My spring teaching term began last week, and what a joy it is to be back in the classroom with a lively group of senior-age students dedicated to writing stories about all the interesting things they’ve seen and done during their long and fruitful lives. Pat Milligan hit the ground running in the first class with this marvelous story full of lush description of her hard-working grandmother and a mysterious, glamorous visitor who spends a summer with the family and captivates a young girl’s imagination, until….

Ramona
by Pat Milligan

The prospect of a guest brought forth a frenzy of house cleaning. Nanny spent that warm June morning in 1945 cleaning Uncle Louis’ bedroom. She washed the insides of the tall windows that looked out on the narrow alley and the yellow brick duplex next door. She wiped the window ledges and the molding, the door, and the small mirror. She polished the dresser and replaced the paper in the bottom of the drawers. The scent of ammonia and lemon oil masked the antiseptic odor of the room. Then she grunted as she turned the heavy mattress over the box spring of the old bed.

Nanny

She did not ask for help from her grandchildren as she took the bed-clothes down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. There she pulled the clothes washer with its attached wringer to the sink, connected the hose to the faucet, and filled the gray enamel tub with water and Fels-Naptha soap flakes. The wringer was the dangerous part, as the unwary or inattentive laundress could catch her fingers on the ever-rolling pins. We knew the procedure from watching, not from helping.

“Go play,” she told us if we offered help. “You’re only young once, so go play.” Meaning we should stay out of her way, the directions left us happy enough.

Later, back in the kitchen, I asked the same question one or the other of us had asked throughout the morning, “When is she coming, Nanny?”

“Probably sometime this afternoon, I imagine. Your Uncle Louis said it would take time for her to leave the hospital and get her few possessions together. Can’t you girls find something to do?”

In the living room I searched the desk for some penny postcards and a pen. Gwen took a big brown envelope from the bottom drawer and spread my pictures of movie stars about her on the floor. Most were black and white photographs with autographs.

“I like this one of Elizabeth Taylor,” she said. “And here’s one of Margaret O’Brian. Do you think I look like her?”

“A little. She’s about the same age as you.” I didn’t have to turn around to look, for I had memorized them both. Gwen’s hair was brown and short with bangs that fell into her eyes. She had a cute little nose, but it got into everything, and she could never stop talking.

“Who are you writing to now?” she asked.

“Jon Hall, Maria Montez, and Turhan Bey”

“Ugh! Turhan Bey. He’s so ugly.”

“I think he’s – uh – exotic, and you don’t get an opinion.” I said, addressing the card to Culver City, California. “And don’t get my pictures messed up.”

We both jumped when we heard a car door slam and ran to the windows.

“Here she comes,” yelled Gwen toward the stairs where Nanny was remaking the bed and finishing her cleaning. We ran to the front door as a yellow cab was pulling away. Standing on the curb, a tall, thin, blonde lady collected a few leather bags and a large handbag. When she saw us, she seemed startled, and suppressed a small cough with a white handkerchief.

Gwen and Patsy, a bit younger than they were in this story.

“I’m Ramona,” she whispered. “You must be the nieces.”

“I’m Patsy. This is Gwen.”

“We live here,” Gwen reported, moving to the porch.

Nanny’s wide girth blocked the doorway. “I see you’ve met my grandchildren. Welcome Ramona. We’re glad you’re staying with us for a while. Come in.” She moved aside and Ramona dropped her bags inside the door as if she were not sure she would remain and might need to claim them soon.

“Are you sure you have a room for me?” she asked. “Louis said it would be all right.”

“His room is available until he comes home from the hospital. Then we can make other arrangements for you.” Nanny reassured her. “Now come into the kitchen where we can have coffee.” Nanny turned to us. “Girls, take Ramona’s things upstairs.”

We raced up the steps and raced back again. We didn’t want to miss a thing. We were called the Misses Big Ears for a reason.

Seated at the yellow kitchen table, we watched Nanny pour three inches of cream from the neck of a milk bottle into a small pitcher next to the sugar bowl. She got two glasses from the cupboard and poured two cups of coffee. I spooned Ovaltine into the glasses of skim milk. Ramona took half of the cream and two teaspoons of sugar, stirring them into the fragrant coffee. We sipped our Ovaltine and listened, our attention feasting on Ramona.

Ramona reminded Pat of Veronica Lake, pictured in this photo.

Ramona was beautiful, like Veronica Lake. Her long blonde hair with just a hint of curl cascaded down her back. Her face was long and angular, and her nose was aristocratically straight, not bent like mine or pug like Gwen’s. Her cheek bones were prominent, and her eyes were pale gray like the Atlantic Ocean. Even her clothes were different. It was summer and she was wearing loose pants and a flowing silk long-sleeved blouse.

