Carolyn E. Cook's Blog
November 26, 2018
The Story Behind the Story, Part Three
The reports of the new potato crop are very unfavorable. All letters and sources of information declare disease to be more prevalent this year than last in the early crop.
Randolph Routh, July, 1846
During the years of The Great Famine and its aftermath, 1846-1854, over a million people emigrated from Ireland. My great-great grandparents and their seven children were among those hardy souls who braved an arduous ocean voyage to start fresh in America. As was typical, they came in two shifts, the father Charles and oldest daughter Mary in 1852, and the mother Marjory plus the six younger children in 1853.
These were the first facts I learned about this Williams family when I started to research their genealogy. My grandmother’s box of antique photos held pictures of most of the family members and I wanted to know about them, put some reality into those faces. At first, I found the researching wasn’t an easy job. The name Williams is about as common as Smith. But I got better at knowing what to hunt for and, thanks to the early government in Philadelphia, there are plenty of records to create that elusive paper trail.
Little by little, I assembled a sketchy framework of their lives. I thought about using this as a jumping-off point and building a novel around those people, but it seemed to be such a big, even daunting challenge that I shoved the idea to a back shelf. Then, in 2015, I had major surgery that called for a long recovery and the time felt right to attempt the story, since I was in no shape to take a European tour and or cruise to the Bahamas. At the least, it was worth a good try.
I couldn’t sit comfortably at my computer, so I stayed on the couch and handwrote in a spiral, imagining the personalities of my characters, what they’d worn, what they’d done daily, what news of the times concerned them. Pretty much everything. I changed last names, keeping most of the first ones. Only here and there did I substitute a different first name. Parents in those days often called children after their fathers and even mothers. Too many characters with repeat names would’ve created confusion!
When I was able to get up and about, I researched aspects of the times, from the Potato Famine to the Civil War, from the turn of the century to modernization in the 20th. Eventually, all the effort grew into my third novel, New Mercies I See. The picture I used on the title page (and shown above) is of the real Sarah Ellen as a young woman, taken around 1880 in Philadelphia. My assumption is the dress was her creation.
A few things in the story that are true: Sarah Ellen was indeed the eighth and last child, born while the family scraped together an existence in Bucks County, the initial place they lived upon immigrating. They did go back to the bustling city of Philadelphia in the mid-1850’s and rented a tiny row house, moving occasionally when a better place came available. The father Charles worked as a general laborer, a porter, a stone cutter, and a cooper. The mother Marjory kept the house and picked up sewing jobs. The older girls worked as seamstresses, while the younger children benefited from the public schools in the city, an advantage the older children never got.
The string of family deaths, starting with Charles in 1870, is factual. He died of “chronic enteritis" and then came the onslaught of diseases, the 12-year-old nephew Robert of scarlet fever, and tuberculosis which took Anna, Marjory, Charley, and Jane. Sarah Ellen wondered how she’d ever been spared. According to my nurse friends, she probably wasn’t. In her later years, if she’d had an x-ray, it’s likely that her lungs would have shown a sealed-off tubercular section, attacked and made harmless by her strong immune system.
Sarah’s husband Daniel was a fine cabinet maker and I own one of his pieces, the “secretary,” he probably built in the 1880’s. Their marriage wasn’t a happy one, although I don’t think the real Daniel was as terrible as the character I invented.
In her later years, Sarah did live with one of her daughters, tended the house and grandchildren, after her son-in-law died of the flu and her daughter went out to be the family breadwinner. And Sarah did have a bad fall, breaking a wrist and losing use of that hand. Both my mother and her brother spoke highly of her care for them as they grew up. She taught my mother her excellent sewing skills and my uncle said, “Grandma was the sweetest old lady. I never heard her say a cross word about anything.” She was a solid, Christian believer, memorized Bible passages throughout her life, and when she could no longer see well enough to read, she was able to recite all those passages.
