opportunity in which we can choose to express the divine rather than the animalistic. Our individual responsibility for making those choices, every day, makes every day judgment day. To me, Immanent Divinity essentially means  “You are God.”  That  makes each of us eternally responsible – Karma by any other name.

I believe in the enormous power and potential of the intellect, reason and science. I also believe the intellect (and thus reason and science) can be inherently limited by (often unacknowledged) subjectivities. I support organizations such as The Institute of Noetic Sciences which attempt to integrate and bridge the gap between science and spirituality.

I believe no human, not scientist or religious leader, knows the absolute truth about what happens to us when we die. The ultimate commonality among all humans is we don’t get to find out that particular answer until we die ourselves. Since I believe there is some continuity of consciousness, I personally like to think the first thing that happens at death is we relax and have a good laugh – laugh at all the silly hoo-hah in which we were over-invested while alive. I look at death as an opportunity for an adventure of discovery. Of course, I don’t know anything for sure, so I acknowledge the possibilility that death is an absolute end – but if that is true, there’s still nothing to fear because there will be no way to mind being dead.

I think very few us get to feel like we got everything done before the moment of our death arrives. Therefore, I believe it is extremely important to express love, compassion and forgiveness right now – even before you get all that other stuff done.

I believe evolution is an vital element of creation.

I believe in the ultimate beauty and awesome power of nature which reminds us to practice humility and provides us with life’s playfield upon which we are granted the opportunity learn to do better.

I believe in inclusivity not exclusivity.

I believe in some universal and eternal connectedness of consciousness, including the extension of this connection beyond mortality of the individual. I believe this connectedness of consciousness is sometimes accessible to each of us and may account for many “unscientific” human psychic phenomena (PSI).

My belief in this universal connectedness includes some confidence in the concept of reincarnation – wherein one’s divine essence chooses to serially manifest as specific life forms within particular life circumstances to best address individual or collective karmic resolution and to grow spiritually. I tend to believe we incarnate and bond in groups (switching roles and relationships like playing different parts in a play). For me, this particular quirk of magical thinking empowers me to conquer grief over the loss of loved ones and forgive those who choose to play bad guys (whether they do it through ignorance, childhood programming, psychological deficit or simply to provide invaluable though uncomfortable lessons for the rest of us).

I believe animals are a part of this universal divine connectedness. I believe most animals are fully capable of experiencing and expressing emotions, including but not limited to love.

I practice meditation with some regularity.

I devote about 20 percent of my available reading hours to the investigation of spiritual and philosophical concepts.

I’m a pro-choice, feminist. (Ouch, that oughta alienate a few followers.) This, of course, excludes me from membership in most (though not all) religious organizations. However, if I was a joiner, I suppose I’d be a Taoist or a Unitarian, but I’m not a joiner. Although I understand and appreciate the value of fellowship and communion, my hermit nature resists participating.

I try to honor those threads of positivity common among the world’s major religions. I try to forgive those negative aberrations which recur so loudly when religions are used as tools of political power – locally, regionally, nationally or globally. I believe manipulative and oppressive regimes (religious or otherwise) are expressions of animalistic territoriality and have no relationship to divinity. I try not to judge others by their religious affiliations. I try not to judge entire religions by the bad behavior of a few loud fanatics within each fold.

I feel extremely fortunate to have been born into and reside in a society which actually values and legislates freedom of religion (though not freedom from religion). The discourse that results from the cultivation of this freedom aggravates me from time to time, and at other times seems just silly – but it is a variety of discourse that we should all prize – the option isn’t even available to much of the world’s population.

That’s the basics. I spilled out a lot more than I thought I would. Forgive me, if you can. If not, may you find peace within your system of belief.

One episode that caught my attention guest-starred the late Jeanette Nolan [1911-1998] as Dirty Sally Fergus, a cantankerous, tobacco chewing, rough-talking, hard-drinking, 60-something, junk lady who scrounged westbound, wagon-train trails for discards; and peddled her finds in Dodge City. Sally lived alone in a shack outside of town - a very memorable female hermit! And a Western written in the 1970′s, spotlighting any elderly, solitary female is as rare as those records of real-life 19th-century female hermits.

The Dirty Sally Gunsmoke episode involves a young gunfighter named Cyrus Pike (played by the late Dack Rambo) who Sally hides in her shack and nurses back to health. But it was Nolan’s fascinating Sally that drew me in to the episode. Apparently her portrayal also drew attention when originally aired. A spin-off series, Dirty Sally, evolved from the episode and ran for one 13-week season in 1974. Nolan was nominated for an Emmy for her role in the short-lived series.

Jeanette Nolan had a 70 year acting career. She was in her 60′s at the time she portrayed Dirty Sally. I have great admiration for actresses who willingly relinquish the roles of youth to become successful character actors in their elder years. In the case of Dirty Sally – Nolan actually played the role without her dentures.

Jeanette Nolan continued acting. At the age of 86 she played Robert Redford’s mother in The Horse Whisperer [1998] which was released a month before her death.

This one was published July 12, 1880:

Other than being a reclusive hermit, we don’t really get any explanation of why Julia’s considered a “peculiar being.” That was probably peculiar enough.

“Why she chose a hermit’s life is not known?” If my only available means of support were servant (unmarried), servant (married), and servant (sexual professional), I might opt for the solitary mountain life and a whortleberry diet, too.

This was published April 6, 1891:

A lone woman fleeing from unidentified males carrying guns is definitely not an indication of “insanity.”  I think calling her ”insane” was just sour grapes on the part of the hunters because she didn’t want to stay and exchange pleasantries.  They were probably also embarrassed they couldn’t catch her.