Writer Mary Rue shares a trip down a country road in her guest post. I love this line:
…the past lives and is always part of our present.
Enjoy the journey and may you be inspired to share your own! You’ll find her bio at the end of the story. Thanks for sharing, Mary!
I just returned from a trip into my past or more accurately my Mother’s past. A visit with cousins in Louisiana led to a trip down some back roads in Washington Parish which led to a remote Baptist church and a small cemetery and a surprise.
Mother says I’ve been to the cemetery before, but I have no recollection of that. My great grandparents and some of their siblings and children are buried there, and I amazed my family by locating the cemetery on the internet via my iPhone and accessing a website that actually listed all of the people buried there.
There are thousands of such cemeteries accessible to varying degrees via country roads in every county and state in North America. This particular cemetery, Sunny Hill, is maintained by the descendents of another family whose name appears on many of the headstones. The sad truth is that too many small family cemeteries are not maintained and thus likely to be overgrown and lost forever.
Does it matter if they are lost or found?
Maybe not. I suppose I’m interested in such things because of my love of history and dabbling in genealogy, but there was something compelling about standing in the yard between that cemetery and the small white country church that my Mother remembered attending as a child. [She says it used to be a lot bigger church back then!]
As we stood there she started talking again about the Sunny Hill community of her childhood, pointing out where the Methodist church and the general store used to be, where the school she attended was located. She reminisced about walking to school for one year, first grade, because her Daddy wanted her to go to the school he went to when he was growing up. Funny thing was that he made Mother’s little sister accompany her on the one mile walk, so my Aunt Pansy sat through first grade that year and then had to go the next year too. Oh, and by the way, I’m not sure what a five year old could have done to protect a six year old had something bad happened to them on the way to school. But those were different times.
We had piled in the car to begin our trip back to the present, but the past wasn’t through with us yet. As Mother pointed to a wooded area across the road from the church and told us, “The school was right there,” my cousin said, “I see something. It looks like a shack.” Sure enough, we got out of the car and peering into the woods could just make out the building, or what was left of it.
Just as my cousin was promising to come back and explore the area later, we discovered a path that was more or less clear so we all traipsed into the woods, right up to the dilapidated two-story structure where my grandfather had gone to school and played basketball, and where my Mother had attended first grade.
There wasn’t much left there to see, but there was a broad staircase, walls, parts of the floor and the roof, and somehow I had no trouble picturing my Mother there.
For good or ill, the past lives and is always part of our present. For me, it is all good. I think John Denver said/sang it best: “Country roads take me home . . . “
(Original post 10/15/2011)
I am a Christian wife, Mother and Grandmother who has finally lived long enough to achieve a lifetime goal – retirement. I enjoy card-making and scrapbooking, reading and photography. I’ve also realized that even at my age God still has plans for my life and more than anything I want to serve Him. – Mary Rue
One of the most common objections I hear when folks are asked to share their story is “I don’t have anything interesting to say, I’m just a nobody.” If you’ve known me long at all, you know that I often speak of the Beautiful Ordinary and its place of honor in our memories.
Most of us, if given the opportunity, would jump at the chance to sit down with a long-lost relative and listen to them relate their ordinary “Day in the Life” experiences. We’re curious about how they did life and we want to know if they handled trials and challenges in ways that might help us.
We are hardwired to crave stories, and there’s something powerful about the warmth of everyday experiences. It’s how we pass on our values, our culture, our life memories.
We want to know:
*How can we connect?
*What can we learn?
*What did you see and experience?
Author Eudora Welty captured this sense of anticipation surrounding storytelling:
Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.
Here are 5 ways writing your story matters:
You can use each as a prompt to jump-start your journaling practice. Or try creating a bubble outline for your personal story. By the way, memoir writing can be short too, think one paragraph, one story.
Empathy and Connection: Your writing can connect you with others who have experienced similar events or share your background. This builds empathy and drives a sense of belonging. Your story might be the bridge that can build stronger relationships and communities.
Self-Reflection: Writing your story allows you to reflect on your experiences, understand your journey, and gain insights. You might find yourself making new connections that may transform how you think about the events in your life.
