Read a great bio of the author (in her own words).
There is a great reader's guide on the author's website with questions, a delightful interview and a recipe for molasses cake.
This Author's Note is well worth the read:
A few years ago, my husband and I restored an old plantation
tavern in Virginia. While researching its past, I found an old map on which,
near our home, was a notation: Negro Hill. Unable to determine the story of its
origin, local historians suggested that it most likely suggested a tragedy. For
months it played on my mind. Each morning I walked across our land to go down
to the stream where I would meditate. On my return trip, I faced the direction
of Negro Hill and, to myself, wondered aloud what had happened there.
Finally, one morning when I returned from that walk, I sat down
to do my daily journaling. What happened next left me baffled. In my mind’s
eye, I saw a scene play out as clear as a movie.
I began to write, and the words flew onto the paper. I
followed in the footsteps of a terrified little white girl, running up the hill
behind her frantic mother. When they reached the top, through their eyes, I saw
a black woman hanging from the limb of a large oak tree. I set my pencil down,
appalled at the story line. I had written the prologue to The Kitchen House.
Although fascinated by antebellum history, I abhorred the thought of slavery
and had always shied away from the subject. Quickly, I slipped the writing in
my desk drawer, determined to forget about it.
Some weeks later, during a conversation with my father, I learned
that an acquaintance of his had traced his ancestry back to Ireland. Around the
turn of the nineteenth century, this man’s Irish ancestors had come over on a
ship, and on that journey, both of the parents had died. Two brothers had
survived, along with their little sister. The family was able to track what had
happened to the boys but couldn’t find any trace of the little girl. As my
father related the story, a deep chill ran through me. In my deepest core, I
knew immediately what had happened to her. She had been brought home to the
captain’s plantation as an indentured servant in Virginia, and put to work in
the kitchen house with the kitchen slaves. She awaited me in my desk drawer.
I began to do the research. I visited the many plantations
in this area, particularly Prestwould. I studied slave narratives from the time
period and interviewed African-American people whose ancestors had been slaves.
I spent hours in local libraries, the Black History Museum, the Virginia
Historical Society, and Poplar Forest. I visited Colonial Williamsburg many
times over. Finally, I began to write. Each day more of the story unfolded, and
when I finished, often emotionally spent, I was left to wonder what the
following day would bring. The only time the work came to a standstill was when
the characters took me to an event or to a place where I had not yet done my
research.I tried on a number of occasions to change some of the events (those
that I found profoundly disturbing), but the story would stop when I did that, so I forged ahead to write what was
revealed.
I am forever grateful to the souls who gifted me with their
sharing. I can only hope I have served them well.
No comments:
Post a Comment