Writing Prompt: Family

Conversing with family can sometimes seem like a fencing match – Attack – Parry – Cut – Thrust – as you duck barbs and sling a few yourself; all in an effort to maintain your dignity. Family, better than any enemy, knows how to wound. They are familiar with the soft sensitive spots, the hidden underbelly of self, so susceptible to harm. Sometimes you see the blade coming and sometimes you are blind to it, finding it masked behind humor or feigned concern. Like a Changement de Rythme, broken time, a sudden change in the tempo of their actions, you become fooled. You respond when you should have remained silent. You say nothing when a word would do; you drop your defenses and allow them an in – they draw blood quicker and with more venom than any opponent and just as quickly, they change face becoming your savior and shelter, your comrade on the battlefield. Suddenly they appear at your side, embracing you and dragging you out of harms way. You may feel their sting, but damn anyone else who tries to inflict injury! You can never tell on any day, which face they will wear and so often they wear both – your mightiest foe and greatest defender in one. You flee from family, but always return, forever bound by blood and home, and that most complex of emotions – Love.

Writing Prompt: Write about a family gathering. How did everyone act?

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait #13: This is Me

Of all the self-portraits I took for my self-portrait project, this adult photo of me is perhaps the most natural, the most like me on an average day – there are better photographs, sexier images, versions of me to which I aspire, but this is how most people are likely to find me – bright coat, silly hat, on the go with a smile.

The childhood me looks equally happy. She has the same wide brown eyes and a hint of the same smile. I am happy I’ve grown more hair. She appears as comfortable on the hood of this car, as the adult me is behind the wheel. I don’t recall this picture, but my parents are attached to it. They look at it nostalgic for the cute little car and the cute little baby.

Sometimes we look at photographs and don’t recognize ourselves at all. I see me clearly here. I am on my way to work, off to do an interview or write at Books-a-Million. I’ll return home when it’s dark and I am tired to be greeted by my pugs, sitting in a basket of hats, scarves and mittens by the door. Tomorrow I might do the same. Like everyone, I have regrets and longings, hopes and dreams; many of which are coming to light in the posts on this blog, but I look at these pictures of me – both child and adult – and can say, that although there is still so much I want, so much I am looking for – on most days, I’m honestly happy.

Writing Prompt: A student in my memoir writing class once asked another to write a story that really showed who she was, that said "BAM, this is me." Try it, share a memory that shouts "BAM, this is me!

Interview with Barbara Techel

 

Dog owners who have owned a senior dog know the telltale signs of aging – suddenly the fella that used to bound two steps at a time up the stairs, starts taking them more slowly eventually sometimes even missing a step. Instead of getting up to greet you, he may sit in his bed and wag his tale. His energy wanes. I remember when I first noticed these signs in my “Little Man” Vader and I worried. Not only did he seem to be slowing down, but his back end also seemed wobbly. I had seen his brother and other relatives suffer a paralysis of their rear legs and I worried that the same would happen to him. I tried to ignore it at first, but eventually my fears became a reality.

Initially, I dealt by carrying  him up to his bed at night, but when he grew too heavy I had to make a new bed for him downstairs. I kept him walking as long as I could, but eventually the time came to buy him a doggie cart. I had learned about Eddie’s Wheels a few years earlier when Vader’s brother needed his own cart. I purchased Vader’s custom chair in November of 2011 and while he unfortunately was only able to use it for a short time, it did keep him on his feet and walking until March of the next year when his front legs started to go as well. Even then I would put him in it at least once a day at first and try to help him stand to keep some blood flow to his ever-weakening legs.

It is painful to watch anyone you love suffer and the same can be said of a beloved pet, there is also something sacred in helping someone who is experiencing such suffering. They seem to develop a special grace.

If anyone knows the joys and sorrows of caring for a disabled pet it is Barbara Techel, who recently wrote a book, Through Frankie’s Eyes, about her own dog, Frankie, a dachshund, who suffered from intervertebral disc disease (IVDD).  In fact, Barbara’s book is not only dedicated to providing some insight into what this experience is like, but also showing what these special-needs animals can teach us. By witnessing Frankie coping with her disability, Barbara learned many lessons that she could apply to her own life, leading her to find a more authentic existence.

Recently, I had the opportunity to review Barbara’s book, Through Frankie’s Eyes: One Woman’s Journey to her Authentic Self, and the Dog on Wheels who Led the Way. On the heels of that review, I also had the chance to interview Barbara for this blog. You will find the interview below.

As a memoir writing instructor and a former owner of a disabled dog, I was very interested in Barbara and Frankie’s story and wanted to explore her journey with her. Among the issues Barbara and I discussed is the growing interest today in both memoir and dog books, the inspiration to write a memoir and her definition of an authentic life. We also touched on some of the charity and educational work Barbara was able to do with Frankie and how this sweet dachshund touched a number of people’s lives. Please take the time to listen to the interview, I think you’ll enjoy it as much as I did.

