Heirlooms and Hand-me-Downs

What I love about old things is that they each have memories attached and stories to tell. 

I composed a list of heirlooms and hand-me-downs in our home, using the alphabet for structure. I could spend weeks telling their lessons and stories. 

~~~

Apron from Grandmother's kitchen

Blocks Mom painted to resemble two story houses

Chiming Grandfather clock, set to Westminster

Dolls with eyes that open and close

Earthenware crocks

Fossils of creatures from Noah's flood

Grandma's 1940's piano music

Hand made pots and pitchers

Images of people's younger selves

Judge's gavel

Keys from locks long forgotten

Lamps with silken shades

Mirrors missing silvering

Neville family crest, nothing vile

Old classic books and movies

Paintings of landscapes and portraits of 1800's women

Quilt squares in my sewing drawer, never finished 

Robin's-egg-blue felt blankets

Shells collected on the beach in the 1960's

Tarnished silver candlesticks

Unbroken wedding vows

Violins, one made in 1898, a Guarneri fake

WW2 medals 

XXO's on sweet notes from sweet hearts

Yellow velvet slipper chairs

Zipper feet from the old Singer sewing machine

Memoir Notes:

Of course THINGS are not what is important about memories. Things are merely tools for our lives. 

In the end, things are wood, hay and stubble.

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list
Matters Beyond Matter
The Color of Remorse
Dear Front Porch
Withdrawals from the Memory Bank
One Night at the Round Table
In the Midst of Scent
Focus, Focus, Focus
Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary
What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs

Use a Pencil

Back in the 1990's when I was homeschooling our 4 children I remember learning a technique for teaching the basic elements of a story, called the Seven Sentence Story. Today, having the w.w.w. at my fingertips, I searched for the S.S.S. and found a couple of templates. 

I found this one created by a motivational speaker:

1. Opening (who, when, where)
2. Context  ( important background info.)
3. Conflict  ( x vs.y)
4. Proposed Resolution  (attempts to end the conflict?)
5. Cliffhanger  (What was at risk?)
6. Actual Resolution  (How did it end?)
7. Most Important Point

(Source: Tell your stories in seven sentences or less)

And this one by a screenwriter:

1. Once upon a time
2. And every day
3. Until one day
4. And because of this
5. And because of this also
6. Until finally
7. And ever since that day.

(Source: (Build Stronger Stories with Seven Sentences) 

During my search, I also found this summary of writing tips compiled from the letters of  Ernest Hemingway:

1. To get started, write one true sentence.
2. Always stop for the day while you still know what will happen next.
3. Never think about the story when you’re not working.
4. When it’s time to work again, always start by reading what you've written so far.
5. Don’t describe an emotion–make it.
6. Use a pencil.
7. Be Brief.
Source: (Seven Tips from Ernest Hemingway:)

Memoir Notes: You might not want to read what came out when I attempted this exercise. It isn't a story, really. However, these tips and constraints provided a structure for my thoughts that made writing much simpler. 



My ( Seven Sentence, sort of) Story:
In 1991 we removed our children from the public school system in order to be able to give them the opportunity to grow without many of the influences of our culture. 


It wasn't that we thought the school was not doing a good job; it was because by attempting to promote the acceptance of all values, public schools no longer supported basic biblical beliefs and traditional values. 


As we ventured into new territory, I feared our decision to homeschool might harm our children's chances for success in our culture, and one of our children dreaded the prospect of being home all day with family instead of friends.

These fears vanished in a few weeks of homeschooling as we united as a family, establishing a comfortable routine that would remain for many years, including starting each day with family Bible study, chores, animal care, reading quality books aloud -- all accomplished by the end of breakfast.

A friend once reminded me that the fruit is the telling of the health of a tree.  

Twenty-three years later we see our homeschooling years as so much more than a solid foundation for our children, or a separation from our culture's flimsy values; our homeschooling years were a tree of life that produced enchanting and priceless fruit.



31 Days Exploring Memoir_list
Matters Beyond Matter
The Color of Remorse
Dear Front Porch
Withdrawals from the Memory Bank
One Night at the Round Table
In the Midst of Scent
Focus, Focus, Focus
Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary
What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box Write A Memory In Six Words Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil

Don't Touch the Flowers

I was five or six years old and I had just come home from school and was heading to my room to change into play clothes. On my way upstairs, Mom warned, "Don't touch the flowers on the bathroom wall."

This instruction was clear, even to a six-year-old. What wasn't clear was why not to touch the flowers. Sure, I could have simply obeyed the instruction; the reason why could have been because Mom said so. The flowers, however, were big and beautiful. They were formed from thickly textured oil paint in mauve, pink, red, brown, green, and yellow. And they were just above my line of vision.

