Kathy Lynn Emerson's Blog, page 12

Keys to Good Writing

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Bruce Robert Coffin here, fresh off a very successful Maine Crime Wave where writing was the subject of the day.

Aspiring authors often ask, how do we do it? How do novelists capture the essence of being on the pages of a book? How do we write characters that readers care about? What is the secret?

I imagine if you posed that question to a hundred authors you would undoubtedly receive a hundred different answers. The short answer is, there is no magic formula that works for everyone. Good writing comes from practice. Period. But, as you may have guessed, there is a great deal more to it.

One of the most important components of good writing, regardless of genre, are the experiences we share, or long to share, that allow us to identify with the readers of our novels. The very things that speak to each of us, love, hate, jealousy, loss, heartache, will also speak to our readers. We can all identify with the raw emotions of life. Even life’s sweetest moments can be described and written in such a way that they touch us on a personal level. Haven’t we all experienced that tart, juicy snap as we bite into a freshly picked apple? The delicate and warm touch of a lover? Something so humorous that we couldn’t stop laughing? That electric and intoxicating first kiss that left us weak-kneed with excitement and anticipation? Or the overwhelming sense of grief that envelopes us following the loss of a loved one? Each of these experiences are a part of life. And, in my opinion, good writing is about sharing those experiences.

Whether the novel you are writing is set in the past, present, future, or even on another planet, take the time to populate your story with characters who are capable of real emotion. Insert into your story honest descriptions that reflect the way you feel when you experienced these moments in your own life. Building familiar and believable connections between the readers and your characters is an essential part of good writing. Most of us have, at one time or another, experienced flat one dimensional characters, either in a book or on screen, and if you’re like me you probably found yourself not caring about what happens to them. This is precisely why it is imperative that we write honestly in order to establish that connection. The good, the bad, and the ugliness of life should be reflected within the characters and stories we create on the page. Using your own experiences will add a layer of depth and realism to your writing that only you can render. Absent believable and relatable experiences, and accompanying emotions, your story will likely be nothing more than words on a page.

Until next time. Write on!

Forget Me Not

[image error]Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here, for a change NOT writing about the newly released Crime&Punctuation. Go to my last few posts if you want to know about the new “Deadly Edits” series now that the first book is in stores. No, today’s topic is about the one “sign of spring” I look for every year, one that makes me very nervous if it’s late in appearing.

What am I blathering on about? Forget-me-nots, of course.

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I’m not entirely sure where my attachment to these little blue flowers comes from, but it seems to go back at least two generations in my family. When I was nine and asking everyone I knew, family and friends alike, to sign my autograph book, my grandmother, Katie Hornbeck Coburg, wrote the following verse:

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She died unexpectedly twenty-six days later. That was the first time I ever lost someone close to me.

My mother’s good china, the subject of another post here at Maine Crime Writers, also reflected a fondness for forget-me-nots. They are on every piece of the hand-painted set she treasured.

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Forget-me-nots always grew in her gardens, too, and when I wanted some in my bridal bouquet, and they were not yet flowering in Maine by the tenth of May, she dug some up and hand-carried them north from New York State to give to the florist.They’re hard to see in this photo, but they’re there.

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Some of Mom’s forget-me-nots still come up every year at my house, although I did not inherit her green thumb and have killed off every other flower I’ve planted. That’s where the nervousness comes in. The forget-me-nots have flourished, year after year since 1976, when we first bought this place. The photo at the top was a particularly pretty crop. I use this picture on my Facebook page.

These last few winters, however, have been . . . odd. Last spring and again this year, I despaired of seeing a single bloom. Last year only a few eventually appeared. This year was even more of a nail-biter. It wasn’t until the seventeenth of May that a couple of scraggly-looking forget-me-nots popped up in the tall grass next to the day lilies. A week later a few more bloomed between the two big trees in our front yard and I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.

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I’m not sure what I think will happen if a spring comes and the forget-me-nots don’t. It isn’t likely the world will end, but it will be a sad, sad day at the Emerson house . . . and a good time to reread the other piece of advice my grandmother wrote in my autograph book.

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Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of more than fifty-five traditionally published books written under several names. She won the Agatha Award and was an Anthony and Macavity finalist for best mystery nonfiction of 2008 for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2015 in the best mystery short story category. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries and the “Deadly Edits” series (Crime & Punctuation—2018) as Kaitlyn and the historical Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries (Murder in a Cornish Alehouse) as Kathy. The latter series is a spin-off from her earlier “Face Down” mysteries and is set in Elizabethan England. Her most recent collection of short stories is Different Times, Different Crimes. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com and she maintains a website about women who lived in England between 1485 and 1603 at A Who’s Who of Tudor Women.

