Getting Out of Myself

The perfect antidote to writing a memoir with so much focus on oneself is to spend some time, however limited, with others who appreciate your undivided attention.

In that spirit, I started volunteering at Misericordia, a home for people with mild to severe developmental disabilities, many with physical challenges as well. "My" class has turned me inside out. They are SO challenged but, in most cases, SO loving and open and, yes, SO happy.


Confidentiality prevents me from using any personal photos and real names. So I will use first-name aliases and give you a quick overview.

* Stan - Stan has Down Syndrome. From Day 1, he wanted to sit next to me because he figured out quickly that I could help him with his journal writing, a task he finds extremely difficult, not because he doesn't have ideas but because his spelling is at a first or second grade level. Like most people with Down Syndrome, his tongue is too big for his mouth. He constantly sticks out his tongue, as if gasping for breath, and the subsequent dribbling is inevitable. It took a few weeks for me to get beyond the dribbles and the chapped lips to appreciate Stan for his sense of humor and his kindness. It is now an unwritten rule that he sit next to me come "hell or high water."

* David - David talks a mile a minute, stuttering, mispronouncing words. But if you listen carefully, amid the gush of sounds are observations, facts, and feelings. David loves sports and knows his stuff. He gets very excited when talking about the TV channel on which a particular sporting event will be aired. David likes mystery. He can't wait to find out who the new "American Idol" judges will be or who will win a football game or the World Series. I'm a sports junkie, too. So, David and I have become fast buddies.

* Suzy - Suzy is one of the highest functioning young women in the group. She flies back and forth between Chicago and her hometown, sings in one of Misericordia's performance groups, and remembers things that many of the others forget. Suzy adores a particular Elvis impersonator; whenever she has the chance, she sits at the computer, headphones on, and watches the same You Tube videos over and over again. For the past two weeks, Suzy has told me that she loves me.

I look forward to my few hours at Misericordia. It some ways, it's like meditation. I get beyond the chatter of my own mind. I am focused on others who, for a short time every week, take me out of myself.

I recommend it to everyone!

Trying My Hand at Writing A Memoir

My Memoir Writing class started three weeks ago, and I've been writing my heart out ever since. Some of what I've written is quite good; other sections have already been tossed. Par for the course but, still, this has been no easy task.

In many ways, I feel like I've been on a psychiatrist's couch without much food or sleep. What was I REALLY thinking when I was three and my baby brother was born? What did it REALLY feel like to be dethroned, never to be the center of anyone's universe again? Why did I REALLY use my dad's razor when I was eleven and shave my legs? When my brother took his life, why didn't I turn to my family for support and comfort?

The questions are endless; the digging is deep.

I'm used to telling other people's stories. Sure, I may include my tale in a preface or a prologue. Or maybe even in a magazine article. But to consider making myself the main character of a memoir, someone who is compelling, interesting, and, oh, yes, wise . . . well, that's a tall order. Quite candidly, I'm not sure I'm ready.

The most successful memoirs don't just string together a series of events that may, in and of themselves, be quite enticing. No, a memoir has an arc just as a novel or a play. There is a beginning, a middle, and an end. And a memoir has major themes, hopefully universal, that demonstrate how the character (me) has evolved and, through her experiences, gained some insights that other people may find handy.

I wasn't a drug addict or a prostitute or a Rhodes Scholar. I didn't cover the war in Iraq or perform in a circus or strip joint. God hasn't talked to me - at least, not directly - and I can't read other peoples' minds. My parents had their dysfunction, but I wasn't abused.

Sure, I've known my share of failure, disappointment, and tragedy. But nothing necessarily to write a memoir about.

Unless . . . unless my writing is so sharp, my feelings so honest, my "voice" so unique that an editor is willing to take a chance that more than 500 people will be interested.

In truth, I'm not focused on publication. Been there, done that. I'm more interested in the process of writing, in the challenge of digging deep and finding the exact words that, when I've finally arranged them just so, make me go "Wow! That's damn good."

Happy Birthday, Daddy-O

If he'd lived, my dad would be celebrating his 93rd birthday today. Oh, I'm sure he'd be complaining about his golf game. And it's quite possible that we would have taken his driver's license away by now. His sense of distance had been failing, and he tended to swing wide, just missing hitting the curb or sometimes other cars. And, oh, how he'd be missing my mother who died a matter of weeks before he did!

That wasn't the way it was supposed to be. My dad had for years expressed the wish to die first; he couldn't imagine facing life without her. They barbed at one another constantly (My mother said to me at one point, "I wish your father would take a permanent golf vacation"), and the distance between them appeared to grow once my mother became seriously ill. I recognize now that my dad was petrified that my mother wouldn't make it and, instead of supporting and caring for her, he did everything he could to push her to her limits.

