A Memory from Childhood

As I look through the many essays, stories, and writing assignments that my sister left me, “for whatever they’re worth” I see a treasure trove of excellent writing and rich story-telling skills. An imagination backed by a close empathy with humanity that comes from not only experience, but also from a close observation of human nature. Joanie paid attention, and her intuitive understanding of people made her a master at characterization.

Today I picked up the workbook she wrote in when taking a writing class that I gave in Colorado several years ago. Here is the anecdote she wrote for lesson one. “Fiction is a Lens on Life” The instructions were to look into your memory and chose an incident in which you were embarrassed, humiliated. or had your feelings hurt by another person. This is a timed writing. You don’t have time to plan ahead or revise.

By the way, I’m only sharing this because Joan gave me permission. Customarily, anything written or discussed in any of my workshops is strictly confidential.

Joan remembered an incident from early elementary school that stayed with her for the rest of her life.  She wrote:

I was so excited. What a beautiful bauble! I hadn’t had that much luck lately, what with the hard time, Mom and dad in the mountains and me spending my third grade year with strangers. Now I’d found the pretty necklace in the dirt on the playground. I showed it to Susie, thinking it would surely elevate me in her eyes. She looked at it briefly and said nothing. The bell rang and I noticed Susie whispering something to the teacher.
“Joan,” the teacher said sternly, “Susie tell me you stole her necklace. Is that true?”
I felt my face flush as everyone stared. I was terrified. I thought I might wet my pants. There wasn’t a friendly face in the room.
I fingered the necklace I had put around my neck and looked at my shoes.
“Come up her,” the teacher commanded.
I couldn’t move.
She approached me and removed the beads from my neck. “Susie, is this your necklace?” she asked.
I stared in disbelief as Susie said, “Yes, It is.”
The entire class looked at me in disgust. I felt smaller and smaller and hoped I would just disappear!


A subsequent lesson from the workshop is on Point of View, and in order to get back into the realm of fiction, as well as to get writers thinking from a perspective other than their own, the exercise asks the writer to take the antagonist from the exercise above and get into that person’s head. What might have been going on to provoke the behavior that caused so much humiliation?  In the next post, I’ll share what Joan did with that assignment.

What Is Life?

(These are thoughts that came to mind as I remember not only Joanie, but other friends who've had struggles and disappointments, friends who've lost loved ones. Life wasn't always easy for Joan, especially after the cancer hit, yet, she carries on with dignity and hope, sharing love, light, and laughter with those around her. This is just another raw rhyme that came to me as memories of her and others and my own past tumbled through my mind.)

Joy and pain
loss and gain
    life is such a mixture.

Love and hate
hurry and wait
    searching for a fixture:

a solid anchor
lost in rancor
    when wedlock lost its bliss

Marriage and divorce
a ship off course
    What warning signs did we miss?

Hope and despair
When life's unfair
    We stumble on unmarked trails.

Dreams of perfection
dashed by rejection
    And the wind is gone from our sails.

Yet, time marches on
and we carry on
    learning, we hope, from our errors.

Happiness and sorrow
yesterday and tomorrow
    Life is much more than our terrors.

We focus on fun
and victories won
    instead of looking back with regret.

Blessing and trials
bring rueful smiles
    And we don't give up just yet.

Some dreams have come true
With others still due
    When we come to the end of life

Give thanks for the good.
Close the door on the "should"
    As we ask, "Was it worth all the strife?"

The answer lies deep
in the secrets we keep
    May we answer with a resounding, "Yea!"

The good times were rife
but what guided our life
    Were the lessons we learned on the way.

(by Janet Muirhead Hill)

Joanie, Do You Remember?

Joanie, Remember When?

Joanie, do you remember
When you made up plays
and we performed them for Mom and Dad
Each kid having a part?

Joanie, do you remember
walking barrels in the yard
giving them horse names?
The small one with holes was Clipper.

Joanie, I think of you night and day
in dreams and sudden memories
that make my heart beat faster
and my eyes fill with tears

Time, they say, will lessen the sorrow
that I feel when you can’t answer anymore.
I say, time has no such power
I miss you more each day

I bury myself in busy-ness,
Piling on more new jobs
So my mind will stay busy.
And keep memories away.

Yet, with every task at hand
my mind calls to you. Joanie?
What do you think?
I yearn for your wisdom.

Or I can be searching online,
Or looking at posts on Facebook
And I see a photo of a giant horse.
It’s black, muscular, and 19 hands tall.

And the grief that skulks
in the shadows of my mind
assaults me, suddenly,
and before I can stop it,

My whole body shakes
with an ambush of sobs,
And no one—save you and me
would understand why.

