By Bob Chrisman
Here’s to you, Aunt Annie!, image © 2009 by Bob Chrisman. All rights reserved.
A cup of tea with sugar brings back memories of my first cup, the day my mother said, “You’re old enough to drink tea.” Sacks of pale orange “circus peanuts” remind me of the stale ones in Grandma Hecker’s candy dish. Homemade caramel-covered apples take me to Mrs. Wallace’s kitchen where I taste tested them the night before Halloween. Ritz crackers transport me to Mrs. Thompson’s house where we played Ring-Around-The-Rosie.
Certain recipes hold special memories. I bake scalloped potatoes topped with pork chops the same way my mother did and in the same glass loaf dish. When I make Hamburger Splatter, I remember the adults who my mother babysat when they were children stopping by for the recipe. My favorite holiday dish recipe is scalloped oysters. Aunt Annie, Mom’s youngest sister, made them every Thanksgiving and Christmas.
I asked my cousins why their mom fixed such an exotic dish for such meat-and-potatoes people. Neither of them knew but thought a neighbor might have given the recipe to Aunt Annie. Oysters don’t grow in northwest Missouri. My mother and her sisters didn’t have unusual tastes in food. Yet every holiday dinner, sitting next to the freshly roasted turkey, the real mashed potatoes, the green bean casserole, and the fresh raspberry pies made from home-canned raspberries, we’d find the scalloped oysters.
I asked my aunt for the recipe. I didn’t want her to pass away without someone having it. “I don’t really have a recipe anymore. I just know how to make it,” she said. She wrote down the ingredients and instructions on a piece of notebook paper, which I lost the first time I used it. My recipe, which I carried in my head until now, captures the taste and consistency of the original.
Scalloped oysters remind me of family gatherings when my mother, her sisters and their husbands were in their prime. I remember long prayers while we held hands followed by huge meals, hours of card games, and the feeling of being loved.
Most of all I remember my Aunt Annie and Uncle Pete. They loved one another very much. They had an ease with one another and they treated each other with respect. She wasn’t always easy to live with (none of the sisters were), but Uncle Pete never fell out of love with her. I always thought, of all the sisters, Aunt Annie had the happiest marriage.
Uncle Vernon (Pete) O. Simmon in uniform, image
© 2009 by Bob Chrisman. All rights reserved.
Photographs from the 1940’s capture a dashing young man in a military uniform and a dark-haired beauty. They made a striking couple all of their lives.
After he returned from the war, they bought a little house on Garden Street where they raised their three children and hosted many holiday dinners. I always envied my cousins for the parents they had.
I grew closer to them as I aged. Many times I would leave my mother’s house and stop by theirs before I drove home. Aunt Annie told me stories about her sisters and the family, things my mother never mentioned. Uncle Pete would interrupt, when he could, to offer his two cents on the subject. I loved them both and came to treasure those times with just the two of them.
Uncle Pete died of pancreatic cancer in October 1996. His death broke Aunt Annie’s heart. They had been married for over 50 years. She went through the motions of living for about a year before she took sick and died in December, 1997. I think that he was waiting for her when she passed. If he had anything to say about it, I know he was.
Here’s the recipe for her famous scalloped oysters. I hope the recipe generates some good memories for you and your families.
Aunt Annie and Uncle Pete, image © 2009
by Bob Chrisman. All rights reserved.
Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters
1 1-pound loaf of Velveeta Cheese (sliced)
32 Saltine cracker squares (approximately one package out of a box of four)
4-5 8-ounce cans of oysters (pieces-and-bits or whole or a combination)*
2 12-ounce cans of evaporated milk**
Pre-heat oven to 350 degrees.
Slice Velveeta Cheese into slices about an eighth of an inch thick. Open four cans of oysters and drain off most of the liquid. (Note: Keep some to pour into the casserole to add more oyster flavor, if desired.)
Use a casserole dish that has a lid (even though the lid isn’t used except for storage of leftovers). Grease it with your choice of oil; I prefer butter.
Then begin the layering process:
Crush enough Saltine crackers to make a layer on the bottom of the dish. Next place a layer of oysters with some liquid from the can. Cover with a layer of slices of Velveeta Cheese. Pour enough evaporated milk to wet the layers. Repeat.
The amount of the ingredients given above makes about three layers. Top the dish with another layer of Velveeta Cheese. Bake until the cheese on top is melted and a warm brown, about 90 minutes (longer if you want it crustier).
This dish will serve at least 8-10 people and maybe 10-14 if plenty of other food is available. You can make smaller portions by using a loaf pan and only making two layers. I do that when I have no one else to join me. The leftovers make a tasty, if unusual, breakfast treat.
*The number of cans of oysters you buy will determine on how “oyster-y” you want the dish to be. I found that four cans make generous layers. I usually buy two cans of pieces-and-bits and two cans of whole oysters.
**You will have approximately 1/2 can of evaporated milk left when you finish. My youngest cousin says that she uses regular milk.
Hopefully you have a strong heart and clean arteries. Bon appetit.
Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his mother, her three sisters, and their influence on his life. His other red Ravine posts include Hands, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, The Law Of Threes, and In Memoriam.
We’d like to thank Bob for providing this recipe and the story of the aunt who inspired it. And thank you, Aunt Annie! We’ve been dreaming about scalloped oysters since last Thanksgiving, when Bob made mention of the dish in a conversation in the post Reflections On The Other National Bird.
Seeing the photos in a public forum gives them more power. Of all of my aunts and uncles, my favorites were Aunt Annie and Uncle Pete because I spent more time with them and their children. That’s not to say that I didn’t love my other aunts and uncles and cousins. I didn’t spend as much time with them.
Aunt Annie could hear a song and then sit down at the piano and play it…an ability that no one else in the family has. She loved music.
Uncle Pete smoked a pipe filled with cherry-flavored tobacco whenever I smell that odor I think of him. I can still remember his laugh and the way his eyes twinkle.
