It's as if I were here first,before the world I was in, and that world slowly emerged around me and took form gradually.By no means am I able to recall all things that were happening around me by the time 1963 came around.And many of those things,when I think of them today I viewed very differently than I would have as an adult,or even as I might have just a few months later.But memory about those days is not entirely absent.The most noticeable thing about those thoughts and memories to me now is that they give me a sense of myself as a developing person.First memories of the place we lived after we left Goose Bay are foggy,but they become more certain in my mind towards the end of the year or so that we spent there.My first memory occurred,there,my first event that I am able to recall,that is,with the absolute certainty that it happened,and was not something related to me by others.Still,memory from that time was a very odd thing,and I'm rather keenly aware of my thought processes being so very different then.
Sometime in 1963 we moved to the community of Redmondville in Easten New Brunswick.I don't recall moving,or how we got there at all,but Redmondville became in a sense my first hometown.It was located on highway eleven which is the main route up the east side of New Brunswick. Redmondville itself is located south of the Mirimachi river between what were at that time two military bases,one at Chatham and one at St. Margret's.It was a relatively flat stretch of not very good road,cracked,potted and bumpy,bordered by small,not very productive farms and having both hay fields and thick bush coming right up to the roadway.In places,dirt,or,more usually mud roads crossed the main road and went back,who knows where into the bush.
My father had taken work at the military base in St.Margaret's,which had radar installations and a power generating station where he worked.It was south of the larger base in Chatham,and south of our house as well.To the best of my recall,it seemed about five miles from where we lived to where my father worked.
That old home place stands fairly clear in my mind,or so I thought until I tried to find it on Google Maps.The best I've managed to do is narrow it down to two or three possibilities,all of which could be the place,but none of which have all the elements laid out exactly as they live in my mind.But,then again,it's been over fifty years now.
It was a big,tall white house,standing near the road.A dirt driveway ran down the south side of the yard and there was a barn behind that,with a door that was located facing east,toward the road.The barn,in my mind had a door located near it's northeast corner,more or less directly behind the house's back porch.Behind that was a garden and some hay which grew up unbidden here and there.To the south there was a trailer where our nearest neighbors lived.The trailer was brown and white and it had a closed in wooden porch attached.It's narrow end faced the road,and behind it was a road running off into the woods.The road only went a short distance before it dead ended to car traffic,but still continued on as a pair of deep ruts,and it must have been traveled to some extent,because the trees did not over grow it.Whenever I asked an adult where that road went,they would just say "nowhere". It just went off into the trees.The trees...all else around our place was trees.
Up the road some distance to the north was another farm house.I have the sense of there being a small creek lying between that farm house and our own,because in my memory there was an alley of low lying land lined with trees.I never saw a creek there,nor can I find one today,but it was the sort of vista that implies a small watercourse.
Further on,a mile or so up the road,I suppose,and on the opposite side was a small school.A little shack of a building, painted white at one time.Between that school and our house, also on the west side of the road was an old school bus parked perpendicular to the road.It was a sun bleached version of the familiar school bus yellow,and a rusty stovepipe protruded through it's roof.
The thing I recall about the inside of our house is that it always seemed to be drafty.Little winds circled all about,almost like being outside,and things would blow about whenever someone opened or closed a door.It was a big house with high ceilings.There was a kitchen and living room on the first floor with a bath and maybe two, or even three bedrooms upstairs.They kitchen faced south and the main view from it's window was of our neighbors yard and trailer.The living room had a huge window facing the road.You could watch passing traffic,or crows gathering in the trees and on the wires across the road.
Just outside the door,running along one side of the house was a narrow,fenced in enclosure,perhaps intended to be a dog run at one time.That's where we were put when we went outside to play.But,even though the road was near,I was eventually allowed the run of the yard to play in.But my little sister was not,so far as I can remember.
Continued
Wednesday 31 August 2016
Monday 29 August 2016
Chapter II.1961-1962.
What can be said of being a newborn or a very young child? Really,the only difference between 1961,for me,and times before is that I existed.But I have no real memory of any of that,or at least no memory that my own mind generated.
My parents returned home and life went on as you might imagine it would.But all I know of that time are not things real to me.They come mostly from the pictures my parents took,and from the stories they told,but to me those pictures and stories could have been anyone as I had no memories to go with them.But I've seen the photos and been able to study them,drawing inferences from each one.The stories I've been told so many time that they form into something that kind of makes sense,and that I can relate to others.But in truth all of that is mostly myth.
The first picture of me as near as I can tell must have been taken some months after my birth.It's summer and I'm in the country,a small farm of sorts,which I now know to have been my grandfather's home in Western New Brunswick.In it,I am being held up on the back of a roan colored horse,by a thin,flat looking man with hardly a chin,just a face that vanishes into the front of his body.There is an unpainted barn nearby and a house covered in red roofing shingles.It's situated on a small hillside covered with a profusion of hay and wildflowers,mostly Daisies,Indian paintbrush and Black Eyed Susans.It must have been my coming out party, so to speak,a chance for my parents to show me off to family for the first time.We must have gone to Springhill on that trip as well.Once my parents pointed out a tiny motel where they said we stayed,and it was in the Memramcook Valley,close to where New Brunswick and Nova Scotia join.They say that in that motel,I slept in a "bread box." It must have been the summer of 1961.
Summer passed and winter came.but I can tell you very little of that outside of pictures.I don't know what the place where we lived looked like at all,save for what is told by a few dozen photos.There was a military base with dark green trucks and jeeps,and sleek looking silver planes parked near the road.There were piles of snow,being eaten up by huge snow blowers.Then the spring came and the streets were a quagmire.The road in front of our home,a yellow and white trailer were a river of mud,such that I could not possibly imagine how anyone could come or go.The yard too was a mud hole.