Also, please check out Barbara’s book. It is not only a book for dog lovers, but for anyone looking for inspiration to follow their dreams. For more information on Barbara, Frankie and her new dachshund, Joie, please visit her blog at www.joyfulpaws.com. Also, feel free to comment and let me know what you thought of the interview, I hope it will be one of many to be featured on this blog in the future.

Important Links:

• Frankie the Walk' N Roll Dogs Legacy - chip in to help other special needs dogs with Frankie's Wheelchair Fund
• National Walk 'N Roll Dog Day- A Day Established in Frankie's Honor
• Joyful Paws - Barbara Techel's Blog
• Eddie's Wheels - the place to buy dog carts
• Through Frankie's Eyes - buy on Amazon

Family of Another Sort

I received an email from a former student today. He had just learned of the passing of his fellow classmate, my student and friend, Ceretha, who died this past fall.

The two were part of a delightful class of students, at nine, this was one of the largest and most diverse I have had since I’ve been teaching. The students ran the gamut from an 80 year-old Native American to an 18-year-old from the Dominican Republic. The one thing they had in common was their amazing ability to tell stories. Not only could they all write and write well, but also they were lively conversationalists and attending class with them was like being at a really wonderful cocktail party.

Once I get to know my students I usually end up enjoying my classes, each one is unique, but this group was among my favorites. You know those hypothetical games you play – if you were having a dinner party, who would be among the famous guests you’d invite? Well, this class was like the all-star line-up of students; it was pure fun to be in their mix.

Tonight in my present class, I had a student write about meeting a famous actor from the television series M.A.S.H. and it immediately brought to mind another story from this previous class in which one of my students wrote about sneaking into a London nightclub with another couple and meeting the Beatles. These are the type of tales you can’t make up. They were prolific among this group.

Today as I read my former student’s email, a man in his sixties, I was touched by his comment. He wrote: “I truly miss your class, it was one of the most enjoyable school experiences that I have ever had.” That’s a pretty nice endorsement!

Sometimes work feels like just that – work, and sometimes it feels like something more. Sometimes it is fun and sometimes, it is special. These stories stick. They are tales of people’s lives, their joy and pain, the path they took to become the people they are, but once they share them in class, especially when the group tells them with a sparkle in their eye and the charm of a champion storyteller, they become things to remember. They are family stories, and the letter I received today, expressing condolences over Ceretha, sharing details of a life, promising to keep in touch was a family letter. I am part of an ever-expanding family whose stories grow, flowing into each other year after year. I am sure when I am old and gray I will still remember these tales and the people who told them, their memories ever mixing with my own.

Writing Prompt: Mom

My mother had cataract surgery today. She is doing fine, although she spent the whole day a little out of it because they had to give her extra anesthesia.

I don’t like it when my mom is under the weather for any reason. Not only do I hate to see her suffer, but she is my best friend, my sounding board, and my biggest supporter. On the way to surgery this morning she was posting comments to my blog. She will often sit across from me at a table and do the same. I miss her lively conversation when she is out of it, but not her smile. She smiles even when she cries.

She hates being out of commission even for a minute, which makes even simple surgeries big obstacles for her. You see she’s not only my rock, she’s everybody’s rock and she knows it. She doesn’t like to let anyone down. Not even my pugs.

As she groggily shuffled into the kitchen this afternoon to grab a snack, the pugs followed. They are used to her giving them treats and seemed as disturbed as me that she wasn’t up to par. They kept staring at her until she sought help in getting them their cottage cheese. Waffles sat on her lap for most of the afternoon; Alfie at her feet after she had the chance to jump up and sniff her eye. It must have passed inspection.

Many people have commented on my tendency to write about strong women on this blog. My mom is the strongest of all. She shapes how I see the world, so any strength I see or write about comes from her. She doesn’t like to be vulnerable and yet, she let’s me show my vulnerability everyday and flips it on end, making me feel strong. It takes a feisty and stubborn lady to raise a daughter like me; I don’t always make it easy. I fight her and I challenge her because her image of me is so much better than my own. And, yet, what better mirror in which to see myself? She is the best reflection of all that’s right in the world.

Writing Prompt: Who is your mirror?

Self-Portrait #12: Memoir

I spent today writing. It is a piece for The Hubbard Hall Writers’ Project, a piece of memoir that I may never share with anyone because it is not polished, it is not linear. It may not make sense to anyone but me. It is intensely personal and probably necessary. It is stuff that needs to be put down and sorted through to move on. In many ways it is background material for all that comes next.

It reminds me of my self-portrait projects. For each of us there is a past and a present. The people we were and the people we have become. In my writing, there is the story I have been telling myself and the story I want to tell now. Like these pictures in many ways they are the same and in many ways they are different.

