I was born in Massachusetts and lived there until I was five when my dad’s job transferred him to North Carolina. We lived in a small town about an hour west of Boston in a house that was originally built in the 1800s as the town’s fire station. During World War II, the home’s cupola that once housed the bell to warn the townspeople of a fire was used as a lookout station (a nearby Army fort housed German and Italian prisoners of war and I guess the threat of bombers attacking was a real and present danger).
My first real memories are in this home. Watching the Wizard of Oz with my dad and being interrupted by the call that there had been a fire at the Kmart where my mom worked evenings. Hiding under the canopy of the blueberry bushes that grew at the edge of the wood in the backyard and picking their fruit for Sunday morning pancakes. Standing on a chair in the bathroom next to my dad and pretending to shave by scraping off shaving cream from my face with a toothbrush handle. Falling asleep after trick-or-treating and smearing my clown make-up on the sofa. Slicing off a good portion of the tip of my finger on a piece of wood when my dad was building me a sandbox (no worries, they reattached it…true story). Playing Wiffle ball with a friend’s family in the back yard, the parents more competitive than the kids. Waiting in the driveway for a neighbor or friend to drive by and give us a ride to the town beach because we only had one car and my dad drove it to work. Watching parachute drills in the sky at the same nearby fort that in the 80s housed a Special Forces Group. Playing with the little girl next door in her small plastic pool filled with frigid hose water. Going to the town library and meeting who would be my first real friend that I remember (the neighbor more a playmate of convenience who I tended to avoid after she cut a huge chunk of hair off my head once). Going to Easter services at the small, white Catholic church, me and my sister in matching pretty dresses and white gloves and shiny new patent leather shoes with beaded purses dangling off our wrists.
This past weekend, my sister and I were in Massachusetts to attend an aunt’s memorial service. We were staying about 20 minutes away from our old house and so we decided to check it out.
The house, ironically, was damaged by fire in 2015 and has not been repaired since. From what I can tell, a few sales have been attempted then fell through. Now it’s abandoned. Decaying. The yard full of weeds and overgrowth so high that I didn’t spot a deer hiding in it until it leapt away at the sound of our voices.
My sister doesn’t remember the house at all. And yet, I had all these memories. Memories that in the days since being back continue to flood my brain. Memories I’m shocked to remember more than 40 years later.
But that’s the magic of setting. Our personal stories are marked by the sights, sounds, scents, and texture of the places in which our triumphs, failures, joys, and heartbreaks have occurred. Setting triggered my own backstory in a real way.
Setting does the same for our characters.
Together with family this weekend, an uncle told a story my father often shared with us when we were growing up. His parents went square dancing every Saturday night (when you have seven kids you definitely need a night to yourselves) and my great-grandmother, my father’s grandmother, would come to watch the kids. Each Saturday, she brought a Hershey’s chocolate bar for the kids to share. Apparently, the kids anxiously awaited grandma falling asleep during Lawrence Welk so they could switch the channel to Perry Mason. Every time my dad heard the Perry Mason theme song the rest of his life, he’d crave chocolate. My mom used to wash my hair on Saturday nights in the kitchen sink. I don’t remember why we did that, but I remember the urgency of being done by 8pm so I could watch Diff’rent Strokes. If I hear that show’s theme song, I immediately smell the iconic Johnson & Johnson yellow shampoo.
These are the details that make our lives rich and vibrant. Don’t forget them in your own work. A street corner may remind your protagonist of their hometown or a scent may transport them back to a moment of fear or a theme song may bring them comfort as they remember the sweet treat a relative brought them.
If you are writing contemporary fiction, it can be easy to overlook setting. Genres like science fiction, fantasy or even historical fiction require much more detailed and deliberate world-building to make the story sing. But don’t miss the opportunity to enhance your character through setting. Have your protagonist interact with setting in new and creative ways. Let it trigger back story or color the protagonist’s motivations.
Since I’ve been home, my own interaction with setting has created new motivations. I’ve been trying to convince my husband we should buy the old house and fix it. Turn it onto something new and beautiful. Love it. Care for it. Shine it to its former glory.
With what money would we accomplish this dream of mine, I don’t know. But my pull to this place was strong. My desire to immerse myself in it undeniable. Perhaps its the fact that drops of my blood from the finger incident stained the floor and my DNA is literally a part of that structure, or maybe it’s just the five year old in me, so full of discovery, awakened by returning to this place of childlike wonder. Maybe it’s my father in me who designed homes and worked to preserve historical buildings when he could and seeing this place uncared for that he once loved enough to move his family into tugs at my grief.
Whatever the reason, this unique setting plays a major role.
What role does setting play in your story?