Faith has been writing to amuse her family since she was old enough to print letters to her grandparents. Now retired, she has taken the opportunity to sort through family memorabilia, discovering a wellspring of tales begging to be told, which she hopes to expand upon in written form (where appropriate, of course!). She and her husband live in Madison, Wisconsin. They are the parents of two great sons and a loving daughter-in-law, and recently expanded their family to include Thistle and Bramble, two irrepressible young felines.
Today I made potato salad. I started with my grandmother’s recipe, passed down from one mother in the family to another. As the small red potatoes cook, I start to chop hard-boiled eggs, celery, and onion, and start thinking about my Grandma Ring, her potato salad, and the Pumpkin Hollow Homemakers cookbook of 1955.
Created as a fundraiser, the book is grease-spattered front and back, held together by a plastic spiral strip and filled with recipes, the best each woman in the area had to offer. The typed ingredient lists were very specific, with phrases such as “Use a piece of butter the size of an egg” or “add enough flour to make a soft dough,” and included distinct instructions like “bake until the crust is like butterscotch.” Or “mix so they will roll out without sticking to the board.” I cherish the book passed to me when my grandma died. It’s filled with her handwritten notes, added ingredients, and additional recipes jotted in the margins. I still occasionally use the book, mostly when I am feeling nostalgic. But every time I open it, I ponder over how its contributors were credited. Written below each recipe, I see their names. Mrs. Alva Ring, Mrs. Carl Cummings, Mrs. Glen Lawrence, and so it goes with every recipe in the book. In 1955, the credit was given to each woman only as an appendage of the men they married.
Grandma Alma Ring and me, circa 1966
I chop a couple of extra eggs, and I think about Mrs. Alva Ring, my paternal grandmother, who always added additional eggs to her potato salad for “substance.” Alma Spielvogel Ring, the daughter of German immigrants, lived through two world wars, the passage of the 19th Amendment, Prohibition, and the Great Depression. She kept a 22-caliber rifle by the back door of her little house and could drop a rabbit from the doorway at 30 yards, skin it, butcher it, and make a delicious stew in time for company supper which, if anybody asked, was chicken. And neither would she hesitate if she had the good fortune to have one available, to head out to the coop with her kitchen axe to chop off the head of a chicken, tossing it into the garden for fertilizer before gathering its still flopping body from the yard to singe, pluck, and prepare it for Sunday dinner. The depression taught her to make do with what she had. She was resilient in the face of tragedy, burying her husband and two of her three adult children in the span of seven years. She was also opinionated, honest, direct, and loyal to her friends, and I am so proud to have inherited many of her qualities. She taught me to stand up for myself, take care of myself, and depend on myself.
As I skin and dice warm potatoes, I think about my mother-in-law, Mrs. Roy Knapton Sr. “If the potatoes are warm, the dressing will soak in for more flavor,” Nancy Jean Krueger Knapton always said. She was married at seventeen, bore four children, and buried one before she was twenty-three, then had three more. She worked full-time in a retail store, then came home and canned 52 quarts of peas, carrots, green beans, corn, mixed vegetables, and homemade ketchup from her garden each canning season. She washed clothes for eight in an old Hoover washer, crocheted and knitted blankets, sweaters, hats, coats, and mittens to keep her family warm, butchered chickens, hunted deer, and taught each of her children how to swim. She loved roller coasters, card games, and brandy old-fashioneds. She taught me time management, how to take things in stride, never to take myself too seriously.
My mother in law, Nancy Knapton, circa 1977
As I mix the dressing, mustard, vinegar, salt, pepper, and mayonnaise, I think about my mother, Mrs. Lauris Ring. Betty Ann Charlotte Kvidt Ring taught me that mayonnaise, not Miracle Whip, and just a touch of mustard, is the secret to good potato salad. She completed first and second grade in one year, trained as a practical nurse at 17, married my dad, promising in sickness and in health in 1954, then kept her promise, nursing him at home for eight years when he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis four years later. She worked full-time nights at our local hospital, managed the household, paid the bills, fixed the leaks, hung the pictures, mowed the lawn, took care of the car, volunteered at her church, was a 4-H leader, and delivered Meals on Wheels, all while caring for me and Dad. Mom never meant to be a feminist. Really, she was a reluctant one. She was a feminist by the necessity of having to juggle it all. She taught me that life is not always perfect, but with resilience, patience, and flexibility, it is possible to find beautiful roses among the thorns.
Loriann and Mom, circa 2013
As I gently fold dressing into the vegetables, I think about my maternal grandmother, Mrs. Elmer Kvidt. Ruby Corella Opdahl Kvidt was a gentle soul. In her world, the more gently you stirred, the softer the touch, the better the outcome. She knew how to make a point without using a loud voice or overt drama. The daughter of a Lutheran missionary pastor, she lived through two world wars, the great depression, and the grief of losing an infant. She collected water in galvanized pails from an open pipe jutting out of a freshwater spring, 250 yards from the house and the master bathroom; the only bathroom was an outhouse located 35 yards from her back door. Clothes were washed using a squeaky wringer washing machine kept in an unheated back porch, and the galvanized wash tub that collected the clothes as they dropped from the wringer was the same tub she bathed in on Saturday nights. She never had indoor plumbing until 1978, but I never heard her complain. She was kind to her friends, good to her neighbors, and loved within her small northern Minnesota community. She taught me that kindness matters, and more importantly, it is really 10 percent what happens to you and 90 percent what you decide to do about it.
