Crafting Life Stories was a memoir-writing workshop at Greenwich Library in 2018. It was designed to help people discover and tell the stories only they can tell – and to do so in a supportive environment for even beginner writers. With a background in journalism and fiction, instructor Joan Motyka offered journalistic tools and literary techniques to help people explore the significance of people, places, and events in their lives. Using readings, prompts, and writing assignments, she helped students draw stories from memory, organize them into a narrative, and polish them through revision.<\/p>\n
These are some of the stories written by students in her classes at the Greenwich Library:<\/p>\n
A Moment Seared in Memory<\/strong><\/p>\n I climb aboard the night bus from Port Authority headed back to my apartment in New Jersey. The bus hits no traffic, and I reach my bus stop at 10:00pm. I gather my belongings and climb off the bus, large satchel in hand. It\u2019s freezing cold, crystal-clear skies, empty, snow rimming the road and the sidewalks.<\/p>\n I begin the half-mile walk to my apartment, far enough to feel the cold seep into my bones. I walk quickly \u2014 the sooner I get home, the sooner I get warm. No traffic at this hour, deep quiet, houses in the neighborhood all buttoned up against the cold. Sade sings in my Walkman headphones as I walk down the road. The streetlights shorten and lengthen my silhouette as I go from one light pole to the next.<\/p>\n A pitch-black shadow suddenly appears on my left, small at first and instantly growing larger. The shadow grabs the handles of my satchel. Reflexively, I tighten my grip. I swing around and see a man, slightly taller than I am, a watch cap pulled over his dark face and forehead, positioned so I see him mostly in silhouette. He yanks the satchel, I pull back, and we start a tug of war on the cold sidewalk. He breaks my grip, grabs the satchel and runs down a cross-street. Angry and terrified, I give chase, following his soles through the dark as they flip up and down and yelling \u201cStop! Robber! Stop!\u201d The robber takes a sharp turn into a nearby yard, leaps over a fence and disappears, crashing noisily through several dark yards.<\/p>\n I jog the streets trying to find him, but I see nothing. I howl, \u201cHelp! I\u2019ve been robbed. I need help.\u201d I spin around in the middle of the street, trying to get my bearings. A couple houses away a storm door slams open and a man in his sixties rushes into the street in his bathrobe. \u201cMa\u2019am, are you hurt?\u201d The adrenaline coursing through my body begins to drain. \u201cI was robbed,\u201d I shiver, starting to sniffle with tears. \u201cA man came from behind me on the main road. He stole my bag. I chased after him, but he jumped a fence and I lost him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCome inside\u201d he says as he turns me toward his house. \u201cWe\u2019ll call the police.\u201d His wife, also in her bathrobe, sits me down and gives me a cup of tea. She explains, \u201cMy husband aways sleeps with his window open, even in the coldest weather. He heard your screams and knew someone needed help.\u201d<\/p>\n The neighbor dials the town police. When he hands the receiver to me, the story spills out. Five minutes later a detective arrives at the house. I thank the neighbors, and the detective and I walk quickly through the neighborhood, looking for my bag, for footprints, for clues to the robber. A police car with a searchlight prowls the streets trying to penetrate the darkness and the back yards. At the police station I file a report and the detective drives me to my apartment. I have no keys or wallet. They were in the stolen satchel. The detective climbs the fire escape; jimmies open my apartment window and lets me into the building. He warns me to lock my door and windows, then says good-night.<\/p>\n I do not feel safe. Every sound on the street or in the lobby is the robber returning to find me. He has my wallet, my credit cards, my driver\u2019s license. He knows where I live. I close the curtains. Double-lock the doors and the windows. Turn on all the lights. Tuck into my couch. It\u2019s late, but I call my mother to tell her what happened. Terrified, she asks the questions I did not consider, \u201cDiane, what would you have done if you caught him? What if he had a gun?\u201d<\/p>\n I make new keys for the lobby, the apartment door, the car. I replace my credit cards and my driver\u2019s license. Three months later the detective calls. A neighbor doing yard work finds my leather satchel drowning in mud in his back yard, dirty and mucky. Everything is still there, including wallet and key ring. The robber must have ditched the satchel in the dark woods as I chased him and yelled for help.<\/p>\n I never again use that bus stop. Instead I drive across town and take a bus on a busy street. I never again walk at night on the sidewalk. I still do not feel safe. When I drive through town I keep my eyes peeled for a man who looks like my robber. One day I think I see him. My heart races, my mouth goes dry. For a moment I want to steer the car directly into him and kill him, but I don\u2019t.<\/p>\n \u2013 Diane Tunick Morello, Riverside, CT<\/p>\n A Moment Seared in My Mind<\/strong><\/p>\n \u201cMom, can you come here for a minute?