An Advanced Memoir Writing Class
BOCA RATON, FL 1995
On Sundays, I decided to play softball at a Boca Raton Community Center. Maybe that would relieve the horrific loss of my son, David. During warm-ups for our weekly game, the Community Center’s building loomed large in the background. I wondered what went on inside. The question was partially answered when Sheila brought in the mail. A pamphlet from the Center said classes began in two weeks. Memoir Writing for Beginners and Advanced Memoir Writing drew my interest.
“This will get you out of the house. Why don’t you call and find out about these classes.”
I had no experience in writing a memoir. With apprehension, I called the Center:
“I’m considering a class you are offering, Memoir Writing for Beginners. May I speak to the teacher?”
“Why?”
“I don’t know whether I qualify. I would like a capable person to critique my writing.”
“Capable? Critique?”
“Yes,” I said. “To evaluate a story.”
“Just a moment. I’ll get her.”
After a brief wait, a new voice greeted me:
“Hello, this is Ms. Wyman. How can I help you?”
“I’m considering Memoir for Beginners. Are there any requirements?”
“Can you can write a decent sentence?”
“I’ve taken English classes in college, and I wrote letters for my buddies when I was in the army.”
“Then you should be in the advanced memoir writing class. Bring a pen, a pad and a memoir to class next week. We’re in room 121. Memoirs are read each week. I will judge them. I’m a published writer.”
Further discussion revealed that this teacher’s publications consisted of two letters to the editor of a New Jersey bi-weekly newspaper. But at the time, my options seemed to continue seeking inspiration from the air conditioning at home or to take a class with a “published writer”. I settled for the latter.
Sheila was happy. I would be out of the house, meet new people, and perhaps finding the class a stimulating diversion. But I never was one for “new people.” My friends since childhood remained with me throughout the years. I did not feel like exchanging stories of the old days with new people.
It was a short drive to the Community Center. Seated at the head of a massive mahogany conference table was Ms. Wyman surrounded by my classmates.
“Good morning, scribes. Let’s introduce ourselves and then tell each other why we are here.”
Stanley Ring, one of the “scribes,” stood up, adjusted his double-knit lime green polyester pants and informed the class he was a retired manufacturer of drapes. He claimed his company made drapes for the Oval Office when Jimmy Carter was President. When the anticipated “oohs” and “ahhs” were not forthcoming, he removed a heavy loose-leaf binder from his satchel and began. “My name is Stanley Ring. I am a draper. Before I read my memoir, I’ll display some samples I showed Jimmy Carter’s decorator. See if you can pick out the drapes she chose.”
A heated discussion followed over which color drapes would be most appropriate for the Oval Office.
“Isn’t the Oval Office blue? I don’t like blue.”
“Maybe they changed the carpet since you’ve seen it.”
“To what color?”
“How should I know? They didn’t ask me.”
“What color are the curtains?”
“What has that got to do with the carpet? A carpet is a carpet and curtains are curtains.”
“Doesn’t the carpet lean against the curtains?”
“Lean against that chair, sit down, and shut up. We heard enough from you.”
Mr. Ring broke into this cerebral conversation.
“I’ll pass the book around to see if anyone can guess what sample was picked for the Blue Room.”
Is this a creative writing class or an interior decorating class? Maybe I’ll bring my wife the next time we meet. We need drapes for our bedroom.
After the tumult subsided, Stanley couldn’t find his memoir. He yielded the chair to Mrs. Strauss, a sweet elderly lady accompanied by her daughter who chauffeured her to class. Mrs. Strauss was writing a memoir about her childhood in a small Michigan town. With a frail voice, she began,
“We went by horse and wagon to the general store. A Sears catalog supplied us with the things that were not available in that store. There were no sidewalks in our town . . .”
An irritated senior at the far end of the table grumbled,
“We can’t hear you. Speak up. There are people listening!”
Ignoring the crone, Mrs. Strauss completed her story then answered a few questions.
“Did you use your Sears catalog for toilet paper?”
“No, we used newspaper,” Mrs. Strauss sarcastically replied.
“Did she say sandpaper?” asked the crotchety hag.
Everyone, including Mrs. Strauss and her daughter, were convulsed with laughter. When decorum returned to the class, we heard from the next scribe, Mr. Raskin.
“I’m Mr. Raskin, a retiree from the New York City postal service,” he began.
“With a very high mark qualifying me as postal clerk, I think I can help Ms. Wyman improve your writing skills.”
Had I really heard that? Without pausing for possible objections, Mr. Raskin went on to say his memoir would be about his grandson. He adjusted his black-framed glasses, pushed them close to his forehead, and began to read from large bold type generated by a word processor:
My Grandson
I’m not saying he can judge a good voice at the age of five, but how could I deny this kid when he asks, “Grandpa, sing ‘Barnacle Bill the Sailor.’ Sing it with me now, Grandpa.”
Without a pause, Mr. Raskin began to sing “Barnacle Bill.”
