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A Zoom Retirement Party for My Sister, Lauri
By Donna Eisel

I grew up as an older kid in a family of nine children. I was 11 years old when Lauri was born, and I doted on her from the time she came home from the hospital. In a large family, older kids help care for younger kids. Our mother often joked, “Lauri thinks you are her mother.”

I enjoyed being Lauri’s older sister, and over the years we grew increasingly close. When I got married, Lauri made the wedding cake. When she got married, I was her maid of honor. I became a teacher, and so did she. We shared support and stories. Over the years we celebrated numerous family milestones and countless Sunday dinners, keeping our families close as our children grew.

We now live in different states, and Lauri would be retiring this year. Under normal circumstances I would go to California and celebrate. However, having a party while social distancing seemed tricky. We are a family of parties, huggers, and kissers. During this time of social distancing, I knew we would forget the spacing rules, especially after a drink or two. So, I suggested a Zoom party, and everyone was on board. Showing Lauri our love, without the richness human touch conveys, could be tricky. But I knew my siblings and I would give it our best effort to make it warm and significant.

We discussed each of us making a sign congratulating and wishing her well to display on the screen when she joined us. We talked about singing a song, but as a group we are unable to successfully carry a tune, even a simple happy birthday song. I’m not sure why, but it never turns out well — people finishing at different times, not staying on key, and even shouting. After all, shouting is common in a large family, as siblings compete to be heard. I worried about everyone talking at once, resulting in Zoom chaos. But I knew I could use the mute button if necessary!

I considered going over Zoom etiquette with everyone, suggesting such things as talking one at a time, letting the person speaking finish before talking, and so on. But I didn’t want to sound like the bossy big sister, and I knew no one would pay attention. Another suggestion included having a meal, and maybe balloons delivered anyway! It was fun to watch the planning unfold.

Several of my sisters didn’t know Zoom and needed instructions, so we made plans for a practice session before the party. We also decided to have a glass of our favorite beverage near our computers for when it was time to toast.

After Party Notes

On the Friday before Saturday’s Zoom party, we had the practice run. I wasn’t sure we were all going to get connected, but my husband Dan accepted the challenge. Step- by- step, he walked three siblings through the process. Several hours and many laughs later, they were on. They practiced again the next morning, before the actual party. Eventually everyone was ready.

The celebration proved to be lively! First, we simply spent time looking at each other — mostly just surprised that that we had succeeded! Then the party began. We blew party horns, held our congratulation posters up to the screens, and toasted Lauri. Then we each told a story about her teaching years. We took turns, and no one talked over or interrupted anyone. I didn’t even need to use the mute button!

I told a story about how while teaching reading to ESL students, a 4th grade transfer student commented on the first day, “You remind me of my favorite teacher at my other school.”

I smiled and asked, “What school?”

She named the school where my sister taught. “What are the chances?” I thought. I had to ask, “What is her name?”

“Mrs. VanDiemen,” she said.

“She is my sister!” I told her. “Do I look like her?”

“No, not so much, but you talk like her, and move your hands like her, and you are nice like her.”

After sharing stories, we talked about the current situation with Covid-19 and how we hoped to get together soon, after a vaccine was available.

Suddenly a notice appeared on our computers, notifying us that we had five minutes left. We agreed to Zoom again in a few weeks and gave each other virtual hugs and kisses. Before signing off, we sang, “Happy Retirement to You!” Yes, it was off key and out of sync, but it was fun, and fun is what we were going for. The Zoom party united us and gave us a way to show our love—for Lauri, and for each other.

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What people are saying about Educated: A Memoir

“Westover has somehow managed not only to capture her unsurpassably exceptional upbringing, but to make her current situation seem not so exceptional at all, and resonant for many others.”  — The New York Times Book Review

“Westover is a keen and honest guide to the difficulties of filial love, and to the enchantment of embracing a life of the mind.” – The New Yorker

“This one-of-a-kind memoir is about the shaping of a mind … In briskly paced prose, [Westover] evokes a childhood that completely defined her.”   — The Atlantic

“An amazing story, and truly inspiring.  The kind of book everyone will enjoy.  It’s even better than you’ve heard.” – Bill Gates

“Tara Westover is living proof that some people are flat-out, boots-always-laced-up indomitable. Her new book, Educated, is a heartbreaking, heartwarming, best-in-years memoir about striding beyond the limitations of birth and environment into a better life … Four stars out of four.” – USA Today

 

 

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Awaiting your entries for the July Challenge!

What do YOU think about the motto, “Progress, Not Perfection”? I might add another motto: “Writing as Fun, Not Work.”

How have YOU overcome writer’s block? Do you find it useful to think of writing as “talking on paper”? Please share with us your process or your results. We’re always happy to hear from you!

 

 

 

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Awaiting your entries for the March Challenge!

Visitors to this website submit their responses to the Monthly Challenge.  Here are the responses so far:

Bonnie King of Edgewood, Washington, wrote the following review of Michelle Obama’s memoir, Becoming:

     I found Michelle Obama’s book Becoming as exceptional as she is. Her life story is a model of determination and perseverance, encouraged by parents whose example of how to live productive, caring lives served as Michelle’s inspiration. Her description of the small apartment where she grew up in South Chicago reminded me of my beginnings in housing that would be considered less than middle class. It didn’t matter because I, too, had loving supportive parents. The comparison stops there. Michelle carved a path that was focused and purposeful, while mine wove through many trial and error back roads.

     I was so taken by Michelle’s book that I will be attending her presentation in Vancouver, B.C., on March 21^st. I’m anxious to hear her in person. Here is a woman who had a successful career and put it on the back burner because she knew Barack was the kind of President the country needed. She also knew she had to protect her daughters as best she could from public scrutiny. By doing so, she became an incredible and perhaps the best First Lady this country has ever known. And now, with her daughters nearly grown, she has another opportunity to continue making a difference in the lives of many. Seeing Michelle Obama in Vancouver, B.C. on March 21^st will be one of the highlights of my life.

