Thinking about incidents from my past I may write about brings up emotions associated with those experiences. When I write a story about an event in my life, it’s as important that I communicate how the incident made me feel as it is that I describe what happened. One way to accomplish this is to control the story’s mood.

Stories, like people, have a mood, be it fanciful, somber, ironic, angry, scary, etc. Often your story’s mood springs naturally from the emotions you’ve resurrected as you craft your story and intuitively influences your word choices, sentence structure, pacing, and decisions about what you call to the attention of your reader and the amount of detail you ascribe to it. All of these things contribute to your story’s mood. We need to be careful that the mood of our story conveys the emotional experience we attach to it.

As you read the marvelous story below, you will be captivated—perhaps mesmerized is a better word—by its mood. Indeed, our class felt mesmerized when it was read to us in the soft, lilting voice of its author, Molly Shelton. Molly is a careful writer, weighing the effect of her word choices, savoring the experience in her memory as she writes and sharing the details that are important to her. Molly could have told us this story in a variety of ways, but the mood she chose to create lets us experience her adventure the way she experienced it. As you read her story, notice what she does to sweep you along with her to a very special place.

The Tale of an Eagle and an Ego
by Molly Shelton

Jim and I are in Banff, British Columbia. We park our motorhome at the back of the historic Fairmont Banff Springs Hotel, just as did the year before, alongside the Bow River. There is still some tension in the air because at breakfast I’d flippantly said, “It would sure be great if you were as thrilled to be with me as you are to get on that golf course!”

“Hon, I thought you wanted to spend the day looking for that eagle. And you know how much I love being here with you and getting to play this course again.”

Somewhat contritely, but still off-put, I replied, “I do…but you’re so excited I feel like I’m in second place when it comes to your golf.”

Jim looked at me. “I don’t even know how to answer that.”

And there it was left. He started asking me about my plans for the day and things were quickly smoothed over.

He has barely taken the key out of the ignition when I jump up and double-check my little backpack to make sure I have everything I need for the next four hours—six, if he decides to play all 27 holes: trail map, binoculars, bird book, a banana, and my

straw hat will take care of the first three hours or so. Later, I will need the post cards, Sharpie pen, colored pencils and, of course, a writing pad and a book for when I sit at the writing table next to the huge windows in the Rundle Room on the mezzanine of the hotel. Flipping the backpack over my shoulder, I eagerly pop open the door and step onto the river rocks. The cold, rushing water charges the air. Jim is just behind me, carrying his golf bag and putting on his cap. 

We are frozen in place, stunned by the beauty surrounding us. I turn my head and look at Jim, and he drops his bag, comes up behind me, and puts his arms around my shoulders. We just stand there. We had remembered the beauty, yes, but you can’t “remember” the feelings of actually being in such a place. The noisy and rambunctious white water bounces off the boulders in the rapids just to our left, and in front of us the icy blue water of the Spray River is flowing down, scratching the sand spits as it melds with the Bow River. Centered in the background are glorious, snow-covered Rocky Mountain peaks with flat wedges of ice and snow packed between them. The early sunlight of this crisp September morning has gilded the snow, reminding me of the gold caps of Egyptian pyramids.

Jim points up and to the right of the river toward his beloved Banff golf course, showing me how it curls between the water’s edge and the ragged foothills. “Just behind that stand of yellow Aspen, see how the course curves around those pine trees? That’s the 5^th hole. A real beauty.” His voice has softened with such love in it.

I turn to him, “Yeah, yeah, get on your way! I need to hit the trails myself and scout out those eagles. If they’re here, I plan on seeing them today! And I hope you get to see a few birdies yourself, Luv.”

In one slow, smooth motion he wraps his arms around me, kisses me, and softly says, “I hope you have as much fun as I plan on having, Honey.” He picks up his bag and is off. Ten feet away he turns and, walking backwards, he calls above the roar of the rushing water, “I’ll see you upstairs at your table later, Babe. Have fun.” I watch him walk away. He’s so eager to get on that course, like a red pony wanting to break into a run.

I pull out my map of the area to get my bearings and head out to find that eagle’s nest I’ve been told about. My quest begins as I walk on the narrow path along the river, with the sounds and sight of the rushing water filling my senses. I reach the Spray River trailhead just as I pass the hotel, and the world quickly slips away. The woods are silent except for the squirrel overhead, telegraphing to the others that a stranger is coming their way.

