The Woods
Page 23
She did not recognize the last man who spoke to the crowd of thousands. But she remembered his words long after the service was finished. “Our people have lost their families and their homes,” he said. “But we will carry on. It is what humanity does.”
Uncle Richard squeezed her hand and offered her a sad smile.
When the pallbearers lowered the caskets into three neat rows inside the oval pathway, Lenora gazed up at the sky. It was magnificently blue. The sun was magnificently hot. A bird swooped and twirled in the endless expanse.
They would carry on.
Before they left the cemetery, Lenora tossed her mother’s pearl necklace into one of the graves. It thumped against a casket.
As they passed back through Texas City, Lenora looked toward the docks. They were damaged and scarred. She arranged them in her mind, imagined Mother standing against the rail, looking for Father coming off the ships from his frequent visits to check mechanical issues. He was always aware of anything that might cause a dangerous fire in Texas City. How had he not known about this one?
She imagined John and Charles and Rory leaning beside Mother on the dock, the three of them pointing to the golden-orange plume of smoke that had colored the sky that day.
Lloyd pulled the car past the dock, or what was left of it, and the image faded away. Lenora did not look back.
Author’s Note
Some story ideas come to authors while we’re reading an obscure book that mentions something in passing that is seemingly unrelated to anything on our horizon of Worthwhile Project Pursuits. Some arise from a striking picture of the natural world that kindles a memory—the way the light fell just so on the ground inside that forest and made the grass and flowers dance. Some find us in the middle of the night, when we hope what we’ve dreamed isn’t real.
My introduction to The Woods came by way of all three: It began with a photo of the piney woods of Huntsville State Park in Huntsville, Texas, where my husband and I spent a few Octobers years ago, biking paths strewn with tree roots that grew above the earth like twisting, arthritic fingers, making the way treacherous (if you were my husband trying to bike too fast). In this photo, I imagined a young girl lying under the trees, thinking of all the people she had lost in a fire: her mother and father, two brothers, a sister named Rory.
All I had was a character and a vague premise, pushed way back on my priority shelf, until I read in a book I can’t even recall today a passing mention of the Texas City Disaster.
Being a lifelong Texan, except for a year spent in Ohio when I was nine, this mention hooked onto my brain. It interested me because (1) I took several years of Texas history, required for most elementary and middle school students here in the Lone Star State, and (2) I had never heard of the Texas City Disaster.
This disaster was a tragedy of significant proportions. Two explosions, originating in two ships docked at the Port of Texas City, practically leveled the town. The SS Grandcamp exploded at 9:12 a.m. on April 16, 1947, and fifteen hours later, the SS High Flyer exploded. Both ships carried large amounts of ammonium nitrate, a highly volatile chemical compound used for making bombs (World War II had recently concluded and the Cold War was a new threat) and in 1947, a fertilizer to replenish soils leached of nutrition during wartime. The explosions wiped out nearly an entire city of working-class Texans, many of them minorities who lived in the overcrowded housing, known as El Barrio and The Bottom, that hugged the coastline and the string of chemical facilities lining it.
Official estimates say 405 people died, 113 went missing, and 63 bodies were unidentified. Investigators say the death count was likely much higher, since there were no recent census records, and Texas City was one of the fastest growing cities in Texas. Every member of the city’s volunteer fire department was killed in the blasts, save for one man who was fortuitously out of town the day of the disaster.
Why had I never heard of this tragedy? Was I just not paying close attention all those years ago? I asked my oldest sons—one in sixth grade, another in fourth, if they had ever heard of the Texas City Disaster. They hadn’t.
Part of my responsibility as an author is to tell the truth. That sounds like two diametrically opposed things: truth and fiction. But as an author I am also a recorder of human history. If we forget such a devastating historical event, which many consider the worst industrial accident in American history, what happens to all those lives lost?
They are worth remembering.
Looking at that picture of the Huntsville woods, remembering my dream of a mysterious presence in those woods, compiling my research of the Texas City Disaster, I knew I had my story: Lenora Cole, her family lost in a true-life tragedy, a redemptive opportunity to show how humanity carries on even amidst great setbacks.
The Texas City Disaster was the starting point and the foundation for The Woods. Lenora must come to terms with the effects of that disaster—lives lost too soon—as so many had to do in 1947. And while she has the slight benefit of an eccentric uncle, a safe home, and fantastical woods to help her heal, so many were left with nothing. They lost their families, their homes, their livelihoods.
And yet they persisted—because it is what humans do.
Texas City was rebuilt, its people endured, lessons were learned—but it took the entire community working together to do it.