Joan Bochmann—on journaling and New Years resolutions

JOURNALING

By

Joan Bochmann

©February, 2011

January—that awful month when the cold settles in, refusing to let go; when the bills fill your mailbox and when everyone you know seems to get the flu. Some Januarys are worse than others—sometimes we have blizzards and get snowed in; sometimes the power goes out and sometimes people die. I read somewhere that there are more deaths in January than any other month, but I don’t know if that is true. I do know that my mother died in a January, leaving a huge hole in my life.

January is also the month of resolutions, of goals, of renewed determination to achieve something worthwhile. This determination begins to diminish by the second week and more often than not has completely disappeared by mid-March.

            My new year’s resolution this year was to get rid of clutter. I have a very small house but I have bookshelves in every room, including the kitchen and one bathroom. I determined that reducing the size of my library would be the best place to begin my decluttering project. In the process of going through this intimidating number of books, I came across a sizeable number of journals. The irony is not lost upon me. Each volume reflects a prior New Year’s resolution to “journal” every day. There is a sort of beauty to the covers of the journals themselves. Some of them are quite lovely and inviting with butterflies and birdhouses, ribbons and rhymes, calligraphy and clasps; then there are the plain old spiral bound notebooks. It is the pages themselves that intrigued me and stopped me cold in my quest to conquer clutter.

            The entries all begin on January 1 of each year, except for one that begins on December 8, 1975, when I met my husband at a Boulder bar. That one ends with a paddleboat trip through the bayous outside New Orleans in September 1978. Another journal with a lovely cover, a gift from my daughter in 1996 was given faithful attention until February 2, 1997, with one more entry in July of 1999. This one is full of prayers of thanksgiving for a multitude of activities with my family.

            Parting with any book is difficult enough, but journals dating from 10 to 15 years ago are just begging to be read. After several cups of coffee and some serious eyestrain, I get this bright idea to consolidate these myriad snippets of my past by typing them all into the computer and then sorting them somehow. This is a bit daunting for several reasons. First, there is the sheer number of entries; and then there is the countless number of subjects covered. Do you sort chronologically, as they are written to get a picture of a certain time period, or do you sort according to subject; perhaps with the goal of seeing change and/or growth in certain areas of your life? Hard to know. Family is liberally interspersed through all of the volumes, so “family” itself would be a huge category. The good thing is I don’t have to decide yet, because I am still in the data entry stage of this project, with about fifteen more journals to go.

 The point I am trying to make, though, is that running across and gathering these journals in one place has slowed my “clean out the clutter project considerably.” I cannot put them down once I begin reading. Despite the paucity of entries, because there are many, many volumes, I have been tripping down memory lane for days now. I find entries about my parents, long ago departed, that are bittersweet. I sometimes marvel at the language I use, surprised that I could write that well. On the other hand, I find myself cringing with embarrassment at the clumsiness of certain sentences.

            These journals, which have lived in various corners, on various shelves ,and on my nightstand from time to time, are admittedly fragmented and incomplete, but they are scenes from my past. There are, of course, the mundane references to the weather and the whiny laments about the flu, colds, injuries, etc. On the more pleasant side, though, are anecdotes about kids and grandkids, camping trips and vacations—all of which paint memory pictures that brighten this tedious project. Several times I tried to set down my dreams—these have an almost science-fiction quality, even though they are usually peopled by characters in my life. There is the occasional rant about the total contrariness of my spouse, children, or bosses. References to some of the animals in my life, who are no longer with me, bring both tears and happy memories.

            There are, I am glad to say, many references to God and His creation and the blessings He has bestowed on me over the years, along with a few prayers for His favor as I travel through the peaks and valleys of life.

            Although these journals almost always stop sometime before mid-year, attesting to still another broken vow to write daily, they have been fun to read. I sort of cringe when I think of anyone reading them, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of them. As I grow more content with each passing year, I find it a little harder to find anything to write about, so typing these journal entries is, I hope, another tactic to waken my sleeping muse.

            As for the clutter elimination project, well, there’s always next year.

Our first Christmas without Her

The Muirhead tradition is one that continues from the days of our childhood. We always celebrated and opened our gifts on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas morning. I'm not sure why, but I loved it that way. Maybe it had to do with all the chores that a cattle rancher and dairyman has to do every morning, starting at 4 or 5 in the morning with milking, feeding calves, chickens, etc. After a break for breakfast, it was time to harness the workhorses to the big sled on runners and load it with hay to carry to the feed yards for the cattle. With snow that accumulated to depths of four, five, or more feet in the winter, that could take until past noon.

