Rhona Villanueva’s “Gypsy Baron” Gets the Details Right

by Memoir Mentor on March 15, 2010 · 2 comments

If you’ve been reading regularly, you’ll know that I’ve been preaching DETAILS in my classes this term–encouraging my students to move away from general, forgettable descriptions to more carefully crafted, specific portraits. This week’s story was written by Rhona Villanueva, who was born in Estonia , fled with her family to Germany at the outset of WWII, to Chile after the war, and finally ended up in California, where she has lived with her husband for many years. She is fluent in multiple languages and speaks and writes English like a native–actually, better than a native most of the time. Her story, about participating in an operetta when she was in high school in Chile, sparkles with details that make it memorable. Rhona is a diligent student, always working to improve her writing. This story is one of her best.

The Gypsy Baron
by Rhona Villanueva

 “Hurry, go to your assigned spots, take your positions,” a hushed voice urged us on. “We are about to start,” the same voice continued. The lighting on the stage grew dim. Feet shuffled back and forth, clothing rustled and throats were cleared. Here and there a last-minute whisper, a cough, then silence. We didn’t even dare breathe. My heart pumped hard and fast and sounded loud in my ears.

On the other side of the crimson velvet curtain separating us from the audience, the orchestra was getting ready. Musicians fine-tuned their instruments, positioned chairs and music stands to their liking, and took a last glance at the score to refresh their memories and reassure themselves. Muffled sounds of a few notes and scales played on a variety of instruments reached us behind the curtain.

Rhona VillanuevaSuddenly there was applause. In my imagination I could see the conductor, dressed elegantly in tails, white dress shirt and bowtie, approach his podium in his black patent leather shoes, bow toward the audience and then turn to face the orchestra. The applause ebbed down, he raised his hand holding the baton, and the overture began.

It was opening night of The Gypsy Baron by Johann Strauss.

Three months earlier our music teacher called several of us girls as we were leaving the classroom.

“Wait, I have to ask you something. An impresario is staging an operetta in German, The Gypsy Baron to be exact. Would you be interested in being part of the chorus? They need about ten to twelve German-speaking girls.”

We looked at each other in disbelief. “You mean we would sing on a stage in front of an audience?”

“That is exactly what I mean. We will practice two, three times a week after class right here in this room. The soprano will come from Germany, a tenor from Buenos Aires, and the others are local people. We have over two months until the opening on September 20, in the opera house right here in Santiago. It will be fun. Do you want to do it? Do you want to participate?”

 We looked at each other and without hesitation nodded affirmatively. And with that nod my singing career began.

We practiced for several weeks with our teacher at the piano. He was a middle-aged man of small stature, slightly balding with pale blue eyes behind his round glasses. We learned the lyrics, sang the many songs over and over again, and he never became impatient or angry when a mistake was made. He gave us confidence. Many melodies were beautiful and also catchy and, without realizing it, I hummed them quite often during the day.

The time came when we had to rehearse with the other singers. We were introduced to the concert agent Ernesto Hall, the lead singer from Germany, Dolores Mannerheim, who was to sing the roll of the gypsy princess, the handsome tenor from Argentina, Eva Krutein, the music coach, and many more participants. At the beginning we gathered a few times in the school auditorium, and then at the opera house itself. We had to get acquainted with the layout of the theater, the stage, get used to the acoustics, lighting and side wings. We had to know where the back entrance was, since this time we were not the audience but the performers. It was all unfamiliar territory for us, our first venture into the theater world behind the curtains.

Before the dress rehearsal we were given our costumes: one set for a typical gypsy, complete with jewelry and headdress, and one for a simple farm-girl. Depending on the scene, we had to change from one to the other, and it had to be done fast.

Then they showed us how to apply our make-up. Our faces were practically re-done.

“I think I have to work on your eyebrows,” a helpful person said to me, grabbing a bar of soap. “I will cover them up with this. It’s cheap but effective,” he explained. “Gypsies and country folks don’t have such light skin as you do. We have to give you a tan,” And he applied a darker foundation to my face. “We are almost done,” he exclaimed, as he drew new arching eyebrows, added eye shadow, dark lipstick and rouge. In no time he had turned me into somebody else.

The Gypsy Baron“Do you like it? You saw how easy it is. Now you can do it yourself.” And off he went to his next object without waiting for my reply, comment, or thank you.