It was enough to pucker every sphincter in my body. At the end of his solo, he asked, “Is this kid smart, or is he smart? Not only is he smart, God bless him, he’s beautiful!”
He passed around a photo of the kid.
“Is he wearing a beret or is that his hair?” asked the feisty old woman who had interrupted previously.
“Does it look like a beret? Of course not, it’s his hair.”
“Would I ask if it’s a beret if it didn’t look like a beret?” she growled.
This woman came to class from Kings Point, a retirement community celebrated for the number of automobile accidents its residents that took place as they emerged from their enclave.
“Does anyone know how I get back to Kings Point from here?” she asked.
“How do you return to Kings Point?” echoed the draper. “ The same way you came here. That’s how you get to King’s Point.”
“I don’t remember how I came here, smart ass,” replied the old bat. One of our classmates began to tell her the best way to return.
“Write it down! Write it down! What do you think, I’m a genius?”
As the map was drawn and instructions written, I had to excuse myself to rush to the bathroom for a breath of fresh air. When I finally returned to the mahogany table, my neighbor to my left was to be the next “scribe” to read. He explained that he was not writing a memoir, but since there were no fiction classes scheduled, he decided to take this class. This sounded reasonable, until he began to read the opening chapter of his novel.
Bernard was celebrating his son’s bar mitzvah at the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida. He owned a business in Manhattan cleaning incoming ship’s laundry. Louis, a well-known capo in the industry, was a friend of Bernard. He was invited to the affair. A competing mob boss had Louis trailed for execution by his thugs because he was trying to gain control of his territory. Upon arriving at Palm Beach airport, Louis rented a car. He soon became aware that his competitor’s goons were trailing him. Speeding to a helicopter pad, he quickly paid a pilot to fly him to The Breakers. The helicopter took off with Louis firing his pistol at the mobsters. He hit the gas tank of his would-be assassins. The car was set ablaze. The helicopter came down on I-95 when it ran out of gas. In his crumpled suit, Louis hitched a ride to The Breakers. The doorman at the hotel thinking he was a vagrant would not let him enter. Bernard happened to pass by and settled the dispute. Approaching the reception, Louis and Bernard walked arm-in-arm into the room. Louis straightened his tie, patted down his suit, and received a royal welcome from the guests. It was a splendid affair. Louis then hired a private jet to return to New York with plan a rubout of his competitor.
After that spine-tingling narrative I took I took a Luden cough drop to compose myself. It was my turn to read. How could I compete with the previous artistes on the playbill? As my differential equations professor at CCNY would say when blank faces stared back at him, “Oh well, we must go on.” I proceeded with my memoir.
“Stickball was the national pastime on the streets of the Bronx. If you were a teenager and didn’t play stickball, you were a fink or were probably studying to became a doctor. A broomstick, stolen from a fire escape and a fifteen-cent pink Spalding rubber ball was all that we needed. No broomstick? Get a longer, narrower, but inferior mop stick. To shorten it, we pushed it into a sewer hole down to the correct length. By pressing down on it as we walked around the sewer, the unwanted piece eventually broke off and fell down the sewer.
“Hold it. Hold it.”
With an unlit cigar skidding over his yellowed teeth, the editor of the Century Village Newsletter interrupted me. He removed the cigar from his mouth and announced, “That’s not how you did it. You used a saw.”
“First of all, we didn’t have a saw. Next, are you telling me how we did it?”
“Yes. That’s how you did it. You did it with a saw,” he smugly replied.
That was it. I ducked the shrapnel and direct fire, gathered my pencil and my notebook, and withdrew from the mahogany battlefield. I returned to the safety of my home.
Within six months, we called it quits with Florida. We left the golden, iridescent Boca Bibs that kept dribbling gravy from cascading onto the chests of Early Bird Special diners. We left the Technicolor double knit, wash and wear polyester pants. We left the brittle ladies wearing black, spangled “Born to Be Wild” sweatshirts. We left the Russian roulette hazard of driving on I-95. We left the president of our community board and the neighbors who refused to power wash the unsightly wooly-black layers of mold clinging to their homes. And yes, I abandoned Ms. Wyman and her scribes. We refused to be enclosed in the same corral as our neighbors. It was time to move on.
I was frequently warned to plan carefully before I retired. How could I have anticipated Woodfield Country Club? How could I have foreseen Florida? A landscaper replaced my lawnmower, hedge trimmer and pruning shears. I am left with idle hands in this hot and humid desert. I must move on.
We waded through the steam and were seared in that furnace for two years. I kept asking myself why any senior would voluntarily move to an area where heat and humidity accelerate the process of decay. At this vulnerable period in our lives, why would we expose our diminishing faculties to an environment that speeds up the process of rot?
I followed a Florida redneck’s prudent advice, “If you don’t like it here, take 95 and go north.” It was time to move on.
Adapted from: Coming Home: A Soldier Returns From Korea by Daniel Wolfe