Thanks for the Memories

I have devoted a lifetime to loving fiction. From my childhood passion for the works of Lucy Maud Montgomery, Jack London, C.S. Lewis, Lewis Carroll, as well as the creators of Nancy Drew, Black Beauty, Lassie Come Home and every animal story I could find at the Waverly Library, to my adult studies in literature, I thought there was little that could surpass the delight found in the world of novels.

But lately I’ve been wondering if true stories are even more compelling. An invented world is an enchanted place, filled with humour, pathos, suspense and heroism. But I’ve been realizing that I don’t have to go to the world of imagination to find those things. Real-life heroism and courage are found in the biographical section of every library. The brilliant essays of James Thurber and David Sedaris provide more laugh-out-loud moments than most comedies. And for suspense, pathos and inspiration, few things can captivate quite like a great memoir.

Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt was the memoir that gripped me from its first exquisitely-written page to its last. It deservedly won a Pulitzer Prize for its description of his family’s life in the harrowing poverty of Ireland during the Depression. Then, Jeanette Walls’ book The Glass Castle fascinated me with the story of her poverty-stricken childhood moving about with her deeply dysfunctional parents. Truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction. Nobody could make this stuff up.

So I was delighted to discover a memoir written by an old friend in Terrace Bay. I got to know Marilyn Chapman in the late 1970’s where we attended the same church in Terrace Bay I had no idea that we both shared an interest in writing. When I noticed her book, The Secrets of the Jackpines mentioned on Facebook, I had to check it out.

It’s surprising what you discover about people. Until I read this book, I had no idea what an amazing childhood Marilyn had lived—or what a great storyteller she is. Growing up in Nipigon during the Unsupervised Sixties, with alcoholic parents, Marilyn and her siblings had all the freedom in the world to get into mischief as they fended for themselves. They took full advantage of their situation, and used unusual creativity to entertain themselves and play tricks on neighbours and each other.

To say that their childhood was rough and dysfunctional would be an understatement. Yet, while Marilyn describes the realities of neglect, hunger and occasional tragedy matter-of-factly, there is nothing of the “poor me” victim mentality in her account. Rather, she and her siblings adapted to the realities of their home life with typical Finnish sisu and resilience, taking care of each other and their parents as well, while finding plenty of opportunity for entertainment.

I laughed out loud as she recounted discovering “Moses’ basket” in the attic of the sauna, and telling her friends at school that she was related to the Jewish patriarch. And the other anecdotes, of her and sister removing vital parts from their older brother’s vehicles for their games and crafts; and of cutting up their brother’s dress pants to make hats for the one and only meeting of their newly invented Busy Bee Club. Or the time they set fire to the hayfield to make a clearing for baseball.

Marilyn’s memory for detail is profound. Until I read The Secrets of the Jackpines I had forgotten all about Freshie, that Kool-Aid type of drink we drank as kids in the sixties. Or Breeze laundry detergent, that came with a free towel in every box.

The book would have benefited from an editor’s eye, but the stories more than make up for the flaws. Marilyn writes with affection, gratitude, and an attitude of acceptance for human imperfections. After finishing the last page, I wanted more.

To Marilyn, I say: thanks for the memories.