When a story is more than a story

I found my first creative writing assignment the other day ...

Photo by S O C I A L . C U T on Unsplash

Dear Creative Soul,

I am sorting paperwork when I find it. It doesn’t belong here, this creative writing assignment from my university days, not in this pile of facts - receipts, bills, bank statements. It is more than twenty years old, this short story, written when I was in a different house, a different marriage, a different life … but I have never been able to throw it out.

Not because it was particularly well-written or rewarded with high marks (I received a high credit for my efforts, which I am sure irked my high-achiever self at the time, but I see now was well deserved). Not because I liked the lecturer’s praise for my characterisation, expression and point-of-view (even if my dual timeline structure needed work and there was “too much telling”). And not because it shows how far I have come as a writer (although it’s fair to say I have improved a great deal).

I am sitting on the floor, reading this story, surrounded by little piles of paper ready to be filed into a box and forgotten, or thrown into our pizza oven for burning. I read it first as a writer, as an editor; I cringe at the overly sentimental turns of phrase in parts and think that if I were to write a manuscript assessment, I would say something like it tries too hard in the present-day timeline to deliver emotional impact, but doesn’t quite get there. It is clearly the work of an inexperienced writer. It is not ready. It needs work. A lot of work.

There is meaning behind the story

And yet. Tears are welling on this ordinary Tuesday morning, this morning when I am usually at the office but not today. Because this two-thousand-ish story, with its sentimental title “Cornflower Days”, is not entirely fiction. And now I am reading the story again, this time as a granddaughter. This time, to remember the stories my Oma told me, the stories from her life that I wove into a piece of prose about a young mother rushing to a hospital to farewell her dying grandmother.

The young fictional mother called Tash was not me. But it was.

I am crying because I realise now, oh so many years later, that choosing to write that story was my way of dealing with the grief of losing Oma. Of forgiving myself for not visiting her as often in the nursing home where she spent her final years once I married (at 23). Of remembering the stories she told me, of honouring her. Oma died when I was 27. By then, I was the mother of a two year old and a six month old.

“People don’t tell the same stories over and over again because they’re losing their minds, but because the stories are important, and you need to know them,” she said. “It’s a last-ditch effort to get your attention.” - Mary Ann McColl

I finish reading and wonder, as I do every time I come across this fragment of my academic past, whether it's finally time to let it go. But I can’t, not until I preserve what Oma told me about her life, if only for myself. She only told me a handful of stories - stories of seeking a better life by moving from Germany to Australia in 1959; stories of fun and adventure from her childhood; stories from the war, albeit limited in scope, because that was a time best left in the past. She was not unlike many Germans of her generation in that thinking. If I don’t preserve what I know of her life, it will be lost to time, just as the way she sounds and smells and the feel of her arms around me has been lost to time.

I think about this a lot, about stories being forgotten. About stories being told but not heard. About stories being kept inside and never shared. I have started to wonder what my grown children really know about my life. Do they remember any stories I have told them? They don’t ask, not yet. I don’t think I asked my parents when I was in my twenties. Only now, as my parents age and weaken before my eyes, as they start to mention death more often, as it starts to hit that one day - I don’t know when - I will say goodbye to them, to their stories, only now in my middle years, do I say, tell me. Tell me about your life. What you wanted to be, what you dreamed of. What made you laugh and cry. Are you happy with the way your life turned out?

Last weekend, more than 3000 people attended a community event I organised. They gathered in a park with picnics; they listened to music from different cultures; they walked in the wetland with an Aboriginal elder and helped another elder build a mia mia (a temporary shelter made of bark, branches, leaves and grass). They made memories. They were part of a living story. After the event, the elder who built the mia mia told me how much he enjoyed the day - his grandchildren came to visit and together they, with the wider community, made memories. He shared memories with them, just as the other Aboriginal elder shared story as he led people through the wetlands. Just as traditional stories from Aboriginal culture were shared under a tree, in this park full of people making new stories. People who had left their houses, computers, TVs, and responsibilities to be part of an active, unfolding story.

The day Oma died, there was a Bible resting on the tray at the end of the hospital bed. Someone had been reading it, drawing comfort from its pages. Oma’s faith had never been in question - not that I knew of (mine has taken a different path, but that’s another story). I remember talking to her as she lay in the bed, unmoving after the catastrophic stroke that finally took her. A slip of the once plump, healthy woman, full of life, love and spirit. I close my eyes and imagine I can smell the food I will never eat again: roast chicken slathered with butter, potato salad. I imagine the hands that knitted, cooked, hugged, and once, even smacked. The way she sat on sheets and clothes to iron them while watching The Young and the Restless. Pocket money for good grades, Butter Menthols for *cough cough* “sore throats”, a handbag flowing overflowing with tissues. Games of checkers. Snoring. An inability to sound the letter “g””, her German accent undiluted by years in Australia.

The author with her Oma and baby brother. Circa 1992-3.

I find myself scrolling through hundreds of photos on my phone to find one of the last ones I have of her - a photo of a photo. And then I carry that old creative writing assignment (the one that is really creative non-fiction) to my desk, and I start to type my grandmother’s personal myth. In “The hidden meaning behind the stories elders tell you over and over”, researcher Mary Ann McColl said “…it’s called a myth rather than a history for a reason. The stories aren’t just sitting there waiting to be called up. They’re a product that is created over time, part of an active creative process.” Over time, details are filled in and inconsistencies corrected.

These are my Oma’s stories. Any inaccuracies are mine.

