(This is a repeat post which seems to be still pertinent on this November day. )
The ability to remember the past is one of the greatest gifts we have been given. As writers, we make good use of our memories. Memoirs are in vogue today as writer after writer explores their past hoping to see it better themselves and to share with others.
Personal essays lend themselves to creating a story with a universal truth using your memories.
We also use memories to write fiction. Many children's books are based on the author's own childhood memories. Things that occurred in the past can be used in adult fiction, as well. If we've experienced something, we can write with conviction. We incorporate our own experiences into the made-up stories we write.
Poets certainly use memories as they pen their short or long poems.
I think an excellent writing exercise is to write about your growing-up years each month of the year. We're in the early days of November so try a free write about what your life was like in November. D
The questions below might be of some help in writing about November:
What was the weather like where you lived?
How did your wardrobe change?
What did you see in the grocery stores?
What kinds of foods did your mother make?
What holiday plans did you make?
What did you study in school?
Did your town have a Veteran's Day Parade?
What sports did you watch or play?
Did you celebrate Thanksgiving? How?
What chores did you have?
Below is a memory piece I wrote a few years ago about November in Chicago when I grew up in the 1940's and '50's. I've posted it here in the past, but it's a good example of what you can write about for this 11th month of the year. Write one of your own to add to your Family Stories book. What a great addition it would be to have a memory sheet for each month.
November In Chicago
The crisp, sunny days of October somehow slid into damp, gray ones during November in the Chicago area where I grew up. The sun played hide-and-seek in the late autumn and winter months, mostly hiding. Wind swept across Lake Michigan, bringing a chill that seeped through warm, woolen jackets and into the bones. Fallen leaves swirled around our feet with each new gust and naked branches dipped and swayed like ballerinas. We walked faster on our way to and from school. Once home, Mother often commented that we had roses in our cheeks, nice way to describe chapped skin. We paid little mind to our rosy cheeks once inside our warm apartment.
Each of the five rooms had a large radiator with an on-off knob on the side, and a deep, narrow pan for water that hooked over the back to increase humidity. We had steam heat, fired by a huge coal furnace in a garden level basement. The coal man inserted a chute from his truck into a window. He sent the coal rumbling down the chute while several kids gathered around. The apartment janitor stood at the delivery end of the chute in the basement. Once this scary looking, coal-blackened man finished, the kids ran to the basement door to witness the next step in bringing heat to all our apartments. The janitor, grabbed a big shovel and fed the furnace from that huge heap. He let us watch for a few minutes, then snarled at us. “Get out of here now. No place for you kids.” His fierce look sent us scattering. During a coal strike, we wore coats and hats inside, waiting for the hissing sounds of heat coming through the radiators.
We celebrated Armistice Day every November 11th, commemorating the armistice signed to end WWI at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month, 1918. Even after WWII, Armistice Day remained as November 11th. Now, we call it Veterans Day to honor all veterans. There are still parades and meals to mark the day.
At school, we studied the Pilgrims first Thanksgiving—history and art class rolled into one. Some classes had replica feasts.
My Thanksgiving menu now remains the same as when my mother or aunts prepared the dinner—turkey roasted to a golden brown and stuffed with a moist dressing redolent with sage. Aunt Adeline made French dressing, a spicy sausage added to it. We savored mashed potatoes and rich gravy, sweet potato casserole, homemade yeast rolls, cranberry sauce, a salad called Seafoam made with lime jello, cream cheese, mashed pears and whipped cream. Our vegetables were usually green beans. Pumpkin pie with real whipped cream finished the feast.
We alternated hosting the dinner with my dad’s two sisters who lived near us. My five cousins, three brothers and I had a wonderful time together, despite the wide range of ages. After dinner, we were shooed outside to play, even when it was very cold. I suspect the adults sat around and drank more coffee, nibbled on the leftovers and did all they could to put off the dish washing time.
No dishwashers, so all the women cleared the table, washed and dried the dishes with towels made from flour sacks. When my female cousins and I got older, we were drafted to help. Chattering women and clattering dishes, that’s what was heard in the kitchen after dinner. The men plunked themselves in comfy chairs and listened to the radio and often napped.
Once married, I thought about asking my extended family to our house for Thanksgiving. I hesitated for fear of upsetting my mother who had cooked countless Thanksgiving turkeys. My aunts had passed away, so Mom was always the hostess. One year, I worked up the courage to suggest it, and Mom threw her hands skyward and said, “Finally! I’ve been waiting for someone to invite me for Thanksgiving for years.”
Now, my children sometimes make the trip to Kansas for Thanksgiving. We use a few shortcuts and we load the dishwasher instead of drying dishes with flour sack towels, but the grandchildren revel in being with cousins just as I did all those years ago. The faces around the table may be different, but the same warmth of a family gathering to give thanks and spend time together is there. May it ever be so.
