Category Archives: Storytelling

Telling the Truth – A Revolutionary Act (Guest Post)

Posted on April 6, 2012 by admin

“The telling of your stories is a revolutionary act.” –Sam Keen, writer

In a world where we are constantly being bombarded with subtle–and not so subtle–messages about who we ought to be, it is a bold statement to take a stand for personal authenticity. One of the most transformative statements an individual can make is to tell his/her story with honesty and objectivity. At its best, this is what a memoir is–a statement that declares “This is who I am and who I think of myself as being.”

Lest you think that telling the truth is only about revealing scandals and unmasking dirty secrets, let me assure you that it is more often about smaller issues, within the realm of the everyday experience. Perhaps you were never ambitious of worldly success. This has embarrassed you, but you would like to make a statement for another set of values. Or, perhaps you have been attracted to people of your own gender and would like to bear witness to that, but still fear repercussions. Or, perhaps you were a parent but, if the truth be told, you and your children might have been better off if you had not parented. As you can see, “telling the truth” need not be earth shattering, but it is about essential features of ourselves.

The daring part of this “telling the truth” work occurs at the beginning of the memoir process, when the “juices are flowing.” It is then that you ask, “Do I dare say this?” You get nervous and can feel yourself sweat. You get up from the computer many times and can’t believe that you are actually writing what you are writing. Or if you’re being interviewed on camera, you sweat just thinking about the reaction your comments will evoke among the film’s viewers. But, you persevere. Over time, the fear of telling the truth seems to diminish and become less visceral.

Later, however, as you make your written or video memoir public, you tremble at the boldness once again of telling the truth of your life, the truth that may not be consonant with norms of society or family expectations. Others–an audience you both craved and did not know would be so intimidating–will now judge you. You fear this audience will not only judge the morality of your choices but your very essence.

This is the moment when, more than any other time, writers fear insignificance. But, if insignificance there be, I say–and I hope you will too–let it be MY insignificance!

Therein lies the challenge of telling the truth. It can revolutionize your life. And that is why it is so critical. Address the challenge head-on. You won’t regret it.

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This post was contributed by Denis Ledoux, founder of the Soleil Lifestory Network. Denis is an accomplished ghostwriter who helps clients write memoirs, one story at a time. Denis was selected as one of the top 10 personal history bloggers of 2011 by Dan Curtis. For more information on Denis, including how to get a copy of the free Memory List Question Book, visit www.turningmemories.com.

A Tribute to a Strong Irish Woman, and a Curious Question of Fate

Posted on March 15, 2012 by Lin

 Kate Byrne Mackin (1861-1918)

Although I never met my great-grandmother Kate, I’m guessing that she was a tough and determined women.  Kate married Joe Mackin on September 6, 1877 at St. Peter’s Roman Catholic Church in Drogheda, County Louth, Ireland.  Kate gave birth at least ten times, maybe eleven.  My grandfather Raymond often argued with his older brother Henry over this fact. Who knows.

The Mackin family immigrated to America in 1884. At this point, the family numbered only six individuals.  They stayed in New York City for a short time and eventually made their way to Portland, Oregon.  Joe loved Kate. Unfortunately, his love for whiskey and beer caused much trouble for them. The story handed down to me is that Joe was a steveador (dock worker).  Every two weeks, Joe was paid.  However, between the pay master’s office and Joe and Kate’s home were a number of drinking establishments. By the time Joe got home, his pay packet was often gone.

Kate, being the smart woman that she was, decided that she would be the one to pick up Joe’s pay packet.  I have often wondered whether her decision ever provoked bitter arguments between the two of them. But the scheme worked perfectly.

Because of Kate’s decision to manage the money in the Mackin family, they were able to buy two homes on Garfield Street in a suburb of Portland, Oregon.  The second home became a rental property, and provided additional income for the growing family.

In November, 1918 Kate died from pneumonia at the age of 57. She was a victim of the Great Flu Pandemic of 1918. Joe died much later, in 1937.

