Dark Night in Race Relations

With the election of President Obama, race relations is a topic much in the news, a lot of it on the negative side. If you weren't around 40-plus years ago, you may not be fully aware of the great amount of progress we've made in less than half a century. Back in January of 1963, I started a slick paper monthly called Nashville Magazine. I wrote an editorial feature in the back of the book titled "Loose Ends." Reprinted below is what I wrote in the June 1963 issue. Nashville is a much different place today. (NOTE: Negro, which is the Spanish word for "black," was the accepted term for African Americans in 1963.)

AN OLD NEWSPAPER REPORTER is like an old firehorse—ring a bell and he’s off and running. I heard the bell and sniffed the smoke tonight, and I stalked the story to its end. As I write this, I have just come from what has doubtlessly been the most turbulent evening of recent Negro student demonstrations protesting segregation in downtown Nashville eating places. The situation swirled out of hand at one point and could easily have ended in tragedy, though fortunately it did not.

By the time you read this, the details will have long been written and rewritten in the press, but I will be a good while forgetting the stark picture of exploding tempers at Fifth Avenue and Union Street. As the marching Negro youths squared off before a group of pursuing white boys, someone smashed against a window of the old Loveman’s building, and a large, jagged piece of glass suddenly sailed across Union Street to crash onto the opposite sidewalk. The Negroes broke ranks, swarmed into the street around a bus, and for a few moments serious violence seemed inevitable. But the Negro leaders herded their group back into marching ranks and soon continued the chanting trek to police headquarters.

Rocks pelted demonstrators, police and newsmen in front of the Metropolitan Safety Building and again later at the Negroes’ rallying point, First Baptist Church on Eighth Avenue North. Luckily, only one Negro boy was injured, and he not seriously.

As I followed the events of the evening, strolling along with the crowds, listening to comments of both whites and Negroes, I gained several disturbing impressions. First, the “student non-violent movement” is inappropriately named. Casting a group of high-spirited youths into an emotionally charged atmosphere where close contacts are inescapable is hardly a move calculated to produce “non-violence.” I watched the Negroes jostle white patrons of the B&W Cafeteria in attempts to squeeze inside the doors.

The violence that took place, however, can be laid mainly to young white toughs— teenagers and some not far out of their teens. Without their provocations, the Negroes would have doubtlessly marched and sung in reasonably good order.

But my most distressing observation concerned the magnitude of the entire affair. It produced a bold, two-line streamer in one of The Nashville Banner’s few evening extra editions in recent years, and it sent hundreds of words and scores of photographs around the world via facilities of the wire services. Nashville, which had been peacefully progressing in race relations since the violence that marked the initial steps in school desegregation six years ago, had been dealt another black eye in the face of national and international opinion. And yet who was involved? Here’s who:

• A group of Negro college and high school students, no more than 150 at the outside.

• An unorganized cluster of white youths spoiling for a fight, certainly no more than 150 in all.

That was it—barely seven-hundredths of one per cent of the population of Metropolitan Nashville. It was a striking demonstration of how the acts of a few can markedly affect the reputation of an entire area. I am sure the Negro students who took part in the march (many of whom were not Nashvillians) had no concern for what damage their actions might do to the city. They were fighting for a deeply-felt principle, for the right to go where they pleased, to hold their heads high and to be accepted as worthy as the next man. The misguided whites who hurled rocks and curses demonstrated an intelligence sufficiently meager to rule out any prospect that they might have realized the disgrace their actions would bring to their city.

And so the problem falls back upon us, upon we who do care about what happens to Nashville, we who do care about our city’s reputation and the blemishes upon it that show to the world. It will not be sufficient merely for the mayor to appoint a bi-racial committee to probe for areas of agreement between whites and Negroes of intelligence and good will. The solution, to my way of thinking, must lie in a full realization that Nashvillians of all colors and creeds must learn to live together side-by-side, to respect one another as individuals—not as members of this or that group, and to work toward the common goal of building a happier, healthier, more prosperous community. If this sounds trite, so be it. "Freedom” is a rather well- worn expression, but has lost none of its luster for all its use.

I came away from the demonstrations tonight aware that both sides in the controversy must disabuse themselves of some past notions. The whites, for instance, must realize there is no such thing as the Negro’s ill-defined "place.” And the Negroes, for their part, must learn to accept the fact that first-class citizenship demands first-rate civic responsibility, which includes a concerted effort to maintain law and order rather than bend it to one’s purposes.

So there you have it, the story of an evening which made Nashville struggle with her conscience. Not the factual, objective account of a long-time newsman, but a thoughtfully considered, editorialized appraisal of one who saw his city shamed and wondered why.

© 1963 m. c. publications, inc.

