What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? I began writing Summer of No Rain in 2015. I finished the novel in 2021.
What led you to write such a unique story? I saw a calendar at church one evening that identified specific events day by day that impacted American African-Americans. June 23, 1973 had a reference to a US Supreme Court trial that occurred regarding the case in central Alabama on the use of eugenics on young girls of color. I researched the case to get details, and I found eugenics had been practiced as late as 1968 here in the South. I am a highly educated individual. I thought if I knew nothing about this, others might not. So I set out to write a story that would reveal this practice.
Click on the link below to read about the 1974 decision on the Relf v. Weinberger
https://eugenics-in-virginia.law.virginia.edu/eugenics-timeline/relf-v-weinberger
How did you conduct the research? Internet articles on the similarities of how Adolf Hitler patterned his extermination program on America’s plan.
Click on “Cowboys, Indians and Hitler” to read about the similarities between America’s treatment of Native American Indians and Hitler’s treatment of Jews
The book “Im-be-ciles“ by Adam Cohen that gives the story of Carrie Buck of Virginia who is the subject of a 1927 US Supreme Court case.
Click on below link to order Im-be-ciles: The Supreme Court, American Eugenics, and the Sterilization of Carrie Buck from Amazon.
Click on the link below to read about Carrie Buck
Conversations and observations of my former African-American students.
Conversations with friends of African-American descent about the similarities and differences on home life of Whites and African-Americans.
Observations of bullying by high school students toward children that are “outcasts.”
How do you justify being a White author writing about a Black child? I believe that a child who is hurting hurts the same as any other child. Skin color doesn’t determine the type or level of pain.
Tell me about the process of writing the novel. I began by writing a story that justified the actions of the father, the mother, the grandmother, the child and the social worker. Several writer friends commented on focusing of the point of view of the child to make the story more poignant. So I trashed the scenes of all the characters expect the children and a few related to the social worker when she realized her part in an illegal operation. The child, who is twelve years old doesn’t understand what is happening to her. She doesn’t understand why no one else is going to the “Free Women’s Clinic.” It is only after her mother accepts the presence of the SCLC that she realizes that she had been part of an experiment.
What was the outcome of the two Supreme Court Cases? The Buck v Bell and the Relf v Weinberg cases ruled basically the same: If the patient stated that he/she understood the ramifications of the procedure, the procedure was legal. The patient’s mental capability was not taken into account. That ruling stands today even though research shows that 100-150,00 sterilizations occurred in one year.
Click on the below link to read about the Buck v Bell case
https://embryo.asu.edu/pages/buck-v-bell-1927
Click on the below link to view the Relf v Weinberg case on You Tube
Do you expect repercussions for writing this book? None beyond what other authors have experienced. If the book doesn’t sell, I will accept that. If it does, I will be honored. Outstanding authors have always presented the negative side of life. For the readers who are not aware of the negative aspects of life, this book will enlighten them. The book is fiction. The characters are fictional. Though so, they are based on incidents that are real. The symptoms are real. I guess that makes the book realistic fiction.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? I did most of the writing at my computer in my office at my home in Northport, Alabama. This proved to be the most practical place because I have multiple research books at hand. When the weather allowed, I used my laptop on the back porch overlooking the lake. Other times I wrote when my husband was driving us somewhere that took an extended time, Then I wrote in pencil on a yellow legal pad. I used this pad to jot down ideas when they came to me while writing other documents.
What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? I usually wrote for entire days at a time. Once I began, I had difficulty coming to a stop. I always have something to drink with me – diet cola or water. I primarily write on my computer. Other times, I write in pencil on a yellow legal pad or my laptop. I didn’t use music when I wrote this novel, but I did listen to sermons by preachers of color.
I understand that Summer of No Rain will be listed as a Young Adult novel. How do you feel about that characterization? I was in our local library recently when a young boy, about ten years old, checked out Cormac McCarthy’s novel The Road. When he left with his father, I suppose, I asked if it was the practice for the library to let children that young read a book as frightening as the one he had checked out. The librarian answered without hesitation that, yes, there was no restriction on what individuals could check out. I hope the father took time to read the book and discuss the cannibalism is a way the child could understand. On the other hand, perhaps the boy didn’t read the book. But in our country, he has that choice. Summer of No Rain gives the reader a choice.
