The Family Business

My husband and I were born and bred in Detroit - The Motor City - and automobiles are definitely in our blood. Both of my grandfathers came to Detroit expressly because of the automotive industry. My maternal grandfather by way of a small town in central Kentucky, my paternal grandfather by way of a small village in Armenia. But because of Ford Motor Company and Timken Axle, they were able to provide for their families during Depression years and The Great War. 

No surprise then that my father whet his teeth at Ford’s, learning enough about the tool and die industry to open his own business and then become an automotive supplier. 

My father-in-law worked for Chrysler, my mother-in-law worked for Ford, and both retired with good pensions and benefits, the kinds that have long since faded from the business world. Although Jim has never worked directly for an automotive company, he has spent his career in designing and building the inner workings of those huge factories where cars are assembled. 

My first car was a 1972 blue Chevy Nova with a 350 engine; my second car a 1976 silver Trans Am, “screaming chicken” and all. Followed by a 1978 Corvette silver anniversary edition, which my dad bought for me in May of 1979. My relationship to my husband was originally inspired by my desire for a ride in is 1971 black Mach One Mustang.

I think my son considers our old 1979 Bandit Tran Am his mechanical “brother” since Jim bought it the day after Brian was born. And I have a sneaking suspicion that our grandson’s middle name (Alexander) was chosen based on the fact that his monogram would be CAR. Which is perfect, since he is a complete and total car enthusiast, and at the age of 3 is already “driving” his Dad’s Pontiac GTO through the neighborhood.

So I’m a car girl in every way. Our whole family is loyal to the American automotive industry. The only “foreign” car we’ve ever had was my 2007 Saab turbo, and the year after I bought it the American car companies went bankrupt. I know I can’t take responsibility for that. But still. I’m all American from now on. (Or a least, American labeled.  I realize that a good many parts and pieces of American cars are no longer manufactured in America. That is much to my chagrin - but that is an entirely different story than the one I mean to tell today.) 

The American automotive industry has fed and clothed me since the day I was born.

It’s kind of our family business. 

Because of all that, a good portion of our income has always been spent on cars. And I’ll admit, as I’ve gotten older I’ve sometimes wished I had some of that back. Did I really need to lease new Lincoln Mark VIII’s every two years for eight years running, to the tune of $500 a month each time? That was a good chunk of change down the proverbial drain, even though I did really enjoy driving that sleek, smooth riding, powerful car around town.

One of the things that’s happened to me as I’ve aged is a definite diminishment in my enjoyment of the automotive experience. It’s a sad fact about getting older: the things that once brought great pleasure seem sort of ho-hum. (I know, there’s another story implicit in that statement too, but I’m not about to go there.) Maybe it’s because I’ve been relegated for the past five years to what I consider an “old-lady car.” Or maybe it’s just because the cars I can realistically afford aren’t all that appealing. If someone were to offer me one of those Shelby Mustang GT’s like I saw on the floor of the auto show yesterday, I would probably be much more enthusiastic. 

But maybe not. I think my priorities have simply shifted. These days I think more about saving my money to make sure we have a nice home for our retirement, that we can spend winters in Florida or somewhere else warm. I don’t do a lot of driving anymore anyway, and I’m beginning to have more interest in comfort (yes to heated/cooled seats and steering wheels!) and less about how fast I can get off the red light.

“When I was a child, I spoke as a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things.” This Bible verse seems very true to me in these days, as I think about the ways our lives will change in the years ahead. As we walked around the floor of the Auto Show yesterday, instead of dreaming about what color car I might get next, or trying to decide whether to get a two door or four door, or which had the most horsepower or the sleekest lines, I was planning how best to coincide my next car purchase with Jim’s retirement so that it made sense for our budget. 

At almost 59 years of age, I’m certainly well past childhood. I had a good long run of playing with cars, and I’ve got some great car-related memories (especially in the aforementioned 1971 Mach One Mustang that belonged to a certain first boyfriend). Even though I spent a lot of money in my “salad days” of car ownership, I don’t really begrudge it. The feeling of speeding down the highway with the windows down, the t-tops off, and the radio blaring rock and roll is a feeling I savored time and again. I don’t know for certain that it’s completely over -somewhere deep down I still may be holding out hope for that red Mustang convertible - but for now it feels as if I can put my cars away in the annals of my memory and travel on. 

Write On Wednesday: Going Deep

“The risk of writing is an internal risk. You brave the depths of your being and then bring it up for commentary by the world. Not the work of wimps.”  Laraine Herring, Writing Begins With the Breath

A friend who read Life In General had this to say: “I loved your book, Becca, but there were times when I wanted more of the story, times I felt like I wanted you to expand it into even more directions, emotionally and literally.” 