 

Debra Valpey of Normandy Park, Washington, wrote the following description of being absorbed in fantasy and play as a child:

It Was All About Horses

       It was always about horses. Horse—that divinely inspired creation of elegance, romance, and power. I was one of those horse-crazed pre-adolescent pitiful lost female souls who knew that living with a horse would make it all well. I would be smarter, happier, and prettier if only I had a horse to love. Freudians make of it what you will, I just knew it was my destiny

      Every story, drawing, or math problem in school eventually became focused around a horse, or a group of horses. I even tried writing a novel about a horse, which I typed on a 1941 portable typewriter in my front yard, but, alas, I ran out of steam. A novel takes a long time to write! So, instead, I watched “National Velvet” over and over. I wanted to be Elizabeth Taylor. I even tried changing my name to Martha so my name would sound more beautiful like Elizabeth. I collected porcelain models of horses, gave them all names, and conducted good night rituals with them before I went to bed.

       Then, one day, I created a horse of my own to ride. I used two-by-fours for the body, and then draped, stuffed, fluffed, and tacked fabric to the boards to resemble horse flesh. And I made a saddle, of sorts. Anticipating some serious racing, I built my horse’s legs with cast-off nylon stockings stuffed with cotton. For “horse power,” I structured a harness for my stud (of course he was a boy!) and even set out a circuit of jumps across my back yard. We were off to the races! There’s even a 16 mm movie of all this somewhere. I can’t tell you where because then I would have to kill you. It was that bad. Imagine the nylon legs flailing this way and that while I crazily raced around my yard!

       Flash forward a few years and I actually bought my own little “bad boy” for which I had saved my quarters and babysitting money. He was the offspring of my pediatrician’s daughters’ horse who lived just a couple of miles away. He cost $50, and that was years of savings back in 1964. His name was Shadowfox and he was glorious — shiny black with a white star on his forehead. I visited him every day to chase mice from his feed bin and haul boiling water from the neighbor’s house to crack his frozen water trough. I never got to ride him because he was just a babe (that’s all I could afford), but I hugged him, leaned my tall scrawny body across his back, and talked to him about everything. Alas, he was not, as expected, the cure for my miserable life, but that chapter will have to wait for another tale. Here is a tease, though: my parents got divorced, my mother wanted to return to Seattle (from Kansas), there was a con man, a local sheriff who took a shine to my “grass-widowed” mother, and a chicken coop.

 

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Awaiting your entries for the current challenge!

Here you are invited to read pieces relating to the Monthly Challenge about kindness.

Here’s a great quote about kindness: “Kindness is like snow. It beautifies everything it covers”   — Kahlil Gibran

A Remarkable Act of Kindness Found in a Published Memoir

Diane Platz with Joan Tornow

One of the most remarkable acts of kindness I’ve come across in a memoir is one that was in the memoir, The Girl with Seven Names: Escape from North Korea by Hyeonseo Lee (Harper Collins, 2016). The author, Ms. Lee, manages to escape North Korea by crossing a river into China and after many years, she  succeeds in getting to South Korea. But, when she attempts to get her mother and brother out of Korea, the three of them endure an arduous, dangerous, and heartbreaking journey with prison detentions along the way. At one point, her brother and mother are in a prison in Laos, and Ms. Lee needs several thousand dollars, essentially in bribes (although called “fines”), to get them out. Her mother and brother have met several other refugees in the prison, and Ms. Lee wants to help all of them. But by now, she is almost penniless. Here’s what happens next:

I walked back to the Coffee House in a trance. I felt as if I was being fleeced of everything I had, and my family held to ransom. I slumped into a chair in the window and tried to think, but every thought came to a dead end. There were no options. I had no idea what to do.

I closed my eyes. I was about to start beseeching aloud the spirits of my ancestors, not caring who heard me, when a very tall figure blocked my light and spoke to me in English. I looked up. Sunlight glinted through sandy hair.

“Are you a traveler?” he said. He had said the word, “traveler.” I vaguely knew it but I hadn’t understood his question. By now I had got to know the waiters at the Coffee House, and called over the one who could speak English and some Mandarin. He translated for us.

“Most people only stay here a day or two,” the tall man was saying. “You’ve been here weeks, like me. Are you on business? I’m just curious.”

This was the first time a white person had ever spoken to me. His eyes were a pale blue and he had a trim, sandy beard that was turning grey. He seemed more shy of me than I was of him. The English threw me. I couldn’t find the words. I gestured for him to join me, and opened an English-Korean translation function on my cellphone.

Slowly, and with many embarrassed laughs and pauses, we communicated. I told him that I was a South Korean volunteer trying to help five North Korea defectors who were now in prison for illegal entry into Laos. The man looked very surprised, and I saw pain in his eyes. I searched for more words and told him that the Laotian government was demanding a huge fine.

“How much?” he asked.

“Each person, $700. American money.”

He scratched his beard and stared into the road for a while. Then he made a gesture that said, Wait here a moment. And another to indicate that he had to make a phone call. He walked to the other end of the café, made a call, and returned after a few minutes. I would never in my life have imagined what happened next. He tapped the words into my cellphone.

In Korea it said, I just made a phone call to a friend in Australia. After talking it over, I’ve decided to help you.

My defenses shot up. Why? Why would a white, fifty-something male all of a sudden care about the problems of some Koreans he’d never met?

. . . I watched him walk across the street to the ATM. He returned holding a thick wad of green bills.

To my astonishment he was putting hundreds of US dollars into my hand. “This is some of the money for the fines. I’ll withdraw the rest tomorrow.”

The man, Dick Stolp, was from Perth, Austraia. He explained that he welcomed this chance to help the North Korean people.

Memoirist Ms. Lee closes this section with the following passage:

Something marvelous happened as I walked outside. All that locked-up beauty I’d seen in this country, and felt I was being denied, suddenly opened. I could smell the scent of jasmine in the trees; the sun and the stately white clouds were celebrating my mood. The whole world had just changed.

This memoir is well-written and tells a harrowing, and ultimately inspiring, story of a woman’s escape from a fascist country. I highly recommend this book!

 

Here’s a piece about love, kindness, and generosity. Although it is not a memoir piece, it was written by a memoir writer in one of my classes, so I decided to include it. It is an inspiring piece for this holiday season!

