What gave you the idea?

When someone asks me where I get the ideas for my stories, I think about Steven King.

I'm not a great reader of his novels - they are too good. I have nightmares. But his autobiographical On Writing, while no less explicit in its descriptions, kept me reading. And it did not give me nightmares.

In the intro, he talks about how much writers like hanging out with other writers. There's the camaraderie, the shop talk, the ability to sound board the next idea. But his greatest reason is one I will sometimes repeat to those who ask sincerely.

Other authors don't ask where you get your ideas. Because they know nobody knows. (I'm paraphrasing.)

For example, the following is an assignment I did for a writing class. But to answer the question of this post - where did I get the idea? I have no idea.

I have been to Bayeux, France, and stood in a cobbled courtyard. The picture at the top of this post scrolls through my memories. (Note, the image at the top is not what I'm about to describe.) I could see in my mind the dappled sunshine, hear the water wheel, and feel a gentle breeze.

The quiet was interrupted by a diesel engine. Why? I wondered. Maybe there was a man with a mission on that tour. And Devon, a history teacher who eventually came to be from Atlanta, was created.

Spoiler alert: This is the resolution of the D-Day tour in my current work in progress, Trips of a Lifetime. From a single image, then, a cast of 11 came together, each with their own stories, worries and hopes.

A difficult task

Devon Mills selected a bench by the splashing water wheel and away from the narrow road. The sun blazed over Bayeux, France, casting long shadows on the brick plaza. Loud voices, conversing in English, punctured the history teacher’s solitude.

He bowed his head and clutched the purpose of his trip closer to his chest. The soft black felted cloth covered metal that conveyed only coldness to his touch. Even the warm sunshine didn’t lighten this load.

The cadence of a diesel engine crescendoed before a black van rolled to a stop on the narrow road. He hadn’t noticed, but tourists now filled the plaza. The tour guide herded the crowd into the Normandy tours van. Devon took the remaining seat on the single side of the van.

The bus rolled forward and the guide launched his narrative. Devon watched the green countryside roll by. He followed the drama of the story. More than 156,000 Allied troops embarked on a voyage across the English channel on June 6, 1944. Targeted for landing points spread across 50 miles of coastline, the soldiers braved heavy fortifications, land mines, and even seasickness to begin the liberation of France.

Gold. Juno. Sword. The bus stopped at each of them. The tourists filed off, swarmed the battlefields and marveled at the history. Devon disembarked and gazed across the now green and peaceful countryside. He knew these stories by heart, and replayed them for his classes every year. How the tide rose faster than expected, the winds blew the ships carrying troops off course, and the paratroopers landed miles from their intended targets. And still they persevered.

And the bus came to Omaha Beach. The guide looked at Devon. “6:15” he said and tapped his watch.

The stories from this beach, told by his grandfather’s friends, flooded his thoughts.

“Remember the woman hanging her laundry when we came through the hedges? I thought we were going to have to carry her to the field hospital!”

Or “I’ll never forget Benny’s face when we plunged into the water. ‘Are there sharks?’ he says. A beach full of mines and barbed wire, Germans shooting at you, and your grandfather is worried about sharks!”

Devon remembered them all, could still smell the smoky mosquito coils and the damp air on those summer nights. When his grandmother served the peach ice cream, they’d launch into another favorite. “Worse than eating dirt!” they’d say about the freeze dried ice cream in their packs. “No peach ice cream that night.”

Those stories carried Devon to the edge of the cemetery. His grandfather didn’t star in many of those stories. He died in the fighting the first day and soon after came to rest in this hallowed place. His grandmother visited him here, and gave Devon his mission today.

Midway through the cemetery he saw the grave with freshly turned earth and small spade. He opened his bag, took out the urn and a small key, and knelt on the ground.

He tipped the ashes into the shallow hole, careful not to surrender any to the gentle breeze. He turned a few of them into the soft earth at the bottom of the hole. He scooped a handful of dirt and let it trickle through his fingers, covering the remains of his grandmother, now resting on the shoulders of his grandfather. Where she wanted to be.

Devon filled in the earth and laid the square of sod on top. He dug his earth-covered hand into his pocket and pulled out a chain. He laid the last memento of a grandfather he only knew from stories around the marble cross. As he walked back to the bus, he strained to hear the fading sound of the metal clanking in the breeze.