At the time of my great grandmother’s death, my grandfather Raymond was in the US Army and stationed at Camp Lewis, Washington. He was due to be shipped out with his regiment to fight in WWI.  However, he was given permission to attend his mother’s funeral. His regiment left for Europe without him, and soon WWI came to an end. He would never leave the US.

If my grandfather had left with his regiment, I wonder if he would have survived the war. Would he have been injured? Would my branch of the Mackin Family Tree ever have grown? Those are questions I often ponder, but will never be able to answer.

As St. Patrick’s Day approaches, what stories have you been told about your ancestors? If you could ask one question of an ancestor, what would that question be?

The Titanic, and my Irish vacation

Posted on March 12, 2012 by Lin

My husband and I have deep ancestral roots that go back to ancient Ireland. So for our thirtieth wedding anniversary we went to Ireland to do a little genealogical research and some sightseeing.  With a Fodor’s guide on my lap, we drove around Belfast, the modern-day capital of Northern Ireland, looking for a place to spend the night. We eventually found a spot that met our needs and reserved a room. Much to our delight, this particular B & B  not only gave us a comfortable bed for the night, and a full Irish breakfast the following morning, but also a story that we would never forget.

Once we got settled into our room, the owner asked us if we would like a tour of this charming old home.  “Dunallan”, we were told, was built in 1881 and had been the home of the Andrews family at the turn of the 19th century.

Mr. Thomas Andrews, Jr. was an Irish business man and shipbuilder.  Okay, I said to myself, that makes sense. Belfast was after all a ship building town. But my ears perked up when I heard that Mr. Andrews oversaw the building plans for RMS Olympic for the White Star Line and its sister ship, the Titanic.  What? Did I hear that right?  The Titanic? Yes, the Titanic.  This serendipitous choice of a night’s accommodation had become an opportunity to touch and experience a little bit of history.

The owner of this quaint old house went on to tell us that Mr. Andrews and his family had lived in that house during the time he worked on building the Titanic. In addition, the design of the fireplace mantels and the adjoining tile work in this home were modeled for use on the Titanic. They were stunning.

We were told that Mr. Andrews was on board the Titanic, and died in the fateful crash.  And he died a hero.  Many survivors recounted stories of Mr. Andrews’ selfless actions which included urging reluctant people to get into life boats. He was also seen throwing deck chairs into the ocean for passengers to use as floating devices.

Gone are my Hollywood images of Leonardo Dicaprio and Kate Winslet.  They have been replaced with the thoughts of Mr. Andrews, his wife, and their young daughter. I wonder how they coped with losing a husband and a father, and a man who had designed one of the grandest ships of all time.

RMS Titanic sunk on April 15, 1912.  SS Nomadic is the only ship to survive that was designed by Thomas Andrews, Jr., and remains the only White Star Line ship still afloat.

On this St. Patrick’s Day, tell us about your family’s Irish roots. What stories did you uncover when you returned to Ireland? Are there any stories passed down from your parents and grandparents that you re-tell on special occasions? If so, we’d love to hear them!

Mining for Memories: Looking and Listening for Gold (Guest Post)

Posted on February 29, 2012 by Lin

Note: This post was featured on the wonderful blog Women’s Memoirs. To read the post in its entirety, including the introduction by Kendra Bonnett, please visit http://womensmemoirs.com/memoir-writing-book-business/memoir-writing-tips-interviewing-and-the-art-of-listening/

I remember Mary, a very elderly woman I once interviewed. She wanted to preserve her life stories but was struggling with how and where to begin.

I asked Mary, “Do you have a family heirloom that is a precious piece of your family’s story?”

It didn’t take her but a moment or two before she said, “Yes, I do. It is one of the most cherished things that I own.”

“Would you share that with me?”

Within a few moments she returned to her chair gingerly carrying a hand carved wooden pipe rack, which housed three pipes. She held the pipe rack in her frail hands, as if the items were sacred.