Why not touch one? I wanted to find out.

I touched one.

Oh! Don't touch because the paint is not dry and it will come off onto your fingers.

Just grab the hand towel and wipe it off.

Oh! Now there is paint on the towel!

Just toss it down the laundry chute.

.........UH oh, MOM does the laundry.

At this point, I needed to come clean and tell Mom.

Memoir Notes: 
In order to grow and progress as individuals, it is essential that we are able and willing to learn. We learn to eat, crawl, walk, read, ride a bicycle, sing a song, write  and obey -- all through the process of trial and error, supported by memory.

Our basic needs, instincts and desire for exploration and self preservation provide the impulse for trial. We venture forth to see if our idea will work.

Making a mistake or failing to succeed signals an error, causing the healthy individual to try again, but to do it in a different way in order to achieve success.

This is how a healthy person learns, grows, and matures.

Memory is the part of our brain that helps us learn from our successes and our mistakes. Yet,without the ability to store information that can be retrieved to repeat a task, we are not able to function beyond instinct.

Aside from the compromised brain, whether through birth defect or some kind of illness or injury, there are times when a person will block a memory, thus preventing growth in that area. Children who have been exposed to trauma, for example, will often self-protect by repressing the memory. This is different than merely forgetting; it is the ability to close the memory in a box and store it in an undisclosed --irretrievable -- location. A child who does this will become "stuck" in the emotional state they were in when the trauma was experienced, thus preventing emotional development, the lack of a memory blocking growth.

Sometimes, memory is so painful that the brain does a rewrite, creating a false story or even an entirely different personality.

Other times, the individual wants to avoid the consequences of his action and he will deny that he remembers an error. The memory is overwritten with a lie.

Whatever the cause, the inability or unwillingness to learn from our mistakes has devastating effects on our future.

Remembering well is crucial to living well.

Recognizing and admitting error is the foundation of life.

I was blessed with a mother who understood the limitations of my age. She forgave me. She repaired the flower and washed the towel. I learned the lesson of cause and effect that day and I never forgot.

Not surprisingly,the willingness to admit personal error is also the first step toward a relationship with God.

We are all blessed with a heavenly Father who knows the limitations of our humanity. We sin -- all of us. Sin is error. When we admit our error, He forgives us. His precious Son washes away the stain left by our error and he gives us a new life.

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?

Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil

Write A Memory In Six Words

1. Don't touch the paint. I did.                                        (Is it cheating to use contractions?)
2. Mom said all Jimmys were bad.
3. Dad left. I didn't miss him.
4. Grandmother heard music and played it.
5. Grandfather's toothpick was an everpresent fixture.(Am I cheating with compound words?)
6. Cookie jars make noise when opening.
7. Friends stay when the pool's closed.
8. I married Jim. He's not bad.
9. Four girls later, we are blessed.
10. Home is the place to be.

Okay I'm done.You try now. 

Memoir Notes:  I did some research on memoirs and found many references - and a few books - about 6 word memoirs. This fun exercise forces word choice.  

This post was inspired by this link: The Kelly Writer's House_ Six Word Memoirs

Not Quite What I Was Planning : Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?

Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil

Through the Old Milk Box

The inner conflict before the story...

Here are some thoughts I had as I began today's lesson:"I don't want to make a list of conflicts, as instructed in lesson 4 of the memoir course I'm taking. Maybe it is closer to the truth to say that I don't want to write about conflict."

"Maybe I don't want to write about conflict because is is unpleasant to think about."

"Or perhaps it is that I don't want to be reliving conflicts that are already done and settled."

"Instead, I'm going to write about the milk box."

The story:
In my neighborhood, back in the 1950's, houses had a little square door in the wall near the family's side entry door, called a milk box. One door opened from the outside and another door right behind it opened from the inside. In between these doors there was a shelf the thickness of the wall. It was intended for milk delivery.

Our milk box was painted milk white. It was rarely used.

In those days milk was delivered by truck to homes in reusable glass bottles that were carried by the delivery man in square metal baskets with dividers for the bottles. People could leave their empty bottles in the milk box and fresh milk with cream floating on top would be left in their place.