There are only a few pictures I recall from inside our trailer.One shows me,likely at a year old sitting in the middle of the floor,surrounded by cans of Carnation Evaporated Milk that someone had erected around me in a circle.Carnation Evaporated Milk is what I was fed as a baby.My sister say's that's because there were no cows in Goose Bay,so you could not buy locally produced milk. I have no idea if that is true or not,but Goose Bay does not look much like a place conducive to dairy farming.
Outside the immediate area of the airbase and our home,the countryside in Labrador was rather rugged looking.Typical Canadian Shield,with a lot of exposed,granite looking rock,stands of tall trees and lakes.There is the picture my family took at a place called North West River,of my mother,at sunset talking to a couple of Native men while the sun was setting.It was a deep orange and beautiful sunset that streaked the clouds.In all,those photos revealed a place that looked a lot like much of Northern Canada.
There is a picture of me outside our trailer too.In that picture I appear to be trying to remove the license plates from a blue car sitting in the driveway in front of our trailer.My father always used to relate that story to me when I was young.He is in that picture too,and the car appeared to be perhaps a 1960 Chevy Bel Air,or something very similar.
In my mind I visualize my parents quite differently than they appeared in those photos.My father was neither tall nor short.He was slim,never given to carrying extra weight.But in those days his hair was dark,very nearly black and he looked fit and trim.In my real memory,I can't recall a time when his hair did not have some grey.My mother had short,mousy brown hair and was only just over five feet tall,though she stood erect and looked alert and attentive.She was slimmer that I ever remember her,and would likely have been noticed in her passing down the street.
Seasons followed one after the other,winter to summer and back again.Life went on in it's routine way,whatever that routine was,and 1961 turned into 1962.
In 1962,The Cold War was ongoing,though perhaps not quite as heated as in 1961.Both America and The Soviet Union were busy with nuclear testing,and exploring space.The first Canadian satellite,Alouette was also launched in late September..Jackie Robinson became the first African American inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame,and Jackie Kennedy,America's First Lady conducted a White House tour on television.Walter Cronkite began anchoring the CBS Evening News,and The Rolling Stones performed for the first time.There was an Expo held in Seattle,and 12,000 people were killed in an Iranian earthquake.The United Nations announced that Earth's population had reached three billion.Martin Luther King was arrested for a demonstration in Georgia,and,on September 29,John Kennedy authorized the use of federal troops to bring about integration at The University Of Mississippi.
American writer William Faulkner,former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt and gangster Lucky Luciano all passed from this world in 1963.And American icon Marilyn Monroe was found dead in her home of a drug overdose.
Singers Sheryl Crow,Jon Bon Jovi,Garth Brooks and Paula Abdul were all born in 1962,as were actors Tom Cruise,Rae Dawn Chong,Jodie Foster and Rosie O'Donnell.Crocodile hunter Steve Irwin also entered the world in 1962.
In July of that year we were joined by my sister,also born in Goose Bay,at the Happy Valley Hospital.Her name was Krista Marie.There are pictures of her too,though she was very tiny.The only one I really recall is one of us both being pulled in a sled.We are bundled against the weather and there are enormous mountains of snow all about.
!962 was to be our last year in Goose Bay.
Reference: www.onthisday.com
My parents returned home and life went on as you might imagine it would.But all I know of that time are not things real to me.They come mostly from the pictures my parents took,and from the stories they told,but to me those pictures and stories could have been anyone as I had no memories to go with them.But I've seen the photos and been able to study them,drawing inferences from each one.The stories I've been told so many time that they form into something that kind of makes sense,and that I can relate to others.But in truth all of that is mostly myth.
The first picture of me as near as I can tell must have been taken some months after my birth.It's summer and I'm in the country,a small farm of sorts,which I now know to have been my grandfather's home in Western New Brunswick.In it,I am being held up on the back of a roan colored horse,by a thin,flat looking man with hardly a chin,just a face that vanishes into the front of his body.There is an unpainted barn nearby and a house covered in red roofing shingles.It's situated on a small hillside covered with a profusion of hay and wildflowers,mostly Daisies,Indian paintbrush and Black Eyed Susans.It must have been my coming out party, so to speak,a chance for my parents to show me off to family for the first time.We must have gone to Springhill on that trip as well.Once my parents pointed out a tiny motel where they said we stayed,and it was in the Memramcook Valley,close to where New Brunswick and Nova Scotia join.They say that in that motel,I slept in a "bread box." It must have been the summer of 1961.
Summer passed and winter came.but I can tell you very little of that outside of pictures.I don't know what the place where we lived looked like at all,save for what is told by a few dozen photos.There was a military base with dark green trucks and jeeps,and sleek looking silver planes parked near the road.There were piles of snow,being eaten up by huge snow blowers.Then the spring came and the streets were a quagmire.The road in front of our home,a yellow and white trailer were a river of mud,such that I could not possibly imagine how anyone could come or go.The yard too was a mud hole.
There are only a few pictures I recall from inside our trailer.One shows me,likely at a year old sitting in the middle of the floor,surrounded by cans of Carnation Evaporated Milk that someone had erected around me in a circle.Carnation Evaporated Milk is what I was fed as a baby.My sister say's that's because there were no cows in Goose Bay,so you could not buy locally produced milk. I have no idea if that is true or not,but Goose Bay does not look much like a place conducive to dairy farming.
Outside the immediate area of the airbase and our home,the countryside in Labrador was rather rugged looking.Typical Canadian Shield,with a lot of exposed,granite looking rock,stands of tall trees and lakes.There is the picture my family took at a place called North West River,of my mother,at sunset talking to a couple of Native men while the sun was setting.It was a deep orange and beautiful sunset that streaked the clouds.In all,those photos revealed a place that looked a lot like much of Northern Canada.
There is a picture of me outside our trailer too.In that picture I appear to be trying to remove the license plates from a blue car sitting in the driveway in front of our trailer.My father always used to relate that story to me when I was young.He is in that picture too,and the car appeared to be perhaps a 1960 Chevy Bel Air,or something very similar.
