True Stories Well Told

For the next month or so, True Stories Well Told will feature writers I have met through First Monday, First Person, my “salon” for memoir writers held at the Pinney Branch Library in Madison.

By Sally Young

I got an email from a friend saying she spent the afternoon sitting on the porch, drinking lemonade. I wrote back saying, “Oh, that is the essence of a Midwestern summer day.” Lemonade on the porch? Hmmm, suddenly the floodgates of my memory opened.

I grew up in a turn-of-the-century home in Minneapolis. We had a huge screen porch that spanned the width of the house. It had battleship gray decking on the floor and a warm, burnished wood ceiling that looked like ship’s decking. In summer, the porch was the center of our family life. It housed two oversized white wicker rockers with dark green cushions that my mom had made, a picnic table with benches that could seat 12, a stand-alone roaster to keep from heating up the kitchen, a day bed, and a variety of house plants sitting on the wicker end tables along with our ever-present gold and white TV trays.

Best of all, the porch had two eye hooks secured in the ships-deck ceiling. These eye hooks could support any number of hanging or swinging items. When my brother and I were little there was a red rocking horse that had handles on its head and a movable joint between its head and torso. It could be straddled and pumped, much like a swing. Then as we got older, there was a trapeze where I could practice hanging upside down and my older brothers could show off doing pull ups. Later in our family’s life there was the classic oak porch swing.

In the summer, long before air conditioning, we would eat dinner on the porch every night, even though this meant carrying our food, drinks, and dishes all the way from the kitchen on the opposite side of the house. My mother, always working towards efficiency in her efforts to feed the six of us, had drafted an aluminum serving cart not unlike the dessert carts often seen in restaurants. We would load up that cart with as much stuff as it could hold, thus saving many trips of traipsing back and forth between the kitchen and the porch.

Although it was over 60 years ago, I have a clear memory of one balmy summer evening when I was alone on the porch. I was sitting in one of the wicker rocking chairs, reading a book. The night was dark and the crickets were singing. A glass of lemonade sat on the table next to me. In that moment, for some unknown reason, I became acutely aware of myself. And, perhaps for the first time, aware of myself as part of the larger world. As I think back on that moment, a picture comes to mind of me surrounded by the glow of the lamp within the enormous dark circle of night. There I was, safe, warm, and content in my little world.

I think about that time in the larger context of the world today. This was before Kennedy was shot, long before climate change, PFAS, or concealed carry. For some of us, it was a time of innocence. The existential threat of nuclear war felt more abstract than real. We did have a make-shift bomb shelter, but there were no nuclear bombs going off, so it was easy to keep that fear at arm’s-length.

I think about kids today and how their innocence about the world is lost at a young age. They have active shooter drills and climate lessons in first grade. Their active shooter drills are connected to actual events in schools just like theirs and the climate lessons are connected to very real climate events that are part of their everyday lives.

As they grow into adulthood, will they have some long-forgotten memory of a moment when they too felt safe and warm in the world? Will they be able to look back and see themselves as part of a world that is as benevolent as lemonade on the porch on a warm summer evening?

©2023 Sally Young

Sally is a perpetually-almost-retired therapist who works with adults with autism. After living in Wyoming and California, she came home to her roots in the Midwest to attend graduate school. A major part of her dissertation research entailed understanding the value of writing personal narrative. Sally spent several years in the 1980s waging a war with words. Today, she has made a truce, and is now learning how writing her own stories opens the heart.

For the next month or so, True Stories Well Told will feature writers I have met through First Monday, First Person, my “salon” for memoir writers held at the Pinney Branch Library in Madison.

By Renee Lajcak

Like many Wisconsinites growing up in the 1960s, I spent weekends at our family cottage, which was known to our family and better described as “the shack”.  My WWII veteran parents had grown up in tiny immigrant cabins in the woods of far northern Wisconsin.  They treasured the parts of their childhoods spent climbing the hills, fishing and foraging.  As adults living in a city, I think they built the shack as a way to return to and pass on those childhood joys, and also to find some peace after the war.

