LIVING TIME PIECES

I wish that I could have thought of something poignant to say, something to commemorate their graduation day. But nothing came to mind.

“That’s how it is with me", I reminded them. “I’ll think of something later when I sit down to write it.”

It was the last Monday night we would be meeting until class began again in the fall. Would they be returning? They all said they would, unless death or family obligations prevented them. I told them to tell their friends and anyone who was interested in preserving history. I hoped with all my heart we would be continuing, for I have learned so much from them than they received in instruction from me.

They knew me from my weekly column appearing in the local newspaper, my byline “Stories From the Lake.” I knew none of them, but was quick to learn how fascinating a group of students they were going to become.

For the past eight Mondays, we have been meeting at Williamson High School to begin a journey together. Seven in all, we met from 4:30pm to 6:30pm for a “Course in Memories.” It was an adult education course geared towards anyone who wanted to write about their life story, a loose leaf binder full of thoughts and recollections to pass down to their descendants.

They wrote down their thoughts and memories after receiving their assignment every week, a bullet list of ‘triggers’ that might jostle a memory or two. Reading it a loud the following week also brought back a cornucopia of experiences they shared without realizing it.

Writers all, they had been teachers and business leaders in the first part of their adult life. Some of them grew up in the country, here in Williamson and never traveling far. Some of them lived in cities and others in different states. All of them were deeply affected by wars and the Great Depression, painstakingly recounting how hard it was or how scared they all were. Survival was key, and not as glamorous as Hollywood would have us believe. Some have children, both natural and adopted; some did not.

What drives them all is the desire to share their experiences and knowledge with those they love. They wrote as examples of how to get through hard times, to stand tall and weather any storm that befalls them. “You come from strong sturdy stock” they all seemed to say. “Stand up – you can do this, because others before you have as well.”

At times tears were shed although it took the form of a cold or an allergy. Dark humor broke the reverie of those who for a moment traveled back to when a husband died or was taken far too soon. A comforting smile and a knowing look helped them as they helped each other, laughing and begging them to continue when one of them would stop mid sentence and ask “Is this boring you?”

“Write how you talk” I urged them. “The reader wants to recognize that it is you who is speaking to them.”

One of them made paper graduation hats, black mortarboards that they put atop their heads and posed for a picture. When I had asked earlier in the semester if I could post their picture, they said no. But that night whatever reasoning they had were put to the side when they donned the makeshift trophies. They were proud of what they had accomplished and let me snap their picture.

I urged them to continue writing over the summer, because it is their story and it isn’t finished until they say it is.

I hope with all my heart they return to me again when the leaves of autumn are falling and the wheels of time are continuing to churn forward. The hours are moving steadily and I am so blessed to be able to sit and listen to these living time pieces, to hear the jeweled tick tock of their lives as they relive it and tell it to us.

That’s the best that I can do, for now.