SUMMER OF 62

If I could go back in time, I think I would choose to go back to the summer of ‘62. It was the summer I got to spend with my mother's parents, Mimi and Grandpa Benny, in Thistle Utah. It wasn't a summer of going places, or playing with kids my own age or swimming at the plunge. But I loved every minute of it. Yet if I could go back, I would tell them both to talk more -- to each other and to me.

"Kathleen, tell your Grandfather to pass the salt please," my Grandmother Mimi tells me during dinner one night. I relay her request to Grandpa who sits next to me and I hardly notice the fact that she has barely conversed with him in the six weeks I have been there. Sadly, it's not till twenty years later that I realize the charades they played that summer I was seven hundred miles from my parents.

Mimi and Grandpa lost their only son when he was ten years old in a mountain avalanche just a few hundred yards from where they lived. When I grew up I often thought this was the reason for my Grandfather's drinking and I thought it contributed to my Grandparents' rocky relationship. I mean how do couples survive when one of their children doesn’t?


I'm not sure if this was what separated them, but looking back, staying in their home that whole summer, I learned nothing about who Mimi and Grandpa were. That was the saddest part of all. They had no T.V. and no telephone; we had plenty time to talk, but neither of them shared too much. I would have loved to get to know them better. If nothing else, I would just love to be reading their memoirs right now.

I have precious memories of Grandpa Benny calling me over and handing me a giant Hershey bar and telling me "not to tell my Grandma." Another time Mimi and I were sitting out on the front porch when one of her neighbors she didn't care for came over and asked, "What ya doing Anna?" My Grandma quickly replied, "Oh, we're going to town with Benny." Only I distinctly remember Mimi being upset with Grandpa and her asking me to relay a message to him saying we would not be joining him. I thought this was hilarious at the time.


I know life is cruel at times but I wish I had been enlightened that summer and explained a few things about life. Would I have understood? probably not. Maybe it was better that way. I don't know. All I know is that I know of very few married couples who get along; not my Grandparents, not my parents and not me and my ex. I just wonder how my kids and their spouses will fare. I really couldn't tell you right now because none of my four kids plan on marrying in the near future.........

Why I Write, by Bonnie Mansell

I write to remember, to communicate, and to understand. This blog is called, “Write to Remember Your Stories” because I have found writing to be the best tool I have for accessing memories which seem to have long-ago disappeared. I don’t have a razor-sharp memory. I am always so impressed when someone starts talking about something that happened (whether it was yesterday or 50 years ago) and they can remember details which I probably would not have observed in the first place.

This lack of observation can be embarrassing, especially because I am supposed to be teaching others how to write. So sometimes I sit down with a blank sheet of paper and start writing bits and pieces of disconnected thoughts about a person, a place, or a time in my life. Though I’ve been doing this for ever-so-long, I still lack the confidence that it will come together in a clear story or memory. And, to be honest, it doesn’t always work. But when it does I am still startled by the realization that I remember far more than I thought I could. A word, a name, a color or a fragrance will come drifting back to me, and I know that all is not lost.

I also write to communicate what I have observed about the world. I am like the photographer who takes pictures, not only because the subject of the photograph is beautiful or interesting, but also because she wants to show this beauty to her world: “Look! Isn’t this amazing? Come look at this!” Few of my thoughts are particularly original or creative. I’ve simply noticed something – a breathtaking panorama, broken people making devastating choices, teenagers holding hands in a circle of prayer, or powerfully written-words on a page. I feel compelled to show this to someone, hoping they will see what I have seen: the beauty, the sadness, or the connection with a larger truth. This is certainly the link between my passion for writing and my enthusiasm for teaching.


Finally, but probably most often, I write to understand. Writing helps me clarify my thoughts about a book, a sermon, or a set of circumstances. I write to figure out what is true, what makes sense and what doesn’t. I write to discover what I know or need to know. I write out prayers and scripture verses. I’ll never reach full understanding of many of the things I struggle with, but thinking hard enough to squeeze the thoughts out of my brain, through my fingers, and onto the page, trying to form some sort of coherence on paper, forces me to discern between emotions and truth. Writing helps me to keep a “big picture” perspective on life. In fact, it was the desire to understand my own reason for writing that motivated me to attempt this post. It is woefully inadequate, but the act of writing it out has helped me to get a better grasp on why I write.

Why We Write, By Noemi S. Rabina

After watching on TV the events that took place during WW II in the Philippines under Japan, 1941-1945, my four sisters and I started our unending recollections of our experiences. We decided to put them in writing to let our children and grandchildren know how we survived the war. The place we called our home was in Laguna. Pictures alone can not reveal our feelings, emotions, love and joy with the people that crossed our way.

We write about the beautiful place that God has created for us to enjoy. The mountain high, the rolling hills and forests that we have traveled, the flowing river, the spacious sky and the heavenly bodies that slowly traveled across the firmament before our eyes. We write about the fragrance of the orange blossoms and gardenia that surrounded us, the rainbow colors of flowers in the garden and those that decked our pathway, the orchids that hang on the branches of trees. We write about our friends, their love for us and their hospitality.

We write about the circumstance that brought our family to live close together, our fears, our work and play, our travel on foot for one hour to go to church and worship with Christian friends in town. We write about our fellowship with the young people, our laughter, our love for each one like brothers and sisters.

We write about the young men who tried to win my sisters’ hands. In those days, romance was just looking at each other, no holding hands, no kissing, and no dating. We write about the way young men woo their beloved by serenading at night, usually when the moon is bright. The one they named in their song would open the window to thank them.

