Benches and Books

My husband, Matt, and I just returned from Cape May, New Jersey. Adored by bird lovers (him) and beach lovers (me) alike, Cape May was a perfect destination for us. And with Labor Day behind us, the town was sleepy and quiet and ideal for those seeking downtime.

One afternoon, we found ourselves walking along the boardwalk and scanning the bench plaques lining the shore. Plaque after plaque memorialized a loved one who had once strolled along the same path. Someone who savored the beach, the birds, the sand, and the shops of this unique town. Unsurprisingly, I found myself slowing my pace with each bench, wanting to read the story behind every name. Certainly this was more of a me-thing than a Matt-thing, so I was thankful for his patience as I studied strangers I’d never meet.

And then Matt asked this: “Where would you want your bench to be, and what would you want it to say?”

Interesting question.

After a few moments of thought, we each began suggesting possible settings, possible inscriptions for our respective benches. Attempting to identify the place where we feel most at home and the handful of words that explain why that is so.

Not an easy task if you care to try.

As a personal historian, I am taken with these kinds of mental exercises. One location, one phrase to capture your essence. But I am also grateful that the tools I use–full-length books—allow for more. More locations to highlight, more people to acknowledge, more experiences to share.

There are no word limits in books, no maximum number of stories to tell. My clients have lots to say and, together, we write it all.

If you are interested in capturing a full-length story in a full-length book, I’d be honored to help you write it. And perhaps, one day, your children can read it while sitting on your bench.

Please let me know if you’d like to learn more.

When the Political and Personal Collide

“Cool.”

That was my 12-year-old son’s response when I told him that gays and lesbians could now legally marry in every state of the country. It was a historic day earlier this summer when the Supreme Court ruled in favor of same sex marriage, but my son didn’t see what the big deal was. He believed gays and lesbians were fully equal and assumed others did as well. This “historic” decision was more head-scratching to him than remarkable.

But one day, years from now, he’ll get it. He’ll tell his children that he remembers when homosexuals couldn’t marry. Maybe he’ll even be able to recall watching television the night America voted in its first black President—another event that will undoubtedly grow in significance to him as he matures. Like all of us, he’ll see the world change and he’ll remember how different things were when he was young.

Think back to the political landscape into which you were born and the policies that you watched change your country and world. Do you remember when Prohibition ended? When black and white children attended different schools? When contraception was illegal?

We are all formed by the families, schools, and communities of our childhood. But our country’s political climate plays a part in shaping the people we grow to be as well. When you write your life story, explain where your history and your country’s history intersect.  Describe how political events impacted you on an individual level. Share national events through a personal lens.

Convey the whole story of your life. From your childhood home to the world in which it sits.

Explain what it was like when you were a kid. And why that was remarkable indeed.

Embrace Your Weaknesses

All memoirists write about their strengths. They sprinkle anecdotes highlighting their intelligence and humor and generosity throughout the narrative. These stories are fun to share, and they’re (usually) true. It makes sense – it’s a reasonable approach to follow.

But where are the other stories?

The completed memoir should reflect the totality of who we are – bright and sunny, dark and stormy, and of course many shades in between. Recently the New York Times published a tongue-in-cheek column featuring fictional obituaries of imperfect, imaginary people. The idea, I assume, was to personalize the recently departed, who seem to evolve from flawed-human to faultless-saint the second their heartbeat stops.  Here’s a sampling:

·         “David Meldrick, 68, of Rahway, N.J., died peacefully at home, surrounded by his beloved family, on May 2. Mr. Meldrick was perhaps best known for never picking up a check.”

·         “Laurene Fitzhugh, 78, of Parsippany, N.J., died May 3 at her home. A community activist and dedicated volunteer in her church, Ms. Fitzhugh was perhaps best known for saying, “I don’t need an entree, I’ll just have a taste of yours.” She had no survivors.”

·         “Denise Pantuso, 84, died at home in Bethpage, N.Y., on April 14 after a short illness. A devoted wife and mother, Mrs. Pantuso was perhaps best known for always missing the point.”