Below are the antique photos from my grandmother’s box, the “real” people:
Marjory, full-skirted dress, half-mitts on her hands, son John as a portly, older fellow with his Union cap and war medals, younger son Charley who worked as a “business clerk” before consumption took him, Anna who was a teacher at E.M. Stanton Girls’ Grammar School, a young Daniel, age 18, taken at a studio in Centre County, PA.
And yes, the old woman on the cover of New Mercies I See is the real 88-year-old Sarah Ellen, the picture taken in the backyard of her Maryland home in 1942.
(Since the photos don't want to copy with this, you can see them at carolynecookauthor.com.)
Randolph Routh, July, 1846
During the years of The Great Famine and its aftermath, 1846-1854, over a million people emigrated from Ireland. My great-great grandparents and their seven children were among those hardy souls who braved an arduous ocean voyage to start fresh in America. As was typical, they came in two shifts, the father Charles and oldest daughter Mary in 1852, and the mother Marjory plus the six younger children in 1853.
These were the first facts I learned about this Williams family when I started to research their genealogy. My grandmother’s box of antique photos held pictures of most of the family members and I wanted to know about them, put some reality into those faces. At first, I found the researching wasn’t an easy job. The name Williams is about as common as Smith. But I got better at knowing what to hunt for and, thanks to the early government in Philadelphia, there are plenty of records to create that elusive paper trail.
Little by little, I assembled a sketchy framework of their lives. I thought about using this as a jumping-off point and building a novel around those people, but it seemed to be such a big, even daunting challenge that I shoved the idea to a back shelf. Then, in 2015, I had major surgery that called for a long recovery and the time felt right to attempt the story, since I was in no shape to take a European tour and or cruise to the Bahamas. At the least, it was worth a good try.
I couldn’t sit comfortably at my computer, so I stayed on the couch and handwrote in a spiral, imagining the personalities of my characters, what they’d worn, what they’d done daily, what news of the times concerned them. Pretty much everything. I changed last names, keeping most of the first ones. Only here and there did I substitute a different first name. Parents in those days often called children after their fathers and even mothers. Too many characters with repeat names would’ve created confusion!
When I was able to get up and about, I researched aspects of the times, from the Potato Famine to the Civil War, from the turn of the century to modernization in the 20th. Eventually, all the effort grew into my third novel, New Mercies I See. The picture I used on the title page (and shown above) is of the real Sarah Ellen as a young woman, taken around 1880 in Philadelphia. My assumption is the dress was her creation.
A few things in the story that are true: Sarah Ellen was indeed the eighth and last child, born while the family scraped together an existence in Bucks County, the initial place they lived upon immigrating. They did go back to the bustling city of Philadelphia in the mid-1850’s and rented a tiny row house, moving occasionally when a better place came available. The father Charles worked as a general laborer, a porter, a stone cutter, and a cooper. The mother Marjory kept the house and picked up sewing jobs. The older girls worked as seamstresses, while the younger children benefited from the public schools in the city, an advantage the older children never got.
The string of family deaths, starting with Charles in 1870, is factual. He died of “chronic enteritis" and then came the onslaught of diseases, the 12-year-old nephew Robert of scarlet fever, and tuberculosis which took Anna, Marjory, Charley, and Jane. Sarah Ellen wondered how she’d ever been spared. According to my nurse friends, she probably wasn’t. In her later years, if she’d had an x-ray, it’s likely that her lungs would have shown a sealed-off tubercular section, attacked and made harmless by her strong immune system.
Sarah’s husband Daniel was a fine cabinet maker and I own one of his pieces, the “secretary,” he probably built in the 1880’s. Their marriage wasn’t a happy one, although I don’t think the real Daniel was as terrible as the character I invented.
