Deborah Shepard Books
  • Home
  • Books
    • The Writing Life >
      • Reviews & Interviews
    • Giving Yourself to Life
    • Her Life's Work
    • Translucence
    • Between The Lives
    • Reframing Women
    • Tributes
    • Personal Writings >
      • Lockdown Journal
      • Travel Journal
      • Elegy for a friend
      • Christchurch - Post Quakes
      • On a residency
      • Deborah’s Love Letter to the Women’s Bookshop
      • Deborah's Q & A With Unity Books
  • Writing Memoir
    • Defining Memoir
    • The Participatory Model
    • Tips on Writing and Posting a Story
    • The Value of a Writing Class
    • From writing course to book publication
    • Your Writing Space
    • Writing on a Theme >
      • Window
      • Surviving a Crisis
    • Reviews of Memoir
  • Writers' stories
    • Covid-19 Stories
    • Writing Guidelines
  • Events
  • About
    • Testimonials
    • Media
  • What People Say
  • Contact

Writers' Stories

A collection of life stories by writers who have attended Deborah's classes

Riding the Teenage Years by Penny Slack

26/5/2015

 
Penny Slack is the 81 year old mother of David, Tim and Belinda and grandmother of Jaime, Jessica, Mary Margaret, Ariella and Mili. Through the busy years she had never shared the stories of her life. Recently Mary Margaret began writing letters to her grandmother. In Penny's replies, the idea for these stories began to take shape.

These school holidays were different. Instead of travelling home, from New Plymouth, by bus, I flew on a DC3. It was 1952 and the early days of NAC. My very first flight. What a thrill. I felt myself to be a pioneering aviatrix and took a personal pride in our safe landing at Milson.

Little did I know that within a few moments of landing I would be brought down to earth by a remark that would cripple my sense of well-being for many years to come. My parents had welcomed me enthusiastically. We were walking to the car park, when my unthinking father, from slightly behind, announced in a loud voice “Penny's legs are very hairy.”

I had never been aware of it. My legs were my legs and they worked perfectly well for me. The hairs were there alright but I was unaware of them being of any concern. Suddenly I realised that in the eyes of my father, and therefore of anyone with eyes to see, hairy legs were unsightly.

For many years, my conscientious efforts to keep my legs covered required considerable forethought. Stockings at all times, or long trousers. There was a time when I discovered Cyclax depilatory wax in a small pot. Such an effort, an all day long operation, heating and reheating that little pot to cover an extensive area of leg.

It wasn't until I was in my thirties that leg waxing became a service provided by beauticians. Oh joy. Ever since that day, I have presented my legs every six weeks, then come out so smooth that I can't stop rubbing my legs together. I am stockingless, wear shorts and even happily swim. At last, released from the image of a hairy-legged weta, I am a bud unfurled.

Recently I arrived for my appointment and expressed surprise at seeing the vicar from our church in the waiting room. “Oh no,” said the receptionist, “We wax more young men in here than eighty-year-old women.”

The People I Love: My Children by Gabrielle Reekie

25/5/2015

 
Gabrielle retired last year and now has time to write stories and memoirs for her children and grandchildren, something she has wanted to do for years.

I have loved lots of people over my lifetime.  I could say I especially love my children.  They were born three years apart, a girl then a boy.

When they were four and one, I thought what a perfect age this was.  I felt I would like to capture this time and hold it forever but the following year I also thought this was the perfect age and how could it be any better. I felt like this all through their growing up.  Each age seemed such a perfect time. 

I was immensely happy bringing up my two children, feeling loved and loving.  When they got to be teenagers it wasn’t so easy.  My daughter rebelled against her father and he reacted badly to this. My son became monosyllabic as teenage boys often do. They were coming out of their childhood years, seeing flaws in their parents that  weren’t visible when they were small.


Two years before my daughter was born I went into labour early and delivered twins at 27 weeks.  There was no ultrasound scanning in those days so I only learned that I was carrying them one week before they were born.