The Best Present in the World

Bruce Tonks

Long ago, in a land no one remembers, and few had ever heard of when it was, there lived a warm and wonderful people, ruled by a royal family. There was, of course, a king, a queen, and a princess. The royal family was forever frowning at this and that and moving from crisis to catastrophe and back again. As one might expect, the royal family was very rich.

In a distant province, far from the palace pomp, lived a young girl named Vitessa, and she was very, very poor. Even so, her house was always filled with love aplenty. This is what happened on Christmas, the year when both the princess and Vitessa were seven years old.

On the day before the day before Christmas, Vitessa was sitting with her mother in the kitchen wrapping gifts in hand-painted paper bags with braided yarn for ribbons and dried flowers for decoration when she said, “I want to send the princess a present.”

“What will you send?” asked her mother.

“I will send her some vegetables,” answered Vitessa.

“She has truckloads of vegetables, bigger than ours, that grow in great greenhouses all year round, fresh vegetables, newly picked from the vine or pulled from the ground. The ones you send will be used to make Christmas dinner for the royal pigs,” said her mother, her eyes filled with love.

“I will send her pretty stones.”

“She already has priceless jewels and precious metals. Your pretty stones will become part of the bridle path for the royal horses to tromp upon.”

Vitessa thought, “If only the princess were poor, I could think of so many things.” When all the other gifts had been wrapped and her mother had left to do other chores, all that was left of the wrappings was a single dried flower which had fallen to the floor unseen. When Vitessa saw it, she thought it would make a fine gift for the princess. “A flower is not something to be fed to the royal pigs or to be trampled by horses,” she thought.

Behind the shed in the back of the house, she found an old cardboard box with a lid on it. For wrapping, she went to the kitchen and got some discarded newspaper, an old grocery bag too smudged to have been used for the regular presents and, since they had used up all her mother’s braided yarn, some cotton twine. Then she sat down in the yard with all her materials. She carefully placed the dried flower in the box and put on the lid. But she didn’t have a card. All presents are supposed to have a card. Even if she had had a card, she didn’t know how to write. “Well,” she thought, “I’ll just have to make do.” Before she put the string on the box, she lifted the lid and whispered the message into the box she would have written on the card (if she could have written, that is). The message she spoke into the box just before she clapped on the lid was “I love you.” But Vitessa didn’t notice that when she removed the lid to whisper her message into the box, the dried flower she had so carefully placed within had fallen out and was now lying hidden in the tall grass of the yard.

Carefully she wrapped the box with the cotton twine. Not satisfied, she wrapped the box with newspaper and put on another strand of string. Just to make really and truly certain, she folded the old grocery bag around the box and put on one last wrap of string. In all honest, it was sort of bulgy and looked much like a bundle of old paper wrapped around an old, empty box, and not at all like a Christmas present fit for a princess. She carried it to the mailbox for the mailman to pick up the next day, Christmas Eve.

Vitessa’s father, passing the mailbox the following morning, noticed that inside was a very nice-looking package wrapped in red paper with fine green string. Excitedly, he called out, “Vitessa, my little path to the future, there’s a Christmas present in the mailbox for you.”

Vitessa, remembering her gift to the princess, called back, “No, Daddy. That is a present I am sending to the princess.”

Her father saw there was no address on the package, a condition that was sure to irritate the mailman, who was always a grump even on the nicest days. Using an old stub of a pencil, he wrote simply “To the Princess” on the wrapping and placed it back into the mailbox. He tried to think where his daughter could have found that lovely paper and pretty green string. Walking back to the house through the tall grass, he saw a dried flower at his feet. He took it into the house and put it into a dish of water on the kitchen table. The mailman was in his usual state of discontent, aggravated by the extra work he had to do at Christmas, when he arrived a little later that day and found the package in the mailbox. He liked the package because it was so neatly wrapped in bright red paper with a wide green ribbon all around it. The package was addressed:

“To the Princess
The Royal Chambers
The Palace
Capitol City”

The lettering of the address was yellow and beautifully crafted. The mailman couldn’t imagine who in Vitessa’s family could write so beautifully.

“Very appropriate looking gift,” he smiled, and this was quite strange because the mailman rarely smiled, even on the best of days. “I wonder,” he mused, “what a very, very poor little girl would be sending to a princess and where did she ever get such a fancy wrapping paper and ribbon?” Still smiling and wondering, he set off for the depot from where the mail would be sent on to the capitol.
As Vitessa and her family sat down to lunch, her mother said to her father, “Thank you, my love, for bringing us this pretty blossom” Then she added, “But where did you get it? I used up all the flowers as decoration on the Christmas presents.”

“I found it in the high grass in the yard,” her husband replied. He turned to Vitessa and said, “Vitessa, my little messenger of happiness, what did you send the princess for a Christmas present?”
Suddenly Vitessa realized what had happened. If the flower on the table had come from the high grass in the yard, it must be the flower she had meant for the princess. If that were so, the box she had sent the princess was empty.

It was a catastrophe.

Vitessa sprang from the table and fairly flew to the mailbox. She was too late. Down the road in the distance she could see the mailman’s cart disappearing over the next hill. Without so much as a pause, she ran down the road after him, but he was very far ahead. When the mailman got to the depot, he handed his mailbag to the clerk and said jokingly, “There’s a gift for the princess in there.” To the clerk’s surprise, the mailman was laughing, something he had never seen the mailman do before, and certainly not during the Christmas rush.

In the bag, the clerk found a lovely red package with a glittering green ribbon and the neatly lettered address of the princess. “Very nice,” he thought as he put it in the bin for the capitol. Moments later, the mail carriage to the capitol arrived and Vitessa’s gift to the princess was placed aboard. As the driver of the carriage noticed the fine package, which had prettily patterned red gift wrap and a glittering green ribbon with a distinct yellow border, the clerk said “That one is for the princess!” proud that someone from his province was sending such a present to the royal family.
As soon as it was loaded, the carriage for the capitol rumbled out of the depot. The carriage driver passed a little girl running her heart out toward the depot and waved as he passed her.
It was Vitessa, of course, who now arrived at the depot, quite out of breath and exhausted. She struggled to the counter where the clerk and the mailman were working. When she saw the familiar face of the mailman, she felt much better. She embraced him and wept out her sad tale of how he had sent an empty box to the princes.