The picture of them together says so much about their relationship then. I have a photograph of them taken around the time of their 50th wedding anniversary. They look so comfortable with one another.
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Bob, this writing is alive. You have made me love Annie and Pete, too. I feel your love for them and their love for each other. Your details are wonderful in describing their ease and respect for each other, but also in sharing your honesty, acknowledging that Annie was not easy to live with and that “none of the sisters were.” It’s the texture of those details that makes your family alive to me.
I love to cook, Bob, and you have a wonderful way of writing a recipe. It is easily part of the story. I want to read it, every ingredient and instruction. Someday, Bob, I dream that you will write a family memoir filled with food and recipes, including the conversations and insights which have lingered long afterward, like the taste of Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters.
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breathepeace, welcome home. I will write family stories that I can share with my sisters and cousins. I ran this story by my two cousins who live in the U.S. Their brother is out of the U.S. and not easily available. He will read this piece at some point. I don’t want to tell stories that embarrass anyone in the family and, thus, I could not write a complete family memoir. I will write the good stories.
I can write a memoir about my own parents as I knew them. And even then I will let my sister see it before I send it off for publication. Although she experienced them differently for 9 (almost 10 years) before I was born, they are still her parents too. A tricky thing writing about family as I know you realize.
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Your Aunt Annie and Uncle Pete do, indeed, have a chemistry that’s evident to the camera. They are a great-looking couple, but more than that, they are vivacious.
I had so many questions about your aunt as I prepared this post. I’ll have go back to The Law Of Threes, the post you wrote that most talks about your mom and her sisters. Where did Annie fall among the four? Was she the youngest? She has a certain ease about her that makes me wonder if she is the youngest. (Youngest children tend to be comfortable, being as how they’ve been “broken in” by their older siblings. Plus, parents are often relaxed by the time a younger kid rolls around, and so they engage with the youngest in a way that reinforces that sense of comfort.)
Also, Uncle Pete is a handsome buck, isn’t he? Your comment about his cherry pipe tobacco instantly brought back the memory of that stuff. My dad went through a short-lived pipe phase, and he had the fruity tobacco as well. And my mom is one of those rare individuals who can hear a tune—you hum it to her—and she can then play it on the piano.
But this is what I loved most about this piece: Oysters don’t grow in northwest Missouri. My mother and her sisters didn’t have unusual tastes in food. Yet every holiday dinner, sitting next to the freshly roasted turkey, the real mashed potatoes, the green bean casserole, and the fresh raspberry pies made from home-canned raspberries, we’d find the scalloped oysters.
It’s such a mystery, isn’t it? How did the tradition of scalloped oysters enter Annie’s world and, hence, your world? It says so much about her, that she would experiment with these strange little shellfish. (Being from landlocked NM, I can relate to just how exotic they would be.) And not just that, but that she would love the dish enough to bring it to traditional Thanksgiving dinner. I mean, doesn’t that boggle your mind? It does mine.
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I wish I had a plate of Scalloped Oysters in front of me right now, Velveeta and all. It sounds like great comfort food, and it’s rainy and cold in Minneapolis today.
But what really caught my attention, Bob, was “Hamburger Splatter.” I got an instant visual of you in a kitchen, throwing food at the walls and ceiling…maybe screaming while you do toss meat and noodles out of a roasting pan. What is Hamburger Splatter?
I always enjoy reading the work you write about your family, Bob. It’s very grounded and vivid.
Memoir?
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Bob, I love these two characters already, with or without the oysters. And the oysters just bring them all the more to light.
A couple of details struck me about this memoir piece. How your aunt passed on almost a year after your uncle died. The same thing happened with my grandmother (in the Grandmothers piece (LINK) from a few days ago). She died about a year after my grandfather, even though they had not been together for years. I do think he was the love of her life.
It is really difficult to write memoir when family is still living. I remember often how Natalie mentions that you can’t think about it while you are writing. You get it all down, then worry about what you will disclose later. I do think you have some great stories; yet you have to be comfortable making them public. And that’s true for all memoir writers.
I personally think it takes a lot of guts to write memoir. Because sometimes the things you want to write about, the things that have energy and edge, always have the potential to hurt someone. Yet it’s the family secrets that create tension between memoir characters. Ah, all so interesting.
Another interesting detail — how the oyster recipe may have been given to her by a neighbor, and then became one of Annie’s family rituals. It made me wonder about the neighbor…were they from Boston, the East Coast, why scalloped oysters?
Lots to wonder about. And look at how happy they are in that last photograph. I love old family photographs. I could stare at them for hours. Mine and other people’s. 8)
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Bob, Mom and Dad would be proud of this. They LOVED you very much. You touched my heart, I had to hold back the tear since I am at work. I know one of these days I am going to be reading a book and be proud to say this is written by my cousin.
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Bob,
Thank you so much for sharing with us. You make us all a part of your family.
oxoxox
ruth
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yb, you are correct that Aunt Annie was the youngest of the girls. The birth order was Faye, Lucile (my mother), Vera, and then Anna Lee. I think that the older sisters sometimes thought she had been spoiled, but they spoiled her if anyone did.
Teri, Hamburger Splatter is a dish my mother made for lunch. I have written a piece about it for my writing class and included the recipe. A simple dish to cook, a wonderful dish to eat, and very popular with me (the most particular of eaters). I remember my mother’s story of one man, for whom she had babysat about 20 years earlier, who appeared at her door with his wife. He came to introduce his wife and their child. When they left the wife pushed the husband out the door and said, “You go on, honey.” She then turned to my mother and asked for the recipe for Hamburger Splatter because she wanted to surprise him with it. He talked so much about it.
QM, remember what Steve Almond told us about writing about family. He said not to write with malice and then let what happens happen (more or less that’s what he said). He used the example of writing about his father and sharing the story with him and how his father reacted.
The neighbors, Gladys and Bob Saunders, were from St. Joseph, I think. They were the perfectly groomed couple in the perfect house with the perfect yard. Really nice people. Gladys’ mother, Mrs. Hiatt, made the absolute best chocolate meringue pies in the world for fellowship suppers at church.