Click on the below link to order THE ROAD from amazo
How might you feel if, for some reason, Summer of No Rain comes out on a banned book list? I would be honored. To be on a list that includes some of the most important books ever written would be such a distinction.
This novel has a ghost who appears several times. Your first novel Beloved Mother has spirits on earth and in the heavens. Is their inclusion deliberate, or do they just appear on their own? The spirits or ghosts appear on their own. I believe that man has a spirit that can exist beyond the physical. To limit man to his physical essence is to deny a major part of who he is.
Click on below link to order BELOVED MOTHER from Amazon
Your dialect is right on with the children of color. Considering you are a White woman, how did you accomplish this? I taught children of color for decades. I was fortunate to have them be comfortable speaking their language in front of me. I have an ear for language. I am blessed to process what I hear and give it back without degrading it in any way.
This book is being published in conjunction with Black History Month. Is Summer of No Rain directed to the Black community? Not necessarily. Anyone who is wounded by injustice and pain of another will find this book one he/she will want to read.
Click on the below link to read about Black History Month
https://www.blackhistorymonth.gov/
Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer. I do not have pages because the book isn’t published yet. I do have a scene from Chapter 14. Blues is the pastor/store owner; Margaret Ann is the protagonist, aged 12 who is a victim of eugenics; Miss Claire is the white social worker who takes Margaret Ann for her shots of experimental medicine.
Chapter 14
In the distance, we saw Brother Blues at the store. He sat down on the store porch’s edge and leaned his back against a two-by-four holding up the tin roof. He waited. It was near closing time, but I wished a strong wish that he would wait us out. Something must have told him to rethink closing, told him “Better wait.”
I could tell from when he stood that he had seen us. He had his hand cupped over his eyes. Here we were, two people coming toward the store, one in a tan skirt dragging a jacket and one, clearly me, carrying a schoolbook.
I must have walked like an old woman, hips throbbing, shuffling along behind the white woman. My head hung heavy. I continued to fail MaDear. My shoulders slumped, and I could hear MaDear say, “Stand up straight, Sugar Baby. Walk tall.” My hands felt so heavy. They pulled my upper arms down, stretching out the tight skin under my sleeves. Brother Blues would tell me later that as I came closer, he could see how peaked I was, how dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my lips were cracking dry. I admit I was miserable.
“What you doing here, Margaret Ann? You don’t look too pert.” Brother Blues took my elbow and helped me up the step. “You, too,” he spoke without any reference to who “you” might be.
I sat on the plank bench that flushed the front wall. A rusty RC Cola sign over my head and my middy with its red tie were the only colors against the gray boards. That and the Grape Nehi sign. Down the length of the porch, there hung the Grape Nehi sign still over the other bench, and I recalled the day Bailey Renfroe and I laughed ourselves silly. The sign didn’t look all that funny this time.
“You ailing, Girl?”
I might as well say it out loud. Keeping quiet wasn’t making them go away. “I got the blue jennies, I reckon.” I dropped my head back and listened to my voice ricochet off the tin roof.
“The what?” Miss Claire frowned. She can make a monster frown.
“Blue jennies. That’s what Doc Graves say.” My voice sounded drained. I needed a Grape Nehi real bad. “Guess he’s right, him being a doctor and all.”
Miss Claire’s eyebrows shot up. She gave Brother Blues the eyeball. He shook his head. They must have thought I’s crazy. First wrecking the Jeep and now claiming to have some never-heard-of disease.
Miss Claire bent closer and whispered. “You didn’t tell me this before the wreck.”
“You promised it wouldn’t be a wreck,” I whispered back. I swallowed tears. I didn’t need to cry in front of my own pastor.
“Before the tire blew out.” Miss Claire raised her voice. She looked at Blues for a reaction, but got none. “That’s what I meant.”
Brother Blues ignored her. “What’s your ailments, Girl?”
“Sores. On my arms and hips from where she give me shots. And big old hard lumps. I guess they the jennies.” I followed a ladybug with the toe of my shoe as it dragged itself across a board. Here was this little around bug meandering along, minding his own business, while my whole world was falling apart. How I wished I could trade places with that bug.
