The Unexpected Gift Inside a Book by Eileen O'Finlan

 

                        

                                           

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I grew up hearing family stories and reminiscences from both of my parents, especially my mom. She told many of them so often I eventually knew them by heart. My mom often spoke of her old friend, Carleton Carpenter. They grew up together in Bennington, Vermont. She talked about how close they were as youngsters and the many things they did together growing up in the 1920s and '30s. She would reminisce about how Carleton used to write plays and get all the kids in the neighborhood together to put them on, directing everyone with authority. This is no surprise when you realize that he went on to act on Broadway and in several movies, often playing opposite Debbie Reynolds.

One day, several years ago, when my mom (and Carleton who was the same age) were in their 90s, I found out that Carleton Carpenter had written a memoir called The Absolute Joy of Work: From Vermont, to Broadway, Hollywood, and Damn 'Near Round the World. I bought a copy for Mom which she loved. 

Then I got the idea of trying to see if I could reconnect these two old friends. They'd lost touch after high school so it was a longshot but worth a try. It took a while, but I finally tracked him down and got an address. He was living in New York. I wrote to him, explained who I was, and hoped he'd remember my mom. He was, after all, in his 90s, and I had no idea what he might or might not remember. I was so excited when I got a letter back from him saying that he certainly did remember his old friend, Barbara, and was so glad that I had contacted him. He included a letter for my mom in the envelope. I don't know who was more delighted, Mom or me!

I had given Mr. Carpenter our phone number in the letter I sent to him and he put his in the letters he sent to us. I set up a date and time with him to call my mom. After that call, she spent the day looking like she was in a blissful daze. She just couldn't get over the fact that she had been reconnected with a dear old friend who she hadn't seen or heard from in over 70 years. They continued to write to each other and talk on the phone frequently. She caught him up on her life, who she'd married, her kids, where she'd worked and lived. And he told her all about her acting career and his close friendship with Debbie Reynolds and how sad he was at her recent passing.

It was only a few years later that Mom slipped so suddenly and deeply into dementia that she had to be moved to a nursing home. I learned that Carleton Carpenter passed away on January 31, 2022. I chose not to tell Mom because by then she thought she was living in Vermont and he was her neighbor. It would only confuse and upset her. Mom passed away almost one year later.

Recently, I came across Mom's copy of the memoir he'd written and decided to read it. It begins with his childhood in Vermont. As I read, I noticed that Mom had underlined the names of several people and places he mentioned. Obviously, these were people and places she remembered. Now, as I read it, I imagine what it must have been like for her to read that book and be taken back to her childhood and the happy days she spent with Carleton and their friends and neighbors in Bennington.

I have also found that it is a gift for me because I feel as though through the underlined passages she is pointing things out to me, once again telling me her stories and sharing her childhood with me. I am so glad I found this book and decided to read it. I had thought that there was no way I could ever have that experience again and yet, here it is. I've always found books to be a great gift, but this one has given more than I could have hoped for in a way I never would have expected.

 

  

 

Is it wise to go back? Tricia McGill

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For years I have been writing time-travels, and repeatedly admitted I would love to go back to certain times to learn if things were really as the historians and archaeologists have assured us they were. I am in the process of writing the life story of one of my sisters, the one who was closest to me throughout my life. I began this project as an act of love and admiration, but have to admit that there have been moments when I have been so sad and so filled with melancholy that I have to wonder just why I began. Well, no I don’t really wonder why, because I know I made her a promise. I was the one who encouraged her to learn how to use a computer, and I was the one who then encouraged her to write about her life. Her finished, very abridged, version took all of twenty pages so as you can imagine it has been a huge project to turn it into a novel.

She and I probably spent more of our lives together than any of our other eight siblings so were with each other through the good and the bad, the sad and the happy. This is where I have become unstuck as they say, for the sad times are the ones that bring me to tears, and leave me wondering if I should have started this particular journey. But believe me there were more than enough happy times to compensate. I guess most people feel the same melancholy as I at times as we reminisce about times past.

Our early lives were so far removed from the lives lived by the young of today, with no television, no phone, no way of contacting, other than by letter. How we managed to keep in touch with our very large extended family would puzzle and amaze the kids of today. To invite someone to a party or a wedding, a letter had to be written. In the old days there must have been a very good postal service, as a reply was usually received with a week. Thank heaven for hand written letters, they hold so much history.

But then again, those were the days of calling in for a visit when you could be sure that someone was at home. No one I know seems to do that anymore. A phone message or a text has to go to them to inquire if it is all right to pop over for a while. The days of surprises are over. I can well recall how much I loved coming home from Sunday school to find one or the other of my older siblings and their families had popped in unannounced.