Inspiration: Sharing your story can inspire others to overcome obstacles and embrace their own journeys. Reading your story may help them in ways you can only dream of.
Growth and Healing: Writing your story, even if just for your personal use, can be cathartic, helping you process challenges and the hard parts of life, finding healing and closure. If you choose to share your story it has the potential to do great good as others relate to your experiences.
Legacy and Impact: You have the opportunity to share with the future your wisdom, lessons learned, experiences, and unique witness to your life and times. Writing your personal history lets you inspire others both now and in the future.
We each collect a lifetime of stories. Each person’s unique history deserves to be remembered and shared with others.
*Write down that funny story about your sibling *Record your memories of growing up in a specific place/neighborhood *Commit to paper those stories your friends and family always ask you to tell
Now, take a few easy steps to share yours. Drop me a line and tell me your reason for sharing your story, I’d love to hear from you. Karen
How did a midwestern girl end up in Arizona? Our guest post author< Deb Winters LeBarge, gives us a glimpse into a transformational journey and a beautiful Arizona highway.
Deb Winters LeBarge is a self-proclaimed expert in the art of making life-changing decisions…or at least, she’s trying to be. Currently living in Arizona, armed with a pen and a quirky sense of humor, she’s on a mission to document the hilarious mishaps and unexpected triumphs that have shaped her existence. When she’s not busy tripping over her own feet, Deb can be found drinking Pepsi, contemplating the mysteries of the universe, and wondering if she’ll ever learn from her mistakes.
We’ll pick up at this point in Deb’s story, Arizona Got Me, come along for the ride:
As Tony and I left the bustling airport behind, the landscape gradually changed. The metropolis gave way to the rugged beauty of Arizona. The road stretched out before us, leading us toward Black Canyon City.
The silence in the truck was obvious, a quiet understanding that this trip held a different significance. Yet, there was a sense of routine, a familiarity natural from our numerous rides together.
The truck vibrated softly as we cruised along the highway. Outside, the setting sun painted the sky in varieties of flushed orange and blush pink, casting long shadows on the rocky terrain. The desert landscape, usually harsh and unforgiving, seemed almost gentle under the soft glow of twilight.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tony broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper. He was looking straight ahead, his hands steady on the wheel.
I nodded; my gaze fixed on the changing colors of the sky. “It is,” I replied quietly.
We fell back into silence, each lost in our thoughts. The journey continued, the truck moving smoothly along the winding roads. The setting was their old hometown of Black Canyon City, Arizona, a place filled with memories both sweet and bitter. The sunsets were always breathtaking. But now, the thought of returning filled me with unease. As we neared Black Canyon City, the lights from the houses twinkled in the distance like stars on earth.
The ride from the airport was more than just a physical journey. It was a transition from the known to the unknown, a silent agreement that we were stepping into uncharted territory. Yet within all this, there was a strange sense of calm – a feeling that no matter what lay ahead, we were ready to face it together.
During my visit to Arizona, Tony and I found ourselves engaged in deep conversations. We talked about the promises made and broken, the trust that was shattered, and the pain that still lingered. We talked about everything – about Shelly and her impact on our relationship, about Tony and his struggle with his past, and about us and the mess we were in.
There were hard truths to face, and insistence on complete honesty. Even with the tension, Tony and I managed to find peace.
We went for scenic drives around Arizona, taking in the beauty of the landscape and spending quality time together. It felt like we were slowly restoring our relationship.
How would it end? The question resounded in my mind, its answer as elusive as a desert mirage. Would we be able to reconcile our differences, or would old wounds resurface? The uncertainty was a heavy weight in my chest, making each breath feel like a struggle.
Before I returned home, Tony and I found ourselves at a crossroads. We had a heart-to-heart conversation; a crucial decision made that marked a major turning point in our relationship. We decided not to let Shelly interfere with our relationship any longer. Tony and I had finally decided to take the next big step in our relationship – marriage.
Our commitment to each other was clear and strong, despite the complicated circumstances we found ourselves in. To confirm our commitment, we set off on a journey to Prescott, Arizona. Our destination was the old courthouse, a stately building that stood as a silent witness to time and countless stories of love, commitment, and loss.