Weekend Update: June 2-3, 2018

[image error]Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will posts by Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Monday) Bruce Coffin (Tuesday), Brenda Buchanan (Wednesday), Sandy Neily (Thursday), and Kate Flora (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

Many of the Maine Crime Writers are at Maine Crime Wave in Portland this weekend.

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

Making Waves in Portland

Many of the Maine Crime Writers will be gathering in Portland on Friday and Saturday for the 2018 Maine Crime Wave. The Wave is an opportunity for members of the crime writing community, published, unpublished, or avid readers, to get together to talk craft, share woes, war stories, and adventures in the world of crime, and generally enjoy the company of others who also hear voices in their heads.

Friday’s events are free and open to the public, so if you’re longing to spend some time with people who kill for a living and are still smiling, here’s where you can find us. Starting today at three o’clock at the Glickman Library, you can attend a panel on Irresistible Openings, with Dick Belsky and Julia Spencer-Fleming, moderated by Barbara Ross.

At four, the offering is writing compelling endings with Daniel Palmer and Joe Souza, moderated by Brenda Buchanan.

This year’s recipient of the CrimeMaster Award is Douglas Preston, interviewed by Frank O. Smith. Festivities begin at five with a cocktail reception, with presentation of the award at six.

Here are some photos from previous Crime Waves:

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Debut authors panel at the Maine Crime Wave 2017 with Barbara Ross, Richard J. Cass, Maureen Milliken, Brendan Rielly, and Bruce Robert Coffin

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My Home Town

Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson here, today writing about the inspiration for Lenape Hollow, New York, the setting for my “Deadly Edits” mysteries. Crime & Punctuation, the first in this series featuring retired teacher turned book doctor Mikki Lincoln, came out earlier this week.

[image error]When I set out to write Crime & Punctuation, I knew I wanted to have my recently widowed protagonist move from her long-time home in Maine back to rural New York State, where she grew up. I was born and raised in the small Sullivan County town of Liberty, New York, famous in its heyday as the home of Grossinger’s Hotel and Katz’s Bakery (best bagels in the universe). This meant I had a choice to make. Should I use the real place as my setting or invent a home town for Mikki?

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You’d think using a real place would be easier. It’s not. For one thing, it takes a lot more research to make sure the story reflects the way things really are in that town. For another, based on what I’ve heard from those who have used real places as settings, every time the writer gets something wrong, people not only spot the error, they point it out. And, of course, there’s the problem of real people holding positions the writer might want to give to a character. Liberty, for instance, already has a police chief, police officers, a

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Revonah–our “swimming hole”

mayor, a board of trustees and so on. That’s the village of Liberty. The town of Liberty has a town supervisor, councilmen, clerk, tax collector, dog control officer—you get the picture. For police protection, in the hamlets outside the village limits, the town relies on the county sheriff’s department. I might have been able to fudge on the other offices, but in a murder mystery those in local law enforcement are essential characters. If I were to make up police officers but put them in a real place, and especially if I were to have my amateur sleuth solve the mystery right under their noses . . . well, let’s just say that’s a situation I prefer to avoid.

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our school and the “chicken coops”–temporary classrooms to accommodate the baby boomers

So, the best choice for me was a fictional setting, but since fiction is based on reality, my Lenape Hollow still has a lot in common with Liberty. I used a map of the village to help me plan locations. Some things, past and present, I left in the same place. The house I grew up in is now Mikki’s. The school on Main Street and the gas station across from it are in the same locations they’ve always been. A new police station was built sometime in the last fifty years. I put Lenape Hollow’s PD in the same place, but I invented a café, Harriet’s, across the street from it. Since I needed a large tract of land for my storyline, I blithely did away with the “new” high school we moved into in 1963, combined it with features of Revonah Park and Walnut Mountain, and came up with the site for a proposed theme park called “Wonderful World.” Apologies to all those whose homes I wiped out in the process.

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municipal building with new police station beyond

I couldn’t use Liberty’s redbrick municipal building in this series—I already borrowed it, moved it to Maine, and set it down on one side of the town square of Moosetookalook as part of the setting for my Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries. I also wanted to avoid using real people from my own past as characters, even though I did give Mikki some of my memories. I wrote one scene, in which Mikki discovers that a childhood playmate is still living just down the street from her. Imagine my surprise when I learned that one of the siblings in that real family does still live there!

