Creative Nonfiction magazine: call for entries

We pause in the “Season of Sports” to bring you… a call for entries!

Creative Nonfiction masthead

We Want Your Best Stuff
CURRENT CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS

We’re seeking submissions for upcoming issues of CNF:

Aug 31: Marriage. View guidelines >

Nov 16: NEW! Childhood. View guidelines >

I’m making it my personal goal to get an essay into this magazine. Earlier  this year I submitted a story on the theme “Weather” and am waiting to hear if it made the cut. I have a few things to say about marriage and childhood. I bet you do too. Join me in the CNF Challenge!

-Sarah

 

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What Does a Gal Have to Do to See Professional Women’s Soccer?

The Season of Sports continues…

By Rita Nygren

When I was 13 years old and following my big brothers around everywhere, it was a no brainer to continue playing soccer.  I’d been playing co-ed recreational leagues since I was 8, just like the boys had, and so of course I would play when I hit high school.  It was Mukwonago High’s first year with a girl’s team, which struck me as odd.

I’d never heard of Title XI.  The HEW (Dept. of Health, Education & Welfare) regulations were still being contested.

But in the selfish world of a 13 year old, I didn’t see any reason why there wasn’t already a conference league. And so my friend LeaAnn & I went to try outs, and basically every girl who did was sorted onto the two teams: varsity and junior varsity.

I wasn’t annoyed at being dropped in the JV category.  I was not what you’d call a natural athlete.  It’s horrible, sometimes, that one’s permanent mental picture of oneself is that 13 year old self: in my case, chunky, uncoordinated, nerdy, acne, always chosen last in sports, shy, and (as my brothers would tease me) all the dexterity of a fern.  It was, actually, an honor to be allowed to play on the same team as the popular, talented girls.  Our heroes at the time were the stars of the boy’s team – really, they were our only influencers, because the 3 TV channels we got back in the Stone Age had never aired a soccer game.  I’d never seen an adult play.

But I knew how to learn, and had been the ball retriever for the guys until I was able to at least be more than a pylon during their pickup games, and then knowledgeable enough to be able to predict what the opposing player was going to do and get a foot in the way.  Never fast, but able break up a play — the definition of a high school full back.

After practicing with a coach who HAD played as an adult, I was JV squad captain, and then moved up to varsity in my #9 jersey.

Small town paper shows author stealing a ball as a highschooler.

Small town paper shows author stealing a ball as a highschooler.

 

And then moved on to a college that didn’t have a soccer team of either sex.

Really, it’s not like I was motivated to compete harder.  Where could I possibly go with it?  But it was fun, and I found a club in Winona to play with — mostly international male students who were patronizing with their play to the three or so gals who’d show up, at least until I ran them over a few times while stealing the ball.  Then I moved on to post-college recreational leagues in Madison, which then led to regular indoor games, followed by beer.

In 1999, one of my teammates and I decided we’d go to a professional game.  So far, I’d mostly seen European games televised in the bar at the indoor soccer facility.  In general, I’d rather play than watch, so I knew little about teams to follow, but delighted in any good play (okay, particularly in any good defensive steal).  But this year, there was a women’s World Cup, and there was a game close enough we could drive to.

original Brandi ChastainMadison to Columbus is an 8-hour drive, and Sara and I did it one long road trip, saw the game, stayed in a hotel, and drove home.  I camped a lot, but staying over in a hotel was kind of weird for me, and frivolous, particularly to see a sports game. But there on the pitch was Brandi Chastain, Mia Hamm, Cindy Parlow, and Tiffany Milbrett, and here Sara and I were, on a bench seat in Crew Stadium with 23,101 other people enjoying our ladies trouncing South Korea.

I picked up a Hamm jersey that trip.  Her number was 9.

I still play, at my age, in my new hometown in Oregon.  I’m faster than I was in high school, but a bit more cautious of my skull and ankles.  I certainly see more professional soccer now than I did then.

Several women’s leagues have since attempted to catch hearts and minds in this country since those early World Cups, but each seems to have only a 3-year lifespan.  The reason is simply that people don’t go to the matches.  Why aren’t they popular? A host of reasons. The women’s sport is trying to break into an entertainment niche that is barely cracked open by the men’s MLS area. the women are competing for recession dollars with their big brother, who backhandedly has encouraged them while expecting the girls to go back to traditional pursuits like beach volleyball, I guess.