“There, there,” said the mailman. “It will be all right. The package is so beautiful the princess will never realize the box is empty.”

“Oh, it will never do,” wailed Vitessa. “It is a catastrophe for the princess to receive an empty box at Christmas.”

“The present is beautiful. Believe me,” said the mailman. “the princess will love it.”

“Oh, what shall I do?” pleaded Vitessa.

Just then, the door burst open and Vitessa’s parents ran in. They were so happy to see their daughter safe, they wrapped her in their arms and made her feel far less frightened. Vitessa carefully explained all that had happened.

“We must go to the palace and explain the whole thing to the princess,” said Vitessa’s mother firmly.

“There is another carriage to the capitol in several minutes,” said the mailman. “We will take it and be in the capitol at the main post office before they send out the palace mail.”
At last the second capitol carriage arrived and Vitessa, her mother, her father, the mailman, and the clerk all got on board to go to the capitol to help with the explanation of why the princess was getting an empty box for Christmas. While Vitessa, her mother, her father, the mailman, and the clerk rode anxiously in the second speeding carriage, the package was delivered to the main post office in the capitol. It was now covered with fine satiny paper with a many-colored ribbon that wound round the package in three directions and seemed to have no end. There was a large yellow bow right where a bow ought to be if the package was to be nearly perfect.

“Somebody very, very rich must be sending a special Christmas present to the princess,” said the postmaster general when he saw the package. “We must treat this package very carefully.” He looked about for some appropriate means of paying this marvelous parcel the special attention it deserved when he saw a member of the king’s own special guard standing stiffly nearby, looking suspiciously at everyone. “It is clear that this parcel must not wait for the regular delivery to the palace. Here, guard,” he said. “Take this precious gift directly to the princess in my own private carriage.” Tucking the package under his arm, the gloomy guardsman mounted the postmaster general’s private carriage. However, as the carriage careened toward the palace, the guardsman began to sing, which was very odd, because he was nearly tone deaf and, to be quite honest about it, he sounded just awful, but no one seemed to mind.

Quite soon after the postmaster general’s private carriage set out for the palace, Vitessa, her mother, her father, the mailman, the clerk, and the driver and co-driver of the second capitol coach arrived at the main post office. Histories and explanations were exchanged quickly because, to be quite honest about it, they were all getting a lot of practice at telling the tale. “Hurry,” said the postmaster general, “to the palace.” The entire troop of Vitessa, her mother, her father, the mailman, the clerk, the driver and the co-driver of the carriage, and the postmaster general and staff, who by now had heard of the remarkable present, piled into the carriage that had just arrived and off they went, lickety split, to the palace, deep in the dust of the guardsman who was also going lickety split in a much lighter carriage.

Upon his arrival at the palace, the now grinning guard was bearing a package which seemed to glow from within with a special light. Even the Christmas lights and garlands which festooned the halls and doorways of the palace seemed to dim as the guardsman passed by. When the people he passed in the palace saw the gift, they all smiled and giggled. The very sight of it made everyone who saw it feel very good and warm inside, as if some little door had opened in their heads and a breeze of happiness had blown in. As the guard, still smiling and singing off-key, pranced proudly through the palace carrying the precious package (now on a silver tray) to where the princess was opening her Christmas presents, all the people he passed fell in behind and followed him. Everyone wanted to see what miracle, what priceless wonder was contained within.

Meanwhile, Vitessa, her mother, her father, the mailman, the clerk the driver and co-driver of the carriage, the postmaster general and his staff were barreling through the palace gates just as the melodious guardsman, now trailing the entire palace staff, arrived at the top of the grand staircase leading down into the royal chamber where the princess was opening her presents.
There was a gasp of awe as all within the royal chamber saw for the first time what had now become a perfect, glowing marvel of beauty. People who had been glowering or looking worried, smiled. Those standing alone reached out to touch someone else. Those holding hands held them more firmly and put their arms around one another. Ladies and gentlemen of the court had all begun to smile and the whole room vibrated with a cheerful warmth of spirit.

As the proud guardsman, with all the palace staff behind him, carried his precious cargo down the great staircase into the chamber, the crowded room subsided into silent awe.
The princess, who had just opened a gorgeous box containing a priceless diamond and emerald necklace of surpassing beauty when the guard arrived, looked up when she heard the sudden quiet of the chamber. When she saw the package, she exploded with delight. Dropping the diamond and emerald necklace in her wake, she ran to the grinning guardsman, who bowed to deliver Vitessa’s gift to her. Grasping it, she turned to the king and queen. “May I open this one right away, please?” she begged.

“All right,” said the queen, “but be very careful. The wrapping looks like it is very valuable and the ribbons are the most beautiful I have ever seen.” Just as the princess was preparing to open the gift, Vitessa and her companions arrived out of breath and clattered to a halt at the top of the grand staircase. Their arrival caused no disturbance because all within were looking only at the impressive gift the princess was about to unveil. Vitessa felt relieved that it was not her gift the princess was about to open. As the princess opened the present, she was amazed to find that the ribbons that so tightly bound the package slipped off with ease. When she removed the first wrapping, she thrust it aside because the second, inner wrapping was simply breathtaking. This new inner wrapping was covered with living flowers whose colors seemed to fill the room. The radiant blooms gave off an aroma that awakened beauty in the hearts of all. The exquisite bundle was not encircled and embraced by ribbons as delicate as a fairy necklace, all aglimmer with an inner light. It made the princess gasp with pleasure, and the entire court as well.

So entranced were the princess and the court with the inner package, they all failed to notice that the first wrapping, how lying discarded nearby, looked for all the world like an old grocery bag, wrinkled and smudged, and the glorious bindings and bows had turned into plain cotton twine. Vitessa noticed it, however. The old grocery bag looked very familiar to her. She began to worry a little more but was not sure why. When the princess took off the second wrapping, the flowers and lacy ribbon came off as easily as had the previous paper and bows, and was cast aside. What was inside the second wrapping was like nothing anyone had ever before beheld. It was a box, jeweled with semi-precious stones, lavishly enfolded in what appeared to be waves of silver and gold and secured in two directions by a simple strand of golden yarn.

