Real Life to Fiction

This is a synopsis of how I came up with idea for my novel A Lovely County and the real life news stories that generated the idea for the book. I’ve included this as author’s note at the end of the novel.

A Lovely County Front

Cover design by Casey Cowan, Oghma Creative Media

The idea for A Lovely County started churning in my brain in the early 1990s when I first began writing newspaper articles about Arkansas 309, a state program that places inmates in local jails to be used as labor. Those articles detailed problems with the program in a Northwest Arkansas county jail, but there was no serial murderer involved in the real-life controversy, and no accusations of any money being exchanged between county officials and the inmates participating in the program.

The story was about an Act 309 inmate, D. Holt, who worked in the Washington County Sheriff’s Office rather than in the jail as kitchen or laundry help like most other state inmates. Holt was allowed access to the computer system and after his release in 1994 was hired for a three-month period as a computer programmer for the sheriff’s office. Once other county officials realized the sheriff had hired this former inmate to handle what they considered a sensitive information system, Holt was let go. The sheriff and some of his staff members allegedly helped Holt obtain a position in a local medical office. Several months later, he was accused of raping an eight-year-old boy, the son of a co-worker he had befriended. The sheriff was quoted stating that Holt “snowed” him, but called him a one-time model prisoner at the jail.

When Holt was arrested, it was discovered that he had stolen numerous items from the jail’s evidence room and had printouts in his home of official police documents detailing child molestation and rape cases from throughout Arkansas.

The local prosecutor eventually dropped the rape charge, claiming the witness was not credible and there was no physical evidence of the alleged rape. At his arraignment, Holt admitted stealing from the county during his confinement as a 309 inmate, stating that he wanted items to sell after his release. He pleaded guilty to theft by receiving and was sentenced to ten years in the state penitentiary.

In a diary that became part of the prosecutor’s file, Holt provided details of trips he made away from the jail during his incarceration. He alleged that he programmed the computer of a sheriff’s captain at the captain’s home, was taken out for Thanksgiving dinner by a deputy, and to another department employee’s home to help build a fence over a weekend period, all while a 309 inmate at the county jail.

In a twelve-page letter to the mother of the eight-year-old boy he allegedly raped, Holt said he knew he was a pedophile and had made a point over the years to study the issue and read about crimes by other pedophiles. He claimed to be an expert on the issue of how to entice children into his confidence, and suggested that she join with him to form an organization to help victims using his expertise on pedophilia.

“I knew I wasn’t violent because I never could hurt anyone physically. I was just the opposite, I ‘loved’ too much and too openly,” he wrote in the letter to his victim’s mother.

Holt’s charges for sex crimes with children dated back to 1951, and included sodomy, indecent molestation, soliciting a child for sex, rape, and carnal abuse in several states from California to Arkansas.

Among the Arkansas 309 inmates housed in that same jail in the 1990s was a John Huffman, convicted of first-degree murder in 1982 and sentenced to thirty-five years in prison. During his stay in Washington County, he made leather goods for sheriff’s deputies, including holsters. Deputies complained that the hip holsters didn’t provide any type of safety features and were flimsy. However, upon accepting employment with the department, deputies were reportedly told to see Huffman to purchase their belts and hip holsters. The homemade leather goods became a big issue in November 1995 when an inmate who’d taken a gun from the deputy’s hip holster used it to kill the deputy and a private citizen. The deputy had transported the inmate to a local clinic for medical treatment when the inmate overpowered him, took his .357 revolver and shot the deputy in the chest. The inmate then shot a man in the clinic’s parking lot, stole his truck, and later used the gun to kill himself after wrecking the truck in a police chase.

I wrote in 1996 in a Northwest Arkansas daily newspaper, that Washington County was then housing twenty-six of the Act 309 inmates and several of them were the worst kind of hardened criminals. Two were serving time for first-degree carnal abuse, one for rape, and three for murder. The program at one time allowed more hardened criminals to participate, but now excludes those convicted of sex crimes, first degree or capital murder, and those with a history of escape attempts. Inmates eligible for the program also have to be within thirty months of their release date, which wasn’t always the case.

