Author: Genevieve A. Howard

Memoir update

Good news! I reached my goal for 25,000 words in April toward the memoir. My two writing friends also reached their word count goals.

This go-round, I used Scrivener writing software (free trial from Literature and Latte) to lay out the book before I wrote. Wow! It was a world of difference to have an outline and a plan before I wrote.

I wrote about half the speed I did in November. It could take me hours and four cups of tea to get to 1,000 words. It might be the difference between free writing (November-style) vs. writing something another person can make sense of (April-style) but I’m happy with what I have from both times.

I’ll take my draft from November and fill in pieces of April’s draft and see what I end up with. For example, I really liked what I wrote about my childhood newt in November. (You had a childhood newt, too, right? Doesn’t everyone?)

Thank you, everyone, for the encouragement. Your belief in me and my story means more to me than you know.

I’ll keep writing and editing the memoir. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Next week we’ll return to regular blog posts!

Wishing

As we were wiping up at the end of our shift, Mike asked, “You need a ride, hon?”

I said that I did. We made plans and punched out with our time cards on the top of the time clock.

Out in the night air, we walked together to Mike’s red sedan. He opened the passenger door for me.

He drove me up to the 24-hour truck stop just on the edge of town.

We slid into one of the booths. We looked over the stained paper menu

“What looks good?” he said.

“It is after midnight, so I guess technically it’s morning. Maybe I’ll get some breakfast,” I said.

“Breakfast does sound good,” he agreed.

We ordered full breakfast platters and we weren’t disappointed. Our gum-chewing waitress served us long ovals plates of fried eggs, shredded hash browns, hardened bacon strips, shiny sausage links and toast cut into six triangles with a scoop of light margarine on top. Drops of grease dotted the plate edges.

At the counter, a truck driver leaned over his food while his cigarette sat in the ashtray. Outside his truck lights glowed in the mist coming off the St. Croix River next to the diner. He made small talk with the waitress and the cook behind the metal counters.

Mike and I ate our food and laughed. We pretended to fence with our bacon; it was as stiff as swords. He teased me for putting sugar and creamers in my coffee and I called him crazy for drinking it black.

We finished our meal and left the waitress a huge tips. People who have worked in service leave the biggest tips because they know how hard the work is. I can always tell when someone is stingy with the tip that they are spoiled and don’t know what it is to have aching feet.

He opened the car door for me. As we drove, I looked through the patches of cloud and saw a shooting star.

“Quick! Make a wish!”

We talked about shooting stars.

“You know they’re not real stars, sweetie.”

I didn’t. I was disappointed to learn I had been wishing on space debris all that time. But if there was anyone who was going to tell me the truth about shooting stars, I wanted it to be him with his soft eyes and gentle voice. He didn’t tease me for being stupid or not knowing much about how things worked in the world.

“Keep wishing, Gen. Keep wishing on them and hoping for things in your heart. That’s one of the things I love about you, how you get so excited and wish for things.”

* * *

I still wish on stars, 25 years later. Even if it is on space debris, I’m still making wishes. I still hope for things in my heart.

The boogey man

“The boogey man’s gonna get you!” he said.

I was never exactly sure what the boogey man was. I imagined he was tall with long, strong fingers, quick to grab little girls’ legs.

Our house was two stories. Upstairs we had our kitchen, living room, the bathroom, my parents’ bedroom and my room.

Downstairs was the potting studio that opened out to the pool. My father had his own den with dark wood paneling. It smelled of pipe smoke and leather.

My sister’s bedroom was downstairs. It was a tie between her room, and my brother’s beneath the garage for most interesting place.

Her room had a jewelry collection hanging in front of her vanity mirror. The room always had a lingering scent of her spicy musk perfume. The perfume bottle top had a leopard fur button for spraying. She had a saffron yellow dress full of tiny round mirrors from India and a bright purple scarf draped around. She was 13 years older than me and without question, the most exotic person I knew. She seemed to always be leaving, leaving for a date with her boyfriend, then leaving for college when I was four.

My brother’s room smelled of aquarium and teenage boy sweat.

“Stop, you’re gonna overfeed them!” he said as I crumbled soft orange fish flakes over the tank top. I couldn’t help myself. I loved to watch their lips breaking the surface and pinching at the food that smelled like salty shrimp.

He had painted pterodactyls on his walls and they swooped down in a prehistoric sky. The aquarium bubbled. He usually had on the radio, the TV or both. He liked background noise to distract him from the constant whine in his ear, the tinnitus he developed after a bad dive.

I spent many times running up and down the stairs. I never knew when the boogey man would get me. I ran downstairs and GRAB! The boogey man got me! I shrieked! Then I heard my brother’s laugh and I ran down the rest of the stairs. He swept me up and spun me around.

“Better be careful!” he said.

*  *  *

Orange memories

I sat at the table working on my penmanship and spelling. I had sheets of the thin lined paper with red lines for the top and bottom of the letters, and dashed blue lines for the middles.

