Another V. B. R. Story

Many years ago, while studying a work in a college literature class, the professor pointed out that long after the books were published the writer took his pen to his hardbound copy, making changes and corrections. If I could remember which author this was, I could find on the internet a photograph of a page from the book complete with the scribbled additions.

Given this, perhaps I’m in good company. I hesitated to publish V. B. R.: My Mother’s Story because I knew it was incomplete. But there came a time to decide that I could sit on it another half-dozen years or go with what I had. Part of the hesitation came from my realization that there were so many questions that I had never asked, so I simply did not have that information. Another thing was that I don’t have as good a memory as I thought I had. Little details from events that I had either heard about or in some cases, been there for, escaped me. On the other hand, Mother had a remarkable memory.

In cleaning out a closet this week, I came across a notebook with notes from a trip to Bella Vista, Arkansas, we took with Mother in 1999, when she was 83 years old. By this time macular degeneration had taken most of her sight. When my husband mentioned a town we were going through, Mother said “That’s not too far from Mena. I’d love to see if that restaurant is still there.” So we went to Mena. In 1928 or 1929 she had accompanied her Grandma Christopher who was to spend the summer in Mena for health reasons. Mother’s uncle had driven them there and settled them in a house that had what were called housekeeping rooms.

I do not have Mother’s sense of direction. Can you imagine being able to direct someone to a town in another state - without benefit of a map, or sight to read it, or the ability to see the landmarks - that you have not been to in seventy years? Following Mother’s directions we drove around the town as she told us about the places she remembered: the park, the block where the house had been, the Christian Church they attended on Sundays, the library, and the post office.

And yes, we found the restaurant. The Skyline Café that opened in 1922 was still there! Mother had such fun telling the server that it was her 83^rd birthday, and she had eaten there when she was only twelve of thirteen years old, and was so pleased to find that it was still there. As she had done seventy years earlier, Mother dined on fried chicken, then ordered ice cream for dessert. Although she declared it a good meal, later she remarked to us that it wasn’t as good as she remembered it being. Then with her usual insight, she said something about things often being better in our memory than in reality.

It was good to find my notes and read what I had written about the trip, but that reality pales in comparison to the memory of Mother’s delight in finding that on her 83^rd birthday, the Skyline Café was still open.  

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

My dear friends, I realize I've been all but insufferable recently. Thank you for putting up with me while I agonized over finding a format for the book about my mother, worked on it at a snail's pace, then decided to 'do it myself' with a well-known self-publishing site. All who know me must have laughed at the thought, given my lack of competence where a computer is concerned. And did I mention that I bought a new computer and tried to go from Windows 7 to Windows 8.1 in the middle of all this?

 A rational person would have hired someone to edit, format, design the cover, etc., but then, I'm not often accused of being rational. I've learned a lot, but didn't quite get it right after all. Should have ordered that second proof copy! But it is out there, errors, flaws and all. Since Mother was an English teacher for over 35 years I really didn't want it to be full of grammatical mistakes, but you may find a few. The other mishaps in it are somewhat minor, mostly due to my impatience at the end. In a strange way that almost fits. My father was a perfectionist, and would take forever getting something done to his standards. Mother did a good job on most things, but her attitude was more of a 'don't piddle, just get it done' attitude. As for as she was concerned, perfection was not always necessary when good enough would do. So, though not perfect, perhaps it is at least good enough.

I would be remiss if I did not express my gratitude to my family and friends who have encouraged me in this project. Even as a writer, I simply cannot put into words how much the support has meant to me. I have been surprised and delighted by the number of you who have 'liked' on Facebook, commented, or sent me messages. That so many of you would be interested in something I thought I was doing only for our family humbles me.

Last, but certainly not least, I am so grateful for the support and kind comments and reviews by my fellow writers. The writers that I've had the opportunity to meet are so generous in their support of fledgling writers like me.

I cannot thank all of you enough for sticking with me through the slogging through this project,  and now my 15 minutes of, if not fame, at least celebration.

Who Knew Such a Little Thing Could be so Difficult?

On September 8, I proudly posted a photo of me holding a proof copy of “V. B. R., My Mother’s Story” on Facebook.  I admitted in the post that it was probably too soon to brag about this accomplishment. Was I ever right about that! My anticipation that the book would be available by the end of the month exhibited all the optimism of a rank amateur. I’d worked so hard on it, edited it over and over again, and was certain that when I opened the covers I would find this wonderful, perfect product. Wrong again! Not only did I spot errors, my proof reading friends found plenty as well. And though I appreciate all their suggestions other than correcting errors, I chose not to make some of the changes.

