Why Wheeling?

I grew up hearing the Mayberry-whistled tunes and tales of our family lore. We youngsters could recite them like catechism around holiday dinner tables. But there was one tendril of ancestry that remained shadowed in silence, save for the occasional quip or eyebrow twitch among a few adults—but when we asked about those, the subject was quickly changed.

Digging into the Treasure Chests

Several years ago, I began some detective work. The mysterious forebears turned out to be Wheeling folks who had been a lively part of that city from its beginning as a cluster of cabins through its heyday as the Nail Manufacturing Capital of the World through the beginning of the 20th century. They were rambunctious and determined.

Faces began to emerge. Voices piped up.

Then came the contemporary newspapers with astounding reports of the day—audacious skullduggery as well as the charming, mundane features of everyday life—who was visiting from out of town, who had a soirée, who was arrested for running messages for a bawdy house, who sued and countersued, who got into a fistfight and why.

I felt a little like a reluctant seer—I could look upon a slice of time and know who would die, how and when. I saw the horrendous familial cost of disease and war. I saw the shady merchandise offered to treat psychological and physical trauma, women's "troubles," and pain.

There was no Andy, Opie, or Aunt Bee here.

But I discovered the wildly resilient spirit of Wheeling—its obsession with making a bet, its sense of humor, and the vivid color of the human spirit amid the relentless grayness of mill soot, clouds, and grit.

Shaping Characters Out of Ghosts

I put together complicated charts and timelines, looking for intersection among people and connections between families. I was staggered by the amount of loss people survived and explored the Wheeling Intelligencer for clues to the ethos and issues of the community. My research took me to the Ohio County Library, the Ohio County Courthouse, to dozens of books, websites, museums, and historians. I rented rooms in a house some of these people spent time in and toured other houses where some had lived.

Finally, the characters began to take shape. We argued, the characters and I. We tugged and punched, and sometimes stopped speaking for a day or two. But they also followed me doggedly through my days, commenting on life and work and expectations. We agreed that I could change their names and toggle dates, stretch here, and tamp down there. as long as the rhythm of flooding season was honored and respected.

We reached detente about their motivations.

After the whole first draft, I edited again with a novel's narractive arc in mind, paring away some characters and inventing others. And braided their lives together.

A long and rollicking gestation period, to be sure. And now, the anticipated birth of a novel.

Next time: Who are these characters?