True Stories Well Told

By Marlene Samuels

Note, Marlene assures me that 1) this is a true memory, confirmed with her siblings, and 2) her parents are not the type who would ever scare their children for fun. Draw what conclusions you will. – Sarah White

My tenth year, Beggar’s Night fell on Saturday. As luck would have it, that Saturday evening our parents had, uncharacteristically, left us alone longer than usual so they could attend their closest friend’s birthday party. And that night our judgment would undergo its greatest test. Beggar’s Night was the long-anticipated annual opportunity among us inner-city kids to dress in rags, play outrageous pranks and go begging for money, not candy. It was the version of Halloween in our old Montreal neighborhood. Darkness enveloped the city disappointingly early, providing a perfect foil for our shenanigans.

Jake, my older brother, was my hero. He also was the epitome of great wisdom, a teller of truth in all things, but most of all he was a spectacular storyteller. It made no difference to me whether his tales were verifiable or not.

We’d just finished our T.V. dinners and repaired to the bedroom we shared for an interminable game of Monopoly. “Your move,” I said, looking up. His face was contorted, frozen with terror. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked. “You moving or what?”

“Huh, what? Did you hear that?” He whispered.

“Hear what? I didn’t hear anything. Move already!”

“There it is again!” This time I did hear it. We both stiffened as if playing Statues, not Monopoly. Loud clanking on windows, like fingernails against glass, raised our hairs. The eerie sound ricocheted off our bedroom’s plaster walls. Then, for one instant, we saw it — whatever “it” was. A massive head with pointed ears glided past our window as though floating on air. Just as suddenly as it appeared, it vanished from view.

“I’ll bet one of my moronic friends is playing a prank,” said Jake, bravely, “and when I find out who, I’m going to brain him!”

“I bet this is a prank. I’ll help you brain him!” I said, totally unconvinced.

“You saw that, right?” He whispered. Dull heavy footfalls on our back porch echoed throughout the house and with it came animal-like, blood-curdling growls. Whatever “it” was now glided past the window in the opposite direction. Still on the floor with Monopoly, we stared toward the window anticipating another glimpse and sensing our vulnerability.

“Quick, get away from the window in case it looks in and sees us,” I whispered. “Let’s crawl  into the kitchen to the telephone.”

“I’m with you,” Jake whispered. I crawled combat style, across the floor into the hallway. He followed. Single file, we shimmied toward the kitchen. Once there, still on my knees, I stretched my arm up as far as I could manage to hit the light switch and turn the overhead off. It was near pitch-black and we’d convinced ourselves we were invisible. The only phone in our flat rested on its telephone stand in the kitchen but there was a problem: it was opposite the backdoor.

Again, we saw it, heard it, and, holding our breaths, riveted against the wall. We stared at the glass door toward the back porch. It was right outside! Its fully visible head created an other-worldly silhouette through the lace curtains onto the kitchen wall. Without any doubt, its head was larger than any human’s we’d ever seen. We shivered trying, unsuccessfully, to flatten ourselves even more against the wall.

“Holy God, it’s rattling the door!” Jake said, his voice strained. “What’ll we do?”

“We’ll call the police, that’s what,” I whispered, louder than I’d intended. “Then we’ll crawl to our room and hide under our beds until they get here.”

“And exactly how will you do that, you idiot? The phone’s on the other side of the back door, remember? Let’s just crawl to our room and I mean right now. We’ll hide under our beds. Besides, Mom and Dad should be home soon.”

We reversed direction and once more, combat-crawled — this time from the kitchen through the hallway back to our bedroom. Our eyes darted behind us every few seconds as though doing so held special powers to prevent “it” from coming through the door until we’d gotten to what we’d considered safety: under our beds.  Bumps and multi-tonal howls accelerated along with our terror. Paralyzed with fear, we debated whether our hiding place was a wise one. The racket continued but with one advantage: it was a beacon that alerted us of the creature’s location while it traversed our flat’s exterior — round and round and round it went.

An eternity later — one hour in reality, we heard the welcoming jangling of keys at the front door. Our parents had arrived. Both were beyond delighted by our enthusiastic greetings. Jake and I vied for their attention as we relayed the hair-raising experiences of our evening amidst Mom’s dubious expressions. “My goodness, such imaginations you two have!” She chided. “Wherever did you come up with such craziness?”

The next morning, Sunday, we slept in. Dad left to buy smoked salmon, bagels and cream cheese. When he returned, he set the feast on the kitchen table tuned our radio to his favorite classical station but, before taking his seat. We were in the midst of enjoying our favorite weekend breakfast when ear-piercing staccato horns blared from the radio interrupting Mozart with their demand for our attention. In unison, all four of us stared at the radio’s front as though the announcer had just arrived in our kitchen to present his news.