Grandma Ruby Kvidt and me, circa 1964
As I wash bowls, spatulas, and the potato pot, I think about my aunt, Mrs. Florian Ring. Helen Marie Wuerch Ring was married to my dad’s brother, and I can hear her in my hea,d “Lori, if we make a mess, we have to clean up a mess.” She taught school in a one-room schoolhouse, married a dairy farmer, raised her own three children, and took in my three cousins and me in the summer of 1963 when our parents were struggling with health issues. She milked cows, drove tractor, fed chickens, tended garden, made the best pies in four counties (it’s in the lard), volunteered as a 4-H leader, served as president of her Homemakers club, managed the many accounts and purchases for the family business and served as the Wyocena town clerk for over 30 years. Helen is 100 years old this year, still lives in her own apartment, and with the aid of a walker exercises daily. She was and is remarkable. She taught me that cleaning up the messes I make in the kitchen and in my life are the keys to successful living.
Aunt Helen Ring and me, circa 1969
Alma Spievogel Ring, Nancy Krueger Knapton, Betty Kvidt Ring, Ruby Opdahl Kvidt, Helen Wuerch Ring. All married, but certainly not defined only by their husband’s name. They have always shined brightly in their own right, lighting the way for their daughters and granddaughters to never have to present themselves, unless by choice, as Mrs. inserts a husband’s name. They are the women who paved the way for me. Today I made potato salad. Then I opened the pages of the Pumpkin Hollow Homemakers cookbook and defiantly and proudly inked Alma Spielvogel Ring next to Mrs. Alva Ring on each of her recipes.
Loriann Knapton has been writing since childhood. Having crafted countless rhymes, short stories, and personal essays over her sixty-odd years she has a keen interest in ensuring her family memories are recorded for the next generations. Her writing reflects the humorous and poignant experiences of growing up in 1960s small-town America with her mom and disabled dad.
My owner handed me over to her eight-year-old granddaughter. Actually, that’s not how it really happened. The kid grabbed me. Right out of the tight, protective grasp of the person who typically holds me. During that abrupt abduction, I yearned for a way to shield my delicate ears from the loud gasps of, “Hey. Be careful. That’s not a toy, you know.”
It’s rare to be held in different hands. After all, I’m precious; replacing me isn’t cheap. But this unexpected experience feels kind of good if I’m going to be honest. Instead of the usual clench that covers most of my body, this is a looser touch and most of my back is free. I could get used to this.
Fingers begin to poke at my buttons. “Grandma. What’s your password?”
Oh boy. What’s next? I don’t think it’s going to be the gentle scroll through photos that I enjoy taking with my owner. Those scrolls can take all morning long and are often accompanied by soft sighs or laughs. Sometimes, like an early spring drizzle, a single teardrop plops softly onto my face. My ability to store and provide those priceless memories fills me with so much pride.
Uh oh. More pokes. Is this kid going to turn on music and dance with me? If so, I’m a little nervous that what she chooses will feel like a crazy carnival ride. I’m too old for this. Please, please, please, not “Baby Shark!”
I’ve heard that eight-year-olds can be a little impulsive. Rumor has it that my predecessor was dropped by a youngster, resulting in some pretty serious damage to her face and internal organs.
This is getting scary. Where’s my protector? Why is she letting this happen?
I feel a poke on the green call button and immediately relax. I can do this. This is what I was built for. My earliest service for humans.
“Hi. Can I talk to Jo?”
After a moment, I hear a second child’s voice. It’s sweet, maybe a year younger than the eight-year-old. “Hi Cora.”
“Hi, Jo. Did the bunny get caught in the trap we set last night?”
“Well, my dad and I went outside to look this morning. The carrot is gone, but I’m not sure if it was a bunny. Maybe it was a coyote.”
I hear my owner laughing in the background. Much louder than I’ve heard her laugh in a long time. I get it. We live in the concrete jungle of urban Madison, not exactly fertile breeding grounds for coyotes. I wish she’d quiet down, though, so I can hear the rest of the conversation.
“It had to be the bunny, Jo. Coyotes don’t eat carrots.”
“That’s actually not true. I saw it on the internet.”
“The internet lies.”
Oh geez. Those innocents are starting to attack one of my valuable functions. My ancestors’ skills have been developed and refined over the years. Not too long ago, my grandma couldn’t do much more than help her owners talk to others. I’ve evolved, however, and I can now google anything, take those photos, provide a calendar, keep notes, send short written messages, and so much more. If you ask me, I should be listed as one of the seven wonders of the world.
Let those youngsters think what they want. I know the truth. Connection, relaxation, memories, and so much more happens — thanks to me. I love my life. Even in new hands.
This story is based on a conversation between my two granddaughters, probably the first time I heard them talking to each other on the phone. They are very excited to have this story published as they think it makes them famous!
