As I read Rachel's post about her culture's pioneer stories and the Schank readings, I was reminded of the surprising interest folks up this direction seem to have about my Florida Cracker culture. At home, we often seem to be an embarrassment to the dominant culture, IE, more recent imports, but here the stories are viewed as unique and interesting. It has prompted me to explore my family history further and to value my heritage to a greater degree.
Listening to Bill Moyers on PBS this evening, I heard the president use several key story skeletons in a speech: 'inspired ideology' and 'Al Quida.' He used inspired ideology only once but the picture my mind drew was that the ideology was 'cooked up' rather than authentic; Al Quida popped up in almost every sentence - certainly every paragraph of the speech, keeping militant Muslims and their potential for violence at the forefront of the thought process as he spoke.
As with Danny, I enjoyed our time at the theater today, finding it an inspiring, exciting and vaguely dangerous place to be. After the critique session I realized that I should have pursued Bellerophon and Pegasus' adventures more aggressively. Instead, I used the 'The Chimera' from Hawthorne's Wonder Book, edited by Mabie, my book of myths from childhood. It has been with me all the years I can recall and I have loved the story always, but now I see how simplistic it is. Further reading still has not given me the Pegasus I am looking for, but I'm getting closer.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Insider Stories with Outsider Ideals
Groans, sighs, and "here we go again" echoes in many minds as July 24th arrives--at least when another pioneer story is told to Latter-day Saints. This day is a state holiday in Utah and yet is often celebrated worldwide, not as a religious holiday but one to honor the pioneers who trekked west and entered the Salt Lake Valley. The tables upon tables of food at least bring back some smiles. Plus, many enjoy the ultimate firework displays that rival what is done for the 4th of July. Perhaps many LDS people would agree with what Schank said of ". . .another dull story. Culturally common stories almost always are, especially to members of the culture" (p. 206).
Schank later noticed, "The stories of our culture are those stories that we hear so often that they cease to seem like stories to us. They are the stories that we take for granted" (p. 218).
When I travel outside of Utah, several people request to hear pioneer stories. Though I have heard these stories all my life--or at least heavily during the month of July--I really couldn't think of any pioneer stories off the top of my head to share. Sometimes hearing the stories so much puts my brain on freeze. My ears tend to turn off after hearing the same story read the same way through the view of the same person.
In order to grab the attention of a predominantly LDS audience, I would have to shake up the story. Perhaps the story needs to be told from another point-of-view. Who else witnessed the event? What would happen if an inanimate object--like a covered wagon or a cast iron pot--could tell the story? Is there an imaginary person who could tell it that could still share the facts in an interesting way? What if that imaginary person was not LDS? In the case of the pioneers, this could mean a Ute Indian or a frontiersman like Jim Bridger. I could see this already perking up people in church.
The gists of pioneer stories that I do know focus on the mundane and the ordinary. Schank reminded us that "daily life is filled with the untold stories of the culture" (p. 205). Yet, these tales, told in the proper way, could transform the ordinary to the extraordinary.
Perhaps there is more interest in "growing up Mormon" or pioneer stories outside of Utah because of what Schank said, "Outsiders tell more interesting stories because they tell stories that are not known to their audience. Insiders tell stories that everyone accepts and that everyone has heard before. It takes a great storyteller to make such insider stories interesting" (p. 218).
Regardless of how much knowledge someone has of the LDS people, it is still an "important point [to] to personalize it, to particularize it, to draw as many references as possible to real world events that hearers may have themselves experienced so that they can identify with the story" (p. 214). Alluding to the Oregon Trail could be helpful or maybe something more modern such as military families who are constantly on the move.
In the end, "the ultimate in storytelling is to have the stories become the stories of the listeners, to have them think that these are actually their stories" (p. 217).
Maybe by next July 24th, I will finally have some pioneer stories in my repertoire that all people regardless of creed would be anxious to hear.