I’ve taken some liberties in A Lovely County with the way the Arkansas 309 program is administered in present day. Act 936 of 1997 brought about some needed changes. No longer can Arkansas sheriffs request specific inmates to be assigned to specific jail facilities, and inmates have to be supervised at all times. The changes require inmates to have the job skills to meet the needs of the facility requesting participation in the program. The changes also require that victims and prosecuting attorneys be given ample notice of the pending transfer of an inmate from the Department of Corrections facilities to a local jail.

The Arkansas Act 309 program has been good for the most part for the Arkansas Department of Corrections and many of the inmates and counties that participate. However, problems still plague the program occasionally. Most of the controversies have centered on the misuse of inmates for personal gain by local officials. The program has been suspended in a number of county and city jails for that very reason. It’s still being used in Washington County, but the present day sheriff and his staff seem to understand its restrictions and its benefits.

One of the most flagrant abuses to the system was discovered in 2006 in the city of Lonoke. The police chief there and his wife were arrested on a number of charges regarding the use of 309 inmates for not only work around their home, but also what was described as their own sexual gratification. The chief’s wife allegedly provided some of the inmates with drugs and alcohol, and at least one with a cell phone. The mayor of Lonoke was also implicated for using 309 inmates for numerous repairs, yard work, and even hanging Christmas lights at his home.

Although the idea for this book was based on a true abuse of the Arkansas 309 program, all characters and events described in A Lovely County are fictitious.

Check out my author page on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/author/loriericson

How to Be Creative in 5 Steps with John Cleese

Creativity is hard to grasp sometimes and other times it flows like hot lava. This is a good post on the issue of trying to keep it flowing. The blog is by Jamie Lee Wallace, an inspiring blogger on writing and marketing.

Suddenly Jamie (@suddenlyjamie)'s avatarLive to Write - Write to Live

creativity fun By charity elise on etsy

What is the secret to being creative?

Is it something you can learn? Is it something you are born with? Is it something you can practice? Is it something you can do on demand?

These are questions that plague artists of all kinds. We worry that we’ll never be creative, or – if we’ve had a creative breakthrough – that we’ll never be creative again.

I worry. You worry. Famous writers and artists worry. We all worry.

BUT … we don’t have to.

I spent part of this morning watching a video of John Cleese presenting on the topic of creativity. (Hat tip to @anna_elliott for her post on Writer Unboxed featuring a link to the video.) Cleese’s presentation is nearly forty minutes long, but SO worth the time. I really (really) would love for each of you to watch it because…

View original post 843 more words

Winter Wonder

A silent shroud of snow falls over everything in a white fluffy layer like a freshly washed linen sheet that billows high above the bed and slowly descends to the mattress in a flat plane stretching from corner to corner to be tucked neatly beneath each edge.

photo-21The glittering mantle offers a kind of innocence in its wake, a renewal as most of life comes to a standstill, muffling the bustle and rush of the holiday season just as it had switched gears from Thanksgiving to Christmas. It’s as if God is saying, stop, breathe in for just a moment, think of what this holiday season truly means.

Most hoard up in their dens, light their fires, bake cookies and watch from their windows as the piles deepen. Children soon frolic in it, shriek in joy as they glide down hills until their fingers and toes are numb, and mother calls offering hot chocolate and dry socks.

Others are forced out into the tumult. They forge a trail through the drifts and pray for footing on the ice below. Holding tight to the armrest, passengers watch as the snow flicks off the tires, and wonder how deep the ditch might be.

If no more falls to mask the trails, the snow eventually loses its innocent luster. Footprints from man and beast scar the virginal blanket. The snowplow and sand dispensers darken the passages.

Ultimately, the temperatures will rise, the sun will peek through the clouds, and the white shawls hugging the trees will drip away, as the layer below fades and seeps into the earth. The sleds and snow shovels will be stowed in the garage, and the rush to Christmas will gain momentum once again.

