Trees, with Apologies to Joyce Kilmer by Susan Van Kirk

 

After work on Tuesday, Angie stopped by my house. We opened a bottle of Savvy B, our current favorite, sat on the deck, and stared out at the tree leaves of Naples yellow, saffron, and scarlet. Gorgeous.

“I love autumn in the Midwest,” Angie said. “It’s as if you’re on another planet. All the greens suddenly explode into vibrant color. A strange planet. I never get tired of it.”

I smiled. “This is hardly a conversation we would have had as teenagers. Trees. Sounds like my parents. We must be getting old.”  (From Death in a Bygone Hue)

 

This excerpt from my second art center mystery uses trees to underline the painter’s colors that were a constant in the mind of my artist protagonist, Jill Madison. They also reflect her love of the hometown she recently returned to. And the last line reminds me that when I was a kid, I used to think only adults noticed trees. With one exception.

 

                                                             The gingko tree in my yard

When I was in elementary school—about 110 years ago, it seems—I used to walk to school with my friend, Vicki, who lived two blocks from me. I’d walk to her house, she’d come out, and we’d have a mile—no, not just a guilt memory to use on my kids—to school. We had lots of adventures, like the day a dog bit her on the hand, and I ran all the way home to get help. (No, we didn’t have cell phones 110 years ago.) In the front yard of a house on the route was a gingko tree. I loved its triangular leaves, so gold in the fall, and I vowed I would have a gingko tree when I grew up. Strangely enough, the little house where I now live has just such a gingko tree in the front yard. And I love it.

 

And now that it’s at least 110 years later in my mind, I have discovered trees can play a significant role in my books. Here are a couple of examples of how I used them to add to the setting.

 

“She sat across from me at a small table I’d picked because we could see out a window. The trees were beginning to turn colors, and the soft maple and oak leaves were lovely.” (from Death in a Bygone Hue)

 

                                              photo by Valeriy Andrushko at unsplash.com

“The driveway was on the far side of the house, along with the house entrance. I kept low and ran toward a cluster of tall trees, the ground sloping upward toward the road. Once in the grove of trees, I could move from one to another. The fragrant smell of pine filled the air, and the moon provided enough light for me to see so I could keep from falling over gnarled tree roots. The ground was full of pine needles that softened my footsteps.” ( from Death in a Pale Hue)

 

The tone of a story can also be created with tree descriptions. In Death in a Ghostly Hue, I wanted to begin the story with a dark tone, a warning that trouble was coming. This description is early in the first chapter:

 

“Gazing out the front window of the art center, I stared at the public square in Apple Grove and thought about how recently the trees had been filled with color. Now, in the gloomy Midwest winter of late January, their stark limbs and thin, obsidian arms stood out against the gray sky, daring me to believe they’d be filled with green leaves once again.”

 

In Death in a Pale Hue, I used the memory of the neighborhood where I grew up to create suspense when Jill is being followed at night by a killer. She’s only a couple blocks from her home, but the trees enhance the darkness, the shadows, and her terror.

 “We had huge trees all through the neighborhood, and if anyone were to follow me, he would have lots of cover and shadows to hide in. I walked as fast as I could, my breath coming heavily, my heart pounding in my ears.

Besides the thump-thump of my heartbeat, I was sure I heard footsteps behind me. Had I imagined them? I couldn’t stop to check them out, so I moved as fast as I could. I was into the Wendover’s yard, and once I cleared the house, I took a tiny glance back. Was that a shadow moving on the side of their garage? Up to the Palmers’ house, the last yard with trees scattered throughout before our block. Even a huge weeping willow. Looking quickly over my shoulder, I saw a shadow move near the old oak in the Palmers’ yard.” (From Death in a Pale Hue.)

 

Of course, in my own neighborhood 110 years ago, those were the Conover house and the Larsons’. I could picture the trees in my memory, even the weeping willow in the Conover yard where we had a playhouse. Who knew that at least 110 years later I’d be appreciating trees as helpmates for the tone, the suspense, and the settings for my Art Center Mysteries?

 

When you write a mystery, do you mine your past for memories to add to the details?