memoir
Mother’s Day
In this faded photograph, my mother is helping my sister Sheryll celebrate her first birthday. (Mmm, cake!) Three days later, I made my grand entrance. That story, my story, would later became the centerpiece of my father’s faith-healing revival meetings.
I can think of so many questions I’d love to ask my mother—about these events, yes, and so many thereafter. In my Hallmark-inspired dreams, she indulges me this cozy conversation whilst we sit at my backyard bistro table, admiring the flowers and sipping Earl Gray tea. But unfortunately (and I doubt I’m alone in this), the realities of our mother-daughter relationship were far more complicated than this fantasy might suggest. She wasn’t a forthcoming individual by any means, and she took many secrets to her grave.
Melancholy musings, these, but maybe an important reminder, as well.
Whether or not you’re writing a memoir, I encourage you to ask your mother as many questions as possible. Do it now, while she’s willing and able to answer! Your family will appreciate that you’ve kept alive the memories of the matriarchs that helped shape their destiny. And while listening to your mother’s stories, it’s likely you’ll discover some amazing things about yourself.
Looking for ways to jump-start the conversation? Consider these:
Ten Questions To Ask Your Mother Now
The Best Mother’s Day Gift Ever
Happy Mother’s Day, everyone!
Retracing the Sawdust Trail
I spent several hours combing through the newspaper archives at the Los Angeles Central Library last Saturday. Lucky for me, they’ve digitized over a century’s worth of the L.A. Times! Along with other artifacts, I unearthed this classified advertisement for one of my father’s tent revival meetings. It was filed among those belonging to the biggest stars in the evangelical orbit of that time period—Billy Graham and Marjoe among them.
I’m grateful today for the forward-thinking individuals who stored these images where I could find them. Thanks to their efforts, I’m able to piece together certain elements of my past. And in a larger sense, their efforts have kept the Sawdust Trail from being swept into the dustbin of history.
My Emily Litella moments
"Study to show thyself approved unto God," the Good Book says. That verse was painted on a banner at the front of my second grade classroom at Central Baptist Elementary school (long shuddered shuttered), right above the chalkboard. My teacher read it aloud each morning, stabbing her rubber-tipped pointer at every word. I remember copying it 100 times–in cursive–every time I "sinned." Which may or may not have happened quite a lot.
As with many Christian schools at that time, the King James version of the Bible was one of our primary textbooks. If you’re familiar with it, you’ll know that some passages are almost impossible to translate, even as an adult! I now think my teacher misinterpreted that verse, but not by accident. No surprise, I realized much later that I had also twisted the meaning of several passages, albeit not on purpose. For example, when Jesus says, "Suffer little children…." I thought He meant that I must endure severe hardships before I was found worthy. Over time, I learned to read Scriptures much differently, hallelujah and amen.
It’s fun to re-examine the belief systems–and misconceptions–that governed my growing-up experiences. I’m often reminded of Gilda Radner’s (genius) "Emily Litella" skits. She’d get herself all worked up in a lather about something that she’d obviously misinterpreted. When someone pointed out the obvious made her aware of the error, she’d stop mid-sentence, stare sheepishly into the camera and say, "Never mind!" My memoir’s not a comedy by any means, but I do have lots of aha moments.
Here’s a YouTube video of Emily Litella as a substitute teacher. Grab a cup of coffee, move away from the keyboard, and laugh until you snort! 
Nancy Drew at the National Archives
a good place to start.
THE CRACKED BANISTER, a Nancy Drew mystery
After signing my life away agreeing to follow a strict set of rules, I worked in a sequestered area, under constant surveillance by security cameras and trained personnel. Lemme tell you, even Nancy Drew would have squirmed under such close scrutiny! Gold star for me: I was only reprimanded once!
There’s nothing quite so exhilarating as discovering the secret password that allows you access to an inner sanctum such as this. And at the end of the day, I walked out with copies of a case file that help document an important chapter (and person) in my memoir.
A memoirist can’t be too careful, what with all the recent (and, groan, widely publicized) hoaxes and frauds. But I’m also doing my due diligence in the service of a higher purpose (at least for me). In writing my own story, I want to bear eye witness to every scrap of evidence I can find about my past.
UPDATE: Thanks, Pamela, for finding the Church Lady video! Expert sleuthing, that!
A gumshoe in flip-flops
"Well, isn’t that special?
I’ve been tracking down a criminal record for several months now, and just this morning—eureka!! I finally hit paydirt.
Nancy Drew would be so proud of me. I’m just sayin’.
Image credit: SNL archival photos available all over the Internets. Drat it though: I can’t find Church Lady doin’ the Superior Dance.
Love, and Route 66 Reprise
I had a full-spectrum Valentine’s weekend. There were some twinges of sadness, yes; but for the most part, it was filled with happy smiles and lots of love.
On Valentine’s Day, my husband treated my sister, a very good friend, and me to High Tea at Victorian Manor. Why yes, he did look a little bit silly pouring tea into a gilt-edged tea cup, while perching precariously on the edge of a beribboned, lavender-painted chair! But was his masculinity threatened by the flowery tea pots and gauzy decorations? No way. “This is heaven,” he said. “I’m surrounded three beautiful women!” And that, my friends, is but one example of why he’s the man of my dreams.
Also this weekend, my siblings and I piled into an SUV and traveled Historic Route 66. It was a trip down memory lane—and a road to healing for all of us. A Sunday road trip seemed to us a fitting final tribute to our father, the itinerant preacher.
We ambled from No Place to Nowhere, swapping stories about the countless times we’d squished together in the back seat, hurtling from one state to another, and from one tent revival to the next. Then we scattered my father’s ashes along a portion of that old highway—among the Joshua trees and tumbleweeds, between the rusted railroad trestle and the crumbling asphalt.
When we headed back to the car, a metal object glinting in the sunshine caught my eye. I scraped away some sand with my shoe—and look! A vintage side view mirror! Perhaps it was because my heart and mind were wide-open at that point, but that roadside artifact seemed to me a profound metaphor.
My sisters, brothers and I spent a very full day looking back on all the times we’d climbed into the back seat of my father’s car. And after his ashes were scattered and each of us had said our piece, I climbed into the driver’s seat and drove us safely home.