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

The Gypsy Baron
by Rhona Villanueva

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were at our positions on the stage and waited.

The overture, a musical summary of the operetta, was coming to its end. Applause again and slowly the curtain rose. The prompter sat in her box, smiling, as if to give us courage. Beyond her, the conductor was looking at us, his eyebrows raised demanding attention. The orchestra began to play. He raised his arm, held it there for a few seconds pointing the baton at the lead singer. With a swing of his baton he gave her the exactly timed entrance. 

My heart pounded, but a few seconds into the music I calmed down. All I had learned was still there. One scene, one beautiful aria, followed another. There were many nuanced feelings in the melodies, from fast and happy to slow and heart-gripping sadness. Melancholic gypsy tunes alternated with military beats and tender love songs. They spoke of gypsy girls, hidden treasures, noble heirs and pig farmers, of soldiers and fortune telling and, of course, the gypsy baron. They all sounded very much alive.

The first act was over, the second, and then the third. After the last tone faded away, there was silence and then thundering applause, turning into a standing ovation. It was proof that we had captured the audience’s imagination. There were several curtain calls and bouquets of flowers given to the main characters. And then the show was over.

Yes, the show was over, as well as my short-lived singing career. But I was filled with pride and joy for having participated in this operetta. It had been a wonderful and unique experience and will be forever engraved in my memory.

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

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

First Tomatoes of Summer
Kathleen Anderson

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the Sunday we had all waited for. Daddy went to the garden, walked carefully through the tomato patch, looking for the ripest lovelies. One by one he put them in the bowl Mom had brought out from the kitchen. We watched, eagerly awaiting what was to come.
        
The five of us marched into the house, up the stairs to the kitchen. Mom washed the vegetables in the sink under the running water. Noreen opened the fresh loaf of Wonder Bread. I found the salad dressing on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Daddy stood by the kitchen table sharpening the big black-handled knife. John watched. After drying the tomatoes gently, Mom placed them on the middle of the table and the ritual began. The first plate was selected and the tomato was slowly cut, releasing its perfumed juices into the room. 
           
Two pieces of bread were laid out and spread with the creamy dressing. Then one red tomato slice was laid on top, followed by another, and a sandwich was made. Five had to be made before any could be touched. It seemed to take forever. 
           
When the five plates were ready, we sat down at the table, said the blessing, and slowly bit into the soft white bread, into the tomato, and sighed with contentment. Second servings disappeared quickly. Soon we pushed back our chairs, our stomachs full. This was our special Sunday dinner, a ritual performed every spring when tomatoes ripened.

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

He is an Athlete
Bob Stumpf

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

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

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

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

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

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

     When I looked at my grade report recently, I noticed I had earned a C+ grade. I remember my attendance was almost perfect. I believe that counted for a lot. 
     In 1962 while I was in the Army stationed at White Sands Missile Range, President Kennedy encouraged the whole nation to become physically fit. The Army decided to test everyone in many basic events. The hardest event was to run a mile in eight minutes or less. The entire 10 decathlon events were also included. Every weekend, we were to train for these events. On the day of the test, I came in last place on most events.

     “The scores are posted,” yells one of my roommates from the hallway. We all run down to see how well we did. Actually, I don’t run, since I know I will be embarrassed.
     “Stumpf, you got third place on the high jump. I don’t remember you doing that well,” says one of my roommates.
     “Oh, er, ah, I didn’t realize I did that good,” I reply softly.
     When everyone is finished checking their scores, I look at the bulletin board alone. None of my scores are correct. All of them are raised. Someone has forged my scores.
     I wonder, do I go to the captain and confess that the scores are wrong? I decide to keep quiet, since confronting the captain is not recommended, especially since our platoon has won and the captained is to receive a trophy.

