Senior Care Centers filled with great stories

It was a storytelling kind of day. I have become friends with some of the ladies living in the senior care center with my mother. Kate is a good storyteller, and so I decided to type her childhood tales into a booklet. Today I brought six pages to her when I came to join the ladies at lunch. She was thrilled. She said she wished she had thought to keep a journal while she was growing up, or to have thought to write down her stories years ago because she is forgetting. She thought everyone should keep a journal so they can remember the details of how their lives used to be. Things change, you know.

Kate had lost both parents by age 13, during the Depression years. Surprisingly, no one came to take the kids to an orphanage. The oldest brother quit high school to work to support his young siblings. Kate had the house to take care of and three little brothers, the youngest only seven. She quit school soon after, during eighth grade, after spinal meningitis took away the use of her legs to where she could only pull herself along the floor. Somehow she recovered fully without ever going to the hospital or getting medicine. Kindly neighbors and their pastor kept an eye on the children, but everyone was struggling in those days, so the kids had to make do on their own with minimum help. I will leave her hilarious story of their first Thanksgiving on their own to a November blog post.

Edie cried as she told us her story today, the first time we had heard it. She was born in Germany and barely survived WWII. Her parents were gunned down by Russian soldiers – her mother’s last words to her, “Get down, get down!” Fifteen-year-old Edie was dumped alive into a big trash bin along with her dead parents. Her grandmother pulled her out. Not long after, the Americans were welcomed into town, the soldiers admiring Edie’s long blond hair. She and other orphans were sent to the United States, where she found a home with a relative. She carries treasured memories of her mother wearing a long skirt and waltzing with her in the living room.

Our senior residences and nursing homes are like libraries, each person a book waiting to be read. If we do not bother to open those books, the stories will die. What a shame to lose those historic, fascinating, funny, and sad tales. Imagine if I had not bothered to care, to ask, to listen… “I might have gone on my way empty hearted.”*

*from the Fascination waltz.

Cooking up favorite memories and recipes

Today is a big birthday for me – AARP is after me now! I’m okay with this, but wanted the day kept low key. My girls insisted on making me one of my favorite cakes – from scratch! – one which I have not made in ages. And that reminds me of the importance of passing on favorite recipes.

It’s easy to assume our parents and grandparents will be around forever to cook our favorite foods, and how many people write to the newspapers or cooking magazines asking if others know a recipe like their dear mom used to make. My mom was a good cook in her day, before dementia stole her abilities. As kids my sister and I drooled over her meaty enchiladas, golden sweet potato tempura, wontons like you’ve never had in any restaurant, her angel food cake concoctions. My mom-in-law makes such hearty, lip-smacking, southern-style meals that people hire her to cater their special events. My step-mom, too, can lay a spread for a crowd like nobody’s business, including her yum dilly potato salad. For my own little family, I am waiting for the day my husband goes off his seemingly perpetual diet and the kids grow up enough to be less picky. Meanwhile, I have collected my favorite mom recipes for that someday time.

Heaven forbid we lose our favorite mom recipes. And imagine how treasured they would be if in Mom’s own handwriting! It’s a good idea to watch your favorite food being made so you’ve had some experience with it and can ask questions, because you know there can be finer nuances accompanying a written recipe. I’m so glad my mom taught me how to fold those wontons, I’m so glad my mom-in-law showed me how to make the dumplings just right in chicken and dumplings. And what better way to make memories and bond with someone than by cooking together!

Angel Apricot Nectar Cake

One angel food cake, baked from mix
1qt 14oz can apricot nectar
2 c sugar
½ c cornstarch
Large tub whipped cream (Cool Whip)

Tear up cake into medium size chunks, place in bottom of 13”x9” cake pan. In large bowl stir together sugar and cornstarch, add 1 cup nectar and mix well. Pour remaining nectar into a medium size saucepan and simmer until thick. Pour over the cake pieces. Cool, then cover with whipped cream and refrigerate. Beautiful when made into a trifle in glass bowl(s).

Hurrah for the red, white and blue - immigrant stories

As America celebrates her birthday, some people will be more grateful than others for the blessings they have found in this country. They are the immigrants, many of whom have escaped war, oppression, or grinding poverty. While they quickly realize none of our streets are paved in gold, they still are relieved to be alive and free to reach for their dreams. Many who remain in poverty or have suffered a difficult transition or other hardships are still thankful to be in America. The illegal immigrants often brave horrors and death to come here and live a marginal existence, still believing it is worth it. Today, those who struggle here have help through organizations such as the International Institute of St. Louis, The Lutheran Immigration & Refugee Service, The Refuge and Immigrant Family Center in Seattle and many others across the country. Each of the immigrants has a story.

-Enrique’s Journey by Sonia Nazario who traced young Enrique’s dangerous trip from Honduras via the tops of trains and hitch hiking to find his mother working somewhere in the U.S.

