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Marjorie Turner Hollman helps authors self-publish their books. She is also a disability advocate, sharing information about Easy Walks (not too many roots or rocks, relatively level with firm footing, and something of interest along the way) in open space. Click to learn more.
The unfamiliar scent was overwhelming. I was suddenly a very young girl again and the wooden floor of my friends’ country kitchen had been transformed into polished terrazzo.
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Marjorie Turner Hollman is a writer who loves the outdoors. Link to all Marjorie’s books.
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The following is my response to an exercise often suggested for groups looking to learn to tell stories. “I don’t have stories to tell” is a frequent reply. Despite resistance, participants are encouraged to simply describe a room (or two in this case) in a house where you spent a lot of time growing up. If this sounds like fun, try it! I’d love to hear what you came up with. MTH
Our house was built on land that had once been part of the Everglades. To drain the area, ditches were carved out to create buildable property for newcomers to the area. One of those ditches was in our back yard. It became a source of endless entertainment, much to our parents’ chagrin.
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Marjorie Turner Hollman is a writer who loves the outdoors. Link to all Marjorie’s books.
LISTEN HERE:
I was a contrary child, picky about many so-called “normal foods” such as peas and carrots, green beans, broccoli or onions. I did, however, adore liver, spinach, and prunes. It was not an easy childhood.
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Marjorie Turner Hollman is a writer who loves the outdoors. Link to all Marjorie’s books.
Our family has a story that has been passed down through the generations. The tale, in My Liturgy of Easy Walks: Reclaiming hope in a world turned upside down. describes an encounter my grandfather had with a farmer in Quebec. The farmer had a chicken coop. My grandfather visited the farm, and realized that one side of the chicken coop was constructed from a cherrywood table. As you might expect, the table was in rough shape, sharing company with a number of chickens.
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I had meant to clean my dusty needlepoint doorstop and finally got around to pulling out the lint remover, which allowed the intricate needlework to be on display once more on our small doorstop. (I have a very uneven house–doorstops are essential or the door won’t stay open!) Once I started handling the doorstop to clean it, I wondered if there might be any initials on it. I knew the doorstop had come from my grandmother Marjorie’s (my namesake) house, and was brought to my parent’s house after my grandmother’s death, then moved to my house after my grandmother’s death. Once all dusted off, I looked closely, but found no initials.
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Caleb Rae (with cousin Em Turner Chitty) 2017, Coalmont, TN
Glen Kuhl, early 1900s, Wisconsin
The first time I saw the photo, my first thought was, “That’s my son.” But in fact, I was assured that the young man in the photo, who was standing in the dirt road, was actually my grandfather Glen, who had died before I was born. I’d never met him, and yet, I knew that stance. It was so familiar because my son often stood in this same pose, looking thoughtful, listening intently, or simply pondering his surroundings. Continue reading
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When you have a bunch of kids, sometimes you need to whistle to get their attention!
Working as a personal historian, I never know what it will take to get someone talking. Some folks easily call up memories, while others need the stories drawn out of them. And then sometimes, all it takes is a whistle. MTH
It was just a whistle—I looked around but saw no one whistling, and the woman behind the desk was fussing with her phone. I finally asked her—“Were you whistling?” Continue reading
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In the greenhouse at Wellesley College
The trails hereabouts were all clear as we approached spring, until we were hit with a late season blizzard, and so it’s back to icy trails and the challenge to find safe places to walk. When my hiking buddy Jennifer suggested visiting Wellesley College’s Botanic Gardens, my first thought was, “Yeah, no ice!” I did not, however, expect to be transported back to the years of my childhood. Continue reading
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My dad and I
Do you know when you’re going to die? Well, I don’t know the answer to that, for you, for others, for myself. But since I’m a storyteller from way back, here’s a story:
You know, my dad was lucky. Three months before he died, Dad sat in his living room watching four of his teen grandchildren gathered on the floor around him, reading chapters of his soon-to-be-published memoir. He and I had spent a number of weekends together over the previous several years, working together to help document his life lessons and experiences. I clarified details of stories that didn’t quite hold together, drawing out more information. The more he shared, the more he remembered other events. Continue reading
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Pumpkin pie in the making at Grandma’s house
Pie-making was on the agenda for today, as was putting together the cranberry relish. My grand girl Nicole was available and willing, so I grabbed her from the bus and brought her straight over to my kitchen for us to get right to work together. Continue reading
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Marjorie Turner Hollman 