While I'm writing stories for this blog I'm also working on a larger story about our family. This is what my mother wanted me to do, and it's why she spent so much time dredging up her memories, some of which were painful to her.
Right now I'm working on a chapter about Jim's mother, or "Mamma." Jim's life and those of her other siblings too, were largely shaped by their mother's influence. Jim said to me once, "Mamma was my moral compass."
I found a scrap of paper among Jim's keepsakes entitled "My Creed." It was in Mamma's handwriting.
My creed in life is to be independant. & not be any trouble to any one. Be good to animals. such as Birds, Squirrels, & doggs. I like children. I love art. & flowers. love friends. I've just finished reading The Case of the Velvet Claugh by Earl Stanley Gardner.
And that's just how Mamma was. I don't think anyone could improve on her own description of herself.
Mamma spent most of her childhood, from the age of about seven until she was eleven, on a farm near Palmer Station, Arkansas. Mamma was like Jim in that she could remember vividly details from her past, and she especially loved to tell stories about Arkansas. Jim said, "We were always trying to get Mamma to tell us stories about her childhood."
All of Mamma's children were devoted to her. Every summer Jim's younger sister Oteka would drive up to Pauls Valley from Texas with her younger son Steve, and they would spend a couple of weeks there with Mamma. Of course while they were there the rest of us would go down to visit also. In the summer of 1958 Aunt Oteka and Steve made their usual trip to Pauls Valley, but this year they had a special plan. They were going to take Mamma to Palmer Station, Arkansas, her childhood home.
Mamma was excited about the trip. She wanted to find her father's farm, her older sister Cora's home - Cora was married while they lived there - and she wanted to see if she could find any descendents of the old pioneers she remembered. Mamma was anxious to visit the cemetery to look for the graves of her brother Luther and her sister Eula who had died there. Last but not least, she wanted to take some plants back with her to Pauls Valley that would remind her of Arkansas, like Jack-in-the-pulpits, blackberries, and paw paws.
So Mamma made arrangements with Uncle Haskell to feed her chickens, her dog Spot, and her parakeet, and after she made sure the gas was turned off, the little group left for Palmer Station. When they arrived they discovered there was no longer a town there, just a fork in the road with a couple of houses, so they got rooms at a motel in nearby Searcy and started asking around to locate land marks and old timers. The landmarks Mamma remembered, like houses, big trees and hills, were either long gone or impossible to identify. They did find an old cemetery that might have contained Luther and Eula's graves, but there were no identifiable markers.
Nothing, howeve, could dampen Mamma's enthusiasm. She talked to everyone she met, asking about the old houses, the old cemetery and the old pioneers. Steve said that she filled their trunk with plants. Mamma would see a plant at the side of the road and yell for Oteka to stop. Then they would all get out of the car and wade through the bushes to get to the plant that Mamma wanted. Steve said that one time Mamma disturbed a snake with her shovel, causing the little party to high tail it back to the car while the snake slithered off into the grass.
To me the best thing about the trip was how it pleased Mamma to be 'home' again. Here is a letter that she wrote to Oteka shortly after returning to Pauls Valley. You can just feel the excitement in her words as her memories of Arkansas gush forth.
Dear Oteka,
it is going to rain. but the Birds are singing. & I have put feed out for them & fed my pets in the House. My Pidgeons on my Porch are a pare, because one crokes & the other does not. it is so cloudy and damp. I hope it will save my Ark Rose bushes. I am glad I got to go back to Palmer Station I must have been tirable happy there. I don't believe that we were on the rite place where Eula was Burried they have changed those Roads & I don't believe that we were far enough out. they had Country Roads & not verry good ones at that. we went to Mr Scruses grave all rite the House that Sister Cora lived in, also. but I think Papas place was on the opside (opposite?) Side of the road. that is still a cotton country. some day if I live I am going back. this was a flying visit. it sure made old memories come alive. in early spring will be a good time to go. Haskell is just as anxious as I am. I would have to be there several days because things have changed and people have passed away. but that old cypress will remain the same. Henry Morris who married Sister Cora was born & raised in Marvil & his people are burried there. I love those first memories. Sister Cora lived in Hide Park & Kittie Staid with her & went to School at Hide Park. & I was alway jellous because I did (not?) Get to go there to. Papa had a Friend by name of Fitzpatric who lived in Helena. he is the (one?) Who sent me the little Bantam Chickens. we also had a little dog. I think that he was lost & came to our House. his master had died & Papa sent little Forkerberry to the mans wife & we cride kissed little Forkerberry goodbye.