In my mind I visualize my parents quite differently than they appeared in those photos.My father was neither tall nor short.He was slim,never given to carrying extra weight.But in those days his hair was dark,very nearly black and he looked fit and trim.In my real memory,I can't recall a time when his hair did not have some grey.My mother had short,mousy brown hair and was only just over five feet tall,though she stood erect and looked alert and attentive.She was slimmer that I ever remember her,and would likely have been noticed in her passing down the street.
Seasons followed one after the other,winter to summer and back again.Life went on in it's routine way,whatever that routine was,and 1961 turned into 1962.
In 1962,The Cold War was ongoing,though perhaps not quite as heated as in 1961.Both America and The Soviet Union were busy with nuclear testing,and exploring space.The first Canadian satellite,Alouette was also launched in late September..Jackie Robinson became the first African American inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame,and Jackie Kennedy,America's First Lady conducted a White House tour on television.Walter Cronkite began anchoring the CBS Evening News,and The Rolling Stones performed for the first time.There was an Expo held in Seattle,and 12,000 people were killed in an Iranian earthquake.The United Nations announced that Earth's population had reached three billion.Martin Luther King was arrested for a demonstration in Georgia,and,on September 29,John Kennedy authorized the use of federal troops to bring about integration at The University Of Mississippi.
American writer William Faulkner,former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt and gangster Lucky Luciano all passed from this world in 1963.And American icon Marilyn Monroe was found dead in her home of a drug overdose.
Singers Sheryl Crow,Jon Bon Jovi,Garth Brooks and Paula Abdul were all born in 1962,as were actors Tom Cruise,Rae Dawn Chong,Jodie Foster and Rosie O'Donnell.Crocodile hunter Steve Irwin also entered the world in 1962.
In July of that year we were joined by my sister,also born in Goose Bay,at the Happy Valley Hospital.Her name was Krista Marie.There are pictures of her too,though she was very tiny.The only one I really recall is one of us both being pulled in a sled.We are bundled against the weather and there are enormous mountains of snow all about.
!962 was to be our last year in Goose Bay.
Reference: www.onthisday.com
Friday 12 August 2016
Chapter one:1961
It's 1961.The American Civil War is nearly a century in the past.But it's still not really over.The Second World War is not quite twenty years in the past.The Great Depression is not forgotten.The world is divided into two armed camps,and The Cold War is in full swing.It's early in the year when outgoing President Eisenhower coins the phrase "Military Industrial Complex."It's not exactly a new concept,but once recognized and named it's a concept that is going to have a profound effect on the world to come.In all the years of The Twentieth Century,it would be hard to find a year more eventful that 1961.
It was a year of freedom rides space exploration and armed conflict.John F. Kennedy had just come to power in America.Nikita Khrushchev ruled the Soviet Union,Charles DeGaulle,France and Harold McMillian The United Kingdom.John Diefenbaker was Prime Minister of Canada.
In 1961,Eggs were around thirty cents a dozen and a pound of bacon cost under seventy cents .Gas was under thirty cents per gallon and a new house cost just over twelve thousand dollars.Average yearly income was about fifty three hundred dollars.
Popular television shows in 1961 included Andy Griffith,Twilight Zone,Candid Camera and Bonanza.The popular films of the day were 101 Dalmatians,West Side Story,Breakfast at Tiffany's and The Absent Minded Professor.
In 1961,the New York Yankees won The World Series,Chicago won The Stanley Cup and Boston won The NBA Championship.
John F. Kennedy was telling Americans to "Ask not what your country can do for you,but ask what you can do for your country." It's been noted a time or two since that time that the quote seemed to have a vaguely Fascist edge,with it's focus on state over individual.
Kennedy got busy pursuing the objectives of state early on in his administration.In mid April ,the Americans invaded Cuba at the Bay Of Pigs,an action that failed quickly.Fidel Castro claimed victory,and,by the end of the year had proclaimed Cuba to be a Socialist Country.In August,construction began on The Berlin Wall and a sharp line was drawn between East and West.Movement within Berlin,and Germany was restricted.By late October,there had been a confrontation between American and Soviet Tanks at Checkpoint Charlie along that wall.And by mid November Kennedy had sent 18,000 military advisers to South Vietnam.Of course,just prior to what seems like a lot of saber rattling,on March first,The President established The Peace Corps.
Apart from the ongoing and escalating Cold War,though likely not too far apart,both The Soviets and The Americans were busy in space.On the last day of January,the Americans sent a 37 pound male chimp into space. Evidently,he must have liked the trip and recommended it others,because early in May,Alan Shepard became the first American to follow in the chimps footsteps.Well,perhaps not footsteps,but whatever.However,America was not the first to put a man in space.Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin beat them out by almost a month.By the end of May,Kennedy was announcing intentions to put men on The Moon by the end of the decade.
The space programs spawned new words too.It was 1961 when the word "moon shot" first appeared in The Oxford English Dictionary along with five hundred other words making their debut.Those words included microwave,docudrama,valium and neurotransmitter.The word "born again" was first used in 1961 too,though it described a concept that had long been well known in Christian theology.Reel to reel and weight Watchers also appeared for the first time,as did keyboard in the sense of it being a noun used to refer to entering data into a computer.The term"mongolism" was replaced by the words "Downs Syndrome" after Doctor John Down who first described the genetic abnormality nearly a century before.The word "shitcan",a verb meaning to dispose of something or to fire someone made a first appearance as well.It had been proceeded by the noun of the same name some years before,that noun referring to a wastebasket.
Also making debut appearances in 1961 were Barack Obama,Michael J.Fox,Enya,Wayne Gretzky and George Clooney.
.Actor Gary Cooper,baseball player Ty Cobb and psychologist Carl Jung died in 1961.Writer Ernest Hemingway committed suicide using a gun.
In 1961,the most popular boys names in order were Michael.David,John,James and Robert.Likewise,for girls,those names were Mary,Lisa,Susan,Linda and Karen.The names Troy and Anna topped out the one hundred most common names on their respective lists.
