The Secret--A Family Story

May 31st brings back a family story that I adore. My parents were married on May 31, 1938. This would have been their 85th anniversary. My family story about their wedding has been published, and I am posting it here today. Weddings make for great family stories. Think about yours, your parents, or grandparents. Then start writing!

The Secret

My parents eloped on May 31, 1938 in a Chicago suburb. Still the Depression era, but that wasn’t the reason Garnet Studham and Gin Julien didn’t plan a church wedding. They had no choice since Garnet’s mother and two brothers didn’t like this man she’d been dating, and they let their feelings be known.

I’d heard the story so many times that the entire elopement seemed as real as watching a movie with my own parents the main characters.

Gin, whose real name was Alfred, made the arrangements for the wedding with a Justice of the Peace. On a Tuesday evening, he drove his little coupe to pick up Garnet. She came running down the walk before he could step out of the car. She wore a red linen dress, her short, reddish-brown curls bouncing as she ran. 

They drove the few blocks to the J.P.’s home. Gin’s hand shook a little when he rang the bell. A woman in a house dress answered and ushered them into the small living room of the bungalow, where her husband waited. 

“Sure you want to do this?” he asked, and Gin and Garnet nodded their heads. 

No flowers, no cake, no bridesmaid or groomsman. The woman who answered the door would be the legal witness. No music, no guests, no flower girl.

“Alright, let’s begin,” the J.P. said. He opened a book to read the words that would bind Gin and Garnet together forever.

A shrill ring interrupted the short service. The witness scurried away to answer the phone while the others waited.

“It’s for you,” the woman said to her husband, “About the fishing trip tomorrow.”

Down went the book and away went the Justice of the Peace. He had his priorities, and apparently, this quick wedding wasn’t high on that list. The wedding couple heard all--where he was going to fish, what time he planned to leave and who was picking him up. After he boomed, “See you in the morning.” The JP returned, mopped his head, retrieved his book and finished the service. Money changed hands, signatures on a document sealed the marriage, and the newlyweds were ushered out the door with a hurried “Congratulations.” 

“I’m starving,” Garnet said as they walked, hand in hand, to the little coupe Gin drove.

Gin pecked her on the cheek. “I know just the place.”

They went to a favorite bar and grill. Garnet ordered spaghetti and Gin said he wasn’t hungry, but he continually tasted bites of the pasta that sat in front of his new wife.

“I thought you weren’t hungry,” she teased. Weeks later, she learned that he only had enough money in his pocket to pay for one plate.

Before dark, Gin drove his bride to her mother’s apartment. Garnet kissed him and then walked slowly to the red-brick building. She spent her wedding night alone in her single bed, afraid to tell her mother or her two brothers what she’d done. And like every other Wednesday morning, she rose long before dawn to work in her mother’s small bakery.

Over the next six weeks, Garnet met Gin as many nights as possible for short dates. He urged her to tell her family. The only family he had left were two sisters, both married, but he hadn’t told them either. Garnet kept delaying, first by days, then by weeks. Confession would bring undue hurt or might unleash a storm when her brothers found out.

One morning, during a break at the bakery, Garnet sat with her mother at the oil-cloth covered table, sipping a cup of steaming hot tea and nibbling on a sweet roll, fresh from the oven. 

Without warning, her mother set her cup down hard and spoke in a voice laced with anger. “You’re married, aren’t you?” Her mouth was set firmly, no smile to be seen.

Garnet could only nod her head. Words stuck in her throat. How did her mother guess the secret? Garnet’s cheeks burned. 

Her mother said, “You’d better go live with your husband then.” No warmth, no congratulations, no joy. 

Garnet cringed from the stinging words. Regret for hurting her mother, relief that the secret had finally come to light, and excitement about joining Gin for good—all these washed over her in one big wave. She packed after work and moved to her husband’s tiny studio apartment. 

Garnet never did discover how her mother uncovered her secret. Forgiveness was slow, not coming until I was born, exactly two days before their first wedding anniversary. Garnet’s two brothers reached across the hospital bed that day to shake Gin’s hand while the new grandmother held me close. This time she had a smile for all.

 

Memorial Day Memories

 

Today is Memorial Day 2023, and it brings back memories from grade school days. I started kindergarten in 1944, while WWII was still raging in Europe and the Asian theater. In those days, Memorial Day was always May 30th, and schools and businesses were closed. 

I didn't know much about the war at that age, because the news was not blaring from the tv 24/7. Occasional news reports came on the radio and there were newspapers, which my parents read. They never shared the bad news that they found in The Chiciago Tribune. Nor would I have understood it at that stage of my life. Our family went to movies regularly, and I remember watching a newsreel with the latest war news shown between the two films the theater was playing. All I knew then was that bad things were happening. 

