Writing Cemeteries by Sharon L. Dean

It's Halloween and I'm thinking about cemeteries. There's a line in the first academic book I published: "Constance Fenimore Woolson's life is marked by gravestones." I was thinking of the gravestones in Claremont, New Hampshire, for her three sisters who died of scarlet fever within a month of Woolon's birth.

 

There's the cemetery my grandmother took me to every Memorial Day to plant geraniums on the family gravestones, a tradition I continued until I moved away from New England. There's the cemetery where my son learned his alphabet, the Sleepy Hollow cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts, where so many writers are buried, the Civil War cemeteries in Gettysburg and Andersonville, the national cemetery at Arlington.

 

I prefer a simple graveyard to a landscaped cemetery, perhaps because I grew up in New England where the graveyards date to the seventeenth century. Although I titled my third mystery novel Cemetery Wine, its murder scene is in what I could have called a graveyard. Graveyard are older, smaller, filled with markers that feature death's heads or hourglasses or weeping willows.

 

When I wrote Cemetery Wine, I realized that all my novels contain a scene in a cemetery or graveyard. Death of the Keynote Speaker has a scene on New Hampshire's Star Island where there are gravestones for three Beebe girls who died of scarlet fever. The inscription on one reads, "I don't want to die, but I'll do just as Jesus wants me to." My novel Leaving Freedom begins with a mother and her two daughters standing over the grave of her husband. This freedom is not from life, but from the town that is suffocating one of the daughters and who is released to find her freedom as a writer.

 

My latest novel, The Barn, begins with an image of a barn with a wooden cow's head on the outside of the rafters. The cow's head could have been a death's head as the characters try to solve the cold case of a murdered classmate. A cemetery also figures in that novel when, thirty years later, the characters gather to bury the classmate's mother.

 

Why, I ask myself, do these graveyard images creep unplanned into my writing? I'm not morbid. I'm not haunted by death. I could walk into a cemetery this Halloween Eve and not be afraid of what might rise from the graves. I think it's about the history these gravestones capture in their carvings and epitaphs and coatings of lichen. It's about nostalgia I feel for the New England I left and that I recreate in the novels I write. Cemeteries give me a place to develop a scene, to capture relationships among the living and between the living and the dead. They are great places for the novelist. They can be burgeoning with flowers, covered with fallen leaves, or buried in snow. They give shape to my writing and a sense that, though I wish to be cremated, I can ask my family to bury some of my ashes back home at the grave of my parents.

 

Sharon L. Dean grew up in Massachusetts where she was immersed in the literature of New England. She earned undergraduate and graduate degrees at the University of New Hampshire, a state she lived and taught in before moving to Oregon. After giving up writing scholarly books that required footnotes, she reinvented herself as a fiction writer. She is the author of three Susan Warner mysteries and of a literary novel titled Leaving Freedom. The Barn, the first novel in a new mystery series, features librarian and reluctant sleuth Deborah Strong as she and her friend solve a thirty-year-old cold case. The second in this series, The Wicked Bible, will be published in Fall 2021. For more information, see https://sharonldean.com/

 

      

In 1990, Deborah Madison and Rachel Cummings, both seventeen, are enjoying a bicycle ride on a beautiful September day in New Hampshire. They stop at a local barn that no longer houses cows but still displays a wooden cow’s head that peeks out from a window in the rafters. Sliding open the door, they find Rachel’s boyfriend, Joseph Wheeler, dead on the barn’s floor.

 

The case lies as cold as Joseph for nearly thirty years until Rachel returns to New Hampshire to attend the funeral of Joseph’s mother. The girls, now women, reopen the cold case and uncover secrets that have festered, as they often do in small towns. Against a backdrop of cold and snow and freezing rain, Deborah and Rachel rekindle their friendship and confess the guilt each of them has felt about things that happened in the past.

 

The Barn is a story of friendship lost and recovered, secrets buried and unburied, and the power of forgiveness.

 

Available through Encircle Publications: https://encirclepub.com/ or your favorite bookstore or e-book site.

 

 

 

Savannah’s Other Cemetery

By Shari Randall

 

Ever since John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil was published in 1986, many have fallen under the spell of hauntingly beautiful Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah, Georgia. Readers embraced Berendt’s exploration of Savannah’s mysterious dark side and the book was made into a film directed by Clint Eastwood. The iconic cover image from the book and film was The Bird Girl statue by Sylvia Shaw Judson, which had graced the cemetery but was moved to the Telfair Museum when fans trampled the graves at Bonaventure to get a closer look and selfie. 

 

On a recent trip, I discovered that Savannah has other intriguing cemeteries and one can be found just steps from Chippewa Square. 

 

Colonial Park Cemetery lies in the heart of Savannah’s historic district. Those interested in history will enjoy a stroll among the luminaries of Savannah’s colonial past. Those who enjoy a good spooky story will revel in a ghost tour of what’s been called Savannah’s most haunted cemetery.