In what I'm told were the early morning hours of March second,I also made my first appearance.I'm told I sent my mother to the hospital with a false alarm some days before,but actually came into the world on the second day of march at about one in the morning.My name is Michael Troy Davis,so I have the most common name in the year of my birth along with the hundredth most common,to go along with my surname which I'm told is of Welch origin and is again a very common name in the English language.The place of my birth was in Happy Valley Hospital,near Goose Bay,Labrador,in the province of Newfoundland,but really,more a part of the Canadian North.
Believe it or not,I don't recall the night of my birth.I know some people who say a person can recall such things,but I don't believe it.It no doubt would have been a blast to be able to write about it,but we'll never really know.
If I'd known then about the state of the place I was being born into,with it's wars,arms race,black people and white people hating each other,the dick pulling contest between America and Russia that was the space race(although I'm not certain the term "dick pulling contest" was actually a word by that time),and the building of political walls such as I would not see for many more years,I may well have shitcanned the place before I'd even got started.But luckily,newborns are rather ignorant,so I didn't, and have been mostly grateful for that fact ever since.
It was a year of freedom rides space exploration and armed conflict.John F. Kennedy had just come to power in America.Nikita Khrushchev ruled the Soviet Union,Charles DeGaulle,France and Harold McMillian The United Kingdom.John Diefenbaker was Prime Minister of Canada.
In 1961,Eggs were around thirty cents a dozen and a pound of bacon cost under seventy cents .Gas was under thirty cents per gallon and a new house cost just over twelve thousand dollars.Average yearly income was about fifty three hundred dollars.
Popular television shows in 1961 included Andy Griffith,Twilight Zone,Candid Camera and Bonanza.The popular films of the day were 101 Dalmatians,West Side Story,Breakfast at Tiffany's and The Absent Minded Professor.
In 1961,the New York Yankees won The World Series,Chicago won The Stanley Cup and Boston won The NBA Championship.
John F. Kennedy was telling Americans to "Ask not what your country can do for you,but ask what you can do for your country." It's been noted a time or two since that time that the quote seemed to have a vaguely Fascist edge,with it's focus on state over individual.
Kennedy got busy pursuing the objectives of state early on in his administration.In mid April ,the Americans invaded Cuba at the Bay Of Pigs,an action that failed quickly.Fidel Castro claimed victory,and,by the end of the year had proclaimed Cuba to be a Socialist Country.In August,construction began on The Berlin Wall and a sharp line was drawn between East and West.Movement within Berlin,and Germany was restricted.By late October,there had been a confrontation between American and Soviet Tanks at Checkpoint Charlie along that wall.And by mid November Kennedy had sent 18,000 military advisers to South Vietnam.Of course,just prior to what seems like a lot of saber rattling,on March first,The President established The Peace Corps.
Apart from the ongoing and escalating Cold War,though likely not too far apart,both The Soviets and The Americans were busy in space.On the last day of January,the Americans sent a 37 pound male chimp into space. Evidently,he must have liked the trip and recommended it others,because early in May,Alan Shepard became the first American to follow in the chimps footsteps.Well,perhaps not footsteps,but whatever.However,America was not the first to put a man in space.Cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin beat them out by almost a month.By the end of May,Kennedy was announcing intentions to put men on The Moon by the end of the decade.
The space programs spawned new words too.It was 1961 when the word "moon shot" first appeared in The Oxford English Dictionary along with five hundred other words making their debut.Those words included microwave,docudrama,valium and neurotransmitter.The word "born again" was first used in 1961 too,though it described a concept that had long been well known in Christian theology.Reel to reel and weight Watchers also appeared for the first time,as did keyboard in the sense of it being a noun used to refer to entering data into a computer.The term"mongolism" was replaced by the words "Downs Syndrome" after Doctor John Down who first described the genetic abnormality nearly a century before.The word "shitcan",a verb meaning to dispose of something or to fire someone made a first appearance as well.It had been proceeded by the noun of the same name some years before,that noun referring to a wastebasket.
Also making debut appearances in 1961 were Barack Obama,Michael J.Fox,Enya,Wayne Gretzky and George Clooney.
.Actor Gary Cooper,baseball player Ty Cobb and psychologist Carl Jung died in 1961.Writer Ernest Hemingway committed suicide using a gun.
In 1961,the most popular boys names in order were Michael.David,John,James and Robert.Likewise,for girls,those names were Mary,Lisa,Susan,Linda and Karen.The names Troy and Anna topped out the one hundred most common names on their respective lists.
In what I'm told were the early morning hours of March second,I also made my first appearance.I'm told I sent my mother to the hospital with a false alarm some days before,but actually came into the world on the second day of march at about one in the morning.My name is Michael Troy Davis,so I have the most common name in the year of my birth along with the hundredth most common,to go along with my surname which I'm told is of Welch origin and is again a very common name in the English language.The place of my birth was in Happy Valley Hospital,near Goose Bay,Labrador,in the province of Newfoundland,but really,more a part of the Canadian North.
Believe it or not,I don't recall the night of my birth.I know some people who say a person can recall such things,but I don't believe it.It no doubt would have been a blast to be able to write about it,but we'll never really know.
If I'd known then about the state of the place I was being born into,with it's wars,arms race,black people and white people hating each other,the dick pulling contest between America and Russia that was the space race(although I'm not certain the term "dick pulling contest" was actually a word by that time),and the building of political walls such as I would not see for many more years,I may well have shitcanned the place before I'd even got started.But luckily,newborns are rather ignorant,so I didn't, and have been mostly grateful for that fact ever since.
Wednesday 10 August 2016
some thoughts about the telling of truth.
Just a note on procedure here,before I get into the actual telling of my story.You may find me digressing from time to time,to explain what it is I'm doing,as I've done in the past few entries.The original idea of publishing my memoir online was to give my readers a look at the process,as well as the substance of writing,a sort of backstage pass if you will.Like you might find if you were to chance across the mountains of notes on my desk,were you to visit the place where I write.