Books by the Bundle

An indoor library signing with wife Sarah.

I manned a table at a small rural church's Fall Fest last Saturday, displaying all five of my mysteries. My long-time writers group colleague, Beth Terrell, took part for half of the day, then left for a bookstore signing. This time of year in Nashville usually brings mild weather, with highs in the middle 60s to the 70s. Saturday was an exception. The mercury grudgingly inched into the 50s. A stiff wind blew acres of graying clouds overhead, leaving us huddled in our jackets to keep warm.

There were half a dozen other exhibitors, including one with two tents filled with all sorts of bric-a-brac. The sun finally peeked out after noon, but the hoped-for crowds apparently stayed inside and watched football games on the tube. The church was Scottsboro United Methodist, where my wife, Sarah, had attended as a girl, and she enjoyed chatting with old childhood friends. Several of them had already read my books.

As it turned out, the day was not a dud because of a simple trick I had learned from somebody on one of the online lists I read. It may have been Rob Walker. The idea is to display your series books in a bundle, which you offer at a discount. I had my four Greg McKenzie books tied together with a ribbon and offered at $45, a 25% discount from retail.

Two people, one the Scottsboro pastor, bought book bundles. Other than that, I only sold two books, but the bundles made the day worthwhile. I've done the same at several other selling venues. I highly recommend it if you have several books in a series to market.

Without a lot of customers to disturb me, I had lots of time to think about what it means to be a "selling author." Some writers think their job is just to sit at the computer and write. I wouldn't mind doing that, but it would mean all that work produced nothing but words on the screen. I write for the enjoyment of it, but I also enjoy having others read what I write. For that to happen, I must get our there and promote.

It's always nice to have someone stop by at a signing and say, "I've read one of your books and really like it." Sure beats those occasional characters who look at the flyers my wife hands out at the bookstore entrance and say, "Who's he? I've never heard of him."

Back from Bouchercon

I arrived  back home tonight from Indy and Bouchercon XL. This was only my third trip to the World Mystery Convention, but as with the others, it was quite an experience. The morning function today was a departure from the past called "The Bazaar."

Around 80 authors were lined up in six rows of tables, each with 50 of their backlist books to give away. Registrants received five tickets to swap for books of their choice, and they could buy five more for $5. The space between rows of tables was not enough to accommodate the rush of readers and got quite hectic at times. One of my signing neighbors said, "They've turned loose the hounds." My always raunchy signature  got more scrawly toward the end, but it was fun.

The only trouble with Bouchercon is you can go four days and never encounter people you intended to seek out. Luckily, Kaye (Barley) from Boone, one of the mainstays from the DorothyL listserve, came by near the end of "The Bazaar" and we got to meet face-to-face.

There were several interesting venues for convention events. One was the Thursday Night Extravaganza at Gameworks in the Circle Center Mall. It was a hundred-yard stretch of game machines usually played by kids. Plus buffet tables with the likes of hamburgers and nachos with chicken or beef. With the cold, rainy weather, we were lucky that the Mall and Convention Center (where Michael Connelly was interviewed) could be reached by skywalks from the hotels. Toastmaster S. J. Rozan presented the Anthony Awards at the Hilbert Circle Theater, where the Indianapolis Symphony plays.

The various panels and presentations were interesting and informative, at least the ones I attended were. One I really enjoyed was "The MWA Celebrates Adgar Allan Poe," marking the 200th anniversary of Edgar's birth. Michael Connelly, Sue Grafton, Peter Lovesey, John Lutz, and Sara Paretsky bandied about their views on how Poe influenced their writing and the mystery community in general. Though taking issues on several points, all seemed in agreement on the major influence Poe had on the direction of mystery writing right up to the present.

My panel, "GEEZER LIT COMES OF AGE, The graying of the genre," was well received. I had a great time discussing the ins and outs of characters "of a certain age" with fellow panelists Mike Befeler (moderator), Naomi Hirahara, Mary Saums, and Patricia Stoltey. One audience member later told me she doubted I was truthful about my age. Actually, she was right. I won't be 84 until next month.

Looking in Your Own Backyard

My guest today is Marilyn Meredith, the author of two series, the Deputy Tempe Crabtree mystery series and the Rocky Bluff P.D. series. Her latest book in the Crabtree series is Dispel the Mist from Mundania Press, http://www.mundaniapress.com . She lives in the foothills of the Southern Sierra which is located in Central California, a place quite similar to Bear Creek where Deputy Crabtree is the resident deputy.

“What am I going to write about this time?” As a writer of a mystery series with characters that are far too real to me to forget about, that question comes up at least twice a year when it is time to begin a new book.

