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.

Beginning Wednesday, February 10, PBS will broadcast Faces of America, an inspiring new genealogy series hosted by Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates, Jr., who last year produced the much admired documentary African American Lives. In this new series, Gates shows how the latest tools of genealogy and genetics helped trace the ancestors of 12 famous Americans, including actress Meryl Streep, cellist Yo-Yo Ma, political commentator Stephen Colbert, chef Mario Batali, director Mike Nichols, ice skater Kristi Yamaguchi, and many more. If you’d like to know more about this not-to-be-missed program, click here to see the promo trailer. Check your local listing for the broadcast time in your area. I can’t wait!