Burns/Narrative Writing
Memoir Example
Memoir About A Photograph: Mom, Dad, and Intricate Pillars
By Peggy Freeburg
My parents are sitting on the front porch of the house in South Dakota where I spent the first 17 years of my life. Their hair is still black, so I must have been very small. I only remember them as my dad gray, my mom graying, both with beautiful hair.
Mom isn't wearing glasses. I don't remember her without them. Dad is reading the newspaper. He read every bit of printed matter that came into our house. At that time I couldn't fathom why he would read our history and geography books when no teacher said he had to. And he would ask us if we would please bring them home again the next night. His formal schooling stopped after the third grade, but his education never stopped.
Dad has his stocking feet propped against the pillar of the porch. When he and Mom would sit down in the evening to relax, my task was to take off their shoes - a nightly ritual. I remember crisscrossing the laces to release them from the hooks on Dad's shoes.
Mom is sitting and looking - not very animated, maybe chewing on a toothpick. Nary a day goes by now that I do not chew on a toothpick.
The window is closed in the photo, but we could slide the panes to have it open at the top and at the bottom. We had adjustable screens we could put in an opening to help keep out the flies. But flies we had. They would get so thick that we would all (except the men) gather to "chase flies."
We would close all the doors and windows except one. We would each take a couple of white flour-sack dishtowels and line up at the back of the living room, stretching as much as possible completely across the room. Then we would slowly walk towards the kitchen and chase the flies out the door.
Usually we'd have to go back and make a second sweep of the rooms. They didn't make as much noise as a herd of cattle, but it was just as difficult to "herd" them where we wanted them to go.
Notice the intricate detail on the pillars. That is the only claim to grandeur that this little square house had. And it did not last forever. We moved to Washington when I graduated from high school, and one of my brothers moved into the house. He was not much of a go-getter, and I was saddened at the speedy way the house deteriorated.
Yes, the house was old, but it was no longer loved the way we had loved it. A friend made a trip to our mutual hometown and brought me back a snapshot of the house. One of the pillars had fallen down and was lying askew on the porch where it had fallen - most likely not just that day.
The whole house is gone now, and a furniture store stands in its place. But I wonder if the great-great-grandchildren of that little toad in the foreground are still hopping around in the grass.