A Legacy of Meaning

Not to sound biblical, but they did march into the senior center that day in 1998 two by two. I think that’s a reflection on the culture people age 70 and older come from: bound by World War Two and the coming together of a country. It’s much deeper than friendship. It has to do with survival.

There were mostly women because after a certain age there are more women statistically than men. In that first group of twelve who had signed on for memoir writing there were ten women and two men. The youngest was 69 (a woman) and the oldest was ninety (also a woman). They came in grumbling things like “I’m only here because my daughter/son MADE me come.” “I’m not a writer.” “I’m not sure why I’m here.” Three were college educated. Three had written before and had been published. All had come from a time when writing brought images to their minds of red pencils that shaped their early self-expression and sometimes cut them off at the knees. All were more closed than open.

“Write about what happened around your kitchen table when you were young,” I said.

Heads bent and pencils and pens scratched on school notebooks filled with lined paper. I don’t remember anyone hesitating or asking any kind of clarifying question. I asked them to write for twenty minutes, but they wouldn’t stop.

“Just five more minutes,” I said. Twice. Finally after more than half an hour they stopped under duress and read what they had written.

Joe remembered his family stuffing feather pillows around their kitchen table in rural Western Massachusetts. It was the only time his mother would open up to them and tell them her stories. It was where he first heard about her return to Poland from the US just before WWI broke out. She was homesick and needed to show her family her first born—a daughter. This writing was the beginning of a longer piece Joe would write on his mother’s return from Poland to the US during WWI.

Eileen remembered the political discussions that went on around her kitchen table. Her home in Queen, NY was a lively place. Her father, a newspaper editor, kept them all current. I imagine Eileen’s outspoken nature being shaped there.

Warren remembered struggling with homework around his kitchen table in upstate New York. He remembered how his parents told him at the kitchen table that he’d have to go to Catholic school to try and right his academic wrongs (which were much bigger than any of them could imagine.) The piece ended with Warren leaving the Catholic school and enlisting in the Army, which would become more of a family to him than he ever dreamed, “But that’s another story all together,” he said.

That day a door swung open for these people who “weren’t writers” and had been “forced to come” to this writing group. When I look back I can see they found their voice and its power that first day, but if you asked any of them they’d say it took a while. They saw themselves in other people’s experiences and they found hope and compassion for parts of their life that had been hidden for years. As they listened many took notes. “I thought I didn’t have anything to write about and now I have too much,” said Charlotte.

At first I thought that what they felt most comfortable writing was based on concrete prompts, but as they trusted the support of others and their own voice, magic seemed to happen. They began to write about feelings and emotions, too.

Joe wrote about his youngest daughter who was born severely disabled. Just minutes after her birth doctors told him and his wife to just let her die. He wrote about how he fought for her life and grew to love her part in his life. He sobbed when he said, perhaps for the first time to anyone at all, that trusting his love for her and her love for him was the single most valuable thing he had done in his life. People in the group sobbed too and some said “It’s really good to see a man cry” and Joe was perfectly OK with that.

Wilma, who married in 1918, wrote about a time she wanted to leave her husband, something frowned upon back then. She wrote about how tough it is to work for something you’re not sure you quite believe in anymore and how exhausting it was to make it back to baseline and how lonely she felt not being able to share that with friends who might not understand her wish to leave and not “work at it.”

Charlotte wrote pining for a time when imagination was king. A retired teacher, she mourned the loss of imaginative play for today’s kids. Writing about a ledge in her neighborhood that could become any number of places to play—ship, house, treacherous cliff—she said she couldn’t go back to even see that ledge one more time because the power of imagination that had made that ledge come to life was no longer alive.

Since 1998 a few have died, but those who are still around write whether or not they come to our monthly ongoing group. Some supplement their income with their writing. Some have become radio commentators. Some have created family newsletters. Some are going through boxes of family memorabilia and writing stories about bracelets and rations coupons and vintage clothing they’ve saved “just so the next generation has an appreciation for what went before.” They all complain now that there is far too much to write about and there is never enough time.. They are proud to be recognized as writers now when their work is published in local papers and neighbors and friends acknowledge their stories. They all have been emboldened by their writing

When elders write it works against the invisibility and isolation that they feel. It helps them find a voice that many have never had. It lets them say what they’ve never felt brave enough to say. It makes them remember. It helps them leave a legacy. It lets them share in meaningful ways not just with younger audience, but also with their peers. It helps them put their life in perspective at a time when many are hungry to do just that.