When I start writing a mystery, I draw on three main sources that I group together under the term “distilled memories.” These distilled memories may be about people I once knew, locations on lakes or in forests that I recall or personal experiences I’ve never forgotten.
As I write, these distilled memories are shaped by my emotions at the moment they occurred. And it’s the emotion that remains even as a memory itself may not be factually accurate. (Remember, I’m writing fiction.)
What is unique about my new book, The Wolves Are Watching, is that it draws from two very disparate memories of personal experience—one from when I was just a little kid, eight or nine years old; and one from when I was much older. These memories are the results of two experiences that were very difficult—one quite frightening—at the time. While they may have been emotionally challenging, they have proven to be rich resources for my work. Or as we say in the mystery-writing world: “great material.”
The first memory occurred over seventy years ago. I grew up the oldest of eight children, all born within ten years so there were plenty of us running around the house. My dad was a dentist but he liked to say he practiced dentistry “so I can afford to fish.” And what an outdoorsman he was!
So while we kids never heard him brag about a “great crown” he’d made, we sure were spectators as he showed off large muskies and walleyes and brook trout he’d caught—or the antlers of huge bucks he’d shot. And no wonder as we lived in the Northwoods of Wisconsin where fish, deer, bobcats and…wolves were plentiful. Even today, in the county where we lived there remain six wolf packs.
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It was after dark one night when my dad returned home from fishing. Bursting through the back door into our kitchen where a couple of us were doing schoolwork at the kitchen table, he called to my mom, “Alice, Alice, where are you?” He sounded so shaken, we all looked up.
My mom rushed to the kitchen, saying, “Jack? What’s wrong?”
As she walked in, he shooed us out and slammed the kitchen door shut.
“Jack, what on earth is wrong?” I hear Mom say again. I had crouched down behind the closed door, anxious and worried. My dad seemed so strange. And then I heard his story….
“Alice, God Almighty, you won’t believe what just happened,” he said. I could hear my mom telling him to settle down, take a deep breath, and then tell her what happened.
I was walking down the path I always take to the trout stream—you know the one, Alice—it was just getting dark when suddenly I saw this big dog right in front of me. Like, maybe, fifty feet away. I waved my arms and shouted to scare him off.
But he didn’t move. I walked closer, figuring that would work. But he stayed where he was. That’s when I realized I wasn’t looking at a German Shepard—this was a wolf. A large grey wolf. Again I waved and shouted…no movement. He stared at me. No flinching. I took a step backward. He moved towards me. I backed up a couple more steps. Again he moved towards me.
I kept backing away until I got to the car. He stayed with me. Once in the car, I locked the doors. He was still there. Staring. Alice, I swear that wolf was ready to jump me. I had no gun. He could have gone for my jugular….
And with those words, my dad went silent. I knew without seeing that he had my mom in his arms. And I knew from the faint sounds I could hear through the door that he was sobbing.
I have never forgotten that wolf who terrified my dad. The next day Dad returned to the trout stream with a friend. They found signs of a deer carcass, which the wolf must have been protecting.
Since then I’ve been fascinated by wolves: I’ve studied wolves, I’ve watched wolves through telescopes, I’ve seen wolves up close at wildlife centers.
That wolf haunted my dad. Today, wolves haunt me.
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My second memory is of an experience I had years ago when trying to start a volunteer program to monitor boats in hopes of preventing damage by invasive species. I have a cabin on a small lake as does my friend Pete. After chatting during our lake association’s meeting, Pete and I decided to take the lead on training volunteers who would ask boaters to clean their boats of invasive species before entering and or leaving our lake.
Invasive species are plants that can choke a lake and ruin the fishing—not to mention people hoping to waterski or float around on pontoons. In order to do things correctly, Pete and I signed up for training with our local experts at the Department of Natural Resources (DNR).
On our first day out with twenty volunteers, we had just introduced ourselves and started to describe what had to happen next when a male voice interrupted us: “Cut the crap and just tell us what to do.” The man behind the voice, Greg Church, was the retired owner of an engineering firm who also owned the largest summer home on the lake.
Pete countered him first, saying, “Thanks, Greg, but some folks here may not be aware of how quickly these plants grow….”
That seemed to mollify him for a few minutes. But only a few. I started to speak next, describing the steps we wanted people to follow as they inspected and cleaned the boats—only to be interrupted by Greg again.
“Quiet, you,” he said to me, “you have no idea what you’re asking us to do.” He made it sound like Pete and I were his idiot employees.
This continued that morning and the next as we tried to keep the training on track. To our relief, when Greg finally realized we weren’t going to follow his orders, he quit coming. Thank goodness. He had been such a pain in the neck that I wanted to shoot him. I didn’t, of course, but I’ve never forgotten him.
Not long after Greg quit coming to our volunteer sessions, a curious thing happened. I was at our local post office where I ran into Greg’s wife, Margaret. She was a pleasant, personable woman. We had met once or twice before so we were casually chatting when I couldn’t help asking, “Margaret, your husband can be quite the bully. Is he that way around the house?”
A sadness swept over her face. She didn’t have to answer my question.
I didn’t tell her how I wanted to shoot the guy. But I’ve never forgotten how close he came to ruining our efforts, ruining our lake! And all because he had to be the man in charge.
Curious to see if I ever did shoot him? Read The Wolves Are Watching and find out.
And so it goes with wolves and men….Now you know where my stories come from.
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