Janet Manders writes stories about her life, with the hopes her children and grandchildren will appreciate them years from now. Recent works of hers have been published on True Stories Well Told, on 101words.org and as part of the 2025 Birren Center’s Anthology Collection entitled Second Chances. Janet lives in Madison with her husband, near her daughters, grandchildren, and writing friends.
Stories with heart, each short enough to read while the coffee brews. Makes a great gift!
I serve as the secretary of the board of The Birren Center. I was also the program manager for this year’s anthology book production. I led volunteer teams as we selected the theme, publicized it to our instructor community to encourage their students to write, reviewed submissions (including some in Spanish), selected 56 for inclusion, then edited and produced a beautiful book.
In the Introduction, I wrote…
In the first Guided Autobiography workshop I taught, among my ten students were a 21-year-old who worked in an erotic toy store and was taking lessons to become a dominatrix and a 94-year-old fundamentalist preacher. The grace with which they accepted each other’s life choices astounded me. I was hooked on the magic of what we call “GAB.”
When Emma Fulenwider brought the idea of producing an anthology showcasing Guided Autobiography writing to our executive director, Cheryl Svensson, a new venue for communicating that magic of GAB was born.
To date, we have published four anthologies, available in paperback from Amazon, including the first two in Large Print editions. Second Chances is the fourth volume in the series.
This year’s theme, Second Chances, invited writers to reflect on do-overs, fresh starts, and the grace that sometimes arrives unannounced. The stories were selected not for polish, but for heart. Their power lies in their vulnerability. So read these essays. Let them move you, comfort you, or challenge the way you see your own life story. And if you feel a spark—an urge to explore your own turning points—find a Guided Autobiography workshop near you. Check out the Instructor Locator on the Birren Center website here.
Every copy sold helps sustain and grow The Birren Center, which supports GAB instructors, students, and reminiscence writing programs around the world.
My Aunt Esther was ecstatic about hosting Thanksgiving dinner that year because it would be the first holiday she and Uncle Ziggy would be celebrating in their brand new, first-ever house. It was a huge departure from their dreary lilliputian apartment. Aunt insisted on taking responsibility for all things related to Thanksgiving dinner: creating the seating chart she’d read about in Better Homes and Gardens during her beauty-parlor appointments, choosing the menu plus deciding cocktail and dinner hours, detailed in Good Housekeeping’s Thanksgiving Special. What excited her most: the opportunity to demonstrate her unrecognized creativity. Thanksgiving would be her time to shine.
Every adult in our family was an immigrant, Holocaust survivor, and naturalized American citizen and especially patriotic. However, none was as much a student of national holidays, traditions, even specific American foods, as was my Aunt Esther. Mom’s younger sister, she was her antithesis. Besides the food, my mother regarded decorations and holiday activities as extreme money-wasters, but her sister delighted in all the hullabaloo associated with American holidays.
In order to prepare herself to host the important Thanksgiving holiday dinner, Esther sprang into action after Memorial Day weekend. In earnest, she began to collect every relevant decoration she encountered, embracing her “more of everything is better” philosophy.
Suddenly, as though a revelation had just descended upon her head, Esther seemed overwhelmed by the vastness of the responsibilities she’d assumed. Her response? She grew increasingly withdrawn and irritable. A week later, she came to borrow a platter from Mom and without warning erupted at us both. “Obviously, you two haven’t a clue that my responsibilities embody the greatest values of American life!”
Anticipating the move to a new house and hosting our family’s Thanksgiving dinner, Esther announced at my July birthday party, “I must find a turkey decoration for our Thanksgiving table’s center-piece. It’s absolutely critical!” She dreamed of replicating the holiday scene from her favorite Norman Rockwell painting, “Freedom From Want”.
We first had a good look at “it” during Rosh Hashanah dinner at their dreary apartment, right before they moved. Everyone (except Aunt Esther) thought the turkey decoration was seriously repulsive. When out of her earshot, we whispered in the hallway, on the back porch, even to one-another during dinner. She remained irrationally proud of it, so proud that before dinner when we were enjoying chopped liver and crackers in the living room, she circulated it hoping to receive words of admiration. She gloated about how clever she’d been to have bought it in the first place.
“Can you believe I actually found such a thing in a Wisconsin Dells summer flea-market? Even better, I paid “gournischt” (nothing)!” No one dared express less-than-favorable views. Experience taught us that Aunt Esther leaned toward the hyper-sensitive side.
What about that over-sized plastic turkey had won her heart? None of us understood. “By the way, I’ll bet no one knows that this turkey’s name is Tom-Turkey?” She asked as the oversized decoration was circulating among us. “So don’t call it ‘that thing’ like you were some sort of hunyack! (barbarian).” She demanded. Nonetheless, no one could ignore its truly repellant qualities: meandering glass eyes that bounced continuously, still tacky paint in psychedelic colors evocative of Halloween and— the worst feature of all— an over-bearing, barnyard stench that emanated from its tail-feathers.
At last, Thanksgiving was upon us and we were in the brand new house. Aunt Esther had just greeted us in her entranceway when suddenly she shouted, “Gott in himmel! (God in heaven) I almost forgot my Tom!” And she bolted into the dining-room. We watched as she plopped Tom-Turkey onto the table’s center.