Until we tell again,
Rachel Hedman
(801) 870-5799
info@rachelhedman.com
Schank later noticed, "The stories of our culture are those stories that we hear so often that they cease to seem like stories to us. They are the stories that we take for granted" (p. 218).
When I travel outside of Utah, several people request to hear pioneer stories. Though I have heard these stories all my life--or at least heavily during the month of July--I really couldn't think of any pioneer stories off the top of my head to share. Sometimes hearing the stories so much puts my brain on freeze. My ears tend to turn off after hearing the same story read the same way through the view of the same person.
In order to grab the attention of a predominantly LDS audience, I would have to shake up the story. Perhaps the story needs to be told from another point-of-view. Who else witnessed the event? What would happen if an inanimate object--like a covered wagon or a cast iron pot--could tell the story? Is there an imaginary person who could tell it that could still share the facts in an interesting way? What if that imaginary person was not LDS? In the case of the pioneers, this could mean a Ute Indian or a frontiersman like Jim Bridger. I could see this already perking up people in church.
The gists of pioneer stories that I do know focus on the mundane and the ordinary. Schank reminded us that "daily life is filled with the untold stories of the culture" (p. 205). Yet, these tales, told in the proper way, could transform the ordinary to the extraordinary.
Perhaps there is more interest in "growing up Mormon" or pioneer stories outside of Utah because of what Schank said, "Outsiders tell more interesting stories because they tell stories that are not known to their audience. Insiders tell stories that everyone accepts and that everyone has heard before. It takes a great storyteller to make such insider stories interesting" (p. 218).
Regardless of how much knowledge someone has of the LDS people, it is still an "important point [to] to personalize it, to particularize it, to draw as many references as possible to real world events that hearers may have themselves experienced so that they can identify with the story" (p. 214). Alluding to the Oregon Trail could be helpful or maybe something more modern such as military families who are constantly on the move.
In the end, "the ultimate in storytelling is to have the stories become the stories of the listeners, to have them think that these are actually their stories" (p. 217).
Maybe by next July 24th, I will finally have some pioneer stories in my repertoire that all people regardless of creed would be anxious to hear.
Until we tell again,
Rachel Hedman
(801) 870-5799
info@rachelhedman.com
mulling vs. procrastination
“Mulling is a process critical to intelligence, one that creates labels for events in myriad way so that they can be seen again in memory”(221). I wonder if procrastination works in the same way. I have worked on 5 other things and am finally getting to the blogging. I do have to say I enjoyed the ending of Schank’s book much more than the beginning. I was even laughing at some of the items discussed. He had interesting comparisons of intelligence like…”the more intelligent you are the more you will fail”(232). “Intelligence requires you to forget many things and ignore most things.”(224) Yet I understand what he is trying to say. We will select the information we will remember from this class, and by being here and trying new things we are expanding our memory. We will create new ideas and thus become more intelligent.
School isn’t all I am thinking about. I have this urge to pull the weeds I see growing in the flower beds as I walk by them and I know I am missing my annual garden fix. My husband has been graciously freezing beans and keeping the garden watered in the 98 plus temperatures they have been having.. He informs me that the cucumbers are starting to call my name in anticipation of getting turned into a pickle. I also know that by the time I get home the corn and apples will be ready. I do a lot of canning, freezing, and making jelly as did my ancestors of the past. It gets us through the winter and gives us a chance to share home canned fruits, jellies, and vegetables with our daughters. When they come home, they usually take some back with them and it helps them with their grocery bills. One way we can help them out. My memory is recalling other obligations as the days fly by and I am moving on to answer that call.
