Wednesday, August 16, 2017


My mother was the oldest of eleven children. In her younger days when I was growing up, and on into my early adulthood, she reminded me of Aunt Pittypat in Gone With the Wind—not in looks or mannerisms, but in the way that she knew the relationships between people--and not just in our family! Growing up in a small Oklahoma town, Mom knew the ins and outs of most every other family in that small community—but so did everyone else. That old saying about everyone knowing your business in a small town was so true…but what a legacy of stories she provided me with to write about!


A relative who hung his pocket watch up on the wall to “give it a rest” overnight. Another relative who, shunned by his prominent businessman father, (we don’t know why) rode a bicycle all over town selling condoms. What better way to embarrass him?
Then there were the sadder tales…the little boy who crawled under the porch and drank tree poison and died. All those many years later, my mother would get teary remembering how she and her 12-year-old best friend, Mary, attended the funeral.

The family who lost five of their six children—they’d gone out to pick berries and taken shelter under a big tree when a storm hit. Lightning struck the tree and killed many of them, but the oldest brother crawled to a farmhouse for help. In the end, he was the only survivor.

Another story that, in this time would be almost unbelievable is that of a little girl, six years old, who had appendicitis. The doctor would not operate unless the money was paid before the surgery. The girl’s father stood on the corner and begged for money – this would have been in the mid -1930’s, in Dustbowl Oklahoma…during the Depression. No one had any money to spare. I have a picture of that little girl with my aunt who was the same age—they were second cousins. It was the last picture made of her before she died.

So many stories my mom told about—with such description of the people, the places, the events…maybe that’s why I’m a writer now. But I know the happenings she told me about were a true-life depiction of actual events, and she had a great memory for detail most of her life.

Being the eldest of eleven siblings, she was all ears when the adults talked, of course. And she was old enough to remember many of the happenings herself. She told of watching them rush her grandfather into the house and put him on the kitchen table when he collapsed in the field—she and Mary were watching through a nearby window—they saw it all.

Going to Blue River was sometimes a Sunday social event in the summers—the men cooled off in the water while the women set out the food for a picnic. The children—none of whom could swim—were the older kids’ charges. Mom told of a time when one of her young cousins, Warren, went missing as they were all playing in the shallow water of a nearby clear creek running into the river. She felt something brush her leg and looked down—it was Warren, drifting by, his eyes open sightlessly as he stared up. She automatically reached down and grabbed him up out of the swift-moving current and yelled for help—and remembered nothing else about the rest of that day. Yes, he lived. But…why would so many parents think it was okay for their kids to play in water when none of them could swim?

It hit me after listening to her talk about her life and growing up in that small town that the older siblings seemed to have had no childhood of their own. Her earliest memory was of standing on a stool, washing dishes in a pan of water. She said she was about 3 or 4. By then, there were two younger sisters and another on the way.


I wasn’t old enough to appreciate it at the time, but Mom and Dad, having grown up together, knew all of the same people. They’d talk about who was related to whom, and who this one or that one had married, and what had become of them. I remember once in a great while, my dad would sit back and look at her with an odd look of appreciation on his face and a little half-smile and say, “Doris Lynn had an illegitimate baby? I never knew that!” Or some other “morsel” he’d somehow never heard.

Mom knew all the stories of the past, too. The tales of the relatives who had gone before and what they’d done—her great grandfather who had been “stolen” from his Indian village and given to a white Presbyterian minister to raise as part of the “assimilation efforts”…and how that had forever affected our family.


Even the stories of my dad’s family—of his grandmother and grandfather coming “up from Texas” and stopping under the shade of a tree by a creek in Indian Territory long enough for her to give birth, then moving on after one day’s time.


Mom knew so much—untimely deaths of family members, “early” births, family dreams and goals that came to fruition, changed, or never happened at all. Games played, meals cooked, weddings held…so much that I would have given anything to have written down—but was too young to realize how much it meant, at the time.

But to whom? Those things are important to the families and friends of the principal players, but now…there are few left who would remember or care. The small-town cemetery is filled with those who lived together, worshipped together and worked together. Friends and family who lived, laughed, loved, and made their way through life—leaning on one another in a way that is rare in today’s world.

So…I use those memories in the best way I can. In my writing. There is a piece of my mom’s remembrances in my own stories—probably every single one of them, in some way or another.

Authors, do you use long-ago memories from relatives in your tales? Readers, do these books and short stories we weave jog your own memories of things you’ve heard in the past from older relatives? What are some of the stories you recall?

Here's an excerpt from an "oldie but goodie", ONE MAGIC NIGHT. After learning the story of my gr gr grandfather and how he was kidnapped, I just had to give him a happy ending. In real life, his adoptive parents changed his name to David Walls. They sent him to medical school in Missouri--I don't know if he ever finished or not, but he came back to Indian Territory to practice medicine. Of course, he never fit in, either in the white world or the Indian. But in my make believe world, he did find happiness...