In his book, City on Fire, Bill Minutaglio says, “Some said only an ‘act of God’ could bring a divided Texas City together.” On June 22, 1947, members of different denominations and different races—both thoroughly segregated in this Southern town—gathered to bury their sixty-three unknown dead in one mass grave. Catholics and Baptists, Methodists and Episcopalians, Jews and Gentiles, black people and white people and brown people, all resting in peace, together.
When we feel most alone, when our lives have practically fallen apart, when the world explodes and it does not seem like we have what it takes to repair what has been broken, it is in our leaning on one another that we learn just how strong we can be.
So don’t be afraid to lean hard.
In love,
R.L.
Acknowledgments
As soon as I stumbled upon the fascinating, tragic world of Texas City and its 1947 disaster (and I stumbled hard; my research often happens in large, inescapable black holes), I knew that The Woods was a book I needed to publish, a book that kids needed to read—not only for its historical record but for its hopeful message about tragedy and loss and the ways we overcome, together. I am so very grateful to the following people, who believed in this story as much as I did and who, whether directly or indirectly, influenced my journey in such a way that now, today, you hold this finished book in your hands.
To Ben—Thanks for riding bikes through shadowy woods and visiting unknown cities just so a few details could be verified for this book. I know it’s not always easy living with a writer who writes fiction that must still be as accurate as possible, but thank you for humoring me and loving me anyway.
To my sons:
Jadon—You asked me when I’d write a scary book. This one’s a little more on the creepy side than the scary one, but, well, here you go.
Asa—I’m looking forward to the day when you gush about one of my books like you gush about others’. Maybe this will be the one.
Hosea—You remind me so much of Lenora because you never, ever give up.
Zadok—Sometimes we all need to take a break and get lost in the woods. Enjoy your wandering (we will always find you).
Boaz—I’m so glad that when your twin gets lost in the woods (metaphorically or otherwise), you are always there to point the way back home.
Asher—Your interruptions are some of the most charming in the world.
I love you all.
To Mom—Thank you for putting classics and fantastical tales in front of me when I was a kid and for taking me to the library and letting me check out as many books as I could carry (and sometimes more). And thank you for stocking my books in your
library and telling everyone who comes around that I’m your daughter. I hope you always know how instrumental you’ve been to my writing life, my personal life, and my mom life. I want to be a hero like you.
To Rena—Thank you for seeing the potential in this book and for encouraging me to finish it and for listening to my worries and coping with my overzealous production schedule. I know you always have my best interests in mind; thank you for helping me build my future one book at a time.
To Laura Shovan—Thank you for taking a newbie under your wing and for showing me I had a place at the table. I am eternally grateful for your support and constant encouragement.
To the Electric18s—Thank you for your encouragement and for keeping me sane and (mostly) upbeat during a debut year. It’s not easy being a writer, but having a community of people who understands the ups and downs and annoyances and frustrations and few-and-far-between victories is a reassuring thing. So thank you for being vulnerable and candid.
To Diane Magras—Thank you for your expert advice and the way you were always willing to talk business and strategy. Your time is so appreciated.
To my teachers, who believed in me and said I could one day be everything I wanted to be—Mrs. Jimerson, Mrs. Nicholson, Mr. Williams, Mrs. Stone, Mrs. Sappington, Mrs. Patton, Mrs. Crisp, Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. Fisher, Mrs. Kinsfather, Mrs. Griffith, Mrs. Gayle Roome, Mrs. Billie Grimes. I had the best teachers. (Teachers: Never doubt your ability to influence a kid, however young she may be.)
To Scott and Alana Ammons—Thank you for keeping our kids when we needed to go on a trip to New York and for always loving on them as though they are your own. Family doesn’t need blood.
To Misty and Jason Gassaway—Thank you for braving a household full of boys when Ben and I needed to fly to New York for business (and a little play).
To Sonali Fry—Thank you for understanding my book, for taking such great care to shape it into what I envisioned it would be, for answering my sometimes endless questions, for asking after my family, for listening to my fears, for making me feel like I do, indeed, deserve a place at this table, with these stories I have to tell. You are a gift, and I hope you always remember that.
To James Firnhaber—Thank you for bringing Lenora and the woods alive with your beautiful artwork, for the patience you exhibited in our revision process, for the care with which you created an eternal work of art that I am privileged to call my book cover.
To the Yellow Jacket team—David DeWitt, for finishing what James started and giving this book the kind of eye-catching cover that honors Lenora’s story and steals a second glance; Bethany Reis, for catching every mistake with a keen, sharp eye; Dave Barrett and Courtney Fahy, for providing additional editorial assistance; and Paul Crichton, Nadia Almahdi, and Mike Ploetz for doing everything you can to get this book into the hands of readers. You are appreciated much more than simple words could capture.