“What is with these people?” I whispered to Jake. “Is it possible that they lost their sense of smell when they were in the concentration camps?” I continued to wonder where the damned thing had been but especially what might still be clinging onto its tail-feathers. Its tail may have been real feathers but they definitely weren’t from a turkey. We kids were positive they’d been attached to a Peacock’s butt.
Our entire family (except for Aunt Esther) considered Tom-Turkey far too big to be the center-piece. It was so wide that those of us seated on one side of the table couldn’t see anyone seated on the other. Also, the creepy thing was way too tall. Its head grazed the bottom of the chandelier’s lightbulbs.
We all gathered in the living-room, enjoying “Pigs in a Blanket”. “That’s the stupidest name for miniature Hebrew National Kosher hot dogs wrapped in kosher butter-free dough!” sneered Jake. “What moron came up with that one?” Mom’s death-stare halted all discussion and none-too-soon because that instant, Aunt Esther began ringing her dinner bell— a miniature Liberty Bell—purchased specifically for Thanksgiving.
We ambled to the dining-table. Our assigned seats were designated with leaf-shaped name cards in autumn colors. Everyone appreciated that this was the first holiday we’d celebrate at Aunt Esther and Uncle Ziggy’s first ever house. Other than Tom-Turkey, the table really was a work of art. My aunt had outdone herself! Color coordinated napkins and plates in autumn tones of terra cotta reds and umber golds indicated each place-setting. Paper maple leaves were scattered atop the russet-colored heavyweight paper table-covering and six vanilla-scented candles surrounded Tom-Turkey. While the adults were sitting, we kids whispered that the scented candles were Esther’s attempt to camouflage Tom-Turkey’s stench.
Candles were lit, wine poured, toasts made.
“Mazel Tov!” Shouted my father, raising his filled wine glass overhead.
“Mazel Tov andHappy Thanksgiving!” we shouted. Then, like a chorus line, everyone swerved to admire Uncle Ziggy approaching the table bearing the weight of a massive golden turkey on an equally massive platter. Stoically, he struggled toward the table bearing the massive strain when, suddenly, he stumbled forward dropping the full weight of the platter atop the table with just a tad too much force. The table shuddered under the load. Its wobbling triggered every candle surrounding creepy Tom-Turkey to topple, each in a different direction.
That’s when the real excitement of our celebration took off! Tom’s tail-feathers began to smolder, then ignited releasing a brutal stench. One nano-second later, the entire table-cover was ablaze. Those of us seated were utterly immobilized—staring in fascination at the spectacle—while flames engulfed the table before our very eyes. Likely, the intensifying stench of burning feathers knocked us back into consciousness. Without hesitation, Uncle Ziggy jumped up, lunged toward the table, grabbed the turkey-bearing platter and staggered into the living-room.
Mom was in her own choreographed performance. She sprang into action, grabbing her seat-cushion and pummeling Tom-Turkey to smother his burning feathers. Meanwhile, Dad also jumped to his feet. Hoisting two full water pitchers from the sideboard, he emptied them across the burning table-cover and around Tom-Turkey. The prevailing chaos was all we kids needed to join the craziness. For our part, we grabbed every water-filled glass and, in a show of unbridled enthusiasm, followed Dad’s example.
“Fast work putting out that fire, Meyer!” Aunt said. “But Ziggy,” she gushed, “you saved the turkey and our Thanksgiving!”
“Gott zay dank!” (Thank God) I saved the only turkey worth saving!” He countered. “I told you that thing’s a piece of dreck (shit). Enough mit (with) your disgusting Tom-Turkey business. Let’s eat!”
Aunt Esther grabbed her plate from the table, emptied its water and collected her wine glass, napkin and silverware. “We still have the turkey and all the food thanks to Ziggy, so to the living room we’ll go! Who needs a dining room, anyway?” She added. Everyone followed her lead. Ziggy had placed the platter bearing the roast turkey atop their television cabinet. He was in the midst of his knife-sharpening performance as the adults seated themselves around the living-room sofas and kids sat on the floor. Plates filled with slices of turkey and side dishes were passed. Again, glasses were raised and again, Dad shouted, “L’Chayim!”
Happy Thanksgiving!” shouted everyone, but Dad had another important message.
“Never mind that we Jews are always saying, ‘Next year in Jerusalem’. How about we say ‘next year in the dining room’?”
Again, all glasses were raised, “Next year in the dining room!”
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)
Now, I’ll be the first to admit, as a man, I can’t speak from personal experience on this topic. But I can tell you what I’ve learned from the women in my life, and why half the world’s population dealing with something every month means the other half needs to pay attention. Dudes, I’m talking to you. Women, we’re sorry this can be painful, and we’re going to get better at talking about it. And for those of you who menstruate—you shouldn’t have to hide something this normal or suffer in silence.
Growing up on a Wisconsin farm in a conservative school district, I learned about periods approximately once, in health class. I was in 7th grade, and we were taught by our visibly uncomfortable gym teacher who I imagined drew the short straw to teach the class. Health class was big into talking about the Reagan-era “Just Say No” to drugs curriculum, but we rarely talked about bodies and reproduction. When we did, the boys and girls were separated; the girls got a lesson in menstrual products and the boys were warned about wet dreams. I filled in the rest with encyclopedia entries on genitalia, and whispered conversations when one of the girls in our group spent an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom. This left me woefully unprepared for actual human biology (except now I knew about wet dreams. Sheesh).
