As a writer, I am often asked, “Where do you get your ideas for stories?” The answer varies as much as the many stories that line the shelves of bookstores. I’ve stumbled across items in antique stores that set my creative juices flowing. Idea have sparked from overhearing conversations or watching people interact. Even the sight of an empty park bench can make me wonder about the people who have sat there, waiting. Have you ever seen initials carved in the trunk of a tree or on the railing of an old wooden bridge? I wonder about their story.
Yesterday, as I was getting my hair cut, my stylist–knowing I write historical fiction–asked me if I had ever seen the old house that sits at a certain location. I have seen it briefly as I drove past, but never really stopped to take full notice of it.
She began telling me of the generations of the family who owns the house, and how they return there for holidays and family get-togethers. No one actually lives there now, but the family keeps the old homestead and maintains the connection with their ancestors through the telling and re-tellling of stories.
I was intrigued!
As my stylist shared a few of the recollections she’d been told from the family members, story chills began to dance up and down my arms, and my fingers began to itch to write down the ideas that raced through my mind. I wanted to go to that old house, tramp around the yard, peer in the windows (remember, nobody LIVES there. I’m not a peeping Tom!), and listen to the old place whisper it’s history.
As soon as I was finished at the hairdresser, I made a beeline for the old house. When I drove up into the yard, the place appeared asleep, as if waiting for someone to come and fellowship over a cup of coffee. The old shutters gaped open and the vintage windows seemed to blink a welcome, and I felt the urge to introduce myself. The worn steps and porch sighed a smile–ahh! Company!
Limbs from century-old oak trees sheltered the house. How many generations of children climbed those old trees or swung 
from it’s branches? Impish laughter of bygone years floated on the wind as I imagined a mother admonishing her offspring to “get down from that tree and do your chores!” A pair of ancient rocking chairs nodded from the porch. Chimneys waited patiently for a warm fire. How many meals were prepared in that kitchen? How many prayers were offered at the dinner table? How many giggles provided bedtime music? How many tears were shed within the walls of this house? What kind of storms had the old placed weathered? Treasured memories must certainly be harbored with this dwelling. Stories saturated the tired clapboard siding.
My writer’s brain immediately started asking “what if” questions.
The full story hasn’t yet come together in my mind, and I do hope I can talk to the family members who still share special times at this house (My hair stylist said she would contact them for me.) But yes, the house has a story it wants to tell. And I want to be the one to tell it.