With the fresh smell of the pines and firs and the sun dappling the path, it’s easy to walk a couple of hours. As I come upon a clear, swift stream, I stop and sit on a half-submerged log and take out my banana. Looking down into the water for fish, I jump back . . . there’s a bird walking on the sand down there! Ohmygosh, it must be a dipper! I scooch my whole body and legs upon the log and slowly peek over to watch it. I’ve read about dippers, but I’ve never seen one. Hopping along on the sand, perhaps five feet below, he stays for six minutes or so, longer than I would have thought possible, and then he just bursts up, feathers sleek and shining, and all around him droplets of water are rocketing. Mid-sized, his grey body is compact and he seems quite plain, but then he turns up his head and opens his long, thin beak and the air is filled with a lovely song, tit-tit-tit-whhh-whhh. I watch him, transfixed, as back into the water he dives. For a while time does not exist; I do not exist. There is only the river and the dipper entwined. The dipper pops up one last time, gives a great shiver to knock off the water, flaps his wings and flies away. I stay on the log, the sun on my back, with my fingers in the cold water. It takes me a couple of minutes to come back into this world and adjust to the sounds and light that I had stepped away from. I sit up and, like the dipper, shake a couple of times before starting my walk again.

The eagles’ nest, I was told, should be about a mile on the other side of this stream, so I get back on the trail and soon cross the footbridge shown on the map. I start looking in the tops of the trees and across the sky, hoping to see that regal bird in flight. As I walk around a huge boulder that a glacier long-ago swept up and dropped off in this open space, in front of me shards of sunlight pierce through a cluster of aspen, turning their yellow and red leaves aflame. I throw my jacket down onto fallen aspen leaves and pine needles and sit, rummaging through my backpack for my pen and colored pencils. Moving quickly, and with little thought, I do what I can to capture that shimmering moment. White and black tree trunks, blazing leaves, and then it is gone, leaving me, in my mind’s eye, with a perfect picture.

While sitting and looking at the aspen, I remember reading that the roots of all the aspen in a cluster are connected, and it’s really all one organism, each tree a clone of the other. A memory rises up and I can hear my older sister’s irritated voice chiding me many years earlier when we were running through the forest and I was holding her up, “For cryin’ out loud, Molly Jo, will you move it? A tree is just a tree.” Running behind her, I had straddled a fallen tree and was attempting to climb over it, when my attention was captured by the color of the lichen and the ants that were working in the sawdust below. I looked up to see her back as she disappeared into the brush, and as I scrambled off the log and ran after her, lest she leave me alone, I remember thinking, what a silly thing to say.

Relaxing now, I lie back with my hands under my head, looking at the sky and treetops and beyond the aspen and then, in a very tall tree just to the left, at the very top, spread across several branches, I spot the eagle’s nest! It must be about six feet across. My attention has been so focused on the aspen that I almost miss what I’ve been searching for. I scour the sky, trying to will that eagle to glide into its nest. However, I know an eagle covers a big territory in a day and I’m content that I’ve actually seen its nest.

After a while I head back toward the hotel, sometimes listening to the unfamiliar calls of the northern birds, then using my binoculars to spy them and read about them in the local bird book I bought. It has been a day of meditation.

I soon see the back of the hotel. Its tower, 11 stories high, and its outspread wings are magnificent, worthy of its grand setting. When I enter the lobby, I am very aware of my hiking outfit, but I fit right in with all the international travelers. I eagerly walk up the grand stairs to the mezzanine. As I step into the Rundle Room, the beauty just beyond those windows fills the room—and my spirit. I sit at “my” table, and start another sketch of the aspen, though their essence is escaping me. Still, I might capture them later. It’s no use now. The view of the golf course, the Bow River, and the mountains is too magnetic to focus on anything else. I just sit and absorb.

Although it appears I’m waiting for Jim to join me after his golf game, this is really precious time for me and I covet every minute of it. Sometimes I think I want to be jealous of the deep pleasure and satisfaction Jim gets from golf. I want to feel that golf is like his mistress. But here, right now, I understand that is just ego wanting to stir things up. The deep-down truth is that as much as he loves golf, I need to be alone in nature, to step out of the realm of time, to walk underwater beside the dipper, and to have no concept of any reality other than that moment.