Here’s what I wish someone had told teenage me about periods: they’re not just about bleeding. Menstrual cramps can range from mild discomfort to pain so severe that women vomit, faint, or can’t get out of bed. Some women experience mood changes due to hormonal shifts—and before you roll your eyes about “PMS,” understand that hormones affect everything from pain tolerance to emotional regulation to sleep. It’s not “being dramatic.” It’s biology.
Let me tell you about a time I actually got it right, though it took a friend’s obvious pain to teach me. I was spending the day with a close friend when I noticed her wince. Then wince again. Waves of pain kept crossing her face, and she’d go quiet for a moment, her jaw clenched, before trying to continue our conversation as if nothing was wrong. “Are you okay?” I finally asked. “Do you need some pain reliever or something?”
She gave me a look that was half gratitude, half frustration. “You have no idea,” she snapped, louder than she probably intended.
She was right—I didn’t. But I could see that her pain was real and intense. I didn’t take the outburst personally. Instead, I asked what would help. She needed a nap, some privacy, and for me to stop asking questions. So that’s what I provided. Later, when she was feeling better, she thanked me for not making it weird and for just helping.
That experience was a crash course in empathy. Menstrual cramps aren’t just “a little discomfort”—for some women, they’re debilitating. Offering help matter-of-factly—not making a big deal out of it, not acting squeamish—is exactly what’s needed. And sometimes people snap when they’re in pain. Don’t take it personally.
I learned how crucial it is to handle these situations calmly when I was camping with my nieces and nephew one weekend. I kept noticing the four girls—ranging from early to mid-teens—disappearing together just outside camp for little conferences. This happened three or four times over the course of the afternoon. Finally, I pulled my oldest niece aside.
“Hey, is everything okay? You all keep heading off together. If something’s wrong, I need to know.”
She looked relieved that I’d asked. “My sister just got her first period,” she said quietly. “We’re trying to figure out what to do because we only have tampons, and Mom doesn’t want her using those yet.”
Here was a moment where I could have made it weird, or awkward, or acted like I couldn’t possibly help with “girl stuff.” Instead, I treated it like the practical problem it was.
“Okay,” I said. “First, she should call your mom. This is something she’ll want to know about. And your mom can give her advice about what to do. Second, I can drive to the store right now and get whatever supplies she needs. Just tell me what to buy.”
The relief on her face was immediate and she returned to the group to relay my suggestion and offer. My niece called her mom, who talked her through things. By the end of the call the girls had everything handled among themselves, but knowing I’d been willing to help without making it embarrassing clearly mattered.
What struck me most was watching those four young women support each other. They’d created a little circle of care, making sure this first period didn’t feel scary or shameful. My nephew, on the other hand, spent the afternoon playing with the fire. He was either oblivious to their conferences or ignoring the girls’ disappearance. I suspect he, like me, hadn’t been adequately prepared to participate or talk about what was going on.
This is exactly what we should all be doing—treating periods as the routine biological function they are, not as some shameful secret. I’ve watched close friends miss important events, and I suspect some of my coworkers miss work—because the pain was too severe. And I’ve learned that “just part of being a woman” is a dismissive phrase that ignores real suffering.
So what can you do, especially if you’re a guy who feels awkward about the whole topic?
Be prepared. Keep a small supply of pads and tampons somewhere accessible—your car’s glove box, your backpack, your bathroom cabinet. Not as a weird statement, just as a practical courtesy. I learned to do this the hard way. I help organize a weekend workshop each year that brings together men and women, and one year I was in charge of buying supplies—unscented soap, hand sanitizer, and menstrual products for anyone who might need them during the weekend. Simple enough, right? I walked into the grocery store with confidence, and on finding the menstrual products aisle I was immediately unsure of my mission.
There were so many options. Pads with and without wings (wings?), thin, thick, overnight, regular, light. Tampons in different sizes with different applicators (applicators too?). Menstrual cups. Liners. I stood there flabbergasted, realizing I was totally unqualified for the task, having no idea what anyone might actually need. So I did what seemed reasonable: I called a friend who talked me through finding variety packs of both pads and tampons, figuring that in a pinch, having options was better than having nothing.
It worked—people were grateful to have supplies available, and nobody cared that I hadn’t selected the perfect brand. That experience taught me two things. First, it’s okay not to know exactly what to buy. Variety packs exist for a reason. Second, the awkwardness I felt standing in that aisle was nothing compared to the relief of someone who needs a product and doesn’t have one. My momentary discomfort was worth it (and my friend was truly impressed that I thought to call her).
Don’t make it weird. If someone mentions they’re on their period, don’t act shocked or grossed out. Just respond like they told you they have a headache—with normal human empathy. “That sucks, do you need anything?” works infinitely better than nervous laughter or changing the subject. Offer practical help. A heating pad or hot water bottle, pain reliever, chocolate, or tea aren’t stereotypes—they’re things that genuinely help some people. So is just asking, “What would make this easier for you right now?” Sometimes the answer is “nothing,” and that’s fine too. The asking matters.
