True Stories Well Told

Starting August 2018, Suzy Beal’s family adventure has been unfolding here, one chapter each month through February 2020–19 episodes in all. And what an adventure! In 1961, teenage Suzy’s family moved to Europe, built a sailboat, and took up life on the high seas. The memoir takes readers from “Heading East” via Volkswagen van from Newport, Oregon to cross the country and the ocean, destination Barcelona and Mallorca to live while building the boat. True Stories Well Told leaves the family, a bit shaken by their shake-down cruise “Living Aboard” the newly launched sailboat, as they “shelter in place” for winter in Toulon, France, before attempting life aboard again next spring. As the series concludes, I asked Suzy to describe what it was like to have her writing featured in this way.

Circe in Sete Harbor

The experience of having one chapter a month from my memoir published on Sarah White’s blog True Stories Well Told has been terrifying, exciting and valuable.

Terrifying because it’s the first time I’ve put myself out there in the publishing world. I’m not sure if I feared rejection or felt insecure in my writing skill, but I made it a New Year’s resolution to submit one piece a month. Once I decided to submit, I quit worrying about the rejection slips.  I found truestorieswelltold.com where I submitted an essay and Sarah accepted it.  She suggested we try a once a month serial from my memoir and I was hooked.

 Exciting because, I’ve never thought I cared about being in print and guess what, I do. Once my work was accepted in several publications, I realized I was on track and heading in the right direction.  This gave me the courage to continue. I still receive rejection slips, but some of my work is accepted and the thrill of receiving the email saying “Suzy, we want to publish your piece,” outweighs the disappointment of rejection.

The valuable part comes from looking at my work with a more critical eye and making the necessary changes. During the last year and a half I’ve been on Sarah’s blog, I’ve learned to take my writing more seriously.  Realizing there are others reading my pieces has given me a new perspective.  Until now, I’ve thought more about what Iwanted to say rather than what I wanted my readers to read.  I’ve developed a better sense of what it is to have a connection with my readers. I still have a lot to learn, but I’m committed. Being responsible for a chapter each month on truestorieswelltold has been an incredible opportunity and has helped shape my writing experience.   Thank you, Sarah.

I have really enjoyed this experiment as well. I didn’t ask Suzy to share the series with me ahead of time. Just like my readers, I had no idea from month to month what adventures teenage Suzy would encounter next. The coming-of-age story embedded in the family-adventure story has me charmed.

What happened next for the 9-member family (plus Rusty the dog and Anitra the cat) living aboard a  32-foot sailboat is not so comfortably shared with a public audience, and so we close the series here. Thank you, Suzy!

Readers, did you enjoy the series? Leave your comments on this post.

© 2020 Suzy Beal and Sarah White

Suzy Beal, an occasional contributor to True Stories Well Told, has been writing her life story and personal essays for years. In 2016 Suzy began studying with Sheila Bender at writingitreal.com. 

By Melodee Leven Currier

I loved school and did well – until the third grade — when I was traumatized by my teacher.   As she walked around the classroom she would stop at my desk and plink my head hard with her thumb and index finger.  My hair was in braids, so it really hurt my scalp.  After she did this a few times, I told my mother and she and my step-father, who was a teacher, had a talk with her.

The next day, the teacher announced to the class they could all go to recess except me.  She then told me to follow her and she took me to the principal’s office.  No one else was around when she showed me a large wooden paddle with eight holes and two rows of wire across the top.  Then she screamed at me “If you go home and tell tales out of school again, I’ll beat the tar out of you!”  I was completely terrified and couldn’t wait to get home and tell my mother, but this time she didn’t do anything about it.  That was a turning point for me — I was no longer the fun loving, extroverted child entertaining the class with a song, a hula dance or memorizing poems.  Trust in teachers and adults dissolved and my attitude and grades forever plummeted.

Melodee in grade school

The next year in the fourth grade during “milk break,” a nickel was collected from each student who wanted to order white or chocolate milk.  I was the only one who didn’t want milk, so my teacher made an announcement to the class “When Melodee grows up her bones are going to break because she doesn’t drink milk.”  I was 23 years old when I got my first cavity.  I wonder how many “milk drinkers” can say that.  That same teacher scared the class by saying that when we grow up there won’t be any vacant land left.  Some things you never forget.

In the seventh grade, out of the blue, my teacher announced to the class “Melodee is spoiled!”  I don’t know what prompted her to say that.  She had no idea what I was dealing with at home with a mother who didn’t want any children and a step-father who violently beat me with his belt every chance he got.  I certainly was not spoiled.  Some teachers don’t know the difference between a problem child and a child with a problem.

The only teacher I ever had that I really liked was my sixth grade teacher.  She was so kind and gentle with everyone.  When I was in my twenties, I saw her at the grocery and told her that she was my favorite teacher.  I don’t believe she remembered me then, but it felt good to let her know.

When my son was in grade school, he had some mean-spirited teachers too.  When I had him repeat the second grade, the first day of class his teacher asked if anyone wanted to get the flower vase for her.  Then she said “John, you were here last year, you know where we keep the vase, would you get it?”  That was embarrassing to him and decades later he still remembers how humiliated he felt when she said that.

I was a young single mother then, lacking the courage to speak up for my son when he told me just as my mother hadn’t spoken up for me when I was his age.  We have a responsibility to our children to say or do something when they aren’t being treated respectfully.  If we are not being heard, we need to go to the next level – or higher up if necessary.  The School of Hard Knocks has taught me many lessons over the years.  Speaking up for myself — and sometimes others — is one of them.