One that I did make was to number the pages, but had I known what a nightmare this would turn into for me, I might have said "Who needs page numbers? The book isn't that long." You see, the computer and I have a love-hate relationship. I love it, but it hates me. Did I mention that I am also in the process of learning a new computer, of moving from Windows 7 to Windows 8.1?  I’m certain that some nerdy kid somewhere with a serious disrespect of senior citizens is taking some twisted pleasure in my difficulty in making this switch.

But back to the insertion of page numbers. A normal person with a good working knowledge of Word might have done this with ease. Even I have done so in the past. Not so easy this time around. Two main problems: I didn’t want to number the title page and other front matter, and  I was switching the document from the old 7 to the new 8.1.  After enlisting the aid of friends, and spending untold hours on the various help sites on the internet I found that many of the things they suggested did not appear in any of my tool bars, but I finally got it done. So proud of myself, I was about to pop! Then I converted the file to a pdf for uploading to be printed. Where did that extra blank page come from? And better yet, how to get rid of it? You guessed it – the fun was just beginning. Other tries resulted in not one, but multiple blank pages that did not appear in the formatted Word document, but would find their way into the pdf. Or the numbers would start in places other than where I thought I put them.

Why did I continue to put myself through all this, rather than just scrap the idea of numbered pages? Sheer stubbornness. The more times it all went wrong the more determined I was that this was not going to get the best of me. Cross your fingers for me. An hour or so ago I uploaded what I hope is an edited version, complete with page numbers!

If it doesn't work, I'll probably snatch every grey hair out of my head trying again and again to fix it. Should that happen, and you see me running around completely bald-headed, please lend me a cute hat.

The Company We Keep

"Choose your friends carefully, you're known by the company you keep," my mother admonished. Earlier that summer we moved from a very small town where everyone knew not only each other, but pretty much all there was to know about each other's extended family back a couple of generations. Now in the "big city" of Montgomery, it was impossible to know even all the members of the large sophomore class at my new high school. I'm not sure it was so much a matter of my choosing friends as it was a matter of who befriended me, the new girl.

Now, many years later, I hope that Mother's advice is still true. In an earlier blog I jokingly questioned if I might be considered an author groupie or stalker. Hopefully they don't consider me too obnoxious, and I doubt that anyone would ever consider me dangerous. I like to be around writers. Sometimes there is a snob in the group who is very proud of their success, and can't be bothered with lesser beings like me. But, for the most part, the authors I've met are generous and encouraging to those of us who wish to enter their magic circle.

Last weekend I attended the annual conference of the Alabama Writers Conclave. The group claims the distinction of being the oldest writers' organization in continuous existence in the United States. The weekend is packed with sessions conducted by writers in various genres, times to mingle with other participants, and a ceremony during which the winners of the annual competition are announced. That writers from almost every state vie for these awards says something. Then throw in that the conference met in Fairhope, Alabama - well, what more could one want? Did I forget to mention that Rick Bragg was our keynote speaker?

It was a wonderful weekend. It is my hope that things I learned there will help me improve my writing. Being around all those people who are actively writing inspires me.

 Oh, that I would be known by keeping company with that interesting group!

The Things We Leave Behind

Although time and geography have spread our family members apart, we still consider each other close kin to about thirteenth cousin out. Actually I’m not good at all the rankings of first, second, third cousin once removed, et cetera.  So the easiest way to explain my relationship to a cousin who visited last week is that our grandfathers were brothers.

During her visit was we shared old photos, documents, and other genealogical information.  One of the unexpected treasures that she brought was an audio tape which my mother had made in 1998, when she was 81 years old. At that time Mother was visually impaired to the extent that she could no longer read, so writing letters was no longer possible. My cousin requested that, as a gift for her young daughter, my mother make a tape of remembrances about her grandmother, (the late great-great-grandmother of the child.)

Until recently I had no idea that this tape existed. Because Mother died in 2005, it was bittersweet  to hear the tape the first time. First it brought tears, then joy to hear her voice again. I barely remember the grandmother, my great-grandmother, that Mother reminisced about, because she died when I was only six years old. So hearing Mother’s remembrances was as much a gift to me as it was for the great-great-grandchild born many years later.