School isn’t all I am thinking about. I have this urge to pull the weeds I see growing in the flower beds as I walk by them and I know I am missing my annual garden fix. My husband has been graciously freezing beans and keeping the garden watered in the 98 plus temperatures they have been having.. He informs me that the cucumbers are starting to call my name in anticipation of getting turned into a pickle. I also know that by the time I get home the corn and apples will be ready. I do a lot of canning, freezing, and making jelly as did my ancestors of the past. It gets us through the winter and gives us a chance to share home canned fruits, jellies, and vegetables with our daughters. When they come home, they usually take some back with them and it helps them with their grocery bills. One way we can help them out. My memory is recalling other obligations as the days fly by and I am moving on to answer that call.
Good Stories Heard and Good Time Had
Cohorts, one and all. It was a great day for me. I had never been to Ashville, North Carolina. It was a wonderful place to see and be. Also, the stage job comments made by Yashinsky were amplified by a first-hand experience on a stage. I enjoyed and learned simultaneously.
Afterwards Josh, Brenda, and I wandered around the city streets looking for a place to have lunch. It was refreshing to see the happy street people, and a sidewalk singing group, from somewhere other than Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Josh found a very nice pub called Jack of the Wood that took my mind back to British myths.
See you all tomorrow at 0900.
Afterwards Josh, Brenda, and I wandered around the city streets looking for a place to have lunch. It was refreshing to see the happy street people, and a sidewalk singing group, from somewhere other than Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Josh found a very nice pub called Jack of the Wood that took my mind back to British myths.
See you all tomorrow at 0900.
Monday, July 30, 2007
My mountain trail
“People think in terms of stories…new events or problems are understood by reference to…stories… We understand personal problems and relationships between people through stories.”(218)
Whenever I want to start to whine about how homesick I am getting after 8 weeks, out of my comfort zone living at ETSU, I am reminded of Josh’s story of his trip on the Appalachian Trail. I think, if Joshua can do that I can make it 1 more week. I might be roughing it as a student, but I do have more comforts than he had. I do have my own personal mountains that I’ve had to cross, but it is that personal feeling of success when I do get home that will make it all worthwhile. I have many co-workers, who will not take a class in town, unless they know someone else who taking it too. They also won’t attend the staff breakfast at the beginning of school unless they go with someone. “Everyday is like every other…they know a limited amount, never venture outside their limits, never need to grow or change.” (231) So I truly feel I have conquered some personal mountains.
“We are the stories we tell, we not only express our vision of the world, we shape our skeletons to express what has happened to us”(170). When August first rolls around my inner clock, trained after 30 years starts thinking ahead to school. So my mind is starting to go there, even though there is projects needing to be completed here. “coping in one’s world is knowing the stories of the cultures in which you operate"(207). I had the great opportunity to design my classroom to fit my teaching styles and incorporate my teaching philosophies into the atmosphere of the room, during our recent remodeling project. I was able to enjoy the completed project one year. We are now adding full day every day kindergarten to our school system and they needed more rooms in the building where I was working. When return home, I will return to a mountain of boxes waiting in an intermediate grade classroom in another building. I will attempt to turn it into a primary classroom. I have already hassled with the janitors over lowering the whiteboard and finding me primary size desks. I will be on my own to find furnishings, as our curriculum director, who is 77 years old, has not yet accepted the newer reading philosophies. I will venture to the dungeons of our bus barn looking for others rejected, broken furniture in hopes to find something I can use to create several learning centers. Since I had all my other centers built in, I wasn’t able to have them moved. The other option which administrators love is buy my own furniture. So I will keep climbing my mountains, encouraged by Josh’s story, Danny’s sonnet, bits and pieces of all the other sharing. My Maine will be making it to May and be able to say I, too have succeeded against the odds.
Whenever I want to start to whine about how homesick I am getting after 8 weeks, out of my comfort zone living at ETSU, I am reminded of Josh’s story of his trip on the Appalachian Trail. I think, if Joshua can do that I can make it 1 more week. I might be roughing it as a student, but I do have more comforts than he had. I do have my own personal mountains that I’ve had to cross, but it is that personal feeling of success when I do get home that will make it all worthwhile. I have many co-workers, who will not take a class in town, unless they know someone else who taking it too. They also won’t attend the staff breakfast at the beginning of school unless they go with someone. “Everyday is like every other…they know a limited amount, never venture outside their limits, never need to grow or change.” (231) So I truly feel I have conquered some personal mountains.