The general public became aware of the upcoming performance. Articles were printed in the Condor, the weekly German newspaper. Posters, announcing the operetta, were displayed at the opera house. They depicted the German singer with her long blond hair in an exotic gypsy outfit. The sale of tickets began. We were given two complimentary ones for our parents.

The thought of being part of this event was exciting, especially when someone approached me with questions and I had most of the answers. It felt great. I felt important.

And now it was opening day. The house was sold out. I peeked through the spy hole in the curtain and saw the mass of people. It gave me goose bumps to see all the faces in the audience. It was both intimidating and challenging. Mostly everybody was seated. Only a few latecomers waited for ushers. This was it, the moment we had worked for.

We were at our positions on the stage and waited. [click to continue…]

Tagged as: autobiography, Family History, Genealogy, life-story-writing, memoir, personal-history, Rhona Villanueva, The Gypsy Baron, writing tips

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Kathleen Anderson’s Story Shows Why Details Matter

by Memoir Mentor on March 8, 2010 · 1 comment

Writing books tell you it’s all in the details. It’s true. We make our stories more vivid, compelling–and real–with descriptions that include concrete, specific details. “I noticed a dented, blue Chevy parked in the driveway” is more interesting than “I noticed an old car in the driveway.” Or how about  spiffing up “I waited an hour at the restaurant before my brother finally arrived” with something like “I read  today’s Los Angeles Times and refilled my coffee cup twice before my brother  finally showed his sorry face.”

Pull your readers into your world with tangible details. Give them something to see, hear, smell, feel, and even taste. This week’s story, written by Kathleen Anderson, does just that. Notice all the sense details she uses to draw you into the world of tomato gardening.

First Tomatoes of Summer
Kathleen Anderson

 Kathleen AndersonWhen the soil warmed after the cold of winter, my father and mother marshaled my sister, Noreen, and my brother, John, and me into the storage area to prepare for spring planting. We would gather up hoes and shovels and rakes and begin to undo Jack Frost’s hold on the dirt. The fun quickly disappeared when we struggled to turn the soil over. To my eight-year-old mind, all this work was ridiculous. I could just dig a small hole and put the puny seed inside, add some water, pat the dirt on top, and wait for a plant to sprout. 

The job did get done, mostly by our parents. As we worked alongside each other, Dad entertained us with stories about tending his parents’ farm in Roscommon, Ireland, when he was a boy. Mother told us about her small farm in Kerry, Ireland, where poor, rocky soil produced meager harvests despite all their hard labor. In this way, my parents passed on family history to their children.

The plants grew, slowly it seemed. Most of the time I forgot they were there in the part of our back yard that was devoted to the garden, an area of about fourteen feet square. Peas, green beans, Swiss chard, turnips, potatoes were lovingly nurtured by my father. Corn, tomatoes, gooseberries slowly ripened in the warming spring sun, encouraged by rain and fertilizer. When reminded enough times, we would get out and do the weeding.

Then came the day the tomato plants sprouted little yellow flowers. This is what made the garden chores worthwhile. We zealously checked the progress. Soon small green buds appeared. Now we kids checked every day for bugs that would destroy this soon-to-be round, red juicy bulb. I delighted in flipping the little green hookworms off my precious vegetables. I calculated how far I could make them fly, trying to outdo Noreen and John.

Soon the tomatoes were large enough to cup in my hand. They were firm, bright red, promising delicious treats. I would inhale the smell emanating from the leaves, savoring the scent.  

Then came the Sunday we had all waited for. Daddy went to the garden, walked carefully through the tomato patch, looking for the ripest lovelies. tomatoesOne by one he put them in the bowl Mom had brought out from the kitchen. We watched, eagerly awaiting what was to come. [click to continue…]

Tagged as: autobiography, details make a story, Family History, Ireland, Kathleen Anderson, Kerry, life-story-writing, memoir, Roscommon, writing tips