After buying a small lot on the Pine River in central Wisconsin for 100 bucks in the early 50s, my father built the one room shack nearly all by himself.  My mother helped by holding the ends of 2x4s but was also busy taking care of two toddlers and a baby in the “brambles and thorns” as she said. In those hard times, the lumber came from a torn-down church steeple, and my parents furnished the shack with other people’s cast-offs, some even found in the local dump.     The shack later had electricity but no running water, so we brought drinking water from home.  And, of course, there was an outhouse.  We dipped buckets from the river for general washing up, but when we kids were really sticky with summer sweat and dirt, we inner tubed down the icy cold spring-fed river.  

There was a woodstove and a wooden table with a bench for the kids and a big window overlooking Pine River.  Whereas now I watch the comings and goings on the city street in front of my house, in the shack the sparkling river drew our focus with its constant human-like gurgle and babble, trout fishermen wading by, swooping birds, and even a mink sliding into the dark water.  And instead of a TV, there was a campfire nearly every night.  Hypnotized by the flames, we kids listened to family stories, off-color jokes and my mother’s songs that ranged from cowboy tunes to the Marines’ Hymn.  

The shack was full of Dad’s sense of humor.  He installed an old tube radio in the kitchen ceiling. Well, technically, the radio was in the attic and the knobs and speaker stuck down through the ceiling.  As he intended, we could reach up turn on the radio from the kitchen below.    Outside, four car tires hung way up high on several trees.  This was the result of a terrible auto accident his story went.     My father envisioned the shack as a rough and rustic sportsman’s escape with antlers and beer signs hanging on the walls, but though it hosted a few friends during hunting season, it was mostly a family escape from our hot, non-air-conditioned city house.  As our family grew, a second room was added.  Mom painted the second room PINK, much to Dad’s dismay.

The sandy land was poor for farmers, but rich for us.  We picked wild grapes and hazelnuts, searched for puffball mushrooms and wild onions, climbed up onto huge glacial granite boulders, watched meteors and caught fish. In the early days even a bear and a bobcat wandered by.  My older siblings filled jars with lightning bugs, and my father took me out in the night to wonder at phosphorescent mushrooms glowing in the dark. 

Of course, not everything was perfect.  There was poison ivy everywhere at first and plenty of mosquitoes, sometimes too much beer and teenage boredom.  And though the river still runs, the shack is long gone. But the shack served its purpose.  I think my parents gained some peace there in the woods. And their children gained things that we can’t even articulate.  I now appreciate that it was a true treasure to have my childhood framed by those weekends in the Wisconsin woods.

Great!

©2023 Renee Lajcak

Renee is a newly retired English language teacher who has taught in several Asian countries but now enjoys her woodsy backyard the best.  She loves the connections made through storytelling and teaching conversational English, but writing about memories allows her to go inward to contemplate the good, the bad and the ugly.  But mostly the good. 

By Pat LaPointe

Mom passed away on September 11, 2008. For over a month, I sat beside her in the ICU. During the day, I cared for my father, who had dementia, evenings and overnight. I was physically, mentally, and emotionally exhausted.

My husband saw the toll the month’s responsibilities had taken on me and scheduled a relaxing trip to the Oregon coast. For the first few days, I just sat for hours staring at the water. On the third day, he finally convinced me to check out the cozy little town.

My first stop was at a boutique showcasing some attractive apparel, items I would usually not seek out.

I was greeted by two smiling middle-aged women. I think they could sense my unease. One woman came over and put her hand gently on my shoulder while the other began showing me blouses she thought would “look great on you”. The caring gestures almost brought tears to my eyes.

These women continued to bring me clothes I would never have chosen. When I said I didn’t think the items were my “type,” they responded that maybe it was time for a change.

They had struck a raw emotional nerve. Tears flowed as I told them about the stress of the last few months. As they hugged me, I also believed I needed a change.

I had been caring for others for so long but without much support. The comfort these women gave me felt like the nurturing a mother would bestow on her child. It was the beginning of my focus on my own needs, a time for a change.