“We are the stories we tell, we not only express our vision of the world, we shape our skeletons to express what has happened to us”(170). When August first rolls around my inner clock, trained after 30 years starts thinking ahead to school. So my mind is starting to go there, even though there is projects needing to be completed here. “coping in one’s world is knowing the stories of the cultures in which you operate"(207). I had the great opportunity to design my classroom to fit my teaching styles and incorporate my teaching philosophies into the atmosphere of the room, during our recent remodeling project. I was able to enjoy the completed project one year. We are now adding full day every day kindergarten to our school system and they needed more rooms in the building where I was working. When return home, I will return to a mountain of boxes waiting in an intermediate grade classroom in another building. I will attempt to turn it into a primary classroom. I have already hassled with the janitors over lowering the whiteboard and finding me primary size desks. I will be on my own to find furnishings, as our curriculum director, who is 77 years old, has not yet accepted the newer reading philosophies. I will venture to the dungeons of our bus barn looking for others rejected, broken furniture in hopes to find something I can use to create several learning centers. Since I had all my other centers built in, I wasn’t able to have them moved. The other option which administrators love is buy my own furniture. So I will keep climbing my mountains, encouraged by Josh’s story, Danny’s sonnet, bits and pieces of all the other sharing. My Maine will be making it to May and be able to say I, too have succeeded against the odds.
Being Dull is Hard Work--Story
Sometimes it takes more effort to be dull than it is to be intelligent.
As Schank said, "To put this bluntly, dull people tell you what happened to them, leaving no detail out, and often without point. Intelligent people quickly find the essence of the experience they are conveying and try to relate it to the topic at hand in a way that sheds light on the generalizations between them" (p. 234).
A few times Schank has said that a two-week vacation could be told in two weeks if every moment was remembered. As far as I know, I have never written out or told to that extent. Yet, there have been times that my journal entries caused my wrist to hang down and my writer's bump on my finger to throb and grow. After reading some of these extensive entries, I discover that I merely reported on the events. By writing about seemingly everything, I made a once dramatic experience to a yawn-maker.
At times, I feel like if I don't include everything, I will regret it once I decide to transform the experience into a story. Schank insisted, "Intelligence requires you to forget many things and to ignore most things" (p. 224). With the state of my memory, perhaps my forgetfulness could be used in my favor finally.
Rather than share the whole experience of when Brenda and I journeyed to the Roan State Park last Saturday, I will attempt to "forget many things and to ignore most things"--
Brenda and I looked at the map. From where we were standing, we should have been at the Miller's Homestead.
"All I see is this cemetery, unless this is what they meant," I exclaimed.
We scrunched our faces. For having "Miller's Homestead" in big bold letters on the map, this sure was disappointing.
We headed to the car to see if something else would grab our attention. Something did.
"Do you see that wooden sign? You know, like the ones before you head on a trail?"
Beyond the sign, and deep within a hollow, we saw a farmhouse, chicken coup, spring house, and other early 1900s buildings.
By now it was raining and Brenda and I pulled out our umbrellas. With no one about, we entered the farmhouse. As our sneakers creaked about on the wooden plank floors moving from kitchen to bedroom to the family room, we heard a female voice shout, "You can go upstairs!"
I jumped a little. Not seeing or hearing anyone for a while made it seem like we were trespassing, though the sign said we were welcome to enter.
When we went up the stairs, we looked out the window and heard birds twittering from the treetops. Above was a tin roof with yellowed newspapers to insulate the place.
Then, one door called out to me.
