If Walls Could Talk

The wall on 7th Street started with an image. Picture a huge ware-house wall looming over a shabby city neighborhood. The wall is covered with designs — cruel faces, monsters, battle scenes — all things evil. The painted surface is one writhing mass — you’d almost think it was alive. People who live in the neighborhood shudder and turn away, but the wall creeps into their hearts and burrows into their dreams. That was the first piece of my story.

Next came Moe. I’ve seen men like Moe on city streets, sometimes hunched in the corners of abandoned lots, and I’ve wondered who they were. Where do they come from? Why are they alone? Do they have families? My Moe is grizzled, gruff; a recluse. He sleeps under a deck on the edge of the warehouse lot and he stares up at the wall. He watches the neighborhood punks paint their strange images, and he mulls things over in his mind. He’s guarding the lot, waiting. What, I asked myself, is he waiting for?

Then into my story came a boy, Toby. Through all my years as an art teacher, I’ve known so many great kids; boys like Toby. Creating Toby was fun. He’s lively, curious and, as the book opens, he’s angry because he’s been hit by a slew of problems. His parents have divorced, and he’s thrust into a creepy neighborhood dominated by a pack of teenage thugs, the Strafers. Right from the start, Toby senses there’s something wrong here ... something supernatural?

Years ago, when I first came to Upstate New York, I was struck by the peculiar quality of the land. My husband and I often travel from our small hamlet along I-81 to Syracuse, a road winding high above expansive views of dark forests, scattered dairy farms and patchwork fields. The view is never the same. In autumn the forests of the Firekeepers — the Onondagas — do indeed gleam with fiery light. In winter there’s mist on the hills so deep you’d swear there was a secret world within it. In spring, amber fog settles into the valleys at twilight, as if, under its cover, earth spirits are walking on the land. In early summer, a profusion of orange butterfly weeds covers the fields — but strangely, they bloom only on Onondaga Territory. The skies too are amazing. The clouds are always shifting, changing shape, as if, in an unknown script, ancient gods are writing their lost history in the heavens. There was a spiritual quality to the land. I sensed secrets here, mysteries to be solved. And there was something about Syracuse, this city in the heart of Onondaga Territory.

I gave Toby an older sister. Beth is the good daughter; she’s calm, helpful and she never talks back. She’s so perfect that she won’t even admit that she hates 7th Street. But whenever Beth is upset she escapes in a book, and these days she’s always reading. She’s reading about the Iroquois. Beth learns that centuries ago, a lone Native American dreamed of bringing peace to the warring tribes of what is now Upstate New York. The Peacemaker, as the Iroquois have titled him, traveled to the Seneca, the Onondaga, the Cayuga, the Oneida and the Mohawk tribes with his message. All welcomed him except one: a powerful Onondaga sorcerer. Beth reads how the Peacemaker struggled against dark forces, overcame them, united the warring tribes and founded the League of the Iroquois.

This, I knew, was the centerpiece of Iroquois history and legend. Beth learns (as I did) that all this happened right where Syracuse is today!

Naturally, that led me to a “what if” line of thought. What if the fierce conflict between the Peacemaker and the sorcerer generated powerful energies? What if that struggle left pockets of warring energies on the land? What if these forces were still potent … on an empty lot where there’s a warehouse with a painted wall? What could happen? I let these pieces drift around in my mind — the wall, Iroquois history, Syracuse, sacred and profane space — until finally the pieces came together.

I hope The Wall on 7th Street is a fun read. It certainly was fun to write. Years ago, I lived on a multi-ethnic city street called Symphony Row. I remember sitting outside on summer evenings as people from very different backgrounds gathered together, talking, laughing, playing guitars. I still value the warmth and sense of discovery that neighborhood gave me. I’ve stirred in a mixture of freak hailstorms, packs of wild dogs, burning cars, Strafer atrocities, earth spirits and lively characters, both good and bad. My love of painting found a way into the story; also I particularly liked developing the surprising friendship between Toby and Moe. Symphony Row and the possibility of what the world could be were with me when I wrote the book.