Hilltown Postcards

Hilltown Postcard: We Buy a Piece of Land

Home ownership seemed to be an unreachable goal for our family. For many years, Hank and I had been restless souls, moving from one end of the country to another, even with all the kids we had. Then we moved to Worthington and enjoyed country living enough to set down roots.

Prices in homes had a big jump in the 1980s, nothing like the amounts we see now, but enough to put buying one out of our hands. The story I heard was that a property on River Road in West Worthington was sold for big bucks. Then everybody who had a house for sale, pulled it off the market and put it back on for a whole lot more money.

Our best bet would be to buy a piece of land and build a home to share with our six kids. 

Hank was doing his best to support us as a woodworker working freelance for contractors. I contributed a little as a correspondent for the local newspaper. We paid our bills on time, but we had zero credit. The only card we owned was one for JC Penny. That wouldn’t go far with a bank.

But then luck was on our side when I heard about a small piece of land, less than 3 acres on Williamsburg Road, that was selling for $20,000. Once owned by the Tower family, the lot was created long before the creation of the town’s zoning laws, which require 400 feet of frontage and a two-acre minimum. This one had 200 feet frontage, but was grandfathered in, as the saying goes.

The lot was mostly wooded with a small clearing and sloping driveway. It was surrounded on three sides by rough stonewalls put there long ago. I believe the Tower family once used the spot to contain farm animals. 

We scraped together enough money for the 10 percent down payment, and the Bank of Western Massachusetts, a local institution that no longer exists, gave us a loan. The closing date was July 28, 1987. 

That was a big, big day for us. 

Inspired, Hank got to work with his chainsaw cutting trees he decided could be used as lumber on our new home. He would have the logs milled locally, and a man who Hank had worked for, a newcomer with bucks, kindly offered to let the planks season in the top floor of his barn. I remember helping him unload and stack the lumber.

I recall the day we attempted to burn a pile of small branches and a useless picnic table. Hank and I had to work like mad with shovels to stop the fire spreading through tree roots of the pines. We were successful, but we wouldn’t be doing that again.

I decided to record our progress via photos. Above is a photo of our two youngest sons, Zack and Nate, so happy as they sit on one of the logs their father cut.

But the house’s construction didn’t happen until two years later. Something happened, something serious, that interfered with our plans. I’ll tell you about it next time.

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Author Interview

Interview with Author Helen Matthews

I have read all of Helen Matthews’ novels, which have found a new home at Bloodhound Books. Here I use the 6 Ws format — who, what when etc. — to let her tell you about Girl Out of Sight, which was re-released July 29 by Bloodhound Books, and how she writes.

Who is author Helen Matthews?

Thanks for inviting me, Joan. I’m a British author, originally from Wales but I now live with my husband in a village in Hampshire, about an hour away from London. My son is a journalist and my daughter’s a police officer – handy when I need some detection and crime scene details checked. 

My novels sit within the crime genre but are page-turning psychological suspense and domestic thrillers rather than police procedurals. Although people die or face life-threatening danger in my books, investigating a crime isn’t the main plot driver. The books are more whydunnit than whodunnit. I’m fascinated by the darker side of human nature, flawed characters, unreliable narrators and how a life can change in an instant.

What is your latest book?

My latest book Girl Out of Sight was re-released July 29 by Bloodhound Books. It’s a suspense thriller with a theme of human trafficking and tells the story of seventeen-year-old Odeta, who leaves her remote village in Albania with a man she believes is her boyfriend. She thinks she’s going to begin an exciting new life and career in London, never imagining that her dream is about to descend into a nightmare. Odeta’s life isn’t especially grim but it’s colourless and lacks opportunity. Since leaving school, she’s been working in her father’s shop and thinks nothing interesting will ever happen to her again.

Girl Out of Sight is a human-scale story not a vast-canvas thriller about international organised crime. I wanted readers to relate to Odeta, who could be you or me or one of our daughters, and walk in her footsteps, sharing her hopes and dreams as she travels to England and discovers what awaits her behind the doors of an ordinary London street.