The door wasn't one of the normal entryways for tourists. This door was only as tall as my waist and had a rope loop as a handle. There was a wooden switch to keep it closed. I smiled. I didn't see a lock on it. If the woman over the farmhouse wanted me to stay out, she should have had a sign or something.
By now, Brenda has gone down the stairs so I was the only one in the attic.
I pushed the door in and it went "Creeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak!"
I looked about. Perhaps the lady who had said, "You can go upstairs!" would rush up the stairs and pull me back. Nothing happened.
I squatted and stuck my head into the place ever so slowly. Unlike the other rooms, this place had dirt and mud caked on the floor as if someone hadn't walked in it for a few decades. Near the door was a wooden ladder flat on the ground with the rungs rotting away.
Then I heard a high-pitched sound. I remembered hearing the birds twittering and I wasn't sure if what I heard was a bunch of "tweets" or "squeaks".
In the center of this room I saw a brick column that went from the floor to the top of the raised ceiling. I wildly, looked about, half expecting some rat or mouse to jump from the ladder rungs or some bat to swoop from the ceiling. My heart pounded faster.
I closed the door, not wanting to do more than stick my head into the room. Then, I asked myself, "Where is your adventurous spirit? Just go in there. At least then you could say that you did it!"
I grunted at myself.
Once more, the door went "Creeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak!"
I scrunched down on one foot while placing my other foot onto the dirty floor.
I paused. I glanced from side to side.
"Squeak! Squeak!"
I almost pulled out my foot. I gulped. Now I knew I wasn't dealing with a bird, but what?
I gritted my teeth and placed both feet into the small door, bent my back, and stood up in the room. I walked toward the brick column and looked at every wall and corner and ceiling space. Nothing. Nothing.
I breathed out.
"Swoooooooooooooooooop!"
A bat with a wingspan as long as my arm flew past me. I had my answer.
I rushed to the door, dove through it, and then slammed it behind me. I placed my back against the door as my left hand reached for the wooden knob so that it remained closed.
Someday, someone else will go in there. It just won't be me.
As I walked out the farmhouse door, I saw the lady who had called out to Brenda and I before. I guiltily smiled, wondering if she knew what had happened.
Later, Brenda had her own adventure driving up the Roan mountain with bikers along the narrow road, but that is another story. Perhaps my story would be dull compared to hers.
Until we tell again,
Rachel Hedman
(801) 870-5799
info@rachelhedman.com
As Schank said, "To put this bluntly, dull people tell you what happened to them, leaving no detail out, and often without point. Intelligent people quickly find the essence of the experience they are conveying and try to relate it to the topic at hand in a way that sheds light on the generalizations between them" (p. 234).
A few times Schank has said that a two-week vacation could be told in two weeks if every moment was remembered. As far as I know, I have never written out or told to that extent. Yet, there have been times that my journal entries caused my wrist to hang down and my writer's bump on my finger to throb and grow. After reading some of these extensive entries, I discover that I merely reported on the events. By writing about seemingly everything, I made a once dramatic experience to a yawn-maker.
At times, I feel like if I don't include everything, I will regret it once I decide to transform the experience into a story. Schank insisted, "Intelligence requires you to forget many things and to ignore most things" (p. 224). With the state of my memory, perhaps my forgetfulness could be used in my favor finally.
Rather than share the whole experience of when Brenda and I journeyed to the Roan State Park last Saturday, I will attempt to "forget many things and to ignore most things"--
Brenda and I looked at the map. From where we were standing, we should have been at the Miller's Homestead.
"All I see is this cemetery, unless this is what they meant," I exclaimed.
We scrunched our faces. For having "Miller's Homestead" in big bold letters on the map, this sure was disappointing.
We headed to the car to see if something else would grab our attention. Something did.
"Do you see that wooden sign? You know, like the ones before you head on a trail?"
Beyond the sign, and deep within a hollow, we saw a farmhouse, chicken coup, spring house, and other early 1900s buildings.