All of Sullivan County has changed a lot in five decades, from boom to bust to rejuvenation. I hope to capture that as the series continues. In my fictional Lenape Hollow, the real world will be mixed with an imaginary one, but it’s one I hope readers will find believable. Above all, I hope they will want to revisit Lenape Hollow and Mikki Lincoln in future books in the “Deadly Edits” series.

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Kathy Lynn Emerson/Kaitlyn Dunnett is the author of more than fifty-five traditionally published books written under several names. She won the Agatha Award and was an Anthony and Macavity finalist for best mystery nonfiction of 2008 for How to Write Killer Historical Mysteries and was an Agatha Award finalist in 2015 in the best mystery short story category. She was the Malice Domestic Guest of Honor in 2014. Currently she writes the contemporary Liss MacCrimmon Mysteries and the “Deadly Edits” series (Crime & Punctuation—2018) as Kaitlyn and the historical Mistress Jaffrey Mysteries (Murder in a Cornish Alehouse) as Kathy. The latter series is a spin-off from her earlier “Face Down” mysteries and is set in Elizabethan England. Her most recent collection of short stories is Different Times, Different Crimes. Her websites are www.KaitlynDunnett.com and www.KathyLynnEmerson.com and she maintains a website about women who lived in England between 1485 and 1603 at A Who’s Who of Tudor Women.

Adventures in Fermentation, With Jen Blood

A few weeks ago, I was diagnosed with de Quervain’s tenosynivitis — a condition in which the tendons connecting the wrist and thumb and the synovial sheath encasing those tendons become inflamed from overuse. It’s apparently not an uncommon condition, and one I’ve actually suffered from before, though that was over a decade ago. As a result, however, many of the thumb-intensive activities I had planned for late winter and spring have been put on hold. My hand is in a splint, I go to physical therapy twice a week, I’ve given up gluten and refined sugar, and the knitting of late winter and gardening activities of early spring have been seriously curtailed.

None of this has been especially helpful for my writing productivity, either. I’m actually writing this right now using speech-to-text software while icing my thumb. Since so many of the things I want to do are on the list of things I can’t actually do, I’ve been forced to find other ways to entertain myself/keep myself busy. One of those ways has become a little bit of an obsession of late:

Fermentation, or “the chemical breakdown of a substance by bacteria, yeasts, or other microorganisms, typically involving effervescence and the giving off of heat.” That definition courtesy of the Google dictionary. I’ve always been interested in the idea of fermenting stuff, though it was limited to a vague idea that someday I might like to make my own beer, and have for many years had high hopes of composting dog waste at the local dog parks, something that other communities have done successfully around the country.

Now that I have the space and the time, it’s felt like a prime opportunity to really dig into this whole fermenting thing. I still ultimately have my eye on the Bath dog park for some excellent composting experimentation, but for now I’m starting small. Sort of. Our kitchen looks like a lab, and smells like a brewery. Cheesecloth has become my new best friend. I go to thrift stores and yard sales looking for the perfect glass gallon jugs, and last week I made a pilgrimage to Richmond, Maine, to visit the brewery store there. I was disappointed to find it closed, but it’s probably for the best. Just looking through the window, all the gear had me salivating.

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Apple cider vinegar and coconut yogurt, in process.

So far, I’ve made apple cider vinegar, coconut yogurt, experimented with the fermentation times of various types of bread starters, and become just a little bit obsessed with my compost pile. It’s all about the rotting, people. Watching the various stages is kind of fascinating, particularly in the compost — different critters coming and going, banana peels going from brown to black to mush to beautiful, nutrient-rich soil. It’s the circle of life, right in my own backyard.

Beyond the compost, my greatest achievement to date is making my first batch of kombucha. For those who don’t know, kombucha is fermented black or green tea. It’s fizzy and funky and a little bit sweet, with a small amount of alcohol and just the right kick of caffeine. Kombucha is made using a SCOBY — an acronym that stands for Symbiotic Culture of Bacteria and Yeast. My niece was totally freaked out when I acquired my first SCOBY, and I’ll admit it’s a little monstrous looking. I got mine from a lovely old friend I hadn’t seen for years, who said she had SCOBYs to spare when I put out a request on Facebook. As soon as I had mine in hand (or in jar, actually – you have to be very careful about handling these little gems), I promptly got to work on the first experiment.

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SCOBY!