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Karen, I hope that it’s true that you will be reading a book of mine that you can be proud of.
Your mom and dad were wonderful people. I missed them when they passed as did Mom who didn’t have any sisters left when your mother died. One day she said to me, “I know how the last dodo felt. All of my family is dead now.” A little shocked I said, “Don’t us kids count. And how about the nieces and nephews?” She looked at me with a sadness in her face. “You don’t understand. They were my family for all of my life.” As I age and have friends die, someday I know that I will feel like my mom and the last dodo bird.
Ruth, as my best buddy and my reader, thanks for you support and love. You are the best.
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Your comment, Bob, about your aunt and uncle’s neighbors just jogged another memory. I remember visiting my Aunt Erma and Uncle Henry’s house, and over the years we got to know their neighbors, too. I knew who my cousin Tina’s best neighbor friend was (Anita—she even came with Tina one summer to stay at my grandmother’s house, and they were in that age where they’d become teens but I, being a year younger, was still a girl. I was so impressed by how boy-crazy they were).
Isn’t it funny how we learn so much about our aunts and uncles? Their homes almost become like second homes of ours, and we are little sponges, absorbing almost through osmosis a whole ‘nother world.
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Your opening paragraph is so evocative, Bob. I was right there with you (and actually, I made a cup of tea before sitting down to respond to this piece). I cannot, for the life of me, remember that book about Lebanese food that we read in the zendo with Natalie. I loaned it to Adrienne (she’s half Lebanese). I remember the only recipe I could make was the toasted cheese sandwiches. All to say, I’m with breathepeace about you writing a memoir comprised of stories and occasional recipes.
What do you think of this perspective from the South African writer and Nobel laureate, Nadine Gordimer: “You must write as though your parents are dead. You cannot afford to wait.”
A couple of things about the recipe. Oysters make me gag. Can I substitute vienna sausages? Also, I don’t like saltines nearly as much as Hot & Spicy Cheez-its. Can I use those instead? I’m more apt to have these leftovers for breakfast. Would Aunt Annie disapprove?
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Flan, I agree with Nadine Gordimer and would expand it a little more. You must write about everyone as though they are dead. You must write uncensored. The problem comes with publication. Some family stories would cause embarrassment. I have written those stories. I will not publish them because it would serve no good purpose. Some stories beg to be published because they tell a greater story…a more universal one, but I would only publish them after I shared them with the family involved.
Also, you don’t need to use oysters, I don’t think. Vienna sausages would work but you would have to dice them. My suggestion would be to use hot Italian sausages browned and crumbled to make the layers. Add the hot & spicey Cheez-its (the hot blooded person’s saltine) in place of the regular crackers and MAMA MIA that’s a spicy Italian sausage casserole.
Aunt Annie wouldn’t care. It just wouldn’t be put on the table with the rest of the food. Actually, my mother and her sisters would put anything on the table that a guest brought. They would even take some of it and taste it (even if they didn’t want to). Part of their hospitality was to make everyone feel at home.
I learned from my mother that I should sample a little of everything the host/ess put on the table for a meal at which I was present. I ate things away from home that I would never even consider touching at home, just to be the perfect guest.
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Bob — is it worth risking embarrassment if telling/publishing your story has the potential to heal more folks than it will embarrass? I’m thinking of Susan Cheever’s book about her father — written while her mother and siblings were still alive. Sorry, I can’t remember THAT title, either. Geez. Home Past Dark or Home Before Dark or Home in the Park or something? Well, you know what I mean.
Hot Italian sausages are a FABulous substitute for oysters. And yes, now it is quite a spicy casserole. I’m having a hot flash just thinking about it.
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Flan, I think that is an issue that you will have to decide when you write stuff about your family. If the sole purpose is to hurt them because they hurt you, then I would say don’t publish it.
But, write it. Always write it, even it the intent is to hurt them. Write about it every time you feel like it. See how it changes over time…if it does. Then, if/when you decide to post or publish, look at what you’ve written and own it. Realize that some members of your family won’t like it and will give you grief about it. Realize the potential it has to heal and/or destroy and decide that you can live with those consequences. Realize, as best you can, what your intentions are in publishing the piece and ask yourself if those intentions are noble ones (or even good ones). Realize too that sometimes a story must be told regardless of how much it destroys other people, but make sure it’s a damned good reason because you can’t go back. As you can see, no easy answers exist to this question.
In my own life, things have happened that I have written about. To tell these stories wouldn’t hurt the people who, in my opinion, deserve to be punished. The stories would hurt lots of people who don’t know these things. I can use bits and pieces of those stories in fictional pieces.
The hot flash may not be related to the casserole. Once eaten, I think you would warm up considerably.
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The Language of Baklava…was that the title of the food memoir that Diana Abu Jaber wrote? I loved that book. It shed a whole new light on how to lay out a memoir in a different, not-necessarily-linear way. And her father. How he loved to cook.
I agree with Bob, Flann. Ya gotta write. Get it out there. You could always publish it pseudonymously (is that word?). Or turn it into fiction if need be. (Lord knows there are enough writers who’ve marketed fictional accounts as memoir.)
Speaking of Cheever, I read a book review in a recent issue of The New Yorker. I guess there’s a new biography out on him. It kind of touches on why Cheever is not widely studied in Creative Writing programs the way, say, Fitzgerald is. The review was downright mean in putting out the idea that Cheever led a pathetic life…how he drank, wanted to be all these things he wasn’t (perfect husband, wealthy, straight).
It makes me think about the differences between biographers and autobiographers. How much easier it is to be brutally honest from afar. But I don’t think most biographers are looking for anything more than to understand a life. It’s that intent question again. I think it’s probably not wise to publish an autobiography (i.e., memoir) when the intent is to purge. Give it distance. Although some things can never seem or be far enough away, until finally you just have to give it light.