For all his years, my dad was in incredibly good shape. Hell, it took him 8 days to die with no food or water. He couldn't do math in his head anymore, and multi-tasking was often beyond him. But he was still very present, never forgot a face, and could argue politics and other social issues with the best of them. He loved the fact that I was politically involved and was intrigued by how the computer had revolutionized social/political networking. My dad was a proud member of MoveOn.org. He was hip and progressive to the end.

Sitting by his bed side, waiting for him to die after a subdural hematoma left him paralyzed on the left side, unable to speak, and unable to swallow, I was convinced that, despite his protestations to the contrary before he was struck down, he really didn't want to die. We all say things we don't mean, and I believe that if he could have had a second chance at life, he would have grabbed it. His beloved youngest daughter lived nearby. Her friends had become his. He'd taken to small town living in Yellow Springs, Ohio, like a duck to water and probably could have run for mayor or water commissioner. He was that personable. My dad could strike a conversation with anyone and often did.

I'd love to be able to talk to him now. So much has happened since July 26, 2008. Obama is President of the United States. He would be damn happy about that. The country is more polarized than it's been in decades. He would have been dismayed but with a sense of history that nine plus decades brings. And all the personal events, dreams and disappointments. My dad was a good sounding board and always one of my best supporters.

So, daddy-o, I wish you happy trails wherever you may be. Know that your memory is fresh, your lessons well taught, and your love always a port in the storm.

Happy Birthday!

A Unique Life: Maybe

I've decided that as I approach my 65th birthday I should take a stab at writing a memoir. Hey, my life is as unique as anyone's. Well, maybe . . . I didn't suffer abject poverty, rape, or addiction. And my travels didn't take me to Bali for love or to India to pray.

But the circumstances surrounding my birth toward the end of World War II make for quite a dramatic story. (Once a Drama Queen, always a Drama Queen.) And dealing with anti-Semitism for the first time in the girls' bathroom at my new junior high school threw me for a loop. My brother's downward spiral and eventual suicide at age 30 changed my life and the dynamics in my family forever.

And then there was my marriage to the wrong man (I knew I was making a mistake but forged ahead), the birth of my son, several affairs, a divorce, life as a single mother, remarriage . . . Throw in my son's automobile accident that nearly paralyzed him for life, the effect that accident had on my second marriage (it almost ended it!), a seizure that led me to meditation, my burgeoning career as a writer . . . Now, we're getting somewhere.

And if you've been reading my blog, my dear reader, you know that I lost both my parents within 3 weeks of one another and the heartache and challenges their deaths created. In July of this year, we will mark the 2-year anniversary of their deaths. I still miss them terribly.

Anyway, I've signed up for an online memoir writing class led by a seasoned writing professor who has published her own memoir. Am I ready to open my life to strangers? Why not? My friends and family are too through with my stories by now. Stay tuned.

Remnants

I hadn't intended to sell my mother's jewelry. I'd wear what I could and keep the rest in a safety deposit box for . . . A daughter-in-law? A granddaughter?

My mom's taste is jewelry was, for the most part, big. She liked 14 karat gold with bold stones that begged attention. Her favorite set was a gold necklace with an amethyst the size of Rhode Island, a matching pinkie ring with a second amethyst, and, yes, a pair of earrings with an amethyst dangling from each. The whole shebang cost a mint; the replacement value was even higher.




Alas, I'm just not a gold, big stone kind of gal. I go for silver, subtle, unique.
Even so, as I planned what I hoped would be the last estate sale (I'd already used Internet ads, auctions, consignment shops) to finally sell the remainder of my parents' stuff, I didn't consider selling the jewelry. Maybe it was the sense that my mother wouldn't approve. Or that I was a ruthless daughter interested in money. Whatever the reasons, I didn't list jewelry in the estate sale ads.

People kept calling and asking if I had any jewelry to sell. Initially, I said "No." Then I went through my own collection, picked out what I no longer wore, and threw that into the mix. I sold a few items. Then I tossed in costume jewelry from the 50s and 60s. The response was lukewarm. And there wasn't much interest either in the items I really wanted to sell - the rugs, the set of four Henredon chairs, the custom media center with antique Japanese screen doors, the oak square table for four. If I didn't unload these things, I would have to give them away. The monthly storage fee was bleeding me dry.

Finally, I called one of the dealers who was looking for "better" jewelry. I knew he'd never pay close to what the jewelry was worth. But I'd taken it around to estate jewelers months before, only to be told that it wasn't their style. Or that they'd melt the pieces down for the gold. Now, that I'd never do.

"How much do you want for these?" he said, having put together a pile of my mother's finest jewels, including the amethyst set.

I had no idea. "Let me look at the insurance estimates," I said.

"I'm not interested in those. They're always much too high, and I'm not going to pay close to those amounts."

This guy was a pro. I picked up the red folder with the insurance estimates and started reading aloud the descriptions and estimated values.

"What do you want?" he said again.

I started adding numbers in my head. "How about $1000?"

