I’m
sure I’ve written about memories before – how and when I started
writing and such. But this blog is about my very first memories after
being born. In my case, since I am 75, that means going back at least
71 years. As far as I can dig into my past, I think that first memory
is from when I was four years old. I was sitting in the loft of a
barn and watching it rain.
My
parents were fairly poor then, not church-mouse poor, but I know
times were hard. They had just moved with me and my older sister to
St. Joseph, Michigan from LaPorte, Indiana, where my father had
worked in a bomb factory during WWII. In LaPorte, they lived in
government housing in a place called Kingsford Heights. When they
moved to Michigan, we lived on property owned by my uncle, Albert
Williams, who, at that time, I saw as my “rich uncle” because
they had a nice house and we lived in his back yard in a house
trailer – and not the kind of trailers they have today. This was
one of those old, tiny, silver, rounded trailers that had hardly any
room in it.
The
barn I sat in, watching the rain, belonged to Uncle Albert. I think I
had climbed up into the loft of that barn just to get out of that
tiny trailer and enjoy some space. I really don’t remember if my
mother was looking for me. She probably was. All I remember is
sitting in that loft watching the rain and feeling very lonely and
melancholy.
I
don’t know why that memory is so very vivid to this day, but I
realized as I wrote this that, for some reason, my most vivid
childhood memories involved sitting at a door or window looking
outside and feeling lonely. My next memory comes from about a year
later. I was about five years old and sitting in a house we had moved
into in Coloma, Michigan (the town I have lived in the rest of my
life). Our new dwelling wasn’t really a house. It was more of a
converted shed, and I remember we had a lot of trouble with mice.
I’ve gone by that excuse of a house several times over all these
years, and it truly is just an old shed now. I can’t believe we
really lived there. We were still poor then, and the shed was behind
a bigger house that belonged to the people who owned the property.
Again, I saw those people in the nicer house as the “rich
neighbors,” and we were the poor ones. They were very nice, though,
and the woman there and my mother became close friends for life. I
became good friends for years after that with one of the woman’s
daughters.
Again,
in this second memory, I was looking out a window and watching birds
sitting on a clothesline outside. I remember the grass was very
green. I think it was springtime. I remember wishing I could be one
of those pretty little birds perched on the clothesline. And again, I
felt lonely and melancholy. I was always daydreaming, imagining a
different life, and even at that age I often thought about romantic
heroes who saved me from “bad guys.”
My
third vivid memory is from yet another house we moved into in the
country – a real house this time. I was around eight years old.
Most things in between all of that are blank – and again, the
memory is of me sitting in an upstairs bedroom looking longingly out
a window at birds flying against a background of white clouds. I also
remember that that is when I wrote my first poem, and it was about
love. Yes, love – at about seven years old. I still have the poem
because my mother had it published in the local newspaper, which used
to publish poems by local residents:
“We
sat here together long ago, watching the birds fly to and fro.
Then
we sadly parted – waving good-bye.
I
guess it was forever. Strange, how gray the sky.
I
come back here and sit, dear, nearly every day,
But
you have never come back. It’s no use to stay.
But
I will linger for a while, and imagine you are here.
While
the birds fly to and fro, you seem so very near.”
Oh,
my gosh! I was writing romance at seven years old! Over the years I
wrote tons of poems, and I tried to get them published, but no luck.
By
fourth grade I had written my first story – a love story about two
ducks called “Mr. and Mrs. Quack.” I’m sure you are laughing
over the title, but at that time it was a very serious story for a
girl only about eight years old. The male duck was shot down during
hunting season but survived and found “Mrs. Quack” again. Lovers
separated by fate and then finding each other again – the very type
of book I write today. The front and back covers to that first book
were made of construction paper and it was all tied together with
green yarn. My mother kept it for years and then gave it to me. I
thought I still had it, but I can’t find it. Sad.
Apparently,
even from a very young age, I was a melancholy, imaginative, romantic
girl who wanted to write love stories. Growing up, I always leaned
toward sweeping, romantic, dramatic movies and books, and I also
loved American history and books and movies about pioneers and
Indians, which apparently led me to what I write today. And I still
love birds. I have five bird feeders outside my kitchen window now,
and I make sure they are always full. I absolutely LOVE
bird-watching.
I
also have vivid memories of playing with my friend Beverly, from the
ages of around seven to ten. Two little girls, all alone, playing in
grape fields and orchards, far away from our houses. Little girls all
alone in the woods would never be accepted today, but we knew no fear
and never thought a thing about anything bad happening. Our parents
didn’t worry either, as long as we made it home for supper. And
what did we play? Cowboys and Indians! And I always had to be the
fastest draw and ride a white horse! Sound familiar? My heroes don’t
ride white horses, but they are definitely the cowboy type and fast
on the draw.
I
got busy with “life” and kids and a job after marrying at twenty
years old, and I didn’t get around to trying to write a “real”
book until I was about 32, and at 38 (1983) my first book was
published – SWEET PRAIRIE PASSION – by Kensington Books. That
book led to a 7-book series called SAVAGE DESTINY, which to this day
(2020) is still selling!
At
75, the romance and love of history and the American West is still
with me, and I am still writing. Sometimes I still feel that little
girl deep inside. She’s never left me. I wonder if all of you
reading this still feel the child inside and have vivid memories from
your own childhood – and if those memories seem to have a
connection to how life turned out for you. If you are a writer, it’s
those life experiences you should remember and use to bring reality
to your stories.
Don’t
forget to stop once in a while and take time to just sit and listen …
and daydream.
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