I walk into my mother’s room at the assisted living center in Concord—and walk straight to the refrigerator. It’s the same motion I’ve made every day since I could move in an upright position—some primal pavlovian response to the coolness of coiled condensers. The refrigerator from my childhood—bursting with an unending gaggle of epicurean delight to feed six ravenous kids and a steady stream of friends—is now an obscenely small countertop square in the corner of an uncluttered kitchenette. But, still, I still expect to see gobs of grapes, oranges, and apples; chocolate pudding, leftover tuna casseroles, and Shepard’s pie, appian way pizza, kool-aid, custard, baloney; and eggs: pickled, deviled, scrambled, and boiled; and potatoes fried, mashed, hashed and rehashed in the unending evolution of necessity and tradition.
But sometimes potato buds: dry flakes mixed with water and two tablespoons of butter and mixed, when times were harder—times that were never actually mentioned—with a cup of carnation instant milk whose greatest benefit to childhood was to hide the peas, beets, boiled onions and other scourges of an Irish Catholic childhood that we were force fed in the daily penance of nutrition. The whole milk with cream tops in glass bottles with paper caps; my father pawing the top shut and shaking the heavy cream back into the milk itself, exhorting us to imitate his practiced perfection, which none of us could do, and we always spilled the milk on the cracked formica table and vinyl chairs, and he always screamed, “Every night, somebody has to spill the milk: every single night!”
And then, after the mopping rags, dinner resumed in the chaotic recollections of the day: fights about whose night it was to do the dishes, and who didn’t mow around the trees; who got seconds last night, and who got a C in penmanship, and who shouldn’t get two hydrox cookies for dessert because they weren’t smart enough to hide their peas in the potato buds. And we sat in the same seats with annoying little sister Annie on my right and an annoying little brother Tom on my left and my big sisters staring across from me: Eileen with her studious perfection; Mary Ellen with her jocky, untempered cockiness, and Patty, so old and hip that I hardly knew her, until she died so young that I can’t forget her; and in the overstuffed kitchen dad’s back was almost crunched against the basement door, and mom was pressed against the dining room wall—the room with the walnut table and eight matching chairs that we never used—a museum stuffed with bone china and silverware we polished every Christmas, bought, I’m sure, with green stamps and coupons.
And out of that space we were reborn each day.
Every morning, mom poured the wheaties, boiled the oatmeal and cut the grapefruit, while we listened to Joe Green in the BZ copter mumbling unintelligible warnings about tie-ups at the Alewife circle, and we sang along to the hits of the week:“Watch me wallabies feed, mates, watch me wallabies feed.” Dad would grab his briefcase and we’d all try to be the first one to scream “Bye dad!” in a cacophony of competition, and, as if on cue, mom would sneak behind me and hold my head while I jerked convulsively, and she’d rub a warm wet cloth across my face and straighten my clip on tie and try to force down my cowlick and pick at my ears until I was fit to be presented to Sister Jean Beatrice—and, by some sort of convoluted math, to God. And then she’d sit in her chair, quietly, and write her own mother a letter.
Every single day she’d write grandma a letter … One of us could get the letter paper; and one of us could get the envelope; one of us would get to lick the stamp; one of us could put it on the letter; one of us could carry it to the mailbox, and the last one could lift up the metal flag. I never knew it was a ritual of perfection—a continual journey into the heart of the mystic love of family. You never know, but still, you remember.
I never know exactly who I’ll see when I visit my mom. Over the past two years, Alzheimer’s is slowly chipping away at the edges of her memory. One day she’ll remind me that it’s my childhood friend Danny Gannon’s birthday, and on the next day she’ll ask me who all the pretty children are…and like polite grandkids they dutifully tell her their names once again, except for Tommy, who screams. “You know me; I’m Tommy!” who jumps on her lap and asks for a kiss—“Not that kind of kiss—a chocolate kiss.” And she smiles and says, “Of course, I know you.”
I went to see her last night and looked at ads for cars in the Boston Globe. She wants a Toyota. “Your father loved his Toyota.” I smile to her, “That’s because Toyotas were cheap, and dad loved cheap.” It doesn’t matter that she will never drive again. It doesn’t matter that we will have the same conversation tomorrow. It doesn’t matter that soon she will slip into a cloud of unknowing. It only matters that she is here, and in the magic and mysterious majesty of memory, she will always be here.
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Writing a Memoir using Poetry or Prose
We all have people in our lives that are really important to us. A "Memoir" is a story we tell about that person. This week, try and write a memoir about a person in your life who is important to you. This person can be a friend, a grandparent or parent, brother or sister, or aunt or uncle—anybody whom you know well and who helps you feel special and loved, or who has helped you through a hard time in life, or who is inspired and inspiring.
The Prose Memoir
There are many ways to write memoirs. Here is a simple and straightforward way to write a prose memoir.
1st Paragraph: Set the scene.
Start with a scene where you and your memoir person are doing something
together. Describe everything about that scene. End the first
paragraph by telling the one thing you like most about that person.
That becomes the "theme" of your memoir.
2nd Paragraph: Say what you mean.
Write about why this person is important to you. Tell us your thoughts
and feelings, and describe the specific “actions” this person does for
and with you that makes him or her so special. Try and write at least
five sentences—more if you can write more!!!
3rd Paragraph: Finish it clean.
Start your last paragraph by telling us why everyone should have a
person like your memoir person in his or her life. End the paragraph
with one short sentence that"captures" why your person is so great—and
use an exclamation point at the end. For example: "Uncle Tony is the
coolest guy in the whole world!"
The Memoir Anaphora Poem:
Anaphora is a poetic technique that uses repeating phrases to start each line of the poem. In essay and narrative writing (prose), it is called “parallel structure.” In both cases, if done well, it adds a powerful rhythm and cadence to your writing. I used it throughout my “Mom” memoir. Here is an example from my writing:
One of us could get the letter paper; and one of us could get the envelope; one of us would get to lick the stamp; one of us could put it on the letter; one of us could carry it to the mailbox, and the last one could lift up the metal flag.
A good way to start an anaphora memoir poem is with the phrase “I remember…” and then create a list of memories using images and actions. Each line should be one natural breath long—usually around 10 syllables, if you count each syllable carefully. This helps each line be long enough to have substance and meaning, but short enough that your readers don’t pass out trying to read your poetry:) It is also ok to put in some short lines, too, for variation, but that is up to you. The point is to say what you want or need to say.
Each new stanza should start with a new phrase.
For example:
Stanza two: He (or she) always…
Stanza three: I wish…
I
think you get the idea. You can create any type of anaphora beginnings
that you want because you are the poet—and good poets are always
willing to take chances
Post your poem or story in your blog. Make sure to read other people's memoirs and leave a comment for them.
Thanks for trying this!
Fitz
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