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memoir. Show all posts
Monday, August 30, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Rocky Ridge
Last weekend my wife and I attended the Rocky Ridge Music Center alumni reunion. It was 54 years ago that I attended Rocky Ridge, a summer music camp for aspiring young musicians located at the foot of Longs Peak in Rocky Mountain National Park.
I found out at the reunion - I didn't remember - that the tuition back then for seven weeks at the camp was $350, a pretty big expense at the time, at least for my parents. My mother scrimped just to pay the $15 per week for my violin lessons out of the money Don gave her for groceries.
Jim supported my interest in music ever since the fourth grade when I came home from school asking if I could learn to play the violin. Playing the violin has always enriched my life. It has taught me the value of dedication and commitment, and it has always been a source of satisfaction and a refuge from the tensions of my work.
A couple of years ago my mother mentioned during one of our conversations that she wished she had an opportunity to develop her musical talents, and for some reason this came as a big surprise to me. I had never suspected that Jim ever had any ambitions other than raising me. I suddenly felt foolish and selfish.
I knew that Jim had been a very good singer in high school, and that when she first enrolled in college she had majored in fine arts. I had heard the story about how she had to change her major because Uncle Haskell, who was supporting her, couldn't afford the $25 fee for the chorus. Jim never forgave him for his sarcastic comment to her the day she came home excited about winning the audition: "Do you think you're going to be an opera star?"
Then I recalled that Jim had taken a class in Italian at OU. I asked her why and she told me it was so that she could sing Italian opera. She really did want to be an opera singer!
I remembered a letter that Jim had written home from college to her younger sister Oteka, raving about hearing a performance of the opera, Carmen, so during one of my visits home I played a recording of Carmen for her. As Jim listened she commented, "The lead role calls for a mezzo-soprano. That's what I was."
Jim went on to say that she was working on one of the arias from Carmen when she had to drop out of the fine arts school. She told me how she regretted never learning to read music. She said, "If I only had the fundamentals, something to work with."
Jim said that when she auditioned for the OU Chorus she had to find someone to help her who could read music. She told me about how later on when she sang in our church choir, she had to struggle to learn her part, having only a rough idea of how notes got higher and lower in pitch as they went up or down on the musical staff. She also had no idea about how to interpret the rhythms. She just had to try to memorize her part.
Another time Jim told me about watching a TV news segment about a town in Italy where opera singers went to retire. They continued to enjoy their music by singing together and performing for the community. "That would be nice," she said.
Learning about Jim's lost opportunities in music made me sad. Maybe it's something about the time she lived in, or maybe it's something about the relationship between a mother and a son, but Jim was always so committed to my success, it never occurred to me that she might even have any other goals.
It wasn't until Jim was in her 90's that she gave me this slight glimpse of her personal dreams. Suddenly I understood how she could look at my enjoyment of music, and envy me.
I found out at the reunion - I didn't remember - that the tuition back then for seven weeks at the camp was $350, a pretty big expense at the time, at least for my parents. My mother scrimped just to pay the $15 per week for my violin lessons out of the money Don gave her for groceries.
Jim supported my interest in music ever since the fourth grade when I came home from school asking if I could learn to play the violin. Playing the violin has always enriched my life. It has taught me the value of dedication and commitment, and it has always been a source of satisfaction and a refuge from the tensions of my work.