“Attention! WCBC brings you this critical update. Following a month-long manhunt, police have captured two escapees from Douglas Hospital for the Insane, ‘Grizzly-Bear McDaniels’ and companion, ‘Freaky Fred Fournier.’ McDaniels’s capture will put an extremely anxious Montreal at ease. Heavily armed when captured, he’s extremely dangerous and notorious for biting children to death while dressed in a Grizzly-Bear costume.”

©  2022 Marlene Samuels

Marlene holds a Ph.D., from University of Chicago. A research sociologist by training, she writes creative non-fiction by preference. Currently, she is completing her book entitled, Ask Mr. Hitler: A Memoir Told In Short Story.  She is coauthor of The Seamstress: A Memoir of Survival, and author of When Digital Isn’t Real: Fact-Finding Off-Line for Serious Writers. Her essays and stories have been published widely in anthologies, journals, and online.  (www.marlenesamuels.com)

By Seth Kahan

This essay recently appeared in Seth’s “Monday Morning Mojo” e-newsletter.

In my thirties, I trained in search and rescue and got my Wilderness First Responder certificate, the industry standard for professional guides and trip leaders. I was motivated to do this because I loved the outdoor backcountry and had already gotten seriously lost once in Superior National Forest, Minnesota. That scared me enough that I refreshed my map and compass skills and enrolled in these other classes.

I carry a supplemented first aid kit with me and try to be careful so I don’t hurt myself. But, sometimes, things happen.

On my last camping trip, I was just settling down to meditate after my first night in the woods when I heard my canine companion, Kaya, whipping back and forth. I knew in an instant that she had gotten into a beehive. I was up in an instant swatting her, getting her lead unhooked so she could run away, swatting bees off of me, and running away myself.

The bees were on both of us. I threw Kaya in the river and jumped in myself. After several submersions, the bees were gone. Then I started getting dizzy. I was worried it was an anaphylactic shock, but as I found out later, it was just a lot of bee stings. I returned to the tent, ripped open my first aid kit, and ate two Benadryl. Then I packed only essentials and left for the ER.

The bee toxins caught up with me first.

I spent an hour on my back in delirium. It was highly entertaining and reminded me of my college days, except there was this nagging concern about being in mortal danger. Kaya camped out next to me while I was down. After an hour of lucid dreaming, I got myself up and out of the woods. I threw Kaya in the jeep and headed back for the grid; it was about a 30-minute drive. I found the closest ER and headed over as soon as I got online. They were empty except for me, kind, and took care of me.

After inspecting me and taking my vital signs, they kept me for observation for three hours before sending me out with some steroids and significant antihistamines in my system. They also gave me an EpiPen for my first aid kit. I discovered they are good even if you don’t have an anaphylactic shock.

I checked into a wonderful tiny house overlooking the mountains and a lake near Canada. I took two nights off to watch myself for any side effects from the bee stings. There were none. The next day the welts started disappearing.

Kaya and I returned to find the tent, sleeping bag, and supplies in good shape. We very carefully broke camp and moved deeper inland, away from the underground nests, which were numerous around my first site. Now that I knew what to look for, I saw them everywhere.

We had a blissful remainder of our trip, camping near large rock outcroppings up and down the North Fork of the Bouqet River, covered in waterfalls and swimming holes.

Very happy I had Benadryl with me. I had added that to my first aid kit. This fall, I’ll be taking another wilderness first responder course. Is there something you like to do that adds a little assurance to your life?

©  2022 Seth Kahan

Seth Kahan (Seth@VisionaryLeadership.com) helps leaders take on Grand Challenges, wicked problems that require a social movement to be successfully addressed. But he can still hang out and tell stories. Subscribe to his “Monday Morning Mojo” to receive a weekly blast of good energy.

By Suzy Beal

Something strange has been happening here in my home lately. The communication between my husband and me has been falling apart.

At first, I thought it was because we just weren’t paying attention to each other. Then I wondered if it was our age and perhaps just not hearing each other the way we used to. Maybe it’s because we know each other so well that we feel we know what the other person is going to say and so we don’t listen.

We’ve both had our hearing checked and although there is some hearing loss, there’s no need for hearing aids yet. So, I guess it boils down to not paying attention.

When did we stop paying attention to each other?  Life seems so busy. We are both involved with our pursuits of writing and playing the piano each day. We have errands to run, food to purchase, books to take to the library, and helping our daughters with their lives when they need it.

