In a recent blog, I introduced you to Leslie Leyland Fields’ book Your Story Matters: Finding, Writing, and Living the Truth of Your Life.
Why? Partly because she is great at pulling the written story out of us – amazing, actually.
But more to the point, here is how I answered her questions on this – Chapter 1 of her book:
- What are your goals right now for reading and working through this material?
–Get help and experience for “Life Story” course takers — get some of my stories started and identified – do I want to use them? how much writing/text am I going to have in my Life-Story photobook? etc.
- What are the reasons you have been waiting for years to write your story —make a list of your concerns and obstacles:
- too many stories, events, photos, etc. over my 70+ years
- afraid I won’t get it right / or they are not interesting enough
- don’t want to share some of the hard stuff, hard experiences and feelings
- feel exposed if I share too much – who will read it and what will they think
- Write responses to those fears –
–the truth is the truth – I only need to share what I want to share — I can skip or cut as I please. I can pick out the significant and descriptive stories and photos – don’t have to tell it all (boring). I am good at editing — so I can go over and over it before it is printed. I can write stories on the side, in another place, fit them in as I wish.
What she did next, at the end of the chapter, was a game-changing life-saver for me. She told her own school bus story – then she asked how I got to school each day. She directed me to describe the process in writing and any particular incidents that come to mind.
But she didn’t pitch me into the deep end without guidance. Here is an excerpt of her story to give you an idea:
The bus my siblings and I took to school and back every day didn’t take us home. Every afternoon, those two-way doors would whoosh open and deposit us at the bottom of a hill. It was almost a mile up that steep, winding road to our house at the top. At an elevation of eight hundred feet, the hill was almost a mountain. Our legs knew it was a mountain. Every morning we ran down that mile-long mountain to catch the bus, and every day after school we waited forty-five minutes for the second run of the bus, and we were at the very end of the 45 minute ride.
Then we slung our books against our chests, put our heads down, and pushed ourselves up that last long mile. We leaned against that mountain during rainstorms, lightning, and thunder, in zero degrees. Our gas budget – a dollar a week – wouldn’t allow a daily drive up and down the mountain. And we had legs, didn’t we?…..
For the first 15 minutes every day, we were alone in the bus. My brother Todd and I always chose to perch in the last row. Mrs. Fifield drove fast enough, even on the dirt roads, that when the bus hit the potholes, we were launched for two full seconds of flight. It was our favorite moment of the day…..
She went on to share some specific incidents and her insights as she looked back on the experiences with her adult perspective. She told a poignant story about the bus driver’s kindness in one instance. She is an inspiring writer – and I had to remind myself she has been doing this a while, and yes, she wrote the book on it after lots of experience.
What happened to me as I read this? Wow! – and then she said “Your turn!…my words are only invitations to yours….As you write, let go of fears about writing perfectly or even well….We’re simply remembering, writing freely….” Then she asked “How did you get to school each day?”
And I did what she said. I set the timer for 10 minutes and sat down at my computer with a blank page. Yes, I rode a school bus during the majority of my school years when we lived in the country in West Texas – I resonated so fully with her rich descriptions. I just let it roll….
In first grade (the first half of the year), we lived in New Braunfels, TX and I walked to school with my brother who was one year older than me. I can’t remember how many blocks but I think it was straight down the street to the school. All I remember is that we had strict warnings not to climb or play around the water tower that was along the route.
Of course, what I remember is coming home from school one day and my brother decided to climb the ladder on the side of the water tower. Seems like another boy was with us – probably so, because Mike was always susceptible to following the forbidden path at someone’s bidding. And I remember this whole incident because I was so frightened, so against him doing it, and I think I might have even hurried on home even after telling him all the reasons he should not do it.
Not that I was afraid he would hurt himself, I was only fearful of the spanking we both would get if my mom or dad found out about it. And I was sure they would!! Yes, I was a “goody two-shoes”.
Luckily, we moved to Sudan, Texas, mid-year so that temptation did not stay in our path. We lived in town and had to walk several blocks to school. I am thinking we only had one car so probably my dad took it early in the morning to get to the farm 5 miles out of town and start working. Because I grew up in this town, I later have looked at the distance and it was about 6-7 blocks but I don’t have much memory of walking it during the rest of 1st grade and all of 2nd grade.
All I remember is that we must have been late every morning, because Mrs. J. E. Smith, my 2nd grade teacher was also my brother’s 3rd grade teacher since 7 of us had been put in her room due to overcrowding of the 2nd grade class. She often sang to the two of us as we walked into the room “A dillar a dollar, a ten o’clock scholar…” and I did not understand it fully — everyone else was already in their seats so we must have been late. I only remember being confused by the whole situation (no clue what time it was or that we were late or that being late was a problem). Pretty oblivious, huh?
Finally, by 3rd grade, or somewhere during the 3rd grade, we moved to the farm. That meant we would ride a school bus — so I guess we were on time after that. Funny thing about the school bus is that it never dawned on me until I was an adult that it was only 5 minutes by car along the highway from our farm to the school (in town) but mother was not about to take us or pick us up. And we had plenty of vehicles at that point.
We rode a bus (the big yellow ones with hard cushion seats and rattling windows). It was 45 minutes when it went one direction and around 15 minutes the other direction on the route. It was not a fun thing. Extreme hot/cold, whipping dust stinging our legs as we ran to catch it in the mornings (maybe 50 yards down our driveway to the road). Having to post one of us to watch out the window when it was coming along the far border of the farm so we could grab our lunch money ($.35), books and coats to run out the door in time to get to the pick-up spot.
There was some teasing of kids but nothing bad, just boring, unless a dreamy older high school athlete on our route would ride. Unfortunately, it was rare (sigh). And I could not read because I would get carsick. In retrospect, I suspect Mother wanted the extra time of freedom from dealing with us that the bus route provided her. She could be free to go to Slaton to see her folks and friends (an hour away) without worrying about picking us up. And yes, I rode the bus until my junior year in high school when I could catch a ride with my brother (who was given a car).
Catching the bus in the morning became my responsibility somewhere around the 4th or 5th grade. I had to start fixing breakfast and getting my brother and sister up and all of us out the door in time to catch the bus. My dad taught me to make coffee so he could get out in the field early and I was to take a cup to Mother in bed. She never got up again to fix breakfast or get us off. I dislike the smell of coffee to this day.
Was this the beginning of my “Miss Responsible” character building?? Probably. I was not aware of resentment or any feeling of being ill-treated. Except by my brother and sister who each insisted on different breakfasts – but I just alternated the two options and didn’t give in to their whining.
In a rare moment of insight, when I was an adult, my mother did tell me how she would hear me walking around in the kitchen in my Buster Brown shoes and though she felt guilty about it, she just could not drag herself out of bed.
I have to tell you that I discovered so much as I wrote this – thinking of the details and how I was impacted — both then and now as I reflect upon it all. Life-shaping times. And that was the point of the exercise! I can flesh this story out more, but it is essentially done! Written!
OK – it is YOUR TURN! In the previous blog, Your Story Matters – Candy McCune I asked if you have ever stopped to consider how someone else may need your story? Much less thinking about how you would treasure this type of story from your great grandparents!!
Here’s your invitation: set a timer for 10 minutes (and you don’t have to stop when it goes off). Grab a pen or sit at your computer – whichever works best for you. Write it out just letting it flow – How Did YOU Get to School Each Day?Write to discover – who knows what you will find? And I would love you to share your story with me if you will. I shared Leslie’s and mine to get your juices flowing, but yours will be uniquely reflective of your life.