-They Poured Fire on Us From the Sky by Benjamin Ajak, Benson Deng, Alephonsian Deng, three orphaned boys who escaped the Sudan War and came to amazing America

-God Grew Tired of Us by John Bul Dau who was separated from his family during the war in Sudan and spent years in refugee camps before coming to the U.S. and experiencing culture shock

-The Latehomecomer: A Hmong Family Memoir by Kao Kalia Yang whose family escaped from Laos to a refugee camp in Thailand and then went on to adapt to the upper Midwest, a vastly different culture that did not understand them

-Breaking Through by Francisco Jimenez whose family of illegal migrant workers was sent back to Mexico only to return to California where life was hard and they felt a definite culture clash (YA)

-When I was Puerto Rican by Esmerelda Santiago whose mother took her children from poverty in rural Puerto Rico to the poverty of big city Brooklyn, NY, but the author succeeds as she struggles with the transition, going on to attend Harvard on scholarship

Dance, tell your stories while you can

The recent deaths of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett have made a big dent on the world. Farrah, known best for her tossing mane in the original Charlie’s Angels series and her (in)famous poster, was a weekly fixture on my 1970’s TV screen. Michael Jackson is within months of my own age so I was there for his rise – and spectacular falls. While these two entertainers only lived for me through my television, I can’t help but feel an odd twinge at their passing. The deaths of entertainers not of my generation are sad to me if I was old enough to have enjoyed the latter part of their years (Bob Hope, Jimmy Stewart, etc), but the deaths of those closer to my age, those I grew up with, are even more dismaying because they are more a part of my history. Then I start to understand how our parents feel when so many of their friends begin passing away. Soon it will be my turn to be in the twilight generation.

As it happens, death results in stories as we remember those who passed on. The news and social networking sites are overflowing with stories about the history and the personal moments of Farrah and Michael. The living rejoice in and reflect on the life stories of those no longer with them as a way to celebrate those lives.

While we are alive we can rejoice in and reflect on our own life stories. Don’t wait for the funeral when we can’t participate! We can tell our own stories, laugh at ourselves, teach lessons, inspire, give advice. Here’s an inspirational poem from Michael Jackson:


HOW I MAKE MUSIC

People ask me how I make music.
I tell them I just step into it.
It’s like stepping into a river and joining the flow.
Every moment in the river has its song.
So I stay in the moment and listen.

What I hear is never the same.
A walk through the woods brings a light, crackling song:
Leaves rustle in the wind, birds chatter and squirrels scold, twigs crunch underfoot,
and the beat of my heart holds it all together.
When you join the flow, the music is inside and outside, and both are the same.
As long as I can listen to the moment, I’ll always have music.

© 1992 Michael Joseph Jackson - Dancing The Dream

Slave Narratives through Project Gutenberg

Lately I’ve been reading interviews of ex-slaves and other “negroes” who remembered the Civil War and the freedom afterwards. Lisa Yannucci of Mama Lisa’s World, a site devoted to cultures and languages of the world, tipped me off to a section of the Project Gutenberg e-book site which contains Slave Narratives – A Folk History of Slavery in the United States, a government project of the 1930's. Quite a number of these narratives are available to read online and are well worth the time. Lisa was most interested in the songs. Although spirituals were common, she found a couple fun ones including a celebration of freedom, so check out Mama Lisa’s World Blog post.

There’s nothing like learning history from those who lived it. Since there are so many interviews, below I’ve listed just a few of the particularly interesting ones – note I’ve only skimmed through the Arkansas narratives, part 1 of 7! You can download this particular section free in your choice of format at Project Gutenberg Work Projects Administration or choose another section.

- Uncle William Baltimore, Age 103, was a colorful character who, though blind in old age, could still thread a needle like nobody’s business and patch his own clothes.

- Henry Banner, born in 1849, states, “The last time I was sold, I sold for $2,300 – more than I'm worth now.” He explains the difference between police and “pateroles” and the saleability factors of slaves.

- Lizzie Barnette, approx age 100, wanted everyone to know she was from Tennessee, not Arkansas where she lived then. She had horror stories of the Yellow Fever plague in Memphis and saw many “ha’nts” (ghosts) on the streets and in houses.

- Boston Blackwell, age 98, escaped a beating by running away to a Yankee camp, worked for the government and was still waiting for his pension. He was so surprised someone wanted to hear his stories – “I ain't never been axed about myself in my whole life!”

- Miss Adeline Blakely, age 87, was treated like a pet by her white owners and said she was spoiled rotten as a child. Her town was right in the middle of the Civil War and she has stories of southerner and northerner neighbors working together to keep their homes from being burned.

- Rev. Frank T. Boone, age 80, was born in the Free Colonies of Virginia to a white/Indian father and a black mother raised by Quakers. His is a detailed story that reminds us that the everyday aspects of life will someday be fascinating.