One baby, a boy whom we called Adrian, lived only a few hours.  The other a little girl, Suzanna, lived for six weeks.  She was such an active little baby lying in an incubator with an unruly mop of black hair on her tiny head.  I expressed milk with a hand pump and took it into the hospital every day.  When she died a doctor said,

“What are you moaning about, you’ll have another one in nine months.”

But the paediatrician said to me, “You were meant to be a mother.  I have never seen anyone with so much milk when their baby was born so early”.

Though my heart was breaking I held onto those words like a woman drowning as I poured the last bottles of my milk down the sink.

Love Lost and Found by Pauline Lumsden

24/5/2015

 
Pauline wants to get her story out with all its ramifications, as a form of healing and to enlighten her children. She is an avid reader and believes in the power of the written word to bring some form of justice or relief when other avenues have failed.

‘Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart’ A.A. Milne

I am sure there are plenty of women who have some guy permanently etched in their memory and in their heart. In other words the one who could have been. My Shakespearean love was a co-pilot for Air New Zealand who was striving to become a Captain behind the kaleidoscopic controls of the DC10. 

We met whilst on a layover in a Wellington crew room where the attraction, for him, was like a thunderbolt possibly fuelled by the large brandy he was nursing. His first words were staccato questions, ‘Who are you? What is your name?’ And more tellingly “Where were you seven years ago?” This last question suggested he was married-albeit not happily? How clichéd, I thought as I dutifully ignored his attentions.

 Fate however had other ideas and consistently rostered us on the same flights until I succumbed to his charms and realised this was destined to be more than a passing fling. He was self-opininated, funny, short of statue and wonderfully attractive. My heart and breathing bellyflopped with every encounter.

We would swap rosters to pursue our wondrous physical and emotional attraction throwing caution to the wind whilst aware we might be discovered. On several memorable occasions free drinks and bottles of champagne were sent over from neighbouring diners in our favourite restaurants. Such largesse was due to our very obvious circle of love which we made no effort to hide.

On reflection I should have listened to my heart and ignored my conscience, instead of terminating our love affair. To my great sorrow, I heard he died prematurely as a result of exposure to Agent Orange whilst flying in Vietnam.

Wisdom is easily attained in hindsight. I realise that I love him now as I did then.

Remembering Childhood by Susie Johnston

24/5/2015

 
Susie is nearing retirement and she feels that after journaling for many years she’s starting to see the bright spots in her past.  She is keen to find these pockets of joy that are emerging through the clouds, and to savour the remembering.

They say it’s the dash in between the dates of birth and death that matters but it’s hard to squeeze all the happenings, good and bad, into the story of my life. Some things, the dark things, the mistakes and the disasters stand out loudly, shouting to be noticed. But I am purposefully choosing to ignore them. 

I have to focus hard to capture the rare moments of light in an otherwise muddied picture, to see which colours they are; soft pink, brown and white, the colours of our eiderdowns. My sister and I used to enter a world of make-believe in bed at night-time when we would play game shows. Selwyn Toogood was a favourite, “The money or the bag?’” we would shout excitedly, and the Jack Maybury Show when we would clap loudly pretending we knew the answers. Dad would hear us and come in with frowning eyebrows to tell us to ‘get to sleep, or else.’

When the neighbours, Mr and Mrs McBride, got the first tv in the street we were so envious. I could barely understand their broad Scottish accents, but I knew when they said I could watch Mr Ed the Talking Horse. I came home one evening to say I’d watched ‘the witheringnoos’ and it took Dad ages to work out. It was the weather and news. I distinctly remember that moment because Dad laughed out loud which was unusual for my quiet, serious father. It made me feel warm and soft inside.