This is now the third attempt to get this memoir going in the form of a blog,and I'm still comfortable with the idea of giving readers access to what it is I think about writing,to what goes on in putting things together so that you might read them.So the occasional digression will be necessary and you should look on it as a unique opportunity to look into my mind.With most writers you don't get that without going to a lot of secondary sources.
One of the unfinished bits of business I wanted to address has to do with ethics.This is a matter that comes up from time to time among my writing colleagues as well as from others who are new to writing,or who have not yet began their memoirs.It doesn't seem to be a preoccupation with most writers I know,but I'm glad that the people I write with are open to discussing such matters on a somewhat regular basis.
A big ethical issue for memoir writers has to do with telling the truth,a matter that is very much more complex than what you might think.To that end let me say,of course you should tell the truth.Memoir is not a work of fiction.But there are a number of qualifying statements that need to be taken into consideration.First and foremost,just because you should tell the truth does not mean that all truth needs to be told.I was once asked by a new memoir writer if it was alright to use memoir to trash the people in their life.My answer was that first,it's your story,and there is nothing stopping you from doing that if that's your desire.You should understand,though,that you may be subject to the normally prevailing laws regarding defamation if you point fingers.Moreover, if that's the only reason you are writing a memoir,I don't think it's a very good reason to be doing so,and I would urge you to reconsider until you can come to grips with a better motive. I've certainly read memoirs that were scandal based,and I've never found them to be enjoyable,or as informative as they might otherwise have been.
I try to keep two things in mind when telling the truth.It's a bit of a balancing act,and I'm not sure I have always or will always get it right.First,I want to tell a true story.True in the sense of it's being candid and enlightening It should not leave vital issues untouched because that would be skewing the story in such a way as to alter it's whole meaning.Any truly good writing must edify.
On the other hand,edifying should not come at the expense of needless injury to others.So,along with asking if truth is necessary,I try to ask if it's kind or decent.Will it cause needless anguish to others? If it does,I'd rather not tell it.The key word here is needless.Nearly every truth can be painful to someone.But that does not mean that someone appearing in my memoir is automatically immune to my telling the truth about them and their deeds or actions.In general,I do not believe that a person who commits evil has any claim to anonymity,or the right to be insulated from their actions just because they find the telling of the story unflattering.But there are other things to be considered as well.First among these things is the possibility of co -lateral damage being done to others,and I want you to know,I think about such things often and diligently.I would prefer not to have to reveal others in an unflattering light,but I've yet to find a way of putting forth an honest telling of my story without encountering and sometimes dealing with conflict in a head on manner.So I am always asking myself,Does the value of telling this story outweigh any possible damage done to others,either living of passed? If it doesn't edify to a sufficient degree,but holds the ability to injure,I intend to leave it out,but there is a balancing act involved.
Not everyone I've met on life's road in admirable. I've met a few who could only be described as evil.In some sense it will be necessary to deal with these issues,though I'm not especially looking forward to it.As I write right now,I am aware of stories that are central to my life's story,that I am not yet certain of how or even if they will come to be told. I've not yet sufficiently weighed them in my mind.I can think of people,right off the top of my head who may be uncomfortable with some of the things I may say.And those are,for the most part people whom I consider friends,or at least not enemies,and with whom I wish to remain on good terms.But there is apt to be some risk involved in telling my story and I do not know how it could be otherwise.
I should say further,that this is my story.Let's be direct here.Most of you don't know me.My writing is undertaken in part because of certain others who have presumed to know me intimately but who do not.To those few people let me say,you have no idea who I am,and,in fact you've told stories you claim are about me,when in fact you are talking about someone else.The only thing you will ever know about me is that which I tell you.So there is a very definite effort here to set some records straight.
Because this is my story,I should say that it is based on my impressions.I wrote not long ago about the limitations of my mind.To be clear,the story as I recall it today is not necessarily the way I remembered it in the past,or that I might remember it by the time I get it written down.I fully admit that not all of my impressions are going to be right,but there is no intent to lie or mislead.Some people who know me may recall certain events differently.If they feel strongly enough about it,they should tell their own stories.
Many of the people who inhabit the pages of memoir,or at least my memoir are not people who I know a lot about.This applies even to some very central figures who were very close to me. I've already explained,for instance that neither of my parents were big story tellers.For that matter,neither were their parents.For that reason I've had to base a lot of the conclusions I've drawn about those people on observations and impressions that may not be completely right.In fact,it's been a tension central to this undertaking which I've not fully resolved,nor likely ever will to the extent that I would like.Most children,I believe want to think that their parents are or were good people.Most realize that their parents were not perfect even so.And I suppose that some want to know that their parents were evil,if that is the truth.I am not in that later category.Figuring all this out in a way that makes sense to me has proven to be elusive in some sense,and I continue to formulate and revise my impressions on a nearly daily basis.Still,I will apply the rules I've set out for myself regarding the telling of truth,in telling their stories.But,it's as I say,you should be aware that much has been left to impression,and that is at best less than perfect truth.
This is now the third attempt to get this memoir going in the form of a blog,and I'm still comfortable with the idea of giving readers access to what it is I think about writing,to what goes on in putting things together so that you might read them.So the occasional digression will be necessary and you should look on it as a unique opportunity to look into my mind.With most writers you don't get that without going to a lot of secondary sources.
One of the unfinished bits of business I wanted to address has to do with ethics.This is a matter that comes up from time to time among my writing colleagues as well as from others who are new to writing,or who have not yet began their memoirs.It doesn't seem to be a preoccupation with most writers I know,but I'm glad that the people I write with are open to discussing such matters on a somewhat regular basis.
A big ethical issue for memoir writers has to do with telling the truth,a matter that is very much more complex than what you might think.To that end let me say,of course you should tell the truth.Memoir is not a work of fiction.But there are a number of qualifying statements that need to be taken into consideration.First and foremost,just because you should tell the truth does not mean that all truth needs to be told.I was once asked by a new memoir writer if it was alright to use memoir to trash the people in their life.My answer was that first,it's your story,and there is nothing stopping you from doing that if that's your desire.You should understand,though,that you may be subject to the normally prevailing laws regarding defamation if you point fingers.Moreover, if that's the only reason you are writing a memoir,I don't think it's a very good reason to be doing so,and I would urge you to reconsider until you can come to grips with a better motive. I've certainly read memoirs that were scandal based,and I've never found them to be enjoyable,or as informative as they might otherwise have been.