Odeta is the central character but there’s a second storyline about Kate, a London journalist, whose  seemingly perfect life is filled with anxiety for her son, Ben. He’s obsessed with online gaming but struggles to make friends. Kate comes from a village in Wales and wants her son to experience the simpler childhood she enjoyed. In desperation, she disconnects her family from the internet and tries to build a community on her London street so her son can make friends in real life. It doesn’t go well for her marriage. And danger lurks behind closed doors. Perhaps Kate’s neighbours are not the friendly community they seem …

This book was first published in 2017 by another press, under the title After Leaving the Village, and won first prize in the opening pages of a novel category at Winchester Festival. Time moves on but the struggle to raise awareness of the hideous crimes of human trafficking and modern slavery continues. I’m delighted Bloodhound Books is publishing this new edition to bring the book to more readers.  

When did you begin writing?

I might seem like a late starter but I think of myself as someone who has served a long apprenticeship to get my novels published. From early childhood, throughout my teenage years and into adulthood I was always writing. I won a few competitions and had pieces published in teen magazines. A first degree in English was a setback due to years spent reading great literature which made me wonder how I could have the arrogance to write. The urge to write didn’t go away. After long days in a busy corporate career, I wrote late at night after my children were in bed, a glass of wine by my side. My job conditioned me to write in business-speak and legalese, empty of emotion. I found it harder to write fiction but I didn’t give up. I switched to writing non-fiction and had some success with articles accepted by family and lifestyle magazines, a couple in national newspapers and even recorded some columns for BBC Radio.

Finally, when my children were almost grown up I quit my day job with no redundancy package, too young for my pension and went to Oxford Brookes University to do an MA in Creative Writing. I was lucky to get freelance consultancy work which kept me going for several years while developing my writing career. Eventually I switched into copywriting which sat well alongside novel writing.

How do you write?

Probably due to my corporate background, I’m instinctively a planner. I’d say I’m 70 per cent planner: 20 per cent free flowing ‘pantser’ and the remainder is just generally confused. I don’t always stick to my plans. Once my characters take on a life of their own, the book can go in an unexpected direction.

I keep a notebook with me and jot down ideas as they occur. Sometimes, if I’m out walking my dog I’ll record thoughts on my phone. When I have an idea for a new novel I do some pages of mind mapping, assemble my notes and start initial research. Then I’ll do character sketches and a rough plan before starting to write to see if the idea has legs and will sustain 90,000 words. Not all stories can. I don’t use any tools like Scrivener just Word on my laptop and lots of notebooks and post-it notes. 

Where do you write?

I’ve tried writing in cafes and on the move but I’m distracted by noise and other people’s conversations so I write better at home where I can close the door. I tend to move around rooms so I might write in the kitchen or dining room for a while or move upstairs to my daughter’s old bedroom. Oddly, I never write in the study perhaps because it has an in-tray full of admin and bills needing to be paid shouting for my attention. In summer, I  write outside in the garden if I can keep the glare of sunlight off my screen.

My ideal working environment is when I’m alone in my house so I can go deep into the world of my characters and live with them while figuring out their lives, plot and conflict. Having an empty house is rare  unless my husband goes to France without me for a week or two. The minute the door closes behind him I whizz around and tidy up so I’m not distracted by dirty dishes or piles of ironing. Then it’s head down and on with the writing all day and late into the night.

Why do you write?

No one holds a gun to our heads and forces us to write but, for me, writing is a habit that’s impossible to kick. It’s even harder than ignoring that bottle of wine in my fridge that will be empty before bedtime. On a bad day, the urge to write feels like a disease: a virus that inhabits my body and steals my soul.  When pitching to publishers is going badly, feelings of rejection can be crippling. It’s tempting to despair, press delete or stick an unfinished novel in a drawer. But do we give up? Of course not.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that writing can be both a painful addiction and a source of joy. The writing life might not be lucrative but it’s a total privilege. As well as the creative aspects, I’ve met some amazing author friends on my MA course, in local groups and in the online world – a whole new network of support through the tough times.

More about Helen: parting words; links to your books; social media

My back catalogue is in slight disarray at the moment as three of my novels have left their previous publisher, Darkstroke and are moving to Bloodhound Books. Girl Out of Sight is back on sale this week but the other books won’t be on sale for a few months. Façade, to be republished in December, is domestic suspense about a family whose lives seem perfect on the outside but everything is rotten at the core. The Girl in the Van will be republished in January 2025. It won the crime and suspense genre prize in the 2022 international Pageturner Book Awards. It has a theme of modern slavery around young people being groomed by gangs to deliver drugs out of cities into small towns and rural areas. In the UK, this is called ‘county lines’ exploitation, named after the mobile phone lines gangs use to control their young victims.