The reason our milk box was rarely used was because our milk delivery man was such a nice guy. He would stride up the driveway, holding his basket in one arm, slightly leaning with its weight. He'd open the storm door at our side entrance and walk right into our kitchen, a huge toothy smile on his craggy, stubbly face.

If it was winter, he'd stomp his feet on the rug in the hall. In summer, the sleeves on his steel grey uniform would be rolled up, revealing his strong, hairy forearms. I remember watching him load the quart-sized bottles full of milk into our fridge, talking the whole time about some happy thing or other. He knew my name and he was one of the rare adults I was allowed to address by his first name, "Bob the Milkman."

Side note:
(You see, this is why it is so hard for me to make a list of conflicts. Life back then was sweet. We trusted people. We played in the streets.We knew our neighbors. Delivery people were our friends.)

Okay, now that I think of it, there was a conflict surrounding the milk box. 

The story within the story:
Vanessa McKee was a special playmate who lived across the street. She was funny and inventive. I called her Van. Van's mother had a kitchen cupboard FILLED with candy. Though it was fifty years ago, I can still see Mrs. McKee's stash. There were boxes of chocolate bars and bags of Tootsie Pops, Hershey's Kisses, hard candy, and Bit O' Honey.

The Tootsie Pops were my favorite because they lasted so long and at the end of the sucker, you got a second experience of sticky, chocolaty splendor as you chewed the middle. Even that would last awhile because it would usually stick to your molars.

The candy cupboard was my favorite thing about Van's house.

I often pleaded with Van to ask her mom if we could have some candy and she would almost always refuse. Candy wasn't special for her, it was available to her every day but never wanted.

One summer day, Van and I were playing at my house with our plastic Johnny West dolls and plastic horses, saddles and bridles and there was something that we needed from her bedroom. (I was dreaming about a cherry Tootsie Pop.) Though her parents were out of town, it occurred to me how to get into her locked house.

I convinced Van that all we would have to do was climb through her milk box.

She went for it, and we ran happily across the street.

We stood in front of the chocolate brown milk box, pondering. The little door was much too small for Van to climb through, but I was three years younger and several sizes smaller. I remember feeling the pressure of the shelf on my ribs as I wiggled though the door, falling into a pantry closet.

The plan was for me to unlock the side door so we could retrieve the toys. Once I was in, I made my pitch, "Let's get some candy."

This time she said okay. We were in front of the candy cupboard...my dream had come true. She opened a little box of what looked like Hershey's Kisses and gave me one. Popping it in my mouth, I tasted something awful. It was not sweet. It was not good. It was dog candy!  She had taken advantage of the fact that I could not read!

All was not lost, however. Vanessa had a good heart (like a real chocolate center) and soon we were leaving with our loot -- two Tootsie pops each.

Memoir Notes:
I can't wait to start interviewing Mom. She'll be able to tell me so many important details, like where were the dairies? When did they start pasteurizing our milk? How much did this service cost?  In fact, I DID call mom tonight. She was delighted to remember Bob the Milkman. And she told me how it was that he went from being a delivery man to a trusted friend.  Bob showed up at our door one day to warn Mom that he'd almost run over my brother and his friend in the street. From that day forward, Bob stopped leaving milk in the box and started coming inside. In fact, when we were not home, Mom said," Bob would open the garage door and let himself in. He'd see what we needed and would leave those things. I was always happy with what he left for us," Mom said. "He was a happy man and never had a gripe."

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?

Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory in Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs

What Is Your Premise?

"What is the premise of your story?" asked the old professor. He was not particularly gentle in his tone and I was already frustrated about the assignment.

I glared at him.

"If I knew the answer, you wouldn't have to ask, would you?" I knew my reply was snippy so I modified a bit. "How do I find a premise?" I said. "I mean, what should it be?"

"That is for you to discover. You are the one writing this piece," he said.  "Look, if you can't state a premise, make one up, better yet, make ten up and pick one - just do it."

"Okay, how about this? A middle aged woman takes a course in memoir writing to write her mother's stories and finds, and finds ...and finds... I don't know what I'll find. How can I make that up?"

"Who is your story about?" he inquired, not waiting for my reply. 

"What is his or her motivation or desire?''

I started writing these questions in my spiral notebook. 

"What is stopping your protagonist from accomplishing her goal? 

"What does she learn?"

"Answer these questions and you'll have your premise." This statement definitely sounded like an invitation to exit his office. 

So I did.

