Photo by Jake Thacker on Unsplash
My name is Eva Gordon, and I may have memory loss, but I can still read. And I’ve read all those harsh words people have used to describe me in that book: cantankerous, hard-edged, stubborn, irascible, unpleasant. At least one person tacked on that the author portrayed me with “grace and care.” Hmph.
Here’s how I see things. There I was, living my life, minding my own business trying to be productive and solitary, working my refinishing business, and then—Bam!—someone’s writing a book about me, revealing all my problems, snafus with memory and tangled family relationships. The nerve of that author. (I’m not as good with names as I used to be, but her name is Linda Something.) Did she ask my permission? No. She barged into my life, making observations and assumptions—even drawing a few conclusions. Hmph again.
It seems only fair I have my own opportunity to speak up, defend myself a smidge, give my side of the story. Bear with me. I’m going to try and maintain my train of thought here for a minute.
What would she think if I wrote a book about her, showing all her foibles, her nail biting as she sits at the computer trying to voyeuristically look at others, calling it “fiction writing”? All those conversations with her husband about how she doesn’t know if her stories are any good? Those times she raises her voice or slams doors in a huff? Burns dinner and doesn’t return phone calls? She’s no angel. Trust me.
Now come a little closer. That’s right. Lean in. I do have a little secret, but don’t tell that author. I was just the teensy weensiest bit flattered someone thought my life worthy of a novel. I’ve done nothing extraordinary—just tended to my work, raised a family, tried not to get arrested or kill anyone. Nothing of note, but the strangest thing happened while that author wrote about how I had to go live on that “Trying Times Farm,” as I like to call the place. (You should’ve seen what a dump it was the first time I laid eyes on the place). As I watched her day in and day out tapping away at her computer, working like a dog to tell all my stuff, she didn’t seem all that bad. I mean, I guess I kind of liked her—especially when she did the most amazing thing as she told my story. She started to cry. I’m talking real tears.
I’ve never figured out exactly what made her cry, but something about me and my story touched her enough to make her blubber. I decided to give her words a good read. And something happened while I paid attention over her shoulder. I started to see some things in myself I hadn’t seen before; I even had some feelings. I’m not always fond of feelings. They can really get in the way of all the business a person needs to tend to and make you do things you’d otherwise prefer not to do. Like apologize or talk about yourself in the first person the way I’m talking now.
Oh, she certainly pointed out my rough edges, but when I saw myself from her point of view (maybe I was just the tiniest bit hard to live with), she seemed like she felt bad for me that I had to live with other people. Her words implied maybe an understanding about the challenges of combining your living quarters with the younger generation. No fun, indeed.
The biggest surprise of all to me was that, in addition to pointing out my rough spots, she found some moments in my life that gave me pause and even a little self-understanding.
Overhearing her conversations with her husband, apparently it takes some time to find someone who’ll commit to print a writer’s words into a book. (Was it me or the author they didn’t like? Oh, who cares. It’s all written down now.) Then one day someone told her they’d like print my story and along came that box loaded with copies of the book. Can you keep another little secret? I like how the story turned out. If you have to buy the book, it’s called The Forgotten Life of Eva Gordon. But as someone recently said, I’m forgotten no more. Hah!
If I wasn’t so darn old with a fading memory, I might become a writer. Seems like an easy thing to do, working by your
self and tossing a few words into the computer. How challenging could that be to learn?
Wait. What were we talking about?