I try to keep two things in mind when telling the truth.It's a bit of a balancing act,and I'm not sure I have always or will always get it right.First,I want to tell a true story.True in the sense of it's being candid and enlightening It should not leave vital issues untouched because that would be skewing the story in such a way as to alter it's whole meaning.Any truly good writing must edify.
On the other hand,edifying should not come at the expense of needless injury to others.So,along with asking if truth is necessary,I try to ask if it's kind or decent.Will it cause needless anguish to others? If it does,I'd rather not tell it.The key word here is needless.Nearly every truth can be painful to someone.But that does not mean that someone appearing in my memoir is automatically immune to my telling the truth about them and their deeds or actions.In general,I do not believe that a person who commits evil has any claim to anonymity,or the right to be insulated from their actions just because they find the telling of the story unflattering.But there are other things to be considered as well.First among these things is the possibility of co -lateral damage being done to others,and I want you to know,I think about such things often and diligently.I would prefer not to have to reveal others in an unflattering light,but I've yet to find a way of putting forth an honest telling of my story without encountering and sometimes dealing with conflict in a head on manner.So I am always asking myself,Does the value of telling this story outweigh any possible damage done to others,either living of passed? If it doesn't edify to a sufficient degree,but holds the ability to injure,I intend to leave it out,but there is a balancing act involved.
Not everyone I've met on life's road in admirable. I've met a few who could only be described as evil.In some sense it will be necessary to deal with these issues,though I'm not especially looking forward to it.As I write right now,I am aware of stories that are central to my life's story,that I am not yet certain of how or even if they will come to be told. I've not yet sufficiently weighed them in my mind.I can think of people,right off the top of my head who may be uncomfortable with some of the things I may say.And those are,for the most part people whom I consider friends,or at least not enemies,and with whom I wish to remain on good terms.But there is apt to be some risk involved in telling my story and I do not know how it could be otherwise.
I should say further,that this is my story.Let's be direct here.Most of you don't know me.My writing is undertaken in part because of certain others who have presumed to know me intimately but who do not.To those few people let me say,you have no idea who I am,and,in fact you've told stories you claim are about me,when in fact you are talking about someone else.The only thing you will ever know about me is that which I tell you.So there is a very definite effort here to set some records straight.
Because this is my story,I should say that it is based on my impressions.I wrote not long ago about the limitations of my mind.To be clear,the story as I recall it today is not necessarily the way I remembered it in the past,or that I might remember it by the time I get it written down.I fully admit that not all of my impressions are going to be right,but there is no intent to lie or mislead.Some people who know me may recall certain events differently.If they feel strongly enough about it,they should tell their own stories.
Many of the people who inhabit the pages of memoir,or at least my memoir are not people who I know a lot about.This applies even to some very central figures who were very close to me. I've already explained,for instance that neither of my parents were big story tellers.For that matter,neither were their parents.For that reason I've had to base a lot of the conclusions I've drawn about those people on observations and impressions that may not be completely right.In fact,it's been a tension central to this undertaking which I've not fully resolved,nor likely ever will to the extent that I would like.Most children,I believe want to think that their parents are or were good people.Most realize that their parents were not perfect even so.And I suppose that some want to know that their parents were evil,if that is the truth.I am not in that later category.Figuring all this out in a way that makes sense to me has proven to be elusive in some sense,and I continue to formulate and revise my impressions on a nearly daily basis.Still,I will apply the rules I've set out for myself regarding the telling of truth,in telling their stories.But,it's as I say,you should be aware that much has been left to impression,and that is at best less than perfect truth.
some thoughts about the craft of memoir
What possesses a person to write a memoir? In my case it is most definitely not for myself.You see,life just happens from my perspective. I've never really stopped to think that others might find it interesting or informative.To me,I'm just living my life,day by day and year to year and I usually don't take the time to reflect on it as much as I likely should.For the longest time I just never gave the living of life much thought.
But by now I've lived quite a number of years and I'm beginning to get more reflective.I'm at an age now where I've lost both parents and at least two best friends,both of whom left much too early.Years could be ,are in fact, winding down,though I'm in reasonably good health.But I find myself confronted more than ever by some of life's bigger questions.So a big part of writing for me is just trying to make sense out of a lot of different things.
Once when we were really young,I asked my grandfather to read us our bedtime story,but he declined.It's not that he didn't know any stories,but he would have to tell them.He declined on this occasion and later,my mother explained to us that he couldn't read.I'm guessing he didn't write either.But he was a larger than life sort of a character,a bootlegger in the 1920's,said to be wealthy for a while at the end of prohibition,and,to the best of my ability to observe,a rather tortured individual with a great passion for the bottle.Had he told his life's story,had he had the skills to do so,it would no doubt made for a great read.But he never did.There are,of course many larger than life stories about him,and I'm certain to include a few here,but they are stories he never told himself,for reasons known only to him.But I must say,he had no small part in inspiring me to begin writing my own history,first in numerous journals,then in memoir form.You see,it's nothing short of a great tragedy when history is lost,and most any life is worth the telling.So I vowed not to let my own go unexplained.
I am a big proponent of taking ownership of ones own history too.Not to do so is dangerous.It leaves you to be defined by others and that is unacceptable to me.History just tends to get explained in the macro sense by media,by historians and politicians.Those are the sort of things that wind up in history textbooks.But really,I've never really found that history texts explain much about my life,or the lives of people I've met along the way.
