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The first thing
we did was to consult some of the manuals out there that purport to
teach a person how to write memoirs. We found that some of them are very
good; some could even be described as immensely helpful—but only for
people who have note-worthy stories to tell.
We quickly
realized that writing a typical “memoir” might work for someone named
Barbara Bush or Eleanor Roosevelt; but most of us are just plain people
who have lived pretty ordinary lives. That is exactly how we would
describe our lives. No one would ever consider Evie and me world
changers. In fact, the closest we ever got to anyone fitting that
description was across a rope line in Washington DC.
Still, boring
as it might seem to others, we wanted to leave our children and
grandchildren with a better understanding of the family from which they
came. One of the greatest
misconceptions we have as families is thinking that we really know
everything about our close relatives. The truth is, all we really know
is what they have told us, and most people do not expose much more about
themselves than they have to.
What we are
left with are snapshots, rather than videos. Aunt Harriet might tell us
that she and Uncle George moved from Buffalo to Albany in 1977, but she
doesn’t delve into the details surrounding the trip; she doesn’t explain
about his getting fired from his job, and how that precipitated the
relocation; nor does she discuss the details of the miscarriage she
suffered during the move.
No, all you’re
left with is this: “Yes, George and I moved to the State Capital in
1977. Or was it 1978?” That’s all she says. You see her eyes glaze over
as she relates that single sentence to you, and you think you detect a
tear forming in the corner of her eye. But you have no idea what all
that non-verbal commentary means. She doesn’t expound. Not wanting to
pry, you look away, and that’s the end of it—or so you think.
For the most
part, our culture is one that looks forward rather than backward. We are
far more interested in hearing about the new job opportunities that
entice our children to move away, than the lost jobs that changed the
lives and fortunes of our older family members.
It has not
always been that way, at least not for me. When I was a child, one of my
favorite things to do was to jump in bed with my dad in the evening. He
always retired at 8:30 PM, well before my mother had completed her
nightly facial regimen. For a half hour or so I would ask him questions
about his youth, and he would relate fresh stories for me almost every
time. I learned so very much about him during those sessions.
Technically,
those stories made up his oral history. They were the things he
considered significant, but not significant enough to discuss at family
reunions. Had I not jumped in his bed all those times (and virtually
forced him to comply with my wishes), I would never have learned that
his mother left his alcoholic father, and ran off with another man,
leaving them both to fend for themselves.
Nor would I
have learned that in a single year my father attended 20 different
schools. Because I attended the same school for the first seven years,
the notion that my father had gone to so many schools didn’t seem
possible to me at first. So I got him to explain.
Apparently his
father (whom he loved dearly) bounced from town to town finding odd
jobs, and fighting in bars (my grandfather was a big man, and he knew
how to fight). Because he was an alcoholic, he would stay in the town
only long enough to earn enough for a little food, and a couple bottles
of whiskey. His father knew that if he did not enroll my dad in the
local school, he would lose custody. Besides, school was a fine
baby-sitter.
Then, my dad
told me about his uncle who eventually took him in. This uncle was a
lumberjack, and a moonshiner. My dad was only 13 at that time. He was
very fond of that uncle, and was grateful to be taken in by him. Not
only did the uncle put a more permanent roof over his head, he taught my
dad two important trades—lumberjacking and the art of making (and
selling) good corn liquor.
Those days in
the woods produced some of the most wonderful stories my dad ever shared
with me. They were happy days. Not only did my dad like working with
this uncle, he liked the idea of quitting school. It was not that he
didn’t like to learn, he just got sick of fighting. It seemed every time
that his father dropped him off at a new school, my dad was forced to
spend every recess fighting the toughest kid at that school. It was a
tradition back then: “challenge the new kid.”
Now, can you
see where I’m going with this? Each of us has an oral history—especially
those of us who are a little older. But seldom do any of us take the
time to listen to the stories our older relatives have to tell. Oral
histories are virtually a lost art.
This manual
teaches the art of committing oral history to the written page. It does
it in a fun way. As I wrote earlier—if it wasn’t fun, Evie and I could
not have done it. In a sense, the manual provides the means for your
children, grandchildren, nephews and nieces, and anyone else to whom you
decide to make your story accessible, jump in bed with you whenever they
wish. They can hear all about your most intimate experiences—at least
the ones you have elected to record. They are able to view your life
experiences the way you see them, almost like sliding an enormous DVD
into a player, and viewing a video of your life.
As you read
this book, one of the things that will grab you is that I don’t make
many (positive) references to other authors regarding how you should go
about writing your story. There is a simple reason for this—the approach
set forth in this manual is unique. Other writers will teach you how to
write a novel, cookbook, memoir, or some other genre-specific book; but
none (at least none that I found) teach anything similar to our “TRAX”
system of “comparative mnemonics.”
(For a more thorough explanation of the concept (comparative mnemonics),
visit the website: www.comparativemnemonics.com.)