Soon, as I’m gazing out the window, I watch a man in the distance walking in, pulling his golf bag. It takes a couple of minutes before I recognize Jim’s gait. He’s decided 18 holes is enough today. It seems strange now that at one time we both feared our different interests might eventually cause us to take separate paths. Instead, we seem to thrive by giving each other the freedom to do what we love when we’re apart. As I see him walking toward the hotel—toward me—I notice my pulse quickening.

As he enters the room, he stops at the bar and gets a vodka and tonic for himself and a lime and tonic for me, then comes over, clearly a happy man. I notice he’s taken the time to wash up and he looks fresh. Before he mentions his game, he asks me about my eagle. After visiting a bit, we return to the motorhome to rest and get cleaned up, then walk back to the hotel’s Rob Roy room for a very special dinner, lamb chops and a nice Bordeaux, then it’s time to go.

The sky is dusky blue as we drive up the canyon toward Lake Louise, where we’re camping. We are relaxed and quiet as we wind around a tight bend in the road, and just as we go around the curve, a great flurry of white feathers and brilliant yellow talons, a beak and a huge eye appear in front of our windshield! Jim slams on the brakes and swerves, barely missing it. With some effort he gains control of the motorhome and continues on. I have already popped out of my seat and run to the back window, just in time to see an enormous eagle, having just swooped down and grasped a squirrel in its talons, spread its wings, then soar across to the other side of the road and glide out over the canyon. I watch his tremendous wings disappear into the dusk as we drive around another curve.

I’ll bet if you’d asked Jim 10 years later what his golf score was on that day he could have told you, possibly hole by hole. As for me, all these years later, the exultant power of seeing that eagle’s talons and beak flash across our windshield, and then following his magnificent silhouette as it melded into the darkening sky remains a part of who I am today.

It’s a time for thanks. For parents who love unconditionally. For challenges that teach us what’s important and help us reach for the best in ourselves. For teachers who seek out the needy and give them a chance to shine. For the needy who radiate hope and happiness despite their disadvantages and inspire us all to follow their lead. For writers who stir us with stories that capture the best in humanity. For Jeanne Fobes’ story, below, which captures all these things and fairly glows with charity and good will. Her story will change your day.

Gerard, Big Man on Campus
by Jeanne Fobes

Our son Gerard, who has Down’s Syndrome, lives every day with joy and enthusiasm and curiosity.  When he was growing up, he excelled in the Special Education classes at College Park Elementary and Marion Parsons Junior High. Then it was time for Gerard to go to high school. The Special Education class was at Corona del Mar High School.

Gerard and Jeanne

Suddenly he was immersed in a culture awash in gorgeous blondes, “cool dudes,” athletes, and all the different types of kids who roam the campus of a big high school. Within weeks Walt Richardson, his teacher, and Mr. Moto, the vice-principal, summoned Steve and me to school. Mr. Moto spoke right up. “We’re worried about Gerard. He’s hanging out with a bunch of wanna-be tough guys. Do you know that he’s wearing a tank top to school, with a bandana knotted around his head?”

“I feel bad about this,” chimed in Walt Richardson. “He won’t listen to me at all. I hope you can work it out–this situation sure isn’t good for him.”

When we talked with Gerard after he got home from school, we learned that he smuggled the tank top in his backpack and pilfered a bandana from his sister’s dresser to complete his “hood” outfit and that the tough gang were his “new friends.”

It was obvious that Gerard needed help. After talking it over with him, having further conversations with his teacher, visiting his psychiatrist, doing a lot of research and even more praying, we sent him to a highly regarded Catholic school for developmentally disabled students in St. Louis, Missouri. We gave him a prepaid phone card and asked him to call us often, which he did, always reminding us that he belonged at home in California.

At last he was coming home for Thanksgiving vacation. Steve and I kept grinning at each other as we waited for him at the airport. Gerard’s first words were, “I’m a California kind of guy and this is where I belong.” We picked up his luggage and, sure enough, he had packed everything and brought it home. He was finished with St. Louis and the cold weather and was back where he belonged. Just being away from what he loved—his family and his home—made him realize how much it meant to him. I couldn’t stop hugging him–I was so happy!

