My dad grew up in a community in Arkansas that is still reached by driving seven miles on a dirt road off a two-lane blacktop. He attended a one-room schoolhouse that is still standing and joined the military as soon as he was old enough. Every summer, when I was a kid, we drove 500 miles or so to visit the folks. Except for the long drive, it was fun because they lived like old-time cowboys – no electricity, no plumbing, no milk delivery. My mom took a lot of naps, but I helped my grandmother feed chickens and collect eggs, pick just enough vegetables from the garden for dinner (lunch) or supper, and although I stayed away from the cow, I shook cream into butter in a big mason jar.
One day, when I was living in Austin, Texas, I asked myself: I wonder if my grandmother ever fell in love with anyone else and decided to write a short story about a love triangle on a farm in Arkansas. That story turned into 300 pages called TOM’S WIFE. The details of buildings, natural landscape a