Never, ever use periods as an insult or excuse. Don’t ask someone if they’re on their period because they’re angry or upset. Don’t joke about PMS. Don’t dismiss someone’s legitimate feelings by attributing them to their cycle. This is basic respect.
The most significant lesson about periods? Respect and empathy. When your partner, friend, or sister says she’s not feeling well because she’s on her period, don’t dismiss it as “girl problems” or suggest she’s overreacting. Believe her. Offer help. And if she snaps at you because she’s in pain, remember my friend’s words: “You have no idea.”
She’s right. You might not. But you can still show up with compassion.
Josh is writing a book titled “Out With It, The Things We Don’t Talk About” he hopes to publish in 2026. Subscribe to his Substack for a weekly dose of his writing. https://joshuafeyen.substack.com
He was raised on a farm in southwest Wisconsin, went to college in Milwaukee, lived abroad for four years on three continents, and now finds himself with stories to tell. In the middle of 2021, Josh set about writing 50 short memoir stories in his 50th year. Today, the main focus of Josh’s 50 in 50 writing journey is to share what he’s learned with his four teenage nieces and nephew. Josh lives in Madison, Wisconsin. Find his other blog posts for True Stories Well Told here.
The word “menarche” comes from Greek and Latin roots meaning “month” and “beginning.” According to Wikipedia, it means “the first menstrual cycle, or first menstrual bleeding, in female humans. Many societies have rituals, social norms, and religious laws associated with it.
The dominant ritual in mid-century America was silence, which meant taboo to talk about, which meant shameful. The stigma surrounding discussing menarche was so great that I had received no information whatsoever by the time it happened to me.
Admittedly, my mother was blindsided. I was 11 and a half years old. She wasn’t expecting to have to have that conversation with me for a few more years. What puzzles me is how I knew it was shameful even thought I didn’t know what it was.
It came between a Sunday evening and a Monday morning in the summer of 1967. At the time, I was very much still a child, inhabiting my imagination more than the real world. I had spent the last two nights in the beech woods behind our house, camping with friends in our family tent. We communed with fairy folk back there. It was a sultry summer night in Central Indiana. As was my habit, I slept on top of the quilt on my bed, rather than between the sheets.
I was awakened in the wee hours by the wetness between my legs. My baby doll pajama panties were red with blood. I went to the bathroom, examined the mess, stuffed toilet paper between my legs, and went back to bed. I wondered if I was dying. Probably not, but maybe I had some terrible disease down there? I lay in the dark, worrying. Why I didn’t think I could wake up my parents to alert them I might be dying still baffles me. Already, I’d learned the family culture was: Don’t be a Problem to the Adults.
Mornings in that house always began with the smell of coffee brewing, followed by cigarette smoke—the signals my father was up. Soon I heard my mother stirring and called her into my bedroom. She saw the mess. I believe she gasped. Then she explained something about female biology. “This will happen every month” is the only part I understood or recalled. To say I was horrified doesn’t begin to express my state of mind.
To her credit, my mother did apologize as she showed me the rectangular pads and the elastic belt they hooked to—they must have been in the house for her needs, since she hadn’t anticipated mine. (This is the first time I’ve thought about my mother as a menstruating woman.) “I was fifteen when I got my first period, so I thought I had years to prepare for this conversation,” she said.
It didn’t help that my mother set about scrubbing the blood out of the quilt, which as it happened was a family treasure stitched by her mother and sisters decades prior, out of small squares of white, yellow, and blue fabric. Much of the white was now rusty red. She worked on that quilt for days, alternating treatments with different solutions and rinses in cold water. We didn’t have a washing machine in the house, so all of this was done by hand, in a big washtub on the back porch.
The boys took no notice, of course, as any sort of women’s work was invisible to my brothers, one and two years older than me. I absorbed the message that all signs of menses must be removed, as surely as the process itself must be kept out of sight. It stained me as deeply as the red on the fabric. This was a secret my mother and I kept between us.
Then came the annual family camping trip.
My family at the Michigan campsite
The destination this August was a lake outside Baldwin, Michigan, on land some friend of my father owned. It wasn’t even a proper campground this year, where there might be other girls to play with; just a campsite in the woods above a lake with a rickety picnic table and an outhouse about fifty feet down a trail. I don’t know if our family was in a poor stretch that year, or if it was just the fishing my father was after, but I was resentful. I had cherished our summer weeks spent in the boreal forests of Canada’s provincial parks. Here I was, stuck in the muddy Michigan woods with nobody but my brothers. My imaginary fairy friends stubbornly refused to join me here. (In fact, I never saw them again after my menses arrived.)
And then my next period came. I hadn’t packed “supplies”; I was still in absolute denial that my body was going to do this to me AGAIN and AGAIN. I whispered to my mother that there was blood in my panties; she dashed into town and came back with a big box of pads that came with little bright blue bags for disposing of them.
I began disappearing down the path to the outhouse multiple times a day, carrying a little blue bag each way. It didn’t take long for the brothers to take note. Like any group of close-in-age siblings, we were intensely competitive and attuned to who received preferential treatment.