My novel Lies Behind the Ruin and short story and travel writing collection Brief Encounters will continue to be available from Amazon. 

As well as novels, I occasionally write short stories and flash fiction and these have been shortlisted and published by Flash 500, 1000K Story, Reflex Press, Artificium and Love Sunday magazine.

Homer, my rescue dog – originally a street dog from Romania – keeps me fit as he needs to walk at least three miles every day. I also swim, cycle long distances with my girlfriends, sing in a choir and once appeared on stage at Carnegie Hall, New York in a multi-choir performance. In the year 2000 my husband and I impulse bought a tumbledown cowshed in France to renovate into a holiday home. It took years! We’re still tinkering with it now and love spending time there each year.

When I was researching the original version of Girl Out of Sight I became a supporter of the charity Unseen UK which supports trafficking survivors and works towards a world without slavery. The charity has since appointed me an Ambassador and I donate a percentage of royalties and fees from talks, in which I explain modern slavery as well as talking about my books.

You can download Girl Out of Sight at: https://geni.us/GirlOutofSight. Check out my other novels by clicking through to my Amazon page. 

Find out more at: https://www.helenmatthewswriter.com

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Memoir

Los federales let us go

In a recent post, I shared a story of how we managed to get out of a jam in Mexico when our VW van toppled into a brush-filled ravine. Now, let me tell you about how we escaped being arrested by los federales.

In the mid-’70s, Hank and I, new in our relationship, and my daughter, Sarah, only 2, wandered around Mexico in our vintage VW camper van we named Rosalita. (The photo above was the one on Hank’s passport he obtained before we left.) We decided to settle for a while in San Cristóbal de las Casas located in Chiapas, a southern state in that country. We had delivered a gift a friend wanted us to bring her brother and decided this would be a good place to stay a while.

I don’t recall how we did it or what we paid, but we rented a small house on the outskirts. The house had water, but the toilet drained into a backyard trench that didn’t work well. I used a gas camp stove to cook our meals, and because of the rats, we kept our food locked in a sturdy case in the VW. We could hear rats running across the tin roof at night, and Hank kept a flashlight and hammer next to the futon we used on the floor to kill them. There wasn’t any furniture, not even a chair, except for a woven hammock we strung beneath the courtyard’s porch.

Every day we walked to the mercado, usually stopping at a café in the town’s center. We met a few other gringos, including a friendly man who was our guide as we traveled to indigenous villages in the mountains. He also taught us some basic Spanish. We also met a family of hippie types who rented a large house in town and hung out there a couple of times.

Interestingly, locals sometimes thought I was Mexican, thanks to the looks I inherited from my Portuguese ancestors, and would comment I was lucky to have found a gringo.

One day on a walk to the mercado, Hank and I were approached by a young man dressed in what I would describe as fake hippie garb and who asked us if we wanted to buy marijuana. No thanks, we told him. We didn’t smoke, which was the truth. We also noticed the same day another man, older, who wore one of those fringe suede jackets, driving a dirty, beat-up American-made car. It got even curiouser when we noticed those two talking on a side street like they were sharing a secret.

A night or two later, after Hank pulled into a Pemex gas station, our van was surrounded by armed federales. I recognized the man with the fringe suede jacket was among them. We were told to leave the van, so they could search it.

We had been warned that whole American families were being arrested, and then they had to pay a ransom to get out of prison. That is what we were told happened to the family who rented that big house by the way.

I held Sarah as we watched the federales dig through our stuff. We didn’t own anything illegal, but perhaps they would plant something. I knew this was a serious situation. 

But, instead, they let us go.

Hank and I were relieved as we drove away. We hadn’t done anything illegal in this country, but we decided it was time to return to the U.S. So, we packed up and left the next morning in the VW van that had brought us here.

Once again, good luck had been on our side.

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book review

Book Review: Hunter’s Rules

First, a full disclosure: I have read every book Val Penny has written. The reason is easy. I enjoy the characters she has created, especially the smart and oh-so likable DI Hunter Wilson, and the trouble she gives them. That is certainly true of Hunter’s Rules, the sixth in this series set in Edinburgh, Scotland, which begins with a shocker of a scene.

During a romantic night out, DI Hunter Wilson and Dr. Meera Sharma find a woman lying in a hotel’s elevator, bleeding and with her eyes removed. This is not the first time a woman has been found this way, but unlike the previous victims, she is alive. And that helps Hunter and crack his team of investigators in their hunt for the perpetuator in this fast-moving read.