After the Thanksgiving weekend, Steve and I met with Mr. Moto, and the next morning we took Gerard back to Corona del Mar High School. Mr. Moto, a good-natured bear of a man with a Santa Claus white beard, had a big grin on his kindly face as he shook hands with Gerard. “Welcome back, Gerard. I’ve got a surprise for you. Let’s go out to the field. Coach Holland is waiting to meet you.”  Mr. Moto had asked the football coach for his help with Gerard. Clearly Mr. Moto had given Gerard a lot of thought and had come up with a plan to help him, a plan that turned out even better than Mr. Moto could have foreseen.

Coach Holland, a generous and good man, took Gerard under his wing and gave him a place where he could belong. He asked Gerard to be water boy for the varsity team. As always, Gerard met this new challenge with his own exuberant level of enthusiasm and commitment. He went to all the practices, where he helped the equipment manager. He worked out with the team, attended all the meetings, and was accepted as one of the guys. He felt part of an important and respected group of young men. That did wonders for him. But Gerard himself simply carried the day, going further, faster, and better than Coach Holland dreamed of. Coach Holland was sincerely honoring Gerard for his commitment to the team when he gave him a letterman’s jacket with “Secret Weapon” stitched on the front. Gerard was a B.M.O.C.

Steve took Gerard to all the football games, where Gerard joined the team in the locker room for pre-game prayer, then ran out on the field with them. He checked out books on football plays, purchased football videos and started a notebook where he diagrammed plays the coach might use in the game. Gerard was so knowledgeable about the diagrams and the plays that he sometimes corrected the coach, to Coach Holland’s delight, I have no doubt.

Now, twenty years later, Gerard is still in charge of getting water to the players. Steve takes him to all the games, where Gerard joins the team in the locker room and runs out on the field with them. Every year he’s invited to the Football Banquet, an invitation he eagerly awaits. The coach and the team honor and applaud him and then he looks forward to the next football season.

Each time Steve and Gerard leave for a game, I give Gerard a big hug. “Have fun,” I tell him. “I hope I see your smiling face at the kitchen door window when you get home.” And when I hear them walking from the garage after the game, I hurry to the door and delight when I see that grin lighting up his face and both thumbs up. Of course, sometimes they’re pointed down and the face isn’t so lit up.

“This is the year the team will go all the way!” Gerard’s faith and optimism are unquenchable as each football season opens. He was wildly enthusiastic in 1988 and again in 1989 when his beloved Corona del Mar Sea Kings won the much-yearned-for CIF Championship. However, despite Gerard’s hopes, no Corona del Mar team has won that top award since. As the football season ends each year, the team’s favorite Water Boy says, “Next year they’ll do it!”

Gerard went on to have a great career at Corona del Mar. He was elected to the Associated Student Board, the first Special Education student to receive this honor. His favorite class at Corona del Mar was Auto Shop, probably because he wanted to be an auto mechanic, no doubt inspired by the Fonz on one of his favorite television programs, “Happy Days.” His teacher told us that he “burned up the wrenches.”  

As his senior year drew to a close, we received an invitation to attend the awards ceremony. Gerard received the Bank of America Industrial Arts Award given to the Best Student in Industrial Arts because of his “enthusiasm and improvement in Auto Shop.”  We were happy to see his love for his favorite class rewarded. The final and biggest award was the Gerald McLellan Sea King Spirit Award, given each year to the graduating senior who made the greatest contribution to the school spirit of Corona del Mar High School. Usually the winner is the quarterback of the football team or some Big Man On Campus. We were astounded when they announced the winner to be GERARD FOBES. There was a great ovation as Gerard walked up proudly to receive his trophy.  Steve and I were both in tears and I know we weren’t the only ones to be deeply touched by this acknowledgement to a rare young man. His name is engraved on the permanent trophy displayed in the school trophy case. A reporter put a story about Gerard in the L. A. Times with photographs of him as the first special education student to be on the Student Government Board and with the football team.

Holding His Spirit Award

Gerard’s whole class, all twelve special education students, went to the Senior Prom. Their teacher, Miss Beth since Walt Richardson’s retirement, accompanied them to the Spaghetti Factory for dinner, then on to their prom. Gerard was thrilled and was so handsome in his rented tux. After he got home, Steve asked him to hold his Spirit Award and talk about his years at Corona del Mar for a video. He told about winning the big award, and about how great his Senior Prom had been. Then he said the words that I have tattooed on my heart, “I’m just a regular Down’s Syndrome kind of guy, but I’m really wonderful once you get the chance to know me better.”