Here in our house, we sort of bump and grind (as we call it) way too much. The knowing smiles we used to pass to each other are gone. It’s hard to be patient with someone when you feel you aren’t being heard. I think that is the problem.

As we age, we need to be more patient. We need to care more, be kinder to our partner. Life throws us enough curves. We don’t need to create more, especially between us. The Webster definition of the word patience: “bearing the provocation, annoyance, misfortune, pain, etc. without complaint, loss of temper, or irritation.” That seems to fit our situation.

I must try harder and after I read this to him, I know he will try harder, too.

p.s. Robert loved this piece, and we really do talk abut these things in our household. The essay did give us a point from which to start.

© 2022 Suzy Beal

Writer and budding poet Suzy Beal spent twenty-five years helping seniors put their stories to paper and this year just finished her own memoir. Suzy’s work has appeared on truestorieswelltold.com, including a serialized portion of her travel memoir. She writes personal essays and is currently studying poetry.  Her work has appeared on Story Circle Network, 101words, Central Oregon Writer’s Guild, and recently an essay in  Placed: An Encyclopedia of Central Oregon. She lives and writes from Bend, Oregon.

By Patricia LaPointe

Up until the age of twelve, I lived in the city. Twelve-year-old city girls still wore ponytails, played indoor and outdoor games, and dressed in pedal pushers and t-shirts. 

Before I was to enter the seventh grade, Mom decided we should move to the suburbs. Seventh grade in the city was still part of elementary school. Seventh grade was separate from elementary school in the suburbs and called Junior High. I thought, “so what’s in a name?” It was still seventh grade. 

I soon discovered how vastly different plain old seventh grade was from Junior High. I entered the classroom and felt like I was in a foreign country. The girls had the most popular hairdo of the time: a short bob called a “bubble cut.” Our uniform was a pleated skirt, white blouse, and a bolero vest. All the girls had their skirts shortened to fall at their knees. Mom didn’t know how to hem, so my skirt fell inches above my ankle. The girls had these tiny, perky, budding breasts, perfect for wearing a bolero vest. My breasts had already blossomed to a 36 B. The bolero barely covered them. I was like “fresh meat” and a source of amusement for the well-established cliques. 

“Look at her skirt. I have nightgowns shorter than that.” 

“Bangs? Who wears bangs? And a ponytail? I’d never be caught dead wearing that.” 

“Did you see her eyebrows? They go straight across her forehead.” 

And they enlisted help from their “boyfriends” in their bullying. 

“She’s wearing a bra. Go snap it.” And I’d hear the boys’ victorious proclamations just as they were about to snap my bra: “Over the shoulder boulder-holder attack!” 

So, I sat for months listening to these words, whispers, and chuckling when I passed them. 

Mom was no help. She said these girls were “growing up too fast,” wearing short skirts and adult hairdos. She said they were so silly, giggling all the time. “I don’t want to hear you giggling or see you chasing boys.” 

My response to these situations was to study and learn. I became an “A” student. 

I found that being a good student had both positive and negative effects. I became the “teacher’s pet,” which only increased the bullying, especially when she would have me “watch” the class when she was out of the room. 

“Ooh, you’re in charge. You gonna tell her about this?” as they shot spitballs across the room. 

“How about this?” as they ran up the aisles, tagging each other. 

No, I didn’t tell about any of this. Nor did I tell when a boy, prompted by the “in” girls, stomped on my foot with his heavy boot. I told the teacher there were no problems when she was out of the room. I will never forget the smug faces of my classmates. 

This experience hurt my ability to form friendships with other women. I am very cautious, perhaps overly so, when meeting them. The fear of encountering similar behavior with women I meet makes it challenging to form a trusting relationship. The result is often my keeping them at arm’s length. I wonder how many opportunities for real friendships I’ve missed. 

P.S. There was a benefit: Learning what I expect from a friendship, as well as what I’m willing to offer, not only assists in those relationships but also tells me more about who I am. And who doesn’t need that? 

©  2022 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, forthcoming in 2023.

By Roberta (Bobbie) Johnson

My grandfather, a prankster, was a kind and loving man, good-natured and playful.  In my mother’s memoirs of her childhood, most all her memories are of him. Very little mention is made of Grandma.   She was strong, hardworking, and the backbone of the family. But like many women in her day, stayed in the background.  It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized how much of an influence she had on me and how grateful I am for what she instilled in me.

