L. R. Trovillion | Updates

First Book in Exciting Mystery Series FREE!

L. R. Trovillion — Mon, 9 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

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Canine Hoarding: Three Things It Taught Me About Myself

L. R. Trovillion — Thu, 5 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Whenever I give my Husky mix, Sitka, a high-value treat or one she is not interested in eating right then, she whines and stresses over where to hide it. She carries it around the house, shoving it under sofa cushions, burying it under the bath mat, or sliding it deep under the bed. She’s often not satisfied with the first hiding spot, so has to retrieve it and find a better one.

My husband and I laugh over this curious behavior. “No one is going to take your bone!” we tell her. There are no other dogs in the house. I shake my head, chuckle, and think how silly she is. Until I realized I behave in much the same manner.

How so? A few things I noted in common: 1) Sitka’s high-value treat is like my guest towels, or my special bottle of wine, or anything else I’ve deemed to good to use just for me. Like a demented squirrel, I’ve stored away a trove of “nice things” to be used or eaten at some later, undetermined time. What does that say about how much I value myself? Sure, keep some things nice for special occasions, but when they rot in the pantry or get moth-eaten in the linen cabinet, who are they serving? I’ve made a point to start enjoying nice things for me, too.

Another thing: 2) Sitka hoards treats she doesn’t feel like eating at the moment. No, I don’t bury food to dig up later and enjoy, but I do recognize a certain “scarcity mentality” that drives my stinginess at times (if I’m being perfectly honest with myself). Instead of sharing my abundance, I am more tempted to store it up “just in case.” In case of what? The one-in-a-million chance disaster headed my way? When a food drive rolls around, what am I reaching for in the cabinet to donate? Yup, more likely things I don’t want to eat, lower value items, or food I can easily spare. It’s not a good look and I’m working to change it.

Lastly: 3) When Sitka searches for the perfect hiding place, she whines in distress and anxiety. What is she afraid of? That some other creature will take it from her? That she will be left with nothing? Not likely since she is a very spoiled dog. Are my stingy, miserly attitudes likewise driven by some (irrational) fear? Perhaps. I remember money always being a source of tension growing up and in my family the message was clear that we never had enough. But now my circumstances are better and I’m in a position to enjoy some sense of security and comfort that basic needs will be met. Yet… Old instincts die hard. I have to remind myself that I am not a Siberian husky in the harsh tundra garnering scare food resources… I am a (rational) person who knows she has to shrug off those old insecurities and trust more in the future.

See—we have a lot to learn from our animal companions.

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Someone is Always Listening...and it Might be Your Dog!

L. R. Trovillion — Sat, 24 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Do you ever wonder just how much your dog actually understands? I’ve long suspected it’s far more than she lets on—and that obedience is, frankly, optional.

This week, I got proof.

Yesterday morning my mare came in missing a shoe. This is not rare. She has perfected the art of pulling them off, and my farrier—who possesses the patience of a saint—usually comes out to tack it back on. That is, if I find the shoe. If I don’t, we’re looking at a more expensive and time-consuming remake.

Naturally, the morning it happened was bitterly cold and howling with wind. I scoured the field, checking all the usual “shoe-sucking” hotspots: by the gate, on the hill, near her favorite rolling zones. Nothing. So I escalated.

I grabbed a metal detector (which tells you everything you need to know about my life) and began a second, highly disciplined grid search of the same three acres I’d already covered. Still nothing. Zero. Shoe: vanished.

The forecast promised a foot of snow and ice within 24 hours. If I didn’t find that shoe soon, it would be lost until spring—or possibly absorbed forever by the earth itself. That night at dinner, I lamented my fate and expressed serious doubts about ever seeing the stupid thing again.

At this point, my dog Sitka—who is always nearby—lifted her head as my husband laughed and said,

“Too bad you can’t teach Sitka to retrieve lost horseshoes. Now that would be a useful trick.”

The next morning, with a major storm looming, I headed out to feed horses and prep the barn. From inside, I heard Sitka barking nonstop on the back deck. I assumed she’d decided warmth was preferable to farm labor and had abandoned me for the fireside.

