Carolyn
J. Rose
When I
think about the events in my life that led me to want to describe places,
characters, and emotions, to write books, and especially to write mysteries, I
recall the days of my early childhood and the techniques my grandmothers used
to lull me to sleep.
My
parents didn’t go out often, but when they did my grandmothers were called on
to ride herd on me and my year-younger brother. While we viewed the occasions
as opportunities to eat more dessert and stay up late, they attempted to adhere
to established dietary and bedtime rules. They aimed to get us fed and to sleep
so they could do whatever grandmothers did back in the 50s—tat or embroider or,
mostly likely, sigh and clean up the mess we’d made.
My mother’s
mother read to us from a huge volume of poetry and short stories. There were
tales about giant squids and shipwrecked sailors. It was pretty exciting stuff,
the kind of stuff that held sleep at bay and filled dreams with chases and
fights and crashing waves. I’d wake up determined to be a better swimmer, learn
how to build a raft, catch fish with my bare hands, and invent a dozen ways to
signal passing ships.
My
father’s mother, however, would often sing.
She had a soft and sweet voice, but
the songs weren’t sweet at all. In fact, every one of them involved injury
and/or death. While the night birds cried, Red Wing wept for the man she loved,
a man killed in battle. As for Clementine, well, thanks to the fact that the
person who referred to her as his darling couldn’t swim, she went under. The
song about Red Wing made me sad. The one about Clementine made me mad.
And then
there was that classic lullaby, the one about the baby rocking in a cradle in
the top of a tree. When the wind blew the cradle rocked, but then the bough
broke, and that cradle plummeted to earth. There the song ended, leaving it to
me to imagine blood and broken bones and even the cradle being exchanged for a
coffin. I wondered who would put a baby in a cradle in a tree and why? What was
the back story? And what happened afterward? Did someone call the police? Was
there an investigation? Were charges pressed, jail time served?
I wonder
how my life would have turned out if one grandmother had read a lovey dovey
romance and the other had wailed “Walking on Sunshine” or Good Vibrations” or
“My Girl”. Then I stop wondering and think about how I’ll kill off an
unsuspecting character and I get to the keyboard and set another mystery in
motion.