After the graduation ceremonies on that idyllic June afternoon in 1991on the Corona del Mar campus, after all the hand-shaking with dignitaries, after all the bright blue mortar boards had been tossed triumphantly into the air, after Gerard had hugged and been hugged by every football player and every cute girl, Mr. Moto, that same vice-principal, caught up with Steve and me and said, “I want you to know that it’s been a privilege to know your son and to see his effect on the students in regular classes. I, and they, are better people for having associated with Gerard.”

“So are we, Mr. Moto,” I replied, unshed tears catching at my voice. “So are we.”

All memoir writing teachers soon discover they’re teaching far more than a writing class. While writing a personal history may be the project that initially draws people to the class, something far more important and meaningful keeps them coming back, again and again. One of my students approached me yesterday and said, “When I leave this class, I feel like I’ve attended church, visited my psychiatrist and doctor, and went to a friendly family reunion…all rolled into one.” Frankly, I feel the same way. Something magical and meaningful happens when people come together to share heartfelt stories about how they became who they are. Whether polished or plain, funny or sad, these stories invite us to reflect on our own life experiences and examine the common threads that bind us all together regardless of gender, culture, or educational background. Many find the experience validating and liberating, an antidote to regret, guilt, resentment, loneliness, and self-pity, one that draws them back week after week, year after year–for some, going on ten years now. I’m pleased if they get some writing done along the way, but I know that what really engages my students is something far more transforming and transcendent. For that, I’m grateful.

My student Judy Huck captures these feelings perfectly in the following moving story about her classroom experience.

What I Learned in School
by Judy Huck

I have always said that I would like to write.  I said it, but I didn’t do it.  Whether for fear of not being perfect and profound or simply out of procrastination, my contribution to the written page was sparse and sporadic.  One day a friend recommended Dawn Thurston’s memoir writing class, and so I ventured into the class, expecting to learn about the craft of writing and get a kick-start in the pants to be actively involved in creation.  Well, yes to number one and somewhat to number two.  I have learned a great many things about how to express myself in writing, and have even written a few pieces.  I have also found myself the recipient of the most precious of gifts – the knowledge of how glorious human beings are.

When I joined the class, I found the students to be just what I expected.  Ordinary people of a certain age who wanted to leave a legacy to their family.  I had my own legacy that I wanted to leave, so I settled in. At first I was very quiet, taking notes copiously and comparing the writing I had done to the stories that were being read at each class.  Yes, it was just that superficial.  Just listening for the quality of the work and comparing it to what I felt I was able to do.  I was white-knuckled at the thought of reading a piece of my own, and it was a while before I finally submitted a piece to be read.  So went the first session I attended.

As the second session rolled around, I started to really listen to the stories that were read.  Instead of roaming around on the surface of the stories, I fell into their interior.  I heard a great deal about what people choose to do when they reach a crossroads.  I felt the joy of life and the anguish of loss. I felt the urgency of recording events and people who are in danger of being forgotten. Most of all, I experienced the integrity, the honor and the honesty of people going about everyday life and making it work for them and for those they love.

I heard about the man leaving the only home he had ever known to seek a better life for his family.  He dared not look back for fear that he would turn back.  I heard about the grandmother who ran away from home rather than say things that would be hard for her or her child to forget.  After giving and receiving the gift of space she braved the aftermath of a snowstorm to return to keep a promise. I heard about the schoolgirl in a country far away who escaped from school with her friends on their lunch hour to keep a rendezvous with their idol, who didn’t know that he had a rendezvous to keep.  I heard about a woman whose husband  left her and who recreated her life in a rich and fulfilling way.  I heard about a woman who travelled to a beautiful, tragic land to see if there was a life for her and her children with the man she loved.  In doing so, she found the love of her life.

I am amazed and grateful for these stories. They are not about people who ruled or amassed great riches.

They are not about people who led the headlines in great deeds or scandal or tragedy.  They are about every one of us who have had a family, a career, dreams, and a story to tell.  They are richly embroidered with personal emotion, without being turgid or over-emotional.  They remind me of the lines from a song by John Stewart:  “They was just a lot of people doing the best they could, just a lot of people doing the best they could, and they did it pretty up-and-walking good.”