While I was researching Kindred Spirits I spent a lot of time in Crescent City with a Tolowa woman who has since become a good friend. She told me stories about Big Foot and his reported appearances in the giant redwoods surrounding the area. Later, when I was writing the book I did some research on the Internet about Big Foot and found a most intriguing reference along with pictures of The Hairy Man. What was more interesting to me was the fact that The Hairy Man resided in my backyard.

Of course not literally in my backyard, but in the mountains that I can see from my house and on the Tule River Indian Reservation that is merely a few miles away. What I learned about The Hairy Man is there is a pictograph of him and his family in a rock shelter on the reservation. Of course I was intrigued and had to find out more.

I know the anthropology professor at our local college and emailed him and asked, “What does it look like at the rock shelter with the pictograph?” The reply came almost immediately, “We’re going on a field trip to the Painted Rock site, do you want to come?”

My answer flew back, “Where and when?”

The rock shelter is made up of huge boulders, one piled on top of two others forming a cave-like shelter. Inside are the pictographs of The Hairy Man along with his family and other colorful paintings. One of the Indians who lives on the reservation guided us on our tour and pointed out many things in and around the Painted Rock site.

He noticed me taking notes and gave me this warning, “Don’t come out here at night.” I asked why and his answer was, “There are too many spirits.”

He certainly didn’t have to worry about me doing that. Finding the rock shelter in the daytime wasn’t easy, climbing down the huge boulders wouldn’t have been possible for me if I hadn’t had help from the young students. There was no way I would ever go there at night. But my heroine, Tempe, certainly could and would.

That was the beginning. From there I created the story of Dispel the Mist and Deputy Tempe Crabtree does go to the Painted Rock at night where her life is threatened and she has an encounter with The Hairy Man.

This is one mystery that came from looking in my own backyard.

Marilyn Meredith

Go to my website http://fictionforyou to read the first chapter of Dispel the Mist.

Thank you, Chester for having me visit you today. I know that you look in your own backyard for ideas for your mysteries too.

Here is a brief plot summary of Dispel the Mist:

A Tulare County Supervisor, with both Native American and Mexican roots, dies under suspicious circumstances. Because of Deputy Tempe Crabtree’s own ties to the Bear Creek Indian Reservation, she’s asked to help with the investigation. To complicate matters, besides the supervisor’s husband, several others had reason to want the woman dead.

Tempe has unsettling dreams, dreams that may predict the future and bring back memories of her grandmother’s stories about the legend of the Hairy Man. Once again, Tempe’s life is threatened and this time, she fears no one will come to her rescue in time.

Jazzing up Miss LeMieux

When I began working on the book that eventually became The Surest Poison, I wanted my PI, Sid Chance, to have a female sidekick. I found it advisable to change some of Sid's characteristics as I got into the story, and the lady who became his part-time associate underwent a bit of a metamorphosis as well.

Jasmine LeMieux turned out to be an interesting character who has been well liked by readers. My characters develop the same way as my stories. I have a vague notion about them when I begin, but they come to life with all their virtues and foibles as I start writing about them.

When the story begins, you learn quickly that Jaz is wealthy. She inherited controlling interest and serves as board chairman for a nationwide chain of truck stops (think Love's, Pilot, or Flying J) headquartered in Nashville. She has a bit of a checkered background brought on by falling out of favor with the family after she quit school to join the Air Force.

I wanted her to be attractive (pretty face and shapely figure) but tough. She had been a star basketball player in college and served in the Security Police under a sergeant who had been a Golden Gloves champion. He became her trainer when she went into women's professional boxing after her discharge. Although reaching the pinnacle of that profession, she soon realized that unlike the male sport, women's boxing didn't pay enough to live on. (That was an interesting point I learned while researching the book.) That's when she got a job as a Metro Nashville policewoman.

Although she really enjoyed it, she gave up police work to help nurse her father back to health after a serious accident. Her aristocratic mother, the chief architect of her banishment, had died earlier. Jaques LeMieux, a French Canadian import, taught her the ropes of the business, and she went back to school to earn two degrees.

Jaz still works out to keep in shape and spends stime at the range occasionally to maintain her firearms proficiency. Oh, and that house up at the top of the blog? LeMieux built a French Colonial mansion in a posh Nashville suburb, where Jaz still lives. I modeled her home after this one I found by Googling "French Colonial mansion."

She still retains a couple, now in their seventies, who had worked for the family since she was a girl. They lived in a small guest house behind the mansion until she convinced them that they should move into the big house. You'll have to read the book to find out how that fits into the story.

As for Jaz, she fits the plot like a stylish glove. And she'll continue to emerge in Book 2.