We write about the industry that we have learned; such as weaving mats, bags and hats which were an added source of income. We write about the little business that my mother started, baking native cakes that we sold to the village folks. We write about our poultry. We write about the fish traps that my father set by the river bank. We write about the mini school that my sister started with the pre-school children who learned ABC.

We write about our Japanese friends who have been nice to us and taught us their language and songs. We write about the “Bamboo Army” to protect us from invaders and the “radio taizo” to keep us physically strong. They gave us products from Japan and we gave them fruits from our trees and garden.

These memories of struggle for survival during the Japanese occupation led me to write our experiences. Once started, ideas kept flowing. I am an inexperience writer and what comes to mind, I write. Going to a Memoir Class helped me a lot.

Why I Write , by Evelyn Watson

There is the challenge of expressing myself in the amazing world of linguistics which I find exhilarating, fulfilling, and pleasurable. Words are ever as much revealing as I and the English language as confusing, a challenge that intrigues me to write. I find words speaking to me as time passes when writing poetry- keys unlocking mysteries, and at times a spiritual experience of knowledge beyond my wisdom when writing letters. My Inspiration gives way to poignancy; through the writing process and I am able to re-live again experiences by writing them as though viewing a photograph.



Beyond that, writing lets me search and draw from the deep well within to discover myself, shining a light on who I am, challenging me to review my character, and giving my feelings expression through that powerful venue through which I become lost in time. Journaling pent-up emotions, anger and guilt, failures and disappointments, voiced silently by pen, yet, mighty as the sword, release me of their bonds. Equally, feelings of happiness and joy, accomplishments and successes bring smiles within when I see them penned realizing I have been transformed by the renewing of my mind, as God proves his perfect will for me.



Writing encompasses an enormous other world of which I know little about, yet, endeavor to enter into at the risk of being made a fool. Words paint a picture of who I am writing my memoirs, not to leave a mark or be recognized of others, but of whom I find myself to be through the revelations of that never ending source- my eternal soul. I recount and remember who I was yesterday and write of who I am today, witnessing God's goodness.

Why Do I Write?, By Yolanda Adele

I’m the historian of my life. Writing is the vehicle I take to journey within myself. When I write in the quiet of the night it is as though I’m having a conversation with my soul. That is when my writing flows. I don’t worry about grammar or syntax when I’m in this level of self-discovery.



I think it was Thornton Wilder (Our Town) who said, “In writing, working is in clay not marble.” This may be why I have learned to make peace with my past and to embrace who I’m today. I continually uncover jewels of special moments that enrich my life and give it meaning.


Bonnie Mansel, our writing coach, once asked our class to write our own epitaph as a writing exercise. This writing assignment left me with a liberating feeling of empowerment, knowing that I had the last words about my essence and what was important to me. It reminded me of a curious fact about our 3rd president, Thomas Jefferson: He wrote his own epitaph and chose not to mention that he had been president of the Untied States. It did not matter to him what others might have wanted said about him. It was his life, his death, and he had it his way.


One day my granddaughter, Jaime, asked a question that I had never asked of myself, “Nana why do you write?” To my surprise I answered without hesitation, “So someday you may know me better.” There it was, in a heartbeat, the answer was as clear as the sky above us. My writing is my legacy to my precious grandchildren: Jaime, Brandon, Moises, Hannah, Caleb, and Sarah.

Judy

Judy Brandenmihl

May 5, 1940 - June 3, 2010

"WHY I WRITE" by Kacie Cooper

Kacie! You are so boring! That's what I used to tell myself before I got heavy into writing my memoirs. I've learned I can be quite funny at times and very interesting at others. In America we have a God-given-right-to-write. So why not take advantage of that gift? It's inexpensive and rewarding in so many ways.

Why did we go to the moon? Because it was there? To prove that we could do it? To feel better about ourselves? I'm really not sure, but for me, like wanting to go to the moon, there was always an eminent need to be heard. That's really why I write. I've even learned to get rid of that critic in my head. It has been so liberating.

I've tried my hand at writing stand-up comedy and performing it. Performing it is easy; the writing has always been more of a challenge. But I like that. Like the old saying goes: “no pain, no gain.” But when I receive that first hint of laughter from the audience, I am instantly in heaven. What a high! Not many things compare. And I am responsible for all that; little ole me.

Carly Simon used to sing, "These are the Good Old Days." Through writing I've come to appreciate each new day and that "these days" are truly the "Good Old Days."
If I don't tell my own story... then who will? Ultimately I write my memoirs in an attempt to explain to my descendants the reason for my insanity. To hold their interest I insert humor. But first, I guess because of my ego, I write for me because I feel strongly about so many issues in life: racial equality, man’s inhumanity to man, etc. I want my opinion to be heard and it doesn't necessarily have to be read by others to be beneficial. Just knowing that I have it in print where I can go back and study it to see just exactly how I feel about it is very liberating.
I believe we all have an innate need to be heard. Even cavemen and women wrote on the cave walls. Perhaps we write because we know that not all of us can go to the moon. Maybe we want to move people, make them feel like they've been to the moon and back.

At first I just wanted to be heard, since as a child I didn't always feel that I was. Then when I felt I was being listened to I moved on to writing something that included a moral or something that could elicit emotion in the reader. That was my new quest. Now I continue that journey in my written word.

Through my writing I find peace, purpose, promise and enjoyment. Also it's the cheapest hobby I know. Hopefully when my great, great Grandchildren read my memoirs, they will come to the punch lines and laugh; and hopefully not get up and walk out.