Re-posting Re-reading

 

A post from a few years back of this. I miss Elizabeth and Birdie and the gang . . . but have no intention of writing another one. Sometimes it's good to know when you're done. 

I can remember nights in my workroom, struggling to meet a deadline, and I can remember when I first realized that I didn't want to do this forever. Six novels seemed like a respectable number. And I wanted to give Elizabeth a break from all the murders. So I did and plunged into researching the Shelton Laurel Massacre for what would be my last novel, And the Crows Took Their Eyes. But it's fun to look back . . .

 I found myself taking a notion to spend some more time with Miss Birdie and read her book -- The Day of Small Things. Of course I've read it before -- many times -- while I was writing it and re-writing it and proof-reading it over and over. But none of these are the same as just reading for fun -- with the writer/editor eye turned off. And enough time had passed that, at times I could forget I'd written it and just read . . .

I was so pleasantly surprised that I picked up Signs in the Blood  and read it. It was better than I remembered, if I say it myself.  Again there was that strange disconnect between reader and writer -- I kept coming across little family jokes and little odds and ends that are parts of my past . . .

As  I always say, Elizabeth isn't me -- but we share a lot -- Little Sylvie's cabin next door . . . the dogs . . .

She and Phillip sat on my blue bench . . .

In Art's Blood - yes, I kept on reading right through the rest of the books -- Elizabeth and Kyra make wreaths in her workshop -- John's workshop in my world . . .  as was, before the fire.

Old Wounds gets very close to my world -- Elizabeth and family live in this barn while they are building their house in 1984 -- just as my family lived in it in 1974 while building that same house . . .

(I hasten to add that, unlike my unruly Elizabeth, I was never tempted by a charming neighbor -- nor by a bedroom-eyed snake handling preacher either.)

Every time I go to town I drive past this brick building that is the home of the enigmatic Troll of In a Dark Season. 

And sometimes I kind of expect to hear mariachi music floating from Justin and Claui's house -- home to Elizabeth's Mexican farm hands Julio and Homero in Under the Skin.

Rereading these books was a surprising experience in that I became  the reader not the writer and I kept finding myself thinking, Why, that's just the way I'd say that or That sounds familiar only to realize suddenly, Well, duh . . .

I also realized that I am now (much) closer in age to Miss Birdie than Elizabeth (who was ten years younger than I when the first book came out in 2005. ) 

It was an interesting experience, reading right through those books that took over six years to produce -- reading right through them in less than two weeks. 

And now, I'm tempted to do it again . . .

The Old Corn Crib

 A re-post (it's been a busy day) from 2009

The corncrib was a relic of the days when the previous owner of the farm had grown field corn to feed his cattle, his mules, his chickens, and his family. The corn was harvested after drying on the stalk in the field, and the unshucked ears were stored in the small slat-sided building that was lined with rodent-proof woven wire to protect the precious golden bounty. Nowadays, the corncrib stood empty, but for a few ancient moldy cornshucks. (Art's Blood, p. 123)

This, of course, is the original of the corncrib where Elizabeth and Ben found the unhappy Kyra. It's functioning today as a toolshed and a carport for our little utility vehicle but in 1973, when we bought the upper part of the farm from Clifford and Louise, the corn crib brimmed with fat dry ears of white corn -- Hickory King, I think it was.

Corn was the staff of life on the small farm. Every so often Clifford would take a bag or two of the whole corn to a mill in Tennessee where it would be coarsely ground -- shucks, cobs, and all -- and mixed with cottonseed meal and molasses to make feed for the cows. Every day Louise would pull the shucks off a few ears and toss them to her chickens who would eagerly peck the cobs clean. Nell the mule was the daily recipient of more ears (but not too many, lest too much corn make her 'rank' (overly frisky and unmanageable.) The fattening pig, who lived mostly on buttermilk, foods scraps, and garden waste, would be fed ears of corn during the month or so prior to butchering to "harden up the flesh."

And this same corn, shucked and shelled would be taken, not to the big mill, but to a nearby little mill run by a belt attached to the rear wheel drum of a tractor. The owner of this improvised mill would take his pay in meal -- in a little measure specifically for the purpose. This fragrant meal, which was freshly ground in small batches twice a month, provided the best cornbread in the world. Eaten midday -- hot and steaming out of the wood stove, dripping with home-churned butter, it accompanied an array of vegetables, fresh or home-canned, depending on the season, and a very modest taste of some sort of meat. The leftover corn bread might go to the pigs or the hounds, or, dunked in chilled buttermilk left after the day's churning, provide a light supper.

