One goal for 2018 is to write every day. Whether it's one-line journaling or blogging. I have an intention to work through Natalie Goldberg's "Old Friend From Far Away", which is a helpful book on how to write a memoir. Most of the entries are exercises, which I find useful for dislodging some writer's block. I have worked through her first two exercises (about what we see and what we remember) multiple times over the years. So for today's entry I started on chapter 3. I do not intend to edit or even proofread these entries.
Test One / Begin each answer with "I Remember"
1. Give me a memory of your mother, your aunt, or grandmother
I remember getting in the minivan with aunt Donna. We drove for hours, a loop of highway around the foothills of the Rockies, slowly climbing. She drove with her left food on the door panel of the minivan. I, afraid of heights or falling or sliding whatever, was unnerved by the nonchalant way she navigated the winding narrow roads. Up, up. I think I remember later telling Larry that Donna wasn't the best driver and he laughed, already knowing this about his sister in law.
2. Give me a memory of the color red
I asked for a sign. The streets of Addis were crowded and colorful. Children begged on every corner. There were merchants and we were the only white people for miles. I was fighting, with everything in me. They all knew it. There had already been doves and there had already been prayers answered and they were putting things on me I didn't want to carry. We walked into the Orthodox church, surrounded by deep brown women in stark white head coverings. The only colors left unsullied, left pure. I remember there was no light. Just towering windows with stained glass. The ceilings were vaulted and it smelled hot, but there was relief there. It was not the hot, dry season yet. But it also wasn't Kentucky. I was dared. I was challenged. I responded with an attitude and rounded the corner. The nativity was depicted in stained glass and for a moment I stood still, with the worshippers moving around me as water does a boulder in the stream. I remember whispering, "who didn't tell the Italians that the Virgin Mary is supposed to wear blue?"
3. Give me the memory of a sound
I thought I would sit here and tell you about the piano.
But that's not it.
What I actually remember is the emptying of pockets.
The wooden porch echoes a certain way, before the screen door creaks a certain way, before the front door catches as it tries to unlatch.
We memorized footsteps.
To this day I can tell you who has come home.
I could probably tell you exactly how many seconds there were between that front door catch and the back room - where we sleep now - and the long, low dresser that keeps Judah's clothes now. And I'd count those seconds and wait.
The drawer would open, catching like the front door does.
And he'd empty his pockets.
Loose change, keys, and half of an unwrapped pack of Certs.
Settling noisily on that long, low dresser.
4. Give me the memory of meal I loved
There was a joke, about Norman Rockwell holidays on Severn Way. A joke that turned into expectation. That house used to be full of life, long before we all knew the secrets. And on Christmas Day the kitchen would be full and the back sliding glass door would be steamy. Sliding open and shut while meat was grilled in the snow.
5. Give me the memory of rain
The little yellow house had a small front porch. Up the street there was street light in an empty parking lot. And he'd pull the old, tan lawn chairs back as close to the house as he could. Sit, cross his calf over his knee, and watch. In the darkness the only way we could see the rain was in the cast of that street light. We could hear it. We felt it spray our faces, as we sat on the shallow porch, feeling the foundation shake every time the thunder clapped.
No comments:
Post a Comment