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Funny that someone would think that Cheever’s led a pathetic life compared to Fitzgerald. A tortured life can lead to really great writing, alcoholism, drug addiction, unstable relationships, not being who you are…all kinds of things. Great writing doesn’t need those things, but it can use them to make great stories.
It is also much easier to be brutally honest when you don’t know the people involved or don’t like them. The trouble with biographers is that they guess at why people did what they did. We can’t ever know that. We spend most of the time trying to figure out why we do the things we do…I don anyway. A biographer has no greater understanding of a person’s life even if they lived with them. They all have biases and prejudices. Same is true of autobiographies.
Bottom line, it’s all fiction to some degree.
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Bob, wonderful story & photos of your Aunt Annie & I especially like the phote of her with Pete. That photo does indeed show that they were a loving & happy couple.
I spent some of today with QM & J’s Mom looking at old family photos. So much fun & she has a wealth of memories.
And thanks for the recipe, though I could have gone back to the original post where first you described it. Sounds very simple. My Dad will be thrilled & I think I will make it for him during their next visit. Oysters are more accessible to me than them as they live in a very rural area in the western part of our state. His parents had a place in Forida & would spend most of the winter there. They always returned with a large tin of raw oysters. When my Mom & Dad visit us, we usually eat one meal out. If they offer oyster sandwiches on the menu he doesn’t have to look past that. He will already have made his mind up while the rest of us are still deciding.
I always enjoy reading your posts & this one was just lovely. D
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Hmmmmm. ybonesy: the review of the Cheever book in the New Yorker was by John Updike (one of his last) and he didn’t like it so much, did he? Too much detail or something. I wondered if Updike was a bit jealous of Cheever. Truth be told, I like Cheever’s short stories a lot better than Updike’s. I plan to read the Cheever biography when I’m finished with . . . the Flannery O’Connor biography which, like the Cheever biography, was a cover review in the New York Times. It is filled with details that only a Flanofile would love. She is, after all, my matron saint.
The O’Connor biographer, Brad Gooch is direct (so far, I’m only halfway through) about addressing how overbearing O’Connor’s mother could be. Of course, Regina is dead now. Anyhoo, thanks for sayin’, ‘Ya gotta write,” ybonesey. Yeah, I gotta. And I’m lousy at fiction, so non-fiction it will be.
Bob — trust that you can measure some of the success of your piece here by how much it made me pause and consider “when” to write. I know publishing is a different thing, but so much of publishing these days is done via blog . . . that’s why I’m wrestling so.
By the way, yb and qm — this site is so beautiful in so many ways. Every time I navigate in here I feel as though I’ve walked the labyrinth. Thank you.
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D, thanks. Glad that you enjoyed the post. I hope your dad enjoys the dish. I haven’t made the chili yet. I’m saving it for a time when I have lots of company or a party.
I asked my mom to go through the old photos and write the dates and the names of the people. She didn’t get to some of them so I must guess who the people are and what date the photo was taken (unless it appears on the picture). It makes it a whole lot easier to reconstruct parts of a person’s life when that person is no longer here to ask, “Who is that with you in the picture?”
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Flan, the advice is still the same even for posting to a blog. Write what you need to write. Then decide when/if to post it as written. You can always edit. I can’t stress this enough. Once you press “submit comment” it’s all over. Any control you have over what others see leaves you with the press of that button.
I am not telling you not to post things, just go into it with consideration of what might happen. And be sure of what your intent is. You can’t control other people’s reactions to what you post (We both know that ;)) but we can be clear with ourselves as to what our intention was.
Anything that appears on a blog is for the whole wide universe to see and read in whatever way the reader wants.
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Hey Bob,
Thanks again! I’ve loved everything you’ve written and can’t wait for your next piece.
You really have an amazing ability to take me out of the smog and coal dust and transport me back to both Garden street, and So. 3rd! What I wouldn’t give to re-live a couple of hours of those happy time. Your writing is a GREAT substitute though, thanks!!
I’ve often regretted that I got all chocked up at mom and dad’s 50th wedding anniversary and had to turn to you to make the official toast. But you spoke with ease and affection and we were all touched. Just like when you write.
I love ya Bob!
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Randy, good to hear from you. Sharon said she would let you know about the piece on your mom and dad. They were very special people. I think you getting choked up was clearly a message to your folks as to how much you loved them.
Take care.
I love you too.
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Bob, I take it Randy and Karen are your cousins and kids of Annie and Pete. I was going to say, but I thought it to be awfully superficial of me (yet, here I have to say it anyway) that I bet those kids of Annie and Pete are good-lookers. 8) See? I’m so shallow.
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Flann, thanks for the compliment! You know how much work it takes to keep a blog looking and feeling good (and you’re doing a splendid job with your blog, as well) so I appreciate hearing this from you.
I was going to say, you raise a good point about publishing memoir for blogs, or publishing pieces of a personal life for a blog, period. Some times it’s not so much the long-ago reflections but rather the more heat-of-the-moment ones that cause me the most heartburn after I’ve hit send. Pieces like when I divulged my growing issue with anxiety, or just this week revealed that I think I have a problem with drinking, yet how could I when it’s not that much (and YET, there are those cravings). Actually, the memoir seems to be much more seasoned or ruminated on, thought about and almost become mythical and magical or at least bearable with the distance of time.
It’s good food for thought. What I like about blog publishing, although no one asked, is that we can vary the viewpoints and the distance each one brings. Here’s something about the past, and now here’s what’s happening out my window, and here’s an event I went to, and here’s another thing from the past, etc., etc. I like books that somehow accomplish that, too; those that have an ability to go in and out of here and now and then. I wish I could think of some that work that way; maybe Natalie Goldberg’s Long Quiet Highway. Most memoirs I’ve read stick with a certain timeframe, and I can understand why. It’s harder to weave back and forth between past and present without leaving your reader feeling carsick.
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Thank you, Bob, for sharing a piece of your history. I love that your aunt made oysters when the rest of the meal was Down home cookin’, Missouri style. And that has me wondering about those oysters.