"$800," he countered.

I hate bargaining. "$900, and that's my final price."

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, and began handing me $100 bills. I thought of calling off the deal. My mother's going to kill me, I mumbled under my breath. "Sell these to women who will wear them proudly," I said loud enough so he could hear.

"What about these?" a second prospective buyer asked. She'd collected an array of less expensive pieces. Hardened by the first round of bargaining, I quoted her prices I was sure she wouldn't pay. I was surprised. She backed off of just one piece, an ornate silver necklace that looked Turkish or Indian. I vowed to wear the necklace sometime soon.

I cried myself to sleep that night. I missed my mom, wished I could call her and just shoot the breeze. Maybe she would have been practical about the jewelry thing and agreed that keeping it in a safety deposit box for years made no sense. Whatever her reaction, it would have been so good to hear her voice.

I had the best of intentions. I'd counted my points, danced, walked, even took a yoga class. But at the end of a week, the numbers of my scale hadn't budged. And I wasn't about to stand on that four-pound-over Weight Watcher scale and have some smug woman who'd lost 500 pounds in three months record my failure and ask what I might do to jump start my diet. I'd jump started it, all right, with the physical scars to show for it: a perpetually sore lower back, aching muscles, and a growling stomach that talks to me all day long.

So, I played hooky. And instead of devouring a sweet, gooey pastry or a stack of pancakes smothered in butter and syrup, I read a book. An entire book. A 300-page book. (Okay, the print is rather large.) I plopped my sorry body down on the back deck, tilted my baseball cap to shield my eyes from the bright sun, and read Brooke Newman's Jenniemae & James: A Memoir in Black & White.

http://www.amazon.com/dp/0307462994/?tag=gidca-20



Yes, I'm a reader. But I can't remember the last time I read a book in one sitting or, for that matter, had sex multiple times in one day. It's been a while. But this book about a brilliant mathematician and his friendship with an uneducated, illiterate African American maid held me in its clutches for 4 hours with one potty break, a quick stroll around the garden, and one annoying phone call.

As pedestrian as it may sound, finishing that book gave the day meaning and me a sense of accomplishment. Phasing into retirement, it's easy to fret away the time, convinced that you should be doing something significant - whatever that means. Make money. Publish an article. Make a stranger happy.

Today I made myself happy. I think I'll read my way through the week, substituting the prose of good writers for any temporary satisfaction I might get from eating one too many Weight Watchers' peanut butter bars.

The Gathering

In order to save money and make more room on my crowded bookshelves, I've weaned myself off of buying new books and, instead, begun to scan the shelves at my local library. This requires a good deal of patience, for libraries are behind the curve when it comes to current bestsellers. And when they do get these coveted books, there's usually a waiting list. Sure, some of the newbies make it to the "Grab it fast and read it quickly" section where I often find readers body-blocking entire rows of books so they can get first dibs. I find myself grabbing at titles I've never heard of just in case I might be interested. Usually, I'm not.

Last week I got a brilliant idea: I'd focus on past Booker Prize winners, books that have received Britain's counterpart to the Pulitzer. Penelope Lively won the Booker for Moon Tiger, one of my favorite all-time love stories and examples of one of those wondrous books in which events unfurl as the narrator recalls them, not in chronological order. So, why not get on the bandwagon and check out other British authors whose work has been singled out as the best?

That led me to Anne Enright's The Gathering, winner of the Booker in 2007. The back cover blurb tells of "a moving, evocative portrait of a large Irish family haunted by the past." Well, I'm not Irish, but this is a Booker-prize winner after all. The blurb continues, "The nine surviving children of the Hegarty clan are gathering in Dublin for the wake of their wayward brother, Liam, drowned at sea." I know about such gatherings only too well. We three surviving Mersky children gathered for the funeral of my brother, Robin, some thirty years ago.

I didn't read the remainder of the jacket blurb. I was sold.

And I wasn't disappointed. Enright's writing is poetic, her observations keen, and the parallels between her relationship with her brother and my relationship with mine are uncanny. Readers discover soon enough that Liam's drowning was intentional. He stuffed his pockets with stones and walked into the sea. My brother chose a different escape route: He stuck a hunting rifle in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

I finished The Gathering two nights ago. I reached to turn off the reading lamp next to my bed and shivered, fearful that I might have bad dreams about my brother, gone now for thirty years.

Instead I thought about my mother. She was the one who found my brother, his bedroom walls splattered with blood and brain matter. By the time my father arrived home, the cleanup crew had left. While the smell of death was everywhere, there were no visual reminders.

My mother was left raw. I can only imagine the nightmares she suffered for years. Only after she died did a home nurse tell me that my mom talked often about "seeing" my brother again. Perhaps it was her anticipation of such a gathering that buoyed her spirit through the last difficult months of her life and underscored that, when all is said and done, it is, as she told me, love that makes it all worthwhile.