It seems that my mom and grandmother were always dressing my sister Marie and me up in little lacy things. And, okay, I’ll admit that as a young girl I liked the little black shoes and wearing the gloves. I think Marie and I always looked forward to Easter each year and the prospect of a new pair of white gloves.
That said, I am certain this was a picture taken on Easter. Marie and I are standing on the front porch steps of my grandmother’s house (that’s me on the top step). Those gargantuan azalea bushes behind us were the inspiration for my story, The Azaleas.
A Living Wall of Color
The azalea bushes at my grandmother’s house were huge when we were children and they were still pretty large when I moved into my grandmother’s house while I was in college and even later when I lived there from 2002 to 2010.
Keeping them trimmed back during the summer was quite a chore because I liked to keep them at least a foot away from touching the house and just below the front windows. It was a lot of work. They grew fast and furious. One day I was trimming away and the story “The Goophered Grapevine” by Charles Waddell Chestnut popped into my head. It was a great story about a man whose life gets connected to a bewitched grapevine. When the grapes grow lush and healthy in the spring and summer, so does the man. In the winter, he gets shriveled and dry like the grapevine.
Where Story and Roots Intertwine
That seed of an idea took root in my imagination. From there, The Azaleas grew—a tale with its own strange logic and quiet sense of enchantment. I eventually developed the character, the conflict, and the slightly magical twist.
An earlier version of the story was published in Beyond the Clouds, and now I’m thrilled to share a revised version as a free gift for readers.
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The Azaleas is a short, haunting tale of the dark side of family and the invisible threads that bind us to the places we come from.
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I think the story behind a story is one of the most fascinating parts of being a writer. For The Secret in Bladham Wood, it all began with what I can only describe as a tiny hallucination.
Years ago, when I still lived in South Carolina, I was outside on a hot summer day (that southern gelatinous-air kind of hot) cutting grass with a push mower. I must have been over-heated because as I was demolishing the grassy overgrowth in the front yard, I thought I saw a piece of paper floating by in my peripheral vision.
My first thought was that maybe some trash had gotten into the mower and was blown out with the grass bits, except there was no piece of paper or even any bits of pieces of paper. Nothing floating by anywhere. Just a trick of the eye. However, it got me to thinking. What if….?
Notes, Bees, and Portal-ish Beginnings
The idea of a piece of paper appearing out of thin air was an intriguing one. But to what purpose? I was sure it would have to be some form of communication. The first attempt at using this idea was a story called “The Delia Papers.” In that story, the notes did appear out of nowhere. I never published the story or even completely finished it.
At the same time I was working on “The Delia Papers,” I was also working on another short story where a young girl on the brink of maturity goes for a walk in the woods and comes across a hole in the ground with bees coming out of it. She is offered the opportunity to go into the hole and always live as a child. (as I’m writing this out, it still sounds like a really cool story, but I did not completely finish it, either). Anyway, my fascination with bees from that story got transferred over to “The Delia Papers” which I stopped calling “The Delia Papers” as it evolved into something much bigger.
At its core, The Secret in Bladham Woodis about two sisters. I also wanted to delve into the idea of our inner power and tapping into it. The Secret in Bladham Wood is really an introductory piece to a lot of ideas. The story is so much bigger than what is hinted at in this first book. The next book will elaborate on the residual effects of Sam, Lilly, and Marcus uncovering the secret and what that means for all involved.
However, my personal adventures have crept in over the years. “The School Car” is a fictionalized version of something that happened to me in elementary school. It made quite an impression at the time and has stayed with me over the years.
When I first began writing stories as a middle-grader, I didn’t write much based on my own experiences. Part of the fun and play of creating was how different it could be from my reality.
My first published short story Darker than the Night was published in 2007. It was a creepy little children’s story and I enjoyed writing to that age group and the little awakenings we start having as we get older. As I brainstormed other ideas for fun stories I could write, I kept remembering the old car just off the school property that captured my imagination as a kid.