A couple of years ago my mother mentioned during one of our conversations that she wished she had an opportunity to develop her musical talents, and for some reason this came as a big surprise to me. I had never suspected that Jim ever had any ambitions other than raising me. I suddenly felt foolish and selfish.
I knew that Jim had been a very good singer in high school, and that when she first enrolled in college she had majored in fine arts. I had heard the story about how she had to change her major because Uncle Haskell, who was supporting her, couldn't afford the $25 fee for the chorus. Jim never forgave him for his sarcastic comment to her the day she came home excited about winning the audition: "Do you think you're going to be an opera star?"
Then I recalled that Jim had taken a class in Italian at OU. I asked her why and she told me it was so that she could sing Italian opera. She really did want to be an opera singer!
I remembered a letter that Jim had written home from college to her younger sister Oteka, raving about hearing a performance of the opera, Carmen, so during one of my visits home I played a recording of Carmen for her. As Jim listened she commented, "The lead role calls for a mezzo-soprano. That's what I was."
Jim went on to say that she was working on one of the arias from Carmen when she had to drop out of the fine arts school. She told me how she regretted never learning to read music. She said, "If I only had the fundamentals, something to work with."
Jim said that when she auditioned for the OU Chorus she had to find someone to help her who could read music. She told me about how later on when she sang in our church choir, she had to struggle to learn her part, having only a rough idea of how notes got higher and lower in pitch as they went up or down on the musical staff. She also had no idea about how to interpret the rhythms. She just had to try to memorize her part.
Another time Jim told me about watching a TV news segment about a town in Italy where opera singers went to retire. They continued to enjoy their music by singing together and performing for the community. "That would be nice," she said.
Learning about Jim's lost opportunities in music made me sad. Maybe it's something about the time she lived in, or maybe it's something about the relationship between a mother and a son, but Jim was always so committed to my success, it never occurred to me that she might even have any other goals.
It wasn't until Jim was in her 90's that she gave me this slight glimpse of her personal dreams. Suddenly I understood how she could look at my enjoyment of music, and envy me.
Friday, July 9, 2010
My Purpose
Almost ten years ago my father died, and after that I phoned my mother, James Wenonah Paul Gunning, or "Jim," every two or three days to check on her until her death two months ago.
Our conversations usually lasted more than an hour.
We would start by talking about her health. Jim was always having trouble with her "stomach." It wasn't that she was a hypochondriac. She suffered from diarrhea and constipation, and even when I was a child she would lie for hours curled up on the sofa with abdominal cramps. Jim had tests done from time to time, tests for infection, tests for malnutrition, xrays, colonoscopies, all of which were negative. Her symptoms were consistent with what is usually called "irritable bowel syndrome," for lack of a better term. It makes patients miserable and there's no effective treatment. Since I'm a doctor Jim would ask me for advice, and I tried to recommend things that might help: simple things like a high fiber diet, multiple small meals, avoiding spicy or salty food. I tried to go over her medication to make sure she was taking it right.
Jim had to have a reason for everything. That's the way her mind worked. When I got sick as a child she always grilled me about what I had done before the symptoms started. I had eaten something I shouldn't, or I had gone out without a coat, or I had overexerted myself. I never told her, but I eventually labeled this line of reasoning as the "It's your own damn fault" theory. She applied the same theory to her own symptoms. She blamed each episode of diarrhea or cramps on the last thing she had eaten.
After reviewing Jim's most recent symptoms, we would spend most of our time talking about her memories. She didn't talk about the past because she was losing her short term memory. Far from it. Jim never ceased to amaze me with her knowledge of current events, but I did my best to steer the conversation away from them because I didn't want to get her started on politics.
Over the hours, weeks and months of our conversations Jim told me hundreds of stories. She remembered everything she witnessed, where she was, what people said, their gestures, their expressions, and she remembered the stories that people told her. She told me about her ancestors. She told me about her parents, their childhoods, their early married life, their tragedies. She told me about her childhood, about climbing trees and riding horses. She told me about her hopes and dreams, her struggles to decide what to do with her life.