At first I was tempted to defend the short essays which fill the book, reminding her they were all originally blog posts that are, by nature, small slices of life and not meant to be long-form essays. 

But I didn’t. 

Because deep down, I know she’s right.

I recognize it myself - I come to a certain place in the writing, a crossroads in effect, when I could either stop traveling or continue on into the unknown. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I stop dead in my tracks. It’s visceral sensation, a need to jump up and hurry away from the keyboard, put down the pen and close the notebook. 

It’s fear, plain and simple. 

As Laraine Herring says, “the risk of writing is internal. You can’t really prepare yourself for what’s in there, because you don’t know all of what’s in there.” Writing unearths ideas and emotions and opinions we aren’t always aware of. Sometimes these are uncomfortable. Sometimes they are empowering.

They are often revelatory. They are always surprising.

 “When I coach students through essay writing,” says Anna Qundlen, in Lots of Candles, Plenty of Cake, “I invariably give the same direction: go deeper, go deeper. In each iteration, reveal more, of who you truly are, of what you really think.” It’s like opening a series of beautiful nested boxes. Each one contains something unexpected. Each one takes you a little step deeper into the inner earth of your soul. As you lift the lid, you run the risk of exposing something you aren’t quite sure how to handle.

So yes, “going deep” into the psyche is scary, and I’ve never pretended toward intrepidity. But I believe another factor in my tendency to stop short is a fear of inadequacy: not only as a writer, but also as a thinker. I’m not sure I possess the kind of analytical mindset required to process complex issues in writing. I shy away from the kind of deep thought necessary to plumb the furthest depths of an emotion or an issue, and stay on the surface where things are simpler. 

Where will I find the courage and the ingenuity to take my writing and my thinking to this next level? 

Two words: Focus and Stillness.

“There is so little time for stillness in the everyday world,” I wrote in Life In General. “We itch to fill every second with stimulation, entertainment or productivity, and modern technology gives us a million opportunities to do just that."

A friend and I were talking about the concept of children and boredom. She said that on the rare occasions her son complained of boredom, she would remind him how lucky he was. “Now you have an opportunity to really choose what you’d like to do, even if it’s just sitting down and watching people go by.” 

It’s the quality of quiet contemplation that I lack: the ability to slow down, observe, wonder. To think about what I’ve read or listened to, heard or seen. And it isn’t as if I don’t have time - my time is mostly my own these days and the hours in front of me are often spacious (at least in comparison to many people I know). It’s mostly that I feel the siren call of busyness, the urge to do something “productive,” one that is provocative and pervasive in my life, as I imagine it is in yours.

Again, it’s like opening the nested boxes, looking at the deeper meaning of each level of experience. 

That sounds kind of intense, does’t it? 

I’ve been re-reading Marilynne Robinson’s novels Gilead and Home, preparatory to reading her latest, Lila. These three novels are nested beautifully together, each one delving deep into the experiences of two families in a small Iowa town in the 1950’s at a particular slice of time. Robinson is a writer who forces her reader to slow down and focus. Her writing is stately and diligent. It unfolds ideas about grace and faith and fealty in powerful language that begs re-reading. I cannot imagine a woman who writes this way as anything other than one who moves slowly and thoughtfully through the world, leaving little trace of herself on the modern thoroughfares of social media or public acclaim. Yet she is fearless about exploring the hunger and thirst of the soul. She ponders questions that pertain to us all: where do we find the grace to forgive ourselves or those who have disappointed us? how does faith matter in our relationships with family and friends? what constitutes a life well lived? 

She is one who goes deep, and perhaps can begin to teach me how it’s done. Reading these books, reading them slowly as this author mandates by her writing style, is such a pleasure, especially on these cold and snowy winter days that seem perfect for slowing down and savoring the stillness outside my windows. 

As I think about the new writing I want to do this year, I know I must move forward to that next level my friend urged me toward. I’ll have to “brave the depths of my being” to explore a larger panorama of my life, seek more details from my memories, and unearth some of those emotions that, until now, I’ve left by the side of the road. 

How about you? Do you eagerly open the nested boxes containing your deepest thoughts and fears? Or do you leave them closed tightly by the side of the road?

A Word About “The Word"

In January 2013, I chose an inspirational word as my guide for life throughout the coming year. It was the first time I had engaged in that practice, and it came about through working with my friend Deb Smouse, who puts together a yearly workbook to help guide you toward the word (or words) most meaningful to you. Working through the exercises in that little workbook was so enlightening to me then, and put me in touch with my feelings in a very surprising way. My word for 2013 (“Settled”) helped me get my new house in order, literally and figuratively. 