Playground Dangers and Urban Legends
Pate Elementary had a huge playground. How the teachers managed to monitor us all, I’ll never know. Maybe they didn’t? (We all survived, somehow.)
It had all the classic death-trap-turned-childhood-gold:
The merry-go-round where we gleefully slung each other off, skidding across the asphalt.
The flip-bars where I mastered flipping one-handed, no-handed, and the “penny drop” (where you flipped yourself off and landed on your feet). I received my first noggin’ bump after landing head-first on the ground. I remember my art teacher telling me I looked like a unicorn. 🙂
The metal jungle gym where we hung upside-down and flipped ourselves down to the ground. I slipped once and did a one-handed swing right into one of the metal bars. I became a unicorn again for a while.
The monkey bars that we swung across, but also climbed up on and flipped off-why were we obsessed with flipping off of things!?!
The metal slide that charbroiled your hands and legs if you were wearing shorts.
The seesaw of crushed groins.
I think there were also some pull-up bars, tires embedded into the ground, and maybe some downed wooden poles that we used as a balance beam.
But the best place? That was the hill.
On the left side of the playground, the ground sloped down a hill with lots of tree cover. It was a great place to get out of the hot sun and play hide and seek. It also had an awesome fissure in the hill that was big enough for someone who was “it” to climb in and run back and forth while trying to catch everyone else as they hopped back and forth over the little ditch.
Fun times.
The School Car: Fact, Fiction, and Fear
At the very bottom of the hill was a chain-link fence where the school property ended. Past that was an overgrown yard with an old rusty car sitting in the tall grass. Tales were passed around about the murders that had taken place in it. And while it didn’t happen often, it was a common dare to challenge other kids to run out and tag the car.
I remember being very curious and yet not wanting to get in trouble for leaving school property. “The School Car” is essentially the story of my encounter with the school car. Sometimes you just have to know the truth for yourself.
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The School Car is a short tale of childhood dares, secrets, and the lines between imagination and truth.
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Several years ago, I wrote a poem about my brother. It was inspired by a time one of my friends came over when I was a teenager (my brother would have probably been somewhere around 8-10 years old). At one point he was chasing the two of us all over the house with a slimy finger that he had inserted and then pulled forth from his nose, booger dangling precariously on the end. I finally locked myself in the bathroom to get away from him but not before I saw him put said finger in his mouth. I promptly vomited.
I have been working on a book of children’s poetry off and on over the past few years and the plan is to draw pictures to go along with them. I was looking through the bits and pieces that I currently have. This one is just too fun not to share now (sorry, Allen)….
My Brother Eats Boogers
My brother eats boogers it makes me quite sick I run away screaming when he starts to pick.
His nostrils are large where his fingers poke through – he pulls them out smiling, all covered with goo.
Then into his mouth he inserts the slime (Feel the need to vomit? Now is the time).
Because there on his tongue with a smack and a gulp his spit forces down the green, lumpy pulp.
I gag and I heave (he thinks that’s quite funny). And, he prays for the days when he finds his nose runny.
Other than that I guess he’s all right. But, if he doesn’t stop soon on some quiet night…
I will sneak in his room (my clever plan goes) and while he is sleeping I will stop up his nose.
I could write several blog posts containing spider stories. My arachnophobia was instilled in me at a young age. Growing up in the Southeast, my siblings and I were often warned to be wary of black widow spiders and brown recluses. I never really knew what a brown recluse spider looked like until I was nearly an adult, but the image of the black widow was distinct in my mind from a very young age.
My favorite toy when I was a kid was a Sit n’ Spin. One day I left it outside. A few days later when I went back out to get it, a large, black spider came running out at me from beneath it. Shrieking, I ran and got my dad and he torched the spider. It had been a black widow and it shook me up quite a lot at how close I had come to potentially getting bitten. That was the first time I had actually seen a black widow spider. Sadly, I was scared to play on my Sit n’ Spin after that.
