TRUTH OR FICTION?

  

I recently discovered two photos. Both are dated 1960. I was in third grade that school year, the year my parents and I moved from Silver Bay back to our farmhouse in Harris, Minnesota.  (About two months later we moved back to Silver Bay.) The pic above was taken at the farm. Soon after our move.  

Once Upon a Time... 

Years ago I was writing a memoir about the neighborhoods in my life, especially childhood years in Minnesota – including our family farm in Harris and our years in Silver Bay. Some of past blog entries were helpful as I put together material for the book.

A writer friend read a chapter or two of my stories, and told me I was wasting my time writing a bio -  since I wasn’t famous, who would read it? Her comment turned out all for the best. My favorite books when I was a kid were Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden mysteries.  I dreamed of writing a novel about girl detectives, and put my energy into writing my e-book The Missing Photo Mystery.

 

But now, after posting some childhood photos on Facebook, I’m tempted to return to my memoir. Have hundreds of printed pages still waiting in a file cabinet. But I’m unsure about the project. Not because I’m a non-famous person, but because I’m not sure about the truthfulness of my memory.  

 

The girl in the photo above doesn’t look like a miserable sad-sack to me.  But for years I knew I hated moving back to Harris. I knew my time there was dreadful - riding the bus to school in North Branch, being the new girl in class, living in a farmhouse without central heating. That’s the story I told myself. Here's the second photo I found.

 

I see the same happy girl. Both pics were shot at our farmhouse. I recognize the walls. The place and dates on photos are contemporaneous evidence of that time. 

 

Memory’s a Tricky Thing...

Can we always trust it? Or do we revise memories as time passes? I believe now it was a difficult year for my parents, not me. I’ve woven my parents’ anxiety at the time, and their fears and worries together with my own emotional memories. 

 

If I do return to writing a story about my life’s neighborhoods, I may have to shelf it with other fiction. And here's a possible opening line… “This is not a memoir.”