I repeated the process again in 2014, and came up with the word that not only helped me complete Life in General, but gave me a new way of thinking about the things I do for my family: Devotion.

 I was eager to discover my “touchstone” word for 2015, so once the holiday hustle was over I spent an afternoon in my comfy chair with a pot of tea and began the process. Part of the exercises involve scanning lists of words and marking those that “speak" to you. This is easier than it sounds, especially if you’re a word person. Reading through those words, I get a definite feeling about them. Most of the time it’s kind of neutral - nothing really happens. Sometimes it’s an averse feeling, like you’ve smelled a unpleasant odor. 

Then there are the words that “pop,” that give you a definite pleasurable sensation. My lists of those usually include lots of words like attentive, calm, disciplined, productive, generous, peaceful, wise, tender. 

This year’s words were so surprising. They were words that generally don’t show up on my lists at all: words like elegant and festive; fearless and feisty. Impact, insightful, luxurious. Proficient, resolute, revitalized. Strength, successful. Unsinkable.

At one point I found myself saying out loud, “Where did that come from?” (I think that was “feisty”).

As I worked my way to the end of the book, and came up with the final words that meant the most, I was enthusiastic. These were magic words that could enable a new way of looking at myself and my life. 

Excited. Confident. Elegant. 

Vibrant.

I always think of myself as a very low-key, understated kind person. I like to fly under the radar most of the time. I don’t want to make a big splash or draw attention to myself.

To my mind, those are all antithetical to someone who would be considered Vibrant. That person is outgoing, vivacious, bright, adventurous.

But I think the way I gravitated toward this word indicates a need to bring some elements of vibrancy into my life. Looking back over the past year, I can see myself coming to this point. We’re settled in our home now and I feel like it’s ours. I’ve finished my book, a long time goal and one that I completed successfully and with gratifying results. I feel more confident than I have in a long time, more sure of what it is I need to be happy. And I’m excited about new creative projects and partnerships for the future. I’ve started to feel an urge to get out more, do new things. And while I’ll always be a homebody, I’m feeling ready to see other places once again. I’ve felt a need to take better care of myself, not just on the inside but the outside. Lavish some extra care on my body, get some new clothes, ditch the blacks and greys for brighter colors. 

There is vibrancy in all of that.

Just because I didn’t fit my pre-conceived perceptions of a vibrant self-confident person doesn’t mean I can’t alter my ideas about vibrancy in a way that makes it congruent with my personal nature. By limiting myself to this idea of myself as quiet, self-effacing, and understated, I am limiting my ability to be and do in the world. Just as there are self-fulfilling prophecies, there are self-limiting ones as well.

You are as you think you are. 

This notion of a word (or words) to guide us is, admittedly, sort of self-indulgent. But in a world where the focus is often on injustice, violence, anger, and hopelessness, maybe it’s important to look inward sometimes to make sure we don’t slip into that kind of despair. 

I definitely feel like the world could use more vibrant, confident, excited, and elegant people. 

This year, I hope to be one of them.

(*If you’re interested in choosing your own word, try Deb Smouse’s workbook, Choosing Your 2015 Touchstones. You can get one free by subscribing to her newsletter (which also has some great ideas for creating a life you’ll love.)

Write On Wednesday: What’s Next?

Long ago on another blog far away, I held a weekly writer’s roundtable every Wednesday. It was anchored by a short essay, and I invited writers to weigh in on the topic of the day. Connections were created around this table. It was where I first met Andi Cumbo Floyd, Jeanie Croope, Kerstin Martin - women with whom I continue to draw inspiration for creative work (not just writing). 

Since Life In General was published, I’ve been thinking about what’s next for me in this writing practice which I depend upon, and I thought it might be fun to explore that in a new series of Write on Wednesday posts. For the past two years my writing goals were focused on putting Life In General together. It was a satisfying process and a superb learning experience. Publishing it put a cap on eight years worth of writing and tied it up nice and neatly.  

But Life Goes On. That’s the theme that seems to be emerging for my online writing, the essays I write here on this blog. How do I use what I’ve learned in this decade of my 50’s and go forward with it into my 60’s? You know those guiding principles I talk about in the Afterword of Life In General? How are they working out for me as life moves forward? How will they help me handle the inevitable changes yet to come? 

