Blue Waltz Perfume and Chocolate Covered Cherries

     Drawing names. If you attended public schools in the South in the 40s and 50s you know about this pre-Christmas activity. You may have some good memoires of this annual ritual and, again, you may have had nightmares.  This seemingly  innocuous practice was probably created by a kind adult who thought its premise would help the poorest child feel a part of the group during Christmas gift giving.
     I suppose they failed to check the prices ....Blue Waltz perfume was twenty-nine cents  and chocolate covered cherries were thirty-nine.... a great deal of money in those days. If you were a boy, there was no doubt what you would get.  With girls it was a toss up....but you prayed it would be the chocolate covered cherries. If you're wondering why I didn't say the perfume, then you have never smelled Blue Waltz .  When its aroma first hits your nostrils, you may think , "ah, that's different, I think I like it, or your eyes begin to water and you start sneezing.  For just 29 cents it packs a wallop, either way. I must say for thirty-nine cents the cherries were a pretty nice gift, if you like the gooey center that tended to run down your arm if you didn't stick the whole thing in your mouth.  My Mama said that was bad manners.   
     She was an expert on manners.  She never failed to remind us the no matter what we got for our "drawing names gift, we should smile and say, "thank you and Merry Christmas".    That was hard to do with a mouthful of cherries or a nose full of Blue Waltz!                                                                                                         

MEMORIES FROM CHILDHOOD --BIG RECESS

    There was little recess in the morning that lasted fifteen minutes.  This was just enough time to go to the restroom and have a quick snack.  We weren't concerned with healthy food...a lollipop or a two-cent piece of candy would do.  Did we bring these goodies from home?  No, they were available for a few pennies down in the basemen,  usually sold by one of the lunchroom ladies.  There was time after lunch for a few minutes of recess,  but what we all looked forward to was "big recess" at 2:00, a thirty minute time period for play and making or breaking new friendships.  Sometimes in good weather there were ballgames to participate in if one desired, or we could be the cheering section.  Most of the time the teachers were there but trying not to be noticed
     Big recess meant different things to different students. You might see groups of girls jumpimg rope or playing jacks. You were more likely to see boy shooting marbles.  Once in a while a girl would display dirty knuckles.

     There was a patch of woods behind the playground. A temptation to many..  Teachers discouraged us from going there.  I'm certain they knew those who did were up to no good! No doubt some of the older boys stole a kisses and "smokes."  The girls informed one another of the "facts of life." I remember some of the lessons told by the girls who had older sisters which turned out to be all wrong.  I was certainly happy to find that kissing did not cause babies!

     We were able to buy ice cream and other snacks at big recess--if we had  a nickel or  dime. That sounds so simple in this day and time but money was scarce in the forties and early fifties.  Most of the children in our school came from extremely poor families.  The teachers kept a closet of extra clothes just in case a child came to school without enough clothes to keep them warm.  I'm sure this was quite a task in our cold mountain climate.

      There was a time after WORLD WAR II when surplus food was sent to schools in poor communities.  We would take prat of big recess to go into the basement to receive a government snack.  It might be dried figs or dates and fruit juice. I remember apricot because that was a new flavor to me; whatever it was we ate it with no complaints.

     Big recess was a time to make and cultivate  friendships.  I'm not sure the boys were as concerned with this as the girls.  They were either  friends. or rivals. Their disagreements were settled quickly and without holding grudges. Girls, on the other hand, delighted in dragging out an argument until it became a permanent condition.

     Girls, small and big, had cliques and each had different reasons for existing.  The ones who were excluded were hurt and the ones included felt in control.  There were times when the teachers had to intervene if things got out of hand.  It was a rare occasion when the boys had need for teacher interventions.  They seemed to be m ore interested in playing sports than in bickering among themselves.

     Looking back to these days of big recess with its freedoms and life lessons, I believe it served a more important role in our school experience than many of the classes and academic activities.  It served as classes in psychology, sociology, ethics, sportsmanship, economics, biology and physical education.  Lessons were learned that became part of our philosophy of life.

I hope this memoir brought back some good memories for you.  Your comments are welcome.



                     

TALES FROM CHILDHOOD

    Memories....the stuff of novels, dreams, reunions and love affairs.  They are woven into our lives in so many ways that at times we live with our minds holding onto part of one memory while we take a piece of another and meld them to make the we "remember." Do you recall overhearing a family story at a reunion and thinking, "that's not how it happened?" Your Mother tells a childhood story and everyone says, "I remember that!"  As their laughter fills the room you begin to seethe because you know it didn't happen that way. Then you start to recall a thing here and one there; maybe it did happen almost that way!