The pictures can’t tell the whole story, there is a wealth of life between the childhood photo and the adult photo and any written account still has such gaps. There are things I want to share and things I don’t, things that are mine to tell and things that belong to others. I would not be who I am today if it were not for all these things, and so I write down what I can and I stare at the words like I stare at my photos and try to understand who I am and how I got here.

That’s what memoir is I guess, whether it manifests itself in words or in pictures. I begin each semester of my Memoir class asking my student “What memoir is and why would anyone like to write one?” But, I’m not sure I have ever tried to answer that question for myself. I have one student who has taken my class eight times and each time she answers this question it evolves. If I were to answer it today I would say a memoir is our search for meaning, the best possible explanation we can give at the moment. It tries to connect the dots and create a story. It tries to understand how the bald headed toddler smelling the roses became the woman doing the same.

Writing Prompt: 1. What is a memoir and why would anyone want to write one? 2. Write about a time you got from here to there. What happened?

Filling the holes

Tonight we celebrated Christmas at my house.  I finally gave my friend, Joan, my pugs Vader and Waffles’ breeder, the two scrapbooks of photographs and blog entries that I had compiled for her.

She greeted them with the glee of a child. Her face lit up and her blue eyes twinkled in the same way that my five-year-old niece Tori’s does when presented with a surprise. I love this about Joan, a childlike glee, that despite her age, lights up her face and the world around her when she is excited by an animal, a gift, a delightful piece of news. She squeals and blushes and those around her find themselves swept up in her exuberance.

Yet, as excited as she was, she approached each volume with reverence. The cover of the first featured a picture of Vader and her, one of the first I had ever taken; the second, one of the last. She turned the pages of each as if they were the Old and New Testaments. She could only glance through their pages – each binder is four-inches thick, comprised of all the blog entries I had written last year pertaining to Joan and the pugs as well as all the photographs I had taken of Pugdom and the events we had attended together. She scanned the quotations I included, noted a few pics of the dogs, complained about a few of her and expressed her pleasure at the hours of viewing ahead.

Earlier, when we were out to dinner, Joan confessed how difficult life still is now 15 years after her husband Charlie’s death. “Sometimes I have to force myself to get out and do things,” she said.

Life creates its share of wounds, leaves holes in all of us. Joan, I think, fills hers, in part, with her pugs, filling her life, literally, with fulfilling their needs. Sharing this with her, I fill some of my own holes. I look at her childlike wonder and her joy and I see the love I poured into those scrapbooks. The feelings reflect back to me. The loneliness each of us feels, she for the husband she lost, me for the family I have yet to establish, dissipates. We find in our friendship with each other and the animals that we love, a salve.

Gary's Barn

When I was a little girl, my Uncle would bring his friends home from the Coast Guard Academy to my grandparents’ schoolhouse. One such friend was Gary. Gary adopted my grandparents’ as his own parents and they accepted him as a son. He eventually purchased a farm above the schoolhouse. He has rented it out over the years and while there were chickens, sheep, and goats there for a while, in recent years the barn has stood empty and is in a state of decay.

As a child, the barn was filled with my grandfather’s antiques. I would love to go there and look around. My grandfather used to collect glass telephone insulators – a beautiful teal green in color. We would often go antiquing on the weekends and he would bring objects back to the barn. He also stored a number of cardboard cones there and he would help me fashion dolls out of them. I haven’t been inside the barn in years, but it no longer looks safe. The roof is caving in, but it still projects a certain beauty, like an aging model whose skin may sag, but who never loses that great bone structure. Only, that’s not quite true, the structure of this building is giving in, giving up, and eventually it will probably have to come down. I already know some people who were checking it out for the wood, although as far as I know Gary has made no such deal. I will be sad the day it finally happens. We already lost a couple of barns at the farm where my Dad grew up, taken down because they too were falling in and were no longer safe. The hole where they were offers a great view, but it is still a hole, a part of what once was a leaving, breathing entity, now amputated.

Not only are old barns a thing of beauty, but old memories are, too.

Self-Portrait # 11: Uncle Bobby

I am five-years-old. The darkness enfolds me like a warm, comfy blanket. A soft light shines from the other room. I am tucked in my cot next to my parents’ double bed in the barn wood room of my grandparent’s schoolhouse.

“Put the kids to bed and we’ll bring out the ice cream,” my Uncle Bobby jokes, but he comes in to rub my feet before I fall asleep. It is something I remember in the years to come, first, when he is my boss at his granite company and later, when our families go through a falling out. Things are better now, but in the dark times, I remembered moments like this, when he was just my uncle and I was a little kid. The thing about special memories like this is that they can be a glue and a bridge to hold relationships together and to help cross a gulf until things are okay again.

I love my uncle.