My curiosity intensified, as she gently caressed the items. “Please tell me about what you are holding.”

“These were my father’s pipes,” Mary began.

As she spoke, her face took on a serene and tender expression. “He died nearly fifty years ago, but I still remember how in the evening hours, after supper was done, that my father would sit next to the fire in his rocking chair and smoke his pipe. Even after all these years, I can still remember the fruity aroma of that pipe tobacco as it smoldered in the bowl of the pipe. I remember sitting on the floor at his feet working on a wooden puzzle or looking at a picture book. My mother was there, too. Nothing could have improved this moment in time.”

Mary continued: “My father and mother were nurturing parents, and I always felt their love.” And then she got quiet, lost in her memories.

“Mary,” I asked, “How did your parents show their love for you?”

“They listened to me. They listened to me talk about my childhood dreams. They gave me their time and attention, and I knew that they cared about what mattered to me.

“One day when I was about six years old I was given a kitten. Not long after getting the kitten, it ran out of the front door of our home and was hit by a car and killed. I cried and cried over the loss of my kitten. My mother took me in her arms and rocked me softly. I still remember how quiet she was. She hardly said a thing, but I knew that she cared about how I was feeling.”

A pipe rack holding three pipes…and the memories arrived. As interviewer, I hardly had to say a thing to Mary because her memories flooded into her mind as she held, smelled, felt and saw the memories in her mind’s eye. Sometimes that is all it takes to find memories more priceless than gold.

Like her parents so many years earlier, I listened.

 

Love at First Rinse Cycle, Or How the Arab Oil Embargo Changed My Life

Posted on February 13, 2012 by Lin

With Valentine’s Day right around the corner, I’m affectionately thinking about how my husband and I first met.  Not your conventional meeting, I assure you.

It was February 1974, and I moved from Maryland to Northern Virginia to be closer to my job.  This was also during the oil embargo which left much of the country having to deal with long lines at the gas pumps. To complicate matters further, drivers were assigned odd or even days in which gas could be purchased.  I was tired of dealing with this situation.

With the help of the Washington Post apartment locator section, I found an efficiency apartment in Arlington, Virginia. The rent was $190 a month! Imagine that?!

A couple of days after moving in, I was looking for the building’s communal laundry room.  This was not something I was particularly looking forward to doing.   But as it turned out, going to the laundry room changed my life forever.

I loaded my clothes into a plastic laundry basket, grabbed my detergent put five bucks worth of quarters into my jean pocket, and headed for the laundry room.  Upon entering the laundry room, my first impressions were “Yuck!” The room was steamy, musty and grimy.  Dust bunnies were multiplying everywhere.  I knew that I didn’t want to spend any more time in this place than absolutely necessary.

All of a sudden my focus changed.  On the other side of the laundry room stood an attractive, dark haired young man.  He was busy stuffing clothes into a washer and pulling quarters out of his pocket.  I thought to myself, ‘Hmmm, who’s this?’

I conveniently found a washing machine located not too far from his.  And then with a helpless little smile on my face, I said, “Hi. I’m new to this building. How many quarters does this machine take?”

Bill was more than helpful and brought me up to snuff quickly on everything I needed to know about washing and drying everything from clothes to bathroom rugs.  Such a helpful and pleasant young man! He was very friendly and so easy to talk to – a nice change from guys I had been dating.

Well, that’s how it all started.  Our friendship and courtship began at the Executive Towers Apartments in Arlington, Virginia while we watched our clothes go through the spin cycle.

We would meet up a few more times in the laundry room, chat about life and work and how we hated commuting to our jobs.  Bill eventually asked me out for dinner and a movie. I invited him to my place for dinner, to meet my friends and eventually to meet my family.

A little more than a year later we married.

Our clothes have been spinning around together in the same machine for the last 37 years. So now as I think of it – laundry rooms aren’t such bad places after all!