A Childhood Memory by Julia Blick

23/5/2015

 
Julia would like to share her life stories with her six grandchildren. She was raised in Wellington and, as an adult, lived in Australia, Singapore, Hong Kong, Thailand and the United States.  She is a counsellor and has also been involved in the re-settlement of refugees in New Zealand.

We lived in a big, draughty house belonging to my grandfather. The bedroom I shared with my two cousins was a happy place until I became very ill with double pneumonia.  I was six years old.  My cousins were moved to another bedroom, crammed in with other family members and I lay in the darkened, lonely room listening to the hushed voices from the hallway outside my closed bedroom door, worn curtains drawn.

My temperature raged day after day as I lay in bed, covers tucked firmly under my chin by the loving hands of my worried mother.  As delirium enveloped me, feeling scared I saw the walls swaying back and forth and the ceiling descending upon me.  I felt alone and isolated from the large extended family.

One day during that time my brother, Jimmy, who was three years older than me, had been invited to a birthday party at the house next door.  Birthday parties were a rare event for us.  He arrived home with a balloon filled with air and played exuberantly with it in the hall right outside my bedroom door. Eventually, he undid the tightly tied knot and slowly squeezed the air out to deflate it.  As I listened to the shrill screeching sound, I heard my mother yelling at him,  “Stop it, and be quiet.  She’s dying.”

The weeks passed, and in time my temperature stabilised and I slowly recovered.  Finally my cousins were restored to the bedroom and life went on at 4 HIropi St.

Farewell to My Mother by Jean Rockel

23/5/2015

 
Jean is transitioning from her academic career as senior lecturer, researcher and journal editor to take up the challenge of creative writing.  She hopes eventually to make a leap from memoir to short stories of dystopian visions in the science fiction genre.

I felt so much love for my mother, but standing there seeing her like this she was not my mother.  She was dying, they told me, and I was to kiss her goodbye.  They insisted and so despite my reluctance I shut my eyes and kissed her. I had just turned fourteen.

It happened like this. I was late home from a detention after school.  It was always a mission getting home, and this had meant another hour added on.  My older brother had found my mother instead of me, and called for help. It seemed so sudden, even though a few months earlier my mother had told me the doctors had given her six months. She had lived for two years.

In the kitchen fridge on that day she had left behind evidence of her creativity and care.  A new dessert recipe – a row of gingernut biscuits jammed together with whipped cream and put into the freezer compartment.  What had happened between that loving act and her slipping into unconsciousness?

But she hadn’t looked like my mother.  It’s still a blur and I can’t remember exactly why I recoiled — it was just not my mother lying there.         Over the following days her body remained in her bedroom and I was able to sit beside her.  She was loved by the community and it was a mark of respect for her to remain at home in an open casket. 

After she had gone, I would go into her room at night before bed and smell her pillow.  Her scent was reassuring and triggered a sense of her that I could hold onto. There in that womb like pink bedroom with the curtains drawn to the closing of the light.  

History of Loving by Kacie Stetson

17/5/2015

 
Kacie is an acting coach, wife and mother. She’s written fantasy and erotic horror. Finally, she’s gathered the courage to write about her own life.

She entered a room like a ship with sails full, her cigarette holder balanced between two fingers, eyes fluttering, smoke torn voice announcing her entrance. Her arms would sweep through the air dramatically as she feigned deep delight and excitement at the sight of all who were gathered there. She flirted with the men. She flirted with the room. Most of all, she flirted with life. There was no obstacle that couldn’t be overcome with charm and coquettish swing.

When she was ravaged with cancer and terrified, sitting on the stainless steel exam table, the minute the doctor came in the room it started — the batting eyelids, the pointing toes, the Southern Charm. It worked. Her doctor slid into his role of the gentleman savior, patting her shoulder, assuring her in soothing tones that she had time left. One year. Maybe one and a half. This seemed to appease her. Superficially. But I could smell the terror that screeched inside of her, as much as she tried to magic it away.

I think she knew the one thing she couldn’t charm was death.