After we moved from the Yampa Valley and even after Mom and Dad quit ranching, and their kids had moved away and formed families of their own, the tradition of meeting at our parents' house on the day before Christmas continued. When Mom died, 5 years after Dad passed away, our sister Sharon bought their house and continues to live there so that it is still the place for everyone to come the day before Christmas for a potluck dinner, gift exchange, and camaraderie. Kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids all crowd into the old ranch house* where memories of Mom and Dad are strong. (*When Dad was superintendent of a ditch company, he and Mom bought the house that was part of the old Benson homestead north of Lake Loveland. It's now pretty much in the middle of town as the city has grown up around it.)

As with many Christmases over the years, I have not been part of that nostalgic setting because of the distance I live from my Colorado roots, the threat of bad roads and weather, and the draw of my own offspring to stay here in Montana. And it was a lovely Christmas Day here—relaxed, peaceful, and fun, as I basked in the presence of 3 of my children, their spouses and families that included 6 of my 8 grandchildren and 2 of my 3 great-grandchildren.

Still, I missed Joan very much. Just knowing she wouldn't be with the family for Christmas Eve-day, for the first time—ever—as far as I know, was sad. Ever since she passed away in September, it's been hard to realize that she is not just a phone call away, for we used to talk on the phone daily. So, the day before Christmas, I called my niece to commiserate. When I reached her, she was at Sharon's house. For her it was weird and sad to get there and not see her mom, for Joan was usually the first to arrive.

Oh how we miss her! She will never be forgotten, just as Mom and Dad still live in our memory as vivid as the day we last saw them.

Holidays—times for joy and celebration—are also a time of sorrow as we long for those who have gone to rest. They are a time for remembering, too, keeping the influence of our departed loved ones ever with us. And in that, I take comfort.

The history of a book — and, unfortunately, a disease

(Joan Bochmann wrote this essay in February, 2012, almost two years ago.  She called it the Journey of a Book, but it is much more than that.)


It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. This is probably the best known first line of any novel ever written. I have pretty much forgotten the story Dickens was beginning with this line, but the words seem to describe some of the roller coaster rides I have been on since mid-December. January 2012 brought a virtual torrent of good news, bad news, euphoria and dread. I don’t think I’ve had such a tangle of emotions in many years. Unfortunately, the first part of February hasn’t relieved the chaos all that much. 

January, 2012 was the 6^th anniversary of the publication of a book that was born in the late 70s. I completed my first novel in, I believe, 1975. After a few rejections, I was fortunate enough to hook up with an editor from Pelican and to work with her in polishing my precious novel for publication. (Best of times.) Unfortunately when my editor, who was by then a good friend, was hit by a car while crossing a Chicago street, Pelican returned the manuscript with the news of my friend’s death and their decision not to do any of her “projects.” (Worst of times.)  

I put the manuscript on a shelf and got on with life. I longed to write again, and found a few opportunities to do short stories and essays for small publications. In 2001, my sister formed a small publishing company and urged me to take another look at the book which would become Absaroka. I pulled the  typewritten (yes, I did say typewritten) manuscript from its resting place and began to read. I fell in love with the story again. I did a little more research and some editing, and my sister’s company (Raven Publishing) agreed to publish the book. (Best of times.) My efforts to sell the book were hampered by the diagnosis of Stage IV lung cancer. (Worst of times.) God saw fit to heal my illness. (Best of times)

I have spent the last four years in praise and gratitude for God’s miraculous healing. In February of this year, (2012) a PET scan revealed the cancer has returned and metastasized to other parts of my body as well! Really? (Worst of Times.) While having it come back is disappointing, it doesn’t change the joy of those 4 years God gave me.  Contrary to my lifelong dream of a beach house on Malibu, a cabin in the mountains and fans clamoring for autographs, I did not get rich. Still, having a book published, going on a couple of book tours, giving book talks, getting some good reviews and winning two awards filled me with joy and gratitude (Best of Times).

Raven made the book available for digital download on Amazon Kindle and on Smashwords, but I yearned to have the story told well on a high quality audio book.

I wanted this very much so that the people who love stories, but don’t like reading books. can hear it in a very well-done audio version. I remember when I used to commute how much I loved listening to books on tape. When my mom lost her sight, I thought of all the visually impaired people who would get so much pleasure out of listening to a good book.  

It is odd that the new cancer diagnosis came at a time when I was in the process of working with a producer/engineer and a talented reader to get Absaroka made into an audio book. I think God is with me on this. A dear friend I had not seen for several years called me out of the blue. He had just read Absaroka and wanted to know if I was interested in making it an audio book. We began thinking about all the people who could benefit from a book they could listen to and we became more and more excited. Brett had the ability, resources, and talent to engineer and promote an audio book. Sky Dance Mountain had, in fact, already done a couple of small audio books.  
    

