Life is an ever changing series of phases or chapters in a book. Plot twists and turns at every corner, impossible to predict. These phases of life are opportunities of learning another tiny part of the user’s manual to life that none of us shall ever see in its entirety. I’ve experienced my share of these phases. From the miraculous births of my daughters to the death of a little brother to the healing of deep psychological wounds to the destruction of a good marriage and countless others in between.
All of these experiences become stories. Some short, some epic, some happy, some sad, some hopeful and some painful and frightening. Stories have always been one of the basic tools of existence on this earth. Like water, fire, shelter and community, stories are essential to survival. Before books and long after, telling stories has been a way to share those experiences with others, teaching people by telling them and learning from hearing them.
I have always told stories because my family has always told stories. When I was little my favorite storyteller was my grandfather. He would tell me about his experiences during World War II. Often with tears in his eyes, of both sadness and joy. My family lives in a rural region of France very close to the Swiss and German borders. During the war Nazis occupied the region and were everywhere. They had free reign for whatever they desired, including often showing up at my Grandfather’s family farm for a meal and wine. They had no choice but to serve the Germans whenever they showed up and whatever they desired. It wasn’t often that horrific things would happen, but they always knew that horrific things could happen at any moment and for any reason. Because of this my grandfather always kept a Luger in a compartment underneath the tabletop, just in case.
A helpful feature of the large farm was its perimeter of dense forests, difficult to navigate through on most sides. The only reasonable way to reach the farmhouse was a very long and winding road from the entrance gate traveling about a kilometer through the farm. The farm dogs, always on the alert for the slightest sound of approaching people or cars would bark loudly, serving as an early warning system that proved useful.
The dogs’ warnings were extremely important. Besides running the farm, my grandfather and his brothers were part of the French resistance. Growing crops, bailing hay, milking cows and tilling fields during the day. At night, communicating German movements to the Allies, disabling bridges, hijacking supply trucks as well as hiding and smuggling people in danger. The dogs’ warnings were helpful to avoid being caught doing anything the Nazis would find troublesome. It was also helpful for the Jewish families who would temporarily and openly lived on the farm, allowing enough time to hide before anyone would arrive.
Part of the brothers’ duties were to safely smuggle Jewish families to the farm. The families would live in the open with them until forged papers and safe passage to Switzerland could be arranged. I became aware of this when I came across an old picture taken at the farm. Two young couples standing atop a large hay wagon, hay rakes in hand, smiling in satisfaction of a day’s work and fresh air on a farm. My grandfather pointed out that the couple on the right were his brother and his wife, whilst those on the left were a Jewish couple who were living on the farm awaiting a safe escape. He assured me they had, like all the others, been escorted clandestinely and safely to Switzerland without any issues. Stories like these made me realize the importance and power of storytelling at an early age.
Given recent events in the Middle East and especially in Israel, it makes me realize that storytelling isn’t what it used to be. I don’t believe important and relevant stories are shared nearly as much as they once were and worst of all, older stories seem to be the least interesting to younger generations. It is as if countless pages of directions and cautions in the instruction manual of life have been torn out. Leaving us to make old mistakes and head in directions that we could have potentially avoided if we had just listened to the stories clearly warning us. If only someone would have told those stories. If only someone would have listened to them.
Recently I have been going through yet another phase of life. My eldest daughter is off to college and my youngest soon will be. I have given in to the growing disenchantment with my career and have been searching for something new, something meaningful. Storytelling, of course, became the centerpiece of that search. Eventually it led me to a little announcement at my local library: Wednesday, 1:00pm, Memoirs Writing Group. I decided to attend, thinking it would help me hone my skills, sharpen my creative writing and help push me towards my ultimate goal of getting published. It turned out to be, as all phases of life seem to prove, not what I was expecting.
My first attendance in the small library conference room surprised me. I suppose I was expecting an equal mixture of men and women of approximately my age or younger. I was more concerned about meeting difficult and eccentric writer personalities who might rub me the wrong way. Instead I found a room full of older ladies, about my mother’s age or older. My arrival and the fact I was of the opposite sex seemed to be giddily welcomed, although apologies had to quickly be made to the only other male participant, a long time regular who had suddenly been forgotten.
Their rules were very simple. Write a short memoir piece that would be read aloud to the room in approximately five minutes, to allow enough time for all. After reading a piece, the writer would receive comments and critiques from the room. When the first few stories were read, the comments and critiques were more akin to compliments and opportunities to start a conversation on various subjects. This made me think I would not get the unbiased brutal but helpful critique I was expecting for my writing to improve dramatically. What I would eventually realize was that I was receiving much more. More than I had expected.
A story of a mother’s cherished and well worn Mahjong set. Handed down to her daughter. Shared, enjoyed and eventually sold for others to share, enjoy and hand down. Describing a mother’s love and generosity, the meaning and importance of shared memories contained within objects and touching upon one of life’s most challenging tasks, letting go.
A story of one young woman’s desire to braid her hair, presumably in the 1950’s or 60’s, leading her to enter a black owned beauty parlor. Befriending the salon owner, returning to that beauty parlor for years and enjoying a life long friendship. A hopeful example of an unexpected relationship. The blindness to our differences and the clarity of our similarities. A contemplative reflection on how far we’ve gone as a society as well as how far we’ve regressed in recent years.
A story of a son’s challenges with a difficult name, resorting to his simpler middle name. His eventual conversion to Orthodox Judaism and the difficulties and emotions experienced by the mother who loves him. Expressing the struggles and paths to acceptance as well as the unique and selfless sacrifices of unconditional love.
A story of a young girl from the Bronx, attending college in Queens for the first time and the unusual prejudices she experiences based on boroughs. The struggles of finding oneself and one’s tribe, eventually discovering acceptance. Nostalgically remembering simpler times that were not easier times. A reminder that life may seem different now but is actually much more the same than we imagine.
A story of a terrible loss late in life, the struggles and lack of direction it creates. A realization and renewal and a trip to the Amazon hiking up to Machu Picchu at the young age of 72. A sharing of hope in dark times. Confirmation that life never ends between birth and death, but instead springs up anew in astonishing ways we never could have predicted.
The Ladies of the Library’s stories reminded me of my grandfather and his tales of life during the war. It was not the quality of his storytelling that pulled me in. It was the generous sharing of his deeply personal stories with me. I never sat there thinking of ways to improve his stories, ways to make them more exciting or more emotional. They were perfect just as they were. I simply felt grateful to be hearing them.
I realized I was feeling that same gratitude and enjoyment as I listened to all the stories the Ladies of the Library were telling. I had come to a meeting expecting to hear intense critiques of writing styles or plot flow. Instead, I listened to personal, meaningfully deep stories of intimate everyday life experiences we often take for granted. Stories that teach the listener about our shared experiences. Stories that add countless pages to the instruction manual of life. Stories we all need to hear, especially now. Stories told by ladies I barely knew but now feel I know so much better, simply because of their generosity of sharing their stories with me.
Renato Passalacqua 