The drive to Prescott, filled with shared silences and unspoken promises. Each mile brought us closer to our purpose. As we arrived at the courthouse, we were greeted by several stairs leading up to its grand entrance. Climbing the stairs felt like a scene straight out of the Rocky movie, each step bringing us closer to our purpose, each step symbolizing our determination and resolution.
And so, within the grandeur of the old courthouse and the unspoken approval of time itself, Tony and I took a decisive step toward our future together.
We walked into the county clerk’s office; our hands tightly clasped. In the busy office, we found ourselves standing in line with a diverse group of individuals. The room was abuzz with activity, but there were not enough clerks to manage the crowd. We all stood against the wall, our backs straight, like a line-up. We waited. And watched. Our amusement was short-lived.
We waited for our turn. The room filled with a sense of anticipation, each couple engrossed in their own world. In the middle of this, a woman sitting at a large desk caught our attention. She was shuffling paperwork, her hands moving with practiced ease. Opening a desk drawer, she pulled out a new set of documents and then looked up…
Deb’s story continues the adventure… You can contact her at: deb.winterslebarge@yahoo.com. Thanks for sharing a bit of your story with us, Deb!
Interested in learning how to write your story and share important memories in compelling and interesting ways? Reach out and let’s talk, you can find me at kray@rememberingthetime.net.
We all get a little stuck sometimes, in our lives and in our writing. When our kids were young we once took a summer day trip outing to some local caves. It was great to explore these because of their constant, cool temperature. That morning we left our Big White Bumpy Truck, as the kids had nicknamed the old crew cab pickup, parked in a flat, hardpacked sandy area. Then, we enjoyed our little hike and spelunking.
Early that afternoon, we packed up the picnic remains and returned to the truck, intent on getting one of the kids to a friend’s birthday party.
We were about to learn a physics lesson.
We had not accounted for the strange behavior of desert sand under different temperatures. What had been the perfect parking spot, was now a fluffy, loose sand pit. You guessed it, we got stuck! We got creative and the kids learned how to use bushes to build a firm foundation for the tires. Hot, sweaty work but we made it out in time for the party. It would have been a crime to miss out on the pinata! This adventure taught us a hard-won lesson about the necessity of carrying a shovel on all of our backroad adventures.
So, when you’re stuck in your writing what are some
handy tricks to get you out of the sand pit?
1 – Pick one small goal to hit with your writing. It might be telling the story of one event, or brainstorming everything you can think of around a photo for your book. It might be setting up your lifeline (I’ve created both a worksheet and a beautiful journal for you, both are available in the Etsy shop). Or you might write the draft of one chapter.
2 – Complete one of your writing goals. See step one for ideas. Don’t keep returning to that same section or chapter, reworking it to death. Save the editing for later. Go on to the next chapter. The act of finishing something builds momentum and this gets you unstuck. This is like gaining momentum and traction while you push that stuck pickup out of the sand. It’s hard at first but with focused effort you’ll be rolling on your way to Dairy Queen for ice cream. Can you tell what motivates me?
3 – Make a date with yourself for focused writing time. Don’t multi-task with a squirrel brain, it will make it tough to complete your goal. Make this enjoyable, your favorite drink, location, music, set the mood, and think of it as treating yourself.
Tip: Put your phone away during this time.
You are special and your writing is worth your undivided attention.
Let me know how it goes, and I’d love to hear your techniques for recharging your writing. Best, Karen PS: Need more tips and prompts for beginning your story? Pick up a copy of my handy new guide Tell Your Life Story: 10 Tips and Techniques to Write Your Memoir. It’s available in both e-book and print, here’s a link https://amzn.to/3JC7ZA4
I met Jim Humphreys at a local writer’s group. He recently published his memoir My Friends Walk Barefoot and I’ve found it hard to put down. Yes, it’s that good. Amazon’s description reads: “Based on actual events, tells the story of Jim Humphreys, a veterinarian in Southeast New Mexico who for more than three decades treated everything from dogs to donkeys, cats (including a Bengal tiger) to cows, and canaries to ostriches.”