Oma’s personal myth

“I remember one day thinking that the colours of the world had vanished, leaving only grey.” (Martha Krueger)

I was one of six children. We were a poor family. Our house (in Germany) was very small, three rooms, nothing like the houses people have today. We had a coal fire but in winter the house was still cold. I would wear layers of clothes under my woollen pullie. It used itch my neck so much! The windows, they rattled in the wind and the cold air seeped through gaps in the wooden floor - I would imagine that ice-cold fingers were reaching through my socks!

In those days children were expected to be quiet. Our parents were very strict. I remember watching my father play chess - how I wanted to play with him, but he always said I was too young. Your grandfather taught me to play years later, you know. And so, I became a reader. While my brothers played soldiers and my sisters played dolls, I curled up with a book in a chair. I didn't have many books, you understand, so I read the same one over and over. You always reminded me of myself, the way you read so much. Always your head in a book. 

We ate thick dark bread, sauerkraut - sometimes we made sausage from pigs blood. Blood pudding, that was a treat for us. You should try, you know. There wasn't much variety in our food. We children drank coffee too, sweet and milky. I still like it that way.

When I was a young girl I loved walking. There wasn't much choice, we had no car, of course, but in the summertime I loved walking in the hills beyond my village. We all had rosy cheeks and tanned skin from the sun. I remember the feel of the breeze fluttering my curls against my face. And the fields of blue flowers - cornflowers. I've heard that they're all gone now. In summer the hills were carpets of cornflowers. I would run freely through the grass, my arms outstretched, feeling the breeze on my skin. My brothers, sister and I would climb fences and launch ourselves into the air, having competitions to see who could climb the highest. We would chase the cows, laughing at the sound of their cowbells clanging. We would chase butterflies, and each other. Finally, we would collapse in a heap, panting and laughing.

In my pocket I always had a tattered old book, and I would read while my brothers caught beetles. Other times we would wander through the wheat fields, picking wild poppies and cornflowers for our mother. She would put them on the table, even though they were squashed and wilted.

When I was older, perhaps fünfzehn, sechzehn, I loved rowing on the river in the summer. Some friends had a boat, and sometimes I would borrow it. I would pack a basket of rolls and cold sausage, and a book, of course. I would row away from the others on these days, looking for a peaceful place to moor. I had a favourite spot downstream. On still days I could hear laughter from upstream, sometimes even splashes and squeals. My sisters begged me to join them but I preferred to be on my own. I would lie down and stare into the sky, listening to the birds, the trees, the crickets. Then I would eat my picnic and read my book. Those river days were some of my happiest. It would be a long, long time before I would experience such freedom again, such, what is this word I'm thinking of … such unity with nature.

I was a nurse in the war. Outside soldiers marched in columns, beneath clouds of smoke. Inside they lay in beds moaning, crying for lovers. I tried to become hard, to block out the sadness and suffering I saw all this time, but I couldn't. The hospital smelt like death no matter how much disinfectant we used. We couldn't get rid of it. I remember one day thinking that the colours of the world had vanished, leaving only grey. Grey sky, grey snow, grey mood, grey clothes, grey world. Sometimes I would write poetry in those awful days. And I would breathe at night under the blankets with a torch. If I was caught by the matron, I was in trouble, but that didn't stop me. 

My brothers became soldiers. One was sent to Russia and never came back. I also went to Russia. On the way, the Russians sank our ship. It was horrible, you can't believe. Some of us were saved. I was a nurse so they took me with them to nurse their sick. I met your grand father in Russia. He was a soldier. We were both sick with TB. He taught me to play chess. I fell in love with him, and when he left I wondered if I'd ever see him again. But he came to find me in my town. In fact, he got there before I did.

The day we left Germany (for Australia) was one of, how do I say it? Mixed feelings. I was scared and excited at the same time - can you understand how that feels? Your Opa and I stood at the quay with our parents until the last minute. They didn't understand why we were leaving (Germany), and how hard the decision had been for us. Oh, they tried to talk so hard to talk us out of going. Your father, your aunts and uncle, they ran around, jumping over our suitcases and trunks. I remember watching my oldest daughter, your auntie, as she struggled to be brave. We had talked about it earlier, but the awful, gut-wrenching sobs of my Mutter were too much for her to bear. And so we cried together and my Mutter held me so tight. I never regretted coming here though. Never.

I never went to the beach before I came to Australia. We didn't go on holidays like that. I loved the beach from the moment I saw it. My family would make the trip from our house by train, several trains, you know. It was hot and sticky in those trains but we didn't complain. We liked Cronulla, but later when we had a car we would go to Austinmer. First, we would pack a huge lunch of cold chicken, cold sausage, meatballs, potato salad, bean salad, and of course, a torte. When we got there there was always an argument about whether we should swim or eat first. Most times the beach won and we would run to the water. 

Sometimes people would stare at us. They could hear our mixture of German and English. People were still wary in those days. Some were very unkind. There is a lady here who is like that with me. Even now. 

I would frolic in the water. You smile now, I see, but I was younger then. I loved the feel of the water, even though I couldn't swim. You know, every day when I lived at your father's, I would paddle in his pool, for my exercises.

I remember when you were born. And all the others. You are all so different, and yet, I see bits of myself, and your Opa, in all of you. 

You're a reader, just like I was. And now you are married and you have children too. Will you bring them again soon? 

You would come to my house sometimes when your mother was studying. Always you talked, talked, talked. Such a chatterbox. And never still. You made me tired with your running. Your sister and cousins, I looked after them too, at different times. It made me happy to have you all around. All of you loved lollies. I remember hearing you children fight over who had the biggest chips.

---

In December 2023, I finally visited Germany for the first time. You can read the beginning of that journey here - the rest of the posts are in my archives.

Thanks for reading!

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