     As I entered the work force, I avoided entering athletic events. I also never went to functions that included swimming. When my boys were born, I encouraged them to excel in music instead of athletics. I just knew I had bad athletic genes. However, I did put in a swimming pool, so they would have an opportunity to learn to swim and not be embarrassed.
     In 1995 my life changed. My friend Fred Roth challenged me to join his biking group for the annual Coast Tour of California. The first year was difficult, but I successfully completed 370 miles in eight days, riding from Napa to Lompoc. During the years 1996 to 2000, I continued riding from San Francisco to such Southern California cities as Santa Barbara, Ventura, and Santa Monica. Then in 2001, I did a round trip to San Francisco in two weeks, a distance of 900 miles. I also did my first “Century Ride” (100 miles) from the Anaheim train station to the San Diego train station in less than nine hours. I was now considered a real cyclist by my peers. In 2002, I cycled the Washington coast, and in 2003 the Oregon coast. Then in 2004, I did the best trip of my cycling career, a 900-mile trip from Oregon to Santa Monica.
     Two days after this trip, I had cataract surgery. During the surgery, I was semi-conscious, but heard the anesthesiologist ask the surgeon to stop the procedure because my blood pressure and heart rate were low. I will never forget her words, “Don’t worry, he is an athlete.”

My spring classes have begun at Santiago Canyon College, and once again I am posting noteworthy student stories on my blog. This week’s story comes from Linda Missouri, who has attended my classes for several years. (Pictured, left, in photo). I admire this story for the creative way she reveals her mother’s character and relationship with her family through a variety of literary techniques: scene, flashback, dialogue, and more. Note how well Linda anchors this story in the era it occurred, reflecting attitudes of the day about women and religion. Read on, and see for yourself…

Don’t Show My Body
by Linda Lacey Missouri

“Don’t let anyone see my body when I’m gone.” Mom’s frail but insistent words seared me with her authoritative command.  I took Dad’s arm and we stepped away from Mom’s hospital bed. I repeated Mom’s edict so Dad could hear her words. “Mom said, ‘DO NOT, under any circumstances, have a public viewing after I’m gone.’ What do you make of that, Dad?”

Dad shook his head in the negative. “Well, I never….” Yet, his smile confused me.  “If that’s what Willie wants, that’s what she’ll get.”  At this desperate time, Dad would say anything to agree with his beloved. He had a history of placating his wife. He wasn’t about to create a fuss now, just days before their 58^th anniversary.

Mom’s request surprised me. How about all the times Mom wanted to show her face—those perfect eyebrows that I never saw her pluck. Did nature alone give each brow such a precise domed curvature? Starting before I could remember, Mom took weekly trips to Rosie’s beauty parlor, getting free advice from movie magazines and from Rosie.  While they gabbed, Rosie put a stylish curl in Mom’s black sturdy hair and on occasion, dyed the grey.  Rosie and Mom discussed the news of the day. They debated Dr. Spock’s modern message that picking up infants when they cried would not spoil them. They grieved at the headlines of Charles Lindbergh’s stolen baby.

Mom had agreed to marry my dad on two conditions—first, she could hire a maid each week. Clara from Sweden kept the downstairs in perfect order in case neighbors rang the doorbell without phoning. Second, Mom could visit the beauty parlor once a week where Rosie kept Mom’s hair (and maybe her eyebrows, too) in perfect order.

The voice from Mary, the ICU nurse, shocked me out of my reverie.

“Mrs. Lacey has a visitor. May I show her in?”

Mom quickly jerked her oxygen mask to speak. “Who is it?”   

“The minister from your church.”

“Which one?”

“It’s a lady.”  Mom’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “Go away. I didn’t invite her. She can’t come in.” 

“Why not, Mama,” I interceded. I knew how much the church meant to Mom, and I wanted a miracle recovery for her. I didn’t want a minister to turn against my mom at this critical stage. Though I was embarrassed, I tried to stay calm. “Why don’t you want to see her? She’s from your church, St. Mark’s Methodist. ”

“I just don’t.” When Mom squinted her eyes at me, I knew her side of this conversation was over. But I needed to continue.

 “Mom, she came all this way just to see you. I don’t want to send her away.”

“I don’t want her to see me,” she yelled. I felt my face flush, yet I kept going.  

