Good Memory! Good Thing?

Like many other people in my family, I have a good memory. I don't say that to boast. To me, having a good memory is like being tall or having freckles. It's in the genes and has nothing to do with hard work, talent, or dedication. It just exists. I know there are many who will say that you can train yourself to have a good memory. Perhaps. But those recommendations always seem like little tricks to remember names or dates, not to contain a fairly full recollection of your life.

It had been decades since I saw the old photograph above. Of course, the awesomeness of wearing bright red pants that matched those of my always-groovy older sister and my young friend could be memorable to many. But, I also remember the friend's full name, that her father was a pastor at a church we sometimes attended, that she had two much older siblings (one with a lazy eye), and that, after eating a double portion of cake that day, she soiled her bright red pants. Which is why I'm kindly not saying her name. All of this came instantly back to me, in spite of the fact that at the time, I was clearly engrossed in a book published by mice.

My memory is nothing compared to that of my older sister or my deceased aunt. Aunt Gretchen, honestly, could tell you what she ate for dinner on any given occasion during the past decade. She knew birthdays, anniversaries, and addresses of rarely seen second or third cousins. My sister may start a conversation with, "The other day, I wondered what happened to Ed E., the nephew of Jenny L.'s handyman, during the fall of 1972." My more recently discovered aunt is the same way. She described, in detail, a hotel she stayed at when she was six in the late 1920's. Curious, I googled the "historic" hotel and it was exactly as she'd remembered it. This, it appears, is my heritage.

A question I often wonder is whether or not a good memory is truly an asset. The scales are usually in even balance on that one. Of course, the warm, bright, all-is-right-with-the-world moments are always wonderful to embrace. I decidedly force myself to turn away from the sometimes darker recollections of regret, anger, and sorrow. In between the two, though, are moments so fragile, so nearly elusive that I only speak of them in a whisper. And when everything is before me, those are the past experiences that make me deeply grateful for my memory.

More Than a Place: Eagle River

It's hard to say what suddenly made me feel nostalgic about Eagle River, Wisconsin. Maybe it's the suddenly tolerable summer temperatures that reminded me of the north woods. It could have been the fresh raspberries I just sampled, tasting very much like the berries I'd pick at my grandparents' secluded property.

Growing up in Buffalo, New York, we spent every summer visiting my grandparents, who like so many other Chicagoans, had retired to one of the northernmost towns in Wisconsin, Eagle River. Their home sat amid thirty-six acres which included a dizzying valley view, densely forested borders, and a serene lakefront area reached by a small, sandy path. It was truly idyllic. I'd wander down gravel trails alone, imagining I ruled this forested kingdom; or, that I was inside a giant's greenhouse; or, that I was on a secret mission. I imagined a world.

When I was twelve and living in Washington, D.C., my parents went through a difficult, painful divorce. Like wounded animals, my mother, sister, and I numbly left what had been home and moved in with my grandparents. Eagle River, The Idyllic, had become a retreat in which to heal, to hunker down, and to breathe again.

Eagle River is where I came of age. Never an easy process. It was where I first fell in love and where I felt the sting of it fading unaccountably away. It was a time of uncertainty. There was a kind of wild joy mixed with mistakes, teen arrogance tempered by occasional insight. Each day seemed to contain a lifetime.

I like to imagine that, sometime, I will go to Eagle River again. It would have to be in the summer, when my friends and I would spend hours in a boat on a lake, unaware of the time until the sun started to set. The memory reminds me of a stock image you'd find in one of the souvenir shops there. But, I could never fit my thoughts about Eagle River on the back of a postcard.

So, A Woman Signs Up For a Comedy Writing Course...

Here's the thing: Comedy is difficult to do on paper. Unless it's a very short piece, like the guy (above) I saw in Santa Monica had figured out. And his bit was even on cardboard.

The curious thing is that there are writers who are hysterically funny in person, but can't compose a single, truly funny line. I've talked about this with at least three experienced writers and none of them can quite figure out the answer to the problem. Taking the easy way out, I resigned to simply not attempt comedy until I came across a workshop being offered in comedy writing for the screen. The company offering the course came highly recommended, the workshop is just 11 days, and the fees were reasonable. I signed up. Two days ago.

So, I've already learned something about what makes comedy work. It involves set-up and structure, incongruity and absurdity, and, certainly, creativity. While doing the daily assignments, I feel like I'm using my brain in a different way, as if I'm retraining my mind. Which pleases me because it makes me feel like something's happening. I've gotten attached to a couple of my scenarios already and have been amazed to discover that "funny" to many males in the course seems to consistently include strippers. I suspect they're doing that in hopes of having to do casting research or something.