Another snow may come and go, and before we know it, the crocuses and tulips will be pushing through the newly green lawns to start the process once again.

A Spoiled Worklife

The boss hollers at me, but I ignore him. He thinks that if he provides a few benefits, which I more than deserve, I should trot my ass right on over when he yells.

He calls again. I turn my head and glance over my shoulder. He’s not even looking my way but appears to be scanning the sky, checking out the clouds. I’ll stay right here where I please, enjoying the breeze and watching a squirrel run up and down the big tree just beyond the fence.

I’ve about had it with his demands. I should just walk out and see what other opportunities there are for a guy like me. I know how to contribute. I’m good at security patrol in a place like this. I’m big and can push my weight around if I want something.

The boss mistakenly thinks he’s got me under his thumb. What a joke. He doesn’t even seem to know how much I’ve helped myself to around here. If it’s something I want and it’s within reach, I take it. Screw the rules. They aren’t for me and never have been.

I do have to give my boss some credit. He comes to my defense with this new cook he’s hired. She can sure put some good grub on the table. But damn, she’s bossy, doesn’t like me in the kitchen, and won’t let me have any of the leftovers I used to get. On top of that, she bitches all the time about the messes I make.

I have my rights. I know where I rank in this organization. Granted, my standing was much more stable before she came on board, but I still have seniority.

Even the old man that works with me, knows deep down that I was here first. He doesn’t always act like it and treats me like he’s my supervisor just because he’s older. I try to remind him now and then that I was here long before him.

The boss thought I needed some help, so he brought him in. That hasn’t worked out so well though. He’s not much of an assistant, and they all go easy on him because of his age. Just recently they gave him an official uniform. Of course, he was injured on the job and the uniform keeps him from hurting himself. But still, I didn’t get one.

Yeah, things might be a little better down the road a ways. I’ll keep stewing on that, but I doubt I make a move any time soon. I kind of like the boss, even if he doesn’t always give me the credit I deserve. It’s still nice working for such a pushover. I doubt I could ever get away with as much as I do here. He sometimes talks big and hollers at me, yet rarely does much of anything when I don’t comply.

BigBaileyThere’s a delicious aroma coming from the kitchen, and the boss is hollering at me again. I guess I better quit barking at the darn squirrel and go inside to see if that bitchy cook might have a pork chop I can steal.

Working Through the Novel

As I read over my novel and get it as polished and perfect as possible, my characters are getting stronger and my resolve to finally be done with this thing is ringing in my ears. To push myself a little more and give you a taste of what I’m up to, I thought I’d share just a very small snippet here.

Girl With Pencil WavingSo, from Chapter 1:

“I got a good enough look to know he was dead for sure. It looked like a little boy from what I seen.” She spoke next in a muffled rush, staring at the lake below. “I saw legs and tennis shoes. Those sneakers was the saddest thing, sticking up there in the brush. They were red with no shoestrings.”

“Could you see anything else?” Danni blew at a strand of hair tickling her cheek as she took notes.

“He was wearing jeans, but I didn’t see much more’n that. The smell. That’s something I probably ain’t gonna ever forget. It was horrible, just horrible.” Elizabeth fanned herself a little faster. “And the quiet. Like the animals, birds, bugs and all, had gone off and left him alone there in the woods. That was the quietest I ever heard it out here this time of year.”

 

Baby Eyes and Life Before Living

The following story is from an actual experience I go back to whenever I wonder about life beyond this physical experience:

I saw that sparkle in her beautiful brown eyes as I pulled the pink cotton dress up by the hem to lift over her arms.

“I was with Jesus ‘fore I was in your tummy.” Her child speak was muffled by the clothing.

“What’s that sweetie?”

“I was with Jesus ‘fore I was in your tummy,” the words more deliberate this time.

She was my second daughter, a child I worried over during pregnancy. Worried she’d be unloved, that I couldn’t care for another the way I did my first beautiful baby girl. Of course, I later marveled holding her in my arms, realizing God had made my heart grow rather then depriving this little one of what she deserved.