    A few years back, I wrote a collection of short Memoirs from my childhood.  I called them "Because I Said So, Tales From Childhood." They come from my growing up in the little Virginia mountain village of Belspring in the 1940s and 1950s. It is my hope they will depict the joys, sorrows, humor, mistakes, goodness, fortitude and tenacity of the mountain people who lived in this little village of about 350 persons.

    Let me set the "stage" so you will be able to "see' in your mind where the action takes place. Belspring is nestled in a small valley bordered by hills and mountains on three sides and the New River along its eastern boundary.  Standing on the hill above the Kirkwood house, your eyes would soon make out an "under the tree Christmas village.  A ribbon of a creek covered in watercress, meanders below the hill. Turn slightly to your left and see the asphalt highway which bisects the village.  The majority of the houses on the left of the road seem to have been carefully placed there in neat blocks. This is no illusion because when Belspring was called Churchwood it was laid out in grids in anticipation of its becoming a boom town.  At that time the railroad ran through the middle of town. Its course was changed by the railroad owner to avoid a steep grade, sending it along the river.  That did in the plans for a bustling town. 

The name was changed from Churchwood to Belspring after the sound of a spring in the hollow near the edge of town.  The spring has long since dried up and the sleepy little village remains as if caught in a time warp.

    Looking down from the hill again one can see three church steeples..... the Methodist on the road to the train station, the Baptist on a rise behind the houses set neatly in blocks, and the red brick Presbyterian on the left as one enters the village. There was always a post office, usually sharing a building with a grocery store and one time an appliance store.  There were two service stations,the train station, barber shop and for a few years a beauty shop in one side of a service station. The largest and most imposing building was the large red brick school which housed grades one through seven.  Next to it stood the "teacherage" where unmarried teachers lived.

    This was not a perfect place but it was a good place to grow up. As children we ran and played on the hills and in the creek. We caught "craw dads" and ran from snakes.  We built forts in the broom sedge and climbed the apple trees.  We rode our bikes in the summer and slid down the hills in the snow in winter.  We did chores; raking the colorful leaves of autumn, helping to harvest the garden crops, and looking after the younger children. The war came and we felt the rumble of the explosions from ammunition tests at the Arsenal.  We learned to use less sugar and butter. The family car did not move as often--gas was scarce and rationed and new tires were a rarity.  We did not complain about the darkening shades and 'all lights out."  For in our little world, life was good.

     This post is getting long.  I will write another soon about life in the village of Belspring.

Comments are invited.

OUT OF SYNC

     Have you ever had a day where you felt you were going the wrong way on  a one way street? Or your 'different drummer' had stopped playing.   Or did you feel like a third wheel?  I 've had more than my share of those days recently. Now don't get me wrong, everyone has their troubles but it seems that they should come in little doses.  I'm not whining...just venting!
     I won't bore you with minute details but the lists of infractions and misunderstandings with the local county government, as well as  the state level have come to the point of being a "comedy of errors."
     Have you ever tried to correct an error with a county government to be told that the document you're holding in your hand that states it is a business license, could not possibly be one?  You question your ability to read and then a feminine voice says, "could you fax a copy to us?"
    I reply, "no" but would the license number do anything for you?"
    "Well, yes, please give that to me."
     I do.
     She is gone for several minutes.  "You do have a business license but I don't understand how you got it."
     "You sent it!"
     "Excuse me again." A long period of silence..not even any canned music.
     "Ma'am, I think we've found the problem.  You're in the computer as two different people.  You keep your business license and have a good day."
     "Miss, what about the fines I've paid for the countless times you found reasons not to send the business license?
     Silence.

     Let's go up a level to the state government.  I pay my Sales and use Tax on a quarterly plan.  We made a  major move about the time the April taxes were due.  I did something I had never done--I forgot to file!  Silence from the state department of revenue.  July comes and I do my duty and file.  This was a larger amount than normal because I had a new book to come out and sponsored a fund raiser.  We did well and I paid the taxes due.  Silence from the department of revenue.
     On September 29th a letter arrived from the above mentioned agency.  I intuitively knew it wasn't good news.  It was a bill for close to $4,ooo.oo for failing to file and pay the taxes in July. There was also a mention of going to jail if this matter wasn't settled in a few days.  We were leaving for a business trip to Virginia the next morning.  I had plenty of time to imagine several scenarios in the resolution of this problem. The one going to jail was not seriously considered.  My big question to them would be why they waited so long to notify me?
     The matter has been resolved. That "little old, forgetful lady with Parkinson's" works most of the time. They owed me money and my obligation to them was $5.00!
     Why had they waited so long to contact me?  They were using a telephone number from 2009.
     So if you feel your life is out of sync don't panic or give up.There is usually a reason even if it doesn't make sense to you! And if it doesn't just smile and pretend it does.  It worked out in the end.