From Panic to Peace (Sort Of)
I’ve come a long way since then. I respect spiders and am fascinated by them. I don’t like them crawling on me or too close to me, though. I also do not kill them. If inside, I catch or collect them and place them outside.
The black widow in the picture above was in my garden a few years ago. I remember doing some weeding and talking to another little spider that was making its way along the side of the house (yes, I talk to spiders and, no, they don’t usually answer back). I had just turned away from him when a flurry of movement caught my eye. I turned to see the black widow in its tangle web alongside the house. It had captured the other spider I had been talking to. I promptly freaked out because I hadn’t realized how close I had been to the black widow and I ran into the house, tearing my clothes off as I went (‘cause I had this horrible thought that there had been more than one and it was probably crawling on me as I had been brushing up against the house as I made my way down the garden). Once calm, I determined I would have to move it to the woods, but it had disappeared by the time I worked up the nerve to do it.
When Spider Lore Meets Storytelling
I always knew I would have to write a spider story at some point. I should probably write several, as a cathartic process. “The Sewing Lady’s Daughter” came about as I was considering writing a story about a black widow. I wanted to tap into the idea of the black widow killing its mate (which I found out later is a myth) and at the same time not be cliché with it. I thought…what if she had a child? What if it was a girl and she was half-spider? What would happen if she wanted to have a child?
Hence, the story is about the daughter. I like the fairy tale element of the spider falling in love with a human, but the creature instinct still being present. The original version of the story was about fifteen pages with much more build up and exposition. I think I like the shorter version better.
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The Sewing Lady’s Daughter is a haunting little fairy tale about legacy, transformation, and the threads that tie us to our wild selves.
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I have been looking through some of the old photo albums my grandma has in her house. I don’t know a lot of people in the really old black and white pictures and it is interesting to try to figure out their personalities based on their expressions and posture and such.
Many of the people I do recognize. My grandma is there with a young version of my grandfather who passed away when I was in high school. Grandma’s brothers and sisters are there, too. And then there is my dad and his brother Henry and his deceased sister Kathy.
What I Realized About My Dad
I find it particularly interesting to see younger pictures of my dad. It makes me realize that I know very little about him. Sure, I’ve heard stories about his childhood, but I look at the pictures and I wonder what dreams did this boy have? Perhaps I should ask him.
When I sift through the memories of my dad, something is there I can’t quite put my finger on. My mom was a much more dominant presence in the family. Still is. Thinking about it, it seems that my dad represents strength to me and solidarity. He has physical strength for sure, but I also think of him as the man who never cries. When you’re tough (or strong), you don’t cry, right? (I actually believed that for a really long time).
A Childhood Memory: Our Beach Trip
Anyway, seeing the pictures of my dad and thinking about our relationship over the years reminded me of a poem I wrote quite a while back. Thought I would share it.
Beach Trip The waves seemed higher when I was five or six.
My sister and I would go out as far as our toes could touch the shifting sand.
It was a family event – the beach, the sandy towels, Grandma’s old camper with the bunk bed at the front where I snuggled each night in its dark, secure crevice.
Each morning we’d run out to water with buckets and yelps, and salty breath.
Mom would stretch out in the open to catch the sun.
On rare occasions, my dad would venture with us and we’d press ourselves further into the deep.
The big waves would come, rolling and pushing us under and apart.
My dad’s strong hands held our fragile wrists firmly,
and we bobbed in the vastness of the ocean –
laughing, and unfearing.
Share Your Family Memories
Do you have a favorite memory of your dad? Or maybe a beach trip that lives in your bones the way this one does in mine? I’d love to hear your stories in the comments.
Writing this brought back a wave (pun 100% intended) of feelings—nostalgia, gratitude, and a touch of wonder at how our memories shape us. Thank you for taking this little trip with me.
