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.

I bought my husband a Valentine a few days ago, just like I’ve been doing for the last four decades. Yep, we’ve been together that long, and even though it has been that long, I still want him to know I love him in that way. He shows me in multiple ways that he still feels that way about me. We are lucky, I know, and I don’t take our relationship for granted.

My husband has a romantic side. He likes the Los Angeles Lakers AND Jane Austen and isn’t embarrassed to be one in only a handful of men in the theatre to see a Jane Austen-ish kind of movie. He’s also a generous and clever gift-giver–both clever in the kind of gifts he chooses for me, and clever in the way he presents them to me. I’m sure that store clerks who help him with his purchases wish they were so lucky.

I have lots of stories I could write that illustrate his romantic side. Why would I want to write them? Because I want our children and future descendants to know that we loved each other in that way.

Often our children only see us as fuddy-duddy parents and can’t visualize us having a life before they came into the world. I suspect you know what I mean. I’ve taught personal history writing for the last 15 years, and the majority of my students tell me they’re writing their stories because they want their children to know what their lives were like before they became parents. Writing stories about the romantic aspects of our lives is one way of expanding our children’s vision of who we are.

So write that romantic story. Here are a few story ideas you might consider:

• Follow my lead and write a story that illustrates your spouse’s romantic side. When I gave this assignment to my class last year, I was greeted by a blank stare…followed by some mumbling…followed by some derisive laughter. “Now listen, folks,” I retaliated, “not everyone’s a hearts and flowers kind of person.” We then discussed various ways spouses show affection, like cleaning the house when you’re sick, or praising you to their children, or always looking nice for you, or watching a Jane Austen movie with you when they’d rather watch the Lakers…that kind of thing.
• Write about an adolescent “crush.” Reveal your awkwardness and all the embarrassing details. Be real, and your family will see you in a new light.
• Write about your first kiss. Who cares if it was a bomb. (Mine was!) Write about it anyway. Be sure to put your story in its setting. Let readers SEE where the deed was done. Was there music playing in the background? Johnny Mathis set the stage for my big dud…”The Twelfth of Never.”
• Write about your first date–or any interesting/crazy/embarrassing/romantic date you had. Teens don’t date anymore. Show your children’s generation what it was like in “your day.”
• Write about a marriage proposal. Be as specific as you can. Who said what? How did you feel?
• Write about your wedding day. Think of some interesting, fun, or surprising incidents that made the day stand out so your story is uniquely yours. Keep it personal…and romantic.
• Write about your honeymoon. One of my students, an 87-year-old widow, wrote about her wedding night in surprising detail. Yes! It was a lovely story, written sensitively, and with great love. Her children will read the story and be happy their parents loved each other so much.

Now, whatever topic you choose, I recommend you do the following:

• Write honestly and personally. Reveal your feelings, your disappointments, feelings of awkwardness, embarrassment, silliness. Show the real you.
• Use lots of detail–about people and settings. Where did incidents take place? Let us SEE it. What were you wearing? What did other people look like? Add “sense details,” if appropriate–sound, smell, sight,  taste, and feel.
• Create scenes, if possible. Don’t just write a summary. Try to remember what was said, and re-create conversations as you remember them, capturing the emotional truth of the experience.
• Snag readers’ attention from the get-go. Some experts advise beginning in the middle of things. Too often we feel like we need all kinds of back-story before we get to the interesting part. Don’t do it.
• Don’t be in a rush to get it finished. Write a rough draft and let it sit for a while. You’ll soon think of things you’ll want to add.

That’s it. I think you’ll enjoy this writing assignment. Get into the spirit. Play some Johnny Mathis, or whoever rocks your boat. Browse through some old photos albums. Then sit at your desk and put it all down on paper.

It starts after I heft the last of the Christmas decorations into the garage attic. I look at the blank spaces in my house where the manger scene, Christmas village, and other decorations sat and realize I need to fill them with the pictures, flower arrangements, and other doo-dads that sit in those places the other months of the year.

Pulling those accessories out of their storage places makes me look at them in a new light. Maybe I ought to arrange them differently this year, I think. Why should the house look the same year after year? And so I create a new arrangement on the coffee table with photos, picture books, and a candle. It looks pretty nice, but it could use a little greenery to soften the effect, so I borrow a small arrangement from another room to see if it works. It does. Then I work on another area, soon moving things from room to room, rummaging through drawers for this and that, setting a few things aside for Good Will, and…I’m on a roll.

I can feel the buzz of an organizing binge taking on a life of its own. It can last for days as I move from tabletops to bookcases to drawers to closets. Sometimes I become so engaged in the process, I forget to eat, which is a good thing. You know, because of my Pioneer Woman escapade?

All that happened last week. And it’s mostly done. And it feels good, freeing my brain for tackling a new year of memoir-related work. You knew I was going to get around to the M-word, didn’t you? Still feeling the vestiges of my buzz, I’ve been thinking how some of this organizing energy could be applied to personal history projects. A little bit of memoir housekeeping can free your mind for greater creativity—maybe even spark some story ideas. Here are a few organizational projects you might consider…

• How about last year’s calendar? Do you still have it? Did you write down events and appointments on it? If so, you have a good resource for reconstructing your year and maybe have some material for a story or  two. Go through last year’s calendar and make a list of all the things you did. Assign a date to each event and jot down a few notes. Is there any story material there? If you have calendars for previous years, do the same thing. What an interesting project this could be. Sometimes one year blends into the next–particularly as we age–and we don’t take note of interesting things that happen. My students tell me they don’t like to write about their adult years because they’re boring. Maybe not…check out last year’s calendar.

• In a similar vein, consider making lists of all the books you read last year or movies you saw, projects you completed, or places you visited, etc. I’d love to have lists like this from my grandparents. If you can’t remember much about last year, start keeping lists this year. For some years, I’ve tried to keep a list of the books I’ve read and post them on this blog and, because I’m a movie fan, I keep a list of all the movies I’ve seen each year and assign them a grade. My entire family does this and we have fun exchanging our lists every year.

• If you haven’t already done so, begin creating a life chronology (timeline), a surefire way to begin thinking about your life in story terms.  My blog post here explains how to do it and why it’s important.

• Have you digitized all the important records that pertain to your life? I haven’t, but it’s on this year’s project list. I plan to scan and save on my computer all my school report cards, along with personal documents and certificates of various kinds so they’re all in one place. I may want to use some as illustrations in my personal history. Frankly, I haven’t foreseen all the ways I can use them, but I know this project will assure that I have a copy of everything in one place—a computer file or DVD—instead of spread around the house in scrapbooks and manila folders.

• Do you know what stories you intend to write this year? Do you know when you intend to write them? If you don’t have a plan, you won’t be as productive. The months will go by and another year will have passed and you won’t have finished your personal history. Make a list of stories you’re going to write and assign a completion date for each one. Be realistic, but be ambitious, too.

These are just a few ideas for getting organized in the memoir way. Some won’t fit your organizational needs or style, but they may spark other projects. If you have ideas that have worked for you, please share them with all of us.

All the best for a fruitful writing life in 2012,
Your Memoir Mentor

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.

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.