In the town I grew up in there was Old Mrs. Plumlee. She lived a little bit out in the country in a house alone. On birthdays, when we would have slumber parties—this was back in the 80s when you could pile into the back of a truck—and someone’s mom would drive us by Old Lady Plumlee’s house. She was rumored to have murdered her abusive husband, and then tied cement blocks to him and thrown him in the strip cut. I’m from a coal mining country, so strip cuts are these old 45-foot-deep strips in the earth that they’ve now reclaimed with water. And you know, I feel bad now. But when I think about it at the time, it was the scariest thing. Like “oh it’s Dina’s birthday and we’re going to drive by Old Mrs. Plumlee,” and it’s this poor old woman.