I had an easy time with some words. Cat, house, man, mouse. But orange seemed like an impossible word. I couldn’t spell it out and I couldn’t make any sense of how to order the letters.

My brother sat down with me at the kitchen table.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “First, draw an orange. Make a circle.”

I made the o.

“Then, think about something you like to do, running. Oranges give you energy to run. What did you do after you ate an orange? You ran. Write ran.”

I added the ran. oran

“Now, you like oranges so much, they have the first two letters of your name. Write ge.”

I put them on. orange

From that day he taught me, I have always spelled it in three pieces. I draw the o, the ran and the first two letters of my name.

I never misspelled orange again.

I haven’t forgotten.

Candlelit prayers

At St. Luke’s, I had a sense of belonging and a job. I was an acolyte. Before the service, I pulled on a white robe and got the brass candle holder that was almost as tall as I was. We made sure the wicks were trimmed.

The service started and it was a feast for the eyes and ears.

Father Jacobs wore floor-length robes, hand-stitched in gold thread in intricate patterns. We sang hymns from the hymn books in front of each pew.

Our noses took in the spicy incense wafting from the brass holder that Father Jacobs swung.

When it came time for Father Jacobs to read from the enormous bible in the aisle, the other candle acolyte and I stood on either side of him with our candles. Our official name was the Torchbearers.

The candle light wasn’t necessary. The bright walls and the stained glass windows kept the church bright. But holding the candle was an important duty.

We sat in a special pew next to the altar. As wiggly eight-year-olds, our attention drifted from the service. We couldn’t resist whispering and cracking ourselves up. The pressure of trying to be quiet made an ordinary comment funny.

Another priest might have fired us as acolytes. Too giggly! Too silly! We could be called. But Father Jacobs answered our giggles with a calm smile and patient look. We settled into the pew and watched the service again.

His kindness quieted us more than another’s anger could have.

I was an acolyte for less than a year but my time serving affects my life today. I still love candles. I carry his kindness like a torch. Not everyone needs it to live by but I offer it just the same.

*   *   *

My mother was a believer in candles. We could walk into any church or cathedral, and if there were candles to be lit, she would light one. St. Luke’s had a place to light them.

The candles were stair-step rows, some flickering from previous people lighting them, some fresh and unlit, some empty of wax with just the wick holder.

She dropped a coin in the box attached in the front and gave me one to put in. My coin clinked as it fell on top of other coins inside. A quarter was a whole week’s worth of allowance and seems like a lot to me for a little candle. A quarter was a significant amount in 1977, as gas was about 65 cents a gallon.

I don’t know what she prayed for. She never said.

She took the punk from the sand and found another candle to light it, then she lit her candle and passed the smoldering stick to me.

“Say a prayer when you light it.”

As a girl, I mixed prayers up with wishes. I imagined the candles at church were the same as candles on a birthday cake, except instead of blowing them out, you light them. I lit the candle and made a wish.

Then we stood. She watched the white candles burn and move. I stood next to her, waiting, not knowing her thoughts.

I was still at the age when I was willing to stand at her side even if I didn’t know what was going on, or how long it would take. I was willing to wait with her then.

Riding Bruce’s motorcycle

(This excerpt is dedicated with love to the memory of my brother, Bruce 1957-2010)

I had my own motorcycle helmet as a child. It was blue with gold flecks.

I was as happy as a dolphin leaping when my brother Bruce told me to go get my helmet. It meant a motorcycle ride.

I put on the black strap under my chin and climbed on behind my brother.

He rode his motorcycle all through the hills and roads of Southern California. I held on for the ride.

He wore a button-down cotton shirt and I grabbed the fabric at his sides as if they were handles. My canvas tennis shoes barely rested on the back pedals.

The wind blew my hair back. I felt fast and strong.

The sound of his bike purred as he opened the throttle. It was a small bike as motorcycles go but I was five years old and the engine seemed more powerful than anything else I knew.

We wound around curving roads that climbed past gated houses. Evening fell. He took me to the top of a hill.

He stopped the bike and turned off ignition.

“Climb down, Genny,” he said. “Let’s take a break.”

With his motorcycle leaning on its kickstand, we stood and looked at the bright and glorious sight that was Los Angeles in 1974.

The city lights glimmered gold as far as I could see. Ocean air mixed with the eucalyptus trees.

For as much as my mother liked talking, my brother liked silence. I could sit for hours with him watching TV and we wouldn’t say a word. We stood in a comfortable quiet watching the lights of LA.

It was a clear night without smog covering the starry night sky.

I don’t know what he thought about. He didn’t tell me. It was his senior year of high school. He was a nonconformist. He wore a leather top hat and drew cartoons. He had a few friends who could appreciate his trouble-making sense of humor but I imagine he felt the pain of not fitting in.

He would start college soon and never finish. He would start drugs soon and never stop.

But I didn’t know that then. I only thought about going places with my strong brother. I felt like we could go anywhere with the motorcycle as our steed to take us.

The gleaming valley under the stars beckoned us with its brightness.

My brother turned and smiled down at me.

He still had hope in his heart then.

