I was startled and pleased by the crowd that turned out for my Story-Telling workshop at the Mansion Assisted Care facility in my town of Cambridge New York this afternoon, on this wet and cold day. Every seat in the Activity Room was full, it was one of my most meaningful and powerful teaching experiences.
I told the residents their stories were important, living in an assisted care facility, they sometimes told me they felt that no one cared about their stories, that they would vanish along with them, that they were not important.
I told them that are stories are of profound importance, they are who we are, who we have been, what our time in this world was about. I talked about story structure – many took notes, about the elements of a story: the beginning, the middle and the end.
The stories should tell us who they are and should be recorded, passed along, never lost or forgotten.
I felt the strongest connection with these people, some of whom struggle painfully to remember their stories while they can, all the more reason, I said to write them down. Almost everyone had a story idea that I loved and that touched me. They looked almost pleadingly for help.
They asked questions, took notes, dug deep back into their lives, some lost in thought.
Jane wrote about a huge turtle she found when she was eight, and how much she wanted to bring him home, but her parents wouldn’t permit it. She still thinks about that turtle. Mary wants to do a story called “Yesterday’s Memories,” in which she thinks about her parents, who she loved very much and misses. She talks to them every day, I suggested that she tell us about the conversations.
Peggie is writing about “My Husband,” who died nearly a decade ago. She talks to him every day, she said, he laughs with her and scolds her sometimes, and she wants to write about the things they dig together. Brother Peter, who was not permitted to have a dog when he was young because of his animals, wants to wrote about “Tollie” a German Shepherd he loved while living at the New Skete Monastery, where he was a monk for 50 years, and where they breed German Shepherds.
His story about Tollie and her life was powerful.
Barb wants to write “Alaska,” a story about her trip into the wilderness, and the blue ice she saw and will never forget. Tim wants to write “Delmar Plaza,” a story about a New Jersey shopping mall that has changed dramatically in recent years, he once lived nearby. Jean has a wonderful story to tell called “Ironing,” but she was too embarrassed to tell it out loud, and she said she wasn’t sure she can remember it all, but several other residents said they heard it several times and loved it and would help her write it.
Joan, who has severe memory challenges, said she wanted to write about the time she was lost in the Adirondacks with her boyfriend. We all offered to help her remember it. Ben, who learned how to fly when he was 18, wants to write about his love of flying, and his father’s life as a pilot also.
“I just can’t, said Alice, “I just can’t remember.” I was not sure what to say. We’ll try again, I promised. I sensed a story was close to the surface.
I was very excited to hear their stories, they were rich and full of life and feeling. They should not be forgotten. By the end of the workshop Peggie, whose unbridled love of life is quite infectious, had already written out two strong pages. The story of her life with her husband just came pouring out of her. She talks with him every day.
We take our memory and our clarity and our stories for granted sometimes, but at the Mansion, none of these things are taken for granted. We all pledged to help one another. For the next month, I will go to the Mansion every Friday morning to help the residents put their stories together and salvage their memory and their stories before they are lost. (Connie, who meant to attend, had a painful back spasm on Monday, she can barely move. I’ll talk to her about her story later. She is also recovering from an eye infection. Letters to her would be welcome, you can write her at The Mansion, 11 S.Union Street, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816. She treasures your letters to her and could use them now. She reads us every one. “I get in trouble just sitting here,” she joked.)
I nearly cried over their gratitude and openness, and am grateful for the change to salvage these stories and share them with the world. And it will happen, for sure.
At the end of June, we will collect and type up the stories and there will be a reading at the Mansion, open to the town and the public and their families.
At the end of the month, the staff – Julie and Gail – and I will polish up the stories, and then type them up. I know a printer in our town who will print them as a paperback book, we will also gather some illustrations from the Mansion Art Show last month. I will make sure they are printed – Connie Brooks at Battenkill Books will sell them there.
We can pay for an outing somewhere for the Mansion story tellers.
Stories are sacred to me, they are my life too. This workshop felt so important to me, their hunger to tell their stories was gripping, and rare. Even among my wonderful students, I sometimes have to pry and prod for their stories, but here, they were all on fire to tell them, they just need some help and encouragement.
(I will not need any financial support for this project, thanks, there is no cost that is measurable in money, and we have the supplies we need.)
They will get both the help and encouragement they need. Before the end of the summer, we will have a neat little book called “The Mansion: Stories From The Edge Of Life.”