The cemetery was established in 1750 and was known by several other names over the years, including the Old Brick Cemetery, South Broad Street Cemetery, Christ Church Cemetery, and simply, the Old Cemetery. Luminaries abound in Colonial Park, including military heroes, US Continental Congressmen, and the marvelously named Button Gwinnett, Georgia’s signer of the Declaration of Independence, who was killed in a duel just outside the gates of the cemetery.

 

I’ve found that writers have an affinity for graveyards. Cemeteries are a supermarket of names, especially for writers of historical fiction. From inscriptions, one can learn so much about a time period, including which names were popular. If I ever need to name a character with Southern charm and a Savannah pedigree, these names gleaned from the stones at Colonial Park Cemetery might turn up on the page: Patridge Adams, Preserved Alger, Oliver Anguheart,  Mary Ann Victoire Armaignac, Valeria Josephine Burroughs, Philura Paine Spalding Claghorn, Missouri Douglas.

 

Besides being a trove of interesting names, cemeteries are full of stories. 

 

In Colonial Park, historic plaques and markers stand by headstones and cenotaphs, offering silent history lessons, inspiration, and more mysteries. Especially evocative is the Duellist’s Grave, a memorial to Lieutenant James Wilde, who died on January 16, 1815 in a duel with Captain Roswell P. Johnson. The cause of the dispute in this “affair of honor” is undisclosed, but the disdain of Lt. Wilde’s brother for Captain Johnson is clear. What caused these officers of the same regiment to meet and exchange four rounds of gunfire? Only the ghosts know.

 

Do you enjoy a good stroll in a cemetery? Or is it just me?

Shari Randall is the author of the Agatha Award-winning Lobster Shack mystery series from St. Martin's Press. You can see her travel photos and learn more about her books on her Facebook page, Shari Randall Author.

 

 

Finding Inspiration

By AnnetteDashofy

This summer, I’ve been driving to our local cemetery several mornings a week to walk in the early hours before the heat grows too intense. These walks, surrounded by quiet, provide abundant inspiration for many aspects of my writing. If I need a name for a character, all I have to do is look around. No one here minds if I name a murderer after them. (I do mix and match first and last names for the sake of living family members who may not like seeing Uncle Joe as a serial killer.)

The names aren’t all I pick up during my cemetery walks. Simply pausing to read the inscriptions provides ample story ideas—such as one family stone with “Mother” engraved over the woman’s birth and death dates. Clearly, the other side originally was reserved for “Father,” who hadn’t passed away yet, but at some point, a small plaque was mounted over his side with “Mother” on it again. Did the father remarry and abandon his deceased wife for another burial plot? Did he do something so egregious that his surviving children wanted his name wiped from the family monument? The possibilities—and story ideas—are endless.

Sometimes, it’s not the engraving that raises questions, but the items left at the gravesite. A child’s stone decorated with angels and Teddy bears. A plot where stalks of corn grow instead of flowers. Obviously, a farmer who loved his cornfield. Or something else? 

I’ve been noodling with the idea of posting a photograph of one of these interesting tombstones once a month as a writing prompt. I snapped a picture of one of the monuments that has long stirred my curiosity and respect. A young Pennsylvania State Trooper who had been killed in the line of duty at only twenty-five. Definitely a story there.

The very next day, this appeared in our local newspaper.

Apparently, I was right. Two days after Christmas, in 1929, twenty-five-year-old Trooper Corporal Brady Paul and his partner stopped a car driven by Walter Dague who, along with his girlfriend, Irene Schroeder, had just robbed a grocery store. The pair, who had been on a multi-state crime spree since August, gunned down both troopers. Corporal Paul’s partner, Patrolman Ernest Moore survived his injuries. The young corporal, however, did not.

The Bonnie-and-Clyde-like couple ran, only to be captured nineteen days later in Arizona.

The story and the photos fascinated me. But they also ruined my plan to use the tombstone as a story prompt. For one thing, I’ve come to feel like I know Corporal Paul and don’t want to use his death as a mere idea for a fictional story. For another, how could I come up with a better story than the real one?

I’ll file this newspaper article and the photo of his grave marker away. Maybe someday, I will decide on a plot—not based on his life and death but inspired by it.

So, dear fellow writers, do you ever use real cases as inspiration for your fiction? And readers, does it ever bother you when you read a book or watch a TV show that’s obviously based on true crime? Does it feel like the writer has capitalized on someone else’s pain?

Walking Among the Graves of Laurel Grove

My Google map incorrectly identified the place I was standing as Bowels Ford Park. I did a doubletake, then clicked on the website link and saw that the entry was supposed to read BOWLES park. I also found an article from the Savannah Morning News about the troubles here, how for a while it had indeed smelled like something bowel-centric. But the city had cleaned up the algae that clotted the water, and now people reportedly pull fish from the still flat pond, big ones, bream and catfish.