Yes, my dears, this is about you.  This is my love letter to you for enriching my life and inspiring my muse.  If I never wrote another line in my life I would still want to be in this class listening to these stories, and finding the genuineness of lives well lived.

Summer may bring back memory of summer romances. There was that attractive person you met at summer camp, or at the beach during high school, or on vacation at your grandparents’ house. Maybe it developed into something–a few dates, letters back and forth for awhile, thoughts of that person when you lay in bed at night. No matter what came of it, chances are you learned something from the experience. Maybe it taught you to be more cautious the next time, or maybe you learned you should be more open to taking chances.

It seems to me there’s a place in our personal histories for stories about early crushes and romances. They shaped us in important ways and helped us grow up. What story could you tell?

Here’s a touching story from a student about the guy who got away…and then came back many decades later.

Final Chapter?
by Judy Huck

Prologue
When I was in college I had a full social life. Thus, when my friend Evelyn requested that I go on a blind date with one of her friends out here from Kansas, I declined. She gave me her best puppy-dog pleading eyes and offered a sneak preview. So off we toodled to the beach, binoculars in bag for the great spying operation. We set up camp and retrieved the binoculars.

“There,” Evelyn whispered. “Down by the water.” I zeroed in on the group she pointed to. There were four of them, playing catch and enjoying themselves in the manner of land-locked boys who have discovered the ocean vista. One looked too dangerous. One looked too dorky. One looked too old. But the fourth—my, oh my! Tall and slender, with dark hair and good-looking to beat the band, this was my first sight of Jerry.

“O.K.,” I whispered back to Evelyn. “I’ll do it if I can have THAT one.” She okayed the condition and we went to meet them. Jerry and I dated for several months. We were compatible and fun-loving, and we had a great time. We talked of marriage, but it all came to nothing. He went back to Kansas to go to school and I returned to my full social life, eventually putting Jerry in the slot of fond memory and marrying someone else.

Forty years later an email came to my employer’s inbox. The receptionist rushed it to me. “If you are the Judy Griebel I dated forty years ago, I loved you then and I still love you”–Jerry.

We emailed back and forth, and he came to see me. It was marvelous, wonderful. We picked up where we left off and again made plans. It was not to be. He saw the difference in housing prices and what it would cost to relocate.  He simply was not up to the financial risk at the age of 60. Two years later, I wrote about the experience. This was when I finally came to terms with reality.

____________________

It has been two years now, two years of adjusting and not adjusting, two years of checking the email, of picking up the phone and putting it down, of feeling that tinge of anticipation when the phone rings or I see a silver Avalon, or I walk out of work and wish to see Jerry standing there by my car, waiting for me as I am waiting for him. I don’t remember it being this difficult, this day to day longing for something that logic tells me will not happen, and common sense tells me should not happen. Logic and common sense do not seem to have much to do with this. It’s much more elemental, instinctive.

The other day I left the office to go to lunch. A Thursday, and I had not brought my lunch, so I decided to treat myself to Mexican food. I took a book with me, a Barbara Kingsolver about a woman who returns to her hometown to sort out her failure to establish meaningful relationships in her life. You would think this would be uncomfortable for me to read, a theme that points up my own problems in that area. In truth, Kingsolver writes with a whimsy and humor that kept the book from being oppressive, and I looked forward to bringing the story further along. Far from emphasizing my own failure, it gave me a sense of kinship with a woman who could write about this kind of relationship ignorance.

It was a lovely day, Southern California in January. A brisk windstorm of two days duration had blown the gunk out of the air. The sun was brilliant, the sky a gem blue, the clouds as white as untried dreams. The air retained a hint of winter, just a nip. That notwithstanding, I had a strong craving to be outside and requested a table on the patio. Sitting in the sun, I picked up my book and delved into it. The waiter knew my habits and kept his service light and considerate. He took my order, brought my food, and brought the bill, all at a minimum of interference. I read, I ate, I retreated from all concern. Time morphed and warped, Einstein’s plaything. The book and the food were the only realities I considered. I could have been there five minutes, I could have been there five hours, so far away was the press of the clock. The amazing thing was that I was there just the right amount of time. I left relaxed, contented, and on schedule.