The latest incarnation of a North American women’s league, the National Women’s Soccer League (NWSL), managed to talk Portland’s Major League Soccer (MLS) team into doubling their return by investing in a ladies’ team.  For a town that calls itself Soccer City, this seems like a reasonable bet.  For an MLS team that has the rabid fan base known as the Timbers Army, there should be enough overflow support.

But then a 13-year-old girl asked why the new team, called the Thorns, shouldn’t have their own supporters group. It was a no-brainer for my young friend Mau — of course this new team would have a group similar to the Timbers Army.  Her folks, heavily involved with the Army, helped her foster this idea, and the Riveters sprang up. Sure, some of the structure and people were there from the Army, but some were new soccer fans who wanted to watch the gals play.

Mau

Mau and Mom at Thorns game in 2013.

Young Maureen is now checking out colleges out of state, but the Riveters really does claim her as a founder of the movement.  And in turn, we have to give the Riveters credit for making the Thorns so successful in the league.  The average attendance at NWSL game is about 2,500 people.  Except for Portland, where our average Thorns game pulls in 13,000. When they talk league averages, they have to throw out Portland for blowing the curve.

The Thorns are definitely profitable.  All the other MLS teams look forward (sometimes with trepidation) to playing here at a ‘real’ stadium, with thousands of screaming supporters and fans who make elaborate art for the match.  And to be lead out onto the field by local girls’ teams, who may someday be carrying on the legacy.

Tonight I just watched the final for the Women’s World Cup 2015, during which the U.S. simply outplayed and beat Japan in the first 16 minutes. Please, go watch recordings of the first half, it’s mind blowing.

While that series has been going on, the Thorns have been missing seven of their best players, as they were off at the WWC playing for the U.S., and Canada, and Germany.  35,000 people filled the stadium in Vancouver, while I was in a bar-cum-block party with the Riveters (including one guy dressed up as General Patton, I swear). All sorts of men and women in their red, white, and blue were cheering on their nation’s team, and singing chants not fit for a 13 year old girl’s ears.

Folks are hoping that the WWC win will give a bump to women’s soccer attendance everywhere else. (We’ll likely sell out the allowed seats for the next Thorns game when Our Gals come home).  And I think that’s a bit of a pity.  There’s little else we can do from Oregon to better promote the sport, shy of buying tickets in other cities.  It’s a world-class game, but it seems to fall under the radar.

Some folks seem to want to clean up the chants, remove the beer and market the league to soccer moms to take their kids to, but that’s just going to lead to a fan base that believes it’s a token sport for kids, not a REAL sport that entertains adults, worth their time after age 18.  Which will lead to a shrinking league, not a growing one, with dedicated supporters for every team, and the next no-brainer for a 13-year-old girl who’s in need of a role model.

© 2015. Rita Nygren is an adrenaline junkie living in Oregon who pursues soccer, off-road bicycling, and other activities all too likely to end in visits to emergency rooms when not sensibly at work in the database mines. 

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Sports and “the Whoosh-Up”: Can We Trust What We Feel?

The “Season of Sports” continues…

By Sarah White

Laura Bassett flattened on the grass after her left foot got in the way of a ball and sent it into the opposing team’s net in the Women’s World Cup Semifinal, 2015. Brandi Chastain kneeling in her black sports bra, whipping her shirt over her head in a primal “yes,” Women’s World Cup Final 1999. These images of women athletes in the agony or ecstasy of competition claim their place as part of a community’s collective memory.

Why do they matter? What do they mean?

Jul 1, 2015; Edmonton, Alberta, CAN; England reacts with England defender Laura Bassett (6) after she scored an own goal during the second half against Japan in the semifinals of the FIFA 2015 Women's World Cup at Commonwealth Stadium. Mandatory Credit: Erich Schlegel-USA TODAY Sports - RTX1IOGN

Credit: Erich Schlegel-USA TODAY Sports – RTX1IOGN

_74486553_brandikneelingafpgetty

credit: BBC News/AFP

I can’t trot a block; I’ll never know what it feels like to be a world class female soccer player. But there’s something about these moments as viewers that bring us to our feet cheering, or drop us to earth in sympathy for the fallen. They make us feel like part of a larger whole. They transport us from our own daily reality into a realm that feels important and free of earthly limits. But can we trust what we feel in those moments? Are they about uplifting communion, or a loss of individual judgment and self-control?