“What’s in those bags! What is she getting that we aren’t getting?” the boys demanded. Who knows what they thought it might be—a toy or treat? Then my mother had to explain to them about the miracle of menarche. I was absolutely mortified. They were TALKING ABOUT IT, this shameful thing.
Eventually, that moment passed, and silence settled over the subject again. I was never happier for a camping trip to end.
From that summer on, I took great pains to hide every evidence of my monthly bleeding—buying my own supplies, burying used pads deep in the bathroom trash, washing out my soiled panties and drying them in secret, making sure no one in the family ever had a clue.
Sometimes I have an empty feeling when I wake up—feeling in no place. I’m taking up space.
Always when I walk each morning these feelings fade, seeing everything here in the Sonoran desert enveloped in green, and seeing a ring of tiny yellow flowers atop the barrel cactus, and seeing the Mesquite tree with its airy leaves, and seeing Arizona’s state Palo Verde tree with its green bark and its golden flowers appearing in late spring, and seeing the bird families crossing the road, mother in front, father in back leading their pack to safety, and seeing a rabbit scurrying to find cool shelter, all are uplifting.
*
Sometimes, well, often, I wish I were in the body that I had for all of my life before three spinal vertebrae fractures were recently repaired. It isn’t easy to stand up straight. I’m mega compressed. My breasts, diaphragm, and belly are squeezed together. Sometimes pain results. And I’m five inches shorter; I was already short.
Sometimes negative thoughts clutter my headspace.
Sometimes I wish I had more self-confidence. Like when I could stand up straight before the vertebrae were repaired and didn’t look or feel like an old woman. Seeing myself in the mirror is discouraging and disheartening. I should stop looking. Or cover the mirrors (not too realistic) like an Orthodox custom of covering them during shiva, the seven-day mourning period after the death of a Jewish person.
Always good thoughts are harder to retrieve.
Sometimes my husband says just the right thing. He says I look fine. I’m pretty. And he reminds me I’m still me, the same me I have always been.
*
Sometimes there are spaces of silence.
During their visit, our daughter and son-in-law sat on the living room sofa, reading on their respective phones. Our granddaughter was on her iPad in the guest room. My husband was on the computer in his office. It was quiet. It was still. There was no place for me.
Always I’ve wished for more closeness with our daughter. Happily, we hugged and kissed before she, her husband, and our granddaughter left for home.
I got a text, “Thanks for having us,” as they boarded the plane.
A sweet ending.
Always I’ve wished for more closeness with our granddaughter. Now she’s a teenager. One thing we shared was browsing through the photo book which we will pass on to her, showing the history of our families, including some who lived in the 1800s.
She said, “It’s real cool.”
We had a big hug before she left for home.
She’s very tall, like her father.
*
Always food connects us, especially enjoying decadent and sinful chocolate desserts.
Chilled crystal bowls of velvety, creamy chocolate mousse,
Squares of fudgy chocolate chip brownies,
Slices of chocolate cheesecake,
All served with chilled chocolate mocha lattes.
Sometimes for a special occasion I serve an applesauce noodle kugel reminiscent of this pudding made by our ancestors, Ashkenazi Jews from Eastern Europe. Sometimes I make three kugels and freeze them ahead for later use.
*
Sometimes my husband makes a salmon salad, a favorite of our guests for brunch.
Instructions:
Open a can of salmon, chop and debone the contents. Add mayonnaise, relish, and cut up small pieces of celery. Mix thoroughly. Fridge. Best served on a croissant. Or on crusty caraway-seeded rye bread.
*
Always the best bagels in the shop are still warm from the kettle. Pumpernickel is my favorite. Second is cinnamon-raisin. Third is whole wheat. Lox (smoked salmon) is placed on any bagel is perfect. Plain. I’m different. No cream cheese.
bialysbagels
Sometimes available at the bagel shop is the bialy, shortened for the Bialystoker kuchen, a bread roll filled in the middle with onion and poppy seeds, chewier than a bagel, and originally created by Jewish bakers in Białystok, Poland.
Sometimes friends and I gather at a café bakery, schmoozing, sitting on bistro chairs at a round table outside, enjoying the warmth of fall, and eating freshly baked pastries. My choice, an apricot danish.
*
Sometimes, well, almost always, my breakfast includes a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios with almond milk and many mornings my husband and I eat breakfast together. When we go to a restaurant for breakfast, I order a waffle and spread a small amount of butter and lots of maple syrup over it. My second choice is French toast, especially when it is made with challah (egg bread).
*
Sometimes it’s a struggle to remember all the sometimes. What happened to all the sometimes?
Always, despite these feelings, I say a Hebrew prayer thanking God for restoring my soul and giving me another day of life.
Always, there’s a spark ignited within me when I write.
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.
It’s October once more, and last week, I was visually assaulted by Halloween decorations at my local “big-box-store”. The moment I walked in, memories of my especially unsettling and very awkward first ever American Halloween also assaulted me.
The reality: Halloween hardly qualifies as a holiday in the truest sense of the term, but I did participate in all Halloween-associated activities when my two sons were young, despite my utter dislike for Halloween-associated events. I still loathe Halloween!
