memoir

Everybody’s Tabernacle

Here, the Baltimore church my father owned for a short time in the early '60s. He called it Everybody's Tabernacle.

Why this picture, why now? Because everybody's a Baltimorean today! (Quoth the Ravens, "Evermore.")

Sorry the picture's so blurry! Truth is, we don't have many family photographs, seeing as how we traveled light. So while the quality's not perfect, I'm very happy to have it. It's a treasure, recently found. (At this link, a much better picture. It includes more family members.)

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Thank you!

It’s been a week since I spoke about The Face of Hunger at Second Harvest Orange County’s “No Lunch” Lunch. It was an incredible experience, and I felt your presence beside me when I spoke. I’ve wanted so much to reach out to each of you personally, to say thanks for your support; but in truth, the experience was so powerful that I needed time to digest it all.

I shared a portion of my own story, as you know, for the very first time in public (save for "Luz," my essay in DEAR BULLY). I talked also about the faces of hunger all around me, now and in my past. Neighbors in need, about whom we’ve all heard whispers down the lane. The faces of hunger—invisible until and unless your eyes grow accustomed to the dark.

Tears fell, not all of them mine. I reached for my water glass, swallowed hard until I regained my composure. The audience (about 350 people or so) waited patiently, leaned forward in their seats as if to encourage me. And when I headed back to my table at the end of my speech, they rose to their feet. I just about burst in tears again, what with all that smiling and clapping.

I don’t remember much that happened after that, save for a few snippets of conversation—some of it more personal than I feel comfortable sharing. But here’s a brief snapshot:

One well-heeled woman cupped my hands in hers, and she peered into my eyes with what seemed to me a mixture of curiosity and pity. “Just keep on doing what you’re doing, honey,” she said.

“This is your Esther Moment,” another woman said. “I know, because I’ve been up on that stage, same as you.”

An elderly person approached me, eyes twinkling. “Your father would be so proud…You’ve got the preacher genes in your blood, just like he did."

People will hear what they will…will see what they choose…will say whatever they want, whenever. It’s not up to me to evaluate their perceptions. I'm still exploring my own truths. But I will say that I was humbled by this experience, and by the outpouring of support. And, yes, I feel some measure of pride for having done what I set out to do. I made a joyful (if sometimes blubbering) noise! And the tears we shared that afternoon? I suspect they were transformed into “showers of blessings” — for Second Harvest, and for the faces of hunger they serve.

What words can I add, of any measurable worth? Only this: I'm deeply grateful. xoxo 

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Remembering Heidi on her birthday

Some people live organized, uncluttered lives. Me, I’m a messy, mixed-media kind of girl. I use every crayon in the Crayola box, and I’m not afraid to color outside the lines–most of the time, anyway. But there’s a certain comfort that comes of boundaries, of brushing preset colors into numbered spaces on a printed canvas.

And so it was with my sister Heidi, the impish little girl who eventually learned to play it safe. She had a wild streak in her, and she told whoppers stories like no one’s business. But life stripped away much of her sass, mostly before she reached adulthood. Over the course of many years, Multiple Sclerosis ravaged her limbs and organs. She was first confined to a wheelchair, and then a hospital bed with side rails. She could have given up, but no. Radio tuned to Christian broadcasts, brushes clenched between palsied fingers, Heidi propped herself up and painted.  

To a trained artist, Paint By Number sets might seem a little tacky.  To an unfettered soul, they’re probably too restricting. But for someone as isolated as Heidi was–surrounded by colorless walls in a sterile bedroom–they afford a creative outlet. Wings, if you will. They encouraged her to dream about places she’d never seen and probably never would. They gave her a voice, one that told the outside world: “I am here, I am capable, I am.

It's Heidi's birthday today, and I find myself staring at this painting (a gift she gave me just last summer), find myself thinking about why it is that I haven't framed it yet. It’s as if, in doing so, I’d be placing boundaries around the artist herself…around Heidi, the mischievous little girl who doesn’t have to color inside the lines, ever again.

One breath, one word, one story at a time

Dearest friends,

November already…are you as shocked by that as I am? And yet, the signs are all there: Red camellias are blooming along the back fence, hummingbirds are fighting epic territorial battles in the pepper trees, and white azaleas are bouncing like over-caffeinated ballerinas in the Santa Ana winds. How are these different from the hallmarks of late autumn where you are? 

November also ushers in the season o' NaNo. Are you participating? I'm not writing a novel, as you know; I'm still revising/editing my memoir. Still, while NaNo isn't a perfect match for my situation, I've figured out a way to bend it to my will. Mwahaha, and go, me!  It's all about showing up and, as Ron Carlson so sagely advises us, staying in the room with the story. Every day. Without fail. Regardless. 