I don’t know what made her give up the fight. One minute she was towing the line, not smoking the cigarettes that had ravaged her lungs, not drinking the booze that had destroyed her liver. She was gentle and kind, humble and loving in a startlingly new way. The next thing I knew she had suddenly given up. The smoking and drinking were back, as if she’d decided, ‘What the fuck does it matter?’

This was the worst time. The fangs came out then. This is when she would throw deep, wounding words like spears. Once her attack referenced a time when we were living in Puerto Rico. I was five years old and half dead from an infection. ‘That time in San Juan, when you were so damned sick...’ she said, ‘ You were such a pain in the ass!’ And a poison spear struck the five-year-old girl inside of me.

I hope she didn’t mean it. I hope she was just horrified and full of guilt. I’ll never know. The worst thing about death is that it keeps its secrets forever.

    Your Stories

    Please submit your story via the Contact page and it will receive a gentle edit from Deborah.
    WRITING GUIDELINES
    Tips on writing and posting a story
    writing on a theme
    COVID-19 STORIES

    Authors

    All
    Adele Ellis
    Alan Knox
    Alison Mayson
    Alison Quesnel
    Amanda Aitken
    Angela Eastwood
    Anissa Ljanta
    Anna Caselberg
    Anna Groenestein
    Anne Cavanagh
    Anne Morris
    Barbara Myers
    Bernice Raos
    Beth Jewell
    Betty Chamberlain
    Beverley Morris
    Bren Lawrey
    Bronwyn Lewis
    Carmel Byrne
    Carmel Ni Bhroin
    Carol Clayton
    Carol Jack
    Catherine Groenestein
    Catherine Moorhead
    Cathie Hutchinson
    Cathy Gray
    Cherie Buchanan
    Cheryl McCrow-Young
    Cheryl Nicol
    Cheryl Price
    Colin Radford
    Colleen Paisley
    David Arrowsmith
    David Phuah
    Dawn Webster
    Debbie Corder
    Diane Taylor
    Dianne Moffatt
    Dianne Speed
    Don Cowan
    Doris Riegel
    Elisabeth Sutorius
    Elizabeth Buchanan
    Elizabeth Goldsworthy
    Erica Munro
    Evan Mayson
    Evita Fromter
    Fern Paulussen
    Francie Craig
    Gabrielle Reekie
    Gillian Mayo
    Gill Sanson
    Glenys McGee
    Gloria Neale
    Graham McGregor
    Graham Woolford
    Gretel Jack
    Helen Gillespie
    Inge Rudolph
    Isabella Mcdermott
    Jackie Halliday
    Jackie Hawkeswood
    Jane Bissell
    Jane Ouseley
    Janet Bovett
    Janet De Witt
    Janet Pates
    Jane Wilkins
    Janine Peters
    Jeanette Baalbergen
    Jeanette De Heer
    Jean Rockel
    Jennifer McGarry
    Jenny Healey
    Jenny Riviere
    Jessie Jellick
    Jicca Smith
    Jim Barnett
    Jim Cooke
    Jim O'Donovan
    Jim Peters
    Joan Hugo Burley
    Jocelyn Goodman
    Jo Frew
    John Goodman
    Judy Hardie
    Judy Johannessen
    Judy O'Brien
    Julia Blick
    Julie Star
    Juliet Jackson
    Justine Sachs
    Kacie Stetson
    Kate Lewis
    Katherine Kelly
    Kathryn Kearns
    Katrina Cole
    Leona Fay
    Lexie Candy
    Liz Lees
    Liz March
    Liz Marks
    Liz Thomas
    Liz Wilson
    Lorene Verheijden
    Lydia Smith
    Lynley Stone
    Maire Vieth
    Mandy Robinson
    Margaret Farrell
    Margaret Merton
    Margaret Russell
    Margo Knightbridge
    Marg Slater
    Maria Kazmierow
    Maria Zivkovich
    Marie Cameron
    Marie Coyle
    Marie Lynne Mitchell
    Marijke Batenburg
    Marilyn Eales
    Maris O'Rourke
    Maryan Dawson
    Mary Barker
    Mary Betz
    Mary Bogan
    Mary Borok
    Mary Elsmore-Neilson
    Mary Nicholas
    Mary Weal
    Mattie Wall
    Maureen Sudlow
    Max Adams
    Meg Johnson
    Meret Berger
    Michelanne Forster
    Mike Kilpatrick
    Miriam Frank
    Moyra Cooke
    Myrtle Easton
    Nanci Campion
    Natalie Mullender
    Ngawini Hall
    Nicky Won
    Nicola Brewer Fanefjord
    Nitin Sahare
    Patricia Gross
    Pat Scriven
    Pauline Lumsden
    Pauline Sneddon
    Penny Slack
    Philomena Pinto
    Rachael Breckon
    Rae Abraham
    Raewynne Lory
    Rob Creagh
    Robyn Turner
    Robyn White
    Rosemary Auld
    Rosemary Barrett
    Roslind O'Neill
    Roz Nicol
    Ruth Bonita
    Ruth Busch
    Sally Monks
    Samantha Scott
    Sandra Plummer
    Sandy Plummer
    Sarah Ashmore
    Sarah Gumbley
    Sarah Hardman
    Sara Kimsey
    Sharyn Elliffe
    Shirley Glendinning
    Shona Barker
    Sofia Mella
    Steve Charters
    Sue
    Sue Alexander
    Sue Mercer
    Sue Radford
    Susan Grimsdell
    Susan Mcleod
    Susan Schuler
    Susie Johnston
    Sylvia Dean
    Sylvia Nagl
    Terry Levenberg
    Tim Chamberlain
    Tim Paul
    Trevor Bayly
    Val Cotty
    Verna Cook-Jackson
    Vonne Learmonth
    Wyn Hoadley