Weekend over the mountain

Last week was a killer. I'm afraid I neglected this blog as I spent as much time as possible working on my new book and getting ready for the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA) show in Greenville, SC. We just got back late today from Greenville. It was a beautiful drive as the rain moved out and the sun moved in. Traveling I-40 across the mountains is not the most fun for the driver (me), but the scenery was gorgeous. We had thought there might be some leaves changing colors, but all of the rain over the past several weeks has left the trees with only varying shades of green.

There were enough fluffy clouds to provide an interesting contrast, with one occasionally dipping into a valley like an amorphous veil. Once in a while we would spot a lone house nestled high on the mountainside. We could only imagine what a striking view the owner enjoyed on a day like this.

For the uninitiated, the SIBA show is held annually around the South. It's an opportunity for publishers to showcase their books to independent booksellers from around the region. For authors, it's not a place to sell books except in the sense of selling the store personnel on the merits of ordering your book to sell their customers.

The Southeast Chapter of Mystery Writers of America and Sisters in Crime jointly sponsor a booth at the show and make it available for members to give away their books. It's fun to sit there and have a fairly steady parade of people stop by to get your autograph. Most of them only want you to sign your name, which means they can take it home and put it on the shelf for sale. The hope is that they will sell it and order lots more.

Fellow mystery writers signing included Deb Sharp, Kathy Wall, Cathy Pickens, Gail Oust, Alexandra Sokoloff, Darden North, and J.T. Ellison. Others helping out with the booth included my wife, Sarah, SEMWA Vice President Mary Saums, and Ellis Vidler, president of the Greenville chapter of Sisters in Crime. I'm sure I've left some off, but my brain is tired after the trip.

We had a delightful lunch on Saturday at a small restaurant called The Olive Tree, which had a mixture of Greek and Italian dishes on the menu. With two tables of author types, the conversation was lively. The tale getting the most laughs went to Cathy Pickens' recounting of a newspaper story about a man and woman assaulted by the woman's huband. She was beaten and put in the hospital. Her male friend was shot four times in the head, resulting in his being treated and released.

Yes, truth is often stranger than fiction. But these folks can make up a mean story, too.

Homecoming at a country church

I attended services this morning at a little country church that normally attracts around thirty or so people on a Sunday morning. This was homecoming, so there was more than double the usual congregation. It was the Scottsboro United Methodist Church, where my wife, Sarah, grew up. She was a Scott, for whom the community was named.

This is a rural area on the fringes of Metropolitan Nashville and Davidson County. The "business district" is the intersection of Ashland City Highway (State Route 12) and Old Hickory Boulevard, a circumferential road that runs around the outer edge of the county. It has a service station/market and a small grocery.

If you head on down Old Hickory Boulevard past the cutoff to the church, you pass through Bells Bend, one of numerous twists the Cumberland River makes on its serpentine path through Nashville. This is a large primarily agricultural area that includes some expensive homes along the river. Metro has developed two city parks in the area.

More recently, Bells Bend has been in the news over a proposal to turn a section of it into a multi-billion-dollar urban development called May Town Center. According to a website sponsored by opponents, the "proposal calls for a city the size of downtown Nashville, with 40,000 workers (downtown has 47,000 right now), 5000 condos (downtown has about 3000, with many vacancies), a 15-story hotel, and all the related amenities - all on 600 acres of cowpasture in Bells Bend."

People in the area banded together to fight the planned development and so far have prevailed. It was approved by the Metro Planning Commission staff but after public hearings was turned down by the commission. The developers are trying to get a rehearing.

The keep Bells Bend as is people say they "have a new cooperative organic farm project, an long-standing commercial turnip patch, two sod farms, free-range chicken eggs, a commercial cut flower business, a number of beef cattle, and an endless array of personal gardens. We have two knock-out city parks, and have had a rare pair of whooping cranes spend several weeks here over the last two years."

Visiting the Scottsboro church gives you an idea of what people in the area are fighting to preserve. These are down-to-earth folks who live in a small community and love it the way it is. My wife grew up with a lot of them and enjoyed revisiting old times. The choir was seven-strong, including the preacher, who joined in the anthem. Two young boys passed the collection plates.

After the service, we enjoyed a tasty meal comprised of numerous meat, vegetable, salad and dessert dishes brought in by those attending. There was enough food for twice as many people as passed through the line. My wife cheated a bit, bringing fast food chicken, but she baked the cupcakes.

You might think such churches are doomed because so many of their members are aging, but this service was attended by a number of young families with kids. It's a refreshing experience to get out of the urban area occasionally and see how life is lived at a slower pace.

To keep this on the mystery subject, Scottsboro is having a Fall Festival on October 24, and I'll have a table there selling my books. It should be a fun day.