In 1998 two of my older sisters decided to go back to England to visit the remaining family and friends. Of course they asked, and expected, me to accompany them on this trip, more than likely because of me being younger. I refused, partly because I hate flying and after my only flight back to England in 1975 swore that I would never go through that torture again. They couldn’t understand my reticence, but deep down I knew the reason. I had no wish to see the changes in people I knew and loved. I preferred to remember them as they were the last time I saw them. On my sisters’ return, I couldn’t believe it when they said they now understood what I meant. It was worse for the eldest who had not been back since she left the shores of home in 1949 to begin life in a new country. She left behind brothers in their twenties and went back to grumpy old men way past their prime.

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All things change—or do they--asks Tricia McGill

Find where to buy Amethyst and all my other books here on my BWL Author page

Of late I have been contemplating on how life changes over the years, but really when you come to think about it, apart from their mode of living, choice of religion, color or creed humans are the same the world over. What we mainly crave is someone to love and somewhere to call home. What brought this on was my latest book, Amethyst. This one is set in a small Australian town. Now to be honest I have always lived in a large city or the outer suburbs of one so my background in this story was based on what I learned from visiting friends at some time or another who resided in country towns much like the Yewbank featured in this book.

It got me thinking about my childhood living in a North London street surrounded by city-dwellers and the more I thought about it our street and surrounding area was not unlike a small town. I had an unusual childhood as three families lived in the house I was brought up it. We, that’s my parents, and any of my nine siblings who happened to still be at home, shared the bottom four rooms plus what we pompously called the kitchen but was in fact no more than a scullery. Anyone who has lived in an older style house in London who is around the same vintage as me will know what I am talking about.

So, the middle two rooms plus a small kitchen were rented by my mother’s sister who had two girls, the eldest being a year or so older than me. At the top of the house in two rooms plus two attic bedrooms was my eldest brother and his wife with their son and daughter. As you can imagine because we were all related we intermingled and thought nothing of going up and down and mingling (or interfering) in the lives of all occupants. In those days there was no such thing as childcare, after-school care, kindergarten or crèche. If the mother had to go out to work for financial reasons then either her mother or grandmother would care for the child/children and failing that a neighbor.

Now the reason I considered this was not a lot different to life in a small town is because we knew all our neighbors by name and all their offspring. We kids would all play out on the street or in each other’s back gardens, often disappearing for hours at an end. I can’t recall my mother asking where I’d been or who I had been with, I guess she had sixth sense or knew that anyone we talked to or played with must be all right as they were local. Mind you, she had a few simple rules: 1. Never take lollies from a stranger, especially a man. 2. Never go into the house of someone you don’t know. 3. This one came along when I got older—don’t let a boy touch you. Now, she never went as far as explaining just where he shouldn’t touch you. Oh, and following on from this one was—it’s up to us girls to say no to a boy. Likewise she didn’t explain fully which question we were supposed to say no to. I found out later that none of my four older sisters fared any better with their sex education (guess that has changed fundamentally over the years as now the teenagers seem to know it all) The last rule was that if you got into trouble you asked a policeman for help. I don’t know if it is any different where you live but I can’t remember the last time I saw a policeman on the street, they all drive around in their cars these days.

Our mother was always there when I came home from school or work. If she wasn’t then you knew she was up the local shops. We had an extensive extended family who kept in touch by mail. There was no telephone or email back then, but we always managed to learn when there was a wedding, funeral, birth in the family or any other special occasion and often had parties where distant relatives would be invited. Being such a large family any get together often evolved into a party.

I attended a small church school which still thrives today (I love Google Maps) and knew most of my classmates and where they lived and would often visit them in their homes. Of course there were a few that I was advised not to mix with as someone in THAT particular family had acquired a bad name. But isn’t that the same in every small town—there’s always the black sheep. When our mother passed away in 1964 as the funeral cortege passed along the shopping street someone who remembered her with fondness came out of almost every shop and bowed their heads in respect for a much loved woman.

Another thing that started me reminiscing is that the backdrop in Amethyst is the game of football—soccer as it is called in England, and footy here in Australia. Because we lived a stone’s throw from the old Arsenal football club, my brothers and all the local lads would go off to the matches when they were played at home. We knew not to go out about the time that the match finished as in those days everyone had to catch a bus or train home and there would be a three mile long queue of exuberant or glum men, depending on the outcome of the match, all waiting to get home. But I can’t remember any fights breaking out as they formed an orderly line as they discussed the good or bad day’s football.

Perhaps I sound melancholy when I go back in my mind to those days, but believe me the memories are all fine. Not many people share a childhood such as mine and if they did then we all know how lucky we were. I had an email from one of my nieces in England a while ago saying how she still remembers and cherishes the years in that house in that street and my answer was that it was such a huge part of all our lives that it lives within us and always will.

The pictures are of my old primary school, the church where I was bridesmaid to my sisters and where I got married, and the house where I grew up. All are still there as you see, and there are not many changes since those far off days. There was no tree outside our house and of course probably only one or two cars parked in the street back then. 

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