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| A birthday card from my childhood scrapbook |
Today I lunched on asparagus soup as
October shed her wet and windblown clothes. Another season concludes, the
divide wider between my childhood and present day. A challenge for a writer devoted
to memoir, to sustain authenticity of times, places, things, and people.
Memory often serves
me well. Yet, as we all know, she’s prone to embellish the truth. Just ask my
four sisters and I to tell you the same story we all experienced in the same
place at the same time, and you’ll see my point.
We human beings perceive
specifics differently: who, where, what, why, and when. If we misrepresent one of
the five w’s, we slant our history.
Most readers
understand memory’s limitations. They forgive an author’s minor embellishments
in such remarkable memoirs as Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes.
Nonetheless, at
times I grope for the right word to describe the person, emotion, and
circumstance. For me, this condition is not writer’s block, rather, fussing
over uncertainties. God forbid I misspeak.
Although I couldn’t
recall Camille Makuch’s siblings, that didn’t confirm my childhood lookalike
and best friend was an only child. My online searches the past ten years led nowhere
but discouragement.
Until yesterday.
Glory hallelujah! While
puzzling out a memoir passage from patchy mental pictures of Camille’s mother,
the still, small voice I’ve come to trust suggested I open my red scrapbook
again.
Most likely
provided and preserved by my mother, I can’t recall who placed the fragile,
abused keepsake into my hands after her death. Splotches of dry glue on many
pages indicate someone tore mementoes from my treasure.
My object of pursuit
was a birthday card which says “Making a birthday call to say Hello!” illustrated
with three kittens and a telephone. Inside, Mrs. Makuch signed, “Happy Birthday
Iris! Camille Makuch & her parents.”
Unaware of Mrs. Makuch’s
first name, I searched online for Camille Makuch’s obituary, which delivered
Eleanor Makuch’s obituary, Camille’s mother.
Born the same year
as my mother, Mrs. Makuch’s children included Camille and two siblings who live
in Michigan. They lauded their mother as a marvelous Polish cook who retired at
age 81 from the Detroit Public Schools.
Yes, this made
sense. Camille and I rode our bikes together on Joann Street south of Seven
Mile Road. Our mothers forbade us to leave our block.
Several online links
confirmed Camille’s occupation as an RN in the Okemos area. And one link
provided her home address.
Thrilled with these
revelations, I retrieved a greeting card from my mother’s secretary.
Ceremoniously, I introduced myself to the playmate who also wore her hair in a
bob.
If the address is
correct, Camille should receive her card Monday, November 1.
Dear Reader, Mrs.
Makuch’s birthday card and others from Granny, my Sunday school teacher, and
Pioneer Girls leader bridge the divide of time.
Perhaps this explains
why I love kittens and have accumulated plastic bins of cards I’ve received throughout my life. What
better way to review the five w’s of my personal history in my sunset years?
