Perfectionism, Basketball, and Writing

Lit: A Memoir (P.S.)http://rcm.amazon.com/e/cm?t=cherrybloss03-20&o=1&p=8&l=bpl&asins=0060596996&fc1=000000&IS2=1&lt1=_blank&m=amazon&lc1=0000FF&bc1=000000&bg1=FFFFFF&f=ifr  I had a great time with the extended family over the holiday. It’s sad not seeing people you love very often, so when I can I soak them up and savor them as though they were gravy. The last day of our visit my sister and I noticed we hadn’t had time to try out the basketball hoop Dad got for his birthday –how many senior folks get a hoop for a present! My sister and nephew and I, plus Dad, practiced shooting wild air balls and inept rim shots, but soon progressed to guarding and blocking with lots of laughter. Going inside for my camera, I tried recruiting the others who excused they weren’t any good. “What, you think we are? We’re just having fun!” brought some of the kids outside. “I’m just watching,” became playing and we had a crazy game going, laughing and cheering each other on. It was worth the sweat.

Recently I heard the saying, “Perfectionism is paying too much attention to failure.” There’s also, “Perfect is the enemy of good.” A lot of writers struggle with creating the perfect sentence, the perfect book. Mary Karr, author of the bestselling memoir, Lit, says she threw out about 2,000 pages and still thinks her book isn’t good enough. So for the average non-writing person, penning a memoir or life stories for the family can seem like a swim across an ocean. Or being asked to play on a basketball team. But don’t worry. Family members don’t expect you to be an expert at writing or storytelling. Ask for help, do your best and have fun. It will be worth the sweat.

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Hurrah for the red, white and blue memories

July 4th is on a Sunday this year, meaning a long weekend for many and more reason than ever to gather around grilling burgers with family and friends and then throw down blankets for the fireworks show. Don’t forget the bug spray! My own extended family will be gathering at the folks’ big place to see how the kids have grown, swim in the lake, roast marshmallows over a bonfire, and set off some of our own fireworks – oops, I mean watch the neighborhood fireworks.

For many, the Fourth of July is one of those ritual holidays, where families do the same thing every year, instilling tradition into the next generation. My own kids love the bonfire and the fireworks glowing over the lake (and sometimes IN the lake). I love the gathering outdoors with all the family on my side, whom I rarely see. I love the bullfrogs bellowing in the darkness and the crackling sounds of the fire. I love how this particular holiday lends itself to relaxation, unlike the rush and busyness of Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thank goodness for July 4th, and thank goodness we live in the U.S.A. Despite faults, America is still a great place to live.
When writing memoir or life stories, don’t forget the minor holidays. Valentine’s Day, Mother’s or Father’s Day, Memorial Day, even St. Patrick’s Day might have some fun stories or traditions. What do I remember about childhood July 4ths? Dad driving us around in a lot of traffic trying to find a roadside spot to watch the fireworks at the stadium. Once we actually were in the stadium and, boy, those fireworks went so high and were so close that I thought the sparks would surely land on my head. And the booming that blasted through my little body. We won’t talk about my husband’s memories – boys and fireworks are a very volatile mix!

Hope you all have a great weekend exploding with fun and memories.
Be safe!

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A Father’s Memories

My dad got an early Father’s Day present last weekend. My daughter and I had to return her rental car far into Chicago and Daddy kindly agreed to give us a ride back. Since we would be near where Daddy grew up, I suggested we take a side trip to see his old haunts. My stepmom and her sister came along so we had a merry carload on the way back.

With Daddy pointing the way and my stepmom driving, we came upon his rebuilt elementary school no longer surrounded by tall grassy fields. Three houses stood where my grandmother’s tall old brown house had been, the giant horse chestnut trees only shady memories. It was now an unrecognizable place that meant nothing to me, but on the next street over we were delighted to find the little brick house my father was born in. Somehow he had neglected to ever show that to us! Farther on we discovered Daddy’s high school and the beautiful brick facade of his college’s Old Main. He pointed to the window of his English class room.

It was fun to see Daddy excited, telling stories of walking over the frozen river in winter to get to school, sweeping his arm across now imaginary hay fields that also held their cows and pigs and vegetable plots. He pointed out where old garages had burned down due to the combustible stills inside that gangsters ran during the Prohibition. Finally, he led us to a corner of a cemetery and showed us his parents’ grave marker–a burnt copper rectangle barely holding its own against encroaching grass. It was the first time I had ever seen it.

I took lots of pictures. We made Daddy get in some of them. I was enthralled, not just by the history, but by the transformation in my father. I believe Daddy felt half a century younger. All those years we visited Grandma almost every weekend yet never knew the secrets of the area. Daddy may have gotten a present that day, but so did the rest of us.

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