Within eight days, one SCOBY had become two, and within ten days, the over-sweet combination of black tea and a whole lot of cane sugar became a lot less sweet, with just the right kick from fermentation.

The next step was to move into the second fermentation phase – this one taking place in individual bottles rather than the single gallon jug. I’ll admit, that got a little bit messy. With only one working hand, transitioning the tea from jug to bottles was no small feat. I had the genius idea to use a siphon. Pro Tip #1: When using a siphon, have an exit strategy in mind. You have to be prepared when the vessel receiving the liquid is effectively filled. Sadly, I learned this the hard way. Our kitchen floor got quite a dousing, but it needed to be washed anyway so I guess there was no harm done.

During the second fermentation phase, the bottled kombucha is sealed tightly and set aside, but closely monitored for three to five days. I say closely monitored because there’s a better-than-average chance your first brew could explode without proper supervision, thanks to the buildup of pressure due to increased levels of carbon dioxide in the vessel.

Happily, I averted that particular crisis. And now, I have one brand new (and very tasty) batch of mango kombucha ready for consumption, with two more jugs of fermenting SCOBY in the works. With that under my belt, I feel like it’s only a matter of time before I’m ready to move onto a grand social/scientific/eco-experimental endeavor at the Bath dog park.

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Jen Blood is the USA Today-bestselling author of the Erin Solomon Mysteries and the Flint K-9 Search and Rescue Mysteries. To learn more, visit http://jenblood.com. 

 

Food for Thought

Dorothy Cannell: A couple of months ago I wrote about going through my bookcases looking for books I’d saved years ago with the thought I might one day reread them.  Mostly these were romantic suspense or gothics.  I lined them up on a table under my bedroom window and have been winnowing the stack down ever since.  Only one or two have I given up on after the first chapter.

There was something was something particularly inviting about them during these often [image error]chill days.  They got me out and about when staying indoors and became something of a routine.  Mary Stewart took me to the sunshine Avignon and Greece; Dorothy Eden to the Victorian era, and most recently Catherine Gaskin carried me off to Ireland with Edge of Glass.

There was so much in this book that I relished.  It opens with the protagonist Moira working in her late mother’s antique shop on the King’s Road in London.  A young, handsome Irishman comes in and sets the lure that will lead to her setting off for Ireland to meet for the first time her embittered maternal grandmother living in a centuries’’ old house made chilling by the rooms being crowded out of moveable space by accumulations of furnishings acquired at auctions.  Adding to the dismal pall is the memory of a beautiful young woman whose death leaves two people under suspicion.  At the center of the story is the family glassworks.

Interwoven is Moira’s flair as a cook.  In an early chapter she whips up a supper of cheese fondue and poached eggs served with freshly ground coffee.  Later she searches for herbs in her grandmother’s neglected garden for making omelets.  This element is the reason I’m writing this blog.

I love descriptions of delectable food in books.  They not only serve as a break in the [image error]tension, for the characters and reader they add that coziness, perhaps otherwise called reality, at the heart of traditional mysteries.  By the way, there is also a cat, a Siamese, prowling amongst the multitude of sideboards and armoires in bereft search of its vanished owner.  But back to food.  Moira is befriended by an elderly German man and has afternoon tea with him at his home which is an island of warmth and sanity after the congested moldering mansion.  Amongst the selections brought in on a silver tray are, of course, scones.

The mouthwatering thought of them got me off the sofa to unearth another book.  One containing recipes I had clipped out or been given. Some tried and enjoyed, others left to languish for years.  Midway through the following is one for Irish Scones, with a notation from whoever gave it to me:

4 cups flour

1 tsp. Baking soda

2 tsp. Baking powder

½ tsp. salt

½ cup sugar (slightly rounded)

1 stick butter

1 & ½ cups raisins

1 egg

1 & ½ cups buttermilk

Preheat oven 400 degrees

Mix dry ingredients together in a large bowl. Cut in butter as for pie crust.  Add raisins.  Set aside.  Beat egg and buttermilk together and add to dry ingredients.  Stir with a wooden spoon.  (If think needed add a little more flour).

Turn out on floured surface and knead.  Roll dough until is ¾ inch thick.  Cut rounds with a lightly floured cutter or a small juice glass.  Put on a greased baking sheet and bake 20 – 25 minutes or until scones are lightly browned.

I’ve made them since rediscovery and think them perfect.  Lesson learned from rereading Edge of Glass. It pays to do the same with recipes stored for years and left neglected.  I’m onto cheese fondue next.

