True Stories Well Told

By Sarah Skalitzky

How do I tell a story about my family when I can barely remember a time when we were all together?

Driving home from class, that’s all I can think about. I’m searching a place in my brain where a story should be, but all I can see is a dark empty hole.

Watering the flowers at the greenhouse, I continue to grasp for an idea of what to write. I keep thinking about that photo, the one that hung on the wall at the top of the stairs in my childhood home. The family photo of a father and his three children, a mother of one, and stepmother of two others. A missing child who wasn’t born yet.  I always wanted to take a new picture, one that I could be in, too, but life was more complicated by the time I was thinking those thoughts, and the six of us would never pose for a photo together.

It’s not a story. I have to write a story. As I deadhead the geraniums I’m searching through my childhood memories. Memories of Meghan making pancakes after Karen and I woke her up by jumping up and down and throwing Legos on the kitchen floor above her basement bedroom. Memories of finding a dead mouse in Meghan’s bed. Memories that aren’t really memories, but photos that I’ve seen or stories that I’ve been told. Like the time my arm was accidentally removed from the socket when Meghan pulled me up onto the bed to play with her and Karen.

David isn’t in these memories.

Sweet Surrender by Sarah McLachlan starts to play in my ear bud and I immediately think of Karen. Forget the rest of the family, I should just write about Karen. She has always been my best friend. She was the one I looked up to, the one I wanted to be just like. She taught me what music to like, what sports to play, what clothes to wear, what instrument to play. We have millions of memories, millions of stories to tell. What story can I tell that wraps up our relationship in only 800 words? I think of the time I traded her homemade button in gym class, the pit in my stomach the whole way to Illinois that night knowing that I had to tell her what I did. The advice she gave me while we were on vacation when I was 8 and she was 12, advice to be myself and not worry about what others think of it. The advice that she should have taken for herself, instead of living most of her life trying to be and do what she was supposed to be and do, and finally figuring out in her 30s who she really was. I think of the time that I accidentally told my mom she was dating a woman, essentially outing her to my parents, a few weeks before she was planning to tell them herself.

My mom. I can’t write a story about family without talking about my mom. Or my Dad. Where do I start? I feel stunted by thinking of who they are now, unable to really remember who they were when I was young. When they were young.

I keep coming back to that picture. I keep thinking about the family that wasn’t there more than the family that was. I keep thinking about David. I think about the years that he didn’t speak to my dad, and how he didn’t want to be part of our family. I think about the life that he has lived, so different from mine. I wonder how things would be different if he was raised by my dad instead of his mom. Would he have made different choices in life? Would he have rebelled against our dad’s strict conservative values? Would we have a relationship if we had ever lived together? Would he have left the house for good as soon as he turned 18, when I was only 4, or would he have returned for holidays and summer breaks to see his little sisters?

I sit down to write, scribbling drafts of essays about my family. Feeling defeated. I’m still searching for a story.

© 2024 Sarah Skalitzky

Sarah Skalitzky – Madison, WI
Architect | Writer | Musician | Quilter/Crafter | Gardener
Daughter | Sister | Wife | Friend | Dog Mom

by Donald A. Ranard

            I’m a member of Triple A, I told the woman behind the counter. Do you give discounts to Triple A members?
            The color drained from her face. Triple A?
            Yes. I took my Triple A card out of my wallet and showed it to her.
            She looked at the card. American Automobile Association, she read slowly.
            Yes. Do you know it?
            She shook her head.
            Later I told an Argentine acquaintance about the strange exchange. That was how I learned that during the right-wing dictatorship, Triple A—Alianza Anticommunista Argentina—was a death squad that had murdered thousands of suspected leftists.

© Donald A. Ranard

Donald A. Ranard’s writing has appeared in The Atlantic, The Washington Post, The Boston Globe, The Los Angeles Times, New World Writing Quarterly, The Best Travel Writing, and many other publications. His flash fiction story “5/25/22” was chosen by Wigleaf as one of 2022’s top 50 Very Short Fictions, and his prize-winning play, ELBOW. APPLE. CARPET. SADDLE. BUBBLE., was recently performed by Veterans Repertory Theater in Cornwall, New York. Before settling in Arlington, VA, he lived and worked for many years in Asia, Europe, and Latin America.