 ~~~~~

Who is my story about? 

 Me / My Mom (two stories)

What is my motivation or desire? 

To write about my mother's life

 What is stopping you from your goal? Talent, knowledge of how to go about it. Distance from where my mother lives.

What does she learn? 

How to collect and write the stories from the previous generation in order to pass on the lessons of the past.

Premise: When Becky attempts to write about her mother's life, she struggles with a way to approach and structure the story. She ends up writing a story about how she went about it.

 ~~~

Memoir Notes: The anatomy of a premise:
"[When] some event sparks a character to action, that [character acts] with deliberate purpose [until] that action is opposed by an external force, [leading to] some conclusion." 

Source: How to structure a premise for stronger stories

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs

Uniqueness in the Language That Is Ordinary

"Your life is unique." This is one line from lesson 3 in the course on memoir writing that I'm currently working through. It seems at first like a no-brainer statement. But the more you think about it, the more you realize the depth of that truth. 

In my "unique" life, October 8th was all mixed up with tasks, blessings, communications, worries, observations and a few opportunities to help other people with their unique lives.

Early this morning I read a piece written on the class blog by another student. The student was working on lesson 4, exploring "conflict." First the author composed a list of conflicts - any one of them was something that one or more of us could relate to - things like being bullied and teased at school, dad not being around... and then there was the chosen topic: "no running water."

While reading the details of what it was like for this person to grow up with no water or electricity and some of the desperate situations that were faced, my little tasks, worries and woes quickly fell into perspective.

We can help each other gain a fuller perspective when we share our uniqueness in the language that is ordinary. What is more ordinary or common in a life than something as elemental as water? Yet the story WAS unique.

Our lives are unique, but they are also similar. Each has a perspective that is unlike any other, but we can all relate to those aspects of life that we share. We can teach each other and learn from one another. 

The student who had to live without water or electricity has a wealth of strength gained from overcoming that a privileged person does not have; while the privileged person can show empathy, coming to the aid of one who has little.

em·pa·thy
[em-puh-thee]
NOUN
1.
the intellectual identification with or vicarious experiencing of the feelings, thoughts, or attitudes of another.

Your life IS unique. And interesting things can be learned from the "mundane."

So, dear reader, I challenge you to take just a moment to remember five unique experiences in your life that relate to water...

I'll go first:

1) My grandfather taught me how to swim, but when I was still a toddler, my mother would dip me into our backyard pool to cool me off  before a summer's nap...

3) Mom stored sliced carrots covered with water in a glass bread pan in our refrigerator. I would often stand in front of the open the fridge and drink the water from the corner of the dish.  

4) I had a dream once that I will never forget. In real life, my dad had a  shop in the basement with a big cabinet door that was also a peg board for hanging tools. In my dream, I opened the cabinet and saw huge swimming whales and porpoise in bright blue water.

5) Many years ago, when we moved into our new home we noticed that all the streets in the neighborhood were convex, except ours - ours was concave - and our curb was very high. I didn't know why until the first sustained rainfall. Our street is the one all the others drain into. At times, in just a few hours the water can rise to the top of the curb, making our street into a river.

Now you try. (I'd love to read them in the comments.)

The cool thing is, EVERYONE, has 5 experiences with water. You can relate to mine, and I can relate to yours.

Memoir Notes: Making a story out of our unique experiences in a way that others can understand and relate to, or learn from -- this is what makes a memoir.

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs

Focus, Focus, Focus

"Yes dear, may I help you?" said the woman with the pin-curled bluish hair sitting behind the library desk.