Since we receive our assignments daily, I have no idea what's coming next. But, when we had to do set-ups yesterday, I abandoned my hastily thrown together idea when it dawned on me that I may have to build on it for the remainder of the course. Much better to work with an idea you actually like. And, interestingly, I've found myself thinking about my project throughout the day, imagining various situations and dialogue. And trying not to grin while I'm walking the dog by myself.

At the end of the eleven days, I wonder if I'll actually be able to write comedically. I imagine I'll shyly try to insert some slightly funny scenes into a drama at first. It will be some time before I'll have the nerve to attempt writing a full-fledged comedy. I wouldn't want to end up with pie in my face.

The Old Neighborhood

It's been ten years since we lived in Philadelphia. I still miss family and friends there, but I also feel a longing now and then for other things you can't find anywhere else. A real Italian hoagie, the Morris Arboretum, Philly cheesesteaks, Reading Terminal Market, South Street,...and my old neighborhood.

My old neighborhood is known for its boutique shops, stellar restaurants, and expensive real estate. Somewhere along its 250+ year history, Philadelphia's wealthy, "old-money" families settled there and soon built rowhouses for the Irish hired help and the Italian stone masons. In the 1990's, these rowhouses, where we lived, were occupied by a mix of young families and elderly immigrants.

One neighbor across the street, who was also my next door neighbor's father, had such a heavy Irish brogue that I often wondered how much might be put on. Mr. Coyle would smile at people as they walked past and would actually say, "Top of the morning to ye!" Shortly after our son was born, my husband and I took our baby out in his new stroller. Mr. Coyle peered inside at our son, stared at his tiny face, then grinned and looked at my husband, saying, "Well, there's no denying that one, is there?"

Further down our block was an old, short Italian couple. Every Saturday, we'd see the husband, smiling, carrying a six-pack of beer down the street. Two yards behind him, his wife would be ceaselessly scolding him in angry Italian. Every now and then, the husband would give a slight shrug, but the smile never left his face. Every inch of the backyard of their rowhouse was cultivated to grow copious amounts of tomatoes, peppers, onions, and herbs for sauces. Grapes, to be turned into homemade wine, grew from the vines tangled around the tiny arch that framed their back door. I never knew anyone who knew the couple well. There was a sting of tragedy to them. I'd been told that several decades earlier, the husband had given their young son a bicycle for his birthday. That afternoon, the boy was found drowned in the nearby Wissahickon River, his bicycle tumbled on its side by the bank. It's the kind of story that never goes away. But, it made me somehow grateful that they put such energy into their garden, into their bickering. Life had not passed them by after all.

Every year when we go back to Philadelphia to visit family and friends, we go for a walk through the old neighborhood, past our old house. As expected, things have changed. More and more of the rowhouses seem inhabited by young families. The porches of elderly, former neighbors are now full of strollers and skates and Fisher-Price in general. We see fewer and fewer familiar faces. Metal bars are on several doors and first floor windows, which saddens me.

But, walking another block further, we visit with some favorite friends and their children and wonder how we can live closer again. Another block over and I visit with my old work colleagues, some still there from my 12 year stint. And I know, in another two blocks, there will always be a real Italian hoagie waiting for me at the local pizza place. There are some things that remain the same.

Irony

When I was very young, I used to listen to albums from Broadway musicals, one of my favorite being Lerner and Loewe's My Fair Lady, based on George Bernard Shaw's play, Pygmalion. When I became exhausted from erratically singing and dancing to "I Could Have Danced All Night", I'd sit and stare at the album cover. It was a brilliant, simple caricature by Al Hirschfeld. In it, George Bernard Shaw was portrayed as God, holding marionette strings that controlled puppet versions of Rex Harrison and Julie Andrews. I don't know how many hours I spent studying the drawing, but somewhere along the way, my childhood visual image of God was identical to George Bernard Shaw.

I doubt I thought about it very much. At some point, I realized that God was much more than a large white-haired, bearded man who lived beyond some celestial staircase. I was a senior in high school, relishing my English Literature class, when I turned the page in my textbook and gasped. There was a photograph of...God. At least, looking identical to my childhood image of him. My cheeks began to feel warm as I read the name, George Bernard Shaw. Shortly into his biography were the words, "...noted atheist." What!?!?! Okay, fine, even if he wasn't God, did he have to be an atheist? I suppose that was my first, fully-realized experience with irony.

I love irony. I love verbal irony ("The literary genius of USA Today..."), historic irony ("World War I, also known as the War To End All Wars,..."), ironic names ("Paging Dr. Slaughter!") and everything written by O. Henry. I love irony in the news, one of the best recent examples being a sign at BP stations, stating, "You are responsible for spills".

