Thanks for the memories

Buying a Christmas present for my mother was easy until her favorite clothing store closed. For years I'd been buying her handmade jackets from a shop in Matsuyama that catered to older women. All the clothing was handmade and simple yet elegant, with unusual designs in rich, autumnal colors. When the store went out of business I looked for a similar shop, but couldn't find anything of comparable quality. Eventually I asked her if there was anything special she'd like, and instead of answering with a typical, "Anything would be fine," she said that she wanted each of her children to write her a memoir.

At first I thought my mother's idea was brilliant, but as the days went by and I began to search for a suitable topic, the pressure to think of some telltale, magical event that would present me in a way that was both humble and flattering began to stifle me. It didn't help that it also had to be written in condensed, mellifluous prose with muscular verbs and nouns so solid they were cubic... and be perfectly punctuated. In short, I started off on the wrong foot by wanting to write the memoir to end all memoirs.

If do you decide to write a memoir for someone - and I hope you do - keep this in mind: the fact that you took the time to jot down something personal and share it will be more than enough to smooth over any of your writing's rough edges. In this sense a memoir is like an old, black and white snapshot that, though crude and clearly the work of an amateur, nevertheless manages to capture the gist of its subject through as much of what it shows as what it misses.

Many people have the impression that only the famous write memoirs, but that is not true: a memoir is simply an account of one's experiences. Unlike a diary or autobiography, in which accuracy is important, a memoir very happily inhabits the gray areas of "truth" and allows the writer more freedom to interpret or embellish. In fact, a memoir can say as much about who you are at the time you write it as who you were during the written-about events.

My first memoir was about a turning point in my life. When I was fourteen my father died after a long illness. We moved out of our fine, spacious house to a lesser neighborhood, but one with a better school. However, when I got to this new school I didn't play my part and was a showoff, inattentive and disruptive - the sort of student that makes teachers hate going to work. One day Mr. Butts, the Dean of Boys, called me into his office.

When I went in, a school file was on his desk. He opened it up and came right to the point: how could someone with an IQ as high as mine be doing so poorly in school? He clearly wasn't angry and I wasn't in trouble; he and my teachers were genuinely curious. I don't remember how I answered, but it was the first time since my father had become ill that any outside authority figure had shown a real interest in me, and after that day I made an effort to apply myself in school.

I had completely forgotten about this until I started thinking of something to write for Mom. After replaying it in my mind a bit I realized that he never actually showed me my file and that IQ score could have been something he made up; maybe all he really wanted to do was show me that I mattered. If so, it worked and I thank him.

My mother was a professional storyteller and very good at pulling the wool over people's eyes. The following year I wrote about my first kiss, but by then she was no longer able to hide her condition and we moved her into an Alzheimer's home. I think when she asked us to write memoirs she knew what was in store for her and hoped that through our collected memories she could somehow anchor herself against the coming onslaught of neurological ruin. She was such a sweet lady - I hope our words were a comfort to her.

This year I am going to write a memoir for my son about an event that took place after we moved to that school district. Though it is a story he never tires of hearing, he is thirteen and probably won't think much of it as a Christmas gift. Someday he will though: letters and memoirs become historical documents and improve with age regardless of the writer's shortcomings. And maybe, if he is someday lucky enough to be a father, he will read to his child how grandpa moved into the city and was shocked to learn how urban kids had fun, and for one brief moment we will be together again.

I can't think of a finer joy.