In Montreal, Canada, where I lived in the 1950s and ’60s, kids participated in our version of American Halloween. The difference? We didn’t focus upon collecting candy, dressing up in costumes, or resorting to questionable “tricks” when treats failed to materialize. Kids in my poor immigrant neighborhood anticipated the approach of Beggars’ Night. And like Halloween in the USA, October 31 was the date. We dressed in rags, smeared our faces with grease and coal dust, grabbed paper sacks from under kitchen sinks, and strolled the neighborhood for two hours, from 5:00 p.m. until 7:00 p.m., when all “beggars” were expected home for dinner.
Groups of four, five, sometimes as many as eight of us, descended upon our neighbors. No one was brave enough to knock on the door. Instead, we gathered in a huddle, multiple fists hammering on doors, and when a door was pulled open, we “beggars” began our performances. Hunching over improvised canes, we affected postures of imagined 18th-century London beggars. Thespians among us developed hand tremors or limps, distorted faces, and clawed hands while our chorus of young voices shouted, “Charity Please! Kind Sir, Kind Madam, have pity! Charity please!”
No “trick or treat” craziness for us. Some mothers sewed satchels with rope draw-strings from whatever shmatta (rag) was available, more preferable than paper bags that, when filled with booty of money and not candy, could tear.
Pennies and nickels clinked into bags that grew heavier as we wound through our four-square-block territory. Occasionally, deep-toned clinks suggested quarters or half-dollars, always reserved for older kids. The assumption among adults: little kids can’t tell the difference between coins, so give them pennies, nickels, and dimes.
When begging-time ended, we rushed home, eager for dinner but more eager to dump our sacks out onto the floor. Carefully, we counted our collections. “Kinder (children), you’ll make two equal piles, yes?” Mom said.“One you must save for your bank account, the other spend on candy or for narishkeiten (silly things), whatever you want, yes?”.
In May of the year, I could have enjoyed a Beggars’ Night of quarters, my parents moved us to the Chicago suburbs, and I began my new high school in September. Throughout October, incessant buzzing among my classmates swirled around my ears. “What are you going as?” They shouted in hallways and during lunch. October 31 grew closer. Now, endless chatter was about costumes, possible pranks that could be played without legal repercussions, and talk of parties. “Anyone know who’s having a Halloween party?” I hadn’t a clue what so much excitement was about, but I also knew that any party that was taking place surely wouldn’t include me. Finally, the year’s second most important event arrived, the first I’d learned was school’s last day.
Our first Halloween in our new country initially felt as though it was a targeted bad joke. Halloween, the day children all across our land anticipated with great excitement, had even infiltrated schools. Most children showed ready for masquerade while adults felt liberated to behave like lunatics.
Night was settling upon our neighborhood. Clumping sounds of young children’s feet and parents’ voices could be heard on the street in front of our apartment above the United States Post Office. Meantime, waves of high-schoolers’ loud voices wafted up from the park across the street. My mother, brother, and I ran to the window for a look. Hordes of various-shaped and sized children, parents in tow, plodded across the village green while others stumbled along sidewalks carrying orange buckets or shopping bags. Mom’s face contorted into worry. Dad set aside reading his Chicago Jewish Star to look for himself.
Seconds later, what sounded like hooves thundered up the hallway stairs leading to our apartment. Dad, who’d been relaxing with rolled-up sleeves, walked to the door, nudging us aside to open it. “Trick or treat!” Bellowed a teenage Mussolini, Stalin, Churchill, Marlena Dietrich, and Hitler in unison.
In Yiddish, Mom said to Dad, “Meyer, you need to give them coins like in Montreal.” He reached into his pocket to extract a handful of change. I cowered behind the door, perspiring with embarrassment, but my brother had gone into hiding in his room the second he heard voices that sounded like older children ascending our stairs. We prayed we wouldn’t see any of our classmates.
“Mom,” I muttered in Yiddish, “don’t give money! You’re supposed to give candy. This is America and they don’t need your money!”
One of the older boys, the tallest among them with a deep man-voice — Stalin, I think he was, noticed my father’s outstretched arm, his shirt-sleeves rolled up and the tattooed numbers and Star of David. In an instant, Stalin began apologizing profusely, “Sir, I’m so terribly sorry!” He said to Dad, his voice catching in his throat. “Please forgive us!” Dad looked unsure what that was about, and then Churchill and Hitler, Mussolini, and Marlena Dietrich followed suit. Stalin leaned toward his comrades, whispering, The next moment, they backed out the door and turned to descend the stairs on tiptoes out into the street.
When he heard the door close, my brother came out of hiding and again, went to look onto the street. There, we saw a huddle of costumed kids, chattering for a very long time. Moments later, a group of parents and their costumed children joined the huddle.
For the remainder of our first Halloween in our new country, our staircase remained spookily silent.
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)
I have just returned from a week in the West Virginia mountains, making memories with my oldest besties–the family of friends I knew from high school/college in the 1970s. Maybe soon I’ll write some true stories, well told, from our week of hiking, cooking, and reminiscing together. Thankfully, this time none of our adventures were of the variety we shared one summer night in southern Indiana, told here: Spelunking.
True Stories Well Told is open for submissions–Here are the guidelines. I publish writing prompts, book reviews, and stories from my own life, but my favorite content is YOUR stories.
True Stories Well Told 