Most exciting to me, she came from California. Not Culver City she told us, but San Diego, and movie stars did not live in Culver City, but in Beverly Hills. We assumed her father was rich and possibly a doctor, for he had sent her to New Jersey’s Donnelly Hospital where a new operation could be performed on tubercular lungs. Ramona had met our Uncle Louis there after she survived the operation he was scheduled to get, and he had suggested she board with his mother while she waited for the doctors to release her from their care, probably several months.

Nanny could never deny her only son anything. He had been to death’s door and survived, but his survival was tenuous. If the operation were successful, he would come home to live with us: his mother, his sister and his two nieces. Gwen and I harbored the fantasy that he and Ramona were in love and would get married when they were both well. We loved having her around, even if she did leave stockings and underwear soaking in our only bathroom-sink. Nanny grumbled whenever she smoked cigarettes from a long black cigarette holder and left ashtrays full of smelly cigarette butts.

Ramona entertained us with stories told in her low breathy voice. Some she made up, and some were from the scandals featured in the Trentonian, a daily tabloid, or some detective magazines. She loved drama and made daily living seem exciting, for she listened intently to our ordinary activities and plied us with questions. She

Turhan Bey

laughed when pictures of Maria Montez and Turhan Bey arrived and agreed Turhan Bey was handsome. Happy summer afternoons were spent in our small back-yard as she dried her long tresses conditioned with peroxide in the warm summer sun. She let us comb her blonde hair and tie it back with a black velvet ribbon. Sometimes she coughed into a small white handkerchief.

That summer I read Alexander Dumas’s story about the lady of the camellias, a beautiful woman who died tragically from a lung disease. I tried not to see Ramona losing weight and her hair becoming thinner. I did not want to think she could die. She was supposed to get better. Although I had never seen a camellia, I knew they must be beautiful, like the roses in our garden and Ramona.

In September Gwen and I went back to school and were busy with church activities. We did not see much of Ramona. She  went to her room after dinner while we did homework at the dining-room table. We could hear her radio or phonograph music drifting down the stairs, lush symphonies or opera, including La Traviata, the sad story of the lady of the camellias.

One day we came home from school, and Nanny told us that Ramona had gone home to California.

“Why didn’t she say goodbye to us?” Gwen wailed.

“Did she leave an address so we could write to her?” I asked.

“She left rather suddenly,” Nanny said. “She had to go home. Perhaps her father is sick.”

Perhaps Nanny was lying. I suspected Ramona had returned to Donnelly Hospital.

Months later, early in December, Nanny descended the dark steps to the cellar. Gwen heard her say, “Oh! My G—. Marie, come down here. Look at this.”

Gwen followed Mother down the narrow cellar steps. Behind the Christmas boxes, Nanny stood by a large basket–overflowing with empty peroxide bottles and Jim Beam whiskey bottles.

Mother laughed. “Well, she had a good summer.”

Over the span of the winter, Nanny took the bottles out to the garbage can at the curb gradually, one-by-one. She claimed she didn’t want the trash-man to think she bleached her hair or was an alcoholic.

Those of us who feel the call to record the lives of others have to decide the best way to tell our story: first person or third?; present tense or past?; chronologically, episodically, or something else?

The options can seem endless and confusing when we consider them, yet our choices are often constrained–or dictated–by the amount of information at our disposal, our writing skills, and the breadth of our imagination. Some fortunate personal historians are blessed with an abundance of all three, and then it becomes a case of selecting a narrative approach that best capitalizes on the character and personality of the story’s subject.

I’ve been thinking about these issues recently since completing Jeannette Walls’ magnificent Half Broke Horses, a “true-life novel” about her grandmother, Lily Casey Smith, the indomitable mother of the memorable hippy-artist “mother” showcased in Wall’s blockbuster memoir The Glass Castle. Everyone I know in the memoir world has read The Glass Castle. It’s the best-selling memoir of all time for good reason, and I’m sure I’ve made Walls a little richer by the number of times I’ve recommended her book to someone struggling with the best way to write about family skeletons and other prickly people–for Walls shows us how in that wonderful book.

Half Broke Horses is a different kind of book. Walls calls her grandmother a character, and she is–a no-nonsense, resilient, courageous, brainy, gun-toting, plane-flying, horse-breaking mother of two, decades ahead of her time. As a family historian, how would you showcase a woman like this without watering her down or making her a caricature? I’m sure Walls pondered this question long and hard.

Lily died when Walls was eight, but, along with her other pursuits, Lily had been a great story teller, continually repeating detailed anecdotes about her life to her daughter, the hippy artist, who then told them to Walls. The author says she tried tracking down the truth of some of those anecdotes and, except for a few details, was never able to disprove them.

Walls had to know she was sitting on a dynamite story, but how to tell it? She could write it from her own point of view: “My fabulous grandmother told me she took flying lessons when she was thirty-nine and began working as a freelance bush pilot. When I didn’t believe her, she showed me pictures of herself sitting in the cockpit of a beat-up twin-engine, crop-duster.”