Friends, we’re doing something different here on Light to grow in during the month of April.

I’m participating in Camp NaNo, a spring version of NaNoWriMo, the annual novel writing event in November. Two important aspects of the NaNo movement are a clear due date and a vibrant community of support.

In November, I wrote my first book-length memoir. Almost 100 pages of people, memories and the foolishness of my youth. I felt blessed how the words poured out.

I let it sit for the proscribed six weeks as recommended by Stephen King in his brilliant book, On Writing.

Then I started to edit. Or sludge through unrelated scenes, summaries and free associations in valiant hope to find one strand of a narrative thread. Alas, not a strand! I spent more hours editing than I did writing. I started to wonder where I had gone wrong.

I talked to trusted friends and did some reading. I realized I had too many characters, too many messes and too many places for the story to be readable. Without a narrative thread, 100 pages were too long to follow.

Have you ever spent hours on something only to realize you need to go back and do it all from the beginning?

Do-over

In mid-March, I decided to start from scratch and rewrite the whole memoir. The day I made the decision, I felt a sureness I’d never felt during the weeks of editing.

I needed to write the first draft in November to get it all out. Now I’ll write the second one with the intention to make it readable.

A plan, a pair of friends, a purpose

With an outline prepared, I put strict limits on my characters, scenes and layers. My plan is to show fewer scenes in a slower pace.

I have the good luck to be writing this month with two talented friends who are working on their own books so we can encourage one another to keep slogging when the writing gets tough.

My purpose in writing my memoir is to show how grace and faith—even in amounts as small as a sliver—kept me going and they can get you through your dark times.

I’m putting my writing hours into the memoir so this month I’ll post raw excerpts from what I write. We’ll return to our regular blog posts in May. I hope you’ll enjoy the excerpts and I welcome your feedback!

Here we go!

Broken hand to pray with (working title, excerpt one)

Vacation Bible School

The summer I turned seven, I spent a week in vacation bible school. It must have been the church of someone my parents knew, some mother probably in fear for my soul in light of my non-believing parents. She offered to have me go with her daughter.

I didn’t know the girl, Kristie, well. Every morning, the mother picked me up in a wood-paneled station wagon and drove us to the church. It was a church combined with a school. We went to different classrooms depending on the activity.

The girl was quick to clump to her friends once we shut the heavy doors of her mother’s station wagon. I shuffled between activities as best I could, all the rooms and other kids unfamiliar to me.

On the last day, we learned we would have a contest. I walked into the classroom with excitement. I thought of myself as a lucky person. I won a goldfish at my brother’s high school carnival and often found pennies. I felt I had a good chance in whatever kind of contest this one would be.

“I haven’t seen you before,” said the man in a chipper tone with horn-rim glasses and a grey crew cut.

“I don’t go here,” I said. “We don’t go to church.”

He looked me over and focused his attention on the cleaner, smiling girl settling into the seat next to me. “Well hello there Kristie! How are you doing today?”

Once we sat down, he held up a plastic box molded in beige with brown spray painting on it to make it look aged. It was the size of my hand in length and width, standing about three inches high. It had a lid that came off.

From as long as I remember, I’ve appreciated a good container. Plastic, paper or wooden box, ceramic mug or china teacup, woven basket or stone bowl, I love them all.

Empty, they represent potential. Full, they make random items seem like treasure.

I wanted that box. Through my seven-year-old eyes, it looked wondrous.

The chipper man explained that whichever girl recited the most Bible verses would win the box.

“Study the Bible, girls!” He said as he handed out small Bibles for us to look over. “And you’ll use what you learn the rest of your life.”

We had an hour to look it over. The Bible was an edited children’s version. It included watercolor pictures every few pages. Noah on his ark. Moses parting the sea.

I skimmed the stories and tried to remember them.

The man announced it was time to recite our verses. Girl after girl went to the front and prattled off sayings. Then it was my turn.

I walked up. I could remember nothing. He hinted, “How about, ‘Do unto others…'”

I repeated, “Do unto others.”

“No, do unto others as…”

I stared at him, waiting for more of a hint.

“Do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

I gave him a blank look. It meant nothing to me. What was “do unto others”? What was “done unto you”?

He shook his head.

I walked back and sat down.

Kristie went to the front of the class and recited verses about lights and words, green pastures and sheep. The man gave her the box. We clapped.

As I sat behind Kristie on the ride home, I could see over the front bench seat. Her mom chirped happy words about how proud she was of having such a daughter. With narrow eyes, I watched Kristie take the lid off and fit it back on.

People knew her name. She belonged. She won boxes.

I rode in the back seat, driven by someone who felt sorry for me. I had no box of my own. The car creeped down my steep driveway to drop me off.

“Bye now!” waved her mother in her cheerful voice. Kristie said nothing. She held the box in both hands as she looked at me through the window of the station wagon pulling away.

I dropped the coloring pages in the trash as I walked in the house. Noah, Moses and Jesus rested on top of cantaloupe halves and coffee grounds.

That was my only–and last–experience with vacation bible school.