I grew up in Illinois, and all we had to do was drive across the bridge over the Mississippi River to be in Missouri. And, though we lived in the midst of corn fields and hog farms, we always had oysters at our holiday meals, too. Oyster dressing for Thanksgiving and oyster stew for Christmas Eve.
Funny, too, that about half of my family–the younger set–didn’t like the taste of the oyster stew, and the older generation refused to have a re-do of the menu. But my grandmother always took pity on the oyster-hating relatives, though not that much pity. If you didn’t eat her wonderful oyster stew, she would warm up some Campbell’s chicken noodle soup for you.
Didn’t that make for a memorable Christmas Eve dinner!
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Great writing, Bob – as always. Someone said it earlier, but I’ll repeat – its very alive.
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Bo, maybe oysters were exotic enough to gain favor for a special holiday meal. I will never know. I remember my parents fixing Campbell’s Oyster Stew on rare occasions. I have been surprised by the number of my friends who have emailed me to say that they don’t like oysters. I always thought Velveeta made most things edible…within reason.
Neola, thanks for your comment.
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ybonesy — I found what you said here helpful: “Some times it’s not so much the long-ago reflections but rather the more heat-of-the-moment ones that cause me the most heartburn.” I think you are right on the money here, though lately it’s been difficult for me to tell the difference. For example, on my blog, I posted a memoir piece I had worked on for 15 years and three months later, I posted one that I wrote in 6 hours, and the 6-hour piece was more successful because I was less detached or something.
I think it goes back to something breathepeace shared with me yesterday “off blog” about developing a personal narrator. Over the phone, she read a couple of pages from Vivian Gornick’s, The Situation and the Story. I ordered my own copy and it should be here today — that’s how much it resonated with me. All to say, that I have a hunch that it is BECAUSE of the discipline of posting everyday on a blog, from the ridiculous (like what are Tater Tots really made of?) to the sublime (a favorite day with a dying sister) . . . and then getting nearly instantaneous helpful feedback from a loving, present community (Bob and Neola are two wonderful members) that has helped to give form and shape and hone my personal narrator. A blog provides immediate feedback — and accountability. My blogging partner, Matissta, and I have discussed what it must be like for us to go back and forth between the ridiculous and the sublime . . . as you ask, Are we making our readers car sick? Then we figured, “Hey, ain’t that life?”
I read your piece about drinking. Did not comment because it made me wonder if I had a problem, too. See what I mean about immediacy? About words leaping off the page and into your Marker’s Mark Manhattan (though since I lost my beloved cat, Isaac, I call it a “ManCattan”)?
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I’m playing catch-up this morning; there is so much great dialogue on writing memoir. It’s good to get thoughts and feelings from all different kinds of people. I value that about community.
And Flan, thanks for the compliment about red Ravine. I think people that blog on a daily basis know how truly hard it is to keep something like this going over time. It’s a work of art in progress. Every day is new and different. And you just never know what’s going to happen, what people will respond to.
It’s also a learning process with receiving such immediate feedback on pieces. Or receiving none at all. You really have to deal with both in blogging. You can’t manufacture comments. And you can’t always predict what people will be interested in.
I know with ybonesy and I, we also have a mission and vision with red Ravine, some things we want to accomplish with it over the long haul. So when we publish we also run pieces through that filter so as not to alienate people. We want all kinds of people to feel like part of our community. Yet we want to be honest. It’s a delicate balance, for sure. And it changes over time and with experience.
diddy, I’m so glad you got to go through some photos with Mom. Bob mentions writing on the back of old photos while people are still alive. And I did sit down with Mom once and do that. She remembers quite a bit. And then there are other things that live on in the family legacies because the people are long gone. I love doing that with her and hearing her memories.
I’m finding inspiration in the comments on your piece, Bob. I have had more time lately to work on my writing. And I find it really does take the discipline of what Natalie has taught us about Writing Practice and structure, along with a willingness to feel the pain of the past. To sit with it. Then hopefully release it. And also, like ybonesy said, to pull that into the present in a way that is kind of transformed. That’s just for me.
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Bob, I wanted to come back and say one other thing, about your comment on John Cheever:
Funny that someone would think that Cheever’s led a pathetic life compared to Fitzgerald. A tortured life can lead to really great writing, alcoholism, drug addiction, unstable relationships, not being who you are…all kinds of things. Great writing doesn’t need those things, but it can use them to make great stories.
I tend to agree with you. I think I remember reading that John Cheever also tried to get help, to recover from alcohol abuse in the later years of his life. And his daughter Susan Cheever who wrote Home Before Dark about her father, has gone on to do amazing recovery work and to share her views with others. I remember one piece she did on NPR with Krista Tippett’s Speaking of Faith — The Spirituality of Addiction (LINK). In telling her experience with addiction and what it was like to live with her father, she has helped many others to open up that dialogue.
I think it’s risky business to judge someone for their addictions, or to say they are not good writers because of that. There is a chance they may be even better writers if they are able to go toe to toe with it. I actually liked the Cheever short stories we read. And they were fiction. I think he did aspire to live a better life, a different life. But then, don’t we all? I’m not defending him or his actions. Just that when I study a writer’s life, I can see all kinds of things that throw tremendous light on their writing.
BTW, in the NPR link I add above, there are some great books on recovery from any kind of addiction:
My Name Is Bill: Bill Wilson—His Life and the Creation of Alcoholics Anonymous by Susan Cheever
One Breath at a Time: Buddhism and the Twelve Steps by Kevin Griffin
One Breath at a Time is a great approach to all kinds of self-destructive behaviors, and blocks to writing, to the creative. It helps to sit with whatever keeps us from following our true hearts, a path of service to others. A great book.