I have a very clear memory of celebrating Memorial Day with my classmates at Lincoln School every year from the first through the sixth grade. There was a large playground across the street from the school with all kinds of equipment that appealed to grade school kids. High Flyers, a merry-go-round, trapezes, rings, swings, and teeter-totters. In one corner of the playground, a monument had been erected sometime during the war years to honor those in the military who had died fighting for our ocuntry. Their names were etched into a plaque on the stone, young men who had been graduates of our school. 

On the day before the holiday, every class elected a Flag Bearer and a Flower Girl. Kids brought flowers from home gardens, and each teacher made up a large bouquet. These two children led us from the school to the playground where all the classes gathered to pay tribute to these fallen soldiers and sailors. There was a literal parade of the classes starting with Grade 1 on up to the 6th grade class. In each one, a boy proudly carried a large flag, and a girl held the bouquet of flowers in her arms as tenderly as if she carried an infant. 

The flowers were laid at the base of the monument, and we all stood solemnly as our principal, who had a deep booming voice, conducted a short program of remembrance. He impressed us with his message of what these fallen men had given for their country and the fact that we should pay honor to them, every day, not just on Memorial Day. We said the Pledge of Allegiance and sang a patriotic song.

Each year, I understood more of why we celebrated and honored those who had died on Memorial Day. To this day, I think of our class marching solemnly to Carroll Playground. We were taught patriotism which has lasted for me to this very day. 

Another memory of those days is that, because my birthday was the day before Memorial Day, I always was elected Flower Girl. I walked proudly behind my teacher and next to the Flag Bearer. Strangely, no one complained that "Nancy always gets to be the Flower Girl.' as you might expect. Somehow, it became part of the tradition. 

I am most grateful that my shcool taught me to love my country and honor those who fought for our freedom. 

If you have specific memories of this holiday, write about them and add to your Family Stories Book.

Self-Doubt Debilitates Writers

 Writers face any number of hurdles on their writing journey. Some are harder to vault over than others. One of them creeps up and whispers in the ear of many a writer. It's self-doubt. A nasty little bug that requires some time and effort to overcome.

Self-doubt can be debilitating. It tends to grow, become heavier, and put a pall on your day. 

Why do writers become victimes of self-doubt? It's almost hard not to have this problem when we look around and see all the wonderful publications in the book world, in magazines, and ezines. It's easy to suddenly wonder why so many are published on a frequent basis and we are not. Or perhaps not as often as hoped for. 

Writers are not all alike. What worries one does not give another pause. Some of us are frequent worriers, and that invites self-doubt right in the door. The fix? Stop worrying! Oh, if it was only that easy. To merely say it and worry magically disappears. Instead, it is a slow process of reminding yourself about your good points in your writing life and looking back at what you've accomplished over the years. Our poster for today addresses this quite well. Keep in mind that it is not an instant cure but a slow process that we must work on continuously. 

Why do some people deal with self-doubt more than others? Look back into the growing-up years. If someone in the family, or a teacher, or a friend, belittled a person, self-doubt has a fine place to grow. If others criticize us for one thing or another, it's pretty easy to start doubting ourself. The ground work was laid, and we keep it going. Again, help yourself by dwelling on the helpful things in your writing life. 

Have a little talk with yourself. Think about your good qualities, your pluses in your writing journey. Remind yourself every day. Keep those positives alive and well. Doing this will crowd out the self-doubt. Have a personal pep talk meeting with yourself several times a week. It needs to be an ongoing process.

But what is that you're thinking? That you shouldn't brag about yourself. It's not nice to do that. If you're having coffee with four friends, it probably isn't the right place to do this. But, when it's only you, go right ahead. You're working on erasing self-doubt and pumping yourself up as you move down your writing path. 

Self-doubt is not a terminal disease. There are fixes, but it's up to you to address the problem. I cannot do it for you. Your friends cannot. Your family cannot. You are the one in charge. 

Book Review: beyond that, the sea

 Laura Spence-Ash's debut novel, 'beyond that, the sea' drew me in quickly and kept me turning pages eagerly. If you think this is just another WWII story, think again. This one is different. Five stars in my opinion.

Beatrix Thompson is an eleven-year-old British girl whose parents decide to send her to America when the Germans begin bombing London in 1940. Reg and Millie want only her safety. Shy Bea arrives on the docks of New York City, met by the Gregory family from Boston. They have two boys, William and Gerald. One is two years younger than she, and the other two years older. The Gregory family lifestyle is far different than what only-child Bea is accustomed to, but it doesn't take long for her to fit into this loving family. The boys become brothers to her, and she finds girlfriends at school, and a new way of living at the Maine summer home where the family lives during the summers when Mr. G has no more classes to teach and the children are out of school. Letters to and from home are a big part of the time Bea lives with the Gregory family. It is five years before the war is over, and then Bea must go home to London, where life has changed a great deal. But so has she, now sixteen. 

The rest of the novel jumps around in Bea's young adult life, as she blends into a new way of living in her home country while still keeping the Gregory family close in heart. Circumstances bring one of the Gregory boys to visit her, and send her back to Boston to reunite with her American family more than once. There is much more to reveal about this story, but to do so would be spoiling it for the reader.