All this has made me wonder what I should be leaving for my children or grandchildren. Have I told them the stories of my childhood, memories of my grandmothers, of my mother? They may not be that interested now, but many years from now would they find it as interesting as I did Mother’s tape about my great-grandmother?  From all accounts, my great-grandmother did not consider herself special, and neither did my grandmothers, nor my mother. But  each of them left a priceless legacy - funny, sometimes touching, family stories, and memories of them that warm me like a hug. What could be more special than that?

Learning to Drive

Learning to drive may present a few problems for Malia Obama. Who is going to be her instructor? What about the secret service following along? In the photos Malia appears happy or excited to begin the adventure this summer.

I may have been the only teen in history with absolutely no interest in learning how to drive. It was fine with me for a parent, friend, or date to chauffeur me around. My mother had other ideas. At her insistence I obtained the booklet, studied it, passed the test with flying colors and was granted the learner’s permit. Getting behind the wheel was another matter. I did not want to do it. My friends would beg their parents to check them out of school on the day of their sixteenth birthday to take them for the driving test, which when passed would end in the issuance of the coveted license. Since my mother was a teacher, she took a dim view of either of us missing school for anything other than a major illness, so skipping school on my March birthday to take the test was not an option. It was also determined that I had not had adequate practice to pass the test. Reprieve!

But the reprieve was not to last. When summer came, Mother declared that there would be a driving lesson each day until I got my license. As soon as the dishes were washed after lunch she would take her ‘nerve pill,’ I would get some Kleenex, and we would get into the car. The lesson would last for a specified amount of time, until she couldn’t take it anymore, or until I was crying too much to drive.

Mother began driving when she was only thirteen. When my grandmother took her nap in the afternoon, Mother sat in the Model A Ford and studied the booklet that came with the car. One day she decided she understood it, cranked the car, and drove around the circle in front of their house. Waked by the sound, Grandmother came out of the house just as Mother circled around. Grandmother got in the car, Mother drove around the circle again a few times, and from then on Mother drove. I’m not sure when she got her first license, but there are stories, some quite comical, of obtaining licenses in various states when they moved for my father’s jobs just before WWII.

There were many things that Mother insisted that I learn. The only two that I remember disliking intensely were learning to drive and learning to type. Mother was a very wise woman; the things I liked learning the least are the things I’ve used the most.

 

Taking a Different Route

There was no Brownie or Girl Scout troop in the small town where I grew up, so perhaps I have a tiny bit of an excuse for not knowing some things. I am acquainted with people who can glance at the sky, and from the position of the sun, have a good idea of what time it might be. I am not one of those people. Neither can I tell you which direction I am facing except at sunrise or sundown. But I do like maps – as decorative objects. Their intended use of providing navigational aid is lost on me. On some intellectual level I almost understand how they work, but can’t make the leap to using the information to actually find my way around. As one of my friends said long ago, I could get lost in a paper bag. Despite the fact that I’ve lived there for years, once in awhile I get turned around in my own neighborhood. In other words, ‘directionally challenged’ does not even begin to describe my problem.

Only in recent years have I had to find my way around on my own on trips, but becoming a widow meant that unless I wanted to stay at home forever, I had to bite the proverbial bullet and get out there. Thank goodness for MapQuest and a GPS. I usually start out with both, but the GPS is the best for me because I don’t have to try to read a page and watch the road at the same time. The GPS also understands my attention span and reminds me several times what I have to do, then if I miss a turn, immediately (sometimes very aggravatingly) insists that I make a legal u-turn.

Having said all this, perhaps it is understandable that part of my trip yesterday turned into an adventure for me. Traveling from near Jackson, MS, to Austin, TX, I planned to leave I-20 near the Louisiana line and head south to Austin. My GPS was adamant that I stay on it through Dallas. For me it was an act of bravery that I turned off the GPS. True, I did have a MapQuest print-out, but not for the exact route. Nor did I have a Texas map with me. In a rather startling realization of how dependent on the GPS I’ve become, it took several miles before I got over the slight panic at being disconnected and settled down for a pleasant ride on smaller roads through the Texas countryside. Had I stayed on the Interstate I’m not sure what the scenery would have been, but along the long stretches between the small towns there were lovely wildflowers, long-horn cattle, beautiful trees, and the best surprise of the day: a Roadrunner! Seeing the spunky little bird was such a delight that I laughed out loud, and continued happily on a different route.