On every side of the box was a scene of great beauty, painted with all the colors of all precious and beautiful things, surfaces inlaid so cleverly that one could not tell where one thing stopped and another began. Each glorious scene was a world of its own. Here, there was the sea, with fish and beach, ships and blazing sun which lit the faces of those who looked upon it. There, there was a forest, deep and darkly green, with distant sunlight sifting through the high leaves, sprinkling freckles of light on lacy waterfalls and sheltered pools over which dangled luxurious jungle fruits, colored with the hues of life itself. On another side were depicted all the birds of paradise that ever lived or ever would and some that were so magical as to stretch even the most cavernous imagination. When the princess turned the box in her small hands, there were small children, romping with their mothers in a field of grass and wild flowers. So real was the picture, the princess imagined she could hear the children laughing and smell the fresh air of summer as she herself ran with the breeze floating her long hair from her shoulders as she flew across the field.
On the fifth side were depicted young animals, puppies and kittens, baby seals, rabbits, squirrels, fawns, furry bear cubs, small and warm. The looked alive and, as she looked at them, they seemed to look back at her. Among them were strange creatures the princess had never seen but they were all soft and appealing, their eyes aglow with the inner fire of innocence, curiosity, acceptance and trust.

The last side of the enchanted box contained images of the old, and each person who looked at this side of the box recognized parents and grandparents, uncles and aunts. As the side of the box with the animals had been warm and soft to the touch, textured as if the living fur had been used to make the picture, the pictures of the elders on the last side of the box seemed vividly alive, bringing a flood of warmth to the heart. All who gazed upon the picture of the ancestors were enveloped in their own special moment of remembrance. Where before there had been cheer and laughter, now the great chamber fell quiet as each person recalled others who had come and gone before. “Look,” said the princess, “here’s grandpa and grandma.” And she fell silent as had everyone else, immersed for this quiet moment in happy memory. During this solemn time, only Vitessa had noticed that the wrapping of living flowers, whose colors and perfume had so bewitched the court, and the intricate ribbons that had encircled with indescribably beautiful gift, had turned into old newspaper and string. Now Vitessa knew that this was her gift, mysteriously transformed, and she knew that if the box was opened at last, if all the mystery disappeared, the princess would know that there was no gift after all.

After a pause, the princess remembered there was still the box to be opened. There must be a great treasure within such a miraculous box. Slowly she untied the precious binding that held it. As she delicately lifted it from the box, the golden strand became plain cotton cord. For the first time, the people in the room noticed the crude wrappings scattered on the floor around the princess.
“It’s magic!” they exclaimed. “Don’t open the box or it, too, will turn into worthless trash.”

“What shall I do?” the princess asked her royal parents.

“The gift is to you, my little jumble of joy,” said her mother the queen.

The king said, “You are a princess of the realm, my little ray of hope. You must decide what to do.” And she saw he was smiling for the first time in years.

Once again, the chamber fell silent. The princess began to lift the lid. From the top of the stairs, piercing the breathless hush, Vitessa’s voice cried out. “There’s nothing inside!” With a great swish and rustle, everyone turned to see from where the small voice had come. There stood Vitessa, alone with her parents at the top of the stairs, their rumpled clothing and tired faces standing out in all that finery and wealth.

Slowly the princess rose from the floor and walked to where Vitessa stood with her parents. She carried the yet-unopened box with her to Vitessa, who was awash with fear that she had said or done something terribly wrong. “How do you know there is nothing in the box?” asked the princess.

“Because I sent it and it’s only a plain old cardboard box,” replied Vitessa, gathering courage. The princess was, after all, just a seven-year-old girl.

“If this is plain,” asked the princess, “what is fancy?”

“I don’t know what fancy is,” answered Vitessa. “I meant to put a flower in the box, but it fell out,” she explained.

“Didn’t you put anything in it?” asked the princess, truly baffled by the how and the why of the situation.

After a moment of thought, Vitessa said, “I didn’t have a card and I can’t write anyhow, so I whispered the message into the box,” she explained.

“What did you whisper into the box?” asked the princess.

Vitessa motioned for the princess to come near because she didn’t want to get too far from the safety of her mother. Then she leaned forward and whispered into the princess’ ear, “You are more precious than gold,” and withdrew into her mother’s ample skirt. The princess beamed and hugged Vitessa for a long time. When they parted, both she and Vitessa were weeping. The princess was aglow. Carefully, she carried the enchanted box, still unopened, back to the center of the room where all of the wrappings now lay in messy disarray. She reached down and picked up the discarded necklace of diamonds and emeralds and carefully laid it on the top of the box. No sooner had she done this when there was a gasp from the party guests. The priceless necklace (of surpassing beauty) had instantly turned into plain cotton twine and wrapped itself around the magnificent box. The princess wasn’t bothered by this at all. It is not recorded how it affected the giver of the necklace.

She carried the treasured box to a place of prominence, where it was put on a glass table so people could see very side of it. From that Christmas forward, there it sat for all to marvel at, and once a year it went on tour around the kingdom (under the watchful eye of the guardsman, of course). To this day, there it would be, but for the fact the kingdom no longer is, to be quite honest about it. Some say the box is like a heart, filled with love, and the girdle of cotton twine is hope, which, so to speak, keeps the lid on us all. Some say the box is a lesson to us all, telling us what is valuable in the world and what is merely worthless trash.

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Here you are invited to read brief pieces relating to the Monthly Challenge about “Back to School Memories.”

Something of My Own
By Mieke Tazelaar

I loved my pencil box. It wasn’t the classical shape, but square, not as long, but large enough to place my pencils diagonally. It also contained a green eraser that never got hard and dry. I kept a couple of keys in my box. They didn’t unlock anything – well, one was for the box, but I couldn’t lock it and keep the key inside now, could I? I had several round pieces of bubble gum from the penny vending machine. I saved those for a chance to do some long, serious chewing and bubble-blowing. The box contained a miniature plastic camel from that same machine. I kept a Crayola box with eight crayons and a tiny spiral notebook. Several items from Cracker Jack boxes found their way into my special box.

My square treasure went back and forth to school with me. It resided in my school desk and on the nightstand next to my bed.

