Without the past, neither the
present nor future would have a foundation.
I grew up in a rambling Victorian house in one of Missouri’s oldest
cities, a place where history is around almost every corner. My grandparents were my hands on caregivers
while my parents worked so their stories fired my imagination long before I
came across Dr. Suess. They discussed
the past, often inspired by the local newspaper’s daily remember when column,
over biscuits and coffee each morning.
And I listened as what would become my lifelong passion for history
became reality.
With such a background it’s not so
surprising I had a dual major, Communication Arts, emphasis creative writing
and history in college. Or that once my
writing career made the leap from freelancer to author I soon began writing
some historical fiction. Those who knew
me at any stage of my education or life aren’t surprised at all. My former history professors are
delighted. Most of those who earn a
bachelor’s degree in history either teach or fail to utilize their
knowledge. I found another way to use
mine.
I’ve been complimented by both
readers and reviewers at evoking a historical period. It’s tall praise for me because I strive to
bring the past to live in my stories until it almost lives, breathes, and walks
off the page. I want readers to feel
they’ve experienced another decade or imagine what everyday life might’ve been
like in the past.
To do this, research is required. When I begin to write any of my historical
novels, I start with research. I may
begin with some of the wonderful reference books designed for writers which
offer a thumb nail sketch into a period of time. For both Guy’s
Angel and In The Shadow of War, I
utilized The Writer’s Guide to Everyday
Life From Prohibition to World War II (Marc McCutcheon, Writer’s Digest
Books.) But the book, useful and
intriguing as it may be was just the beginning.
Since Guy’s Angel is set in my
hometown of St. Joseph, Missouri in 1925, I relied a great deal on my memories
of my late grandparents’ stories. For my
paternal grandparents, the 1920’s were “their era” as young adults. The neighborhood in the novel was once the
cradle to several generations of my family and through their tales, it was
almost as familiar to me in my imagined past as in my own reality.
I also used back issues of the local
newspaper, read accounts of the time to make sure my information about vintage
aircraft and flying would be correct, researched World War I flyers because Guy
Richter in the story was one, leafed through ads and catalogs of the time and
more. I made sure what my characters
wear is true to the period and verified what they eat and drink would have been
available. Old photographs from my own
family files, from various St. Joseph locations and the Library of Congress
“American Memory” collection all provided vital facts and detail for the
story. I watched 1920’s silent movies
and listened to music from the decade. I
read books popular at the time and cooked recipes from vintage cookbooks. I go deep in creating the past because it
matters to me.
I did the same for the 1940’s in In The Shadow of War, set in the small
town where I now live, once home to Camp Crowder better known to millions
around the world as “Camp Swampy” thanks to Mort Walker and his cartoon strip, Beetle Bailey. I did in my sweet historical family sagas, The Marriage Cure and What Fills The Heart from Astraea
Press. Those two, first two of more to
come, focus on the earliest pioneers to the Ozarks. Even my novella, Long
Live The King evokes both an early Elvis and the 1950’s. My latest full
length release – from Rebel Ink Press - Dust
Bowl Dreams, is set in 1930’s
western Oklahoma.
One reason I spend so much time and
am so meticulous about historical detail is nothing can jolt me from a story
faster than reading something incorrect or out of period. I may write from sweet to heat, from
contemporary to historical, but readers who opt for one of my novels set in the
past can be sure the facts are as correct as I can make them!
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Blurb:
Life’s
never easy for a good-hearted man who decides crime is the answer to his
troubles.
No rain
in the summer of 1933 is bad news for Oklahoma farmer Henry Mink. The local
banker wants the mortgage on the farm paid and unless Henry comes up with the
dough, his widowed mother and four young siblings won’t have a home. Jobs are scarce so he decides to rob a
bank. His sweetheart, school teacher
Mamie Logan, doesn’t like the idea and neither does Henry’s kid brother Eddie
but Henry’s out of options.
He
leaves home and robs a bank at nearby Ponca City. When he returns home, he pays
off the mortgage but new troubles show up. Mamie is his greatest joy and they
become engaged but by fall, Henry has no options left but to rob another
bank. If he can pull off one another big
job, he figures he’ll be set until the hard times are over but few things in life
go as planned. His desperate efforts
will either secure his future or destroy it forever.
If
Henry’s family survives and Mamie’s love endures, he’ll need a miracle.
Buy links:
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Dust Bowl Dreams Excerpt:
With any luck he’d hit the farm just
after dinner time. There’d be plenty of
time for hugs and greetings, a chance for Mama to make over the groceries, and
time to take the whole bunch to town for a hamburger out and maybe the picture
show. Henry would head over to Mamie’s
and invite her along. He spun daydreams
about the moment he’d see his girl again and imagined what everyone would do
and say when he showed up with full pockets.
