Autobiography Class is a Work in Progress

A box of tissues sits on the table to her right, along with an egg timer, a plain memo pad, a handful of cough drops, a pen. The teacher is prepared. Or as Jan Grimalkin would rather be called, a guide.

All around the table are notebooks, envelopes with old and new photographs, pencils, highlighters, pens and an assorted array of modest lunches-an apple, a deli container of soup, a half a sandwich.  Outside, cherry trees are getting ready to bloom, birds are busy collecting twigs for their nests and acres of woods insulate the world of memories from otherwise busy lives.

Chairs are set up around the table seminar style and filled by mostly women of all ages.  A few good men filter in-a priest, a pastor, a couple of veterans from the Military.  The women are retired professionals, mothers, sisters, grandmothers, aunts.  A few are widows, one is recovering from cancer.

All have stories that need words.

Grimalkin, retired from her career as a pshchologist and 21 years as a reporter for The Ridgewood News “when it was a bi-weekly that competed with The Bergen Record” she says proudly. Soft-spoken, but spunky, Grimalkin knows how to encourage a story.

Many participants are working through old issues.

“I am not afraid of my own life anymore,” said one.  “I want to write what I always wanted to say.”

Another writer had been divorced and wrote about her struggles raising her daughter while working, attending school to become a nurse and dealing with family issues.  She wrote about forgiveness as she told the story of nursing her “X” through his final years with cancer.

A younger woman had the class is stitches as she related stories of meeting her “biker” husband in the days of flower power and peace signs.  One woman, never married wrote tenderly of unrequited love-a story responded to with nodding heads, a story nearly everyone could relate to at some point in time. 

 The guys write differently, lots of facts, humor too—and less sentiment.  Pastor “J” tells incredible stories, with sepia photos at hand, of how his great, great grandfather’s 102-foot yacht was commissioned as a patrol boat in a private boat Coastal Defense program during The Great War.

An Anglican Priest told wonderful stories of his childhood romps with a tangle of siblings and cousins, then as a young man attending seminary.  Sprinkled with wisdom and jokes, he amazed the class with his optimism, that despite the fact he was blind he was able to communicate using a high tech computerized recorder to document his tales.

There never seems to be a time when anyone is at a loss for words—even the shyest participants find themselves reading and sharing memories.  “H” wrote about her darkest days following the death of her beloved husband.  The box of tissues passed quietly as she related issues around cleaning out the house they had shared for nearly 40 years.  Boxes filled the attic that began to need to be emptied by her grown-up children. The same attic she later renovated as her first private space in her long life, a place to write her stories.

Each week the class looked forward to hearing her often riotous tales of living with contractors, dealing with loss and finding her new way. A Scientist, a creative person, a perfectionist who learned to open up to new adventures—she surprised her fellow writers with a visit from her pilot boyfriend—an old classmate from high school she eventually married. (Everyone had been on the edge of their seats, rooting for his proposal and her finally saying yes!)

Grimalkin is a veteran facilitator, having started these classes years ago in the Glen Rock and Ridgewood Adult Ed Classes.  Many or her students followed her from place to place, blossoming under her gentle tutlage. Grimalkin sets the timer on Thursdays, when the class is usually full—the quiet ticking reminiscent of days when mothers read ladies magazines while cakes baked in ovens. Each autobiographer has about 15-20 minutes to read, which is always followed by a lively discussion. Handouts of professional memoirists punctuate the end of class, with an outline for mining memory (based on a timeline) for homework.

A pile of books reminds attendees that publication is a very real possibility.  Two of the books were written by Grimalkin.  “Looking Back, Moving On” contains over 40 excerpts from former students.

“I had to write an anthology, there were so many good stories,” says Grimalkin with a small grin.

“Four Lives” is another of Grimalkin’s books, a memoir in other’s words, including her own and a separate title called “Honey”.

When asked why people want to write autobiographies, Jan says simply “Because they have too. We write because no one told us (in the old days) and now we want to tell, and leave it for the next generation.”  Grimalkin loves to listen, saying “The better you get to know people, the more you like them.”  Classmates become lifelong friends.

One man named Bill, came for years, determined to finish his story in time for his 50th Wedding Anniversary.  Meanwhile he had retired, and moved to Florida and began mailing chapters for the class to hear.  He finished the book in times, had it bound and invited each of his fellow writers to the party, a copy of his signed book at each of their places at a special table. Helen brought her pilot to the class so many times, that he began to write his own story. 

Grimalkin walks on her treadmill or rides her stationary bike to keep in shape, having recently given up her home of 40 years.  She donated much or her handmade tables and chairs and bookcases, even an armoire, to victims of Katrina, realizing that her new place would not hold a lot of things.  Art work by her grown children, photographs and plenty of plants fill her new and inviting home.  She and husband Don will make new memories as both remain active looking forward to new adventures to write about.

No story—large or small—really ever has an end.

The class is held on Tuesdays and Thursdays at The Presbyterian Church, at 730 Franklin Lakes Road from 12-2:30 p.m. For more info call 201-891-0511