Here it is, retirement – my golden years.  And for the first time in my life, every day is my own.  No parent telling me what to do and when to do it.  No teacher expecting me to be at my desk and do my homework. No child demanding my time and attention.  No employer requiring my presence on the job.  I can get up when I want to get up and go to bed when I am tired, be it 8 o’clock in the evening or 3 o’clock in the morning.

If I want to sit at the computer and play games all day, I can sit at the computer and play games.  If I want to spend the day reading that book, I can do just that.  If I want to clean my house, I….well, I may get to it, or maybe not.  With few exceptions, I can spend each day doing exactly what I want to do.  So, what’s the problem? The problem is my Grandma Swiggum.

Grandma may have worked outside the home long before I can remember.  I think she may have worked at the paper factory in Eau Claire. Or the powder plant in Sauk County. But in my memory, she was always a homemaker.  And she managed to make that a full-time job, keeping a small home and cooking for Grandpa.  When she wasn’t cooking or cleaning, she was sewing.  We still have some of the quilts she made, though they are falling apart from use.  She was known for her cute clothespin bags that looked like a little dress.  She was always getting requests for them and always answered the requests.  I still have the pattern she used, made from a brown paper bag.  She made so many, she probably tore the original to pieces.  She gave me the last bag she was making that was unfinished.  After her death, I finished the bag and gave it to a sister I knew would appreciate it the most.  I already had one of my own.

The only leisure activity I remember her engaging in was playing cards.  Playing solitaire, it was how she started and ended her days. Years ago, solitaire was played with real cards, not on a computer.  I lived with Grandpa and Grandma for a while when I was in seventh grade. The sound of cards being shuffled and laid down on the table was what I woke to most mornings and fell asleep to each evening.  Except for a few games of solitaire, Grandma managed to keep herself constantly busy with the daily chores of homemaking.  And she instilled in me the need to remain busy and productive.

That dear old lady who passed over 50 years ago still talks to me today.  She still tells me things like “anything worth doing is worth doing well.”  Or I you are not being productive; you are wasting your time.  Not her words, but the point she makes.

If I’m doing yard work, she’s telling me I should be cleaning the house.  If I’m cleaning the house, she reminds me the laundry is piling up.   If I sit down to watch TV, she suggests I could be clipping coupons or paying bills while I’m watching.  I have so many projects going at the same time; I almost never get any completed.  Every time I start working in one direction, I feel her tugging at me to be doing something else. 

But I am so grateful for my grandma and the things she instilled in me.  And I am proud that in many ways, I turned out much like I remember her.  She was hardworking, loving and giving and that is what I continue to strive to be.   But sometimes I just want to say, “Please Grandma, just be still and let me just waste the day away.”

© 2022 Roberta Johnson

Roberta (better known as Bobbie) Johnson had a difficult childhood lasting through her teens. Each month, she would take some of her lunch money, buy a True Story magazine and devour every story. While not the best reading material for a teenager, it gave her comfort knowing her experiences were not unique and life would get better. Through her working years, she discovered she had a bit of a knack for writing. Now Bobbie writes her own true stories. Not about the pain, but about the people in her life who gave her cherished memories. Memories to remind her that through it all, life was and still is good. 

By Nancy Levinson

“Some years back psychologists, observing the intense emotional attachment that fans develop toward actors and other celebrities, named the phenomena “parasocial relationships, with fans investing time, energy and emotion in stars who are unaware of their existence . . . fans even will feel as if they own the celebrity or as if they are a personal partner.” — New York Times, July 31, 2022

I was a fan once. In my earliest movie-going years I was much taken with bigger-than-life actresses, Natalie Wood and Margaret O’Brien. One day Natalie actually appeared live in a department store downtown, publicizing a line of little plaid dresses with starched white Peter Pan collars. If you bought a dress, she would sign her name with a ballpoint pen on the collar. My mother made the purchase as my heart leapt, and my idol penned her autograph. At home, I would not allow this treasure to be washed.

During my early adolescence, new stars twinkled in my eye. Elizabeth Taylor and Jane Powell were tops, and I idolized Esther Williams. On a big screen and in a deep-water pool she dipped and flipped, each swim scene climaxing with rising music while amidst a fountain she emerged gloriously in a turquoise or raspberry swimsuit and matching flowered headdress upon perfectly coiffed hair.

Then there were the men. Heart throbs. Montgomery Clift, Audie Murphy, and yes, Rock Hudson. Magazines called Motion Picture, Photoplay, and Silver Screen, priced a dime each at the drugstore, contained full-page pictures of these dreamy faces up close. I carefully cut them out and pinned them on my bedroom walls. One could also write requests directly to studios in Hollywood, California and receive glossy 8×10 photos. Free!