 

I had not come here for the park, however. I was here for the graveyard that bordered it, the two places separated by a metal fence and a thick line of trees and foliage. Laurel Grove Cemetery has two sections: Laurel Grove North, the whites only section, and Laurel Grove South, which was the final resting place for hundreds of Savannah's black residents starting in 1853. I was exploring as an author, which meant that in this particular case, I was most concerned about whether or not a person of ill intent could flee from park to graveyard over the boundary fence.

It was quiet that day, not surprising for a Tuesday morning. A cool breeze came in over the water, rustling the azaleas and the last of the camellias, making the bachelor buttons bob their heads. The landscape was green with spruce and cypress, live oaks and sweetgum, glossy magnolias four stories high. Beyond the fence where the water lay, an egret came in like a hang glider, and across the wide grass, a pack of turkey buzzards circled high and distant, their shadows crossing my path. A woman with midnight black hair and studded goth jeans walked a dog as fluffy and insubstantial as a pocket of dryer lint. And even though the day was ripe with sunshine and mild as milk, not a single car was on the road

Laurel Grove remains an active cemetery, recent burials scattered with the graves of slaves and freedmen, many of them alive and thriving long before the Civil War. Some graves were decorated with Italian marble angels weeping across the tombs; other resting places were marked by only crumbling brick and rusted pipe rail. The pauper's field had no marked graves whatsoever, only a sign. And everywhere there was shade—the laurels, of course, but also the wide cool laps of live oaks, gray and green and dappled.

It was lovely. But I was not here as a tourist, or even as a resident enjoying one of Savannah's historical gems. I was a mystery author sizing up a setting. So I noticed the emptiness and seclusion, the many places where one could lurk or hide or duck out of sight. I tried to imagine the place in October, which is when my story takes place. I tried to think like a criminal.

I made my notes, took my photos. I did my research. But one day I want to return—no notebook, no camera—simply to wander and ponder. Beginnings and endings, loss and memory, history and imagination. They say in Savannah that every step you take, you take with the dead beneath you. They are correct. And for taphophiles (cemetery lovers) like me, that makes Savannah an excellent place to live. And write.

*     *     *

Tina Whittle writes the Tai Randolph/Trey Seaver mysteries. The sixth book in this Atlanta-based series—Necessary Ends—is available now. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and has served as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.

Crescent City Magic

Few cities capture the writerly imagination like New Orleans, and all it takes is one visit to understand why—as settings go, it’s an embarrassment of riches.

Sultry and gorgeous and ripe with various temptations, New Orleans is a sensory overload, especially as spring warms into summer. The rising heat will set your blood on a slow simmer and make every horizon shimmer like a mirage. The air smells of river water, beignets, jasmine, and last night’s beer. The sound of a second line jazz parade competes with the laughter of Bourbon Street tourists and the clip-clop of carriage horses. It’s sex and death, brawl and languor, high passion and low company.

I thought of all this as I strolled through St. Louis Cemetery #1. Famous for being the final resting place of Marie Laveau—the celebrated voodoo queen—this cemetery is now off limits to anyone not a part of a tour group after someone vandalized her tomb with pink latex paint. The bill to repair the damage came to around ten thousand dollars, and to prevent further destruction, the Catholic Archdiocese of New Orleans, which oversees the cemetery, created new rules governing how and when tourists could visit.

Luckily for my family and me, one part of the prohibition was dropped while we were still in town—visitors could once again tour at dusk. We were the only group there that evening, and we got to see the cemetery in the warm, honey-colored glow of sunset. During the day, the white above-ground tombs reflect the light and heat with merciless ferocity. As the sun sinks, however, the graveyard takes on a different flavor. The dead feel even closer, friendly even, and the weathered beauty of the brick and wrought iron can be fully appreciated.

It feels timeless there, liminal, as if the veil between this world and the next has thinned. New Orleans is said to be the most haunted place in the US. One of its rumored supernatural residents is Pierre, who has a table set for him every night at Muriel’s restaurant. Pierre supposedly died by his own hand, distraught that his gambling debt meant that he would lose his beloved home. He committed suicide as a way to avoid eviction, and according to the legend, succeeded in staying put for over a century now.

I understand Pierre’s reasoning, I really do. For even though New Orleans is not my own, it is magnetic in its pull. I’m a Lowcountry girl, but I know I’ll be back to the Big Easy. It doesn’t feel as if I have a choice.

*     *     * 

Tina Whittle writes the Tai Randolph mysteries for Poisoned Pen Press. The sixth book in this Atlanta-based series—Necessary Ends—is available now. Tina is a proud member of Sisters in Crime and serves as both a chapter officer and national board member. Visit her website to follow her on social media, sign up for her newsletter, or read additional scenes and short stories: www.tinawhittle.com.