As Whitworth’s hand started its descent, Katrina turned away. But Shay’s arm shot out, grasping Whitworth’s hand and holding it immobile.

“You will not.”

Three words, quietly spoken, but with a heat that could have melted iron, a force that could have toppled mountains.
Katrina’s father’s face contorted, his teeth bared, finally, as he tried to jerk away. He didn’t utter a word. He stared up into Shay Logan’s eyes that promised retribution, as the seconds ticked by. Finally, he lunged once more, trying to pull free, but Shay still held him locked in a grip of steel. Only when he released that grip was Whitworth freed.

“You presume too much, Doctor Logan, unless you are assuming the care and responsibility of my daughter.”

“Papa! Oh, please!” Katrina felt herself dissolving into a puddle of less than nothing beneath stares of the townspeople of Talihina. What had started as an exciting, beautiful evening had become an embarrassing nightmare. It was torture to think that she was the cause of it all. How she wished she had stayed home with Jeremy as she’d first planned, before Mrs. Howard had volunteered to keep him company.

Now, Papa was saying these things that she knew he would regret later. It was always this way when he drank too much. These accusations had gone beyond the pale of anything he’d ever said before. But Shay Logan wouldn’t realize that. He wouldn’t know that Papa would be sorry tomorrow.

Evidently, there was one thing Shay did recognize, though. She saw the very slight flare of his nostrils as he drew in the scent of alcohol on her father’s breath, and in that instant, there was a flash of understanding in his eyes.

“You’ve had too much to drink, Mr. Whitworth,” he said in an even tone. “I will overlook your behavior toward me because of that, but not toward your daughter. She has done nothing, yet you would strike her, and cause her shame.”

“She’s my daughter,” Whitworth replied sullenly.

“But not your property, Whitworth. Never that. You owe her an apology.”

“No, Shay, really—” Katrina began, then as her father whirled to look at her, she broke off, realizing her mistake. ‘Shay,’ she had called him. As if she had known him forever. As if she was entitled to use his given name freely. As if she were his betrothed.

“‘Shay’ is it, daughter? Not, ‘Dr. Logan’? Shay.” He spit the words out bitterly. He drew himself up, looking Shay in the face. “I’ll not be apologizing to her—or to you. And I’ll expect nothing less than a wedding before this week’s end. Do you understand me, Doctor?”

Shay had lost any patience he might have harbored. “You understand me, Whitworth. You will not dictate to me, or to your daughter on such matters of the heart. As I say, the alcohol has got you saying things you’re going to regret, and—”

“Threatening me, are you? Threatening me?”

“Truman.” Jack Thompson stepped out of the crowd and smoothly came to stand beside Katrina. “Let’s put this…unfortunate incident…behind us, shall we?” He confidently tucked Katrina’s hand around his arm. “I can see that the church auxiliary ladies have almost got everything set up for this wonderful Independence Day meal—” he frowned at Mrs. Beal, nodding at the picnic tables behind her. She jumped, motioning the other ladies to resume the preparation.

He gave a sweeping glance around the group of onlookers. “I, for one, am ready to eat! How about you all?”

Katrina was swept along at his side as he walked toward the tables, speaking to acquaintances and friends, laughing and…and seething with tense anger the entire time. She could feel it in his body, with every step he took and the tightness of his grip as he covered her hand with his. Katrina glanced back over her shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Shay, but the crowd blocked her view.

“Smile, my dear,” Jack gritted into her ear. “I’m hoping we can still salvage your virtue, no matter what happened, really, between you and the good doctor. If I see him near you again, I’ll kill him.”



  1. I love family history. I used it as the foundation of A Restless Knight. I was helping my grandfather restore, save and translate family history. My great-great grandfather, then great grandfather had little respect for history or family records. During WWII when Hitler was bombing lower England, all family records were moved to the Hebrides. They just tossed them in boxes into a thatch hut. The boxes were forgotten and just left there too long. Fortunately, my grandfather did have deep love of history, and he worked to save what he could. During my summers, I would aid him in his work. One of the pages we came upon was a story of an English Knight coming to Scotland and marrying a Scottish woman. My ancestors. It’s a deep emotional feeling. As I sat helping him, I thought it was the basis for a good romance. It stayed with me. I just felt compelled to write about a story of war, of people from different backgrounds, yet still finding love. . .ah, how could I ignore that.

    Look forward to reading One Magic Night!!

    1. Deborah, that is so interesting. It's sad to think that there are people who don't care about their ancestors or aren't interested in what their family history is. I wish so much that I had been older and more interested when Mom told the stories she told. She was 35 when I was born so she was an "older" mom for the times, and I was a "child of the 60's" so wasn't much interested in her stories early on. I'm so glad you were able to work with your grandfather and recover some of your family history and USE IT in your wonderful stories!