\u201d<\/p>\n I followed my daughter\u2019s voice and found her standing in front of the large well-lit mirror of her bathroom. She had rolled her shirt up to expose her two newly formed breasts. With her head tilted to one side and her gaze quizzically fixated on her reflection in the mirror, she asked: \u201cWhat do you think? Do they look even?\u201d<\/p>\n Though surprised at her question, I tried my best to match her forthrightness, and so I looked both at her reflection in the mirror and then directly at her bared breasts. Realizing that Lisa\u2019s concern may well be justified, I wanted nothing more at that moment than to tap into my allotment of motherly wisdom before I answered. I hoped I could manage both honesty and support in my response. And so I hesitated and my hesitation defied my intent. Ultimately, it was Lisa who found the right words to fill the gaping moment.<\/p>\n \u201cOh, well. It\u2019s a work in progress,\u201d she said as she pulled her shirt down with a shrug and a small smile and stepped out of the bathroom.<\/p>\n Two months earlier Lisa had received a diagnosis of breast cancer at the age of thirty-nine, and now standing in her bathroom, I was once again finding myself the beneficiary of her strength and humor. Wasn\u2019t it supposed to be the other way around?<\/p>\n Initially, it was believed that Lisa would only need a lumpectomy on her right breast. Subsequent tests, however, revealed not one but numerous cancerous sites scattered throughout both breasts. Three highly regarded doctors concurred that a bilateral mastectomy was the proper treatment.<\/p>\n As the diagnosis evolved over the course of the summer, I saw our family as reluctant voyagers, traveling to an ever-darkening destination, at times at a breakneck pace. While forced to learn and use the language of this strange, unsolicited land, we also found ourselves using familiar words in previously unfathomable combinations \u2013 daughter, wife, sister, cancer. I wanted desperately to change direction.<\/p>\n Fortunately for us, Lisa\u2019s optimism and clear-mindedness served as our guide. \u201cListen carefully to the doctors, ask good questions, make informed decisions and trust in God,\u201d was her mantra throughout the summer.<\/p>\n I, on the other hand, had with fear and anger questioned God\u2019s wisdom. \u201cReally, God? Lisa? Why not me? I\u2019m old. Let me be the one undergoing core needle biopsies, remaining still during MRIs, enduring over seven hours of surgery, guiding family members through procedures of post operative care, waiting patiently for drains, reminiscent of hand grenades, to be removed and after scheduling trips to the plastic surgeon to inflate tissue expanders.<\/p>\n While I berated God, Lisa moved in a forward direction with grace, creating for us multiple images of, as well as lessons in, courage, faith, dignity and kindness: smiling and waving to us upon leaving the recovery room, mischievously sharing a naughty little video of Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon while still recuperating, wincing only slightly when drains were finally removed, supporting fellow patients and so inspiring Heather, the plastic surgeon\u2019s P.A., that when asked at Thanksgiving what she was grateful for, Heather responded, \u201cLisa\u2019s presence in my life\u201d \u2013 a prayer our family says \u201cAmen\u201d to each and every day.<\/p>\n \u2013 Anonymous<\/p>\n Confessions of a Stay-at-Home Mom<\/strong><\/p>\n This is not very politically correct to say but I never wanted to work, never coveted a career or job, never, nada, not one iota. I wanted to be Dick and Jane\u2019s mother, that fabulous icon of 1950\u2019s primers on which all baby boomers learned to read. She wore white blouses underneath crisp aprons and continually baked cookies. My mom had to work for financial reasons and cookies were the last thing she had on her mind. Her income was a necessity. Unlike many educated women of today who want to fulfill themselves, my mom had to fulfill the grocery bill.<\/p>\n So I was the original latch key kid. Lucky for me my best friend\u2019s mom had an open-door policy and I was able to spend a great deal of time in their apartment. Being an only child alone in my apartment was scary and not much fun. Television was my companion. I watched the 1950\u2019s \u201cnormal families,\u201d with stay-at-home moms breaking bread around the dining room table while I waited til my mom, exhausted from work, came home. There was no family dinner around the table but a long walk to the Stadium diner for roast beef sandwiches. I longed for the warmth of a table surrounded by family and dinner rolls and lively chatter as \u201cseen on TV.\u201d<\/p>\n My mom would have preferred not to work outside the home in the traditional sense. She was a gifted artist and would have had the stimulation she needed from her painting. She could have tailored her hours had financial necessity not been factor. She could have painted and illustrated from home. Playing cards and gossiping was not her thing. She was never one of the \u201cwomen.\u201d But earning a living meant more than fulfilling your artistic bent. She needed guaranteed income and health coverage.