In junior high, we had no individual desks, since we migrated from room to room throughout the day, but getting a locker was magical, and frustrating. I bought my own lock and practiced at home, but when I first fastened it to my locker, I panicked and couldn’t remember the combination or the process. To the rescue came Basil Halkedes, who could open any lock, even if he did not know the combination. He had at least six locks strung together and made a game out of unlatching each one before he opened his locker and getting to his next class on time. This skill got him in trouble, because a half dozen students reported missing locks. He was clever, but not clever enough to hide the evidence.

I decorated the inside of my locker with pictures of friends and a rock star or two. I didn’t particularly like rock music, but this was a peer thing – keeping up appearances. Since I was not naturally tidy, I had to clean my locker from time to time when I couldn’t slam it closed anymore. I tossed out papers, took home extra sweaters, books, and shoes, and wiped it down with damp paper towels. Then, I would feel good about my locker again.

At home I had my own room, since I did not have a sister. My parents left it alone, until it became too bad. Then, I would find the things I had left on the floor, in the alley, next to my open window. I would go on a cleaning frenzy and put things back in place. I realize now how fortunate I was to have had the luxury of my own space, and a mostly wise and patient mother.
And no one at home ever opened my pencil box. It was my sacred domain that my parents and brothers honored. How lucky I was!

 Finding Comfort Amid the Confusion of First Grade
(Name withheld)

I was a shy and often bewildered child in elementary school. Surrounded by a swarm of activity and sound, there was one very strong comfort: My desk. My desk was my haven, my port in the storm. At our school, we had freestanding desks with lids that opened on hinges. I think part of the appeal of my desk was that when I opened the lid, I could block out the confusion around me and hide behind the lid. Not only that, I could order my little nest of supplies – my crayons, my pencils, my erasers, my pencil sharpener, my protractor, compass, and ruler. And, all my little treasures … “cootie catchers” I had made out of folded paper, four leaf clovers I had found and pressed, pretty rocks, and even a few prizes from cracker jacks. This little area was my domain and, unlike the rest of the world, I had control over it. It was predictable and comfortable. My desk was probably what I liked best about school.

And then there was the elegance and beauty of tools. I remember a pencil given to me by a friend who had visited Japan. It was swathed in patterned paper and had a little red tassel fastened right below the eraser. What magic. Retractable ballpoint pens were a marvel. And erasers were a delight. The act of erasing was so rewarding. Now you see it, now you don’t! And with a sweep of the hand, all the eraser debris could be swept away. Art gum erasers were my favorite, but I also loved the functional orange erasers, and the malleable white artist erasers.

Compasses enabled me to make perfect sweeping circles on my paper, overlapping them and coloring them with different colored crayons. What a perfect tool! When it came time to write, I would open the lid to my desk and take out my pencil. Not a pencil, but my pencil. I have heard writers say that the pen or pencil they use often feels like an extension of their own body. I suppose I’ve always had a bit of that feeling when I hold a pen or pencil. I’m not obsessive about my writing tools, but I definitely have my preferences, and they are like trusted friends. This all began in first grade!

Sharing a Desk in a Small Town School
By Rob Greeves

I started school in a very small town called Inkom, Idaho. The classes from first grade through senior high were in one building. My first grade class was in a small room where both first and second grades were held. We sat on benches that seated two students, so we shared a desk that had a shelf under the table for our pencils and paper. Books were handed out each day and collected at the end of class. Two students per book!

We had only one teacher and she taught both grades. We first graders read whenever the teacher was working with the second graders. Even in the third and fourth grade room the same situation existed for students. All this sharing wasn’t too bad if another boy was assigned to sit with you, but having to share your desk with a girl wasn’t any fun at all! That is just the way a guy felt when he was only six years old.

* * *
Note from Joan: The piece below, by Debra, is a great example of how a piece can begin with a topic like “school supplies” and lead the writer into other areas of memory. In this case, the writer began by talking about pencils and ended by talking about issues around self-concept and friendship. Writing can do this, which is one reason I encourage everyone to write! It is a voyage of reflection and discovery!

School Memories from l962

By Debra S. Valpey (September, 2013)

Freshly sharpened yellow pencils with virginal erasers (years later I read a romance novel in which pencil erasers reminded a “wounded wife” of her husband’s mistress’s “charm tips.” Maybe the author came up with that one in middle school. Hah!) Sharp-cornered 3-ring binders that open and close just right. Two ball point pens, one blue and one black. That year I secreted an extraordinary pen from my summer travels to the World’s Fair in Seattle. It was a space needle pen and I loved it. The “elevator” flowed up, then slid back down as I tilted the pen to and fro.

Packets of shrink wrapped wide-ruled notebook paper to be allocated, equitably of course, into five color codes dividers: pink for English because I like pink and I like English class, blue for geography because earth is a blue planet, orange for history because orange is a dumb color and history is a dumb class (side note: I eventually became a history teacher…go figure), yellow for math because I am a (yellow) coward in math class, and purple for science because purple is a color that comes from magically combining two other colors and science was magic (another reason I never understand science). All set now!

Unzip my pencil bag to reveal a fresh pink trapezoidal eraser with its name easily visible. I do not know why the eraser had a name. Then admire my protractor (even though it is for MATH class) and one of those nifty things that holds a pencil to make a perfect circle for (yucky) math class. At least I can use those for my elective art class, second semester, for making cool colored designs for when I become a famous fashion designer. A wooden ruler with that foreign mysterious way of measuring along one side. Metrix they call it, I think. It is very European. And a small packet of Elmer’s Glue which I had no practical use for, but glue sticks had not yet been invented. So….sigh….we use what we have.

I wore tight undershirts to squash (and hopefully hide) my kiwi sized breasts that I perceived to be the size of cantaloupes. (Side note: they are still the size of kiwis…oh, well.) Fresh, still pure white ankle socks and new shoes with cross straps and nice flat heels. I tended to wear out the outer edge first so, at least for awhile, my feet didn’t look funny from behind as I slunk down the halls. And a couple of new dresses that made me look like a 15 year old trying to pass for 12. I was so tall that my clothes needed to be purchased in the big girl department. (Side note: I am till the same height, even losing a bit each year. Sigh…)

I liked school enough. I had a couple of friends at a time. I was convinced that my acne (acquired years before my classmates due to my hormonal growth spurts) was the cause of my relative unpopularity. But I so wished to fast forward a few years in order to know for sure that I WOULD stop growing, and I WOULD start looking more like my classmates. By eighth grade, it all began to turn around. My friends got pimples, my height leveled out, and I got another friend or two. I still didn’t like math, though.