I am reading Powers of the Weak by Elizabeth Janeway, a pillar of second-wave feminist thought published in 1980. A passage about crowds and power caused me pause, seeming as it did to relate to my recent meditations on the influence of sports in our culture:

…There are emotions and ways of behaving that sweep through assembled groups and massed throngs of people and move them in special dramatic ways….Boundaries of self start to break down and emotions gain strength from physical closeness, and can then erupt into action of great intensity, thougt usually of short duration. Very possibly such experiences of coming together to resist immediate challenge, or to rush toward some passionately desired goal, cast back to prehuman and prelingual strategies employed in the face of danger of or the need for concerted attack. Religious ritual sometimes tries to create this deep bonding purposely.

When I read that, I thought of a David Brooks 2010 column reviewing Hubert Dreyfus and Sean Dorrance Kelly’s book, All Things Shining, in which I first encountered a term for this emotion and way of behaving that Janeway described. Quoting Brooks’ column:

…they are on to something important when they describe the way — far more than in past ages — sports has risen up to fill a spiritual void.

Spiritually unmoored, many people nonetheless experience intense elevation during the magical moments that sport often affords. Dreyfus and Kelly mention the mood that swept through the crowd at Yankee Stadium when Lou Gehrig delivered his “Luckiest Man Alive” speech, or the mood that swept through Wimbledon as Roger Federer completed one of his greatest matches.

The most real things in life, they write, well up and take us over. They call this experience “whooshing up.” We get whooshed up at a sports arena, at a political rally or even at magical moments while woodworking or walking through nature.

(I think Brooks—and Dreyfus & Kelly—are wrong to confuse the “magical moments” of woodworking or nature walking with the whoosh-up. Those are flow states, not collective experiences. But I digress.)

The communal whoosh-ups of sports have taken on unexpected significance for me in the last couple of years. My husband’s health problems have reduced both our income and our mobility, and that has narrowed my world in both adventure and community. We have taken refuge close to home. We began to participate in a ritual we would once have scoffed at—going to local bars during football season to root for the Green Bay Packers. Before this narrowing I couldn’t care less about the position of a ball in the middle of a greensward dotted with husky men in shiny colors, nor do I care now. But I am drawn by that “prehuman and prelingual state,” to use Janeway’s words, when “boundaries of self start to break down and emotions gain strength from physical closeness.” I was glad to find a name for it in Brooks’ column.

Wilson's Bar, Madison, WI: Green Bay Packers NFC Championship Game against Seattle Seahawks, January 18, 2015

Whooshing-up at Wilson’s Bar, Madison, WI: Green Bay Packers NFC Championship Game against Seattle Seahawks, January 18, 2015

What gives me pause for thought, what makes me ask, “Can we trust it?”, Brooks nails in his book review: “Though they try, Dreyfus and Kelly don’t give us a satisfying basis upon which to distinguish the whooshing some people felt at civil rights rallies from the whooshing others felt at Nazi rallies.”

Win or lose, people who have been whooshing-up at sporting events emerge into the streets to brawl and burn cars. When a home team suffers an upset loss, violence by men against their wives and girlfriends increases by 10 percent, a 2011 study of police reports of violent incidents during the professional football season found.

I believe that sports are fundamentally inconsequential, unimportant, and certainly not a justifiable reason for aggression against people or possessions. It offends me that in the USA, we expend vast amounts to build stadiums, but let roads and schools wither. It bothers me that we celebrate ritualized violence on sporting fields and ignore its consequences off-field.

But sometimes I need to lighten up and go with the whoosh-up. The Women’s World Cup feels like sports at its most uplifting, and least trivial. Hurray for Title IX, which ended gender discrimination in the funding of school athletics. Without it those girls would probably not be on the soccer field and in the hearts of men and women all over the world.

You feel like a feminist when you watch those long lithe women play. Who didn’t love seeing Brandi whip off her shirt, rendering an entire stadium speechless because she did what any male player would do. Who didn’t love seeing Laura Bassett’s teammates console her after that last-minute kick went astray, or love the fans around the world who piled on with their support. This is compassion. This is women’s whoosh-up. This we can trust.

The saying goes, “It’s not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.” Let’s hold sports FANS to the same standard. It’s not whether you fill your spiritual void with viewing sports, but whether that ritual creates deep bonds, and who is hurt and who is helped as a consequence.

 

Essays welcome for the “Season of Sports”! Your writing prompt:

You didn’t play or you did play or you took the middle ground. You were male, or female, or transitioning between one and the other. What was the role of sports in your life as a young person? What has the impact of that been on your life since?