Everyone comes into various sorts of conflict in their lives too.It's unavoidable.The result of not addressing that reality is that you may come to be defined in less than flattering terms by others.It's not that I crave flattery,but I've had some downright untruthful,mean spirited and even evil things said of me by others over the years.I cannot address these things in any other way but by telling my own story,from my own point of view.To me,memoir is kind of like voting.If you don't vote,you don't have much of a right to complain.If you don't write down your own history,you don't have much of a claim on other people getting it wrong,be they historians driven by political agendas,or by those pretenders in life that presume to tell the story of someone they really don't know.At least as intimately as they presume to.
For the most part,I've undertaken memoir writing for others.But why? At first look my life doesn't seem that compelling.I'm not a professional athlete,or The Prime Minister of Canada. I've never walked on the moon,discovered a cure for cancer or been in a war,or prison,or a hostile nation.In my own view,my life has been kind of ordinary.But that's just from my own point of view.
The older I get,the more I find others ask questions.The 1960's and 1970's are interesting to a lot of people,because they've not lived through those years.Easy enough to overlook if you have.Likewise,I suppose,an ordinary city,like the one I grew up in is exotic to someone somewhere.In fact,my favorite stories,be they faction or memoir,or anything else are the ones that immortalize a particular place and time.So I guess I should expect that of others as well and try to do that with my own life and times.
The world I grew up in and in which I find myself today is characterized by change.I only have to think about all the things in the world today that were not there when I was younger.Personal computers,GPS systems,CDs,Pokemon Go,the list is endless.I'm surprised I don't look back at those early years and think them primitive. But others might There is likely a greater difference between those years and now than there was between 1900 and 1960..From that angle,alone,the telling of ones own story is a worthy undertaking.Every once in a while I'm reminded in some amusing sort of a way that not everyone understands those years.When I make mention of driving a Pinto or living someplace where there was outdoor plumbing,or a hundred other little things that tend to date me.I don't really mind though.The trip back in time is as fascinating to me as it could ever possibly be to anyone else.
Tuesday 2 August 2016
Some notes on the nature of memory.
My sister says I have a great memory,but I fear she is wrong.During my time in Moncton,in 2009,we'd somehow managed to talk about the days of growing up,and she marveled at the things that I was able to recall,about living on the farm,in northeastern New Brunswick,and about our first years in Moncton. Most of her memories,or so she commented on my old blog,were memories of Moncton,and she wondered if some of those were not actual memories,but ideas suggested by viewing photographs that my parents had taken,and that were shown to us often over the years.That seems a fair enough assessment on her part I think because we were more than a year apart in age,and when a person is young,a year is a very long time,in terms of what is remembered and the quality of that memory.
By the time that we'd arrived in Moncton,there was already a good deal that I could recall about my life.But that's not to say that my mind worked in the same way then that it does now.And even though my memories of that time likely existed in a more solidified form than my sister's did,I discovered during these conversations that there were also things that she recalled that I did not,or that took root in my mind very differently.The one story that comes to mind is about a white cat we had when we were very small.In looking back it's clear to me that while there was a developmental difference in our recall of the time,there was also a huge difference in what was actually witnessed.But more on that later.
Memory is the raw material of which memoir is created.old thought must be gathered together and processed,then assembled into a manuscript.Then,at some point the finished product may be published and find it's way into a blog or onto a library shelf.Here in Toronto,the Public Library has hundreds of memoirs.I've read a good number of them,and most fascinate me.But I wonder if those writers have the same struggle with memory that I've had.You see,to me memory rarely exists in pure form,so,consequently,neither can memoir.
Memory,whatever it may be,seems more of a living thing than it does a thing you can gather up and move from one place to another without causing it to be changed in some way.The act of compiling memories into a book seems peculiar to me,as though I'm forcing something to be in a place that it is not intended to be,or would not choose to be on it's own.What I've come to discover about memory,more than anything else is that it's an utterly amazing, astonishing thing with a life of it's own.To a certain extent,as a writer I must deal with memory on it's own terms,and not on my own.
I have a sketchy idea of how memory comes to be.An event occurs,which is witnessed,and can later be recalled for whatever purpose.That ,in it's rawest form is a memory.But where dose that memory go until it is recalled?And what exactly does in consist of when it is not being remembered? How does it come to be reassembled more or less faithfully,perhaps decades later.And why are some events never brought back to mind? On the one hand memory hardly seems like a real thing at all.It's existence is very mysterious in some sense.But on the other hand,memory exhibits behavior.And for a writer of memoir,dealing with that behavior is a never ending struggle,that in part makes the finished product something other that what I would have it be.
I've heard other writers say that they can remember being born.It's not an uncommon idea among some of the memoir writers I know,and most I think hold it as an honest belief.But it's also a thought that I've never bought into at all.
Simply put,my own experience with memory is quite different,and it's allowed me to construct an idea that I think is more or less valid.Memory,to survive,and to be a memory at all must be expressed.It's a kind of use it or lose it proposition.And for a memory to be expressed,a certain level of language acquisition must first be present.Consequently,I don't remember birth.But I'm sure that I had awareness at the time,that awareness was not memory.The first event that I can recall,that I know for certain happened in more or less the way I remember it,occurred when I was much closer to three years old,and could thus communicate using simple,grammatically functional sentences as opposed to just a word or two at a time.When my words formed sentences,my thoughts became more like ideas that just rough cut awareness.
I also know today that that first memory was experienced in a very alien way,compared to more recent events,It was a very strange event that I took simply as something that was happening,but which had very little significance.I am able to recall today,not only the memory itself but the context of the developmental process on my understanding of it.And this reinforces my idea about memory.It may not be a perfect academic construct in a psychological sense,but it makes perfect sense in my mind.
My sister made a good observation about memory too,which I need to mention.I really can't be sure that everything recall is being constructed from only my own memory.Those same pictures that my sister called to mind were pictures I'd seen all my life too.And I'm sure that I've drawn conclusions based on those photographs,that are not strictly speaking memory.The same would apply to things that I've been told or to stories I've heard.In my mind,that is more mythology than memory,but keeping mythology out of memory's gated community has proven nearly impossible for me.In fact,I'm not always certain I can distinguish the one from the other.