“Show me your arm,” Miss Claire said real gentle.
I turned my back to Brother Blues and pulled the collar of my middy down over my shoulder. Pus blisters covered my upper arm. Purple circles surrounded knots the size of walnuts. Older rings favored the color of rotting green apples. Within each knot was a tiny black prick where the needle had opened the skin.
Miss Claire breathed in deep. “Why’s the doctor giving you so many shots?”
“Do Ophelia know you got them jennies?” Blues asked, hard-faced.
“No,” I said. Then reconsidered. “I don’t know. I gets a shot or two every time I go and today Nurse say the blue jennies ain’t working so they got to give me bigger shots or I got to come back more days a week.” My eyes filled. “I already go twice a week.” I looked up at Miss Claire. “I ain’t going back, Miss Claire. I hurt all over and I don’t want no more.” Tears dripped off my chin.
“Too hot out here for you feeling bad. You go inside and get you a Grape Nehi. On me.” Brother Blues knows my soul, for sure. He helped me up and turned me toward the door. “Me and this here lady, we got some talking to do.”
I hauled myself up and into the store.
“And get you a Baby Ruth while you at it,” Blues called over his shoulder. I looked back out the door. He nodded to Miss Claire. “You come over here and sit, Missus.”
I opened my drink and took a deep gulp. I edged to the open door and sat on the floor. Bailey Renfroe would be proud of me being a spy and all. There I could watch and hear what he would tell Miss Claire. I hoped he’d say that I couldn’t go back. He’s my preacher. It’s his job to look after me.
“It looks to me like she’s not tolerating injections well.”
Blues eyed Miss Claire directly. “What injections you talking about?”
Miss Claire shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Brother Blues raised his voice. “You telling me you take a child that ain’t your’n out and give her to some doctor who does what you don’t know about to her?” I could have heard him even if I had been out back under the big oak.
I felt Miss Claire draw back. “I’m just doing my job here.”
“Humph.” Brother Blues slipped inside and almost stepped on me, sitting there on the floor spying. “Get up,” he said. “This is grown-up business.”
“But it’s me, Brother Blues. Margaret Ann. It’s about me.”
Brother Blues rolled his head around on his neck and walked behind the counter where he sat on his high stool.
Miss Claire called me to come outside. She had picked up my book. She must have thumbed through the loose pages. A half-sheet of paper had fallen to the floor. One side read “Free Women’s Health Clinic.” Under the heading, someone had penciled in conversions from cups to pint, from pints to quart. My homework. Miss Claire turned the paper over and read “‘Order serum supply Monday.’ What’s this?”
“My homework.” I reached for the paper. “Found it on the floor. I thought it would be alright.”
“I need it.” She folded the paper and slipped it in her purse. I didn’t have the energy to protest.
Blues Marshall stepped out next to her and stood straight as a tree. “Come on out the heat.” Inside, he motioned for her to sit in a straight-back chair. “Come on, Margaret Ann.”
“Your store, it smells like old motor oil,” Miss Claire said.
He spoke without looking at Miss Claire, like he did when he was channeling the Word of the Lord. “The good Lord, he didn’t make all animals equal, Miss Whitehurst.” Miss Claire cringed as if stung.
Miss Claire later told me that Blues Marshall was the biggest man she had every seen. She was right about that. He held no fat, but he stood tall and thick as an ancient oak trunk. His gray stubble made her think of Uncle Remus and Brer Rabbit stories. MaDear had starched his bib overalls and ironed a sharp crease down each leg. His Purexed white dress shirt held marks where he bent his arms against the stiffness of fresh laundered cotton. “Call me Claire, Mr. Marshall.” She put out her hand.
“You can call me Mr. Marshall.” Blues lowered his large body onto an overturned keg.
Miss Claire drew back her hand and clasped it with the other.
Brother Blues heaved himself into a mound and sighed. “You take old Brother Chicken Snake. Now he’s going to do what he was made to do.” I slumped against the coolness of the metal chest that housed the colas and waited for his lesson.
Miss Claire sighted Brother Blues’ brogans. I followed her eyes. Spit polished and dustless, even on a day with no rain. Brother Blues’ brogans always looked better than my vaselined shoes.