Your comments are welcomed.

    

SURPRISES IN MEMOIR WRITING

As I've commented in past posts about teaching memoir writing, it is one of the best jobs I ever had.  Everyone has a story and they are in class for a purpose...usually to learn how to record these stories in a way to entice someone to read them.  Along with this creative way to write their stories, they want to know how to preserve them for future generations. My objective, as a teacher, is to steer them in the right direction by using some tried and true techniques....road signs, if you will. The majority want to take a truckload along to mold into their memoir. I encourage them to dump a great deal of the truck's load....lighten up and make their job easier. After a few exercises of reduce, reduce and reduce, the writer becomes aware of how few facts it takes to be molded into a riveting story with reader appeal.

There are often surprises in memoir writing...some come to the student writing from the deepest recesses of the brain...others to the teacher as she listens to these memories too long forgotten.There is one lesson we do on "Speaking the Truth."  In it we look at different authors and how they handled family stories of pain and negative feelings. We read excepts from Angela's Ashes, by Frank McCourt, his memoir about growing up in Limerick. He tells his story with such feeling the reader is drawn in to the extent that she feels the pangs of hunger, breathes in the putrid smells of poverty, cries in sorrow for the living and the dead, and waited for McCourt's condemnation of his parents. It doesn't come.  He tells the truth, as harsh as that might be, but he is never cruel. It would have been easy for him to slip into that blame game, but he did not.  He could have asked his mother why she needed to spend money for cigarettes when weak tea often served as a meal. He could have lost respect for his father when a week's wages were spent on alcohol. He was critical but not cruel.

Several of my students have been surprised at the memories of family slights and hurts brought to the surface by listening to other students read their assignments.  They have brought these stories into the bright light of day, written them on paper and read them to the class. We listened intently, fighting back the tears, in some cases. A change had taken place.  The writer was different.  Possibly, a great burden was lifted, a sense of forgiveness filled the void. We didn't ask but we knew, the writer was different.

Comments are encouraged.

UNEXPECTED TEARS

    We went to the movies this afternoon. We used to go more than we have in the recent past; maybe we are getting too old to enjoy the animated and action films so popular today.  For whatever reason, we find few we consider worthwhile.  But today we found a gem.  The Help..  I had led discussions in two book clubs shortly after the novel came out.  In each group there were persons from the North and the South which made the discussions interesting to lead, to say the least.  If a person grew up in the South with black help in their home, their reaction to the novel by Kathryn Stockett, Berkley Books, 2010, was different than someone who lived in the North, even though they employed black help. The reasons for those differences seemed clear to me. This is not the place to delve deeply into those factors but I can sum them up in a few words. The South had laws on the books, unwritten codes and an invisible line that were not to be broken or crossed. Not found in the North, these laws and codes of prejudice were used in the South to suppress the black race  The Civil Rights Movement.brought these injustices into the light of day.  Stockett crafts her story of this sorrowful era of the early 60s into a heartwarming, as well as a disturbing story.  The movie stuck to the book as well as an I can remember. The characters come alive on the screen, the acting is superb, easily making it a  movie never to forget.
     And the tears.  I don't know if I were crying for the storyline of the movie or for the injustices done to my friend Catherine and generations of women before her who cleaned the homes, cooked the meals, and most importantly of all, reared the children of white families in the South.
     Go see the movie.  Don't hesitate to ask your husband or significant other.  I noticed the man beside me had a difficult time in finding something to wipe away the tears. I would go again.

Thank you for taking time to read this post.  Your comments are welcomed

IS THE PLAIN TRUTH ENOUGH IN MEMOIR WRITING?