I was right in the middle of trying to do a marketing plan, promotion and other such issues when my health really took a nosedive. Still we all moved on. I realized that the book needed a good, strong male voice to do the voice over. Another little nod of approval from God became evident when Scott Tanner agreed to do the recording. Scott is not only extremely talented, but had begun investigating the possibility of getting into this business as a second career.  

Several recording sessions ensued. We missed a self-imposed deadline because we realized this book had the potential of being really moving and entertaining piece. We decided quality was more important than punctuality in this case. Now it’s here—the official release date of February 18^{th (2012).}  Ah, the joy. A book that was published six years ago has another life, another audience. I know the story inside out; Scott had read it when it came out, but just recently re-read it, and Brett had read it just a few weeks before. Despite this intimate knowledge of the story, while listening to it, all three of us were moved to tears at some touching scenes, and held our breath in suspense as it looked like the protagonist might not win.

{Joan Bochmann fought a good fight, but finally lost the battle against cancer and the accompanying disorder, cachecia disease, September 26, 2013. She outlived doctors' predictions and was grateful for each day of life in which to enjoy her son, daughter, grandsons, and great grandchildren. Before she died, she added one more tremendous accomplishment to her list. She narrated an entire novel in spite of weakness, shortness of breath, pain and illness. The result is her amazingly strong and expressive voice on the audio edition of Miranda and Starlight.

 During her last several months, she volunteered one day a week in the business office at her church, planted flowers and took care of her house, garden, and yard—with some volunteered help from friends and neighbors. She has good days (the best of times) and bad days when the pain and nausea immobilize her (the worst of times). Her life, an inspiration to all who knew her, and her books, a joy to all who read or listen, have been and continue to be a blessing to many.}

http://www.ravenpublishing.net/Joan_Bochmann.html

Thanksgiving and Missing Joan

Joan Bochmann by the Madison River, Montana

Joan's favorite season was autumn, her favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. Many of my best memories are of times spent with Joan in the outdoors. I can't remember for sure when the above picture was taken, but I do remember the peace and joy of that late-fall day when we hiked along the Madison River up the Bear Trap trail near my home in Montana.

This is our first Thanksgiving without Joan and we miss her. Yet she would not want us to be grieving. She'd want us to spend the day feeling and giving thanks. I will always remember her last Thanksgiving and how blessed I felt to be invited to spend it with Joan and her beautiful family—her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. The day was filled with love, peace, and gratitude. 

 This year, I came back to Colorado at the invitation of Joan's daughter, Debbie, whom I love with all my heart, to spend Thanksgiving, Joan's favorite holiday with her and her family. Now that I am here, staying in Joan's house, I ask myself, why am I here and what do I need to do for Joan's family, for myself, for honoring Joan's life ,and celebrating her memory? I'm searching for the answer to that question.

One thing I do know is that Joan would want us to be thankful, so in her honor, I'll live this day in gratitude for the love she has shown me all my life. Today, for Joan, I will replace the sorrow that she isn't here with gratitude for the times we had together and gratitude for her family and the love they continue to show me.

To understand what a good person Joan was, one can look at her daughter and her son. I am in awe of their wisdom, integrity, compassion, and honesty. The trait I most admire and look for in people is their ability to be genuine and guileless. That describes both Debbie and Gary—and their spouses. They are conscientious and trustworthy with strong moral ethics. I'd do anything for them, as they have done so much for me. I am thankful to have them in my life.

When Joan and I were children, we often made lists of things we were thankful for by using each of the letters of a word. So here is my thankful list for the attributes and memories that Joan modeled for us—one for each letter in THANKSGIVING.

T is for truth that Joan believed in and truthfulness, a characteristic that she passed on to her children. 

H is for honesty and fairness.

A is for the awe and appreciation that she had for life and creation.

N is for noticing—Joan's awareness of the people and things around her.

K is for knowledge. Joan loved learning. It is also for kindness that she showed especially to children and to animals.

S is for salvation. Joan had a strong belief in God and a love for her Savior, beliefs that gave her hope and sustained her through the agony of losing her health to cancer.

G is for gratitude. Joan was grateful for all she had and for the people in her life.

I is for imagination and ideas and insight, traits that made her a wonderful writer.

V is for value. Joan knew the value of the people in her life. She valued people, nature, animals far more than material things.

I is for inspiration that she gained through reading books and observing life and that she passed on through her writing.

N is for nature and Joan's appreciation of it.

G is for grace. The grace with which Joan lived. The saving grace that she believed in. Her church, Grace Place, and the wonderful support her very gracious and giving friends gave her.