While it’s not possible to change history, the future is a clean slate.  Make it one that years from now you can look back and be happy to have history repeat itself!

© Melodee Currier

Melodee Currier left corporate America in 2008 where she was an intellectual
property paralegal.  Since then she has devoted her time to writing and has
had three eBooks (www.amazon.com/author/melodeecurrier) and numerous articles published on a wide variety of topics.   Her articles can be read on her website www.melodeecurrier.com.  Mel is an occasional contributor to True Stories Well Told.

By Christel Preuss

A stock photo of a woman who is not Christel or her neighbor Fran!

She was our next door neighbor, when my husband and I and our three young children moved into our house, back in 1991. At the time I was 35 and she seemed “old”; she had just retired the year before, and was 63. Her husband, Amos, was also retired and played horseshoes out in their back yard. For many summers, I heard the clang of horseshoes hitting against the metal post or the thuds of misses as he practiced. Amos grew tomatoes next to our garage, and some years came over to pick raspberries from our patch when there was an overabundance. Occasionally she’d send over a batch of cookies or brownies that were extra, after her family had come for a visit. I knew she belonged to St Dennis church, made cards on her computer, and quilted.

The years went by and my husband left. My children grew up and also left. We continued being neighborly, but never really close.

Then in 2009 Amos died. And a year later she sold her house and moved to a senior apartment complex about two miles away.  During the following year I saw her once or twice at a local restaurant with family members.

The next year in 2011, I called her at the beginning of the New Year to say hi and catch up. I began to learn more about her six children, three who lived nearby and the other three spread across the U.S. She also told me more about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. We continued this “New Year’s check-in” call for several years.

Then in the summer of 2016, I called her on a lark, after my own mother had died, and for the first time, I asked if I could visit. She said sure. When I got to her apartment, it turned out she was getting ready to move again, this time into an assisted living facility nearby. Her eyesight was failing and she was needing extra help. She seemed resigned to this new move as she told me, “Christel, it is what it is.”

Two weeks later, after her move, I visited again.

She seemed to appreciate my company and encouraged me to come again, if I had the time…

And so it began. First, I visited on different days but then settled on Sunday afternoons from three to five. The routine of regular visits seemed to be reassuring to her and fit my schedule as well. So I came every week, like clockwork.

The first year, I learned she loved to read, but couldn’t navigate Audio CD books anymore. I contacted the ACCESS program who introduced me to the “Talking Books” organization for the visually impaired. I asked her if she wanted to sign up, and she agreed. This gave her access to a simple machine and lots and lots of books. It was a lifesaver for an avid reader!  We continued to talk about our families and I began to feel like I knew hers more. We began walking the hallway to get in more exercise. I would lead the way and she would follow with her walker. She did her best to follow my directions, “Go left, right, no left, forward.” She could still see shadows of movement then.

The second year, we began watching the Packers and the Brewers. I’m not an avid fan, but I began to know the statistics and rooted for the teams. Occasionally, I brought in dinner from “Dairyland,” a favorite restaurant of hers. She enjoyed the Reuben sandwich with fries and chicken rice soup. It was nice. As the year went on, she began skipping the hallway walk saying she was tired and not up to it. I had to accept, that it is what it is.

The third year, I began recording and transcribing stories she’d been telling me about growing up in Reedsburg, Wisconsin. She also began saving Oreo snack packs she’d received from the facility to share with me. Then we began working crossword puzzles…I would read the clues and number of boxes as well as any letters known already. She was quite good at them and we both felt like we’d accomplished something when we solved one. We weren’t walking the hallway anymore and she stopped being able to stand up unassisted.

Then one May Sunday in 2019, she wasn’t there. Her room was unchanged, but she was gone. I talked to an aide, but she couldn’t tell me anything (upholding facility privacy issues). Then I thought to use her phone’s speed dial to reach her daughter. I learned she was at St. Mary’s hospital so I headed there.

As I walked into her room on the Cardiovascular floor, she was sitting in the Lazy Boy chair in the corner. I said my usual greeting, “Hi Fran, it’s me Christel.” Her face broke out into a big smile and she seemed to breathe out a sigh of relief. And so we began our visit. I learned how she had gotten to the hospital the evening before by ambulance, and everything else that had occurred since. She was waiting for test results and seemed alright, yet I was worried.

Two days later she was transferred to Hospice. I visited her that same evening and we talked about how things were going now. Some of her family from far away were coming and she was looking forward to seeing them. She even said she might be there for weeks, who knew. Before I left, we talked about our friendship, and she said how much it meant to her and how appreciative she was of my visits.  I assured her I valued our relationship too.

Two days later I returned to find Fran sleeping. Her breathing was labored and she wasn’t awake. I took out the transcripts of the stories she had told me, and while holding her hand read them back to her—hoping she would find comfort in them as she slumbered.

She was gone the next day, May 31, 2019.

At first, Sunday afternoons were difficult—I missed our routine, her updates about her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, her interest in my life and family, the crossword puzzles, the Oreos.

Seven months have passed, and I still miss Fran, a neighbor who became a dear friend. As I think back on her life and our relationship I realize they have taught me some lessons:  to keep active; to stay open to new experiences; and to never underestimate the power of showing up. Because in the end, it is what it is.

© 2020 Christel Preuss

Christel Preuss lives in Madison, Wisconsin and dabbles with words now and then.