Jim shared the following story, an outtake from the book, during a critique session. I hope you get a kick out of it, we sure did! He was gracious enough to allow me to share it with you. Keep reading to the end, trust me, it’s worth it!
History Repeats Jim Humphreys
Something about that college history class I took back in 1972 just went bad. The irony of it was that I had always loved history. Especially military history. Everything from the Revolutionary War to the Civil War to the First and Second World Wars, Korea, and Viet Nam, fascinated me. I loved to analyze the backgrounds of famous generals, the strategies that won and lost battles. What I had never considered was that, on occasion, history has a strange way of catching up with you—as it did with me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell. Hey Amigo. How’s my buddy,” I yelled and crouched to give my favorite patient a bear hug as he enthusiastically licked my face. Amigo was Mrs. Mitchell’s twelve-year-old Labrador. Cataracts and stiff joints had not stopped him from dancing around like a puppy. Amigo was one of those special dogs who had no enemies—human, canine, feline, or otherwise. He loved everybody.
“We’re just here for shots today, Dr. Humphreys,” Mrs. Mitchell said. Maureen Mitchell was a widow in her mid-seventies. Her husband had not left her with much money, although one would never have guessed as much to look at her. Her hair always looked like she had just stepped out of the beauty salon and she took great pride in the clothes and jewelry she wore. Amigo was the second generation of Mrs. Mitchell’s pets that I had cared for. I knew her well. She was always happy and relaxed, but not today.
“Dr. Humphreys,” she said. “I’ve been diagnosed with macular degeneration. They tell me it is progressing rapidly. I have an appointment to see a retinal specialist in El Paso in two weeks. I’ll have to leave Amigo with you for a few days.” The words sounded painful to speak. “You will take good care of him for me, won’t you?”
“Of course, I will,” I said. “I’m so sorry ma’am. My mother had macular degeneration. I know it can be a challenge, Mrs. Mitchell, but you know what? The past few years have seen remarkable medical advances. I’m glad you’re going to see a specialist. Don’t you worry about Amigo. I’ll take good care of him.”
A comfortable smile spread across her face. “Thank you, Dr. Humphreys. I’ll be traveling two weeks from today. Some dear friends of mine from El Paso are going to pick me up. I’ll stay with them and they’ll bring me back.” She paused and then, “By the way, I would so much like for you to meet them. Kenneth was my husband’s roommate in college. I’ve known them for many years. They are very special friends.”
“I’ll consider it a privilege,” I said. “You let Roseann know what time you expect to be here. I’ll be waiting.”
I was finishing treatments that morning, two weeks later. “Dr. Humphreys,” Roseann said. “Mrs. Mitchell and her friends from El Paso are here to drop off Amigo.”
I walked into the waiting room and saw Mrs. Mitchell standing next to the couple. I approached and looked at him. He was tall and thin with grey hair. Perhaps in his early eighties, he had prominent cheekbones and held his chin high. He wore a sport coat and bowtie. I was ten feet from him when I stopped, stunned. Were my eyes playing tricks on me, I wondered. I knew this man. Or, did I? It had to be him. Then again, it had been twenty-five years since I had last seen the man whom I assumed I was looking at. Maybe I was mistaken.
It was difficult, but I was finally able to tear my eyes away from him to address my client. “Good morning, Mrs. Mitchell.” It took several hard bumps of his nose off my knee before I realized that Amigo was demanding a hug. I knelt down.
“Hi Amigo. How’s it going, buddy?”
“Dr. Humphreys,” Mrs. Mitchell said. “I’d like you to meet my dear friends. This is Mary.” I rose to my feet, smiled, and shook her hand. Before I could say a word, Mrs. Mitchell continued, “And this is Dr. Kenneth Bailey.”
Holy cow! It was him. It took me a second to reflect on that time. Twenty-five years earlier, the first semester of my freshman year at the University of Texas at El Paso, Dr. Kenneth Bailey had been my teacher for American History 101. It was a class I should have loved. Instead, I absolutely hated it. More importantly, it was the one and only class in all of my years of school—elementary, high school, college, and veterinary school—that I ever flunked. It was devastating. My parents were terribly upset. They were used to their youngest son getting mostly As, a few Bs, and a very occasional C in school. And then, I flunked history.