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One last comment — I ran into this NPR piece that I hadn’t seen before. Susan Cheever’s part of the panel. Who’s To Blame When You Get Drunk? (LINK) on Talk of the Nation. It’s from December 2008, about a man who got drunk on a United Airlines flight, was then arrested for beating his wife as they walked through customs, and now the couple is suing the airline for serving him too many drinks. I haven’t listened to it yet but it drew me in because we’ve been talking about the edges of addiction on red Ravine the last few weeks.
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QM & yb, your work and dedication to this space is obvious. You walk a fine line, but make it seem so easy from an outsider looking in. Thank you.
In looking back at my life, I sometimes wonder who incidents really happened that I remember in great detail. I have come to believe that all of my memories are filtered through at least two filters. One filter is who I was and what I knew at the time of the original incident. The other is who I am now and what I know now. That has caused me to wonder if all of my memories are created bits of fiction and how much they are related to what “really” happened.
Remember in your college composition class where the professor would arrange an irate student to enter the classroom and yell at him and then walk out? Remember how the professor would then ask the students to write an account of what happened? Remember the number of different stories that would arise from the same situation? That’s what I have come to believe my memories of past hurts are…different takes based on my perspective then, now and over the years. I wonder if anyone else feels that way?
We studied Richard Hugo’s book, Triggering Town. He wrote some good stuff, but it was colored by the teacher telling us he was an alcoholic and sex addict who cheated on his wife with prostitutes. Kind of like knowing that Katagiri Roshi had sex with some of his female students or Sylvia Plath committed suicide. Those facts do not make the writings of those people invalid. What is this thing we have about our public figures needing to live spotless and pure lives? They are human. I don’t get it.
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yb, it’s hard to think of one’s cousins as “good-looking”but you would probably know them if you saw them.
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Or Allen Ginsberg sleeping with both of his male and female students, actually telling them it would help them find their voice. Whatever. Still, he’s a pillar poet.
Don’t know if you read that Sylvia Plath’s only son committed suicide a week ago Monday, March 16th. He was only 47. When I learned this I thought, How terrible the tentacles of depression. Then I thought that even knowing all the facts about his mother (in several biographies) could not save his life.
I don’t get it, either.
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Flan, Liz just told me about Sylvia Plath’s son when she got home from work yesterday. I’ve been a little isolated in the writing bubble of late and had not heard. My first reaction, too, was to think of his mother and how depressed she was. Also her troubled relationship with poet Ted Hughes.
Liz found an article about it with a photograph of Sylvia Plath’s son. I haven’t had time to read the article yet. I really did think of the depression though, how it can be hereditary. As can addiction. I think her son was only an infant when she put her head into an oven and committed suicide.
I don’t get it either, why we think people we admire must have stellar lives. If my life isn’t stellar, why must those I admire be stellar. I’ve made lots of mistakes, had lots of down times, lots of work to get to a different place. Yet still the pull toward the undertow is always there.
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Oh, Bob, thank you for the compliment. It’s always a pleasure to publish your work on red Ravine. And to all who venture to visit and comment here, we have so much gratitude.
I also wanted to comment on your two filters — the way we were when the memory happened. The way we are now as adults, looking back and writing about those memories with all the growth and information we have in hindsight. I think being able to merge those two perspectives leads to great memoir. And this is just me — but I look for some kind of transformation in the writer, in the person writing the story. I have 5 younger siblings and it’s like we all lived completely different childhoods. Whenever we talk about pivotal events in our lives, we come from completely different perspectives.
And like ybonesy mentions, I’m the oldest so had all the responsibilities and insights that come from being the oldest. (ybonesy is the youngest in her family and often talks about how her perspective is different, and she has different insights into her parents from being the youngest.) The younger two boys in our family, born and raised in Pennsylvania, have an almost totally different experience of their childhood. And the middle three siblings who were also born in the South, but grew up in PA, have different views, too. And we all have different biases about our parents and grandparents, different issues we’ve had to work through with them (and are still working through). We carry all that into the writing. {BTW, it was fun to explore the role of Birth Order in great depth on the WRITING TOPIC — BIRTH ORDER (LINK).}
The beauty of memoir, to me, is that it is based on memories. The memories of the person who wrote it. That’s their truth, for that time, pulled into the present. I think it’s the hook of a memoir that pulls me in, connects me to it. Like Natalie always talked about — what’s their angle? Is it their father’s addiction and its impact like Susan Cheever’s? Or Ann Patchett’s relationship to a close writing friend. When I connect with memoir its because something the writer said resonates in my own life. It’s a universal experience.
It’s the same with factual historical documents. And you can hear historians talk about this all the time. Especially about something well-written about like the 16,000 books written about Abraham Lincoln, or the Civil War, or what happened at Gettysburg. When does something actually become a fact? There are so many different perspectives and all claim to be fact. It comes back to the angle and who is writing the book.
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QM, the explanation provided about memoir helps. I get caught up in the difference between fiction, non-fiction, and creative non-fiction. It all seems like fiction to me because it is based on memory which is so faulty even for the best of minds.
We remember situations and motives and impressions that others don’t. Several of us may remember the same situation but differ in what we remembered caused it or what resulted or who said what. Our filters don’t permit us to know the Truth, only the truth (with a small “t”).
My sister is almost 10 years older than I am. We grew up with the same parents, but they were quite different. She got them young. I got them older. She was an only child and first grandchild on both sides of the family. I was the first boy grandchild. We look at our parents quite differently.
yb asked me why I don’t write about my dad. My sister would have a different story to tell about him than I do. It is our different perspectives…our filters.
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Bob, this is totally off the subject, but did you hear about that gas station in Kansas City yesterday that charged 1950’s prices for the first, I think it was 50 customers? I think the price might have been 30 cents a gallon. They were celebrating some anniversary. Liz and I were watching footage of it on the news and thought of you. 8)
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Didn’t hear a thing about it. They must have been swamped with gas in the city around $1.89 for regular unleaded. Looks like it is on its way back up.
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Checking in from beautiful Denver. My sister who’s 11 years older than me (and her daughter and my daughters) are staying with my sister who is 6 years older than me. It was a long drive, especially because we made a couple of stops along the way. Have to when you have youngsters in the car. They were troopers.