Oh, but holy cow! I confess to a bit of hand-wringing when I first saw this yesterday. As fortune would have it, a very dear friend dropped by, provided me the cup of comfort that I needed, and then nudged me back to the page. In doing so, she offered me yet another key to NaNo success. A life lesson, reprised: Allowing myself room in which to pause and reflect, and then moving forward, without giving easement to my insecurities. I'll enjoy reading that book, eventually. But for today anyway, I have my own story to tell: Can I get a witness?

Enough about me. I want to hear about  things in your corner of the world! I've got time for a cuppa tea, if you do…

XOXO,
Melodye

Image credit: Woman Writing a Letter, by Dutch artist Gerrit ter Borsch.

Nancy Drew goes to the circus

From the recent files of Nancy Drew:

Do you remember a time when vendors sold chameleons as fashion accesssories? 

It’s a small-ish element of a single chapter in my memoir…one of those flashbacks that make you go, B’zuh? Did that really happen?

Proof! I needed proof! So I posed this question, casting my net far and wide:

Q: I’m wondering if you ever talked with someone who sold chameleon brooches? I remember hearing about them from my older brothers, and could have sworn they said women bought them from traveling circuses.

Obstacles I encountered: It’s a niche question, tinged with ickiness. I unearthed a handful of wild claims curious assertions, but I wanted actual evidence! I worried this bone for a long while. And bulldog supersleuth that I am, I finally located a trustworthy source.

Mystery solved, no roadster required!

Thank you, John Robinson (SideshowWorld site owner), for responding to me directly. I appreciate also that you’ve created a new feature, "Ask the Staff," for other sleuths like me.

Image credits: animalwallpaper.org and SideshowWorld.com

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Thankful Thursday: Letters and lessons

There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear.
1 John 4:18

Not long ago, I received an email about CAN I GET A WITNESS, written by someone I interviewed a while back. The message was slathered in honey…on its surface, sweetness and light. But in the middle, I discovered a nasty surprise. Darkness. Veiled threats, poisonous innuendos…seeds of fear were scattered there.

Here, I confess that this is one of the reasons it’s taken me so long to write this memoir. I am deeply aware that there are (groups of) individuals who prefer certain things not be brought to light. They inspect every "jot and tittle," in search of errors, measure each word against their faith. Perhaps this clouds their perceptions of me and my project? Clearly so, from the tone of that letter.  

Lord knows, I’m only human. And as such, I make mistakes. Who am I, then, to pass judgment on anyone else? Or vice versa?

While CAN I GET A WITNESS touches on evangelical beliefs and practices, by no means do I intend it as a treatise on religion. Or a parable. I’m writing about my own experiences; draw from them what you will. 

I’ve said as much before–and often. But I’ll say it again this morning, for the person who sent that email, and for others of his ilk: I will listen respectfully when you express your opinions. In return, I’ll speak with integrity…and from a place of love. But know this: You hold no sway over my writing. And you hold no power over me.  Not now. Never again.

Free at last, free at last! Thank God almighty, I’m free at last.

Thankful Thursday: “Search Angel”

Generous souls…friends along the way. I don’t know what to call them, but these traveling companions always seem to appear when I need them most. They’ve appeared out of the blue, oftentimes in unexpected places. And though the timing’s not mine, it always seems perfect. That’s why I welcomed with open arms the "search angel" who showed up for me last week. 

This blog post, by genealogy expert Megan Smolenyak, is what drew me to the "search angel" in the first place. As I read this line of hers, especially, I felt like I was hearing an amen chorus for some of the work that I’ve been doing: 

Although NBC’s celebrity roots series, Who Do You Think You Are?, is only about to embark on its second season (February 4 , 8/7c), it already has many diehard fans. Imported from the U.K. by executive producer Lisa Kudrow, the show appears to be on the verge of provoking a nationwide epidemic of roots fever.

The underlying question of this series – Who do you think you are? – plays a pivotal role in many of my Nancy Drew adventures. In researching my own family tree, I’ve climbed precarious, sprawling branches. I’ve tunneled my way through lots of tangled roots. It’s not for the faint-hearted or indelicate, that’s for sure. Still, and though I’m not an expert genealogist, I’ve collected a bag of tricks. And side-kicks. Have roadster, will travel! 