I remembered his voice. He spoke with a heavy southern drawl. Many of us in his class were convinced that he must surely be a direct descendant of Robert E. Lee himself. Yes, I thought. The voice would be final confirmation. I reached out my hand. “It’s a pleasure, Dr. Bailey.”
Dr. Bailey stood at attention, his back straight as an arrow, chin high as he reached for my hand. “The pleasure is entirely mine, Dr. Humphreys. Maureen has told Mary and me so much about you. We have awaited this occasion with great anticipation.”
Yup, it was him. In the years that followed that first semester of college, I had often asked myself, how I could possibly have flunked that course. Was the material that difficult? No. Granted, it was a Monday, Wednesday, Friday class at eight in the morning. It was a huge auditorium with cushioned seats. The podium on the stage from which Dr. Bailey lectured seemed so far away. The lights were dim and the ventilation system provided a gentle humming lullaby, an environment far too conducive to falling asleep. Was I lazy? Yes. What about Dr. Bailey? He spoke in a slow, unflappable monotone. Were his lectures the most boring I had ever had to endure? Absolutely!
I struggled with what to say next. Should I tell him? Yes, I should. Or—maybe not. In the end, I decided, yes. A voice in the back of my head screamed out, Are you nuts! You can’t tell him the truth! At least—not all of it. I took a deep breath. “Dr. Bailey, you may not believe this, and I’m quite certain you don’t remember me, but I was a student of yours many years ago, sir.”
Mrs. Mitchell turned her head sharply toward me. “Oh, my goodness,” she exclaimed. “Are you sure, Dr. Humphreys? This is incredible.”
Dr. Bailey was shocked as well. “My word. I must confess that I would not have known this fact had you not seen fit to bring it to my attention, sir.” He paused for a bit, looked at his wife, and smiled. “Mary, please remind me as soon as we get home—to check the files.” He turned toward me, his eyes full of confidence and determination.
“Dr. Humphreys, I have kept extensive records on all of my students’ achievements over the years. I simply must go back through my files and find the details of your experience in my classroom.”
Suddenly, I felt cold. Will you ever learn to keep your big mouth shut, I asked myself. “Oh,” I chuckled. “I wouldn’t bother, Dr. Bailey. There really isn’t much to tell.”
“Hogwash, sir. What year was it that I had the good fortune of having you as my student?”
I felt myself sinking—deeper and deeper.
“Uh, let me think. Hm, what would it have been? I guess, uh, maybe it was…gosh, what would it have been? Maybe 1972? Really, Dr. Bailey, I don’t think…”
“By God,” he interrupted. “This will be fun. I have always prided myself on being a better-than-average professor, but I am a much better researcher.”
With a subtle but quick motion of my hand across my face, I wiped the sweat from my upper lip that I had been desperately trying to conceal. I was temporarily speechless. It took me a moment to regain my composure. Then, I reassured Mrs. Mitchell that Amigo was going to be fine and bid her and the Baileys farewell.
I watched them walk to their car and reflected on how little time it had taken for me to dig myself into this hole. It wasn’t like I had robbed a bank. I had held other secrets from the world that might be considered reasons for reprimand, but this particular secret was embarrassing. I could live with Dr. Bailey knowing I flunked his course, but what would Mrs. Mitchell think of me? Now, that was important.
It was bad enough that I had flunked, but worse than that, a week before final exams, I had gone to his office to beg for mercy. I remembered the conversation as if it were yesterday. It had not gone well.
“What can I do for you, young man?” he had asked.
“Dr. Bailey, I’m flunking your class. I show up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I’ve read the books—well, sort of–and I’m still flunking. I was wondering, sir, is there anything I can do for extra credit to raise my grade?”
He looked at me without smiling. “Extra credit? Are you serious? This is not a game show, young man. Why is it that I suspect you are one of those individuals who shows up on Monday morning bearing sunglasses in order to disguise the fact that you are napping during my lecture? Extra credit? No, sir! You will have to rely on the effort which you have put into my class, and perhaps someday, you will grow up.”