Bob, your comment about the filters you and your older sister each have, well, it’s so true. I love spending time like this with my sisters, long drives in the car and multi-day sleepovers. We get to patch together our memories of our childhoods, our parents, our grandparents.
Today Bobbi talked about how she used to make Dad’s fried bologna sandwiches each weekday morning for breakfast, how she had to pat the grease off the bologna, add a piece of lettuce, mayonnaise, and cut the sandwich (toasted bread) at a diagonal. By the time I was 7, Bobbi was out of the house. My memories are of Dad making his own fried bologna sandwich for a sack lunch, but still the same sandwich, the same piece of lettuce and mayonnaise, the same diagonal cut.
I often call Janet (sister in Denver) when I need to get clarity to a fuzzy memory—about neighbors or family members. My siblings are invaluable to filling in some of the gaps in my recollections and vice versa. We remember different details.
Anyhow, I only had a chance to scan the comments that have come in since I was gone. Great conversation. Great piece, Bob. It sparked thinking in all sorts of directions.
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ybonesy, so glad you were able to check in from Denver last night. Sounds like you are having a great time with your family. You are making new memories with those road trips! I laughed at the amazing details your sister remembered about the fried bologna sandwiches and how your Dad ate the same breakfast every day. Yet when you were growing up, your sister was out of the house and he made his own lunch.
BTW, there is something comforting about eating the same breakfast or lunch every day. A ritual that I often hear writers mention as part of their writing routine. I remember my mother getting up every day to make breakfast for my step-father who was in construction. He burned a lot of calories and carried what looked to me like a HUGE lunch to the construction site every day. Mom was a night owl and stayed up late every night, so I always admired that she got up at 5 or 6am to make lunches and get us older kids off to school.
I think it’s great you can compare memories. Once in a while my sibs and I will sit around doing that, too, and it usually brings up some great laughs at all the crazy stories. I was gone for some of them, long out of the house. But most involve some kind of mischief that our parents eventually found out about. 8)
Have fun in Denver!
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yb, are you and your sister who is 11 years older close to each other? A distance exists between my sister and I. I love her and I think she loves me, but we lead such different lives and always have. I wonder what it’s like for you.
QM, I eat pretty much the same breakfast everyday…an egg, a piece of toast, a glass of orange juice, and cup of tea. Occasionally I mix it up with an omelette.
My mother would arise every morning at 5 a.m. to fix breakfast for my father, prepare his lunch, fix a thermos of ?coffee?, and pack his lunch pail…an industrial gray looking thing. They would have breakfast together and then he would leave for work.
Next she would fix breakfast for my sister and then me. Sometimes she would sit down and read the paper while I ate.
One thing that she made for breakfast that I can’t recreate yet was pancakes with homemade syrup. The pancakes were thin and slick and the syrup was just water and circle boiled until it was thick. My mouth waters thinking about it.
QM, I always thought it would be nice to be part of a large family. Seems like your family and you are close.
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Sorry, the syrup was made by boiling water and SUGAR…not circle. How the mind thinks. What a mystery.
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Bob, isn’t it amazing what our mothers used to accomplish in a single day? My mother also sold Tupperware, Home Interiors, and other products to help make ends meet. Plus cleaning and cooking and taking care of young kids. I don’t really know how she did it all. Plus, unlike having a job, she had to structure her own days so that she could get all that done. No small feat.
My youngest brother is about 14 years younger than I am. When I left the house, he was only 4 or 5. I looked at a photograph of him the other day at about that age; that’s how I remember him most. I didn’t know him as a teenager. And since I’ve always lived pretty far away, I haven’t known him much as an adult either. But I’ve always felt close to him and my other youngest brother because I helped Mom take care of them when they were very young. It’s a different kind of bond.
That syrup sounds really good. Simple. Wholesome. It is great being part of a large family; it leaves you with more options. I think we are pretty close now but there was a time in my 20’s when I moved to Montana and was pretty distant from my family. It wasn’t until I moved to Minnesota that I started reconnecting with them again in a closer way. I had to do some of my own emotional work to let go of things I was clinging to about the past. It really helped me to know myself better, too. My family has been a huge support for my writing (and Bob, it sounds like your family is supportive of your writing, too). I love them dearly with all of their strengths and faults. I hope they love me with all of mine! 8)
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I listened to Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar on tape about two weeks ago; I was so surprised to hear her son had committed suicide, too. QM, let us know how the article is.
Bob, do the Scalloped Oysters freeze well? I really want to try your recipe, but will need to space out the Velveeta intake. I love oysters, so plan to use them at full throttle.
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Teri, I don’t know if they freeze well, but the nice thing is that you can make a smaller version in a smaller dish. I may prepare some for the upcoming visit to KC.
QM, the only members of my family who know I write are the three children (and their children) of Aunt Annie and Uncle Pete. The other cousins don’t know what I do. My sister knows and likes to read my stuff but I am not sure she checked in this time since I emailed her the story in a separate email.
My family of choice is very supportive of my writing. I have received lots of nice comments off-line.
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Oh, I considered begging for the oysters when you host the Midwestern Writer’s Group in April, so I’m glad you’ve sort-of offered.
Between oysters, Minnesota wild rice soup, and Kansas City b-b-que, will we get any writing done?
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We will get lots of writing done.
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Bob, I wanted to answer your question about whether I’m close to my sister who’s 11 years older than me. When I moved out of my family’s house at age 18, the person I moved in was this sister. I lived with her for a while, maybe a year or so, before moving into an apartment with a high school friend. We’ve been close ever since, traveling on Spring Breaks or just going to Mom’s together on Sundays.
Bob, it’s great that your family of choice is supportive of your writing. I think it’s a gift that you provide these memories, some very ordinary (which is what I love about them) for all to savor.