    Archives

    December 2022
    November 2022
    May 2022
    October 2021
    May 2021
    November 2020
    January 2020
    November 2019
    September 2019
    July 2018
    June 2018
    March 2018
    January 2018
    November 2017
    May 2017
    January 2017
    May 2016
    April 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    May 2015
    January 2015
    November 2014
    October 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013
    December 2012
    November 2012
    September 2012
    August 2012
    July 2012
    June 2012
    May 2012
    April 2012
    March 2012
    August 2011
    July 2011
    June 2011
    May 2011
    April 2011
    February 2011
    January 2011
    December 2010
    November 2010

    RSS Feed

Writing Memoir
Defining Memoir
The Participatory Model
Tips on Writing and Posting a Story
​From Writing Course to Book Publication
Your Writing Space
​Writing on a Theme
Reviews of Memoir
Writers Stories
​
Events
​About
Testimonials
What People Say

Media
​Contact
Copyright © 2017 Deborah Shepard
  • Home
  • Books
    • The Writing Life >
      • Reviews & Interviews
    • Giving Yourself to Life
    • Her Life's Work
    • Translucence
    • Between The Lives
    • Reframing Women
    • Tributes
    • Personal Writings >
      • Lockdown Journal
      • Travel Journal
      • Elegy for a friend
      • Christchurch - Post Quakes
      • On a residency
      • Deborah’s Love Letter to the Women’s Bookshop
      • Deborah's Q & A With Unity Books
  • Writing Memoir
    • Defining Memoir
    • The Participatory Model
    • Tips on Writing and Posting a Story
    • The Value of a Writing Class
    • From writing course to book publication
    • Your Writing Space
    • Writing on a Theme >
      • Window
      • Surviving a Crisis
    • Reviews of Memoir
  • Writers' stories
    • Covid-19 Stories
    • Writing Guidelines
  • Events
  • About
    • Testimonials
    • Media
  • What People Say
  • Contact