A few weeks ago, while greeting
people at my mother-in-law’s memorial service, I experienced a moment when I
felt as if I’d just stepped into a Stephen King novel. Or a Twilight Zone
episode. Whichever it was, I was absolutely unprepared for it.
A character from my STRATFORD UPON
AVONDALE mysteries stepped up to me and offered her condolences!
I know my face certainly must have
shown my shock, but the woman handled the situation just as my character would
have done. She graciously pretended my jaw hadn’t dropped, my eyes weren’t
bugging right out of their sockets, and I wasn’t stammering words that didn’t
make any sense.
Ruth Williams. I’d just met one of
my favorite characters from Stratford. When I created this cozy mystery series
I knew I wanted the series to continue through several books, so I made sure I
created characters with which I’d enjoy spending lots of time. Villains aside,
each character is someone I could be friends with. Yes, their personalities run
the usual human gamut, from charming to sassy, to eccentric or quirky. But I
like them. Some more than others, but I feel affection for each and every one.
However, some are in a class by
themselves. Ruth Williams is one of those. As I describe her in book three—in
progress—Ruth is an elegant yet warm and friendly African American woman, with
kind eyes that let a person know she’s always there to listen. In her
mid-sixties, Ruth quickly became a surrogate mother to my protagonist, Maggie
O’Flynn, when Maggie moved into the village.
And here I was in the vestibule of
the church, making a fool of myself in front of my dear Ruth Williams. Or Mrs.
Johnson, as it happened. Though I immediately recognized Mrs. Johnson as my
Ruth, this was a Ruth twenty years into the future, as the sweet woman standing
before me was in her late eighties.
But she wore a flowered dress right
from Ruth’s closet, a hat that Ruth had just worn in Maggie’s tea room in COME,
BITTER POISON, and pumps with heels I wouldn’t dare try to wear, but Mrs.
Johnson moved so gracefully in those high heels, just as Ruth would have done.
Most importantly, her smile was warm and welcoming and she kindly ignored all of
my apparent stroke symptoms.
Time for a confession. I had a hard
time paying attention during the service. All I could think about was that
somewhere in the pews behind me sat the living embodiment of a person I had
made up! Ruth Williams, as much as I love her, is not real. But there in that
church this lovely woman sat, remembering my mother-in-law.
While chatting with family and
friends during the reception I tried to remember if I’d ever met Mrs. Johnson,
and had somehow brought that image to mind when I was writing Ruth. I asked one
of my husband’s cousins about her and learned that she had been their
grandmother’s next-door neighbor. Wheels started turning in my head—had I met
her years earlier while visiting with my husband’s adorable grandmother? Grandma
Mary died twenty-five years ago. So if I had met Mrs. Johnson, and I was
starting to think I had, she would have been about Ruth William’s age at the
time.
I steeled myself and set out for
the table where Mrs. Johnson sat with our cousins. I gushed, and giggled, and
finally came clean with her. I told her all about how I was a mystery writer
and that she was the living embodiment of one of my favorite characters. I
feared her reaction so much I nearly bumped over someone’s lemonade that sat
near me. Her smile lit up the room! She couldn’t have been more pleased. I went
on to tell her that I might have met her at Grandma Mary’s house and just maybe
my subconscious put her in my books. I told her about all of Ruth’s lovely
qualities and she was tickled pink.
My dear mother-in-law, Dorothy,
never got to read any of my books, and I know she would have enjoyed the
cozies. But I can’t help but wonder if Mrs. Johnson was a little gift from
Dorothy. A seal of approval for my writing.
Because she couldn’t have picked a
better character to bring to life for me.