As I prepare to teach a class in memoir writing, I know which class will generate more questions. "Speaking the Truth." (In a previous post I talked about writing the truth, "The Truth and Only the Truth").Without a doubt there will be students who choose both sides of the issue---one will not embellish and will have a boring memoir, and another will use literary devices to enhance the story. Hopefully no one will be harsh in dealing with the truth. Readers will ask for more from the memorist who crafts the truth in such a way  as to draw them into the story.
     Judith Barrington, in her book, "Writing the Memoir,"(The Eighth Mountain Press ISBN 0-33377-51-7, 2002)  begins the chapter on"The Truth:What, Why and How" with this statement;"Those of us who write memoirs find ourselves speculating frequently about truth. What is it? How can one person know it? What is its relationship to facts?
     Barrington continues by saying,  "she felt that too much research could result in your realizing the story you have been carrying around in your head for so long could not be true. The dates don't match up or someone left before the other arrived. I  disliked research until recently, which may be why I chose to write memoirs for which I relied primarily on memory."
     In William Zinsser's "Inventing the Truth,"(A Marine Book, Houghton Mifflin Company, ISBN 0-395-90150-1, 1998), weighs in on some of today's  writers of memoirs.  "Today no remembered episode is too sordid, no family too dysfunctional, to be trotted out for the wonderment of the masses in books and magazines and on talk shows."  This book is an compilation of nine authors who are noted for their memoirs.
     Frank McCourt has been cited in other posts regarding his attitude toward his family, particularly, his mother, Angela.  In "Angela's Ashes," he marvels at the fact he survived it, and the second marvel is that he was able to triumph over it in "Angela's Ashes''beating back the past with grace and humor and with the power of language." In his books, McCourt, as do others, Hamil, Karr, and Wolff, represent the new memoir at its best, "it's because they were written with love."  They want the readers to know "they elevate the past."
     Russell Baker has always been one of my favorite writers. He was a columnist for the New York Times when he  wrote the first draft of "Growing Up." After finishing the first draft he realized he had written a "reporter's book."  He had witten about the Depression era and its effect on his family.  "What he left out was his mother and himself--in short, the story."  In order to rewrite the memoir, his life had to be reinvented.("Inventing the Truth, 1998, p.15).
     I think this quote from Russell Baker sums up the difference in auto biography and memoir: "The autobiographer's problem is that he knows too much--he knows the whole iceburg, not just the tip."
     I will close this post with a quote from Judith Barrington's book: "One thing we can probably agree on is that the truth, however we define it, is often hard to tell.  It can be hard to tell the facts of the story, and it can be hard to tell its emotional truth, too."


Your comments are welcomed.

The Truth and Only the Truth, In Memoir Writing?

I'm in the middle of revising lesson plans for memoir class.  I continue to find new titles about teaching how to write memoir.  That "one-click" button on Amazon is so tempting.  Today I received two books and have been perusing them this evening. One,"Inventing the Truth" by William Zinsser, Houghton Mifflin, 1998, is his first book on memoir writing to which he refers quite often, The second, is a compilation of well known memoirists and their writings. I was not surprised to see Frank McCourt and Russell Baker included among them. I have cited them often in talking about writing the truth in memoir.  The author, Judith Barrington, ("Writing the Memoir" The Eighth Mountain Press, ISBN0-933377-50-9), 2002), has a little different slant in writing what she determines as the truth. Sometimes it is difficult to know the truth when research has conflicting dates and other data that does not line up with the story.  She cites another writer, Mary Clearman Blew, : "For my part, I struggled for a long time with conflicting claims of  the exact truth of the story and its emotional truth as I perceived it."
     Blew believes that both factual and emotional truth are important but sometimes the two are not the same.Too much research, for her,may prove the story you have carried around in your head for years, is confusing and could not be true due to conflicting data.  She goes on to say that until recently she did not do research--she went with the memoir she had carried around in her memory.
     She gives those memoirists who are like her and detest research some advise; do your research in matters that are public record.  Have historical events in the right time period, names and places correct. A writer will save themselves embarrassment when they are meticulous about facts.  She goes on to say that public records side, try not to worry about someone not remembering the story just as you do.(I've written about this in an earlier post.)  "Memory is such a personal thing. and it is always revising itself."
     In the past writers of memoir shied way from writing about harsh and shameful realities. ("Inventing the Truth" by William Zinsser, Houghton Mifflin, 1998). " Today no remembered episode is too sordid, no family too dysfunctional, to be trotted out for the wonderment of the masses in books and magazines and on talk shows"(Inventing the Truth).
     There are many good memoir writers today.  Zinsser often cites Frank McCourt.as one who used" grace and humor to beat back the past." .   "When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood; the happy childhood is hardly worth your while.  Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood and one yet worse is the miserable, Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood." ("Angela's Ashes " by Frank McCourt, Simon and Schuster, 1996, ISBN-9-684-87435-0).
     Katherine Bomer in her "Writing a Life," believe that the memoir writer owes the reader honesty..this does not mean the writer isn't allowed too embellish the facts to give he story interest.  The basic truth is there but just prefaced with "it could have been...or "I can;'t quite recall it that way."
.  I advise my students to be honest but temper your writing with kindness. Memoir is not the place to hash over old disputes.

 Thank you for taking the time to read this post.  Comments are welcomed.
    