When I went back into the house, we discovered Sitka had dropped the missing horseshoe neatly by the door.

Coincidence? Maybe. Perhaps it smelled interesting. Or perhaps—just perhaps—she’d been listening the whole time and decided to help.

I’ll never know. But she received enthusiastic praise, multiple treats, and a permanent promotion to Most Useful Creature on the Farm.

And I’ll never again underestimate what my dog understands—especially when there’s a problem to solve and snacks on the line. 🐾

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What it Means to be a Descendant of a Salem Witch

L. R. Trovillion — Thu, 13 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I recently learned that Dorcas (Galley) Hoar, a woman accused of witchcraft during the notorious Salem Witch Trials, was my 10th great-grandmother (according to Ancestry.com).

The revelation couldn’t come at a more appropriate time than the beginning of October, Samhain, Halloween, and the witchy season. Of course, poor Dorcas was not a witch, although she ended up copping to the charge in order to save her neck. Instead, she was a woman who did not fit in with the Puritan community and ideals, so she became the perfect victim.

Dorcas Hoar (you have to love her name!) was not without her faults. After digging into the records, I learned that she was head of a burglary ring that included her own daughters and was known to steal from her local minister. I think that’s a go directly to hell, do not pass go sort of charge. She also was known to read fortunes—not a safe vocation in Puritan New England where neighbors saw the devil behind every tree and shrub.

As the record states, Dorcas Galley was born around 1640 in Beverly, Essex County, Massachusetts which was adjacent to or sometimes part of Salem. Her parents, John Galley and Florence Isabella Ingham*, were not married, so she came into the world with that strike against her. Dorcas married William Hoar, had a number of children, and died 1 February in Ipswich where she was living with a son-in-law and subsisting with the aid of community charity.

Dorcas ran afoul of the law prior to the witch hysteria. According to the 1692 Salem Witch Museum website:

One of the most fascinating people caught up in the witchcraft delusion of 1692 was Beverly’s Dorcas Hoar, who lived near Reverend John Hale on what is today Hale Street. The Central Cemetery now occupies the site where her house once stood, at approximately 66 Hale Street.

In 1692, when accusations began to spread from Salem Village to surrounding Essex County towns, Dorcas Hoar was a prime target, a “usual suspect.” For many years she had been known to tell fortunes, an activity her minister, Reverend Hale, suggested she abandon. He was under the impression she had given up the practice but he was mistaken.

Years before the witchcraft trials, Dorcas Hoar was the leader of a burglary ring, a group of people that included six of her children and numerous servants in households around town. Among those working with her was 17-year-old Margaret Lord, a live-in servant for the Hales. According to Edward Brown in his book Thieves, Cow Beaters and other True Tales of Colonial Beverly, Lord “shamelessly stole money, jewelry, clothing and food in abundance from the Hale household, aided and abetted by her friends the Hoars, who were the primary beneficiaries.” Although this thievery initially went unnoticed by Reverend Hale and his wife, the Hale children were aware of what was happening in their home. They remained silent only because Lord threatened to harm them.

Fourteen years before the witchcraft hysteria, in 1678, Hale realized he was being robbed and, after questioning his children, filed a complaint charging Dorcas Hoar and several of her “gang” with robbery. Among those charged were two of Dorcas’s children and Margaret Lord, the latter of whom fled the area and escaped punishment. During the Hale children’s testimony, it was also revealed that the Hoars and Margaret Lord often hosted parties, or “merry bouts,” with singing and dancing. This was not the Puritan way.

Many Beverly neighbors ended up complaining of the burglaries in town, among them the founder of Salem, Roger Conant. He testified that he suspected two Hoar daughters of stealing some canvas from his home a few years before. Others told of the thefts of clothing, money, and oil.

The burglars got away with a very light sentence, only having to pay the costs of what they stole. Historian Edward Brown speculates that Reverend John Hale may have shown them mercy. The Hoar family was not grateful for the leniency. In fact, some of the children beat two of Hale’s cows, one to death, in an act of revenge.

