The white walrus: Life writing unearths its origins

I had no memory of where the white walrus had come from and couldn’t remember why I had it in the first place. It was only in conversation with my mother about the memoir she was drafting that its import came to light.

My parents had married in England in 1951, then emigrated to Canada in 1953. One of Dad’s good friends in Montreal had ended up working on the DEW line in the Arctic and had brought the little soapstone carving back with him, having bought it directly from the sculptor up north. When Mum moved out of the family home after Dad died in 2015, I was given the walrus.

Mum mentioned the walrus in a recent conversation with me and I laid my hands on it immediately, with enthusiasm. Now the walrus had meaning for me, for I knew its origin story within my family.

In my view, that is what life writing or memoir writing is about: Working our way towards knowing and understanding the stories in our family and of our life.

The stories I am learning via my mother’s memoir writing are thrilling to me. While they won’t set the larger world on fire, they add flesh to the bones of what I know about, in this instance, my mother’s life as a young woman earning her living in post-WWII London, then meeting my father and emigrating to Canada. For this rounded out portrait of Anne, the woman, I am grateful.

Her writing over the past 16 or so months has ignited many conversations between us during which I ask questions and Mum provides the answers in the form of stories. Those stories have now found their way into the memoir.

In my view, that is how life writing or memoir writing works: While, ultimately, words must find their way onto the page, it is often conversations that prime the writing pump. Show the interest. Ask the questions. Know the stories have value. Write them down.

I have spent the past week with Mum at her home, doing the final edits on the manuscript. Soon it will be finished; yay! 

Below, with her permission, I share a short excerpt from it. This vignette describes my parents’ honeymoon in Paris, complete with descriptions of food — rationing still existed in England, so good meals were a real treat. You will see that, in many ways, it is an ordinary story about ordinary people, which is precisely what most family memoirs are. I am very glad my mother has made the effort to write it.

Honeymoon in Paris

We had reservations at the Hotel Napoleon on the Left Bank. Uncle Arthur’s wedding present of fifty pounds (£50) was the magnificent gift that made possible this week in Paris. In those days, Treasury regulations foreign allowance was limited to twenty-five pounds (£25) per person per twelve months. That was all you could spend abroad then, not one penny more. Colin paid British Airways for our flights in British pounds. So in France, we had as many francs to spend as £50 would buy. Riches? Or not? We would find out.

This was my first visit to Paris. It was November. It was grey and cold. And it was wonderful. We went to the top of the Eiffel Tower and we visited all the sites that people go to Paris to see.

We walked everywhere and everywhere the air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of roasting chestnuts. At every other street corner, it seemed, a vendor was roasting chestnuts over a glowing brazier. He sold them, five or six at a time, dropping them, tongue-burning hot, directly from the brazier into a paper cone that became instantly so hot you had to juggle it from hand to hand till the chestnuts were cool enough to eat.

Early on, looking for a small restaurant with good food and a friendly atmosphere, we discovered, not far away, the Restaurant Raffy. It was a husband and wife operation, very simple and very good. We ordered steak, medium rare, pommes frites, and a simple green salad, followed — on Madame’s recommendation — by Mont Blanc, a dessert of chestnut purée topped with whipped cream. It was all utterly delicious. So exactly what we needed and wanted that we ate there almost every night.

Back in England, we stopped in to see Aunt Enna and my mother to thank them for the perfect reception they had organized for us. We found them busy slicing and boxing small pieces of wedding cake (traditional fruit cake) to be sent to a list of relations and friends unable to attend the wedding. My sisters Mary and Vivian had been co-opted to write messages and address the envelopes. Something we’d never even thought of, now being taken care of for us. We must have been the most carefree pair of newlyweds ever.

***

I would love it if this tale of life writing in my family inspired you to start writing your family's stories. As I have said before, today is the day to start. We won't have time forever. 

..............................................................................................................

To receive my weekly blogpost in your inbox, email fiveyearsawriter at gmail dot com. Simply put SUBSCRIBE in the subject line. 

Land acknowledgement: I respectfully recognize that I live on the original lands of Anishinaabe, Cree, Oji-Cree, Dakota and Dene peoples, and on the homeland of the Métis Nation.