  2. Not only family history, but history of the area I grew up in. The people in my life and the lives of my parents all show up in some form in my stories. The names and characteristics modified to protect the guilty. *Smile* Doris

    1. LOL Doris, I know what you mean. I change names a lot, too, and make "composite" characters of some of the ones Mom told me about.

  3. Even though my stories are fantasy/sci-fi romances, I use bits of my family history in them. After all, that's what makes them 'human'... :)

    1. Anny, I agree--the "human-ness" of the characters, and the story, is what makes readers stay engaged and relate.

  4. I spent much time as a youngster in the company of my retired paternal grandfather, who was a great storyteller. Later I plied my parents and other family for stories of the past, many of which in modified form have turned up in my fiction. In my other lives, as a journalist and as a genealogist, I've borrowed more stories. What a resource these tales are. Enjoyed reading about your family and their stories, Cheryl.

    1. Thanks, John. I wish my dad had talked more about his family and his growing up years. I suspect my mom saw a lot of things through "rose colored glasses" and he didn't want to burst her bubble--they'd known each other since 1st grade, knew all the same people, etc. and I'm sure there were many things they saw differently.

  5. Cheryl,

    MEMORIES are who we are. Some of this nostalgia, family memories, bring me to my knees with emotions and feelings that grip so hard and won't let go---when recalled.

    YES INDEED, memories, family memories, life memories of actual experiences are something to recall and write about. Something the writer can infuse a character with and make them real.

    I read every word Cheryl, and you can indeed write.

    I am proud to say Cheryl is friend, publisher, and also a great fellow writer.

    Keep up the good works.

    Charlie Steel

    1. Charlie, thank you. I feel the same about you--I know your stories that you wrote for Memories From Maple Street were based on actual happenings, and I enjoyed those so much. I love learning more about people--especially friends and fellow authors. And I think we all use our memories to some extent in our works of fiction. I do wish I could have known some of my ancestors from the stories Mom told--and I think there might be a couple I'm glad I didn't know... LOL Thanks for coming by and commenting!

  6. Using your own family history I feel makes the story more real to readers. Because this history means so much to the author, it shows up in the story and readers feel it, too.
    I wish now that I had listened more to the older members of the family talk about their life experiences and the community in which they lived.

    1. I agree, Sarah. If the author KNOWS the history, it personalizes it more for him/her and therefore, gives more feeling (IMO) to the story, in many cases. I wish, too, I had listened more. But with so many cousins at family get-togethers, we just couldn't WAIT to get outside and run and play together. We had no interest in listening to 'grown-up' talk.

  7. I've always said I don't journal, and I have never written a memoir... but in some ways everything I write is a memoir, and a family history, because I slip bits and pieces of it into other people's fictional lives.

    1. Troy, I used to keep a diary when I was a young girl--I think I started when I was about 9 or so, but I quit when I began to feel guilty about not writing in it every single night. LOL (Probably a good thing--I'm not sure if my mom would have read it or not...)LOL Anyhow, I agree with you--I don't journal and I have never written a memoir, but I do include bits and pieces of personalities and stories of others into the characters I write. And a lot of myself, too! LOL

  8. My family was in southwestern Kansas, very near the Oklahoma border. One line was in the Oklahoma Land Rush and operated a hotel in Ft. Supply. I have many similar stories. The boy who was crawling in the yard and was bitten by a rattler. My great grandparents heading to Dodge City during an Indian scare and being the first to return to their farm.I use these stories, but most importantly, I'm trying to get them all recorded for the future. Loved the article. Thank you.

    1. Rita, thanks so much for stopping by to read and comment. It always makes me feel great to see someone write that they are recording these stories for others. We don't know who may read them and what it might mean to them. Like you, I'm determined to sit down and write most everything I can remember down.

  9. we used to walk to school, maybe a mile or so even starting in second grade. My cousins lived a bit closer on the same road, but got to ride the bus. They lived on the other side of the road which put them in the county not the city. Life is never fair. There was a small quarry with a pond just before getting to the school. Of course our parents told us not to cut through and to stay on the road and sidewalks. And of course we cut through. One afternoon my younger brother and sister decided to cut through on the way home. They ended up running the rest of the way home scared to death. They swear they saw the devil - red skin and horns - in the quarry. Who know who it was. Homelessness wasn't the obvious problem it is today, but it could have been a homeless man or just someone cutting through. Whoever it was, none of us kids ever cut through there again. I recently went back there and can't believe what a small place it is. They must not have taken much rock out of it. As smooth as the rock is, it may not have been a quarry at all.

    1. Oh, gosh, Pat! What a tale! You know, when I was growing up, all us kids would ride our bikes all over town but we had our boundaries! Well, one day we decided we were going past where we were allowed to go--kind of out in the country...and we rode right over a hill looking down on a Hell's Angels Camp! OH MY LORD! You should have seen us scramble to get out of there! I heard my parents talking about the "rumor" that the Hell's Angels would be making camp near town...well, it was NOT a rumor. LOL

  10. Great article, thanks for sharing.