My mother came from a long line of talkers and story tellers. I still think the best speach I ever heard was given by my Uncle Haskell, but my older cousin Tom insists that Uncle Homer was a better speaker. I used to be spellbound by my uncle Tom's stories, but my cousin Christeen swears that Grandmother was the best story teller she ever heard. Still Jim claimed that no one could hold a candle to Aunt Kaliteyo. I never heard Aunt Oteka tell a story but her letters are some of the most beautiful prose I've read.
I don't think my mother ever gave a speech, but I've listened to her talk all my life, and I'd put her up against any of her family members. Jim was eloquent, effortlessly. She had a lexicon of old southern expressions that gave her speech a quaint touch, and she always arranged her words to give them the optimum effect. For the last couple of years I recorded our phone conversations, and when trying to write down one of her stories, I could always find a better way to say something by listening to her on the tape.
Through Jim's stories she expressed her pride and her love for each member of her family. In recording them I hope to communicate these feelings, as a tribute to our family, but even more so as a tribute to Jim.
Our conversations usually lasted more than an hour.
We would start by talking about her health. Jim was always having trouble with her "stomach." It wasn't that she was a hypochondriac. She suffered from diarrhea and constipation, and even when I was a child she would lie for hours curled up on the sofa with abdominal cramps. Jim had tests done from time to time, tests for infection, tests for malnutrition, xrays, colonoscopies, all of which were negative. Her symptoms were consistent with what is usually called "irritable bowel syndrome," for lack of a better term. It makes patients miserable and there's no effective treatment. Since I'm a doctor Jim would ask me for advice, and I tried to recommend things that might help: simple things like a high fiber diet, multiple small meals, avoiding spicy or salty food. I tried to go over her medication to make sure she was taking it right.
Jim had to have a reason for everything. That's the way her mind worked. When I got sick as a child she always grilled me about what I had done before the symptoms started. I had eaten something I shouldn't, or I had gone out without a coat, or I had overexerted myself. I never told her, but I eventually labeled this line of reasoning as the "It's your own damn fault" theory. She applied the same theory to her own symptoms. She blamed each episode of diarrhea or cramps on the last thing she had eaten.
After reviewing Jim's most recent symptoms, we would spend most of our time talking about her memories. She didn't talk about the past because she was losing her short term memory. Far from it. Jim never ceased to amaze me with her knowledge of current events, but I did my best to steer the conversation away from them because I didn't want to get her started on politics.
Over the hours, weeks and months of our conversations Jim told me hundreds of stories. She remembered everything she witnessed, where she was, what people said, their gestures, their expressions, and she remembered the stories that people told her. She told me about her ancestors. She told me about her parents, their childhoods, their early married life, their tragedies. She told me about her childhood, about climbing trees and riding horses. She told me about her hopes and dreams, her struggles to decide what to do with her life.
My mother came from a long line of talkers and story tellers. I still think the best speach I ever heard was given by my Uncle Haskell, but my older cousin Tom insists that Uncle Homer was a better speaker. I used to be spellbound by my uncle Tom's stories, but my cousin Christeen swears that Grandmother was the best story teller she ever heard. Still Jim claimed that no one could hold a candle to Aunt Kaliteyo. I never heard Aunt Oteka tell a story but her letters are some of the most beautiful prose I've read.
I don't think my mother ever gave a speech, but I've listened to her talk all my life, and I'd put her up against any of her family members. Jim was eloquent, effortlessly. She had a lexicon of old southern expressions that gave her speech a quaint touch, and she always arranged her words to give them the optimum effect. For the last couple of years I recorded our phone conversations, and when trying to write down one of her stories, I could always find a better way to say something by listening to her on the tape.
Through Jim's stories she expressed her pride and her love for each member of her family. In recording them I hope to communicate these feelings, as a tribute to our family, but even more so as a tribute to Jim.
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