Voices on a Summer Night

While I mostly write short stories, I have written two novels in my youth:  one for Guidepost's "Mystery and the Minister's Wife" series - The Best is Yet to Be - and a classic teenage post-apocalyptic sci-fi fantasy with what I thought at the time were strong female heroines.  And no, I'm not going to give you a sample of the latter.  (A  collective sigh of relief is heard throughout the land.)  

No, I stick to short stories, partly because I'm more comfortable with the format, because I grew up in a time when people still told stories to each other.  Aloud.  In person.  On a porch.  Or over a summer dinner.  Or over winter cocktails, playing cards, doing a puzzle...  No cell phones, no TV on, maybe a distant radio, just human voices, telling stories that (to child Eve) ranged from boring (how many genealogies do I have to listen to???) to the really, really interesting (especially if I was under the table while the women whispered about things like s-e-x) to the downright scary.  Old monsters die hard.

For example, it was a dark and windy night in summer, and as we did almost every summer, my mother and I were visiting my grandmother in Kentucky.  We were out on the porch, and my mother started telling "The Headless Horseman".  

She was a former teacher and a pretty good storyteller.  She had me huddled up on the porch swing as she built up, slowly, to the peak line:  "AND THERE HE IS!!!!"  And sure enough, there was this guy coming up the porch steps, with his collar pulled up just high enough against the rain that I wasn't entirely sure if there was a head there or not.  Well, I screamed and ran in the house, everyone outside had a heck of a good laugh, and eventually I realized that it was only one of our neighbors.  The story was spread far and wide, to some hilarity, and much shame for me.  But in the end I had the last laugh, because after that, that poor man was always known as "Headless".  Actually, I had the last TWO laughs:  years later I wrote a story sort of based on that, "The Headless Horseman" published in AHMM in 2015. 

The first story I ever published in AHMM (April, 1997) came from those days, too.  "Grown-Ups are All Alike" stemmed from my Kentucky grandmother's next door neighbor's wife.  She was an invalid, and she had her bed in the living room, which I'd never seen before.  We'd visit as a family, of course, but I was also sent over to read to her, though I have no idea why she couldn't read to herself.  (I read my way through many a Reader's Digest that way.)  What I'll never forget is that one year my grandmother talked about her, but she called her a different first name, and that confused me.  

"I thought her name was Sarah."  

"That was his first wife's name," my grandmother explained.  "She died, and he remarried."

"Then why is she still in bed in the living room?"

"Well, she had an accident, and now she's an invalid too.  Some people just don't have any luck but bad luck."

I think we can all see the story potential there.

BTW:  I am the most fortunate person in the world.  "Grown-Ups Are All Alike" was the first mystery story I ever wrote, and I got it published in AHMM!!!!  I still can't believe it.  I really hit the lottery with that one.

There was a difference between my father's relatives and my mother's.  My mother's were all in Kentucky, where the drawl is long and slow and some men sound like they have mush in their mouths.  They take their time, and can keep a story going for many a long hour.  

My father's were all New Yorkers, Greek immigrants, and they talked fast and furiously.  But they were just as good at story telling, and talking around things.  My grandparents lived in a brownstone in Astoria (back when it was an all Greek neighborhood).  When we moved to California, my grandparents sold the brownstone and moved across the street.  Years later, it occurred to me to wonder how in the world my Greek immigrant grandfather got up enough money to buy a brownstone, and asked my father about it.

"Oh, he did a favor for this guy, long time ago, and he gave him a nice little truck route. I've told you about it. We sold pies and stuff to the various bakeries."  

"What kind of favor? Who was the guy?" I asked.

"I don't know what kind of favor, but the guy was some guy named Gambino."  My father gave a mysterious smile, and I will never know if he was joking or not.  

Someday that's going to come up in a story, too...  

***  

Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!

As you HOPEFULLY know, SleuthSayers' anthology, "Murder, Neat" has won the Derringer Award for Best Anthology!  And now it's a finalist for the Anthony Awards!

Thanks, Michael Bracken and Barb Goffman for a fantastic job of editing, and thanks to all of us weird and wacky SleuthSayers for writing some really wicked stories!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!