By Sue Oakes

I am a souvenir connoisseur.  A sentimental soul such as myself requires tangible mementos from every occasion.  I’ve been this way since I was a little kid.  I always thought it was a very romantic notion to have a hope chest at the end of my bed to store all my treasures.  Notes, class pictures, objects both bought and found, or anything I just couldn’t throw away was in my hope chest.  As I grew up, my adventures outgrew my hope chest.  But what do you do with all that precious stuff?  There is only so much space on bookshelves and walls. 

In 1993 I took my first really big adventure when I was a Junior in college.   It was Semester At Sea and I boarded an old cruise ship full of college students and sailed around the world taking classes on the ship and learning even more from the places we traveled to.  We left from Vancouver and returned to Florida 3 months later. 

My roommate’s name was Tiffany.  All I had was a name.  This was before Facebook and texting so we never talked before that day.   She was already a seasoned traveler and had that cool girl vibe.  Tiffany brought very few things with her.  Just a duffle bag and a boyfriend. 

I would get locked out from time to time so they could be alone, but our paths would cross on occasion.  As the semester went on, I noticed a growing collection of cardboard drink coasters and small trinkets on her nightstand.  She explained that since she didn’t have much room in her small duffle bag for souvenirs that those would have to do.  She would turn them into Christmas ornaments when she got home.   

Genius!  The only thing I love even more than souvenirs is Christmas.  It takes some time for a souvenir addict to downshift to thinking a small trinket would ever suffice.  I certainly packed my bags with souvenirs both great and small on that trip.  I donated a bunch of clothes to Goodwill (they were waiting for us all at the dock when we returned) so I could pack it all home.  I had small statues of Terracotta Warriors from China, Matryoshka nesting dolls from Russia, and tea cups from Turkey.  But I also had a few small items to hang on my tree.  A bounty of souvenirs as well as new friends, new confidence, and a new love of travel. 

The adventures weren’t quite as grand for a while, but I still collected a few baubles.  Then after Grad school, I moved to Denver on my own and soon after got engaged.  The champagne cork that popped when he popped the question was now a precious object.  I had some jewelry wire and beads and made a Christmas ornament.  And then it REALLY began.  Marriage, 2.5 years of amazing travels, kids, milestones, and vacations.  A collection of coasters, ticket stubs, money, subway passes and shells quickly became my favorite Christmas accessories. The story of my life can be traced along the branches of my tree.  Some are actual Christmas ornaments, I have lots of keychains that suffice, but most are just things fashioned into ornaments.  I would say the ones that are actual Christmas ornaments aren’t quite as interesting as the things.  I smile when I see the horseshoe that has San Antonio printed across it from a family trip, but I sit back and close my eyes to remember when I pull out my favorite cheap metal fork.  It’s from the night market in Taiwan and always earns the top spot front and center on my tree.  I can still taste the food, remember what I was wearing, and hear the K-pop music videos playing above the bowling alley that was randomly in the middle of the bustling market. 

I have to admit that there are a lot of alcohol-related items hanging on my Christmas tree.  Wine corks and beer bottle caps are abundant.  But that is because they are usually involved in many memorable moments.  A wine cork from the first time I saw my friend outside after COVID began.  Beer caps glued in the shape of a Christmas tree from our sunset trip down the Mekong River in Laos when we paid a man on the end of the pier to take us out.  And corks from my 50^th birthday party in wine country with friends.  And yes, I made each one of them a souvenir cork ornament and sent it to them.  In fact most of my friends and family have at least one signature box from our times together. 

A collection like this must be cared for.  I have to confess that each one is in its own box with a wallet-sized picture on it and the date that this memory took place.  They are in 3 glorious tubs of memories and absolutely the only part of my life that is organized.  If the house was on fire I would grab those first.  I would make sure my family was coming, but I would have them grab one on their way because I probably couldn’t carry all 3 by myself. 