To me these interviews are as valuable as gold. Those I’ve read so far tell of being well treated by most of the masters during slavery, although they for sure worked hard and had to be wary of “pateroles,” jayhawkers, and Ku Klux (precursor to the Klan). Many slaves were happy to stay on with their masters after freedom or worked sharecropping nearby. Indeed, some thought times were harder after freedom when their living was less secure. Henry Banner claims, “Before the war you belonged to somebody. After the war you weren't nothin' but a nigger.” So far, I’m reading stories of the relatively lucky. Tales of beatings if a man didn’t pick 300 pounds of cotton a day, slaves being “sold at the block” and separated from families, and the hard work of all are told as a matter of fact – that’s just the way it was. Surprisingly the men felt quite free to vote after freedom and only later, after Jim Crow, were they intimidated and threatened. Funny thing, almost all of the interviewees felt the younger generation was “on the road to ruin,” … “God only knows what some of these young folks is comin’ to.” Now that’s a familiar line all through history!

In the news: The Senate passed a resolution Thursday calling for the U.S. to officially apologize for slavery and segregation. The Congressional Black Caucus, however, is up in arms about a disclaimer attached which basically states the apology has no connection with any claims of reparation. The CBC is hoping the U.S. will eventually provide some type of reparation to descendants of slaves and believes the disclaimer is an attempt to “stave off claims.” Reading the Gutenberg interviews, you will note that slaves heard they would get 40 acres and a mule, but very few received anything from the government. Most lived their last years at the mercy of family and white friends and neighbors. Whether modern descendants deserve reparations for their great great grandparents' slavery is arguable and shall be left to political blogs.

Childhood lullabies and singsongs

A few weeks ago my oldest daughter, still away at college, was recalling some of the songs I used to sing to her at bedtime, sending me a Facebook message wanting to know the name of the one about pretty horses. All the pretty little horses. I remember hearing William Warfield sing that in his deep, rich "Old Man River" voice to an intimate audience at the University of Illinois in the early ‘80’s. Surprising that he sang a lullaby, and it made quite an impression that a simple lullaby could be so beautiful. Another song my girls love is "My Funny Valentine," an unlikely lullaby unless you heard Judith from Cheers sing it, explaining how she took voice lessons so she could feel good about singing lullabies when her baby was born. Frasier pooh poohed, but the friends at Cheers were touched, and so was I. There is the Disney classic "When You Wish Upon a Star" which should be sung to every child so their dreams will come true. I also sang the old "Mockingbird" (Daddy’s gonna buy you…) and even "Jesus Loves Me." There was a fun ditty about the sandman: There was a Mr. Sandman, he wore a big brown hat. And on his back he carried a bag with Samantha Pussycat.

Wasn’t it sweet that my big college girl was thinking of her momma singing to her when she was little? I treasure that in my heart. Her question made me realize that those songs we sing to our babies and those funny singsong rhymes we tell them will one day be important to them. When our babies grow up and have their own babies, they will want to remember the songs and rhymes their own mothers taught them. Those gifts of love will pass to the next generation.

I do think that many parents may have neglected to repeat to their children the songs and rhymes they grew up with. My own parents were guilty of being non-singers so I had some learning to do. I suspect part of the reason for our reticence to sing is that we believe unless we have voices like canaries someone overhearing will laugh or ridicule. Well, let’s not take ourselves too seriously. Practice helps, but more important I like to remember the words to a poster my daughter’s elementary school music teacher had: If only the bird with the most beautiful voice sang, the forest would be very quiet.

Hush you bye, don’t you cry, go to sleepy little baby.
When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses.
Blacks and bays, dapples and grays, all the pretty little horses.

The Write Point of View: Who are you talking to?

Ghost writer, editor, and writing teacher Kim Pearson posted a great blog entry yesterday about finding the WOW factor in writing: “If you want to wow your readers, your writing must be about them.” She says, “If you’re writing for yourself, you are journaling.”

Kim may be talking about writing for publication (including blog posts like this), but this is important advice for memoir writers, too, whether you intend to publish for others or just want to take your flash drive to Kinko’s for some simple spiral-bound copies. If you’re going to take the trouble to write down your stories, make them interesting for everyone. Hopefully you’ve got the grandkids in mind as you spin your tales onto paper. Imagine them at your knee. Imagine your own kids hanging onto your words, or your brother or sister laughing (or even crying) at the stories they know well, too. Think like a storyteller spinning yarns, adding anecdotes, describing scenes, wrapping a story up with a piece of reflection or a lesson learned. Sure your family wants to hear about you, but they want to be a part of your stories, too – to feel it, to learn from it, to have it speak to something within themselves. Maybe the best way to talk about your life is to imagine telling a bedtime story, “A long time ago, I….” Hey, that how my mother's memoir begins! Cherry Blossoms in Twilight: Memories of a Japanese Girl.

Taps, the words and the memories

Taps

Day is done,

Gone the sun

From the lakes,

From the hills,

From the sky.

All is well,

Safely rest,

God is nigh.

Fading light

Dims the sight,

And a star

Gems the sky

Gleaming bright.

From afar

Drawing nigh

Falls the night.

Thanks and praise

For our days

Neath the sun,

Neath the stars,

Neath the sky.

As we go,

This we know,

God is nigh


Blessed are the memories remaining.