"I'm looking for a memory to write about for a class I'm taking," I answered.

"Have you looked in the card catalog, dear?" she said, removing her glasses and dropping them to the ends of a golden chain that rested on her white cable knit sweater.

I gave her a blank stare.

"Follow me." She stood up, walking slowly and confidently to a long chest of little square drawers where she stopped and pointed her index finger to one of them.

"This is the memory drawer. You will find all manner of topics in here. Let me know if I can help you in any way," she stated as she turned on her brown leather pumps and walked away.

The drawer was small, only about the width of a man's hand, but it was deep. With a gentle tug on the metal tab it glided open, exposing hundreds of cards - all attached to the drawer by two metal bars running through two holes at the bottom of each card.

My fingers flipping through the box, I noticed that the memories were filed by topic tabs labeled with words like: events, objects, impressions, lessons, people, rooms, places...and on and on.

"Oh my," I whispered to myself in a volume suitable for a library. I was thinking that these were all such important keywords, each one linked to another. This was exciting, but also a little overwhelming.

I returned to the lady at the desk. She was writing something with a yellow pencil on a small pad of paper, tilted slightly on her desk. I cleared my throat and she lifted her eyebrows, looking up at me over the top of her tortoise shell glasses.

"There are so many cards in that file that I want to explore," I said, plopping down on the oak chair in front of her desk. "I don't know where to begin."

The woman's lips widened into a big knowing smile. "I thought as much," she said, and laying her pencil on the desk, she tore the top sheet from her pad and handed it to me. "Look in this drawer dear." Her tone was motherly.

"And do it quickly. The library closes in ten minutes."

With feminine and tidy penmanship, she'd written one word, three times. Focus, Focus, Focus.

Returning to the oak chest, I located this second drawer and found the perfect card. Hurriedly, I copied the evocative word into my spiral notebook, left with my treasure, and went HOME.

Memoir Notes: 
It is day 7 of 31 days exploring memoir. I've discovered that a few little prompts are helpful in bringing forth the memories that are filed somewhere in our brains. And I've discovered that most of my memories are set in and around my childhood home.

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs

In the Midst of Scent

Every time I touch a marigold,

Lifting fingers to my nose,

I inhale.

Deeply.

And suddenly

I am perceiving like a toddler

Bare legs crisscrossed on cool grass.

Eye to eye with brilliant orange and cheerful yellow 

At the edge of his vast lawn, 

In the midst of Grandpa's garden.

Memoir Notes:
There is a beginning for every inspiration.
The gardener in me began with the scent of the marigolds in Grandpa Kreinheder's garden.

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs

One Night at the Round Table

It is near dusk in October, 1963. The seven-year-old child pulls the wooden handle on the square drawer in the antique dry sink. She counts out six napkins and deposits one at the center of each placemat, as she walks around the round maple table.

Her mother calls this space the breakfast room, though all the family's regular meals are eaten here. Bumping into the yard, it has the feeling of a porch, with three paneled walls, each with a window.

There is no one else in the room, except the salt and peppered schnauzer puppy curled up in its basket in the corner near Mom's sewing area.

Becky stands at one of the large windows, watching a fat-tailed gray squirrel scamper along the telephone wire that follows the property line. An assortment of tall trees surround her yard and she delights in watching the squirrels, the robins, and the cardinals that share this space with her family in the sleepy suburbs of Buffalo, New York. The squirrel runs, then stops, stands still, runs again, finally jumping onto the roof of the small white poolhouse and disappearing into the trees.

Becky makes several trips to the kitchen to collect handfuls of forks, knives, and spoons and tidily finishes setting the table for dinner: knife and spoon on the right, fork on the left.