I pulled the dress the rest of the way off, setting her arms free.

“I ‘member.” She nodded at me as if to make it understood she was being serious.

“You remember what Honey?” I slid a tee shirt over her head.

“I ‘member. They was nice there.”

I took in a breath and looked into those big browns. “When you were where? In my tummy? Who was nice?”

I pulled the overalls up and fastened a button on each hip, turning her from one side to the other, her short brown hair bounced as she swayed. Just as one shoulder strap was in place, the sound of potatoes boiling over drew me over to the stove. She followed.

“No ‘fore, Mama, fore.”

“Stay back now, this is hot.”

“K.” The double doors on the lower half of the pantry slammed shut behind me.

“Stop that. You’re going to pull those things off their hinges.”

I stirred the potatoes and lowered the flame. The table would have to be set soon, but I had to know what this child was getting at.

She was something, always inquisitive and ready to explore the world, but also so stubborn and determined to get her way that she’d act up, strike out at her older sister, defy orders. It wasn’t that she was a bad kid, just so busy living and learning, she didn’t have time for anything that stood in the way.

I leaned down and fastened the other shoulder strap of her overalls. “Now, what were you trying to tell me about being a baby.”

“Not a baby, Mama.” She pursed her lips, giving me a look I’ve seen many times over the years since, especially those teenage years.

“Okay, not when you were a baby.” I tucked an errant strand of brown hair behind her ear.

“When I was with Jesus in heavnen.”

Goose bumps ran down my arms. They come back to this day when I think about her words that Sunday afternoon. I walked her to the table and sat down. She stood in front of me. Holding each of her hands in mine, I looked her in the eye.

“Hmmm, I’m not sure honey. I don’t think you’ve been to heaven.” My mommy tickle was screaming down my spine ‘pay attention, this might be big.’

“Yep, I was in there.” Curls bounced as she nodded, her chin nearly hitting her chest with the enthusiasm.

“You were in heaven?”

“Yep, ‘fore I was in your tummy.”

I plastered a smile on my face, not sure she’d go on, not sure I wanted her to.

“I ‘member cuz that man told me to pick you out.”

The chill started with the goose bumps embedded in the back of my arms. It ran up my neck and down my spine. I gulped. “What man?”

“That man with the glasses.”

She yanked one hand away from mine and pointed to the hallway.

“That man in the picashure.”

I couldn’t speak. Still gripping one of my hands, she led me down the hall. Photos of the two girls lined one wall. At the end, photos of my family were clustered together. A picture of my older brother in his tan leisure suit at graduation, my younger brother in his Marine Corps uniform, and shots of each of my sisters at graduation.

“That man told me to pick you out.” She pointed to a photo of my dad. He’d died nearly four years before her birth.

I hated that picture of him. I had hung it low on the wall so it seldom caught my eye as I passed. His eyes looked big, magnified by huge 1980’s glasses.

My daughter watched me with curiosity, uncertainty. The lump in my throat felt like a Ping Pong ball. Tears started to gather in the corner of my eyes. I dabbed them away.

“What do you mean, he told you to pick me out sweetheart?”

“He said you should be my mommy.” She said it softly.

I knew she was telling the truth. Her bottom lip trembled. Tears welled up in those big beautiful brown eyes. I hadn’t realized it, but it hit me right then, those weren’t her father’s brown eyes, she had my father’s big brown eyes.

“When I was in heavnen, he told me to pick you out, pick you for my mommy,” she whispered.

My own tears couldn’t be stopped. I knelt down, hugged her and breathed in the sweet innocent smell of baby shampoo.

“I’m so glad, honey. I’m so glad you picked me out.”

She doesn’t remember ever telling me she’d picked me out. And didn’t just a few years after that, but I can never doubt the truth. I know the blessing she’s been in my life. I know the blessing of each of my girls.

Reagan, my granddaughter, has a similar wise and knowing look in her beautiful blue eyes.