In her later years, Sarah did live with one of her daughters, tended the house and grandchildren, after her son-in-law died of the flu and her daughter went out to be the family breadwinner. And Sarah did have a bad fall, breaking a wrist and losing use of that hand. Both my mother and her brother spoke highly of her care for them as they grew up. She taught my mother her excellent sewing skills and my uncle said, “Grandma was the sweetest old lady. I never heard her say a cross word about anything.” She was a solid, Christian believer, memorized Bible passages throughout her life, and when she could no longer see well enough to read, she was able to recite all those passages.
Below are the antique photos from my grandmother’s box, the “real” people:
Marjory, full-skirted dress, half-mitts on her hands, son John as a portly, older fellow with his Union cap and war medals, younger son Charley who worked as a “business clerk” before consumption took him, Anna who was a teacher at E.M. Stanton Girls’ Grammar School, a young Daniel, age 18, taken at a studio in Centre County, PA.
And yes, the old woman on the cover of New Mercies I See is the real 88-year-old Sarah Ellen, the picture taken in the backyard of her Maryland home in 1942.
(Since the photos don't want to copy with this, you can see them at carolynecookauthor.com.)
November 19, 2018
The Story Behind the Story, Part Two
Who hasn’t wondered whatever happened to a house where she spent childhood days, or one that figured prominently in her family’s history? Who hasn’t, when given an opportunity, at least driven by that house? Or perhaps been so bold as to walk up, ring the doorbell, and introduce herself to the present owners?
Some years back, my sister and I took a long road trip, traveling from Texas to northern states. I’d been working on genealogy and aimed to find old cemeteries where ancestors were buried, besides places where those people had lived. I had an address for one such residence in Pennsylvania, which I knew still existed since I’d seen it on Google maps street view. (Really love that feature.)
In the town, I drove up and down the streets until finally, we recognized the house. It had been designed and built in 1924 by my mother’s uncle, who had been a civil engineering professor. It was a two-story done in what was called the Tudor Revival style. When my mother and her brother were children, they had spent most summers in that Pennsylvania house with their uncle, aunt, and cousins. I had often heard my mother tell about how much fun she’d had in those days, in that particular home.
Of course, the original family was long gone and I had no idea who lived there in present time. But I parked my car across the street and got out to take a few pictures. That action brought a neighbor, who was, understandably, a bit concerned about a car with out-of-state license plates and a stranger clicking a camera. I explained to the woman who I was and my mother’s ties to the dwelling, besides showing her a vintage photo I owned of it, taken around 1930.
Upon hearing my report, the woman was so pleased, she took my sister and me across the street and introduced us to the current owners. They were very gracious and even gave us a tour of the first floor. It was a wonderful experience to view a place that had been so much a part of my mother’s growing-up. I could imagine her, the brother, and the cousins racing boisterously through the rooms.
That experience was a story spark that I pondered for a long time, envisioning the uncle’s family, while also being curious about the other people who’d lived in the house over the decades. Finally, I typed the beginning page of a tale which evolved into The House on Hawthorne Street. The setting became a fictional town established on the prairie of north Texas and I considered the house as much a story character as the folks who resided there.
My character of George Sparks, father in the created, initial family, was fashioned after one of my distant cousins who was a very lively and outspoken fellow. The two Sparks brothers were loosely based on anecdotes my dad told in his later years, describing the relationship between himself and his younger brother. Following the Sparks family, the next house resident, Harriet Butter, was inspired by an eccentric college teacher whose antics were usually cringeworthy, while additional characters consisted of bits and pieces culled from my impressions of various friends and acquaintances, or even strangers noticed only once.
My maternal grandmother’s house had been built in the 1880’s. She bought it in 1920 and lived there until she made the sad decision to sell in 1948. Over those years, she’d developed much affection for the place and even though it was no longer her property, she felt the loss keenly when it burned to the ground in 1962. After she died, I found a small square of yellowed newsprint she’d clipped and saved for decades. It was a portion of a poem and clearly, the words had held strong meaning for her. I included them in the front matter of the house novel as they speak so well of attachment to a special abode.