    



















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THAT'S NOT THE WAY I REMEMBER IT --PART II

"Mr. Scott Comes A'Courting"......  continued.

     My Aunt Pearl had a severe vision problem since birth,  When she was twelve years old the family was resting on the front porch in the evening after a hot summer day.  Someone called attention to the large moon.  Pearl asked that it be point  out for  she could not see it. Her pareents were shocked that she could not see such a large object.  She was taken to the local country doctor for an eye examination.  He was sorry to report that she had cataracts which were probably present at birth. He knew only one hospital in the state that would attempt the surgery.  Arrangements were made with the hospital in Charlottesville.  Pearl was dressed in her Sunday best, given a small satchel with clothes and personal needs, a letter with her name and family information.   There was just enough room for her lunch. As she stepped on the train, one can only imagine the fear and trepidation the young girl carried with her.  The same feelings were probably doubled for her parents and family back home.  She had the surgery which helped her vision somewhat.  Her parents were told by letter that she would never see any better than she did after the surgery.  They were a family of deep religious faith who accepted their lot in life knowing that with God's help they would prevail
     It did not matter to Mr. Scott that Pearl wore thick glasses; she could see well enough to do the chores such as milking the cows. She didn't need her sight to play the piano.   She made the most wonderful, buttery pound cake you ever tasted. She would have been a good wife and mother although she was nearly blind. I believe  she had doubts about meeting her obligations of a wife and mother.  She remained a spinster, and Mr. Scott still came a'courting.

     So often in writing memoirs we feel it is imperative we have a lot of facts in order to write a memory of someone in our past.  Quite often the opposite is true.  With too much data we become overwhelmed and boring.  Then, our dilemma is what to cut out.  This is possibly the hardest thing a memory writer is called on to do. I use William Zinsser's book "Writing About Your Life" (cited in another post) in my Memoir classes.  I respect his knowledge in capturing one's memories on paper.   He writes of proven ways to reduce your information in order to construct an attention getting memoir.  I have used one of those in the memoir, "Mr. Scott Comes A'Courting." I chose my Aunt Pearl as the main topic but I didn't want to write everything I knew about her.  Let's face it--no matter what we do to fill up our days---some of those things are boring!  After choosing Aunt Pearl, I decided her blindness and how it affected her decision not to marry was the heart of the memoir.  Of course I would include how she discovered her blindness and her family's reaction.  I would find it difficult to write Mr. Scott's memoir because I did not know anything about his feelings and what he did six days a week.  I knew only of Sunday afternoons, when Mr. Scott came a'courting.  

     I hope this post has been helpful/encouraging if you are planning to write your memoirs. 
Comments are encouraged. 

    

THAT'S NOT THE WAY I REMEMBER IT!

     Have you ever gone to a family gathering and someone began a conversation about some event or person in the family's past.  As the story progressed you start to wonder if you were in the same family!  Your first instinct is to jump in and say, "no it happened this way."  but you don't because you realize that if ten people were watching a baseball game they would all see it a little differently.  So, what to do?  You write it the way you remember it.  Aunt Helen can write her own memoir.d

     William Zinsser in his book, "Writing About Your Life."(Published by De Capo Press, 2001, ISBN-978-1-56924-379-4) gives advice on writing about family.  "first of all be compassionate, but be true to your culture.  Have the courage to tell the story as only you can tell it."
     A great example of a memoir that treats the family with love and grace is Frank McCourt's "Angela's Ashes."  I would find it difficult to teach a class about writing family memoirs without this exceptional book. If any writer had reason to feel bitterness about his family it is Frank McCourt. Growing up in abject poverty in Limerick, Ireland, he could have written  a dark, sinister story of his parents who probably could have done better by their children, but he chose to write a survival story of love and endurance. 
     ZINSSER SUGGESTS YOU GET YOUR INTENTION CLEAR BEFORE YOU START AND TELL YOUR STORY WITH INTEGRITY.

                                        MR. SCOTT COMES A'COURTING
                                     (From "Trunk Tales' by Darlene Eichler)

     My Aunt Pearl was a spinster.  In impolite terms, or as my mother said, she was an 'old maid.'  She was a single lady who was getting on in years.  But she did have a gentleman friend; Mr. Sam Scott.  As far as I can remember they never went out on a date, just kept company in the parlor.
     Mr. Scott did no have a car.  He walked miles every Sunday in a suit and tie, when the weather permitted, to see Aunt Pearl.  they spent their time together in the nicest room in the house.  The parlor existed for special company, for playing the piano, and a viewing room when a family member passed away.  the floor was covered with an Oriental type rug; lace panels hung t the windows and crocheted doilies covered the backs of the settee, chairs and at the tops of the tables.  Several nick knacks sat on the mantle and piano.  Today I have in my possession a piece of Carnival glass that made its home on the piano.
     the parlor was off limits when Mr. Scott and Aunt Pearl were in there.  I could not understand why they would not want the pleasure of my company!  After all my aunt doted on me at other times.  it was explained to me that they wanted to be alone.  I was always glad when Mr. Scott went home...to be continued in part 2.

