Wednesday, October 10, 2018 The Nugget Newspaper, Sisters, Oregon
9
Commentary...
Opening up old memories
By Katy Yoder
Correspondent
It’s hard to believe that
December will be my first
anniversary of leaving Sisters
Folk Festival and starting my
career as a full-time writer.
I’ve been asked many times,
“How’s retirement?” I feel
compelled to say that I’m not
retired. I just left one job to
start another. If I was retired,
we’d be traveling often, tak-
ing up new hobbies, or dust-
ing off old ones.
I still have a responsibility
to make money — much less
than I was making before, but
still I’m contributing to our
income. Sometimes I feel
guilty that I’m not making as
much as I used to. But I also
know that this year has been
a time to slow down, take
stock, and yes, relax.
During and after my treat-
ments for breast cancer, I took
off as little time as I could.
That was for two reasons: I
needed to keep the money
flowing and working made
me feel less out of control.
I’m so grateful my co-work-
ers allowed me to work, even
though sometimes my addled
chemo-brain made thinking
clearly a big challenge.
Now that I’m not
responsible to show up for
work in town, I realize I
should have taken some time
off after treatment — and dur-
ing. Adrenaline and fear kept
me going. Now it’s time to
rest and do what I love.
Being at home and not
working away from home
five days a week has given
me time to open dusty boxes
long taped shut. What’s my
excuse now for not opening
them and dealing with what’s
inside? The contents either
need to be thrown or given
away; recycled, sold, or inte-
grated into our home. Some
of the boxes have sides that
have caved in and split open.
They were filled with the con-
tents of my dad’s family and
past generations long gone.
Wedding dresses, family pic-
tures of people I don’t know,
books, handmade bedspreads,
housewares, flat art and fur-
niture all sit in a dusty room
waiting. They seem to stare at
me. Daring me to look inside
and face them.
Hundreds of photos of
people who share my blood-
line smile, stare, laugh and
grimace at the camera. Some
are wrinkled with age, the
corners of their mouths per-
manently sagging down from
too many disappointments.
Others are soft-skinned chil-
dren with bows bigger than
their heads and outfits that
look restricting and dark.
Dad’s family in Michigan
were mainly Scottish and
Irish with a good sprinkling
of English. They were a
common recipe of Anglo-
Americans that took for
granted the land they farmed
and the people they’d dis-
placed or dominated.
Some of the boxes have
finally made it inside our
home. I’ve slowly begun
looking at their contents.
What do I do with hundreds
of family photos that go back
to the 1800s? How can I use
them in a way that honors
them and doesn’t overrun my
home with black and white
images of dead relatives?
There’s just too many of
them.
It reminds me of my own
“stuff” that’s been packed
away for decades. I’ve found
envelopes and water-damaged
albums of high school photos
with my young face so full of
hope and relief. Graduation
photos from high school show
a tearful face and messy hair
from the graduation hat I’d
just thrown in the air.
I remember thinking
people probably thought I
was sad to say
goodbye to high
school. Nope. I
was incredibly
relieved to get
as far away from
that experience as I
could. High school
and middle school
tore me up.
I hoped college
would be a new start
and a chance to be
somebody different.
I tried on new per-
sonas like some girls
tried on dresses. Preppy, jock,
cowgirl, Young Republican.
None of them felt like the
real me. I had no idea who
that girl really was or how to
tap into her. So I kept making
risky decisions, and trying on
new facades.
Now I have time to write.
I started with a memoir. Once
completed, I realized it was
more for me than the pub-
lic. It allowed me to travel
back in time and get reac-
quainted with the “Katy” I’d
long forgotten. The memoir
opened parts of myself, just
like the boxes I cut open.
Some things were best left
where I’d found them. Others
brought back good and bad
memories, long forgotten.
The more I open up, the less
encumbered I feel.
I’m realizing the past is
what I make it — just like
the present. I can see myself
as a helpless victim or a per-
son who got back up and kept
going, no matter how tough it
got.
None of my victories or
traumas were done alone. I
had loved ones and scoun-
drels on stage with me all the
way. Sometimes I was the
villain, sometimes the vic-
tim. But together we moved
beyond it, scars and all.
The next book is forming
in my head and on the page.
I’m gathering memories and
making a plan. I love this new
adventure and I’m incredibly
grateful to have the chance to
see where it leads.