Who with an old house lives, becomes at last
A part and parcel of his own estate –
Sensitive to its moods, initiate
In all the joys and sorrows of its past:
Wainscoted walls and creaking stairs could tell
Strange tales, and – if so be one’s listening
Often the rooms seem stirred by whispering,
Thus, does an ancient homestead weave its spell.
Then, as relentless the years haste by,
And they who have loved the place pass through the door
In solemn state, to come again no more –
He who has ears, may hear the old house sigh.
MAZIE V. CARUTHERS
Some years back, my sister and I took a long road trip, traveling from Texas to northern states. I’d been working on genealogy and aimed to find old cemeteries where ancestors were buried, besides places where those people had lived. I had an address for one such residence in Pennsylvania, which I knew still existed since I’d seen it on Google maps street view. (Really love that feature.)
In the town, I drove up and down the streets until finally, we recognized the house. It had been designed and built in 1924 by my mother’s uncle, who had been a civil engineering professor. It was a two-story done in what was called the Tudor Revival style. When my mother and her brother were children, they had spent most summers in that Pennsylvania house with their uncle, aunt, and cousins. I had often heard my mother tell about how much fun she’d had in those days, in that particular home.
Of course, the original family was long gone and I had no idea who lived there in present time. But I parked my car across the street and got out to take a few pictures. That action brought a neighbor, who was, understandably, a bit concerned about a car with out-of-state license plates and a stranger clicking a camera. I explained to the woman who I was and my mother’s ties to the dwelling, besides showing her a vintage photo I owned of it, taken around 1930.
Upon hearing my report, the woman was so pleased, she took my sister and me across the street and introduced us to the current owners. They were very gracious and even gave us a tour of the first floor. It was a wonderful experience to view a place that had been so much a part of my mother’s growing-up. I could imagine her, the brother, and the cousins racing boisterously through the rooms.
That experience was a story spark that I pondered for a long time, envisioning the uncle’s family, while also being curious about the other people who’d lived in the house over the decades. Finally, I typed the beginning page of a tale which evolved into The House on Hawthorne Street. The setting became a fictional town established on the prairie of north Texas and I considered the house as much a story character as the folks who resided there.
My character of George Sparks, father in the created, initial family, was fashioned after one of my distant cousins who was a very lively and outspoken fellow. The two Sparks brothers were loosely based on anecdotes my dad told in his later years, describing the relationship between himself and his younger brother. Following the Sparks family, the next house resident, Harriet Butter, was inspired by an eccentric college teacher whose antics were usually cringeworthy, while additional characters consisted of bits and pieces culled from my impressions of various friends and acquaintances, or even strangers noticed only once.
My maternal grandmother’s house had been built in the 1880’s. She bought it in 1920 and lived there until she made the sad decision to sell in 1948. Over those years, she’d developed much affection for the place and even though it was no longer her property, she felt the loss keenly when it burned to the ground in 1962. After she died, I found a small square of yellowed newsprint she’d clipped and saved for decades. It was a portion of a poem and clearly, the words had held strong meaning for her. I included them in the front matter of the house novel as they speak so well of attachment to a special abode.
Who with an old house lives, becomes at last
A part and parcel of his own estate –
Sensitive to its moods, initiate
In all the joys and sorrows of its past:
Wainscoted walls and creaking stairs could tell
Strange tales, and – if so be one’s listening
Often the rooms seem stirred by whispering,
Thus, does an ancient homestead weave its spell.
Then, as relentless the years haste by,
And they who have loved the place pass through the door
In solemn state, to come again no more –
He who has ears, may hear the old house sigh.
MAZIE V. CARUTHERS
November 18, 2018
The Story Behind the Story, Part One
"Where do you get all the ideas for your novels?" a reader friend recently asked me. My response was that inspiration can come from just about anywhere -- old newspapers, online articles, something I hear in a conversation, a vintage photograph, a person I once knew, family anecdotes. All stories arise from another story that produces the spark of invention.
This is the story behind my novel "Early Frost."