<\/p>\n When I married, I was on the edge of generation of women emerging as career-oriented. Many of us went to college, married and worked to put husbands though school and buy homes. Some returned to work when the kids were older, and some did not. I had been an early childhood teacher for seven years. The thought of rereading the same story with three different reading groups, unpacking the same toys and eating the two snacks a day that were enlarging my waistline made me decide the time for retirement, be it early, was now. When I announced I was done working my husband looked dumbfounded. Several weeks later I drove in my car savoring the fall leaves while blurting out Martin Luther King\u2019s famous \u201cfree at last, free at last, thank God almighty I am free at last.\u201d I felt liberated.<\/p>\n It is odd but my liberation was the exact opposite of the celebrated women\u2019s liberation of the 1970\u2019s. Freedom to move up the ladder of career was the last move I sought. I wanted to get off the ladder. I relished, and still do, the freedom to explore friendships, crafts, volunteer work, history and New York City as others toiled away. Three kids took up most of my time, thoughts and energy, but that was fine. There was freedom in the mom job, and a lot of reward, plus I worked from home and was my own boss most of the time. I still have the music in my head of my kids\u2019 growing-up years. Did I bake cookies? Sometimes. But they never looked as good Dick and Jane\u2019s mom\u2019s cookies. Oh, and I never wore the crisp apron either. I achieved getting what I didn\u2019t want and it was the best choice for me.<\/p>\n \u2013 Jackie Friedman<\/p>\n The Xerox<\/strong><\/p>\n It was my first office. Really not an office, but a desk hidden by the periodicals section of the university library. It was a quiet place where I could study without distraction. And, technically I was working.<\/p>\n The fall of my senior year of college, I arrived with less than $50 of spending money. My parents paid tuition, rent and a monthly stipend for food. But, anything else, like clothes, beer and bus fare was on my dime. I found a part-time job on campus for 10 hours a week in the library.<\/p>\n In 1972, a student\u2019s research was based on the academic books and journals in the library. There were study carrels throughout the three floors of the library filled with students; books and magazines were stacked high in corners of these wooden desks. Most people I knew waited until two weeks before papers were due to start their research. So, I knew that my job would be relatively quiet until mid-October.<\/p>\n I had a brief training session with a university employee, showing me the periodicals, shelved and carefully categorized by academic subject. Access to these periodicals was controlled. No one, not even a professor could take them out of the library. If you wanted to use a journal article for your paper, you got a copy. And, that was my major responsibility; making copies on the Xerox.<\/p>\n The Xerox was tremendous, loud and hot, considered very high tech. This copier was one of only two available to students on campus: the other one was in the student union and had a coin slot attached to the side that was perpetually jammed. So, my Xerox was the place to visit.<\/p>\n Few people in the library knew how the Xerox worked. If it broke down, we could be waiting weeks for a repairman. The person who trained me emphasized the imprtance of smooth operation.<\/p>\n I worked a couple of hours each evening. I would arrive after dinner, head up to the third floor, to my quiet desk, with my economics textbook. Early on, there would be one or two customers a night, who would check out a few journals and then come back to have several pages copied. When the library closed at 9, I would meet my friend Robert downstairs. We would walk down the street to our favorite bar. Our budget each night was $2.00, $1.00 for the pitcher of beer and the rest for a meatball sub to split.<\/p>\n As September moved into October, more customers arrived. One night, as students lined up at the counter, the Xerox huffed and shuddered a little and stopped spitting out copies. I looked at the message flashing on a tiny screen of the Xerox\u2019s front. PAPER JAM. There was a little book of instructions attached to a corner of the machine and I lifted the pages to find the schematic. I opened the main door, swung out the huge drum and carefully picked out a piece of crumbled paper. I reinserted the drum, waiting for the machine to come to life and finished the job. Robert and I celebrated my success over beers and subs that night.<\/p>\n The next night, the message from the machine was LOW ON TONER. Again, I calmly read the book, found the toner supply and was back in business. After that, it seemed that every day or so, something new would go wrong with the Xerox. I memorized the numbering system inside the Xerox, which levers to open, close or move to extract an errant piece of paper. At one point, I desassembled the Xerox, laying the parts on the linoleum floor of the periodical room until I found the problem. I never let the Xerox stop me, surprising myself each time. Maybe I persisited because I like getting paid for this quiet and generally easy job. Maybe my engineer dad\u2019s influence finally hit home.<\/p>\n Each night, I would regale Robert with tales of the Xerox and my challenges met. Robert was one of my best friends that last year of college. I probably spent more time talking to him than I did anyone else. My roommates all had serious boyfriends as did most of my other guy friends. Robert was a handsome, laconic guy, someone all the girls loved but few really knew him. He was the eldest of a big family of boys, all rough and tumble jocks. He wasn\u2019t ever judgmental or excitable. I could tell Robert my deepest darkest fears and in a few minutes, he would have me laughing at my unfounded anxiety.