Because my 88-year-old mother starts sentences with, “Now don’t you go telling your siblings what I’m about to say.” And because it’s mostly about things she’s forgotten, like a date with a friend that she didn’t write down and how they showed up at her door. She wants to keep it between us, but clearly she wants someone to know.
I write because one night last year when I was staying at her house and getting ready for bed, there was a great knocking at her door. It was her neighbor, a chatty brunette in her 40’s who likes to party, here to tell mom that they had friends over for dinner and had run out of wine, and did Suzy have any, and of course she did, and as she handed the neighbor her wine, the neighbor said, “Come to the party!” And Suzy, not wanting to miss out on anything ever said, “But I don’t feel pretty!” as she slammed the door behind her and ran across the street, her hair flying wildly at 9pm.
I write because the house she entered for the party used to be ours, for 60 years, until we sold it to the pretty brunette and her husband, who understandably tore it down and built something more modern, bigger, with a swimming pool for their kids.
I write because sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, instead of counting, I walk myself through the old house, stepping into the foyer like a ghost. I shift to the right and count four steps until I reach my bedroom, turn the door knob, and push into my teenage sanctuary; the blue shag carpet, burned in a few spots where a lit candle fell, the turn table and stack of records on the floor – James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James – Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark – two twin beds, the blue and yellow floral comforters. Now, here, 550 miles north and 40 years later, I let myself remember, slowly scanning the room to see what else is there; the wall my parents let me draw on; felt tip pens in assorted colors, faded now, but an entire wall of images; peace signs and rainbows, marijuana leaves, the Keep on Trucking guy, a perfect drawing of David Bowie from the Ziggy Stardust album.
In 1975, living just miles from the Sunset Strip, my world was all tangled with self expression. What I tried to say, what I didn’t know how to say, what I said badly and how misunderstood I felt. All of it is depicted on the wall by me and my friends.
These details are and aren’t important, but like the poet Danusha Lameris says “details are love.” And I love this house that is only a memory now, and which I can recollect any time I like with words; the 6 ponies my mother brought to the street for my fifth birthday, how they walked in a slow circle at our dead end street, giving rides to my young friends. Dolled up mothers standing on lawns holding cigarettes and drinks, laughing. The red azalea in my hair, how I grabbed presents from the hands of my guests as they came to the door, ripping them open before they even entered the house.
I write because there’s a world out there and writing helps me enter it. I don’t write to get away, I write to get in, to bring back the feel of the cement front porch, and how warm it was under my bare legs as I sat staring at clouds, the sound of my Mother and her friends inside the house, the smell of coffee, the clink of the silverware.
I write to remember because this life moves so quickly, and so to take the time to send myself back, to remember how oily my Father’s back was when he had me scratch it on Sundays, all of us gardening in the backyard. How my fingers had to find their way around the knobby growths on his back. I write to remember what it felt like to be outside in the hot L.A. sun all day, all six of us, hands in the flower beds, one of us dragging a hose, the dog already digging up the beds, my Mother in the kitchen clanking the dishes around, the promise of dinner.
I write to return, if only for a moment. And because our lives are lived in those details and it matters. To me.
If you would like to return to a world that lives inside of you – stories that still live bright inside of you, I’d love to have you join our Wild Writing Family where we write stories about our lives and how we live. Not just yesterday, but today. Because it matters. Because this is our life and we’re writing it down.
What a shining gem of a piece! Thank you for writing. Thank you for telling us you are writing to enter the world, not to hide.
This is gorgeous of course, as it is you.
🙏🏽❤️
I love this Laurie. And it delights me to think, although a few years apart at the time, we were maybe only 25 miles from each other, if that. And how would I know that if you didn’t write??
Laurie, this piece is so beautiful. I can feel it in my heart.
I love this so much Laurie. I feel like I am there with you. The house I dream about is always my childhood home and it is those details I remember intimately. Writing about them is a solid connection, especially with parents who are gone.
Beautiful, just beautiful. Felt like I was in the story with you riding ponies and listening to James Taylor. I also grew up about 25 miles away. Who knew you were a SoCal girl?
Also, your mom is a hoot. 😂
Six ponies!
Your mom rushing out to the party reminds me of my friend’s best line-“That sounds like a terrible idea; what time?”
The dog undoing your planting.
Your details = home, love, family, simple (simpler?) times.
Thank you!
Lovely, Laurie. Thanks for opening your door for us.
Laurie Laurie. So. Is real and yummy and sensual. Thank you.
So enjoyed that this morning. Thank you.
Wow. So beautiful that I wanted more and more. Thank you!
“I write to get rid of the pit in the middle of my stomach.”
at least this is what I told myself when I pictured the house I grew up in and how lonely I felt…”
Maybe this is why I write with no problem when I’m on Zoom with you, yet I don’t write too much when I’m by myself. I write to get in Site…. Insight… Or inside !
Thank you
Dripping with gorgeous details! This makes my heart sing, too 🙂
Laurie,
This piece really connected for me. I LOVED reading about your mother joining the party, at 9pm. I loved the descriptions. Thanks for sharing “why (you) write”.
Very beautiful piece of why we write. Love it. Inspiring and thoughtful and provoking. And a memoir to self in some ways. I am in.
Laurie, please keep writing.
❤️ Mama
OMGosh – LAURIE, I didn’t see the text that followed!
Mama is losing some of her marbles, but there are still a few floating around –
Thank you for this piece. And you definitely are a survivor of. . . . “Get it right” . . . Your upbringing. Our generation.
Dare I get it wrong? I’m trying. Stay close, my precious daughter.. ❤️