Following is a brief excerpt from My Beloved World, the autobiography of Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor: (She did not submit this!  I’m just quoting from her book. Hope I don’t end up in court!)

“The best I could say about third grade was that it was a more or less continuous state of dread. As hard as I tried to keep a low profile, trouble seemed to find me. At Christmas, for instance, all the students brought presents for their teachers.  That year my father had chosen my present for Sister Elizabeth. He’d never once come to school, had never even met her, but he chose the present, which he proudly handed to me in a long box, already gift wrapped by him. He wouldn’t even tell me what it was.

Sister Elizabeth opened her presents in front of the class; there was soap, candy, a zippered prayer book, a box of stationery, and then there was Papi’s present. Inside the box was a ruler. And not an ordinary wooden or plastic ruler, but a ruler made of some indestructible metal alloy no doubt invented to build rocket ships or bank safes — the Ruler of the Future, likely fabricated at the factory where Papi worked.

The sign of it was like a punch in the stomach, and actual ones came my way at recess, as I had predicted from the daggers of hatred being shot from every pair of eyes in the class. Pleading ignorance won me no mercy, and I cried all the way home. Fortunately, the hatred eventually died down, because the ruler was never to reappear, either for measurement or for punishment. Sister Elizabeth had her merciful side, too.” (Sotomayor, Sonia, My Beloved World, Vintage Books, 2013, p. 37-38

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On this page, you can read essays that people sent in that related to the August Challenge.

 

 

 

 

 

Suspenders in a Photograph:

A student in one of my classes brought in a photograph of her and her brother from when they were very young and living in the Netherlands. The family lived in an apartment building, on the second floor. In this photo, the student’s little brother is wearing trousers with suspenders. Looking at this photo, the student remembered that her mother used to fasten a rope to these suspenders and lower her brother to the yard from the second-floor window. This way the young boy wouldn’t have to navigate the dark and frightening hallways and stairway going down to the front door. The mother would sit by the window and watch the young boy. She didn’t attempt to bring him back up in this method. Rather, he would shout when he was ready to come back upstairs and she would meet him at the top of the stairway in the hall. Hey, this worked well for all involved! Everyone in the class got a chuckle out of this. And, they could see how a photo could elicit memories not thought of in years!

Judi Carr brought the photo below to our current Memoir Writing Class in Everett, Washington. She explained that her family ran a flower shop, including flower delivery. She has many memories of riding along in this special van. “I was sitting between the seats, during a delivery, when we all heard that Franklin Roosevelt had died,” she said. This is a perfect example of how a photograph can carry within it so many memories, both personal and historical. Judi is the beautiful young girl standing next to her father. Her brother is on the other side of the huge wreath.

The photo below is from Zin Matheny. This photo was taken of Zin when she was in her 20s and mastering the art of flying! She describes her terror at a “six bounce” landing and her pleasure at achieving what her instructor considered success: A THREE bounce landing. The fearless Zin, now in one of my memoir classes, has taken on many challenges in her life, including medical duty in Vietnam during the war. As she looks at this photo of the barefoot girl she used to be, she ponders from where came this confidence and courage, even in the face of fear.

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Awaiting your entries for the August Challenge!

Summer memories can be of a single day, or they can be a composite of memories that took place over months or years.  Below are some essays about summer memories that have been submitted by visitors to this website.  After reading these essays, we hope you will write some of your own and submit them to the website.  You can do that by clicking on the picture below of the dog in the mailbox!

 

 

A Welcome Summer Chore
Michael Yanega

I know, ‘welcome’ and ‘chore’ shouldn’t be in the same sentence, but for me cleaning our backyard pool in the summer was something I had fun doing. We had an above-ground pool that was 12’ in diameter and about 3’ deep. It had a wire mesh wall with widely spaced horizontal ribs at the top and closely spaced ones at the bottom to take the added stress of the weight of the water. We had cleared a circular area for the pool by tearing up the lawn, removing the rocks, and packing the dirt. (The first time we put up the pool we failed to realize what would happen to the lawn underneath and had a bunch of smelly, rotted grass when we took up the pool to clean it.)

Which brings me to my job. As the oldest kid in the family, and in those years the only boy, it was my job to clean the pool. You see, after a few weeks of New York Summer weather, the water began to cloud up with algae, and the bottom and sides of the pool became slimy with it. The first step was to drain the water by gradually pushing down the vinyl plastic walls of the pool and flooding various parts of the backyard with the tidal waves I released. Then, when the water was low enough, I removed the wire walls, and hauled the pool with one end over my shoulder to spill out the remaining water. The back yard felt like a swamp for a while after this draining process, but in summer it either soaked into the ground, or evaporated, so that it was gone in a few hours.

The next step was to scrub the algae from the inside of the pool, and my father taught me a clever way to do it. We put the pool on the walls inside-out, and then scrubbed it with Clorox bleach mixed with a soap solution. I crawled and slipped around the inside with a big sponge scrubbing the bottom, while my dad used a sponge-mop to scrub the sides, which were now on the outside of the walls. Then we used a push broom with its head underneath the center of the pool as a center pole to form a sort of round tent. I crawled around inside this with a hose and blasted off all the grass and dirt that was on the bottom of the pool. We would leave the pool in this configuration to dry, and then set it up and fill it again.

Eventually I did this entire job by myself, and one day a summer thunderstorm came up and the wind began gusting prior to the wall of rain hitting. I was inside the pool-tent, suffused with the yellow light of the plastic bottom that had become my roof. This rattled and swayed in the gusts, and I had to grab the broom to keep the whole thing from collapsing on me. The rain starting falling in huge drops that beat a solid, deafening rhythm on the plastic above my head, and soon there was thunder to add to this din. I loved it! Thunderstorms were one of my favorite parts of summer, and here I was in this vinyl-walled echo chamber, staying completely out of the storm, but immersed in it at the same time. I sat in the amber glow and reveled in the fury of the storm, watching the water sluicing off the roof all around me, until it had passed.