Happy reading and happy eating,

Dorothy

 

A TIME TO REMEMBER THEM

Susan Vaughan here. Memorial Day always prompts memories of my father, who was a spotter pilot in World War II. He came out of it safely and made it to the age of eighty-one. I’ve always known the holiday was once called Decoration Day, but never knew much of the history. My research tells me that the ancient Greeks and Romans honored those who died in battle.

[image error]In the United States, the tradition of honoring fallen soldiers began after the Civil War. Ending in the spring of 1865, the War Between the States claimed more lives than any other conflict in U.S. history, more than 620,000.

That great loss resulted in the establishment of the country’s first national cemeteries. Americans in towns and cities began holding springtime tributes to their fallen soldiers with flowers and prayers. One of the earliest recorded commemorations was organized by recently freed slaves in May of 1865 in Charleston, South Carolina.

In 1868, General John A. Logan, leader of the Union veterans’ group known as the Grand [image error]Army of the Republic, called for a nationwide day of remembrance on May 30, a day he called Decoration Day. By 1890, every northern state had made Decoration Day an official state holiday. When the United States fought in World War I, the holiday evolved as a national day to honor American military personnel who died in all wars. Later the name changed to Memorial Day, and in 1968, when Congress passed the Uniform Monday Holiday Act, the last Monday in May became the official federal holiday. Today cities and towns across the country host Memorial Day parades, often involving veterans and military personnel. After visiting cemeteries and memorials, many people enjoy barbecues and picnics, perhaps because Memorial Day is also the unofficial beginning of summer.

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Since I can’t put flowers on Dad’s grave because it’s far away in West Virginia, I’m [image error]remembering him here. As I said at the beginning, then Lieutenant Arthur N. Hofstetter was a spotter pilot in WWII. This picture was taken before he left the States for Europe after the D-Day landing in France.

He flew a Piper Cub airplane, sneaking across France and into Germany to spot German trains for the U.S. artillery. He radioed back the coordinates and beat it out of there before the bombs flew. Extremely hazardous duty that required agile flying and stealth on occasion. Weapons? A pistol, and what kind is lost to my memory, if I ever knew.

His plane was probably a Piper L-4, a lightweight two-seat, single-wing plane. They were manufactured by the thousands for military uses, particularly reconnaissance.

On one occasion, two [image error]“enemy” planes tried to shoot him down. He escaped by zipping under bridges and power lines until they gave up. Enemy in quotes because according to Dad, his attackers weren’t German planes, but Soviet. Dad suspected these two pilots just wanted to play with this new little American plane. He won the Distinguished Flying Cross for his valiant efforts, but his citation refers to “enemy fire” only because the Russians were supposed to be on our side.

[image error]After the war ended, Mother and I joined him in Occupied Germany, where we lived with a farm family for a couple of years near Regensburg. I remember little about that time because I was only two or three, but I wonder now how that family felt about having us Americans in their home. I do know that Dad held nothing against them, but due to his medal-winning flight for his life, he hated Russia.

I’d appreciate it if anyone would care to share your personal remembrances too.

Weekend Update: May 26-27, 2018

[image error]Next week at Maine Crime Writers, there will posts by Susan Vaughan (Monday) Dorothy Cannell (Tuesday), a guest post (Wednesday), Kaitlyn Dunnett/Kathy Lynn Emerson (Thursday), and Special Crime Wave Coverage (Friday).

In the news department, here’s what’s happening with some of us who blog regularly at Maine Crime Writers:

[image error]Tuesday marks the launch of a new series by Kaitlyn Dunnett. The first “Deadly Edits” mystery, Crime & Punctuation, featuring retired teacher turned book doctor Mikki Lincoln, will be available in hardcover and ebook on May 29, with large print and audio to follow shortly. Publishers Weekly calls this cozy series, set in the Sullivan County Catskills of New York State, Kaitlyn/Kathy’s old stomping grounds, an “entertaining series launch” with “appealing” characters. In the opener, after more than fifty years away, Mikki returns to Lenape Hollow, the town where she grew up, and moves back into her childhood home. When she launches a new business as a freelance editor, the last thing she expects is that one of her first clients will end up dead, murdered in a way that eerily echoes a scene in the book she hired Mikki to edit.

The Maine Literary Award finalists have been announced, and the four finalists for the award for crime fiction are all MCW bloggers. Congratulations to Kate Flora, Dick Cass, Vaughn Hardacker, and Sandra Neily. Way to go, writers!