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Bob Stumpf Shows How to Put Yourself into Your Story

by Memoir Mentor on March 1, 2010 · 5 comments

     When you’re writing your life story, don’t forget to put yourself into it. I’m not joking here. Too often people like to describe events that happened during their lives, but they don’t explain how they felt about those incidents and how they shaped who they are. Revealing how you feel about things means writing about vulnerability, guilt, regret, and other kinds of human weaknesses. This is hard for some people, particularly older folks who were raised in an era of stoicism. And yet, I’ve noticed in my classes that student stories that receive the best response from their classmates are those where the writers are open and honest about their feelings.
     The story below from Bob Stumph resonated with his classmates. We’ve all experienced the kind of embarrassment he describes here, but most of us are afraid to admit it, let alone write about it. When I commended Bob for his honesty, he said, “My goal is to let my children know the real me. All they’ve seen is my success, since I was already a college professor when they were born. They, as well as the grandchildren I might have someday, must know that my success did not come easily.” 
     Here’s his story…

He is an Athlete
Bob Stumpf

     “Okay, Tom and Doug, you are the team captains for today. Each one of you gets to choose your softball team. Doug, you choose first, and then Tom chooses. Alternate until each of you has nine players,” instructed Coach Flannigan while we were standing outside the gymnasium on a spring afternoon in 1950.

     I listen for my name, but it never comes. There are two others besides me still standing.
     “You must choose alternates until all are chosen,” the coach repeats.
     Doug yells, “I get Bill.”
     Tom says, “I get Raleigh.”
     “Doug, you must choose the last boy, the coach says, nodding his head in my direction.
     “I don’t want him,” he replies.
     Tears stream from my eyes. I have gotten the message. I know I am not an athlete. 

     Unfortunately, this story repeated many times while I was in seventh grade at Fontana Junior High. I was like the 97-pound weakling featured in many cartoons at that time.
     Later my family moved to Yucaipa for my ninth grade in school. The physical education teacher, Coach Murray, had sensitivity for students like me. He always had us take a number, then read off the team captains by pulling the numbers out of a hat. Then he had the team captains draw numbers until everyone was chosen. Finally, we each drew a ticket with our position on it. During my first game of softball, I drew the pitcher position.

     I throw the ball as hard as I can. It hits the ground. “Ball one,” calls the umpire.
     The coach comes over to me and shows me how to throw underhanded. I try again.
     “Ball two,” calls the umpire.
     The coach yells, “Throw it as hard as you can.”
     I throw it, and it makes it to the batter. I hear the bat hit the ball. I made it!
     I don’t see the ball coming and it smacks me in the mouth. The coach calls me to the sidelines and hurriedly looks at my teeth. I feel blood dripping down my face.
     “Let me look at it,” he says nicely, putting his hands on my face. “It looks like the blood is from your nose. I think you will be okay, but why not rest for the remainder of the game. Better tell your parents to take you to a dentist.”
     My front teeth are loose for a couple of weeks. My parents can’t afford a dentist but, fortunately, the gums heel.
     The next game I find myself playing right field. This is good for me, since most batters are right-handed, and I seldom have a ball come my way. But it happens. A left-handed batter hits a ball right toward me. I run toward it, looking up. I feel my head crashing into someone else’s head. We are both knocked to the ground. It turns out the center fielder assumed I couldn’t catch it, so he ran over to my territory.
     “Bob and John, you better take the rest of the period off,” says the coach, as we both walk off the baseball field.

     I was not only bad at baseball; I couldn’t swim either. During high school, we were required to take a six-week course in swimming each year.

     On the last day of swimming class we are all lined up beside the pool dressed in our swim trunks in the freezing cold. Coach Anderson announces, “Okay, now we will test all of you. As mentioned before, you must swim eight laps for an A grade, four laps for a B grade, two laps for a C grade, one lap for a D grade. Otherwise you will fail. All whose name begins with A through E line up now.” When the first group completes their test, the coach yells, “You may go to the dressing room when done.”
     What a break. Almost everyone will be gone when my turn comes because my name begins with S. Few of my friends will see me fail. When my turn comes, there are only five of us left. The coach lines us up by the deep end of the pool. I quickly pick the spot closest to the shallow end. Darn, it’s still over my head. When I dive in, I do a real loud belly flop. Since the others are already halfway across the pool, no one except the coach hears it. I soon realize the others are already returning on their second lap, and I’m still not across. The good part is, none of the other students are counting my laps. Finally I make it. I pull myself up and tell the coach, this is all I can do. All of the other students are on their way to the dressing room. I can hear one student saying, “This was the easy A.”  [click to continue…]

Tagged as: athlete, autobiography, Bob Stumpf, cycling, emotions, Family History, feelings, life-story-writing, memoir, personal-history, writing tips

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