Or Walls could choose to tell it from the classic, third-person, biographer’s point of view: “When Lily was fifteen, she rode her pony, alone, 500 miles to Red Lake, Arizona, to her first teaching job, taking with her a toothbrush, change of underwear, presentable dress, a comb, canteen, bedroll, and a pearl-handled six-shooter.”

These would have been traditional, acceptable approaches to writing a family history narrative. But Walls, whose mother said was born with her grandmother’s gumption, decided on a different approach. In the Author’s Note at the end of the book, Walls explains that she ”saw the book more in the vein of an oral history…and undertaken with the storyteller’s traditional liberties.”

Thinking oral history, Walls fashioned a first-person narrative with the grandmother telling the story in her own voice. Walls says, “I wanted to capture Lily’s distinctive voice, which I clearly recall.” She added, “…since I don’t have the words from Lily herself, and since I have also drawn on my imagination to fill in details that are hazy or missing–and I’ve changed a few names to protect people’s privacy–the only honest thing to do is call the book a novel.”

It reads like a legitimate oral history, though. Walls’ memory and substantial storytelling skills created an unforgettable narrative voice that allows Lily Smith to be Lily Smith, with all her no-nonsense, bossy charm. All the way through Half Broke Horses, I kept thinking how short-changed I would have been had Walls chosen a more traditional approach. Listen to Lily’s voice:

“I expected those Brooklyn gals to be tough and smart, and maybe even practicing socialists, but instead they were all ninnies who wore too much makeup and kept complaining about the Arizona heat, the hearse’s uncomfortable buggy seats, and the fact that there was no place in the entire state to get a good egg cream. They had these thick Brooklyn accents, and I had to fight the temptation to correct their atrocious pronunciation.”

Can you imagine the work and creativity required to narrate a life story with a voice like this, staying true to its character to the end?

In case you haven’t guessed, I recommend this book. Add it to your Christmas list. You’ll love Lily Smith, you’ll be inspired by her story, and you’ll be able to assess for yourself the freedom and rewards of a fictionalized approach to family history.

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.

Last week I gave presentations at a week-long adult education conference sponsored by Brigham Young University, in Provo, Utah. Held annually the third week of August since 1922, Campus Education Week attracts around 20,000 attendees from all over the world, though primarily from the Western United States. It’s an incredible undertaking for the event planners, with over a thousand classes offered on an array of topics.

I taught a three-hour class on the first day of the conference focused on family history writing, then partnered with my husband to present one-hour presentations on personal history writing the four remaining days of the event.

This is my eighth year teaching at Education Week. I always come away from the experience touched and inspired by the many wonderful people I’ve met who are fired with a sense of mission to write their personal and family stories. I regret that I can’t spend more time with them, for  I understand the magnitude of the task they’ve set for themselves and know the days, months, and years ahead will be fraught with all the questions, frustrations, and self-doubt that go with the territory.

As I talked with people before and after my classes, I was reminded of the universal nature of the concerns we all face when we contemplate writing our stories:

• Are our lives worth writing about? Will anyone read our stories and find them interesting? (Yes, and yes…more than you’ll ever realize.)
• Do I have the ability to write an interesting story? (Yes. Everyone’s life is interesting. Just tell your story in your voice. You want to sound like yourself. Remember to make it personal. Share your thoughts and feelings. Let readers know how events affected you. Don’t just write what you DID; explain who you ARE.)
• How do I handle all the sensitive, sometimes dark, issues in my life? How much should I tell? (Unfortunately, there’s no easy answer to this question, but we all have to grapple with this problem and find a solution we can live with. Your solution will depend on balancing a variety of competing concerns: your purpose for writing, the relevance of your sensitive issues to your life, your audience/readers, your commitment to the truth, and your tone. I think tone is key. You can say the same thing in different ways. A tone of compassion, fairness, and forgiveness allows you more room to tell your truth with less offense. This may seem like a simplistic answer, but your decision will come down to striking a balance between these factors.)

When I finished teaching my last class on Friday afternoon, I felt a bit like my parents must have felt when they dropped me off at BYU as a college freshman years ago. As they drove away in their yellow Chevrolet Impala from the Helaman Halls dorms where they left me, I’m sure it wasn’t long before one of them said, “Well, we’ve done what we could. She’s on her own now.”

It was true…to an extent. But I had classes and books and mentors to inspire and teach me how to proceed on my own. It’s my hope that those of you who attend my conference presentations will seek out writing classes at your community college or adult education center to keep you motivated to write. If you can’t find a class, start a writing group with other like-minded people. Writing is such a solitary pursuit, it’s vital that you find some way to keep yourself motivated. Finally, read published memoirs to learn how other people have written about their lives. I’ve posted a list of excellent memoirs in the “Reading Resources” section of this blog.

Good luck to all of you…and keep plugging!