Since I began to be carried away in the most joyful sense with my stories, I sometimes think somebody must say to themselves: It all cannot be this good. No family is so warm and accomplished as the Golding/Reidbord clans. And of course this person would be right.
I was an angry kid and an angry teenager as well. Always pissed off at somebody and always blaming others for my own shortcomings. Who would want to remember that?
When I lost my counseling job in 2010 I started a project of writing my own memoirs. Once the decision was made, it was as if a door flew open and an incredibly strong wind almost knocked me over. Everything looked different. My grandfather was not a fussy old gasbag-he had a beautiful soul and the love he had for our faith astounded me, once that door opened. My grandmother, all the Golding Women, suddenly became full-bodied creatures with strong characters. As for the matriarchal clan that pulled me into the center of it and the warmth and the heat enveloped me–I mostly took them all for granted. When memory’s door flung itself open in 2010…well, there are no words. Thank God that my mother was still alive and mostly compos mentis when I experienced this awakening. There was still time to warm myself at the fire of what these women meant to me and did for me.
When I teach memoir-writing workshops I tell this story, over and over. In the world of counseling and psychology I’ve sometimes heard the term “reframing.” That’s what this was. There wasn’t just one reality; I could choose the reality that made the most sense and gave the most comfort.
I tell my lovely writing students that there is no law against believing the best about your relatives and friends.
lgmwriting 