But Val throws in an interesting twist to the plot: making Hunter a suspect. Loyal readers will know — or hope — he is not guilty, but he has to not only solve this horrendous crime, but prove his innocence.

Val cleverly lets readers into the perp’s head with italicized excerpts throughout — just enough so we know he’s a madman but not enough to figure out who he was.

Also, the victim’s positive attitude as she recovers from her unimaginable injuries is a moving and original storyline.

By the way Val Penny is an American author living in SW Scotland. Her novels are published by SpellBound Books Ltd.

Needless to say, I am looking forward to the next in the DI Hunter Wilson Crime Series. Get cracking, Val.

Here’s the link to buy Hunter’s Rules:

For UK readers:  https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0D7ZPBJDX

For US readers: https://www.amazon.com/Hunter-Rules-Wilson-thriller-Thriller-ebook/dp/B0D7ZPBJDX

Want to learn more about Val Penny? Here’s the link to her website: https://www.valpenny.com

By the way, this review is part of the Reading Between the Lines Blog Tour. No compensation is involved.

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Adventrue

Riding Rosalita

We called her Rosalita—a vintage VW camper van we bought for $800 and drove from Boston to Mexico. Hank and I were newly in love in the mid-seventies and ready for adventure with my daughter, Sarah. Rosalita would take us there.

In the state of Guerrero, Hank, bored from highway driving, turned onto a road that appeared to be a shortcut to where we were heading. Soon we were on a dusty trip with no certain destination in a foreign country. We didn’t pass homes. We didn’t see people. Finally, though, we came to a sign. Hank put Rosalita in reverse to read it, but the right back tire slid off the road’s shoulder. He couldn’t do anything as the van toppled slowly onto its side into a brush-filled gully. Thankfully, we were unhurt as the van didn’t have seatbelts.

Our plan was for Hank to hike seven kilometers back to the highway to find a garage with a wrecker, while Sarah, then two, and I waited. But just then, a bus rumbled toward us filled with local folk and livestock, and decorated with plastic flowers and statues of Jesus and Mary. The driver hung out the open window after he stopped the bus. His passengers gawked at the gringo family who had overturned their van. The driver motioned for Hank to climb onboard. I told him to go. Who knew when another bus would pass again? I gave him my straw hat and most of our cash.

After the bus left, I searched inside the van for a blanket, papers, food, and water. Sarah and I found a shady spot beneath a tree, but we weren’t alone for long. People came down a path, presumably from the village whose name was on the sign. They talked rapidly and gestured in Spanish. Even with my infantile knowledge of the language, I understood that Sarah and I were in danger. Men with big hats and guns—banditos—would come after dark. They would take everything we had. I must gather our valuables and hide. Now, I was scared.

It couldn’t have been 20 minutes when a dump truck, heavy with chrome and a fringe of pompoms circling the windshield, barreled from the direction we had come, its air brakes hissing as it stopped. Two men jumped from the truck’s bed with axes. The driver, their patrón—dark-haired and all-muscle, and a gut beneath his t-shirt—dismounted with Hank, who smiled and looked a little silly in my straw hat with the flat, wide brim I had bought in France. The bus driver, bless him, had stopped the truck to explain we needed help.

The patrón began barking orders to his men who chopped down two trees and stuck them beneath the van. Using the trees as levers, and a tow from the chain on the truck, they pried Rosalita upright and pulled her forward until her tires were on the road. I cheered.

The only damage was a cracked mirror. Oil was still in the crankcase. The patrón acted as if nothing extraordinary had happened as he pocketed the cash Hank offered. He went his way with his men. We, too, were on the road, trying to get out before dark, crossing two streams and stopping once to clean the dust choking Rosalita’s air-cooled engine. (Later, an inspired Hank painted Rosalita’s name in gold across her front white bumper.)

We drove to the ocean and eventually to San Cristóbal de las Casas, where we rented a house. That’s a vintage postcard above of the town in Chiapas I never mailed to a friend. Alas, we didn’t own a camera then.

 Rosalita rode high as we traveled to mountain villages, where the indigenous women doted on Sarah and sold us textiles. We left Mexico months later when we ran out of money and one night the federales made a sweep of the town, targeting foreigners. Ah, but Rosalita got us back home safely again.

A version of this story ran in Storied Wheels, a SOMOS Publication in Taos, New Mexico.

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