How Far We’ve Come

This post is going to be a little different than most, but I hope you’ll stick with me till the end. Today’s saga began a few days ago when I decided it was finally time to clean out my old file cabinet. It held years of old files that I’d printed out to keep, along with the critiques I’d received. Yes, my friends, I realize that puts me solidly in the old folk’s camp, even though these days I don’t print everything out and am not quite the “computer duh” that I used to be. But I’ll tell you something, as silly as it may sound, I’m glad I had all those printouts to look back on, and I’ll tell you why.

Those of you who know me for a long time, probably know how I came back to my childhood love for writing through a fan letter I wrote to Diana Gabaldon after her second book came out, which led me to find the Litforum at CompuServe. It was back in the days of dial up modems and the internet, as we know it today, didn’t exist. CompuServe was a pay service, so the people there were very real, interested in all things related to books and writing. I’d recently turned forty and hadn’t written anything other than grocery lists and business letters for many years, so it was with great trepidation that I decided to try one of the writing exercises. As soon as I hit “send” I knew I’d lost my mind, but instead of being thrown out on my ear as a pretender, I was welcomed and encouraged, and my writing improved.

I became a very active member of the group, writing all the exercises, commenting as best I could on other people’s efforts, and on September 27, 1995 I became a staff member. I was filled with self-doubt, and terrified that I wasn’t up to the job. Well, it turned out that I was up to it, and in fact was pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. It’s incredible to me that I’m writing this almost exactly 29 years years later, that I have a website of my own, and books with my name on them out in the world.

But let’s get back to that file cabinet. Naturally, before I tossed all the paper, I had to at least skim through to make sure I wasn’t getting rid of anything important. There were names of people who became true friends over the years, some are still with us, while others have passed. It was wonderful to hear their voices coming off the pages again. There were a lot of stories I’d written, since we used to post two exercises each month and I tried to write both of them. Many I remembered, but there were a few I’d forgotten about. Reading the feedback, I could see my growth as a writer, and how much hearing the opinions of other writers I respected meant to me. There were several stories I thought were actually pretty good, which is saying something because I’m my worst critic.

There was one very special exercise that I’d totally forgotten. There was a man that taught adult literacy classes who contacted the other section leader of the Exercises section. He was having trouble finding suitable reading material for his students. After all, part of getting anyone to enjoy reading is finding things they like to read. These were adults with a 6^th or 7^th grade reading level, and he was looking for short stories, no more than 800 words, that would hold their interest and not be condescending. Any style or genre was encouraged, as long as the language was kept simple. As section leader, I tried to lead by example, so I wrote and posted a story I hoped would suit his needs.

The gentlemen who requested the special exercise wrote back to my partner, who privately forwarded that message to me. The message began, “I just downloaded the first of the README exercises, and I am totally blown away. Not only is it exactly the right length and readability, but the story, by Elise Skidmore, literally brought tears to my eyes.”

It was a beautiful response that lifted my heart then, and touched me again as I was reading through those old files. I’ll admit that I got a little teary-eyed. The story, and his heartfelt words, would’ve been lost forever if I wasn’t the pack rat who printed and saved everything. I wouldn’t be able to look back to see just how far I’ve come, and how I’ve touched more lives than I’d ever imagined. It’s good for all of us to be reminded sometimes.

So here is the story, as it was written back in 1995. The only changes made to it was to fix a couple of obvious typos. It is what it was. If you’ve stayed with me this long, thank you.

README.ENS

special exercise written by request for an adult literacy teacher.

Elise Skidmore ©1995

Mother Love

“Hi Grammy,” the girls yell over the sound of the blaring television as we enter my parent’s house. My mother’s face fills with joy as her pale gray eyes come to rest on her two youngest granddaughters.

“Oh my!” she says from the hospital bed that is the center of the living room where she spends both her days and nights. “You get bigger every time I see you.” My mother squeezes each of the girls tightly, as if to pull a bit of them into herself. My turn comes next as the girls move to say hello to their grandfather.

“Hi Mom. How are you feeling today?” My heart slowly breaks as she gives me the same answer she has for the past twelve years.

“Not so good. I don’t think I’m ever going to get any better. I hurt.”

I don’t think she’ll ever get well either, but I can’t tell her that. After all this time, hope is all that’s left, and often even that is difficult to come by. She’s stayed out of the hospital for six months now. That’s a record for her since she was rushed to the hospital all those months ago. Her fear of doctors had caused her to neglect her health for 30 years, but no more. Since the surgery, she never healed properly. Diabetes and mild strokes have left my mother looking small and fragile. Somehow, our roles have reversed and it is my job to mother her.

“Ewald! Get the girls some candy,“ she yells to my father, who for nearly 50 years has jumped to do her bidding.

“Mom, they haven’t eaten any lunch yet. They don’t need candy.” I plead with her, but being sick hasn’t made her any less stubborn than when she was in good health.

“I don’t see them that often. I’ll spoil them while I can,” she says, as she hands each of my daughters a bag of M&Ms. “I’ve been showing the nurses your story. They all think your writing is wonderful. I’m so proud of you—finally doing what you always wanted to do when you were younger.”

“Oh Mom! I bet they loved that.” An honest-to-God smile crosses my face as I think of the visiting nurses being forced to sit and read my first published story before my mother will let them leave her house.

My mother slowly pulls herself from the bed and struggles across the room, clinging to pieces of furniture as she goes. When she reaches the antique bookshelf, she grabs a white envelope filled with old photographs that’s been sitting in the same spot for the past month. “I want to show you these pictures of you when you were a little girl. Do you remember this doll? It was almost as big as you were. You had every doll under the sun and played with them all.”

“Yes, Mom, I remember. But you showed me those pictures last weekend when we came to visit.”

“I did?” She pulls other photos, old and faded, out of the envelope. “Did you see this one of your grandmother with Aunt Evelyn when she was a baby? She was only eighteen years old.”

“Yes, Mom. You even gave me a copy of that one.” I try to change the subject, to talk about things that are happening today. “Guess what, Mom? Carrianne and Sarah both were nominated for All County Chorus. Isn’t that wonderful? Carrianne got nominated for orchestra too.”

She beams at her grandchildren. They are what give her hope to carry on, to fight the pain each day. The moments when she is most lucid are the moments when she is talking to them. She shuffles back to her bed with the envelope still in the pocket of her her housecoat.

“I was looking through some old pictures the other day. I want to show them to you. Look, this is when you were six and you got that doll for Christmas that was as big as you. Do you remember that doll? And this is your grandmother holding my sister Evelyn when she was just a baby…”

I swallow a lump in my throat and fight back the tears. I can’t let her see me cry. “Yes, Mom. You showed me those pictures.”

“Did I tell you all the nurses said your story was wonderful?”

“Yes, Mom.”

I get up from my chair and sit next to her on the hospital bed. I wrap my arms around her and my mother rests her head in my neck, the way my children did when they were small. We sit there hugging each other for a long while. Finally, my mother lifts her head and looks at me; her eyes are glassy with tears. “I love you, Lisi,” she says.

“I love you too, Mom. You’re the best mother in the whole world.” And I give her another hug and kiss to prove it.