 “Why, Mom?” I pleaded. “She just wants to pray with you. She cares for you.”

“If she sees me, she’ll go back and tell others at church how awful I look lying here in the hospital bed. I can’t let that happen.”

And so, the nameless reverend woman who ministers to the dying got turned away by my mother’s vanity.

I had a mixed reaction. In one sense, I felt proud of Mom for knowing her own mind and for not letting a stranger invade her inner sanctum when she was hooked up to every drip and tube. Mom’s pride, much like a mother lion protecting her cubs, was now protecting herself.  I understood her need for privacy. But, I also knew how much Mom’s physical body needed healing and I wished she’d let the minister meet with her.  I prayed for clarity of this confusing situation. I wanted a miracle.

I probed further. “The church means so much to you.  Don’t you want this minister to pray with you?”

“I hardly know her,” Mom struggled through her quivering voice. “She’s not the real minister. Dr. Shelby is the one I care about. He should have come, not her.” Mom paused, motioned for me to lean closer, out of range of the nurse. “And she’s a woman,” Mom whispered. “How could she really help me?”

 I jerked involuntarily when I heard Mom’s stunning announcement. Her faucet of core beliefs was dripping into my ear.  Mom was telling me a woman doesn’t have the same status as a man, at least in her religious world and maybe elsewhere. And someone she doesn’t trust can’t just make an appearance now and expect to see her caught lying down, helpless, without her daily cold cream and puff of rouge, without her flashy smile and carefully crafted outfits, without her daily dose of her favorite perfume, Windsong, and without her ability to greet a guest properly.

I took Mom’s fragile hand.  Mom had not yet told me to go away. I breathed a sigh of relief. She was letting me see her this way, humbled and scared, without her props and properness. She let me be close to her now, even if a lifetime as mother and daughter had often left me afraid to speak my mind. I certainly didn’t want her to send me away from her bedside, now. I took a deep breath to hold back my tears. Mom thought tears were messy and lacked a certain control and discipline.

Three days later, on September 20, 1985, my mother died. She waited until Dad and I were away from her bedside. I like to think she needed her privacy in order to leave us behind.

When we had Mom’s funeral, we had a closed casket, honoring Mom’s wish not to show her body.

I just returned from a dynamite conference for female memoir writers hosted by the highly esteemed Story Circle Network in Austin, Texas. I have been a member of SCN for about a year and have been impressed by the excellent online resources the organization provides to life story writers of all kinds. It offers online writing classes, online writing groups, editing services, book reviews, and much more, besides providing a variety of publications that teach and motivate.  I’ve occasionally asked myself, “Where do these women find the time to do all they do for this organization?” Most of it comes free with an amazingly reasonable annual membership fee. The women who run this organization are experienced writers who generously share their time to encourage the development of other writers. Susan Wittig Albert, SCN’s founder, is the author of more than 30 books! (Susan is pictured left in top photo, along with Peggy Moody, another SCN board member.)

While I had become an “Internet groupie” of SCN, I didn’t have a full sense of the organization’s strengths and wide reach until I attended its national conference last week. Frankly, I probably wouldn’t have gone had I not been invited to present a workshop. Conferences are expensive when you factor in air travel and hotel fees. I thought SCN did a fine job keeping the conference costs affordable, however. So I went…and had a great time, not only presenting a workshop, but also mingling and learning from others.

A few things stood out. The conference attracts and addresses the needs of women of all ages and backgrounds–and writing abilities. Close to 200 women attended, and what a friendly, welcoming bunch it was! What an atmosphere of sharing and learning together. I loved the whole experience. I attended as many classes as I could, taught by inspiring, well-prepared teachers who got us thinking, digging deep into our psyches, and writing. I returned home full of ideas I plan to use in my California classes and in my own writing. (Bottom photo: That’s me selling books in the conference vendors’ area.)

So, if you’re a gal who’s looking for more ideas and inspiration to keep you writing your story, check out the SCN website. An annual membership only costs $35–a real deal, considering what you get for it. You’ll be joining a group of more than 600 women from all over the world, all writing their life stories.