Grandpa Richmond

by Joan

We called him Grandpa Richmond. Though we saw my maternal grandfather only once a year, our anxiety over the visit began weeks earlier. We’d plead futilely with our mother to please, pretty please, skip this year. Even though he’d given her up in divorce when she was five, even though he kept her brother in Richmond, my mother never gave up on him.

My mother and grandfather

On a Sunday, my younger sister and I would pass the long two hours on Route 95 I-spying blue cars and giving the universal horn-tugging signal to truck drivers. No trip was complete without a stop for stacked, syrupy goodness at Aunt Sarah’s Pancake House. We dawdled over our plates as long as possible, before our sulky return to the car.  

In Richmond, we would park in front of the row house on Floyd Street and creep up wide porch stairs. My grandfather’s second wife, a wafery blonde with sallow skin, a sourpuss smile and missing finger, would open the screen door and motion us inside.

At the end of a long dark hallway, Grandpa Richmond waited in his wheelchair, one leg dangling in front of him, one trouser leg tied up to his knee. We were told to kiss his white-whiskered cheek as he closed his toothless mouth and raised his face toward us. After a hello Zisela from his rusty voice, we were dismissed to the front room where we scooched far into the sofa. Hello Papa, my mother would say.

Now I scold my eleven-year-old self for not embracing him on the last day I’d ever see him. For not asking him questions about the old country, about Richmond, about  his part in the Great War, his grocery store, bootlegging whiskey. He sacrificed a country, a leg, a daughter to scratch out a better life while I cowered in the corner.

For those of you who asked questions, who have journals and hand-me-down memories, I envy you. I don’t know his story, or hers, for that matter. But I will make it up.

Calling Me Home tour highlights: Part two

My husband and me near
Pike Place Market in Seattle

By Julie

At more than a month since the release of Calling Me Home, it's hard to believe how fast the time has flown. At the same time, it seems like just yesterday I was counting the months, then weeks, then days until release.

I've spent the last few weeks since my last update traveling more, doing events in Seattle, Spokane, and Palouse, Washington, and received some really big news in the midst of all that. I found out last Monday night, after a great talk and signing at Third Place Books in Seattle, and dinner out with a cousin and new friend after, that I'd sold the film option for the book to Warner Brothers, with Roy Lee producing.

I knew a deal was in the works for a few days, but it was really a pretty lightning fast process--a rarity in this business, from what I understand. I'm thankful to have a set of really awesome agents to handle these things, and knew my film agent, Jody Hotchkiss of Hotchkiss and Associates, had things well under control while I was gallivanting around doing book events. I *almost* didn't see the email late that night confirmimg the deal had happened, but Google alerts also had things under control. While driving across Washington State the next afternoon, one notified me that Hollywood Reporter had broken the news. Right about then, my Facebook and Twitter pages went nuts and it was a pretty fun afternoon and evening answering all the congratulatory posts and Tweets.

Warner Brothers produced the Academy Award winning film, Driving Miss Daisy, as well as The Departed, another winner, with Roy Lee. Lee and the studio seem very enthusiastic about the potential for developing Calling Me Home into a feature film, and I can't wait to see how this unfolds. Typically, these things take time, so I'm only holding my breath a few seconds at a time. In the meantime, it feels fairly surreal to get the occasional email from Roy Lee with updates. And ... I'd be lying if I said I hadn't put a few bugs in his ear about potential actors I could see playing parts. :)

Lonesome...

The last few days of my Washington trip saw my family and me digging through old photos and sorting through my Grandma's jewelry box, with my sister and me and my teenage daughters laying claim to things we particularly liked or remembered, more than 15 years after her death. I'm not sure I knew my dad had these things squirreled away in the attic until recently, when we started really contemplating what items remained that might give us additional insight into the woman who inspired Calling Me Home. I'm not even sure he knew or remembered he had them squirreled away until my brother mentioned something about them. This was my first opportunity to explore these family treasures since I started writing the book, and there are boxes upon boxes left for another visit.