Even Nancy Drew needs someone to hold the flashlight now and again, which is why this response to Megan’s entry caught my eye:

Feel free to contact me for help in searches. I have completed 200 searches/r­eunions in the past two years, some without even a family name. www.prisci­llasharp.o­rg. […]  Reuniting the world — one family at a time.

After reviewing her website, I felt compelled to contact Priscilla. We exchanged emails, and then we spoke by phone. To say that our connection was immediate would be an understatement.  I explained what I was looking for, and why. And when she said, “I would be delighted to help you,” I cried. It’s so wonderful, not to be going it alone! When we talked a few days later, she ended our phone call by saying, “I’m with you for the long haul.” I leaned into her reassuring words, and the spirit of understanding behind them.  

Unlike some genealogists, Patricia does this work for free—a generosity borne of her personal experiences. (It’s not my story to tell, but I encourage you to peruse her website. You’ll come away inspired, I promise you that.) She calls herself a search angel, a name that suits her, I think. Within days, she’s already uncovered new information and artifacts for me—this revival ad, among them. Several people made mention of this line of copy: “See visible miracles…” I believe this new partnership is a miracle in its own right. Can I get a witness?

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Thankful Thursday: All the king’s horses…

I have a great deal to be thankful for, this week especially. So I apologize in advance for the length of this entry.

1. At the Laguna Beach Sawdust Festival this past weekend, I met K.C., an artist who paints exquisite landscapes, birds, flowers and other delightful images. She derives inspiration from her own childhood experiences, here and in China, her country of origin. I selected two watercolor paintings of small birds, and she translated the accompanying poems for me in halting English. “Even the tiniest of birds has big wishes. They want to soar high in the sky," she said, hands fluttering like wings as she spoke. And then we talked about what that meant to each of us.

Through that brief encounter, I realized anew the power of art, in all its forms. It has transcendence, lifting us above and beyond specific circumstances and bringing us to a deeper place of connection. And so it was that we forged a connection: artisan, writer, friends.

2. I also visited Scott Schoenherr’s booth, which was almost eclipsed by a giant eucalyptus tree, but definitely worth exploring. Inspired by everyday experience, his one-of-a-kind ceramic sculptures are anything but ordinary. (Browse when you can; they’ll make you smile!) We got to talking about one of his pieces, which he called “Monarch," and he explained that the whimsical piece was, in fact, inspired by the monarch butterfly.

In the course of that conversation, Scott mentioned that he’d recently turned over a large portion of his garden to the milkweed plant, thus creating a feeding ground for that gorgeous winged creature during its annual migration. I have fond memories of the monarch butterfly, so I was excited to learn more about this beautiful insect from a backyard enthusiast. I remember seeing milkweed everywhere when I was younger, but as manicured yards encroached upon natural habitats, these butterfly sanctuaries are being lost. So today, I’m especially thankdful for people like Scott, who have dedicated themselves (and their gardens) to turning things around!  

3. Kerry Madden wrote a wonderful blog post this morning at A Good Blog Is Hard to Find. It’s gorgeous in its authenticity and tremendously inspiring, so I recommend you read the whole thing. But you know how it is when certain words jumps off the page and land in your lap? That’s how it was when I encountered the phrase, “come-aparts": 

"Mr. Negative gave me a serious case of the "come-aparts." Another student, not Mr. Negative, wrote about his mother and how she used to get the “come-aparts” after drinking a case of Tall Boys. (Horrifying? Impressive?) As an adult, he’d have to go over and calm her down with a “Momma, let’s pray” when his own mild daddy couldn’t do a thing for her." (Go on. Read the entire passage. We’ll wait!)

I haven’t come across that expression for years! But the instant I saw it—all dressed up in quotation marks and dropped into a familiar context—I found myself thinking about the last time I’d heard it.

Colloquialisms like this are emotional anchors, tying us to specific situations. They provide our readers with geographic context and emotional authenticity. So I’m grateful to Kerry for this little flashback, and I’m hoping my own writing will be richer for her example.   

4. Come-aparts and King’s horses. We all suffer from this very human malady at one time or another, whether or not we like to admit it. Very recently, I was feeling a bit fragile, cracked open by circumstances beyond my control. I’m deeply thankful for the all the good eggs (including you) who helped me reassemble my Humpty Dumpty self. Whew, it feels so good to take deep breaths again! But I’d be remiss if I didn’t also express gratitude for the lessons I revisited during that difficult time.

Image Credits: Monarch Butterfly on Milkweed plant via KidZone; Humpty Dumpty, by way of School of Blog. I took the photo of K.C. with my cell phone, and yes, this is how we dress in 60-degree weather.

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