Dorcas Hoar was certainly a perfect candidate for the charge of witchcraft when the accusations began to spread in 1692.

At least five Beverly residents were accused of witchcraft in 1692: Dorcas Hoar, Job Tookey, Susannah Roots, Mary Morey and Sarah Morrell. We know the most about Dorcas Hoar, who was arrested at the end of April and questioned at Ingersoll’s ordinary in Salem Village on May 2. Abigail Williams claimed that Hoar was “the woman that she saw first before ever Tituba Indian or any other.” Other afflicted girls said the Devil could be seen whispering in Dorcas’s ear. Hoar called them all liars but, when convicted in September and scheduled to hang with eight others on the 22nd of the month, she confessed to witchcraft the night before she was to be hanged, and named others as witches. Her last-minute confession saved her life. Reverends John Hale and Nicholas Noyes, along with two schoolmasters, asked for a reprieve of “one month’s time or more to prepare for death and eternity.” Chief Justice William Stoughton granted the stay and, by the time a month had passed, the trials were over.

Hoar remained in jail for eleven months, finally being released in the spring of 1693. She ended her days in poverty, taken care of by public funds paid to a son-in-law with whom she lived.

Dorcas was certainly a troublesome woman so a perfect candidate for persecution. Indeed, the majority of people accused of witchcraft were women (approx. 78%) and at the time, the prevailing Puritan culture believed that women were more inherently sinful and susceptible to damnation than men. Of course, Dorcas was a thief and should have been charged appropriate to the crime, but instead was tried, convicted, and sentenced to hang for witchcraft. In the end, however, she played the game and begged for time to make peace and amends with God. She was granted a delay in her execution, during which time the witch hysteria died down so she managed to escape the noose.

I’m not sure how I feel about learning I am distantly related to Dorcas Hoar, but I am glad that it prompted me to go back and read more about the Salem Witch Trials. What it means to be a descendant? It is to realize this truth: It is important to be ever watchful over yourself as well as others because that sort of hysteria can happen (is happening) again. It won’t be witches perhaps, but nonetheless it will sweep up marginalized people and individuals without power on the edge of society. We must guard against another Witch Trial.

*Nicholas Ingham is listed as my 13th great-grandfather. Ancestry research courtesy of my sister, who tipped me off to the Dorcas Hoar connection.

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Without Writers, Hollywood Is Speechlessmber

L. R. Trovillion — Fri, 24 Oct 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I recently learned that one of my favorite authors, Paulette Jiles, passed away on July 8, 2025. The news hit me harder than I expected. Jiles—brilliant chronicler of both history and humanity—gave us News of the World (later made into a film), Enemy Women, Stormy Weather, and The Color of Lightning. Her words could transport you straight into the saddle, the storm, or the heart of another century. And as a fellow horsewoman, she earned my admiration twice over.

Her death came during a week when headlines were crowded with the losses of icons like Robert Redford, Diane Keaton, and Gene Hackman. Newsfeeds overflowed with tributes and clips celebrating their unforgettable performances. But as I watched, I couldn’t help thinking—what about the people who wrote the lines that made us fall in love with those characters?

Without writers, there would be no Jay Gatsby to brood in his mansion, no Annie Hall to charm us with neurotic grace, no Popeye Doyle chasing down criminals in The French Connection. Every scene we quote, every moment that sticks in our memory, began with someone alone at a desk, wrestling words into being.

Actors bring the magic to life, yes—but it’s the writers who conjure the spell. They create the worlds, the dialogue, the hearts beating behind the camera. Yet too often, when one of them leaves us, the news barely ripples.

The next time I’m glued to a great film or binge-worthy series, I’ll do something simple: stay for the credits. I’ll look for the writer’s name. Because before any actor steps into character, before the director calls “Action!”, it all begins with a blank page—and someone brave enough to fill it.

Let’s give the writers their standing ovation, too.

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