I’m not sure where this picture of us was taken, but we spent a lot of time together when I was little. He was in the Coast Guard Academy and he would bring home friends to my grandparents’ schoolhouse. My parents and my brother and I would travel down to camp out with them for the weekend.

When I was older and my uncle married, his wife Lynn pierced my ears with a needle and some ice. She taught me how to make Christmas ornaments out of walnuts and cotton balls so they looked like little mice. She taught me the words and hand signals to a song we’d sign around the campfire “His Banner over Me is Love.”

When Bobby and Lynn had children, they would come down to our house and swim in the pool and we would eat big family meals around my grandmother’s large dining room table at the schoolhouse.

I don’t remember this photo, but it is a rare shot of us together, but I have memories to fill the gap.

I didn’t have time to take a new photo with my uncle for this project, although he only lives 30 miles away. I see him often when I visit my 92-year-old grandmother, who now lives with him, and when they travel down this way to visit us. We even go out to eat together at Cockadoodle Pizza Café, our local haunt. Instead, I chose to recreate the setting and the substance of the photo, but this time with my constant companion Alfie. I love how she studies me in this photo. This is her natural stance.

Growing up, neither side of our family was particularly a dog lover. My uncle got his first dog, a black lab named Daisy about the same time I got my first pug Vader. They both died within weeks of each other. When my Uncle Bobby interacted with Daisy, I saw a side of him that was more playful, less serious. He would get down on the floor and rub her belly. My grandmother said he cried when Daisy died.

Dogs bring out the best in people. They are a catalyst for creating warm memories. In the summer, I now often bring my pugs to my uncle’s pool. He always surprises me with his warmth towards them. They seem to make him smile. His genuine affection towards these creatures and our mutual appreciation of them are another bridge and a glue that binds us. I cross it and know love.

Writing Prompt & Self-Portrait #10: Laid Bare

My self-portrait project raised some issues for me when it comes to body image, but being judgmental of my body is not the only way to be hard on myself. I was reminded of that today.

It was one of those cliché-ridden days. The kind where I woke up on the wrong side of the bed and never should have gotten out of it. But I did and by afternoon had already missed an important interview for work because I had the wrong day. Tonight I had another appointment and was then supposed to head off to my photography class, but when my appointment ran long I realized I would be getting to class very late. I could choose to still go and miss a substantial amount of class, which could be disruptive, or call up and cancel. I chose the latter, but felt guilty about it. First, of all I really respect the teacher, who has become a friend, and second, I had actually worked hard on the assignment this week – taking the photos on color and light that I posted yesterday. I worried that I made the wrong choice and then I worried some more.

How could I have missed the appointment earlier in the day? Was I forgetting things because I was overworked, overbooked? Was I wrong to have taken the photography class in the first place? Was there any way I could have left the appointment earlier and not have been late for class? Should I still have shown up?

Everyone, I’m sure, beats themselves up once in awhile, but I don’t seem to know when to call it a day. By the time I was done questioning myself I couldn’t tell what I really wanted in the first place – to be at class or to go home guilt free? What’s wrong with me? I asked again and suddenly mid-thought, I realized: No one’s upset here except you; no one else is holding you accountable. This is Kim on Kim and you are a hard taskmaster. Your appointment ran overtime, you chose not to show up late, you let the instructor know. It’s over, move on. Let yourself off the hook.

I was scared. When things were laid bare and I could see the monster, I discovered it was me. A sobering thought with a happy flip side: just like I learned that I can be more forgiving of my body, I can also be more forgiving of other aspects of myself. I have been judge, juror and jailor to a woman trying very hard just to be free. Perhaps now I can be liberator instead.

About the photos: I wasn't sure how to handle these photos. The child photo shows me in the tub and as I have already mentioned, I've never been too happy about sharing that type of photo. It also was pretty revealing, so I didn't feel comfortable showing it in its original form. It seemed like such a childhood shot required something similar as an adult, but I wasn't comfortable with a real nude. Instead I set up the camera and took this adult shot, which shows a little skin, but nothing too risque. I'm still uncomfortable, however, with seeing myself in such a sensual way, and chose once again not to share it on Facebook. I used some filters to change the photos to black-and-white and mask some of the more delicate elements. I was going to use these two shots to write more about sensuality and the body, but after today I realized there is more than one way to be laid bare, more than one truth to be discovered in these photos.

The adult shot not only suggests sensuality, but vulnerability. I think many of us consider vulnerability to be a weakness and try to avoid feeling this way. It's dictionary definition  means being open to harm. But, vulnerability is also a pure and honest emotion and there is a beauty in it. To look at my reflection in my photos and my actions is to be laid bare and to be made vulnerable. I am trying to find the beauty in what I see and to be kinder to this  child and this woman in every way.

Writing Prompt: In what ways are you hard on yourself? How can you be more forgiving?