©  2023 Patricia LaPointe

Pat LaPointe, creator of Share Your Voice, an online interactive community for all women. She is editor of the anthology; The Woman I’ve Become: 37 Women Share Their Journeys from Toxic Relationships to Self-Empowerment. In addition, she has conducted writing workshops for women — both online and onsite. Pat’s essays and short stories have been published widely in anthologies, literary journals and on Medium.com @patromitolapointe. Currently, Pat is completing her first novel.

By Fay McClurg

Fay is in a small writing group that has been choosing prompts from Natalie Goldberg’s “Writing Down the Bones” card deck. This post is her response to the prompt, “No Thank You.”

No thank you to the young woman who came to the door. She came in the late afternoon,
clipboard in hand. Cheeks flushed from the heat of the day, she was wearing her name tag from Planned Parenthood. She was earnest and sincere. She reminded me that the Dobbs decision was handed down by the Supreme Court just one year ago, overturning Roe V. Wade and wiping out women’s constitutional right to abortion. Planned Parenthood is in the vanguard to protect women’s right to health care. We agreed: Yes, it is great that the Wisconsin Supreme Court has a new, but narrow liberal majority, but we clearly need more protection. I told her that I knew the issues and let her know I was on her side. Could I provide financial support to Planned Parenthood on a monthly basis, she asked? I thanked her for her good work, but I said ‘no’ to her request. I uttered something about family changes that made it hard for me to make new financial commitments.

No thank you.

Would it have been so hard to make this financial commitment? The young woman at my door seemed guileless. I believe in the cause, I trust Planned Parenthood. The financial commitment that was being asked of me was minimal.

I’d like to believe that my refusal to commit to her plea was based on my stubborn refusal to give money to anyone who comes to my door to ask for it. But maybe I said no thank you for other reasons?

Maybe I said no thank you because the issue does not have the urgency for me, personally, that it once did? I’m past my child bearing years. I’ve had access to excellent healthcare throughout my life and I’ve been able to take it for granted. Of course I want my daughter and granddaughter and all women – in the US and around the world – to have agency over their own bodies and be able to get the health care they need.

But would my dollars make a difference?

What about other pressing issues? Free and fair elections? Climate change? Food security, affordable housing and child care for families? What about education and literacy? I can’t forget about the songbirds and the feral cats. What about the local food pantry and the back to school drive to get backpacks to kids? What about research to vanquish neuro-degenerative diseases? And the arts – that bring us so much joy? The arts that help us understand the human condition and have the power to create community? Should I do more to help my young adult children? Save for my granddaughter’s future?

I’m overwhelmed. So I just say, as kindly as I can: No thank you.

© 2023 Fay McClurg

Fay’s writing has consisted of heartfelt letters to friends and family, journals, eulogies of loved ones, and essays in high school English class. A year ago she happily discovered Guided Autobiography as a way to capture some of her life stories. Fay is a social worker in Madison, Wisconsin, where she raised her family.

By Gloria Sinibaldi

 I called him Charlie although I didn’t know his real name. He had poor posture and an unruly beard, an older gentlemen, with tangled hair that grew over his ears and down the back of his neck.  The bulky coat he wore, protected him against the cold morning mist, and it also bogged down his frail body as did the backpack he had slung over his shoulders. Charlie boarded the Sacramento Street bus each morning at 6:30am sharp, along with the rest of us commuters. He was never late or absent.  Charlie was reliable that way. He didn’t speak to us, nor did we speak to him.  But we knew he was a talker for sure. He carried on spirited conversations with his invisible friend who never left his side.  As we headed up hill, he would be shouting at her. “I told you not to go there!” “Why didn’t you give it back?” His conversations were disjointed, each morning a new argument, more angst and frustration. Not many of his words made sense, especially since we heard only his side of the exchange, but on occasion we could make something out. “Next time you should listen to me! “Don’t interrupt me!”  On and on the disputes went, Charlie’s voice reaching high volumes in the quiet hours of the morning as the bus rattled along.  The louder Charlie got, the more subdued we became, shrinking into our seats, pretending Charlie was invisible too.  

