Green Grows the Grove

“These trees are old, really old, Aunt Celia!” Buddy whispered to the elderly lady holding his sweet hand.  “They’s older than you, even!”  He skipped to a hidden tune.

“Yes, little boy, I know they are old,” she mused, smiled down at the intense face.  “They were old when I was your age.”

His surprised face turned to laughter as he pictured this old woman skipping.  “Then you know all about the ‘sterious dis’pear’nce of Miss Cassandra!”

“Yes, my dear Buddy, but you tell me all about it, will you?”

Buddy flew into the story of the missing Cassandra, a story handed down to each generation.  Celia hid her chuckles as Buddy threw pirates and ghosts into the simple recounting of a young lady who ran away on eve of her wedding with her fencing instructor, and her “’sterious dis’pear’nce”.  “You reckon Miss Cassandra’ll ever be found?”

When Buddy finished the grand story, both were exhausted.  “Come, little man, let’s rest here a while,” Aunt Celia indicated a bough leaning to the ground.  She perched on the lowest bend, just as Buddy’s dog came bounding by.

His question unanswered, Buddy took off after his pet.

Great-Great-Aunt Celia gazed at the ground beneath her feet, knowing that just a few feet below lay Miss Cassandra in her wedding dress. Oh, well, Cassie. These things happen. You should never had trusted me.

Celia smiled. Life has been good. 

This is photo prompt from Delores in 2012. I think this is from Atlanta, GA.

Struggles with the Past

Writing memories of stories told to me by my father is an almost

Mom's senior high school photo

easy delight. Experiencing those stories as if Dad himself were there beside me fills me with a warm satisfaction; those stories will not disappear when I do.

My last post on Susan Kane, Writer is a true to the images what Dad told me more than once. He always said that a good tale can be told over and over. This last post was one tale Dad told me which had me laughing each time, Gift, Freely Given.

My mother never told these detailed stories, ever. Instead, she talked with us as we worked with her. We would be washing dishes and she would have us laughing at some event from her youth.  A small event, like going to dances at her high school when she was sixteen, would have my sister and me in stitches.  

Mom in High School

Mom was vivacious. Mom loved people and they remembered her for her kindness and enthusiasm. Mom was born in 1928, part of the Greatest Generation. Mom grew up on a farm. Mom was a cheerleader and played the flute in HS. Mom did...

But there was no connection from one situation to one part to the next, just free-flowing.

Baby brother Donald with Mom and Dad, 1947

How do I weave those brief memories into a picture of who my mother was and how did those parts make her who she was?

As writers, what do you do with characters about whom you have to build around, to construct with pieces of understanding?  How honest do you have to be when this is a telling of someone like my mom? And keep the story true and solid?

How do I keep my voice accurate in trying portraying their voice?  Her voice.  Do I try to create a new persona for Mom?

Also, what do I do to be true to the character when their persona has flaws? In my Aunt Helen, her voice includes profanity.  In real life, Aunt Helen did not do this.  However, she held onto the anger of her growing-up years for her entire life. Her photos show that. So, I endowed her with inward profane dialogue. 

If I had that anger, what would I do to release it? What would you do with this way to express the character's anger?

So there you have it. And here I ask you: What do I do? What can I do? What would you do?

If this post leaves you confused, please check the post site in yellow above.