Writing Memoir

The baby frog was well camouflaged under the tree prunings my brother and I were cutting up for the green bin. As I lifted another branch from the pile, the frog was suddenly exposed, small and vulnerable, its yellow-green skin glistening in the sunny patch of green grass between it and the fishpond.

              ‘Oh, it’s a baby frog!’ I exclaimed, stating the obvious. I hurried to catch it and deliver it to the pond, where it swam across to the rocks on the other side and sat there, blinking. We watched each other for a while. Then I went back to my post at the green bin. When I went back to the pond later, the frog had gone.

I had a special and pleasurable week at my brother’s home: we had a picnic and farm-made ice-cream at the seaside; we visited a site of Roman remains which I wanted to research; we spent a day at Bakewell with its busy market and pleasant riverside walk, where we stopped to drink coffee, eat Bakewell tart and watch giant trout; and we had fun playing our favourite card game and eating chocolate. Why then, out of all I enjoyed that week, is that seemingly insignificant incident of the baby frog such a clear memory?

              Memories are like that—unpredictable. They pop up when you least expect them. Then when you are reaching back into history to recall them deliberately, they fly away like migrating birds. I have almost eight decades of memories, some dramatic, some delightful, some sad, and some that pop up and surprise me with what seems to be irrelevant detail. The process of writing memoir is more than recalling past events, of isolating certain threads from the tapestry of life. Delving into the past also raises questions, evokes emotions, causes one to ponder why things happened the way they did, how they might have been different, why certain moments are easily recalled and many lost in the mists of time. Why is the memory of the frog crystal clear, etched in my memory like a multi-coloured snapshot in my mind?

              Writing memoir is loaded with questions. As I’ve pondered on the significance of the frog memory, I’ve realised that myself and other people in my life story are complex beings, more emotional that rational. To ponder on the memories is to delve into the complexities of human nature. I believe I remember the frog because it was an exquisite example of God’s Creation, which never fails to delight me, and because it feels good to rescue one of God’s creatures. After all we were given the mandate to care for it. And maybe I like fixing things, making them right, making the world a better place—even if it’s only for a little frog.

             A memoir is more than the telling of the outward journey. It is also the sharing of the inward journey. It is a very personal reflection on events that happened in the past, events that must surely have included other people who lives were intertwined with ours, even if only briefly, but from our unique perspective. It ought to enrich both the reader and the writer of it.