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Sharing some senior moments
Rachel Freudenburg photos
Vivian Schouw, 92, read about "the story of our exodus in the Great Depression," from Detroit to Connecticut.
Every writer knows writer's block: that pressure, that unease that tickles at the back of your neck. There is guilt, and a strange, absolute inability to actually sit down and write. You don't know what you're avoiding, or even why. (Some of the world's greatest meals have been cooked out of this avoidance.) Maybe you even carry a notebook around with you, progressively more battered but no more complete.If you're lucky, you finally find some way out. Maybe someone sets up a table and says: Here. Let's write together. Nothing big. Just start putting down, on the blue-lined paper, a childhood memory of a bicycle.
Vivian Schouw, 92, was that haunted and that lucky. Growing up she dreamed of becoming a journalist. Instead? "Got married and had three kids, like everyone else. That's what you did back then." she said May 5 at the Somerville Home, where she now lives.
("That's my husband's name. My name is Eldridge," she said, giving the reporter a look. "My advice is to hang on to yours — unless it's too late!")
Schouw never had any interest in fiction. "Tell it like it is," she said. She did write letters, often more for herself than for the recipient: "I wish I had a dime for every letter I wrote and didn't mail. Most of 'em I wrote and never mailed."
Finally, in her 70s, living on Bainbridge Island
outside Seattle, she bought a notebook and started to write a few
memories. But life got in the way, and "when you have to leave
something for four or five days or a week ..." she trailed off. She
carried the notebook around with her, never adding to it.
In November, Cam Terwilliger set up the table. The Somerville fiction writer, poet, and teacher won a Somerville Arts Council project grant with activities director Lori Verrecchia. Each week for an hour or more, Terwilliger, Wheelock student intern Nancy Unis, and resident memoirists would sit by a rec room's frilly curtains and write their memories in response to prompts.
On May 5, nearly half the home's residents gathered in the chapel to
hear Schouw and Ann Fischang (left) read from their results.
Schouw ignored the lectern she was now too short to reach and looked carefully at the paper, dressed elegantly in a knotted scarf and peach knit top. She was going to read, she said, "The story of our exodus in the Great Depression," from Detroit to Connecticut.
The car broke down near Cleveland. "Our only camping gear was blankets and pillows," she wrote, but a nearby farmer "offered us fresh, clean hay to sleep on." 70 years later, she remembered a wave of living, brilliant orange: "The trumpet vine that covered one whole side of the farmhouse was in full bloom."
A woman turned around and said to a reporter, proudly, "That's my grandmother."
The detail knocked the granddaughter, Rachel Freudenburg, out. "I knew they were poor, about driving on to Connecticut — but I didn't know how and when and who and why," she said.
Some memories crossed generations. "I consider driving to be an expression of personal worth," Fischang read, recalling her hours stuck in traffic on the Pike when she worked for a bank. Everyone laughed when she described pretending to "assassinate" other drivers with the imaginary machine gun button on her emergency brake.
"I know exactly what she's talking about," Unis, 19, said afterward. She read her own essay thanking the residents for what they taught her.
Terwilliger, 28, was a little disappointed the class didn't attract more regulars. A few others came a few times. One fiction writer declined to participate — he didn’t want to write about himself — but read the famous O'Henry "Magi" story at the event. But the group did have a few dedicated listeners, such as Jean Woodruff, 67.
"I enjoy listening," she said after the reading. "I'm pretty shy and I get broken up but they were wonderful stories."
Occasionally the members' cajoling paid off and she joined them at the table, writing about her favorite holidays and her experiences living in a Norwood rectory.
"I enjoyed writing better when I was young," Woodward said. "I got away from it. I regret it to some degree."
It was hard to convince residents that they had stories worth the trouble, Terwilliger said the following day, a change from his highly motivated students at Emerson College and the Grub Street writing center.