In the late summer of 1918, the Spanish flu began its relentless march around the world. By 1920, when the disease had finally faded, it had killed more people than any other contagious outbreak in recorded history, somewhere between 50 and 100 million. Yet most nowadays know little to nothing about those horrific times.
The antique photograph shows just one of the Spanish flu's victims, taken a few weeks before his death. He was a professor of Vegetable Gardening at what was then called Maryland State College, located outside of Washington, D. C. In 1918, he and his wife had been married five years and were parents of two children. By all accounts, he was much liked in the community and considered to be of "sterling character."
His name was Edwin Freeman Stoddard and he was my grandfather.
From the time I was little, I heard my grandmother repeat the details of his demise. "Everyone was getting sick," she said, "and the doctors didn't know how to treat the illness or stop the spread. One of our neighbors -- Edwin thought the fellow to be a great friend -- had a very bad case. Since Edwin seemed full of health, he volunteered to walk to the neighbors' house and help care for the man. As things happened, the friend recovered, but Edwin came down sick. I nursed him for ten days and tried all sorts of remedies, but nothing worked and he succumbed." She stated that, before he drifted into his last sleep, his final words to her had been, "Elizabeth, God will take care of you."
When he'd spoken that encouragement, Edwin was a few months past his 30th birthday. My grandmother was 33, her little boy was 3, and my mother, 14 months. No funeral was held for Edwin, as large, indoor gatherings were prohibited, due to the fear of contagion. He was buried in an Episcopal Church cemetery and a short, graveside service was delivered, although Edwin had been a Presbyterian. But burial plots were already scarce and people had to take whatever could be found.
My grandmother Elizabeth managed to get a job to support her family and held that job for 25 years, but she never remarried. She remained fast friends with the neighbors, though there was always the unspoken assumption that Edwin's death had in some way been the neighbor man's fault. I think even the man himself believed this to be so.
That was my spark. I took the story to a location in Texas, developed townspeople and a distinct main family. The oldest child, twelve-year-old Stella, gives the account from her perspective, how influenza ravaged her town and her own family in 1918. While I made the members of the neighbor family entirely different and rather problematic, I chose to retain the concept of the man with sterling character who goes to care for his sick friend.
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
(To see the photo that goes along with this, go to my website, carolynecookauthor.com. Goodreads seems to only accept copied text here, no pics.)
This is the story behind my novel "Early Frost."
In the late summer of 1918, the Spanish flu began its relentless march around the world. By 1920, when the disease had finally faded, it had killed more people than any other contagious outbreak in recorded history, somewhere between 50 and 100 million. Yet most nowadays know little to nothing about those horrific times.
The antique photograph shows just one of the Spanish flu's victims, taken a few weeks before his death. He was a professor of Vegetable Gardening at what was then called Maryland State College, located outside of Washington, D. C. In 1918, he and his wife had been married five years and were parents of two children. By all accounts, he was much liked in the community and considered to be of "sterling character."
His name was Edwin Freeman Stoddard and he was my grandfather.
From the time I was little, I heard my grandmother repeat the details of his demise. "Everyone was getting sick," she said, "and the doctors didn't know how to treat the illness or stop the spread. One of our neighbors -- Edwin thought the fellow to be a great friend -- had a very bad case. Since Edwin seemed full of health, he volunteered to walk to the neighbors' house and help care for the man. As things happened, the friend recovered, but Edwin came down sick. I nursed him for ten days and tried all sorts of remedies, but nothing worked and he succumbed." She stated that, before he drifted into his last sleep, his final words to her had been, "Elizabeth, God will take care of you."
When he'd spoken that encouragement, Edwin was a few months past his 30th birthday. My grandmother was 33, her little boy was 3, and my mother, 14 months. No funeral was held for Edwin, as large, indoor gatherings were prohibited, due to the fear of contagion. He was buried in an Episcopal Church cemetery and a short, graveside service was delivered, although Edwin had been a Presbyterian. But burial plots were already scarce and people had to take whatever could be found.