Oh well, I thought. There was no way in hell that Dr. Bailey was going to find any record of me or my failure in his massive files. And if by some miracle he did, then I would have to convince him and Mrs. Mitchell of the truth, that I was an immature young man who thought college was supposed to be all fun and that, eventually, I did grow up.
It was six weeks later that Mrs. Mitchell was due back in El Paso for her first follow-up eye exam. Roseann stepped into my office. “Mrs. Mitchell just called. She and the Baileys are on their way here to drop off Amigo. She wanted me to let you know that Dr. Bailey is most anxious to see you again.”
A few minutes later, I heard Mrs. Mitchell’s voice and the unmistakable clickity-clack of Amigo’s toenails trotting across the reception room floor. I had no way out. It was time to face the music. I stood, took a couple of deep breaths, released them slowly, and started a lingering walk from my office to the reception area. As I rounded the corner, I saw Dr. Bailey leaning over the counter that separated him from Roseann’s desk. I stopped and quietly backed up just far enough that he couldn’t see me. In a deliberate, bellowing voice, he announced to Roseann, “Young lady. You may not realize this, but Dr. Humphreys was one of my finest students.”
#
Jim Humphreys graduated from the University of Texas at El Paso with a degree in microbiology. He received his Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degree from Texas A&M University in 1981. Jim was co-owner of College Garden Animal Hospital in Roswell, NM for thirty-three years treating both large and small animals. In 2014 he retired and moved to Las Cruces, NM.
If you’d like to connect with Jim, feel free to email him at: eldocjim@gmail.com. Now that you’ve read a bit of Jim’s story and seen how he was able to share it in such an interesting, humorous way, are you ready to share yours? Don’t wait, you can do this! Pick up your pen or laptop and just begin, right where you’re at. Best, Karen
As we leap into spring here in the U.S. I want to introduce you to my friend Victoria MacGregor from down under in Australia. She’s shared part of a Roman travel adventure with us in the guest post below. Wrong Way in Rome was first published in the Australian newspaper in 2018.
A little about her: Victoria says the Covid-19 lockdown of 2020 put a temporary damper on her travel plans. However, with a strong desire to do something tangible and memorable, she started to write.
Over the course of her working life, Victoria spent time in business administration management and was a small business owner for over 15 years. She’s no stranger to e-newsletter writing and blogging and has recently discovered a love for writing short stories. Her passion for sharing family history inspired her to write a children’s book and she has a novel and a memoir in the works. Victoria says, “I see lots of open doors! We’re never too old to start something new. Shake that grey matter loose and have a bit of fun doing it.”
Wrong Way in Rome – Victoria MacGregor
We plan our own travel. Mapping out the adventures is almost as much fun as the travel itself. We have a spreadsheet. A colossal, ridiculous database of dates, hotels, flights, trains, currency conversion, and budget. Nothing ever gets left to chance. Keeps us honest with time and money.
However, like most travel escapades, there’s got to be something unforeseen and overlooked that creeps into the experience and smacks us around the head.
As it happened to us, two and a half months into a four-month, 14 country, European post-retirement mega journey in 2014.
By the time we arrived at Stazione Tibertina in Rome from Venice, we’d stepped into nine countries. Starting in Turkey, weaving our way through Greece, Croatia, France, The Netherlands, Germany, the Czech Republic, Poland, Austria, and then Italy.
The mercury soared that September, but we managed to take in every inch of this magnificent city on foot in only three days. Ancient masterpieces interwoven with modern chic. It’s Roman magic.
Next stop, picturesque Positano. We reviewed the spreadsheet before bed, train tickets to Solerno at the ready, metro times confirmed, alarm set, ready.
Train departure at approximately 9:15 AM. We arrived confidently with almost an hour to spare. Perfect, time for coffee. We were getting good at this. Problem, our train, #1911, wasn’t listed on the departure board. As the minutes ticked by, other trains scheduled to depart after #1911, were getting displayed. #1911 wasn’t.
The queue at the service desk was growing with other confused travelers hoping for answers. Showing the attendant our tickets, anticipating an apologetic explanation, we received quite an unexpected response. “Sorry, you are at Stazione Tibertina. Your train is at Stazione Termini.”