See guidelines for submissions here. Play along and send your sports story for publication on True Stories Well Told?

 

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Remembering Independence Day, 1978

We pause in the “Season of Sports” series to commemorate the 4th of July, Independence Day.

It was the summer I went to France, the summer I had an Exotic Foreign Affair, the summer that ended here, at the Indianapolis airport, where thanks to a malfunctioning camera, I have this portrait of two ghosts–my father, deceased 1987, and me age 21.

1978 return from France ghosts

 

I wrote and re-wrote about that summer, until eventually I had a version that tied for first place in the Women’s Memoirs “Independence Day” theme contest in 2011. Titled “Make Love Not War”, that version of the story of my brief love affair with an Arab Terrorist went on to be selected for Women’s Memoirs’ compilation series, Seasons of Our Lives: Summer, and I was asked to record the story for the book trailer in early 2014.

And here it is.

 

 

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Football and Feminism, 1972

The “Season of Sports” continues…

By Leslie Howard, reprinted with permission from What She Said

Leslie portraitLike many women, I didn’t recognize my foray into the women’s movement for what it was until years later.

I attended Lafayette College beginning in 1972. Lafayette had just gone co-ed, and like many men’s engineering schools this was a big deal because the process of bringing women in and ensuring that they had an equal experience and opportunity was the challenge of the day. The administration was very diligent in its efforts to make everything available to the women on campus.

One night when I was doing laundry, I noticed a flyer recruiting a manager for the varsity men’s football team. Male or female! I loved football, and aside from me playing on powder-puff teams, football was not an option. Managing a team sounded fun. So, I inquired. They accepted me, and what ensued was probably the best education I ever received in how to work with men.

I was the first woman manager of a varsity men’s football team in the country. As soon as the athletic department figured this out, it was all over the papers. This attention was not something I expected or sought, and it did challenge my relationships with the players for a time. But in the end, I got to be a part of the team, even in the locker room at halftime—yuck—and earned my stripes by doing every dirty, difficult, crazy job they threw my way.

I learned that anything I wanted to do was open to me. I also learned not to back down in the most masculine of male environments. But come sophomore year, I had to ask myself, did I want to continue to help the guys play a sport they loved, or did I want to explore competition myself? I joined the newly formed women’s swimming team and women’s softball team.

I will ever cherish the opportunity Lafayette afforded me to break some barriers. After my Lafayette locker room experience I no longer had any limitations in my consciousness due to my gender.

Leslie managing 1972

 

Leslie Ann Howard received her degree in Psychology from Lafayette College in 1976. Soon after she moved to Madison, WI. where she earned her MSSW from UW-Madison. Leslie is currently the President and CEO of United Way of Dane County in Madison where she enjoys her family and has continued an active recreational sports career participating and coaching.

Leslie’s essay originally appeared in What She Said, a book created for the 20th anniversary of AFFW. It includes stories from 70 women about their experiences navigating career and family life as a woman. To get your own copy of What She Saidcontact Melinda Heinritz at affw@madisoncommunityfoundation.org or (608) 262-1763.

Essays welcome for the “Season of Sports.” Your writing prompt:

You didn’t play or you did play or you took the middle ground. You were male, or female, or transitioning between one and the other. What was the role of sports in your life as a young person? What has the impact of that been on your life since?

See guidelines for submissions here. Play along and send your sports story for publication on True Stories Well Told?

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“I Just Came to Watch”

The “Season of Sports” continues…today, with a story from my own past. – Sarah White

I can feel its grip now, the cord tightly wound around the narrow metal handle. I can feel the spring of its blade as the red rubber button at the tip touches the jacket of my opponent, or more frequently, the plink of pain as my opponent’s blade touches me. The handle and blade are square in cross-section; this is a fencing foil. Women were not allowed to compete in epee or sabre until 1996, and this was only 1972.

It was the fall of my junior year in high school. Because I had broken my ankle badly that spring and spent the summer with a cast from toe to thigh, I needed a rehab activity now that my leg was finally free. Because I had spent the summer on the couch watching the Olympics on TV, it may well have been me who suggested to my friends Sue and Leslie that we find a fencing class. Or maybe it was Sue, who was reading Regency-era bodice-rippers where swashbuckling swordplay figured heavily. Or it may have been Leslie, whose reading leaned more toward fantasy fiction, also rife with swordplay. No matter who instigated it; that fall we three found ourselves enrolled in fencing lessons at the YMCA in Nora, six miles south of where we lived in Carmel, Indiana.