The damp streets were dark during winter months and the bus was dimly lit with only flashing neon signs from shops and businesses illuminating the sky in spurts.  The sun had not yet crested the San Francisco hills and thick fog blanketed the city creating a surreal feeling.  We were a captive audience and as the bus jostled and jerked its way up the hill we listened to Charlie and learned about his life. He was from Chicago and didn’t like San Francisco much. He came here because of her and was angry. “It’s crazy here, not home” he’d say. The blank spaces of the conversations were filled in by our imaginations. I tried to piece together clues as I listened.  Charlie’s mood swings would take him from angry to woeful in a quick minute. He never laughed but sometimes Charlie would cry. It was sad to see him so broken. Occasionally, he would sleep using his backpack for a pillow. Those were the good days, when his invisible friend would let him rest.    We knew Charlie was homeless but indifference kept us at a distance.  He never asked for anything. Not once.  He just went about his business, trying to settle the score in this challenging, invisible relationship. Every morning, a new argument erupted.  It was exhausting for Charlie and for us too.

 Polk Street was Charlie’s stop. He’d drag his body out of his seat, step down to the sidewalk and disappear into the day with his invisible friend tagging along.  With the two of them gone, quiet settled in the space around us. You could hear a collective sigh of relief as the doors slammed shut, rambling further up the hill to where I got off, at Van Ness.  During the short jaunt, from Polk to Van Ness and on the walk to my office, I’d think about Charlie. What was he like when he lived in Chicago? I pictured him wearing a suit, sitting in a tall office building, shuffling papers. No, maybe he was a fry cook, working in a busy restaurant, in a steamy hot kitchen.  Then I’d picture him with a family and kids, maybe a dog? Why did he leave Chicago?  Who was his friend? And how did Charlie end up on the Sacramento Street bus? Maybe the next day would provide more clues. I knew I’d see him again. There he would be, waiting to take the trek up Sacramento Street in the drafty, dimly lit bus, at 6:30 am sharp. Charlie was reliable that way.

Since leaving my job in the city I never saw Charlie again. But after years of riding with him on the bus he still comes to my mind on occasion.  “Is there a little bit of Charlie in all of us?” I wonder.  Charlie was a man fighting a battle. Trying to resolve the trials and tribulations of his life and to manage the voices in his head that told him he wasn’t enough.  Like us, he was doing the best he could in a world that could be complicated and cruel.   I hope Charlie found peace with his invisible friend.

© 2023 Gloria Sinibaldi

Gloria Sinibaldi lives in South Lake Tahoe with her husband Ralph and Goldendoodle, Sissy. She is a retired employment program manager who writes as a form of expression and therapy. Her story, “A Means to Survive” was published in the short story collection, “Tahoe Blues, Short Lit on Life at the Lake”.  “Lone Wolf”, a poem, appeared in Perspectives Magazine.  She’s contributed to Writing it Real Anthologies and Story Circle. As a columnist for the Tahoe Daily Tribune, Gloria has written numerous business-related articles and book reviews. Walking in nature, landscape photography, and time spent with her eight grandchildren brings her much joy.  

By Lois Lawler

One of the themes presented in Guided Autobiography is “Gender and Sexuality”. One version of the prompting questions for this theme begins with this observation: “Our ideas about what it means to be a woman or a man evolve and come from many sources, such as family members, friends, reading, and our experiences in life. The history of our sexual development, including our identities as boys or girls, men, or women, is an important aspect of our personal histories.”

Lois Lawler, a participant in my “Going Deeper with Guided Autobiography” class for Story Circle Network, wrote the following semi-fictionalized autobiographical essay. She chose the hermit crab style, in which a writer adopts an existing form to contain their writing. These forms can be a number of things including emails, recipes, to do lists, and field guides. Lois chose the diary format.

“Excerpts from My Diary”

By Jan Wheaton

Following my Monday writing class each week, I process and visualize ideas until my subject begins to take shape.

