C.S. Lewis writes in his essay on Historicism,
‘pre-historic poetry has perished
because words before writing are winged.’
The oral tradition of storytelling is in hibernation. Sitting on the porch watching the fireflies’ nightly dance creates time for reflection. Today, who has time to sit quietly and listen to the family lore dished up with all its Sunday ruffles? But the tales recalled around the kitchen table are what makes us distinct and our writing resonate. Starr Ayers’ story of Emma’s first love came from family bits and pieces. Melanie Campbell’s heart-wrenching stories are from her observations, and Patricia Lee’s time-slip novel looks back at family lore of an ancestor’s challenges.
When my mother was in hospice care, they asked if she would share her memories. Captured on tape are the stories of her going from the house in town with servants to her Depression era log cabin childhood. Her riches to rags stories have blessed many. What if she had kept them locked away and they were lost forever?
Now, when I listen to her describing ice forming on the log walls during a January night, I am with her as her tone sets the thermometer on chill. When mom spoke of gathering around the piano to sing, I remember her sweet alto voice and the joy on her face when she sang in the church choir. Her memories brought closure to me, as did our time together as I held her hand on her journey toward heaven.
Spoken memories unearth senses. The touch of a handrail smoothed by my grandfather, the scent of sweet fresh milk just in from the barn or the meadowlark singing in the field across the street are a word away. Stories can infuse us with hope and love in the darkest places. And we have the honor of transmitting that to others.
At the end of a long day my dad’s parents would sit in their living room and share stories of life in Montana, including knowing painter Charlie Russell, of homesteading with small children and a train ride honeymoon back to Canada where they were born. Their conversations made my imagination soar. I pictured the smoke billowing from the train, discoloring the pristine western sky, and the sound of the engine huffing up a mountain pass. The memory of their laughter and my grandmother reaching to pat her beloved husband’s hand are held in my heart.
As someone who puts words on ruled paper, or handy napkins, types them into a computer or sits up in the middle of the night to scribble on a note pad, words, like dogs chasing a fox, corner me. Some days are filled with sweet lyrics, others are inundated by a cacophony of words screeching to be heard. There are times when I can’t write fast enough to capture the things zipping through my head.
The rumbling of story, plot, and structure in my head can crowd out all other thoughts. Sometimes I long for the sounds of silence so I can enjoy the moment.
Describing the touch of my husband’s hand, a poem erupted because the memory of walking with him through the Kijabe Cemetery lingered.
In the first stanza of Briefly Here, I wrote,
‘Your hand fits mine perfectly,
As we wander among the graves
Behind the hospital.
We are silent.
Underfoot, the dusty leaves
Muffle our steps.’
I chose to arrest the memory, to nail it onto a slip of paper with letters and hold it until it ripened into something that captured a moment in time.
As our Lord told of the house built on rocks, did he let his hearers imagine the waves crashing against the foundation? Perhaps he moved his hand when the house on sand collapsed as we did when we taught the children the line, ‘and the house on the sand went splat!’ The words Jesus spoke caused many to reflect and perhaps examine their motives. As His follower, shouldn’t mine?
As writers we inscribe letters on paper, so they do not disappear into the air like stories of old. And, perhaps with grace, our writings can echo into the future—encouraging readers to focus on the Truth embodied in the essence of the story.
“Have bags will travel” should be Jeanette-Marie Mirich’s life’s theme. She moved twenty-two times before settling in her first home. An Oregonian by birth who graduated with a B.S. degree in education from Portland State University, Jeanette has swum in the Ligurian Sea and collected shells and sea glass along the Indian Ocean, Pacific, Atlantic, Caribbean Oceans, Straits of Malacca, Gulf of Mexico and the Andaman Sea. Her peripatetic lifestyle is courtesy of the U.S. Air Force and her husband’s medical training.
I shouldn’t have made the promise when Harry was dying, but…
You know how it is. You want to please when the person you’ve always loved is hooked up to plastic tubing looking peaky.
Delilah Morgan, a woman of honor, is unable to ignore her promise to her husband, Harry, which leads to trouble, with a capital T. The beautiful, unassuming Delilah plans to mourn in private after Harry passed, but he had other ideas—specifically, leaving his wife in good hands and protected from the elite of their small Kentucky town. However, he neglects to include his wife in his plans.
Harry has selected local judge, Lyle Henderson, the heart-throb of most of the women in town, to court his widow. The judge acquiesces to Harry’s wishes until Henderson’s life spins into a maelstrom after the discovery of bodies in his long absent wife’s car. The police and FBI begin to suspect him of murdering his wife and her apparent lover.
Determined to clear the judge of murder, Delilah resolves to hunt down the true story in an adventure that nearly costs them their lives.