Somehow seeing them only once a year makes the memories even sweeter.  Nothing has been collecting dust on the bookshelf or taken for granted.  Each memory is unveiled and remembered in its own cameo appearance.  When it is time to hang them up every year, I am thrilled that my kids like to hang them with me now.  Especially my son.  He is also a sentimental soul and remembers many of the stories and has his favorites that he requests to hang on the tree.  Many of the memories now include them.  I do it for me, but always hope someone else will appreciate them after I am gone.  I spend hours sitting next to my Christmas tree recounting tales and reminiscing with each ornament.  A record of a life well lived.  And a glimpse into what made their mother tic. 

I proudly watched my son help me sneak a set of plastic chopsticks into our backpack on a recent trip to New York to remember our lunch in Chinatown.  That will be a new addition to our Christmas tree this year.  As a parent, I like to think I am showing them how to cherish memories and not teaching my children how to steal.  I hope I will be forgiven for my misdemeanors.

But for the rest of the year, they are all stuck in plastic tubs next to the toilet paper waiting for their moment.  I’m sure the fork had no idea it would become a souvenir.  But I do hope it knows it is not just a souvenir, it is a Christmas ornament.  And in my book, there is no higher honor than that. 

©  2024 Sue Oakes

Sue Oakes likes to write about her adventures, both far away and close to home, with her husband and two kids.  She loves hearing a good tale almost as much as she enjoys telling one. Currently, she is completely engrossed in watching the Olympics and, of course, hearing the stories about all the athletes!

By Sarah Skalitzky

In the spring of 2009, I didn’t truly understand what was going on in the world. I’d heard the names Bernie Madoff and Fannie Mae in the news but didn’t know who they were. They said the economy was bad, whatever that meant. I knew that people were losing their retirement savings, their houses, and their jobs, but none of that really mattered to me.

I was almost two years out of college, working in my first architecture job, living in a one-bedroom apartment on the East side of Madison, and dating Jeremy. I didn’t have retirement savings or a house to lose, and I was already planning to leave my job and return to graduate school in the fall.

Nonetheless, I was still shocked when I got an email from HR one morning asking to talk to me later that day about my position in the firm. I turned to my cube-mate and said, a little too loudly, “I think I’m getting fired today!”

When my lease was up on my apartment, I moved across town into Jeremy’s house, where I would live for the summer until moving back to Milwaukee for school. My summer of unemployment was lonely – my friends were all still working, and I spent my days broke, in my PJ’s, watching TV on the couch.

The graduate program was only two years, and when I graduated, I moved back to Madison. I wanted to stay in Milwaukee, but it wasn’t a good time for Jeremy to sell his house, and the job market in Milwaukee was still non-existent. I landed a job at a small firm in Madison, a job that, for various reasons, I thought would be my dream job. I was one of the few in my graduating class to get hired before graduation and start working right away. I thought I was one of the lucky ones.

I didn’t know then about the long-term impact the Great Recession would have on the architecture industry, and the effect on my career and my life. As an industry, we lost knowledge when older employees were forced into early retirement; we lost managers and mentors when mid-level architects were let go, often to find work in other fields in order to support their families, and never to return to architecture; young professionals and jobless graduates who also found their way on alternate paths, leaving an enormous hole in the workforce.

I didn’t know that the competitive nature of both my education and the job market at the time would lead me to years of personal scrutiny, perfectionism, internal pressure, and constant stress.

I didn’t know that being one of the few at my level with a job in 2011 meant that I would become highly valuable in a few years, hitting that sweet spot of 3-5 years of experience that every firm was looking for, and there weren’t enough of us to fill. I didn’t know that being that valuable wasn’t actually a good thing, that it meant that you had to do more work because you didn’t have a team to support you. It meant that you would be given more and more responsibility. It meant that you had to advance quickly, and soon enough you’d have your own mountain of work to complete and a new workforce of young professionals that you would be expected to mentor, having little experience of being mentored yourself, and now having to figure out what it meant to be a mentor.

I didn’t know that I would be miserable, that my health would suffer, and that I would decide to leave before I turned 40.

No, I didn’t know any of these things. I just thought I was one of the lucky ones.