Comments are encouraged.

HOW TO BEGIN YOUR MEMOIR

     There are many times a person might have an interesting memoir to write but they don't have a clue where to begin.  As a memoir teacher I have no magic formula. We have talked about memory joggers but now you chosen your topic, having narrowed it down to a manageable size.  There are times even more reduction is required.  For the sake of example do a story in a well known time period--WWII-1941-1945-FAMILY STORIES. Family stories is a broad topic and needs to be reduced. " How about, "How Shift Work Affects a Household" You lived through this time period and you know the story.  You may be an out liner and here is the time to make one. Perhaps you' re a little fuzzy on some details.  This is a good excuse to call a friend or a family member you haven't talked to in awhile.
You have your outline filled in with just a few gaps. You're ready to begin:

                                                                                                      
                           "HOW SHIFT WORK AFFECTED  HOUSEHOLDS"


                                              WORLD WAR II-1941-45

     The Shortts and Langs were neighbors. Coming from opposite ends of the state to work in the large defense plant, they were different in so many ways. One family moved from the mountainous Southwest, the Langs,the  red dirt of the Piedmont. The adults spoke in the vernacular of their respective areas, and the children snickered, wondering why they talked so funny.  They ate different foods, planted different cops by different methods and attended different churches.
     There was one custom which tied them together and had a great influence on their daily lives.  Shift work! The Arsenal ran  twenty-four hours a day, and there were three shifts.  The first, and desired one was from8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.  The second shift and the children's favorite was the evening one  from 4:00 p.m. to 12:00 Midnight. Mother's were more relaxed during these evening hour and the children were allowed to stay up later.  Supper could be breakfast and no one seemed to mind. The third shift was the dreaded one, especially by the mothers. Running from 12:00 midnight to 8:00 a.m., its other name was the "grave yard shift."   Mothers' main responsibility consisted of keeping everyone quiet while the fathers slept. Keeping a colicky baby from crying could cause tremendous stress for everyone.The plant's hours dictated the activities of the families from friends' visits to meal schedules.

     Added to the stressful and changeable schedules were the physical tolls  it took on the men working in the manufacturing of nitroglycerin and other toxic substances.  They were stricken often with migraine-like headaches and other maladies.  Frequently this brought about short tempers and fatigue.  Here, again, the mothers stepped in to smooth over and try to explain why daddy did not feel up to playing with them or for that matter, just being in their presence.  It was understandable how these unreal schedules and added stresses affected the children all their lives.   After the war ended some of the parents became aware of the negatives affects, others didn't see them.  As in all adversity some come out stronger and others never recovered.  So it was with the children of the shift workers.
(Some material taken from "The House of Straw," by Nan Turner, 2006.  ISBN: 0-9791543-0-8)

Comments, please.

A SPECIAL MEMOIR

Today I feel compelled to write a memoir.  There will be no instructions or memory joggers.  I may break a few rules but this comes from my heart.  This memoir was originally meant to be an eulogy for one of my oldest, dearest friends.  She has been on life support for several days and the doctors little hope for recovery. But her younger son would not give up until he knew for certain his Mother was being kept alive only by mechanical means.  He called yesterday to say that he believed he had witnessed a miracle.  His Mother opened her eyes, and even smiled.  We know that she has a long way to go but as her son said, we'll take whatever we can get, one day at a time.,

A TRIBUTE TO MY FRIEND, AILEEN

It was late spring,(the end of May to be exact) of 1958 in Washington, DC.  A young woman, still a girl, really, walked a few blocks to the "car barn" to take a trolley to a new job.  She felt safe on the trolley, it would go only where the tracks took it.  The shy country girl hoped she wouldn't have to pull the cord for her stop.  She needn't have worried, several riders seemed to be going her way.  Seeing a large building come into sight, she knew this was  the place.  National Geographic.  Her heart skipped a beat as she entered the front door all the while keeping an eye out for the office.  Soon she had filled out the necessary papers and was on her way to her work station,

