Yesterday I taught a class called “How to Write Your Family’s Story” at the Cary Senior Center. I did a book signing there in the fall and was invited back. It’s a beautiful facility and the people who run it are exceptionally friendly and helpful. They have such great classes that it almost makes me anxious to be a senior.
Almost.
I had ten people in the class, and they were very interested in the topic. I like to do a show of hands when I teach to find out what the participants are looking for. To inject a little humor, I always ask things like, “How many of you have no idea what you’re doing?” It lightens the mood and helps me to relax. Like most of us, they admitted to having boxes and bins of family memorabilia, and almost no idea how to get started writing about their families.
I used a microphone so as not to strain my voice, since it was an hour-and-a-half class. I’ve done a fair amount of speaking over the years, but I don’t consider it my strong suit, and I rarely use a wireless microphone. Imagine my horror when I discovered that I had walked into the bathroom with it still clipped to me. I didn’t know how to work the volume on the clip-on part, and didn’t want to go back into the classroom and leave again, so I took it off and left it on the floor in the hallway just outside the bathroom. At least I figured it out in time.
I often mention how I get things I need by bartering, suggesting that the seniors might be able to offer some service in exchange for getting their manuscripts typed or edited. Afterwards an interesting gentleman came up to me and introduced himself. Donald said he was an artist, and offered me artwork, of any type or in any medium, in exchange for helping him through the self-publishing process. He said he and his wife were leaving to go up north for six months (they only live here half of the year), and he wanted me to see his work before they left next week. He called his wife and she said he could invite me over to see it. He suggested I follow him to their house, which was supposedly only two miles away.
I’m not even sure why I did it, except that I hadn’t eaten and wasn’t thinking straight. But when I got to his house and saw his wife, Wanda, I realized I had met her before, at the fall book signing. His artwork was amazing, and I imagined using it for a book cover in the future. Donald read one of the stories he had written about his early life, and it was good. He told me that he had been an art instructor, and that they had traveled the world.
By then I was starving, and Wanda fixed me a sandwich. Then their two adult daughters dropped by. Beautiful, personable professionals, they had stopped by on their lunch hour. They were very excited about the possibility of their dad writing his memoir and were happy that I was encouraging him. He was from Poland, and was one of 12 children. I’m one of eight, which I mentioned in my talk. They said they’d been asking him to write, and he’d done a little, but not much. I suggested that he record his stories on a cassette or digital recorder and have the girls type them for him.
The one daughter asked a lot about All on Account of You, so I got a copy from the car to show to her, and she bought it for her dad. They seemed like a wonderful family, and I felt happy to have inspired all of them to record their history, one way or the other. I left Donald with these words: “Put your bottom in the chair (and write).”
On the way home I had the fleeting thought that it was quite an expenditure of time and gas to sell one book. But I quickly realized that it was much more than a sale. I had made some new friends.
An interesting detour, indeed. Even more so when I told my hubby when he got home from work that I had gone to a strange man’s house to see his etchings.