Memories – Memoir

My Apple Watch just informed me that my stand and exercise rings are usually further along by this time of day – it suggested I get off my duff and MOVE.

Well Apple Watch I’ve got news, you are not the boss of me – but you’re right, I’ve been sitting for quite awhile.  This stillness doesn’t mean I’ve been idle though – I’ve walked miles into my imagination, I’ve harvested memories so old it was nearly impossible to drag them to the light of today.  I’m exhausted and I haven’t burned one damn calorie.

I’ve been immersed in the StoryWorth project I got for my birthday.  It’s proving to be quite an adventure.

I thought I knew all the stories, I thought it would be easy to tell them – I was wrong.  The stories are showing up in such a fashion I’m struggling to find the voice with which to tell them – they seem to be all over the place.  But I’m plugging away.

I think some of the people I’ve been writing about would be sorry to learn their stories have been left to the mercy of my memory.  I make no apologies, I’m a storyteller not a sage.  I’m not interested in genealogy I’m into generalizations and with that comes a certain latitude, some poetic license.  I’m not actually telling lies I’m taking liberties with the truth- I’m weaving facts into something resembling a story.  

It turns out mine is not a colorful story in the scheme of memoirs, nothing in my past is earth shattering.  I hail from a middle class, twentieth century, prairie family. I have roots in Ireland but they’ve been buried under so much Canadian-ism they’re hardly recognizable anymore.  There are no skeletons in my closet, no dirt to dig up – just stories about people who used to be.  

As I search for words to relay the stories about these people who used to be I get to spend a little time with them again – I can see their faces, sometimes hear I their voices – they are alive for a moment again.  Moment – memory – memoir… this is a  really good project.

One of the memories I dug up

Gramma’s House

I always loved Gramma’s house – the veranda, the dimly lit hallway leading from the front door through the dining room to the kitchen at the back.  The polished oak stairway taking flight from the foyer, its wide fancy bannister, the landing before the turn at the top.  The squeaky floor.  The dark bedrooms.  The sunroom, always glittering with dust motes and secrets – a surprise room hidden behind a door that could have been a bedroom closet.  The closed door that hid the narrow, twisty stairway to the attic where the heat of summer days lingered through fall.

I can see it.  I can smell the unique combination of spices in the kitchen that whispered ‘Gramma’s house’.  I can hear the bang of the screen door on the back porch.  I can be there in a beat of my heart and feel the essence of that house to my bones.  

Mom and Dad had their wedding ceremony in Gramma’s house.  

My favorite fairytale always lived between the covers of Mom and Dad’s wedding album; the beautiful bride, her handsome prince, the smiling congregation and my vivid imagination.  I flipped those pages so often when I was a child I felt like I’d attended the wedding myself.  

The only memories I have of my mother’s father were painted by the pictures in that album and with the stories my mother told – he was a larger than life hero to her and thus became one to me.

The wedding ceremony was kept small so the house could accommodate it.  My other grandmother’s wheelchair had to fit through the front door – she was the reason the vows were exchanged at the house. There’s a home movie of parts of that day; of the ceremony and of the long receiving line of people filing into the St. Regis ball room for the reception.   Flickering images of people long dead – happy people celebrating the opening chapter of Mom and Dad’s story. 

The newlyweds whizzed off on a honeymoon that took them to Niagara Falls. When they came home they settled into a suite above my aunt and uncle’s house – a tiny apartment my dad and uncle had constructed during the weeks prior to the wedding.  

Parents don’t generally share details of their early marriage with their children – mine were no exception. I only have snippets of stories. One of my favorites was about a canary named Robin who used to fly around the apartment and land on Dad’s chest to sing with recordings of Mario Lanza or Bing Crosby.  Mom said the canary’s song went right up Dad’s nose as he attempted to snooze on the couch (a detail that always drew gales of laughter every time she told the story).  I also loved the snippet about Mom lighting the newspaper on fire while Dad’s nose was stuck in it at the breakfast table – a story made more hilarious by the fact Dad was a fireman at the time.  

Mom and Dad were facing challenges starting a family – it would have been difficult not to get discouraged. I’m not sure if the problem brought them closer together or pushed them to a place of disconnect.  The funny stories about their early years stopped around then and began to focus on disappointment and loss.  I think Mom began to spend a lot of time at Gramma’s house.