Memoirs...

Like I said, I've been reading some memoirs lately, the most recent being The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. There just aren't enough superlatives to cover my experience with this book. I always hesitate to recommend books because I don't read a lot of "Christian" books. I don't suggest this one if you are offended by bad language, although it is rare and always in context. This woman has simply had an outrageous life, if outrageous means growing up in worst family you can imagine and I can imagine a lot. Yet there is nothing whiny or depressing about it. Read it.

So here is what I wonder about memoirs. How do people remember things in such vivid detail? I hardly recall what I am wearing right this minute, much less what I wore/ate/experienced when I was five! My guess is that it comes back to you as you write. If not you can make up details and you get asked back to the Oprah show to get yelled at.

Really, I make things up all the time.

I may give it a try, not writing my memoir, but just things I remember. I'll try not to make things up.

I'll start right now. First grade.

I lived in a small Kansas town and we had one black family, the Camps. I don't know how I know they were the only black family, but I don't think I made that up. Phillip Camp sat next to me in class. He had braces on his legs. Do kids still get braces on their legs? Mrs. Wright was our teacher (oh my the details are flooding back) and she was old. Probably 40 or something.

One day, early in the year, Phillip and I were comparing hands. We notice that they were different colors on one side and matching on the other. He wanted to be my boyfriend and I thought that was a great idea. In those days kids walked home for lunch so our moms could make us a sandwich and then we went back to school.

When I went home that noon I told my mother that Phillip was my boyfriend. She somehow let me know that wasn't ok. While we were never allowed to use the N word, my parent's attitude was one of benevolent tolerance, not racial equality. It was years before I found out what I seething bigot my father was.

The next day Mrs. Wright moved us apart and the relationship fizzled out. I understood that I was to be polite but keep my distance.

So I'm happy that I have a black president. He and I would disagree about a lot of things, but we would agree that my mom and Mrs. Wright missed the boat on this one.


This picture is for Mia. Dylan and Kim were delighted with the Fiesta bowls she got them as a wedding gift.