There I was Thursday morning, moving around a bit while waiting at the eye doctor for my husband. Passing a mirror, my subject appears for this week’s theme on family. My grandma Matilda (Mattie). In the photo, seated on the right, next to my maternal grandmother. To give the listener more of a history of Grandma’s surname and birthplace, I would have to dig deep into a Tupperware that proves far too difficult for me to get at.

What I can tell you is Mattie Winsor was born in Iowa in 1887 and married Thomas Cook, four years her senior. Mattie and Thomas eventually settled in Muscoda, Wisconsin, and had six children. Their youngest daughter Barbara was killed in a tragic accident when she was only six years old. My father Darrell, next youngest, was 12.

In the early 1940s, my father and mother met in Richland Center, Wisconsin, and in 1944 they married and moved to the big city of Madison to pursue a dream.

Five years later, Grandpa Thomas died of a heart condition at the age of 66. My grandma was 62 at the time and needed a place to call home. I came along in 1953 and within the following two years, Grandma Mattie came to live with our family–Mom, Dad, my older sister, and me.

Mattie was part of our family for the next 13 years. Mom and Dad were working all the time by now, owning their own restaurant. Grandma was always there, a constant presence, yet most of the time saying very little. Grandma rarely smiled. Never discussed feelings. And warm and fuzzy would not be words to describe her. She was quiet, but her presence in my formative years gave me a sense of security.

The picture tells a pretty good story. Grandma Mattie was small in stature, slightly humped over, teeny tiny around the middle. Grandma ate like a bird, weighing in at 100 pounds on a good day. She was pale, always cold, wore a housedress and glasses, and her hair appeared unattended to. It didn’t matter. She was always present. Grandma loved to tend her Sophia-colored rose bushes along the south wall of our cozy Cape Cod home. Not much of a cook in the kitchen, my fond memory was riding the city bus with Grandma heading downtown for lunch and a fashion show at Manchester’s. After lunch we would ride the concierge-managed elevator up and down, browsing the different departments. Now and then, Grandma had a little extra money in her pocketbook to buy me something.

Mattie was very strict about one thing in her life. You didn’t mess with her chocolates.

Grandma loved her box of chocolates, and she hid them from everyone else in the family. That little bird became a hawk, protecting and guarding her chocolates. Favorite hiding places were closets and drawers. Favorite new game for me? Finding them. When found, I performed the fine art of paring knife skills Grandma taught me. Slice a corner to find the one you’d like. Place the others neatly back in the box, exposed side down.

The difficulty for Grandma and for me came after the move to our new house in 1968. Grandma fell and broke her hip. After some rehab and returning home, something had changed.  Grandma was forgetting things like turning the burners of the stove off. Now I, a teenager, it all seemed to happen so fast for me. Before I knew it, Grandma Mattie was being driven by my father to the Nazareth House in Stoughton. She never returned. I never saw her again.

My sister tells me that my parents were trying to shield me from the pain, a recurring theme that I would not suggest. It hurt me deeply. Grandma died in 1975. I was at her service. Years later, Grandma Mattie came to my bedside in a dream to let me know she was okay.

Today in the mirror, that’s who I see. Mattie. Me. Looking so alike. Me, six inches shorter, pale, always cold, slightly bent over, breasts heading south. Skinny, weighing in at 105 pounds. And on most days, hair unattended to. In homage to you, Grandma. I am smiling, as I stand tall in the mirror, working hard to build strong bones and prevent injury. At the same time, hoping to end the vicious cycle of dementia that ravaged your brain and that of my father. I missed you. I wanted to come and see you. So until we meet again. “Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re gonna get,” do you, Grandma!

© 2023 Jan Wheaton

Jan Wheaton considers herself a person who writes from her heart. Her concern is not with proper writing techniques, but with documenting an honest reflection of her life in her own voice. The stories she has to tell are generated from a chance encounter, a planned event, or something said in passing. She believes all stories start with one simple thought. When she allows her thoughts to flow from her heart to the paper, something magical happens for her, a cleansing of sorts, a healing.

By Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

These were Dad’s words to my mom in her frustration about the lack of money to pay our bills on time and have a few dollars for extras.“Of course not.” Not having enough money is all I ever remember in my growing up. Our apartment felt like living under a canvas tent so shaky it was likely to blow away during the next wind storm. Dad’s income fluctuated depending upon how productive his luncheonette and ice cream parlor had been on any given week. We were on a virtual seesaw. On good-income weeks our moods were sunny, our faces radiated with pride. On poor-income weeks our moods were dark, our faces were lined with worry. Although Dad never said it, I knew he wished to be a better provider. It’s not that he lacked trying. He was a diligent worker. But—he lacked the education and opportunities to have a higher paying job. And having a job which required fewer hours so that he could spend more time with our family.

What if Dad got sick and couldn’t work? What if Mom couldn’t be treated for her heart condition because we couldn’t afford the cost for her care? What if our dreams for a future, a home we could own, enough money to afford a new car, our old one was on the verge of collapse, and that Dad didn’t have to work every day except for every other Sunday, was just that, only dreams.

*

Managing money was one of many major conflicts between them. They rarely agreed on anything. Fortunately, Mom was an excellent money manager and managed on Dad’s meager income to provide as much as she could for us. Dad, in contrast, had very little sense of saving even if there was extra money to save. Mom said that money in Dad’s pocket “would burn a hole,” even a few dollars, and some change disappeared quickly.

*

Despite a lack of money, I was the lucky recipient of extras thanks to Mom’s wise and careful budgeting. I went to a summer camp for several seasons subsidized by the University Settlement House in New York, and also to Girl Scout Camp, subsidized by the Scouts. And from the ages of nine through twelve, I had dance, acting, and voice and diction lessons at the Henry Street Playhouse. These lessons were considerably less expensive than comparable lessons at private performance arts schools in New York.

*

Mom was a clever shopper. Her favorite store was Orbach’s, which had much better prices than the elite stores in the fifties like Lord and Taylor, Saks Fifth Avenue, and Bonwit Teller. And the elitist of the elite New Yorkers shopped at Bergdorf Goodman, a store I had never heard of in my youth. Mom knew how to buy the nicest clothes for both of us by making end-of-season purchases and markdowns. She had an uncanny knack for going through a rack of dresses and finding just the perfect one within seconds. I can’t think of a comparable race winner in any other sports division.

*

Things could have been so different if Mom had worked to add to Dad’s income. Mom, who graduated from Hunter College in New York with a Spanish major and an Italian minor in 1931, couldn’t get a teaching job due to the Depression. She married my dad in 1940. She had her first heart attack, a genetic predisposition in her family, twelve years later, when I was ten years old. Teaching would not be possible when she was infirmed with heart disease. Later, despite her health, when Dad was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer she was able to care for him.

*

Mom needed to support herself. With up-to-date medical care, her health improved and she was able at the age of fifty-four, to start the career she was educated for, teaching. She obtained her college transcript and in the mid-nineteen sixties, language teachers were in demand. She taught High School Spanish for fifteen years before her retirement. She earned enough to travel every summer between school years. In an uncanny way, Dad’s death allowed her to have a more productive and meaningful life. 

*

Since I married my husband, I have been fortunate to live very comfortably and have some luxuries. In addition to his earnings as an engineer, I contributed to our income with my earnings as a clinical social worker in an agency and later in my private practice. We paid for our daughter’s undergraduate and graduate school degrees. Sadly on June 30th, 2023, the Supreme Court outlawed student debt relief. This means that many of those encumbered by huge student debts will have difficulty moving their lives ahead financially. If ever. I am so glad that our daughter finished her schooling without any debt so she could pursue her career and earn well. 

Thankfully, I have never heard these words since my childhood, “What do you want me to do, rob a bank?”

© 2023 Carol J. Wechsler Blatter

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Story Circle Network Anthologies, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Literary Journal, Jewish Writing Project, New Millennium Writings, 101.org, and poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations by Women of Reform Judaism. She is a wife, mother, and a very proud grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist in private practice.