We all know these kinds of people, but somehow these kinds of words never make it into their obituaries.

The article reminded me of a scene from Good Will Hunting, when Sean (Robin Williams) counseled Will (Matt Damon) to pursue another date with a young lady even if a second get-together risked scarring her “perfect” image:

“My wife used to fart when she was nervous. She had all sorts of wonderful idiosyncrasies. You know what? She used to fart in her sleep….She's been dead two years and that's the s*** I remember. Wonderful stuff, you know, little things like that. Ah, but, those are the things I miss the most. The little idiosyncrasies that only I knew about. That's what made her my wife. Oh, and she had the goods on me, too, she knew all my little peccadillos. People call these things imperfections, but they're not, aw, that's the good stuff.”

When you write your life story, be sure to discuss the qualities that define you. If you’re kind, give readers examples of your kindness. If you’re strong, give readers examples of your strength.

But include your weaknesses, your foibles, your “good stuff” too.

Make yourself human.

What's the "Right" Age to Write a Memoir?

A recent article in the New York Times, in critiquing a Washington Post book review, settled on this question as its title: “Should There Be a Minimum Age for Writing a Memoir?”

It’s a fair question. Part of what makes the genre so interesting is that time has passed and authors can view their lives from a distance. Retrospection allows us to see things with a fresh eye. Grown adults judge their parents more kindly than teenagers. Failed marriages look differently 10 or 20 years later than they do in the court house. With time, we make sense of our relationships, our successes, and our failures.

There is validity to that argument.

The Washington Post, however, took this point to an extreme in a Fall 2014 book review: “We really do not need yet another memoir by a person too young to have undergone any genuinely interesting and instructive experiences—or, having had such experiences, too young to know what to make of them—and too self-involved to have any genuine empathy for those whose paths he crosses….”

I have issue with this argument—as does the New York Times—because there is another fact that trumps all:

People of all ages have incredible stories and with maturity and insight, these stories can and should be told.

No one would argue against the publication of Anne Frank’s beloved classic, The Diary of a Young Girl. I am Malala—published when the Pakistani girl was just 16—became an immediate bestseller. Michael J. Fox reached millions with his memoir about being diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease at age 29.

As a personal historian, I’ve worked with 36-year-olds and 94-year-olds. Even my six-year-old son took a stab at writing his life story. We all have something to share and we all reap huge rewards when we share it.

And the argument for waiting until old age to write a memoir begs another question: When is our story “done?” When I recently presented my 94-year-old client with her final, printed book, she said, “But I have more to say. Maybe I’ll add more later.”

In short, there’s no minimum age. There’s no maximum age.

It’s your story and it’s your timetable.

Let me know if I can help.

Stuff

My parents moved recently. From their spacious three-bedroom town house to their beautiful but less-spacious two-bedroom apartment. It was a good move. Time to be on one level, time to simplify their lives, time to welcome a new era. And time to get rid of “stuff.”

And after nearly 30 years in their old home, boy was there a lot of it. When it came time to pack, the stuff was divided into piles: keep, dump, donate, sell, or pass down. Pottery that once lured them from a store shelf now sat in a dumpster. Souvenirs from long-ago vacations went to Goodwill. Only the stuff of value—usually sentimental—landed in the keep or pass down pile.

After all the piles were set, there was very little that was truly difficult for them to discard. In the end, I realized, we really don’t need all that much. Or even want it.

But since this is a blog on a personal historian’s website, let me reframe this, lest I miss the point entirely:

Which of your “stuff” has the most sentimental value? My bet is there is very little. A great grandfather’s framed photograph? A daughter’s drawing from Kindergarten? A wedding gift from a dear friend?

Usually it is something both beautiful and meaningful. Something that pleases your eyes and heart.

When you write your life story, be sure to share details about your most valuable belongings. Where did you get them? Why do you treasure them so?

What are the stories behind them?

The stories behind these most precious possessions, after all, are really stories about us. Who we are, what we care about, and where we came from.

And these stories—like the book you ultimately write—definitely belong in the keep pile.