A Perceived Truth

Memoir: In my words: a true slice of someone’s private life that carried profound meaning, created a change in perspective, and carries a universal meaning for others. Memoir is the author’s journey of a time or situation that is resolved in some fashion, at least by the end of the book.

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Mother’s Day

On a bright summer day in 1953, Susanna Fornoff walked into the print shop where my father had worked as a typesetter ever since his 1947 release as a prisoner of war. She was looking for part-time work, to supplement her modeling assignments and serving meals at a local Gasthaus. She was hired. My father was smitten.

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A Time for Hope

The wood ducks love to swim into our little cove and waddle into the yard to munch on the acorns our old live oaks drop in abundance. The drakes have gorgeous iridescent plumage with crested heads and distinctive white stripes from the eyes to the end of the crest. The hens are not colorful. Their plumage of browns intermingled with beige offer better camouflage.

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The Opposite Shore

As the narrator, I have a roll to fill. The late (and great) Ursula K. Le Guin offers a story in her book on writing, Steering the Craft, that uses the analogy of a boat. Here’s my take on it: our readers climb into a boat with us to journey to the opposite shore.

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A Silver Lining

As I look forward to 2021, different emotions assail me. Everyone can agree that 2020 has been a sad and frightening year. The whole world discovered it was in a battle. And the battle continues. But now we are over the shock and have girded our loins, determined to win.

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Hopes and Plans

My husband and I are packing to go back up to our cabin in the NC mountains for a few weeks. I’m hoping the leaves are red, yellow, and orange by now, my favorite color palette. I plan to sit in the dining room with its 360 degree view of the surrounding Tusquittee mountain range and add the finishing touches to my book. Yes!

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Magic

The magic of a book that talks directly to us is a feeling like no other. We are validated, soothed, yet excited to feel a part of something bigger than ourselves. Rebecca Solnit once said The object we call a book is not the real book, but its potential, like a musical score or seed. It exists fully only in the act of being read; and its real home is inside the head of the reader, where the symphony resounds, the seed germinates.

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Who Will Drink My Tears?

I’ve been re-reading The Faraway Nearby by the remarkable Rebecca Solnit. The first time I read my now dog-eared copy was four years ago when I became fascinated with the idea of writing personal nonfiction, especially memoir. I picked it up and put it down several times before I was able to settle in and focus.

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The Cabin

We dreamed of building our own mountain settlement, of designing and crafting solid log homes that could become family retreats. We found a mountaintop, plopped down our savings and cajoled a local bank to give us a loan and began clearing roads. We discovered a company in Michigan that hauled in huge logs and assembled them with a crane.

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Our Sojourn in Solitude

While contemplating a quiet (as in pack my bags and slink off, maybe forever) disappearance, I came across a piece about Monhegan Island in the Travel section of the paper. As I read about the fierce beauty of the cliffs and the muted stillness of Cathedral Woods, a solution presented itself: a solitary retreat.

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