Soon Mom returns from the basement laundry room and tells Becky to ring the bell. The boys are upstairs doing homework, Patty is getting ready for a date, and Dad is changing clothes. The little brass dinner bell stands on a shelf nook in the hall just outside the kitchen. It is formed in the shape of a woman wearing a long skirt. Becky has mastered the art of ringing the bell. She grasps the woman's head, keeping her fingers off the body, holding her pinkie in the air. She's learned that the bell makes a dull clank when her hands curl around the skirt. Now at the bottom of the stairs, Becky makes the little bell ring as loud as possible while she yells,"Dinner!"

A few minutes later, Jeffrey, John and Dad are seated and talking quietly among themselves. Someone has lit the candles. Mom dishes up dinner onto the white Correlle plates that are stacked near the stove, and Becky helps carry the plates to the table, while Patty pours six glasses of milk.

Dad likes to talk. Tonight Dad is teaching the boys about fire and heat. He reaches to the center of the table and quickly moves his index finger side to side, right through the candle's flame. Becky's eyes and mouth open wide with excitement and interest as her brothers and sister all follow Dad's lead. No one says ouch. Dad explains that the fire is the hottest at the bottom of the flame. He cautions not to touch the blue part and not to linger near the top, just keep the finger moving.

Becky decides she wants to try it too. She reaches forward but realizes that her arm is too short. Her hands fall back into her lap. Conversation moves on, but Becky is fixed on her desire to experience moving her finger through the flame.

Sometime before dessert it comes to her.

She twists her napkin in her lap, stands up, and extends her lengthened "hand" toward the center of the table.

Contact is made and sounds of urgent exasperation are heard around the table, chairs thumping on the floor as everyone stands up. The surprised seven year old has just learned a lesson different than the one about heat. Though fingers don't burn when quickly drawn through the cool part of a flame, napkins DO catch on fire.

Memoir Notes:  This story was best told from the perspective of the third person. I was able to step outside the memory and see it happening from the perspective of my 58 year old self, watching the seven year old self, as though it was someone else.

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

1.        Home

Front Porch

Pool

Bedrooms

2.       Divorce

The 1960’s Era – a new thing

Famous Father that others knew and I did not

3.       Snow

Breaking the ketchup bottle

Forts, sledding in the street, ice skating

Radio announcements on snow days

The Red Barron

4.       The Breakfast Room

The “Nights” at the round table

Candles in winter

Fan in summer

Glass, net weights

TV, the Vietnam war, Movie of the Week

5.       Opening to Philosophy

Grandfather’s atheism

Brother’s comment about life on life

Wanting to know why

6.       Beautiful Surroundings

Mom’s sense of design and organization

Tree-lined streets, front lawns, leaves, snow, robins, squirrels running on telephone wires

Brick houses, every one different

7.       Pool

Attraction for friends (real friends)

Curly hair, don’t get it wet...curlers and hair dryers

Swimming like a fish

8.       Art

My dream talent

Art class

Talented sister (s)

9.       Freedom

Walking the streets without fear

Carefree childhood

Mom let me be me

10.   The First Death

Chris S., accident or suicide?

Finality

Casket 

Memoir Notes:
This was a great exercise. I can see how lazy the casual memory can be. When I began to think about my past, I really thought there wasn't much there to write about. 

So much of life is in the present, as it should be. But if we were meant to dwell ONLY in the present, we would not have been endowed with memory. 

Think of all the reasons you need a memory:

•    to learn, read, write
•    communicate
•    protection from harm
•    knowing how to get somewhere
•    and how to get back
•    recognizing people, places, things
•    fixing mistakes
•    sharing information
•    building wisdom

Can you think of any more reasons?

"Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; hold it fast, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you."

     ~Revelation 3:3

31 Days Exploring Memoir_list

Matters Beyond Matter

The Color of Remorse

Dear Front Porch

Withdrawals from the Memory Bank

One Night at the Round Table

In the Midst of Scent

Focus, Focus, Focus

Uniqueness in the Language that is Ordinary

What Is Your Premise?
Through the Old Milk Box
Write A Memory In Six Words
Don't Touch the Flowers
Use a Pencil
Heirlooms and Hand-Me-Downs