It’d be like the prodigal son, he figured, but in reverse – they
wouldn’t kill a fatted calf for him, but by God, he’d provide something similar.
Sunday morning he’d be proud to
escort his family to church and sit in a pew with Mamie at his side. Come Monday he’d be at the bank when it
opened and pay the remaining sum on the mortgage. Imagining Richardson’s face when he
delivered the cash gave him pleasure and he chuckled out loud. Henry couldn’t recall when he’d been so
happy, probably not since before his daddy died, the rain quit, and the economy
went to hell in a hand basket.
As he drove, he admired the wide
blue sky sweeping from one horizon to the other like a giant bowl and the way
the prairies stretched out in every direction.
He did his best to ignore the foreclosure signs tacked up on some farms,
the dry clouds of dust wafting across the empty fields when the wind blew, and
the sad eyed children hanging around broken gates at some farms.
Until Henry rolled down the lane to
his home, he’d forgotten how stark the farm looked. What paint once covered the boards of the
farmhouse vanished long ago under the relentless assault of Oklahoma weather
and he noticed the barn seemed to lean left as if it might collapse into a
heap. Dobbin stood in the makeshift
corral, head down as if he hadn’t been fed or wanted water. He expected the kids to run outside when they
heard the car, but no one came and when he parked in the bare yard, he heard
nothing but the whir of the windmill, the grinding of the worn blades.
Henry stepped out and called out,
but no answer came. He reached into the car and honked the horn several times,
sharp and loud. Although he waited, Mama didn’t emerge from
the back door drying her hands on her worn apron, Eddie didn’t bolt out of the
barn, and the gals didn’t come from the shade at the far edges of the yard. Unease crept into his pleasant mood and he
wondered where his family might have gone.
Henry couldn’t figure out how they left either, not with the horse
present and the car in his possession.
He carried the wooden boxes of
groceries into the house and left them on the kitchen table. Henry removed his bandanas from the inside of
his overall legs and reached up for the old Eight O’Clock coffee can Mama kept
on a high shelf. When there was money
in the house, she stashed it there so he put some money into it. The remainder he carried into the bedroom and
stuck beneath the worn mattress. He
made sure his wallet had plenty and went outside.
“Hello?” he shouted again.
Even
if they were down at the river, they should’ve heard the car horn. He smoked a tailor made cigarette, the
tobacco smooth and rich against his tongue.
He’d been certain something must be wrong, but he refused to believe
it. They’d gone off to visit Uncle Ed or
something, he decided. There’d be a
reason and it wouldn’t be anything bad. When he finished the smoke, he decided
he’d head over to the Logan farm. Maybe
Mamie would know where his folks were and he wanted to see her anyway.
Before he could bring the Ford to a
full stop, Mamie flew out of the house and ran toward him, black curls
flying. Her beauty smote him until he
forgot everything else but Mamie. Henry
stopped and got out to meet her. He
swept her into his arms, marveling at the sweet line of her pink lips, the way
her small snub nose wrinkled with joy, and how her eyes sparkled like morning
dew.
“Henry, you came home, you’re back,”
Mamie cried as she hugged him tight.
He
inhaled the sweet fragrance of some simple sachet powder she wore. Her body against his evoked both a tenderness
and a sensual interest so strong he couldn’t even put it into words. All Henry knew was how much he desired
her. Her starched blue calico dress
rustled against him, the full skirt sweeping against his legs and manhood. He couldn’t have resisted if he tried, so he
kissed her, tempted to pull the pins from her hair to set it free.
Her mouth tasted sweet and full,
more intoxicating than Muscat wine.
Sensation flooded his senses, a physical delight making every nerve
ending in his body light up with electricity and emotional connection. The heady mix flared up until he all but lost
his head, kissing his girl until they both gasped for air. When they broke apart, Mamie hugged him
again and he put an arm around her shoulders as they strolled toward the
house. Maybe she’d have some fresh
lemonade, Henry hoped, or maybe a tasty little biscuit or something. He didn’t bother stopping for lunch and now
his stomach ached with hunger.
He’d meant to eat something at home
because he figured Mama would have something around to eat even if it wasn’t
any more than cold cornbread. But he
didn’t get to eat because no one’d been home and reminded, he turned to Mamie.
“Say, honey, you wouldn’t happen to
know where my folks went, would you?” he asked.
Her brilliant smile wilted and some
of the sparkle faded out of her eyes.
Anxiety replaced joy and Henry held his breath. His first impression nailed it – something
must be wrong, some awful thing must’ve happened.
“I forgot you wouldn’t know,” Mamie
said, her voice dropping lower the way people did when they delivered bad
news. He remembered the tone too well
from when his daddy died back three years ago.
“What is it?” he demanded. “What
happened? Just tell me.”
She looked down, eyelashes brushing
her cheek. “It’s Eddie.”
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