Lloyd&Reagan-9-21-13She came to stay with Lloyd and I this weekend. I took a photo of the two of them and wonder as I look at that picture, both their eyes looking directly at me, what we really know in those early years that is forgotten as we make our way through this life on earth.

BBs, Caskets and Art

The BBs scatter and ricochet in an empty mausoleum crypt like a kindergarten class bursting onto a playground. They move quickly, bounce off each other and stop in random spots.

The cylindrical BB shape makes for a perfect tool to move a casket easily in the tight space. They roll with ease beneath, keeping the bottom from scraping along the concrete interior as it’s pushed into place.

I thought of the way we used BBs at the cemetery when I read last week about Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art in Bentonville using them to weigh down art displays. Most museums use elevator weights made of cast iron, sand or lead shot for anchoring their display cases.

taj-mahal-7004

But Crystal Bridges is taking advantage of a local resource in the Daisy BB company, and is better off for it. There are no health concerns and moisture issues, and they’re cheap. Daisy has donated about 6,000 pounds in defective BBs for anchoring the display cases.

The museum, according to the article, moves the BBs into bags from big blue 55-gallon barrels. We bought BBs in small cardboard tubes and had a lot less hassle in using them to serve our need. But they seem to be the perfect tool for either use.

A typical empty casket can weigh 200 pounds or more, and the opening in each mausoleum space is made with little room to spare. Tandem units that allow two burials end-to-end in one mausoleum crypt mean the first burial has a long way to go. There could be a lot of scratches and damage to a costly casket holding precious cargo without the aid of the simple BBs.

Crystal Bridges hosts hundreds of people daily. They gawk and stare, and move around the museum’s many display cases that manage to stay in place, keeping their precious cargo stable with the help of those same simple BBs.

I have to wonder how the emperor Shah Jahan would have used BBs in the 17th Century when moving his wives into the Taj Mahal, the world’s greatest and most beautiful mausoleum. All he had was some little ole elephants.

Shut Up Dr. Oz!

I’m sick of seeing those ads with Dr. Oz holding a big blob of fat!

I get it… take supplements that boost your metabolism, eat some crazy fruit, hold off on the carbs, whatever it takes, drop the fat! Okay, already.

I’m not some tiny little petite thing and never will be, but I don’t care because I was once about 100 pounds heavier than I am now and happy just to be me. Sure, I could stand to lose another twenty pounds, but I love me just like I am.

People who met me in the last decade might not know that I once weighed about 250 pounds. I was miserable at that weight. The secret was that I had to lose that attitude before I could lose a pound. I had to love myself just as I was to have the desire to take care of myself. It wasn’t dropping the size 18 pair of jeans for a size 10 that made me want to lose the weight. It was the fear of what I was doing to my heart and body in general. It was worrying that I wouldn’t be here to see my grandchildren.

2ndOpinWeight

It took about a year of eating low carbs, avoiding sugar and learning to exercise. I bought a Pilates machine that I still use and love it. I learned that the more active I am, the less I have to struggle with food choices and the more active I can be because I’m not bogged down with that extra 100 pounds.

I work hard at times to keep the weight off still. Especially at the end of summer when I’ve had a few too many strawberry sundaes or bowls of dutch chocolate ice cream. Yes, that’s right, I’m my heaviest usually at the end of summer. I know the holidays can add a few too, but really the end of summer is my struggle time.

But I love me and will never let myself go like that again.

I just want Dr. Oz to stop holding up all that blubber and tell people to love themselves healthy.

My Near Arrest in the Cemetery

At dusk each night someone in my family would travel the gravel lanes meandering through our nearly thirty-acre cemetery to see if any visitors were still lingering. It wasn’t a good thing to lock the gates and imprison some poor unsuspecting widow inside the cemetery after dark. Leaving the grounds unsecured overnight also had its perils. The least of our worries were the lovers who were subject to a surprise when a spotlight was shown through the car window revealing their private tryst. More troublesome were the teenagers who wanted to spin their wheels in the open gardens of the back acreage, and the evil minded who thought it fun to vandalize a family memorial or a mausoleum.

police_car_227    I hadn’t had my license but just a few days when a friend and I offered to take Dad’s brand new four-wheel-drive Ford truck for the nightly gate duty. Dad didn’t object to my driving the truck for the first time. I didn’t even have to pull out on the road since our driveway was connected to the cemetery’s entrance. I would stay on the grounds. How much trouble could I cause?