He continued. “Snake’s job’s to steal eggs out my chicken coop. He finds a hole and lets his long self in without even a knock. Sometimes he winds his black person around the nest and swallows them eggs one at a time. Might rest where he’s at waiting for his natural juices to soften the shells. And he might even sleep a bit. But sometimes if something he don’t like come along, he just drop off the nest ledge and crack them eggs where he hits the ground. That’s a chicken snake for you.”
Miss Claire nodded, as if she understood his point. Me and MaDear had done the same that day when she first came to our house. She wiped sweat from her temple and flipped her damp hair off her neck. I flipped my hair, too. Tomorrow, I would ask MaDear for a braid.
Brother Blues scooched back and rested his back against the counter’s edge. He meant to tell his story. “Some hot summer day, you might find Brother Snake crawling slow across the road out there with a hump here and a hump there.” He motioned toward the road. “Leaving them eggs whole until he finds a pine tree he can wrap his longness around and crush them eggs. Pop! Pop! Pop!” Blues slapped his thigh with each pop. Miss Claire jumped. “That’s what he do.”
Brother Blues pulled a wooden matchstick out of his overall bib and bit off the match head. I thought the story was over and moved to get up off the floor. Instead, he spit out the head and nudged it into a wide crack in the floor. Its red tip intact, it disappeared. I imagined a mat of unlit match heads under the store, waiting for an excuse to blaze up. Brother Blues stuck the wooden end between his purple lips and continued. “That’s what any Chicken Snake Brother he do.”
Miss Claire waited. Her face said she saw no point to his story. The silence was so strong I heard ice melting and dripping in the drink box behind my back. I followed her eyes as she looked at the shelves to her right. Three cans Arm & Hammer baking soda. Six bags sugar. Five loaves Merita white bread. When Brother Blues spoke, his voice startled us both.
“But you take this fine coon hound dog I had a while back. Best I every had. Sired by Gold Runner who took the State ribbon in ’52. Beautifulest dog you every seen, he was. Black and tan, coat slick as oil. In no time flat, my neighbor Erskine come knocking on my door down the house and telling me his eggs was disappearing and his chicks too. I asked him how come. He say it was how come ‘cause my fine hound dog was eating them. That’s how come.” He moved the matchstick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue. “So I says how you know it’s my dog. I seen him he says. So I sets about to catch him. He’s my dog, after all. That very night, I took me a sack of flour off the shelf and dusted it all around Erskine’s chicken coop. Next morning, paw prints was all about and chicken feathers laid out like speckled beans. Shore ‘nuff. Back home that fine dog was there sleeping under my oak. Had the whitest feets you every did see.”
“What’d you do?” Miss Claire said.
“Shot him.”
Miss Claire gasped. My head popped up. I never imagined Brother Blues with a gun, but it must be so. Brother Blues said it his own self.
Brother Blues sauntered out and across the porch. We found him leaning against the post, staring down the road toward our place.
“I’ll get my boy Junior up here and have him take the girl home to her mama.” He spoke without turning. “I reckon you can get on down the road to town and ask that Walter Gibbons to come get Hank Bullard’s fine Jeep out the gully.”
Within the whisper of a breath, Miss Claire disappeared around the bend.
Click on below link to order SUMMER OF NO RAIN from amazon.
Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? I chose this chapter because it shows someone in the community finally standing up for the child. It fleshes out Brother Blues and show how naïve Miss Claire is. Margaret Ann is the epitome of innocence. She doesn’t understand that the doctor has used the word “eugenics.” Not knowing this word, she thinks he said “blue jennies.”
The excerpt saddened me as I wrote it, and it saddens me to read it. It shows that, even though people of different races try to relate, sometimes they are too far apart of reach each other.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. This excerpt was one of the easiest scenes I wrote. There are few deletions. I have included parts of two scenes I edited extensively; the first is the scene when Mr. Gibbons sees Margaret as a baby and the second is the scene when the father leaves the child and her mother.
Click on the below link to read Laura Hunter’s biography
https://bwpublications.com/authors/laura-hunter/
Click on the below link to visit Laura Hunter’s Facebook page.
https://www.facebook.com/laura.hunter.9655
Most of the INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION links can be found at the very end of the below feature
http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html