We were all intrigued to find and examine photos of my grandma as a curvy teen with a sassy smile, and amused to see she'd written tiny notes at the bottom of several snapshots of herself-- "Just me" on one. "Lonesome" on another. She changed more, physically, from those teenage photos to adulthood, than any of her sisters. It felt like a bittersweet confirmation of the heartbreak it seems she suffered, though we also enjoyed seeing many photos of her being the sometimes goofy, playful person we all glimpsed at times, too.

Not my grandma's egg, but one just like it!

I brought home a small box of well-used cookie or biscuit cutters--stacked inside each other like Russian dolls, originally round, but now lopsided circles of various sizes. I also brought a little gold-etched Estee Lauder egg Grandma must have treasured as a gift from someone at Christmas. A few other things as well--gaudy costume jewelry, a set of keys, and silver bracelet that looks surprisingly modern and I've already worn once.

This has been a time of great celebration for my family, as well as a time of contemplation and memory.

I'm thankful for the prompting the publication of Calling Me Home gave us.

Keepers

By Julie

I’m finishing up my last load of laundry. My laundry. In my busy household, I always seem to be the last one to sneak a load into the washer. I work from home. Yoga pants or shorts and a comfy t-shirt are as fancy as I dress most days, so I rarely need first dibs on the washer and dryer. My teenage girls can’t tell the difference between the clean and dirty clothes on their floors, so they just throw it ALL in, rushing to launder what they need for school or more exciting vacations than I’m taking. My husband, a typical engineer, does his own laundry methodically each and every Sunday, and I don’t want to mess with a good thing. My mother has a small wardrobe and needs her laundry done more regularly than I do.

When I finally get a chance to wash my own clothes, I hang my shirts to dry. It means one less step in the process—not to mention they last longer when they’re not tossed around in a hot dryer. And though I only manage a few loads in the space of a month, I still gaze with dismay—and even a little bit of awe—at the number of well-worn t-shirts hanging in the doorways of my laundry room, bedroom, and bathroom.

This is a LOT of shirts. I’m venturing a guess they number between thirty and forty. Wow. Thirty to forty shirts? And I wouldn’t wear most of them in public beyond a fast chauffeur run or to walk the dogs in the dark.

Yet, as I contemplate pruning a few for the giveaway pile, I find myself unable to do it. First, these shirts are worn just right. Second, though everyone else’s laundry trumps mine, I’ll never have to resort to scratching splattered spaghetti sauce from the front of a shirt and wearing it one more time.

But there is nothing special about any one of them.

I admit it. I am that girl. I am the one who struggles to throw anything away—even worn-out clothing with no sentimental value. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s the result of growing up in a household that struggled financially. I was buying my own clothing by the time I was 11 or 12 with money I earned babysitting. It was how I avoided decade-old hand-me-downs from distant cousins or fashion disasters from the discount racks at Woolworth’s or K-Mart. Still, I still don’t quite comprehend this often-unreasonable need to hold onto things.

I pause to catch my breath after shifting so many fresh-smelling shirts from the doorways to my closet, and then my gaze drops to what lurks in the corner of the laundry room—the miscellaneous items that don’t quite fit with the regular loads but never seem to get washed on their own. They simply wait there for someone to take notice, gathering dust until the pile threatens to topple over.

The top item in the heap is a small, old-fashioned, pink and blue baby quilt. At first, I’m horrified to see it there. After being buried in the pile for who knows how many months, apparently, it has finally risen to the top. It’s ragged and speckled with stains of unknown origin—not to mention dappled with dryer lint.

Why is it here? Who placed it in the pile? Me? One of my teenagers? Perhaps my husband moved it here from another pile, not knowing exactly what to do with it.

I carry it to my bedroom where I lift it up and hold it out for a gander. Then I look closer. This detail, I knew before, but today, it takes on new significance.

This baby quilt isn’t just any quilt. It’s old. It’s ripped. It’s stained.

And inside it is another baby quilt.

