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There is only one rule for writing memoir: You have to be honest. There are no templates, no blueprints, no other instructions. Unfortunately, this doesn't make it any easier. Here we will discuss with each other the difficult but exhilarating process of writing memoir—the worries we have, the obstacles we face, both real and imagined, and the pleasures of digging deep to find the story. There will be new assignments every month to jog memories loose, and to help banish self-consciousness, the scourge of all writers. I hope we will discover that the process of writing memoir is as valuable and important as the finished thing because of what we learn along the way. I hope we will share our concerns and our work with each other.
I will jump in and out of the discussions at least once a month. Given my limited availability online, I'm not always able to respond to personal messages. But I look forward to interacting with you all in this creative workshop of ours. Start writing.
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A Family Thanksgiving Story
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BrendanBrat said:
on November 5, 2009 07:45 AM ET
UNCLE HARRY AND THE TURKEY
My Uncle, Harry Mahrt, was a man of many talents. With thick gray hair combed straight back off his forehead, he stood almost six feet tall, close to being dangerously rotund. Both his chuckle and hearty booming laughter, coaxed all around him to be warmed in his presence. I once told him that if he had white hair and a better beard, he could pass for Santa Clause. That hearty laugh overcame him. “Ah, my little niece,” he announced: “I could teach THAT fellow a trick or two.”
The family around the room nodded to each other that he could, too.
They were aware that Harry missed many family visits, and often was not at home when they dropped by. More than likely asleep on the couch, knowing his predilection for Scotch whiskey.
However, to his credit, he never missed this mid-day turkey dinner. One of his greatest joys, apart from partaking of too many helpings of “tipsy cake”, was that our family all knew his special Thanksgiving secret.
As the shadows lengthened, the anticipation for the dinner was palpable, Harry hoisted his bulk from the chair, and marched toward the kitchen. He pushed and prodded the enormous turkey, now golden brown and aromatic with spices and stuffing. His approval was necessary before it was declared as perfect and ready. Only then, could it be carried to the voracious group on an enormous platter, shown around to the participants and quickly returned to the kitchen. Then, he was not to be interrupted by anyone.
The time passed slowly for the eager. The door was opened by the host, Harry came in beaming with the same golden bird--or so we were to think. Plates were placed beside him, as he carefully folded back the golden, crispy outside skin and proceeded to slowly lift off slice after perfect slice of the bird. He had carved the complete turkey breast and then reassembled it, to mirror its original. There was much nattering and “however did he do that?” among the uninitiated guests. Loaded plates, and side dishes were passed interminably and the warmth of family floated over them.
At some point, Harry had removed himself to the sun porch and was sleeping with a glass in his hand. He once again had performed his secret, with the knowing kin nodding once again to each other, when they glimpsed him there. This year’s newest attendees now knew of Harry’s unique carving skills. Next year, there would be others to initiate into the magic. Watching him there, I was convinced that even with the gray straight hair, and that less than perfect beard, he was my magical Santa Clause.
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You have a wonderful way with words and the gift of story-telling. Uncle Harry was as clear as if he was in the same room with me.
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I love Uncle Harry! Whiskey, beard, and straight, combed-back hair. How wonderful a character in your family tree.
BertaD
What a delightful story about Thanksgiving Eileen! I fell in love with Uncle Harry,
Sara
This is a dear story. You really brought Harry to life for the audience; I felt a kinship with you family just by reading this.