 

 

An invitation to readers of this blog: Do you have news relating to Maine, Crime, or Writing? We’d love to hear from you. Just comment below to share.

And a reminder: If your library, school, or organization is looking for a speaker, we are often available to talk about the writing process, research, where we get our ideas, and other mysteries of the business. Contact Kate Flora

On the Death of an Old Friend

John Clark bringing back something I wrote more than a dozen years ago, in the days when black flies, apple blossoms and alder leaves the size of a mouse’s ear all signified that it was time to go troutin’.

When you marry, you gain more than a partner. You acquire new relatives, different ways of thinking, new customs and family celebrations. All of these are more or less expected parts of a new blended life. If you are lucky, you gain some unexpected things as well. I gained new realms to explore, and I did; hunting and fishing through parts of Maine that had previously been odd names on a topographic map.

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I got in the habit of sitting on the front steps with my father-in-law. He would talk about catching trout in a spot a couple miles in from a particular tote road or trolling for salmon just before dusk with a Rangely spinner below a certain dam. As we watched the setting sun creep across the hill on the other side of the road, I would share my own memories of fly fishing the Carabasset River with my father before it was lined with ski chalets, and trout were still plentiful enough to be fooled by eight year old boys. I’d reminisce about the gold nugget my grandfather found while fishing the North branch of the Dead River and how my father would hike nine miles into Spencer Stream to catch monster trout. These were companionable moments interspersed with the cry of hawks and the beckoning sounds of float planes on their way to Moosehead Lake.

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I began to explore some of these inherited realms, sometimes alone, sometimes with my wife or friends. There was something magic about wading down the middle of a stream, chest deep in cool water, automatically casting streamer flies while lost in thought. Sometimes those moments would be pleasantly interrupted by the sharp tug of a hungry trout or the wary gaze of a deer caught in the act of drinking. By the end of the day, my body would be tired and my soul recharged.

Certain spots began to acquire their own lore; The overgrown blueberry field where a bear was surprised while eating grubs from an anthill, the streamside trail where a mother hawk maintained her uneasy vigil until satisfied that we were uninterested in her hatchlings, the remote pond where moose and deer ambled through the shallows together, completely indifferent to our presence, the springhole where I suddenly found myself chest deep in frigid water while ice fishing. Each became a part of a blended heritage to be shared with my children while sitting on front steps and listening to the sounds of summer.

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One August, while fishing one of my inherited streams, I dangled a fly in a small pool below the remnants of a long destroyed mill. The spot had often rewarded me with dinner. To my astonishment a huge brook trout swam out of the jumble of old millwork to eye my offering. After looking it over with the contemptuous experience of trout-like wisdom, he turned gracefully and swam back into the rocky den from whence he had come. I was stunned! In years of fishing this brook, nothing of this size had ever shown itself, not had there ever been a hint a fish this big existed. Numerous attempts with different flies resulted in a couple curtain calls, but nary a nibble. I returned home to share my adventure. Over the rest of the season, I returned several times. Each time my mammoth friend would emerge, eye my offering and grandly swim back to his rocky hideaway. His pool was so small and his length so long that he had to use the entire pool to turn around. One evening just before the season closed, I brought Beth with me and she was treated to a command performance complete with a tentative nibble on the evening’s offering.

Summer slipped into fall, fishing was replaced by duck hunting and then by deer hunting. Winter brought holiday gatherings where I shared the story of my mammoth friend with those from ‘away’. Ice fishing became the prime weekend activity, with slow periods filled by meals cooked over outdoor fires and everyone remembering fishing tales from past seasons. More than once I shared the story of my friend and we all wondered how such a large fish had come to live in such a small pool.

As winter faded into spring, Maine experienced what was to become known as the 500 Year Flood. Heavy rains rapidly ate away the snow cover, creating torrents where small rivulets had been just the day before. River towns were evacuated and it seemed like entire forests were rushing madly under bridges. The events surrounding the flooding and the safety of loved ones erased all thoughts of my friend.

When spring once more passed its mantle of green to summer, I returned to the stream. As I approached the old mill site, I was saddened at the changes wrought by the flood. Pools I had fished for years were unrecognizable, with rocks pushed far downstream. The remains of the old mill were gone. After an hour of fishing in every possible spot, I realized my friend was gone. Smaller fish still lurked among the nearby rocks, but the big trout was just a memory to be shared with friends and family on summer afternoons when the siren song of float planes headed for remote ponds fill the skies.

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