<\/p>\n The two of us faced uncertain futures after graduation. That fall, Robert didn\u2019t know whether he would have to go to Vietnam after graduation. Neither of us had jobs or prospects. Unlike many of our firends, neither of us had a special someone. We were rudderless but unconcerned. Our innocence hid what lay ahead. Maybe my conquest of the Xerox gave me a confidence about the future I didn\u2019t earn. There was so much worrying I should have done. But those nights, after beating the Xerox and splitting a beer with a close friend, I walked back to my apartment in peace<\/p>\n \u2013 Susan Hannah<\/p>\n Good Advice Unheeded<\/strong><\/p>\n \u201cWhat do you want another dog for?\u201d the voice on the phone asked. \u201cThey\u2019re expensive, you can\u2019t travel, you have to take them out in all kinds of weather. They tie you down.\u201d It was my friend Sarah telling me what I already knew to be true. \u201cUh uh\u201d, I said, and changed the subject.<\/p>\n My last dog, a miniature poodle, had died the previous November. It was spring now and when I drove through the park and saw the dogs and their owners walking briskly around the pond, I yearned to join them. I called the local animal shelter to find out what dogs they might have available for adoption. The asked me what I was looking for. \u201cA small dog, non-shedding, around 7 or 8 years old,\u201d I told them. I wanted to resurrect my poodle.<\/p>\n I did not hear from them for over a month and thought my request was unrealistic. It is the larger, younger dogs that more often end up in shelter, I thought. Then, unexpectedly, a shelter employee called to say he had heard from a man who needed to find a home for the family\u2019s 9-year old Shih Tzu\/Poodle mix female named Angie. His two year-old son had teased the dog and she had snapped at him. She was now boarding at a vet\u2019s. \u201cWe can\u2019t trust her with the baby and will have to put her down if we can\u2019t find a new owner,\u201d he told the employee. The dog\u2019s owner and I exchanged emails. It was obvious to me that he lover her and was reluctant to give her up. We agreed to meet at the shelter. My teenage grandson went with me. The owner drove up with a little white dog seated on his lap, her face with its big black eyes and snub nose, peering out of the rolled-down window. She jumped out of the car and ran to greet us. I told the man, \u201cYes, I want her.\u201d And we drove back home with the dog on my grandson\u2019s lap.<\/p>\n It has been almost two years since I adopted her. She adjusted quickly to my routine. Not as regal, independent and good with other dogs as my poodle, she is instead a people dog, crazy to be petted by everyone she meets on the street; she is hard to resist. She rolls over to be patted on her stomach. \u201cSo cute, you lucked out,\u201d people often say.<\/p>\n Her previous owner and I keep in touch by email, almost like a divorced couple still bound together by their love of a child. He sent me a box with all her old toys and clothes and once had delivered from Amazon a stuffed toy dog almost her size. I send him pictures and rely on him for information about her past behavior, the commands and tricks she learned.<\/p>\n Yes, she is expensive. An operation to have a kidney stone removed was costly. And she ties me down \u2013 I can\u2019t just take off and be gone all day in the city or take a longer vacation without making expensive arrangements in advance to board her. During this past winter\u2019s snow storm it was hard to get her out. Without the booties I fastened onto her paws she couldn\u2019t bear to walk for long on the frozen ground and I had to walk gingerly, fearful of slipping and falling when she pulled on the leash. I did not mention this to Sarah. I could imagine her response. \u201cSee, I told you shouldn\u2019t have gotten that dog.\u201d<\/p>\n What Sarah doesn\u2019t understand is that we are both old, the dog and I, and I need her as much as she needs me. I need her to give structure to my days, to get me up in the morning and out for a walk when I might otherwise fritter away the early hours of the day. I need her to help me remain socially active spending time with the people (and the dogs) we have come to know. I need her to protect me. What intruder would know that the strong, loud bark he hears is coming from a tiny dog who would jump all over him in joy once he opened the door? And I need her to be my companion, someone I can (yes!) talk to in the silence of my apartment. She doesn\u2019t understand but she looks at me with those big black eyes and head cocked like she is trying and that is enough.<\/p>\n \u2013 Barbara Martin<\/p>\n With 1,800 programs and events per year, the Library seeks to serve as a cultural and intellectual pillar of the community. Take advantage of in-person and online training and enrichment opportunities at the Libraries, including bestselling and local authors<\/a>, conversations with thought leaders, world class musicians<\/a>, dancers, and performers, and timely and age-appropriate technology, science, genealogy, writing, and health workshops. Find an event at greenwichlibrary.org\/calendar<\/a>.<\/p>\n Get the latest about Library events and offerings sent to your email: greenwichlibrary.org\/enews<\/a>.<\/p>\n Questions? Contact:
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