By now it was raining and Brenda and I pulled out our umbrellas. With no one about, we entered the farmhouse. As our sneakers creaked about on the wooden plank floors moving from kitchen to bedroom to the family room, we heard a female voice shout, "You can go upstairs!"
I jumped a little. Not seeing or hearing anyone for a while made it seem like we were trespassing, though the sign said we were welcome to enter.
When we went up the stairs, we looked out the window and heard birds twittering from the treetops. Above was a tin roof with yellowed newspapers to insulate the place.
Then, one door called out to me.
The door wasn't one of the normal entryways for tourists. This door was only as tall as my waist and had a rope loop as a handle. There was a wooden switch to keep it closed. I smiled. I didn't see a lock on it. If the woman over the farmhouse wanted me to stay out, she should have had a sign or something.
By now, Brenda has gone down the stairs so I was the only one in the attic.
I pushed the door in and it went "Creeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak!"
I looked about. Perhaps the lady who had said, "You can go upstairs!" would rush up the stairs and pull me back. Nothing happened.
I squatted and stuck my head into the place ever so slowly. Unlike the other rooms, this place had dirt and mud caked on the floor as if someone hadn't walked in it for a few decades. Near the door was a wooden ladder flat on the ground with the rungs rotting away.
Then I heard a high-pitched sound. I remembered hearing the birds twittering and I wasn't sure if what I heard was a bunch of "tweets" or "squeaks".
In the center of this room I saw a brick column that went from the floor to the top of the raised ceiling. I wildly, looked about, half expecting some rat or mouse to jump from the ladder rungs or some bat to swoop from the ceiling. My heart pounded faster.
I closed the door, not wanting to do more than stick my head into the room. Then, I asked myself, "Where is your adventurous spirit? Just go in there. At least then you could say that you did it!"
I grunted at myself.
Once more, the door went "Creeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak!"
I scrunched down on one foot while placing my other foot onto the dirty floor.
I paused. I glanced from side to side.
"Squeak! Squeak!"
I almost pulled out my foot. I gulped. Now I knew I wasn't dealing with a bird, but what?
I gritted my teeth and placed both feet into the small door, bent my back, and stood up in the room. I walked toward the brick column and looked at every wall and corner and ceiling space. Nothing. Nothing.
I breathed out.
"Swoooooooooooooooooop!"
A bat with a wingspan as long as my arm flew past me. I had my answer.
I rushed to the door, dove through it, and then slammed it behind me. I placed my back against the door as my left hand reached for the wooden knob so that it remained closed.
Someday, someone else will go in there. It just won't be me.
As I walked out the farmhouse door, I saw the lady who had called out to Brenda and I before. I guiltily smiled, wondering if she knew what had happened.
Later, Brenda had her own adventure driving up the Roan mountain with bikers along the narrow road, but that is another story. Perhaps my story would be dull compared to hers.
Until we tell again,
Rachel Hedman
(801) 870-5799
info@rachelhedman.com
Sunday, July 29, 2007
My descent into the whirlpool of grief continues but not without glimpses of the gentle moonlight of my aunt's life before her passage into the after-place.
I flew out of Tri-Cities Airport at 6 AM Saturday morning, arrived in Tallahassee at 10:30, met my daughters and grandson and then drove up to Alabama for the funeral. If you will recall from my previous blog entry, my Aunt Margaret's house was firmly stuck in the1950's; I had written about it some time ago and my cousin asked that I read the poem I had written and make a commentary at the funeral service. Since I thrive on spontaneity, I was happy to comply, but when I stood on the platform and saw all those sad faces, all I could remember was Aunt Margaret's laughter. I read the poem but then I commented on her laugh as one I had tried to emulate, copying it until I nearly had it but it was never mine - it belonged only to her. Her laugh was musical and had a lilting kick at the end that I adored. After that, her charm and the unique laugh she possesed dominated the proceedings as others added their memories to our bank.
