That December Day in 1972

As I work on my novel, I think about the big events that will take place in this fictional world. This happens, then this, then this, resulting, finally, in this. Not unlike real life, where the events we experience propel us forward or fix us in place.

I think of the big events of my life — marriage, childbirth, divorce, the milestones in my children’s lives, the deaths of people I love, the various hardships inherent in being human, illness, the birth of my granddaughter, and now, most recently, retirement. These have all shaped me and my recollections of each vary in brightness. Some are clearer than others and it’s not just the distance of time that contributes to this. The most difficult events leave behind strong feelings but weak memories. A friend or family member will remark on an event or recall something I said during an upsetting time and I think, really? how do I not remember this? It’s as though strong emotions are clouding the lens through which I’m trying to glimpse these memories.

You know what I do remember though? Certain everyday moments that would seem on the surface to be unremarkable and yet are so singular that I can’t forget them. They didn’t change the course of my life or impact it in any noticeable way. But they live in my mind and replay in detail, in full and living color, at unexpected times.

Here is one: I’m leaving school on the last day before Christmas break. I slam the metal locker shut and walk through the empty lobby, my saddle shoes tap-tapping and echoing in the open space. I pass the alcove where the Blessed Mother watches all and nod and silently wish her a Merry Christmas. Then I push through the exit doors and go out into the gray December afternoon. It’s freezing and smells of snow and as I head down Academy Road, flurries appear. My hands and legs are cold. I’m not wearing gloves — I’m in my trying-to-be-cool phase and cool girls would rather die than be caught wearing gloves — and my thighs are red and itchy where there is a gap above my knee socks and below the hem of my gray wool uniform. But I pay no mind. I’m full of the joy that is ringing out to the world. In fact, I’m humming, then singing Joy to the World. I’m alone but not lonely, not thinking about the coming holiday, nor reflecting on the end of my first semester of high school. I’m just in the moment.

Not in December and not my freshman year but still trying desperately to look cool in my high school uniform.

This memory has surfaced innumerable times in my life. It’s always clear and brings with it a sensation of happiness. That must have been what I was feeling as I headed home singing Christmas songs. It’s the memory of a non-event, when nothing special happened, and yet it has stayed with me. I’ve never spoken of this to anyone before. It’s always lived in my mind only and now it lives in yours.

During the pandemic, I began meditating, a practice I’ve mostly adhered to. I try to be present while meditating and occasionally, I’m even able to achieve this while moving through my day. Now it occurs to me that maybe the reason I recollect this particular small slice of my life so clearly is that I was fully present for the 10 to 15 minutes it took me to walk home that afternoon.

Recently, after meditating, I came across this quote: be where your feet are. On that day in December 1972, my feet were on Academy Road in Far Northeast Philly and I was heading home.

The Writing Life

This week I was struggling with the plot of my novel and trying so hard to see what the events of this book should be that I swear I was squinting and began to get a headache. I got up from my desk and headed downstairs and then suddenly there I was in my mind walking down Academy Road again. It made me think that even a fictional life should be full of small everyday moments. My characters don’t want to simply move the plot forward, to be pushed and pulled from an inciting event to the next major event. They want to live a real, if fictional, life. If you’re writing a novel, don’t you need to include some seemingly mundane events for depth and texture and verisimilitude? Maybe readers won’t remember them, but they would sense their absence. (I think, but what do I know — this is my first novel.)

The Reading Life

I just finished Mark Haddon’s “Leaving Home” (recommend!) and am now reading “All the Beauty in the World” by Patrick Bringley (so far: excellent).

Share