In writing memoir I've sometimes accessed secondary sources,most notably journals that I'd written years before.Both are a product of memory-sort of.But they are two very different things,and the writing of one is very unlike that of the other.Journals are normally writing a life as it's being lived,and as such are much closer to the event in question.For the most part,they are decent source material where memory is concerned.But,the living of life is not always comfortable,and so,journals,at least the ones I've used,are not always as objective as they could be.
Memoir depends more on recall and is thus more distant from the events being recalled.So I find it seems to have a different character than journals do.Of course,distant memories may be recalled less accurately as time passes.They also tend to be viewed through a reflective eye and may be more objective or refined,over a long period of time.Hence they become very different in quality.The bottom line for me seems to be that what I write about today when I write memoir,I think very differently about than I did years ago when I was first writing it.
I believe,though that my memory is more or less reliable,even if it behaves in different ways at different times.Secondary source material is often,but not always helpful to me.I tend to value interpretation as a writer,although an interpreted event is not exactly a memory either.So my memoir continues to be made of imperfect,impure materials.I really know of no other way to build it.But I want to be aware,and have you be aware that the nature of memory imposes some limitations on memoir as a finished product.Really,it could not be otherwise.
By the time that we'd arrived in Moncton,there was already a good deal that I could recall about my life.But that's not to say that my mind worked in the same way then that it does now.And even though my memories of that time likely existed in a more solidified form than my sister's did,I discovered during these conversations that there were also things that she recalled that I did not,or that took root in my mind very differently.The one story that comes to mind is about a white cat we had when we were very small.In looking back it's clear to me that while there was a developmental difference in our recall of the time,there was also a huge difference in what was actually witnessed.But more on that later.
Memory is the raw material of which memoir is created.old thought must be gathered together and processed,then assembled into a manuscript.Then,at some point the finished product may be published and find it's way into a blog or onto a library shelf.Here in Toronto,the Public Library has hundreds of memoirs.I've read a good number of them,and most fascinate me.But I wonder if those writers have the same struggle with memory that I've had.You see,to me memory rarely exists in pure form,so,consequently,neither can memoir.
Memory,whatever it may be,seems more of a living thing than it does a thing you can gather up and move from one place to another without causing it to be changed in some way.The act of compiling memories into a book seems peculiar to me,as though I'm forcing something to be in a place that it is not intended to be,or would not choose to be on it's own.What I've come to discover about memory,more than anything else is that it's an utterly amazing, astonishing thing with a life of it's own.To a certain extent,as a writer I must deal with memory on it's own terms,and not on my own.
I have a sketchy idea of how memory comes to be.An event occurs,which is witnessed,and can later be recalled for whatever purpose.That ,in it's rawest form is a memory.But where dose that memory go until it is recalled?And what exactly does in consist of when it is not being remembered? How does it come to be reassembled more or less faithfully,perhaps decades later.And why are some events never brought back to mind? On the one hand memory hardly seems like a real thing at all.It's existence is very mysterious in some sense.But on the other hand,memory exhibits behavior.And for a writer of memoir,dealing with that behavior is a never ending struggle,that in part makes the finished product something other that what I would have it be.
I've heard other writers say that they can remember being born.It's not an uncommon idea among some of the memoir writers I know,and most I think hold it as an honest belief.But it's also a thought that I've never bought into at all.
Simply put,my own experience with memory is quite different,and it's allowed me to construct an idea that I think is more or less valid.Memory,to survive,and to be a memory at all must be expressed.It's a kind of use it or lose it proposition.And for a memory to be expressed,a certain level of language acquisition must first be present.Consequently,I don't remember birth.But I'm sure that I had awareness at the time,that awareness was not memory.The first event that I can recall,that I know for certain happened in more or less the way I remember it,occurred when I was much closer to three years old,and could thus communicate using simple,grammatically functional sentences as opposed to just a word or two at a time.When my words formed sentences,my thoughts became more like ideas that just rough cut awareness.
I also know today that that first memory was experienced in a very alien way,compared to more recent events,It was a very strange event that I took simply as something that was happening,but which had very little significance.I am able to recall today,not only the memory itself but the context of the developmental process on my understanding of it.And this reinforces my idea about memory.It may not be a perfect academic construct in a psychological sense,but it makes perfect sense in my mind.
My sister made a good observation about memory too,which I need to mention.I really can't be sure that everything recall is being constructed from only my own memory.Those same pictures that my sister called to mind were pictures I'd seen all my life too.And I'm sure that I've drawn conclusions based on those photographs,that are not strictly speaking memory.The same would apply to things that I've been told or to stories I've heard.In my mind,that is more mythology than memory,but keeping mythology out of memory's gated community has proven nearly impossible for me.In fact,I'm not always certain I can distinguish the one from the other.
In writing memoir I've sometimes accessed secondary sources,most notably journals that I'd written years before.Both are a product of memory-sort of.But they are two very different things,and the writing of one is very unlike that of the other.Journals are normally writing a life as it's being lived,and as such are much closer to the event in question.For the most part,they are decent source material where memory is concerned.But,the living of life is not always comfortable,and so,journals,at least the ones I've used,are not always as objective as they could be.
Memoir depends more on recall and is thus more distant from the events being recalled.So I find it seems to have a different character than journals do.Of course,distant memories may be recalled less accurately as time passes.They also tend to be viewed through a reflective eye and may be more objective or refined,over a long period of time.Hence they become very different in quality.The bottom line for me seems to be that what I write about today when I write memoir,I think very differently about than I did years ago when I was first writing it.
I believe,though that my memory is more or less reliable,even if it behaves in different ways at different times.Secondary source material is often,but not always helpful to me.I tend to value interpretation as a writer,although an interpreted event is not exactly a memory either.So my memoir continues to be made of imperfect,impure materials.I really know of no other way to build it.But I want to be aware,and have you be aware that the nature of memory imposes some limitations on memoir as a finished product.Really,it could not be otherwise.
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