Experiencing that storm in that setting was a highlight among my summer memories.

Summer Afternoon
Lillian Claunch

Sleepy, lazy day.  Golden warmth over barren skin, unshod toes wriggling with delicious freedom.
Buzzing flies against the screen.  Icy, tingling lemonade bathes my tongue, cooling my being.
Ah, my brothers hollering in the yard.  Squirting streams and splashes from the hose.
Doggy skittering away, boys laughing with mischievous delight.
Run, run. Squishy toes in sodden earth making mud cakes for throwing.
“Come on out, Sis, we’ve got something for you!”

Crazy, Not Stupid
Bonnie King

Note: The essay below is by author Bonnie King (The Road to LaReta, 2017) who began her summer this year (2018) by driving from Seattle to the small North Dakota town where her grandmother once ran a hotel and where her father grew up.  Summer in North Dakota may not be everyone’s cup of tea.  But Bonnie found it echoed with stories she had heard from her father and grandmother over the years.  And, she had recently completed a novel based on family history in the area.  The old hotel her grandmother ran is still there in this small town!  Bonnie found it all so inspiring, that she is now exploring purchasing a building on the town’s main street and turning it into a wedding destination.  She’s spending THIS summer exploring this ambitious idea!  A homecoming of sorts that spans generations!

“I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid,” I responded when questioned about my recent entrepreneurial idea.

The questioner chuckled. “There IS a fine line you know.”

To make sure of my response, should I choose to use it in the future, I looked up the words “crazy” and “stupid.” Crazy has two meanings: mentally deranged and extremely enthusiastic. I’m crazy about the second definition!

Stupid, on the other hand, (“Goes to the bone,” as Scott would say. Or was that “ugly?” Forget that for now and carry on with me) has one meaning: lacking intelligence or common sense. Aren’t those two meanings? Either you lack intelligence, or you lack common sense.

I’ll never claim at my age that I lack intelligence. After all, I’ve had 70 plus years to acquire and apply knowledge. The definition of intelligence doesn’t say anything about how one applies knowledge. Perhaps that’s where common sense comes in. Okay, I’m getting better at that too, although some may argue otherwise.

“So, what sparked the conversation in the first place?” you ask. Maybe you didn’t ask, but I’ll tell you because I’m “extremely enthusiastic.”

This summer, Almont, North Dakota, grabbed me by the spirit and won’t let go. It’s where grandma Dena ran a hotel in the 1920s. It’s where grandpa Jim owned and operated a pool hall full of intrigue and dastardly deeds and where my father got into all kinds of trouble as a kid. My book, The Road To LaReta tells the story, available at Amazon Books in print and as an eBook. (This ad approved by Bonnie King).

Since returning—and there were 1500 miles on the way back to envision the possibilities—I’ve decided to rent a new built home from my daughter and son-in-law that will be ready in early 2019, sell my home after thirty years, and use the proceeds to invest and renovate a truly ugly, abandoned two-story bar (brown front) on Main Street in Almont, population 123.

“What are you going to do with it?” you ask.  Of course, you want to know. I do too!

How about creating a destination wedding and event center? It’s within an hour of Bismarck and the market area has about a hundred thousand people or more. Surely, someone wants to get married in a rustic setting! (I know; I use exclamation marks way too much, but that’s because I’m extremely enthusiastic!)

“And will you live there year-round?” you ask.

“Are you crazy,” I respond, meaning mentally deranged. “It’s 40 below in the winter and the wind blows up to speeds I can’t comprehend. Yes, it does get hot in the summer too, but that’s wedding season, so…  Part of the renovation must include air conditioning. The plan is to be there for about six months a year: spring, summer and early fall.” (Oh boy, now I’m in trouble with my friends and family in North Dakota. They’re not crazy for living there year-round; they’re acclimated!)

There are many hurtles to vault and questions to be answered concerning the event center, but I am taking another road trip to Almont, North Dakota the end of July to meet with the owner and discuss possibilities. All of this may come to naught, but when you’re crazy like I am (pick your definition), you have to follow the dream. Don’t you think?

A Fine Summer Afternoon in Liechtenstein
Mieke Tazelaar

I taught for the Army in Frankfurt Germany from 1962 to 1964, and during the summers, I traveled with friends. One summer,we chose to travel to Liechtenstein on a four-day tour. We were charmed by this tiny country, tucked between Switzerland and Austria. We found a spot where, we told, it was possible to see five nations at the same time. The point was a high meadowland, and the view, spectacular.

After a few minutes, my friends were ready to move on to Vaduz, the capital, to view the famous Castle, but I was so drawn to the view and the peace around me that I wanted to stay. So we struck a compromise. They would drive to Vaduz and pick me up in a few hours.

I was alone, in this stunning scenery, with nary a soul in sight. The reading board, fastened to a post, gave me all the information I needed. I was in the south part of the country. If I looked to my left, I viewed Austria. To the right, was Switzerland. Both countries were evident because of their mountainous terrain.
But if I stared far enough in the distance beyond a sliver of Switzerland, I could see Germany. I had to take this on faith. Straight ahead, beyond a corner of Austria, lay Italy. So I was told on the board.

I stood in the center of a five-country panorama, in bright sunlight, listening to birds and other wildlife that scurried about. This was my domain, solely mine. I was empress and ruler over what I could scan with my eyes. The colors of the wildflowers the trees, the Alpine terrain, blue sky and white clouds, overwhelmed me to tears. I sat down and let the sun bathe my face. What a lovely empire had been entrusted to me. Fat bees buzzed and flitted between flowering grasses, and at my feet, a vivid blue dragonfly, seemed to look up at me. My subjects! Or was I theirs?
I felt sleepy and I lay down in the grass, surrounded by the fragrance of nearby flora, which I could not identify and did not need to. I plucked a sprig of flowering grass and crunched it between my teeth, where it left a fresh, nut-like taste. The riches my friends were viewing at the Castle must be impressive and wonderful, I mused, but for me, I felt enfolded in the beauty of my pristine surroundings.

I looked down and saw the dragonfly lift its wings and catch sunlight on its luminous body. It hummed past my face and I closed my eyes. I slept.

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