Beyond that, though, I feel an urgency to try something new, to start from scratch on writing something that might turn into another book. I’ve hinted at it here from time to time, I’ve made a few false starts and even have part of a “shitty rough draft.” It’s a topic that fascinates me, that makes me ponder family legacy and how it affects our personalities and the choices we make for our own lives. It’s also about roads not taken, and how our lives are steered by what we don’t do as much as what we do.

But there is much work ahead, and much to think about. I’m reading a lot right now, reading even more memoirs than I usually do (which is saying a lot). But I’m reading them with an eye to form and structure and voice, rather than immersing myself solely in the story. I’m studying books about writing memoir, starting with my friend Beth Kephart’s challenging text Handling the Truth. And it is challenging me - to think and re-think every early assumption I made about this project, with an eye on the “universal question” within which to frame it.

But it’s all good. I’m not in a hurry. 

It feels like a hike in the wilderness on a cool spring day. A fresh breeze tingles on my skin, clouds scuttle across the blue sky above, my feet crackle and crunch on the forest path, one step after the next, my gait steady but unhurried. The day is long, there is plenty of sunlight, and much to see and hear. I’m simply enjoying the walk. 

That’s what’s next for me.

Writer and artist friends: What’s next for you? 

What Saves You?

When I am among the trees, 
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks, and the pines, 
they give off such hints of gladness.

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment, 
and never hurry through the world 
but walk slowly, and bow often. 
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”

The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,”
they say, “and you, too, have come
into the world to do this, to go easy,
to be filled with light, and to shine.” ~ Mary Oliver

For poet Mary Oliver, the trees - the willows and the honey locust, the beech, the oaks, and the pines - save her. We all need saving from time to time. I know I do. When we are “distant from the hope of ourselves” for whatever reason, we look to our personal sources of encouragement and wisdom to instruct and inspire. Nature is that source for Oliver, as it is for many poets and writers. I’ve been reading Terry Tempest Williams memoir, Refuge, in which she pays homage to her landscape. “Only the land’s mercy and a calm mind can save my soul,” she writes as she drives across the Great Basin. “If the desert is holy, it is because it is a forgotten place that allows us to remember the sacred. Perhaps that is why every pilgrimage to the desert is a pilgrimage to the self. There is no place to hide, and so we are found."

When we write or speak about those things that “save" us, an element of the sacramental creeps in. In the short passage above, Terry Tempest Williams uses the words like holy, sacred, soul, mercy, and pilgrimage, all words we associate with religious experiences. Indeed, the word “save” itself is loaded with religious connotation for those of us who grew up in the Christian tradition. We were raised to believe in the “saving power” of faith in God and Jesus Christ, a gift that was there for the asking through simple grace.

I suspect nature is a saving grace for many people, though most of us don’t have the same facility for description as do the poets and writers who honor it so beautifully, so religiously. Today when I awoke the room was filled with the particular brightness that only sun on new fallen snow can offer. Pristinely white, not yet marred by traffic or footprint, the ground outside was aglitter with trillions of tiny snowflakes etched in ice. I’m not a fan of winter or snow, but even I was struck by the silent, perfect beauty of my view out the window. 

Am I "distant from the hope of myself" these days? Perhaps a little. That particular line in Oliver’s poem always strikes at my heart. It is so poignant. We all have those hopes for ourselves. We want to be more - creative, compassionate, attentive, loving, patient, mindful. We want, as Oliver says, to have “goodness and discernment,” to “never hurry through the world.” We pick and worry at ourselves and our lives, discontent with each minute. But she is right - when I can walk outdoors among the trees or especially along the waterside somewhere, I feel content, fulfilled, peaceful. I feel as if I belong, as if I am enough just as I am.

Saved.

But winter is hard. There is little opportunity for outdoor walking for me, there are no green leafed trees to sough and sigh and sing me their soothing song.  I have to find other saviors, and I am trying to be patient with myself as I search. Sometimes a cup of tea sipped from a beautiful china cup, both dogs curled on the couch next to me, a good book or two close by, some Chopin or Debussy playing softly in the background - sometimes that can save me. Those few minutes are reminders to slow down and savor, to “walk slowly and bow often” to the comforting peace and warmth of my home and the little animals who depend on me. 

Reading and writing - yes, they can save me. The power of words pulls me in, but also sets me free. It lights the way toward what a good life can mean, and connects me to the world and every person in it. 

The end of Mary Oliver’s poem gives us a mandate of sorts, one I try to remember when I most need saving from all the petty grievances I harbor against myself. “It’s simple..You too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine."

On this cold winter day, I hope you find what saves you. May you go easy with it and shine.