I started writing historical fiction in 2004 but the process really started when I was a child. My Dad loved old cemeteries, history and antiques, and flea markets. He was known on occasion to turn his collar up, put his sunglasses on, and make one of us kids get out of the car to scrounge an interesting piece of furniture waiting to be picked up by the garbage man. Of course we hated it at the time but my sisters Jeanie and Mary Jane keep up the family tradition to this day.
My sister Bernadine and I used to visit a famous cemetery in Buffalo, NY called Forest Lawn. It’s an amazing place with gardens and flowers, graceful sloping hills and marble fountains.
We were most fascinated with the mausoleums. Many of them had windows you could look into and gorgeous stained glass. One particular line of mausoleums were built into the side of a hill. My favorite had an iron grille built across the doorway, and the “door” was built as if it had been deliberately left half open. For someone to enter? Or perhaps to leave? How eerie it was, especially in the fall, when dead leaves had been swept inside the crypt by the wind.