We met in a practice room with mirrored walls and narrow lanes taped out on the polished floor. Our instructor (name forgotten) was a serious man who assumed our interest was serious, and began schooling us in the gentlemanly art of dueling. We were the only teenagers; perhaps six or seven adult men and one or two women attended the lessons as well.

The room echoed with the slap of sneakers on hardwood as the instructor barked his directions in fencing’s creole. (“En garde!” “Allez!” “Lunge, parry, riposte!”) Blade clanged against blade.

As each lesson progressed the air ripened with the odor of sweat. The smell of our unwashed plastrons (borrowed from the instructor’s grab bag) grew worse each week, but we gradually grew better. Before long, Sue, Leslie, and I were investing in equipment of our own. I ordered a foil and padded white jacket—unnervingly similar to a mental patient’s straightjacket with its long tight sleeves and buckled strap passing between the legs—from the official catalog of the United States Fencing Association. I bought a second-hand mask, but balked at wearing the tight white breeches and knee socks that make up fencing’s official uniform. I think all three of us settled on lightweight white pants instead.

As seems to happen with every kind of physical activity that can be instructed or practiced, the fencing lessons were assumed to be readying us for something. It was unlikely we would be called upon to defend ourselves in duels, so the object was understood to be competition. We joined the USFA. One of the adult women (name also forgotten) took competition seriously and frequently drove to fencing meets on weekends. She encouraged us to come along and—even though we were rank beginners—to enter the meets as well. We weren’t certain whether we were fencing in earnest or being ironic, but we did it for something to do. It was kind of her to share her car with three giggling teens.

I was a dreadful fencer. I had no aptitude for sports, no instinct for strategy, and no muscle tone, owing to the six months with my right leg in a cast. My opponents’ many touches against me peppered my right breast and forearm with dark bruises the diameter of dimes. In fencing, the competition is always one against one. I would never have to know the shame of letting down a team. I liked that.

Sue and Leslie and I continued to practice our fencing, not just at the YMCA but at the high school too, where we got permission to start a “fencing club” in lieu of participating in gym. We carried our foils and masks to school, and took over a back hall near the exit where the greasers and freaks gathered to smoke cigarettes or pot. We flirted and carried on, and even occasionally fenced, but never recruited anyone else to our club.

Photo by Dave Fulton, Indianapolis, 1973. That's my foil pointed straight at his camera.

Photo by Dave Fulton, 1973. That’s my foil pointed straight at his camera.

Besides the trips to compete, there was another type of outing connected with our fencing—going out for ice cream at the Dairy Queen after class. There were two boys in our beginner class slightly older than Sue, Leslie, and me, but not yet adults, either. Larry and Marty had ended up in fencing lessons for reasons similar to our own—overindulgence in  “swords and sorcery” science fiction,  and a desire for some kind of fitness activity without the risk of being labeled a jock. Each week they came out to the Y from central Indianapolis, some fifteen miles to the south.

The boys invited us to the DQ, where multilateral flirting ensued. I was at this time in hot pursuit of marijuana. In my high school there was a strict social code prohibiting being the first to induct someone into the brotherhood of pot-smokers, and I had not yet found a sponsor. Finally that barrier fell when Marty made the universal suck-on-a-joint gesture and asked, “So, do you girls get high?” “No!” replied Sue and Leslie, looking startled and a little frightened. “No, but I’d like to,” I said.

At that point my life branched as dramatically as Alice in Wonderland’s when she fell down the rabbit hole. Soon I was spending time with Larry and Marty’s inner city friends who were authentic “hippie freaks.”

My bifurcated world still included weekend trips to fencing meets, but I began bringing along a joint and contemplating sneaking off to smoke it. The time I actually tried this, we were at a meet at Culver Military Academy, a boarding school. The premises were appropriately Napoleonic, with the military uniforms and turreted buildings. Inside the gymnasium, the fencing strips were laid out along narrow mezzanine bridges overlooking tennis courts.

I slipped off to the women’s bathroom to smoke my joint. The beams of light slanting through the high windows were suddenly spangled with jewels. Back on the mezzanine, I found myself mesmerized by the sonic landscape—the slaps and clangs and grunts of fencing merging with the thwonks and thwacks of the ball sports. The foil seemed alien in my hand. The mask felt stifling. The idea of striking a sideways stance and bouncing up and down a narrow lane while attempting not to get stabbed seemed ludicrous. The pot had rendered me distant from it all.

