I have a world of stories filed away that may never get used in my novels. Some are significant recollections waiting to be used, based on coincidences, while others are the seeds of ideas planted for future use.
My folks are from the country, survivors of the Great Depression, who lived in Red River bottoms, the border between Texas and Oklahoma. Chicota was a community of farmers who raised most of their own food, cows, and kids, along with the crops that fed the rest of this country.
When those old men (who were younger than I am today) took time off, it was for church, town on Saturdays, and to fish on Sunday afternoons. That meant throwing a line in the Red, or pools which were often full of crappie, the best eating.
Thinking about those fish reminds me of a natural spring pool about four miles from my maternal grandparents’ farmhouse. It was one of the few remaining springs in the area that once boasted dozens, if not more than a couple of hundred seeps, bubblers, and gushers.
When I mentioned the word pool above, I meant what some might call a pond, or tank (in West Texas). It was large enough to launch the Old Man’s vee-hull boat and motor, so it was of some significant size. He took me there several times, to fish, and to see the underwater beauty of such a natural wonder.
When the Old Man wasn’t around with the boat, my younger Cousin and I rode up on our bikes to enjoy something highly unusual in our part of Northeast Texas, clear, running water.
The gin-clear water in that pool, the fish of all sizes, and its shady banks still call to me, because most pools, creeks, streams, rivers and lakes in our part of the world are muddy. Which brings us back to my original discussion, clear water.
Several years ago, Cousin (who was much rounder in his later years) and I went looking for that unnamed spring lake. The years degraded our memories, and the land was different. The pastures were gone, and houses hunkered in the woods like ugly weeds.
“Posted” signs warned us away from the original trail we’d used over fifty years ago, so we followed blacktop roads to our estimated destination. A gray-haired gentleman was outside his house, working on a truck when we pulled up in his drive and waited for his dog to stop barking.
He rose, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Howdy boys. What can I do for you?”
I took the lead. “We’re looking for a spring lake that used to be around here.”
“Well, I’ve only lived here about ten years. Haven’t heard of a lake.”
Cousin was interested. “Where’d you move from?”
“Prosper, Texas.”
I shook my head in wonder at such a small world. “That’s where my wife grew up. Did you know the Reynolds family?”
His smile became genuine. “Sure enough. Robert and Robbie were good friends.”
Such a strange coincidence created an immediate bond and we visited for half an hour before getting back around to the reason we were there. Our new friend pointed. “The only pool around here is that little muddy puddle over yonder on someone else’s land that stays wet year-round.”
We looked where he pointed, and my recollections of the area superimposed themselves on the “muddy puddle.”
“Good Lord.” My spirits fell, and Cousin’s face mirrored my own.
He rubbed his bald head. “They’ve killed the spring with all this construction around here.”
The sweet water that once flowed fast enough to fill a small, three-acre-pool struggled to survive as a mud hole. Disappointed and saddened, we left, thinking about such a strange coincidence that I would meet friends of the War Department’s dad and brother in my ancestors’ community, and how “progress” was killing such wonderful, natural resources.
Here’s another. A few years ago, when I drove a dually pickup–––Let’s pause here, because I had to explain duallys to one of my city-dwelling editors who’d never heard of a six-wheeled truck. After explaining the concept, that individual still misunderstood, thinking there were three in a line on each side. I wrote back again, sending a link so that person could see there were four on the back and two in the front.
Because a dually is hippy, it won’t fit into most garages, especially the one at our old house, so I parked it on the street the entire time we lived there. Unfortunately, someone broke in one night and stole whatever wasn’t nailed down, (including my Juicy Fruit gum) and that included a pair of prescription Oakley sunglasses. I sincerely hoped they wore them while driving into a bridge abutment one night, but it didn’t happen.
They took tools, OTC drugs (antacids and allergy pills I kept in the cab because my former son-in-law was dangerously allergic to stings), and the Bride’s little pocket camera she used for work with the Frisco ISD, but forgot to take out that night.
Figuring all was lost, we filed a police report and went on about our lives. Somewhere around six weeks later, she got a call from the local PD.
“Mrs. Wortham, we have a report here about a burglary of a motor vehicle.”
“It was my husband’s truck. He filed the report. I’m surprised you called me.”
“Well, it’s an interesting story. We busted a vehicle burglary ring and found a digital camera in a house full of stolen items. There was a photo of the front of a school, and when we went to that location, they remembered you came by with your camera. We have the couple who broke into his truck. The guy is cooperating, but the female is a war horse, so I’d like to know if you’d like to press charges.”
She laughed. “I’m sure my husband will.”
I did.
Now here’s one last story I can draw from, but haven’t yet found the place. When we were still in that same house, the Bride came home for lunch and called me a few minutes after she left. “Hey, there’s a car in the alley right behind the house. It’s running, but no one is in it. I wonder if they have some kind of trouble. You might want to go look.”
I walked out to find an old car idling a few feet from our drive. No one was behind the wheel, and when I glanced inside, the back of my neck tingled. A screwdriver protruded from the steering column.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
I told dispatch where I lived. “There’s a running car behind our house and no one is in it. I think it’s stolen.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Because there’s a screwdriver in the ignition, for one thing.”
Her voice changed. “What kind of car is it, and can you see the license tag?”
I told her.
“Sir, get away from the car and go in the house now. Officers are on the way.”
Following such direct orders, I did as she said and waited. Two minutes later every cop in the city was at our location, looking for the bank robbers who’d used that vehicle as a getaway car, dumped it in the alley, ran through the yard between our house and the neighbor, and drove away in another vehicle parked on our street.
But one lighter moment was when several young officers showed up to search the area, they insisted on checking our back yard, only to find my nineteen-year-old daughter sunning beside the pool. They checked the backyard several times until I asked her to come inside, even though our premises was the safest place in town.
So with those in mind, (and I confess none of these images are real by the way),how many of you writers draw from old memories and or unlikely events to use in your manuscripts? Do you have stories of police work you can weave into a future work, but haven’t done it yet? Do you have real life adventures or coincidences, or pet peeves and disappointments that can enrich your works?
I still have more, but these will have to do at this writing.
Like bang for your buck? I have a 
But with the upcoming release of Burned Bridges, the first entry in my new Irene Rivers thriller series (launched yesterday!), I finally have an answer.
One late autumn afternoon, as I was walking around our property in West Virginia in the company of Kimber, my 22-pound protector and watchdog, I was squeezing my brain to hatch an idea that felt right. I wanted it to be West Virginia-centric, but in the way that C.J. Box’s works are Wyoming-centric.
