Slice of Life Number Ten - Memories are Leaking Out

March 10, 2011

Brainstorming with students yesterday in our memoir session started me down the old 'memory lane', as I wanted the students to do, too. I hadn't counted on so many ideas coming out in our brainstorming session. As Slice of Life is so on my mind as well, I thought I'd better take advantage of the perks of finding ideas within my writing groups. Here is another piece important in my life that I want to be sure to capture.

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I want to talk about gift giving, what’s hard and what’s easy. When I heard the news, many noted my excitement. I called my friends, looked at baby things (to check out what’s the latest) in stores, and imagined what it would be like to be a grandmother. I even started to notice grandmothers! I was ready to spend all our savings to get ready just to have my grandchild visit--once in a while for a few hours, then overnight, and finally whole weeks in the summer! Remember, the baby wasn’t due for another seven months!

After a few weeks, I remembered the boxes—the ones I had dutifully and lovingly filled with my children’s ‘things’-first stuffed animal, first doll, pink and blue rattles, first outfit, etc. I trudged down to the basement, moved boxes to get at the exact right one, the one labeled "Nathan-baby stuff". There at the top was the blue, red and white striped shirt-the very one he wore home on the day he arrived as our son. It was such a funny choice, way too big, a little scratchy and more for a toddler than for an infant; but we were brand new parents, and didn't know just how small a baby really was. Now, as I hold it, I think how tiny it is; and as I smell it, the baby times come right back to me.

I had a tough time that day, going through all those things-the quilted signature pillow from all the aunties, the soft pink-blue-with-fringe comforter, the bibs ready for any disaster, the tiniest of train-striped overalls, the cap with a duck on the front. No matter how you look at it, baby clothes are wonderful items to examine. They don't just feel soft, they smell soft. And the clothes hold such promise: "The wearer of this light blue nightie could be a senator, a writer, an artist, and will be a young man, a lover, a husband. Soon, he may be a father. . .

Wait a minute; I'm getting ahead of myself! I moved all through the box, ensuring that these things had remained good things to give, proper for a baby again. At the bottom, I began to cry, for there was Curious George, dressed in a too-big yellow Union Pacific t-shirt, smiling up at me from his bottom of the box bed. He has been around, that's for sure. I see Nathan dragging George along in the Philadelphia airport, on the way to see dear friends and meet their newest daughter. George almost had an airplane seat; he was that special. Of the many things that we will pass down to the next baby, I think George might be the hardest. After all, when I know he's packed downstairs in the box, I know I still have a piece of that little boy named Nathan. Once George goes on to find the heart of another little boy, I will have to say goodbye.

Learning From Memoir

Slice of Life Challenge, by the Two Writing Teachers blog:

March 9, 2011

Learning from the past - writing about things from my family's past - teaching memoir to students

The group I'm teaching is studying memoir now & today was the first lesson. I wanted them to take away several things about memoir in this first experience: I will write with them, they already have memories that will stay cemented in their brains for the rest of their life, memories/events are what make us who we are, and it's important to make sense of those events that seem of importance. As Willa Cather believes: "Most of the basic material a writer works with is acquired before the age of fifteen."

It was a good time with the group; they thought, questioned & shared much. It will be interesting to see where their memories lead us. Here is a draft of my memoir:

The small wooden man stood at my grandfather’s right hand while he wrote his business notes each day. I was allowed to pick him up and stare into his face only now and then. My father was killed in World War II, so my mother and I had lived with her parents since I was two. Her parents had become as much parents as she was. Grandfather, whom I called Pop, stood in as my father. Pop was kind, told me stories every night, read to me, took me on nature walks, taught me about stars on summer evenings.

I wanted that little carved man. I coveted him as a young child, and could not understand why, if Pop really loved me, that he wouldn’t give me the carving.

Later, as I grew up, I discovered that the carving was all that was left of my grandfather’s father’s things. I began to understand why he stayed at Pop’s desk. I began to see outside myself to perceive others’ relationships and others’ needs.

It was no longer this me, me, me stuff. I actually saw that Pop really wanted that little man; he perhaps regarded the carving as the talisman of his life.

I remembered that most of Pop’s family belongings had been left behind in Virginia. So little had escaped to be carried to Missouri when the family moved. I appreciated this sad circumstance, but I still wanted that little man. As I grew even older, I became fearful that one of my cousins or my brother would take the carving on a whim when I wasn’t there.

I am embarrassed now when I return to that time in my life. I don’t understand what I thought would happen to me if I acquired the carving, or if I did not.

I have the carving now, and received it on the day my grandfather died. My life did change, but not because of the little man. He sits in a corner of a shelf in my living room; I dust him when I can, and blow a kiss to my grandfather who taught me patience is a virtue, and persistence is rewarded.

Winter's Return

Winter has been rather elusive here in Denver. The bits of moisture we have had are so rare that it’s a celebration of flakes when they do come, like last night. The mountains have experienced “mountains” of the white stuff, and hurrah for that because of the superb skiing and businesses supported by that sport. When you see that Colorado is having inches and inches of snow, it certainly isn’t happening in Denver. It’s such an interesting juxtaposition to be near an area where they brag about a seven foot base, ten inches of powder just today, and icy mountain passes. In the city, however, the students at school are often wearing shorts and flip-flops, and my winter coat hangs lonely in the closet. However, right now, snow is falling, the trees surely are enjoying the drink, and I get to wear my wooly sweater, enjoying this moist wintry day.

MONDAY POETRY - SOLC - March 7, 2011

Today again the poetry group met, shared the words from poets we like, & shared the words we had written. Since this is just the 2nd time, all still are a little quiet, but as we heard poems others had chosen, & enjoyed the sharing, I could see them relax & just enjoy the process. In the group, I see myself as one who offers ideas, shows how things work, & brings new kinds of poems into their lives. Today I shared "Write About A Radish. . ." by Karla Kuskin, so simple & direct, the poet's admonition to write about a slice, as we are doing this month, to write, as the cliche goes, what you know. The poems shared today were broad in topic, clever, & very good. I am proud of the work being done. Here is my poem:

Metaphor for Housewife

Poetry washes me

like the strongest detergent;

keeps me clean, pure, bright.

Poetry irons my soul;

smoothes the wrinkles-

makes me starchy, witty.

Poetry scrubs my heart;

leaves me shiny, glistening;

I find it in the crevices of

The Maytag,

And celebrate its appearance

in my life.