We climbed up in the cab, found the appropriate rock n roll music station, giggled aplenty and started our trip. We took our time, cruised around chatting away, made several loops and eventually parked down by the cemetery pond to watch the ducks flapping their wings and chasing each other for a bit of entertainment.

As we made one last spin around the grounds, I realized we were being followed. And it wasn’t just anybody. We were being followed by a Fayetteville Police cruiser. Uh oh! This was a first-time experience for me. I anxiously glanced in the mirror, followed the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit inside the cemetery and eventually made my way to the gates. The officer simply followed and didn’t put on his lights. Stopping the truck just past the stone pillar entrance, I glanced at my girlfriend and climbed out of the cab. The officer had parked just a few feet from the chrome rear bumper of the Ford.

I hadn’t taken but a step, maybe two, when I heard a ‘pop’ and realized the truck was rolling backward. The officer, who had started to step out, jumped back in his police cruiser. I held my breath and hopped up into the driver’s seat, slammed my foot on the brake, and yanked the gearshift into park. I knew I’d put it in park once. Or, hadn’t I?

The officer was more than a little pissed. Questions exploded at me as I stuttered and shook my head, trying to look as innocent as possible. No, I didn’t have my license. I’d left my purse behind. I was the daughter of the cemetery owner and was simply trolling the grounds before locking the gates for the night. I pointed toward the house. He lectured and followed me across the side lawn.

I steeled myself for more lecturing from my father and tried not to cry. I explained what happened and that I thought for sure I’d put the truck in park. The officer added his own account of how I tried to run over him.

Fortunately, Dad came to my defense. He said the truck had a tendency to pop out of park, and that Ford had been talking about recall but there’d been no official word yet. He apologized as well for not warning me to put on the emergency brake. He even accompanied the officer back to the gates, officially closed them for the night and retrieved the truck.

I sat down and cried in relief. I could have crashed into a police car. Or, even worse, run over a cop. What a way to christen my new driver’s license.

These stories of my life growing up in a cemetery seem to be popular on my blog. I’ve incorporated a lot of ideas from these memories in my writing as well. . So, thank you to those who enjoy reading them and for any feedback.

Cemetery Sardines

We huddled against the cold granite slabs of the mausoleum while the moon faded in and out amid the moving clouds. Suppressed giggles and whispers, then a “shush, he’s coming.”

This was so much more fun than the traditional hide and seek. We hid together in a group and weren’t out there in the cemetery stowed away alone all those heart-pounding minutes while someone tried to discover each secret hiding spot.

In the game Sardines, there was just one person walking among the headstones, peeking in the dark hedges and searching in the moonlight for everyone else. There were trade offs, of course.

The loneliness for the seeker would end when at least one player was found in hide and seek. In Sardines, the group was often easier to find. But as the seeker neared, the group was also allowed to move, and attempt to find another place to wait out discovery.

rip-tombstone-mdThere were five or six of us hiding out next to the mausoleum that night. My older brother was doing the searching. We heard his footsteps on the gravel road and tried to slip around to the other side of the mausoleum before he found us. But, we were too noisy. Oh, the perils of keeping a bunch of young teens quiet in a cemetery in the dead of night.

It was my turn to go up to the shop to wait ten minutes alone while everyone hid.

The heart pounding fear traipsing around some twenty-five acres of rolling hills and moonlit headstones in solitude was so much different than the pounding a young heart does when trying to squeeze several young bodies together to wait out discovery.

It’s easy to guess which one I preferred.

Now that I’m older and can look back on those memories of growing up next to the cemetery, I’m glad for it all. What fodder for a writer of mysteries to use and embellish!

This story will likely find it’s way into that young adult book I’ve had bouncing around my brain in recent months.