Soon I became a Doo Wop music devotee, mooning over The Four Lads, The Four Freshman, the Platters. . . with friends I listened to records in listening booths in a department store (the same store where Natalie Wood signed my dress) and occasionally paid ninety-nine cents to buy one. Johnny Ray was all the rage, too. Yes, I was fan of the singer and his outrageously dramatic performances. “Cry” and “The Little White Cloud that Cried.” Oh, how I cried! And Screamed! That came to be known as hysteria. Later I would understand the emotional and hormonal needs of early-teen girl mobs squealing at Beatles concerts.

One hot summer evening I was in my room upstairs, singing loudly along with Johnny Ray on my victrola when the doorbell rang. On the front step stood the boy next door with two friends, arms outstretched while they burst into song, wildly imitating me and my idol. Then they busted into uncontrollable laughter.

Well, the time was right for me to move on anyway. I was just learning to play tennis and following the greats of the day, especially Maureen Connolly. Once I got a ticket to an indoor arena match between Jack Kramer and Pancho Segura. The following week I bought a white shirt and shorts like those pros sported and wore them all summer on my neighborhood park court. (washed) I wasn’t fawning. That, of course, was the proper court wear. As I watched those athletes on screens, small and large, I learned strokes, swings, rules, good manners, and proper behavior in competition. Looking back, I might say that I’d become a student!

How innocent I was as a young fan! And what a different time before Celebrity Culture invaded with yet more movies, TV, live heavy metal and rock concerts, Sunset Boulevard- style billboards, and ever-present social media. And don’t the big-name stars revel in limelight attention, money, power, and privileges! A two-way road.

Wikipedia includes a large entry discussing “celebrity worship syndrome,” some crazed enough to involve stalking and attacking performers on stage. Security guards are employed full-time. Psychologists and journalists offer a range of explanations for current fandom, often reaching a place of obsession. Fascinated, many feel attached to the wealth, fame, and glowing glamour. Others may be somewhat small-minded or feel empty or powerless, and a relationship they conjure becomes one of love, sometimes, sadly, even believing it to be requited.

For myself, in passing time I began taking to heart all manner of personalities, dead and alive. . . artists, writers, journalists, symphonic and operatic performers. . . Occasionally, I have written letters to novelists and editorial columnists praising their work. I join standing ovations in theaters and concert halls, but I am not a fan, as such.

I am a devoted admirer.

© 2022 Nancy Levinson

Nancy is the author of MOMENTS OF DAWN:  A Poetic Memoir of Love & Family, Affliction & Affirmation, as well as a chapbook, The Diagnosis Changes Everything. Her work has appeared in many journals and anthologies, including Poetica, Sledgehammer, Hamilton Stone Review, Panoply, Constellations, and Fleas on the Dog. In past chapters of her life, she published thirty books for young readers. Her youthful years were spent in Minneapolis.  It happens that she now lives in Los Angeles, only minutes from Hollywood.

By Barbara Vander Werff

When my BFF, Sandy, was in hospice, she had a sense of peace. Her disease was devastating and a shock to everyone. After her diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, she died four weeks later. For those of us she left behind, our profound loss of a friend, mother, grandmother, and wife would be felt far beyond the memorial service.

I looked around my house at all the things she had given me over the years. She knew me. They fit into my life, into my environment, to help define who I was. Other things were bought when we were together, while shopping or on adventures. Sometimes picked out by her, sometimes me, with a nod from her in approval. Sometimes she would look to see if another was available for us to share in a treasure found. Now, they were memories. It made me anxious to think, what now? Who would I explore with, talk with, call when I could not find my way? She was never coming back.

But then I thought about her sense of peace. She knew what was important, she lived a good life, she had been a good person. She had given her all to her family, friends, work, passions, those things she believed in, and most of all, to herself. She was ready to find her peace in death because she had found it in life. The initial diagnosis was heartbreaking, but she accepted it and moved forward. Toward death?

Besides memories of my friend, scattered throughout my house are my collections. As I look deeper, my life unfolds and I wonder if I feel at peace. I have pictures of family, collections of cameras, Boston Terrier figurines, and books. It is my journey of many years to find peace.

Because, what my friend has shown me, is this: if we do not achieve peace in life, how will we ever achieve peace in death?

© 2022 Barb Vander Werff

Barbara Vander Werff grew up in Randolph, Wisconsin, before moving to Madison to go to college and work in health care at the University of Wisconsin Hospital and Clinics. She did some technical writing for clinical textbooks in diagnostics, ultrasonography, and radiology management. Now retired, she is enjoying writing about life. Where have we ended up, and why?