The book is beautifully written. Divided into chapters headed by a character's name, the reader gets the point of view of the main characters, both those in America and the parents in the UK. The characters feel very real, ones the reader can relate to. The story shows how our childhood experiences follow us in adulthood. This tale is about the love of families, forgiveness, and mother-child relationships.

The format of the book is slightly different, breaking some rules writers normally adhere to, but the reader easily adapts to the author's way of writing dialogue. No quote marks, but done in italics. A conversation between two characters will be done in one paragraph rather than separating as each person speaks. Note that when reviews use the book title, they put it in capital letters, but the title on the book itself is done in all lower case letters. Another change from most books. These differences do not distract from the fine story this gifted author has given us. Five stars from this reviewer.

I look forward to more novels by Laura Spence-Ash. 

A Passion for Reading

 

The greatest gift is the passion for reading.

It is cheap, it consoles, it distracts, it excites, it gives you

knowledge of the world and experience of a wide kind.

It is moral illumination.

(Elizabeth Hsrdwick, (1989)

Elizabeth Hardwick was an editor, writer, critic and co-founder of the New York Reviewof Books. Who better to have made the comment above? I am in full agreement with herassessment of reading, and mostly the passionfor reading that is within the quote.

Passion is the necessary element to be classified a real, honest-to-God reader. None ofthis reading a book once a year and an occasional glance at a newspaper or magazine. Ifyou're passionate about reading, never a day goes by that you don't read something. Tome, reading is nourishment for the soul, yet I hunger for more on a regular basis.

Like any recipe, reading requires more than one ingredient. No one would read withoutwriters, editors, and publishers. They bring us the words that fill us with knowledgeand/or entertain us. Some of us will never be more than a reader, but otherswho work in the writing world reap double benefits. Not only do they pursue that glorious passion for reading, but they can offer reading material to the world. For onewho loves the written word, doing that offers satisfaction of the finest kind.

I read three newspapers a day, (local paper, Kansas City Star, and Wall Street Journal). I am always in the process of reading a book. When one is finished, there is another waiting for me. I also enjoy reading magazines. Do I read every single word? In a book, more often than not, I do. In newspapers and magazines I read the parts that appeal most to me, which is usually a good share.

I have a friend who panics if she's finished her stack of library books. She'll drop thingson her to-do list to make a needed trip to the library for more books. She says it's her best and easiest way to get rid of stress. The new stack of books brings her comfort and anticipation of what's to come-namely a good read.

I believe Ms. Hardwick and I would have gotten along quite well as we are of the same mind when it comes to the passion for reading. ['ve heard people comment that they don't have time to read books, magazines and newspapers. They do have time to spend endless hours in front of a TV or a computer or an electronic game. It's not they 'don't' have time, rather that they don't 'take' time to read. Maybe you need that passion for reading before you make it a priority

Write About Your Mother

 It's a little early to celebrate Mother's Day, but I have a reason. You have 12 days to write a tribute to your mother, or something about her for the rest of your family. It's nice to buy her a card, and perhaps a gift, as well. But writing to her or about her would be a gift that would be marked "Priceless!" 

If your mother was a storyteller like mine, you've learned a lot about her early life and beyond. I've always felt blessed that my mother told me and my siblings about her growing up years in a small Iowa coal mining town, and then in a Chicago suburb where life was a complete turnaround from what she'd known her first eleven years. 

Maybe you learned about your mother's early years from your grandparents, or her siblings, or even her close friends. If she's still living, and you don't know a lot about her life before you came along, now is the time to ask her. To see what her life was like before she became an adult and a mother helps you understnad the kind of person she is today, or was as you were growing up. 

My mother's parents separated when she was only eleven, and the hurt lasted forever. If our mothers experienced something traumatic as a child, the effect will still be there when she became an adult. 

Besides writing about your mother's early years, write about the things you remember most about her in your growing up years. What kind things did she do on a regular basis? What kind of punishments did she mete out, and did you finally realize she was helping you become a good person by not being permissive? Did she plan special things for holidays? Your birthday? Did she open the house to your friends? Was she a good cook or not so good, but always managed to put something on the table? Did she take you to church? Or not? Did she take you to movies? 

Before you start writing about your mother, take some time and roll back the years and give some real thought to what she was like. Not all mothers are shining stars, but there must be some good qualities. Perhaps there was a reason some mothers weren't going to win any parenting awards. Delving back into her history might help you understnad. 

You can write her a letter to tuck inside her card. Or write a personal essay. Or a poem. If you have trouble getting started, write two words, then let your mind and your memory take over. Write 'I remember...' 

As I mentioned earlier, if your mother is no longer living, other family members would like to read, or even have a copy, of what you write. I wrote a eulogy which I read at my mother's memorial service, As I read before a large group of her family and friends, I wished I had told her in person many of the things I had written after she passed. 

Use this next twelve days to write about your mother. It could be the gift of a lifetime.