As I walked out to the parking lot, I saw it. A black Corvette backed into its parking space. The rear end hugged the sidewalk and the long sleek front extended forward as if poised for quick getaway. The windows were tinted, so nothing broke the beautiful, speed-inspired lines. At that moment I could imagine Jerry leaning against it, arms casually folded, taking ownership as his due.  In my mind his tall slender body was sheathed in tight levis and a white T-shirt.  He wore dark glasses, which he took off at my approach to reveal those incredible blue eyes. I never got over those blue eyes.  He smiled the warm grin that could suck me under. This is Jerry of my memories. This is Jerry as I had seen him even as I looked at the older reality. I wonder what he saw when he looked at me. Did he see the young girl incorporated into the woman I have become? Useless questions, never to be answered. I turned, walked to the Camry, and headed back to work.

It’s summer time—a time for family vacations. Most of us have memories of relaxing and entertaining excursions with our families when we were growing up. When families get together for holidays and reunions, it seems like someone always brings up a vacation story. Your sister might say, “Remember the time Mom dropped the camera in the river?” Another chimes in with, “I’ll never forget those long trips across the desert jammed in the backseat of the car with NO AIR CONDITIONING.” Someone else says, “Remember reading those Burma Shave billboards?” Everyone laughs. They remember.

Don’t let those entertaining and unforgettable stories become forgotten. Commit them to paper, so your descendants will know what family vacations were like in your era. Vacations reveal a lot about families. A vacation story may capture the essence of your family better than pages of description. It may reveal a side of your parents (relaxed, and with their hair down?) you didn’t typically see in your day-to-day interactions with them.

My student Carolyn Adamson splendidly captures the interests and personalities of her family with an entertaining story about their decades-long, love-hate relationship with a famous restaurant chain. And, no, it’s not McDonalds.

Waffling About: A Family Saga
by Carolyn Wood Adamson

With a huge sigh, we dragged our bottoms onto the stools at the counter there in Marietta: my three kids and I, plus sister Sally, who had met us at Hartsfield International Airport at the unseemly hour of 5:15 am.  She was the only sprightly one of the bunch, and understandably so: she hadn’t flown all night from LAX. Why did I think taking this red-eye to visit Grandmother in Georgia was such a good idea, especially with a layover in the smoke-choked Las Vegas airport?  So it saved a few dollars, so what! I thought, as I glanced down the counter.

“I don’t want anything!” Greg said, yawning; “My tummy hurts!” whined Elise; “ It’s hot and sticky!” complained Rachel. Stifling! The suffocating heat of a summer morning in Georgia cannot be matched, unless, of course, it’s a summer morning in St. Louis.

“What’s wrong with the windows?” Rachel continued. We all spun around on our stools to see they were steamed opaque, separated by random rivulets of moisture, allowing but a slivered view of the asphalt parking lot. Add to that a faltering air conditioner plus the combined odors of stale cigarette smoke, fry-basket grease, and a griddle that needed scraping down, and you too would have had thoughts about heading for that parking lot. Never again! Never another red-eye–and definitely never another Waffle House, no matter what!

~    ~    ~

True to my word, I didn’t darken a door of their multi-state chain from that June Georgia morning in 1970 for 35 years–no matter how conveniently “America’s Place To Eat” popped up during various travels. “Present in 34 states–1,350 locations and counting. . .” boasts an old brochure that I saved–who knows why. Fast forward to 2005. It was April. Now there’s nothing more lovely than a crisp, springtime morning in St. Louis, lush with blooming spirea and lilacs, unless of course, it’s a springtime morning in Atlanta when the dogwood blooms.

But there we were in St. Louis–extended family gathered for breakfast near Lambert Field. We had come from afar to rendezvous before the drive 150 miles to Charleston, Illinois, to attend Uncle Ralph’s memorial service. This time there were six of us: Sally and “her Steve,” plus son Morgan; “my Steve” and I, plus daughter Rachel.

“Do you remember that hideous breakfast we had in Marietta when I was a little girl?” began Rachel.  And we were off, both grimacing and chuckling at the memory. “And look at those Missouri rednecks,” she continued, tilting her head toward four men in work clothes in the booth adjoining ours.