“I just came to watch,” I announced, even though I was dressed and registered to compete. I do not recall anyone’s reaction.

I did continue to compete that spring, but I never again attempted to combine smoking and fencing. The ultimate irony is that I received a very small plaque declaring me eighth in the state in Women’s Fencing in the 1974 season. There were eight registered female fencers in Indiana that year. I liked that.

 

Essays welcome for the “Season of Sports.” Your writing prompt:

You didn’t play or you did play or you took the middle ground. You were male, or female, or transitioning between one and the other. What was the role of sports in your life as a young person? What has the impact of that been on your life since?

See guidelines for submissions here. Play along and send your sports story for publication on True Stories Well Told?

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To Watch or to Participate?

The “Season of Sports” continues…

By Marjorie Turner Hollman

I spent many of my early school years being a spectator. I was always the one to wait, to let others go first, to see what might happen before I jumped in. But in my last year of high school, I was bored with being a spectator. When my friends told me that the swim team needed an additional springboard diver to constitute a “team” for competition, with their encouragement, I “dove in.” When I first stood at the end of the 1-meter diving board and was urged, “Jump up,” all I wanted to do was to get down as fast as possible.

That’s where Mr. Crane came in. The parent of one of my fellow divers, Marvin Crane would arrive from work each afternoon in his coat and tie, and we would immediately begin diving.

Among us were three state diving champions, another who came in close to top in the state, a few experienced divers, and me. It didn’t matter—we each got his undivided attention, precise suggestions, and his encouragement to try again.

mth diving 01 mth diving 02

For an entire year, I headed to the pool after school, wriggled into my bathing suit, and hit the water. Each new dive was terrifying to me, and since six different “dives” were required to compete, Mr. Crane “held my hand” as I struggled to learn each of the main dives—back dive, front dive, inward, reverse, half twist, and forward 1½. By the end of the year, I had made it—I could “do” these 6 dives, more or less, with some degree of skill.

One day another coach approached me, asking if I would like to add a few more dives to my list so that I could help the team participate in a larger event. “Uh, no, I don’t think I could,” was my answer. The truth was that I’d just about reached the limit of my illustrious springboard diving career.

When I left for college, people asked if I would continue to dive. Not a chance. College diving starts with the 3-meter board and on up to the 10-meter platform—thirty feet up. This was not my cup of tea at all. But I had learned that I could step out of the crowd, stop being a spectator, and participate.

I later learned that Mr. Crane had never jumped off a diving board in his life. I have no idea whether he could even swim. It didn’t matter. He paid attention, understood how bodies moved, and was able to teach clearly. Whether he could dive or not had nothing to do with how he taught us. He would stand at the pool’s edge in his coat, tie, and business trousers, and confidently describe us what we needed to do to be better, more polished, and more able to cut a clean line into the water as we dove. And it worked.

Throughout my life I have looked back at the lessons I learned at the swimming pool in high school, and have felt such deep gratitude, not only to those friends who encouraged me to try, but to Mr. Crane, who offered me his attention, regardless of what I would do with his lessons. He was my model for what teaching is about—being there, showing up, encouraging, and not worrying about the end result. These have been life lessons for me throughout many different life circumstances.

SAMSUNG CAMERA PICTURES

SAMSUNG CAMERA PICTURES

Another lesson learned? That, like Mr. Crane, I didn’t have to always go out on a limb (or a diving board) to be able to help others. I could keep my feet firmly planted on the ground as long as I let my eyes and my voice travel wherever my students needed me.

Marjorie Turner Hollman

Marjorie Turner Hollman is a personal historian, Certified Legacy Planner with legacystories.org, and is the author of Easy Walks in Massachusetts, and More Easy Walks in Massachusetts, guides to walking trails in south central MA. She has presented numerous workshops at regional conferences and was a classroom teacher for nine years. She has been a freelance writer for the Bellingham Bulletin and numerous other local, regional and national publications for the past 17 years, and is the chapter coordinator for the southern New England Chapter of the Association of Personal Historians. www.marjorieTurner.com

Essays welcome for the “Season of Sports”! Your writing prompt:

You didn’t play or you did play or you took the middle ground. You were male, or female, or transitioning between one and the other. What was the role of sports in your life as a young person? What has the impact of that been on your life since?

See guidelines for submissions here. Play along and send your sports story for publication on True Stories Well Told?

Posted in Guest writer | Tagged , | 2 Comments