And, ironically, George Bernard Shaw was a master of the literary techinique. As was his peer, Oscar Wilde. As were many writers in their circle, which makes me think their conversations would have been dizzying. Yet, one of my favorite Shaw quotes is not at all ironic. It's plain and clear and, I believe, true:

"Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself."

Well said.

Real Capone

There are legendary people in American history who can be instantly identified solely by their surname: Lincoln, Lindbergh, Twain...Capone. At the mention of Al Capone's name, people have an immediate image flash in their brains of the ultimate gangster, the godfather--so to speak--of organized crime, the stylish, ruthless criminal who epitomizes the roar of the 1920's.
A quick list of thoughts soon follows: mastermind behind the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, bootleg king, psychopath who beat his enemy's head in with a baseball bat. Wait, that was only in a movie. Of all the "facts" we know about Al Capone, how many are true?

This fall, that question will finally be answered. The book Uncle Al Capone will be out and it's likely to cause some controversy. For decades, endless gangster "experts", criminologists, and even psychologists have told us the story of Al Capone until it's so familiar it's almost part of our consciousness. But, something entirely different in Capone lore is about to happen. Uncle Al Capone is written by Deirdre Marie Capone, great-niece of Al Capone and granddaughter of his older brother, Ralph Capone (aka Public Enemy #3). As Deirdre frankly says, "No book about Al Capone to date was ever written by someone who actually saw him, heard him, smelled him, and was a member of his family who saw things from the inside. No one else can write this story." So true. Think about it.

And the story is mesmerizing. While today the name "Capone" has a ring of cool to it, it was a horrific burden for Deirdre Capone for most of her life. Imagine parents letting their young children go over to Deirdre Marie Capone's for a playdate. Didn't happen. Nor did she get invited to parties held by other children. It must have been a supremely confusing, lonely, and painful childhood. After all, she had done nothing wrong, yet was cast out by her name. It didn't get better. To survive, she began going by her father's middle name as her surname. She was now Deirdre Gabriel. Yet, working dutifully at her first job, she was called into her boss's office only to be asked her real name. In spite of her excellent job performance, the name Capone led to her immediate dismissal.

Yet, with all this, there were moments of great joy in her childhood, most of them stemming from the warm embrace of the Capone family members. To the country, he was Public Enemy #1. To Deirdre, he was her Uncle Al who would play with her on the floor like a big teddy bear, laughingly wear an apron while making spaghetti sauce, and would even teach her how to play the mandolin. During the Depression, he set up a huge soup kitchen in Chicago, feeding thousands of hungry people. He would generously help a stranger without expecting a thing in return.

Deirdre Marie Capone has no intention of whitewashing her family's history. She does not shy away from discussing the dark side of her legacy. But, perhaps for the first time, the public will see the world of the Capones in honest balance. Deirdre is, in fact, the only person alive who can tell the real story and she has admirably taken on the challenge. And now, all we have to do is wait.

*For a sneak peak at Uncle Al Capone, send a friend request on Facebook to Deirdre Marie Capone. You'll then be able to access the first chapter...fascinating read!

One True Sentence

Hemingway is one of those writers I like thinking about more than reading. So much burly, brawling, bravado. I've been thinking specifically about the famous piece of advice that Hemingway gave to writers: "All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know."

Honestly, I think that should be a screensaver, a sampler hung in homes, sprayed as graffiti on walls, seen all over the place until it becomes almost a catchphrase in the minds of writers. What, exactly, is meant by "one true sentence"? My guess is that several academic papers may have addressed that question over the years. My belief is that each writer has to answer it for themselves.

At heart, aren't all writers storytellers? Don't we relish finding the ideal adjective, the breathing adverb, to make the story better and brighter? Don't we know a specific plot twist may be unlikely, but it would certainly make the reader turn the page? We try to create fascinating characters and give them witty or poignant sentences, neatly contained between quotation marks. What does this have to do with "one true sentence"?

I think Hemingway was getting at the exposed core of each writer. What may be honest for one author, may feel false and misleading for another. One person's reality varies from the next by a matter of degree. All a writer can try to do is draw from their own, inner perception of truth. And from that can spring something entirely fictional that strikes us as more "real" than anything else in our world.

Of course, thinking about "one true sentence", I wondered what I would write as an example. Following Hemingway's style, devoid of adjectives and adverbs, is there a simple and over-riding truth that's mine as a writer? It's actually a difficult exercise. I'm learning how hard it is to force away the pretense and safety of writing by habit. One true sentence? I'm still working on it.