“Whadda ya mean?” Suddenly, I felt defensive, back on my home turf. “We were taught there’s nothing wrong with an honest day’s work,” I added, killing the light-hearted atmosphere. Geez, we’ve ruined them, I thought. We should have never left Missouri to raise kids in California with its superficial values of sun, surf, and glamour.

As silence hung midair, the head waitress at the counter yelled, “What’ll it be, hon?” to a laborer who had slid onto a stool, squinting at the menu as he pushed back his grimy Cardinals cap. “Remember, hon, there’s more than 3,538,944 ways to enjoy our hash browns,” she teased. We all laughed at her sassy delivery and outrageous statistics.  Shortly, she bellowed above the din, “Make it a large–smothered, covered, chunked, and capped.” Consulting our menus, we figured out he’d ordered his hash browns with onions, cheese, ham, and mushrooms.

“Now see,” giggled Sally, siding with me, “there’s a working man with taste–he even ordered mushrooms.” Just then our server, a middle-aged gal like the head waitress–both with “big hair”–slapped down our plates. As I drooled over grits swimming in so much real butter they’d turned golden, I was suddenly home. I forgave that intolerable atmosphere in Marietta all those years back and wondered when and where my next chance to enjoy this fare might come along.

~   ~   ~

My wish was granted just two years later as eight of us hopped onto stools, filling the entire counter in St. Charles (location #1138).  It was an unusually temperate Missouri June morning, and all was right with the world. After all, the house I lived in from fourth through eleventh grade–the one Sally was brought home to as a newborn–stood just two doors away there on South Fifth Street! Her memories and mine tumbled over one another, tangling as we raced to share stories of our childhood in the neighborhood. I was filled with sentiment, pausing to appreciate that Steve and I were barely half way through our twenty-one day genealogical tour of Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, and Kentucky. We had already celebrated dear Aunt Annie’s life, traveled in claustrophobic trams to the top of St. Louis’ famed arch, and visited six of scheduled eleven cemeteries, including the graves of my Peterson great-great-great- grandparents in Philo, Illinois.

Grandson Andrew brought us back to reality with his order: “Give me the pecan double waffle and a side of three eggs over easy–no grits!” I realized then we’d divided along grits lines: the lovers and the haters. Appropriate, I mused, remembering that Missouri was a border state.

“What a great roots trip so far,” proclaimed Elise. “I can hardly wait to see the Daniel Boone House. Dad, we’re descended from his sister, Hannah, right?”

“And who’ll ever forget the two-story outhouse yesterday in Gays?” chortled Greg and son Thomas in sync as we all collapsed in laughter. Though our group was divided: the pro grits vs. the anti-grits, we were one bunch of giddy, satisfied diners as we shoved off for Boone’s place down the road in Defiance, Missouri.

~    ~    ~

Barely a week later, we dispatched our clan to their respective home states, leaving Steve and me alone to roam through Kentucky, beginning with a visit to my college roommate in Lexington. Early the next morning, we sneaked away from Beth’s for a research day at Louisville’s Filson Historical Society Library. You guessed it:  there at Exit 35 from I-64W, another W-A-F-F-L-E  H-O-U-S-E (location #1530) beamed at us, its “Good Food Fast” slogan triggering our salivary glands. Where else could we pull off breakfast for two for only $8.90 including “classic blend coffee”? And I could have my grits, and Steve his raisin toast and hash browns.

Next morning, we repeated our routine in Versailles, Kentucky (location #1558), as we drove toward LaGrange to locate the grave of Dr. Samuel M. Osbourne, my paternal great-great-grandfather. Having had a fabulous trip with thrilling family discoveries, we did not want to face tomorrow, our last day. But that we did.  Heading from Lexington for our plane out of Indianapolis, there at Exit 29 from I- 65 N, we celebrated our final breakfast (location #512).  Three in a row.  As the waitress approached, “Our usual?” I asked, smiling at Steve.

“Naw, I’m gonna live it up!”  He grinned at me, snatched up the menu, and quickly made his choice.  “This time I’m having my hash browns scattered on the grill with onions, cheese, ham, Bert’s chili, tomatoes, Jalapeno peppers, and mushrooms!”

We laughed as our waitress, reminding us of the big-hair ones back in St. Louis, barked our order: “Two coffees, two All-Star Specials, and a TRIPLE ‘SCATTERED ALL THE WAY!’”