I returned to Tennessee today, arriving at 10:30 Am, exausted but glad to be 'home.' My luggage continued on without me: somehow I passed through three ID points without anyone, including me, detecting that I was traveling under the name of Loiss Kelley to Harrisburg . . .why on earth I checked the bag is anybody's guess - disorientation, exaustion, brain fog. I'll miss the simple things I had packed in there. As for Loiss Kelley, who knows? I got my proper identity back in Charlotte, but it was too late to snatch the bag.
So, why did I share this other than simply wanting to tell you my story? I was reading Shank's Shaping Memory chapter; as I read, I found myself thinking about all the things that happened this weekend that will be pivotol in what I choose to remember for the future. Which elements will I retain as I tell the stories and which parts will I simply drop? I suspect I'll let the luggage thing pass now that I've shared it with you, but no, I've got to keep trying to get somebody to help me retrieve it from lost/misplaced baggage heaven which means I'll have to tell it over and over . . .
After the funeral, our family returned to Aunt Margaret's house and many of the relatives wanted to talk about the 'front room.' It seems I wasn't the only one who noticed it. I listened to all those stories and realized that we really do pick up pieces of things and add them to our inventory of memories. That room grew to impressive proportions yesterday as the story was told over and over again and new bits and pieces were added to it. Since the story was already on active file in my 'Memory Organization Package,' retrieval was simple. The retelling polished it and new details were added to enrich the memory for the next time. That the core of the story also exists in written form lessened the feeling that it was just a dream; sitting in Aunt Margaret's front room one more time imprinted it for life.
I flew out of Tri-Cities Airport at 6 AM Saturday morning, arrived in Tallahassee at 10:30, met my daughters and grandson and then drove up to Alabama for the funeral. If you will recall from my previous blog entry, my Aunt Margaret's house was firmly stuck in the1950's; I had written about it some time ago and my cousin asked that I read the poem I had written and make a commentary at the funeral service. Since I thrive on spontaneity, I was happy to comply, but when I stood on the platform and saw all those sad faces, all I could remember was Aunt Margaret's laughter. I read the poem but then I commented on her laugh as one I had tried to emulate, copying it until I nearly had it but it was never mine - it belonged only to her. Her laugh was musical and had a lilting kick at the end that I adored. After that, her charm and the unique laugh she possesed dominated the proceedings as others added their memories to our bank.
I returned to Tennessee today, arriving at 10:30 Am, exausted but glad to be 'home.' My luggage continued on without me: somehow I passed through three ID points without anyone, including me, detecting that I was traveling under the name of Loiss Kelley to Harrisburg . . .why on earth I checked the bag is anybody's guess - disorientation, exaustion, brain fog. I'll miss the simple things I had packed in there. As for Loiss Kelley, who knows? I got my proper identity back in Charlotte, but it was too late to snatch the bag.
So, why did I share this other than simply wanting to tell you my story? I was reading Shank's Shaping Memory chapter; as I read, I found myself thinking about all the things that happened this weekend that will be pivotol in what I choose to remember for the future. Which elements will I retain as I tell the stories and which parts will I simply drop? I suspect I'll let the luggage thing pass now that I've shared it with you, but no, I've got to keep trying to get somebody to help me retrieve it from lost/misplaced baggage heaven which means I'll have to tell it over and over . . .
After the funeral, our family returned to Aunt Margaret's house and many of the relatives wanted to talk about the 'front room.' It seems I wasn't the only one who noticed it. I listened to all those stories and realized that we really do pick up pieces of things and add them to our inventory of memories. That room grew to impressive proportions yesterday as the story was told over and over again and new bits and pieces were added to it. Since the story was already on active file in my 'Memory Organization Package,' retrieval was simple. The retelling polished it and new details were added to enrich the memory for the next time. That the core of the story also exists in written form lessened the feeling that it was just a dream; sitting in Aunt Margaret's front room one more time imprinted it for life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)