My grandmother Elizabeth managed to get a job to support her family and held that job for 25 years, but she never remarried. She remained fast friends with the neighbors, though there was always the unspoken assumption that Edwin's death had in some way been the neighbor man's fault. I think even the man himself believed this to be so.
That was my spark. I took the story to a location in Texas, developed townspeople and a distinct main family. The oldest child, twelve-year-old Stella, gives the account from her perspective, how influenza ravaged her town and her own family in 1918. While I made the members of the neighbor family entirely different and rather problematic, I chose to retain the concept of the man with sterling character who goes to care for his sick friend.
"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends."
(To see the photo that goes along with this, go to my website, carolynecookauthor.com. Goodreads seems to only accept copied text here, no pics.)
November 5, 2018
Scout Meets Jane, Will, Jerusha, and Gus
Sep 7
2 min read
"We all carry inside us, people who came before us." --- Liam Callanan
During my growing-up years, I was blessed to have a grandmother who lived with our family. Often, she showed to me her box of old photographs, many long-dead relatives in stiff collars or lacy dresses, and she talked of them, fondly remembering their names and things they'd done. I'm quite sure that my interest in the past came first from those decades-ago conversations.
Scout Finch, Jane Pittman, Will Tweedy, Jerusha Hale, Gus McCrae --- personalities from some of my favorite books. Their stories arrive from the time of oil lamps and sailing ships, or the Old West of cowboys and cattle drives, or the period of Model T's and Gibson Girls.
Historical fiction has always been a big draw for me. It allows transport to different worlds, a sort of time travel in the imagination, and its characters provide a window onto the past from which we all proceed. And that window teaches, not only about the human condition in bygone days, but of the connection we in the present share with those distant people. Scout, Jane, Gus. Their thoughts and actions have the ability to reach from the pages and take my hand.
The tales I write are set in other eras, as well, and my main characters are women dealing with the conflicts of their times. Stella McFeeters and her mother Irene must stand strong against the calamity of contagious disease. Isabel Glass must hold her ground against scorn and stay faithful to her convictions. Sarah Fischer must endure trials of all kinds, especially the lack of rights and choices given to women in the 19th century. And Harriet Butter must disregard ostracism, cling to her passions, and follow where they lead.
Each woman is heroic in her own, particular way and I intend for each one's determinations to speak of truths that remain as constants throughout the generations.
2 min read
"We all carry inside us, people who came before us." --- Liam Callanan
During my growing-up years, I was blessed to have a grandmother who lived with our family. Often, she showed to me her box of old photographs, many long-dead relatives in stiff collars or lacy dresses, and she talked of them, fondly remembering their names and things they'd done. I'm quite sure that my interest in the past came first from those decades-ago conversations.
Scout Finch, Jane Pittman, Will Tweedy, Jerusha Hale, Gus McCrae --- personalities from some of my favorite books. Their stories arrive from the time of oil lamps and sailing ships, or the Old West of cowboys and cattle drives, or the period of Model T's and Gibson Girls.
Historical fiction has always been a big draw for me. It allows transport to different worlds, a sort of time travel in the imagination, and its characters provide a window onto the past from which we all proceed. And that window teaches, not only about the human condition in bygone days, but of the connection we in the present share with those distant people. Scout, Jane, Gus. Their thoughts and actions have the ability to reach from the pages and take my hand.
The tales I write are set in other eras, as well, and my main characters are women dealing with the conflicts of their times. Stella McFeeters and her mother Irene must stand strong against the calamity of contagious disease. Isabel Glass must hold her ground against scorn and stay faithful to her convictions. Sarah Fischer must endure trials of all kinds, especially the lack of rights and choices given to women in the 19th century. And Harriet Butter must disregard ostracism, cling to her passions, and follow where they lead.
Each woman is heroic in her own, particular way and I intend for each one's determinations to speak of truths that remain as constants throughout the generations.
