Clothesline

Originally uploaded by Professor Bop.

So, I’m doing something very “writer-ish” this weekend. I’ve signed up for a workshop. Some days, as I sit in a study room at the library, I feel like a writer. But on the days I sling boxer shorts into the dryer and pasta into a boiling pot of water, I’m just a mom. My business card reads, “Writer and Inspirational Speaker”, but if I want to be true, it should read “Mom and Laundress”.

The majority of my time goes towards mothering, second laundry and a few hours a week I eek out some words in a file on my laptop. But this weekend I’ve decided to be a writer. I’m nervous. Will others attending the weekend workshop stay up all night and ponder sunrises? Will they own the latest laptop to record every thought, or worse, an ancient typewriter so they’ll “feel” each word? I don’t know what other writers look like, but I’m almost ready to call myself one. After getting a whole book done it may be time.

The workshop is about writing a memoir. So, okay Mom, and old boyfriends, if you think you were spared in my first book, you most definitely will be a part of my second one. I have a great twist for a memoir and I’m eagerly writing outlines, and jotting down snippets of scenes from my head. One of the assignments for the workshop is to write three paragraphs about these fragments of memory. I’ve decided to dwell on the summer of 1974.

I was nine years old the summer the Watergate hearings consumed all three channels. The details are fuzzy, until I pick just one memory. When I think about swimming that summer, a flood of images rush in. The red splinters in the bottom of feet, or butt, from the picnic tables at the pool…shoelaces that held the straps of my stretched out bathing suit tight…a towel with a cat on it…and the clothesline that held the wet towels. The clothesline stretched for yards. Sheets and towels were clipped onto a couple of the lines and the dog was clipped onto one line too. The one chore I didn’t mind was collecting the towels and sheets and jeans and t-shirts. Fresh, clean, crisp. How did I know that shoving my face into the towels and breathing deep would be a refuge? Do nine year olds know they need security? The talk of wars and criminals and presidents was overwhelming, but the laundry wasn’t.

It is a good exercise to look back. Those scrapes of memory nestled between the grocery list and the next three errands mean something. Whether happy or tragic, memory is who we are. A pillowcase crisp from the clothesline, or a heartache straight from high school, it is healthy to remember.

So I hope my memories are interesting or provocative or heart wrenching. And I hope you summon the bits of your past that flood you with warmth or joy. Pick a date or a day or a clothesline that is pertinent. Dwell in its comfort, just for a moment. Then write it down. Maybe you’re a writer too.