5 years after the passing of my father-in law (Frank Brummet) I finally felt strong enough, emotionally, to begin the long process of going through his lifetime collection of poetry, short stories and memoirs. Before he passed, he gave us the rights to his work in hopes that one day we would publish it. Dad had impacted a lot of people in his retired years, as a member of several writing groups that met online and in person, as a member of nonprofit organizations and seniors groups and a senior’s choir... and through Toastmasters as well. It was his desire to leave something behind for those that remembered him and his live readings of his work at open mic and Toastmaster events.
So there I was in October 2021, digging through boxes and binders of paperwork, a few self-printed booklets and very old computer files to find every single piece that Dad wrote. Completing the first draft manuscript containing more than 235 poems, was time consuming; aching hands craved warm water on a regular basis. It was an emotional journey and repetitive - as I was finding many versions as I went through the piles of paperwork. I didn't want to miss one word, one nuance.
Upon completion of the poetry book, I then started on the second of what we hoped would be a trilogy of his work. This one contains both non-fiction and fiction stories in one section, while the other section contains family and personal memoirs. I can't possibly tell you in mere words the impact this project has had on me. Learning the story of Dave's grandmother who was put into service when she was just 12-years-old - a common practice among the lower classes at the time. She witnessed the Great War, murders, suicides and the Depression. Her early experiences of rural village life and her happiness there, her struggles with her mother who wasn't very nurturing, followed by her sole journey across the ocean to become an immigrant in a strange country. She travelled from Romania to Canada by wagon, train, boat and then train again - to marry a man she had never met. This was Dave's grandfather, who was twice widowed with several children when she met him. She told her story from the view of an older widowed woman, looking back on her life feeling depressed and saddened by all she had experienced. Then Dad tells his story starting at birth in a neighbour's kitchen in a tiny village in Alberta (Canada) to moving to the Okanagan Valley in BC (Canada) where his father worked as a blacksmith and where Dad enjoyed the simple life of being a boy.
My husband, Dave, grew up in the same area as Dad; this is also where I met Dave 3 decades ago, in fact Dave's mother once lived in the same apartment building I was in when Dave and I met. How amazing is that? As you can imagine, I was deeply impacted by the history of familiar places.
I felt as if I really came to understand Dad in a way I never had before. He was kind-of grumpy and had a love for complaining and a lifetime of habitual TV watching... There were times his desire to be argumentative was obvious. But there was this other side to him too - he loved photography, he studied writing and attended groups relating to these activities. He had compassion for those going through tough times and innocent animals too. At the funeral, we heard stories of his charm, his tenor voice and his humour; sides of him we rarely saw or didn't see at all.
His writing showed all of this and so much more. It showed what made him what he was. It showed a deeper side to him. It opened a past era up to me in a way that I could not have experienced in another way. I think it helped me understand my husband too in a deeper way. It was a powerfully emotional project, I had to take breaks, pause to digest or recharge.
This affected me on another level too. I lamented once again the loss of my mother's promise. When she and my step-dad committed suicide 2 days after Christmas (they were chronically ill) I was searching for her writings. We all saw her dabble at it; she did promise that she would leave her writings for us after her passing. I was so angry when I saw that she had cut it into pieces to use the other blank side as notepaper. I found just a few sections, notes scribbled on the other side about her farm chores. What a loss!!! I know she was embarrassed about her choices, shamed by the damage done to her kids, but she also knew we loved her and needed to understand about our past - as we were not allowed to discuss it.
I was asked recently if I had written within the memoir genre and I suppose I have through poetry, published in the book Towards Understanding. It tells my story from childhood through to mid-twenties. I started a little project after mom's funeral that I titled Cigarettes and Mold, based on the aroma of her belongings. It was too gut wrenching to continue, but was helpful at the time to purge. Perhaps one day I'll look at it again or maybe it is time to let that go... either way what I did write was healing for me.
So please tell your story and perhaps find a way to record the memories of your grandmother or share stories your mother told you. You don't have to publish it, but do make it available to future generations.
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