"You keep the mule to plow the corn and you grow the corn to feed the mule," Clifford told us. Man, animals, and corn -- their existence was interwoven.

Evening Light Elsewhere

And speaking of elsewhere . . . Cathy Cole of Kittling:Books blog interviewed me yesterday  and is reviewing Art's Blood today. Pop over and leave a comment if you will.  All you mystery readers out there will find lots of inspiration at Kittling: Books.

Airing the Quilts -Part 1

From OLD WOUNDS:

What is it? Is it a carnival or something? Can we stop? In the side yard of a small green house overlooking the road, bright colors of every description flapped and danced in the wind. Pa slowed the truck and Rosemary realized, with some disappointment, that it was just a bunch of quilts, hanging from clotheslines stretched between big trees. A slender woman in a blue housedress was adding yet another dazzling rectangle to the last empty space. Pink stars spun on a green background as the breeze lifted the quilt. The woman stepped back as if to admire the spectacle then, catching sight of their truck, she raised her hand in a friendly wave.

These are pictures from maybe fifteen or twenty years ago -- pre digital, for sure. I was on my way to the grocery store when the bright colors slowed me down. Back then, I didn't carry a camera all the time so, when I got to the grocery store, I bought a disposable camera.

On my return trip I stopped and asked the lady of the house if I could take pictures of her quilts. She was surprised but  agreed and showed me the different ones. This below was what she called her 'pattern quilt' -- examples of the various squares she had made, all fitted together in a glorious jumble.

The quilter and her quilts are long gone -- someone  else lives in the little stone house now.  But she's commemorated in the above excerpt (the house was changed to green to tie it to a chapter in ART'S BLOOD) -- and the stone house became Nola Barrett's house in IN A DARK SEASON. A memorable stop that day.

And speaking of memorable, I just remembered where the rest of the pictures are -- the much better ones that show the quilter and all of her quilts -- in a dusty scrapbook on the top shelf of my workroom.  It's late now -- I'll post them on Saturday.

Reading in the Tub - Magpie Tales

I haven't done a Magpie Tale in a while but when I saw Willow's prompt picture, I felt compelled to bring forth a relevant excerpt from my second novel.

Art's Blood has always seemed like the red-headed stepchild of my books. For the most part, folks just haven't embraced it as heartily as the others. Too much modern art? The little lesbian interlude? Or is it the rather blah cover with a cabin that does not look like an Appalachian building? I don't know. I'm still proud of the book.

Here's a brief excerpt from the bathtub scene  --

...She stretched out a foot and turned the tarnished brass tap, letting a little more hot water into the tub. A long soak before bed was one of her greatest pleasures. Usually she brought a book with her and read till the water became too cool or till she dozed off.  Occasionally her book would dip into the water as her eyes drifted shut and she had made it a rule never to read borrowed books in the bath. Once wet, a book was never quite the same. It would eventually dry out  -- but only as a puffed up, outsize version of its former self.

[Next come several paragraphs where Elizabeth considers the various suspects in the murder at hand and makes a list (yes, she has a notepad and pen nearby) of motives and opportunities. Finding herself at an impasse, as well as sleepy, she abandons her meditations.]


The intoxicating fumes of the lavender bath oil filled her nostrils. Elizabeth tossed the pen and pad onto the pile of folded towels resting on the small chair beside the tub, extricated a gardening magazine from under the towels, and began to read.

~~~

She awoke with a start. The water was cool and English Gardens was lying open on her belly.  Or rather, floating.

With a sigh of disgust, Elizabeth lifted the sodden magazine and let it drip, then laid it gently on the towels.  She yanked the drain plug loose and the water began to run out with a mocking gurgle.

When she was in the oversize T-shirt that was her nightgown, she turned her attention to the magazine, hoping that it could be salvaged. Carefully she spread it open to a double-page photograph of a luxuriant garden.  Roses cascaded from trellises, arbors, and trees -- in all shades of pink, coral, and red. The title shouted in bold turquoise print: "Don't Forget the Rose!"

She blinked, trying to focus her eyes and her mind. For a few seconds she stood there, staring at the soggy pages. 


Then she wrote on her notepad: There's always a previous murder.

Yes, there's a character named Rose. Like Elizabeth, I do some of my best thinking in the bath.  Including solving the murders that I dream up.

None of the photos are mine. For more Magpie Tales, go HERE.