This country girl felt a little intimidated when she walked into the huge room with many rows of desks almost touching each other. One sole desk sat facing the rows where an older woman was peering over her spectacles perched near the end of her nose.  She reminded the country girl of a
school teacher she had in fifth grade; any minute she might say to  the bodies occupying the rows of desks, "take out pencil and paper and write one hundred times, 'I will not talk in class.'
But she didn't.
Introductions were made and one woman remarked, "Aileen is absent today.  I know you will become friends when you meet.  I never asked her why she felt that way.
But she was so right.  Our friendship began the moment we met.  We introduced out husbands and they became friends.  We were together every week- end.  Her husband was an MP in the Army and I knew they would be gone in a short time.  I tried to put it out of  my mind.  We visited every free attraction in Washington and there were lots of them.  We had little money for entertainment, so we made our own.  One of us had learned to play Canasta and we taught the other three.  We spent many Saturday evenings playing until the wee hours of the morning. One week-end we went to Ocean City and Rehobeth Beach in their Ford convertible.  Only one of us made it to work on Monday and that was the MP!  We had terrible sun burns!
After awhile Aileen left National Geographic to work as a typist at the Library of Congress.  I was lonely at work without her so we made it a point to get together more often during the week. Then there was a change in my life.  I became pregnant and had morning sickness that kept me from going to work. The older lady with the spectacles at the tip of her nose did not understand the needs of a pregnant woman!.  I quit my job and stayed home trying to stay busy.  I knew the day was coming soon when the Heralds would be returning to Indiana and Aileen would not be here for the birth of the baby. There was more to that statement than I could ever have imagined.  I gave birth to twins two months early.  My friend and her husband returned to Washington to see the babies after they came home from the hospital in March.  We made them "unofficial godparents."
The years rolled on and I had two more children and after several years of trying she and Elliot had two sons.  We developed a tradition of visiting them every Thanksgiving--that meant the old West Virginia Turnpike! A snow storm coming or going or both.  Now, is that not proof of a true friendship?
In 1969 a few days after returning from the Indiana Thanksgiving trip we received a call early one morning.  A nurse in a hospital in Louisville told  us our dear friend, Elliott, had passed away from burns received in an accident at work.  Aileen needed us and to please come as soon as possible.
This blog is getting too long and I will close by saying , there were long periods of time we were not in touch but whenever we were it was just like we talked yesterday.  Many stressful and emotional events have taken place since that day in 1969.  There have been divorces, remarriages, serious illnesses, grandchildren, and deaths of parents, great grandchildren  But nothing has weakened the friendship that was forged one day in May, 1958.  I'm praying for your healing, my friend.  Darlene

WRITING A MEMOIR IS HARD WORK!

Before I start this post I want to talk about a memory jogger I left out of the last  one.  Some people believe that the best memory reminder is one of the five senses--the sense of smell. You're probably thinking, "no way."  But try it and you will agree an aroma from your past will conjure up memories.  If I think of my elementary school I smell the oil on the old, worn wooden floors and the cooking odors which clung to the ceiling of the basement.  The basement--lots of activities went on down there--first and second grade class rooms, the cafeteria, the clothes closet, the custodians' niche beside the furnace.  It was the place where we had cake walks and where once a week government issued foods were given  out because we lived in a depressed area of the Appalachian Mountains. There was the special place in the far end of the cafeteria where I had my little second grade remedial reading class when I was in the sixth  grade.  See what mentioning an scent in my elementary school brought about!

"WHEN YOU SET DOWN A TRUTH ABOUT THE PAST A NEW FUTURE DAWNS" (Shimmering Images" by Lisa Dale Norton, ISBN 6312382928, Macmillan, 2008 )  That is a strong statement.  But I believe it. I also, believe that writing a good memoir takes work.  The author of "Shimmering Images" states, "Writing about your life is hard work.  It requires you to be emotionally truthful and truthful tales of the inner life are hard to get out, a little like digging embedded slivers from the soft part of your hand,"

Students have come into my classes with no clue how to begin to set down their memoirs.  i remind them that you came to class and hopefully together we'll figure it out.  The first thing they have to realize is that most of us want to write about too many memories in our first try. Lesson one--"Put Your Memories On a Diet."  Here's a small example of how to do that:

List you have made of things you would like to write about;

1. My birth on Christmas Day.
2. Growing up in the forty's
3. My first baseball game.
4. My little sister's talent.
5.. My first camera.
6. Crosscountry camping trip
7. Catching my first fish on the crosscountry trip.
8. My first car.
9. My first day at school.

Take a look at your list and choose topics that could be put together.
 How about the crosscountry trip, add catching my first fish, and surely you took pictures with your camera on that trip. It could be that your sister's special talent was used.