Apparently, my grandmother made the original one for my mother when she was a baby. When it began to wear, Grandma pieced and sewed another. However, instead of quilting fresh batting into the new cover, she simply dropped the old quilt down inside, sewed it closed, and tacked it together with bits of yarn at the corners of the individual pieces.

Why? Maybe that was the norm. The quilt originated, after all, in the days of “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.”

Or . . . maybe not.

Maybe, like me, and like so many in my family, my grandmother was a keeper of things. Maybe she couldn’t bear to part with the old quilt, made by hand for her baby girl, but couldn’t think of any other purpose for it, so she hid it inside something new.

I spread the quilt across my bed. I smooth its worn surface and then reach down inside to run my fingers over the older stitching there. I think about my family and the way we keep things, and the way we keep passing them down, even if they are ragged and dusty and don’t seem to serve any purpose beyond reminding us of earlier days.

And then I think about how we do the same thing with our stories. Some folks I know don’t seem to have the same repertoire of family lore my family has. They also have neater and cleaner houses and a lot less junk. When I mention writing Calling Me Home based on a bit of family lore, some folks look fascinated, but not particularly inspired. And when I mention thinking through the new story, they probably wonder why I don’t leave the many bits of family history that might make their way into my manuscript safely in the past.

Though I really must sort through my shirts soon and discard what I don’t need, I suspect my struggle to let go may be innate. Maybe it has something to do with my DNA, with my family’s compulsion to keep things—not least of all, the stories, to pass them, along with a ragged, double-quilted baby blanket, from generation to generation.

Perhaps some of us were born to be the keepers of things and the keepers of the stories.

Breadcrumbs and Whoopie Pies

By Julie

Like Hansel and Gretel’s mother, we’re always dropping bread crumbs along the path, leaving a trail for our children to follow back to home and family—even if we’re not aware we’re doing so in the process. The poor mother of those fairytale chidren secretly left crumbs, intentionally and strategically, hoping they'd be able to retrace their steps toward home after their father decided the only way for the family to survive was to sell them as indentured servants to an evil witch who actually intended to devour them.

Okay, maybe that’s kind of a morbid metaphor. But most of our regular readers here at What Women Write know several of us were inspired to write novels based on breadcrumbs of family lore—whether extensively researched stories, following the family story as closely as possible in a fictionalized account of real life (The Oak Lovers/Kim!), or simply clutching a single gem of a family secret and using it as a springboard for a—more or less—made-up story (Calling Me Home/me!). We also love interviewing authors who’ve done something similar, such as Kristina McMorris with her novel Letters from Home, Jamie Ford with Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, and Cathy Marie Buchanan with The Day the Falls Stood Still, to name a few.

What exactly is it about our ancestors that draws us in, that makes us want to delve deep and attempt to discover what made them tick, what led them to make the decisions they made, who they loved and left (or were forcibly separated from, in the case of my grandmother) and who they stayed with? Not every one of us has these yearnings to uncover history—some of us would rather bury it, I suspect—but with some of us, the drive is deep and irresistible.

I know, too, that it’s not a drive we can force upon our children. Will my grandchildren or great-grandchildren be curious about what I did in my life? Will I have done anything interesting enough to make them determined to nose out the details or dream up their own versions? Will they study my photos, as I study my ancestors’ photos, wondering why I decided to be a writer, why I lived in so many different homes and states before I finally settled here in Texas, why I … never mind. I’ll let them discover that on their own, maybe with the help of rumors they’ve heard through the family grapevine. Maybe they will. Perhaps they won’t.

It’s the same with family traditions. We can guide our children as they grow up, hoping they’ll take an interest in the things we do every year at the same time, the recipes we cook, the photos we lovingly protect. But they may not take the bait.