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The other night I watched Nicholas Nickelby and a line that really touched me went something like, “…family isn’t so much about those with whom you share blood, but those for whom you’d shed your blood…”
This lept to mind when I was reading the comments about family being supportive of your writing. And I’m glad that you fit into BOTH categories. And further Bob, I can’t remember a time when I didn’t look up to you!
You inspired me to learn how to play the piano. Yes, mom could play by ear, but it was you taking lessons from Mary Lee Hyde that inspired me to learn. The way you always excelled academically infuriated me, but you did keep me trying by arranging Geometry tutoring with Jean Gale :-). One of my most favorite memories is riding in the back seat, Sundays after church on the way to Grandma Hecker(please forgive the spelling), and watching you do your homework!
And so in so many other ways…And now your writing!
Am not sure this public venue is the best place for me to express my sentiments, but since it’s your writing here that’s inspired them, why not? Forgive me if I’ve crossed a line!
From your admiring cousin and fan, with love!
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Bob,
I’m just getting here and am so taken with your piece. The detail of the classy scalloped oysters with VELVEETA cheese was perfect! It took the gourmet down a notch and made me hungry in a Midwestern (not New England) kind of way.
I always learn from you how to bring the bits and pieces in from the every day. Your writing brings me right into the moment with your family at Thanksgiving bowing me head and eating Scalloped Oysters. Sweet, painful and true writing.
xo
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Laura, thanks for the comment. Sorry I am late getting back to your post.
Randy, thanks for the long distance comments. You didn’t cross a line. Hope all things are well with you.
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Bob, because we had this conversation in this post, I’m cross-commenting here about a book I started reading this week. It is I Could Tell You Stories: Sojourn in the Land of Memory by Patricia Hampl. Here is a little excerpt from her website [LINK]:
In this timely collection, Ms. Hampl “weaves personal stories and grand ideas into shimmering bolts of prose” (Minneapolis Star Tribune) as she considers the habit of autobiographical writing that enchants and bedevils her. Hampl reflects on her family’s response to her writing, the ethics of writing about family and friends, the subterfuges and falsities of memoir.
As soon as I started reading it, I thought, anyone who is writing or wants to write memoir must read this book.
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I will see if my library has it or will order it if they don’t. Thanks for the recommendation.
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yb, got the Patricia Hampl book and have started reading it. Thanks for the recommendation.
Have also been trying to write about my father with some unusual results, physical symptoms, and a mind that wants to shut down. We will see what comes of that.
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Physical symptoms? Sounds like you are mining some serious memories. Oh, what did I read that Patricia Hampl wrote in that book. That we don’t write to document memories. We write to remember them. Was that it? When the going gets tough, remember that we’re here with you.
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Bob, tremors, litter
be brave, let it rip open
light heals in the dark
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Bob,
Patricia Hampl is one of the keynote speakers at the Memoir Writing Festival at The Loft in Minneapolis. It’s on May16th-17th. I’m not planning on attending the two-day workshop, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed that they’ll sell tickets to hear Patricia speak.
Do you want to come to Minneapolis? 🙂
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I just finished Patricia Hampl’s The Florist’s Daughter. I’ve been wanting to get back to ybonesy’s comments about Hampl earlier in the week and just haven’t had time. I’ll try to drop something in later. I want to read her other 3 memoirs now. And also the book that ybonesy pointed out. I learned a lot reading The Florist’s Daughter. It was fun because it was set in St. Paul where she grew up and I knew the landmarks. The memoir hinged on a specific time near the end of her mother’s life when she became the caregiver.
It looks like she’s edited two other books: The St. Paul Stories of F. Scott Fitzgerald. And Burning Bright: An Anthology of Sacred Poetry from Judaism, Christianity and Islam. I kind of want to check those out. It would be great if we could get into The Loft to hear her speak.
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yb, I’m sure the physical problems that I deal with are a result of the memories. Too personal to explain here.
Teri, I would love to come to Minneapolis, but I don’t think I can make it on those days. She is a good writer. I find her book full of interesting comments on the writing of others, like Sylvia Plath. It would be a good book to discuss in a group, I think.
When I finish with this book of Patricia’s, I will move on to The Florist’s Daughter.
Laura, thanks to you and everyone for your support.
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Oh, dear Bob, blessings to you. Not dealing with memories also leads to physical problems for many people, so I applaud your difficult work to hold them in the light. Take good care.
I appreciate the recommendations for Hampl’s books, too.
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[…] dinner one night, Bob cooked Hamburger Splatter and baked his Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters, made famous in his March post on red Ravine. If you love oysters, Aunt Annie’s are to die […]
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[…] piece about his father, Part I of a series of three. Bob’s other red Ravine posts include Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters, Hands, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, The Law Of Threes, and In […]
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Bob, better late than never – just had a bit of time and decided to explore here – read your very loving tribute to your Aunt and Uncle, very nice read. Glad you have those good memories to share and celebrate. The Hamburger Splatter reminds me of hubby’s Hamburger Gravy, wonderful comfort food 😉 Very glad to have the chance to read more of your work!
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[…] other red Ravine posts include Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters, Growing Older, Goat Ranch, Stephenie Bit Me, Too, and The Law Of Threes. He has also published […]
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[…] week? Are there any that have been passed down by your grandmother? Bob mentioned he’s making Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters. ybonesy’s family always makes tamales for Christmas. And my family makes Southern Banana […]
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Bob, let us know how the scalloped oysters turn out today. Aunt Annie is smiling. Happy Thanksgiving!
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[…] Rick – June 2009 Cathy Wysocki – May 2009 Teri Blair – April 2009 Lesley A. Goddin – April 2009 Bob Chrisman – March 2009 Elizabeth Statmore – March 2009 Linda Weissinger Lupowitz – February 2009 CONTRIBUTORS […]
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Just read “Desecration Day” The best part is how they order you around while disregarding your opinions.
Then I read about scalloped oysters. Forget them — what was in the raspberry pie? (Please tell me there was no jello….)
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Sharyn,
There was no jello in the raspberry pie.
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