On my first day of work at my new job, I wore gray dress pants, a white short-sleeve top, and a cute cardigan. I walked into the office excited to start my life and reboot my career. I was welcomed by my boss, who seemed happy to have me there. After a brief tour, I sat at my desk made of plywood, a computer on one side and a drafting table on the other, and started to settle in. Today was the first day of the rest of my life. Today was going to be great.

© 2024 Sarah Skalitzky

Sarah Skalitzky – Madison, WI
Architect | Writer | Musician | Quilter/Crafter | Gardener
Daughter | Sister | Wife | Friend | Dog Mom

By Carrie Callahan

It is mid-December 2023. I have just returned home from a trip to Minneapolis. My son Ryan had just completed a two-year construction management program at Dunwoody Technical College. School had never been a strong suit for him and completing this program with honors was a magnificent accomplishment that deserved a celebration! What started out as a nice dinner out turned into a party for 30 hosted by his dad and wife Sue.

Arthur and I had split amiably many years prior and we had co-parented with respect. However, to have a big party with the extended family of my ex wasn’t exactly what I had in mind. This was crossing a new bridge with him. Of course, this what Ryan wanted, so off Colin (my new husband) and I went to celebrate and support Ryan in the way that he wished.

In a much-appreciated text, Arthur let me know that as this was a special party, they would not be using paper dishes. They would be using china — specifically the Villeroy and Boch Sienna pattern that we both shared and the Block Poinsettia Christmas dishes that I surrendered at the time of our divorce.

These Christmas dishes were the one thing around which I still held some regret. At the time, I was so sad that I couldn’t imagine enjoying Christmas without Arthur’s enthusiasm and joy. The dishes were part of that. Arthur wanted them so, I let them go. Now, I was grateful to have some advance warning so I could prepare myself to see them again.

It is November 1990 and I am six months pregnant. Arthur and I moved into the house on Colfax Ave. that September as we prepared to start our family. The house was receiving some remodeling and, as I anticipated leaving my job at the time of the birth, we were being financially conservative.

Cruising through TJ Maxx with the intent of getting my Christmas shopping completed early, I came across the Block Poinsettia Christmas dishes that I had fallen in love with multiple years earlier at an upscale boutique. Part of my Christmas ritual was to go to that boutique to visit them and dream of the time when I could afford to have them for my own. And now, here they were being clearanced. OMG! I wanted those dishes so badly — but buying these dishes now really was a luxury — and yet they were being clearanced! I might never get another chance to have them.

I brought home a place setting for Arthur to see and without much shame asked if he thought there was any way. We figured out a way and purchased what we needed for Christmas dinners. He loved Christmas and had dreams of his own about how he wanted to celebrate with good food, family, and friends. He agreed we should do it and I spent the next few days pushing myself hard after work going to every TJ Maxx in the Twin Cities collecting the pieces we needed to put together a set of eight place settings plus the extras like matching glasses and serving dishes. I was so happy!

So now, here I am at Arthur and Sue’s home, with the table set with those very same Christmas dishes. I’d like to say I had a cringe of regret, but the truth is, surprisingly, I just didn’t.

The house was beautifully decorated for Christmas. The house was full of people with Arthur in their large open kitchen wearing his apron, putting on the last touches to a wonderful dinner, pouring wine and offering charcuterie and cheese. He was in his glory. I could see how Arthur and Sue were putting these dishes to use in the way Arthur and I had originally intended. They were used and appreciated. They had landed in the right place.

I left that night at peace, with a warm heart. The party couldn’t have gone better. Friends and teachers were invited, so it wasn’t strictly a Stickley family affair. Sue and Arthur and the extended family greeted Colin and me with friendly generosity. I felt a deep appreciation for the time and experiences I shared with Arthur, that he gave me Ryan and supported us as agreed with integrity, and continues that support with Ryan now. I left knowing that Ryan is loved by so many and will be celebrated in the years to come by both his families, separately and perhaps occasionally together now, with ease. The intention for my Christmas dishes lives on — just differently than I originally imagined.

© 2024 Carrie Callahan

Carrie Callahan is a creative life-long learner. When she’s not writing, she’s reading, working in the garden, whipping something up in the kitchen for her hubby or making a mess in her studio.