Now you have something to build the frame work.  If you cannot come up with enough details to fill in a section of the story, ask someone who was there on the trip, a parent , perhaps.  This memoir you are constructing is about one major incident--a crosscountry trip.  It is just one slice of the pie.

In the next post we will talk about how to add flavor to the pie so your readers will ask for more!

Comments are invited. 

HINTS ON STARTING TO WRITE YOUR MEMOIR

If you keep a journal you are ahead of the game.  People keep journals for many reasons.  Some are simple, recording daily activities, others may be to release  stress and/or as therapy.  The only time I have kept one is on a trip. I found it helpful when putting together scrapbooks and albums.  Even if you don't journal everyday you will find that just writing a few times a week  will serve as a good memory jogger when beginning to think of memoir topics.  Last year I had a student in one of my memoir classes who had kept a journal for thirty years!  I asked him if they were problems to store.  He chuckled and said that he would always find a  place for them.

Everyone has lots of memories stored but how do you get them out and onto paper?  The following ideas have worked for many writers:

1. Bring out the old photographs.  You may have to ask older family members who they are and something about their lives..
2. Brainstorm---let your thoughts flow to the paper without punctuation or thinking about grammar or spelling.
3. Collect family stories.
4. Visit the neighborhood where you grew up or if that is not possible--sketch it, putting in as many details as possible.
5. Open an old trunk or box that contains objects from days gone by such as a baseball mitt or old letters.

I'll see you back next time with suggestions on how to find a theme in your memoir.

Comments are welcome.

EVERYONE HAS A STORY

Have you listened to a friend or relative tell a story of an event in his(her) past and you said, "you should definitely get that written down and published?" The majority of the time the response is," Me? I can't write and i wouldn't know where to start."  And  my answer,  anyone can write their memoirs with a little guidance.

First, we must define the difference between a memoir and an autobiography:

A memoir could be written at any age--ten year olds have lots of stories to tell.
  Example--a slice of one's life--the first time time I played baseball.

An autobiography is almost always a chronological--from birth to the present-account of a person's life.
  Example--I was born January 1, 1955, in Roanoke, Virginia, the fifth son of...............and so on.

There are some books published which are combinations of memoirs and autobiographies. They make for more interesting reading.

WRITING A MEMOIR:
1. Look at your life as a pie.  To begin you will take only a sliver.  You have to put your life on a diet!  There are too many things to write about.
2. Choose one topic.
3. Find a quiet , comfortable place to think and write.
4. Write without attention to form, spelling and punctuation.  Let your thoughts flow freely.
5. Go back through your writing, editing and correcting.
6. Do this several times until you are satisfied.
7. Now you have written a memoir!.

FIFTY CENTS WILL GET YOU HOME BY DARLENE EICHLER

The mountain village of Belspring was about seven miles from a town of any size. Since that was too far to walk, we sometimes had to be creative in our means of transportation, unless you happened to be a boy and you were allowed to 'thumb' a ride into town.  It was unusual for a family to have more than one car and the majority of the time the breadwinner of the family used that one.
There was a time when a bus ran between Belspring and Radford on Saturdays.  The fare was fifty cents.  Most of the teen-agers could afford the fare one way but not both.  As luck would have it most of the parents went to town on Saturday mornings to shop for  groceries and to take care of banking business.  This meant that the children could ride over with there someones parents and come home on the bus late in the evening. There was usually enough money for a movie and some snacks.  And fifty cents for the fare home.
Of course the time spent in  town and at the movies was great fun but we looked forward to that slow ride home in the lumbering old bus.  It was  time to talk about the activities of the day.  Critique of the movie brought some heated discussion at times.  There was always at least one comedian on the bus and we laughed until the bus driver would tell us to 'keep it down.'  And there were the 'love birds.'  The back of the bus was known as the place for flirting and stolen kisses.
Now just in case you think there was a lot of hanky panky going on you would be wrong. There were chaperons that saw to it that we behaved as good children should.  That didn't mean someone couldn't put his arm around you or once in a great while, steal a kiss. I look back now and wonder if those few adults who went along with us really enjoyed being with us.  I never head them complain.
Parents today could not give their children the  freedom we enjoyed.  i never heard of anyone being molested or approached to buy drugs or encouraged to drink alcohol on the bus.  We grew up in a time when our doors could stay open on hot summer nights--only the screen door was latched.  We could spend Saturday in town going from store to store--meeting and talking to friend on the street, and sitting through the movies at least two time.  We knew at the end of the day we could get on that bus, pay our fifty cents and look forward to honing our social skills on the trip home.  Or maybe just take a nap.