Memoir writing
I went to Monchique yesterday to a memoir workshop. I took this workshop about 15 years ago and although writing regularly I am reluctant to share memoir pieces. I took my laptop which is how I usually write and it was powerful to get so much down and out.
So here are a few memoir workshop pieces. I won’t share the workshop process as I respect the effort and experience that has gone into preparing the content. If you enjoy these three short pieces let me know.
I have written a novel where many memories pop up. Still going through and adding. I think memoir is an aid to writing fiction, although I think poetic licence shows up when getting the memory into written form.
Memory One
The kitchen was a mess, but I was oblivious. I felt some tension in my stomach as Mom would be home soon, and the cake had only just gone in the oven. I loved the way she let me have the freedom to cook cakes. It was later I realised that you can have too much sugar, but that is another story.
What prompted this memory is a Stork cookbook with recipes for how to make fruit cake which was always the answer to misery. You see, we went to three meetings a week as kids because at 7 years old, my mother became a Jehovah’s Witness. No birthdays till I was 28, and Christmas was cancelled.
But back to the kitchen and the mess. Memories of this day always seem surrounded by sticky dishes, wooden spoons, empty tea cups and a flaking hot chocolate mug. Mom would come home and recount stories of who she met at her upmarket waitressing job in the fine dining restaurant before there was such a concept. One time, she brought home the autographs of the Beatles. Another time, Mick Jagger all on paper napkins. They were real because we sold them when we were teenagers. That is my sister and I, or I should say half sister because at 65 I found out we had different fathers. Who cares? We were sisters while she lived, and her daughters are now close.
Stork margarine recipes are hit and miss if you don’t use Stork margarine. So, the offerings from the oven were often later labelled rock cakes. I hated washing up as we rarely had hot water in the tap. The immersion heater was always a topic to be avoided. We let things pile up and used the hot water from the kettle after a wash in the morning, but not if the Elders from the congregation were coming. My mom was a single parent, so we were considered fatherless children who needed attention and guidance. I now know we definitely did not need the guidance they offered, including the fear of imminent death in 1975 unless we worshipped Jehovah.
Second memory
I can hear the sewing machine whizzing downstairs. It has woken me from a deep sleep, and I need a glass of water. Passing my mother in the back room, her hands and eyes do not look my way as her foot maintains the pressure on the sewing machine peddle. Water in hand, I sit down and watch her move the black lace for the latest Spanish doll through her red, sore hands, not interrupting her flow. She finishes quickly and moves on to white lace, looking over at me briefly before stretching her back and standing to allow her knees a few moments of ease. “I need to finish this wedding dress doll for one of the sisters in the congregation tonight as she wants to give it to her daughter,” she tells me as she changes the cotton thread with masterful hands. The bobbin pops out, and she attaches the cotton reel, filling a new bobbin with ease. “You need to see how to do this,” she says. “Doing things with your hands will always stand you in good stead.” I notice her heeled shoes and ask why she wears them when they hurt her back. “You have to have a little sophistication,” she says, “or people won’t take you seriously.” I laugh, and we giggle together, and she removes her shoes. “I forgot I was wearing them,” she says. Resting her eyes for a moment. “You know I think I will finish this tomorrow and tell Sister Brown I was too tired tonight.” She moves slowly on stocking feet. She never once painted her toenails, or fingers. She would say, ‘waste of money.’ She noticed her hair in the mirror as she walked to the sink in the kitchen. “I need a trim; it will make me feel better,” she said, laughing. Now, present in the room, she asks, “What are you doing up? Don’t you sleep in and miss school in the morning.” It felt like we often met at moments like these and floated past each other.
The plastic drawer – third memory

She is coming today and this means my plastic draw will be sorted. It is the first thing she does after checking the coffee machine and emptying the pods into the bin. “How do you get it into such a mess?” she asks, opening the plastic drawer and checking how many green, yellow and blues lids are floating alone next to the wrong containers. She always manages to pick up six lids with her long fingers, and in two minutes, she reunites the couples.
Her blonde, unruly hair falls over her piercing blue eyes, and she grins. “Shall I look at the fridge?” she asks, opening the first door and spying out-of-date jars. “I will get a bin bag,” she says, flicking it open quickly and dropping whatever looks suspect into the black plastic. “Have you been to the hairdresser recently?” I ask, knowing she has. She frowns and grins at me. “Why do you ask Mom?” “Are you okay for money I follow up quickly.” “Mind your own business Mom, I am 10 years in recovery and I don’t need your help, just your love.”
I look at my cupboards and say “well I am grateful for the marriage of the plastic.”
Well done Sue! It’s good to read your memories. Fragments from the past that make us what we become. Bravo.
Thanks Merry!
I love your memories. Short but evocative. Tiny, beautifully rendered episodes
Thanks Mari.