My kids are interested in family history—by spells. At some times more than at others. I was thrilled this week when one of my daughters decided to take on the not-simple task of preparing Whoopie Pies from the recipe one of my grandmothers recorded carefully in her notebook of food wonders. We don’t know where Grandma got the recipe, but we know it’s absolutely the best. (None of that marshmallow fluff, none of that regular old buttercream frosting. Our soft, cocoa-flavored cookies embrace genuine, rich, creamy icing, pure white from the ungodly amount of Crisco shortening it takes to prepare it.) But I know that as a child, one of my favorite moments of every family journey to see her was the one where I rushed through the front door and headed straight for the fridge, where a batch of individually wrapped Whoopie Pies always awaited our arrival. One taste, even now, is enough to conjure up memories of those childhood visits, good or bad, joyful or sad.


I suspect you have those recipes in your family, too. Kim blogged once about the her family’s holiday sugar cookie recipe and the special cookie cutters she uses to prepare them. Are the cutters themselves magic? Is the recipe really is the best in the world? Or is it the combination of factors—the equipment, the recipe, and not least of all, the family history—that makes the outcome so special?

I am thankful for the breadcrumb my grandmother left me—a handwritten recipe, delicious in part because of the memories it stirs (but trust me, it really is the best!). I am thankful for the breadcrumb my other grandmother left me—the gem of family legend that says she fell in love with a young man who was judged inappropriate by her family and society, the true love of her life, though she spent only a small amount of time with him.

What are the breadcrumbs you’re following, leading you back in time into the vault of your own family history?

And yes, of course, this is my daughter, busy making Whoopie Pies with Sadie, one of our fur babies, who stuck close by to be sure she cleaned up anything Emilie offered—accidentally or on purpose.

Dual Timelines

by Joan

I love stories with dual timelines. I love the richness of discovering how the past shapes a person, how a sheltered upbringing might hinder intellectual growth or a childhood trauma might strengthen character.

This weekend I witnessed my own family’s layers of history unfold. It was a complicated weekend, planned in two days by my ever-efficient meeting planner sister.

After an unfortunate mix-up, we learned with only four days notice that my mother’s only brother was having a 90th birthday party. When my mom first called to tell me about it, she knew what the rest of us did not—that she would find a way to be at that party. Never mind that her memory isn’t what it used to be, that she’s been in assisted living for the past several years, that all four of her daughters work full-time and then some. I reasoned with her to explain, as much as we wanted to take her, we didn’t think it was feasible at this late date. Eventually she gave in, somewhat defeated, and I went to sleep feeling like a heel.

Why not? I thought the next morning. My calendar was relatively free, despite my niece’s first communion, and in a few minutes, I emailed my sisters of my intentions. Before I could say direct flight, the efficient sister had booked a roundtrip to BWI, two roundtrips to Providence, Rhode Island, with a Saturday night hotel near the party, and bookend hotel rooms for my Friday and Sunday nights at BWI.

Walking toward baggage claim I saw my uncle standing near a tile pillar, a tiny but striking man even at 90, his shoulders lifting slightly as he saw my mother. I followed behind her as she approached him, the years they hadn’t seen each other floating away like bad dreams. Seeing the two of them together filled me with joy, but hearing their stories as they reminisced, sealed the treasure in my heart forever.

My mom tells of their running away together at 10 and 12, leaving Washington, D.C., en route to Richmond, Virginia where their father lived. They got as far as Alexandria and were picked up by the police, who were more interested in ensuring their safety than scolding, and promptly gave them ice cream cones to wait for their anxious mother. I pictured the two of them, roaming the streets together, big brother protecting little sister, each likely too afraid of disappointing the other to turn around and go home.

Later I learned of his marrying my aunt on the eve of shipping out for the war in 1941 and that my mother and her cousin accompanied a lonely wife on her honeymoon. I also pressed my uncle for information on the long-suspected family bootlegging operation, convinced he must have picked up details as a child living in close proximity to his father and four uncles.

We thumbed through pictures I’d spread in front of us, pictures I’d culled from my mother’s house when we moved her out. There was my mother at sixteen, flashing a smile I’ve never seen. Another layer showed my uncle in his navy uniform, still another, a grandmother surrounded by her two children's families. Best of all, the most recent layer of history, a sister and brother at 88 and 90.