When Verrecchia praised Terwilliger extravagantly to the audience, he smiled sheepishly and shook his head. At the home, accomplishment didn't matter. Writing "gives them a way to relate to one another and reflect," he said. "It was really an important thing."
Telling stories, he said to the audience, "satisfies a deep and human need."
For the two dedicated participants, Verrecchia saw all the benefits she'd hoped for. "I think it improved your self-confidence," she told them. "I think it empowered you."
Schouw's daughter down South had recently found and sent her mother's notebook from Bainbridge Island. Now that she'd started up again, "I'm gonna keep scratchin' it all out."
She hoped the class would repeat, with more participants. After all, there was no need to be scared. Schouw looked up and stared intently at this reporter. "If you can pick up a pencil and write your name, you can write."
Contact Danielle at somervillescene@gmail.com.
In November, Cam Terwilliger set up the table. The Somerville fiction writer, poet, and teacher won a Somerville Arts Council project grant with activities director Lori Verrecchia. Each week for an hour or more, Terwilliger, Wheelock student intern Nancy Unis, and resident memoirists would sit by a rec room's frilly curtains and write their memories in response to prompts.
On May 5, nearly half the home's residents gathered in the chapel to
hear Schouw and Ann Fischang (left) read from their results. Schouw ignored the lectern she was now too short to reach and looked carefully at the paper, dressed elegantly in a knotted scarf and peach knit top. She was going to read, she said, "The story of our exodus in the Great Depression," from Detroit to Connecticut.
The car broke down near Cleveland. "Our only camping gear was blankets and pillows," she wrote, but a nearby farmer "offered us fresh, clean hay to sleep on." 70 years later, she remembered a wave of living, brilliant orange: "The trumpet vine that covered one whole side of the farmhouse was in full bloom."
A woman turned around and said to a reporter, proudly, "That's my grandmother."
The detail knocked the granddaughter, Rachel Freudenburg, out. "I knew they were poor, about driving on to Connecticut — but I didn't know how and when and who and why," she said.
Some memories crossed generations. "I consider driving to be an expression of personal worth," Fischang read, recalling her hours stuck in traffic on the Pike when she worked for a bank. Everyone laughed when she described pretending to "assassinate" other drivers with the imaginary machine gun button on her emergency brake.
"I know exactly what she's talking about," Unis, 19, said afterward. She read her own essay thanking the residents for what they taught her.
Terwilliger, 28, was a little disappointed the class didn't attract more regulars. A few others came a few times. One fiction writer declined to participate — he didn’t want to write about himself — but read the famous O'Henry "Magi" story at the event. But the group did have a few dedicated listeners, such as Jean Woodruff, 67.
"I enjoy listening," she said after the reading. "I'm pretty shy and I get broken up but they were wonderful stories."
Occasionally the members' cajoling paid off and she joined them at the table, writing about her favorite holidays and her experiences living in a Norwood rectory.
"I enjoyed writing better when I was young," Woodward said. "I got away from it. I regret it to some degree."
It was hard to convince residents that they had stories worth the trouble, Terwilliger said the following day, a change from his highly motivated students at Emerson College and the Grub Street writing center.
When Verrecchia praised Terwilliger extravagantly to the audience, he smiled sheepishly and shook his head. At the home, accomplishment didn't matter. Writing "gives them a way to relate to one another and reflect," he said. "It was really an important thing."
Telling stories, he said to the audience, "satisfies a deep and human need."
For the two dedicated participants, Verrecchia saw all the benefits she'd hoped for. "I think it improved your self-confidence," she told them. "I think it empowered you."
Schouw's daughter down South had recently found and sent her mother's notebook from Bainbridge Island. Now that she'd started up again, "I'm gonna keep scratchin' it all out."
She hoped the class would repeat, with more participants. After all, there was no need to be scared. Schouw looked up and stared intently at this reporter. "If you can pick up a pencil and write your name, you can write."
Contact Danielle at somervillescene@gmail.com.
The crowd at the Somerville Home listens.
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