Another Picture Sets the Stage

Happy Weekend to All!

Again, I’d like to begin by thanking everyone who’s supported my book/blog for their interest, support, and kind feedback!

A special thanks to those of you who’ve purchased the book and taken the time to write a review on Amazon, B&N, Lulu.com, etc. It means a great deal, and all honest reviews, thoughts and comments are most welcome and truly appreciated!

Same goes for this blog, so please “like” or “comment” and share any experiences or thoughts.

Thought I’d continue sharing photos, and provide some background/backstory on how they relate to the story and/or setting in the book.

Today’s picture is of my mother’s house on Sanford Street in Readville, Massachusetts–the central location where the story is set.  The house itself served as part of the inspiration to write the book, and helped define the story-telling “device” that I decided to use.

As the opening scene in the book describes, I found myself begrudgingly in the Hanscom AFB commissary (along with my wife) doing our bi-monthly shopping for my mother, that we’d dutifully “schlepp” to her in Readville, and endure our typically very short visit, say 15-20 minutes.

It was after one of these trips to Readville, when it dawned on me that my relationship to my mother had been reduced to just those 15 minute visits, every two weeks, and just how pitiable that was.   And I spent more and more time thinking about just how “sideways” my family still was after so many years, and how’d it get, and stay, that way?

The idea for the book sprang from that, and after exploring the possibilities on how to ‘structure” the story, I hit on the idea:

“Why not tell the story moving back and forth in time over the course of just a 15 minute to Sanford Street.”

From that point I found I was able to take a typical visit to my mother’s house and turn it into a series of “snapshots” that brings the reader in and out of time to see glimpses of “how it got that way” with my family.

The photo shows the blue house on Sanford Street, and the cracked and broken curb on which I’d pull up to in either my truck or Jody’ BMW, two passenger side tires perched up on an angle.  Somehow that cracked and broken curb seemed most appropriate to the story.

The window on the right is the one in which my mother would wait, furtively, behind the sheer curtain as she watched us unload her groceries, etc., and waddle up the walk as described in Chapter 1 in the book.

It was in this house that my mother died.

My prayers for her, and my family, are constant–and the stories continue.

Many thanks again and see you back here soon I hope!