Two stations? Our dumbfounded looks of complete and utter embarrassment prompted the attendant to continue, “If you hurry, you can get on the metro, Stazione Termini is the next stop. You have 10 minutes.”
We ran, bags thumping behind us, down the stairs, into the train, doors shut. Made it. Well, not quite.
In our panic, we’d leaped into a metro going in the opposite direction. Away from Stazione Termini. Frustration was evident by the steam emanating from our ears.
We got off, switched metro and sprinted to Stazione Termini. Train #1911 had left without us, on time. Our final option, purchase another ticket, departing in an hour… from… you guessed it…Stazione Tibertina. Tears, oh yes, there were tears.
#
I trust you enjoyed Victoria’s story as much as I did. Following are a few ways to connect with her. She does fantastic work with family photos using Ponga as well.: http://www.victoriaspress.com contactvictoriaspress@gmail.com On Instagram @victoriaspress And her delightful children’s book Grace and Tommy’s Frosted Adventure! Click the title to find it on Amazon. I’ve already got my copy! Stay tuned for Victoria’s memoir, when it’s published I’ll let you know.
In the meantime, I bet one of your own travel adventures came to mind as you read Victoria’s story, write about it for your memoir! If you need help deciding how best to tell your story or need editing or an editorial assessment, I’m available to help. Reach out and let’s chat about your project. All the best, Karen
(Photo courtesy Gabriella Clare Marino via Unsplash)
Memoirs and family histories can be shared in many ways. Here’s a poetic version that not only caught my attention during a visit with a fellow writing friend, it made me catch my breath. The way she weaves experiences through and around the story of an object is fascinating. Thank you, Gretchen, for sharing your work with us.
Gretchen Blais is an author and surrealist and mixed media artist. She grew up in Santa Cruz, California – in her own words here’s the start of her artistic path:
My journey as an artist began one rainy Thanksgiving Day 40 plus years ago when my family and I were visiting out of town. My host suggested we all paint since it was too wet to be outside. It was a memorable event for four adults and six young children. I came away with an experience hard to describe. I felt that something was released, never to become invisible again. My pencil began to travel with me wherever I went and the edgy surreal forms began to emerge seemingly on their own. Although I could sit and draw in the middle of chaos, the struggle to claim the title of Artist was a long journey with flashbacks to memories of elementary school when I wanted to be an artist when I grew up. Finally, in my 70’s, I am grown up and an artist.
Gretchen is retired from her career as a licensed psychotherapist and makes her home in southern New Mexico where she writes and continues to create new art. To view more of her work visit: www.gretchenblaisart.weebly.com.
Grandma’s Table by Gretchen Blais
I gaze at you and I hear “I understand nothing of what I see.”
I breathe.
I sit and a new experience Begins to unfold. It’s a shift in my awareness, In my understanding of you, A picture and memories begins to emerge.
I see the seedling from whence you came. I feel the earth receptive to your needs. The rich soil moistened from the dew. Water to nourish and help push your roots down As the sun gently pulls you upward.
Up towards the sky, to reach higher and higher. Your trunk, your branches, the energy flowing. Day following day and year following year. Until one day you reach a pinnacle. A time comes and a transformation is upon you.
The ax, the saw driven into you fibers. I sensed the lumberjack’s movement. The swing of the ax, the saw back and forth, Until you succumbed and fell. On your way down, Rubbing against other trees, you settled with a crash.
I see the ropes, the chains, the wagon dragging you, Moving you to where you could be made into boards. Where legs were carved and pieces merged together To become something new – a table, Grandma’s table.
My eyes see them, the ones who sat and feasted at the table. The ones who laughed and cried for generations. The history of them is there. My grandmother, my grandfather, my father and mother, All my sisters and brothers, myself, my children and grandchildren.
The kitchen I remember, the activities I knew, the gatherings. Games, homework, laughter, discussions, arguments, meals and so many soups Each summer the canning of peaches, and pears, the tomatoes and corn. The strings beans and the jellies and jams To feed us through the winter as we sat at Grandma’s table.
The sap no longer runs through the tree veins. But the generations of those who touched the table, They bring energy and it keeps moving. Grandma’s table keeps adding a rich tapestry To each person’s life, generation after generation.
